ictures came crowding on his imagination, each more gracious
and poetical than the last. And in all these pictures he saw himself
well-fed, serene, healthy, felt warm, even hot! Here, after eating a
summer soup, cold as ice, he lay on his back on the burning sand close
to a stream or in the garden under a lime-tree.... It is hot.... His
little boy and girl are crawling about near him, digging in the sand or
catching ladybirds in the grass. He dozes sweetly, thinking of nothing,
and feeling all over that he need not go to the office today, tomorrow,
or the day after. Or, tired of lying still, he goes to the hayfield, or
to the forest for mushrooms, or watches the peasants catching fish with
a net. When the sun sets he takes a towel and soap and saunters to the
bathing-shed, where he undresses at his leisure, slowly rubs his bare
chest with his hands, and goes into the water. And in the water,
near the opaque soapy circles, little fish flit to and fro and green
water-weeds nod their heads. After bathing there is tea with cream and
milk rolls.... In the evening a walk or _vint_ with the neighbours.

"Yes, it would be nice to buy an estate," said his wife, also dreaming,
and from her face it was evident that she was enchanted by her thoughts.

Ivan Dmitritch pictured to himself autumn with its rains, its cold
evenings, and its St. Martin's summer. At that season he would have to
take longer walks about the garden and beside the river, so as to get
thoroughly chilled, and then drink a big glass of vodka and eat a salted
mushroom or a soused cucumber, and then--drink another.... The children
would come running from the kitchen-garden, bringing a carrot and a
radish smelling of fresh earth.... And then, he would lie stretched full
length on the sofa, and in leisurely fashion turn over the pages of some
illustrated magazine, or, covering his face with it and unbuttoning his
waistcoat, give himself up to slumber.

The St. Martin's summer is followed by cloudy, gloomy weather. It rains
day and night, the bare trees weep, the wind is damp and cold. The
dogs, the horses, the fowls--all are wet, depressed, downcast. There is
nowhere to walk; one can't go out for days together; one has to pace
up and down the room, looking despondently at the grey window. It is
dreary!

Ivan Dmitritch stopped and looked at his wife.

"I should go abroad, you know, Masha," he said.

And he began thinking how nice it would be in late autumn to go