I meant to write my diary, and, instead of that, what have I done? I
have related one incident of my life. I gossiped on, slumbering
reminiscences were awakened and drew me away. I have written, without
haste, in detail, as though I had years before me. And here now,
there's no time to go on. Death, death is coming. I can hear her
menacing _crescendo_. The time is come ... the time is come!...

And indeed, what does it matter? Isn't it all the same whatever I
write? In sight of death the last earthly cares vanish. I feel I have
grown calm; I am becoming simpler, clearer. Too late I've gained
sense!... It's a strange thing! I have grown calm--certainly, and at
the same time ... I'm full of dread. Yes, I'm full of dread. Half
hanging over the silent, yawning abyss, I shudder, turn away, with
greedy intentness gaze at everything about me. Every object is doubly
precious to me. I cannot gaze enough at my poor, cheerless room, saying
farewell to each spot on my walls. Take your fill for the last time, my
eyes. Life is retreating; slowly and smoothly she is flying away from
me, as the shore flies from the eyes of one at sea. The old yellow face
of my nurse, tied up in a dark kerchief, the hissing samovar on the
table, the pot of geranium in the window, and you, my poor dog, Tresor,
the pen I write these lines with, my own hand, I see you now ... here
you are, here.... Is it possible ... can it be, to-day ... I shall
never see you again! It's hard for a live creature to part with life!
Why do you fawn on me, poor dog? why do you come putting your forepaws
on the bed, with your stump of a tail wagging so violently, and your
kind, mournful eyes fixed on me all the while? Are you sorry for me? or
do you feel already that your master will soon be gone? Ah, if I could
only keep my thoughts, too, resting on all the objects in my room! I
know these reminiscences are dismal and of no importance, but I have no
other. 'The emptiness, the fearful emptiness!' as Liza said.