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THE QUEEN OF SPADES

AND OTHER STORIES.

BY

ALEXANDER PUSHKIN.

TRANSLATED BY

MRS. SUTHERLAND EDWARDS.

_BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED._

LONDON:

CROOME & CO.,

322, UPPER STREET, N.

1892




CONTENTS

    BIOGRAPHY OF PUSHKIN
    THE QUEEN OF SPADES
    THE PISTOL SHOT
    THE SNOWSTORM
    THE UNDERTAKER
    THE POSTMASTER
    THE LADY RUSTIC
    KIRDJALI
    THE HISTORY OF  THE VILLAGE OF GOROHINA
    PETER THE GREAT'S <DW64>
    THE GYPSIES


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

    "THE OLD MAGICIAN CAME AT ONCE"
    "SEATED BEFORE HER LOOKING GLASS"
    "PAUL AND LISAVETA"
    "THERE SHE SHED TEARS"
    "SHE TORE IT INTO A HUNDRED PIECES"
    "A FOOTMAN IN A GREASY DRESSING GOWN"
    "A STRANGE MAN HAD APPEARED"
    "ONE GLANCE SHOWED HER THAT HE WAS NOT THERE"
    "HERMANN STARTED AND FELL BACKWARDS"
    "HE SAW BEFORE HIM A QUEEN OF SPADES"
    "THE OFFICER SEIZED A BRASS CANDLESTICK"
    "HERE IS A MEMENTO OF OUR DUEL"
    "WE CLUTCHED OUR SWORDS"
    "HIS LIFE AT LAST WAS IN MY HANDS"
    "SILVIO! _YOU_ KNEW SILVIO?"
    "MASHA THREW HERSELF AT HIS FEET"
    "THE LOVERS MET IN THE PINE WOOD"
    "SHE BURST INTO TEARS"
    "A TIME OF GLORY AND DELIGHT"
    "IN THE IVY BOWER"




PUSHKIN.


Alexander Sergueievitch Pushkin came of a noble family, so ancient that
it was traced back to that Alexander Nevsky who, in the thirteenth
century, gained a great victory over the Swedes upon the ice of the
River Neva, in token whereof he was surnamed "Nevsky" of the Neva.

His mother, Nadejda Ossipovna Hannibal, was the grand-daughter of
Abraham Petrovitch Hannibal, Peter the Great's famous <DW64>. His
father, Surguei Lvovitch Pushkin, was a frivolous man of pleasure.

The poet was born on the 26th of May, 1799, at Moscow. He was an
awkward and a silent child. He was educated by French tutors. A poor
scholar, he read with eagerness whatever he could get in his father's
library, chiefly the works of French authors. His brother states
that at eleven years old Pushkin knew French literature by heart.
This cannot, of course, be taken literally; but it shows under what
influence he grew up. In October, 1811, he entered the Lyceum of
Tsarskoe Selo. Among the students a society was soon formed, whose
members were united by friendship and by a taste for literature. They
brought out several periodicals, in which tales and poems formed the
chief features. Of this society (the late Prince Gortchakoff belonged
to it) Pushkin was the leading spirit. His first printed poem appeared
in the _Messenger of Europe_ in 1814. At a public competition in 1815,
at which the veteran poet Derjavin was present, Pushkin read his
"Memories of Tsarskoe Selo." This poem, which contains many beautiful
passages, so delighted Derjavin, that he wished to embrace the young
author; but Pushkin fled in confusion from the hall.

In June, 1817, Pushkin's free and careless student life ended. After
finishing his course at the Lyceum he went to St. Petersburg, and,
though he entered thoroughly into the dissipated pleasures of its
turbulent youth, he still clung to the intellectual society of such men
as Jukovsky and Karamsin, men occupied in literature, whose friendship
he valued very highly.

At that time society was much disturbed. Political clubs were
everywhere being formed. In every drawing-room new views were freely
and openly advanced; and in these discussions the satire and brilliant
verse of Pushkin attracted general attention. These at last brought
him into great danger. But Karamsin came to his rescue, and managed
to get him an appointment at Ekaterinoslavl, in the office of the
Chief Inspector of the Southern Settlements. There he remained till
1824, travelling from place to place, first with the Raevskys to the
Caucasus, and thence again with them through the Crimea. This journey
gave him materials for his "Prisoner of the Caucasus," and "Fountain of
Bachtchisarai." Both poems reveal the influence of Byron.

Towards the end of 1820 he went to Bessarabia with his chief, who had
just been appointed viceroy of the province. Once, on account of some
quarrel, this person, Insoff by name, sent Pushkin to Ismail. There the
poet joined a band of gypsies and remained with them for some time in
the Steppes. In 1823 he went to Odessa, having been transferred to the
office of the new governor-general, Count Vorontsoff, who succeeded
Insoff.

Here he wrote part of "Evguenie Onegin," a sort of Russian "Don Juan,"
full of sublime passages and varied by satire and bitter scorn. This
work has lately been formed the subject of a very successful opera
by Tchaikovski, who took from Pushkin's poems a story now known and
admired by every educated Russian.

The poet, however, did not get on with his new chief. A scathing
epigram upon Vorontsoff led the count to ask for Pushkin's removal from
Odessa, "where," he said, "excessive flattery had turned the young
maids head."

Pushkin had to resign; and early in August, 1824, he was sent into
retirement to live under the supervision of the local authorities at
Michailovskoe, a village belonging to his father in the province of
Pskoff. Here the elder Pushkin kept a petty watch over his son, whom he
regarded as a perverted nature and, indeed, a kind of monster.

In October, however, the father left Michailovskoe, and the poet
remained alone with Arina Rodionovna, an old woman who had nursed
him in childhood, and whose tales had first inspired him with a love
of Russian popular poetry. At Michailovskoe, Pushkin continued his
"Evguenie Onegin," finished "The Gypsies," and wrote the drama of
"Boris Godunoff." Here he lived more than two years--years of seclusion
following a long period of town life and dissipation.

These two years spent in the simple, pleasant company of country
neighbours proved a turning point in his career. Now for the first time
he had leisure to look about him, to meditate, and to rest.

He had come into the country with a passionate love for everything
that showed the feeling or fancy of the Russian peasant. His taste
for popular poetry was insatiable. He listened to his old nurse's
stories, collected and noted down songs, studied the habits and customs
of Russian villages, and began a serious study of Russian history.
All this helped greatly to develop the popular side of his genius. He
afterwards relinquished his earlier models of the romantic school, and
sought a simpler, truer inspiration in the pages of Shakespeare.

Writing to a friend, Bashkin says that he has brought up from the
country to Moscow the two last cantos of "Evguenie Onegin," ready for
the press, a poem called "The Little House at Kolomna," and several
dramatic scenes, including "The Miser Knight," "Mozart and Salieri,"
"The Beast during the Plague" and "The Commander's Statue."

"Besides that," he goes on to say, "I have written about thirty short
poems, Nor is that, all, I have also (a great secret) written some
prose--five short tales."

Fortunately for him, Pushkin was living in the country, when, in
December, 1825, the insurrection and military revolt against the
Emperor Nicholas, who had just ascended the throne, broke out at St.
Petersburg.

Pushkin was affiliated to the secret society, with Pestle and Ryleieff
at its head, which had organised the rebellion; and, on receiving
a summons from his confederates, he started for the capital. So,
at least, says Alexander Herzen in his curious "Development of
Revolutionary Ideas in Russia." On leaving his country house, Pushkin
met three ill omens. First a hare crossed his path, next he saw a
priest, and, finally, he met a funeral. He went on, however, towards
Moscow, and there learned that the insurrection had been crushed. The
five principal leaders were executed, and whole families were exiled to
Siberia.

In September, 1826, the Emperor Nicholas had an interview with Pushkin
at Moscow. Pushkin replied simply and frankly to all the Tsar's
questions, and the latter at last promised in future to be himself sole
censor of the poet's works.

Pushkin remained at Moscow till about the end of the winter of 1827,
when he was allowed to go to St. Petersburg. There he afterwards
chiefly resided, returning sometimes to the country to work, usually in
autumn, when his power of production, he said, was strongest.

In the summer of 1829 Pushkin visited the Army of the Caucasus then
operating against the Turks. He describes his experiences in his
"Journey to Erzeroum."

On the 18th of February, 1831, he married Natalia Nikolaevna
Gontcharova, and soon afterwards received a Foreign Office appointment
with a salary of 5,000 roubles.

In August, 1833, meaning to write a novel on the Pugatcheff
Insurrection, Pushkin paid a short visit to Kazan and Orenburg to
acquaint himself with the locality and collect materials. But his tale,
"The Captain's Daughter," appeared considerably later.

Pushkin and his wife were invited to the court balls, and the Emperor
was very gracious and attentive to the poet.

This roused the jealousy of the court nobles, though in descent
Pushkin was not inferior to many of them. The studied hauteur of these
personages caused the poet much irritation, and led him to waste much
energy on petty struggles for social precedence. He was, moreover,
constantly in lack of means to meet the expenses attending his
position. Partly on this account he undertook, in 1836, the editorship
of the _Contemporary Review_, and continued it until his death. In
the four numbers issued under his care, Pushkin published original
articles, besides the translations then so much in vogue.

All the publications of that time were made to serve the personal aims
of their editor. It was useless to seek in them impartiality. Pushkin's
criticism, however, were independent, and for this reason they made
a deep impression. On starting his Review he had taken great care
to entrust the criticism to a small circle of the most accomplished
writers.

Pushkin's correspondence throws full light on his character, and
reveals it as frank, sincere, and independent. His letters show that he
had original ideas on literature, on contemporary politics, on social
and domestic relations, and, in short, on every subject. These views
were always clear and independent of party.

During his later years the poet felt a longing for the country. As
early as 1835 he petitioned for some years' leave in order that he
might retire from the capital. In his last poem, "To my Wife," he says
how weary he is of noisy town existence and how he longs for rest.

At the end of 1836 scandals were circulated at St. Petersburg about
his wife. Dantes von Heckeeren, an officer in the Horse Guards, began
openly to pay her attention. Pushkin and many of his friends received
anonymous letters maliciously hinting at Dantes success. Dantes's
father, a dissipated old man, threw oil upon the flames. Meeting Madame
Pushkin in society, he did his best to make her quarrel with, and leave
her husband.

All this being repeated to Pushkin, greatly incensed him. He challenged
young Heckeeren, but the latter made an offer to Madame Pushkin's
sister, and married her. This did little to mend matters. Pushkin
withdrew the challenge, but nursed his hatred for Dantes, and would not
receive him in his house.

Meanwhile the scandal grew, and the two Heckeerens continued their
persecution of Madame Pushkin. In society, Dantes was said to have
married the sister-in-law only to pay court to the wife. Pushkin,
always convinced of his wife's innocence, showed for her the
tenderest consideration. He wrote, however, a very insulting letter
to old Heckeeren after which a duel between Pushkin and the son
became inevitable. It was fought on the banks of the Black Elver,
near the commandant of St. Petersburg's summer residence. After it
Dantes Heckeeren, no longer able to remain in Russia, resigned his
commission and went to France, where he took up politics, and, as Baron
d'Heckeeren, was known as a senator in the Second Empire.

Pushkin was already wounded in the body when he fired at Dantes, and
hit the arm with which Dantes had guarded his breast.

"At six o'clock in the afternoon," writes Jukovsky, to the poet's
father, "Alexander was brought home in a hopeless condition by
Lieutenant--Colonel Dansasse, the old schoolfellow who had acted as his
second. The butler carried him from the carriage into the house.

"It grieves you, my friend," said Pushkin, "to see me thus?" Then he
asked for clean linen. While he was undressing, Madame Pushkin, not
knowing what had happened, wished to come in. But her husband called
out loudly, "_N'entrez pas, il y a du monde chez moi._" He was afraid
of alarming her. She was not admitted till he was already lying on the
couch.

"How happy I am," were his first words to her; "I am still alive, with
you by my side. Be comforted, you are not to blame. I know it was not
your fault." Meanwhile he did not let her know that his wound was
serious. Doctors were sent for--Scholtz and Sadler came. Pushkin asked
everyone to leave the room.

"I am in a bad way," he said, holding out his hand to Scholtz. After
examining him Sadler went off to fetch the necessary instruments. Left
alone with Scholtz, Pushkin inquired what he thought of his condition.

"Tell me candidly."

"You are in danger."

"Say, rather, that I am dying."

"It is my duty not to conceal from you even that," replied Scholtz.
"But we shall have the opinion of the other doctors who have been sent
for."

"_Je vous remercie; vous avez agi en honnete homme envers moi,_" said
Pushkin; adding after a pause, "_Il faut que j'arrange ma maison_."

"Do you wish to see any of your family?" asked Scholtz.

"Farewell, my friends," said Pushkin, looking towards his books.

Whether at that moment he was taking leave of animate or inanimate
friends I know not. After another pause, he said:

"Do you think I shall not last another hour?"

"No. But I thought you might like to see some of your friends."

He asked for several. When Spaski (another doctor) came near and tried
to give him hope, Pushkin waved his hand in dissent, and from that
moment apparently ceased to think about himself. All his anxiety was
for his wife. By this time Prince and Princess Viasemsky, Turgueneff,
Count Vielgorsky, and myself had come. Princess Viasemsky was with the
wife, who, in terrible distress, glided like a spectre in and out of
the room where her husband lay. He was on a couch with his back to the
window and door, and unable to see her; though every time she entered
or merely stood in the doorway he was conscious of it.

"Is my wife here?" he asked; "take her away." He was afraid to let her
come near him lest she should be pained by his sufferings, though he
bore them with wonderful fortitude.

"What is my wife doing?" he asked once of Spaski. "She, poor thing, is
suffering innocently. Society will devour her!"

"I have been in thirty battles," said Dr. Arendt; "and I have seen
many men die, but very few like him."

It was strange how in those last hours of his existence he seemed to
have changed. The storm which only a few hours before had raged so
fiercely in him had disappeared, leaving no trace behind. In the midst
of his suffering he recollected that he had the day before received an
invitation to attend the funeral of one of Gretcheff's sons.

"If you see Gretcheff," he said to Spaski, "give him my kind regards,
and tell him how sincerely I sympathise with him in his affliction."

Asked to confess and to receive the sacrament, Pushkin assented gladly.
It was settled that the priest should be invited to come in the morning.

At midnight, Dr. Arendt came from the palace, where he had been to
inform the Emperor. His Majesty was at the theatre, and Arendt left
instructions that on his return the Emperor should be told what had
occurred. About midnight a mounted messenger arrived for Arendt. The
Emperor desired him to go at once to Pushkin, and read to him an
autograph letter which the messenger brought. He was then to hasten to
the palace and report upon Pushkin's condition.

"I shall not go to bed; I shall wait up for you," wrote the Emperor
Nicholas. "And bring back my letter."

The note was as follows:

"If it will be the will of God that we shall not meet again, I send
you my pardon, and advise you to receive the last Christian rites. As
to your wife and children, they need cause you no anxiety. I take them
under my own protection."

The dying man immediately complied with the Emperor's wish. A priest
was sent for from the nearest church. Pushkin confessed and received
the sacrament with great reverence. When Arendt read the Emperor's
letter to him, Pushkin took hold of it and kissed it again and again.

"Give me the letter; I wish to die with it. The letter; where is the
letter?" he called out to Arendt, who was unable to leave it with him,
but tried to pacify him by promising to ask the Emperor's permission to
bring it back again.

At five in the morning the patient's anguish grew overpowering. The
sufferer began to groan, and Arendt was again sent for. But all efforts
to soothe the pain were futile. Had his wife heard his cries I am
sure she must have gone mad; she could never have borne the agony.
At the first great cry of pain the Princess Viasemsky, who was in
the room, rushed towards her, fearing the effect. But Madame Pushkin
lay motionless on a sofa close to the door which separated her from
her husband's death-bed. According to both Spaski and Arendt the
dying man stifled his cries at the moment of supreme anguish, and
only groaned in fear lest his wife might hear him and suffer. To the
last Pushkin's mind remained clear and his memory fresh. Before the
next great paroxysm he asked for a paper in his own writing and had
it burnt. Then he dictated to Dansasse a list of some debts, but this
exertion prostrated him. When, between the paroxysms, some bread sop
was brought, he said to Spaski:

"My wife! call my wife. Let her give it me."

She entered, dropped on her knees by his side, and after lifting a
couple of spoonfuls to his mouth, leant her cheek against his. He
caressed and patted her head.

"Come, come," he said, "I am all right. Thank God, all is going on
well. Go now."

His calm expression of face and steady voice deceived the poor wife.
She came out of his room bright with hope. He asked for his children.
They were brought in half asleep: He blessed each one, making the sign
of the cross, and placing his hand on their head; then he motioned to
have them taken away. Afterwards he asked for his friends who were
present. I then approached and took his hand, which was already cold,
and inquired if I should give any message to the Emperor.

"Say that I am sorry I am leaving him. I should have been devoted to
him."

On the 29th of January, at three in the afternoon, after two days of
excruciating pain, Pushkin died. His death was regarded throughout
Russia as a public calamity. In St. Petersburg disturbances were
feared. It was thought that the people might lynch Heckeeren and his
son. A secret funeral was arranged. The body was carried into the
church late at night in the presence of some friends and relations;
and in the neighbouring courtyards piquets were stationed. After the
service the corpse was despatched to the province of Pskoff, and
was buried in the monastery of the Assumption at Sviatogorsk, near
Pushkin's property at Michailovskoe. The Emperor gave about 150,000
roubles to pay his debts and to bring out a complete edition of his
works, besides granting a liberal pension to the widow.

On the 6th of June, 1880, was solemnly unveiled at Moscow a statue of
Pushkin, erected by voluntary subscriptions from all parts of Russia.

Pushkin was slim and of middle height; in childhood his hair was fair
and curly, but afterwards it turned dark brown. His eyes were light
blue, his smile satirical, but good-natured and pleasant; his clever,
expressive face bore evidence of his African descent, as did his quick
and passionate nature. He was irritable, but kind and full of feeling;
his conversation sparkled with wit and good humour, and his memory was
prodigious. Pushkin, it has already been said, was of ancient lineage,
but no Russian is sufficiently well-born to marry into the Imperial
family, and when quite recently the Grand Duke Michael, grandson of
the Emperor Nicholas, married without permission the granddaughter
of Pushkin, he caused the liveliest dissatisfaction in the highest
quarters. The bride may console herself by the reflection that her
grandfather was, in the words of Gogol, "a rare phenomenon; a writer
who gave to his country poems so admirable that they attracted the
attention of the whole civilised world; a poet who won respect and
love for the language, for the living Russian types, the customs, and
national character of Russia. Such a writer is indeed a rarity."




THE QUEEN OF SPADES.


CHAPTER I.


There was a card party at the rooms of Narumoff, a lieutenant in the
Horse Guards. A long winter night had passed unnoticed, and it was five
o'clock in the morning when supper was served. The winners sat down to
table with an excellent appetite; the losers let their plates remain
empty before them. Little by little, however, with the assistance of
the champagne, the conversation became animated, and was shared by all.

"How did you get on this evening, Surin?" said the host to one of his
friends.

"Oh, I lost, as usual. I really have no luck. I play _mirandole_. You
know that I keep cool. Nothing moves me; I never change my play, and
yet I always lose."

"Do you mean to say that all the evening you did not once back the red?
Your firmness of character surprises me."

"What do you think of Hermann?" said one of the party, pointing to a
young Engineer officer.

"That fellow never made a bet or touched a card in his life, and yet he
watches us playing until five in the morning."

"It interests me," said Hermann; "but I am not disposed to risk the
necessary in view of the superfluous."

"Hermann is a German, and economical; that is the whole of the secret,"
cried Tomski. "But what is really astonishing is the Countess Anna
Fedotovna!"

"How so?" asked several voices.

"Have you not remarked," said Tomski, "that she never plays?"

"Yes," said Narumoff, "a woman of eighty, who never touches a card;
that is indeed something extraordinary!"

"You do not know why?"

"No; is there a reason for it?"

"Just listen. My grandmother, you know, some sixty years ago, went to
Paris, and became the rage there. People ran after her in the streets,
and called her the 'Muscovite Venus.' Richelieu made love to her, and
my grandmother makes out that, by her rigorous demeanour, she almost
drove him to suicide. In those days women used to play at faro. One
evening at the court she lost, on _parole,_ to the Duke of Orleans,
a very considerable sum. When she got home, my grandmother removed
her beauty spots, took off her hoops, and in this tragic costume went
to my grandfather, told him of her misfortune, and asked him for the
money she had to pay. My grandfather, now no more, was, so to say, his
wife's steward. He feared her like fire; but the sum she named made him
leap into the air. He flew into a rage, made a brief calculation, and
proved to my grandmother that in six months she had got through half a
million rubles. He told her plainly that he had no villages to sell in
Paris, his domains being situated in the neighbourhood of Moscow and
of Saratoff; and finally refused point blank. You may imagine the fury
of my grandmother. She boxed his ears, and passed the night in another
room.

[Illustration: "THE OLD MAGICIAN CAME AT ONCE."]

"The next day she returned to the charge. For the first time in her
life, she condescended to arguments and explanations. In vain did she
try to prove to her husband that there were debts and debts, and that
she could not treat a prince of the blood like her coachmaker.

"All this eloquence was lost. My grandfather was inflexible. My
grandmother did not know where to turn. Happily she was acquainted with
a man who was very celebrated at this time. You have heard of the Count
of St. Germain, about whom so many marvellous stories were told. You
know that he passed for a sort of Wandering Jew, and that he was said
to possess an elixir of life and the philosopher's stone.

"Some people laughed at him as a charlatan. Casanova, in his memoirs,
says that he was a spy. However that may be, in spite of the mystery of
his life, St. Germain was much sought after in good society, and was
really an agreeable man. Even to this day my grandmother has preserved
a genuine affection for him, and she becomes quite angry when anyone
speaks of him with disrespect.

"It occurred to her that he might be able to advance the sum of which
she was in need, and she wrote a note begging him to call. The old
magician came at once, and found her plunged in the deepest despair.
In two or three words she told him everything; related to him her
misfortune and the cruelty of her husband, adding that she had no hope
except in his friendship and his obliging disposition.

"'Madam,' said St. Germain, after a few moments' reflection, 'I could
easily advance you the money you want, but I am sure that you would
have no rest until you had repaid me, and I do not want to get you out
of one trouble in order to place you in another. There is another way
of settling the matter. You must regain the money you have lost.'

"'But, my dear friend,' answered my grandmother, 'I have already told
you that I have nothing left.'

"'That does not matter,' answered St. Germain. 'Listen to me, and I
will explain.'

"He then communicated to her a secret which any of you would, I am
sure, give a good deal to possess."

All the young officers gave their full attention. Tomski stopped to
light his Turkish pipe, swallowed a mouthful of smoke, and then went on.

"That very evening my grandmother went to Versailles to play at the
Queen's table. The Duke of Orleans held the bank. My grandmother
invented a little story by way of excuse for not having paid her debt,
and then sat down at the table, and began to stake. She took three
cards. She won with the first; doubled her stake on the second, and won
again; doubled on the third, and still won."

"Mere luck!" said one of the young officers.

"What a tale!" cried Hermann.

"Were the cards marked?" said a third.

"I don't think so," replied Tom ski, gravely.

"And you mean to say," exclaimed Narumoff, "that you have a grandmother
who knows the names of three winning cards, and you have never made her
tell them to you?"

"That is the very deuce of it," answered Tomski. "She had three sons,
of whom my father was one; all three were determined gamblers, and not
one of them was able to extract her secret from her, though it would
have been of immense advantage to them, and to me also. Listen to what
my uncle told me about it, Count Ivan Ilitch, and he told me on his
word of honour.

"Tchaplitzki--the one you remember who died in poverty after devouring
millions--lost one day, when he was a young man, to Zoritch about three
hundred thousand roubles. He was in despair. My grandmother, who had no
mercy for the extravagance of young men, made an exception--I do not
know why--in favour of Tchaplitzki. She gave him three cards, telling
him to play them one after the other, and exacting from him at the same
time his word of honour that he would never afterwards touch a card as
long as he lived. Accordingly Tchaplitzki went to Zoritch and asked for
his revenge. On the first card he staked fifty thousands rubles. He
won, doubled the stake, and won again. Continuing his system he ended
by gaining more than he had lost.

"But it is six o'clock! It is really time to go to bed."

Everyone emptied his glass and the party broke up.




CHAPTER II.


The old Countess Anna Fedotovna was in her dressing-room, seated before
her looking-glass. Three maids were in attendance. One held her pot of
rouge, another a box of black pins, a third an enormous lace cap, with
flaming ribbons. The Countess had no longer the slightest pretence to
beauty, but she preserved all the habits of her youth. She dressed in
the style of fifty years before, and gave as much time and attention to
her toilet as a fashionable beauty of the last century. Her companion
was working at a frame in a corner of the window.

[Illustrated: "SEATED BEFORE HER LOOKING-GLASS."]

"Good morning, grandmother," said the young officer, as he entered the
dressing-room. "Good morning, Mademoiselle Lise. Grandmother, I have
come to ask you a favour."

"What is it, Paul?"

"I want to introduce to you one of my friends, and to ask you to give
him an invitation to your ball."

"Bring him to the ball and introduce him to me there. Did you go
yesterday to the Princess's?"

"Certainly. It was delightful! We danced until five o'clock in the
morning. Mademoiselle Eletzki was charming."

