"'Tell her, Your Well-Born, that she must not do herself an injury….
For I have already forgiven her.'"
As my friend repeated these last words of his servant, he whispered: "Egórushka[76] darling, just man!"—and the tears dripped down his aged cheeks.
August, 1879.
WHAT SHALL I THINK?…
What shall I think when I come to die,—if I am then in a condition to think?
Shall I think what a bad use I have made of my life, how I have dozed it through, how I have not known how to relish its gifts?
"What? Is this death already? So soon? Impossible! Why, I have not succeeded in accomplishing anything yet…. I have only been preparing to act!"
Shall I recall the past, pause over the thought of the few bright moments I have lived through, over beloved images and faces?
Will my evil deeds present themselves before my memory, and will the corrosive grief of a belated repentance descend upon my soul?
Shall I think of what awaits me beyond the grave … yes, and whether anything at all awaits me there?