would be astrange subject indeed. And what sort of a picture would that make?”
“Oh, why not?” the prince insisted, with some warmth. “When I was inBasle I saw a picture very much in that style--I should like to tell youabout it; I will some time or other; it struck me very forcibly.”
“Oh, you shall tell us about the Basle picture another time; now we musthave all about the execution,” said Adelaida. “Tell us about that faceas it appeared to your imagination--how should it be drawn?--just theface alone, do you mean?”
“It was just a minute before the execution,” began the prince, readily,carried away by the recollection and evidently forgetting everythingelse in a moment; “just at the instant when he stepped off the ladder onto the scaffold. He happened to look in my direction: I saw his eyes andunderstood all, at once--but how am I to describe it? I do so wish youor somebody else could draw it, you, if possible. I thought at the timewhat a picture it would make. You must imagine all that went before, ofcourse, all--all. He had lived in the prison for some time and had notexpected that the execution would take place for at least a week yet--hehad counted on all the formalities and so on taking time; but it sohappened that his papers had been got ready quickly. At five o’clock inthe morning he was asleep--it was October, and at five in the morningit was cold and dark. The governor of the prison comes in on tip-toe andtouches the sleeping man’s shoulder gently. He starts up. ‘What is it?’he says. ‘The execution is fixed for ten o’clock.’ He was only justawake, and would not believe at first, but began to argue that hispapers would not be out for a week, and so on. When he was wide awakeand realized the truth, he became very silent and argued no more--sothey say; but after a bit he said: ‘It comes very hard on one sosuddenly’ and then he was silent again and said nothing.
“The three or four hours went by, of course, in necessarypreparations--the priest, breakfast, (coffee, meat, and some wine theygave him; doesn’t it seem ridiculous?) And yet I believe these peoplegive them a good breakfast out of pure kindness of heart, and believethat they are doing a good action. Then he is dressed, and then beginsthe procession through the town to the scaffold. I think he, too,must feel that he has an age to live still while they cart him along.Probably he thought, on the way, ‘Oh, I have a long, long time yet.Three streets of life yet! When we’ve passed this street there’ll bethat other one; and then that one where the baker’s shop is on theright; and when shall we get there? It’s ages, ages!’ Around him arecrowds shouting, yelling--ten thousand faces, twenty thousand eyes.All this has to be endured, and especially the thought: ‘Here are tenthousand men, and not one of them is going to be executed, and yet I amto die.’ Well, all that is preparatory.
“At the scaffold there is a ladder, and just there he burst intotears--and this was a strong man, and a terribly wicked one, they say!There was a priest with him the whole time, talking; even in the cartas they drove along, he talked and talked. Probably the other heardnothing; he would begin to listen now and then, and at the third word orso he had forgotten all about it.
“At last he began to mount the steps; his legs were tied, so that he hadto take very small steps. The priest, who seemed to be a wise man, hadstopped talking now, and only held the cross for the wretched fellow tokiss. At the foot of the ladder he had been pale enough; but when he setfoot on the scaffold at the top, his face suddenly became the colourof paper, positively like white notepaper. His legs must have becomesuddenly feeble and helpless, and he felt a choking in his throat--youknow the sudden feeling one has in moments of terrible fear, when onedoes not lose one’s wits, but is absolutely powerless to move? If somedreadful thing were suddenly to happen; if a house were just about tofall on one;--don’t you know how one would long to sit down and shutone’s eyes and wait, and wait? Well, when this terrible feeling cameover him, the priest quickly pressed the cross to his lips, without aword--a little silver cross it was--and he kept on pressing it to theman’s lips every second. And whenever the cross touched his lips, theeyes would open for a moment, and the legs moved once, and he kissed thecross greedily, hurriedly--just as though he were anxious to catch holdof something in case of its being useful to him afterwards, though hecould hardly have had any connected religious thoughts at the time. Andso up to the very block.