"My dear nephew, you are really not difficult to please. As to beauty,
you should have seen her grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna. But
she must be very old the Princess Daria Petrovna!"

"How do you mean old?" cried Tomski thoughtlessly; "she died seven
years ago."

The young lady who acted as companion raised her head and made a sign
to the officer, who then remembered that it was an understood thing to
conceal from the Princess the death of any of her contemporaries. He
bit his lips. The Countess, however, was not in any way disturbed on
hearing that her old friend was no longer in this world.

"Dead!" she said, "and I never knew it! We were maids of honour in
the same year, and when we were presented, the Empress'"--and the
old Countess related for the hundredth time an anecdote of her young
days. "Paul," she said, as she finished her story, "help me to get up.
Lisaveta, where is my snuff-box?"

And, followed by the three maids, she went behind a great screen to
finish her toilet. Tomski was now alone with the companion.

"Who is the gentleman you wish to introduce to madame?" asked Lisaveta.

"Narumoff. Do you know him?"

"No. Is he in the army?"

"Yes."

"In the Engineers?"

"No, in the Horse Guards. Why did you think he was in the Engineers?"

The young lady smiled, but made no answer.

"Paul," cried the Countess from behind the screen, "send me a new
novel; no matter what. Only see that it is not in the style of the
present day."

"What style would you like, grandmother?"

"A novel in which the hero strangles neither his father nor his mother,
and in which no one gets drowned. Nothing frightens me so much as the
idea of getting drowned."

[Illustration: PAUL AND LISAVETA.]

"But how is it possible to find you such a book? Do you want it in
Russian?"

"Are there any novels in Russian? However, send me something or other.
You won't forget?"

"I will not forget, grandmother. I am in a great hurry. Good-bye,
Lisaveta. What made you fancy Narumoff was in the Engineers?" and
Tomski took his departure.

Lisaveta, left alone, took out her embroidery, and sat down close to
the window. Immediately afterwards, in the street, at the corner of a
neighbouring house, appeared a young officer. The sight of him made the
companion blush to her ears. She lowered her head, and almost concealed
it in the canvas. At this moment the Counters returned, fully dressed.

"Lisaveta," she said "have the horses put in; we will go out for a
drive."

Lisaveta rose from her chair, and began to arrange her embroidery.

"Well, my dear child, are you deaf? Go and tell them to put the horses
in at once."

"I am going," replied the young lady, as she went out into the
ante-chamber.

A servant now came in, bringing some books from Prince Paul
Alexandrovitch.

"Say I am much obliged to him. Lisaveta! Lisaveta! Where has she run
off to?"

"I was going to dress."

"We have plenty of time, my dear. Sit down, take the first volume, and
read to me."

The companion took the book and read a few lines.

"Louder," said the Countess. "What is the matter with you? Have you a
cold? Wait a moment; bring me that stool. A little closer; that will
do."

Lisaveta read two pages of the book.

"Throw that stupid book away," said the Countess. "What nonsense! Send
it back to Prince Paul, and tell him I am much obliged to him; and the
carriage, is it never coming?

"Here it is," replied Lisaveta, going to the window.

"And now you are not dressed. Why do you always keep 'me waiting? It is
intolerable."

Lisaveta ran to her room. She had scarcely been there two minutes when
the Countess rang with all her might. Her maids rushed in at one door
and her valet at the other.

"You do not seem to hear me when I ring," she cried. "Go and tell
Lisaveta that I am waiting for her."

At this moment Lisaveta entered, wearing a new walking dress and a
fashionable bonnet.

"At last, miss," cried the Countess. "But what is that you have got on?
and why? For whom are you dressing? What sort of weather is it? Quite
stormy, I believe."

"No, your Excellency," said the valet; "it is exceedingly fine."

"What do you know about it? Open the ventilator. Just what I told you!
A frightful wind, and as icy as can be. Unharness the horses. Lisaveta,
my child, we will not go out to-day. It was scarcely worth while to
dress so much."

"What an existence!" said the companion to herself.

Lisaveta Ivanovna was, in fact, a most unhappy creature. "The bread of
the stranger is bitter," says Dante, "and his staircase hard to climb."
But who can tell the torments of a poor little companion attached to
an old lady of quality? The Countess had all the caprices of a woman
spoilt by the world. She was avaricious and egotistical, and thought
all the more of herself now that she had ceased to play an active part
in society. She never missed a ball, and she dressed and painted in the
style of a bygone age. She remained in a corner of the room, where she
seemed to have been placed expressly to serve as a scarecrow. Every
one on coming in went to her and made her a low bow, but this ceremony
once at an end no one spoke a word to her. She received the whole city
at her house, observing the strictest etiquette, and never failing to
give to everyone his or her proper name. Her innumerable servants,
growing pale and fat in the ante-chamber, did absolutely as they liked,
so that that the house was pillaged as if its owner were really dead.
Lisaveta passed her life in continual torture. If she made tea she was
reproached with wasting the sugar. If she read a novel to the Countess
she was held responsible for all the absurdities of the author. If she
went out with the noble lady for a walk or drive, it was she who was to
blame if the weather was bad or the pavement muddy. Her salary, more
than modest, was never punctually paid, and she was expected to dress
"like every one else," that is to say, like very few people indeed.
When she went into society her position was sad. Everyone knew her; no
one paid her any attention. At a ball she sometimes danced, but only
when a _vis-a-vis_ was wanted. Women would come up to her, take her by
the arm, and lead her out of the room if their dress required attending
to. She had her portion of self-respect, and felt deeply the misery
of her position. She looked with impatience for a liberator to break
her chain. But the young men, prudent in the midst of their affected
giddiness, took care not to honour her with their attentions, though
Lisaveta Ivanovna was a hundred times prettier than the shameless or
stupid girls whom they surrounded with their homage. More than once
she slunk away from the splendour of the drawing-room to shut herself
up alone in her little bed-room, furnished with an old screen and a
pieced carpet, a chest of drawers, a small looking-glass, and a wooden
bedstead. There she shed tears at her ease by the light of a tallow
candle in a tin candlestick.

One morning--it was two days after the party at Narumoff's, and a
week before the scene we have just sketched--Lisaveta was sitting at
her embroidery before the window, when, looking carelessly into the
street, she saw an officer, in the uniform of the Engineers, standing
motionless with his eyes fixed upon her. She lowered her head, and
applied herself to her work more attentively than ever. Five minutes
afterwards she locked mechanically into the street, and the officer was
still in the same place. Not being in the habit of exchanging glances
with young men who passed by her window, she remained with her eyes
fixed on her work for nearly two hours, until she was told that lunch
was ready. She got up to put her embroidery away, and while doing so,
looked into the street, and saw the officer still in the same place.
This seemed to her very strange. After lunch she went to the window
with a certain emotion, but the officer of Engineers was no longer in
the street.

[Illustration: "THERE SHE SHED TEARS."]

She thought no more of him. But two days afterwards, just as she was
getting into the carriage with the Countess, she saw him once more,
standing straight before the door. His face was half concealed by a fur
collar, but his black eyes sparkled beneath his helmet. Lisaveta was
afraid, without knowing why, and she trembled as she took her seat in
the carriage.

On returning home, she rushed with a beating heart towards the
window. The officer was in his habitual place, with his eyes fixed
ardently upon her. She at once withdrew, burning at the same time with
curiosity, and moved by a strange feeling which she now experienced for
the first time.

No day now passed but the young officer showed himself beneath the
window. Before long a dumb acquaintance was established between them.
Sitting at her work she felt his presence, and when she raised her head
she looked at him for a long time every day. The young man seemed full
of gratitude for these innocent favours.

She observed, with the deep and rapid perceptions of youth, that a
sudden redness covered the officer's pale cheeks as soon as their eyes
met. After about a week she would smile at seeing him for the first
time.

When Tomski asked his grandmother's permission to present one of his
friends, the heart of the poor young girl beat strongly, and when she
heard that it was Narumoff, she bitterly repented having compromised
her secret by letting it out to a giddy young man like Paul.

Hermann was the son of a German settled in Russia, from whom he had
inherited a small sum of money. Firmly resolved to preserve his
independence, he had made it a principle not to touch his private
income. He lived on his pay, and did not allow himself the slightest
luxury. He was not very communicative; and his reserve rendered it
difficult for his comrades to amuse themselves at his expense.

Under an assumed calm he concealed strong passions and a
highly-imaginative disposition. But he was always master of himself,
and kept himself free from the ordinary faults of young men. Thus, a
gambler by temperament, he never touched a card, feeling, as he himself
said, that his position did not allow him to "risk the necessary in
view of the superfluous." Yet he would pass entire nights before a
card-table, watching with feverish anxiety the rapid changes of the
game. The anecdote of Count St. Germaines three cards had struck his
imagination, and he did nothing but think of it all that night.

"If," he said to himself next day as he was walking along the streets
of St. Petersburg, "if she would only tell me her secret--if she would
only name the three winning cards! I must get presented to her, that I
may pay my court and gain her confidence. Yes! And she is eighty-seven!
She may die this week--to-morrow perhaps. But after all, is there a
word of truth in the story? No! Economy, Temperance, Work; these are
my three winning cards. With them I can double my capital; increase it
tenfold. They alone can ensure my independence and prosperity."

Dreaming in this way as he walked along, his attention was attracted by
a house built in an antiquated style of architecture. The street was
full of carriages, which passed one by one before the old house, now
brilliantly illuminated. As the people stepped out of the carriages
Hermann saw now the little feet of a young woman, now the military boot
of a general. Then came a clocked stocking; then, again, a diplomatic
pump. Fur-lined cloaks and coats passed in procession before a gigantic
porter.

Hermann stopped. "Who lives here?" he said to a watchman in his box.

"The Countess Anna Fedotovna." It was Tomski's grandmother.

Hermann started. The story of the three cards came once more upon his
imagination. He walked to and fro before the house, thinking of the
woman to whom it belonged, of her wealth and her mysterious power. At
last he returned to his den. But for some time he could not get to
sleep; and when at last sleep came upon him, he saw, dancing before
his eyes, cards, a green table, and heaps of rubles and bank-notes.
He saw himself doubling stake after stake, always winning, and then
filling his pockets with piles of coin, and stuffing his pocket-book
with countless bank-notes. When he awoke, he sighed to find that his
treasures were but creations of a disordered fancy; and, to drive such
thoughts from him, he went out for a walk. But he had not gone far when
he found himself once more before the house of the Countess. He seemed
to have been attracted there by some irresistible force. He stopped,
and looked up at the windows. There he saw a girl's head with beautiful
black hair, leaning gracefully over a book or an embroidery-frame. The
head was lifted, and he saw a fresh complexion and black eyes.

This moment decided his fate.




CHAPTER III.


Lisaveta was just taking off her shawl and her bonnet, when the
Countess sent for her. She had had the horses put in again.

While two footmen were helping the old lady into the carriage, Lisaveta
saw the young officer at her side. She felt him take her by the hand,
lost her head, and found, when the young officer had walked away, that
he had left a paper between her fingers. She hastily concealed it in
her glove.

During the whole of the drive she neither saw nor heard. When they were
in the carriage together the Countess was in the habit of questioning
Lisaveta perpetually.

"Who is that man that bowed to us? What is the name of this bridge?
What is there written on that signboard?"

Lisaveta now gave the most absurd answers, and was accordingly scolded
by the Countess.

"What is the matter with you, my child?" she asked. "What are you
thinking about? Or do you really not hear me? I speak distinctly
enough, however, and I have not yet lost my head, have I?"

Lisaveta was not listening. When she got back to the house, she ran to
her room, locked the door, and took the scrap of paper from her glove.
It was not sealed, and it was impossible, therefore, not to read it.
The letter contained protestations of love. It was tender, respectful,
and translated word for word from a German novel. But Lisaveta did
not read German, and she was quite delighted. She was, however,
much embarrassed. For the first time in her life she had a secret.
Correspond with a young man! The idea of such a thing frightened her.
How imprudent she had been! She had reproached herself, but knew not
now what to do.

Cease to do her work at the window, and by persistent coldness try and
disgust the _young_ officer? Send him back his letter? Answer him in
a firm, decided manner? What line of conduct was she to pursue? She
had no friend, no one to advise her. She at last decided to send an
answer. She sat down at her little table, took pen and paper, and began
to think. More than once she wrote a sentence and then tore up the
paper. What she had written seemed too stiff, or else it was wanting in
reserve. At last, after much trouble, she succeeded in composing a few
lines which seemed to meet the case.

"I believe," she wrote, "that your intentions are those of an
honourable man, and that you would not wish to offend me by any
thoughtless conduct. But you must understand that our acquaintance
cannot begin in this way. I return your letter, and trust that you will
not give me cause to regret my imprudence."

Next day, as soon as Hermann made his appearance, Lisaveta left her
embroidery, and went into the drawing-room, opened the ventilator, and
threw her letter into the street, making sure that the young officer
would pick it up.

[Illustration: SHE TORE IT INTO A HUNDRED PIECES.]

Hermann, in fact, at once saw it, and picking it up, entered a
confectioner's shop in order to read it. Finding nothing discouraging
in it, he went home sufficiently pleased with the first step in his
love adventure.

Some days afterwards, a young person with lively eyes called to see
Miss Lisaveta, on the part of a milliner. Lisaveta wondered what she
could want, and suspected, as she received her, some secret intention.
She was much surprised, however, when she recognised, on the letter
that was now handed to her, the writing of Hermann.

"You make a mistake," she said; "this letter is not for me."

"I beg your pardon," said the milliner, with a slight smile; "be kind
enough to read it."

Lisaveta glanced at it. Hermann was asking for an appointment.

"Impossible!" she cried, alarmed both at the boldness of the request,
and at the manner in which it was made. "This letter is not for me,"
she repeated; and she tore it into a hundred pieces.

"If the letter was not for you, why did you tear it up? You should have
given it me back, that I might take it to the person it was meant for."

"True," said Lisaveta, quite disconcerted.

"But bring me no more letters, and tell the person who gave you this
one that he ought to blush for his conduct."

Hermann, however, was not a man to give up what he had once undertaken.
Every day Lisaveta received a fresh letter from him, sent now in one
way, now in another. They were no longer translated from the German.
Hermann wrote under the influence of a commanding passion, and spoke a
language which was his own. Lisaveta could not hold out against such
torrents of eloquence. She received the letters, kept them, and at last
answered them. Every day her answers were longer and more affectionate,
until at last she threw out of the window a letter couched as follows:--

"This evening there is a ball at the Embassy. The Countess will be
there. We shall remain until two in the morning. You may manage to
see me alone. As soon as the Countess leaves home, that is to say
towards eleven o'clock, the servants are sure to go out, and there
will be no one left but the porter, who will be sure to be asleep in
his box. Enter as soon as it strikes eleven, and go upstairs as fast
as possible. If you find anyone in the ante-chamber, ask whether the
Countess is at home, and you will be told that she is out, and, in
that case, you must resign yourself, and go away. In all probability,
however, you will meet no one. The Countess's women are together in a
distant room. When you are once in the ante-chamber, turn to the left,
and walk straight on, until you reach the Countess's bedroom. There,
behind a large screen, you will see two doors. The one on the right
leads to a dark room. The one on the left leads to a corridor, at the
end of which is a little winding staircase, which leads to my parlour."

At, ten o'clock Hermann was already on duty before the Countess's door.
It was a frightful night. The winds had been unloosed, and the snow was
falling in large flakes; the lamps gave an uncertain light; the streets
were deserted; from time to time passed a sledge, drawn by a wretched
hack, on the look-out for a fare. Covered by a thick overcoat, Hermann
felt neither the wind nor the snow. At last the Countesses carriage
drew up. He saw two huge footmen come forward and take beneath the arms
a dilapidated spectre, and place it on the cushions well wrapped up in
an enormous fur cloak. Immediately afterwards, in a cloak of lighter
make, her head crowned with natural flowers, came Lisaveta, who sprang
into the carriage like a dart. The door was closed, and the carriage
rolled on softly over the snow.

The porter closed the street door, and soon the windows of the first
floor became dark. Silence reigned throughout the house. Hermann walked
backwards and forwards; then coming to a lamp he looked at his watch.
It was twenty minutes to eleven. Leaning against the lamp-post, his
eyes fixed on the long hand of his watch, he counted impatiently the
minutes which had yet to pass. At eleven o'clock precisely Hermann
walked up the steps, pushed open the street door, and went into the
vestibule, which was well lighted. As it happened the porter was not
there. With a firm and rapid step he rushed up the staircase and
reached the ante-chamber. There, before a lamp, a footman was sleeping,
stretched out in a dirty greasy dressing-gown. Hermann passed quickly
before him and crossed the dining-room and the drawing-room, where
there was no light. But the lamp of the ante-chamber helped him to see.
At last he reached the Countess's bedroom. Before a screen covered with
old icons (sacred pictures) a golden lamp was burning. Gilt arm-chairs,
sofas of faded colours, furnished with soft cushions, were arranged
symmetrically along the walls, which were hung with China silk. He
saw two large portraits painted by Madame le Brun. One represented a
man of forty, stout and full , dressed in a light green coat,
with a decoration on his breast. The second portrait was that of an
elegant young woman, with an aquiline nose, powdered hair rolled back
on the temples, and with a rose over her ear. Everywhere might be seen
shepherds and shepherdesses in Dresden china, with vases of all shapes,
clocks by Leroy, work-baskets, fans, and all the thousand playthings
for the use of ladies of fashion, discovered in the last century, at
the time of Montgolfier's balloons and Mesmer's animal magnetism.

[Illustration: "A FOOTMAN IN A GREASY DRESSING GOWN."]

Hermann passed behind the screen, which concealed a little iron
bedstead. He saw the two doors; the one on the right leading to the
dark room, the one on the left to the corridor. He opened the latter,
saw the staircase which led to the poor little companion's parlour, and
then, closing this door, went into the dark room.

The time passed slowly. Everything was quiet in the house. The
drawing-room clock struck midnight, and again there was silence.
Hermann was standing up, leaning against the stove, in which there was
no fire. He was calm; but his heart beat with quick pulsations, like
that of a man determined to brave all dangers he might have to meet,
because he knows them to be inevitable. He heard one o'clock strike;
then two; and soon afterwards the distant roll of a carriage. He now,
in spite of himself, experienced some emotion. The carriage approached
rapidly and stopped. There was at once a great noise of servants
running about the staircases, and a confusion of voices. Suddenly the
rooms were all lit up, and the Countess's three antiquated maids came
at once into the bed-room. At last appeared the Countess herself.

The walking mummy sank into a large Voltaire arm-chair. Hermann looked
through the crack in the door; he saw Lisaveta pass close to him, and
heard her hurried step as she went up the little winding staircase.
For a moment he felt something like remorse; but it soon passed off,
and his heart was once more of stone.

[Illustration: "A STRANGE MAN HAD APPEARED."]

The Countess began to undress before a looking-glass. Her head-dress of
roses was taken off, and her powdered wig separated from her own hair,
which was very short and quite white. Pins fell in showers around
her. At last she was in her dressing-gown and night cap, and in this
costume, more suitable to her age, was less hideous than before.

Like most old people, the Countess was tormented by sleeplessness. She
had her armchair rolled towards one of the windows, and told her maids
to leave her. The lights were put out, and the room was lighted only by
the lamp which burned before the holy images. The Countess, sallow and
wrinkled, balanced herself gently from right to left. In her dull eyes
could be read an utter absence of thought; and as she moved from side
to side, one might have said that she did so not by any action of the
will, but through some secret mechanism.

Suddenly this death's-head assumed a new expression; the lips ceased to
tremble, and the eyes became alive. A strange man had appeared before
the Countess!

It was Hermann.

"Do not be alarmed, madam," said Hermann, in a low voice, but very
distinctly. "For the love of Heaven, do not be alarmed. I do not wish
to do you the slightest harm; on the contrary, I come to implore a
favour of you."

The old woman looked at him in silence, as if she did not understand.
Thinking she was deaf, he leaned towards her ear and repeated what he
had said; but the Countess still remained silent.

"You can ensure the happiness of my whole life, and without its costing
you a farthing. I know that you can name to me three cards----"

The Countess now understood what he required.

"It was a joke," she interrupted. "I swear to you it was only a joke."

"No, madam," replied Hermann in an angry tone. "Remember Tchaplitzki,
and how you enabled him to win."

The Countess was agitated. For a moment her features expressed strong
emotion; but they soon resumed their former dulness.

"Cannot you name to me," said Hermann, "three winning cards?"

The Countess remained silent. "Why keep this secret for your
great-grandchildren," he continued. "They are rich enough without;
they do not know the value of money. Of what profit would your three
cards be to them? They are debauchees. The man who cannot keep his
inheritance will die in want, though he had the science of demons at
his command. I am a steady man. I know the value of money. Your three
cards will not be lost upon me. Come!"

He stopped tremblingly, awaiting a reply. The Countess did not utter a
word. Hermann went upon his knees.

"If your heart has ever known the passion of love; if you can remember
its sweet ecstasies; if you Pave ever been touched by the cry of a
newborn babe; if any human feeling has ever caused your heart to beat,
I entreat you by the love of a husband, a lover, a mother, by all
that is sacred in life, not to reject my prayer. Tell me your secret!
Reflect! You are old; you Pave not long to live! Remember that the
happiness of a man is in your hands; that not only myself, but my
children and my grandchildren will bless your memory as a saint."

The old Countess answered not a word.

Hermann rose, and drew a pistol from his pocket.

"Hag!" he exclaimed, "I will make you speak."

At the sight of the pistol the Countess for the second time showed
agitation. Her head shook violently she stretched out her hands as if
to put the weapon aside. Then suddenly she fell back motionless.

"Come, don't be childish!" said Hermann. "I adjure you for the last
time; will you name the three cards?"

The Countess did not answer. Hermann saw that she was dead!




CHAPTER IV.


Lisaveta was sitting in her room, still in her ball dress, lost in
the deepest meditation. On her return to the house, she had sent away
her maid, and had gone upstairs to her room, trembling at the idea of
finding Hermann there; desiring, indeed, _not_ to find him. One glance
showed her that he was not there, and she gave thanks to Providence
that he had missed the appointment. She sat down pensively, without
thinking of taking off her cloak, and allowed to pass through her
memory all the circumstances of the intrigue which had begun such a
short time back, and had already advanced so far. Scarcely three weeks
had passed since she had first seen the young officer from her window,
and already she had written to him, and he had succeeded in inducing
her to make an appointment. She knew his name, and that was all. She
had received a quantity of letters from him, but he had never spoken to
her; she did not know the sound of his voice, and until that evening,
strangely enough, she had never heard him spoken of.

[Illustration: "ONE GLANCE SHOWED HER THAT HE WAS NOT THERE."]

But that very evening Tomski, fancying he had noticed that the young
Princess Pauline, to whom he had been paying assiduous court, was
flirting, contrary to her custom, with, another man, had wished to
revenge himself by making a show of indifference. With this noble
object he had invited Lisaveta to take part in an interminable mazurka;
but he teased her immensely about her partiality for Engineer officers,
and pretending all the time to know much more than he really did,
hazarded purely in fun a few guesses which were so happy that Lisaveta
thought her secret must have been discovered.

"But who tells you all this?" she said with a smile. "A friend of the
very officer you know, a most original man."

"And who is this man that is so original?"

"His name is Hermann."

She answered nothing, but her hands and feet seemed to be of ice.

"Hermann is a hero of romance," continued Tomski. "He has the profile
of Napoleon, and the soul of Mephistopheles. I believe he has at least
three crimes on his conscience.... But how pale you are!"

"I have a bad headache. But what did this Mr. Hermann tell you? Is not
that his name?"

"Hermann is very much displeased with his friend, with the Engineer
officer who has made your acquaintance. He says that in his place he
would behave very differently. But I am quite sure that Hermann himself
has designs upon you. At least, he seems to listen with remarkable
interest to all that his friend tells him about you."

"And where has he seen me?"

"Perhaps in church, perhaps in the street; heaven knows where."

At this moment three ladies came forward according to the custom of
the mazurka, and asked Tomski to choose between "forgetfulness and
regret."[1]

[1] The figures and fashions of the mazurka are reproduced in
the cotillon of Western Europe.--TRANSLATOR.]

And the conversation which had so painfully excited the curiosity of
Lisaveta came to an end.

The lady who, in virtue of the infidelities permitted by the mazurka,
had just been chosen by Tom ski, was the Princess Pauline. During the
rapid evolutions which the figure obliged them to make, there was a
grand explanation between them, until at last he conducted her to a
chair, and returned to his partner.

But Tomski could now think no more, either of Hermann or Lisaveta, and
he tried in vain to resume the conversation. But the mazurka was coming
to an end, and immediately afterwards the old Countess rose to go.

Tomski's mysterious phrases were nothing more than the usual platitudes
of the mazurka, but they had made a deep impression upon the heart of
the poor little companion. The portrait sketched by Tomski had struck
her as very exact; and with her romantic ideas, she saw in the rather
ordinary countenance of her adorer something to fear and admire. She
was now sitting down with her cloak off, with bare shoulders; her head,
crowned with flowers, falling forward from fatigue, when suddenly the
door opened and Hermann entered. She shuddered.

"Where were you?" she said, trembling all over.

"In the Countess's bedroom. I have just left her," replied Hermann.
"She is dead."

"Great Heavens! What are you saying?"

