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 passing 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, 'God 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?'
''God 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.
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….
'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—
'
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—
'
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!
'
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….
'
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 …
'
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 …
'
ON THE SEA
I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers; 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.
Every time I passed by her she stretched out her little, black, cold hand, and peeped up at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about.
There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides like a motionless sheet of leaden colour. It seemed narrowed and small; a thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mast-tops in cloud, and dazing and wearying the eyes
