It smelt of the freshly painted floor and of camomile flowers.
Along the walls stood chairs with lyre-shaped backs, bought by the late General Kirsanov in Poland during a campaign; in one corner was a little bedstead under a muslin canopy alongside a chest with iron clamps and a curved lid.
In the opposite corner a little lamp was burning in front of a big, dark picture of St. Nicholas the Miracle-Worker; a tiny porcelain egg hung over the saint’s breast suspended by a red ribbon from his halo; on the window sills stood carefully tied greenish glass jars filled with last year’s jam; Fenichka had herself written in big letters on their paper covers the word “Gooseberry;” it was the favorite jam of Nikolai Petrovich.
A cage containing a short-tailed canary hung on a long cord from the ceiling; he constantly chirped and hopped about, and the cage kept on swinging and shaking, while hemp seeds fell with a light tap onto the floor.
On the wall just above a small chest of drawers hung some rather bad photographs of Nikolai Petrovich taken in various positions; there, too, was a most unsuccessful photograph of Fenichka; it showed an eyeless face smiling with effort in a dingy frame — nothing more definite could be distinguished — and above Fenichka, General Yermolov, in a Caucasian cloak, scowled menacingly at distant mountains, from under a little silk shoe for pins which fell right over his forehead.
Five minutes passed; a sound of rustling and whispering could be heard in the next room.
Pavel Petrovich took from the chest of drawers a greasy book, an odd volume of Masalsky’s Musketeer, and turned over a few pages . . . The door opened and Fenichka came in with Mitya in her arms.
She bad dressed him in a little red shirt with an embroidered collar, had combed his hair and washed his face; he was breathing heavily, his whole body moved up and down, and he waved his little hands in the air as all healthy babies do; but his smart shirt obviously impressed him and his plump little person radiated delight.
Fenichka had also put her own hair in order and rearranged her kerchief; but she might well have remained as she was.
Indeed, is there anything more charming in the world than a beautiful young mother with a healthy child in her arms?
“What a chubby little fellow,” said Pavel Petrovich, graciously tickling Mitya’s double chin with the tapering nail of his forefinger; the baby stared at the canary and laughed.
“That’s uncle,” said Fenichka, bending her face over him and slightly rocking him, while Dunyasha quietly set on the window sill a smoldering candle, putting a coin under it.
“How many months old is he?” asked Pavel Petrovich.
“Six months, it will be seven on the eleventh of this month.”
“Isn’t it eight, Fedosya Nikolayevna?” Dunyasha interrupted timidly.
“No, seven. What an idea!” The baby laughed again, stared at the chest and suddenly seized his mother’s nose and mouth with all his five little fingers. “Naughty little one,” said Fenichka without drawing her face away.
“He’s like my brother,” said Pavel Petrovich.
“Who else should he be like?” thought Fenichka.
“Yes,” continued Pavel Petrovich as though speaking to himself. “An unmistakable likeness.”
He looked attentively, almost sadly at Fenichka.
“That’s uncle,” she repeated, this time in a whisper.
“Ah, Pavel, there you are!” suddenly resounded the voice of Nikolai Petrovich.
Pavel Petrovich turned hurriedly round with a frown on his face, but his brother looked at him with such delight and gratitude that he could not help responding to his smile.
“You’ve got a splendid little boy,” he said, and looked at his watch. “I came in here to ask about some tea . . .”
Then, assuming an expression of indifference, Pavel Petrovich at once left the room.
“Did he come here of his own accord?” Nikolai Petrovich asked Fenichka.
“Yes, he just knocked and walked in.”
“Well, and has Arkasha come to see you again?”
“No.
Hadn’t I better move into the side-wing again, Nikolai Petrovich?”
“Why should you?”
“I wonder whether it wouldn’t be better just at first.”
“No,” said Nikolai Petrovich slowly, and rubbed his forehead. “We should have done it sooner . . . How are you, little balloon?” he said, suddenly brightening, and went up to the child and kissed him on the cheek; then he bent lower and pressed his lips to Fenichka’s hand, which lay white as milk on Mitya’s little red shirt.
“Nikolai Petrovich, what are you doing?” she murmured, lowering her eyes, then quietly looked up again; her expression was charming as she peeped from under her eyelids and smiled tenderly and rather stupidly.
Nikolai Petrovich had made Fenichka’s acquaintance in the following way.
Three years ago he had once stayed the night at an inn in a remote provincial town.
He was pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness of the room assigned to him and the freshness of the bed linen; surely there must be a German woman in charge, he thought at first; but the housekeeper turned out to be a Russian, a woman of about fifty, neatly dressed, with a good-looking, sensible face and a measured way of talking.
He got into conversation with her at tea and liked her very much.
Nikolai Petrovich at that time had only just moved into his new home, and not wishing to keep serfs in the house, he was looking for wage servants; the housekeeper at the inn complained about the hard times and the small number of visitors to that town; he offered her the post of housekeeper in his home and she accepted it.
Her husband had long been dead; he had left her with an only daughter, Fenichka.
Within a fortnight Arina Savishna (that was the new housekeeper’s name) arrived with her daughter at Maryino and was installed in the side-wing.
Nikolai Petrovich had made a good choice.
Arina brought order into the household.
No one talked about Fenichka, who was then seventeen, and hardly anyone saw her; she lived in quiet seclusion and only on Sundays Nikolai Petrovich used to notice the delicate profile of her pale face somewhere in a corner of the church.
Thus another year passed.
One morning Arina came into his study, and after bowing low as usual, asked him if he could help her daughter, as a spark from the stove had flown into her eye.
Nikolai Petrovich, like many homeloving country people, had studied simple remedies and had even procured a homeopathic medicine chest.
He at once told Arina to bring the injured girl to him.
Fenichka was much alarmed when she heard that the master had sent for her, but she followed her mother.
Nikolai Petrovich led her to the window and took her head between his hands.