Vikentev kept his word, and on the very next day brought his mother to Tatiana Markovna, he himself taking refuge in his office, where he sat on pins and needles.

His mother, still a young woman, not much over forty, as gay and full of life as he himself was, had plenty of practical sense. They kept up between themselves a constant comic war of words; they were for ever disputing about trifles, but when it came to serious matters, she proclaimed her authority to him with quite another voice and another manner. And though he indeed usually began by protesting, he submitted to her will, if her request was reasonable. An unseen harmony underlay their visible strife.

That night, after Marfinka had left him, Vikentev had hurried to Kolchino. He rushed to his mother, threw his arms round her and kissed her. When, nearly smothered by his embrace, she thrust him from her, he fell on his knees and said solemnly: “Mother, strike me if you will, but listen. The supreme moment of my life has arrived. I have....”

“Gone mad,” she supplied, looking him up and down.

“I am going to be married,” he said, almost inaudibly.

“What? Mavra, Anton, Ivan, Kusma! Come here, quick!”

Mavra alone responded to the call.

“Call everybody. Nikolai Andreevich has gone mad.”

“I am not joking, and I must have an answer tomorrow.”

“I will have you locked up,” she said, seriously disturbed at last.

Far into the night the servants heard heated arguments, the voices of the disputants now rising almost to a shout, then laughter, then outbursts of anger from the mistress, a gay retort from him, then dead silence, the sign of restored tranquillity. Vikentev had won the victory, which was indeed a foregone conclusion, for while Vikentev and Marfinka were still uncertain of their feelings, Tatiana Markovna and Marfa Egorovna had long before realised what was coming, and both, although they kept their own counsel, had weighed and considered the matter, and had concluded that the marriage was a suitable one.

“What will Tatiana Markovna say?” cried Marfa Egorovna to her son the next morning as the horses were being put in. “If she does not agree, I will never forgive you for the disgrace it will bring on us, do you hear?”

She herself, in a silk dress and a lace mantle, with yellow gloves and a coquettish fan, might have been a fiancÉe. When Tatiana Markovna was informed of the arrival of Madame Vikentev, she had her shown into the reception room. Before she herself changed her dress to receive her, Vassilissa had to peer through the doorway to see what kind of toilette the guest had made. Then Tatiana Markovna donned a rustling silk dress with a silver sheen, over which she wore her Turkish shawl; she even tried to put on a pair of diamond earrings, but gave up the attempt impatiently, telling herself that the holes in her ears had grown together. Then she sent word to Vera and Marfinka to change their dresses. In passing she told Vassilissa to set out the best table linen, and the old silver and glass for the breakfast and the dinner table. The cook was ordered to serve chocolate in addition to the usual dishes, and sweets and champagne were ordered. With folded hands, adorned for the occasion with old and costly rings, she stepped solemnly into the reception room. But when she caught sight of her guest’s pleasant face she all but forget the importance of the moment, but pulled herself together in time, and resumed her serious aspect.

Marfa Egorovna rose in friendly haste to meet her hostess, and began: “What ideas my mad boy has!” but restrained herself when she saw Madame Berezhkov’s attitude. They exchanged ceremonious greetings. Tatiana Markovna asked the visitor to sit on the divan, and seated herself stiffly beside her.

“What is the weather like?” she asked. “Had you a windy crossing over the Volga?”

“There was no wind.”

“Did you come by the ferry?”

“In the boat. The calÈche was brought over on the ferry.”

“Yakob, Egorovna, Petrushka? Where are you? Why don’t you come when you are called? Take out the horses, give them fodder, and see that the coachman is well looked after.”

The servants, who had rushed in to answer the summons, hurried out. Of course the horses had been taken out while Tatiana Markovna was dressing, and the coachman was already sitting in the servants’ room, doing full justice to the beer set before him.

“No, no, Tatiana Markovna,” protested the visitor, “I have come for half an hour on business.”

“Do you think you will be allowed to go?” asked Tatiana Markovna in a voice that permitted no reply. “You have come a long way from over the Volga. Is this the first year of our acquaintance? Do you want to insult me?”

“Ah, Tatiana Markovna, I am so grateful to you, so grateful! You are just like a relative, and how you have spoilt my Nikolai!”

“I feel sometimes as if he were my own son,” burst from Tatiana Markovna, whose dignity could hold out no longer against these friendly advances.

