to it yourself that my last wish is fulfilled. Do you promise me this?”
I promised and I kept my promise. The unhappy Jan does actually rest yonder in front of us, in the shadows of this ash-tree. Above his grave was also raised a simple wooden cross, but the rank vine-tendril soon trailed all over it with their dense leafage. When I was here the last time, I found two fresh wreaths of wild flowers on top of the cross—no doubt they had been gathered shortly before by Jan’s mother and the beautiful girl whose hopeless love for the sick poet I think I mentioned on our way to the lonely grave. Now this cross is completely hidden by vine leaves.”
The surgeon made a short pause. The rest of us were also silent as we gazed thoughtfully at the ash-tree. It was clear that all were moved at having been told that we were standing so near to the grave of the frenziedly inspired poet who had faded in the flower of his youth. Even Aglaja Andrejevna’s lips lost their usual contemptuous smile. Tears glistened in Uljana’s beautiful blue eyes. It semed to me then that for a moment in the shadow of the ash-tree beneath the drooping garland of emerald vine-leaves, I caught a glimpse of the figure of a young man with black hair, seated with his pale face bent forward, his eye dreamily staring into the distance.
“When I visited my young patient in Metodějovka for the third time” continued Tabunov, “I found him in the middle of the room on a low trestle formed from planks and chairs, clad in a simple shroud, with his hands crossed upon his breast. He was entirely covered with fiery azaleas and gaudy pictures of saints. On the ground beside him, with her head at the feet of the corpse, knelt the girl who had stopped me in the forest the first time I was returning from the sick man. His father stood by the window in mournful lethargy, with his eyes duly fixed upon the ground: his mother was sobbing and wringing her hands in a circle of neighbors who were speaking words of comfort to her. My entry into the room aroused loud lamentation. Silently I advanced towards the corpse and glanced for a moment into his face.
“It had not changed much, except that the closed eyes made its gauntness and shadowiness even more conspicuous. And what is the face of a corpse else than the mere shadow of a beloved person who is departing; they have already crossed the threshold of the house, for a moment their shadow still flickers before us on the surface of the door or upon the opposite wall, and then vanishes—for ever. My gaze wandered from the dead man to the village girl who now stood beside him, hiding her eyes and face in the palms of her beautiful soft hands; from beneath them and alon the side of them, bright tears were flowing and glistened also upon her fresh lips like the morning dew upon a ripe cherry. What a contrast was this lovely creature brimming over with life, with her wealth of fair hair, in her bright colored dress and close red bodice, beneath which her lovely, full breast surged with heavy sighs,—what a contrast to the dead faded object beside her.
I gazed afresh into the face of the corpse, and I now perceived that his lips were half opened, and that a calm and happy smile rested upon them. This was, as it were, a rigid expression of the bliss which the last moment of his life had bestowed upon him. He had probably died according to his desire. The vision which haunted him, the airy blue-eyed beloved, had nestled into his arms, his head had sunk back into the pillows as if upon the trunk of the trusty ash-tree, his eyes were closed, and above the dying man was wafted a sweet whisper of love and fame, of immortality in the poem which he had left behind him upon this earth. Suddenly I remembered the promise I had made to the sick man.
Having made sure that Jan was dead, I advanced to the couch on which he had lain during his illness. It contained neither a feather bolster nor a straw mattress,—it was completely empty. I asked his parents whether they had not found any papers in it. His grief-stricken father glanced questioningly at his sobbing wife, but she sorrowfully shook her head.
At that moment the girl came up to me with downcast and tearful eyes, and said simply: “Are you speaking about the writings which Jan composed, and hid under the pillow in his bed?”
“Yes, it is of tme I am speaking.”
“I took them away” the girl told me in enbarrassment. “It happened in this way. His mother accepted my offer to watch by the sick man with her. It was yesterday evening. Jan was asleep. I remembered what you said about the great harm that writing did him, and for safety’s sake I took away ink, pen and paper from the table beside his bed. After that we prayed quietly, sitting in this corner. A candle was burning behind the shade by his bed, his mother was sleeping, and through the gap between the wall and the shade I watched the sick man’s bed upon which the light was shining clearly. He was sleeping quietly. Unexpectedly I was also overcome hy drowsiness. When I woke up again. I saw that Jan was awake. He had raised himself up a little in bed, he had a thick pile of paper on his lap and was writing slowly with a pencil, which I had forgotten on the table. I wanted to tell him to leave off, but at that moment he stopped writing, his head sank back on to the pillow, he dropped the pencil which fell on the edge of the bed, his eyes closed and his deep sigh passed through the room. Driven by fear. I went quietly up to the bed,—he had died.”
There was renewed lamentation which I interrupted with the eager question: “And what about the papers?”
“Ah, the papers” replied the girl, “they threw them off the dead man on to the ground. I
