“There are women and women, Marya Dmitrievna.
There are unhappily such . . . of flighty character
. . . and at a certain age too, and then they are
not brought up in good principles.” (Sergei Petrovitch
drew a blue checked handkerchief out of his pocket
and began to unfold it.) “There are such women,
no doubt.” (Sergei Petrovitch applied a corner
of the handkerchief first to one and then to the other
eye.) “But speaking generally, if one takes
into consideration, I mean...the dust in the town
is really extraordinary to-day,” he wound up.
“Maman, maman,” cried a pretty little
girl of eleven running into the room, “Vladimir
Nikolaitch is coming on horseback!”
Marya Dmitrievna got up; Sergei Petrovitch also rose
and made a bow. “Our humble respects to
Elena Mihalovna,” he said, and turning aside
into a corner for good manners, he began blowing his
long straight nose.
“What a splendid horse he has!” continued
the little girl. “He was at the gate just
now, he told Lisa and me he would dismount at the steps.”
The sound of hoofs was heard; and a graceful young
man, riding a beautiful bay horse, was seen in the
street, and stopped at the open window.
“How do you do, Marya Dmitrievna?” cried
the young man in a pleasant, ringing voice. “How
do you like my new purchase?”
Marya Dmitrievna went up to the window.
“How do you do, Woldemar! Ah, what a splendid
horse! Where did you buy it?”
“I bought it from the army contractor . . .
. He made me pay for it too, the brigand!”
“What’s its name?”
“Orlando . . . . But it’s a stupid
name; I want to change . . . . Eh bien, eh
bien, mon garcon . . . . What a restless beast
it is!” The horse snorted, pawed the ground,
and shook the foam off the bit.
“Lenotchka, stroke him, don’t be afraid.”
The little girl stretched her hand out of the window,
but Orlando suddenly reared and started. The
rider with perfect self-possession gave it a cut with
the whip across the neck, and keeping a tight grip
with his legs forced it in spite of its opposition,
to stand still again at the window.
“Prenez garde, prenez garde,” Marya Dmitrievna
kept repeating.
“Lenotchka, pat him,” said the young man,
“I won’t let him be perverse.”
The little girl again stretched out her hand and timidly
patted the quivering nostrils of the horse, who kept
fidgeting and champing the bit.
“Bravo!” cried Marya Dmitrievna, “but
now get off and come in to us.”
The rider adroitly turned his horse, gave him a touch
of the spur, and galloping down the street soon reached
the courtyard. A minute later he ran into the
drawing-room by the door from the hall, flourishing
his whip; at the same moment there appeared in the
other doorway a tall, slender dark-haired girl of
nineteen, Marya Dmitrievna’s eldest daughter,
Lisa.
