_February 15th/27th, 1837._
I have not till now succeeded in mustering up the courage to write to
you, my poor friend, Sergei Lvovitch. What could I say to you,
overwhelmed as I am by the national calamity which has just fallen upon
us all, like an avalanche, and crushed us beneath its ruin? Our Pushkin
is no more! This terrible fact is unhappily true, but nevertheless it
still appears almost incredible. The thought, that he is gone, cannot
yet enter into the order of common, evident, every-day ideas; one still
continues, by mechanical habit as it were, to seek him; it still seems
so natural to expect to see him at certain hours; still amid our
conversations seems to resound his voice, still seems to ring his lively
childlike laugh of gaiety; and there, where he was wont to be seen in
daily life, there nothing is changed, there are hardly even any marks of
the melancholy loss we have undergone--all is in its common order, every
thing is in its place; but he is gone from us, and for ever. It is
hardly conceivable! In one moment has perished that strong and mighty
life, full of genius, and glowing with hope. I will not speak of you,
his feeble and unhappy father; I will not speak of us, his mourning
friends. Russia has lost her beloved, her national poet. She has lost
him at the very moment when his powers had reached their maturity, lost
him when he had reached that climacteric--that point at which our
intellect, bidding farewell to the fervid, and sometimes irregular force
of youth agitated by genius, devotes itself to more tranquil, more
orderly powers of riper manhood, fresh as the first period, and if less
tempestuous, yet certainly more creative. What Russian is there who does
not feel as if the death of Pushkin had torn away one of his very
heart-strings? The glory of the present reign has lost its poet--a poet
who belonged to it, as Derjavin belonged to the glory of Catharine, or
Karamzin to that of Alexander.
The first terrible moments of agony and bereavement are over for you;
you can now listen to me and weep. I will describe to you every detail
of your son's last hours--details which I either saw myself, or which
were related to me by other eyewitnesses. On Wednesday the 27th
January/8th February, at ten o'clock in the evening, I called at the
house of the Prince Viazemskii, where I was told that both he and the
princess were at Pushkin's, and Valueff, to whom I afterwards went,
addressed me on my entrance with the words:--"Have you not received the
Princess's note? They have sent for you long ago; hurry off to
Pushkin's: he is dying." Thunderstruck with this news, I rushed
down-stairs. I galloped off to Pushkin's. In his antechamber, before the
door of his study, I found Drs Arendt and Spasskii, Prince Viazemskii
and Prince Mestcherskii. To the question, "_How is he?_"--Arendt
answered me, "He is very bad; he will infallibly die." The following was
the account they gave me of what had happened: At six o'clock, after
dinner, Pushkin had been brought home in the same desperate condition by
Lieutenant-Colonel Danzas, his schoolfellow at the Lyceum. A footman had
taken him out of the carriage, and carried him in his arms up-stairs.
"_Does it hurt you to carry me?_" asked Pushkin of the man. They carried
him into his study; he himself told them to give him clean linen; he
changed his dress, and lay down on a sofa. At the moment when they were
helping him to lie down, his wife, who knew nothing of what had
happened, was about to come into the room; but he cried out in a loud
tone--"_N'entrez pas; il y a du monde chez moi._" He was afraid of
frightening her. His wife, however, had already entered by the time that
he was laid down completely dressed. They sent for the doctors. Arendt
was not at home, but Scholtz and Zadler came. Pushkin ordered everybody
to leave the room, (at this moment Danzas and Pletnieff were with him.)
"_I am very bad_," he said, as he shook hands with Scholtz. They
examined his wound, and Zadler went away to fetch the needful
instruments. Left alone with Scholtz, Pushkin enquired, "_What do you
think of my state--speak plainly?_" "I cannot conceal from you the fact,
that you are in danger." "_Say rather, I am dying._" "I hold it my duty
not to conceal from you that such is the case. But we will hear the
opinion of Arendt and Salomon, who are sent for." "_Je vous remercie,
vous avez agi en honnete homme envers moi_," said Pushkin. Then, after a
moment's silence, he rubbed his forehead with his hand, and added, "_Il
faut que j'arrange ma maison._" "Would you not like to see any of your
relations?" asked Scholtz. "_Farewell, my friends!_" cried Pushkin,
turning his eyes towards his library. To whom he bade adieu in these
words, whether it was to his living or his dead friends, I know not.
After waiting a few moments, he asked, "_Then do you think that I shall
not live through the hour?_" "Oh no! I merely supposed that it might be
agreeable to you to see some of your friends--M. Pletnieff is here."
