She had grown very stout, and this, it is said, restores youth in a woman.
But that was not the worst of it: over her pale, stout flesh was a net-work of coa.r.s.e, flabby wrinkles. She no longer went to the city, she even found it hard to mount into her carriage; but still she was just as good-natured and as completely vacant-minded as ever,--the truth might safely be told, now that it was no longer palliated by her beauty.
Under her roof lived her daughter Liza, a rustic Russian belle of twenty-three summers, and her brother, our acquaintance the cavalryman, who had spent all his patrimony in behalf of others, and now, in his old age, had taken refuge with Anna Fedorovna.
The hair on his head had become perfectly gray; his upper lip was sunken, but the mustache that it wore was carefully dyed. Wrinkles covered not only his brow and cheeks, but also his nose and neck; and yet his weak bow-legs gave evidence of the old cavalryman.
Anna Fedorovna"s whole family and household were gathered in the small parlor of the ancient house. The balcony door and windows, looking out into a star-shaped garden shaded by lindens, were open. Anna Fedorovna, in her gray hair and a lilac-colored gown,[74] was sitting on the sofa, before a small round mahogany table, shuffling cards. The old brother, dressed in spruce white pantaloons and a blue coat, had taken up his position near the window, knitting strips of white cotton on a fork, an occupation which his niece had taught him, and which gave him great enjoyment, as he had nothing else to do, his eyes not being strong enough to enable him to read newspapers, which was his favorite occupation. Near him Pimotchka, a _protegee_ of Anna Fedorovna, was studying her lessons under the guidance of Liza, who with wooden knitting-needles was knitting stockings of goat-wool for her uncle.
[Footnote 74: _katsaveka._]
The last rays of the setting sun, as always at this time, threw under the linden alley their soft reflections on the last window-panes and the little _etagere_ which stood near it.
In the garden it was so still that one could hear the swift rush of a swallow"s wings, and so quiet in the room that Anna Fedorovna"s gentle sigh, or the old man"s cough as he kept changing the position of his legs, was the only sound.
"How does this go, Lizanka? show me, please. I keep forgetting," said Anna Fedorovna, pausing in the midst of her game of patience. Liza, without stopping her work, went over to her mother, and, glancing at the cards, "Ah!" says she. "You have mixed them all up, dear mamasha," said she, arranging the cards. "That is the way they should be placed. Now they come as you desired," she added, secretly withdrawing one card.
"Now you are always managing to deceive me! You said that it would go."
"No, truly; it goes, I a.s.sure you. It has come out right."
"Very well, then; very well, you rogue! But isn"t it time for tea?"
"I have just ordered the samovar heated. I will go and see about it immediately. Shall we have it brought here?... Now, Pimotchka, hasten and finish your lessons, and we will go and take a run."
And Liza started for the door.
"Lizotchka! Lizanka!" cried her uncle, steadfastly regarding his fork, "again it seems to me I have dropped a st.i.tch. Arrange it for me, my darling."[75]
[Footnote 75: _golubchik._]
"In a moment, in a moment. First I must have the sugar broken up."
And in point of fact, within three minutes, she came running into the room, went up to her uncle, and took him by the ear.
"That"s to pay you for dropping st.i.tches," said she laughing. "You have not been knitting as I taught you."
"Now, that"ll do, that"ll do, adjust it for me; there seems to be some sort of a knot."
Liza took the fork, pulled out a pin from her kerchief, which was blown back a little by the breeze coming through the window, picked it out a couple of times, and handed it back to her uncle.
"Now you must kiss me for that," said she, putting up her rosy cheek toward him, and re-adjusting her kerchief. "You shall have rum in your tea to-day.
To-day is Friday, you see."
And again she went to the tea-room.
"Uncle dear, come and look! some hussars are riding up toward the house!"
her ringing voice was heard to say. Anna Fedorovna and her brother hastened into the tea-room, the windows of which faced the village, and looked at the hussars. Very little was to be seen; through the cloud of dust it could be judged only that a body of men was advancing.