"I am afraid," he said, "that I am the cause of her death."

Lisaveta looked at him in consternation, and remembered Tomski's words:
"He has at least three crimes on his conscience."

Hermann sat down by the window, and told everything. The young girl
listened with terror.

So those letters so full of passion, those burning expressions, this
daring obstinate pursuit--all this had been inspired by anything but
love! Money alone had inflamed the man's soul. She, who had nothing
but a heart to offer, how could she make him happy? Poor child! she
had been the blind instrument of a robber, of the murderer of her old
benefactress. She wept bitterly in the agony of her repentance. Hermann
watched her in silence; but neither the tears of the unhappy girl, nor
her beauty, rendered more touching by her grief, could move his heart
of iron. He had no remorse in thinking of the Countess's death. One
sole thought distressed him--the irreparable loss of the secret which
was to have made his fortune.

"You are a monster!" said Lisaveta, after a long silence.

"I did not mean to kill her," replied Hermann coldly. "My pistol was
not loaded."

They remained for some time without speaking, without looking at one
another. The day was breaking, and Lisaveta put out her candle. She
wiped her eyes, drowned in tears, and raised them towards Hermann. He
was standing close to the window, his arms crossed, with a frown on
his forehead. In this attitude he reminded her involuntarily of the
portrait of Napoleon. The resemblance overwhelmed her.

"How am I to get you away?" she said at last. "I thought you might go
out by the back stairs. But it would be necessary to go through the
Countess's bedroom, and I am too frightened."

"Tell me how to get to the staircase, and I will go alone."

She went to a drawer, took out a key, which she handed to Hermann, and
gave him the necessary instructions. Hermann took her icy hand, kissed
her on the forehead, and departed.

He went down the staircase, and entered the Countess's bedroom. She was
seated quite stiff in her armchair; but her features were in no way
contracted. He stopped for a moment, and gazed into her face as if to
make sure of the terrible reality. Then he entered the dark room, and,
feeling behind the tapestry, found the little door which, opened on
to a staircase. As he went down it, strange ideas came into his head.
"Going down this staircase," he said to himself, "some sixty years ago,
at about this time, may have been seen some man in an embroidered coat
with powdered wig, pressing to his breast a cocked hat: some gallant
who has long been buried; and now the heart of his aged mistress has
ceased to beat."

At the end of the staircase he found another door, which his key
opened, and he found himself in the corridor which led to the street.




CHAPTER V.


Three days after this fatal night, at nine o'clock in the morning,
Hermann entered the convent where the last respects were to be paid
to the mortal remains of the old Countess. He felt no remorse, though
he could not deny to himself that he was the poor woman's assassin.
Having no religion, he was, as usual in such cases, very superstitious;
believing that the dead Countess might exercise a malignant influence
on his life, he thought to appease her spirit by attending her funeral.

The church was full of people, and it was difficult to get in. The
body had been placed on a rich catafalque, beneath a canopy of velvet.
The Countess was reposing in an open coffin, her hands joined on her
breast, with a dress of white satin, and head-dress of lace. Around
the catafalque the family was assembled, the servants in black caftans
with a knot of ribbons on the shoulder, exhibiting the colours of
the Countesses coat of arms. Each of them held a wax candle in his
hand. The relations, in deep mourning--children grandchildren, and
great-grandchildren--were all present; but none of them wept.

To have shed tears would have looked like affectation. The Countess was
so old that her death could have taken no one by surprise, and she had
long been looked upon as already out of the world. The funeral sermon
was delivered by a celebrated preacher. In a few simple, touching
phrases he painted the final departure of the just, who had passed
long years of contrite preparation, for a Christian end. The service
concluded in the midst of respectful silence. Then the relations went
towards the defunct to take a last farewell After them, in a long
procession, all who had been, invited to the ceremony bowed, for the
last time, to her who for so many years had been a scarecrow at their
entertainments. Finally came the Countess's household; among them was
remarked an old governess, of the same age as the deceased, supported
by two woman. She had not strength enough to kneel down, but tears
flowed from her eyes, as she kissed the hand of her old mistress.

In his turn Hermann advanced towards the coffin. He knelt down for a
moment on the flagstones, which were strewed with branches of yew. Then
he rose, as pale as death, and walked up the steps of the catafalque.
He bowed his head. But suddenly the dead woman seemed to be staring at
him; and with a mocking look she opened and shut one eye. Hermann by
a sudden movement started and fell backwards. Several persons hurried
towards him. At the same moment, close to the church door, Lisaveta
fainted.

Throughout the day Hermann suffered from a strange indisposition. In a
quiet restaurant, where he took his meals, he, contrary to his habit,
drank a great deal of wine, with the object of stupefying himself. But
the wine had no effect but to excite his imagination, and give fresh
activity to the ideas with which he was preoccupied.

He went home earlier than usual, lay down with his clothes on upon
the bed, and fell into a leaden sleep. When he woke up it was night,
and the room was lighted up by the rays of the moon. He looked at his
watch; it was a quarter to three. He could sleep no more. He sat up on
the bed and thought of the old Countess. At this moment someone in
the street passed the window, looked into the room, and then went on.
Hermann scarcely noticed it; but in another minute he heard the door of
the ante-chamber open. He thought, that his orderly, drunk as usual,
was returning from some nocturnal excursion; but the step was one to
which he was not accustomed. Somebody seemed to be softly walking over
the floor in slippers.

[Illustration: "HERMANN STARTED AND FELL BACKWARDS."]

The door opened, and a woman, dressed entirely in white, entered the
bedroom. Hermann thought it must be his old nurse, and he asked himself
what she could want at that time of night.

But the woman in white, crossing the room with a rapid step, was now at
the foot of his bed, and Hermann recognised the Countess.

"I come to you against my wish," she said in a firm voice. "I am forced
to grant your prayer. Three, seven, ace, will win, if played one after
the other; but you must not play more than one card in twenty-four
hours, and afterwards, as long as you live, you must never touch a
card again. I forgive you my death on condition of your marrying my
companion, Lisaveta Ivanovna."

With these words she walked towards the door, and gliding with her
slippers over the floor, disappeared. Hermann heard the door of the
ante-chamber open, and soon afterwards saw a white figure pass along
the street. It stopped for a moment before his window, as if to look
at him.

Hermann remained, for some time astounded. Then he got up and went into
the next room. His orderly, drunk as usual, was asleep on the floor. He
had much difficulty in waking him, and then could not obtain from him
the least explanation. The door of the ante-chamber was locked.

Hermann went back to his bedroom, and wrote down all the details of his
vision.




CHAPTER VI.


Two fixed ideas can no more exist together in the moral world, than in
the physical two bodies can occupy the same place at the same time; and
"Three, seven, ace" soon drove away Hermann's recollection of the old
Countess's last moments. "Three, seven, ace" were now in his head to
the exclusion of everything else.

They followed him in his dreams, and appeared to him under strange
forms. Threes seemed to be spread before him like magnolias, sevens
took the form of Gothic doors, and aces became gigantic spiders.

His thoughts concentrated themselves on one single point. How was he
to profit by the secret so dearly purchased? What if he applied for
leave to travel? At Paris, he said to himself, he would find some
gambling-house where, with his three cards, he could at once make his
fortune.

Chance soon came to his assistance. There was at Moscow a society of
rich gamblers, presided over by the celebrated Tchekalinski, who had
passed all his life playing at cards, and had amassed millions. For
while he lost silver only, he gained bank-notes. His magnificent house,
his excellent kitchen, his cordial manners, had brought him numerous
friends and secured for him general esteem.

When he came to St. Petersburg, the young men of the capital filled
his rooms, forsaking balls for his card-parties, and preferring the
emotions of gambling to the fascinations of flirting. Hermann was taken
to Tchekalinski by Narumoff. They passed through a long suite of rooms,
full of the most attentive, obsequious servants. The place was crowded.
Generals and high officials were playing at whist; young men were
stretched out on the sofas, eating ices and smoking long pipes. In the
principal room at the head of a long table, around which were assembled
a score of players, the master of the house held a faro bank.

He was a man of about sixty, with a sweet and noble expression of
face, and hair white as snow. On his full, florid countenance might
be read good humour and benevolence. His eyes shone with a perpetual
smile. Narumoff introduced Hermann. Tchekalinski took him by the hand,
told him that he was glad to see him, that no one stood on ceremony
in his house; and then went on dealing. The deal occupied some time,
and stakes were made on more than thirty cards. Tchekalinski waited
patiently to allow the winners time to double their stakes, paid what
he had lost, listened politely to all observations, and, more politely
still, put straight the corners of cards, when in a fit of absence some
one had taken the liberty of turning them down. At last when the game
was at an end, Tchekalinski collected the cards, shuffled them again,
had them cut, and then dealt anew.

"Will you allow me to take a card?" said Hermann, stretching out his
arm above a fat man who occupied nearly the whole of one side of the
table. Tchekalinski, with a gracious smile, bowed in consent. Naroumoff
complimented Hermann, with a laugh, on the cessation of the austerity
by which his conduct had hitherto been marked, and wished him all kinds
of happiness on the occasion of his first appearance in the character
of a gambler.

"There!" said Hermann, after writing some figures on the back of his
card.

"How much?" asked the banker, half closing his eyes. "Excuse me, I
cannot see."

"Forty-seven thousand rubles," said Hermann.

Everyone's eyes were directed toward the new player.

"He has lost his head," thought Harumoff.

"Allow me to point out to you," said Tchekalinski, with his eternal
smile, "that you are playing rather high. We never put down here, as a
first stake, more than a hundred and seventy-five rubles."

"Very well," said Hermann; "but do you accept my stake or not?"

Tchekalinski bowed in token of acceptation. "I only wish to point out
to you," he said, "that although I am perfectly sure of my friends,
I can only play against ready money. I am quite convinced that your
word is as good as gold; but to keep up the rules of the game, and to
facilitate calculations, I should be obliged to you if you would put
the money on your card."

Hermann took a bank-note from his pocket and handed it to Tchekalinski,
who, after examining it with a glance, placed it on Hermann's card.

Then he began to deal. He turned up on the right a ten, and on the left
a three.

"I win," said Hermann, exhibiting his three.

A murmur of astonishment ran through the assembly. The banker knitted
his eyebrows, but speedily his face resumed its everlasting smile.

"Shall I settle at once?" he asked.

"If you will be kind enough to do so," said Hermann.

Tchekalinski took a bundle of bank-notes from his pocket-book, and
paid. Hermann pocketed His winnings and left the table.

Narumoff was lost in astonishment. Hermann drank a glass of lemonade
and went home.

The next evening he returned to the house. Tchekalinski again held the
bank. Hermann went to the table, and this time the players hastened to
make room for him. Tchekalinski received him with a most gracious bow.
Hermann waited, took a card, and staked on it his forty-seven thousand
roubles, together with the like sum which he had gained the evening
before.

Tchekalinski began to deal. He turned up on the right a knave, and on
the left a seven.

Hermann exhibited a seven.

There was a general exclamation. Tchekalinski was evidently ill at
ease, but he counted out the ninety-four thousand roubles to Hermann,
who took them in the calmest manner, rose from, the table, and went
away.

[Illustration: "HE SAW BEFORE HIM A QUEEN OF SPADES."]

The next evening, at the accustomed hour, he again appeared. Everyone
was expecting him. Generals and high officials had left their whist to
watch this extraordinary play. The young officers had quitted their
sofas, and even the servants of the house pressed round the table.

When Hermann took his seat, the other players ceased to stake, so
impatient were they to see him have it out with the banker, who, still
smiling, watched the approach of his antagonist and prepared to meet
him. Each of them untied at the same time a pack of cards. Tchekalinski
shuffled, and Hermann cut. Then the latter took up a card and covered
it with a heap of banknotes. It was like the preliminaries of a duel. A
deep silence reigned through the room.

Tchekalinski took up the cards with trembling hands and dealt. On one
side he put down a queen and on the other side an ace.

"Ace wins," said Hermann.

"No. Queen loses," said Tchekalinski.

Hermann looked. Instead of ace, he saw a queen of spades before him. He
could not trust his eyes! And now as he gazed, in fascination, on the
fatal card, he fancied that he saw the queen of spades open and then
close her eye, while at the same time she gave a mocking smile. He felt
a thrill of nameless horror. The queen of spades resembled the dead
Countess!

Hermann is now at the Obukhoff Asylum, room No. 17 a hopeless madman!
He answers no questions which we put to him. Only he mumbles to himself
without cessation, "Three, seven, ace; three, seven, _queen_!"




THE PISTOL SHOT.


CHAPTER I.


We were stationed at the little village of Z. The life of an officer
in the army is well known. Drill and the riding school in the morning;
dinner with the colonel or at the Jewish restaurant; and in the evening
punch and cards.

At Z. nobody kept open house, and there was no girl that anyone could
think of marrying. We used to meet at each other's rooms, where we
never saw anything but one another's uniforms. There was only one man
among us who did not belong to the regiment. He was about thirty-five,
and, of course, we looked upon him as an old fellow. He had the
advantage of experience, and his habitual gloom, stern features, and
his sharp tongue gave him great influence over his juniors. He was
surrounded by a certain mystery. His looks were Russian, but his name
was foreign. He had served in the Hussars, and with credit. No one
knew what had induced him to retire and settle in this out of the way
little village, where he lived in mingled poverty and extravagance. He
always went on foot, and wore a shabby black coat. But he was always
ready to receive any of our officers; and though his dinners, cooked by
a retired soldier, never consisted of more than two or three dishes,
champagne flowed at them like water. His income, or how he got it, no
one knew, and no one ventured to ask. He had a few books on military
subjects and a few novels, which he willingly lent and never asked to
have returned. But, on the other hand, he never returned the books he
himself borrowed.

His principal recreation was pistol-shooting. The walls of his room
were riddled with bullets-a perfect honeycomb. A rich collection of
pistols was the only thing luxurious in his modestly furnished villa.
His skill as a shot was quite prodigious. If he had undertaken to
shoot a pear off some one's cap not a man in our regiment would have
hesitated to act as target. Our conversation often turned on duelling;
Silvio, so I will call him, never joined in it. When asked if he had
ever fought, he answered curtly, "Yes." But he gave no particulars, and
it was evident that he disliked such questions. We concluded that the
memory of some unhappy victim of his terrible skill preyed heavily upon
his conscience. None of us could ever have suspected him of cowardice.
There are men whose look alone is enough to repel such a suspicion.

An unexpected incident fairly astonished us. One afternoon about ten
officers were dining with Silvio. They drank as usual, that is to say,
a great deal. After dinner we asked our host to make a pool. For a long
time he refused on the ground that he seldom played. At last he ordered
cards to be brought in. With half a hundred gold pieces on the table we
sat round him, and the game began. It was Silvio's habit not to speak
when playing. He never disputed or explained. If an adversary made a
mistake Silvio without a word chalked it down against him. Knowing his
way we always let him have it.

But among us on this occasion was an officer who had but lately joined.
While playing he absent-mindedly scored a point too much. Silvio took
the chalk and corrected the score in his own fashion. The officer,
supposing him to have made a mistake, began to explain. Silvio went
on dealing in silence. The officer, losing patience, took the brush
and rubbed out what he thought was wrong. Silvio took the chalk and
recorrected it. The officer, heated with wine and play, and irritated
by the laughter of the company, thought himself aggrieved, and, in a
fit of passion, seized a brass candlestick and threw it at Silvio, who
only just managed to avoid the missile. Great was our confusion. Silvio
got up, white with rage, and said, with sparkling eyes--

"Sir! have the goodness to withdraw, and you may thank God that this
has happened in my own house."

We could have no doubt as to the consequences, and we already looked
upon our new comrade as a dead man. He withdrew saying that he was
ready to give satisfaction for his offence in any way desired.

The game went on for a few minutes; but feeling that our host was upset
we gradually left off playing and dispersed, each to his own quarters.
At the riding school next day we were already asking one another
whether the young lieutenant was still alive, when he appeared among
us. We asked him the same question, and were told that he had not yet
heard from Silvio. We were astonished. We went to Silvio's and found
him in the court-yard popping bullet after bullet into an ace which he
had gummed to the gate. He received us as usual, but made no allusion
to what had happened on the previous evening.

Three days passed and the lieutenant was still alive. "Can it be
possible," we asked one another in astonishment, "that Silvio will not
fight?"

Silvio did not fight. He accepted a flimsy apology, and became
reconciled to the man who had insulted him. This lowered him greatly
in the opinion of the young men, who, placing bravery above all the
other human virtues and regarding it as an excuse for every imaginable
vice, were ready to overlook anything sooner than a lack of courage.
However, little by little, all was forgotten, and Silvio regained his
former influence. I alone could not renew my friendship with him.
Being naturally romantic I had surpassed the rest in my attachment
to the man whose life was an enigma, and who seemed to me a hero of
some mysterious story. He liked me, and with me alone did he drop his
sarcastic tone and converse simply and most agreeably on many subjects.
But after this unlucky evening the thought that his honour was
tarnished, and that it remained so by his own choice, never left me;
and this prevented any renewal of our former intimacy. I was ashamed to
look at him. Silvio was too sharp and experienced not to notice this
and guess the reason. It seemed to vex him, for I observed that once or
twice he hinted at an explanation; but I wanted none, and Silvio gave
me up. Thenceforth I only met him in the presence of other friends, and
our confidential talks were at an end.

The busy occupants of the capital have no idea of the emotions so
frequently experienced by residents in the country and in country
towns; as, for instance, in awaiting the arrival of the post. On
Tuesdays and Fridays the bureau of the regimental staff was crammed
with officers. Some were expecting money, others letters or newspapers.
The letters were mostly opened on the spot, and the news freely
interchanged, the office meanwhile presenting a most lively appearance.

Silvio's letters used to be addressed to our regiment, and he usually
called for them himself. On one occasion, a letter having been handed
to him, I saw him break the seal and, with a look of great impatience,
read the contents. His eyes sparkled. The other officers, each engaged
with his own letters, did not notice anything.

"Gentlemen," said Silvio, "circumstances demand my immediate departure.
I leave tonight, and I hope you will not refuse to dine with me for the
last time. I shall expect you, too," he added, "turning towards me,
without fail." With these words he hurriedly left, and we agreed to
meet at Silvio's.

I went to Silvio's at the appointed time and found nearly the whole
regiment with him. His things were already packed. Nothing remained
but the bare shot-marked walls. We sat down to table. The host was in
excellent spirits, and his liveliness communicated itself to the rest
of the company. Corks popped every moment. Bottles fizzed and tumblers
foamed incessantly, and we, with much warmth, wished our departing
friend a pleasant journey and every happiness. The evening was far
advanced when we rose from table. During the search for hats, Silvio
wished everybody goodbye. Then, taking me by the hand, as I was on the
point of leaving, he said in a low voice:

"I want to speak to you."

I stopped behind.

The guests had gone and we were left alone.

Sitting down opposite one another we lighted our pipes. Silvio was much
agitated, no traces of his former gaiety remained. Deadly pale, with
sparkling eyes, and a thick smoke issuing from his mouth, he looked
like a demon. Several minutes passed before he broke silence.

"Perhaps we shall never meet again," he said. "Before saying goodbye I
want to have a few words with you. You may have remarked that I care
little for the opinion of others. But I like you, and should be sorry
to leave you under a wrong impression."

He paused, and began refilling his pipe. I looked down and was silent.

"You thought it odd," he continued, "that I did not require
satisfaction from that drunken maniac. You will grant, however, that
being entitled to the choice of weapons I had his life more or less in
my hands. I might attribute my tolerance to generosity, but I will not
deceive you; if I could have chastised him without the least risk to
myself, without the slightest danger to my own life, then I would on no
account have forgiven him."

[Illustration: "HERE IS A MEMENTO OF OUR DUEL."]

I looked at Silvio with surprise. Such a confession completely upset
me. Silvio continued:

"Precisely so, I had no right to endanger my life. Six years ago I
received a slap in the face and my enemy still lives."

My curiosity was greatly excited.

"Did you not fight him?" I inquired. "Circumstances probably separated
you?"

"I did fight him," replied Silvio, "and here is a memento of our duel."

He rose and took from a cardboard box a red cap with a gold tassel and
gold braid.

"My disposition is well known to you. I have been accustomed to be
first in everything. Prom my youth this has been my passion. In my
time dissipation was the fashion, and I was the most dissipated man
in the army. We used to boast of our drunkenness. I beat at drinking
the celebrated Burtsoff, of whom Davidoff has sung in his poems. Duels
in our regiment were of daily occurrence. I took part in all of them,
either as second or as principal. My comrades adored me, while the
commanders of the regiment, who were constantly being changed, looked
upon me as an incurable evil.

"I was calmly, or rather boisterously, enjoying my reputation when
a certain young man joined our regiment. He was rich, and came of
a distinguished family--I will not name him. Never in my life did
I meet with so brilliant, so fortunate a fellow!--young, clever,
handsome, with the wildest spirits, the most reckless bravery, bearing
a celebrated name, possessing funds of which he did not know the
amount, but which were inexhaustible. You may imagine the effect he
was sure to produce among us. My leadership was shaken. Dazzled by
my reputation he began by seeking my friendship. But I received him
coldly; at which, without the least sign of regret, he kept aloof from
me.

[Illustration: "WE CLUTCHED OUR SWORDS."]

"I took a dislike to him. His success in the regiment and in the
society of women brought me to despair. I tried to pick a quarrel with
him. To my epigrams he replied with epigrams which always seemed to me
more pointed and more piercing than my own, and which were certainly
much livelier; for while he joked I was raving.

"Finally, at a ball at the house of a Polish landed proprietor, seeing
him receive marked attention from all the ladies, and especially from
the lady of the house, who had formerly been on very friendly terms
with me, I whispered some low insult in his ear. He flew into a passion
and gave me a slap on the cheek. We clutched our swords, the ladies
fainted, we were separated, and the same night we drove out to fight.

"It was nearly daybreak. I was standing at the appointed spot with my
three seconds. How impatiently I awaited my opponent! The spring sun
had risen and it was growing hot. At last I saw him in the distance. He
was on foot, accompanied by only one second. We advanced to meet him.
He approached, holding in his hand his regimental cap filled full of
black cherries.

"The seconds measured twelve paces. It was for me to fire first. But
my excitement was so great that I could not depend upon the certainty
of my hand, and, in order to give myself time to get calm, I ceded the
first shot to my adversary. He would not accept it, and we decided to
cast lots.

"The number fell to him; constant favourite of fortune that he was! He
aimed and put a bullet through my cap.

"It was now my turn. His life at last was in my hands. I looked at him
eagerly, trying to detect if only some faint shadow of uneasiness. But
he stood beneath my pistol picking out ripe cherries from his cap and
spitting out the stones, some of which fell near me. His indifference
enraged me. 'What is the use,' thought I, 'of depriving him of life,
when he sets no value upon it.' As this savage thought flitted through
my brain I lowered the pistol.

"'You don't seem to be ready for death,' I said, 'you are eating your
breakfast, and I don't want to interfere with you.'

"'You don't interfere with me in the least,' he replied. 'Be good
enough to fire; or don't fire if you prefer it; the shot remains with
you, and I shall be at your service at any moment.'

"I turned to the seconds, informing them that I had no intention of
firing that day, and with this the duel ended. I resigned my commission
and retired to this little place. Since then not a single day has
passed that I have not thought of my revenge; and now the hour has
arrived."

[Illustration: "HIS LIFE AT LAST WAS IN MY HANDS."]

Silvio took from his pocket the letter he had received that morning,
and handed it to me to read. Someone (it seemed to be his business
agent) wrote to him from Moscow, that a certain individual was soon to
be married to a young and beautiful girl.

"You guess," said Silvio, "who the certain individual is. I am starting
for Moscow. Me shall see whether he will be as indifferent now as he
was some time ago, when in presence of death he ate cherries!"

With these words Silvio rose, threw his cap upon the floor, and began
pacing up and down the room like a tiger in his cage. I remained
silent. Strange contending feelings agitated me.

The servant entered and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio
grasped my hand tightly. He got into the _telega_, in which lay two
trunks--one containing his pistols, the other some personal effects. We
wished good-bye a second time, and the horses galloped off.




CHAPTER II.


Many years passed, and family circumstances obliged me to settle in the
poor little village of H. Engaged in farming, I sighed in secret for my
former merry, careless existence. Most difficult of all I found it to
pass in solitude the spring and winter evenings. Until the dinner hour
I somehow occupied the time, talking to the _starosta_, driving round
to see how the work went on, or visiting the new buildings. But as soon
as evening began to draw in, I was at a loss what to do with myself. My
books in various bookcases, cupboards, and storerooms I knew by heart.
The housekeeper, Kurilovna, related to me all the stories she could
remember. The songs of the peasant women made me melancholy. I tried
cherry brandy, but that gave me the headache. I must confess, however,
that I had some fear of becoming a drunkard from _ennui_, the saddest
kind of drunkenness imaginable, of which I had seen many examples in
our district.

I had no near neighbours with the exception of two or three melancholy
ones, whose conversation consisted mostly of hiccups and sighs.
Solitude was preferable to that. Finally I decided to go to bed as
early as possible, and to dine as late as possible, thus shortening the
evening and lengthening the day; and I found this plan a good one.

Pour versts from my place was a large estate belonging to Count B.;
but the steward alone lived there. The Countess had visited her domain
once only, just after her marriage, and she then only lived there about
a month. However, in the second spring of my retirement, there was a
report that the Countess, with her husband, would come to spend the
summer on her estate; and they arrived at the beginning of June.

