Malánya Pávlovna was very frivolous and sometimes suspicious. All of a sudden she would take some idea into her head. She did not like the dwarf Janus, for example; it always seemed to her as though he would suddenly start in and begin to shriek: "But do you know who I am? A Buryát Prince! So, then, submit!"—And if she did not, he would set fire to the house out of melancholy. Malánya Pávlovna was as lavish as Alexyéi Sergyéitch; but she never gave money—she did not wish to soil her pretty little hands—but kerchiefs, ear-rings, gowns, ribbons, or she would send a patty from the table, or a bit of the roast, or if not that, a glass of wine. She was also fond of regaling the peasant-women on holidays. They would begin to dance, and she would click her heels and strike an attitude.
Alexyéi Sergyéitch was very well aware that his wife was stupid; but he had trained himself, almost from the first year of his married life, to pretend that she was very keen of tongue and fond of saying stinging things. As soon as she got to chattering he would immediately shake his little finger at her and say: "Okh, what a naughty little tongue! What a naughty little tongue! Won't it catch it in the next world! It will be pierced with red-hot needles!"—But Malánya Pávlovna did not take offence at this; on the contrary, she seemed to feel flattered at hearing such remarks—as much as to say: "Well, I can't help it! It isn't my fault that I was born witty!"
Malánya Pávlovna worshipped her husband, and all her life remained an exemplary and faithful wife. But there had been an "object" in her life also, a young nephew, a hussar, who had been slain, so she assumed, in a duel on her account—-but, according to more trustworthy information, he had died from a blow received on the head from a billiard-cue, in tavern company. The water-colour portrait of this "object" was preserved by her in a secret casket. Malánya Pávlovna crimsoned to the very ears every time she alluded to Kapítonushka—that was the "object's" name;—while Alexyéi Sergyéitch scowled intentionally, again menaced his wife with his little finger and said, "Trust not a horse in the meadow, a wife in the house! Okh, that Kapítonushka, Kupidónushka!"—Then Malánya Pávlovna bristled up all over and exclaimed:
"Alexis, shame on you, Alexis!—You yourself probably flirted with divers little ladies in your youth—and so you take it for granted…."
"Come, that will do, that will do, Malániushka," Alexyéi Sergyéitch interrupted her, with a smile;—"thy gown is white, and thy soul is whiter still!"
"It is whiter, Alexis; it is whiter!"
"Okh, what a naughty little tongue, on my honour, what a naughty little tongue!" repeated Alexyéi Sergyéitch, tapping her on the cheek.
To mention Malánya Pávlovna's "convictions" would be still more out of place than to mention those of Alexyéi Sergyéitch; but I once chanced to be the witness of a strange manifestation of my aunt's hidden feelings. I once chanced, in the course of conversation, to mention the well-known Sheshkóvsky.[44] Malánya Pávlovna suddenly became livid in the face,—as livid as a corpse,—turned green, despite the layer of paint and powder, and in a dull, entirely-genuine voice (which very rarely happened with her—as a general thing she seemed always somewhat affected, assumed an artificial tone and lisped) said: "Okh! whom hast thou mentioned! And at nightfall, into the bargain!—Don't utter that name!" I was amazed; what significance could that name possess for such an inoffensive and innocent being, who would not have known how to devise, much less to execute, anything reprehensible?—This alarm, which revealed itself after a lapse of nearly half a century, induced in me reflections which were not altogether cheerful.
Alexyéi Sergyéitch died in his eighty-eighth year, in the year 1848, which evidently disturbed even him. And his death was rather strange. That morning he had felt well, although he no longer quitted his arm-chair at all. But suddenly he called to his wife: "Malániushka, come hither!"
"What dost thou want, Alexis?"