A n.o.bleman's Nest.

by Ivan Turgenieff.

I

The brilliant, spring day was inclining toward the evening, tiny rose-tinted cloudlets hung high in the heavens, and seemed not to be floating past, but retreating into the very depths of the azure.

In front of the open window of a handsome house, in one of the outlying streets of O * * * the capital of a Government, sat two women; one fifty years of age, the other seventy years old, and already aged.

The former was named Marya Dmitrievna Kalitin. Her husband, formerly the governmental procurator, well known in his day as an active official--a man of energetic and decided character, splenetic and stubborn--had died ten years previously. He had received a fairly good education, had studied at the university, but, having been born in a poverty-stricken cla.s.s of society, he had early comprehended the necessity of opening up a way for himself, and of acc.u.mulating money.

Marya Dmitrievna had married him for love; he was far from uncomely in appearance, he was clever, and, when he chose, he could be very amiable.

Marya Dmitrievna (her maiden name had been Pestoff) had lost her parents in early childhood, had spent several years in Moscow, in a government educational inst.i.tute, and, on returning thence, had lived fifty versts from O * * *, in her native village, Pokrovskoe, with her aunt and her elder brother. This brother soon removed to Petersburg on service, and kept his sister and his aunt on short commons, until his sudden death put an end to his career. Marya Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoe, but did not live there long; during the second year after her marriage to Kalitin, who succeeded in conquering her heart in the course of a few days, Pokrovskoe was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without a manor-house, and, at the same time, Kalitin acquired a house in the town of O * * *, and settled down there permanently with his wife. A large garden was attached to the house; on one side, it joined directly on to the open fields, beyond the town. Kalitin,--who greatly disliked the stagnation of the country,--had evidently made up his mind, that there was no reason for dragging out existence on the estate. Marya Dmitrievna, many a time, in her own mind regretted her pretty Pokrovskoe, with its merry little stream, its broad meadows, and verdant groves; but she opposed her husband in nothing, and worshipped his cleverness and knowledge of the world. But when, after fifteen years of married life, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna had become so wonted to her house, and to town life, that she herself did not wish to leave O * * *.

In her youth, Marya Dmitrievna had enjoyed the reputation of being a pretty blonde, and at the age of fifty her features were not devoid of attraction, although they had become somewhat swollen and indefinite in outline. She was more sentimental than kind, and even in her mature age she had preserved the habits of her school-days; she indulged herself, was easily irritated, and even wept when her ways were interfered with; on the other hand, she was very affectionate and amiable, when all her wishes were complied with, and when no one contradicted her. Her house was one of the most agreeable in the town. Her fortune was very considerable, not so much her inherited fortune, as that acquired by her husband. Both her daughters lived with her; her son was being educated at one of the best government inst.i.tutions in Petersburg.

The old woman, who was sitting by the window with Marya Dmitrievna, was that same aunt, her father's sister, with whom she had spent several years, in days gone by, at Pokrovskoe. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestoff. She bore the reputation of being eccentric, had an independent character, told the entire truth to every one, straight in the face, and, with the most scanty resources, bore herself as though she possessed thousands. She had not been able to endure the deceased Kalitin, and as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her tiny estate, where she lived for ten whole years in the hen-house of a peasant. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and brisk-eyed even in her old age, tiny, sharp-nosed Marfa Timofeevna walked quickly, held herself upright, and talked rapidly and intelligibly, in a shrill, ringing voice. She always wore a white cap and a white jacket.

"What art thou doing that for?--" she suddenly inquired of Marya Dmitrievna.--"What art thou sighing about, my mother?"

"Because," said the other.--"What wonderfully beautiful clouds!"

"So, thou art sorry for them, is that it?"

Marya Dmitrievna made no reply.

"Isn't that Gedeonovsky coming yonder?"--said Marfa Timofeevna, briskly moving her knitting-needles (she was knitting a huge, motley-hued scarf). "He might keep thee company in sighing,--or, if not, he might tell us some lie or other."

"How harshly thou always speakest about him! Sergyei Petrovitch is an--estimable man."

"Estimable!" repeated the old woman reproachfully.

"And how devoted he was to my dead husband!" remarked Marya Dmitrievna;--"to this day, I cannot think of it with indifference."

"I should think not! he pulled him out of the mire by his ears,"--growled Marfa Timofeevna, and her knitting-needles moved still more swiftly in her hands.

"He looks like such a meek creature,"--she began again,--"his head is all grey, but no sooner does he open his mouth, than he lies or calumniates.

And he's a State Councillor, to boot! Well, he's a priest's son: and there's nothing more to be said!"

"Who is without sin, aunty? Of course, he has that weakness. Sergyei Petrovitch received no education,--of course he does not speak French; but, say what you will, he is an agreeable man."

"Yes, he's always licking thy hand. He doesn't talk French,--what a calamity! I'm not strong on the French 'dialect' myself. 'T would be better if he did not speak any language at all: then he wouldn't lie. But there he is, by the way--speak of the devil,--" added Marfa Timofeevna, glancing into the street.--"There he strides, thine agreeable man. What a long-legged fellow, just like a stork."

Marya Dmitrievna adjusted her curls. Marfa Timofeevna watched her with a grin.

"Hast thou not a grey hair there, my mother? Thou shouldst scold thy Palashka. Why doesn't she see it?"

"Oh, aunty, you're always so...." muttered Marya Dmitrievna, with vexation, and drummed on the arm of her chair with her fingers.

"Sergyei Petrovitch Gedeonovsky!" squeaked a red-cheeked page-lad, springing in through the door.

II

There entered a man of lofty stature, in a neat coat, short trousers, grey chamois-skin gloves, and two neckties--one black, on top, and the other white, underneath. Everything about him exhaled decorum and propriety, beginning with his good-looking face and smoothly brushed temple-curls, and ending with his boots, which had neither heels nor squeak. He bowed first to the mistress of the house, then to Marfa Timofeevna, and slowly drawing off his gloves, took Marya Dmitrievna's hand. After kissing it twice in succession, with respect, he seated himself, without haste, in an arm-chair, and said with a smile, as he rubbed the very tips of his fingers:

"And is Elizaveta Mikhailovna well?"

"Yes,"--replied Marya Dmitrievna,--"she is in the garden."

"And Elena Mikhailovna?"

"Lyenotchka is in the garden also. Is there anything new?"

"How could there fail to be, ma'am, how could there fail to be,"--returned the visitor, slowly blinking his eyes, and protruding his lips. "Hm! ...

now, here's a bit of news, if you please, and a very astounding bit: Lavretzky, Feodor Ivanitch, has arrived."

"Fedya?"--exclaimed Marfa Timofeevna.--"But come now, my father, art not thou inventing that?"

"Not in the least, ma'am, I saw him myself."

"Well, that's no proof."

"He has recovered his health finely,"--went on Gedeonovsky, pretending not to hear Marfa Timofeevna's remark:--"he has grown broader in the shoulders, and the rosy colour covers the whole of his cheeks."

"He has recovered his health,"--e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Marya Dmitrievna, with pauses:--"that means, that he had something to recover from?"

"Yes, ma'am,"--returned Gedeonovsky:--"Any other man, in his place, would have been ashamed to show himself in the world."

"Why so?"--interrupted Marfa Timofeevna;--"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 a.s.sure you, when the wife behaves badly."

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

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

Marfa Timofeevna 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 Fedya 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 Marya Dmitrievna, 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 Marfa Timofeevna withdrew.

"There, she is always like that,"--said Marya Dmitrievna, following her aunt with her eyes:--"Always!"

"It's her age! There's no help for it, ma'am!" remarked Gedeonovsky.--"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."