me too. Life was not so dull and hateful, and the earth
was more fair to look upon. . . . There was a warm breeze from the
sea and the open country. . . . The earth was covered with fresh
grass, fresh leaves were green upon the trees. Nature had sprung
into new life, and had put on new array.

It might be thought that new hopes and new desires would surge up
in man when everything in nature is renewed, and young and fresh
. . . but it is hard for man to renew life. . . .

Groholsky was still living in the same villa. His hopes and desires,
small and unexacting, were still concentrated on the same Liza, on
her alone, and on nothing else! As before, he could not take his
eyes off her, and gloated over the thought: how happy I am! The
poor fellow really did feel awfully happy. Liza sat as before on
the verandah, and unaccountably stared with bored eyes at the villa
opposite and the trees near it through which there was a peep at
the dark blue sea. . . . As before, she spent her days for the most
part in silence, often in tears and from time to time in putting
mustard plasters on Groholsky. She might be congratulated on one
new sensation, however. There was a worm gnawing at her vitals. . . .
That worm was misery. . . . She was fearfully miserable, pining
for her son, for her old, her cheerful manner of life. Her life in
the past had not been particularly cheerful, but still it was
livelier than her present existence. When she lived with her husband
she used from time to time to go to a theatre, to an entertainment,
to visit acquaintances. But here with Groholsky it was all quietness
and emptiness. . . . Besides, here there was one man, and he with
his ailments and his continual mawkish kisses, was like an old
grandfather for ever shedding tears of joy.

It was boring! Here she had not Mihey Sergeyitch who used to be
fond of dancing the mazurka with her. She had not Spiridon Nikolaitch,
the son of the editor of the _Provincial News_. Spiridon Nikolaitch
sang well and recited poetry. Here she had not a table set with
lunch for visitors. She had not Gerasimovna, the old nurse who used
to be continually grumbling at her for eating too much jam. . . .
She had no one! There was simply nothing for her but to lie down
and die of depression. Groholsky rejoiced in his solitude, but . . .
he was wrong to rejoice in it. All too soon he paid for his egoism.
At the beginning of May when the very air seemed to be in love and
faint wi