“God knows what sort of an aunt she is to you—merely on the husband’s side. No, Sophia Ivanovna, don’t deny it; I won’t hear anything more; you evidently meant to inflict this insult on me. It is plain that you wish to break off all acquaintance with me.”

Poor Sophia Ivanovna did not know what to do. She felt that she had placed herself between two vigorous fires. So much for boasting. She was ready to pull out her tongue to punish herself for her stupidity.

“Well, and what about our delightful friend?” asked the charming lady.

“Ah, my Heavens! Where is my poor head? This is too good! Of course you know, Anna Grigorievna, why I have come to see you this morning?” Here the visitor’s breathing became oppressed; and her companion retorted: “Praise and laud him as you like, but I say frankly, and I will say it to his face, that he is a worthless man—worthless, worthless, worthless!”

“But only listen while I disclose to you.”

“Rumours have been in circulation that he is handsome; but he is not handsome at all: and his nose—why, it’s a most disagreeable nose.”

“Permit me, only permit me to tell you—my dearest Anna Grigorievna, permit me to tell you. This is really a story, a story I have to relate.”

“What sort of a story, pray?”

“Ah, Anna Grigorievna, my life! if you could only conceive the situation in which I find myself. Just imagine: this morning the protopopess—the wife of Father Kirill—comes to me, and what do you think? What sort of a fellow do you suppose our meek friend, our stranger, is, hey?”

“What! Has he been paying court to the protopopess?”

“Ah, Anna Grigorievna, if he only had been paying court to her, that would be nothing! but listen to what the protopope’s wife told me. She says that Mrs. Korobotchka, the landowner, has come to her house, dreadfully frightened and as pale as death, and has told her—what has she not told her! Only listen! it’s a perfect romance: all of a sudden, in the dead of the night, when everybody was fast asleep in the house, there came a knock at the gate—the most terrible knock that you can imagine; there was a cry of, ‘Open, open! if you don’t I’ll break down your gates!’ How does that strike you? What sort of a charmer is he after that?”

“But what is Mrs. Korobotchka like? Is she young and pretty?”

“Not in the least: she is an old woman.”

“Ah, delightful! So he is crazy after an old woman? Well, the taste of our ladies seems to be very nice: they have pitched upon a funny person to fall in love with.”

“Why, no, Anna Grigorievna, it’s not at all as you think. But fancy, he presents himself armed from head to foot, like Rinaldo Rinaldino, and makes this demand: ‘Sell me all your souls that have died.’ Then Mrs. Korobotchka replies very sensibly, and says, ‘I cannot sell them, as they are dead.’—‘No,’ says he, ‘they are not dead. It’s my business to know,’ says he, ‘whether they are dead, or not; and they’re not dead, they’re not dead!’ he shouts, ‘they’re not dead!’ In short, he behaves in a scandalous manner: the whole village runs up, the children cry, everybody shouts, no one can understand. Well, it was simply horrible! horrible! horrible! But you cannot conceive, Anna Grigorievna, how upset I was when I heard all this. ‘My dearest lady,’ says the protopopess to me, ‘look in the glass, and see how pale you are.’—‘I don’t want to look in the glass,’ I said. ‘I must go and tell Anna Grigorievna.’ I ordered the calash that very instant. Andriushka, the coachman, asked me where I was going; but I could not utter a word, and I only