Dream Tales and Prose Poems Part 32

'All at once the thud of horses' hoofs was heard along the street; the commander-in-chief was riding by with his staff. He was riding at a walking pace, a stout, corpulent man, with drooping head, and epaulettes hanging on his breast.

'The woman saw him, and rushing before his horse, flung herself on her knees, and, bare-headed and all in disorder, she began loudly complaining of my servant, pointing at him.

'"General!" she screamed; "your Excellency! make an inquiry! help me! save me! this soldier has robbed me!"

'Yegor stood at the door of the house, bolt upright, his cap in his hand, he even arched his chest and brought his heels together like a sentry, and not a word! Whether he was abashed at all the general's suite halting there in the middle of the street, or stupefied by the calamity facing him, I can't say, but there stood my poor Yegor, blinking and white as chalk!

'The commander-in-chief cast an abstracted and sullen glance at him, growled angrily, "Well?" ... Yegor stood like a statue, showing his teeth as if he were grinning! Looking at him from the side, you'd say the fellow was laughing!

'Then the commander-in-chief jerked out: "Hang him!" spurred his horse, and moved on, first at a walking-pace, then at a quick trot. The whole staff hurried after him; only one adjutant turned round on his saddle and took a pa.s.sing glance at Yegor.

'To disobey was impossible.... Yegor was seized at once and led off to execution.

'Then he broke down altogether, and simply gasped out twice, "Gracious heavens! gracious heavens!" and then in a whisper, "G.o.d knows, it wasn't me!"

'Bitterly, bitterly he cried, saying good-bye to me. I was in despair.

"Yegor! Yegor!" I cried, "how came it you said nothing to the general?"

'"G.o.d knows, it wasn't me!" the poor fellow repeated, sobbing. The woman herself was horrified. She had never expected such a dreadful termination, and she started howling on her own account! She fell to imploring all and each for mercy, swore the hens had been found, that she was ready to clear it all up....

'Of course, all that was no sort of use. Those were war-times, sir!

Discipline! The woman sobbed louder and louder.

'Yegor, who had received absolution from the priest, turned to me.

'"Tell her, your honour, not to upset herself.... I've forgiven her."'

My acquaintance, as he repeated this, his servant's last words, murmured, 'My poor Yegor, dear fellow, a real saint!' and the tears trickled down his old cheeks.

_August 1879._

WHAT SHALL I THINK?...

What shall I think when I come to die, if only I am in a condition to think anything then?

Shall I think how little use I have made of my life, how I have slumbered, dozed through it, how little I have known how to enjoy its gifts?

'What? is this death? So soon? Impossible! Why, I have had no time to do anything yet.... I have only been making ready to begin!'

Shall I recall the past, and dwell in thought on the few bright moments I have lived through--on precious images and faces?

Will my ill deeds come back to my mind, and will my soul be stung by the burning pain of remorse too late?

Shall I think of what awaits me beyond the grave ... and in truth does anything await me there?

No.... I fancy I shall try not to think, and shall force myself to take interest in some trifle simply to distract my own attention from the menacing darkness, which is black before me.

I once saw a dying man who kept complaining they would not let him have hazel-nuts to munch!... and only in the depths of his fast-dimming eyes, something quivered and struggled like the torn wing of a bird wounded to death....

_August 1879._

'HOW FAIR, HOW FRESH WERE THE ROSES ...'

Somewhere, sometime, long, long ago, I read a poem. It was soon forgotten ... but the first line has stuck in my memory--

'_How fair, how fresh were the roses ..._'

Now is winter; the frost has iced over the window-panes; in the dark room burns a solitary candle. I sit huddled up in a corner; and in my head the line keeps echoing and echoing--

'_How fair, how fresh were the roses ..._'

And I see myself before the low window of a Russian country house. The summer evening is slowly melting into night, the warm air is fragrant of mignonette and lime-blossom; and at the window, leaning on her arm, her head bent on her shoulder, sits a young girl, and silently, intently gazes into the sky, as though looking for new stars to come out. What candour, what inspiration in the dreamy eyes, what moving innocence in the parted questioning lips, how calmly breathes that still-growing, still-untroubled bosom, how pure and tender the profile of the young face! I dare not speak to her; but how dear she is to me, how my heart beats!

'_How fair, how fresh were the roses ..._'

But here in the room it gets darker and darker.... The candle burns dim and gutters, dancing shadows quiver on the low ceiling, the cruel crunch of the frost is heard outside, and within the dreary murmur of old age....

'_How fair, how fresh were the roses ..._'

There rise up before me other images. I hear the merry hubbub of home life in the country. Two flaxen heads, bending close together, look saucily at me with their bright eyes, rosy cheeks shake with suppressed laughter, hands are clasped in warm affection, young kind voices ring one above the other; while a little farther, at the end of the snug room, other hands, young too, fly with unskilled fingers over the keys of the old piano, and the Lanner waltz cannot drown the hissing of the patriarchal samovar ...

'_How fair, how fresh were the roses ..._'

The candle flickers and goes out.... Whose is that hoa.r.s.e and hollow cough?

Curled up, my old dog lies, shuddering at my feet, my only companion....

I'm cold ... I'm frozen ... and all of them are dead ... dead ...

'_How fair, how fresh were the roses ..._'

_Sept. 1879._

ON THE SEA

I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two pa.s.sengers; I and a little female monkey, whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner.

She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little plaintive pipe like a bird's.