Mikhaílo Nikoláevitch Ipátoff’s manor consisted of two separate small
mansions, built opposite each other on the two sides of a huge pond
through which ran a river. A long dam, planted with silver poplars,
shut off the pond; almost on a level with it the red roof of a small
hand-mill was visible. Built exactly alike, and painted with the same
lilac hue, the tiny houses seemed to be exchanging glances across the
broad, watery expanse, with the glittering panes of their small, clean
windows. From the middle of each little house a circular terrace
projected, and a sharp-peaked pediment rose aloft, supported by four
white pillars set close together. The ancient park ran all the way round
the pond; lindens stretched out in alleys, and stood in dense clumps;
aged pine-trees, with pale yellow boles, dark oaks, magnificent maples
here and there reared high in air their solitary crests; the dense
verdure of the thickly-spreading lilacs and acacias advanced close up to
the very sides of the two little houses, leaving revealed only their
fronts, from which winding paths paved with brick ran down the slope.
Motley-hued ducks, white and grey geese were swimming in separate flocks
on the clear water of the pond; it never became covered with scum,
thanks to abundant springs which welled into its “head” from the base of
the steep, rocky ravine. The situation of the manor was good, pleasant,
isolated, and beautiful.
In one of the two little houses dwelt Mikhaíl Nikoláevitch himself; in
the other lived his mother, a decrepit old woman of seventy years. When
he drove on to the dam, Vladímir Sergyéitch did not know to which house
to betake himself. He glanced about him: a small urchin of the
house-serfs was fishing, as he stood barefooted on a half-rotten
tree-stump. Vladímir Sergyéitch hailed him.
“But to whom are you going--to the old lady or to the young
master?”--replied the urchin, without taking his eyes from his float.
“What lady?”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“I want to find Mikhaílo
Nikoláitch.”
“Ah! the young master? Well, then, turn to the right.”
And the lad gave his line a jerk, and drew from the motionless water a
small, silvery carp. Vladímir Sergyéitch drove to the right.
Mikhaíl Nikoláitch was playing at draughts with The Folding Soul when
the arrival of Vladímir Sergyéitch was announced to him. He was
delighted, sprang from his arm-chair, ran out into the anteroom and
there kissed the visitor three times.
“You find me with my invariable friend, Vladímir Sergyéitch,”--began the
loquacious little old man:--“with Iván Ílitch, who, I will remark in
passing, is completely enchanted with your affability.” (Iván Ílitch
darted a silent glance at the corner.) “He was so kind as to remain to
play draughts with me, while all my household went for a stroll in the
park; but I will send for them at once....”
“But why disturb them?”--Vladímir Sergyéitch tried to expostulate....
“Not the least inconvenience, I assure you. Hey, there, Vánka, run for
the young ladies as fast as thou canst ... tell them that a guest has
favoured us with a visit. And how does this locality please you? It’s
not bad, is it? Kaburdín has composed some verses about it. ‘Ipátovka,
refuge lovely’--that’s the way they begin,--and the rest of it is just
as good, only I don’t remember all of it. The park is large, that’s the
trouble; beyond my means. And these two houses, which are so much alike,
as you have, perhaps, deigned to observe, were erected by two
brothers--my father Nikolái, and my uncle Sergyéi; they also laid out
the park; they were exemplary friends ... Damon and ... there now! I’ve
forgotten the other man’s name....”
“Pythion,”--remarked Iván Ílitch.
“Not really? Well, never mind.” (At home the old man talked in a much
more unconventional manner than when he was paying calls.)--“You are,
probably, not ignorant of the fact, Vladímir Sergyéitch, that I am a
widower, that I have lost my wife; my elder children are in government
educational institutions,[15] and I have with me only the youngest two,
and my sister-in-law lives with me--my wife’s sister; you will see her
directly. But why don’t I offer you some refreshment? Iván Ílitch, my
dear fellow, see to a little luncheon ... what sort of vodka are you
pleased to prefer?”
“I drink nothing until dinner.”
“Goodness, how is that possible! However, as you please. The truest
hospitality is to let the guest do as he likes. We are very
simple-mannered folk here, you see. Here with us, if I may venture so to
express myself, we live not so much in a lonely as in a dead-calm place,
a remote nook--that’s what! But why don’t you sit down?”
Vladímir Sergyéitch seated himself, without letting go of his hat.
“Permit me to relieve you,”--said Ipátoff, and delicately taking his hat
from him, he carried it off to a corner, then returned, looked his
visitor in the eye with a cordial smile, and, not knowing just what
agreeable thing to say to him, inquired, in the most hearty
manner,--whether he was fond of playing draughts.
“I play all games badly,”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“And that’s a very fine thing in you,”--returned Ipátoff:--“but draughts
is not a game, but rather a diversion--a way of passing leisure time;
isn’t that so, Iván Ílitch?”
Iván Ílitch cast an indifferent glance at Ipátoff, as though he were
thinking to himself, “The devil only knows whether it is a game or a
diversion,” but, after waiting a while, he said:
“Yes; draughts don’t count.”
“Chess is quite another matter, they say,”--pursued Ipátoff;--“’tis a
very difficult game, I’m told. But, in my opinion ... but yonder come my
people!”--he interrupted himself, glancing through the half-open glass
door, which gave upon the park.
Vladímir Sergyéitch rose, turned round, and beheld first two little
girls, about ten years of age, in pink cotton frocks and broad-brimmed
hats, who were running alertly up the steps of the terrace; not far
behind them a tall, plump, well-built young girl of twenty, in a dark
gown, made her appearance. They all entered the house, and the little
girls courtesied sedately to the visitor.
