“There are women and women, Maria Dmitrievna.
There are, unfortunately, some who are—of
an unstable character; and then there is a certain
time of life—and, besides, good principles
have not been instilled into them when they were young.”
Here Sergius Petrovich drew from his pocket a blue
handkerchief, of a check pattern, and began to unfold
it.
“Such women, in fact, do exist.”
Here Sergius Petrovich applied a corner of the handkerchief
to each of his eyes in turn.
“But, generally speaking, if one reflects—that
is to say—The dust in the streets is something
extraordinary,” he ended by saying.
“Maman, maman,” exclaimed a pretty
little girl of eleven, who came running into the room,
“Vladimir Nikolaevich is coming here on horseback.”
Maria Dmitrievna rose from her chair. Sergius
Petrovich also got up and bowed.
“My respects to Elena Mikhailovna,” he
said; and, discreetly retiring to a corner, he betook
himself to blowing his long straight nose.
“What a lovely horse he has!” continued
the little girl. “He was at the garden
gate just now, and he told me and Liza that he would
come up to the front door.”
The sound of hoofs was heard, and a well appointed
cavalier, mounted on a handsome bay horse, rode up
to the house, and stopped in front of the open window.
“Good-evening, Maria Dmitrievna!” exclaimed
the rider’s clear and pleasant voice. “How
do you like my new purchase?”
Maria Dmitrievna went to the window.
“Good-evening, Woldemar! Ah, what a splendid
horse! From whom did you buy it?”
“From our remount-officer. He made me pay
dear for it, the rascal.”
“What is it’s name?”
“Orlando. But that’s a stupid name.
I want to change it. Eh bien, eh bien, mon garcon.
What a restless creature it is!”
The horse neighed, pawed the air, and tossed the foam
from its nostrils.
“Come and stroke it, Lenochka; don’t be
afraid.”
Lenochka stretched out her hand from the window, but
Orlando suddenly reared and shied. But its rider,
who took its proceedings very quietly, gripped the
saddle firmly with his knees, laid his whip across
the horse’s neck, and forced it, in spite of
its resistance, to return to the window, “Prenez
garde, prenez garde,” Maria Dmitrievna kept
calling out.
“Now then, stroke him, Lenochka,” repeated
the horseman; “I don’t mean to let him
have his own way.”
Lenochka stretched out her hand a second time, and
timidly touched the quivering nostrils of Orlando,
who champed his bit, and kept incessantly fidgeting.
“Bravo!” exclaimed Maria Dmitrievna; “but
now get off, and come in.”
The rider wheeled his horse sharply round, drove the
spurs into its sides, rode down the street at a hand
gallop, and turned into the court-yard. In another
minute he had crossed the hall and entered the drawing-room,
flourishing his whip in the air.
