d sleep!"

"It's my nerves, Vassya, I am a very nervous woman. The doctor has
prescribed for stomach trouble, but I feel that he doesn't understand
my illness. It's nerves and not the stomach, I swear that it is my
nerves. There is only one thing I am afraid of, that my illness may
take a bad turn."

"No, Lizotchka, no, to-morrow you will be all right!"

"Hardly likely! I am not afraid for myself. . . . I don't care,
indeed, I shall be glad to die, but I am sorry for you! You'll be
a widower and left all alone."

Vassitchka rarely enjoys his wife's society, and has long been used
to solitude, but Lizotchka's words agitate him.

"Goodness knows what you are saying, little woman! Why these gloomy
thoughts?"

"Well, you will cry and grieve, and then you will get used to it.
You'll even get married again."

The husband clutches his head.

"There, there, I won't!" Lizotchka soothes him, "only you ought to
be prepared for anything."

"And all of a sudden I shall die," she thinks, shutting her eyes.

And Lizotchka draws a mental picture of her own death, how her
mother, her husband, her cousin Varya with her husband, her relations,
the admirers of her "talent" press round her death bed, as she
whispers her last farewell. All are weeping. Then when she is dead
they dress her, interestingly pale and dark-haired, in a pink dress
(it suits her) and lay her in a very expensive coffin on gold legs,
full of flowers. There is a smell of incense, the candles splutter.
Her husband never leaves the coffin, while the admirers of her
talent cannot take their eyes off her, and say: "As though living!
She is lovely in her coffin!" The whole town is talking of the life
cut short so prematurely. But now they are carrying her to the
church. The bearers are Ivan Petrovitch, Adolf Ivanitch, Varya's
husband, Nikolay Semyonitch, and the black-eyed student who had
taught her to drink lemon squash with brandy. It's only a pity
there's no music playing. After the burial service comes the
leave-taking. The church is full of sobs, they bring the lid with
tassels, and . . . Lizotchka is shut off from the light of day for
ever, there is the sound of hammering nails. Knock, knock, knock.

Lizotchka shudders and opens her eyes.

"Vassya, are you here?" she asks. "I have such gloomy thoughts.
Goodness, why am I so unlucky as not to sleep. Vassya, have pity,
do tell me something!"

"What shall I tell you ?"

"Something about love," Lizotch