“Here, sir, let me present you,”--said the host;--“my daughters, sir.
This one here is named Kátya, and this one is Nástya, and this is my
sister-in-law, Márya Pávlovna, whom I have already had the pleasure of
mentioning to you. I beg that you will love and favour them.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch made his bow to Márya Pávlovna; she replied to him
with a barely perceptible inclination of the head.
Márya Pávlovna held in her hand a large, open knife; her thick,
ruddy-blond hair was slightly dishevelled,--a small green leaf had got
entangled in it, her braids had escaped from the comb,--her
dark-skinned face was flushed, and her red lips were parted; her gown
looked crumpled. She was breathing fast; her eyes were sparkling; it was
evident that she had been working in the garden. She immediately left
the room; the little girls ran out after her.
“She’s going to rearrange her toilet a bit,”--remarked the old man,
turning to Vladímir Sergyéitch;--“they can’t get along without that,
sir!”
Vladímir Sergyéitch grinned at him in response, and became somewhat
pensive. Márya Pávlovna had made an impression on him. It was long since
he had seen such a purely Russian beauty of the steppes. She speedily
returned, sat down on the divan, and remained motionless. She had
smoothed her hair, but had not changed her gown,--had not even put on
cuffs. Her features expressed not precisely pride, but rather austerity,
almost harshness; her brow was broad and low, her nose short and
straight; a slow, lazy smile curled her lips from time to time; her
straight eyebrows contracted scornfully. She kept her large, dark eyes
almost constantly lowered. “I know,” her repellent young face seemed to
be saying; “I know that you are all looking at me; well, then, look; you
bore me.” But when she raised her eyes, there was something wild,
beautiful, and stolid about them, which was suggestive of the eyes of a
doe. She had a magnificent figure. A classical poet would have compared
her to Ceres or Juno.
“What have you been doing in the garden?”--Ipátoff asked her, being
desirous of bringing her into the conversation.
“I have been cutting off dead branches, and digging up the flower-beds,”
she replied, in a voice which was rather low, but agreeable and
resonant.
“And are you tired?”
“The children are; I am not.”
“I know,”--interposed the old man, with a smile;--“thou art a regular
Bobélina! And have you been to grandmamma’s?”
“Yes; she is asleep.”
“Are you fond of flowers?”--Vladímir Sergyéitch asked her.
“Yes.”
“Why dost thou not put on thy hat when thou goest out of
doors?”--Ipátoff remarked to her.--“Just see how red and sunburned thou
art.”
She silently passed her hand over her face. Her hands were not large,
but rather broad, and decidedly red. She did not wear gloves.
“And are you fond of gardening?”--Vladímir Sergyéitch put another
question to her.
“Yes.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch began to narrate what a fine garden there was in his
neighbourhood, belonging to a wealthy landed proprietor named
N***.--The head gardener, a German, received in wages alone two thousand
rubles, silver[16]--he said, among other things.
“And what is the name of that gardener?”--inquired Iván Ílitch,
suddenly.
“I don’t remember,--Meyer or Müller, I think. But why do you ask?”
“For no reason in particular, sir,”--replied Iván Ílitch.--“To find out
his name.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch continued his narration. The little girls, Mikhaíl
Nikoláitch’s daughters, entered, sat down quietly, and quietly began to
listen....
A servant made his appearance at the door, had announced that Egór
Kapítonitch had arrived.
“Ah! Ask him in, ask him in!”--exclaimed Ipátoff.
There entered a short, fat little old man, one of the sort of people who
are called squat or dumpy, with a puffy and, at the same time, a
wrinkled little face, after the fashion of a baked apple. He wore a grey
hussar jacket with black braiding and a standing collar; his full
coffee-coloured velveteen trousers ended far above his ankles.
“Good morning, my most respected Egór Kapítonitch,”--exclaimed Ipátoff,
advancing to meet him.--“We haven’t seen each other for a long time.”
“Couldn’t be helped,”--returned Egór Kapítonitch in a lisping and
whining voice, after having preliminarily exchanged salutations with all
present;--“surely you know, Mikhaíl Sergyéitch, whether I am a free man
or not?”
“And how are you not a free man, Egór Kapítonitch?”
“Why, of course I’m not, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch; there’s my family, my
affairs.... And there’s Matryóna Márkovna to boot,” and he waved his
hand in despair.
“But what about Matryóna Márkovna?”
And Ipátoff launched a slight wink at Vladímir Sergyéitch, as though
desirous of exciting his interest in advance.
“Why, everybody knows,”--returned Egór Kapítonitch, as he took a
seat;--“she’s always discontented with me, don’t you know that? Whatever
I say, it’s wrong, not delicate, not decorous. And why it isn’t
decorous, the Lord God alone knows. And the young ladies, my daughters
that is to say, do the same, taking pattern by their mother. I don’t say
but what Matryóna Márkovna is a very fine woman, but she’s awfully
severe on the score of manners.”
“But, good gracious! in what way are your manners bad, Egór
Kapítonitch?”
