“Couldn’t be helped,”—returned Egór Kapítonitch in a lisping and whining voice, after having preliminarily exchanged salutations with all present;—“surely you know, Mikhaíl Sergyéitch, whether I am a free man or not?”
“And how are you not a free man, Egór Kapítonitch?”
“Why, of course I’m not, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch; there’s my family, my affairs.... And there’s Matryóna Márkovna to boot,” and he waved his hand in despair.
“But what about Matryóna Márkovna?”
And Ipátoff launched a slight wink at Vladímir Sergyéitch, as though desirous of exciting his interest in advance.
“Why, everybody knows,”—returned Egór Kapítonitch, as he took a seat;—“she’s always discontented with me, don’t you know that? Whatever I say, it’s wrong, not delicate, not decorous. And why it isn’t decorous, the Lord God alone knows. And the young ladies, my daughters that is to say, do the same, taking pattern by their mother. I don’t say but what Matryóna Márkovna is a very fine woman, but she’s awfully severe on the score of manners.”
“But, good gracious! in what way are your manners bad, Egór Kapítonitch?”
“That’s exactly what I’d like to know myself; but, evidently, she’s hard to suit. Yesterday, for instance, I said at table: ‘Matryóna Márkovna,’” and Egór Kapítonitch imparted to his voice an insinuating inflection,—“‘Matryóna Márkovna,’ says I, ‘what’s the meaning of this,—that Aldóshka isn’t careful with the horses, doesn’t know how to drive?’ says I; ‘there’s the black stallion quite foundered.’—I-iikh! how Matryóna Márkovna did flare up, and set to crying shame on me: ‘Thou dost not know how to express thyself decently in the society of ladies,’ says she; and the young ladies instantly galloped away from the table, and on the next day, the Biriúloff young ladies, my wife’s nieces, had heard all about it. And how had I expressed myself badly? And no matter what I say—and sometimes I really am incautious,—no matter to whom I say it, especially at home,—those Biriúloff girls know all about it the next day. A fellow simply doesn’t know what to do. Sometimes I’m just sitting so, thinking after my fashion,—I breathe hard, as perhaps you know,—and Matryóna Márkovna sets to berating me again: ‘Don’t snore,’ says she; ‘nobody snores nowadays!’—‘What art thou scolding about, Matryóna Márkovna?’ says I. ‘Good mercy, thou shouldst have compassion, but thou scoldest.’ So I don’t meditate at home any more. I sit and look down—so—all the time. By Heaven, I do. And then, again, not long ago, we got into bed; ‘Matryóna Márkovna,’ says I, ‘what makes thee spoil thy page-boy, mátushka?[17] Why, he’s a regular little pig,’ says I, ‘and he might wash his face of a Sunday, at least.’ And what happened? It strikes me that I said it distantly, tenderly, but I didn’t hit the mark even then; Matryóna Márkovna began to cry shame on me again: ‘Thou dost not understand how to behave in the society of ladies,’ says she; and the next day the Biriúloff girls knew all about it. What time have I to think of visits under such circumstances, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch?”
“I’m amazed at what you tell me,”—replied Ipátoff;—“I did not expect that from Matryóna Márkovna. Apparently, she is....”
“An extremely fine woman,”—put in Egór Kapítonitch;—“a model wife and mother, so to speak, only strict on the score of manners. She says that ensemble is necessary in everything, and that I haven’t got it. I don’t speak French, as you are aware, I only understand it. But what’s that ensemble that I haven’t got?”