A Story Without An End

Soon after two o'clock one night, long ago, the cook, pale and agitated, rushed unexpectedly into my study and informed me that Madame Mimotih, the old woman who owned the house next door, was sitting in her kitchen."She begs you to go in to her, sir…" said the cook, panting. "Something bad has happened about her lodger… He has shot himself or hanged himself…""What can I do?" said I. "Let her go for the doctor or for the police!" "How is she to look for a doctor! She can hardly breathe, and she has huddled under the stove, she is so frightened… You had better go round, sir." I put on my coat and hat and went to Madame Mimotih's house. The gate towards which I directed my steps was open. After pausing beside it, uncertain what to do, I went into the yard without feeling for the porter's bell. In the dark and dilapidated porch the door was not locked. I opened it and walked into the entry. Here there was not a glimmer of light, it was pitch dark, and, moreover, there was a marked smell of incense. Groping my way out of the entry I knocked my elbow against something made of iron, and in the darkness stumbled against a board of some sort which almost fell to the floor. At last the door covered with torn baize was found, and I went into a little hall...

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Þýðendur: Constance Garnett

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Hljóðbók: 13 mars 2024