“That’s exactly what I’d like to know myself; but, evidently, she’s
hard to suit. Yesterday, for instance, I said at table: ‘Matryóna
Márkovna,’” and Egór Kapítonitch imparted to his voice an insinuating
inflection,--“‘Matryóna Márkovna,’ says I, ‘what’s the meaning of
this,--that Aldóshka isn’t careful with the horses, doesn’t know how to
drive?’ says I; ‘there’s the black stallion quite foundered.’--I-iikh!
how Matryóna Márkovna did flare up, and set to crying shame on me: ‘Thou
dost not know how to express thyself decently in the society of ladies,’
says she; and the young ladies instantly galloped away from the table,
and on the next day, the Biriúloff young ladies, my wife’s nieces, had
heard all about it. And how had I expressed myself badly? And no matter
what I say--and sometimes I really am incautious,--no matter to whom I
say it, especially at home,--those Biriúloff girls know all about it the
next day. A fellow simply doesn’t know what to do. Sometimes I’m just
sitting so, thinking after my fashion,--I breathe hard, as perhaps you
know,--and Matryóna Márkovna sets to berating me again: ‘Don’t snore,’
says she; ‘nobody snores nowadays!’--‘What art thou scolding about,
Matryóna Márkovna?’ says I. ‘Good mercy, thou shouldst have compassion,
but thou scoldest.’ So I don’t meditate at home any more. I sit and look
down--so--all the time. By Heaven, I do. And then, again, not long ago,
we got into bed; ‘Matryóna Márkovna,’ says I, ‘what makes thee spoil
thy page-boy, mátushka?[17] Why, he’s a regular little pig,’ says I,
‘and he might wash his face of a Sunday, at least.’ And what happened?
It strikes me that I said it distantly, tenderly, but I didn’t hit the
mark even then; Matryóna Márkovna began to cry shame on me again: ‘Thou
dost not understand how to behave in the society of ladies,’ says she;
and the next day the Biriúloff girls knew all about it. What time have I
to think of visits under such circumstances, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch?”
“I’m amazed at what you tell me,”--replied Ipátoff;--“I did not expect
that from Matryóna Márkovna. Apparently, she is....”
“An extremely fine woman,”--put in Egór Kapítonitch;--“a model wife and
mother, so to speak, only strict on the score of manners. She says that
_ensemble_ is necessary in everything, and that I haven’t got it. I
don’t speak French, as you are aware, I only understand it. But what’s
that _ensemble_ that I haven’t got?”
Ipátoff, who was not very strong in French himself, only shrugged his
shoulders.
“And how are your children--your sons, that is to say?”--he asked Egór
Kapítonitch after a brief pause.
Egór Kapítonitch darted an oblique glance at him.
“My sons are all right. I’m satisfied with them. The girls have got out
of hand, but I’m satisfied with my sons. Lyólya discharges his service
well, his superior officers approve of him; that Lyólya of mine is a
clever fellow. Well, Míkhetz--he’s not like that; he has turned out some
sort of a philanthropist.”
“Why a philanthropist?”
“The Lord knows; he speaks to nobody, he shuns folks. Matryóna Márkovna
mostly abashes him. ‘Why dost thou take pattern by thy father?’ she says
to him. ‘Do thou respect him, but copy thy mother as to manners.’ He’ll
get straightened out, he’ll turn out all right also.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch asked Ipátoff to introduce him to Egór Kapítonitch.
They entered into conversation. Márya Pávlovna did not take part in it;
Iván Ílitch seated himself beside her, and said two words, in all, to
her; the little girls came up to him, and began to narrate something to
him in a whisper.... The housekeeper entered, a gaunt old woman, with
her head bound up in a dark kerchief, and announced that dinner was
ready. All wended their way to the dining-room.
The dinner lasted for quite a long time. Ipátoff kept a good cook, and
ordered pretty good wines, not from Moscow, but from the capital of the
government. Ipátoff lived at his ease, as the saying goes. He did not
own more than three hundred souls, but he was not in debt to any one,
and had brought his estate into order. At table, the host himself did
the greater part of the talking; Egór Kapítonitch chimed in, but did not
forget himself, at the same time; he ate and drank gloriously. Márya
Pávlovna preserved unbroken silence, only now and then replying with
half-smiles to the hurried remarks of the two little girls, who sat one
on each side of her. They were, evidently, very fond of her. Vladímir
Sergyéitch made several attempts to enter into conversation with her,
but without particular success. Folding Soul Bodryakóff even ate
indolently and languidly. After dinner all went out on the terrace to
drink coffee. The weather was magnificent; from the garden was wafted
the sweet perfume of the lindens, which were then in full flower; the
summer air, slightly cooled by the thick shade of the trees, and the
humidity of the adjacent pond, breathed forth a sort of caressing
warmth. Suddenly, from behind the poplars of the dam, the trampling of a
horse’s hoofs became audible, and a moment later, a horsewoman made her
appearance in a long riding-habit and a grey hat, mounted on a bay
horse; she was riding at a gallop; a page was galloping behind her, on a
small, white cob.
“Ah!”--exclaimed Ipátoff,--“Nadézhda Alexyéevna is coming. What a
pleasant surprise!”
“Alone?”--asked Márya Pávlovna, who up to that moment had been standing
motionless in the doorway.
“Alone.... Evidently, something has detained Piótr Alexyéevitch.”
Márya Pávlovna darted a sidelong glance from beneath her brows, a flush
overspread her face, and she turned away.
In the meantime, the horsewoman had ridden through the wicket-gate into
the garden, galloped up to the terrace, and sprang lightly to the
ground, without waiting either for her groom or for Ipátoff, who had
started to meet her. Briskly gathering up the train of her riding-habit,
she ran up the steps, and springing upon the terrace, exclaimed
blithely:
“Here I am!”