"_Yes, but I should like to see Jukovskii too. Give me some water, I
feel sick._" Scholtz felt his pulse, and found that the hand was cold,
and the pulse weak and quick; he left the room for some drink, and they
sent for me. I was not at home at this moment, and I know not how it
happened, but none of their messengers ever reached me. In the meanwhile
Zadler and Salomon arrived. Scholtz left the patient, who affectionately
shook hands with him, but without speaking a single word. Soon after
Arendt made his appearance. He was convinced at the first glance that
there was not the slightest hope. They began to apply cold fomentations
with ice to the patient's stomach, and to give cooling drinks; a
treatment which soon produced the desired effect; he grew more tranquil.
Before Arendt's departure, he said to him, "_Beg the Emperor to pardon
me._" Arendt now departed, leaving him to the care of Spasskii, the
family physician, who, during that whole night, never quitted the
bedside. "_I am very bad_," said Pushkin, when Spasskii came into the
room. Spasskii endeavoured to tranquillize him; but Pushkin waved his
hand in a negative manner. From this moment he seemed to have ceased to
entertain any anxiety about himself; and all his thoughts were now
turned towards his wife. "_Do not give my wife any useless hope_;" he
said to Spasskii; "_do not conceal from her what is the matter, she is
no pretender to sentiment; you know her well. As for me, do as you
please with me; I consent to every thing, and I am ready for every
thing._" At this moment were already assembled the Princess Viazemskii,
the Prince, Turgenieff, the Count Vielhorskii, and myself. The princess
was with the poor wife, whose condition it is impossible to describe.
She from time to time stole, like a ghost, into the room where lay her
dying husband; he could not see her, (he was lying on a sofa, with his
face turned from the window and the door;) but every time that she
entered, or even stopped at the door, he felt her presence. "_My wife is
here--is she not?_" he said. "_Take her away._" He was afraid to admit
her, because he did not wish her to perceive the sufferings which he
overmastered with astonishing courage. "_What is my wife doing?_" he
once enquired of Spasskii. "_Poor thing! she suffers innocently. The
world will tear her to pieces._" In general, from the beginning to the
end of his sufferings, (except during two or three hours of the first
night, when they exceeded all measure of human endurance,) he was
astonishingly firm. "I have been in thirty battles," said Dr Arendt; "I
have seen numbers of dying men; but I have very seldom seen any thing
like this." And it is peculiarly remarkable that, during these last
hours of his life, he seemed, as it were, to have become another person;
the tempest, which a few hours back had agitated his soul with
uncontrollable passion, was gone, and left not a trace behind; not a
word, not a recollection of what had happened. On the previous day he
had received an invitation to the funeral of Gretch's son. He remembered
this amid his own sufferings. "_If you see Gretch_," said he to
Spasskii, "_give him my compliments, and say that I feel a heartfelt
sympathy in his loss._" He was asked, whether he did not desire to
confess and take the sacrament. He willingly consented, and it was
determined that the priest should be sent for in the morning. At
midnight Dr Arendt returned. Whatever was the subject of the
conversation, it was evident that what the dying man had heard from the
physician tranquillized, consoled, and fortified him. Fulfilling a
desire (of which he was already, aware) on the part of those who had
expressed a touching anxiety respecting his eternal welfare, he
confessed and took the holy sacrament. Down to five o'clock in the
morning, there had not taken place the slightest change in his
condition. But about five o'clock the pain in the abdomen became
intolerable, and its force mastered the strength of his soul: he began
to groan; they again sent for Arendt. At his arrival it was found
necessary to administer a clyster; but it did no good, and only seemed
to increase the patient's sufferings, which at length reached the
highest pitch, and continued till seven o'clock in the morning. What
would have been the feelings of his unhappy wife, if she had been able,
during the space of these two eternal hours, to hear his groans? I am
confident that her reason could not have borne this agonizing trial. But
this is what happened: she was lying, in a state of complete exhaustion,
in the drawing-room, close to the doors which were all that separated
her from her husband's bed. At the first dreadful cry he uttered, the
Princess Viazemskii, who was in the drawing-room with her, darted to her
side, dreading that something might happen. But she still lay immovable,
(although she had been speaking a moment before,) a heavy lethargic
slumber had overcome her, and this slumber, as if purposely sent down in
mercy from above, lasted till the very minute when the last groan rang
on the other side of the door. But in this moment of most cruel agony,
according to the account of Spasskii and Arendt, the dying man's
firmness of soul was shown in all its force: when on the point of
screaming out, he with violent effort merely groaned, fearing, as he
said himself, that his wife might hear it, and that she might be
frightened. At seven o'clock the pain grew milder. It is necessary to
remark, that during all this time, and even to the end of his
sufferings, his thoughts were perfectly rational, and his memory clear.
