Then thoughts of the past chased each other quickly across his mind, like clouds across a summer sky. All the events of his life seemed to crowd upon him, and to pass in review before him “like a tale that is told.” First came visions of his early years,—his village home, his boyhood’s friends, his dear lord, Prince Pojarsky, with the face of Ivan grown older; then his own struggles as a man,—his efforts to secure an honourable place in the world, to gain wealth, character, and the esteem of all. But these things flitted lightly by, and did not stay. What came and stayed, fresh and vivid as though he saw them even now, were the faces that he loved—faces over which the grave had closed long ago. “Yesterday they seemed so far; to-day they are close at hand. I shall see them before another sun has set,” he thought. The wife of his youth came back, young and fair as on her bridal day. Scarce younger and not less fair, so like that they seemed to mingle into one sweet all-pervading presence, was that child of his heart, so tenderly loved, so deeply mourned. As the Hebrew patriarch, casting a retrospective glance over his long and weary pilgrimage, rested the wistful gaze of his dying eye upon one chief unforgotten sorrow—“As for me, when I came from Padan, Rachel died by me in the land of Canaan”—so it was with Feodor Petrovitch. A passionate yearning swept over him to see his daughter’s face, to hear her voice again.
By-and-by another change came. It was no longer faces that haunted him, but voices—voices and footsteps. The little feet of his grandchildren pattered around him; he heard their merry shouts, their ringing laughter at their play. He felt tempted to call them; he almost believed that if he called they would come to him. At last he heard the footstep that he loved best—so plain, so near, that he thought he must be dreaming. How strangely fancy must be cheating him! Surely that was Feodor—his Feodor—trying in jest, as he was wont to do, to steal upon him unawares and surprise him. Surely, as in the old happy days, the boy had slipped off his lapti, and was stepping softly and noiselessly upon the rugs that strewed the floor. Surely he was close to him now—his breath was touching his very cheek. All unconsciously the name escaped his lips, and he called aloud, “Feodor!”
“Dädushka” the voice he loved seemed to answer.
“O God!” sobbed the old man, for the first time completely unnerved, “leave me my senses. Do not let me lose myself in vain delirious dreams. Grant that I may give up my soul to thee in peace.”
“Dädushka, do not be afraid. It is I—it is your little Feodor.” And now he knew it was no dream, for Feodor’s arms were around him, Feodor’s face was buried in his breast.
“Did you think I could leave you, dädushka? Did you think I could really go away with the others? Of course I pretended to go; but I watched my opportunity, slipped off, and came back to you as soon as I dared. I have been hiding ever since.”
“My child, my child, I must send you from me.”
“Dädushka, you must not, for I cannot go. Listen—I have sworn upon bended knees before the picture of my saint that where you die there will I die also.”
“My boy, I cannot have it—the old have so little life to give, the young so much!”
“Dädushka, I will not live after you; for am I not yours altogether? My mother is dead, and my father too. You have ever been to me instead of both. I have nothing in the world but you. But what need of words?” said the boy, drawing up his slender figure to its full height; “I have sworn.”