'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--
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
