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She was afraid to write, but sent a message to Ivan Petrovitch by a lean peasant, who could walk fifty miles a day, that he was not to take it too much to heart; that, please God, all would be arranged, and his father's wrath would be turned to kindness; that she too would have preferred a different daughter-in-law, but that she sent Malanya Sergyevna her motherly blessing.
Both of them mixed the medicines and dried and infused herbs; they, too, controlled the patients when they were delirious. The insane engraver was sullen in appearance and sparing of words; at night he would sing a song about 'lovely Venus, and would besiege every one he met with a request for permission to marry a girl called Malanya, who had long been dead.
Malánya Pávlovna feared solitude dreadful thoughts come then and was almost constantly surrounded by female hangers-on whom she urgently entreated: "Talk, talk! Why do you sit there and do nothing but warm your seats?" and they began to twitter like canary-birds.
Under other circumstances, he would probably have paid no attention to a matter of so little importance, but he had long had a grudge against his son, and was delighted at an opportunity of humiliating the town-bred wit and dandy. A storm of fuss and clamour was raised; Malanya was locked up in the pantry, Ivan Petrovitch was summoned into his father's presence.
But the war came to an end, the danger was over; Ivan Petrovitch began to be bored again, and again he felt drawn away to the distance, to the world in which he had grown up, and where he felt himself at home. Malanya Sergyevna could not keep him; she meant too little to him.
But Malánya Pávlovna did not take offence at this; on the contrary, she seemed to feel flattered at hearing such remarks as much as to say: "Well, I can't help it! It isn't my fault that I was born witty!" Malánya Pávlovna worshipped her husband, and all her life remained an exemplary and faithful wife.
So ended the earthly existence of this good and gentle creature, torn, God knows why, like an uprooted tree from its natural soil and at once thrown down with its roots in the air; she had faded and passed away leaving no trace, and no one mourned for her. Malanya Sergyevna's maids pitied her, and so did even Piotr Andreitch. The old man missed her silent presence.
And she became devoted to Ivan Petrovitch with all the strength of her soul, as none but Russian girls can be devoted and she gave herself to him. In the large household of a country squire nothing can long be kept a secret; soon every one knew of the love between the young master and Malanya; the gossip even reached the ears of Piotr Andreitch himself.
And Alexyéi Sergyéitch spoke splendid Russian, somewhat old-fashioned, but piquant and pure as spring water, constantly interspersing his speech with his pet words: "honour bright," "God have mercy," "at any rate," "sir," and "little sir."... Enough concerning him, however. Let us talk about Alexyéi Sergyéitch's spouse, Malánya Pávlovna.
Orlóff had become, one may say, the principal interest of her life. How many times did Malánya Pávlovna describe to me her wedding in the Church of the Ascension, "which is on the Arbát Square such a fine church! and all Moscow was present at it ... there was such a crush! 'T was frightful!
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