Iván Ílitch cast an indifferent glance at Ipátoff, as though he were thinking to himself, “The devil only knows whether it is a game or a diversion,” but, after waiting a while, he said:
“Yes; draughts don’t count.”
“Chess is quite another matter, they say,”—pursued Ipátoff;—“’tis a very difficult game, I’m told. But, in my opinion ... but yonder come my people!”—he interrupted himself, glancing through the half-open glass door, which gave upon the park.
Vladímir Sergyéitch rose, turned round, and beheld first two little girls, about ten years of age, in pink cotton frocks and broad-brimmed hats, who were running alertly up the steps of the terrace; not far behind them a tall, plump, well-built young girl of twenty, in a dark gown, made her appearance. They all entered the house, and the little girls courtesied sedately to the visitor.
“Here, sir, let me present you,”—said the host;—“my daughters, sir. This one here is named Kátya, and this one is Nástya, and this is my sister-in-law, Márya Pávlovna, whom I have already had the pleasure of mentioning to you. I beg that you will love and favour them.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch made his bow to Márya Pávlovna; she replied to him with a barely perceptible inclination of the head.
Márya Pávlovna held in her hand a large, open knife; her thick, ruddy-blond hair was slightly dishevelled,—a small green leaf had got entangled in it, her braids had escaped from the comb,—her dark-skinned face was flushed, and her red lips were parted; her gown looked crumpled. She was breathing fast; her eyes were sparkling; it was evident that she had been working in the garden. She immediately left the room; the little girls ran out after her.
“She’s going to rearrange her toilet a bit,”—remarked the old man, turning to Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“they can’t get along without that, sir!”
Vladímir Sergyéitch grinned at him in response, and became somewhat pensive. Márya Pávlovna had made an impression on him. It was long since he had seen such a purely Russian beauty of the steppes. She speedily returned, sat down on the divan, and remained motionless. She had smoothed her hair, but had not changed her gown,—had not even put on cuffs. Her features expressed not precisely pride, but rather austerity, almost harshness; her brow was broad and low, her nose short and straight; a slow, lazy smile curled her lips from time to time; her straight eyebrows contracted scornfully. She kept her large, dark eyes almost constantly lowered. “I know,” her repellent young face seemed to be saying; “I know that you are all looking at me; well, then, look; you bore me.” But when she raised her eyes, there was something wild, beautiful, and stolid about them, which was suggestive of the eyes of a doe. She had a magnificent figure. A classical poet would have compared her to Ceres or Juno.
“What have you been doing in the garden?”—Ipátoff asked her, being desirous of bringing her into the conversation.