ing by in a wagon. But
what the bottle or the rain or the muzhik are for, or what the sense
of them all is, you cannot tell--you cannot tell, not for a thousand
rubles. In the days of Kukin and Pustovalov and then of the veterinary
surgeon, Olenka had had an explanation for everything, and would have
given her opinion freely no matter about what. But now there was the
same emptiness in her heart and brain as in her yard. It was as
galling and bitter as a taste of wormwood.

Gradually the town grew up all around. The Gypsy Road had become a
street, and where the Tivoli and the lumber-yard had been, there were
now houses and a row of side streets. How quickly time flies! Olenka's
house turned gloomy, the roof rusty, the shed slanting. Dock and
thistles overgrew the yard. Olenka herself had aged and grown homely.
In the summer she sat on the steps, and her soul was empty and dreary
and bitter. When she caught the breath of spring, or when the wind
wafted the chime of the cathedral bells, a sudden flood of memories
would pour over her, her heart would expand with a tender warmth, and
the tears would stream down her cheeks. But that lasted only a moment.
Then would come emptiness again, and the feeling, What is the use of
living? The black kitten Bryska rubbed up against her and purred
softly, but the little creature's caresses left Olenka untouched. That
was not what she needed. What she needed was a love that would absorb
her whole being, her reason, her whole soul, that would give her
ideas, an object in life, that would warm her aging blood. And she
shook the black kitten off her skirt angrily, saying:

"Go away! What are you doing here?"

And so day after day, year after year not a single joy, not a single
opinion. Whatever Marva, the cook, said was all right.

One hot day in July, towards evening, as the town cattle were being
driven by, and the whole yard was filled with clouds of dust, there
was suddenly a knocking at the gate. Olenka herself went to open it,
and was dumbfounded to behold the veterinarian Smirnov. He had turned
grey and was dressed as a civilian. All the old memories flooded into
her soul, she could not restrain herself, she burst out crying, and
laid her head on Smirnov's breast without saying a word. So overcome
was she that she was totally unconscious of how they walked into the
house and seated themselves to drink tea.

"My darling!" she murmured, trembling with joy. "Vladimir Platonych,
fr