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When a little later I went back to my room to write a prescription for Liza, I no longer thought I should die at once, but only had such a weight, such a feeling of oppression in my soul that I felt actually sorry that I had not died on the spot. For a long time I stood motionless in the middle of the room, pondering what to prescribe for Liza. But the moans overhead ceased, and I decided to prescribe nothing, and yet I went on standing there. . . .

There was a deathlike stillness, such a stillness, as some author has expressed it, “it rang in one’s ears.” Time passed slowly; the streaks of moonlight on the window-sill did not shift their position, but seemed as though frozen. . . . It was still some time before dawn.

But the gate in the fence creaked, some one stole in and, breaking a twig from one of those scraggy trees, cautiously tapped on the window with it.

“Nikolay Stepanovitch,” I heard a whisper. “Nikolay Stepanovitch.”

I opened the window, and fancied I was dreaming: under the window, huddled against the wall, stood a woman in a black dress, with the moonlight bright upon her, looking at me with great eyes. Her face was pale, stern, and weird-looking in the moonlight, like marble, her chin was quivering.

“It is I,” she said — ” I . . . Katya.”

In the moonlight all women’s eyes look big and black, all people look taller and paler, and that was probably why I had not recognized her for the first minute.

“What is it?”

“Forgive me! ” she said. “I suddenly felt unbearably miserable . . . I couldn’t stand it, so came here. There was a light in your window and . . . and I ventured to knock. . . . I beg your pardon. Ah! if you knew how miserable I am! What are you doing just now?”

“Nothing. . . . I can’t sleep.”

“I had a feeling that there was something wrong, but that is nonsense.”

Her brows were lifted, her eyes shone with tears, and her whole face was lighted up with the familiar look of trustfulness which I had not seen for so long.

“Nikolay Stepanovitch,” she said imploringly, stretching out both hands to me, “my precious friend, I beg you, I implore you. . . . If you don’t despise my affection and respect for you, consent to what I ask of you.”

“What is it?”

“Take my money from me!”

“Come! what an idea! What do I want with your money?”

“You’ll go away somewhere for your health. . . . You ought to go for your health. Will you take it? Yes? Nikolay Stepanovitch darling, yes?”

She looked greedily into my face and repeated: “Yes, you will take it?”

“No, my dear, I won’t take it . . ” I said. “Thank you.”

She turned her back upon me and bowed her head. Probably I refused her in a tone which made further conversation about money impossible.

“Go home to bed,” I said. “We will see each other tomorrow.”

“So you don’t consider me your friend?” she asked dejectedly.

“I don’t say that. But your money would be no use to me now.”

“I beg your pardon . . .” she said, dropping her voice a whole octave. “I understand you . . . to be indebted to a person like me . . . a retired actress. . . . But, good-bye. . . .”

And she went away so quickly that I had not time even to say good-bye.

VI

I am in Harkov.

As it would be useless to contend against my present mood and, indeed, beyond my power, I have made up my mind that the last days of my life shall at least be irreproachable externally. If I am unjust in regard to my wife and daughter, which I fully recognize, I will try and do as she wishes; since she wants me to go to Harkov, I go to Harkov. Besides, I have become of late so indifferent to everything that it is really all the same to me where I go, to Harkov, or to Paris, or to Berditchev.