“Let her face be that of a sheep, if only her soul be human.”
At the end of two years Semyon Vasilyevich died of typhus fever. Before the end he sent for the parish priest, who looked with curiosity on the quondam Miss Korraito, stroked his full beard, and said meaningly, “N ... y ... es!” But it was evident that he respected Semyon Vasilyevich for his originality, although he looked on it as sinful.
When his reverence stooped down to the dying man, the latter gathered together the remnants of his strength, and opened his mouth wide to cry:
“I hate that black devil!”
But he recalled his Excellency, and the help from the reserve fund, he recalled the kindly Anton Ivanovich, and Nastenka, and looking at the black weeping countenance, said softly:
“Father, I love negresses very much. In them there is something exotic.”
With his last efforts he gave to his emaciated face the semblance of a happy smile, and expired with it on his lips.
And the earth received him without emotion, not asking whether he loved negresses or no, brought his body to corruption, mingled his bones with those of other dead people, and annihilated every trace of the white paper-collar.
But the Second Department long cherished the memory of Semyon Vasilyevich, and when the waiting petitioners began to grow weary, the porter would take them to his room to smoke, and would tell them tales of the wonderful civil-servant who was so awfully fond of negresses. And all, narrator and listeners, were pleased.
[4] Short of Semyon.—Tr.]