“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.  Then when she is dead they dress her, interestingly pale and dark-haired, in a pink dress (it suits her) and lay her in a very expensive coffin on gold legs, full of flowers.  There is a smell of incense, the candles splutter.  Her husband never leaves the coffin, while the admirers of her talent cannot take their eyes off her, and say:  “As though living!  She is lovely in her coffin!” The whole town is talking of the life cut short so prematurely.  But now they are carrying her to the church.  The bearers are Ivan Petrovitch, Adolf Ivanitch, Varya’s husband, Nikolay Semyonitch, and the black-eyed student who had taught her to drink lemon squash with brandy.  It’s only a pity there’s no music playing.  After the burial service comes the leave-taking.  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!”

“What shall I tell you ?”

“Something about love,” Lizotchka says languidly.  “Or some anecdote about Jews. . . .”

Vassily Stepanovitch, ready for anything if only his wife will be cheerful and not talk about death, combs locks of hair over his ears, makes an absurd face, and goes up to Lizotchka.

“Does your vatch vant mending?” he asks.

“It does, it does,” giggles Lizotchka, and hands him her gold watch from the little table.  “Mend it.”

Vassya takes the watch, examines the mechanism for a long time, and wriggling and shrugging, says:  “She can not be mended . . . in vun veel two cogs are vanting. . . .”

This is the whole performance.  Lizotchka laughs and claps her hands.

“Capital,” she exclaims.  “Wonderful.  Do you know, Vassya, it’s awfully stupid of you not to take part in amateur theatricals!  You have a remarkable talent!  You are much better than Sysunov.  There was an amateur called Sysunov who played with us in It’s My Birthday.  A first-class comic talent, only fancy:  a nose as thick as a parsnip, green eyes, and he walks like a crane. . . .  We all roared; stay, I will show you how he walks.”

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.  The race ends in Vassya’s catching his wife by her nightgown and eagerly showering kisses upon her.  After one particularly passionate embrace Lizotchka suddenly remembers that she is seriously ill. . . .