They were both young and healthy, they both loved each other and were proud of each other. Grischka was such a handsome, hearty, strong fellow, and Matrona was a plump little woman with a clear, fair complexion, and warm sympathy in her grey eyes; "a fine little woman" as all the neighbours used to call her. They loved each other, but their life was so monotonous and tedious, so entirely bereft of all deep interests and outside influences, which might have given them the possibility of diverting occasionally their thoughts from each other, of getting change, which is the natural desire of every human heart, of, in a word--living. It is in fact a psychological fact that man and wife, though they may have attained a high degree of culture, without such an inner life, such an interest, must inevitably grow tired of, and burdensome to each other. If the Orloffs had had an object in life, if it had only been in the empty toil of hoarding halfpence in order to collect capital--life would certainly have appeared easier to them. But as it was, they were deprived even of this interest, which might have proved a bond between them. As each had the other always before his eyes, they had grown to know each other's every movement, every gesture. One day followed the other, and brought nothing into their lives either of change or of excitement Sometimes on holidays they went to see friends, whose lives were as poor and as empty as their own; occasionally friends came to see them, drank, sang and beat each other. And then would follow an endless succession of monotonous grey days, just like the links of an invisible chain, which made dreary the lives of these people with work, _ennui,_ and groundless irritation against each other. "A regular devil of a life!" Grischka used to say. "Just as if it were bewitched. Whatever was life given to us for? Work and weariness; weariness and work...." And after he had been silent for some time he continued with a blank look on his face, and with downcast eyes--"Well, it was God's decree that my mother should bear me ... so it's no use complaining about that! Then I learnt my trade.... Why was that?... Are there not enough cobblers in the world without me?... So then I became a cobbler.... And what next?... What good fortune is there for me in that?... I sit here in a hole and stitch boots.... And by and by I shall die. There is what they call cholera in the town.... Perhaps it will find us out.;. Then they will merely say--'There was once a certain Grigori Orloff, who made boots, and who died of cholera.' ... What sense is there in that? Why is it necessary that I should live, make boots and die? Eh?..."