Текст книги "The Collected tales of Nikolai Gogol"
Автор книги: Николай Гоголь
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"Do I have the honor of speaking with Mr. Shponka, Ivan Fyo-dorovich?"
"Yes, sir," answered Ivan Fyodorovich.
"You've changed considerably, if I may say so, since the time when I first knew you. Yes, indeed," Ivan Ivanovich went on, "I remember you just so high!" Saying which, he held his hand two feet from the floor. "Your late papa, God rest his soul, was a rare man. His melons and watermelons were such as you won't find anywhere nowadays. Here, for instance," he went on, drawing him aside, "they'll serve you melons at table. What sort of melons are they? You don't even want to look at them! Would you believe it, my dear sir, he had watermelons," he said with a mysterious look, spreading his arms as if he wanted to put them around a stout tree, "by God, like that!"
"Let's go to the table!" said Grigory Grigorievich, taking Ivan Fyodorovich by the arm.
Everyone went to the dining room. Grigory Grigorievich sat in his usual place at the head of the table, covering himself with an enormous napkin and looking like the heroes that barbers portray on their signboards. Ivan Fyodorovich, blushing, sat in the place assigned to him, across from the two young ladies; and Ivan Ivanovich did not fail to place himself next to him, heartily rejoicing that he had someone with whom to share his knowledge.
"You shouldn't have taken the pope's nose, Ivan Fyodorovich! It's a turkey!" said the little old lady, addressing Ivan Fyodorovich, who at that moment was being offered a platter by a rustic waiter in a gray tailcoat with a black patch. "Take the back!"
"Mama! no one asked you to interfere!" said Grigory Grig-orievich. "You may be sure our guest knows what to take himself! Take a wing, Ivan Fyodorovich, the other one, with the gizzard! Why did you take so little? Take the thigh! You with the platter, what are you gawking at? Beg! On your knees, scoundrel! Say at once: 'Ivan Fyodorovich! Take the thigh!'"
"Ivan Fyodorovich, take the thigh!" the waiter with the platter bellowed, kneeling down.
"Hm, what sort of turkey is this?" Ivan Ivanovich said in a low voice, with a disdainful look, turning to his neighbor. "This isn't how turkey ought to be! You should see my turkeys! I assure you, one of mine has more fat on it than a dozen of these. Would you believe it, my dear sir, when they walk in the yard it's even disgusting to look at them, they're so fat!…"
"You're lying, Ivan Ivanovich!" said Grigory Grigorievich, who had listened in on his speech.
"I'll tell you," Ivan Ivanovich went on talking to his neighbor in the same way, pretending not to have heard Grigory Grigorievich's words, "last year, when I sent them to Gadyach, I was paid fifty kopecks apiece. And even so I didn't want to sell."
"You're lying, I tell you, Ivan Ivanovich!" Grigory Grigorievich said more loudly, stressing each syllable for better clarity.
But Ivan Ivanovich, pretending it had nothing to do with him, went on in the same way, only much more softly.
"Precisely so, my dear sir, I didn't want to sell. Not a single landowner in Gadyach had…"
"Ivan Ivanovich! you're just stupid and nothing more," Grigory Grigorievich said loudly. "Ivan Fyodorovich knows it all better than you do and is surely not going to believe you."
Here Ivan Ivanovich became thoroughly offended, fell silent, and started packing away the turkey, even though it was not as fat as those that were disgusting to look at.
The noise of knives, spoons, and plates replaced the conversation for a time; but loudest of all was Grigory Grigorievich's sucking out of a lamb's marrowbone.
"Have you read," Ivan Ivanovich asked of Ivan Fyodorovich after a certain silence, sticking his head out of his britzka, " Korobeinikov's
Journey to the Holy Places? 8 A true delight for heart and soul! They don't publish such books anymore. Most regretful, I didn't notice the year."
Ivan Fyodorovich, hearing that the matter concerned a book, began assiduously serving himself sauce.
"It's truly surprising, my dear sir, when you think that a simple tradesman passed through all those places. Nearly two thousand miles, my dear sir! Nearly two thousand miles! Truly, the Lord himself granted him to visit Palestine and Jerusalem."
"So you say," said Ivan Fyodorovich, who had already heard a lot about Jerusalem from his orderly, "that he was also in Jerusalem?…"
"What are you talking about, Ivan Fyodorovich?" Grigory Grigorievich spoke from the other end of the table.
