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thoughts were now turned towards his wife. "Do not (fine my wife any useless hope;" he said to Spasskii; "do not conceal from her wkat is the mm(Ui ; she it no pretender to sentiment; you know her well. As for me, do as you please witfi me; I consent to every thing, and I am ready for every thing." At this moment were already assembled the Princess Viazemskii, the Prince, Turgeuieff, 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 hereis she not'" he said. "Take her away." Ho 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 t" he once enquired of Spasskii. "Poor thing! skt 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 hom's of the first night, when they exceeded all measure of human endurance,') ho was astonishingly firm. *' 1 have been in thirty battles," said ltr Arendt; "1 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 recollect iou of what had happened. On the previous day he had received an invilation to the funeral of Grcich's son. He remembered this amid his own sufferings. "If you see Qretch" said he to Spasskii, "give him my comphments, and say that I fett a heartfelt symfxithy 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 tho 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 be was alreadyaware) 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 bis 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. Bat 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 Spasskti and Arendt, the dying man's firmness of soul was shown in all its force: when on the point of screaming out, he with a 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 bis sufferings, his thoughts were perfectly rational, and his memory clear. Even

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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 ineurred. This task, however, only exhausted him, and afterwards he was unable to make any other dispositions. When, nt 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 t/iem in!" eaid 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 llussia." 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 Turgttoieff went up to him, ho 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 1" 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 opinm 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, a .d assisted those who were busied around him. In short, he was now apparently a great deal better. In this state he was lonnd by Dr Dahl, who came to him at two o'clock. "/ 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 cither." "A-o,"he cried; "/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 tho 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 theret" "No one." "Dald, tell me the truth, shall I die soont" "We have hopes of you, Pushkin—really, we have hopes." "Well, thank you!" he replied. As far as it appears, he had only onco 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 a little lump of ice, into his month, 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.

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He suffered Less from pain than from an excessive feeling of depresaiou'-Ah! what depretsim.'" he several times exclaimed- throwing his hands backward above his head: "if mutes .■9 &wrr crte rsGba ■*.'" He then begjed them to lift him up. or to torn him on his side, or to arrange his pillow: and. without letting them finish to do so. would stop them generally with the w.>rds—'- There! to, torery welt: so itis rery well: w'Menough: -move it it tptite right f or, "Stopnecer mindonly pull my arm a littleto.' note it is very wellexcellent.' ~—(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 urith my wife?" Dahl answered. -' Many good people feel a sympathy -with yon : 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 tliey 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 messenger*, 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 tonchingly expressed than by this proceeding. The number of visitors became at last so immense, that the entrance-door (which was close to the stndy where the dying man lay) was incessantly opening and shuttmg; 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 staircase 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 tho dining-room. On the faces of all these visitors was expressed a

most heartfelt sympathy; very many of them wepc So strong a testimony of general affliction touched me deeply. In Russians, to whom Ls s* dear their national glory, it was not to be wondered at: bat the sympathy of foreigners was to me as gratifying as it was unkxiked for. We were ksing something of our own ; was it wonderful that we should grieve? Bat what wis it that conld touch them so sensibly? It is not difficult to answer this. Genins 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 genins, 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, "Hare I . . . long ... to ... 6e tortured thus f . . . Pray . . . haste!TM This he repeated several times afterwards, " WiU 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 andible. "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 yon." "Wo," he replied, interruptedly; "no, ... it is of no ... . use to .... groan; .... my wife .... will . . . hear; . . . 'tis absurd . . . that such a tnfle .... 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 de

Arendt assured me his last words. I never once removed^

ceived myself.

confidently that all was over, and that he could not live out the da3\ 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 clondberry 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 clond-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; ho will not die." But at this moment the last

frocess of vitality had already begun, 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, hft me upcomebut higher, higher .... now, come along!" But awaking, he said, "/ was dreaming, and I fancied that I was climbing with you up along these boohs 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 snddenly, as if awaking, ho quickly opened his eyes, his face lighted up, and he said, « Life is fmished.'" 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. "/ canU breathe, I am styling!" were

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 attitnde 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 wondronsly did she tell her secret and his own I I most solemnly assure you that I never beheld upon his face an expression of such deep, majestic, such trinmphant thought. The expression had undoubtedly been latent


in the face before; but it was only displayed in all its parity then, when all earthly things had vanished from his sight at the approach of death. Snch 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 fae-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 Vielhurskii'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 Koninsbennaia (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 may 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. V. Jckovskii. The body was accompanied by Turgenieff. Pushkin had more than once said to his wife, that he desired to be buried in the monastery of the Assumption at Sviatogorsk, where his mother had recently been interredL This monastery is situated in the government (province) of Pskoff, and in the riding of Op6tchkoff, at about four versts from the country-house and hamlet of Mikhdilovshoe, where Pushkin passed several years of his poetic life. On the 4th, at nine o'clock in the evening, the corpse arrived at Pskoff, from whence, conformably to the excellent arrangements made by the provincial government, it was forwarded on the same night, and the morning of the 5th, through the town of Ostroff to the Sviatog6rsk monastery, where it arrived as early as seven o'clock in the evening. The dead man glided to his last abode, past his own deserted cottage, past the three beloved firs which he had planted not long before. The body was placed upon the holy hill (sviatdia gord, from whence the monastery takes its name,) in the cathedral church of the Assumption, and a requiem was performed in the evening. All night long workmen were employed in digging a grave beside the spot where his mother reposes. On tho following day, as soon as it was light, at the conclusion of divine service, the last requiem was chanted, and the coffin was lowered into the grave, in the presence of Turgdnieff and the peasants of Pushkin's estate, who had come from thevillage of Mikhailovskoe to pay the last honour to their kind landlord. Very strangely to the ears of tho bystanders sounded the words of the Bible, accompanying the handful of earth as it was cast upon Pushkin— "earth thou art!"

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