XI

After bright warm weather came a spell of wet; all May it rained
and was cold. The sound of the millwheels and of the rain disposed
one to indolence and slumber. The floor trembled, there was a smell
of flour, and that, too, induced drowsiness. My wife in a short
fur-lined jacket, and in men's high golosh boots, would make her
appearance twice a day, and she always said the same thing:

"And this is called summer! Worse than it was in October!"

We used to have tea and make the porridge together, or we would sit
for hours at a stretch without speaking, waiting for the rain to
stop. Once, when Stepan had gone off to the fair, Masha stayed all
night at the mill. When we got up we could not tell what time it
was, as the rainclouds covered the whole sky; but sleepy cocks were
crowing at Dubetchnya, and landrails were calling in the meadows;
it was still very, very early. . . . My wife and I went down to the
millpond and drew out the net which Stepan had thrown in over night
in our presence. A big pike was struggling in it, and a cray-fish
was twisting about, clawing upwards with its pincers.

"Let them go," said Masha. "Let them be happy too."

Because we got up so early and afterwards did nothing, that day
seemed very long, the longest day in my life. Towards evening Stepan
came back and I went home.

"Your father came to-day," said Masha.