"'At first!' Do you think I can stop wanting you, grieving for you—ever?"
She could smile, that dying one, in her great wisdom, at this passionate repudiation of the balm of time. To her, it appeared, the secrets of the dead had been already revealed. "You are still very young, dear boy. None of us of the world can escape this pain of parting. 'Death is the last enemy that shall be overcome.' The time is not long, Ivan, before you will take on man's full estate. Shall you remember then what I, your mother, have suffered—through a man?—through your father, Ivan?"
His expression turned to one of surprise. Never had she spoken, even indirectly, on this subject to him before. But he answered at once: "Yes, mother. I know. I shall remember."
"Ah, yes—keep that remembrance—all of it! You will be a man of power, of influence. When you marry a good woman, Ivan, then think of me most of all. You have in you Gregoriev blood, and all Gregorievs have been like your father. You must change that, break that tradition. Will you remember? Will you—pro—"
The speech had been a long one, and, syllable by syllable, her voice had been growing weaker. Now, with a word half uttered, she settled back, gasping violently, her eyes half shut. Ivan started to his feet; but already the nurse was by the bed, forcing cognac and water down the Princess' throat. Ivan stood still, tightly clasping one of those chilly hands. He was waiting anxiously for her to speak again; for to him their talk was not finished. His mother, however, seemed to think differently. Her hand tightened upon his, but she had the air of one satisfied, content with all things. The boy, watching her, understood that she desired nothing more.
Presently the others stole softly in again, and Sophia drew her sister, by a look, to the bed, beside Ivan, and made one more effort of speech:
"Katrisha—remember—Ivan. He is—mine. When he—goes—to Petersburg—care for him—for—my sake!"
"Ah, yes, Moussia! Yes! Ivan shall be cared for—well!" murmured Caroline, brokenly.
Sophia, her dim eyes resting on them both, smiled.
In the midst of this came an interruption. The smile vanished, and a gleam of dread crossed the face of the Princess, who had started forward a little, and seemed to listen. Indeed, there was the sound of a muffled tread approaching the door. Another instant, and Michael, entering, went to the bedside, and stood looking down upon his wife. White and strange was his face, and Madame Dravikine perceived that his hands were trembling. She saw also, however, how Sophia drew away from him, how the labor of her breathing was increased. Every one in the room started when the dying woman's right hand was raised from the sheet and pointed at the dark and powerful figure bending near.