and long
alone I gazed upon his face. Never had I beheld upon that countenance
any thing like that which was upon it in this first moment of death. His
head was somewhat bent forward; the hands, which a few moments ago had
exhibited a kind of convulsive movement, were calmly stretched, as if
they had just fallen into an attitude of repose after some heavy labour.
But that which was expressed in the face, I am not able to tell in
words. It was to me something so new, and at the same time so familiar.
This was not either sleep or repose; it was not the expression of
intellect which was before so peculiar to the face; nor was it the
poetic expression; no! some mighty, some wondrous thought was unfolded
in it: something resembling vision, some full, complete,
deeply-satisfying knowledge. Gazing upon it, I felt an irresistible
desire to ask him, "What do you see, my friend?" And what would he have
answered if he had been able for a moment to arise? There are moments in
our life which fully deserve the epithet of great. At this moment, I may
say, I beheld the face of death itself, divinely-mysterious; the face of
death without a veil between. And what a seal was that she had stamped
upon him, and how wondrously did she tell her secret and his own! I most
solemnly assure you that I never beheld upon his face an expression of
such deep, majestic, such triumphant _thought_. The expression had
undoubtedly been latent in the face before; but it was only displayed
in all its purity then, when all earthly things had vanished from his
sight at the approach of death. Such was the end of our Pushkin. I will
describe in a few words what followed. Most fortunately, I remembered,
before it was too late, that it was necessary to take a cast of the
mask; this was executed without loss of time. His features had not yet
entirely changed. It cannot be denied that the first expression which
death had given them, was not preserved in them; but we now all possess
an attractive portrait, a fac-simile of the features, and which
images--not death, but a deep, majestic slumber. I will not relate to
you the state in which was the poor wife--many good friends remained
inseparably with her, the Princess Viazemskii, Elizabeth Zaguajskii, the
Count and Countess Stroganoff. The Count took upon himself all the
arrangements for the funeral. After remaining some time longer in the
house, I went away to Vielhorskii's to dinner; there were assembled all
the oth