A Nobleman's Nest. Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

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СКАЧАТЬ ma'am,"—returned Gedeónovsky:—"Any other man, in his place, would have been ashamed to show himself in the world."

      "Why so?"—interrupted Márfa Timoféevna;—"what nonsense is this? A man returns to his native place—what would you have him do with himself? And as if he were in any way to blame!"

      "The husband is always to blame, madam, I venture to assure you, when the wife behaves badly."

      "Thou sayest that, my good sir, because thou hast never been married thyself." Gedeónovsky smiled in a constrained way.

      "Permit me to inquire," he asked, after a brief pause—"for whom is that very pretty scarf destined?"

      Márfa Timoféevna cast a swift glance at him.

      "It is destined"—she retorted—"for the man who never gossips, nor uses craft, nor lies, if such a man exists in the world. I know Fédya well; his sole fault is, that he was too indulgent to his wife. Well, he married for love, and nothing good ever comes of those love-marriages,"—added the old woman, casting a sidelong glance at Márya Dmítrievna, and rising.—"And now, dear little father, thou mayest whet thy teeth on whomsoever thou wilt, only not on me; I'm going away, I won't interfere."—And Márfa Timoféevna withdrew.

      "There, she is always like that,"—said Márya Dmítrievna, following her aunt with her eyes:—"Always!"

      "It's her age! There's no help for it, ma'am!" remarked Gedeónovsky.—"There now, she permitted herself to say: 'the man who does not use craft.' But who doesn't use craft nowadays? it's the spirit of the age. One of my friends, a very estimable person, and, I must tell you, a man of no mean rank, was wont to say: that 'nowadays, a hen approaches a grain of corn craftily—she keeps watching her chance to get to it from one side.' But when I look at you, my lady, you have a truly angelic disposition; please to favour me with your snow-white little hand."

      Márya Dmítrievna smiled faintly, and extended her plump hand, with the little finger standing out apart, to Gedeónovsky. He applied his lips to it, and she moved her arm-chair closer to him, and bending slightly toward him, she asked in a low tone:

      "So, you have seen him? Is he really—all right, well, cheerful?"

      "He is cheerful, ma'am; all right, ma'am," returned Gedeónovsky, in a whisper.

      "And you have not heard where his wife is now?"

      "She has recently been in Paris, ma'am; now, I hear, she has removed to the kingdom of Italy."

      "It is dreadful, really—Fédya's position; I do not know how he can endure it. Accidents do happen, with every one, in fact; but he, one may say, has been advertised all over Europe."

      Gedeónovsky sighed.

      "Yes, ma'am; yes, ma'am. Why, she, they say, has struck up acquaintance with artists, and pianists, and, as they call it in their fashion, with lions and wild beasts. She has lost her shame, completely. … "

      "It is very, very sad,"—said Márya Dmítrievna:—"on account of the relationship; for you know, Sergyéi Petróvitch, he's my nephew, once removed."

      "Of course, ma'am; of course, ma'am. How could I fail to be aware of everything which relates to your family? Upon my word, ma'am!"

      "Will he come to see us—what do you think?"

      "We must assume that he will, ma'am; but I hear, that he is going to his country estate."

      Márya Dmítrievna cast her eyes heavenward.

      "Akh, Sergyéi Petróvitch, when I think of it, how circumspectly we women must behave!"

      "There are different sorts of women, Márya Dmítrievna. Unfortunately, there are some of fickle character … well, and it's a question of age, also; then, again, the rules have not been inculcated in their childhood." (Sergyéi Petróvitch pulled a checked blue handkerchief out of his pocket, and began to unfold it).—"Such women exist, of course," (Sergyéi Petróvitch raised a corner of the handkerchief to his eyes, one after the other)—"but, generally speaking, if we take into consideration, that is. … There is an unusual amount of dust in town," he concluded.

      "Maman, maman"—screamed a pretty little girl of eleven, as she rushed into the room:—"Vladímir Nikoláitch is coming to our house on horseback!"

      Márya Dmítrievna rose; Sergyéi Petróvitch also rose and bowed:—"Our most humble salute to Eléna Mikhaílovna," he said, and withdrawing into a corner, out of propriety, he began to blow his long and regularly-formed nose.

      "What a splendid horse he has!—" went on the little girl.—"He was at the gate just now, and told Liza and me, that he would ride up to the porch."

      The trampling of hoofs became audible; and a stately horseman, on a fine brown steed, made his appearance in the street, and halted in front of the open window.

III

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      "Good afternoon, Márya Dmítrievna!"—exclaimed the horseman, in a ringing, agreeable voice.—"How do you like my new purchase?"

      Márya Dmítrievna went to the window.

      "Good afternoon, Woldemar! Akh, what a magnificent horse! From whom did you buy it?"

      "From the remount officer. … He asked a high price, the robber!"

      "What is its name?"

      "Orlando. … But that's a stupid name; I want to change it. … Eh bien, eh bien, mon garçon. … What a turbulent beast!" The horse snorted, shifted from foot to foot, and tossed his foaming muzzle.

      "Pat him, Lénotchka, have no fears. … "

      The little girl stretched her hand out of the window, but Orlando suddenly reared up, and leaped aside. The rider did not lose control, gripped the horse with his knees, gave him a lash on the neck with his whip, and, despite his opposition, placed him once more in front of the window.

      "Prenez garde! prenez garde!"—Márya Dmítrievna kept repeating.

      "Pat him, Lyénotchka,"—returned the rider—"I will not permit him to be wilful."

      Again the little girl stretched forth her hand, and timidly touched the quivering nostrils of Orlando, who trembled incessantly and strained at the bit.

      "Bravo!"—exclaimed Márya Dmítrievna—"and now, dismount, and come in."

      The horseman turned his steed round adroitly, gave him the spurs, and after dashing along the street at a brisk gallop, rode into the yard. A minute later, he ran in through the door of the anteroom into the drawing-room, flourishing his whip; at the same moment, on the threshold of another door, a tall, graceful, black-haired girl of nineteen—Márya Dmítrievna's eldest daughter, Liza—made her appearance.

IV

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