before. He saw her first at church: she

had only just come back from Moscow…. Afterwards, he met her several

times in his mistress’s house; finally he spent a whole evening with

her at the steward’s, where he had been invited to tea in company with

other highly respected persons. The house serfs did not disdain him,

though he was not of their class and wore a beard; he was a man of

education, could read and write and, what was more, had money; and he

did not dress like a peasant but wore a long full coat of black cloth,

high boots of calf leather and a kerchief on his neck. It is true that

some of the house serfs did say among themselves that: «One can see

that he is not one of us,» but to his face they almost flattered him.

On that evening at the steward’s Dunyasha made a complete conquest of

Akim’s susceptible heart, though she said not a single word in answer

to his ingratiating speeches and only looked sideways at him from time

to time as though wondering why that peasant was there. All that only

added fuel to the flames. He went home, pondered and pondered and made

up his mind to win her hand…. She had somehow «bewitched» him. But

how can I describe the wrath and indignation of Dunyasha when five

days later Kirillovna with a friendly air invited her into her room

and told her that Akim (and evidently he knew how to set to work) that

bearded peasant Akim, to sit by whose side she considered almost an

indignity, was courting her.

Dunyasha first flushed crimson, then she gave a forced laugh, then she

burst into tears; but Kirillovna made her attack so artfully, made the

girl feel her own position in the house so clearly, so tactfully

hinted at the presentable appearance, the wealth and blind devotion of

Akim and finally mentioned so significantly the wishes of their

mistress that Dunyasha went out of the room with a look of hesitation

on her face and meeting Akim only gazed intently into his face and did

not turn away. The indescribably lavish presents of the love-sick man

dissipated her last doubts. Lizaveta Prohorovna, to whom Akim in his

joy took a hundred peaches on a large silver dish, gave her consent to

the marriage, and the marriage took place. Akim spared no expense—and

the bride, who on the eve of her wedding at her farewell party to her

girl friends sat looking a figure of misery, and who cried all the

next morning while Kirillovna was dressing her for the wedding, was

soon comforted…. Her mistress gave her her own shawl to wear in the

church and Akim presented her the same day with one like it, almost

superior.

And so Akim was married, and took his young bride home…. They began

their life together…. Dunyasha turned out to be a poor housewife, a

poor helpmate to her husband. She took no interest in anything, was

melancholy and depressed unless some officer sitting by the big

samovar noticed her and paid her compliments; she was often absent,

sometimes in the town shopping, sometimes at the mistress’s house,

which was only three miles from the inn. There she felt at home, there

she was surrounded by her own people; the girls envied her finery.

Kirillovna regaled her with tea; Lizaveta Prohorovna herself talked to

her. But even these visits did not pass without some bitter

experiences for Dunyasha…. As an innkeeper’s wife, for instance, she

could not wear a hat and was obliged to tie up her head in a kerchief,

«like a merchant’s lady,» said sly Kirillovna, «like a working woman,»

thought Dunyasha to herself.

More than once Akim recalled the words of his only relation, an uncle

who had lived in solitude without a family for years: «Well,

Akimushka, my lad,» he had said, meeting him in the street, «I hear

you are getting married.»

«Why, yes, what of it?»

«Ech, Akim, Akim. You are above us peasants now, there’s no denying

that; but you are not on her level either.»

«In what way not on her level?»

«Why, in that way, for instance,» his uncle had answered, pointing to

Akim’s beard, which he had begun to clip in order to please his

betrothed, though he had refused to shave it completely…. Akim

looked down; while the old man turned away, wrapped his tattered

sheepskin about him and walked away, shaking his head.

Yes, more than once Akim sank into thought, cleared his throat and

sighed…. But his love for his pretty wife was no less; he was proud

of her, especially when he compared her not merely with peasant women,

or with his first wife, to whom he had been married at sixteen, but

with other serf girls; «look what a fine bird we have caught,» he

thought to himself…. Her slightest caress gave him immense pleasure.

«Maybe,» he thought, «she will get used to it; maybe she will get into

the way of it.» Meanwhile her behaviour was irreproachable and no one

could say anything against her.

