Historical fiction; Russia -- Social conditions -- 1801-1917 -- Fiction
“He said that those five minutes seemed to him to be a most
interminable period, an enormous wealth of time; he seemed to be
living, in these minutes, so many lives that there was no need as yet
to think of that last moment, so that he made several arrangements,
dividing up the time into portions—one for saying farewell to his
companions, two minutes for that; then a couple more for thinking over
his own life and career and all about himself; and another minute for a
last look around. He remembered having divided his time like this quite
well. While saying good-bye to his friends he recollected asking one of
them some very usual everyday question, and being much interested in
the answer. Then having bade farewell, he embarked upon those two
minutes which he had allotted to looking into himself; he knew
beforehand what he was going to think about. He wished to put it to
himself as quickly and clearly as possible, that here was he, a living,
thinking man, and that in three minutes he would be nobody; or if
somebody or something, then what and where? He thought he would decide
this question once for all in these last three minutes. A little way
off there stood a church, and its gilded spire glittered in the sun. He
remembered staring stubbornly at this spire, and at the rays of light
sparkling from it. He could not tear his eyes from these rays of light;
he got the idea that these rays were his new nature, and that in three
minutes he would become one of them, amalgamated somehow with them.
“The repugnance to what must ensue almost immediately, and the
uncertainty, were dreadful, he said; but worst of all was the idea,
‘What should I do if I were not to die now? What if I were to return to
life again? What an eternity of days, and all mine! How I should grudge
and count up every minute of it, so as to waste not a single instant!’
He said that this thought weighed so upon him and became such a
terrible burden upon his brain that he could not bear it, and wished
they would shoot him quickly and have done with it.”
The prince paused and all waited, expecting him to go on again and
finish the story.
“Is that all?” asked Aglaya.
“All? Yes,” said the prince, emerging from a momentary reverie.
“And why did you tell us this?”
“Oh, I happened to recall it, that’s all! It fitted into the
conversation—”
“You probably wish to deduce, prince,” said Alexandra, “that moments of
time cannot be reckoned by money value, and that sometimes five minutes
are worth priceless treasures. All this is very praiseworthy; but may I
ask about this friend of yours, who told you the terrible experience of
his life? He was reprieved, you say; in other words, they did restore
to him that ‘eternity of days.’ What did he do with these riches of
time? Did he keep careful account of his minutes?”
“Oh no, he didn’t! I asked him myself. He said that he had not lived a
bit as he had intended, and had wasted many, and many a minute.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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