Even at the beginning of the terrible attack of pain, he had called
Spasskii to his bedside, ordered him to hand him a paper written with
his own hand, and made him burn it. He then called in Danzas, and
dictated to him a statement respecting a few debts which he had
incurred. This task, however, only exhausted him, and afterwards he was
unable to make any other dispositions. When, at the arrival of morning,
his intolerable suffering ceased, he said to Spasskii, "_My wife! call
my wife!_" This farewell moment I dare not attempt to describe to you.
He then asked for his children; they were asleep; but they went for
them, and brought them half asleep as they were. He bent his eyes in
silence upon each of them, laid his hand on their heads, made a sign of
the cross over them, and then, with a gesture of the hand, sent them
away. "_Who is there?_" he enquired of Spasskii and Danzas. They named
me and Viazemskii. "_Call them in!_" said he in a feeble voice. I
entered, took the cold hand which he held out to me, kissed it. I could
not speak; he waved his hand, I retired; but he called me back. "_Tell
the Emperor_," he said, "_that I am sorry to die; I would have been
wholly his. Tell him that I wish him a long, long reign; that I wish him
happiness in his son, happiness in his Russia._" These words he spoke
feebly, interruptedly, but distinctly. He then bade farewell to
Viazemskii. At this moment arrived the Count Vielhorskii, and went into
his room; and he was thus the last person who pressed his hand in life.
It was evident that he was hastening to his last earthly account, and
listening, as it were, for the footstep of approaching death. Feeling
his own pulse, he said to Spasskii, "_Death is coming._" When Turgenieff
went up to him, he looked at him twice very earnestly, squeezed his
hand, seemed as though he desired to say something, but waved his hand,
and uttered the word "_Karamzin!_" Mademoiselle Karamzin was not in the
house; but they instantly sent for her, and she arrived almost
immediately. Their interview only lasted a moment; but when Katerina
Andreevna was about to leave the bedside, he called her and said, "_Sign
me with the cross_," and then kissed her hand. In the mean time, a dose
of opium which had been given eased him a little; and they began to
apply to his stomach emollient fomentations instead of the cold
effusions. This was a relief to the sufferer; and he began, without a
word of resistance, to perform the prescriptions of the doctors, which
he had previously refused obstinately to do, being terrified by the idea
of prolonging his tortures, and ardently desiring death to terminate
them. But he now became as obedient as a child; he himself applied the
compresses to his stomach, and assisted those who were busied around
him. In short, he was now apparently a great deal better. In this state
he was found by Dr Dahl, who came to him at two o'clock. "_I am in a bad
way, my dear fellow_," said Pushkin, with a smile, to Dahl. But Dahl,
who actually entertained more hopes than the other physicians, answered
him, "We all hope; so you must not despair either." "_No_," he cried;
"_I cannot live; I shall die. It seems that it must be so._" At this
moment, his pulse was fuller and steadier. A slight general fever began
to show itself. They put on some leeches: the pulse grew more even,
slower, and considerably lighter. "I caught," says Dahl, "like a
drowning man at a straw. With a firm voice, I pronounced the word
_hope_; and was about to deceive both myself and others." Pushkin,
observing that Dahl was growing more sanguine, took him by the hand, and
said--"_There is nobody there?_" "No one." "_Dahl, tell me the truth,
shall I die soon?_" "We have hopes of you, Pushkin--really, we have
hopes." "_Well, thank you!_" he replied. As far as it appears, he had
only once flattered himself with the consolation of hope: neither before
nor after this moment did he feel any trust in it. Almost the whole
night (that is, of the 29th, during the whole of which Dahl sate by the
bedside, and I, Viazemskii, and Vielhorskii, in the next room,) he held
Dahl's hand. He often would take a spoonful of water, or little lump of
ice, into his mouth, doing every thing himself: taking the tumbler from
a shelf within reach, rubbing his temples with ice, applying himself the
fomentations to his stomach, changing them himself, &c. He suffered
less from pain than from an excessive feeling of depression. "_Ah! what
depression_!" he several times exclaimed, throwing his hands backward
above his head; "_it makes my heart die within me_!" He then begged them
to lift him up, or to turn him on his side, or to arrange his pillow;
and, without letting them finish to do so, would stop them generally
with the words--"_There! so, so--very well; so it is very well; well
enough; now it is quite right_;" or, "_Stop--never mind--only pull my
