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Translator: Isabel F. Hapgood

A NOBLEMAN'S NEST

THE NOVELS AND STORIES OF IV?N TURG?NIEFF

Published by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

R?DIN, AND A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPES A NOBLEMAN'S NEST ON THE EVE FATHERS AND CHILDREN SMOKE VIRGIN SOIL MEMOIRS OF A SPORTSMAN THE JEW, AND OTHER STORIES DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN, AND OTHER STORIES FIRST LOVE, AND OTHER STORIES PHANTOMS, AND OTHER STORIES THE BRIGADIER, AND OTHER STORIES SPRING FRESHETS, AND OTHER STORIES RECKLESS CHARACTER, AND OTHER STORIES

A NOBLEMAN'S NEST BY IV?N TURG?NIEFF TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY ISABEL F. HAPGOOD NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1924

Printed in the United States of America

A NOBLEMAN'S NEST

A NOBLEMAN'S NEST 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 her youth, M?rya Dm?trievna 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 institutions in Petersburg.

The old woman, who was sitting by the window with M?rya Dm?trievna, was that same aunt, her father's sister, with whom she had spent several years, in days gone by, at Pokr?vskoe. Her name was M?rfa Timof?evna P?stoff. 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 Kal?tin, 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. M?rya Dm?trievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and brisk-eyed even in her old age, tiny, sharp-nosed M?rfa Timof?evna 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 M?rya Dm?trievna.--"What art thou sighing about, my mother?"

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

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

M?rya Dm?trievna made no reply.

"Isn't that Gede?novsky coming yonder?"--said M?rfa Timof?evna, briskly moving her knitting-needles . "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! Sergy?i Petr?vitch is an--estimable man."

"Estimable!" repeated the old woman reproachfully.

"And how devoted he was to my dead husband!" remarked M?rya Dm?trievna;--"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 M?rfa Timof?evna, 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. Sergy?i Petr?vitch 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 M?rfa Timof?evna, glancing into the street.--"There he strides, thine agreeable man. What a long-legged fellow, just like a stork."

M?rya Dm?trievna adjusted her curls. M?rfa Timof?evna watched her with a grin.

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

"Oh, aunty, you're always so...." muttered M?rya Dm?trievna, with vexation, and drummed on the arm of her chair with her fingers.

"Sergy?i Petr?vitch Gede?novsky!" squeaked a red-cheeked page-lad, springing in through the door.

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 M?rfa Timof?evna, and slowly drawing off his gloves, took M?rya Dm?trievna'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 Elizav?ta Mikha?lovna well?"

"Yes,"--replied M?rya Dm?trievna,--"she is in the garden."

"And El?na Mikha?lovna?"

"Ly?notchka 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: Lavr?tzky, Fe?dor Iv?nitch, has arrived."

"F?dya?"--exclaimed M?rfa Timof?evna.--"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 Gede?novsky, pretending not to hear M?rfa Timof?evna's remark:--"he has grown broader in the shoulders, and the rosy colour covers the whole of his cheeks."

"He has recovered his health,"--ejaculated M?rya Dm?trievna, with pauses:--"that means, that he had something to recover from?"

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

"Why so?"--interrupted M?rfa Timof?evna;--"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." Gede?novsky smiled in a constrained way.

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

M?rfa Timof?evna 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 F?dya 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 M?rya Dm?trievna, 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 M?rfa Timof?evna withdrew.

"There, she is always like that,"--said M?rya Dm?trievna, following her aunt with her eyes:--"Always!"

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

M?rya Dm?trievna smiled faintly, and extended her plump hand, with the little finger standing out apart, to Gede?novsky. 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?"

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