XII
About two years had passed. The first days of May had come. Alexandra Pavlovna, no longer Lipin but Lezhnyov, was sitting on the balcony of her house; she had been married to Mihailo Mihailitch for more than a year. She was as charming as ever, and had only grown a little stouter of late. In front of the balcony, from which there were steps leading into the garden, a nurse was walking about carrying a rosy-cheeked baby in her arms, in a white cloak, with a white cap on his head. Alexandra Pavlovna kept her eyes constantly on him. The baby did not cry, but sucked his thumb gravely and looked about him. He was already showing himself a worthy son of Mihailo Mihailitch.
On the balcony, near Alexandra Pavlovna, was sitting our old friend, Pigasov. He had grown noticeably greyer since we parted from him, and was bent and thin, and he lisped when he spoke; one of his front teeth had gone; and this lisp gave still greater asperity to his words.... His spitefulness had not decreased with years, but his sallies were less lively, and he more frequently repeated himself. Mihailo Mihailitch was not at home; they were expecting him in to tea. The sun had already set. Where it had gone down, a streak of pale gold and of lemon colour stretched across the distant horizon; on the opposite quarter of the sky was a stretch of dove-colour below and crimson lilac above. Light clouds seemed melting away overhead. There was every promise of prolonged fine weather.
Suddenly Pigasov burst out laughing.
‘What is it, African Semenitch?’ inquired Alexandra Pavlovna.
‘Oh, yesterday I heard a peasant say to his wife—she had been chattering away—“don’t squeak!” I liked that immensely. And after all, what can a woman talk about? I never, you know, speak of present company. Our ancestors were wiser than we. The beauty in their stories always sits at the window with a star on her brow and never utters a syllable. That’s how it ought to be. Think of it! the day before yesterday, our marshal’s wife—she might have sent a pistol-shot into my head!—says to me she doesn’t like my tendencies! Tendencies! Come, wouldn’t it be better for her and for every one if by some beneficent ordinance of nature she were suddenly deprived of the use of her tongue?’
‘Oh, you are always like that, African Semenitch; you are always attacking us poor... Do you know it’s a misfortune of a sort, really? I am sorry for you.’
‘A misfortune! Why do you say that? To begin with, in my opinion, there are only three misfortunes: to live in winter in cold lodgings, in summer to wear tight shoes, and to spend the night in a room where a baby cries whom you can’t get rid of with Persian powder; and secondly, I am now the most peaceable of men. Why, I’m a model! You know how properly I behave!’
‘Fine behaviour, indeed! Only yesterday Elena Antonovna complained to me of you.’
‘Well! And what did she tell you, if I may know?’