Several years passed like this. Dunyasha really did end by growing

used to her way of life. Akim’s love for her and confidence in her

only increased as he grew older; her girl friends, who had been

married not to peasants, were suffering cruel hardships, either from

poverty or from having fallen into bad hands…. Akim went on getting

richer and richer. Everything succeeded with him—he was always lucky;

only one thing was a grief: God had not given him children. Dunyasha

was by now over five and twenty; everyone addressed her as Avdotya

Arefyevna. She never became a real housewife, however—but she grew

fond of her house, looked after the stores and superintended the woman

who worked in the house. It is true that she did all this only after a

fashion; she did not keep up a high standard of cleanliness and order;

on the other hand, her portrait painted in oils and ordered by herself

from a local artist, the son of the parish deacon, hung on the wall of

the chief room beside that of Akim. She was depicted in a white dress

with a yellow shawl with six strings of big pearls round her neck,

long earrings, and a ring on every finger. The portrait was

recognisable though the artist had painted her excessively stout and

rosy—and had made her eyes not grey but black and even slightly

squinting…. Akim’s was a complete failure, the portrait had come out

dark—à la Rembrandt—so that sometimes a visitor would go up

to it, look at it and merely give an inarticulate murmur. Avdotya had

taken to being rather careless in her dress; she would fling a big

shawl over her shoulders, while the dress under it was put on anyhow:

she was overcome by laziness, that sighing apathetic drowsy laziness

to which the Russian is only too liable, especially when his

livelihood is secure….

With all that, the fortunes of Akim and his wife prospered

exceedingly; they lived in harmony and had the reputation of an

exemplary pair. But just as a squirrel will wash its face at the very

instant when the sportsman is aiming at it, man has no presentiment of

his troubles, till all of a sudden the ground gives way under him like

ice.

One autumn evening a merchant in the drapery line put up at Akim’s

inn. He was journeying by various cross-country roads from Moscow to

Harkov with two loaded tilt carts; he was one of those travelling

traders whose arrival is sometimes awaited with such impatience by

country gentlemen and still more by their wives and daughters. This

travelling merchant, an elderly man, had with him two companions, or,

speaking more correctly, two workmen, one thin, pale and hunchbacked,

the other a fine, handsome young fellow of twenty. They asked for

supper, then sat down to tea; the merchant invited the innkeeper and

his wife to take a cup with him, they did not refuse. A conversation

quickly sprang up between the two old men (Akim was fifty-six); the

merchant inquired about the gentry of the neighbourhood and no one

could give him more useful information about them than Akim; the

hunchbacked workman spent his time looking after the carts and finally

went off to bed; it fell to Avdotya to talk to the other one…. She

sat by him and said little, rather listening to what he told her, but

it was evident that his talk pleased her; her face grew more animated,

the colour came into her cheeks and she laughed readily and often. The

young workman sat almost motionless with his curly head bent over the

table; he spoke quietly, without haste and without raising his voice;

but his eyes, not large but saucily bright and blue, were rivetted on

Avdotya; at first she turned away from them, then she, too, began

looking him in the face. The young fellow’s face was fresh and smooth

as a Crimean apple; he often smiled and tapped with his white fingers

on his chin covered with soft dark down. He spoke like a merchant, but

very freely and with a sort of careless self-confidence and went on

looking at her with the same intent, impudent stare…. All at once he

moved a little closer to her and without the slightest change of

countenance said to her: «Avdotya Arefyevna, there’s no one like you

in the world; I am ready to die for you.»

Avdotya laughed aloud.

«What is it?» asked Akim.

«Why, he keeps saying such funny things,» she said, without any

particular embarrassment.

The old merchant grinned.

«Ha, ha, yes, my Naum is such a funny fellow, don’t listen to him.»

«Oh! Really! As though I should,» she answered, and shook her head.

«Ha, ha, of course not,» observed the old man. «But, however,» he went

on in a singsong voice, «we will take our leave; we are thoroughly

satisfied, it is time for bed, …» and he got up.

«We are well satisfied, too,» Akim brought out and he got up, «for

your entertainment, that is, but we wish you a good night.

Avdotyushka, come along.»

Avdotya got up as it were unwillingly. Naum, too, got up after her …

the party broke up. The innkeeper and his wife went off to the little

lobby partitioned off, which served