There was no other event of note in the scholastic year.

The winter was mild, with wet snow and no frost; on Epiphany Eve, for instance, the wind howled all night as though it were autumn, and water trickled off the roofs; and in the morning, at the ceremony of the blessing of the water, the police allowed no one to go on the river, because they said the ice was swelling up and looked dark.  But in spite of bad weather Nikitin’s life was as happy as in summer.  And, indeed, he acquired another source of pleasure; he learned to play vint.  Only one thing troubled him, moved him to anger, and seemed to prevent him from being perfectly happy:  the cats and dogs which formed part of his wife’s dowry.  The rooms, especially in the morning, always smelt like a menagerie, and nothing could destroy the odour; the cats frequently fought with the dogs.  The spiteful beast Mushka was fed a dozen times a day; she still refused to recognize Nikitin and growled at him:  “Rrr . . . nga-nga-nga!”

One night in Lent he was returning home from the club where he had been playing cards.  It was dark, raining, and muddy.  Nikitin had an unpleasant feeling at the bottom of his heart and could not account for it.  He did not know whether it was because he had lost twelve roubles at cards, or whether because one of the players, when they were settling up, had said that of course Nikitin had pots of money, with obvious reference to his wife’s portion.  He did not regret the twelve roubles, and there was nothing offensive in what had been said; but, still, there was the unpleasant feeling.  He did not even feel a desire to go home.

“Foo, how horrid!” he said, standing still at a lamp-post.

It occurred to him that he did not regret the twelve roubles because he got them for nothing.  If he had been a working man he would have known the value of every farthing, and would not have been so careless whether he lost or won.  And his good-fortune had all, he reflected, come to him by chance, for nothing, and really was as superfluous for him as medicine for the healthy.  If, like the vast majority of people, he had been harassed by anxiety for his daily bread, had been struggling for existence, if his back and chest had ached from work, then supper, a warm snug home, and domestic happiness, would have been the necessity, the compensation, the crown of his life; as it was, all this had a strange, indefinite significance for him.

“Foo, how horrid!” he repeated, knowing perfectly well that these reflections were in themselves a bad sign.

When he got home Masha was in bed:  she was breathing evenly and smiling, and was evidently sleeping with great enjoyment.  Near her the white cat lay curled up, purring.  While Nikitin lit the candle and lighted his cigarette, Masha woke up and greedily drank a glass of water.

“I ate too many sweets,” she said, and laughed.  “Have you been home?” she asked after a pause.