"Children go in the world," she thought as she listened to the
unfamiliar nocturnal sounds of the city. They crept through the
open window like a sigh from afar, stirring the leaves in the garden
and faintly expiring in the room.
Early in the morning she polished up the samovar, made a fire in it,
and filled it with water, and noiselessly placed the dishes on the
table. Then she sat down in the kitchen and waited for Nikolay to
rise. Presently she heard him cough. He appeared at the door,
holding his glasses in one hand, the other hand at his throat. She
responded to his greeting, and brought the samovar into the room. He
began to wash himself, splashing the water on the floor, dropping the
soap and his toothbrush, and grumbling in dissatisfaction at himself.
When they sat down to drink tea, he said to the mother:
"I am employed in the Zemstvo board--a very sad occupation. I see
the way our peasants are going to ruin."
And smiling he repeated guiltily: "It's literally so--I see!
People go hungry, they lie down in their graves prematurely, starved
to death, children are born feeble and sick, and drop like flies in
autumn--we know all this, we know the causes of this wretchedness,
and for observing it we receive a good salary.
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