It was a winter morning, and that early hour when the cold is even severer than during the night. The streets were still dark, and the lamps burning. None but belated pleasure seekers hastening to reach home, or factory workmen wrapped in sheepskins hurrying to their work, were to be seen about. While the rest of the population were yet lost in sleep, a fire was lighted in the small, dingy house of the government clerk, Spiridonoff. He had risen at six o’clock, washed and dressed, said his prayers, and cautiously tiptoed into the hall. The house was terribly cold. Mrs. Spiridonoff, who was twenty years younger than her husband, lay sleeping in a large bed with two of her children. Her head was swathed in a cloth, and a mass of clothing was piled on the top of the blanket. This was the only way in which they could keep themselves warm. Old Spiridonoff went through the hall, and feeling for the kitchen door, opened it and entered. A burning lamp emitted an unbearable odor. The cook, like her mistress, was covered over head and ears in rags. It was difficult to tell her head from her feet.
“Arina! Arina!” called Spiridonoff in a low voice, shaking her with both hands. “Get up, it is past six o’clock.”
A sigh issued from the rags. Arina was evidently still sleepy, and unwilling to exchange the warmth of the bed for the outside cold.
“Arina, have we any wood?”
“Wood?” answered a voice as if from a tomb, “perhaps enough to heat one stove.”
“Good. Get up and light the fire in Mitia’s room. At once, do you hear? He’ll be getting up soon.” Arina’s nose appeared from under the bedclothes.
“In Mitia’s room? His was heated yesterday. Perhaps it would be better to have a fire in the bedroom. It hasn’t had one for two days.”
“No, no, no. Mitia’s, do you hear? Mitia’s room must be warm.”
Arina growled her disapproval, nevertheless she got up as soon as Spiridonoff left the room, and after putting on all the rags which had served as her bed covering, she collected the wood which lay under the kitchen table.
“Devils—Anathemas,” she grunted, but in such tones that no one could hear her. “Call themselves gentlefolks—keep a cook indeed—haven’t money enough to buy a log of wood. Mitia is the only one who is kept warm.”