April 25, 1919

At three o’clock Tonka was ready to go to work. Her hat already on her head, she still keeps following me about. I can see that she wants to tell me something, but does not dare. At last, she speaks:

“Well, make yourself at home; look after the children. And then another thing — Mitiunchik is not to go anywhere today, and … if he does go out ask him where he is going? And remember the time.”

She speaks, and her eyes turn away from me. They gaze to one side. Foo, the devil, she is jealous! Another trouble. How vile this is! I should never be jealous if I had a husband. I would simply say: “If we are not suited to each other, let us part.” It disgusts me to look at her, and I do not know what to say. And she continues:

“Well, will you do it?”

I, too, avoid looking at her, but answer between my clenched teeth:

“All right, all right; go now.”

She went away, and immediately Shura came in. By daylight he looks even more exhausted and crushed. Shadows lie under his sunken eyes. Something warm ran through my heart. I say to him softly:

“Well, how are things with you?”

He gives me a sidelong glance.

“The day after tomorrow I start as assistant-janitor at the Hotel Europe.”

“Thank God! And what card are you going to get?”

“Special, three-quarters of a pound of bread. … Oh, Fea, if you only knew how hungry I am!”

He spoke and frowned. Then he turned away. Then he looked at me again. His eyes became like the eyes of a child — pitiful, beseeching. But what can I do? I have nothing myself. He must be thinking: “She brought bread from the country and has hidden it somewhere.”

“But what can I give you? There’s nothing.” “Didn’t papa leave you anything?”

“Nothing. But wait. … I think I saw something in the kitchen, on the window-sill. Let’s go and look, both of us.”