"I, that is, had occasion to observe that there are such remote countries in the world!" said Ivan Fyodorovich, heartily pleased to have uttered so long and difficult a sentence.
"Don't believe him, Ivan Fyodorovich!" said Grigory Grigorievich, not hearing very well. "It's all lies!"
Meanwhile dinner was over. Grigory Grigorievich went to his room, as usual, to have a little snooze; and the guests followed the old hostess and the young ladies to the living room, where the same table on which they had left the vodka when they went to dinner was, as if by some metamorphosis, covered with little dishes of various sorts of preserves and platters with watermelons, cherries, and melons.
Grigory Grigorievich's absence could be noticed in everything. The hostess became more talkative and revealed, on her own, without being asked, a lot of secrets about the making of fruit jellies and the drying of pears. Even the young ladies began to talk; but the fair one, who seemed six years younger than her sister and looked as if she was about twenty-five, was more taciturn.
But Ivan Ivanovich spoke and acted most of all. Being sure that no one would throw him off or confuse him now, he talked about cucumbers, and about planting potatoes, and about what sensible people there had been in olden times-a far cry from those of the present day!-and about how the further it went, the smarter it got, attaining to the invention of the most clever things. In short, this was one of those people who take the greatest pleasure in being occupied with soul-delighting conversation, and will talk about anything that can be talked about. If the conversation touched on important and pious subjects, Ivan Ivanovich sighed after every word, nodding his head slightly; if on estate management, he stuck his head out of his britzka and made such faces that, just looking at them, one could learn how to make pear kvass, how big were the melons he was talking about, and how fat the geese that ran in his yard.
Finally, in the evening, Ivan Fyodorovich managed with great difficulty to say good-bye; and, despite his tractability and their attempts to force him to stay the night, he held to his intention to leave, and left.
V
The Aunt's New Plot
"Well, so, did you coax the deed out of the old villain?" With this question Ivan Fyodorovich was met by his aunt, who had been waiting impatiently for him on the porch for several hours already and finally, unable to help herself, had run out the gate.
"No, auntie!" Ivan Fyodorovich said, getting out of the cart, "Grigory Grigorievich hasn't got any deed."
"And you believed him! He's lying, curse him! There'll come a day, really, when I go and beat him up with my own hands. Oh, I'll get him to lose some of his fat! However, I must talk with our court clerk first, to see whether we can't claim it through the court… But that's not the point now. Well, was the dinner good?"
"Very… yes, auntie, quite."
"Well, so, what were the courses, tell me? The old woman knows how to run her kitchen, I know that."
"Cottage cheese cakes with sour cream, auntie. Stuffed pigeons with sauce…"
"And turkey with plums?" asked the aunt, being herself a great expert at preparing that dish.
"Turkey, too!… Quite beautiful young ladies they are, Grigory Grigorievich's sisters, especially the fair one!"
"Ah!" the aunt said and looked intently at Ivan Fyodorovich, who blushed and dropped his eyes. A new thought quickly flashed in her head. "Well, so?" she asked curiously and keenly, "what kind of eyebrows does she have?"
It will do no harm to note that, in feminine beauty, the aunt always gave first place to the eyebrows.
"Her eyebrows, auntie, are absolutely like you described yourself as having when you were young. And little freckles all over her face."
"Ah!" said the aunt, pleased with Ivan Fyodorovich's observation, though he had had no intention of paying her a compliment by it. "And what kind of dress did she have on?-though in any case it's hard now to find such sturdy fabrics as, for instance, this housecoat I'm wearing is made of. But that's not the point. Well, so, did you talk with her about anything?"
"You mean, that is… me, auntie? Perhaps you're already thinking…"
"And why not? what's so remarkable? it's God's will! Maybe it's your destiny that you and she live as a couple."
"I don't know how you can say that, auntie. It proves that you don't know me at all…"
"Well, now he's offended!" said the aunt. "He's still a young lad," she thought to herself, "doesn't know a thing! They should be brought together, let them get acquainted!"
Here the aunt went to have a look in the kitchen and left Ivan Fyodorovich. But from then on she thought only of seeing her nephew married soon and of fussing over little grandchildren. Nothing but wedding preparations were piling up in her head, and it could be noticed that though she now bustled over everything much more than before, all the same things went rather worse than better. Often, while cooking some pastry, which she generally never entrusted to the cook, she would forget herself and, imagining a little grandson standing by her and asking for cake, would absentmindedly hold out the best piece to him in her hand, while the yard dog, taking advantage of it, would snatch the tasty morsel and bring her out of her reverie with his loud chomping, for which he would always get beaten with the poker. She even neglected her favorite occupations and stopped going hunting, especially after she shot a crow instead of a partridge, something that had never happened to her before.