“Welcome!”--said Ipátoff.--“How unexpected, how charming this is! Allow
me to kiss your hand....”
“Certainly,”--returned the visitor; “only, you must pull off the glove
yourself.--I cannot.” And, extending her hand to him, she nodded to
Márya Pávlovna.--“Just fancy, Másha, my brother will not be here
to-day,”--she said, with a little sigh.
“I see for myself that he is not here,”--replied Márya Pávlovna in an
undertone.
“He bade me say to thee that he is busy. Thou must not be angry. Good
morning, Egór Kapítonitch; good morning, Iván Ílitch; good morning,
children.... Vásya,”--added the guest, turning to her small
groom,--“order them to walk Little Beauty up and down well, dost hear?
Másha, please give me a pin, to fasten up my train.... Come here,
Mikhaíl Nikoláitch.”
Ipátoff went closer to her.
“Who is that new person?”--she asked, quite loudly.
“That is a neighbour, Astákhoff, Vladímir Sergyéevitch, you know, the
owner of Sásovo. I’ll introduce him if you like, shall I?”
“Very well ... afterward. Akh, what splendid weather!”--she went
on.--“Egór Kapítonitch, tell me--can it be possible that Matryóna
Márkovna growls even in such weather as this?”
“Matryóna Márkovna never grumbles in any sort of weather, madam; and she
is merely strict on the score of manners....”
“And what are the Biriúloff girls doing? They know all about it the next
day, don’t they?...” And she burst into a ringing, silvery laugh.
“You are pleased to laugh constantly,”--returned Egór
Kapítonitch.--“However, when should a person laugh, if not at your age?”
“Egór Kapítonitch, don’t get angry, my dear man! Akh, I’m tired; allow
me to sit down....”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna dropped into an arm-chair, and playfully pulled her
hat down over her very eyes.
Ipátoff led Vladímir Sergyéitch up to her.
“Permit me, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, to present to you our neighbour, Mr.
Astákhoff, of whom you have, probably, heard a great deal.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch made his bow, while Nadézhda Alexyéevna looked up at
him from under the brim of her round hat.
“Nadézhda Alexyéevna Véretyeff, our neighbour,”--went on Ipátoff,
turning to Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“She lives here with her brother, Piótr
Alexyéitch, a retired lieutenant of the Guards. She is a great friend of
my sister-in-law, and bears good will to our household in general.”
“A whole formal inventory,”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna, laughing, and, as
before, scanning Vladímir Sergyéitch from under her hat.
But, in the meantime, Vladímir Sergyéitch was thinking to himself: “Why,
this is a very pretty woman also.” And, in fact, Nadézhda Alexyéevna was
a very charming young girl. Slender and graceful, she appeared much
younger than she really was. She was already in her twenty-eighth year.
She had a round face, a small head, fluffy fair hair, a sharp, almost
audaciously upturned little nose, and merry, almost crafty little eyes.
Mockery fairly glittered in them, and kindled in them in sparks. Her
features, extremely vivacious and mobile, sometimes assumed an almost
amusing expression; humour peered forth from them. Now and then, for the
most part suddenly, a shade of pensiveness flitted across her face,--and
at such times it became gentle and kindly; but she could not surrender
herself long to meditation. She easily seized upon the ridiculous sides
of people, and drew very respectable caricatures. Everybody had petted
her ever since she was born, and that is something which is immediately
perceptible; people who have been spoiled in childhood preserve a
certain stamp to the end of their lives. Her brother loved her, although
he asserted that she stung, not like a bee, but like a wasp; because a
bee stings and then dies, whereas it signifies nothing for a wasp to
sting. This comparison enraged her.
“Have you come here for long?”--she asked Vladímir Sergyéitch, dropping
her eyes, and twisting her riding-whip in her hands.
“No; I intend to go away from here to-morrow.”
“Whither?”
“Home.”
“Home? Why, may I venture to ask?”
“What do you mean by ‘why’? I have affairs at home which do not brook
delay.”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna looked at him.
“Are you such a ... punctual man?”
“I try to be a punctual man,”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“In our
sedate era, every honourable man _must_ be sedate and punctual.”
“That is perfectly just,”--remarked Ipátoff.--“Isn’t that true Iván
Ílitch?”
Iván Ílitch merely glanced at Ipátoff; but Egór Kapítonitch remarked:
“Yes, that’s so.”
“‘Tis a pity,”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna;--“precisely what we lack is a
_jeune premier_. You know how to act comedy, I suppose?”
“I have never put my powers in that line to the test.”
“I am convinced that you would act well. You have that sort of bearing
... a stately mien, which is indispensable in a _jeune premier_. My
brother and I are preparing to set up a theatre here. However, we shall
not act comedies only: we shall act all sorts of things--dramas,
ballets, and even tragedies. Why wouldn’t Másha do for Cleopatra or
Phèdre? Just look at her!”
Vladímir Sergyéitch turned round.... Márya Pávlovna was gazing
thoughtfully into the distance, as she stood leaning her head against
the door, with folded arms.... At that moment, her regular features
really did suggest the faces of ancient statues. She did not catch
Nadézhda Alexyéevna’s last words; but, perceiving that the glances of
all present were suddenly directed to her, she immediately divined what
was going on, blushed, and was about to retreat into the
drawing-room.... Nadézhda Alexyéevna briskly grasped her by the hand
and, with the coquettish caressing action of a kitten, drew her toward
her, and kissed that almost masculine hand. Márya Pávlovna flushed more
vividly than before.
