utting
that rocky island right in two, and as it cut it in two, the sun would
set altogether and suddenly all would be darkness. And then I used to be
quite miserable, suddenly I used to remember, I'm afraid of the dark,
Shatushka. And what I wept for most was my baby...."

"Why, had you one?" And Shatov, who had been listening attentively all
the time, nudged me with his elbow.

"Why, of course. A little rosy baby with tiny little nails, and my only
grief is I can't remember whether it was a boy or a girl. Sometimes
I remember it was a boy, and sometimes it was a girl. And when he was
born, I wrapped him in cambric and lace, and put pink ribbons on him,
strewed him with flowers, got him ready, said prayers over him. I took
him away un-christened and carried him through the forest, and I was
afraid of the forest, and I was frightened, and what I weep for most is
that I had a baby and I never had a husband."

"Perhaps you had one? Shatov queried cautiously."

"You're absurd, Shatushka, with your reflections. I had, perhaps I had,
but what's the use of my having had one, if it's just the same as though
I hadn't. There's an easy riddle for you. Guess it!" she laughed.

"Where did you take your baby?"

"I took it to the pond," she said with a sigh.

Shatov nudged me again.

"And what if you never had a baby and all this is only a wild dream?"

"You ask me a hard question, Shatushka," she answered dreamily, without
a trace of surprise at such a question. "I can't tell you anything about
that, perhaps I hadn't; I think that's only your curiosity. I shan't
leave off crying for him anyway, I couldn't have dreamt it." And big
tears glittered in her eyes. "Shatushka, Shatushka, is it true that your
wife ran away from you?"

She suddenly put both hands on his shoulders, and looked at him
pityingly. "Don't be angry, I feel sick myself. Do you know, Shatushka,
I've had a dream: he came to me again, he beckoned me, called me. 'My
little puss,' he cried to me, 'little puss, come to me!' And I was more
delighted at that 'little puss' than anything; he loves me, I thought."

"Perhaps he will come in reality," Shatov muttered in an undertone.

"No, Shatushka, that's a dream.... He can't come in reality. You know
the song:

'A new fine house I do not crave,
This tiny cell's enough for me;
There will I dwell my soul to save
And ever pray to God for thee.'

Ach, Shatushka, Shatushka, my dear, why do you