After bright warm weather came a spell of wet; all May it rained
and was cold. The sound of the millwheels and of the rain disposed
one to indolence and slumber. The floor trembled, there was a smell
of flour, and that, too, induced drowsiness. My wife in a short
fur-lined jacket, and in men's high golosh boots, would make her
appearance twice a day, and she always said the same thing:
"And this is called summer! Worse than it was in October!"
We used to have tea and make the porridge together, or we would sit
for hours at a stretch without speaking, waiting for the rain to
stop. Once, when Stepan had gone off to the fair, Masha stayed all
night at the mill. When we got up we could not tell what time it
was, as the rainclouds covered the whole sky; but sleepy cocks were
crowing at Dubetchnya, and landrails were calling in the meadows;
it was still very, very early. . . . My wife and I went down to the
millpond and drew out the net which Stepan had thrown in over night
in our presence. A big pike was struggling in it, and a cray-fish
was twisting about, clawing upwards with its pincers.
"Let them go," said Masha. "Let them be happy too."
Because we got up so early and afterwards did nothing, that day
seemed very long, the longest day in my life. Towards evening Stepan
came back and I went home.
"Your father came to-day," said Masha.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"He has gone away. I would not see him."
Seeing that I remained standing and silent, that I was sorry for
my father, she said:
"One must be consistent. I would not see him, and sent word to him
not to trouble to come and see us again."
A minute later I was out at the gate and walking to the town to
explain things to my father. It was muddy, slippery, cold. For the
first time since my marriage I felt suddenly sad, and in my brain
exhausted by that long, grey day, there was stirring the thought
that perhaps I was not living as I ought. I was worn out; little
by little I was overcome by despondency and indolence, I did not
want to move or think, and after going on a little I gave it up
with a wave of my hand and turned back.
The engineer in a leather overcoat with a hood was standing in the
middle of the yard.
"Where's the furniture? There used to be lovely furniture in the
Empire style: there used to be pictures, there used to be vases,
while now you could play ball in it! I bought the place with the
furniture. The devil take her!"
Moisey, a thin pock-marked fellow of twenty-five, with insolent
little eyes, who was in the service of the general's widow, stood
near him crumpling up his cap in his hands; one of his cheeks was
bigger than the other, as though he had lain too long on it.
"Your honour was graciously pleased to buy the place without the
furniture," he brought out irresolutely; "I remember."
"Hold your tongue!" shouted the engineer; he turned crimson and
shook with anger . . . and the echo in the garden loudly repeated
his shout.