Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XV. John
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larger and of a darker hue. He had become a
beautiful child, beautiful as the Genius of Love
or the Genius of Death. I looked at the two
faces, cheek leaning against cheek. My eyes
filled with wonder. Was it possible that the
infinite love that radiated from the heart of this
woman towards this dying child could recast the
soft outlines of his little face into a vague likeness
to her own? Did I witness another undreamt-of
mystery of Life? Or was it Death, the great
sculptor, already at work with masterly hand,
to remould and refine the features of this child
before closing his eyelids? The same pure
forehead, the same exquisite curve of the eyebrows,
the same long eyelashes. Even the graceful
moulding of the lips would be the same could I
ever see him smile as I saw her smile the night
when in his sleep he murmured for the first time
the word all children love to say and all women
love to hear, “Mama! Mama!”
She put him back to bed, he had a restless
night, she never left his side. Towards morning
his breathing seemed a little easier, he dozed
off to sleep. I reminded her of her promise to
obey me and forced her with difficulty to lie
down on her bed for an hour, Rosalie would call
her as soon as he woke up. When I returned to
his room as dawn was breaking Rosalie, her finger
on her lips, whispered that they were both asleep.
“Look at him!” she whispered, “look at
him! He is dreaming!”
His face was still and serene, his lips were
parted in a beautiful smile. I put my hand over
his heart. He was dead. I looked from the
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