The advent of a rich neighbour is an important event for residents in
the country. The landowners and the people of their household talk of
it for a couple of months beforehand, and for three years afterwards.
As far as I was concerned, I must confess, the expected arrival of
a young and beautiful neighbour affected me strongly. I burned with
impatience to see her; and the first Sunday after her arrival I started
for the village, in order to present myself to the Count and Countess
as their near neighbour and humble servant.

The footman showed me into the Count's study, while he went to
inform him of my arrival. The spacious room was furnished in a most
luxurious manner. Against the walls stood enclosed bookshelves well
furnished with books, and surmounted by bronze busts. Over the marble
mantelpiece was a large mirror. The floor was covered with green
cloth, over which were spread rugs and carpets.

Having got unaccustomed to luxury in my own poor little corner, and not
having beheld the wealth of other people for a long while, I was awed;
and I awaited the Count with a sort of fear, just as a petitioner from
the provinces awaits in an ante-room the arrival of the minister. The
doors opened, and a man about thirty-two, and very handsome, entered
the apartment. The Count approached me with a frank and friendly look.
I tried to be self-possessed, and began to introduce myself, but he
forestalled me.

We sat down. His easy and agreeable, conversation soon dissipated my
nervous timidity. I was already passing into my usual manner, when
suddenly the Countess entered, and I became more confused than ever.
She was, indeed, beautiful. The Count presented me. I was anxious to
appear at ease, but the more I tried to assume an air of unrestraint,
the more awkward I felt myself becoming. They, in order to give me time
to recover myself and get accustomed to my new acquaintances, conversed
with one another, treating me in good neighbourly fashion without
ceremony. Meanwhile, I walked about the room, examining the books and
pictures. In pictures I am no _connoisseur_; but one of the Count's
attracted my particular notice. It represented a view in Switzerland
was not, however, struck by the painting, but by the fact that it was
shot through by two bullets, one planted just on the top of the other.

"A good shot," I remarked, turning to the Count.

"Yes," he replied, "a very remarkable shot."

"Do you shoot well?" he added.

"Tolerably," I answered, rejoicing that the conversation had turned
at last on a subject which interested me.' "At a distance of thirty
paces I do not miss a card; I mean, of course, with a pistol that I am
accustomed to."

"Really?" said the Countess, with a look of great interest. "'And you,
my dear, could you hit a card at thirty paces?"

"Some day," replied the Count, "we will try. In my own time I did not
shoot badly. But it is four years now since I held a pistol in my hand."

"Oh," I replied, "in that case, I bet, Count, that you will not hit a
card even at twenty paces. The pistol demands daily practice. I know
that from experience. In our regiment I was reckoned one of the bests
shots. Once I happened not to take a pistol in hand for a whole month;
I had sent my own to the gunsmith's. Well, what do you think, Count?
The first time I began again to shoot I four times running missed
a bottle at twenty paces. The captain of our company, who was a wit,
happened to be present, and he said to me: 'Your hand, my friend,
refuses to raise itself against the bottle! No, Count, you must not
neglect to practise, or you will soon lose all skill. The best shot I
ever knew used to shoot every day, and at least three times every day,
before dinner. This was as much his habit as the preliminary glass of
vodka."

[Illustration: "SILVIO! _YOU_ KNEW SILVIO?"]

The Count and Countess seemed pleased that I had begun to talk.

"And what sort of a shot was he?" asked the Count.

"This sort, Count. If he saw a fly settle on the wall--you smile,
Countess, but I assure you it is a fact. When he saw the fly, he would
call out, 'Kuska, my pistol!' Kuska brought him the loaded pistol. A
crack, and the fly was crushed into the wall!"

"That is astonishing!" said the Count. "And what was his name?"

"Silvio was his name."

"Silvio!" exclaimed the Count, starting from his seat. "_You_ knew
Silvio?"

"How could I fail to know him? We were comrades; he was received at our
mess like a brother officer. It is now about five years since I last
had tidings of him. Then you, Count, also knew him?"

"I knew him very well. Did he never tell you of one very extraordinary
incident in his life?"

"Do you mean the slap in the face, Count, that he received from
a blackguard at a ball?" "He did not tell you the name of this
blackguard?"

"No, Count, he did not. Forgive me," I added, guessing the truth,
"forgive me--I did not--could it really have been you?"

"It was myself," replied the Count, greatly agitated. "And the shots in
the picture are a memento of our last meeting."

"Oh, my dear," said the Countess, "for God's sake do not relate it! It
frightens me to think of it."

"No," replied the Count; "I must tell him all. He knows how I insulted
his friend. He shall also know how Silvio revenged himself."

The Count pushed a chair towards me, and with the liveliest interest I
listened to the following story:--

"Five years ago," began the Count, "I got married. The honeymoon I
spent here, in this village. To this house I am indebted for the
happiest moments of my life, and for one of its saddest remembrances.

"One afternoon we went out riding together. My wife's horse became
restive. She was frightened, got off the horse, handed the reins over
to me; and walked home. I rode on before her. In the yard I saw a
travelling carriage, and I was told that in my study sat a man who
would not give his name, but simply said that he wanted to see me on
business. I entered the study, and saw in the darkness a man, dusty and
unshaven. He stood there, by the fireplace. I approached him, trying to
recollect his face.

"'You don't remember me, Count?' he said, in a tremulous voice.

"'Silvio!' I cried, and I confess I felt that my hair was standing on
end.

"'Exactly so,' he added. 'You owe me a shot; I have come to claim it.
Are you ready?'

"A pistol protruded from his side pocket.

"I measured twelve paces, and stood there in that corner, begging him
to fire quickly, before my wife came in.

"He hesitated, and asked for a light. Candles were brought in. I locked
the doors, gave orders that no one should enter, and again called upon
him to fire. He took out his pistol and aimed.

"I counted the seconds.... I thought of her ... A terrible moment
passed! Then Silvio lowered his hand.

"'I only regret,' he said, that the pistol is not loaded with
cherry-stones. My bullet is heavy; and it always seems to me that an
affair of this kind is net a duel, but a murder. I am not accustomed
to aim at unarmed men. Let us begin again from the beginning. Let us
cast lots as to who shall fire first.'

"My head went round. I think I objected. Finally, however, we loaded
another pistol and rolled up two pieces of paper. These he placed
inside his cap; the one through which, at our first meeting, I had put
the bullet. I again drew the lucky number.

"'Count, you have the devil's luck,' he said, with a smile which I
shall never forget.

"I don't know what I was about, or how it happened that he succeeded in
inducing me. But I fired and hit that picture."

The Count pointed with his finger to the picture with the shot-marks
His face had become red with agitation. The Countess was whiter than
her own handkerchief; and I could not restrain an exclamation.

"I fired," continued the Count, "and, thank Heaven, missed. Then
Silvio--at this moment he was really terrible--then Silvio raised his
pistol to take aim at me.

"Suddenly the door flew open, Masha rushed into the room. She threw
herself upon my neck with a loud shriek. Her presence restored to
me-all my courage.

"'My dear,' I said to her, 'don't you see that we are only joking? How
frightened you look! Go and drink a glass of water and then come back;
I will introduce you to an old friend and comrade.'

Masha was still in doubt.

[Illustration: "MASHA THREW HERSELF AT HIS FEET"]

"'Tell me; is my husband speaking the truth?' she asked, turning to the
terrible Silvio. 'Is it true that you are only joking?'

"'He is always joking. Countess,' Silvio replied. 'He once in a joke
gave me a slap in the face; in joke he put a bullet through this cap
while I was wearing it; and in joke, too, he missed me when he fired
just now. And now _I_ have a fancy for a joke.'

"With these words he raised his pistol as if to shoot me down before
her eyes."

Masha threw herself at his feet.

'Rise, Masha! For shame!' I cried, in my passion. 'And you, sir, cease
to amuse yourself at the expense of an unhappy woman. Will you fire or
not?'

"'I will not,' replied Silvio. 'I am satisfied. I have witnessed your
agitation--your terror. I forced you to fire at me. That is enough; you
will remember me. I leave you to your conscience.'

"He was now about to go; but he stopped at the door, looked round
at the picture which my shot had passed through, fired at it almost
without taking aim, and disappeared.

"My wife had sunk down fainting. The servants had not ventured to stop
Silvio, whom they looked upon with terror. He passed out to the steps,
called his coachman, and before I could collect myself drove off."

The Count was silent. I had now heard the end of the story of which
the beginning had long before surprised me. The hero of it I never saw
again. I heard, however, that Silvio, during the rising of Alexander
Ipsilanti, commanded a detach of insurgents and was killed in action.




THE SNOWSTORM.


Towards the end of 1811, at a memorable period for Russians, lived
on his own domain of Nenaradova the kind-hearted Gravril R. He was
celebrated in the whole district for his hospitality and his genial
character. Neighbours constantly visited him to have something to eat
and drink, and to play at five-copeck boston with his wife, Praskovia.
Some, too, went to have a look at their daughter, Maria; a tall pale
girl of seventeen. She was an heiress, and they desired her either for
themselves or for their sons.

Maria had been brought up on French novels, and consequently was in
love. The object of her affection was a poor ensign in the army, who
was now at home in his small village on leave of absence. As a matter
of course, the young man reciprocated Maria's passion. But the parents
of his beloved, noticing their mutual attachment, forbade their
daughter even to think of him, while they received him worse than an
ex-assize judge.

[Illustration: "THE LOVERS MET IN THE PINE WOOD."]

Our lovers corresponded, and met alone daily in the pine wood or by
the old roadway chapel. There they vowed everlasting love, inveighed
against fate, and exchanged various suggestions. Writing and talking in
this way, they quite naturally reached the following conclusion:--

If we cannot exist apart from each other, and if the tyranny of
hard-hearted parents throws obstacles in the way of our happiness, then
can we not manage without them?

Of course, this happy idea originated in the mind of the young man; but
it pleased the romantic imagination of Maria immensely.

Winter set in and put a stop to their meetings. But their
correspondence became all the more active. Vladimir begged Maria in
every letter to give herself up to him that they might get married
secretly, hide for a while, and then throw themselves at the feet of
the parents, who would of course in the end be touched by their heroic
constancy and say to them, "Children, come to our arms!"

Maria hesitated a long while, and out of many different plans proposed,
that of flight was for a time rejected. At last, however, she
consented. On the appointed day she was to decline supper, and retire
to her room under the plea of a headache. She and her maid, who was in
the secret, were then to go out into the garden by the back stairs,
and beyond the garden they would find a sledge ready for them, would
get into it and drive a distance of five miles from Nenaradova, to the
village of Jadrino, straight to the church, where Vladimir would be
waiting for them.

On the eve of the decisive day, Maria did not sleep all night; she was
packing and tying up linen and dresses. She wrote, moreover, a long
letter to a friend of hers, a sentimental young lady; and another to
her parents. Of the latter, she took leave in the most touching terms.
She excused the step she was taking by reason of the unconquerable
power of love, and wound up by declaring that she should consider it
the happiest moment of her life when she was allowed to throw herself
at the feet of her dearest parents. Sealing both letters with a Toula
seal, on which were engraven two flaming hearts with an appropriate
inscription, she at last threw herself upon her bed before daybreak
and dozed off, though even then she was awake tied from one moment
to another by terrible thoughts. First it seemed to her that at the
moment of entering the sledge in order to go and get married her father
stopped her, and with cruel rapidity dragged her over the snow and
threw her into a dark bottomless cellar, down which she fell headlong
with an indescribable sinking of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir,
lying on the grass, pale and bleeding; with his dying breath he
implored her to make haste and marry him. Other hideous and senseless
visions floated before her one after another. Finally she rose paler
than usual, and with, a real headache.

[Illustration: "SHE BURST INTO TEARS."]

Both her father and her mother remarked her indisposition. Their
tender anxiety and constant inquiries, "What is the matter with you,
Masha--are you ill?" cut her to the heart. She tried to pacify them and
to appear cheerful; but she could not. Evening set in. The idea that
she was passing the day for the last time in the midst of her family
oppressed her. In her secret heart she took leave of everybody, of
everything which surrounded her.

Supper was served; her heart beat violently. In a trembling voice she
declared that she did not want any supper, and wished her father and
mother good-night. They kissed her, and as usual blessed her; and she
nearly wept.

Reaching her own room she threw herself into an easy chair and burst
into tears. Her maid begged her to be calm and take courage. Everything
was ready. In half-an-hour Masha would leave for ever her parents'
house, her own room, her peaceful life as a young girl.

Out of doors the snow was falling, the wind howling. The shutters
rattled and shook. In everything she seemed to recognise omens and
threats.

Soon the whole home was quiet and asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a
shawl, put on a warm cloak, and with a box in her hand passed out on
to the back staircase. The maid carried two bundles after her. They
descended into the garden. The snowstorm raged: a strong wind blew
against them as if trying to stop the young culprit. With difficulty
they reached the end of the garden. In the road a sledge awaited them.

The horses from cold would not stand still. Vladimir's coachman was
walking to and fro in front of them, trying to quiet them. He helped
the young lady and her maid to their seats, and packing away the
bundles and the dressing-case took up the reins, and the horses flew
forward into the darkness of the night.

       *       *       *       *       *

Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and of Tereshka the
coachman, let us return to the young lover.

Vladimir had spent the whole day in driving. In the morning he had
called on the Jadrino priest, and, with difficulty, came to terms with
him. Then he went to seek for witnesses from amongst the neighbouring
gentry. The first on whom he called was a former cornet of horse,
Dravin by name, a man in his forties, who consented at once. The
adventure, he declared, reminded him of old times and of his larks
when he was in the Hussars. He persuaded Vladimir to stop to dinner
with him, assuring him that there would be no difficulty in getting
the other two witnesses. Indeed, immediately after dinner in came
the surveyor Schmidt, with a moustache and spurs, and the son of a
captain-magistrate, a boy of sixteen, who had recently entered the
Uhlans. They not only accepted Vladimir's proposal, but even swore that
they were ready to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced
them with delight, and drove off to get everything ready.

It had long been dark. Vladimir despatched his trustworthy Tereshka
to Nenaradova with his two-horsed sledge, and with appropriate
instructions for the occasion. For himself he ordered the small sledge
with one horse, and started alone without a coachman for Jadrino, where
Maria ought to arrive in a couple of hours. He knew the road, and the
drive would only occupy twenty minutes.

But Vladimir had scarcely passed from the enclosure into the open field
when the wind rose, and soon there was a driving snowstorm so heavy and
so severe that he could not see. In a moment the road was covered with
snow. All landmarks disappeared in the murky yellow darkness, through
which fell white flakes of snow. Sky and earth became merged into one.
Vladimir, in the midst of the field, tried in vain to get to the road.
The horse walked on at random, and every moment stepped either into
deep snow or into a rut, so that the sledge was constantly upsetting.
Vladimir tried at least not to lose the right direction; but it seemed
to him that more than half an hour had passed, and he had not yet
reached the Jadrino wood. Another ten minutes passed, and still the
wood was invisible. Vladimir drove across fields intersected by deep
ditches. The snowstorm did not abate, and the sky did not clear. The
horse was getting tired and the perspiration rolled from him like hail,
in spite of the fact that every moment his legs were disappearing in
the snow.

At last Vladimir found that he was going in the wrong direction. He
stopped; began to reflect, recollect, and consider; till at last he
became convinced that he ought to have turned to the right. He did so
now. His horse could scarcely drag along. But he had been more than
an hour on the road, and Jadrino could not now be far. He drove and
drove, but there was no getting out of the field. Still snow-drifts and
ditches. Every moment the sledge was upset, and every moment Vladimir
had to raise it up.

Time was slipping by, and Vladimir grew seriously anxious. At last in
the distance some dark object could be seen.

Vladimir turned in its direction, and as he drew near found it was a
wood.

"Thank Heaven," he thought, "I am now near the end."

He drove by the side of the wood, hoping to come at once upon the
familiar road, or, if not, to pass round the wood. Jadrino was situated
immediately behind it.

He soon found the road, and passed into the darkness of the wood, now
stripped by the winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was
smooth, the horse picked up courage, and Vladimir was comforted.

He drove and drove, but still Jadrino was not to be seen; there was no
end to the wood. Then to his horror he discovered that he had got into
a strange wood. He was in despair. He whipped his horse, and the poor
animal started off at a trot. But it soon got tired, and in a quarter
of an hour, in spite of all poor Vladimir's efforts, could only crawl.

Gradually the trees became thinner, and Vladimir drove out of the wood,
but Jadrino was not to be seen. It must have been about midnight.
Tears gushed from the young man's eyes. He drove on at random; and now
the weather abated, the clouds dispersed, and before him was a wide
stretch of plain, covered with a white billowy carpet. The night was
comparatively clear, and he could see a small village a short distance
off, which consisted of four or five cottages. Vladimir drove towards
it. At the first door he jumped out of the sledge, ran up to the
window, and tapped. After a few minutes a wooden, shutter was raised,
and an old man stuck out his grey beard.

"What do you want?"

"How far is Jadrino?"

"How far is Jadrino?"

"Yes, yes! Is it far?"

"Not far; about ten miles."

At this answer Vladimir clutched hold of his hair, and stood
motionless, like a man condemned to death.

"Where do you come from?" added the man. Vladimir had not the courage
to reply.

"My man," he said, "can you procure me horses to Jadrino?"

"We have no horses," answered the peasant.

"Could I find a guide? I will pay him any sum he likes."

"Stop!" said the old man, dropping the shutter; "I will send my son out
to you; he will conduct you."

Vladimir waited. Scarcely a minute had passed when he again knocked.
The shutter was lifted and a beard was seen.

"What do you want?"

"What about your son?"

"He'll come out directly: he is putting on his boots. Are you cold?
Come in and warm yourself."

"Thanks! Send out your son quickly."

The gate creaked; a youth came out with a cudgel, and walked on in
front, at one time pointing out the road, at another looking for it in
a mass of drifted snow.

"What o'clock is it?" Vladimir asked him.

"It will soon be daylight," replied the young-peasant. Vladimir spoke
not another word.

The cocks were crowing, and it was light when they reached Jadrino. The
church was closed. Vladimir paid the guide, and drove into the yard of
the priest's house. In the yard his two-horsed sledge was not to be
seen. What news awaited him?

       *       *       *       *       *

But let us return to the kind proprietors of Nenaradova, and see what
is going on there.

Nothing.

The old people awoke, and went into the sitting-room, Gavril in a
night-cap and flannel jacket, Praskovia in a wadded dressing-gown. The
samovar was brought in, and, Gavril sent the little maid to ask Maria
how she was and how she had slept. The little maid returned, saying
that her young lady had slept badly, but that she was better now, and
that she would come into the sitting-room in a moment. And indeed the
door opened, and Maria came in and wished her papa and mamma good
morning.

"How is your head-ache, Masha?" (familiar for Mary) inquired Gavril.

"Better, papa; answered Masha.

"The fumes from the stoves must have given you your head-ache,"
remarked Praskovia.

"Perhaps so, mamma," replied Masha.

The day passed well enough, but in the night Masha was taken ill. A
doctor was sent for from town. He came towards evening and found the
patient delirious. Soon she was in a severe fever, and in a fortnight
the poor patient was on the brink of the grave.

No member of the family knew anything of the flight from home. The
letters written by Masha the evening before had been burnt; and the
maid, fearing the wrath of the master and mistress, had not breathed
a word. The priest, the ex-cornet, the big moustached surveyor,
and the little lancer were equally discreet, and with good reason.
Tereshka, the coachman, never said too much, not even in his drink.
Thus the secret was kept better than it might have been by half a dozen
conspirators.

But Maria herself, in the course of her long fever, let out her secret,
nevertheless, her words were so disconnected that her mother, who never
left her bedside, could only make out from them that her daughter
was desperately in love with Vladimir, and that probably love was
the cause of her illness. She consulted her husband and some of her
neighbours, and at last it was decided unanimously that the fate of
Maria ought not to be interfered with, that a woman must not ride away
from the man she is destined to marry, that poverty is no crime, that
a woman has to live not with money but with a man, and so on. Moral
proverbs are wonderfully useful on such occasions, when we can invent
little or nothing in our own justification.

Meanwhile the young lady began to recover. Vladimir had not been seen
for a long time in the house of Gravril, so frightened had he been by
his previous reception. It was now resolved to send and announce to
him the good news which he could scarcely expect: the consent of her
parents to his marriage with Maria.

But what was the astonishment of the proprietors of Nenaradova when,
in answer to their invitation, they received an insane reply. Vladimir
informed them he could never set foot in their house, and begged them
to forget an unhappy man whose only hope now was in death. A few days
afterwards they heard that Vladimir had left the place and joined the
army.

A long time passed before they ventured to tell Masha, who was now
recovering. She never mentioned Vladimir. Some months later, however,
finding his name in the list of those who had distinguished themselves
and been severely wounded at Borodino, she fainted, and it was feared
that the fever might return. But, Heaven be thanked! the fainting fit
had no bad results.

       *       *       *       *       *

Maria experienced yet another sorrow. Her father died, leaving her the
heiress of all his property. But the inheritance could not console her.
She shared sincerely the affliction of her mother, and vowed she would
never leave her.

Suitors clustered round the charming heiress; but she gave no one the
slightest hope. Her mother sometimes tried to persuade her to choose a
companion in life; but Maria shook her head, and grew pensive.

Vladimir no longer existed. He had died at Moscow on the eve of the
arrival of the French. His memory was held sacred by Maria, and she
treasured up everything that would remind her of him; books he had
read, drawings which he had made; songs he had sung, and the pieces of
poetry which he had copied out for her.

The neighbours, hearing all this, wondered at her fidelity, and awaited
with curiosity the arrival of the hero who must in the end triumph over
the melancholy constancy of this virgin Artemis.

Meanwhile, the war had been brought to a glorious conclusion, and our
armies were returning from abroad. The people ran to meet them. The
music played, by the regimental bands consisted of war songs, "Vive
Henri-Quatre," Tirolese waltzes and airs from Joconde. Nourished on
the atmosphere of winter, officers who had started on the campaign
mere striplings returned grown men, and covered with decorations. The
soldiers conversed gaily among themselves, mingling German and French
words every moment in their speech. A time never to be forgotten--a
time of glory and delight! How quickly beat the Russian heart at
the words, "Native land!" How sweet the tears of meeting! With what
unanimity did we combine feelings of national pride with love for the
Tsar! And for him, what a moment!

The women--our Russian women--were splendid then. Their usual coldness
disappeared. Their delight was really intoxicating when, meeting the
conquerors, they cried, "Hurrah!" And they threw up their caps in the
air.

Who of the officers of that period does not own that to the Russian
women he was indebted for his best and most valued reward? During this
brilliant period Maria was living with her mother in retirement, and
neither of them saw how, in both the capitals, the returning troops
were welcomed. But in the districts and villages the general enthusiasm
was, perhaps, even greater.

[Illustration: "A TIME OF GLORY AND DELIGHT."]

In these places the appearance of an officer became for him a veritable
triumph. The accepted lover in plain clothes fared badly by his side.

We have already said that, in spite of her coldness, Maria was
still, as before, surrounded by suitors. But all had to fall in the
rear when there arrived at her castle the wounded young colonel
of Hussars--Burmin by name--with the order of St. George in his
button-hole, and an interesting pallor on his face. He was about
twenty-six. He had come home on leave to his estates, which were close
to Maria's villa. Maria paid him such attention as none of the others
received. In his presence her habitual gloom disappeared. It could not
be said that she flirted with him. But a poet, observing her behaviour,
might have asked, "S' amor non e, che dunque?"

Burmin was really a very agreeable young man. He possessed just the
kind of sense that pleased women: a sense of what is suitable and
becoming. He had no affectation, and was carelessly satirical. His
manner towards Maria was simple and easy. He seemed to be of a quiet
and modest disposition; but rumour said that he had at one time been
terribly wild. This, however, did not harm him in the opinion of Maria,
who (like all other young ladies) excused, with pleasure, vagaries
which were the result of impulsiveness and daring.

But above all--more than his love-making, more than his pleasant talk,
more than his interesting pallor, more even than his bandaged arm--the
silence of the young Hussar excited her curiosity and her imagination.
She could not help confessing to herself that he pleased her very much.
Probably he too, with his acuteness and his experience, had seen that
he interested her. How was it, then, that up to this moment she had
not seen him at her feet; had not received from him any declaration
whatever? And wherefore did she not encourage him with more attention,
and, according to circumstances, even with tenderness? Had she a secret
of her own which would account for her behaviour?

At last, Burmin fell into such deep meditation, and his black eyes
rested with such fire upon Maria, that the decisive moment seemed very
near. The neighbours spoke of the marriage as an accomplished fact, and
kind Praskovia rejoiced that her daughter had at last found for herself
a worthy mate.

The lady was sitting alone once in the drawing-room, laying out
grande-patience, when Burmin entered the room, and at once inquired for
Maria.

"She is in the garden," replied the old lady: "go to her, and I will
wait for you here." Burmin went, and the old lady made the sign of the
cross and thought, "Perhaps the affair will be settled to-day!"

Burmin found Maria in the ivy-bower beside the pond, with a book in
her hands, and wearing a white dress--a veritable heroine of romance.
After the first inquiries, Maria purposely let the conversation drop;
increasing by these means the mutual embarrassment, from which it was
only possible to escape by means of a sudden and positive declaration.

