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The
leaves whispered softly; their round shadows quivered on the smooth
gravel path.
Maria Ivanovna was vexed at her son's calmness. She was fond of him,
just as she was fond of all her children, and for that very reason she
longed to rouse him, to wound his self-respect, if only to force him to
heed her words and accept her view of life. Like an ant in the sand,
she had employed every moment of a long existence in building up the
frail structure of her domestic well-being. It was a long, bare,
monotonous edifice, like a barrack or a hospital, built with countless
little bricks that to her, as an incompetent architect, constituted the
graces of life, though in fact they were petty worries that kept her in
a perpetual state of irritation or of anxiety.
"Do you suppose things will go on like this, later on?" she said, with
lips compressed, and feigning intense interest in the boiling jam.
"What do you mean by 'later on'?" asked Sanine, and then sneezed.
Maria Ivanovna thought that he had sneezed on purpose to annoy her,
and, absurd though such a notion was, looked cross.


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