“I shall die on the spot, here on the staircase,” I thought. “On the spot....” But we passed the staircase, the dark corridor with the Italian windows, and went into Liza’s room. She was sitting on the bed in her nightdress, with her bare feet hanging down, and she was moaning. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” she was muttering, screwing up her eyes at our candle. “I can’t bear it.” “Liza, my child,” I said, “what is it?” Seeing me, she began crying out, and flung herself on my neck. “My kind papa!...” she sobbed--“my dear, good papa... my darling, my pet, I don’t know what is the matter with me.... I am miserable!” She hugged me, kissed me, and babbled fond words I used to hear from her when she was a child. “Calm yourself, my child. God be with you,” I said. “There is no need to cry. I am miserable, too.” I tried to tuck her in; my wife gave her water, and we awkwardly stumbled by her bedside; my shoulder jostled against her shoulder, and meanwhile I was thinking how we used to give our children their bath together. “Help her! help her!” my wife implored me. “Do something!” What could I do? I could do nothing. There was some load on the girl’s heart; but I did not understand, I knew nothing about it, and could only mutter: “It’s nothing, it’s nothing; it will pass. Sleep, sleep!” To make things worse, there was a sudden sound of dogs howling, at first subdued and uncertain, then loud, two dogs howling together. I had never attached significance to such omens as the howling of dogs or the shrieking of owls, but on that occasion it sent a pang to my heart, and I hastened to explain the howl to myself. “It’s nonsense,” I thought, “the influence of one organism on another. The intensely strained condition of my nerves has infected my wife, Liza, the dog--that is all.... Such infection explains presentiments, forebodings....” When a little later I went back to my room to write a prescription for Liza, I no longer thought I should die at once, but only had such a weight, such a feeling of oppression in my soul that I felt actually sorry that I had not died on the spot. For a long time I stood motionless in the middle of the room, pondering what to prescribe for Liza. But the moans overhead ceased, and I decided to prescribe nothing, and yet I went on standing there.... There was a deathlike stillness, such a stillness, as some author has expressed it, “it rang in one’s ears.” Time passed slowly; the streaks of moonlight on the window-sill did not shift their position, but seemed as though frozen.... It was still some time before dawn. But the gate in the fence creaked, some one stole in and, breaking a twig from one of those scraggy trees, cautiously tapped on the window with it. “Nikolay Stepanovitch,” I heard a whisper. “Nikolay Stepanovitch.”