BIG raindrops were pattering on the dark windows. It was one of
those disgusting summer holiday rains which, when they have begun, last a long time—for weeks, till the frozen holiday maker grows used to it, and sinks into complete apathy. It was cold; there was a feeling of raw, unpleasant dampness. The mother-in-law of a lawyer, called Kvashin, and his wife, Nadyezhda Filippovna, dressed in waterproofs and shawls, were sitting over the dinner table in the dining-room. It was written on the countenance of the elder lady that she was, thank God, well-fed, well-clothed and in good health, that she had married her only daughter to a good man, and now could play her game of patience with an easy conscience; her daughter, a rather short, plump, fair young woman of twenty, with a gentle anemic face, was reading a book with her elbows on the table; judging from her eyes she was not so much reading as thinking her own thoughts, which were not in the book. Neither of them spoke. There was the sound of the pattering rain, and from the kitchen they could hear the prolonged yawns of the cook.
Kvashin himself was not at home. On rainy days he did not come to
the summer villa, but stayed in town; damp, rainy weather affected
his bronchitis and prevented him from working. He was of the opinion
that the sight of the grey sky and the tears of rain on the windows
deprived one of energy and induced the spleen. In the town, where
there was greater comfort, bad weather was scarcely noticed.
After two games of patience, the old lady shuffled the cards and
took a glance at her daughter.
"I have been trying with the cards whether it will be fine to-morrow, and whether our Alexey Stepanovitch will come," she said. "It is five days since he was here. . . . The weather is a chastisement from God."
Nadyezhda Filippovna looked indifferently at her mother, got up, and began walking up and down the room.
"The barometer was rising yesterday," she said doubtfully, "but
they say it is falling again to-day."
The old lady laid out the cards in three long rows and shook her
head.
"Do you miss him?" she asked, glancing at her daughter.
"Of course."
"I see you do. I should think so. He hasn't been here for five days. In May the utmost was two, or at most three days, and now it is serious, five days! I am not his wife, and yet I miss him. And yesterday, when I heard the barometer was rising, I ordered them to kill a chicken and prepare a carp for Alexey Stepanovitch. He likes them. Your poor father couldn't bear fish, but he likes it. He always eats it with relish."
"My heart aches for him," said the daughter. "We are dull, but it
is duller still for him, you know, mamma."
"I should think so! In the law-courts day in and day out, and in
the empty flat at night alone like an owl."
"And what is so awful, mamma, he is alone there without servants; there is no one to set the samovar or bring him water. Why didn't he engage a valet for the summer months? And what use is the summer villa at all if he does not care for it? I told him there was no need to have it, but no, 'It is for the sake of your health,' he said, and what is wrong with my health? It makes me ill that he should have to put up with so much on my account."
Looking over her mother's shoulder, the daughter noticed a mistake
in the patience, bent down to the table and began correcting it. A
silence followed. Both looked at the cards and imagined how their
Alexey Stepanovitch, utterly forlorn, was sitting now in the town
in his gloomy, empty study and working, hungry, exhausted, yearning
for his family. . . .
"Do you know what, mamma?" said Nadyezhda Filippovna suddenly, and
her eyes began to shine. "If the weather is the same to-morrow I'll
go by the first train and see him in town! Anyway, I shall find out
how he is, have a look at him, and pour out his tea."
And both of them began to wonder how it was that this idea, so
simple and easy to carry out, had not occurred to them before. It
was only half an hour in the train to the town, and then twenty
minutes in a cab. They said a little more, and went off to bed in
the same room, feeling more contented.
"Oho-ho-ho. . . . Lord, forgive us sinners!" sighed the old lady
when the clock in the hall struck two. "There is no sleeping."