Page:The Kiss and Other Stories by Anton Tchekhoff, 1908.pdf/91

 seven the dinner will be cooked to death. In spite of their big brains, men never understand house-keeping. We must have two dinners. You, my dears, will dine early as before; I, old woman, will wait till seven for my brother's sake.”

My mother sighed deeply, advised me to please my uncle, whom God had sent for my welfare, and ran into the kitchen. Pobiedimsky and I migrated to the wing, where we made ourselves cosy in a room with two doors, between the hall and the steward's bedroom.

My uncle's arrival and our migration made little difference in our lives. Contrary to expectation, things remained as of old, drowsy and monotonous. Pobiedimsky, who read no books and had no interests in life, sat hours on his bed, moved his long nose, and thought. Occasionally he rose, tried on his new suit, and again sat, silent and thoughtful. The flies alone worried him, and he slapped them ruthlessly. After dinner when he usually “rested,” his snores caused agony to the whole household. As for me, morning to night I ran wild about the garden or sat in the wing and glued my kites. For the first few weeks we seldom even saw my uncle. All day long, ignoring the flies and the heat, he sat in his room and worked. His capacity for sitting still at his desk smacked of magic; and for us, idlers with no regular occupations, his industry was a miracle. Rising at nine o'clock, he sat at once at his desk, and worked steadily till