him, begging for a mitigation of the fate of any exiled Decembrists, or of the Poles who were suffering for love of their native land (the very quality he himself extolled), he expanded his chest, fixed his leaden eyes on anything they happened to rest on, and said: “Too soon! Let them continue to serve …” as if he knew the right time, and when it would cease to be too soon. And all about him—Generals and Chamberlains and their wives, who got their living from him—went into raptures at the extraordinary penetration and wisdom of this great man.
On the whole, however, there was more joy than pain in the Migoúrskis’ lives.
They lived thus for five years. Suddenly they were overwhelmed by a terrible and unexpected sorrow. First, their little girl fell ill, and two days later their boy also. For three days he lay burning with fever, and on the fourth he died, without medical aid (no doctor was within reach). Two days later, the little girl died too.
If Albína did not drown herself in the Urál River, it was only because she could not think without terror of the state her husband would be in when he heard of her suicide. But it was hard for her to live. Formerly always active and busy, she now left all her duties to Ludwíka, and sat for hours listlessly and silently gazing at anything her eyes fell upon; or she would start up and run into her own little room, and there—regardless of her husband’s or Ludwíka’s condolences—would weep softly, only shaking her head and asking them to go away and leave her alone.
When summer came, she would go to her children’s grave and sit there, rending her heart with memories of what had been, and with thoughts of what might have been. She was specially tortured by the idea that the children might have remained alive had they lived in a town where they could have received medical aid. “Why? What for?” thought she. “Josy and I want nothing from anyone, except that he should be allowed to live