"I feel," he answered softly, "as if I ought to shout: Long live the
king! Long live our native land!" Then, after a brief pause, he added
almost inaudibly, while a barely perceptible smile flickered over his
white lips: "But I certainly am not at a public meeting."
These were his last words.
[1] English translation.
THE ART OF GROWING OLD.
Baron Robert von Linden was standing between the panels of his triple
mirror. The sunlight of a bright May morning was streaming upon him
through the lofty window so brilliantly that it made the places which it
illumined almost transparent. He put his face very close to the crystal
surface, so that it nearly touched and he was obliged to hold his breath
in order not to dim it, examining his reflected image a long time, with a
scrutiny which at once seeks and fears discoveries, looked at himself in
front, then from the side, changed the light, sometimes bringing his face
under the full radiance of the sunshine, sometimes receiving it at
different angles or shading himself slightly with his hand. At last,
sighing heavily, he stepped back, laid the tortoise-shell comb and ivory
brush on the marble washstand, sank into the arm-chair standing in the
corner, and bowed his head on his breast, while his arms hung at full
length as if nerveless.
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