Page:The Kiss and Other Stories by Anton Tchekhoff, 1908.pdf/97

 until two in the morning, when I, no longer able to resist my drowsiness, slept soundly.

From that day on, my uncle came to the wing every night. He sang with us, supped with us, and stayed till two in the morning, chattering incessantly of one and the same subject. His night work was forgotten, and at the end of June, by which time he had learnt to eat my mother's turkeys and compotes, his daily occupation was also neglected. He tore himself from his desk, and rushed, so to speak, into “life,” By day he marched about the garden, whistled, and hindered the workmen, forcing them to tell him stories. When Tatiana Ivanovna came within sight, he ran up to her, and if she carried a load, offered to help her, causing her endless confusion.

The longer summer lasted the more frivolous, lively, and abstracted grew my uncle. Pobiedimsky was quickly disillusioned.

“As a man—one-sided,” was his verdict. “No one would believe that he stands on the high steps of the official hierarchy. He doesn't even speak well. After every word he adds ‘I swear to God!’ No, I don't like him.”

From the night of my uncle's first visit to the wing, Feodor and my tutor changed noticeably. Feodor gave up shooting, returned early from his work, and his taciturnity increased; and, when my