tilted downward; all in all her face adhered to the typically crude peasant model. But her carriage, her white skin, her buxom bosom, rising and falling, aroused the doctor.
“There it is.” She reached under the table and bent over.
Her hair was woven into a black braid, and the braid wound round her head.
“A delicious woman the miller has…,” the doctor thought, and suddenly, ashamed of his thoughts, he gave a tired sigh and laughed.
The miller’s wife stood up; smiling, she showed him her little finger with the thimble on it.
“There you go!”
She sat down at the table:
“He likes to drink out of my thimble, though we have glasses.”
And indeed—on the miller’s table, amid the little plates, there was a little glass.
“I c’d go to sleep now,” Crouper said with a hint of complaint in his voice as he turned his tea glass upside down.
“Go on, love.” The miller’s wife took the thimble off her finger and placed it upside down on the overturned glass. “There’s a pillow and a blanket atop the stove.”
“Mighty grateful, Tais’ Markovna.” Crouper bowed to her and climbed up on top of the tile stove.
The doctor and the miller’s wife remained alone at the table.
“So then, you do your doctoring in Repishnaya?” she inquired.
“Yes, in Repishnaya.” The doctor took a gulp of tea.
“Is it hard?”
“Sometimes. When people are sick frequently—it can be difficult.”
“And when is the sickness greater? In winter?”
“Epidemics happen in the summer, too.”
“Epidemics,” she repeated, shaking her head. “We had one about two years back.”
“Dysentery?”
“That’s it. Something got into the river. The kids swimming took sick.”
The doctor nodded. There was clearly something about the woman sitting opposite him that excited him. He looked her over furtively, a bit at a time. She sat calmly, a little smile on her face, and regarded the doctor as if he were a distant relation who’d stopped by when he saw the lights on. She didn’t seem particularly interested in the doctor and spoke with him the same way she did with Crouper and Avdotia.
“Is it boring for you here in winter?” asked Platon Ilich.
“A bit.”
“Summer’s probably fun, no?”
“Oh, summer…” She raised her hands. “Summer is bustling, something every which way you turn.”
“People bring their grain to the mill?”
“Of course they do!”
“Are the other mills far from here?”
“Twelve versts, in Dergachi.”
“So there’s plenty of work.”
“There’s plenty of work,” she repeated.
They sat in silence. The doctor drank tea, the miller’s wife played with the end of her kerchief.
“Should we watch the radio?” she suggested.
“Why not,” said the doctor, smiling.
He really didn’t want to say goodnight to this woman and go upstairs to sleep. The miller’s wife rose and took a knitted cover off the receiver, picked up the black remote control, returned to the table, turned down the lamp wick, sat back down in her chair, and pressed the red button on the remote. The radio clicked and a round hologram with a thick number “1” in the right corner appeared above them. Channel 1 had the news: a story about the reconstruction of the automobile plant in Zhiguli; another about a new single-occupancy sledmobile with a potato-fueled engine. The miller’s wife switched to Channel 2. A regular church service was on. The miller’s wife crossed herself and glanced at the doctor. He stared indifferently at the middle-aged priest in raiment and the young deacons. She turned to the last channel, Channel 3, the entertainment channel. They were showing a concert, as always. First, two beauties in sparkling traditional headgear sang a duet about a golden grove. Then a jolly, broad-faced fellow, winking and clucking, sang about the cunning intrigues of his indefatigable, atomic mother-in-law, causing the miller’s wife to laugh a few times, and a weary smirk to appear
“There it is.” She reached under the table and bent over.
Her hair was woven into a black braid, and the braid wound round her head.
“A delicious woman the miller has…,” the doctor thought, and suddenly, ashamed of his thoughts, he gave a tired sigh and laughed.
The miller’s wife stood up; smiling, she showed him her little finger with the thimble on it.
“There you go!”
She sat down at the table:
“He likes to drink out of my thimble, though we have glasses.”
And indeed—on the miller’s table, amid the little plates, there was a little glass.
“I c’d go to sleep now,” Crouper said with a hint of complaint in his voice as he turned his tea glass upside down.
“Go on, love.” The miller’s wife took the thimble off her finger and placed it upside down on the overturned glass. “There’s a pillow and a blanket atop the stove.”
“Mighty grateful, Tais’ Markovna.” Crouper bowed to her and climbed up on top of the tile stove.
The doctor and the miller’s wife remained alone at the table.
“So then, you do your doctoring in Repishnaya?” she inquired.
“Yes, in Repishnaya.” The doctor took a gulp of tea.
“Is it hard?”
“Sometimes. When people are sick frequently—it can be difficult.”
“And when is the sickness greater? In winter?”
“Epidemics happen in the summer, too.”
“Epidemics,” she repeated, shaking her head. “We had one about two years back.”
“Dysentery?”
“That’s it. Something got into the river. The kids swimming took sick.”
The doctor nodded. There was clearly something about the woman sitting opposite him that excited him. He looked her over furtively, a bit at a time. She sat calmly, a little smile on her face, and regarded the doctor as if he were a distant relation who’d stopped by when he saw the lights on. She didn’t seem particularly interested in the doctor and spoke with him the same way she did with Crouper and Avdotia.
“Is it boring for you here in winter?” asked Platon Ilich.
“A bit.”
“Summer’s probably fun, no?”
“Oh, summer…” She raised her hands. “Summer is bustling, something every which way you turn.”
“People bring their grain to the mill?”
“Of course they do!”
“Are the other mills far from here?”
“Twelve versts, in Dergachi.”
“So there’s plenty of work.”
“There’s plenty of work,” she repeated.
They sat in silence. The doctor drank tea, the miller’s wife played with the end of her kerchief.
“Should we watch the radio?” she suggested.
“Why not,” said the doctor, smiling.
He really didn’t want to say goodnight to this woman and go upstairs to sleep. The miller’s wife rose and took a knitted cover off the receiver, picked up the black remote control, returned to the table, turned down the lamp wick, sat back down in her chair, and pressed the red button on the remote. The radio clicked and a round hologram with a thick number “1” in the right corner appeared above them. Channel 1 had the news: a story about the reconstruction of the automobile plant in Zhiguli; another about a new single-occupancy sledmobile with a potato-fueled engine. The miller’s wife switched to Channel 2. A regular church service was on. The miller’s wife crossed herself and glanced at the doctor. He stared indifferently at the middle-aged priest in raiment and the young deacons. She turned to the last channel, Channel 3, the entertainment channel. They were showing a concert, as always. First, two beauties in sparkling traditional headgear sang a duet about a golden grove. Then a jolly, broad-faced fellow, winking and clucking, sang about the cunning intrigues of his indefatigable, atomic mother-in-law, causing the miller’s wife to laugh a few times, and a weary smirk to appear
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