These were ominous symptoms.
Picture this scene. A sombre Petersburg morning looks in at the dingy windows. By the stove, the granny is pouring out the children's tea, Only the eldest, Vassya, drinks out of a glass, for the others the tea is poured out into saucers. Yegoritch is squatting on his heels before the stove, thrusting a bit of iron into the fire. His head is heavy and his eyes are lustreless from yesterday's drinking-bout; he sighs and groans, trembles and coughs.
"He has quite put me off the right way, the devil," he grumbles; "he drinks himself and leads others into sin."
Putohin sits in his room, on the bedstead from which the bedclothes and the pillows have long ago disappeared, and with his hands straying in his hair looks blankly at the floor at his feet. He is tattered, unkempt, and ill.
"Drink it up, make haste or you will be late for school," the old woman urges on Vassya, "and it's time for me too, to go and scrub the floors for the Jews. . . ."
The old woman is the only one in the flat who does not lose heart. She thinks of old times, and goes out to hard dirty work On Fridays she scrubs the floors for the Jews at the crockery shop, on Saturdays she goes out washing for shopkeepers, and on Sundays she is racing about the town from morning to night, trying to find ladies who will help her. Every day she has work of some sort; she washes and scrubs, and is by turns a midwife, a match-maker, or a beggar. It is true
