"And bring back my letter."
The note was as follows:
"If it will be the will of God that we shall not meet again, I send you my pardon, and advise you to receive the last Christian rites. As to your wife and children, they need cause you no anxiety. I take them under my own protection."
The dying man immediately complied with the Emperor's wish. A priest was sent for from the nearest church. Pushkin confessed and received the sacrament with great reverence. When Arendt read the Emperor's letter to him, Pushkin took hold of it and kissed it again and again.
"Give me the letter; I wish to die with it. The letter; where is the letter?" he called out to Arendt, who was unable to leave it with him, but tried to pacify him by promising to ask the Emperor's permission to bring it back again.
At five in the morning the patient's anguish grew overpowering. The sufferer began to groan, and Arendt was again sent for. But all efforts to soothe the pain were futile. Had his wife heard his cries I am sure she must have gone mad; she could never have borne the agony. At the first great cry of pain the Princess Viasemsky, who was in the room, rushed towards her, fearing the effect. But Madame Pushkin lay motionless on a sofa close to the door which separated her from her husband's death-bed. According to both Spaski and Arendt the dying man stifled his cries at the moment of supreme anguish, and only groaned in fear lest his wife might hear him and suffer. To the last Pushkin's mind remained clear and his memory fresh. Before the next great paroxysm he asked for a paper in his own writing and had it burnt. Then he dictated to Dansasse a list of some debts, but this exertion prostrated him. When, between the paroxysms, some bread sop was brought, he said to Spaski:
"My wife! call my wife. Let her give it me."
She entered, dropped on her knees by his side, and after lifting a couple of spoonfuls to his mouth, leant her cheek against his. He caressed and patted her head.
"Come, come," he said, "I am all right. Thank God, all is going on well. Go now."
His calm expression of face and steady voice deceived the poor wife. She came out of his room bright with hope. He asked for his children. They were brought in half asleep: He blessed each one, making the sign of the cross, and placing his hand on their head; then he motioned to have them taken away. Afterwards he asked for his friends who were present. I then approached and took his hand, which was already cold, and inquired if I should give any message to the Emperor.
"Say that I am sorry I am leaving him. I should have been devoted to him."
On the 29th of January, at three in the afternoon, after two days of excruciating pain, Pushkin died. His death was regarded throughout Russia as a public calamity. In St. Petersburg disturbances were feared. It was thought that the people might lynch Heckeeren and his son. A secret funeral was arranged. The body was carried into the church late at night in the presence of some friends and relations; and in the neighbouring courtyards piquets were stationed. After the service the corpse was despatched to the province of Pskoff, and was buried in the monastery of the Assumption at Sviatogorsk, near Pushkin's property at Michailovskoe. The Emperor gave about 150,000 roubles to pay his debts and to bring out a complete edition of his works, besides granting a liberal pension to the widow.
On the 6th of June, 1880, was solemnly unveiled at Moscow a statue of Pushkin, erected by voluntary subscriptions from all parts of Russia.
Pushkin was slim and of middle height; in childhood his hair was fair and curly, but afterwards it turned dark brown. His eyes were light blue, his smile satirical, but good-natured and pleasant; his clever, expressive face bore evidence of his African descent, as did his quick and passionate nature. He was irritable, but kind and full of feeling; his conversation sparkled with wit and good humour, and his memory was prodigious. Pushkin, it has already been said, was of ancient lineage, but no Russian is sufficiently well-born to marry into the Imperial family, and when quite recently the Grand Duke Michael, grandson of the Emperor Nicholas, married without permission the granddaughter of Pushkin, he caused the liveliest dissatisfaction in the highest quarters. The bride may console herself by the reflection that her grandfather was, in the words of Gogol, "a rare phenomenon; a writer who gave to his country poems so admirable that they attracted the attention of the whole civilised world; a poet who won respect and love for the language, for the living Russian types, the customs, and national character of Russia. Such a writer is indeed a rarity."
THE QUEEN OF SPADES.
CHAPTER I.
There was a card party at the rooms of Narumoff, a lieutenant in the Horse Guards. A long winter night had passed unnoticed, and it was five o'clock in the morning when supper was served. The winners sat down to table with an excellent appetite; the losers let their plates remain empty before them. Little by little, however, with the assistance of the champagne, the conversation became animated, and was shared by all.
"How did you get on this evening, Surin?" said the host to one of his friends.
"Oh, I lost, as usual. I really have no luck. I play mirandole. You know that I keep cool. Nothing moves me; I never change my play, and yet I always lose."
"Do you mean to say that all the evening you did not once back the red? Your firmness of character surprises me."
"What do you think of Hermann?" said one of the party, pointing to a young Engineer officer.
"That fellow never made a bet or touched a card in his life, and yet he watches us playing until five in the morning."
"It interests me," said Hermann; "but I am not disposed to risk the necessary in view of the superfluous."
"Hermann is a German, and economical; that is the whole of the secret," cried Tomski. "But what is really astonishing is the Countess Anna Fedotovna!"
"How so?" asked several voices.
"Have you not remarked," said Tomski, "that she never plays?"
"Yes," said Narumoff, "a woman of eighty, who never touches a card; that is indeed something extraordinary!"
"You do not know why?"
"No; is there a reason for it?"
"Just listen. My grandmother, you know, some sixty years ago, went to Paris, and became the rage there. People ran after her in the streets, and called her the 'Muscovite Venus.' Richelieu made love to her, and my grandmother makes out that, by her rigorous demeanour, she almost drove him to suicide. In those days women used to play at faro. One evening at the court she lost, on parole, to the Duke of Orleans, a very considerable sum. When she got home, my grandmother removed her beauty spots, took off her hoops, and in this tragic costume went to my grandfather, told him of her misfortune, and asked him for the money she had to pay. My grandfather, now no more, was, so to say, his wife's steward. He feared her like fire; but the sum she named made him leap into the air. He flew into a rage, made a brief calculation, and proved to my grandmother that in six months she had got through half a million rubles. He told her plainly that he had no villages to sell in Paris, his domains being situated in the neighbourhood of Moscow and of Saratoff; and finally refused point blank. You may imagine the fury of my grandmother. She boxed his ears, and passed the night in another room.
"THE OLD MAGICIAN CAME AT ONCE."
"The next day she returned to the charge. For the first time in her life, she condescended to arguments and explanations. In vain did she try to prove to her husband that there were debts and debts, and that she could not treat a prince of the blood like her coachmaker.
"All this eloquence was lost. My grandfather was inflexible. My grandmother did not know where to turn. Happily she was acquainted with a man who was very celebrated at this time. You have heard of the Count