"What a pity, sister," remarked the uncle to Anna Fedorovna, "what a pity that we are so cramped, and the wing is not built yet, so that we might invite the officers here. Officers of the hussars! they are such glorious, gay young fellows! I should like to have a glimpse at them."
"Well, I should be heartily glad, but you know yourself that there is nowhere to put them: my sleeping-room, Liza"s room, the parlor, and then your room,--judge for yourself. Mikhalo Matveef has put the _starosta"s_[76] house in order for them; he says it will be nice there."
[Footnote 76: Village elder.]
"But we must find you a husband, Lizotchka, among them,--a glorious hussar!" said the uncle.
"No, I do not want a hussar: I want an uhlan. Let me see, you served among the uhlans, didn"t you, uncle?... I don"t care to know these hussars. They say they are desperate fellows."
And Liza blushed a little, and then once more her ringing laugh was heard.
"There"s Ustiushka running: we must ask her what she saw," said she. Anna Fedorovna sent to have Ustiushka brought in.
"She has no idea of sticking to her work, she must always be running off to look at the soldiers," said Anna Fedorovna.... "Now, where have they lodged the officers?"
"With the Yeremkins, your ladyship. There are two of them, such lovely men!
One of them is a count, they tell me."
"What"s his name?"
"Kazarof or Turbinof. I don"t remember, excuse me."
"There now, you"re a goose, you don"t know how to tell any thing at all.
You might have remembered his name!"
"Well, I"ll run and find out."
"I know that you are quite able to do that. But no, let Danilo go.--Brother, go and tell him to go; have him ask if there is not something which the officers may need; every thing must be done in good form; have them understand that it is the lady of the house who has sent to find out."
The old people sat down again in the tea-room, and Liza went to the servants" room to put the lumps of sugar in the sugar-bowl. Ustiushka was telling them there about the hussars.
"O my dear young lady, what a handsome man he is! that count!" she said, "absolutely a little cherubim,[77] with black eyebrows. You ought to have such a husband as that; what a lovely little couple you would make!" The other maids smiled approvingly; the old nurse, sitting by the window with her stocking, sighed, and, drawing a long breath, murmured a prayer.
[Footnote 77: _kherubimchik._]
"It seems to me that the hussars have given you a great deal of pleasure,"
said Liza. "You are a master hand at description. Bring me the _mors_,[78]
Ustiushka, please; we must give the officers something sour to drink." And Liza, laughing, went out with the sugar-bowl.
[Footnote 78: A sour beverage made of cranberries.]
"But I should like to see what sort of a man this hussar is,--whether he is brunet or blondin. And I imagine he would not object to making our acquaintance. But he will go away, and never know that I was here and was thinking about him. And how many have pa.s.sed by me in this way! No one ever sees me except uncle and Ustiushka! How many times I have arranged my hair, how many pairs of cuffs I have put on, and yet no one ever sees me or falls in love with me," she thought with a sigh, contemplating her white, plump hand.
"He must be tall, and have big eyes, and a nice little black mustache....
No! I am already over twenty-two, and no one has ever fallen in love with me except the pock-marked Ivan Ipatuitch. And four years ago I was still better-looking; and so my girlhood has gone, and no one is the better for it. Ah! I am an unhappy country maiden!"
Her mother"s voice, calling her to bring the tea, aroused the country maiden from this momentary revery.
She shook her little head, and went into the tea-room.
The best things always happen unexpectedly; and the more you try to force them, the worse they come out. In the country it is rare that any attempt is made to impart education, and therefore when a good one is found it is generally a surprise. And thus it happened, in a notable degree, in the case of Liza. Anna Fedorovna, through her own lack of intelligence and natural laziness, had not given Liza any education at all; had not taught her music, nor the French language which is so indispensable. But the girl had fortunately been a healthy, bright little child: she had intrusted her to a wet-nurse and a day-nurse; she had fed her, and dressed her in print dresses and goat-skin shoes, and let her run wild and gather mushrooms and berries; had her taught reading and arithmetic by a resident seminarist.