Finally, some four days later, everyone saw the britzka rolled out of the shed into the yard. The coachman Omelko, also both gardener and watchman, had been banging with the hammer since early morning, tacking down the leather and constantly driving away the dogs that licked the wheels. I consider it my duty to warn readers that this was the same britzka in which Adam drove about; and therefore, if anybody tries to pass some other one off as Adam's britzka, it will be a downright lie, and the britzka will certainly be a false one. It is totally unknown how it was saved from the flood. It must be supposed that there was a special shed for it on Noah's ark. It's a pity readers cannot have a vivid description of its appearance. Suffice it to say that Vasilisa Kashporovna was very pleased with its architecture and always expressed regret over old vehicles becoming outmoded. She liked very much the way the britzka was constructed-that is, slightly lopsided, so that its right side was much higher than the left, because, as she used to say, a man of small stature could get in on one side, and on the other a man of great stature. In any case, some five people of small stature could fit into the britzka, or three of the aunt's size.
Around midday, Omelko, having finished with the britzka, led out of the stable three horses not much younger than the britzka and began tying them to the majestic vehicle with a rope. Ivan Fyodorovich and his aunt got in, one from the left side, the other from the right, and the britzka set off. The muzhiks who happened along their way, seeing such a rich vehicle (the aunt rarely drove out in it), stopped respectfully, doffed their hats, and made low bows. About two hours later the kibitka stopped before the porch-I think there's no need to say-before the porch of Stor-chenko's house. Grigory Grigorievich was not at home. The old lady and the young ladies came out to the living room to meet the guests. The aunt approached with majestic step, put one leg forward with great adroitness, and said loudly:
"I am very pleased, my dear madam, to have the honor of personally paying you my respects. And along with that, allow me to thank you for your hospitality to my nephew, Ivan Fyodorovich, who has given it much praise. Your buckwheat, madam, is excellent! I saw it as I was driving up to the village. And allow me to ask, how many stacks do you get per acre?"
After which followed a general planting of kisses. And once they were settled in the living room, the old hostess began:
"Regarding the buckwheat, I am unable to tell you: that is along Grigory Grigorievich's line. I haven't occupied myself with it for a long time, and I can't-I'm too old! In olden times, I remember, we used to have buckwheat up to the waist. God knows how it is now. Though, anyhow, they say everything's better these days!" Here the old lady sighed, and an observer might have heard in this sigh the sigh of the old eighteenth century.
"I've heard, my dear madam, that your own serf girls make excellent rugs," said Vasilisa Kashporovna, thereby touching the old lady's most sensitive string. At these words she became as if animated and talk poured from her about how yarn ought to be dyed and how to prepare thread for it. From rugs the conversation quickly slipped over to the pickling of cucumbers and the drying of pears. In short, before an hour went by, the two ladies were talking as if they had known each other forever. Vasilisa Kashporovna already began saying many things to her in such a soft voice that Ivan Fyodorovich was unable to make anything out.
"But wouldn't you like to have a look?" said the old hostess, rising.
After her the young ladies and Vasilisa Kashporovna also rose, and they all moved toward the serving-girls' room. The aunt, however, gave a sign to Ivan Fyodorovich to stay and said something softly to the old lady.
"Mashenka!" the old lady said, turning to the fair girl, "stay with our guest and talk with him, so that our guest doesn't get bored!"
The fair young lady stayed and sat down on the sofa. Ivan Fyo– dorovich sat on his chair as if on needles, blushing and looking down; but the young lady seemed not to notice it at all and sat indifferently on the sofa, studying the windows and walls diligently or following with her eyes a cat that timorously ran under the chairs.
Ivan Fyodorovich plucked up his courage a bit and was about to begin a conversation; but it seemed he had lost all his words on the road. Not a single thought occurred to him.
The silence lasted about a quarter of an hour. The young lady went on sitting in the same way.
Finally Ivan Fyodorovich took heart.
"There's quite a lot of flies in summer, miss!" he uttered in a half-trembling voice.
"An incredible lot!" replied the young lady. "My brother specially made a swatter out of mama's old shoe, but there's still quite a lot."
Here the conversation stopped. And in no way could Ivan Fyodorovich find his tongue again.
