moment we entered, she took one hand away from mamma's head, and arranged over her breast the folds of her gown, then said in a whisper: " She is unconscious."
I was in great anguish then, but I noticed all the details. It was almost dark in the room, and warm, and there was a mingled odour of mint, eau de cologne, camomile, and Hoffmann's drops. That odour struck me so powerfully that not only when I smell it, but even when I think of it, my imagination immediately transfers me into that gloomy, close room, and reproduces all the minutest details of that terrible moment.
Mamma's eyes were open, but she did not see anything. Oh, I shall never forget that terrible look! There was so much suffering expressed in it.
We were taken away.
When I later asked Natálya Sávishna about the last moments of my mother, she told me this:
"When you were taken away, my little dove kept on tossing for a long time, as though something were choking her here; then she dropped her head from the pillows, and fell asleep, as softly and calmly as if she were an angel of heaven. I had just gone out to see why they were not bringing the drink, — and when I came back, she, the treasure of my heart, had thrown off everything about her, and was beckoning to father. He bent down to her, but she evidently had no strength to say what she wanted; she only opened her lips, and began to sigh: 'My Lord! God! The children! The children!' I wanted to run for you, but Iván Vasílich stopped me, saying that it would excite her too much, and that it would be better not to call you. Then she only lifted her hand, and let it fall again. God knows what she meant to say by it! I think she was blessing you, though you were out of sight; and thus God has decreed that she should not see her children before her last moments. Then she raised herself, my little dove, folded