“How strange that criminals seldom swoon at such a moment! Onthe contrary, the brain is especially active, and worksincessantly--probably hard, hard, hard--like an engine at full pressure.I imagine that various thoughts must beat loud and fast throughhis head--all unfinished ones, and strange, funny thoughts, verylikely!--like this, for instance: ‘That man is looking at me, and hehas a wart on his forehead! and the executioner has burst one of hisbuttons, and the lowest one is all rusty!’ And meanwhile he notices andremembers everything. There is one point that cannot be forgotten, roundwhich everything else dances and turns about; and because of thispoint he cannot faint, and this lasts until the very final quarter ofa second, when the wretched neck is on the block and the victim listensand waits and _knows_--that’s the point, he _knows_ that he is just _now_about to die, and listens for the rasp of the iron over his head. If Ilay there, I should certainly listen for that grating sound, and hearit, too! There would probably be but the tenth part of an instant leftto hear it in, but one would certainly hear it. And imagine, some peopledeclare that when the head flies off it is _conscious_ of having flownoff! Just imagine what a thing to realize! Fancy if consciousness wereto last for even five seconds!
“Draw the scaffold so that only the top step of the ladder comes inclearly. The criminal must be just stepping on to it, his face as whiteas note-paper. The priest is holding the cross to his blue lips, and thecriminal kisses it, and knows and sees and understands everything.The cross and the head--there’s your picture; the priest and theexecutioner, with his two assistants, and a few heads and eyes below.Those might come in as subordinate accessories--a sort of mist. There’sa picture for you.” The prince paused, and looked around.
“Certainly that isn’t much like quietism,” murmured Alexandra, half toherself.
“Now tell us about your love affairs,” said Adelaida, after a moment’spause.
The prince gazed at her in amazement.
“You know,” Adelaida continued, “you owe us a description of the Baslepicture; but first I wish to hear how you fell in love. Don’t deny thefact, for you did, of course. Besides, you stop philosophizing when youare telling about anything.”
“Why are you ashamed of your stories the moment after you have toldthem?” asked Aglaya, suddenly.
“How silly you are!” said Mrs. Epanchin, looking indignantly towards thelast speaker.
“Yes, that wasn’t a clever remark,” said Alexandra.
“Don’t listen to her, prince,” said Mrs. Epanchin; “she says that sortof thing out of mischief. Don’t think anything of their nonsense, itmeans nothing. They love to chaff, but they like you. I can see it intheir faces--I know their faces.”
“I know their faces, too,” said the prince, with a peculiar stress onthe words.
“How so?” asked Adelaida, with curiosity.
“What do _you_ know about our faces?” exclaimed the other two, in chorus.
But the prince was silent and serious. All awaited his reply.
“I’ll tell you afterwards,” he said quietly.
“Ah, you want to arouse our curiosity!” said Aglaya. “And how terriblysolemn you are about it!”
“Very well,” interrupted Adelaida, “then if you can read faces so well,you _must_ have been in love. Come now; I’ve guessed--let’s have thesecret!”
“I have not been in love,” said the prince, as quietly and seriously asbefore. “I have been happy in another way.”
“How, how?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said the prince, apparently in a deep reverie.
VI.
“Here you all are,” began the prince, “settling yourselves down tolisten to me with so much curiosity, that if I do not satisfy you youw
ill probably be angry with me. No, no! I’m only joking!” he added,hastily, with a smile.
“Well, then--they were all children there, and I was always amongchildren and only with children. They were the children of the villagein which I lived, and they went to the school there--all of them. I didnot teach them, oh no; there was a master for that, one Jules Thibaut.I may have taught them some things, but I was among them just as anoutsider, and I passed all four years of my life there among them.I wished for nothing better; I used to tell them everything and hidnothing from them. Their fathers and relations were very angry with me,because the children could do nothing without me at last, and used tothrong after me at all times. The schoolmaster was my greatest enemyin the end! I had many enemies, and all because of the children. EvenSchneider reproached me. What were they afraid of? One can tell a childeverything, anything. I have often been struck by the fact that parentsknow their children so little. They should not conceal so much fromthem. How well even little children understand that their parentsconceal things from them, because
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