Elizaveta quite well?"
"Yes," replied Maria Dmitrievna, "she is in the garden."
"And Elena Mikhailovna?"
"Lenochka is in the garden also. Have you any news?"
"Rather!" replied the visitor, slowly screwing up his eyes, and protruding his lips. "Hm! here is a piece of news, if you please, and a very startling one, too. Fedor Ivanovich Lavretsky has arrived."
"Fedia!" exclaimed Marfa Timofeevna. "You're inventing, are you not?"
"Not at all. I have seen him with my own eyes."
"That doesn't prove any thing."
"He's grown much more robust," continued Gedeonovsky, looking as if he had not heard Marfa Timofeevna's remark; "his shoulders have broadened, and his cheeks are quite rosy."
"Grown more robust," slowly repeated Maria Dmitrievna. "One would think he hadn't met with much to make him robust."
"That is true indeed," said Gedeonovsky. "Any one else, in his place, would have scrupled to show himself in the world."
"And why, I should like to know?" broke in Marfa Timofeevna. "What nonsense you are talking! A man comes back to his home. Where else would you have him betake himself? And, pray, in what has he been to blame?"
"A husband is always to blame, madam, if you will allow me to say so, when his wife behaves ill."
"You only say that, batyushka,[A] because you have never been married."
[Footnote A: Father.]
Gedeonovsky's only reply was a forced smile. For a short time he remained silent, but presently he said, "May I be allowed to be so inquisitive as to ask for whom this pretty scarf is intended?"
Marfa Timofeevna looked up at him quickly.
"For whom is it intended?" she said. "For a man who never slanders, who does not intrigue, and who makes up no falsehoods—if, indeed, such a man is to be found in the world. I know Fedia thoroughly well; the only thing for which he is to blame is that he spoilt his wife. To be sure he married for love; and from such love-matches no good ever comes," added the old lady, casting a side glance at Maria Dmitrievna. Then, standing up, she added: "But now you can whet your teeth on whom you will; on me, if you like. I'm off. I won't hinder you any longer." And with these words she disappeared.
"She is always like that," said Maria Dmitrievna following her aunt with her eyes—"always."
"What else can be expected of her at her time of life?" replied Gedeonovsky. "Just see now! 'Who does not intrigue?' she was pleased to say. But who is there nowadays who doesn't intrigue? It is the custom of the present age. A friend of mine—a most respectable man, and one, I may as well observe, of no slight rank—used to say, 'Nowadays, it seems, if a hen wants a grain of corn she approaches it cunningly, watches anxiously for an opportunity of sidling up to it.' But when I look at you, dear lady, I recognize in you a truly angelic nature. May I be allowed to kiss your snow-white hand?"
Maria Dmitrievna slightly smiled, and held out her plump hand to Gedeonovsky, keeping the little finger gracefully separated from the rest; and then, after he had raised her hand to his lips, she drew her chair closer to his, bent a little towards him, and asked, in a low voice—
"So you have seen him? And is he really well and in good spirits?"
"In excellent spirits," replied Gedeonovsky in a whisper.
"You haven't heard where his wife is now?"
"A short time ago she was in Paris; but she is gone away, they say, and is now in Italy."
"Really it is shocking—Fedia's position. I can't think how he manages to bear it. Every one, of course, has his misfortunes; but his affairs, one may say, have become known all over Europe."
Gedeonovsky sighed.
"Quite so, quite so! They say she has made friends with artists and pianists; or, as they call them there, with lions and other wild beasts. She has completely lost all sense of shame—"
"It's very, very sad," said Maria Dmitrievna; "especially for a relation. You know, don't you, Sergius Petrovich, that he is a far-away cousin of mine?"
"To be sure, to be sure! You surely don't suppose I could be ignorant of any thing that concerns your family."
"Will he come to see us? What do you think?"
"One would suppose so; but afterwards, I am told, he will go and live on his estate in the country."
Maria Dmitrievna lifted her eyes towards heaven.
"Oh, Sergius Petrovich, Sergius Petrovich! how often I think how necessary it is for us women to behave circumspectly!"
"There are women and women, Maria Dmitrievna. There are, unfortunately, some who are—of an unstable character; and then there is a certain time of life—and, besides, good principles have not been instilled into them when they were young."
Here Sergius Petrovich drew from his pocket a blue handkerchief, of a check pattern, and began to unfold it.
"Such women, in fact, do exist."
Here Sergius Petrovich applied a corner of the handkerchief to each of his eyes in turn.
"But, generally speaking, if one reflects—that is to say—The dust in the streets is something extraordinary," he ended by saying.
"Maman, maman," exclaimed a pretty little girl of eleven, who came running into the room, "Vladimir Nikolaevich is coming here on horseback."
Maria Dmitrievna rose from her chair. Sergius Petrovich also got up and bowed.
"My respects to Elena Mikhailovna," he said; and, discreetly retiring to a corner, he betook himself to blowing his long straight nose.
"What a lovely horse he has!" continued the little girl. "He was at the garden gate just now, and he told me and Liza that he would come up to the front door."
The sound of hoofs was heard, and a well appointed cavalier, mounted on a handsome bay horse, rode up to the house, and stopped in front of the open window.
III.
"Good-evening, Maria Dmitrievna!" exclaimed the rider's clear and pleasant voice. "How do you like my new purchase?"
Maria Dmitrievna went to the window.
"Good-evening, Woldemar! Ah, what a splendid horse! From whom did you buy it?"
"From our remount-officer. He made me pay dear for it, the rascal."
"What is it's name?"
"Orlando. But that's a stupid name. I want to change it. Eh bien, eh bien, mon garçon. What a restless creature it is!"
The horse neighed, pawed the air, and tossed the foam from its nostrils.
"Come and stroke it, Lenochka; don't be afraid."
Lenochka stretched out her hand from the window, but Orlando suddenly reared and shied. But its rider, who took its proceedings very quietly, gripped the saddle firmly with his knees, laid his whip across the horse's neck, and forced it, in spite of its resistance, to return to the window, "Prenez garde, prenez garde," Maria Dmitrievna kept calling out.
"Now then, stroke him, Lenochka," repeated the horseman; "I don't mean to let him have his own way."
Lenochka stretched out her hand a second time, and timidly touched the quivering nostrils of Orlando, who champed his bit, and kept incessantly fidgeting.
"Bravo!" exclaimed Maria Dmitrievna; "but now get off, and come in."
The