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 hoarse 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._