Ivan Dmitritch pictured to himself autumn with its rains, its cold evenings, and its St. Martin’s summer.  At that season he would have to take longer walks about the garden and beside the river, so as to get thoroughly chilled, and then drink a big glass of vodka and eat a salted mushroom or a soused cucumber, and then—­drink another....  The children would come running from the kitchen-garden, bringing a carrot and a radish smelling of fresh earth....  And then, he would lie stretched full length on the sofa, and in leisurely fashion turn over the pages of some illustrated magazine, or, covering his face with it and unbuttoning his waistcoat, give himself up to slumber.

The St. Martin’s summer is followed by cloudy, gloomy weather.  It rains day and night, the bare trees weep, the wind is damp and cold.  The dogs, the horses, the fowls—­all are wet, depressed, downcast.  There is nowhere to walk; one can’t go out for days together; one has to pace up and down the room, looking despondently at the grey window.  It is dreary!

Ivan Dmitritch stopped and looked at his wife.

“I should go abroad, you know, Masha,” he said.

And he began thinking how nice it would be in late autumn to go abroad somewhere to the South of France... to Italy.... to India!

“I should certainly go abroad too,” his wife said.  “But look at the number of the ticket!”

“Wait, wait!...”

He walked about the room and went on thinking.  It occurred to him:  what if his wife really did go abroad?  It is pleasant to travel alone, or in the society of light, careless women who live in the present, and not such as think and talk all the journey about nothing but their children, sigh, and tremble with dismay over every farthing.  Ivan Dmitritch imagined his wife in the train with a multitude of parcels, baskets, and bags; she would be sighing over something, complaining that the train made her head ache, that she had spent so much money....  At the stations he would continually be having to run for boiling water, bread and butter....  She wouldn’t have dinner because of its being too dear....

“She would begrudge me every farthing,” he thought, with a glance at his wife.  “The lottery ticket is hers, not mine!  Besides, what is the use of her going abroad?  What does she want there?  She would shut herself up in the hotel, and not let me out of her sight....  I know!”

And for the first time in his life his mind dwelt on the fact that his wife had grown elderly and plain, and that she was saturated through and through with the smell of cooking, while he was still young, fresh, and healthy, and might well have got married again.

“Of course, all that is silly nonsense,” he thought; “but... why should she go abroad?  What would she make of it?  And yet she would go, of course....  I can fancy...  In reality it is all one to her, whether it is Naples or Klin.  She would only be in my way.  I should be dependent upon her.  I can fancy how, like a regular woman, she will lock the money up as soon as she gets it....  She will hide it from me....  She will look after her relations and grudge me every farthing.”