arm a little--so! now it is very well--excellent_!"--(these are all his
exact expressions.) "In general," says Dahl, "with respect to my
treatment, he was as manageable and obedient as a child, and did every
thing I wished." Once he inquired of Dahl, "_Who is with my wife?_" Dahl
answered, "Many good people feel a sympathy with you; the drawing-room
and the antechamber are full from morning to night." "_Oh, thank you_,"
he replied; "_only go and tell my wife that all is going on well, thank
God! or else they will talk all sorts of nonsense to her there, I
suppose._" Dahl did not deceive him. From the morning of the 28th, when
the news that Pushkin was dying had flown through the whole town, his
antechamber had been incessantly crowded with visitors; some enquiring
after him by messengers, others--and people of all conditions, whether
acquainted with him or not--coming themselves. The feeling of a
national, an universal affliction, was never more touchingly expressed
than by this proceeding. The number of visitors became at last so
immense, that the entrance-door (which was close to the study where the
dying man lay) was incessantly opening and shutting; this disturbed the
sufferer, and we imagined the expedient of closing that door, by placing
against it a chest from the hall, and instead of it opening another
little door which led from the stair-case into the pantry, and
partitioning off with screens the dining-room from the drawing-room,
where his wife was. From this moment, the pantry was unceasingly
thronged with people; none but acquaintances were admitted into the
dining-room. On the faces of all these visitors was expressed a most
heartfelt sympathy; very many of them wept. So strong a testimony of
general affliction touched me deeply. In Russians, to whom is so dear
their national glory, it was not to be wondered at; but the sympathy of
foreigners was to me as gratifying as it was unlooked for. We were
losing something of our own; was it wonderful that _we_ should grieve?
But what was it that could touch _them_ so sensibly? It is not difficult
to answer this. Genius is the property of all. In bowing down before
genius all nations are brethren; and when it vanishes untimely from the
earth, all will follow its departure with one brotherly lamentation.
Pushkin, with respect to his genius, belonged not to Russia alone, but
to all Europe; and it was therefore that many foreigners approached his
door with feelings of _personal_ sorrow, and mourned for _our_ Pushkin
as if he had been _their own_. But let me return to my recital. Though
he sent Dahl to console his wife with hope, Pushkin himself did not
entertain the slightest. Once he enquired, "_What o'clock is it?_" and
on Dahl's informing him, he continued, in an interrupted voice, "_Have I
... long ... to ... be tortured thus?... Pray ... haste!_" This he
repeated several times afterwards, "_Will the end be soon?_" and he
always added, "_Pray ... make haste!_" In general, however, (after the
torments of the first night, which lasted two hours,) he was
astonishingly patient. When the pain and anguish overcame him, he made
movements with his hands, or uttered at intervals a kind of stifled
groan, but so that it was hardly audible "You must bear it, my dear
fellow; there is nothing to be done," said Dahl to him; "but don't be
ashamed of your pain; groan, it will ease you." "_No_," he replied,
interruptedly; "_no,... it is of no ... use to ... groan;... my wife ...
will ... hear;... 'tis absurd ... that such a trifle ... should ...
master me,... I will not_."--I left him at five o'clock in the morning,
and returned in a couple of hours. Having observed, that the night had
been tolerably quiet, I went home with an impression almost of hope; but
on my return I found I had deceived myself. Arendt assured me
confidently that all was over, and that he could not live out the day.
As he predicted, the pulse now grew weaker, and began to sink
perceptibly; the hands began to be cold. He was lying with his eyes
closed; it was only from time to time he raised his hand to take a piece
of ice and rub his forehead with it. It had struck two o'clock in the
afternoon, and Pushkin had only three quarters of an hour left to live.
He opened his eyes, and asked for some cloud-berry water. When they
brought it, he said in a distinct voice,--"_Call my wife; let her feed
me._" She came, sank down on her knees by the head of the bed, and
carried to his lips one, and afterwards another spoonful of the
cloud-berries, and then pressed her cheek against his; Pushkin stroked
her on the head, and said, "_There, there, never mind; thank God, all is
well; go._" The tranquil expression of his face, and the firmness of his
voice, deceived the poor wife; she left the room almost radiant with
joy. "You see," she said to Dr Spasskii, "he will live; he will not
die." But at this moment the last process of vitality had already begun.
