‘‘And where does she live now?’’ asked Ivan Ivanych.
‘‘Lord!’’ the old woman was astonished and clasped her hands. ‘‘She’s long been living in lodgings! It’s already eight years since she made her house over to her son-in-law. What’s the matter with you!’’
She probably expected that Ivan Ivanych would also be surprised and exclaim: ‘‘It can’t be!’’ but he asked very calmly: ‘‘Where are her lodgings?’’
The marketwoman rolled up her sleeves and, pointing with a bare arm, began to shout in a shrill, piercing voice:
‘‘Keep on straight, straight, straight... Once you’ve passed a little red house, there’ll be a lane on your left. Turn down that lane and look for the third gateway on the right...’
Ivan Ivanych and Egorushka reached the little red house, turned left into the lane, and made for the third gateway on the right. To both sides of this very old gray gateway stretched a gray wall with wide cracks; the right side of the wall leaned badly forward, threatening to collapse, the left sank backward into the yard, while the gates stood straight and seemed to be choosing whether it would suit them better to fall forward or backward. Ivan Ivanych opened the gate and, along with Egorushka, saw a big yard overgrown with weeds and burdock. A hundred paces from the gate stood a small house with a red roof and green shutters. A stout woman with rolled-up sleeves and a held-out apron stood in the middle of the yard, scattering something on the ground and calling out with the same piercing shrillness as the marketwoman:
‘Chick! ... chick! chick!’’
Behind her sat a ginger dog with sharp ears. Seeing the visitors, it ran to the gate and barked in a tenor voice (all ginger dogs bark in a tenor voice).
‘‘Who do you want?’’ shouted the woman, shielding her eyes from the sun.
‘‘Good morning!’’ Ivan Ivanych also shouted to her, fending off the ginger dog with his stick. ‘‘Tell me, please, does Nastasya Petrovna Toskunov live here?’’
‘‘She does! What do you want with her?’’
Ivan Ivanych and Egorushka went up to her. She looked them over suspiciously and repeated:
‘‘What do you want with her?’’
‘‘Might you be Nastasya Petrovna?’’
‘‘So I am!’’
‘‘Very pleased... You see, your old friend Olga Ivanovna Knyazev sends you her greetings. This is her little son. And I, as you may remember, am her brother, Ivan Ivanych... You come from our N. You were born there and married...’
Silence ensued. The stout woman stared senselessly at Ivan Ivanych, as if not believing or not understanding, then flushed all over and clasped her hands; oats poured from her apron, tears burst from her eyes.
‘‘Olga Ivanovna!’’ she shrieked, breathing heavily from excitement. ‘‘My own darling! Ah, dear hearts, why am I standing here like a fool? My pretty little angel...’
She embraced Egorushka, wetted his face with her tears, and began weeping in earnest.
‘‘Lord!’’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘‘Olechka’s little son! What joy! Just like his mother! Exactly! But why are we standing in the yard? Please come in!’’
Weeping, breathless, and talking as she went, she hastened to the house; the visitors trudged after her.
‘‘It’s not tidied up!’’ she said, leading the visitors into a small and stuffy parlor all filled with icons and flowerpots. ‘‘Ah, Mother of God! Vasilissa, open the blinds, at least! My little angel! My indescribable beauty! I didn’t even know Olechka had such a son!’’
When she had calmed down and grown used to her visitors, Ivan Ivanych asked to have a private talk with her. Egorushka went to another room; there was a sewing machine there, in the window hung a cage with a starling in it, and there were as many icons and plants as in the parlor. A girl stood motionless by the sewing machine, sunburnt, with cheeks as plump as Titus’s, and in a clean cotton dress. She looked at Egorushka without blinking and apparently felt very awkward. Egorushka looked at her for a moment in silence, then asked:
‘‘What’s your name?’’
The girl moved her lips, made a tearful face, and answered softly:
‘Atka...’
This meant ‘‘Katka.’’
‘‘He’ll live with you,’’ Ivan Ivanych was whispering in the parlor, ‘‘if you’ll be so kind, and we’ll pay you ten roubles a month. He’s a quiet boy, not spoiled...’
‘‘I don’t really know what to say to you, Ivan Ivanych!’’ Nastasya Petrovna sighed tearfully. ‘‘Ten roubles is good money, but I’m afraid to take someone else’s child! What if he gets sick or something...’
When Egorushka was called back to the parlor, Ivan Ivanych was standing hat in hand and saying good- bye.
‘‘Well? So he can stay with you now,’’ he was saying. ‘‘Good-bye! Stay here, Egor!’’ he said, turning to his nephew. ‘‘Behave yourself, listen to Nastasya Petrovna... Good-bye! I’ll come again tomorrow.’’
And he left. Nastasya Petrovna embraced Egorushka once more, called him a little angel, and tearfully began setting the table. In three minutes Egorushka was already sitting beside her, answering her endless questions, and eating rich, hot cabbage soup.
And in the evening he was sitting again at the same table, his head propped on his hand, listening to Nastasya Petrovna. Now laughing, now weeping, she told him about his mother’s youth, about her own marriage, about her children... A cricket called out from the stove, and the mantle in the gas lamp hummed barely audibly. The mistress spoke in a low voice and kept dropping her thimble from excitement, and Katya, her granddaughter, went under the
