merriest
and gentlest disposition, a childless widow, member of a poverty-stricken
family of the petty nobility; she had a round, grey head, soft white
hands, a soft face, with large, kindly features, and a rather ridiculous
snub nose; she fairly worshipped Marfa Timofeevna, and the latter loved
her greatly, although she jeered at her tender heart: Nastasya Karpovna
felt a weakness for all young people, and involuntarily blushed like a
girl at the most innocent jest. Her entire capital consisted of twelve
hundred paper rubles; she lived at the expense of Marfa Timofeevna, but
on equal terms with her: Marfa Timofeevna would not have tolerated
servility.

"Ah, Fedya!" she began, as soon as she caught sight of him:--"last
night, thou didst not see my family: admire it. We are all assembled for
tea; this is our second, feast-day tea. Thou mayest pet all: only
Schurotchka will not allow thee, and the cat scratches. Art thou going
away to-day?"

"Yes,"--Lavretzky seated himself on a narrow little chair.--"I have
already said farewell to Marya Dmitrievna. I have also seen Lizaveta
Mikhailovna."

"Call her Liza, my father,--why should she be Mikhailovna to thee! And
sit still, or thou wilt break Schurotchka's chair."

"She has gone to church,"--pursued Lavretzky. "Is she pious?"

"Yes, Fedya,--very. More than thou and I, Fedya."

"But are not you pious?"--remarked Nastasya Karpovna, in a whisper.
"And to-day: you did not get to the early Liturgy, but you will go to the
later one."

"Not a bit of it--thou wilt go alone: I am lazy, my mother,"--retorted
Marfa Timofeevna,--"I am pampering myself greatly with my tea."--She
called Nastasya _thou_, although she lived on equal terms with her,--she
was not a Pestoff for nothing: three Pestoffs are recorded with
distinction in the Book of Remembrance of Ivan Vasilievitch, the
Terrible;[7] Marfa Timofeevna knew it.

"Tell me, please,"--began Lavretzky again:--"Marya Dmitrievna has just
been talking about that ... what's his name ... Panshin. What sort of a
person is he?"

"What a chatterbox, the Lord forgive her!"--grumbled Marfa
Timofeevna:--"I suppose she imparted to you, as a secret, what a fine
suitor has turned up. She might do her whispering with her priest's son;
but no, that is not enough for her. But there's nothing in it, as yet,
and thank God for that! but she's babbling already."

"Why 'thank God'?"--asked Lavretzky.

"Why, because the young fellow does not pl