ry, it was not to be wondered at; but the sympathy of
foreigners was to me as gratifying as it was unlooked for. We were
losing something of our own; was it wonderful that _we_ should grieve?
But what was it that could touch _them_ so sensibly? It is not difficult
to answer this. Genius is the property of all. In bowing down before
genius all nations are brethren; and when it vanishes untimely from the
earth, all will follow its departure with one brotherly lamentation.
Pushkin, with respect to his genius, belonged not to Russia alone, but
to all Europe; and it was therefore that many foreigners approached his
door with feelings of _personal_ sorrow, and mourned for _our_ Pushkin
as if he had been _their own_. But let me return to my recital. Though
he sent Dahl to console his wife with hope, Pushkin himself did not
entertain the slightest. Once he enquired, "_What o'clock is it?_" and
on Dahl's informing him, he continued, in an interrupted voice, "_Have I
... long ... to ... be tortured thus?... Pray ... haste!_" This he
repeated several times afterwards, "_Will the end be soon?_" and he
always added, "_Pray ... make haste!_" In general, however, (after the
torments of the first night, which lasted two hours,) he was
astonishingly patient. When the pain and anguish overcame him, he made
movements with his hands, or uttered at intervals a kind of stifled
groan, but so that it was hardly audible "You must bear it, my dear
fellow; there is nothing to be done," said Dahl to him; "but don't be
ashamed of your pain; groan, it will ease you." "_No_," he replied,
interruptedly; "_no,... it is of no ... use to ... groan;... my wife ...
will ... hear;... 'tis absurd ... that such a trifle ... should ...
master me,... I will not_."--I left him at five o'clock in the morning,
and returned in a couple of hours. Having observed, that the night had
been tolerably quiet, I went home with an impression almost of hope; but
on my return I found I had deceived myself. Arendt assured me
confidently that all was over, and that he could not live out the day.
As he predicted, the pulse now grew weaker, and began to sink
perceptibly; the hands began to be cold. He was lying with his eyes
closed; it was only from time to time he raised his hand to take a piece
of ice and rub his forehead with it. It had struck two o'clock in the
afternoon, and Pushkin had only three quarters of an hour left to live.
He opened his eyes, and asked for some cloud-b