“I had a dream lately, daddy; Afrossinia was sitting at night on a snow-covered field; naked and sad to look at, as though dead, and she was rocking a babe which also seemed dead. She was singing with tears in her voice this very song:
It sinks, it sinks, does my blue wreath!
It sinks, sinks, does my heart’s breath!
The flowers have gone to their death
With him, who was my light!”
Peter listened, and pity, wild, terrible, cruel pity, gnawed at his heart like some fierce beast.
The Tsarevitch sang and wept. Then he laid his head on the table, knocking over the wine glass. A blood-red stain spread on the tablecloth. He put his hand under his head, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
Peter gazed for a long time at this pale lifeless face resting on the blood-red stain.
The orderly entered and announced that the horses were ready. Peter got up, he glanced for the last time at his son, bent over him and kissed his brow. The Tsarevitch did not open his eyes, yet in his sleep he smiled at his father with just that tender smile, as when a child the father used to take him in his arms asleep.
The Tsar left the hall unnoticed. The orgie continued. He took his place in the carriage and started off for Petersburg.