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Perhaps the great sorrow which I imagined had died at the death of the Bilak was still living on quite close to me, in a different shape, but just as great, no less unbearable and fateful to him in whom it now dwelt. Since that day I had often guided my steps in the direction of Kowalski's yurta. No fresh shavings were added to the old ones lying about near the door and the little windows.
Kowalski's eyes closed, a short, dull rattle came from his throat, his chest sank back, he stretched himself a little: the life of suffering was ended. When we recovered ourselves we heard the violent barking of the dog, who, without understanding his master's last wish, was faithfully carrying out the sole duty of his life.
One morning, when I had just sat down to my breakfast, the locksmith Wladyslaw Piotrowski, Kowalski's nearest friend, came to my window and asked me to accompany him to our patient. 'It might ease his last hour when he sees that he is not quite forsaken, said the kind man. 'Perhaps you would like to take a book with you, he added. I took the New Testament and went with him.
She knew her father was sitting on edge all the time, and that her mistakes were grating on him, and at the end of the song, rather than turn round immediately and face them all, she began to play Kowalski's March Hongroise.
I acceded to Mrs M'Swat's request with alacrity, thinking that while forced to remain there I would have one comfort, and would spend all my spare time at the piano. I opened the instrument, brushed a little of the dust from the keys with my pocket-handkerchief, and struck the opening chords of Kowalski's "Marche Hongroise".
Aunt Helen and Everard had vacated the drawing-room, so I plumped down on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski's galop, from that into "Gaite de Coeur" until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, "Weber's Last". I became aware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey.
'Is he so very bad? I asked on the way. 'I should think so; he looks quite black and says himself that he is sure he will die to-day. We soon arrived at Kowalski's yurta. There was no trace of the usual sick-room smell of medicines, for Kowalski believed neither in doctors nor in medicines. But an air of sadness and desolation pervaded the room.
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