he could. Nenila Makarievna had introduced into her household ‘foreign ways,’ as the neighbours used to say; she kept few servants, and had them neatly dressed. She was fretted by ambition; she wanted at least to be the wife of the marshal of the nobility of the district; but the gentry of the district, though they dined at her house to their hearts’ content, did not choose her husband, but first the retired premier-major Burkolts, and then the retired second major Burundukov. Mr. Perekatov seemed to them too extreme a product of the capital.

Mr. Perekatov’s daughter, Mashenka, was in face like her father. Nenila Makarievna had taken the greatest pains with her education. She spoke French well, and played the piano fairly. She was of medium height, rather plump and white; her rather full face was lighted up by a kindly and merry smile; her flaxen, not over-abundant hair, her hazel eyes, her pleasant voice—everything about her was gently pleasing, and that was all. On the other hand the absence of all affectation and conventionality, an amount of culture exceptional in a country girl, the freedom of her expressions, the quiet simplicity of her words and looks could not but be striking in her. She had developed at her own free will; Nenila Makarievna did not keep her in restraint.

One morning at twelve o’clock the whole family of the Perekatovs were in the drawing-room. The husband in a round green coat, a high check cravat, and pea-green trousers with straps, was standing at the window, very busily engaged in catching flies. The daughter was sitting at her embroidery frame; her small dimpled little hand rose and fell slowly and gracefully over the canvas. Nenila Makarievna was sitting on the sofa, gazing in silence at the floor.

‘Did you send an invitation to the regiment at Kirilovo, Sergei Sergeitch?’ she asked her husband.

‘For this evening? To be sure I did, ma chère.’ (He was under the strictest orders not to call her ‘little mother.’) ‘To be sure!’

‘There are positively no gentlemen,’ pursued Nenila Makarievna. ‘Nobody for the girls to dance with.’

Her husband sighed, as though crushed by the absence of partners.

‘Mamma,’ Masha began all at once, ‘is Monsieur Lutchkov asked?’

‘What Lutchkov?’

‘He’s an officer too. They say he’s a very interesting person.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Oh, he’s not good-looking and he’s not young, but every one’s afraid of him. He’s a dreadful duellist.’ (Mamma frowned a little.) ‘I should so like to see him.’

Sergei Sergeitch interrupted his daughter.

‘What is there to see in him, my darling? Do you suppose he must look like Lord Byron?’ (At that time we were only just beginning to talk about Lord Byron.) ‘Nonsense! Why, I declare, my dear, there was a time when I had a terrible character as a fighting man.’

Masha looked wonderingly at her parent, laughed, then jumped up and kissed him on the cheek. His wife smiled a little, too… but Sergei Sergeitch had spoken the truth.

‘I don’t know if that gentleman is coming,’ observed Nenila Makarievna. ‘Possibly he may come too.’

The daughter sighed.

‘Mind you don’t go and fall in love with him,’ remarked Sergei Sergeitch. ‘I know you girls are all like that nowadays—so—what shall I say?—romantic…’

‘No,’ Masha responded simply.

Nenila Makarievna looked coldly at her husband. Sergei Sergeitch played with his watch-chain in some embarrassment, then took his wide-brimmed, English hat from the table, and set off to see after things on the estate.

His dog timidly and meekly followed him. As an intelligent animal, she was well aware that her master was not a person of very great authority in the house, and behaved herself accordingly with modesty and circumspection.

Nenila Makarievna went up to her daughter, gently raised her head, and looked affectionately into her eyes. ‘Will you tell me when you fall in love?’ she asked.

Masha kissed her mother’s hand, smiling, and nodded her head several times in the affirmative.

‘Mind you do,’ observed Nenila Makarievna, stroking her cheek, and she went out after her husband. Masha leaned back in her chair, dropped her head on her bosom, interlaced her fingers, and looked long out of window, screwing up her eyes… A slight flush passed over her fresh cheeks; with a sigh she drew herself up, was setting to work again, but dropped her needle, leaned her face on her hand, and biting the tips of her nails, fell to dreaming… then glanced at her own shoulder, at her outstretched hand, got up, went to the window, laughed, put on her hat and went out into the garden.

