It was six months later, when his wife and his son Vassili come to the prison to bid him farewell, when, in the thin, little old woman, dressed like a beggar, he scarcely recognized his once dignified and stout Elizaveta Trofimovna, when he saw his son dressed in an old, tattered suit, instead of the bright uniform of his school, only then did he realize that his doom was sealed, and that, whatever be the new "decision"' the past would never come back. And for the first time since his trial and imprisonment, he lost the angry expression of his face, and burst into bitter tears.
Before the Grave.
By S. J. Nadson.
Translated for "The Russian Review."
Again alone, again the gloom,
The night and darkness spread around,
And, contemplating man's drear doom,
I stand before the fresh-heaped mound.
Why live and strive? What prize above
The common, can there be in store?
There's no one now for me to love,
No one to pray to, and adore.