“Yes, you are so kind to him, Tatiana Markovna, that, presuming on your kindness, he has taken it into his head....”

“Well?”

“He begged me to come over to see you, and he asks for the hand of Marfa Vassilievna. Marfa Vassilievna agrees; she loves Nikolai.”

“Because Marfinka took upon herself to answer his declaration she is now shut up in her room, in her petticoat, without shoes,” lied her aunt. Then in order to lay full stress on the importance of the moment, she added: “I have given orders not to admit your son, so that he may not play with a poor girl’s affections.”

It was impossible for Marfa Egorovna not to recognise the provocation of these remarks.

“If I had foreseen this,” she said angrily, “I would have given him a different answer. He assured me—and I was so willing to believe him—of your affection for him, and for me. Pardon my mission, Tatiana Markovna, and pray let that poor child out of her room. The blame rests with my boy only, and he shall be punished. Have the kindness to order my carriage.”

She placed her hand on the bell, but Tatiana Markovna detained her.

“Your horses are taken out. You will stay with me, Marfa Egorovna, to-day, to-morrow, all the week.”

“But since you are so angry with Marfa Vassilievna and my son, who does indeed deserve to be punished?”

The wrinkles in Tatiana Markovna’s face faded, and her eyes gleamed with joy. She threw her shawl and cap on the divan.

“I can’t keep it up any longer!” she exclaimed. “Take off your hat and mantilla. We are only teasing one another, Marfa Egorovna. I shall have a grandson, you a daughter. Kiss me, dear! I wanted to keep up the old customs, but there are cases which they don’t fit. We knew what must be the upshot of this. If we hadn’t wished it we should not have allowed them to go and listen to the nightingales.”

“How you frightened me!” cried Marfa Egorovna.

“He had to be frightened. I will read him a lesson.”

Mother and aunt had gone a long way into the future, and when they were about as far as the christening of the third child, Marfa Egorovna noticed in the garden among the bushes a head which was now hidden, then again cautiously raised to reconnoitre. She recognised her son, and pointed him out to Tatiana Markovna. They called him, but when he at last decided to enter, he hung about in the ante-room, as if he were making himself presentable.

“You are welcome, Nikolai Andreevich,” said Tatiana Markovna pointedly, while his mother looked at him ironically.

“Good morning, Tatiana Markovna,” he stammered at last, and kissed the old lady’s hand. “I have bought tickets for the charity concert, for you and Mama, for Vera Vassilievna and Marfa Vassilievna and for Boris Pavlovich. It’s a splendid concert ... the first singer in Moscow....”

“Why do we need to go to concerts?” interrupted Tatiana Markovna, looking at him sideways. “The nightingales sing so finely here. In the evening we go into the garden, and can hear them for nothing.”

Marfa Egorovna bit her lip, but Vikentev stood transfixed.

“Sit down, Nikolai Andreevich,” continued the old lady seriously and reproachfully, “and listen to what I have to say. What does your conscience tell you? How have you rewarded my confidence?”

“Don’t make fun of me ... it’s unkind.”

“I am not joking. It wasn’t right of you, my friend, to speak to Marfinka, and not to me. Supposing I had not consented?”

“If you had not consented I would have....”

“What?”

“Oh, I would have gone away from here, joined the Hussars, have contracted debts, and gone to wrack and ruin.”

“Now he threatens! You should not be so bent on your own way, young man.”

“Give me Marfa Vassilievna, and I will be more tranquil than water, humbler than the grass.”

“Shall we give him Marfinka, Marfa Egorovna?”

“He hasn’t deserved it, Tatiana Markovna. And it is really too early. Perhaps in two years’ time....”

He flew to his mother and shut her mouth with a kiss. Then he received from Tatiana Markovna the sign of the cross, and a kiss on the forehead.

“Where is Marfa Vassilievna?” he shouted joyfully.

“You must have patience,” admonished his grandmother, “we will fetch her.”

Tatiana Markovna and Marfa Egorovna found Marfinka hidden in the corner behind the curtains of her bed, close by the ikons. She covered her blushing face in her hands.

Vera received the news from her aunt with quiet pleasure, saying that she had expected it for a long time.

“God grant that you may follow her example,” said Tatiana Markovna.

“If you love me as I love you, Grandmother, you will bestow all your care and thought on Marfinka. Take no thought for me.”

“My heart aches for you, Veroshka.”