That evening at eight o’clock, the guests began to arrive. Madame Perekatov with great affability received and ‘entertained’ the ladies, Mashenka the girls; Sergei Sergeitch talked about the crops with the gentlemen and continually glanced towards his wife. Soon there arrived the young dandies, the officers, intentionally a little late; at last the colonel himself, accompanied by his adjutants, Kister and Lutchkov. He presented them to the lady of the house. Lutchkov bowed without speaking, Kister muttered the customary ‘extremely delighted’… Mr. Perekatov went up to the colonel, pressed his hand warmly and looked him in the face with great cordiality. The colonel promptly looked forbidding. The dancing began. Kister asked Mashenka for a dance. At that time the Ecossaise was still flourishing.

‘Do tell me, please,’ Masha said to him, when, after galloping twenty times to the end of the room, they stood at last, the first couple, ‘why isn’t your friend dancing?’

‘Which friend?’

Masha pointed with the tip of her fan at Lutchkov.

‘He never dances,’ answered Kister.

‘Why did he come then?’

Kister was a little disconcerted. ‘He wished to have the pleasure…’

Mashenka interrupted him. ‘You’ve not long been transferred into our regiment, I think?’

‘Into your regiment,’ observed Kister, with a smile: ‘no, not long.’

‘Aren’t you dull here?’

‘Oh no… I find such delightful society here… and the scenery!’… Kister launched into eulogies of the scenery. Masha listened to him, without raising her head. Avdey Ivanovitch was standing in a corner, looking indifferently at the dancers.

‘How old is Mr. Lutchkov?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Oh… thirty-five, I fancy,’ answered Kister.

‘They say he’s a dangerous man… hot-tempered,’ Masha added hurriedly.

‘He is a little hasty… but still, he’s a very fine man.’

‘They say every one’s afraid of him.’

Kister laughed.

‘And you?’

‘I’m a friend of his.’

‘Really?’

‘Your turn, your turn,’ was shrieked at them from all sides. They started and began galloping again right across the room.

‘Well, I congratulate you,’ Kister said to Lutchkov, going up to him after the dance; ‘the daughter of the house does nothing but ask questions about you.’

‘Really?’ Lutchkov responded scornfully.

‘On my honour! And you know she’s extremely nice-looking; only look at her.’

‘Which of them is she?’

Kister pointed out Masha.

‘Ah, not bad.’ And Lutchkov yawned.

‘Cold-hearted person!’ cried Kister, and he ran off to ask another girl to dance.

Avdey Ivanovitch was extremely delighted at the fact Kister had mentioned to him, though he did yawn, and even yawned loudly. To arouse curiosity flattered his vanity intensely: love he despised—in words—but inwardly he was himself aware that it would be a hard and difficult task for him to win love…. A hard and difficult task for him to win love, but easy and simple enough to wear a mask of indifference, of silent haughtiness. Avdey Ivanovitch was unattractive and no longer young; but on the other hand he enjoyed a terrible reputation—and consequently he had every right to pose. He was used to the bitter, unspoken enjoyment of grim loneliness. It was not the first time he had attracted the attention of women; some had even tried to get upon more friendly terms with him, but he repelled their advances with exasperated obstinacy; he knew that sentiment was not in his line (during tender interviews, avowals, he first became awkward and vulgar, and, through anger, rude to the point of grossness, of insult); he remembered that the two or three women with whom he had at different times been on a friendly footing had rapidly grown cool to him after the first moment of closer intimacy, and had of their own impulse made haste to get away from him… and so he had at last schooled himself to remain an enigma, and to scorn what destiny had denied him…. This is, I fancy, the only sort of scorn people in general do feel. No sort of frank, spontaneous, that is to say good, demonstration of passion suited Lutchkov; he was bound to keep a continual check on himself, even when he was angry. Kister was the only person who was not disgusted when Lutchkov broke into laughter; the kind-hearted German’s eyes shone with the generous delight of sympathy, when he read Avdey his favourite passages from Schiller, while the bully would sit facing him with lowering looks, like a wolf…. Kister danced till he was worn out, Lutchkov never left his corner, scowled, glanced stealthily at Masha, and meeting her eyes, at once threw an expression of indifference into his own. Masha danced three times with Kister. The enthusiastic youth inspired her with confidence. She chatted with him gaily enough, but at heart she was not at ease. Lutchkov engrossed her thoughts.

A mazurka tune struck up. The officers fell to bounding up and down, tapping with their heels, and tossing the epaulettes on their shoulders; the civilians tapped with their heels too. Lutchkov still did not stir from his place, and slowly followed the couples with his eyes, as they whirled by. Some one touched his sleeve… he looked round; his neighbour pointed him out Masha. She was standing before him with downcast eyes, holding out her hand to him. Lutchkov for the first moment gazed