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her temperament and her character. If there is
a world where these contrasts can be reconciled,
she is happy now; if not, she has reached
harmony, in so far as in complete rest there is
harmony.
We seldom see a death call forth so great
and general sympathy as hers. From nearly all
parts of the civilised world telegrams of
condolence poured in. From the highly
conservative St Petersburg Academy, of which for
the last year she had been a corresponding
member, from the Sunday School children in
Tiflis, from the Teachers’ Society in Charchow
—general homage was paid to her memory.
Russian women resolved to erect a monument
on her tomb in Stockholm; cartloads of flowers
covered the black spot surrounded by white
snowheaps in the churchyard.
But out of all these honours and incense her
image rises as on a pedestal, impersonal and
inaccessible. To posterity she appears exactly
what she did not want to be, a kind of mental
giant with unusually developed and finely
constructed brain, so far above the ordinary
proportions, that she is looked upon with more
admiration than sympathy.
Through my detailed and unveiled image of
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