A House of Gentlefolk | Page 2

had no
inclination to leave O----.
In her youth Marya Dmitrievna had always been spoken of as a pretty
blonde; and at fifty her features had not lost all charm, though they
were somewhat coarser and less delicate in outline. She was more
sentimental than kindhearted; and even at her mature age, she retained
the manners of the boarding-school. She was self-indulgent and easily
put out, even moved to tears when she was crossed in any of her habits.
She was, however, very sweet and agreeable when all her wishes were
carried out and none opposed her. Her house was among the pleasantest
in the town. She had a considerable fortune, not so much from her own
property as from her husband's savings. Her two daughters were living
with her; her son was being educated in one of the best government
schools in Petersburg.
The old lady sitting with Marya Dmitrievna at the window was her
father's sister, the same aunt with whom she had once spent some
solitary years in Pokrovskoe. Her name was Marfa Timofyevna Pestov.
She had a reputation for eccentricity as she was a woman of an
independent character, told every one the truth to his face, and even in
the most straitened circumstances behaved just as if she had a fortune at
her disposal. She could not endure Kalitin, and directly her niece
married him, she removed to her little property, where for ten whole
years she lived in a smoky peasants' hut. Marya Dmitrievna was a little
afraid of her. A little sharp-nosed woman with black hair and keen eyes
even in her old age, Marfa Timofyevna walked briskly, held herself
upright and spoke quickly and clearly in a sharp ringing voice. She
always wore a white cap and a white dressing-jacket.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked Marya Dmitrievna suddenly.
"What are you sighing about, pray?"
"Nothing," answered the latter. "What exquisite clouds!"
"You feel sorry for them, eh?"
Marya Dmitrievna made no reply.
"Why is it Gedeonovsky does not come?" observed Marfa Timofyevna,
moving her knitting needles quickly. (She was knitting a large woolen
scarf.) "He would have sighed with you--or at least he'd have had some
fib to tell you."
"How hard you always are on him! Sergei Petrovitch is a worthy man."
"Worthy!" repeated the old lady scornfully.
"And how devoted he was to my poor husband!" observed Marya
Dmitrievna; "even now he cannot speak of him without emotion."
"And no wonder! It was he who picked him out of the gutter," muttered
Marfa Timofyevna, and her knitting needles moved faster than ever.
"He looks so meek and mild," she began again, "with his grey head, but
he no sooner opens his mouth than out comes a lie or a slander. And to
think of his having the rank of a councillor! To be sure, though, he's
only a village priest's son."
"Every one has faults, auntie; that is his weak point, no doubt. Sergei
Petrovitch has had no education: of course he does not speak French,
still, say what you like, he is an agreeable man."
"Yes, he is always ready to kiss your hands. He does not speak
French--that's no great loss. I am not over strong in the French lingo
myself. It would be better if he could not speak at all; he would not tell
lies then. But here he is--speak of the devil," added Marfa Timofyevna
looking into the street. "Here comes your agreeable man striding along.
What a lanky creature he is, just like a stork!"

Marya Dmitrievna began to arrange her curls. Marfa Timofyevna
looked at her ironically.
"What's that, not a grey hair surely? You must speak to your Palashka,
what can she be thinking about?"
"Really, auntie, you are always so..." muttered Marya Dmitrievna in a
tone of vexation, drumming on the arm of her chair with her finger-tips.
"Sergei Petrovitch Gedeonovsky!" was announced in a shrill piping
voice, by a rosy-cheeked little page who made his appearance at the
door.





Chapter II
A tall man entered, wearing a tidy overcoat, rather short trousers, grey
doeskin gloves, and two neckties--a black one outside, and a white one
below it. There was an air of decorum and propriety in everything
about him, from his prosperous countenance and smoothly brushed hair,
to his low-heeled, noiseless boots. He bowed first to the lady of the
house, then to Marfa Timofyevna, and slowly drawing off his gloves,
he advanced to take Marya Dmitrievna's hand. After kissing it
respectfully twice he seated himself with deliberation in an arm-chair,
and rubbing the very tips of his fingers together, he observed with a
smile--
"And is Elisaveta Mihalovna quite well?"
"Yes," replied Marya Dmitrievna, "she's in the garden."

"And Elena Mihalovna?"
"Lenotchka's in the garden