For much I fear that o’er my corse
The scalding tears of friends shall flow,
And that, too late, they should with zeal
Fresh flowers upon my body throw.
That fate sardonic should recall
The ones I loved to my cold side,
And make me lying in the ground,
The object of love once denied.
That all my aching heart’s desires,
So vainly sought for from my birth,
Should crowd unbidden, smiling kind
Above my body’s mound of earth.
Nejdanov thought that it was too sad and too bitter. He could not have written a poem like that, he added, as he had no fears of any one weeping over his grave ... there would be no tears.
“There will be if I outlive you,” Mariana observed slowly, and lifting her eyes to the ceiling she asked, in a whisper, as if speaking to herself:
“How did he do the portrait of me? From memory?”
Nejdanov turned to her quickly.
“Yes, from memory.”
Mariana was surprised at his reply. It seemed to her that she merely thought the question. “It is really wonderful ...” she continued in the same tone of voice. “Why, he can’t draw at all. What was I talking about?” she added aloud. “Oh yes, it was about Dobrolubov’s poems. One ought to write poems like Pushkin’s, or even like Dobrolubov’s. It is not poetry exactly, but something nearly as good.”
“And poems like mine one should not write at all. Isn’t that so?” Nejdanov asked.