dent and Ananyev for the
last time, at the hysterical dog with the lustreless, tipsy-looking
eyes, at the workmen flitting to and fro in the morning fog, at the
embankment, at the little nag straining with its neck, and thought:

"There is no making out anything in this world."

And when I lashed my horse and galloped along the line, and when a
little later I saw nothing before me but the endless gloomy plain
and the cold overcast sky, I recalled the questions which were
discussed in the night. I pondered while the sun-scorched plain,
the immense sky, the oak forest, dark on the horizon and the hazy
distance, seemed saying to me:

"Yes, there's no understanding anything in this world!"

The sun began to rise. . . .

A STORY WITHOUT AN END

SOON after two o'clock one night, long ago, the cook, pale and
agitated, rushed unexpectedly into my study and informed me that
Madame Mimotih, the old woman who owned the house next door, was
sitting in her kitchen.

"She begs you to go in to her, sir . . ." said the cook, panting.
"Something bad has happened about her lodger. . . . He has shot
himself or hanged himself. . . ."

"What can I do?" said I. "Let her go for the doctor or for the
police!"

"How is she to look for a doctor! She can hardly breathe, and she
has huddled under the stove, she is so frightened. . . . You had
better go round, sir."

I put on my coat and hat and went to Madame Mimotih's house. The
gate towards which I directed my steps was open. After pausing
beside it, uncertain what to do, I went into the yard without feeling
for the porter's bell. In the dark and dilapidated porch the door
was not locked. I opened it and walked into the entry. Here there
was not a glimmer of light, it was pitch dark, and, moreover, there
was a marked smell of incense. Groping my way out of the entry I
knocked my elbow against something made of iron, and in the darkness
stumbled against a board of some sort which almost fell to the
floor. At last the door covered with torn baize was found, and I
went into a little hall.

I am not at the moment writing a fairy tale, and am far from intending
to alarm the reader, but the picture I saw from the passage was
fantastic and could only have been drawn by death. Straight before
me was a door leading to a little drawing-room. Three five-kopeck
wax candles, standing in a row, threw a scanty light on the faded
slate-coloured wallpaper. A coffin was standing on two tables in