Boris Lensky

bore him. But now he would fain call them back, however indifferent all, however unsympathetic most of them are to him. At least they could dissipate the troop of recollections which pass throug

istic or from obstinacy; but he felt drawn to no one. His passions were of such a fleeting nature, left his heart so completely untouch

instincts, had been moderate in nothing, had submitted to nothing, had always preached that one must forget one's self, and yet could never quite forget himsel

lived for enjoyment; but enjoyment died when he touch

re and more become a group of contrasts seeking after effect. The inner voice which had formerly sung him such sweet songs was--not strong enough to be heard in the noisy confu

red him. He no longer listened to himself when he played, only sometimes, half unconsciously, all that wounded head and heart slipped into his fingers, and then he sobbed himself out

ot suspected that it would be so

se favor potentates have sued in vain; famous artists, and, finally, pale, poor girls whom a moment of morbid enthusi

stamps on the floor, as if he would stamp upon

itself from the throng

alie," he calls. She vanishes. It was

angel in the same breath with the others? He had loved her p

pped her, and strewn flowers at her feet, and she had been happy, and he with her. The children had come--how delightful all that was! Those were the golden years in his life--five, six years. Th

so easily that it had almost vexed him, so easi

terrible that he had thought he could not bear it. She also could not bear it, he imagined, bu

ar, tiny little slippers! There in the white bed, she, so long, so thin, with her poor wasted body, whose outline was so plainly visible under the covers, a white flannel covering with red stripes on the edge--he even remembered that. But, best of all, he remembered her, her wonderfully beautiful face. She raised herself from the pillows at his entrance, and greeted him with a smile that forgave

ome to take her soul. She had raised her wea

g, without eating. In the second night he had fallen asleep from unvanquishable weariness. He had dreamed of old times, of dead happiness. It seemed to him that he sat with her on the terrace of the country-house near St. Petersburg, where they had passed the mid-summer, the short

l, red flickering candles by a blooming wall of flowers--ah! how beautiful she still was! He bent over the coffin and raised her from the white satin cushi

m his watch over the corpse, he had found him

ly loved; but she had not been able to protect hi

had been left as it was before she had been carried out, in which all looked as if she must come back. And when he had at length resolved to leave Rome, he had passed a few months quietly and soberly with his children. He had even tried to w

w pushed out of his way with a violent haste, as if she were merely an inconvenient burden for him.

, restless, joyless, without peace, always idolized, raved over, only still madder in the waste of h

ndered to a pile of papers which lay on the table in the centre of the room--thirty, forty copies of that numbe

himself. "Bah! how long could that yet last?" He did not deceive himself; t

w nothing more of me; I am growing old!" he gasped out. Suddenly he seiz

row old without the courage to calmly submit, to be like a languish

etter to break with all, to devote himself t

most to the boundaries of insanity! There could be no more talk of that; it was too

shine and air, and motion, color, and sound, and then all dark, a great black blur, nothing more--death. Yes, it was that. Perhaps it would come to-morrow, perha

thirstily longing expression. It was like the sob of a tormented soul which has forgotten to take the way to heave

a certain period of life, quite all great Russian minds fall victim? However this may be, he would

of him. He stretches out his arms--it is gone! He shakes as with frost, sweat stands upon his brow. He thought of t

such a thing! There is nothing but life! And while the longing for the unattainabl