Finally the mistress, the aunt, and the dark young lady came back. After talking a little while longer, Vasilisa Kashporovna took her leave of the old lady and the young ones, in spite of invitations to stay the night. The old lady and the girls came out to the porch to see the guests off, and for a long time still they kept bowing to the aunt and nephew peeking out of the britzka.
"Well, Ivan Fyodorovich! what did you talk about with the young miss?" the aunt asked on their way.
"Marya Grigorievna is a very modest and well-behaved girl!" said Ivan Fyodorovich.
"Listen, Ivan Fyodorovich! I want to talk seriously with you. You are, thank God, in your thirty-eighth year. You already have a good rank. It's time to think about children! You absolutely must have a wife…"
"What, auntie?" Ivan Fyodorovich cried out, frightened. "What, a wife? No, auntie, for pity's sake… You make me completely ashamed… I've never been married before… I absolutely wouldn't know what to do with her!"
"You'll find out, Ivan Fyodorovich, you'll find out," the aunt said, smiling, and thought to herself: "My, oh, my. He's still quite a young lad, doesn't know a thing!" "Yes, Ivan Fyodorovich," she said aloud, "you won't find a better wife than Marya Grigorievna. Besides, you liked her very much. I've already discussed it at length with the old woman: she's very pleased to see you as her son-in-law. True, we don't know what that sinner of a Grigorievich is going to say. But we won't consider him, just let him try and withhold the dowry, we'll have him in court…"
At that moment the britzka drove into the yard and the ancient nags livened up, sensing their stalls nearby.
"Listen, Omelko! give the horses a good rest first, don't take them for water right after unharnessing, they're hot. Well, Ivan Fyodorovich," the aunt went on, climbing out, "I advise you to think it over well. I still have to run by the kitchen. I forgot to give Solokha orders for supper, and I suppose the worthless woman hasn't thought of it herself."
But Ivan Fyodorovich stood as if thunderstruck. True, Marya Grigorievna was a very nice young lady; but to get married!… that seemed to him so strange, so odd, that he was simply unable to think of it without fear. To live with a wife!… incomprehensible! He wouldn't be alone in his room, there'd be two of them everywhere!… Sweat broke out on his face as he fell to pondering more deeply.
He went to bed earlier than usual, but despite all efforts was unable to fall asleep. At last the longed-for sleep, that universal pacifier, visited him-but what sleep! He had never had more incoherent dreams. First he dreamed that everything around him was noisy, whirling, and he is running, running, not feeling the legs under him…he's already at the end of his strength… Suddenly somebody grabs him by the ear. "Aie! who's that?" "It's me, your wife!" some voice said noisily. And he suddenly woke up. Then he imagined that he was already married, that everything in their house was so odd, so strange: in his room, instead of a single bed, there stood a double bed. On a chair sits the wife. It's strange to him; he doesn't know how to approach her, what to say to her, and he notices that she has a goose face. Inadvertendy, he turns away and sees another wife, also with a goose face. He turns another way-there stands a third wife. Behind him, one more wife. Here anguish came over him. He rushed into the garden; but it was hot in the garden. He took his hat off and saw: a wife is sitting in the hat, too. Sweat broke out on his face. He went to his pocket to get a handkerchief-there's a wife in the pocket as well; he took a wad of cotton out of his ear-there sits another wife… Then suddenly he was hopping on one foot, and his aunt, looking at him, said with an imposing air, "Yes, you must hop, because you're a married man now." He turns to her, but the aunt is no longer an aunt but a belfry. And he feels that someone is pulling him on a rope up the belfry. "Who is pulling me?" Ivan Fyodorovich asks pitifully. "It's me, your wife pulling you, because you're a bell." "No, I'm not a bell, I'm Ivan Fyodorovich!" he cries. "Yes, you're a bell," says the colonel of the Pinfantry regiment, passing by. Then he suddenly dreamed that his wife was not a person at all but some sort of woolen fabric; that he was in Mogilev, going into a shop. "What kind of fabric would you like?" says the shopkeeper. "Take some wife, it's the most fashionable fabric! very good quality! everybody makes frock coats from it now." The shopkeeper measures and cuts the wife. Ivan Fyodorovich takes it under his arm and goes to a tailor, a Jew. "No," says the Jew, "this is poor fabric! Nobody makes frock coats from it…"
In fear and beside himself, Ivan Fyodorovich woke up. He was streaming with cold sweat.
