who wore a pince-nez--used to write novels and
stories, and was very fond of reading them aloud to her visitors.
The daughter, Ekaterina Ivanovna, a young girl, used to play on the
piano. In short, every member of the family had a special talent.
The Turkins welcomed visitors, and good-humouredly displayed their
talents with genuine simplicity. Their stone house was roomy and
cool in summer; half of the windows looked into a shady old garden,
where nightingales used to sing in the spring. When there were
visitors in the house, there was a clatter of knives in the kitchen
and a smell of fried onions in the yard--and that was always a
sure sign of a plentiful and savoury supper to follow.

And as soon as Dmitri Ionitch Startsev was appointed the district
doctor, and took up his abode at Dyalizh, six miles from S----, he,
too, was told that as a cultivated man it was essential for him to
make the acquaintance of the Turkins. In the winter he was introduced
to Ivan Petrovitch in the street; they talked about the weather,
about the theatre, about the cholera; an invitation followed. On a
holiday in the spring--it was Ascension Day--after seeing his
patients, Startsev set off for town in search of a little recreation
and to make some purchases. He walked in a leisurely way (he had
not yet set up his carriage), humming all the time:

"'Before I'd drunk the tears from life's goblet. . . .'"

In town he dined, went for a walk in the gardens, then Ivan
Petrovitch's invitation came into his mind, as it were of itself,
and he decided to call on the Turkins and see what sort of people
they were.

"How do you do, if you please?" said Ivan Petrovitch, meeting him
on the steps. "Delighted, delighted to see such an agreeable visitor.
Come along; I will introduce you to my better half. I tell him,
Verotchka," he went on, as he presented the doctor to his wife--"I
tell him that he has no human right to sit at home in a hospital;
he ought to devote his leisure to society. Oughtn't he, darling?"

"Sit here," said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down beside
her. "You can dance attendance on me. My husband is jealous--he
is an Othello; but we will try and behave so well that he will
notice nothing."

"Ah, you spoilt chicken!" Ivan Petrovitch muttered tenderly, and
he kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick of
time," he said, addressing the doctor again. "My better half has
written a 'hugeous' novel, and