not say. I have tried often to secure from Masha an explanation of her words, but she cannot explain.
"Do you think suicide a sin? That it is forbidden by God?" I asked.
"No."
"Then why no need of that?"
"Just so. Simply no need for it," she said smilingly, and inquired: "May I bring you something?"
Without a doubt she is insane, but quiet and useful, like many insane people. Please do not molest her.
I have permitted myself to depart from my narrative, as something Masha did yesterday has recalled to me memories of childhood. I do not remember my mother, but I had an aunt named Anphisa, who made the sign of the cross over me every night. She was a taciturn old maid, with pimples on her face, and she felt ashamed when my father joked with her about a husband. I was still a youngster aged eleven when she strangled herself in the tiny barn where we kept our coals. Later she con-
