THE DARLING

OLENKA, the daughter of the retired collegiate assessor, Plemyanniakov,
was sitting in her back porch, lost in thought. It was hot, the
flies were persistent and teasing, and it was pleasant to reflect
that it would soon be evening. Dark rainclouds were gathering from
the east, and bringing from time to time a breath of moisture in
the air.

Kukin, who was the manager of an open-air theatre called the Tivoli,
and who lived in the lodge, was standing in the middle of the garden
looking at the sky.

"Again!" he observed despairingly. "It's going to rain again! Rain
every day, as though to spite me. I might as well hang myself! It's
ruin! Fearful losses every day."

He flung up his hands, and went on, addressing Olenka:

"There! that's the life we lead, Olga Semyonovna. It's enough to
make one cry. One works and does one's utmost, one wears oneself
out, getting no sleep at night, and racks one's brain what to do
for the best. And then what happens? To begin with, one's public
is ignorant, boorish. I give them the very best operetta, a dainty
masque, first rate music-hall artists. But do you suppose that's
what they want! They don't understand anything of that sort. They
want a clown; what they ask for is vulgarity. And then look at the
weather! Almost every evening it rains. It started on the tenth of