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A NOBLEMAN'S NEST
(1858)
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A NOBLEMAN'S NEST
I
The brilliant, spring day was inclining toward the evening, tiny
rose-tinted cloudlets hung high in the heavens, and seemed not to be
floating past, but retreating into the very depths of the azure.
In front of the open window of a handsome house, in one of the outlying
streets of O * * * the capital of a Government, sat two women; one
fifty years of age, the other seventy years old, and already aged.
The former was named Marya Dmitrievna Kalitin. Her husband, formerly
the governmental procurator, well known in his day as an active
official--a man of energetic and decided character, splenetic and
stubborn--had died ten years previously. He had received a fairly good
education, had studied at the university, but, having been born in a
poverty-stricken class of society, he had early comprehended the
necessity of opening up a way for himself, and of accumulating money.
Marya Dmitrievna had married him for love; he was far from uncomely in
appearance, he was clever, and, when he chose, he could be very amiable.
Marya Dmitrievna (her maiden name had been Pestoff) had lost her
parents in early childhood, had spent several years in Moscow, in a
government educational institute, and, on returning thence, had lived
fifty versts from O * * *, in her native village, Pokrovskoe, with
her aunt and her elder brother. This brother soon removed to Petersburg
on service, and kept his sister and his aunt on short commons, until his
sudden death put an end to his career. Marya Dmitrievna inherited
Pokrovskoe, but did not live there long; during the second year after
her marriage to Kalitin, who succeeded in conquering her heart in the
course of a few days, Pokrovskoe was exchanged for another estate, much
more profitable, but ugly and without a manor-house, and, at the same
time, Kalitin acquired a house in the town of O * * *, and settled
down there permanently with his wife. A large garden was attached to the
house; on one side, it joined directly on to the open fields, beyond the
town. Kalitin,--who greatly disliked the stagnation of the country,--had
evidently made up his mind, that there was no reason for dragging out
existence on the estate. Marya Dmitrievna, many a time, in her own mind
regretted her pretty Pokrovskoe, with its merry little stream, its broad
meadows, and verdant groves; but she opposed her husband in nothing, and
worshipped his cleverness and knowledge of the world. But when, after
fifteen years of married life, he died, leaving a son and two daughters,
Marya Dmitrievna had become so wonted to her house, and to town life,
that she herself did not wish to leave O * * *.
In her youth, Marya Dmitrievna had enjoyed the reputation of being a
pretty blonde, and at the age of fifty her features were not devoid of
attraction, although they had become somewhat swollen and indefinite in
outline. She was more sentimental than kind, and even in her mature age
she had preserved the habits of her school-days; she indulged herself,
was easily irritated, and even wept when her ways were interfered with;
on the other hand, she was very affectionate and amiable, when all her
wishes were complied with, and when no one contradicted her. Her house
was one of the most agreeable in the town. Her fortune was very
considerable, not so much her inherited fortune, as that acquired by her
husband. Both her daughters lived with her; her son was being educated at
one of the best government institutions in Petersburg.
The old woman, who was sitting by the window with Marya Dmitrievna, was
that same aunt, her father's sister, with whom she had spent several
years, in days gone by, at Pokrovskoe. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna
Pestoff. She bore the reputation of being eccentric, had an independent
character, told the entire truth to every one, straight in the face, and,
with the most scanty resources, bore herself as though she possessed
thousands. She had not been able to endure the deceased Kalitin, and as
soon as her niece married him, she retired to her tiny estate, where she
lived for ten whole years in the hen-house of a peasant. Marya
Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and brisk-eyed even in her
old age, tiny, sharp-nosed Marfa Timofeevna walked quickly, held
herself upright, and talked rapidly and intelligibly, in a shrill,
ringing voice. She always wore a white cap and a white jacket.
"What art thou doing that for?--" she suddenly inquired of Marya
Dmitrievna.--"What art thou sighing about, my mother?"
"Because," said the other.--"What wonderfully beautiful clouds!"
"So, thou art sorry for them, is that it?"
Marya Dmitrievna made no reply.
"Isn't that Gedeonovsky coming yonder?"--said Marfa Timofeevna,
briskly moving her knitting-needles (she was knitting a huge, motley-hued
scarf). "He might keep thee company in sighing,--or, if not, he might
tell us some lie or other."
"How harshly thou always speakest about him! Sergyei Petrovitch is
an--estimable man."
"Estimable!" repeated the old woman reproachfully.
"And how devoted he was to my dead husband!" remarked Marya
Dmitrievna;--"to this day, I cannot think of it with indifference."
"I should think not! he pulled him out of the mire by his ears,"--growled
Marfa Timofeevna, and her knitting-needles moved still more swiftly in
her hands.
"He looks like such a meek creature,"--she began again,--"his head is all
grey, but no sooner does he open his mouth, than he lies or calumniates.
And he's a State Councillor, to boot! Well, he's a priest's son: and
there's nothing more to be said!"
"Who is without sin, aunty? Of course, he has that weakness. Sergyei
Petrovitch received no education,--of course he does not speak French;
but, say what you will, he is an agreeable man."
"Yes, he's always licking thy hand. He doesn't talk French,--what a
calamity! I'm not strong on the French 'dialect' myself. 'T would be
better if he did not speak any language at all: then he wouldn't lie. But
there he is, by the way--speak of the devil,--" added Marfa Timofeevna,
glancing into the street.--"There he strides, thine agreeable man. What a
long-legged fellow, just like a stork."
Marya Dmitrievna adjusted her curls. Marfa Timofeevna watched her
with a grin.
"Hast thou not a grey hair there, my mother? Thou shouldst scold thy
Palashka. Why doesn't she see it?"
"Oh, aunty, you're always so...." muttered Marya Dmitrievna, with
vexation, and drummed on the arm of her chair with her fingers.
"Sergyei Petrovitch Gedeonovsky!" squeaked a red-cheeked page-lad,
springing in through the door.