Now father began to speak, slowly, reverently.
"If you, professor, have to send word—or perhaps Mr.
Gardener—somebody we must take care of—a command, if you have—"
The professor looked at him sternly, saying but one word:
"Nothing."
Father was still waiting.
"Absolutely nothing," repeated the professor. "I have died, but I have four days yet. I live those here, my dear old friend, with you. But I don't go back any more. I don't even turn my face backward. I don't want to know where the others live. I don't want life, old man. It is not honorable to go back. Go, my friend—go to bed."
Father shook hands with them and disappeared. General Gardener sat stiffly on his chair. The professor gazed into the air.
I began to be aware of all that had happened here. These two apparently dead men had come back from the cemetery, but how, in what manner, by what means? I don't understand it perfectly even now. There, in the small room, near to the cemetery, they were living their few remaining days. They did not want to go back again into life.
I shuddered. During these few minutes I seemed to have learned the meaning of life and of death. Now I myself felt that the life of the city was at a vast distance. I had a feeling that the professor was right. It was not worth while. I, too, felt tired, tired of life, like the professor, the feverish, clever, serious old man who came from the coffin and was sitting there in his grave clothes waiting for the final death.
They did not speak a word to each other. They were simply waiting. I did not have power to move away from the crack in the wall through which I saw them.