It happened thus. Burmin, feeling the awkwardness of his position,
informed Maria that he had long sought an opportunity of opening his
heart to her, and that he begged for a moment's attention. Maria closed
the book and lowered her eyes, as a sign that she was listening.

"I love you," said Burmin, "I love you passionately!" Maria blushed,
and bent her head still lower.

"I have behaved imprudently, yielding as I have done to the seductive
pleasure of seeing and hearing you daily." Maria recollected the first
letter of St. Preux in 'La Nouvelle Heloise.'

"It is too late now to resist my fate. The remembrance of you, your
dear incomparable image, must from to-day be at once the torment and
the consolation of my existence. I have now a grave duty to perform,
a terrible secret to disclose, which will place between us an
insurmountable barrier."

[Illustration: "IN THE IVY BOWER."]

"It has always existed!" interrupted Maria; "I could never have been
your wife."

"I know," he replied quickly; "I know that you once loved. But death
and three years of mourning may have worked some change. Dear, kind
Maria, do not try to deprive me of my last consolation; the idea that
you might have consented to make me happy if----. Don't speak, for
God's sake don't speak--you torture me. Yes, I know, I feel that you
could have been mine, but--I am the most miserable of beings--I am
already married!"

Maria looked at him in astonishment.

"I am married," continued Burmin; "I have been married more than three
years, and do not know who my wife is, or where she is, or whether I
shall ever see her again."

"What are you saying?" exclaimed Maria; "how strange! Pray continue."

"In the beginning of 1812," said Burmin, a I was hurrying on to
Wilna, where my regiment was stationed. Arriving one evening late
at a station, I ordered, the horses to be got ready quickly, when
suddenly a fearful snowstorm broke out. Both station master and drivers
advised me to wait till it was over. I listened to their advice, but
an unaccountable restlessness took possession of me, just as though
someone was pushing me on. Meanwhile, the snowstorm did not abate. I
could bear it no longer, and again ordered the horses, and started in
the midst of the storm. The driver took it into his head to drive along
the river, which would shorten the distance by three miles. The banks
were covered with snowdrifts; the driver missed the turning which would
have brought us out on to the road, and we turned up in an unknown
place. The storm never ceased. I could discern a light, and told the
driver to make for it. We entered a village, and found that the light
proceeded from a wooden church. The church was open. Outside the
railings stood several sledges, and people passing in and out through
the porch.

"'Here! here!' cried several voices. I told the coachman to drive up.

"'Where have you dawdled?' said someone to me. 'The bride has fainted;
the priest does not know what to do: we were on the point of going
back. Make haste and get out!'

"I got out of the sledge in silence, and stepped into the church,
which was dimly lighted with two or three tapers. A girl was sitting
in a dark corner on a bench; and another girl was rubbing her temples.
'Thank God,' said the latter, 'you have come at last! You have nearly
been the death of the young lady.'

"The old priest approached me; saying,

"'Shall I begin?'

"'Begin--begin, reverend father,' I replied, absently.

"The young lady was raised up. I thought her rather pretty. Oh, wild,
unpardonable frivolity! I placed myself by her side at the altar. The
priest hurried on.

"Three men and the maid supported the bride, and occupied themselves
with her alone. We were married!

"'Kiss your wife,' said the priest.

"My wife turned her pale face towards me. I was going to kiss her, when
she exclaimed, 'Oh! it is not he--not he!' and fell back insensible.

"The witnesses stared at me. I turned round and left the church without
any attempt being made to stop me, threw myself into the sledge, and
cried, 'Away!'"

"What!" exclaimed Maria. "And you don't know what became of your
unhappy wife?"

"I do not," replied Burmin; "neither do I know the name of the village
where I was married, nor that of the station from which I started.
At that time I thought so little of my wicked joke that, on driving
away from the church, I fell asleep, and never woke till early the
next morning, after reaching the third station. The servant who was
with me died during the campaign, so that I have now no hope of ever
discovering the unhappy woman on whom I played such a cruel trick, and
who is now so cruelly avenged."

"Great heavens!" cried Maria, seizing his hand. "Then it was you, and
you do not recognise me?" Burmin turned pale--and threw himself at her
feet.




THE UNDERTAKER.


The last remaining goods of the undertaker, Adrian Prohoroff, were
piled on the hearse, and the gaunt pair, for the fourth time, dragged
the vehicle along from the Basmannaia to the Nikitskaia, whither the
undertaker had flitted with all his household. Closing the shop, he
nailed to the gates an announcement that the house was to be sold or
let, and then started on foot for his new abode. Approaching the small
yellow house which had long attracted his fancy and which he at last
bought at a high price, the old undertaker was surprised to find that
his heart did not rejoice. Crossing the strange threshold, he found
disorder inside his new abode, and sighed for the decrepit hovel, where
for eighteen years everything had been kept in the most perfect order.
He began scolding both his daughters and the servant for being so slow,
and proceeded to help them himself. Order was speedily established.
The case with the holy pictures, the cupboard with the crockery, the
table, sofa, and bedstead, took up their appropriate corners in the
back room. In the kitchen and parlour was placed the master's stock
in trade, that is to say, coffins of every colour and of all sizes;
likewise wardrobes containing mourning hats, mantles, and funeral
torches. Over the gate hung a signboard representing a corpulent cupid
holding a reversed torch in his hand, with the following inscription:
"Here coffins are sold, covered, plain, or painted. They are also let
out on hire, and old ones are repaired."

The daughters had retired to their own room, Adrian went over his
residence, sat down by the window, and ordered the samovar to be got
ready.

The enlightened reader is aware that both Shakespeare and Walter Scott
have represented their gravediggers as lively jocular people, for the
sake, no doubt, of a strong contrast. But respect for truth prevents me
from following their example; and I must confess that the disposition
of our undertaker corresponded closely with his melancholy trade.
Adrian Prohoroff: was usually pensive and gloomy. He only broke silence
to scold his daughters when he found them idle, looking out of window
at the passers by, or asking too exorbitant prices for his products
from those who had the misfortune (sometimes the pleasure) to require
them. Sitting by the window drinking his seventh cup of tea, according
to his custom, Adrian was wrapped in the saddest thoughts. He was
thinking of the pouring rain, which a week before had met the funeral
of a retired brigadier at the turnpike gate, causing many mantles to
shrink and many hats to contract. He foresaw inevitable outlay, his
existing supply of funeral apparel being in such a sad condition. But
he hoped to make good the loss from the funeral of the old shopwoman,
Tiruhina, who had been at the point of death for the last year.
Tiruhina, however, was dying at Basgulai, and Prohoroff was afraid that
her heirs, in spite of their promise to him, might be too lazy to send
so far, preferring to strike a bargain with the nearest contractor.

These reflections were interrupted unexpectedly by three freemason
knocks at the door. "Who is there?" enquired the undertaker. The door
opened and a man, in whom at a glance might be recognised a German
artisan, entered the room, and with a cheery look approached the
undertaker.

"Pardon me, my dear neighbour," he said, with the accent which even now
we Russians never hear without a smile; "Pardon me for disturbing you;
I wanted to make your acquaintance at once. I am a bootmaker, my name
is Gottlieb Schultz, I live in the next street--in that little house
opposite your windows. To morrow I celebrate my silver wedding, and I
want you and your daughters to dine with me in a friendly way."

The invitation was accepted. The undertaker asked the bootmaker to sit
down and have a cup of tea, and thanks to Gottlieb Schultz's frank
disposition, they were soon talking in a friendly way.

"How does your business get on?" enquired Adrian.

"Oh, oh," replied Schultz, "one way and another I have no reason to
complain. Though, of course, my goods are not like yours. A living man
can do without boots, but a corpse cannot do without a coffin."

"Perfectly true," said Adrian, "still, if a living man has nothing to
buy boots with he goes barefooted, whereas the destitute corpse gets
his coffin sometimes for nothing."

Their conversation continued in this style for some time, until at last
the bootmaker rose and took leave of the undertaker, repeating his
invitation.

Next day, punctually at twelve o'clock, the undertaker and his
daughters passed out at the gate of their newly-bought house, and
proceeded to their neighbours. I do not intend to describe Adrian's
Russian caftan nor the European dress of Akulina or Daria, contrary
though this be to the custom of fiction-writers of the present day.
I don't, however, think it superfluous to mention that both, maidens
wore yellow bonnets and scarlet shoes, which they only did on great
occasions.

The bootmaker's small lodging was filled with guests, principally
German artisans, their wives, and assistants. Of Russian officials
there was only one watchman, the Finn Yurko, who had managed, in spite
of his humble position, to gain the special favour of his chief. He had
also performed the functions of postman for about twenty-five years,
serving truly and faithfully the people of Pogorelsk. The fire which,
in the year 1812, consumed the capital, burnt at the same time his
humble sentry box. But no sooner had the enemy fled, when in its place
appeared a small, new, grey sentry box, with tiny white columns of
Doric architecture, and Yurko resumed his patrol in front of it with
battle-axe on shoulder, and in the civic armour of the police uniform.

He was well known to the greater portion of the German residents near
the Nikitski Gates, some of whom had occasionally even passed the night
from Sunday until Monday in Yurko's box.

Adrian promptly made friends with a man of whom, sooner or later, he
might have need, and as the guests were just then going in to dinner
they sat down together.

Mr. and Mrs. Schultz and their daughter, the seventeen-year-old
Lotchen, while dining with their guests, attended to their wants and
assisted the cook to wait upon them. Beer flowed. Yurko ate for four,
and Adrian did not fall short of him, though his daughters stood upon
ceremony.

The conversation, which was in German, grew louder every hour.

Suddenly the host called for the attention of the company, and opening
a pitch-covered bottle, exclaimed loudly in Russian:

"The health of my good Louisa!"

The imitation champagne frothed. The host kissed tenderly the fresh
face of his forty-year old spouse and the guests drank vociferously the
health of good Louisa.

"The health of my dear guests!" cried the host opening the second
bottle. The guests thanked him and emptied their glasses. Then
one toast followed another. The health of each guest was proposed
separately; then the health of Moscow and of about a dozen German
towns. They drank the health of the guilds in general, and afterwards
of each one separately; The health of the foremen and of the workmen.
Adrian drank with a will and became so lively, that he himself proposed
some jocular toast.

Suddenly one of the guests, a stout baker, raised his glass and
exclaimed:

"The health of our customers!"

This toast like all the others was drunk joyfully and unanimously. The
guests nodded to each other; the tailor to the bootmaker, the bootmaker
to the tailor; the baker to them both and all to the baker.

Yurko in the midst of this bowing called out as he turned towards his
neighbour:

"Now then! My friend, drink to the health of your corpses."

Everybody laughed except the undertaker, who felt himself affronted and
frowned. No one noticed this; and the guests went on drinking till the
bells began to ring for evening service, when they all rose from the
table.

The party had broken up late and most of the guests were very
hilarious. The stout baker, with the bookbinder, whose face looked as
if it were bound in red morocco, led Yurko by the arms to his sentry
box, thus putting in practice the proverb, "One good turns deserves
another."

The undertaker went home drunk and angry.

"How, indeed," he exclaimed aloud. "Is my trade worse than any other?
Is an undertaker own brother to the executioner? What have the infidels
to laugh at? Is an undertaker a hypocritical buffoon? I should have
liked to invite them to a housewarming; to give them a grand spread.
But no; that shall not be! I will ask my customers instead; my orthodox
corpses."

"What!" exclaimed the servant, who at that moment was taking off the
undertaker's boots. "What is that, sir, you are saying? Make the sign
of the cross! Invite corpses to your housewarming! How awful!"

"I will certainly invite them," persisted Adrian, "and not later than
for to-morrow. Honour me, my benefactors, with your company to-morrow
evening at a feast; I will offer you what God has given me."

With these words the undertaker retired to bed, and was soon snoring.

It was still dark when Adrian awoke. The shopkeeper, Triuhina, had died
in the night, and her steward had sent a special messenger on horseback
to inform Adrian of the fact. The undertaker gave him a _grivenik_ [a
silver fourpenny bit] for his trouble, to buy _vodka_ with; dressed
hurriedly, took an _isvoshchik_, and drove off to Rasgulai. At the gate
of the dead woman's house the police were already standing, and dealers
in mourning goods were hovering around, like ravens who have scented
a corpse. The defunct was lying in state on the table, yellow like
wax, but not yet disfigured by decomposition. Hear her, in a crowd,
were relations, friends, and domestics. All the windows were open;
wax tapers were burning; and the clergy were reading prayers. Adrian
went up to the nephew, a young shopman in a fashionable _surtout_,
and informed him that the coffin, tapers, pall, and the funeral
paraphernalia in general would promptly arrive. The heir thanked him in
an absent manner, saying that he would not bargain about the price, but
leave it all to his conscience. The undertaker, as usual, vowed that
his charges should be moderate, exchanged significant glances with the
steward, and left to make the necessary preparations.

The whole day was spent in travelling from Rasgulai to the Nikitski
Grates and back again. Towards evening everything was settled, and
he started home on foot after discharging his hired _isvoshchik._ It
was a moonlight night, and the undertaker got safely to the Nikitski
Grates. At Yosnessenia he met our acquaintance, Yurko, who, recognising
the undertaker, wished him good-night. It was late. The undertaker was
close to his house when he thought he saw some one approach the gates,
open the wicket, and go in.

"What does it mean?" thought Adrian. "Who can be wanting me again? Is
it a burglar, or can my foolish girls have lovers coming after them?
There is no telling," and the undertaker was on the point of calling
his friend Yurko to his assistance, when some one else came up to the
wicket and was about to enter, but seeing the master of the house run
towards him, he stopped, and took off his three cornered hat. His face
seemed familiar to Adrian, but in his hurry he had not been able to
see it properly.

"You want me?" said Adrian, out of breath. "Walk in, if you please."

"Don't stand on ceremony, my friend," replied the other, in a hollow
voice, "go first, and show your guest the way."

Adrian had no time to waste on formality. The gate was open, and he
went up to the steps followed by the other. Adrian heard people walking
about in his rooms.

"What the devil is this?" he wondered, and he hastened to see. But
now his legs seemed to be giving way. The room was full of corpses.
The moon, shining through the windows, lit up their yellow and blue
faces, sunken mouths, dim, half-closed eyes, and protruding noses. To
his horror, Adrian recognised in them people he had buried, and in
the guest who came in with him, the brigadier who had been interred
during a pouring rain. They all, ladies and gentlemen, surrounded the
undertaker, bowing and greeting him affably, except one poor fellow
lately buried gratis, who, ashamed of his rags, kept at a distance in
a corner of the room. The others were all decently clad; the female
corpses in caps and ribbons, the soldiers and officials in their
uniforms, but with unshaven beards; and the tradespeople in their best
caftans.

"Prohoroff," said the brigadier, speaking on behalf of all the
company, "we have all risen to profit by your invitation. Only those
have stopped at home who were quite unable to do otherwise; who have
crumbled away and have nothing left but bare bones. Even among those
there was one who could not resist--he wanted so much to come."

At this moment a diminutive skeleton pushed his way through the
crowd and approached Adrian. His death's head grinned affably at the
undertaker. Shreds of green and red cloth and of rotten linen hung on
him as on a pole; while the bones of his feet clattered inside his
heavy boots like pestles in mortars.

"You do not recognise me, Prohoroff?" said the skeleton. "Don't
you remember the retired, sergeant in the guards, Peter Petrovitch
Kurilkin, him to whom you in the year 1799 sold your first coffin, and
of deal instead of oak?" With these words the corpse stretched out his
long arms to embrace him. But Adrian collecting his strength, shrieked,
and pushed him away. Peter Petrovitch staggered, fell over, and
crumbled to pieces. There was a murmur of indignation among the company
of corpses. All stood up for the honour of their companion, threatening
and abusing Adrian till the poor man, deafened by their shrieks and
quite overcome, lost his senses and fell unconscious among the bones of
the retired sergeant of the guard.

The sun had been shining for sometime upon the bed on which the
undertaker lay, when he at last opened his eyes and saw the servant
lighting the _samovar._ With horror he recalled all the incidents of
the previous day. Triuchin, the brigadier, and the sergeant, Kurilkin,
passed dimly before his imagination. He waited in silence for the
servant to speak and tell him what had occurred during the night.

"How you have slept, Adrian Prohorovitch!" said Aksima, handing him his
dressing-gown. "Your neighbour the tailor called, also the watchman, to
say that to-day was Turko's namesday; but you were so fast asleep that
we did not disturb you."

"Did anyone come from the late Triuhina?"

"The late? Is she dead, then?"

"What a fool! Didn't you help me yesterday to make arrangements for her
funeral?"

"Oh, my _batiushka!_ [little father] are you mad, or are you still
suffering from last night's drink? You were feasting all day at the
German's. You came home drunk, threw yourself on the bed, and and have
slept till now, when the bells have stopped ringing for Mass."

"Really!" exclaimed the undertaker, delighted at the explanation.

"Of course," replied the servant.

"Well, if that is the case, let us have tea quickly, and call my
daughters."




THE POSTMASTER.


Who has not cursed the Postmaster; who has not quarrelled with him?
Who, in a moment of anger, has not demanded the fatal hook to write his
ineffectual complaint against extortion, rudeness, and unpunctuality?
Who does not consider him a human monster, equal only to our extinct
attorney, or, at least, to the brigands of the Murom Woods? Let us,
however, be just and place ourselves in his position, and, perhaps,
we shall judge him less severely. What is a Postmaster? A real martyr
of the 14th class (i.e., of nobility), only protected by his _tchin_
(rank) from personal violence; and that not always. I appeal to the
conscience of my readers. What is the position of this dictator, as
Prince Yiasemsky jokingly calls him? Is it not really that of a galley
slave? No rest for him day or night. All the irritation accumulated
in the course of a dull journey by the traveller is vented upon the
Postmaster. If the weather is intolerable, the road wretched, the
driver obstinate, or the horses intractable--the Postmaster is to
blame. Entering his humble abode, the traveller looks upon him as his
enemy, and the Postmaster is lucky if he gets rid of his uninvited
guest soon. But should there happen to be no horses! Heavens! what
abuse, what threats are showered upon his head! Through rain and mud
he is obliged to seek them, so that during a storm, or in the winter
frosts, he is often glad to take refuge in the cold passage in order
to snatch a few moments of repose and to escape from the shrieking and
pushing of irritated guests.

If a general arrives, the trembling Postmaster supplies him with
the two last remaining _troiki_ (team of three horses abreast), of
which one _troika_ ought, perhaps, to have been reserved for the
diligence. The general drives on without even a word of thanks. Five
minutes later the Postmaster hears--a bell! and the guard throws down
his travelling certificate on the table before him! Let us realize
all this, and, instead of anger, we shall feel sincere pity for the
Postmaster. A few words more. In the course of twenty years I have
travelled all over Russia, and know nearly all the mail routes. I have
made the acquaintance of several generations of drivers. There are few
postmasters whom I do not know personally, and few with whom I have
not had dealings. My curious collection of travelling experiences I
hope shortly to publish. At present I will only say that, as a class,
the Postmaster is presented to the public in a false light. This
much-libelled personage is generally a peaceful, obliging, sociable,
modest man, and not too fond of money. From his conversation (which
the travelling gentry very wrongly despise) much interesting and
instructive information may be acquired. As far as I am concerned, I
profess that I prefer his talk to that of some _tchinovnik_ (official)
of the 6th class, travelling for the Government.

It may easily be guessed that I have some friends among the honourable
class of postmasters. Indeed, the memory of one of them is very dear
to me. Circumstances at one time brought us together, and it is of him
that I now intend to tell my dear readers.

In the May of 1816 I chanced to be passing through the Government of
----, along a road now no longer existing. I held a small rank, and
was travelling with relays of three horses while paying only for two.
Consequently the Postmaster stood upon no ceremony with me, but I
had often to take from him by force what I considered to be mine by
right. Being young and passionate, I was indignant at the meanness and,
cowardice of the Postmaster when he handed over the _troika_ prepared
for me to some official gentleman of higher rank.

It also took me a long time to get over the offence, when a servant,
fond of making distinctions, missed me when waiting at the governor's
table. Now the one and the other appear to me to be quite in the
natural course of things. Indeed, what would become of us, if, instead
of the convenient rule that rank gives precedence to rank, the rule
were to be reversed, and mind made to give precedence to mind? What
disputes would arise! Besides, to whom would the attendants first hand
the dishes? But to return to my story.

The day was hot. About three versts from the station it began to spit,
and a minute afterwards there was a pouring rain, and I was soon
drenched to the skin. Arriving at the station, my first care was to
change my clothes, and then I asked for a cup of tea.

"Hi! Dunia!" called out the Postmaster, "Prepare the _samovar_ and
fetch some cream."

In obedience to this command, a girl of fourteen appeared from behind
the partition, and ran out into the passage. I was struck by her beauty.

"Is that your daughter?" I inquired of the Postmaster.

"Yes," he answered, with a look of gratified pride, "and such a good,
clever girl, just like her late mother." Then, while he took note of my
travelling certificate, I occupied the time in examining the pictures
which decorated the walls of his humble abode. They were illustrations
of the story of the Prodigal Son. In the firsts a venerable old man
in a skull cap and dressing gown, is wishing good-bye to the restless
youth who naturally receives his blessing and a bag of money. In
another, the dissipated life of the young man is painted in glaring
colours; he is sitting at a table surrounded by false friends and
shameless women. In the next picture, the ruined youth in his shirt
sleeves and a three-corned hat, is taking care of some swine while
sharing their food. His face expresses deep sorrow and contrition.
Finally, there was the representation of his return to his father.
The kind old man, in the same cap and dressing gown, runs out to meet
him; the prodigal son falls on his knees before him; in the distance,
the cook is killing the fatted calf, and the eldest son is asking the
servants the reason of all this rejoicing. At the foot of each picture
I read some appropriate German verses. I remember them all distinctly,
as well as some pots of balsams, the bed with the speckled curtains,
and many other characteristic surroundings. I can see the stationmaster
at this moment; a man about fifty years of age, fresh and strong, in a
long green coat, with three medals on faded ribbons.

I had scarcely time to settle with my old driver when Dunia returned
with the _samovar_. The little coquette saw at a second glance the
impression she had produced upon me. She lowered her large, blue eyes.
I spoke to her, and she replied confidently, like a girl accustomed to
society. I offered a glass of punch to her father, to Dunia I handed a
cup of tea. Then we all three fell into easy conversation, as if we had
known each other all our lives.

The horses had been waiting a long while, but I was loth to part from
the Postmaster and his daughter. At last I took leave of them, the
father wishing me a pleasant journey, while the daughter saw me to the
_telega_. In the corridor I stopped and asked permission to kiss her.
Dunia consented. I can remember a great many kisses since then, but
none which left such a lasting, such a delightful impression.

Several years passed, when circumstances brought me back to the same
tract, to the very same places. I recollected the old Postmasters
daughter, and rejoiced at the prospect of seeing her again.

"But," I thought, "perhaps the old Postmaster has been changed, and
Dunia may be already married." The idea that one or the other might
be dead also passed through my mind, and I approached the station of
---- with sad presentiments. The horses drew up at the small station
house. I entered the waiting-room, and instantly recognised the
pictures representing the story of the Prodigal Son. The table and the
bed stood in their old places, but the flowers on the window sills had
disappeared, while all the surroundings showed neglect and decay.

The Postmaster was asleep under his great-coat, but my arrival awoke
him and he rose. It was certainly Simeon Virin, but how aged! While he
was preparing to make a copy of my travelling certificate, I looked at
his grey hairs, and the deep wrinkles in his long, unshaven face, his
bent back, and I was amazed to see how three or four years had managed
to change a strong, middle-aged man into a frail, old one.

"Do you recognise me?" I asked him, "we are old friends."

"May be," he replied, gloomily, "this is a highway, and many travellers
have passed through here."

"Is your Dunia well?" I added. The old man frowned.

"Heaven knows," he answered.

"Apparently, she is married," I said.

The old man pretended not to hear my question, and in a low voice went
on reading my travelling certificate. I ceased my inquiries and ordered
hot water.

My curiosity was becoming painful, and I hoped that the punch would
loosen the tongue of my old friend. I was not mistaken; the old man
did not refuse the proffered tumbler. I noticed that the rum dispelled
his gloom. At the second glass he became talkative, remembered, or at
any rate looked as if he remembered, me, and I heard the story, which
at the time interested me and even affected me much.

"So you knew my Dunia?" he began. "But, then, who did not? Oh, Dunia,
Dunia! What a beautiful girl you were! You were admired and praised
by every traveller. No one had a word to say against her. The ladies
gave her presents--one a handkerchief, another a pair of earrings. The
gentlemen stopped on purpose, as if to dine or to take supper, but
really only to take a longer look at her. However rough a man might be,
he became subdued in her presence and spoke graciously to me. Will you
believe me, sir? Couriers and special messengers would talk to her for
half-an-hour at the time. She was the support of the house. She kept
everything in order, did everything and looked after everything. While
I, the old fool that I was, could not see enough of her, or pet her
sufficiently. How I loved her! How I indulged my child! Surely her life
was a happy one? But, no! fate is not to be avoided."

Then he began to tell me his sorrow in detail. Three years before,
one winter evening, while the Postmaster was ruling a new book, his
daughter in the next partition was busy making herself a dress, when
a _troika_ drove up and a traveller, wearing a Circassian hat and a
long military overcoat, and muffled in a shawl, entered the room and
demanded horses.

