_Agàfia._ Are they of noble birth? _Fèkla._ Every one! The very noblest birth that ever was. _Agàfia._ Well, what are they like? _Fèkla._ Oh, regular good ones—nice and neat, all of them. First there’s Baltazàr Baltazàrovich Zhevàkin—a splendid gentleman—he used to serve in the fleet—he would just do nicely for you. He wants a wife with a nice plump figure—he hates bony women. Then there’s Ivàn Pàvlovich—he’s a Court usher, and such a grand gentleman, that one’s afraid to go near him. Big and stout, you know; just grand to look at. And you should have heard him shout at me—“I don’t want to hear any nonsense about what the girl’s like; just tell me plainly how much moveable and real estate she’s got.”—“So much and so much, little father.”—“That’s a lie, you old hag!” and, a—a—he said another word, little mother, that I don’t quite like to repeat. I saw in a minute that he must be a _real grand_ gentleman! _Agàfia._ Well, and who else is there? _Fèkla._ Then there’s Nikanòr Ivànovich Anoùchkin—he’s a nice, fair, pretty gentleman; and oh! little mother, such sweet lips, like cherries! “All I want,” says he, “is that my bride should be pretty and refined; and that she should be able to talk French.” He’s a gentleman with a lot of breeding, and all sorts of fine Frenchified ways. Oh! he’s mighty particular! And he’s got such slim little legs. _Agàfia._ N—n—no; somehow or other these overparticular people ... I don’t know ... I can’t see anything much in them _Fèkla._ Well, if you want a more solid husband, you’d better take Ivàn Pàvlovich; you couldn’t make a better choice; he’s a gentleman ... what you may call a _real_ gentleman; he could hardly get in at that door, he’s so big and grand. _Agàfia._ And how old is he? _Fèkla._ Oh! he’s a young man still—about fifty, or not quite fifty even. _Agàfia._ And what’s his name? _Fèkla._ Ivàn Pàvlovich Yaìchnitza.[4] _Agàfia._ Do you mean to say that’s a name? _Fèkla._ Of course it’s a name. _Agàfia._ Goodness gracious! What a funny name! Why, Fèkloushka, supposing I were to marry him, I should have to be called Agàfia Tikhònovna Yaìchnitza—it sounds like I don’t know what! _Fèkla._ Eh-h-h! little mother; there are such names in Russia, that all you can do when you hear them is to spit and cross yourself. But if you don’t like the name you may as well take Baltazàr Baltazàrovich Zhevàkin—he’d be a fine bridegroom. _Agàfia._ What sort of hair has he got? _Fèkla._ Very nice hair. _Agàfia._ And his nose? _Fèkla._ H-m-m ... his nose is all right; everything’s in its right place, and he’s a very nice gentleman. Only you musn’t mind one thing: there’s no furniture in his rooms, only a pipe and nothing else at all. _Agàfia._ And who else is there? _Fèkla._ Àkinf Stepánovich Pantelèyev—he’s an official, a titular counsellor.[5] He stutters a little; but then he’s such a very modest gentleman.