As soon as he got up in the morning, he at once appealed to the fortune-telling book, at the end of which one virtuous bookseller, in his rare kindness and disinterestedness, had placed an abbreviated interpretation of dreams. But there was absolutely nothing in it even faintly resembling such an incoherent dream.
Meanwhile, in the aunt's head a totally new plot was hatching, which you will hear about in the next chapter.
Old World Landowners
I like very much the modest life of those solitary proprietors of remote estates who in Little Russia are usually known as the old world and who, like decrepit, picturesque little houses, are so nicely mottled and so completely the opposite of a new, smooth building whose walls have not yet been washed by rain, whose roof is not yet covered with green mold, and whose porch does not yet show its red bricks through missing plaster. I like sometimes to descend for a moment into the realm of this remarkably solitary life, where not one desire flies over the paling that surrounds the small yard, over the wattle fence that encloses the garden filled with apple and plum trees, over the village cottages surrounding it, slumped to one side, in the shade of pussy willows, elders, and pear trees. The life of their modest owners is quiet, so quiet that for a moment you forget yourself and think that the passions, desires, and restlessness produced by the evil spirit who troubles the world do not exist at all, and that you saw them only in a splendid, shining dream. From here I can see a low house with a gallery of small, blackened wooden posts running all the way round it, so that it would be possible in time of hail and thunder to close the shutters without getting wet by rain. Behind it, a fragrant bird cherry, whole rows of low fruit trees drowning in the purple of cherries and the ruby sea of plums covered with a leaden bloom; a branching maple in the shadow of which a rug has been spread for resting on; in front of the house, a vast yard of low, fresh grass, with a beaten path from the barn to the kitchen and from the kitchen to the master's quarters; a long-necked goose drinking water with her young, downy-soft goslings; the paling hung with strings of dried pears and apples and with rugs airing out; a cart full of melons standing by the barn; an unharnessed ox lying lazily beside it-all this has an inexplicable charm for me, perhaps because I no longer see it, and because everything we are parted from is dear to us. Be that as it may, even as my britzka drove up to the porch of this little house, my soul would assume a remarkably pleasant and calm state; the horses would trot merrily to the porch, the coachman would most calmly climb down from the box and fill his pipe as if he had come to his own house; the very barking set up by the phlegmatic Rustys, Rovers, and Fidos was pleasant to my ears. But most of all I liked the owners of these modest corners themselves, the little old men, the little old women who came solicitously to meet me. Their faces come back to me even now, in the noise and crowd, amid fashionable tailcoats, and then suddenly I am overcome by reverie and have vision^ of the past. On their faces there was always written such kindness, such cordiality and pure-heartedness, that you would unwittingly renounce all your bold dreams, at least for a short while, and pass imperceptibly into lowly bucolic life.
To this day I cannot forget an old couple from times past, who, alas, are no more, yet my soul is still filled with pity and my feelings are strangely wrung when I imagine myself coming again some day to their former, now-deserted dwelling and seeing a cluster of tumbledown cottages, an untended pond, an overgrown ditch in the place where the little low house used to stand-and nothing more. Sad! I feel sad beforehand! But let us turn to the story.
Afanasy Ivanovich Tovstogub and Pulkheria Ivanovna, the Tov-stogub wife, as the neighboring peasants called her, were the old folk I was beginning to tell about. If I were a painter and wanted to portray Philemon and Baucis 1 on canvas, I would never choose any other original than them. Afanasy Ivanovich was sixty years old, Pulkheria Ivanovna fifty-five. Afanasy Ivanovich was tall, always went about in a sheepskin coat covered with camlet, sat hunched over, and almost always smiled, whether talking or merely listening. Pulkheria Ivanovna was rather serious, she hardly ever laughed, but there was so much kindness written in her face and eyes, so much readiness to treat you to the best of everything they had, that you would surely have found a smile much too sugary on her kind face. The pattern of light wrinkles on their faces was so pleasant that an artist would surely have stolen it. By it one seemed able to read their whole life, the serene, calm life led by old, native-born, simple-hearted and yet wealthy families, who are always such a contrast to those low Little Russians who push their way up from tar-makers and dealers, fill the courts and government offices like locusts, rip the last kopeck out of their own compatriots, flood Petersburg with pettifoggers, finally make some fortune, and to their last name, which ends in o, solemnly add the letter v. 2 No, like all the ancient and native-born families of Little Russia, they bore no resemblance to these despicable and pathetic creatures.
