Three years later, I was again at home in the country; all of a sudden a
servant came in and announced that Madame Poltyev was asking to see me.
I knew no Madame Poltyev, and the servant, who made this announcement,
for some unknown reason smiled sarcastically. To my glance of inquiry,
he responded that the lady asking for me was young, poorly dressed, and
had come in a peasant’s cart with one horse, which she was driving
herself! I told him to ask Madame Poltyev up to my room.
I saw a woman of five-and-twenty, in the dress of the small tradesman
class, with a large kerchief on her head. Her face was simple, roundish,
not without charm; she looked dejected and gloomy, and was shy and
awkward in her movements.
‘You are Madame Poltyev?’ I inquired, and I asked her to sit down.
‘Yes,’ she answered in a subdued voice, and she did not sit down. ‘I am
the widow of your nephew, Mihail Andreevitch Poltyev.’
‘Is Mihail Andreevitch dead? Has he been dead long? But sit down, I
beg.’
She sank into a chair.
‘It’s two months.’
‘And had you been married to him long?’
‘I had been a year with him.’
‘Where have you come from now?’
‘From out Tula way.... There’s a village there,
Znamenskoe-Glushkovo--perhaps you may know it. I am the daughter of the
deacon there. Mihail Andreitch and I lived there.... He lived in my
father’s house. We were a whole year together.’
The young woman’s lips twitched a little, and she put her hand up to
them. She seemed to be on the point of tears, but she controlled
herself, and cleared her throat.
‘Mihail Andreitch,’ she went on: ‘before his death enjoined upon me to
go to you; “You must be sure to go,” said he! And he told me to thank
you for all your goodness, and to give you ... this ... see, this little
thing (she took a small packet out of her pocket) which he always had
about him.... And Mihail Andreitch said, if you would be pleased to
accept it in memory of him, if you would not disdain it.... “There’s
nothing else,” said he, “I can give him” ... that is, you....’
In the packet there was a little silver cup with the monogram of Misha’s
mother. This cup I had often seen in Misha’s hands, and once he had even
said to me, speaking of some poor fellow, that he really was destitute,
since he had neither cup nor bowl, ‘while I, see, have this anyway.’