Their son-in-law was a graphic artist and his hands had trembled so badly for days after the potato-harvest and haying bees that he could not draw a fine line, so he was the first to stop coming. Ella considered that to be a sign of cowardice. He was nothing more than a pencil-pusher. And about their daughterin-law’s occupation – it’s better not mentioned. She was a tart slit doctor. When the daughter-in-law had been assigned to practise not far from their house, Ella had ordered her to sleep in the shed, because she had brought along all sorts of odd-looking instruments. The autumn mornings were cool of course, but it would only toughen her, make her strong. One of their daughters had trained to be an actress. That Ella liked – actors were respected by people, their anniversaries were wonderfully celebrated. Seated in garlanded and decorated chairs on stage, they were given flowers and gifts and the government awarded them titles of honour. The daughter had been offered the job of dresser in a provincial theatre. How Ella had tried – for weekends on end directors and artists had sat at her delicacy-laden tables, drunk home-brewed wines and infusions of liquors. Finally her daughter was given the opportunity to read Trojepolskis’ story about a dog, White Bimas, Black Ear, and Ella did not miss a performance. She sat in the first row, with a shawl thrown over her shoulders, holding flowers, feeling like the mother of a real actress. And what a story it was! You could have a heartfelt cry over it! Those were Ella’s brief moments of happiness, because for the rest of the time the daughter came home only to stock up on the farm-grown food and, after screaming at her mother that she had ruined her life, left. She had neither her art nor children.

Later it also did not go well with the granddaughters. Their second daughter’s daughter had taken after her father and, it was said, had a knack for drawing. Ella took her in to get her used to hard work. Forget that fooling around with paints. It would be better if she were to take up the accordion. That beautiful song, the one that tears at your heart strings – Njeslishni v sadu dazhe shorokhi, vsjo zdjes zamerlo do utra, jesljib znalji vi, kak mnje dorogi, podmoskovniye vechera – ah, yes, Moscow Nights ... It sounded so lovely when the two of them sang it together. When her granddaughter got a bit older, Ella found the accordion discarded in a stand of pines and the girl gone.