Farewell, life! farewell, my garden! and you, my lime-trees! When the
summer comes, do not forget to be clothed with flowers from head to
foot ... and may it be sweet for people to lie in your fragrant shade,
on the fresh grass, among the whispering chatter of your leaves,
lightly stirred by the wind. Farewell, farewell! Farewell, everything
and for ever!
Farewell, Liza! I wrote those two words, and almost laughed aloud. This
exclamation strikes me as taken out of a book. It's as though I were
writing a sentimental novel and ending up a despairing letter....
To-morrow is the first of April. Can I be going to die to-morrow? That
would be really too unseemly. It's just right for me, though ...
How the doctor did chatter to-day.
_April_ 1.
It is over.... Life is over. I shall certainly die to-day. It's hot
outside ... almost suffocating ... or is it that my lungs are already
refusing to breathe? My little comedy is played out. The curtain is
falling.
Sinking into nothing, I cease to be superfluous ...
Ah, how brilliant that sun is! Those mighty beams breathe of eternity ...
Farewell, Terentyevna!... This morning as she sat at the window she was
crying ... perhaps over me ... and perhaps because she too will soon
have to die. I have made her promise not to kill Tresór.
It's hard for me to write.... I will put down the pen.... It's high
time; death is already approaching with ever-increasing rumble, like a
carriage at night over the pavement; it is here, it is flitting about
me, like the light breath which made the prophet's hair stand up on
end.