“Yes, she was, sir, My late wife was a Little Russian, as her sister Márya Pávlovna is. My wife, to tell the truth, did not even have a perfectly pure pronunciation; although she was a perfect mistress of the Russian language, still she did not express herself quite correctly; they pronounce i, ui, there, and their kha and zhe are peculiar also, you know; well, Márya Pávlovna left her native land in early childhood. But the Little Russian blood is still perceptible, isn’t it?”
“Márya Pávlovna sings wonderfully,”—remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Really, it is not bad. But why don’t they bring us some tea? And where have the young ladies gone? ’Tis time to drink tea.”
The young ladies did not return very speedily. In the meantime, the samovár was brought, the table was laid for tea. Ipátoff sent for them. Both came in together. Márya Pávlovna seated herself at the table to pour the tea, while Nadézhda Alexyéevna walked to the door opening on the terrace, and began to gaze out into the garden. The brilliant summer day had been succeeded by a clear, calm evening; the sunset was flaming; the broad pond, half flooded with its crimson, stood a motionless mirror, grandly reflecting in its deep bosom all the airy depths of the sky, and the house, and the trees turned upside down, and had grown black, as it were. Everything was silent round about. There was no noise anywhere.
“Look, how beautiful!”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna to Vladímir Sergyéitch, as he approached her;—“down below there, in the pond, a star has kindled its fire by the side of the light in the house; the house-light is red, the other is golden. And yonder comes grandmamma,”—she added in a loud voice.
From behind a clump of lilac-bushes a small calash made its appearance. Two men were drawing it. In it sat an old lady, all wrapped up, all doubled over, with her head resting on her breast. The ruffle of her white cap almost completely concealed her withered and contracted little face. The tiny calash halted in front of the terrace. Ipátoff emerged from the drawing-room, and his little daughters ran out after him. They had been constantly slipping from room to room all the evening, like little mice.
“I wish you good evening, dear mother,”—said Ipátoff, stepping up close to the old woman, and elevating his voice.—“How do you feel?”
“I have come to take a look at you,”—said the old woman in a dull voice, and with an effort.—“What a glorious evening it is. I have been asleep all day, and now my feet have begun to ache. Okh, those feet of mine! They don’t serve me, but they ache.”
“Permit me, dear mother, to present to you our neighbour, Astákhoff, Vladímir Sergyéitch.”
“I am very glad to meet you,”—returned the old woman, scanning him with her large, black, but dim-sighted eyes.—“I beg that you will love my son. He is a fine man; I gave him what education I could; of course, I did the best a woman could. He is still somewhat flighty, but, God willing, he will grow steady, and ’tis high time he did; ’tis time for me to surrender matters to him. Is that you, Nádya?”—added the old woman, glancing at Nadézhda Alexyéevna.