So he doesn’t speak French – a great pity that is! I’m not very strong myself in the French “dialect”. It’d be better if he didn’t speak any language at all, then he wouldn’t tell lies. But there he is, speak of the devil,’ added Marfa Timofeyevna, glancing at the street. ‘Striding along, he is, your agreeable man. What a long, thin fellow, just like a stork!’

Marya Dmitrievna patted her curls. Marfa Timofeyevna looked at her with a wry smile.

‘What’s that, my dear, surely it’s not a grey hair? You must give your Palashka a talking-to. What’s she got eyes for?’

‘Oh, auntie dear, you’re always…’ muttered Marya Dmitrievna in vexation and began tapping her fingers on the arm of her chair.

‘Sergey Petrovich Gedeonovsky!’ squeaked a rosy-cheeked servant-boy, jumping in from behind the door.

II

A TALL man entered in a smart frock-coat, rather short tight trousers, grey chamois gloves and two cravats – a black one on top and a white one below. Everything about him exuded propriety and respectability, beginning with his noble-looking face and smoothly combed temples right down to his shoes that were heel-less and squeakless. He bowed first to the mistress of the house, then to Marfa Timofeyevna and, slowly drawing off his gloves, approached Marya Dmitrievna’s hand. Having kissed it respectfully twice in succession, he sat down unhurriedly in an armchair and inquired with a smile, rubbing the tips of his fingers together:

‘And is Elizaveta Mikhaylovna well?’

‘Yes,’ answered Marya Dmitrievna, ‘she is in the garden.’

‘And Elena Mikhaylovna?’

‘Lenochka is also in the garden. Haven’t you any news for us?’

‘Haven’t I indeed,’ the guest responded, giving slow winks and protruding his lips. ‘Hm!… mark you, there is something very surprising about this piece of news: Fyodor Ivanych Lavretsky has come back.’

‘Fedya!’ exclaimed Marfa Timofeyevna. ‘Are you sure you’re not making this up, my good man?’

‘Not in the least. I saw him with my own eyes.’

‘Well, that’s hardly any proof.’

‘He looks very well,’ Gedeonovsky continued, pretending not to have heard Marfa Timofeyevna’s remark, ‘broader in the shoulders than he ever was and a good colour in his cheeks.’

‘So he looks very well,’ said Marya Dmitrievna, pausing between the words. ‘What, I wonder, is there to make him look so well?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ responded Gedeonovsky, ‘another man in his place would have thought twice about appearing in society.’

‘Why so?’ interrupted Marfa Timofeyevna. ‘What sort of nonsense is that? A man has returned to his birthplace – where else do you want him to go? And anyhow he wasn’t to blame!’

‘A husband is always to blame, I beg to inform you, my good lady, when a wife behaves herself badly.’

‘You say that, my good sir, because you’ve never been married.’

Gedeonovsky gave a forced smile.

‘Permit me to be so curious as to inquire’, he asked after a short silence, ‘for whom that charming scarf is intended?’

Marfa Timofeyevna directed a quick glance at him.

‘It is intended for someone’, she replied, ‘who never gossips, is never underhand and never makes up stories, if there is such a person in the world. I know Fedya well. All he can be blamed for is spoiling his wife. Well, yes, of course, he also married for love, and nothing worth while ever comes of love matches.’ the old woman added, glancing sideways at Marya Dmitrievna and rising to her feet. ‘And now you, my good sir, can sharpen your teeth on anyone you like, even on me; I’m going, I won’t be any more bother to you.’

And Marfa Timofeyevna went out.

‘That’s how she always is,’ said Marya Dmitrievna, following her aunt with her eyes, ‘always!’

‘Ah well, at her age! There’s nothing to be done about it!’ remarked Gedeonovsky. ‘Mark you, her ladyship was kind enough to mention “someone who is never underhand”. But who is never underhand nowadays? It’s a sign of the times. A friend of mine, highly respectable and, I assure you, a man of no mean rank, has made a habit of saying that nowadays even a chicken – to give you one instance – can’t approach a grain without being underhand, darting up to it, you know, and pecking it sideways. But now that I look at you, my dear lady, I see you have a truly angelic temperament. Permit me to kiss your snowy white hand.’

Marya Dmitrievna smiled faintly and extended to Gedeonovsky her plump hand with the little finger raised. He pressed his lips to it while she moved her chair towards him and, bending slightly forwards, asked in a low voice:

‘So you’ve seen him? Ishe really all right, you know – healthy, happy?’

‘Indeed he’s well and happy,’ answered Gedeonovsky in a whisper.

‘And have you heard by any chance where his wife is now?’

‘She was lately in Paris; now it’s said she’s settled in Italy.’

‘Fedya’s position is certainly horrible; I don’t know how he endures it. Misfortunes can happen to anyone, of course, but his, one might say, have been broadcast all over Europe.’

Gedeonovsky gave a sigh.

‘Yes, indeed, indeed. They say, you know, that she’s keeping company with artists and with pianists, and with lions, as they call them over there, and wild beasts of every sort. She has completely lost all shame…’

‘I’m very, very sorry,’ declared Marya Dmitrievna. ‘I speak as a relative: you must know, Sergey Petrovich, that he’s a second cousin of mine.’

‘Of course, of course.