Where shall I go now? Home? No, I might as well go into the grave. What--home, what--grave? It is better in the grave---- A little grave under a tree--how nice!---- The sun warms it, the rain waters it--in the spring the grass, the soft grass will grow up--the birds will fly to that tree, they will sing, and will bring up their little ones, the flowers will bloom: yellow, red, blue, all kinds of flowers (_in thought_), all kinds of flowers---- How quiet! how nice! I almost feel better! I do not wish even to think of life! To live again? No, no, I do not wish it--it is not good! I loathe the people, I loathe the house, I loathe the walls! I will not go there! No, no, I will not! If I go to them, they will come and talk to me, and what is that to me? Ah, it is dark! And they are singing somewhere! What are they singing? I cannot make it out---- Oh, if I could die now---- What are they singing? It is all the same whether death will come to me, or I myself--no, I cannot live! It is a sin! They will not pray for me? He who loves me, will pray---- They cross the hands over the breast--in the coffin! Yes, it is so--I remember. And if they catch me, they will take me home by force---- Ah, quickly, quickly! (_Goes to the river bank. Aloud._) My friend! My joy! Farewell! (_Exit. Enter Mrs. Kabanóv, Kabanóv, Kulígin, and a workman with a lantern._)