“Our workpeople are very contented.  We have performances at the factory every winter; the workpeople act themselves.  They have lectures with a magic lantern, a splendid tea-room, and everything they want.  They are very much attached to us, and when they heard that Lizanka was worse they had a service sung for her.  Though they have no education, they have their feelings, too.”

“It looks as though you have no man in the house at all,” said Korolyov.

“Not one.  Pyotr Nikanoritch died a year and a half ago, and left us alone.  And so there are the three of us.  In the summer we live here, and in winter we live in Moscow, in Polianka.  I have been living with them for eleven years—­as one of the family.”

At supper they served sterlet, chicken rissoles, and stewed fruit; the wines were expensive French wines.

“Please don’t stand on ceremony, doctor,” said Christina Dmitryevna, eating and wiping her mouth with her fist, and it was evident she found her life here exceedingly pleasant.  “Please have some more.”

After supper the doctor was shown to his room, where a bed had been made up for him, but he did not feel sleepy.  The room was stuffy and it smelt of paint; he put on his coat and went out.

It was cool in the open air; there was already a glimmer of dawn, and all the five blocks of buildings, with their tall chimneys, barracks, and warehouses, were distinctly outlined against the damp air.  As it was a holiday, they were not working, and the windows were dark, and in only one of the buildings was there a furnace burning; two windows were crimson, and fire mixed with smoke came from time to time from the chimney.  Far away beyond the yard the frogs were croaking and the nightingales singing.

Looking at the factory buildings and the barracks, where the workpeople were asleep, he thought again what he always thought when he saw a factory.  They may have performances for the workpeople, magic lanterns, factory doctors, and improvements of all sorts, but, all the same, the workpeople he had met that day on his way from the station did not look in any way different from those he had known long ago in his childhood, before there were factory performances and improvements.  As a doctor accustomed to judging correctly of chronic complaints, the radical cause of which was incomprehensible and incurable, he looked upon factories as something baffling, the cause of which also was obscure and not removable, and all the improvements in the life of the factory hands he looked upon not as superfluous, but as comparable with the treatment of incurable illnesses.