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But the smile on her lips
became clearer, and in her eyes flashed at times something new,
weak and timid, like the first ray of the dawn.
When, at last, the time of confinement came, it was early on an
autumn morning. At the first cry of pain she uttered, Ignat
turned pale and started to say something, but only waved his hand
and left the bedroom, where his wife was shrinking convulsively,
and went down to the little room which had served his late mother
as a chapel. He ordered vodka, seated himself by the table and
began to drink sternly, listening to the alarm in the house and
to the moans of his wife that came from above. In the corner of
the room, the images of the ikons, indifferent and dark, stood
out confusedly, dimly illumined by the glimmering light of the
image lamp. There was a stamping and scraping of feet over his
head, something heavy was moved from one side of the floor to the
other, there was a clattering of dishes, people were bustling
hurriedly, up and down the staircase. Everything was being done
in haste, yet time was creeping slowly.


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