I hide my head under the pillow, shut my eyes and wait, wait.... My spine is cold. It almost contracts within me. And I feel that death will approach me only from behind, very quietly. “Kivi, kivi.” A squeak sounds in the stillness of the night. I do not know whether it is in my heart or in the street. God, how awful! I would drink some more water; but now I dread opening my eyes, and fear to raise my head. The terror is unaccountable, animal. I cannot understand why I am afraid. Is it because I want to live, or because a new and unknown pain awaits me? Upstairs, above the ceiling, a moan, then a laugh ... I listen. A little after steps sound on the staircase. Someone hurries down, then up again. In a minute steps sound downstairs again. Someone stops by my door and listens. “Who’s there?” I call. The door opens. I open my eyes boldly and see my wife. Her face is pale and her eyes red with weeping. “You’re not asleep, Nicolai Stiepanovich?” she asks. “What is it?” “For God’s sake go down to Liza. Something is wrong with her.” “Very well ... with pleasure,” I murmur, very glad that I am not alone. “Very well ... immediately.” As I follow my wife I hear what she tells me, and from agitation understand not a word. Bright spots from her candle dance over the steps of the stairs; our long shadows tremble; my feet catch in the skirts of my dressing-gown. My breath goes, and it seems to me that someone is chasing me, trying to seize my back. “I shall die here on the staircase, this second,” I think, “this second.” But we have passed the staircase, the dark hall with the Italian window and we go into Liza’s room. She sits in bed in her chemise; her bare legs hang down and she moans. “Oh, my God ... oh, my God!” she murmurs, half shutting her eyes from our candles. “I can’t, I can’t.” “Liza, my child,” I say, “what’s the matter?” Seeing me, she calls out and falls on my neck. “Papa darling,” she sobs. “Papa dearest ... my sweet. I don’t know what it is.... It hurts.” She embraces me, kisses me and lisps endearments which I heard her lisp when she was still a baby. “Be calm, my child. God’s with you,” I say. “You mustn’t cry. Something hurts me too.” I try to cover her with the bedclothes; my wife gives her to drink; and both of us jostle in confusion round the bed. My shoulders push into hers, and at that moment I remember how we used to bathe our children. “But help her, help her!” my wife implores. “Do something!” And what can I do? Nothing. There is some weight on the girl’s soul; but I understand nothing, know nothing and can only murmur: “It’s nothing, nothing.... It will pass.... Sleep, sleep.” As if on purpose a dog suddenly howls in the yard, at first low and irresolute, then aloud, in two voices. I never put any value on such signs as dogs’ whining or screeching owls; but now my heart contracts painfully, and I hasten to explain the howling.