I stood together with Count Vielhorskii at the head of the bed; by the
side stood Turgenieff. Dahl whispered to me, "He is going." But his
thoughts were clear. It was only at intervals that a half-dosing
forgetfulness overshadowed them; once he gave his hand to Dahl, and
pressing it, said: "_Now, lift me up--come--but higher, higher ... now,
come along!_" But awaking, he said, "_I was dreaming, and I fancied that
I was climbing with you up along these books and shelves! so high ...
and my head began to turn._" After pausing a little, he again, without
unclosing his eyes, began to feel for Dahl's hand, and pulling it, said:
"_Now, let us go then, if you wish; but together._" Dahl, at his
request, took him under the arms, and raised him higher; and suddenly,
as if awaking, he quickly opened his eyes, his face lighted up, and he
said, "_Life is finished!_" Dahl, who had not distinctly heard the
words, answered, "Yes, it is finished; we have turned you round." "_Life
is finished!_" he repeated, distinctly and positively. "_I can't
breathe, I am stifling!_" were his last words. I never once removed my
eyes from him, and I remarked at this moment, that the movement of the
breast, hitherto calm, became interrupted. It soon ceased altogether. I
looked attentively; I waited for the last sigh, but I could not remark
it. The stillness which reigned over his whole appearance appeared to me
to be tranquillity; but he was now no more. We all kept silence around
him. In a couple of minutes I asked, "How is he?" "He is dead!" answered
Dahl. So calmly, so tranquilly had his soul departed. We long stood
around him in silence, without stirring, not daring to disturb the
mysteries of death, which were completed before us in all their touching
holiness. When all had left the room, I sate down before him, and long
alone I gazed upon his face. Never had I beheld upon that countenance
any thing like that which was upon it in this first moment of death. His
head was somewhat bent forward; the hands, which a few moments ago had
exhibited a kind of convulsive movement, were calmly stretched, as if
they had just fallen into an attitude of repose after some heavy labour.
But that which was expressed in the face, I am not able to tell in
words. It was to me something so new, and at the same time so familiar.
This was not either sleep or repose; it was not the expression of
intellect which was before so peculiar to the face; nor was it the
poetic expression; no! some mighty, some wondrous thought was unfolded
in it: something resembling vision, some full, complete,
deeply-satisfying knowledge. Gazing upon it, I felt an irresistible
desire to ask him, "What do you see, my friend?" And what would he have
answered if he had been able for a moment to arise? There are moments in
our life which fully deserve the epithet of great. At this moment, I may
say, I beheld the face of death itself, divinely-mysterious; the face of
death without a veil between. And what a seal was that she had stamped
upon him, and how wondrously did she tell her secret and his own! I most
solemnly assure you that I never beheld upon his face an expression of
such deep, majestic, such triumphant _thought_. The expression had
undoubtedly been latent in the face before; but it was only displayed
in all its purity then, when all earthly things had vanished from his
sight at the approach of death. Such was the end of our Pushkin. I will
describe in a few words what followed. Most fortunately, I remembered,
before it was too late, that it was necessary to take a cast of the
mask; this was executed without loss of time. His features had not yet
entirely changed. It cannot be denied that the first expression which
death had given them, was not preserved in them; but we now all possess
an attractive portrait, a fac-simile of the features, and which
images--not death, but a deep, majestic slumber. I will not relate to
you the state in which was the poor wife--many good friends remained
inseparably with her, the Princess Viazemskii, Elizabeth Zaguajskii, the
Count and Countess Stroganoff. The Count took upon himself all the
arrangements for the funeral. After remaining some time longer in the
house, I went away to Vielhorskii's to dinner; there were assembled all
the other persons who, like myself, had seen Pushkin's last moments; and
he himself had been invited, three days before, to this dinner ... it
was to celebrate my birth-day. On the following morning we, his friends,
with our own hands, laid Pushkin in the coffin; and on the evening of
the succeeding day, we transported him to the Koninshennaia (the
Imperial Stables) Church. And during the whole of these two days, the
drawing-room where he lay in his coffin was incessantly full of people.
It nay be safely asserted that more than ten thousand persons visited
it, in order to obtain one look at him: many were in tears, others stood
long immoveable, and seemed as though they wished to behold his face;
there was something inexpressibly striking in his immobility amid all
this movement, and something mysteriously touching in the prayer which
was heard so gently and so uniformly murmured amid that confused murmur
of whispered conversation. The funeral service was performed on the 1st
of February. Many of our greatest nobles, and many of the foreign
ministers, were in the church. We carried the coffin with our own hands
to the vault, where it was to remain until the moment of its being taken
out of the city. On the 3d of February, at ten o'clock in the evening,
we assembled for the last time around all that remained to us of
Pushkin; the last requiem was sung; the case which contained the coffin
was placed upon a sledge; at midnight the sledge set off; by the light
of the moon I followed it for some moments with my eyes; it soon turned
the corner of a house; and all that once was Pushkin was lost for ever
from my sight.