“Thou art always playing pranks, Nádya,”--she said.
“Didn’t I speak the truth about thee? I am ready to appeal to all....
Well, enough, enough, I won’t do it again. But I will say again,”--went
on Nadézhda Alexyéevna, addressing Vladímir Sergyéitch,--“that it is a
pity you are going away. We have a _jeune premier_, it is true; he calls
himself so, but he is very bad.”
“Who is he? permit me to inquire.”
“Bodryakóff the poet. How can a poet be a _jeune premier_? In the first
place, he dresses in the most frightful way; in the second place, he
writes epigrams, and gets shy in the presence of every woman, even in
mine. He lisps, one of his hands is always higher than his head, and I
don’t know what besides. Tell me, please, M’sieu Astákhoff, are all
poets like that?”
Vladímir Sergyéitch drew himself up slightly.
“I have never known a single one of them, personally; but I must confess
that I have never sought acquaintance with them.”
“Yes, you certainly are a positive man. We shall have to take
Bodryakóff; there’s nothing else to be done. Other _jeunes premiers_ are
even worse. That one, at all events, will learn his part by heart.
Másha, in addition to tragic rôles, will fill the post of prima
donna.... You haven’t heard her sing, have you, M’sieu Astákhoff?”
“No,”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, displaying his teeth in a smile;
“and I did not know....”
“What is the matter with thee to-day, Nádya?”--said Márya Pávlovna, with
a look of displeasure.
Nadézhda Alexyéevna sprang to her feet.
“For Heaven’s sake, Másha, do sing us something, please.... I won’t let
thee alone until thou singest us something, Másha dearest. I would sing
myself, to entertain the visitors, but thou knowest what a bad voice I
have. But, on the other hand, thou shalt see how splendidly I will
accompany thee.”
Márya Pávlovna made no reply.
“There’s no getting rid of thee,”--she said at last.--“Like a spoiled
child, thou art accustomed to have all thy caprices humoured. I will
sing, if you like.”
“Bravo, bravo!”--exclaimed Nadézhda Alexyéevna, clapping her
hands.--“Let us go into the drawing-room, gentlemen.--And as for
caprices,”--she added, laughing,--“I’ll pay you off for that! Is it
permissible to expose my weaknesses in the presence of strangers? Egór
Kapítonitch, does Matryóna Márkovna shame you _thus_ before people?”
“Matryóna Márkovna,”--muttered Egór Kapítonitch,--“is a very worthy
lady; only, on the score of manners....”
“Well, come along, come along!”--Nadézhda Alexyéevna interrupted him,
and entered the drawing-room.
All followed her. She tossed off her hat and seated herself at the
piano. Márya Pávlovna stood near the wall, a good way from Nadézhda
Alexyéevna.
“Másha,”--said the latter, after reflecting a little,--“sing us ‘The
farm-hand is sowing the grain.’”[18]
Márya Pávlovna began to sing. Her voice was pure and powerful, and she
sang well--simply, and without affectation. All listened to her with
great attention, while Vladímir Sergyéitch could not conceal his
amazement. When Márya Pávlovna had finished, he stepped up to her, and
began to assure her that he had not in the least expected....
“Wait, there’s something more coming!”--Nadézhda Alexyéevna interrupted
him.--“Másha, I will soothe thy Topknot[19] soul:--Now sing us ‘Humming,
humming in the trees.’”
“Are you a Little Russian?”--Vladímir Sergyéitch asked her.
“I am a native of Little Russia,” she replied, and began to sing
“Humming, humming.”
At first she uttered the words in an indifferent manner; but the
mournfully passionate lay of her fatherland gradually began to stir her,
her cheeks flushed scarlet, her glance flashed, her voice rang out
fervently. She finished.
“Good heavens! How well thou hast sung that!”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna,
bending over the keys.--“What a pity that my brother was not here!”
Márya Pávlovna instantly dropped her eyes, and laughed with her
customary bitter little laugh.
“You must give us something more,”--remarked Ipátoff.
“Yes, if you will be so good,”--added Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Excuse me, I will not sing any more to-day,”--said Márya Pávlovna, and
left the room.
Nadézhda Alexyéevna gazed after her, first reflected, then smiled, began
to pick out “The farm-hand is sowing the grain” with one finger, then
suddenly began to play a brilliant polka, and without finishing it,
struck a loud chord, clapped to the lid of the piano, and rose.
“‘Tis a pity that there is no one to dance with!”--she exclaimed.--“It
would be just the thing!”
Vladímir Sergyéitch approached her.
“What a magnificent voice Márya Pávlovna has,”--he remarked;--“and with
how much feeling she sings!”
“And are you fond of music?”
“Yes ... very.”
“Such a learned man, and you are fond of music!”
“But what makes you think that I am learned?”
“Akh, yes; excuse me, I am always forgetting that you are a positive
man. But where has Márya Pávlovna gone? Wait, I’ll go after her.”
And Nadézhda Alexyéevna fluttered out of the drawing-room.
“A giddy-pate, as you see,”--said Ipátoff, coming up to Vladímir
Sergyéitch;--“but the kindest heart. And what an education she received
you cannot imagine; she can express herself in all languages. Well, they
are wealthy people, so that is comprehensible.”
“Yes,”--articulated Vladímir Sergyéitch, abstractedly,--“she is a very
charming girl. But permit me to inquire, Was your wife also a native of
Little Russia?”
