erribly, she suffered for the first time.... But the
first sorrow, like first love, does not come again--and thank God for
it!

XII

About two years had passed. The first days of May had come. Alexandra
Pavlovna, no longer Lipin but Lezhnyov, was sitting on the balcony of
her house; she had been married to Mihailo Mihailitch for more than a
year. She was as charming as ever, and had only grown a little stouter
of late. In front of the balcony, from which there were steps leading
into the garden, a nurse was walking about carrying a rosy-cheeked baby
in her arms, in a white cloak, with a white cap on his head. Alexandra
Pavlovna kept her eyes constantly on him. The baby did not cry, but
sucked his thumb gravely and looked about him. He was already showing
himself a worthy son of Mihailo Mihailitch.

On the balcony, near Alexandra Pavlovna, was sitting our old friend,
Pigasov. He had grown noticeably greyer since we parted from him, and
was bent and thin, and he lisped when he spoke; one of his front teeth
had gone; and this lisp gave still greater asperity to his words....
His spitefulness had not decreased with years, but his sallies were less
lively, and he more frequently repeated himself. Mihailo Mihailitch was
not at home; they were expecting him in to tea. The sun had already
set. Where it had gone down, a streak of pale gold and of lemon colour
stretched across the distant horizon; on the opposite quarter of the sky
was a stretch of dove-colour below and crimson lilac above. Light clouds
seemed melting away overhead. There was every promise of prolonged fine
weather.

Suddenly Pigasov burst out laughing.

'What is it, African Semenitch?' inquired Alexandra Pavlovna.

'Oh, yesterday I heard a peasant say to his wife--she had been
chattering away--"don't squeak!" I liked that immensely. And after
all, what can a woman talk about? I never, you know, speak of present
company. Our ancestors were wiser than we. The beauty in their stories
always sits at the window with a star on her brow and never utters
a syllable. That's how it ought to be. Think of it! the day before
yesterday, our marshal's wife--she might have sent a pistol-shot into
my head!--says to me she doesn't like my tendencies! Tendencies! Come,
wouldn't it be better for her and for every one if by some beneficent
ordinance of nature she were suddenly deprived of the use of her
tongue?'

'Oh, you are always like that, African Semenitch; you