“I know, and that grieves me. Grandmother,” she said with a despairing note, “it is killing me to think that your heart aches on my account.”

“What do you say, Veroshka? open your heart to me. Perhaps I can comprehend, and if you have grief, help to assuage it.”

“If trouble overtakes me, Grandmother, and I cannot conquer it myself, I will come to you and to none other, God only excepted. But do not make me suffer any more, or allow yourself to suffer.”

“Will it not be too late when trouble has once overtaken you?” whispered her aunt. Then she added aloud, “I know that you are not like Marfinka, and I will not disturb you.”

A long sigh escaped her as she left the room with quick steps and bent head. Vera’s distress was the only cloud on her horizon, and she prayed earnestly that it might pass and not gather into a black storm cloud. Vera sought to calm her own agitation by walking up and down the garden, but only succeeded gradually. As soon as she caught sight of Marfinka and Vikentev in the arbour, she hurried to them, looked affectionately into her sister’s face, kissed her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, and embraced her warmly.

“You must be happy,” she said with tears in her eyes.

“How lovely you are Veroshka, and how good! We are not a bit like sisters. There is nobody in the neighbourhood fit to marry you, is there, Nikolai Andreevich?”

Vera pressed her hand in silence.

“Nikolai Andreevich, do you know what she is?”

“An angel,” answered Vikentev as promptly as a soldier answers his officer.

“An angel,” mimicked Vera laughing, and pointing to a butterfly hovering over a flower. “There is an angel. But if you even touch him the colour of his wings will be spoiled, and he will perhaps even lose a wing. You must spoil her, love and caress her, and God forbid that you ever wound her. If you ever do,” she threatened, smiling, “you will have to reckon with me.”

Within a week of this happy occasion the house was restored to its ordinary routine. Marfa Egorovna drove back to Kolchino, but Vikentev became a daily visitor, and almost a member of the family. He and Marfinka no longer jumped and ran like children, though they occasionally had a lively dispute, half in jest, half in earnest. They sang and read together, and the pure, fresh poetry of youth, plain for all to read, welled up in their frank, unspoiled hearts.

The wedding being fixed for the autumn, preparations for Marfinka’s house-furnishing and trousseau were being gradually pushed forward. From the cupboards of the house were brought old lace, silver and gold plate, glass, linen, furs, pearls, diamonds and all sorts of treasures, to be divided by Tatiana Markovna with Jew-like exactness into two equal shares, with the aid of jewellers, workers in gold, and others.

“That is yours, Vera, and there is Marfinka’s share. You are not to receive a pearl or on ounce more than the other. See for yourselves.”

Vera pushed pearls and diamonds into a heap with a declaration that she needed very little. This only angered Tatiana Markovna, who began the work of division all over again. Raisky sent to his former guardian for the diamonds and silver that had been his mother’s portion, and bestowed these also on the sisters, but his aunt hid the treasure in the depths of her coffers.

“You will want them yourself.” she said, “on the day when you take it into your head to marry.”

The estate with all that belonged to it he had made over in the names of the sisters, a gift for which each of them thanked him after her fashion. Tatiana Markovna wrinkled her forehead, and looked askance at him, but she could not long maintain this attitude, and ended by embracing him.

In various rooms, in Tatiana Markovna’s sitting room, in the servants’ room, and even in the reception room, tables were covered with linen. The marriage bed, with its lace pillow-cases and cover was being prepared, and every morning there came dressmakers and seamstresses. Only Raisky and Vera remained untouched by the universal gay activity. Even when Raisky sought distraction in riding or visiting, there was in fact no one else in the world for him but Vera. He avoided too frequent visits to Koslov on account of Juliana Andreevna.

He did not visit Paulina Karpovna, but she came the oftener, and bored him and Tatiana Markovna by her pose, retiring or audacious, as the case might be. Tatiana Markovna especially was annoyed by her unasked for criticisms of the wedding preparations, and by her views on marriage generally. Marriage, she declared, was the grave of love, elect souls were bound to meet in spite of all obstacles, even outside the marriage bond, and so forth. While she expounded these doctrines she cast languishing eyes on Raisky.

Neither did the young people who now often came to the house to dance, awaken any interest in Raisky or Vera. These two were only happy under given circumstances; he—with her, she—when unseen by anyone she could flit like a ghost to the precipice to lose herself in the under-growth, or when she drove over the Volga to see the pope’s wife.