And in the room everything grows darker and darker…. The candle which has burned low begins to flicker; white shadows waver across the low ceiling; the frost creaks and snarls beyond the wall—and I seem to hear a tedious, senile whisper:
"How fair, how fresh were the roses…."
Other images rise up before me…. I hear the merry murmur of family, of country life. Two red-gold little heads, leaning against each other, gaze bravely at me with their bright eyes; the red cheeks quiver with suppressed laughter; their hands are affectionately intertwined; their young, kind voices ring out, vying with each other; and a little further away, in the depths of a snug room, other hands, also young, are flying about, with fingers entangled, over the keys of a poor little old piano, and the Lanner waltz cannot drown the grumbling of the patriarchal samovár….
"How fair, how fresh were the roses…."
The candle flares up and dies out…. Who is that coughing yonder so hoarsely and dully? Curled up in a ring, my aged dog, my sole companion, is nestling and quivering at my feet…. I feel cold…. I am shivering … and they are all dead … all dead….
"How fair, how fresh were the roses."
Septembers 1879.
A SEA VOYAGE
I sailed from Hamburg to London on a small steamer. There were two of us passengers: I and a tiny monkey, a female of the ouistiti breed, which a Hamburg merchant was sending as a gift to his English partner.
She was attached by a slender chain to one of the benches on the deck, and threw herself about and squeaked plaintively, like a bird.