The brilliant, spring day was inclining toward the evening, tiny rose-tinted cloudlets hung high in the heavens, and seemed not to be floating past, but retreating into the very depths of the azure.

In front of the open window of a handsome house, in one of the outlying streets of O*** the capital of a Government, sat two women; one fifty years of age, the other seventy years old, and already aged.

The former was named MÁrya DmÍtrievna KalÍtin. Her husband, formerly the governmental procurator, well known in his day as an active official—a man of energetic and decided character, splenetic and stubborn—had died ten years previously. He had received a fairly good education, had studied at the university, but, having been born in a poverty-stricken class of society, he had early comprehended the necessity of opening up a way for himself, and of accumulating money. MÁrya DmÍtrievna had married him for love; he was far from uncomely in appearance, he was clever, and, when he chose, he could be very amiable. MÁrya DmÍtrievna (her maiden name had been PÉstoff) had lost her parents in early childhood, had spent several years in Moscow, in a government educational institute, and, on returning thence, had lived fifty versts from O***, in her native village, PokrÓvskoe, with her aunt and her elder brother. This brother soon removed to Petersburg on service, and kept his sister and his aunt on short commons, until his sudden death put an end to his career. MÁrya DmÍtrievna inherited PokrÓvskoe, but did not live there long; during the second year after her marriage to KalÍtin, who succeeded in conquering her heart in the course of a few days, PokrÓvskoe was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without a manor-house, and, at the same time, KalÍtin acquired a house in the town of O***, and settled down there permanently with his wife. A large garden was attached to the house; on one side, it joined directly on to the open fields, beyond the town. KalÍtin,—who greatly disliked the stagnation of the country,—had evidently made up his mind, that there was no reason for dragging out existence on the estate. MÁrya DmÍtrievna, many a time, in her own mind regretted her pretty PokrÓvskoe, with its merry little stream, its broad meadows, 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, MÁrya DmÍtrievna had become so wonted to her house, and to town life, that she herself did not wish to leave O***.

In her youth, MÁrya DmÍtrievna 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 MÁrya DmÍtrievna, was that same aunt, her father's sister, with whom she had spent several years, in days gone by, at PokrÓvskoe. Her name was MÁrfa TimofÉevna PÉstoff. 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 KalÍtin, 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. MÁrya DmÍtrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and brisk-eyed even in her old age, tiny, sharp-nosed MÁrfa TimofÉevna 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 MÁrya DmÍtrievna.—"What art thou sighing about, my mother?"

"Because," said the other.—"What wonderfully beautiful clouds!"

"So, thou art sorry for them, is that it?"

MÁrya DmÍtrievna made no reply.

"Isn't that GedeÓnovsky coming yonder?"—said MÁrfa TimofÉevna, briskly moving her knitting-needles (she was knitting a huge, motley-hued scarf). "He might keep thee company in sighing,—or, if not, he might tell us some lie or other."

"How harshly thou always speakest about him! SergyÉi PetrÓvitch is an—estimable man."

"Estimable!" repeated the old woman reproachfully.

"And how devoted he was to my dead husband!" remarked MÁrya DmÍtrievna;—"to this day, I cannot think of it with indifference."

"I should think not! he pulled him out of the mire by his ears,"—growled MÁrfa TimofÉevna, and her knitting-needles moved still more swiftly in her hands.

"He looks like such a meek creature,"—she began again,—"his head is all grey, but no sooner does he open his mouth, than he lies or calumniates. And he's a State Councillor, to boot! Well, he's a priest's son: and there's nothing more to be said!"

"Who is without sin, aunty? Of course, he has that weakness. SergyÉi PetrÓvitch received no education,—of course he does not speak French; but, say what you will, he is an agreeable man."

"Yes, he's always licking thy hand. He doesn't talk French,—what a calamity! I'm not strong on the French 'dialect' myself. 'T would be better if he did not speak any language at all: then he wouldn't lie. But there he is, by the way—speak of the devil,—" added MÁrfa TimofÉevna, glancing into the street.—"There he strides, thine agreeable man. What a long-legged fellow, just like a stork."

MÁrya DmÍtrievna adjusted her curls. MÁrfa TimofÉevna watched her with a grin.

"Hast thou not a grey hair there, my mother? Thou shouldst scold thy PalÁshka. Why doesn't she see it?"

"Oh, aunty, you're always so...." muttered MÁrya DmÍtrievna, with vexation, and drummed on the arm of her chair with her fingers.

"SergyÉi PetrÓvitch GedeÓnovsky!" squeaked a red-cheeked page-lad, springing in through the door.