An old Russian folk song is like water held back by a dam. It looks as if it were still and were no longer flowing, but in its depths it is ceaseless… - Boris Pasternak

We’ve been lucky. The autumn happened to be dry and warm. We managed to dig the potatoes before the rain and cold set in. Minus what we owed and returned to the Mikulitsyns, we have up to twenty sacks, and it is all in the main bin of the cellar, covered above, over the floor, with straw and old, torn blankets. Down there, under the floor, we also put two barrels of Tonya’s salted cucumbers and another two of cabbage she has pickled. The fresh cabbage is hung from the crossbeams, head to head, tied in pairs. The supply of carrots is buried in dry sand. As is a sufficient amount of harvested black radishes, beets, and turnips, and upstairs in the house there is a quantity of peas and beans. The firewood stored up in the shed will last till spring.

It's good when a man deceives your expectations, when he doesn't correspond to the preconceived notion of him. To belong to a type is the end of a man, his condemnation. If he doesn't fall into any category, if he's not representative, half of what's demanded of him is there. He's free of himself, he has achieved a grain of immortality.

„Тя не държи да се харесва — мислеше си той, — да бъде красива, чаровна. Пренебрегва тази страна от женската същност и сякаш сама се наказва, задето е толкова хубава. И тази горда враждебност към себе си десеторно увеличава чара й.

Колко е хубаво всичко, което прави. Чете така, сякаш това не е висша човешка дейност, а е нещо най-просто, достъпно и за животните. Все едно носи вода или бели картофи.“

Покрай тези размишления докторът се поуспокои. Рядко спокойствие обзе душата му. Мислите му престанаха да бягат и да прескачат от едно на друго. Той се усмихна неволно.