The horses were all out. Hearing this, the traveller had raised his
voice and his whip, when Dunia, accustomed to such scenes, rushed out
from behind the partition and inquired pleasantly whether he would not
like something to eat? Her appearance produced the usual effect. The
passenger's rage subsided, he agreed to wait for horses, and ordered
some supper. He took off his wet hat, unloosed the shawl, and divested
himself of his long overcoat.

The traveller was a tall, young hussar with a small black moustache.
He settled down comfortably at the Postmaster's and began a lively,
conversation with him and his daughter. Supper was served. Meanwhile,
the horses returned and the Postmaster ordered them instantly, without
being fed, to be harnessed to the traveller's _kibitka._ But returning
to the room, he found the young man senseless on the bench where he lay
in a faint. Such a headache had attacked him that it was impossible for
him to continue his journey. What was to be done? The Postmaster gave
up his own bed to him; and it was arranged that if the patient was not
better the next morning to send to C------ for the doctor.

Next day the hussar was worse. His servant rode to the town to fetch
the doctor. Dunia bound up his head with a handkerchief moistened
in vinegar, and sat down with her needlework by his bedside. In the
presence of the Postmaster the invalid groaned and scarcely said a word.

Nevertheless, he drank two cups of coffee and, still groaning, ordered
a good dinner. Dunia never left him. Every time he asked for a drink
Dunia handed him the jug of lemonade prepared by herself. After
moistening his lips, the patient each time he returned the jug gave her
hand a gentle pressure in token of gratitude.

Towards dinner time the doctor arrived. He felt the patient's pulse,
spoke to him in German and in Russian, declared that all he required
was rest, and said that in a couple of days he would be able to start
on his journey. The hussar handed him twenty-five rubles for his visit,
and gave him an invitation to dinner, which the doctor accepted. They
both ate with a good appetite, and drank a bottle of wine between them.
Then, very pleased with one another, they separated.

Another day passed, and the hussar had quite recovered. He became very
lively, incessantly joking, first with Dunia, then with the Postmaster,
whistling tunes, conversing with the passengers, copying their
travelling certificates into the station book, and so ingratiating
himself that on the third day the good Postmaster regretted parting
with his dear lodger.

It was Sunday, and Dunia was getting ready to attend mass. The hussar's
_kibitka_ was at the door. He took leave of the Postmaster, after
recompensing him handsomely for his board and lodging, wished Dunia
good-bye, and proposed to drop her at the church, which was situated at
the other end of the village. Dunia hesitated.

"What are you afraid of?" asked her father. "His nobility is not a
wolf. He won't eat you. Drive with him as far as the church."

Dunia got into the carriage by the side of the hussar. The servant
jumped on the coach box, the coachman gave a whistle, and the horses
went off at a gallop.

The poor Postmaster could not understand how he came to allow his Dunia
to drive off with the hussar; how he could have been so blind, and what
had become of his senses. Before half-an-hour had passed his heart
misgave him. It ached, and he became so uneasy that he could bear the
situation no longer, and started for the church himself. Approaching
the church, he saw that the people were already dispersing. But Dunia
was neither in the churchyard nor at the entrance. He hurried into
the church; the priest was just leaving the altar, the clerk was
extinguishing the tapers, two old women were still praying in a corner;
but Dunia was nowhere to be seen. The poor father could scarcely summon
courage to ask the clerk if she had been to mass. The clerk replied
that she had not. The Postmaster returned home neither dead nor alive.
He had only one hope left; that Dunia in the flightiness of her youth
had, perhaps, resolved to drive as far as the next station, where her
godmother lived. In patient agitation he awaited the return of the
_troika_ with which he had allowed her to drive off, but the driver did
not come back. At last, towards night, he arrived alone and tipsy, with
the fatal news that Dunia had gone on with the hussar.

The old man succumbed to his misfortune, and took to his bed, the same
bed where, the day before, the young impostor had lain. Recalling all
the circumstances, the Postmaster understood now that the hussar's
illness had been shammed. The poor fellow sickened with severe fever,
he was removed to C------, and in his place another man was temporarily
appointed. The same doctor who had visited the hussar attended him. He
assured the Postmaster that the young man had been perfectly well, that
he had from the first had suspicions of his evil intentions, but that
he had kept silent for fear of his whip.

Whether the German doctor spoke the truth, or was anxious only to prove
his great penetration, his assurance brought no consolation to the poor
patient. As soon as he was beginning to recover from his illness, the
old Postmaster asked his superior postmaster of the town of C------ for
two months' leave of absence, and without saying a word to anyone, he
started off on foot to look for his daughter.

From the station book he discovered that Captain Minsky had left
Smolensk for Petersburg. The coachman who drove him said that Dunia had
wept all the way, though she seemed to be going of her own free will.

"Perhaps," thought the station master, "I shall bring back my strayed
lamb." With this idea he reached St. Petersburg, and stopped with the
Ismailovsky regiment, in the quarters of a non-commissioned officer,
his old comrade in arms. Beginning his search he soon found out that
Captain Minsky was in Petersburg, living at Demuth's Hotel. The
Postmaster determined to see him.

Early in the morning he went to Minsky's antechamber, and asked to
have his nobility informed that an old soldier wished to see him. The
military attendant, in the act of cleaning a boot on a boot-tree,
informed him that his master was asleep, and never received anyone
before eleven o'clock. The Postmaster left to return at the appointed
time. Minsky came out to him in his dressing gown and red skull cap.

"Well, my friend, what do you want?" he inquired.

The old maids heart boiled, tears started to his eyes, and in a
trembling voice he could only say, "Your nobility; be divinely
merciful!"

Minsky glanced quickly at him, flushed, and seizing him by the hand,
led him into his study and locked the door.

"Your nobility!" continued the old man, "what has fallen from the cart
is lost; give me back, at any rate, my Dunia. Let her go. Do not ruin
her entirely."

"What is done cannot be undone," replied the young man, in extreme
confusion. "I am guilty before you, and ready to ask your pardon. But
do not imagine that I could neglect Dunia. She shall be happy, I give
you my word of honour. Why do you want her? She loves me; she has
forsaken her former existence. Neither you nor she can forget what has
happened." Then, pushing something up his sleeve, he opened the door,
and the Postmaster found himself, he knew not how, in the street.

He stood long motionless, at last catching sight of a roll of papers
inside his cuff, he pulled them out and unrolled several crumpled-up
fifty ruble notes. His eyes again filled with tears, tears of
indignation! He crushed the notes into a ball, threw them on the
ground, and, stamping on them with his heel, walked away. After a few
steps he stopped, reflected a moment, and turned back.

But the notes were gone. A well-dressed young man, who had observed
him, ran towards an _isvoshtchick_, got in hurriedly, and called to the
driver to be "off."

The Postmaster did not pursue him. He had resolved to return home to
his post-house; but before doing so he wished to see his poor Dunia
once more. With this view, a couple of days afterwards he returned to
Minsky's lodgings. But the military servant told him roughly that his
master received nobody, pushed him out of the antechamber, and slammed
the door in his face. The Postmaster stood and stood, and at last went
away.

That same day, in the evening, he was walking along the Leteinaia,
having been to service at the Church of the All Saints, when a smart
_drojki_ flew past him, and in it the Postmaster recognised Minsky.
The _drojki_ stopped in front of a three-storeyed house at the very
entrance, and the hussar ran up the steps. A happy thought occurred to
the Postmaster. He retraced his steps.

"Whose horses are these?" he inquired of the coachman. "Don't they
belong to Minsky?"

"Exactly so," replied the coachman. "Why do you ask?"

"Why! your master told me to deliver a note for him to his Dunia, and I
have forgotten where his Dunia lives."

"She lives here on the second floor; but you are too late, my friend,
with your note; he is there himself now."

"No matter," answered the Postmaster, who had an undefinable sensation
at his heart. "Thanks for your information; I shall be able to manage
my business." With these words he ascended the steps.

The door was locked; he rang. There were several seconds of painful
delay. Then the key jingled, and the door opened.

"Does Avdotia Simeonovna live here?" he inquired.

"She does," replied the young maid-servant, "What do you want with her?"

The Postmaster did not reply, but walked on.

"You must not, must not," she called after him; "Avdotia Simeonovna has
visitors." But the Postmaster, without listening, went on. The first
two rooms were dark. In the third there was a light. He approached the
open door and stopped. In the room, which was beautifully furnished,
sat Minsky in deep thought. Dunia, dressed in all the splendour of
the latest fashion, sat on the arm of his easy chair, like a rider
on an English side saddle. She was looking tenderly at Minsky, while
twisting his black locks round her glittering fingers. Poor Postmaster!
His daughter had never before seemed so beautiful to him. In spite of
himself, he stood admiring her.

"Who is there?" she asked, without raising her head.

He was silent.

Receiving no reply Dunia looked up, and with a cry she fell on the
carpet.

Minsky, in alarm, rushed to pick her up, when suddenly seeing the old
Postmaster in the doorway, he left Dunia and approached him, trembling
with rage.

"What do you want?" he inquired, clenching his teeth. "Why do you steal
after me everywhere, like a burglar? Or do you want to murder me?
Begone!" and with a strong hand he seized the old man by the scruff of
the neck and pushed him down the stairs.

The old man went back to his rooms. His friend advised him to take
proceedings, but the Postmaster reflected, waved his hand, and decided
to give the matter up. Two days afterwards he left Petersburg for his
station and resumed his duties.

"This is the third year," he concluded, "that I am living without my
Dunia; and I have had no tidings whatever of her. Whether she is alive
or not God knows. Many tilings happen. She is not the first, nor the
last, whom a wandering blackguard has _enticed_ away, kept for a time,
and then dropped. There are many such young fools in Petersburg to-day,
in satins and velvets, and to-morrow you see them sweeping the streets
in the company of drunkards in rags. When I think sometimes that Dunia,
too, may end in the same way, then, in spite of myself, I sin, and wish
her in her grave."

Such was the story of my friend, the old Postmaster, the story more
than once interrupted by tears, which he wiped away picturesquely
with the flap of his coat like the faithful Terentieff in Dmitrieff's
beautiful ballad. The tears were partly caused by punch, of which he
had consumed five tumblers in the course of his narrative. But whatever
their origin, I was deeply affected by them. After parting with him, it
was long before I could forget the old Postmaster, and I thought long
of poor Dunia.

Lately, again passing through the small place of ------, I remembered
my friend. I heard that the station over which he ruled had been done
away with. To my inquiry, "Is the Postmaster alive?" no one could give
a satisfactory answer. Having resolved to pay a visit to the familiar
place, I hired horses of my own, and started for the village of N----.

It was autumn. Grey clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew from the
close reaped fields, carrying with it the brown and yellow leaves
of the trees which it met. I arrived in the village at sunset, and
stopped at the station house. In the passage (where once Dunia had
kissed me) a stout woman met me; and to my inquiries, replied that the
old Postmaster had died about a year before; that a brewer occupied
his house; and that she was the wife of that brewer. I regretted my
fruitless journey, and my seven roubles of useless expense.

"Of what did he die?" I asked the brewer's wife.

"Of drink," she answered.

"And where is he buried?"

"Beyond the village, by the side of his late wife."

"Could someone take me to his grave?"

"Certainly! Hi, Vanka! cease playing with the cat and take this
gentleman to the cemetery, and show him the Postmaster's grave."

At these words, a ragged boy, with red hair and a squint, ran towards
me to lead the way.

"Did you know the poor man?" I asked him, on the road.

"How should I not know him? He taught me to make whistles. When (may
he be in heaven!) we met him coming from the tavern, _we_ used to run
after him calling, 'Daddy! daddy! some nuts,' and he gave us nuts. He
idled most of his time away with, us."

"And do the travellers ever speak of him?"

"There are few travellers now-a-days, unless the assize judge turns up;
and he is too busy to think of the dead. But a lady, passing through
last summer, did ask after the old Postmaster, and she went to his
grave."

"What was the ladylike?" I inquired curiously.

"A beautiful lady," answered the boy. "She travelled in a coach with
six horses, three beautiful little children, a nurse, and a little
black dog; and when she heard that the old Postmaster was dead, she
wept, and told the children to keep quiet while she went to the
cemetery. I offered to show her the way, but the lady said, 'I know
the way,' and she gave me a silver _piatak_ (twopence) ... such a kind
lady!"

We reached the cemetery. It was a bare place unenclosed, marked with
wooden crosses and unshaded by a single tree. Never before had I seen
such a melancholy cemetery.

"Here is the grave of the old Postmaster," said the boy to me, as he
pointed to a heap of sand into which had been stuck a black cross with
a brass _icon_ (image).

"Did the lady come here?" I asked.

"She did," replied Vanka. "I saw her from a distance. She lay down
here, and remained lying down for a long while. Then she went into the
village and saw the priest. She gave him some money and drove off. To
me she gave a silver _piatak._ She was a splendid lady!"

And I also gave the boy a silver _piatak,_ regretting neither the
journey nor the seven roubles that it had cost me.




THE LADY RUSTIC.


In one of our distant provinces was the estate of Ivan Petrovitch
Berestoff. As a youth he served in the guards, but having left the
army early in 1797 he retired to his country seat and there remained.
He married a wife from among the poor nobility, and when she died in
childbed he happened to be detained on farming business in one of his
distant fields. His daily occupations soon brought him consolation. He
built a house on his own plan, set up his own cloth factory, became his
own auditor and accountant, and began to think himself the cleverest
fellow in the whole district. The neighbours who used to come to him
upon a visit and bring their families and dogs took good care not to
contradict him. His work-a-day dress was a short coat of velveteen;
on holidays he wore a frock-coat of cloth from his own factory. His
accounts took most of his time, and he read nothing but the _Senatorial
News_. On the whole, though he was considered proud, he was not
disliked. The only person who could never get on with him was his
nearest neighbour, Grigori Ivanovitch Muromsky. A true Russian _barin,_
he had squandered in Moscow a large part of his estate, and having lost
his wife as well as his money he had retired to his sole remaining
property, and there continued his extragavance but in a different way.
He set up an English garden on which he spent nearly all the income he
had left. His grooms wore English liveries. An English governess taught
his daughter. He farmed his land upon the English system. But foreign
farming grows no Russian corn.

So, in spite of his retirement, the income of Grigori Ivanovitch did
not increase. Even in the country he had a faculty for making new
debts. But he was no fool, people said, for was he not the first
landowner in all that province to mortgage his property to the
government--a process then generally believed to be one of great
complexity and risk? Among his detractors Berestoff, a thorough hater
of innovation, was the most severe. In speaking of his neighbour's
Anglo-mania he could scarcely keep his feelings under control, and
missed no opportunity for criticism. To some compliment from a visitor
to his estate he would answer, with a knowing smile:

"Yes, my farming is not like that of Grigori Ivanovitch. I can't afford
to ruin my land on the English system, but I am satisfied to escape
starvation on the Russian."

Obliging neighbours reported these and other jokes to Grigori, with
additions and commentaries of their own. The Anglo-maniac was as
irritable as a journalist under this criticism, and wrathfully referred
to his critic as a bumpkin and a bear.

Relations were thus strained when Berestoff's son came home. Having
finished his university career, he wanted to go into the army; but his
father objected. For the civil service young Berestoff had no taste.
Neither would yield, so young Alexis took up the life of a country
gentleman, and to be ready for emergencies cultivated a moustache. He
was really a handsome fellow, and it would indeed have been a pity
never to pinch his fine figure into a military uniform, and instead
of displaying his broad shoulders on horseback to round them over an
office desk. Ever foremost in the hunting-field, and a straight rider,
it was quite clear, declared the neighbours, that he could never make
a good official. The shy young ladies glanced and the bold stared at
him in admiration; but he took no notice of them, and each could only
attribute his indifference to some prior attachment. In fact, there was
in private circulation, copied from an envelope in his handwriting,
this address:

    A. N. P.,
      Care of Akulina Petrovna Kurotchkina,
              Opposite Alexeieff Monastery.

Those readers who have not seen our country life can hardly realize the
charm of these provincial girls. Breathing pure air under the shadow
of their apple trees, their only knowledge of the world is drawn from
books. In solitude and unrestrained, their feelings and their passions
develop early to a degree unknown to the busier beauties of our towns.
For them the tinkling of a bell is an event, a drive into the nearest
town an epoch, and a chance visit a long, sometimes an everlasting
remembrance. At their oddities he may laugh who will, but superficial
sneers cannot impair their real merits--their individuality, which, so
says Jean Paul, is a necessary element of greatness. The women in large
towns may be better educated, but the levelling influence of the world
soon makes all women as much alike as their own head-dresses.

Let not this be regarded as condemnation. Still as an ancient writer
says _nota nostra manet._

It may be imagined what an impression Alexis made on our country
misses. He was the first gloomy and disenchanted hero they had ever
beheld; the first who ever spoke to them of vanished joys and blighted
past. Besides, he wore a black ring with a death's head on it. All this
was quite a new thing in that province, and the young ladies all went
crazy.

But she in whose thoughts he dwelt most deeply was Lisa, or, as the old
Anglo-maniac called her, Betty, the daughter of Grigori Ivanovitch.
Their fathers did not visit, so she had never seen Alexis, who was
the sole topic of conversation among her young neighbours. She was
just seventeen, with dark eyes lighting up her pretty face. An only,
and consequently a spoilt child, full of life and mischief, she was
the delight of her father, and the distraction of her governess, Miss
Jackson, a prim spinster in the forties, who powdered her face and
blackened her eyebrows, read Pamela twice a year, drew a salary of
2,000 rubles, and was nearly bored to death in barbarous Russia.

Lisa's maid Nastia was older, but quite as flighty as her mistress, who
was very fond of her, and had her as confidante in all her secrets and
as fellow-conspirator in her mischief.

In fact, no leading lady played half such an important part in French
tragedy as was played by Nastia in the village.

Said Nastia, while dressing her young lady:

"May I go to-day and visit a friend?"

"Yes. Where?"

"To the Berestoff's. It is the cook's namesday. He called yesterday to
ask us to dinner."

"Then," said Lisa, "the masters quarrel and the servants entertain one
another."

"And what does that matter to us?" said Nastia. "I belong to you and
not to your father. You have not quarrelled with young Berestoff yet.
Let the old people fight if they please."

"Nastia! try and see Alexei Berestoff. Come back and tell me all about
him."

Nastia promised; Lisa spent the whole day impatiently waiting for her.
In the evening she returned.

"Well, Lisaveta Grigorievna!" she said, as she entered the room.

"I have seen young Berestoff. I had a good look at him. We spent the
whole day together."

"How so? tell me all about it."

"Certainly? We started, I and Anissia----"

"Yes, yes, I know! What then?"

"I would rather tell you in proper order. We were just in time for
dinner; the room was quite full. There were the Zaharievskys, the
steward's wife and daughters, the Shlupinskys----"

"Yes, yes! And Berestoff?"

"Wait a bit. We sat down to dinner. The steward's wife had the seat of
honour; I sat next to her, and her daughters were huffy; but what do I
care!"

"Oh, Nastia! How tiresome you are with these everlasting details!"

"How impatient you are! Well, then we rose from table--we had been
sitting for about three hours and it was a splendid dinner-party,
blue, red and striped creams--then we went into the garden to play at
kiss-in-the-ring when the young gentleman appeared."

"Well, is it true? Is he so handsome?"

"Wonderfully handsome! I may say beautiful. Tall, stately, with a
lovely colour."

"Really! I thought his face was pale. Well, how did he strike you--Was
he melancholy and thoughtful?"

"Oh, no! I never saw such a mad fellow. He took it into his head to
join us at kiss-in-the-ring." "He played at kiss-in-the-ring! It is
impossible."

"No, it's very possible; and what more do you think? When he caught any
one he kissed her." "Of course you may tell lies if you like, Nastia."

"As you please, miss, only I am not lying. I could scarcely get away
from him. Indeed he spent the whole day with us."

"Why do people say then that he is in love and looks at nobody?"

"I am sure I don't know, miss. He looked too much at me and Tania too,
the steward's daughter, and at Pasha too. In fact, he neglected nobody.
He is such a wild fellow!"

"This is surprising; and what do the servants say about him?"

"They say he is a splendid gentleman--so kind, so lively! He has only
one fault: he is too fond of the girls. But I don't think that is such
a great fault. He will get steadier in time."

"How I should like to see him," said Lisa, with a sigh.

"And why can't you? Tugilovo is only a mile off. Take a walk in that
direction, or a ride, and you are sure to meet him. He shoulders his
gun and goes shooting every morning."

"No, it would never do. He would think I was running after him.
Besides, our fathers have quarrelled, so he and I could hardly set up
a friendship. Oh, Nastia! I know what I'll do. I will dress up like a
peasant."

"That will do. Put on a coarse chemise and a _sarafan_, and set out
boldly for Tugilovo. Berestoff will never miss you I promise you."

"I can talk like a peasant splendidly. Oh, Nastia, dear Nastia, what
a happy thought!" and Lisa went to bed resolved to carry out her
plan. Next day she made her preparations. She went to the market for
some coarse linen, some dark blue stuff, and some brass buttons, and
out of these Nastia and she cut a chemise and a _sarafan._ All the
maid-servants were set down to sew, and by evening everything was
ready.

As she tried on her new costume before the glass, Lisa said to herself
that she had never looked so nice. Then she began to rehearse her
meeting with Alexis. First she gave him a low bow as she passed along,
then she continued to nod her head like a mandarin. Next she addressed
him in a peasant _patois,_ simpering and shyly hiding her face behind
her sleeve. Nastia gave the performance her full approval. But there
was one difficulty. She tried to cross the yard barefooted, but the
grass stalks pricked her tender feet and the gravel caused intolerable
pain. Nastia again came to the rescue.

She took the measure of Lisa's foot and hurried across the fields to
the herdsman Trophim, of whom she ordered a pair of bark shoes.

The next morning before daylight Lisa awoke. The whole household was
still asleep. Nastia was at the gate waiting for the herdsman; soon
the sound of his horn drew near, and the village herd straggled past
the Manor gates. After them came Trophim, who, as he passed, handed to
Nastia a little pair of speckled bark shoes, and received a ruble.

Lisa, who had quietly donned her peasant dress, whispered to Nastia
her last instructions about Miss Jackson; then she went through the
kitchen, out of the back door, into the open field, then she began to
run.

Dawn was breaking, and the rows of golden clouds stood like courtiers
waiting for their monarch. The clear sky, the fresh morning air, the
dew, the breeze and singing of the birds filled Lisa's heart with
child-like joy.

Fearing to meet with some acquaintance, she did nor walk but flew. As
she drew near the wood where lay the boundary of her father's property
she slackened her pace. It was here she was to meet Alexis. Her heart
beat violently, she knew not why. The terrors of our youthful escapades
are their chief charm.

Lisa stepped forward into the darkness of the wood; its hollow
echoes bade her welcome. Her buoyant spirits gradually gave place to
meditation. She thought--but who shall truly tell the thoughts of sweet
seventeen in a wood, alone, at six o'clock on a spring morning?

And as she walked in meditation under the shade of lofty trees,
suddenly a beautiful pointer began to bark at her. Lisa cried out with
fear, and at the same moment a voice exclaimed, "_Tout beau Shogar,
ici,_" and a young sportsman stepped from behind the bushes. "Don't be
afraid, my dear, he won't bite."

Lisa had already recovered from her fright, and instantly took
advantage of the situation.

"It's all very well, sir," she said, with assumed timidity and shyness,
_"I_ am afraid of him, he seems such a savage creature, and may fly at
me again."

Alexis, whom the reader has already recognised, looked steadily at the
young peasant. "I will escort you, if you are afraid; will you allow me
to walk by your side?"

"Who is to prevent you?" replied Lisa. "A freeman can do as he likes,
and the road is public!"

"Where do you come from?"

"From Prilutchina; I am the daughter of Yassili, the blacksmith, and I
am looking for mushrooms." She was carrying a basket suspended from her
shoulders by a cord.

"And you, _barin_; are you from Tugilovo?"

"Exactly, I am the young gentleman's valet" (he wished to equalize
their ranks). But Lisa looked at him and laughed.

"Ah! you are lying," she said. "I am not a fool. I see you are the
master himself."

"What makes you think so?"

"Everything."

"Still----?"

"How can one help it. You are not dressed like a servant. You speak
differently. You even call your dog in a foreign tongue."

Lisa charmed him more and more every moment. Accustomed to be
unceremonious with pretty country girls, he tried to kiss her, but
Lisa jumped aside, and suddenly assumed so distant and severe an air
that though it amused him he did not attempt any further familiarities.

"If you wish to remain friends," she said, with dignity, "do not forget
yourself."

"Who has taught you this wisdom?" asked Alexis, with a laugh. "Can
it be my little friend Nastia, your mistress's maid? So this is how
civilization spreads."

Lisa felt she had almost betrayed herself, and said, "Do you think I
have never been up to the Manor House? I have seen and heard more than
you think. Still, chattering here with you won't get me mushrooms. You
go that way, _barin_; I'll go the other, begging your pardon;" and Lisa
made as if to depart, but Alexis held her by the hand.

"What is your name, my dear?"

"Akulina," she said, struggling to get her fingers free. "Let me go,
_barin,_ it is time for me to be home."

"Well, my friend Akulina, I shall certainly call on your father,
Yassili, the blacksmith."

