In her youth, Marya Dmitrievna had enjoyed the reputation of being a pretty blonde, and at the age of fifty her features were not devoid of attraction, although they had become somewhat swollen and indefinite in outline. She was more sentimental than kind, and even in her mature age she had preserved the habits of her school-days; she indulged herself, was easily irritated, and even wept when her ways were interfered with; on the other hand, she was very affectionate and amiable, when all her wishes were complied with, and when no one contradicted her. Her house was one of the most agreeable in the town. Her fortune was very considerable, not so much her inherited fortune, as that acquired by her husband. Both her daughters lived with her; her son was being educated at one of the best government institutions in Petersburg. The old woman, who was sitting by the window with Marya Dmitrievna, was that same aunt, her father's sister, with whom she had spent several years, in days gone by, at Pokrovskoe. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestoff. She bore the reputation of being eccentric, had an independent character, told the entire truth to every one, straight in the face, and, with the most scanty resources, bore herself as though she possessed thousands. She had not been able to endure the deceased Kalitin, and as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her tiny estate, where she lived for ten whole years in the hen-house of a peasant. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and brisk-eyed even in her old age, tiny, sharp-nosed Marfa Timofeevna walked quickly, held herself upright, and talked rapidly and intelligibly, in a shrill, ringing voice. She always wore a white cap and a white jacket. "What art thou doing that for?--" she suddenly inquired of Marya Dmitrievna.--"What art thou sighing about, my mother?" "Because," said the other.--"What wonderfully beautiful clouds!" "So, thou art sorry for them, is that it?" Marya Dmitrievna made no reply. "Isn't that Gedeonovsky coming yonder?"--said Marfa Timofeevna, briskly moving her knitting-needles (she was knitting a huge, motley-hued scarf). "He might keep thee company in sighing,--or, if not, he might tell us some lie or other." "How harshly thou always speakest about him! Sergyei Petrovitch is an--estimable man." "Estimable!" repeated the old woman reproachfully. "And how devoted he was to my dead husband!" remarked Marya Dmitrievna;--"to this day, I cannot think of it with indifference." "I should think not! he pulled him out of the mire by his ears,"--growled Marfa Timofeevna, and her knitting-needles moved still more swiftly in her hands. "He looks like such a meek creature,"--she began again,--"his head is all grey, but no sooner does he open his mouth, than he lies or calumniates. And he's a State Councillor, to boot! Well, he's a priest's son: and there's nothing more to be said!"