It was impossible to look at their mutual love without sympathy. They never spoke to each other informally but always with respect, as Afanasy Ivanovich and Pulkheria Ivanovna. "Was it you who went through the seat of the chair, Afanasy Ivanovich?" "No matter, don't be angry, Pulkheria Ivanovna, it was me." They never had children, and therefore all their affection was focused on themselves. Once, when he was young, Afanasy Ivanovich had served in the volunteer cavalry, later he became a staff major, but that was very long ago, a bygone thing, Afanasy Ivanovich himself hardly ever recalled it. Afanasy Ivanovich had married at the age of thirty, when he was a fine fellow and wore an embroidered uniform; he had even abducted Pulkheria Ivanovna rather adroitly when her relations refused to give her to him; but of that, too, he remembered very little, or at least never spoke.
All these long-past, extraordinary events were replaced by a quiet and solitary life, by those drowsy and at the same time harmonious reveries which you experience sitting on a village bal– cony overlooking the garden, when a wonderful rain makes a luxuriant splashing on the leaves, pouring down in bubbling streams and casting a drowsy spell over your limbs, and meanwhile a rainbow steals from behind the trees and like a half-ruined arch shines with its seven muted colors in the sky. Or when you are rocked by a carriage bobbing between green shrubs, and a steppe quail throbs, and fragrant grass together with wildflowers and ears of wheat poke through the doors of the carriage, striking you pleasantly on the hands and face.
He always listened with a pleasant smile to the guests who came to see him, and sometimes spoke himself, but mainly to ask questions. He was not one of those old people who make a nuisance of themselves, eternally praising the old days or denouncing the new. On the contrary, in questioning you, he showed great curiosity and concern for the circumstances of your own life, its successes and failures, which always interest all kindly old men, though it somewhat resembled the curiosity of a child who, while talking to you, studies your watch fob. In those moments his face, one might say, breathed kindness.
The rooms of the house in which our old folk lived were small, low, such as one meets among old world people. In each room there was an enormous stove that took up almost a third of it. These rooms were terribly warm, because Afanasy Ivanovich and Pulkheria Ivanovna were both very fond of warmth. The fireboxes were all in the front hall, which was always filled nearly to the ceiling with the straw customarily used instead of wood in Little Russia. The crackling of this burning straw and its light made the front hall very pleasant on a winter evening, when ardent youths, chilled in the pursuit of some swarthy beauty, came running in clapping their hands. The walls of the rooms were adorned with several paintings, big and small, in old-fashioned narrow frames. I'm certain that the hosts themselves had long forgotten their content, and if some had been taken away, they surely would not have noticed it. There were two large oil portraits. One of them represented some bishop, the other Peter III. 3 The Duchess of La Valliиre, 4 stained by flies, looked out from a narrow frame.
Around the windows and over the door there were many small pictures, such as one somehow gets used to regarding as spots on the wall and therefore simply does not look at. The floors in almost all the rooms were of clay, but it was beaten down so neatly and kept so clean, as surely no parquet is kept in any rich house where a drowsy gendeman in livery lazily does the sweeping.
Pulkheria Ivanovna's room was all filled with chests, boxes, little boxes, and little chests. A multitude of little bundles and bags with flower, vegetable, and watermelon seeds hung on the walls. A multitude of balls of yarn of various colors, of scraps from old dresses made in the course of half a century, was tucked into the corners of the chests and between them. Pulkheria Ivanovna was a great manager and collected everything, sometimes without knowing of what use it would be later.
But the most remarkable thing in the house was the singing doors. As soon as morning came, the singing of the doors sounded throughout the house. I'm unable to say why they sang-whether it was the fault of rusty hinges, or the workman who made them concealed some secret in them-but the remarkable thing was that each door had its own special voice: the door to the bedroom sang in the highest treble, the dining room door in a hoarse bass, while the one in the front hall produced some strange cracked and at the same time moaning sound, so that, listening attentively, one could finally hear quite clearly: "My, oh, my, how cold I am!" I know that many people dislike this sound very much; but I have a great love for it, and if I happen now to hear the occasional creaking of a door, it immediately smells of the village to me, of the low little room lit by a candle in an old-fashioned candlestick, of supper already set on the table, of the dark May night gazing at the laid table through the open window from the garden, of the nightingale showering the garden, the house, and the distant river with his trills, of the fright and rustling of the branches… and, God, what a long string of memories comes to me then!