"For the Lord's sake don't do that. If they knew at home I had been
talking here alone with the young _barin,_ I should catch it. My father
would beat me within an inch of my life."


"Well, I must see you again."

"I will come again some other day for mushrooms."

"When?"

"To-morrow, if you like."

"My dear Akulina, I would kiss you if I dared. To-morrow, then, at the
same time; that is a bargain."

"All right."

"You will not play me false?"

"No."

"Swear it."

"By the Holy Friday, then, I will come."

The young couple parted. Lisa ran out of the wood across the fields,
stole into the garden, and rushed headlong into the farmyard, where
Nastia was waiting for her. Then she changed her dress, answering at
random the impatient questions of her _confidante_, and went into the
dining-room to find the cloth laid and breakfast ready. Miss Jackson,
freshly powdered and Jaced, until she looked like a wine glass, was
cutting thin slices of bread and butter. Her father complimented Lisa
on her early walk.

"There is no healthier habit," he remarked, "than to rise at daybreak."
He quoted from the English papers several cases of longevity, adding
that all centenarians had abstained from spirits, and made it a
practice to rise at daybreak winter and summer. Lisa did not prove
an attentive listener. She was repeating in her mind the details of
her morning's interview, and as she recalled Akulina's conversation
with the young sportsman her conscience smote her. In vain she assured
herself that the bounds of decorum had not been passed. This joke, she
argued, could have no evil consequences, but conscience would not be
quieted. What most disturbed her was her promise to repeat the meeting.
She half decided not to keep her word, but then Alexis, tired of
waiting, might go to seek the blacksmiths daughter in the village and
find the real Akulina--a stout, pockmarked girl--and so discover the
hoax. Alarmed at this she determined to re-enact the part of Akulina.
Alexis was enchanted. All day he thought about his new acquaintance
and at night he dreamt of her. It was scarcely dawn when he was up and
dressed. Without waiting even to load his gun he set out followed by
the faithful Shogar, and ran to the meeting place. Half an hour passed
in undeniable delay. At last he caught a glimpse of a blue _sarafan_
among the bushes and rushed to meet dear Akulina. She smiled to see his
eagerness; but he saw traces of anxiety and melancholy on her face. He
asked her the cause, and she at last confessed. She had been flighty
and was very sorry for it. She had meant not to keep her promise, and
this meeting at any rate must be the last. She begged him not to seek
to continue an acquaintance which could have no good end. All this,
of course, was said in peasant dialect; but the thought and feeling
struck Alexis as unusual in a peasant. In eloquent words he urged
her to abandon this cruel resolution. She should have no reason for
repentance; he would obey her in everything, if only she would not rob
him of his one happiness and let him see her alone three times or even
only twice a week. He spoke with passion, and at the moment he was
really in love. Lisa listened to him in silence.

"Promise," she said, "to seek no other meetings with me but those which
I myself appoint."

He was about to swear by the Holy Friday when she stopped him with a
smile.

"I do not want you to swear. Your word is enough."

Then together they wandered talking in the wood, till Lisa said:

"It is time."

They parted; and Alexis was left to wonder how in two meetings a simple
rustic had gained such influence over him. There was a freshness and
novelty about it all that charmed him, and though the conditions
she imposed were irksome, the thought of breaking his promise never
even entered his mind. After all, in spite of his fatal ring and the
mysterious correspondence, Alexis was a kind and affectionate youth,
with a pure heart still capable of innocent enjoyment. Did I consult
only my own wishes I should dwell at length on the meetings of these
young people, their growing love, their mutual trust, and all they did
and all they said. But my pleasure I know would not be shared by the
majority of my readers; so for their sake I will omit them. I will
only say that in a brief two months Alexis was already madly in love,
and Lisa, though more reticent than he was, not indifferent. Happy
in the present they took little thought for the future. Visions of
indissoluble ties flitted not seldom through the minds of both. But
neither mentioned them. For Alexis, however strong his attachment to
Akulina, could not forget the social distance that was between them,
while Lisa, knowing the enmity between their fathers, dared not count
on their becoming reconciled. Besides, her vanity was stimulated by the
vague romantic hope of at last seeing the lord of Tugilovo at the feet
of the daughter of a village blacksmith. Suddenly something happened
which came near to change the course of their true love. One of those
cold bright mornings so common in our Russian autumns Ivan Berestoff
came a-riding. For all emergencies he brought with him six pointers
and a dozen beaters. That same morning Grigori Muromsky, tempted by
the fine weather, saddled his English mare and came trotting through
his agricultural estates. Nearing the wood he came upon his neighbour
proudly seated in the saddle wearing his fur-lined overcoat. Ivan
Berestoff was waiting for the hare which the beaters were driving with
discordant noises out of the brushwood. If Muromsky could have foreseen
this meeting he would have avoided it. But finding himself suddenly
within pistol-shot there was no escape. Like a cultivated European
gentleman, Muromsky rode up to and addressed his enemy politely.
Berestoff answered with the grace of a chained bear dancing to the
order of his keeper. At this moment out shot the hare and scudded
across the field. Berestoff and his groom shouted to loose the dogs,
and started after them full speed. Muromsky's mare took fright and
bolted. Her rider, who often boasted of his horsemanship, gave her
her head and chuckled inwardly over this opportunity of escaping a
disagreeable companion. But the mare coming at a gallop to an unseen
ditch swerved. Muromsky lost his seat, fell rather heavily on the
frozen ground, and lay there cursing the animal, which, sobered by the
loss of her master, stopped at once. Berestoff galloped to the rescue,
asking if Muromsky was hurt. Meanwhile the groom led up the culprit by
the bridle. Berestoff helped Muromsky into the saddle and then invited
him to his house. Peeling himself under an obligation Muromsky could
not refuse, and so Berestoff returned in glory, having killed the hare
and bringing home with him his adversary wounded and almost a prisoner
of war.

At breakfast the neighbours fell into rather friendly conversation;
Muromsky asked Berestoff to lend him a droshky, confessing that his
fall made it too painful for him to ride back. Berestoff accompanied
him to the outer gate, and before the leavetaking was over Muromsky
Pad obtained from him a promise to come and bring Alexis to a friendly
dinner at Prelutchina next day. So this old enmity which seemed before
so deeply rooted was on the point of ending because the little mare had
taken fright.

Lisa ran to meet Per father on his return.

"What has happened, papa?" she asked in astonishment. "Why are you
limping? Where is the mare? Whose droshki is this?"

"My dear, you will never guess;"--and then he told Per.

Lisa could not believe Per ears. Before she Pad time to collect herself
she heard that to-morrow both the Berestoffs would come to dinner.

"What do you say?" she exclaimed, turning pale. "The Berestoffs, father
and son! Dine with us to-morrow! No, papa, you can do as you please, I
certainly do not appear."

"Why? Are you mad? Since when have you become so shy? Have you imbibed
hereditary hatred like a heroine of romance? Come, don't be afoot."

"No, papa, nothing on earth shall induce me to meet the Berestoffs."

Her father shrugged his shoulders, and left off arguing. He knew he
could not prevail with her by opposition, so he went to bed after his
memorable ride. Lisa, too, went to her room, and summoned Nastia.
Long did they discuss the coming visit. What will Alexis think on
recognising in the cultivated young lady his Akulina? What opinion will
he form as to her behaviour and her sense? On the other hand, Lisa was
very curious to see how such an unexpected meeting would affect him.
Then an idea struck her. She told it to Nastia, and with rejoicing they
determined to carry it into effect.

Next morning at breakfast Muromsky asked his daughter whether she still
meant to hide from the Berestoffs.

"Papa," she answered, "I will receive them if you wish it, on one
condition. However I may appear before them, whatever I may do, you
must promise me not to be angry, and you must show no surprise or
disapproval."

"At your tricks again!" exclaimed Muromsky, laughing. "Well, well, I
consent; do as you please, my black-eyed mischief." With these words
he kissed her forehead, and Lisa ran off to make her preparations.

Punctually at two, six horses, drawing the home-made carriage, drove
into the courtyard, and skirted the circle of green turf that formed
its centre.

Old Berestoff, helped by two of Muromsky's servants in livery, mounted
the steps. His son followed immediately on horseback, and the two
together entered the dining-room, where the table was already laid.

Muromsky gave his guests a cordial welcome, and proposing a tour of
inspection of the garden and live stock before dinner, led them along
his well-swept gravel paths.

Old Berestoff secretly deplored the time and trouble wasted on such a
useless whim as this Anglo-mania, but politeness forbade him to express
his feelings.

His son shared neither the disapproval of the careful farmer, nor the
enthusiasm of the complacent Anglo-maniac. He impatiently awaited the
appearance of his hosts daughter, of whom he had often heard; for,
though his heart as we know was no longer free, a young and unknown
beauty might still claim his interest.

When they had come back and were all seated in the drawing-room,
the old men talked over bygone days, re-telling the stories of the
mess-room, while Alexis considered what attitude he should assume
towards Lisa. He decided upon a cold preoccupation as most suitable,
and arranged accordingly.

The door opened, he turned his head round with indifference--with such
proud indifference--that the heart of the most hardened coquette must
have quivered. Unfortunately there came in not Lisa but elderly Miss
Jackson, whitened, laced in, with downcast eyes and her little curtsey,
and Alexis' magnificent military movement failed. Before he could
reassemble his scattered forces the door opened again and this time
entered Lisa. All rose, Muromsky began the introductions, but suddenly
stopped and bit his lip. Lisa, his dark Lisa, was painted white up
to her ears, and pencilled worse than Miss Jackson herself. She wore
false fair ringlets, puffed out like a Louis XIV. wig; her sleeves _a
l'imbecille_ extended like the hoops of Madame de Pompadour. Her figure
was laced in like a letter X, and all those of her mother's diamonds
which had escaped the pawnbroker sparkled on her fingers, neck, and
ears. Alexis could not discover in this ridiculous young lady his
Akulina. His father kissed her hand, and he, much to his annoyance,
had to do the same. As he touched her little white fingers they seemed
to tremble. He noticed, too, a tiny foot intentionally displayed and
shod in the most coquettish of shoes. This reconciled him a little to
the rest of her attire. The white paint and black pencilling--to tell
the truth--in his simplicity he did not notice at first, nor indeed
afterwards.

Grigori Muromsky, remembering his promise, tried not to show surprise;
for the rest, he was so much amused at his daughter's mischief, that
he could scarcely keep his countenance. For the prim Englishwoman,
however, it was no laughing matter. She guessed that the white and
black paint had been abstracted from her drawer, and a red patch of
indignation shone through the artificial whiteness of her face. Flaming
glances shot from her eyes at the young rogue, who, reserving all
explanation for the future, pretended not to notice them. They sat down
to table, Alexis continuing his performance as an absent-minded pensive
man. Lisa was all affectation. She minced her words, drawled, and would
speak only in French. Her father glanced at her from time to time,
unable to divine her object, but he thought it all a great joke. The
Englishwoman fumed, but said nothing. Ivan Berestoff alone felt at his
ease. He ate for two, drank his fill, and as the meal went on became
more and more friendly, and laughed louder and louder.

At last they rose from the table. The guests departed and Muromsky gave
vent to his mirth and curiosity.

"What made you play such tricks upon them?" he inquired. "Do you know,
Lisa, that white paint really becomes you? I do not wish to pry into
the secrets of a lady's toilet, but if I were you I should always
paint, not too much, of course, but a little."

Lisa was delighted with her success. She kissed her father, promised
to consider his suggestion, and ran off to propitiate the enraged Miss
Jackson, whom she could scarcely prevail upon to open the door and hear
her excuses.

Lisa was ashamed, she said, to show herself before the visitors--such a
blackamoor. She had not dared to ask; she knew dear kind Miss Jackson
would forgive her.

Miss Jackson, persuaded that her pupil had not meant to ridicule her,
became pacified, kissed Lisa, and in token of forgiveness presented her
with a little pot of English white, which the latter, with expressions
of deep gratitude, accepted.

Next morning, as the reader will have guessed, Lisa hastened to the
meeting in the wood.

"You were yesterday at our master's, sir?" she began to Alexis. "What
did you think of our young lady?"

Alexis answered that he had not observed her.

"That is a pity."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to ask you if what they say is true."

"What do they say?"

"That I resemble our young lady; do you think so?"

"What nonsense, she is a deformity beside you!"

"Oh! _barin,_ it is a sin of you to say so. Our young lady is so fair,
so elegant! How can I vie with her?"

Alexis vowed that she was prettier than all imaginable fair young
ladies, and to appease her thoroughly, began describing her young lady
so funnily that Lisa burst into a hearty laugh.

"Still," she said, with a sigh, "though she may be ridiculous, yet by
her side I am an illiterate fool."

"Well, that _is_ a thing to worry yourself about. If you like I will
teach you to read at once."

"Are you in earnest, shall I really try?"

"If you like, my darling, we will begin at once."

They sat down. Alexis produced a pencil and note-book, and Akulina
proved astonishingly quick in learning the alphabet. Alexis wondered at
her intelligence. At their next meeting she wished to learn to write.
The pencil at first would not obey her, but in a few minutes she could
trace the letters pretty well.

"How wonderfully we get on, faster than by the Lancaster method."

Indeed, at the third lesson Akulina could read words of even three
syllables, and the intelligent remarks with which she interrupted the
lessons fairly astonished Alexis. As for writing she covered a whole
page with aphorisms, taken from the story she had been reading. A week
passed and they had begun a correspondence. Their post-office was the
trunk of an old oak, and Nastia secretly played the part of postman.
Thither Alexis would bring his letters, written in a large round hand,
and there he found the letters of his beloved scrawled on coarse blue
paper. Akulina's style was evidently improving, and her mind clearly
was developing under cultivation.

Meanwhile the new-made acquaintance between Berestoff and Muromsky
grew stronger, soon it became friendship. Muromsky often reflected
that on the death of old Berestoff his property would come to Alexis,
who would then be one of the richest landowners in that province. Why
should he not marry Lisa? Old Berestoff, on the other hand, though he
looked on his neighbour as a lunatic, did not deny that he possessed
many excellent qualities, among them a certain cleverness. Muromsky
was related to Count Pronsky, a distinguished and influential man.
The count might be very useful to Alexis, and Muromsky (so thought
Berestoff) would probably be glad to marry his daughter so well. Both
the old men pondered all this so thoroughly that at last they broached
the subject, confabulated, embraced, and severally began a plan of
campaign. Muromsky foresaw one difficulty--how to persuade his Betty to
make the better acquaintance of Alexis, whom she had never seen since
the memorable dinner. They hardly seemed to suit each other well. At
any rate Alexis had not renewed his visit to Prelutchina. Whenever old
Berestoff called Lisa made a point of retreating to her own room.

"But," thought Muromsky, "if Alexis called every day Betty could not
help falling in love with him. That is the way to manage it. Time will
settle everything."

Berestoff troubled himself less about his plans. That same evening
he called his son into his study, lit his pipe, and, after a short
silence, began:

"You have not spoken about the army lately, Alexis. Has the Hussar
uniform lost its attraction for you?"

"No, father," he replied respectfully. "I know you do not wish me to
join the Hussars. It is my duty to consult your wishes."

"I am pleased to find you such an obedient son, still I do not wish
to force your inclinations. I will not insist upon your entering the
Civil Service at once; and in the meantime I mean to marry you."

"To whom, father?" exclaimed his astonished son.

"To Lisa Muromskaia; she is good enough for any one, isn't she?"

"Father, I did not think of marrying just yet."

"Perhaps not, but I have thought about it for you."

"As you please, but I don't care about Lisa Muromskaia at all."

"You will care about her afterwards. You will get used to her, and you
will learn to love her."

"I feel I could not make her happy."

"You need not trouble yourself about that. All you have to do is to
respect the wishes of your father."

"I do not wish to marry, and I won't."

"You shall marry or I will curse you; and, by Heaven, I will sell and
squander my property, and not leave you a farthing! I will give you
three days for reflection, and, in the meanwhile, do not dare to show
your face in my presence."

Alexis knew that when his father took a thing into his head nothing
could knock it out again; but then Alexis was as obstinate as his
father. He went to his room and there reflected upon the limits of
parental authority, on Lisa Muromskaia, his father's threat to make him
a beggar, and finally he thought of Akulina.

For the first time he clearly saw how much he loved her. The romantic
idea of marrying a peasant girl and working for a living came into his
mind; and the more he thought of it, the more he approved it. Their
meetings in the wood had been stopped of late by the wet weather.

He wrote to Akulina in the roundest hand and the maddest style, telling
her of his impending ruin, and asking her to be his wife. He took
the letter at once to the tree trunk, dropped it in, and went much
satisfied with himself to bed.

Next morning, firm in resolution, he started early to call on Muromsky
and explain the situation. He meant to win him over by appealing to his
generosity.

"Is Mr. Muromsky at home?" he asked reining up his horse at the porch.

"No, sir, Mr. Muromsky went out early this morning."

How provoking, thought Alexis.

"Well, is Miss Lisa at home?"

"Yes, sir."

And throwing the reins to the footman, Alexis leapt from his horse and
entered unannounced.

"It will soon be over," he thought, going towards the drawing-room.
"I will explain to Miss Muromsky herself." He entered ... and was
transfixed. Lisa!... no, Akulina, dear, dark Akulina, wearing no
_sarafan_ but a white morning frock, sat by the window reading his
letter. So intent was she upon it that she did not hear him enter.
Alexis could not repress a cry of delight. Lisa started, raised her
hand, cried out, and attempted to run away. He rushed to stop her.
"Akulina! Akulina!" Lisa tried to free herself.

"_Mais laissez moi donc, Monsieur! mais etes vous fou?_" she repeated,
turning away.

"Akulina! my darling Akulina!" he repeated, kissing her hand.

Miss Jackson, who was an eye-witness of this scene, knew not what to
think. The door opened and Grigori Muromsky entered.

"Ah!" cried he, "you seem to have settled things between you."...

The reader will excuse me the unnecessary trouble of winding up.




KIRDJALI.


Kirdjali was by birth a Bulgarian.

Kirdjali, in Turkish, means a bold fellow, a knight-errant.

Kirdjali with his depredations brought terror upon the whole of
Moldavia. To give some idea of him I will relate one of his exploits.
One night he and the Arnout Michailaki fell together upon a Bulgarian
village. They set fire to it from both ends and went from hut to hut,
Kirdjali killing, while Michailaki carried off the plunder. Both cried,
"Kirdjali! Kirdjali!" and the whole village ran.

When Alexander Ipsilanti proclaimed the insurrection and began raising
his army, Kirdjali brought him several of his old followers. They
knew little of the real object of the _hetairi._ But war presented an
opportunity for getting rich at the expense of the Turks, and perhaps
of the Moldavians too.

Alexander Ipsilanti was personally brave, but he was wanting in
the qualities necessary for playing the part he had with such eager
recklessness assumed. He did not know how to manage the people under
his command. They had neither respect for him nor confidence.

After the unfortunate battle, when the flower of Greek youth fell,
Jordaki Olimbisti advised him to retire, and himself took his place.
Ipsilanti escaped to the frontiers of Austria, whence he sent his
curse to the people whom he now stigmatised as mutineers, cowards, and
blackguards. These cowards and blackguards mostly perished within the
walls of the monastery of Seke, or on the banks of the Pruth, defending
themselves desperately against a foe ten times their number.

Kirdjali belonged to the detachment commanded by George Cantacuzene, of
whom might be repeated what has already been said of Ipsilanti.

On the eve of the battle near Skuliana, Cantacuzene asked permission
of the Russian authorities to enter their quarters. The band was left
without a commander. But Kirdjali, Sophianos, Cantagoni, and others had
no need of a commander.

The battle of Skuliana seems not to have been described by any one in
all its pathetic truth. Just imagine seven hundred Arnouts, Albanians,
Greeks, Bulgarians, and every kind of rabble, with no notion of
military art, retreating within sight of fifteen thousand Turkish
cavalry. The band kept close to the banks of the Pruth, placing in
front two tiny cannons, found at Jassy, in the courtyard of the
Hospodar, and which had formerly been used for firing salutes on
festive occasions.

The Turks would have been glad to use their cartridges, but dared not
without permission from the Russian authorities; for the shots would
have been sure to fly over to our banks. The commander of the Russian
military post (now dead), though he had been forty years in the army,
had never heard the whistle of a bullet; but he was fated to hear it
now. Several bullets buzzed passed his ears. The old man got very angry
and began to swear at Ohotsky, major of one of the infantry battalions.
The major, not knowing what to do, ran towards the river, on the other
side of which some insurgent cavalry were capering about. He shook his
finger at them, on which they turned round and galloped along, with
the whole Turkish army after them. The major who had shaken his finger
was called Hortchevsky. I don't know what became of him. The next day,
however, the Turks attacked the Arnouts. Hot daring to use cartridges
or cannon balls, they resolved, contrary to their custom, to employ
cold steel. The battle was fierce. The combatants slashed and stabbed
one another.

The Turks were seen with lances, which, hitherto they had never
possessed, and these lances were Russian. Our Nekrassoff refugees were
fighting in their ranks. The _hetairi,_ thanks to the permission of our
Emperor, were allowed to cross the Pruth and seek the protection of our
garrison. They began to cross the river, Cantagoni and Sophianos being
the last to quit the Turkish bank; Kirdjali, wounded the day before,
was already lying in Russian quarters. Sophianos was killed. Cantagoni,
a very stout man, was wounded with a spear in his stomach. With one
hand he raised his sword, with the other he seized the enemy's spear,
pushed it deeper into himself, and by that means was able to reach his
murderer with his own sword, when they fell together.

All was over. The Turks remained victorious, Moldavia was cleared of
insurgents. About six hundred Arnouts were scattered over Bessarabia.
Unable to obtain the means of subsistence, they still felt grateful
to Russia for her protection. They led an idle though not a dissolute
life. They could be seen in coffee-houses of half Turkish Bessarabia,
with long pipes in their mouths sipping thick coffee out of small cups.
Their figured Zouave jackets and red slippers with pointed toes were
beginning to look shabby. But they still wore their tufted scull-cap
on one side of the head; and daggers and pistols still protruded
from beneath, their broad girdles. No one complained of them. It
was impossible to imagine that these poor, peaceable fellows were
the celebrated pikemen of Moldavia, the followers of the ferocious
Kirdjali, and that he himself had been one of them.

The Pasha governing Jassy heard of all this, and, on the basis of
treaty rights, requested the Russian authorities to deliver up the
brigand. The police made inquiries, and found that Kirdjali really was
at Kishineff. They captured him in the house of a runaway monk in the
evening, while he was at supper, sitting in the twilight with seven
comrades.

Kirdjali was arraigned. He did not attempt to conceal the truth. He
owned he was Kirdjali.

"But," he added, "since I crossed the Pruth, I have not touched a
hair of property that did not belong to me, nor have I cheated the
meanest gipsy. To the Turks, the Moldavians, and the Walachians I am
certainly a brigand, but to the Russians a guest. When Sophianos, after
exhausting all his cartridges, came over here, he collected buttons
from the uniforms, nails, watch-chains, and nobs from the daggers for
the final discharge, and I myself handed him twenty _beshleks_ to fire
off, leaving myself without money. God is my witness that I, Kirdjali,
lived by charity. Why then do the Russians now hand me over to my
enemies?"

After that Kirdjali was silent, and quietly awaited his fate. It was
soon announced to him. The authorities, not thinking themselves hound
to look upon brigandage from its romantic side, and admitting the
justice of the Turkish demand, ordered Kirdjali to be given up that he
might be sent to Jassy.

A man of brains and feeling, at that time young and unknown, but
now occupying an important post, gave me a graphic description of
Kirdjali's departure.

"At the gates of the prison," he said, "stood a hired _karutsa._
Perhaps you don't know what a _karutsa_ is? It is a low
basket-carriage, to which quite recently used to be harnessed six or
eight miserable screws. A Moldavian, with a moustache and a sheepskin
hat, sitting astride one of the horses, cried out and cracked his whip
every moment, and his wretched little beasts went on at a sharp trot.
If one of them began to lag, then he unharnessed it with terrific
cursing and left it on the road, not caring what became of it. On the
return journey he was sure to find them in the same place, calmly
grazing on the steppes. Frequently a traveller starting from a station
with eight horses would arrive at the next with a pair only. It was
so about fifteen years ago. Now in Russianized Bessarabia, Russian
harness and Russian _telegas_ (carts) have been adopted.

"Such a _karutsa_ as I have described stood at the gate of the jail in
1821, towards the end of September. Jewesses with their sleeves hanging
down and with flapping slippers, Arnouts in ragged but picturesque
costumes, stately Moldavian women with black-eyed children in their
arms, surrounded the _harutsa._ The men maintained silence. The women
were excited, as if expecting something to happen.

"The gates opened, and several police officers stepped into the street,
followed by two soldiers leading Kirdjali in chains.

"He looked about thirty. The features of his dark face were regular and
austere. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and seemed to possess great
physical strength. He wore a variegated turban on the side of his head,
and a broad sash round his slender waist. A dolman of thick, dark blue
cloth, the wide plaits of his over-shirt falling just above the knees,
and a pair of handsome slippers completed his dress. His bearing was
calm and haughty.