“Yes, she was, sir, My late wife was a Little Russian, as her sister
Márya Pávlovna is. My wife, to tell the truth, did not even have a
perfectly pure pronunciation; although she was a perfect mistress of
the Russian language, still she did not express herself quite correctly;
they pronounce _i_, _ui_, there, and their _kha_ and _zhe_ are peculiar
also, you know; well, Márya Pávlovna left her native land in early
childhood. But the Little Russian blood is still perceptible, isn’t it?”
“Márya Pávlovna sings wonderfully,”--remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Really, it is not bad. But why don’t they bring us some tea? And where
have the young ladies gone? ’Tis time to drink tea.”
The young ladies did not return very speedily. In the meantime, the
samovár was brought, the table was laid for tea. Ipátoff sent for them.
Both came in together. Márya Pávlovna seated herself at the table to
pour the tea, while Nadézhda Alexyéevna walked to the door opening on
the terrace, and began to gaze out into the garden. The brilliant summer
day had been succeeded by a clear, calm evening; the sunset was flaming;
the broad pond, half flooded with its crimson, stood a motionless
mirror, grandly reflecting in its deep bosom all the airy depths of the
sky, and the house, and the trees turned upside down, and had grown
black, as it were. Everything was silent round about. There was no noise
anywhere.
“Look, how beautiful!”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna to Vladímir Sergyéitch,
as he approached her;--“down below there, in the pond, a star has
kindled its fire by the side of the light in the house; the house-light
is red, the other is golden. And yonder comes grandmamma,”--she added in
a loud voice.
From behind a clump of lilac-bushes a small calash made its appearance.
Two men were drawing it. In it sat an old lady, all wrapped up, all
doubled over, with her head resting on her breast. The ruffle of her
white cap almost completely concealed her withered and contracted little
face. The tiny calash halted in front of the terrace. Ipátoff emerged
from the drawing-room, and his little daughters ran out after him. They
had been constantly slipping from room to room all the evening, like
little mice.
“I wish you good evening, dear mother,”--said Ipátoff, stepping up close
to the old woman, and elevating his voice.--“How do you feel?”
“I have come to take a look at you,”--said the old woman in a dull
voice, and with an effort.--“What a glorious evening it is. I have been
asleep all day, and now my feet have begun to ache. Okh, those feet of
mine! They don’t serve me, but they ache.”
“Permit me, dear mother, to present to you our neighbour, Astákhoff,
Vladímir Sergyéitch.”
“I am very glad to meet you,”--returned the old woman, scanning him with
her large, black, but dim-sighted eyes.--“I beg that you will love my
son. He is a fine man; I gave him what education I could; of course, I
did the best a woman could. He is still somewhat flighty, but, God
willing, he will grow steady, and ’tis high time he did; ’tis time for
me to surrender matters to him. Is that you, Nádya?”--added the old
woman, glancing at Nadézhda Alexyéevna.
“Yes, grandmamma.”
“And is Másha pouring tea?”
“Yes, grandmamma, she is pouring tea.”
“And who else is there?”
“Iván Ílitch, and Egór Kapítonitch.”
“The husband of Matryóna Márkovna?”
“Yes, dear mother.”
The old woman mumbled with her lips.
“Well, good. But why is it, Mísha, that I can’t manage to get hold of
the overseer? Order him to come to me very early to-morrow morning; I
shall have a great deal of business to arrange with him. I see that
nothing goes as it should with you, without me. Come, that will do, I am
tired; take me away.... Farewell, bátiushka;[20] I don’t remember your
name and patronymic,”--she added, addressing Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Pardon an old woman. But don’t come with me, grandchildren, it isn’t
necessary. All you care for is to run all the time. Másha spoils you.
Well, start on.”
The old woman’s head, which she had raised with difficulty, fell back
again on her breast....
The tiny calash started, and rolled softly away.
“How old is your mother?”--inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Only in her seventy-third year; but it is twenty-six years since her
legs failed her; that happened soon after the demise of my late father.
But she used to be a beauty.”
All remained silent for a while.
Suddenly, Nadézhda Alexyéevna gave a start. “Was that--a bat flying
past? Áï, what a fright!”
And she hastily returned to the drawing-room.
“It is time for me to go home, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch; order my horse to be
saddled.”
“And it is time for me to be going, too,”--remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Where are you going?”--said Ipátoff.--“Spend the night here. Nadézhda
Alexyéevna has only two versts to ride, while you have fully twelve. And
what’s your hurry, too, Nadézhda Alexyéevna? Wait for the moon; it will
soon be up now. It will be lighter to ride.”
“Very well,”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna.--“It is a long time since I had
a moonlight ride.”
“And will you spend the night?”--Ipátoff asked Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Really, I don’t know.... However, if I do not incommode you....”
“Not in the least, I assure you; I will immediately order a chamber to
be prepared for you.”
“But it is nice to ride by moonlight,”--began Nadézhda Alexyéevna, as
soon as candles were brought, tea was served, and Ipátoff and Egór
Kapítonitch had sat down to play preference together, while The Folding
Soul seated himself silently beside them:--“especially through the
forest, between the walnut-trees. It is both terrifying and agreeable,
and what a strange play of light and shade there is--it always seems as
though some one were stealing up behind you, or in front of you....”
Vladímir Sergyéitch smirked condescendingly.
“And here’s another thing,”--she went on;--“have you ever happened to
sit beside the forest on a warm, dark, tranquil night? At such times it
always seems to me as though two persons were hotly disputing in an
almost inaudible whisper, behind me, close at my very ear.”
“That is the blood beating,”--said Ipátoff.
