The Five-Walled House

According to the documents, transferring ownership of the movable and immovable property of a third cousin could be done only starting October 3. However, Ivan Afanasiyevich was never known for his patience. And part of the agreement he had already fulfilled — he had placed the aunt in a decent care home. Of course, she didn’t agree right away: she said that she was born on her own land and would die there too. So Ivan Afanasiyevich had to declare himself incompetent and appoint himself her guardian. But what was she supposed to do in such a house? For which Ivan Afanasiyevich himself had already set his sights. You can’t buy such a five-gabled house in any Moscow, for any money. Just think — it’s cut from centuries-old linden that’s been boiled and rendered. The logs, you can imagine, must be half a meter thick. It stands near the riverworks on a slope, and the shingle roof gleams with gold in the autumn sun after a recent rain, while on the ridge a little rooster weather vane, forged with a flier, spins. A tall porch; shutters and window casings — all carved with skill. And the place itself is a sight to behold!

Ivan Afanasiyevich, though a man of the capital, understood immediately: you can’t go and ruin a place like this with a bad cart. He left the driver with the Cruzeer in the county, and hired a cart himself — and all five versts he suffered with his own backbone. He didn’t go “anyhow.” With a “blue-blood” sort of master-man. He prepared in advance for it: he put on the old-fashioned zipun coat, patched it accordingly, and fitted himself with boots that creaked and a fox-fur cap. When they arrived, he slid off the cart, dismissed the driver, and limped up to the house. He stepped close and smoothed the old logs with his palm. Rough, warm wood — warm as if alive. Tap it and it rings out with a clean sound into the transparent air. Ivan Afanasiyevich liked it so much that he decided to stay here for these weekends…