One day when I was not feeling well, I stayed at home, alone, while Macha and Sonia went with my husband to see the improvements at Nikolski. The tea-table was set, I went down-stairs, and, while waiting for them, seated myself at the piano. I opened the sonata _Quasi una fantasia_, and began to play. No living creature was to be seen or heard, the windows were open upon the garden; the familiar notes, so sad and penetrating, resounded through the room. I concluded the first part, and unconsciously, simply from old habit, I looked across to the corner where he used to sit and listen to me. But he was no longer there, a long-unmoved chair occupied his old place; from the side of the open window a projecting branch of lilac stood out against the burning west, the evening air stole quietly in. I leaned my elbows on the piano, covered my face with both hands, and fell into a fit of musing. I remained there a long time, mournfully recalling the old days, irrevocably gone, and timidly looking at the days to come. But hereafter, it seemed to me, there could be nothing, I could hope nothing, desire nothing. "Is it possible that I have outlived all that!" thought I, raising my head with horror, and in order to forget and to cease thinking, I began to play again, and still the same old _andante_. "My God!" I said, "pardon me if I am guilty, or give back to my soul what made its beauty ... or teach me what I ought to do,--how I ought to live!" The sound of wheels echoed on the turf and before the door, then I heard on the terrace steady steps, well-known to me, then all was quiet. But it was no longer the old feeling which stirred in me at these familiar footsteps. They came up behind me when I had finished the sonata, and a hand was laid upon my shoulder. "A happy thought, to play the old sonata!" he said. I made no answer. "Have not you had tea?" I shook my head, without turning towards him, for I did not want him to see the traces of agitation on my face. "They will be here presently; the horses were a little unruly, and they are coming home on foot, by the road," he continued. "We will wait for them," I said, going out on the terrace, in the hope that he would follow, but he inquired for the children, and went up to see them. Once more, his presence, the sound of his voice, so kind, so honest, dissuaded me from believing that all was lost for me. "What more is there to desire?" I thought: "he is good and true, he is an excellent husband, an excellent father, and I do not myself know what is missing,--what I want."