Fèkla. Oh, regular good ones—nice and neat, all of them. First there’s Baltazàr Baltazàrovich Zhevàkin—a splendid gentleman—he used to serve in the fleet—he would just do nicely for you. He wants a wife with a nice plump figure—he hates bony women. Then there’s Ivàn Pàvlovich—he’s a Court usher, and such a grand gentleman, that one’s afraid to go near him. Big and stout, you know; just grand to look at. And you should have heard him shout at me—“I don’t want to hear any nonsense about what the girl’s like; just tell me plainly how much moveable and real estate she’s got.”—“So much and so much, little father.”—“That’s a lie, you old hag!” and, a—a—he said another word, little mother, that I don’t quite like to repeat. I saw in a minute that he must be a real grand gentleman!
Agàfia. Well, and who else is there?
Fèkla. Then there’s Nikanòr Ivànovich Anoùchkin—he’s a nice, fair, pretty gentleman; and oh! little mother, such sweet lips, like cherries! “All I want,” says he, “is that my bride should be pretty and refined; and that she should be able to talk French.” He’s a gentleman with a lot of breeding, and all sorts of fine Frenchified ways. Oh! he’s mighty particular! And he’s got such slim little legs.
Agàfia. N—n—no; somehow or other these overparticular people ... I don’t know ... I can’t see anything much in them
Fèkla. Well, if you want a more solid husband, you’d better take Ivàn Pàvlovich; you couldn’t make a better choice; he’s a gentleman ... what you may call a real gentleman; he could hardly get in at that door, he’s so big and grand.
Agàfia. And how old is he?
Fèkla. Oh! he’s a young man still—about fifty, or not quite fifty even.
Agàfia. And what’s his name?
Fèkla. Ivàn Pàvlovich Yaìchnitza.[[4]]
Agàfia. Do you mean to say that’s a name?