Platonoff took upon himself to guide Selifan, as was requisite, for the coachman could hardly hold himself on his box. As for Petrushka, he twice tumbled from the calash like a log, so that it became necessary to bind him to the seat with a rope. “What a brute!” was all that Tchitchikoff said.
“Look! Kostanzhoglo’s land begins here,” said Platonoff. “It has quite another aspect.” And in fact, all over the fields planted with forest-trees, the young saplings were as even and as straight as arrows; behind them came another plantation of young trees, but a little taller; behind this rose a wood of older growth, and so on, the trees of each patch being taller than the preceding ones. Then came another strip of land, covered with a heavy growth of grain; and again, in the same manner, a young growth of forest, succeeded by an older one. As they passed under the arched branches, Platonoff exclaimed, “All these have grown up in eight or ten years; with anybody else they would not have grown in twelve.”
“How does he manage it?” asked our hero.
“Oh, you must ask him. He’s quite learned in all matters connected with the soil. He does nothing in vain. He not only understands the soil, but he knows what locality is required for each thing, and which tree should go with each grain. He makes everything answer three or four purposes at once. If he has a patch of forest, it is because, in addition to the forest as a forest, just so much extra moisture must be provided for the fields, with so much fertilising mould from the falling leaves, and so much shade. When there is a drought everywhere else, there is no drought with him: when the crops all round about him fail, they don’t fail with him. It’s a pity that I know so little about these things, that I cannot explain them fully to you; however, my brother-in-law resorts to such strange devices, he is called a sorcerer. You will see some very curious things on his estate. But it’s a bore, all the same.”
“He really must be a remarkable man,” thought Tchitchikoff. “It is most lamentable that this young man cannot give me an idea of what he does. I feel very anxious to see him.”
At length the village made its appearance. It resembled a town: a multitude of cabins were scattered about on three hillocks, crowned with churches, and everywhere hemmed in with ricks of hay, and stacks of grain. “Yes,” thought Tchitchikoff, “it is evident that a man of importance lives here.”
The cabins were all well built; the streets were level; whenever a telyéga appeared, it was stout and quite new; the moujiks whom one encountered had an intelligent expression; the horned cattle were of choice kinds; even the serfs’ pigs looked like noblemen. It was evident that here dwelt peasants, who, as the song says, dug with silver spades. Here there were no English parks or lawns, arbours and bridges, with all sorts of devices: but, after the ancient fashion, an avenue lined with granaries and labourers’ cottages ran almost up to the very manor-house, so that all that was going on round about might be under the master’s eye. To complete the arrangement, a lofty tower of observation, which commanded a view for fifteen versts in every direction, rose upon the roof, not for the sake of ornament, but for the express purpose of overlooking the labourers in the distant fields. Under the porch they were met by some well-trained servants, very different indeed from the drunken Petrushka, and far more prepossessing, although they did not wear swallow-tailed coats, but simple cossack tunics of blue homespun.
The mistress of the house also ran out to the porch. She was as fresh as blood and milk, as beautiful as God’s day, and as like Platonoff as one drop of water is like another; with this difference, however, that she was not at all languid, like he was, but merry and talkative.
“Welcome, brother! How glad I am that you have come!” she said. “Konstantin is not at home, but he will soon be here.”
“Where is he?”
“He has business in the village with some traders,” she replied, conducting the visitors into the house.