means—­a good match, in fact.  And of course you’re a match for any one.  You’re of good family.  The place is mortgaged, it’s true, but it’s in good order and not neglected; there is my share in it, but it will all come to you; I am your willing slave.  And my brother, your father, left you fifteen thousand roubles. . . .  But I see you can’t keep your eyes open.  Sleep, my child.”

Next day Vera spent a long time walking round the house.  The garden, which was old and unattractive, lying inconveniently upon the slope, had no paths, and was utterly neglected; probably the care of it was regarded as an unnecessary item in the management.  There were numbers of grass-snakes.  Hoopoes flew about under the trees calling “Oo-too-toot!” as though they were trying to remind her of something.  At the bottom of the hill there was a river overgrown with tall reeds, and half a mile beyond the river was the village.  From the garden Vera went out into the fields; looking into the distance, thinking of her new life in her own home, she kept trying to grasp what was in store for her.  The space, the lovely peace of the steppe, told her that happiness was near at hand, and perhaps was here already; thousands of people, in fact, would have said:  “What happiness to be young, healthy, well-educated, to be living on one’s own estate!” And at the same time the endless plain, all alike, without one living soul, frightened her, and at moments it was clear to her that its peaceful green vastness would swallow up her life and reduce it to nothingness.  She was very young, elegant, fond of life; she had finished her studies at an aristocratic boarding-school, had learnt three languages, had read a great deal, had travelled with her father—­and could all this have been meant to lead to nothing but settling down in a remote country-house in the steppe, and wandering day after day from the garden into the fields and from the fields into the garden to while away the time, and then sitting at home listening to her grandfather’s breathing?  But what could she do?  Where could she go?  She could find no answer, and as she was returning home she doubted whether she would be happy here, and thought that driving from the station was far more interesting than living here.

Dr. Neshtchapov drove over from the works.  He was a doctor, but three years previously he had taken a share in the works, and had become one of the partners; and now he no longer looked upon medicine as his chief vocation, though he still practised.  In appearance he was a pale, dark man in a white waistcoat, with a good figure; but to guess what there was in his heart and his brain was difficult.  He kissed Auntie Dasha’s hand on greeting her, and was continually leaping up to set a chair or give his seat to some one.  He was very silent and grave all the while, and, when he did speak, it was for some reason impossible to hear and understand his first sentence, though he spoke correctly and not in a low voice.