“But there was no cab of any description.  The silence of the grave.  I could hear nothing but the murmur of the drowsy sea and the beating of my heart from the wine.  Lifting my eyes to the sky I found not a single star.  It was dark and sullen.  Evidently the sky was covered with clouds.  For some reason I shrugged my shoulders, smiling foolishly, and once more, not quite so resolutely, shouted for a cab.

“The echo answered me.  A walk of three miles across open country and in the pitch dark was not an agreeable prospect.  Before making up my mind to walk, I spent a long time deliberating and shouting for a cab; then, shrugging my shoulders, I walked lazily back to the copse, with no definite object in my mind.  It was dreadfully dark in the copse.  Here and there between the trees the windows of the summer villas glowed a dull red.  A raven, disturbed by my steps and the matches with which I lighted my way to the summer-house, flew from tree to tree and rustled among the leaves.  I felt vexed and ashamed, and the raven seemed to understand this, and croaked ‘krrra!’ I was vexed that I had to walk, and ashamed that I had stayed on at Kisotchka’s, chatting like a boy.

“I made my way to the summer-house, felt for the seat and sat down.  Far below me, behind a veil of thick darkness, the sea kept up a low angry growl.  I remember that, as though I were blind, I could see neither sky nor sea, nor even the summer-house in which I was sitting.  And it seemed to me as though the whole world consisted only of the thoughts that were straying through my head, dizzy from the wine, and of an unseen power murmuring monotonously somewhere below.  And afterwards, as I sank into a doze, it began to seem that it was not the sea murmuring, but my thoughts, and that the whole world consisted of nothing but me.  And concentrating the whole world in myself in this way, I thought no more of cabs, of the town, and of Kisotchka, and abandoned myself to the sensation I was so fond of:  that is, the sensation of fearful isolation when you feel that in the whole universe, dark and formless, you alone exist.  It is a proud, demoniac sensation, only possible to Russians whose thoughts and sensations are as large, boundless, and gloomy as their plains, their forests, and their snow.  If I had been an artist I should certainly have depicted the expression of a Russian’s face when he sits motionless and, with his legs under him and his head clasped in his hands, abandons himself to this sensation. . . .  And together with this sensation come thoughts of the aimlessness of life, of death, and of the darkness of the grave. . . .  The thoughts are not worth a brass farthing, but the expression of face must be fine. . . .

“While I was sitting and dozing, unable to bring myself to get up —­I was warm and comfortable—­all at once, against the even monotonous murmur of the sea, as though upon a canvas, sounds began to grow distinct which drew my attention from myself. . . .  Someone was coming hurriedly along the avenue.  Reaching the summer-house this someone stopped, gave a sob like a little girl, and said in the voice of a weeping child:  ’My God, when will it all end!  Merciful Heavens!’