She told of their meeting, of her books, of how Stepan Trofimovitch had regaled the peasant woman with vodka … “That’s right, that’s right, don’t leave out the slightest detail,” Varvara Petrovna encouraged her.
At last she described how they had set off, and how Stepan Trofimovitch had gone on talking, “really ill by that time,” and here had given an account of his life from the very beginning, talking for some hours. “Tell me about his life.”
Sofya Matveyevna suddenly stopped and was completely nonplussed.
“I can’t tell you anything about that, madam,” she brought out, almost crying; “besides, I could hardly understand a word of it.”
“Nonsense! You must have understood something.”
“He told a long time about a distinguished lady with black hair.” Sofya Matveyevna flushed terribly though she noticed Varvara Petrovna’s fair hair and her complete dissimilarity with the “brunette” of the story.
“Black-haired? What exactly? Come, speak!”
“How this grand lady was deeply in love with his honour all her life long and for twenty years, but never dared to speak, and was shamefaced before him because she was a very stout lady.…”
“The fool!” Varvara Petrovna rapped out thoughtfully but resolutely.
Sofya Matveyevna was in tears by now.