“You describe in a very poetical way,”--remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.
Nadézhda Alexyéevna glanced at him.
“Do you think so?... In that case, my description would not please
Másha.”
“Why? Is not Márya Pávlovna fond of poetry?”
“No; she thinks all that sort of thing is made up--is all false; and she
does not like that.”
“A strange reproach!”--exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch. “Made up! How
could it be otherwise? But, after all, what are composers for?”
“Well, there, that’s exactly the point; but I am sure you cannot be fond
of poetry.”
“On the contrary, I love good verses, when they really are good and
melodious, and--how shall I say it?--when they present ideas,
thoughts....”
Márya Pávlovna rose.
Nadézhda Alexyéevna turned swiftly toward her.
“Whither art thou going, Másha?”
“To put the children to bed. It is almost nine o’clock.”
“But cannot they go to bed without thee?”
But Márya Pávlovna took the children by the hand and went away with
them.
“She is out of sorts to-day,”--remarked Nadézhda Alexyéevna;--“and I
know why,”--she added in an undertone.--“But it will pass off.”
“Allow me to inquire,”--began Vladímir Sergyéitch,--“where you intend to
spend the winter?”
“Perhaps here, perhaps in Petersburg. It seems to me that I shall be
bored in Petersburg.”
“In Petersburg! Good gracious! How is that possible?”
And Vladímir Sergyéitch began to describe all the comforts, advantages,
and charm of life in our capital. Nadézhda Alexyéevna listened to him
with attention, never taking her eyes from him. She seemed to be
committing his features to memory, and laughed to herself from time to
time.
“I see that you are very eloquent,”--she said at last.--“I shall be
obliged to spend the winter in Petersburg.”
“You will not repent of it,”--remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“I never repent of anything; it is not worth the bother. If you have
perpetrated a blunder, try to forget it as speedily as possible--that’s
all.”
“Allow me to ask,”--began Vladímir Sergyéitch, after a brief pause, and
in the French language;--“have you known Márya Pávlovna long?”
“Allow me to ask,”--retorted Nadézhda Alexyéevna, with a swift
laugh;--“why you have put precisely that question to me in French?”
“Because ... for no particular reason....”
Again Nadézhda Alexyéevna laughed.
“No; I have not known her very long. But she is a remarkable girl, isn’t
she?”
“She is very original,”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch, through his teeth.
“And in your mouth--in the mouth of positive persons--does that
constitute praise? I do not think so. Perhaps I seem original to you,
also? But,”--she added, rising from her seat and casting a glance
through the window,--“the moon must have risen; that is its light on the
poplars. It is time to depart.... I will go and give order that Little
Beauty shall be saddled.”
“He is already saddled, ma’am,”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna’s groom,
stepping out from the shadow in the garden into a band of light which
fell on the terrace.
“Ah! Well, that’s very good, indeed! Másha, where art thou? Come and bid
me good-bye.”
Márya Pávlovna made her appearance from the adjoining room. The men rose
from the card-table.
“So you are going already?”--inquired Ipátoff.
“I am; it is high time.”
She approached the door leading into the garden.
“What a night!”--she exclaimed.--“Come here; hold out your face to it;
do you feel how it seems to breathe upon you? And what fragrance! all
the flowers have waked up now. They have waked up--and we are preparing
to go to sleep.... Ah, by the way, Másha,”--she added:--“I have told
Vladímir Sergyéitch, you know, that thou art not fond of poetry. And
now, farewell ... yonder comes my horse....”
And she ran briskly down the steps of the terrace, swung herself lightly
into the saddle, said, “Good-bye until to-morrow!”--and lashing her
horse on the neck with her riding-switch, she galloped off in the
direction of the dam.... The groom set off at a trot after her.
All gazed after her....
“Until to-morrow!”--her voice rang out once more from behind the
poplars.
The hoof-beats were still audible for a long time in the silence of the
summer night. At last, Ipátoff proposed that they should go into the
house again.
“It really is very nice out of doors,”--he said;--“but we must finish
our game.”
All obeyed him. Vladímir Sergyéitch began to question Márya Pávlovna as
to why she did not like poetry.
“Verses do not please me,”--she returned, with apparent reluctance.
“But perhaps you have not read many verses?”
“I have not read them myself, but I have had them read to me.”
“And is it possible that they did not please you?”
“No; none of them.”
“Not even Púshkin’s verses?”
“Not even Púshkin’s.”
“Why?”
Márya Pávlovna made no answer; but Ipátoff, twisting round across the
back of his chair, remarked, with a good-natured laugh, that she not
only did not like verses, but sugar also, and, in general, could not
endure anything sweet.
“But, surely, there are verses which are not sweet,”--retorted Vladímir
Sergyéitch.
“For example?”--Márya Pávlovna asked him.
Vladímir Sergyéitch scratched behind his ear.... He himself knew very
few verses by heart, especially of the sort which were not sweet.
“Why, here now,”--he exclaimed at last;--“do you know Púshkin’s ‘The
Upas-Tree’?[21] No? That poem cannot possibly be called sweet.”
“Recite it,”--said Márya Pávlovna, dropping her eyes.
Vladímir Sergyéitch first stared at the ceiling, frowned, mumbled
something to himself, and at last recited “The Upas-Tree.”
After the first four lines, Márya Pávlovna slowly raised her eyes, and
when Vladímir Sergyéitch ended, she said, with equal slowness:
“Please recite it again.”
