oked
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 swee