‘And what became of Varia?’ asked some
one.
‘I don’t know,’ answered the story-teller.
We all got up and separated.
1864.
A few years ago I was in Dresden. I was staying
at an hotel. From early morning till late evening
I strolled about the town, and did not think it necessary
to make acquaintance with my neighbours; at last it
reached my ears in some chance way that there was a
Russian in the hotel—lying ill. I
went to see him, and found a man in galloping consumption.
I had begun to be tired of Dresden; I stayed with my
new acquaintance. It’s dull work sitting
with a sick man, but even dulness is sometimes agreeable;
moreover, my patient was not low-spirited and was
very ready to talk. We tried to kill time in all
sorts of ways; We played ‘Fools,’ the
two of us together, and made fun of the doctor.
My compatriot used to tell this very bald-headed German
all sorts of fictions about himself, which the doctor
had always ’long ago anticipated.’
He used to mimic his astonishment at any new, exceptional
symptom, to throw his medicines out of window, and
so on. I observed more than once, however, to
my friend that it would be as well to send for a good
doctor before it was too late, that his complaint was
not to be trifled with, and so on. But Alexey
(my new friend’s name was Alexey Petrovitch
S——) always turned off my advice
with jests at the expense of doctors in general, and
his own in particular; and at last one rainy autumn
evening he answered my urgent entreaties with such
a mournful look, he shook his head so sorrowfully
and smiled so strangely, that I felt somewhat disconcerted.
The same night Alexey was worse, and the next day
he died. Just before his death his usual cheerfulness
deserted him; he tossed about uneasily in his bed,
sighed, looked round him in anguish ... clutched at
my hand, and whispered with an effort, ’But
it’s hard to die, you know ... dropped his head
on the pillow, and shed tears. I did not know
what to say to him, and sat in silence by his bed.
But Alexey soon got the better of these last, late
regrets.... ’I say,’ he said to me,
’our doctor’ll come to-day and find me
dead.... I can fancy his face.’...
And the dying man tried to mimic him. He asked
me to send all his things to Russia to his relations,
with the exception of a small packet which he gave
me as a souvenir.
This packet contained letters—a girl’s
letters to Alexey, and copies of his letters to her.
There were fifteen of them. Alexey Petrovitch
S—— had known Marya Alexandrovna
B—— long before, in their childhood,
I fancy. Alexey Petrovitch had a cousin, Marya
Alexandrovna had a sister. In former years they
had all lived together; then they had been separated,
and had not seen each other for a long while.
Later on, they had chanced one summer to be all together
again in the country, and they had fallen in love—Alexey’s
