alexander alexandrovitch agrenev, engineer, spent all day in the quarry, laying and exploding dynamite. in the village below was a factory, its chimneys belching smoke; and creaking wagonettes sped backwards and forwards from the parapet. above on the cliff stood huge sappy pines. all day the sky was grey and cloudy, and the smoke from the chimneys spread like a low pall over the earth. the dynamite exploded with a great detonation and expulsion of smoke.
the autumn darkness, with its sharp, acid, sweet tang, was already falling as agrenev proceeded homeward with the head-miner, eduardovich bitska, a lithuanian, and the lights from the engine- house shone brightly in the distance.
the engineer's quarters lay in a forest-clearing on the further side of the valley; the cement structures of its small buildings stood out in monotonous uniformity; the blue light of its torches flared and hissed, throwing back dark shadows from the trunks and branches of the pine-trees, which laced, interlaced, and glided dusky and intangible between the tall straight stems, finally melting amidst the foliage.
his skin jacket was sticking to agrenev's back, as, no doubt,
bitska's was also.
"my missus will soon be home," bitska said cheerfully—he had recently been married. he spoke in broken russian, with a foreign accent.
in agrenev's house it was dark. the warm glow from the torches outside fell on the window-ledges and illuminated them, but inside the only light was that visible through the crevices of his wife's tightly closed door: his beloved wife—so aloof—so strange. the rain had started, and its drip on the roof was like the sound of water- falls: he changed, washed, took up a newspaper. the maid entered and announced that tea was ready.
his wife—tall, slim, beautiful, and strange—was standing by the window, her back to him, a book in her hand; a tumbler was on the window-sill close beside her. she did not turn round as he entered, merely murmuring: "have some tea."
the electric light gave a brilliant glow. the freshly varnished woodwork smelt of polish. she did not say another word, but returned to her book, her delicate fingers turning over the leaves as, standing with bent head, she read.
"are you going out this evening, anna?" he asked.
"eh? no, i am staying in."
"is there anyone coming?"
"eh? no, nobody. are you going out?"
"i am not sure. i am going to-morrow on detachment duty for a week."
"eh? oh yes, on detachment."
always the same! no interest in him; indifferent, absorbed in other things. how he longed to stay and talk to her, on and on, of everything; of the utter impossibility of life without love or sympathy, of the intensity of his own love, and the melancholy of his evenings. but he was silent.
"is asya asleep?" he inquired at last.
"yes, she is asleep."
a nickel tea-pot and a solitary tumbler stood on the table with its white cloth falling in straight folds. the ticking of the clock sounded monotonously.
"she does not deceive, nor betray, nor leave me," he thought; "but she is strange, strange—and a mother!"
