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Updated: June 25, 2025
The church is full of sobs, they bring the lid with tassels, and . . . Lizotchka is shut off from the light of day for ever, there is the sound of hammering nails. Knock, knock, knock. Lizotchka shudders and opens her eyes. "Vassya, are you here?" she asks. "I have such gloomy thoughts. Goodness, why am I so unlucky as not to sleep. Vassya, have pity, do tell me something!"
Lizotchka soothes him, "only you ought to be prepared for anything." "And all of a sudden I shall die," she thinks, shutting her eyes. And Lizotchka draws a mental picture of her own death, how her mother, her husband, her cousin Varya with her husband, her relations, the admirers of her "talent" press round her death bed, as she whispers her last farewell. All are weeping.
The admirers of her talent see her husband, but readily forgive his presence: they and he are united by one calamity at that bedside! At six o'clock in the evening Lizotchka falls asleep, and again sleeps till two o'clock in the morning.
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.
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 could sleep!" "It's my nerves, Vassya, I am a very nervous woman. The doctor has prescribed for stomach trouble, but I feel that he doesn't understand my illness. It's nerves and not the stomach, I swear that it is my nerves.
Vassya does not go to the office, but sits all day at his wife's feet. At midday the admirers of her talent arrive in a crowd. They are agitated and alarmed, they bring masses of flowers and French novels. Lizotchka, in a snow-white cap and a light dressing jacket, lies in bed with an enigmatic look, as though she did not believe in her own recovery.
"What?" says Lizotchka in wonder, assuming a scared expression, "don't you know that there is a rehearsal to-day at Marya Lvovna's?" After escorting her there, Vassya having nothing to do to while away his boredom, takes his portfolio and goes to the office. His head aches so violently from his sleepless nights that his left eye shuts of itself and refuses to open. . . .
Lizotchka springs out of bed and begins pacing about the floor, barefooted and without her cap. "A very good day to you!" she says in a bass, imitating a man's voice. "Anything pretty? Anything new under the moon? Ha, ha, ha!" she laughs. "Ha, ha, ha!" Vassya seconds her. And the young pair, roaring with laughter, forgetting the illness, chase one another about the room.
"Sorry . . ." falters her husband in confusion. "If my illness takes a bad turn it will be your fault. Not kind! not good!" Lizotchka closes her eyes and is silent. Her former languor and expression of martyrdom return again, there is a sound of gentle moans. Vassya changes the compress, and glad that his wife is at home and not gadding off to her aunt's, sits meekly at her feet.
There is only one thing I am afraid of, that my illness may take a bad turn." "No, Lizotchka, no, to-morrow you will be all right!" "Hardly likely! I am not afraid for myself. . . . I don't care, indeed, I shall be glad to die, but I am sorry for you! You'll be a widower and left all alone."
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