ows, 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 institutions 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, m