Liza | Page 4

the highest
respect for his judgment and his knowledge of the world. And when he
died, after fifteen years of married life, leaving behind him a son and
two daughters, Maria Dmitrievna had grown so accustomed to her
house and to a town life, that she had no inclination to change her
residence.

In her youth Maria Dmitrievna had enjoyed the reputation of being a
pretty blonde, and even in her fiftieth year her features were not
unattractive, though they had lost somewhat of their fineness and
delicacy. She was naturally sensitive and impressionable, rather than
actually good-hearted, and even in her years of maturity she continued
to behave in the manner peculiar to "Institute girls;" she denied herself
no indulgence, she was easily put out of temper, and she would even
burst into tears if her habits were interfered with. On the other hand,
she was gracious and affable when all her wishes were fulfilled, and
when nobody opposed her in any thing. Her house was the pleasantest
in the town; and she had a handsome income, the greater part of which
was derived from her late husband's earnings, and the rest from her
own property. Her two daughters lived with her; her son was being
educated in one of the best of the crown establishments at St.
Petersburgh.
The old lady who was sitting at the window with Maria Dmitrievna was
her father's sister, the aunt with whom she had formerly spent so many
lonely years at Pokrovskoe. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestof.
She was looked upon as an original, being a woman of an independent
character, who bluntly told the truth to every one, and who, although
her means were very small, behaved in society just as she would have
done had she been rolling in wealth. She never could abide the late
Kalitine, and as soon as her niece married him she retired to her own
modest little property, where she spent ten whole years in a peasant's
smoky hut. Maria Dmitrievna was rather afraid of her. Small in stature,
with black hair, a sharp nose, and eyes which even in old age were still
keen, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, held herself bolt upright, and
spoke quickly but distinctly, and with a loud, high-pitched voice. She
always wore a white cap, and a white kofta[A] always formed part of
her dress.
[Footnote A: A sort of jacket.]
"What is the matter?" she suddenly asked. "What are you sighing
about?"
"Nothing," replied Maria Dmitrievna. "What lovely clouds!"

"You are sorry for them, I suppose?"
Maria Dmitrievna made no reply.
"Why doesn't Gedeonovsky come?" continued Marfa Timofeevna,
rapidly plying her knitting needles. (She was making a long worsted
scarf.) "He would have sighed with you. Perhaps he would have uttered
some platitude or other."
"How unkindly you always speak of him! Sergius Petrovich is--a most
respectable man."
"Respectable!" echoed the old lady reproachfully.
"And then," continued Maria Dmitrievna, "how devoted he was to my
dear husband! Why, he can never think of him without emotion."
"He might well be that, considering that your husband pulled him out
of the mud by the ears," growled Marfa Timofeevna, the needles
moving quicker than ever under her fingers. "He looks so humble," she
began anew after a time. "His head is quite grey, and yet he never
opens his mouth but to lie or to slander. And, forsooth, he is a
councillor of state! Ah, well, to be sure, he is a priest's son."[A]
[Footnote A: Popovich, or son of a pope; a not over respectful
designation in Russia.]
"Who is there who is faultless, aunt? It is true that he has this weakness.
Sergius Petrovich has not had a good education, I admit--he cannot
speak French--but I beg leave to say that I think him exceedingly
agreeable."
"Oh, yes, he fawns on you like a dog. As to his not speaking French,
that's no great fault. I am not very strong in the French 'dialect' myself.
It would be better if he spoke no language at all; he wouldn't tell lies
then. But of course, here he is, in the very nick of time," continued
Marfa Timofeevna, looking down the street. "Here comes your
agreeable man, striding along. How spindle-shanked he is, to be

sure--just like a stork!"
Maria Dmitrievna arranged her curls. Marfa Timofeevna looked at her
with a quiet smile.
"Isn't that a grey hair I see, my dear? You should scold Pelagia. Where
can her eyes be?"
"That's just like you, aunt," muttered Maria Dmitrievna, in a tone of
vexation, and thrumming with her fingers on the arm of her chair.
"Sergius Petrovich Gedeonovsky!" shrilly announced a rosy-cheeked
little Cossack,[A] who suddenly appeared at the door.
[Footnote A: A page attired in a sort of Cossack dress.]

II.