How powerful is the onward rush of life!
What tragedy lay in those evenings by the window in the darkness!
Every morning the housemaid used to bring Alexander Alexandrovitch in
his study a cup of lukewarm coffee on a tray. Then he went out to the
factory--the rest of the household was still asleep. There he came
into contact with the workmen, and saw their hopeless, wretched,
impoverished lives; listened to Bitska's jests, and to the rumbling
of the wagonettes--identified himself with the life of the factory,
which dominated all like some fabulous brooding monster.
During the luncheon interval he went home, washed himself, and
listened to his wife rattling spoons on the other side of the wall.
And this made up the entire substance of his life! Yes, it was
certainly interesting how Nina Kallistratovna had entered that flat,
swung back her hand--which hand had it been?--was it the one in which
she held the attache-case or was that transferred to the other hand
first?--and delivered the smack to Madame Chasovnikova. Then there
was Olya, darling Olya Golovkina, from whom--as from them all--he
desired nothing.
That night, when he reached home at last, his daughter came in and
made him a curtsey, saying:
"Goodnight, daddy."
Alexander Alexandrovitch caught her in his arms, placed her on his
knees--his beloved, his only little daughter.
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