The Genius

by Margaret Horton Potter

In the January of 1872, Michael Gregoriev entered upon his seventy-fourth year. Up to this time he had held his age back in the leash of an iron will. Death was, to him, the one unconquerable terror; and he was determined to hold it off as long as human mortality might. To the danger of personal attack in which he hourly dwelt, he was absolutely indifferent. But with the least suggestion of physical suffering, the thought of the relentless approach of that blank nothingness of death gripped him till his brow grew cold, and his limbs trembled.

Up to the Christmas of that year he had kept the appearance of a man in his fifties. Then, quite suddenly, his failure began. He was himself aware of it in December. By the end of January it was the great topic of the kitchen. In mid-lent the Governor remarked upon it to the Governor-General;—and hope began to stir in a hundred hearts: hope of a long despaired-of release from the terrors of an invincible blackmail.

Up to the middle of March he managed to get about alone. But as the breath of spring began to make itself perceptible in the icy air, Michael was forced secretly to realize that will and body were on the verge of divorce. On the afternoon of March 13th, his sleigh was announced, ready to drive him across the city to a council with his colleagues of the police. His furs—cap and coat—were up-stairs in his bedroom. Piotr delayed answering his ring. At the end of five minutes the Prince, raging like a school-boy, left the house coatless, wearing only a common felt hat, and in that guise drove for more than two miles in the open troika. It was a performance not unique; but it was destined to be his last.

Prince Michael was carried home from the council and put to bed, burning with fever. Two days later the whole city sat awaiting the six-hour bulletins that recounted the state of the mysterious official, whose attack of double pneumonia was as serious as it was sudden. The notice of the morning of April 3d read thus:

"His Excellency has passed a critical night, and this morning it is feared that there is slight hope of recovery."

By noon of that day Ivan was speeding across the city in his father's sleigh, with Piotr, who had been sent for him, at his side.

During the drive, Ivan did not speak. By this time he had somewhat recovered from the shock of the news of three days before. But Piotr's word that his father was actually dying, brought up those thoughts which, hitherto, he had resolutely refused to consider. And, as his mind wavered through innumerable irrelevant subjects, he was subconsciously wondering why, in all the years of his banishment, the possibility of reinstatement and the inheritance of that enormous fortune, had never once entered his head. That his casting-off had been final, he had not doubted. Who had known Michael Gregoriev to forgive?—And now—even now, how could he have the faintest assurance that this summons meant forgiveness?—No. His watchword must still be:—Wait.

When at last the flying vehicle halted at the familiar portal, the heavy door swung open on the instant, and Ivan found himself facing a sharp-eyed, lean-jawed man of forty-five, who announced himself one of the doctors in attendance, and begged "his Excellency" to come up-stairs at once. Marvelling at the form of address and the vast respect of him who had used it, Ivan followed, docilely, and soon found himself in the antechamber to one of the state bedrooms, in which, it appeared, Prince Michael had been installed. Here the stranger halted, and proceeded to give Ivan the details of his father's condition. These were of the worst; and Dr. Fröl Pavaniev strove in no way to make them appear better.—It was a peculiar form of flattery, but one heretofore used with excellent effect.—Ivan, however, failed to appreciate it; and presently pushed past the pessimist, flung open the bedroom door, and—paused. A sound had reached his ears that struck him to the heart: a high, feeble, gasping wail, that was repeated again and again. Ivan shuddered, and immediately the smooth voice whispered in his ear:

"It is merely his breathing.—The lungs are nearly filled you see; and his weakness is too great to repress the sound. However, we must not expect—"

But once more Ivan shook off the unbearable man, and walked into the room. It was a great, tapestried chamber, dusky in the early candle-light, furnished with heavily carved chairs and chests, and a huge, four-posted bed. In a distant corner stood a man bending over a tiny oil-stove, and stirring the contents of a steaming dish that stood thereon. Beside the bed was a sister of mercy, with the white coif on her smooth hair, her white robes girdled at the waist by a rosary which she fingered, mechanically. Finally, in the bed, shaded by curtains which, on one side, were drawn tight, on the other thrust wide apart, lay the huge form from which issued those ceaseless, sobbing breaths.