ories of all sorts. Nikolay, sitting on the stove with his
legs hanging down, listened and asked questions about the dishes that
were prepared in the old days for the gentry. They talked of rissoles,
cutlets, various soups and sauces, and the cook, who remembered
everything very well, mentioned dishes that are no longer served. There
was one, for instance--a dish made of bulls' eyes, which was called
"waking up in the morning."

"And used you to do cutlets a' la marechal?" asked Nikolay.

"No."

Nikolay shook his head reproachfully and said:

"Tut, tut! You were not much of a cook!"

The little girls sitting and lying on the stove stared down without
blinking; it seemed as though there were a great many of them, like
cherubim in the clouds. They liked the stories: they were breathless;
they shuddered and turned pale with alternate rapture and terror, and
they listened breathlessly, afraid to stir, to Granny, whose stories
were the most interesting of all.

They lay down to sleep in silence; and the old people, troubled and
excited by their reminiscences, thought how precious was youth, of
which, whatever it might have been like, nothing was left in the memory
but what was living, joyful, touching, and how terribly cold was death,
which was not far off, better not think of it! The lamp died down. And
the dusk, and the two little windows sharply defined by the moonlight,
and the stillness and the creak of the cradle, reminded them for some
reason that life was over, that nothing one could do would bring it
back.... You doze off, you forget yourself, and suddenly someone touches
your shoulder or breathes on your cheek--and sleep is gone; your body
feels cramped, and thoughts of death keep creeping into your mind. You
turn on the other side: death is forgotten, but old dreary, sickening
thoughts of poverty, of food, of how dear flour is getting, stray
through the mind, and a little later again you remember that life is
over and you cannot bring it back....

"Oh, Lord!" sighed the cook.

Someone gave a soft, soft tap at the window. It must be Fyokla come
back. Olga got up, and yawning and whispering a prayer, opened the door,
then drew the bolt in the outer room, but no one came in; only from the
street came a cold draught and a sudden brightness from the moonlight.
The street, still and deserted, and the moon itself floating across the
sky, could be seen at the open door.

"Who is there?" called Olga.

"I," she