And yet once again she forced herself to speak, “I knew that thou wouldst come but I did not expect thee thus.”
The carriage drove along at a slow pace. It was in solemn pomp that Krista drove home to-day and yet she smiled. Her smile this time belonged to one alone, it was genuine and came from the heart, it was the reflection of her whole being, of her whole life, but of a life which already flickered in the socket. Krista knew it. Venik guessed it too well, and cried out, “Krista, Krista, we shall yet tell one another all.”
“Salute the hollow tree,” said Krista, “I wished to have found thee there, thou hast been beforehand with me—’tis better thus.” The carriage stopped before Krista’s door, Venik lifted her in his arms, bore her to her chamber, there laid her on her bed and Krista still sought his face with her hand. And her own face was smiling, though now her eyes grew cold, and fixed; her whole being already ceased to speak, and she moved no more. Venik again knelt by her side, but she was already speechless.
The public dispersed from the theatre, many walked up and down before Krista’s dwelling and spoke about her and about the violin-player, and over Prague the news flew like wild-fire that Krista was dead.
The storm now emptied itself out of the theatre into the town and as it enlarged its area, diminished somewhat of its tragic force and vehemence.
“It was a stroke”, some whispered. “She fell unfortunately”, said others. But it never occurred to any one that there was any connection between Krista’s death and Venik’s playing, or indeed between Krista and Venik. When they asked him Venik assented, “It was an unfortunate fall”, he said.
Then Venik was alone in the chamber of death. At Krista’s head the waxen tapers were burning, and they and Venik were the only watchers. And here Venik looked musingly at those well-loved features. Ah! how like they were to their living self—how fair they were and the lips scarce cold, as though they might yet move in speech. It was not like the sleep of death, it was not like sleep at all. But just as though she had closed her eyes in sportive jest and pursued her lips together to simulate an easy slumber, and could throw away the mask and thaw the wells of speech whenever she choose.
Venik seemed to see her once again on her couch of leaves and moss within the hollow tree. His hand had strewn the couch of leaves and moss in the old days—the couch from which she fled
