e had a
very jolly time there. To begin with I took part in some private
theatricals. It was _A Scandal in a Respectable Family_. Hrustalev
acted marvellously! Between the acts I drank some cold, awfully
cold, lemon squash, with the tiniest nip of brandy in it. Lemon
squash with brandy in it is very much like champagne. . . . I drank
it and I felt nothing. Next day after the performance I rode out
on horseback with that Adolf Ivanitch. It was rather damp and there
was a strong wind. It was most likely then that I caught cold. Three
days later I came home to see how my dear, good Vassya was getting
on, and while here to get my silk dress, the one that has little
flowers on it. Vassya, of course, I did not find at home. I went
into the kitchen to tell Praskovya to set the samovar, and there I
saw on the table some pretty little carrots and turnips like
playthings. I ate one little carrot and well, a turnip too. I ate
very little, but only fancy, I began having a sharp pain at once
--spasms . . . spasms . . . spasms . . . ah, I am dying. Vassya
runs from the office. Naturally he clutches at his hair and turns
white. They run for the doctor. . . . Do you understand, I am dying,
dying."

The spasms began at midday, before three o'clock the doctor came,
and at six Lizotchka fell asleep and slept soundly till two o'clock
in the morning.

It strikes two. . . . The light of the little night lamp filters
scantily through the pale blue shade. Lizotchka is lying in bed,
her white lace cap stands out sharply against the dark background
of the red cushion. Shadows from the blue lamp-shade lie in patterns
on her pale face and her round plump shoulders. Vassily Stepanovitch
is sitting at her feet. The poor fellow is happy that his wife is
at home at last, and at the same time he is terribly alarmed by her
illness.

"Well, how do you feel, Lizotchka?" he asks in a whisper, noticing
that she is awake.

"I am better," moans Lizotchka. "I don't feel the spasms now, but
there is no sleeping. . . . I can't get to sleep!"

"Isn't it time to change the compress, my angel?"

Lizotchka sits up slowly with the expression of a martyr and
gracefully turns her head on one side. Vassily Stepanovitch with
reverent awe, scarcely touching her hot body with his fingers,
changes the compress. Lizotchka shrinks, laughs at the cold water
which tickles her, and lies down again.

"You are getting no sleep, poor boy!" she moans.

"As though I coul