“So these verses do please you?”--asked Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Recite it again.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch repeated “The Upas-Tree.” Márya Pávlovna rose, went
out into the next room, and returned with a sheet of paper, an inkstand
and a pen.
“Please write that down for me,”--she said to Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Certainly; with pleasure,”--he replied, beginning to write.--“But I
must confess that I am puzzled to know why these verses have pleased you
so. I recited them simply to prove to you that not all verses are
sweet.”
“So am I!”--exclaimed Ipátoff.--“What do you think of those verses, Iván
Ílitch?”
Iván Ílitch, according to his wont, merely glanced at Ipátoff, but did
not utter a word.
“Here, ma’am,--I have finished,”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch, as he placed
an interrogation-point at the end of the last line.
Márya Pávlovna thanked him, and carried the written sheet off to her own
room.
Half an hour later supper was served, and an hour later all the guests
dispersed to their rooms. Vladímir Sergyéitch had repeatedly addressed
Márya Pávlovna; but it was difficult to conduct a conversation with her,
and his anecdotes did not seem to interest her greatly. He probably
would have fallen asleep as soon as he got into bed had he not been
hindered by his neighbour, Egór Kapítonitch. Matryóna Márkovna’s
husband, after he was fully undressed and had got into bed, talked for a
very long time with his servant, and kept bestowing reprimands on him.
Every word he uttered was perfectly audible to Vladímir Sergyéitch: only
a thin partition separated them.
“Hold the candle in front of thy breast,”--said Egór Kapítonitch, in a
querulous voice;--“hold it so that I can see thy face. Thou hast aged
me, aged me, thou conscienceless man--hast aged me completely.”
“But, for mercy’s sake, Egór Kapítonitch, how have I aged you?”--the
servant’s dull and sleepy voice made itself heard.
“How? I’ll tell thee how. How many times have I said to thee: ‘Mítka,’ I
have said to thee, ‘when thou goest a-visiting with me, always take two
garments of each sort, especially’ ... hold the candle in front of thy
breast ... ‘especially underwear.’ And what hast thou done to me
to-day?”
“What, sir?”
“‘What, sir?’ What am I to put on to-morrow?”
“Why, the same things you wore to-day, sir.”
“Thou hast aged me, malefactor, aged me. I was almost beside myself with
the heat to-day, as it was. Hold the candle in front of thy breast, I
tell thee, and don’t sleep when thy master is talking to thee.”
“Well, but Matryóna Márkovna said, sir, ‘That’s enough. Why do you
always take such a mass of things with you? They only get worn out for
nothing.’”
“Matryóna Márkovna.... Is it a woman’s business, pray, to enter into
that? You have aged me. Okh, you have made me old before my time!”
“Yes; and Yakhím said the same thing, sir.”
“What’s that thou saidst?”
“I say, Yakhím said the same thing, sir.”
“Yakhím! Yakhím!”--repeated Egór Kapítonitch, reproachfully.--“Ekh, you
have aged me, ye accursed, and don’t even know how to speak Russian
intelligibly. Yakhím! Who’s Yakhím! Efrím,--well, that might be allowed
to pass, it is permissible to say that; because the genuine Greek name
is Evthímius, dost understand me?... Hold the candle in front of thy
breast.... So, for the sake of brevity, thou mayest say Efrím, if thou
wilt, but not Yakhím by any manner of means. Yákhim!”[22] added Egór
Kapítonitch, emphasising the syllable _Ya_.--“You have aged me, ye
malefactors. Hold the candle in front of thy breast!”
And for a long time, Egór Kapítonitch continued to berate his servant,
in spite of sighs, coughs, and other tokens of impatience on the part of
Vladímir Sergyéitch....
At last he dismissed his Mítka, and fell asleep; but Vladímir Sergyéitch
was no better off for that: Egór Kapítonitch snored so mightily and in
so deep a voice, with such playful transitions from high tones to the
very lowest, with such accompanying whistlings, and even snappings, that
it seemed as though the very partition were shaking in response to him;
poor Vladímir Sergyéitch almost wept. It was very stifling in the
chamber which had been allotted to him, and the feather-bed whereon he
was lying embraced his whole body in a sort of crawling heat.
At last, in despair, Vladímir Sergyéitch rose, opened the window, and
began with avidity to inhale the nocturnal freshness. The window looked
out on the park. It was light overhead, the round face of the full moon
was now clearly reflected in the pond, and stretched itself out in a
long, golden sheaf of slowly transfused spangles. On one of the paths
Vladímir Sergyéitch espied a figure in woman’s garb; he looked more
intently; it was Márya Pávlovna; in the moonlight her face seemed pale.
She stood motionless, and suddenly began to speak.... Vladímir
Sergyéitch cautiously put out his head....
“But a man--with glance imperious--
Sent a man to the Upas-tree....”
reached his ear....
“Come,”--he thought,--“the verses must have taken effect....”
And he began to listen with redoubled attention.... But Márya Pávlovna
speedily fell silent, and turned her face more directly toward him; he
could distinguish her large, dark eyes, her severe brows and lips....
Suddenly, she started, wheeled round, entered the shadow cast by a dense
wall of lofty acacias, and disappeared. Vladímir Sergyéitch stood for a
considerable time at the window, then got into bed again, but did not
fall asleep very soon.
“A strange being,”--he thought, as he tossed from side to side;--“and
yet they say that there is nothing particular in the provinces.... The
idea! A strange being! I shall ask her to-morrow what she was doing in
the park.”
And Egór Kapítonitch continued to snore as before.