Short Fiction Xavier de Maistre (ebook reader for pc txt) đ
- Author: Xavier de Maistre
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Prascovia shortly afterwards left the latter place, followed by the good wishes and regrets of all her acquaintance and companions. She was obliged to wait two months at her new residence, before she could be put in possession of a small wooden house of two cells, which she had caused to be constructed for herself and her friend, for want of such accommodation in the convent. Yet, she was considered as belonging to it, and all the sisters, who were already acquainted with her, looked upon her arrival as a great happiness, and gladly performed those duties for her, which were beyond her strength.
She lived in this way, until the close of 1809; and, like most persons afflicted with consumption, Prascovia, though resigned to an early death, did not think that her end was near. On the evening before her death, she walked with less fatigue than she had for some time before, through the convent, and, wrapped in a pelisse, sat down at the steps to enjoy the exhilarating influence of the sun, on a wintry day. She mused pensively on the events of her life, and remembered the more vividly those of her infancy, as the aspect of nature contributed to carry her back to Siberia. Observing some travellers glide rapidly before her in a sledge, her heart began to beat as if kindled by some cheering recollections. âNext spring,â she said to her friend, âif I am well enough, I will pay a visit to my parents at Vladimir, and you shall go with me.â Her eyes beamed with joy, while death already discoloured her lips. Her companion could not without difficulty assume a composed countenance and contain her tears.
On the next day, the eighth of December, 1809, the festival of St. Barbara, she had still strength to go into the church to partake of the communion, but at three oâclock she was so reduced, that she laid herself undressed on her bed, to take, as she thought, a little repose. Several of her companions were in the cell, and, not aware of her situation, talked gaily and laughed, in the hope of amusing her. But their presence became soon too fatiguing for her, and when the vesper bell was rung, she desired them to join their sisters in the chapel, and recommended herself to their prayers. âYou may yet today,â she said, âpray for my recovery, but in a few weeks you will mention me, in the prayers for the dead.â Her friend alone remained, and she begged her to read to her the evening service as she was accustomed to do. The young nun, kneeling at the foot of the bed, began to sing in a low voice. But after the first verses, the dying Prascovia having made her a sign with her hand, accompanied by a faint smile on her lips, she rose, bent over her, and could with difficulty catch these words: âMy dear friend, do not sing, it prevents me from praying; read only.â
The nun kneeled again, and while she recited the orisons, her expiring friend made, from time to time, the sign of the cross. The room was now becoming dark.
When the nuns re-entered with candles, Prascovia was dead. Her right hand was extended over her breast, as when she crossed herself for the last time.
EndnotesBĂȘte is not translatable here. The English word âanimalâ is hardly nearer than âbeast.â BĂȘte is a milder word than âbeast,â and when used metaphorically, implies silliness rather than brutality. In some cases our âcreatureâ would translate it, Pauvre bĂȘte! âPoor creature!â ââ Attwell â©
Vide Werther, chapter XXVIII. ââ Attwell â©
The reader will probably have been reminded of the âSentimental Journeyâ before reaching this proof of our authorâs acquaintance with the writings of Sterne. ââ Attwell â©
A fashionable milliner of the time. ââ Attwell â©
This work was not published. ââ Attwell â©
The botanical garden of Turin. ââ Attwell â©
Richardsonâs Clarissa Harlowe. ââ Attwell â©
Goetheâs Werther. ââ Attwell â©
Cleveland, by the AbbĂ© PrĂ©vost. ââ Attwell â©
Some freedom of translation is, perhaps, pardonable here. Our author, depending, it would seem, upon his memory, gives Satan wings large enough âto cover a whole army.â It was âthe extended wingsâ of the gates of hell, not of Satan, that Milton describes as wide enough to admit a âbannered host.â Paradise Lost, II 885. ââ Attwell â©
A popular Turin physician when the âVoyageâ was written. ââ Attwell â©
A title known at the Sardinian court. ââ Attwell â©
Andrews translates the dogâs name as âRosine.â We have changed it here to âRoseâ for consistency with Attwellâs translation in âA Journey Round My Room.â ââ S.E. Editor â©
Andrews translates this as âthe other one.â We have changed it here to âthe otherâ for consistency with Attwellâs translation in âA Journey Round My Room.â ââ S.E. Editor â©
âOn the Happiness of
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