“What is the matter with him?”

“Neurasthenia⁠—it is a dreadful complaint. We consulted a doctor, who told us he ought to go away, but we had no means.⁠ ⁠… I always hope it will pass of itself. He has no particular pain, but⁠ ⁠…”

“Lukérya!” cried an angry and feeble voice. “She is always sent away when I want her. Mamma⁠ ⁠…”

“I’m coming!” Praskóvya Mikháylovna again interrupted herself. “He has not had his dinner yet. He can’t eat with us.”

She went out and arranged something, and came back wiping her thin dark hands.

“So that is how I live. I always complain and am always dissatisfied, but thank God the grandchildren are all nice and healthy, and we can still live. But why talk about me?”

“But what do you live on?”