"One of the officials, a red-faced old man in a faded uniform, with
three buttons hanging loose, a pair of lead spectacles which pinched
a crimson knob doing duty for a nose, unrolled a paper, and stooping,
began to read in the Moldavian tongue. From time to time he glanced
haughtily at the handcuffed Kirdjali, to whom apparently the document
referred. Kirdjali listened attentively. The official finished his
reading, folded the paper, and called out sternly to the people,
ordering them to make way for the _karutsa_ to drive up. Then Kirdjali,
turning towards him, said a few words in Moldavian; his voice trembled,
his countenance changed, he burst into tears, and fell at the feet of
the police officer, with a clanking of his chains. The police officer,
in alarm, started back; the soldiers were going to raise Kirdjali, but
he got up of his own accord, gathered up his chains, and stepping into
the _harutsa_, cried _egaida!'_

"The gens d'armes got in by his side, the Moldavian cracked his whip,
and the _karutsa_ rolled away.

"What was Kirdjali saying to you? inquired a young official of the
police officer.

"He asked me," replied the officer, smiling, "to take care of his
wife and child, who live a short distance from Kilia, in a Bulgarian
village; he is afraid they might suffer through him. The rabble are so
ignorant!'"

The young official's story affected me greatly. I was sorry for poor
Kirdjali. For a long while I knew nothing of his fate. Many years
afterwards I met the young official. We began talking of old times.

"How about your friend Kirdjali?" I asked. "Do you know what became of
him?"

"Of course I do," he replied, and he told me the following.

After being brought to Jassy, Kirdjali was taken before the Pasha,
who condemned him to be impaled. The execution was postponed till
some feast day. Meanwhile he was put in confinement. The prisoner was
guarded by seven Turks--common people, and at the bottom of their
hearts brigands like himself. They respected him and listened with
the eagerness of true orientals to his wonderful stories. Between the
guards and their prisoner a close friendship sprang up. On one occasion
Kirdjali said to them:

"Brothers! My hour is near. No one can escape his doom. I shall soon
part from you, and I should like to leave you something in remembrance
of me." The Turks opened their ears.

"Brothers;" added Kirdjali, "three years back, when I was engaged in
brigandage with the late Mihailaki, we buried in the Steppes, not far
from Jassy, a kettle with some coins in it. Seemingly, neither he nor
I will ever possess that treasure. So be it; take it to yourselves and
divide it amicably."

The Turks nearly went crazy. They began considering how they could find
the spot so vaguely indicated. They thought and thought, and at last
decided that Kirdjali must himself show them.

Night set in. The Turks took off the fetters that weighed upon the
prisoner's feet, hound his hands with a rope, and taking him with them,
started for the Steppes. Kirdjali led them, going in a straight line
from one mound to another. They walked about for some time. At last
Kirdjali stopped close to a broad stone, measured a dozen steps to the
south, stamped, and said, "Here."

The Turks arranged themselves for work. Four took out their daggers and
began digging the earth, while three remained on guard. Kirdjali sat
down on the stone, and looked on.

"Well, now, shall you be long?" he inquired; "have you found it?"

"Not yet," replied the Turks, and they worked away till the
perspiration rolled like hail from them.

Kirdjali grew impatient.

"What people!" he exclaimed; "they can't even dig decently. Why, I
should have found it in two minutes. Children! Untie my hands, and give
me a dagger."

The Turks reflected, and began to consult with one another.

"Why not?" they concluded. "We will release his hands, and give him a
dagger. What can it matter? He is only one, while we are seven."

And the Turks unbound his bands and gave him a dagger.

At last Kirdjali was free and armed. What must have been his
sensations. He began digging rapidly, the guard assisting. Suddenly he
thrust his dagger into one of them, leaving the blade sticking in the
man's breast; he snatched from his girdle a couple of pistols.

The remaining six, seeing Kirdjali armed with two pistols, ran away.

Kirdjali is now carrying on his brigandage near Jassy. Not long ago
he wrote to the Hospodar, demanding from him five thousand louis, and
threatening, in the event of the money not being paid, to set fire to
Jassy, and to reach the Hospodar himself. The five thousand louis were
forwarded to him.

A fine fellow Kirdjali!




THE HISTORY OF THE VILLAGE OF GOROHINA.


Of all professions that of a man of letters has always seemed to me
most enviable.

My parents, respectable but humble folk, had been brought up in the old
fashion. They never read anything; and beyond an alphabet (bought for
me), an almanack, and the latest letter-writer, they had no books in
the house.

The letter-writer had long provided me with entertainment. I knew it by
heart, yet daily found in it fresh beauties; and next to General N----,
to whom my father had been _aide-de-camp,_ Kurganoff, its author, was,
in my estimation, one of the greatest men. I questioned everyone about
him; but unhappily no one could gratify my curiosity. Nobody knew him
personally. To all my questioning the reply was that Kurganoff was the
author of the latest letter-writer, but that I knew already. He was
wrapped in darkness and mystery like some ancient demi-god. At times
I doubted even his existence. His name was perhaps an invention, the
legend about him an empty myth awaiting the investigation of some
new Niebuhr. Nevertheless he dogged my imagination. I tried to give
some form to this very personage, and finally decided that he must be
like the land-judge, Koriuchkin, a little old man with a red nose and
glittering eyes.

In 1812 I was taken to Moscow and placed at a boarding school belonging
to Karl Ivanovitch Meyer. There I stayed only some three months,
because the school broke up in anticipation of the enemy's coming. I
returned to the country.

       *       *       *       *       *

This epoch of my life was to me so important that I shall dilate upon
it, apologizing beforehand if I trespass upon the good nature of the
reader.

It was a dull autumn day. On reaching the station whence I must turn
off to Gorohina (that was the name of our village) I engaged horses,
and drove off by the country road. Though naturally calm, so impatient
was I to revisit the scenes where I had passed the best years of my
life, that I kept urging the driver to quicken speed with alternate
promises of vodka and threats of chastisement. How much easier it was
to belabour him than to unloose my purse. I own I struck him twice or
thrice, a thing I had never done in my life before. I don't know why,
but I had a great liking for drivers as a class.

The driver urged his troika to a quicker pace, but to me it seemed that
public-driver-like he coaxed the horses and waved his whip but at the
same time tightened the reins. At last I caught sight of Gorohina wood,
and in ten minutes more we drove into the courtyard of the manor house.

My heart beat violently. I looked round with unwonted emotion. For
eight years I had not seen Gorohina. The little birches which I had
seen planted near the palings had now grown into tall branching trees.
The courtyard, once adorned with three regular flower beds divided by
broad gravel paths, was now an unmown meadow, the grazing land of a red
cow.

My britchka stopped at the front door. My servant went to open it, but
it was fastened; yet the shutters were open, and the house seemed to be
inhabited. A woman emerging from a servant's hut asked what I wanted.
Hearing the master had arrived, she ran back into the hut, and soon
I had all the inhabitants of the courtyard around me. I was deeply
touched to see the known and unknown faces, and I greeted each with a
friendly kiss.

The boys my playmates had grown to men. The girls who used to squat
upon the floor and run with such alacrity on errands were married
women. The men wept. To the women I said unceremoniously:

"How you have aged." And they answered sadly:

"And you, little father, how plain you have grown."

They led me towards the back entrance; I was met by my old
wet-nurse, by whom I was welcomed back with sobs and tears, like the
much-suffering Ulysses. They hastened to heat the bath. The cook, who
in his long holiday had grown a beard, offered to cook my dinner or
supper, for it was growing dark. The rooms hitherto occupied by my
nurse and my late mother's maids were at once got ready for me. Thus I
found myself in the humble home of my parents, and fell asleep in that
room where three-and-twenty years before I had been born.

Some three weeks passed in business of various kinds. I was engaged
with land judges, presidents, and every imaginable official of the
province. Finally I got possession of my inheritance. I was contented:
but soon the dulness of inaction began to torment me. I was not
yet acquainted with my kind and venerable neighbour N---- Domestic
occupations were altogether strange to me. The conversation of my
nurse, whom I promoted to the rank of housekeeper, consisted of fifteen
family anecdotes. I found them very interesting, but as she always
related them in the same way she soon became for me another Niebuhr
letter-writer, in which I knew precisely on what page every particular
line occurred. That worthy book I found in the storeroom among a
quantity of rubbish sadly dilapidated. I brought it out into the light
and began to read it; but Kurganoff had lost his charm. I read him
through once more and never after opened him again.

In this extremity it struck me:

"Why not write myself?" The reader has been already told that I was
educated on copper money. Besides, to become an author seemed so
difficult, so unattainable, that the idea of writing quite frightened
me at first. Dare I hope ever to be numbered amongst writers, when my
ardent wish even to meet one had not yet been gratified? This reminds
me of something which I shall tell to show my unbounded enthusiasm for
my native literature.

In 1820, while yet an ensign, I chanced to be on government business at
Petersburg. I stayed a week; and although I had not one acquaintance
in he place, I passed the time very pleasantly. I went daily to the
theatre, modestly to the fourth row in the gallery. I learnt the
names of all the actors and fell passionately in love with B----. She
had played one Sunday with great artistic feeling as Eulalie in _Hass
und Reue_ (in English _The Stranger._) In the morning, on my way from
headquarters, I would call at a small confectioner's, drink a cup of
chocolate, and read a literary journal. One day, while thus deep in an
article "by Goodintention, some one in a pea-green greatcoat suddenly
approached and gently withdrew the _Hamburg Gazette_ from under my
newspaper. I was so occupied that I did not look up. The stranger
ordered a steak and sat down facing me. I went on reading without
noticing him.

Meanwhile he finished his luncheon, scolded the waiter for some
carelessness, drank half a bottle of wine, and left. Two young men were
also lunching.

"Do you know who that was?" inquired one of them.

"That was Goodintention ... the writer."

"The writer!" I exclaimed involuntarily, and leaving the article unread
and the cup of chocolate undrunk, I hastily paid my reckoning, and
without waiting for the change rushed into the street. Looking round I
descried in the distance the pea-green coat and dashed along the Nevsky
Prospect almost at a run. When I had gone several steps I felt myself
stopped by some one, and looking back I found I had been noticed by an
officer of the guards. I; ought not to have knocked against him on the
pavement, but rather to have stopped and saluted. After this reprimand
I was more careful. Unluckily I met an officer every moment, and every
moment I had to stop, while the author got farther and farther away.
Never before had my soldier's overcoat proved so irksome, never had
epaulettes appeared so enviable. At last near the Annitchkin Bridge I
came up with the pea-green greatcoat.

"May I inquire," I said, saluting, "are you Mr. Goodintention, whose
excellent article I have had the pleasure of reading in the _Zealous
Enlightener?_"

"Not at all," he replied. "I am not a writer but a lawyer. But I know
Goodintention very well. A quarter of an hour ago I passed him at the
Police Bridge." In this way my respect for Russian letters cost me
80 kopecks of change, an official reprimand, and a narrow escape of
arrest, and all in vain.

In spite of all the protest of my reason, the audacious thought of
becoming a writer kept recurring. At last, unable longer to resist it,
I made a thick copy book and resolved to fill it somehow. All kinds
of poems (humble prose did not yet enter into my reckoning) were in
turn considered and approved. I decided to write an epic furnished on
Russian history. I was not long in finding a hero. I chose Rurik, and I
set to work.

I had acquired a certain aptitude for rhymes, by copying those in
manuscript which used to circulate among our officers, such as the
criticism on the Moscow Boulevards, the Presnensky Ponds, and the
Dangerous Neighbour. In spite of that my poem progressed slowly,
and at the third verse I dropped it. I concluded that the epic was
not my style, and began _Rurik_, _a Tragedy._ The tragedy halted. I
turned it into a ballad, but the ballad hardly seemed to do. At last
I had a happy thought. I began and succeeded in finishing an ode to a
portrait of Rurik. Despite the inauspicious character of such a title,
particularly for a young bard's first work, I yet felt that I had not
been born a poet, and after this first attempt desisted. These essays
in authorship gave me so great a taste for writing that I could now no
longer abstain from paper and ink. I could descend to prose. But at
first I wished to avoid the preliminary construction of a plot and the
connection of parts. I resolved to write detached thoughts without any
connection or order, just as they struck me. Unfortunately the thoughts
would not come, and in the course of two whole days the only thought
that struck me was the following:

He who disobeys reason and yields to the inclination of his passions
often goes wrong and ends by repenting when it is too late.

This though no doubt true enough was not original.

Abandoning aphorism I took to tales; but being too unpractised in
arranging incidents I selected such remarkable occurrences as I had
heard of at various times and tried to ornament the truth by a lively
style and the flowers of my own imagination. Composing these tales
little by little, I formed my style and learnt to express myself
correctly, pleasantly, and freely. My stock was soon exhausted, and I
again began to seek a subject.

To abandon these childish anecdotes of doubtful authenticity, and
narrate real and great events instead, was an idea by which I had long
been haunted.

To be the judge, the observer, and the prophet of ages and of peoples
seemed to me a most attainable object of ambition to a writer. What
history could I write--I with my pitiable education? Where was I not
forestalled by highly cultivated and conscientious men? What history
had they left unexhausted. Should I write a universal history? But was
there not already the immortal work of Abbe Millot. A national history
of Russia, what could I say after Tatishtcheff Bolitin and Golikoff?
And was it for me to burrow amongst records and to penetrate the
occult meaning of a dead language--for me who could never master the
Slavonian alphabet? Why not try a history on a smaller scale?--for
instance, the history of our town! But even here how very numerous
and insuperable seemed the obstacles--a journey to the town, a visit
to the governor and the bishop, permission to examine the archives,
the monastery, the cellars, and so on. The history of our town would
have been easier; but it could interest neither the philosopher nor
the artist, and afford but little opening for eloquence. The only
noteworthy record in its annals relates to a terrible fire ten years
ago which burnt the bazaar and the courts of justice. An accident
settled my doubts. A woman hanging linen in a loft found an old
basket full of shavings, dust, and books. The whole household knew my
passion for reading. My housekeeper while I sat over my paper gnawing
my pen and meditating on the experience of country prophets entered
triumphantly dragging a basket into my room, and bringing joyfully
"books! books!"

Books! I repeated in delight as I rushed to the basket. Actually a pile
of them with covers of green and of blue paper. It was a collection of
old almanacks. My ardour was cooled by the discovery, still they were
books, and I generously rewarded her pains with half a silver ruble.

When she had gone I began to examine my almanacks; I soon became
absorbed. They formed a complete series from 1744 to 1799 including
exactly 55 years. The blue sheets of paper usually bound in the
almanacks were covered with old-fashioned handwriting. Skimming these
lines I noticed with surprise that besides remarks on the weather
and accounts they contained scraps of historical information about
the village of Gorohina. Among these valuable documents I began my
researches, and soon found that they presented a full history of my
native place for nearly a century, in chronological order, besides an
exhaustive store of economical, statistical, meteorological, and other
learned information. Thenceforth the study of these documents took up
my time, for I perceived that from them a stately, instructive, and
interesting history could be made. As I became sufficiently acquainted
with these valuable notes, I began to search for new sources of
information about the village of Gorohina, and I soon became astonished
at the wealth of material. After devoting six months to a preliminary
study of them, I at last began the long wished for work; and by God's
grace completed the same on the 3rd of November, 1827. To-day, like a
fellow-historian, whose name I do not recollect, having finished my
hard task, I lay down my pen and sadly walk into my garden to meditate
upon my performance. It seems even to me that now the history of
Gorohina is finished I am no longer wanted in the world. My task is
ended; and it is time for me to die.

       *       *       *       *       *

I add a list of the sources whence I drew the history of Gorohina.

I. A collection of ancient almanacks in fifty fifty--five parts. Of
these the first twenty are covered with an old-fashioned writing;
much abbreviated. The manuscript is that of my grandfather; Andrei
Stepanovitch Belkin; and is remarkably clear and concise. For example:
4th of May. Snow.

Trishka for his impertinence beaten. 6th. The red cow died. Senka for
drunkenness beaten. 8th. A fine day. 9th. Rain and snow. Trishka for
drunkenness beaten.... and so on without comment. 11th. The weather
fine, first snow; hunted three hares. The remaining thirty-five parts
were in various hands mostly commercial with or without abbreviations,
usually profuse; disjointed; and incorrectly written. Here and there a
feminine handwriting appeared. In these years occurred my grandfather's
notes about his wife Bupraxic Aleksevna; others written by her and
others by the steward Grobovitsky.

II. The notes of the Gorohina church clerk. This curious manuscript
was discovered by me at the house of my priest; who has married the
daughter of the writer. The first earlier sheets had been torn out and
used by the priests children for making kites. One of these had fallen
in the middle of my yard. I picked it up? and was about to restore it
to the children when I noticed that it was written on. From the first
lines I saw that the kite was made out of some one's journal. Luckily I
was in time to save the rest. These journals, which I got for a measure
of oats, are remarkable for depth of thought and dignity of expression.

III. Oral legends. I despised no source of information, but I am
specially indebted for much of this to Agrafena Tryphonovna, the mother
of Avdei the starosta and reputed mistress of the steward Grobovitsky.

IV. Registry reports with remarks by the former _starosta_ on the
morality and condition of the peasants.

"31st October, 1830. Fabulous Times. The Starosta Tryphon."

The foundation of Gorohina and the history of its original inhabitants
are lost in obscurity. Dark legend tells how that Gorohina was once a
large and wealthy village, that all its inhabitants were rich, that
the obrok (the land proprietor's tithes) was collected once a year and
carted off in loads no one knew to whom. At that time everything was
bought cheap and sold dear. There were no stewards, and the elders
dealt fairly by all. The inhabitants worked little and lived merrily.
The shepherds as they watched their flocks wore boots. We must not be
deceived by this charming picture. The notion of a golden age is common
to all nations, and only proves that as people are never contented with
the present, and derive from experience small hope for the future,
they adorn the irrevocable past with all the hues of fancy. What is
certain, however, is that the village of Gorohina from ancient times
has belonged to the distinguished race of Belkins. But these ancestors
of mine had many other estates, and paid but little attention to this
remote village. Gorohina paid small tithe and was managed by elders
elected by the people in common council.

At that early period the inheritance of the Belkins was broken up, and
fell in value. The impoverished grandchildren of the rich grandsire,
unable to give up their luxurious habits, required from an estate now
only producing one tenth of its former revenue the full income of
former times. Threats followed threats. The starosta read them out in
common council. The elders declaimed, the commune agitated, and the
masters, instead of the double tithes, received tiresome excuses and
humble complaints written on dirty paper and sealed with a _polushka_
(less than a farthing).

A sombre cloud hung over Gorohina; but no one heeded it. In the last
year of Tryphon's power, the last of the starostas chosen by the
people, the day of the church festival, when the whole population
either crowded noisily round the house of entertainment (the
public-house) or wandered through the streets embracing one another
or loudly singing the songs of Arhip the Bald, there drove into the
courtyard a covered hired _britchka_ drawn by a couple of half-dead
screws, with a ragged Jew upon the box. From the britchka a head in a
cap looked out and seemed to peer curiously at the merry-making crowd.
The inhabitants greeted the carriage with laughter and rude jokes.
With the flaps of their coats turned up the madmen mocked the Jewish
driver, shouting in doggrell rhyme, "Jew, Jew, eat a pig's ear." But
how great was their astonishment (wrote the clerk) when the carriage
stopped in the middle of the village and the occupant jumped out, and
in an authoritative voice called for the starosta Tryphon. This officer
was in the house of pleasure, whence two elders led him forth holding
him under the arms. The stranger looked at him sternly, handed him a
letter, and told him to read it at once. The starostas of Gorohina
were in the habit of never reading anything themselves. The rural
clerk Avdei was sent for. He was found asleep under a hedge and was
brought before the stranger. But either from the sudden fright or from
a sad fore-boding, the words distinctly written in the letter appeared
to him in a mist, and he could not read them. The stranger sent the
starosta Tryphon and the rural clerk Avdei with terrible curses to
bed, postponing the reading of the letter till the morrow and entered
the office hut, whither the Jew carried his small trunk. The people
of Gorohina looked in amazement at this unusual incident, but the
carriage, the stranger, and the Jew were quickly forgotten. They ended
their day with noise and merriment, and Gorohina went to sleep without
presentiments of the future.

At sunrise the inhabitants were awakened with knockings at the windows
and a call to a meeting of the commune. The citizens one after the
other appeared in the courtyard round the office hut, which served as
a council ground. Their eyes were dim and red, their faces swollen;
yawning and scratching their heads, they stared at the man with the
cap, in an old blue caftan, standing pompously on the steps of the
office hut, while they tried to recollect his features, which they
seemed to have seen some time or another.

The starosta and his clerk Avdei stood by his side, bareheaded, with
the same expression of dejection and sorrow.

"Are all here?" inquired the stranger.

"Are all here?" repeated the starosta.

"The whole hundred," replied the citizens, when, the starosta informed
them that he had received a letter from the master, and, directed the
clerk to read it aloud to the commune. Avdei stepped forward and read
as follows:

N.B. This alarming document, which he kept carefully shut up in the
icon-case, together with other memorandum of his authority over the
people of Gorohina, I copied at the house of Tryphon, our starosta.

 "TRYPHON IVANOFF,

 "The bearer of this letter, my agent.... is going to my patrimony,
 the village of Gorohina, to assume the management of it. Directly he
 arrives assemble the peasants and make known to them their master's
 wishes; namely, that they are to obey my agent as they would myself,
 and attend to his orders without demur; otherwise he is empowered to
 treat them with great severity. I have been forced to take this step
 by their shameless disobedience and your, Tryphon Ivanoff, roguish
 indulgence.

 "(Signed) NIKOLAI _N...._

Then the agent, with his legs extended like an X and his arms akimbo
like a phitab, addressed to them the following pithy speech: "See that
you are not too troublesome, or I will certainly beat the folly out
of your heads quicker than the fumes of yesterday's drink." There
were no longer any fumes left in the head of any man of Gorohina. All
were dumbfounded, hung their noses, and dispersed in fear to their own
houses. The agent seized the reins of government, called for the list
of peasants, divided them into rich and poor, and began to carry into
effect his political system, which deserves particular description. It
was founded upon the following maxims: That the richer a peasant, the
more fractious he grows, and the poorer, the quieter.

Consequently, like a good Christian, I cared most for the peace of the
estate.

First, the deficits were distributed among the rich peasants, and were
exacted from them with the greatest severity. Second, the defaulting
or idle hands were forthwith set to plough, and if their labour proved
insufficient according to his standard, he assigned them as workmen
to the other peasants, who paid him for this a voluntary tax. The men
given as bondsmen, on the other hand, possessed the right of redeeming
themselves by paying, besides their deficit, a double annual tithe. All
the communal obligations were thrown upon the rich peasants. But the
recruiting arrangements were the masterpiece of the avaricious ruler,
for by turns all the rich peasants bought themselves off, till at last
the choice fell upon either the blackguard or the ruined one.

Communal assemblies were abolished. The tithes were collected in small
sums and all the year round. The peasants, it seems, did not pay very
much more than before, but they could not earn or save enough to pay.
In three years Gorohina was quite pauperised. Gorohina quieted down;
the bazaar was empty, the songs of Arhip the Bald were unsung, one
half the men were ploughing in the fields, the other half serving
them as bond labourers. The children went begging, and the day of the
church fete became, according to the historian, not a day of joy and
exultation, but an annual mourning and commemoration of sorrow.

FROM A GOROHINA ANNALIST.

The accursed steward put Anton Timofeieff into irons, but the old man
Timofei bought his son's freedom for one hundred rubles. The steward
then put the irons on Petrusha Gremeieff, who likewise was ransomed
by his father for sixty-eight rubles. The accursed one then wanted to
handcuff Lech Tarassoff, but he escaped into the woods, to the regret
of the steward, who vented his rage in words; but sent to town in place
of Lech Tarassoff Vanka the drunkard, and gave him for a soldier as a
substitute.




PETER THE GREAT'S <DW64>.


CHAPTER I.


Amongst the young men sent abroad by Peter the Great to acquire the
information necessary for a civilised country was his godson Ibrahim
the <DW64>. He was educated in a Parisian military school, passed out
as a captain of the artillery, distinguished himself in the Spanish
war, and when seriously wounded returned to Paris. In the midst of his
enormous labours the emperor never ceased to ask after his favourite,
of whose progress and good conduct the accounts were always favourable.
Peter was exceedingly pleased with him, and frequently invited him to
Russia; but Ibrahim was in no hurry. He excused himself; either his
wound, or his wish to complete his education, or want of money, served
as the pretext; and Peter complied with his wishes, begged him to take
care of his health, thanked him for his assiduity in study, and though
exceedingly economical himself was lavish to his _protege,_ and sent
together with gold pieces fatherly advice and warning.

Judging by all historical accounts, the flightiness, madness, and
luxury of the French of that period were unequalled. The latter years
of Louis XIV.'s reign, memorable for the strict piety, dignity,
and propriety of the court, have left no traces behind. The Duke
of Orleans, in whom many brilliant qualities united with vice of
every kind, unfortunately did not possess an atom of hypocrisy. The
orgies of the Palais Royal were no secret in Paris; the example was
infectious. At that time Law made his appearance. To the love of money
was united the thirst for pleasure and amusement. Estates dwindled,
morals perished, Frenchmen laughed and discussed, while the kingdom
crumbled to the jovial tunes of satirical vaudevilles. Meanwhile
society presented a most uninteresting picture. Culture and the
craving for amusement united all classes. Riches, amiability, renown,
accomplishments, even eccentricity, whatever nourished curiosity or
promised entertainment, was received with equal pleasure. Literature,
learning, and philosophy left the seclusion of the study to appear in
the great world and minister to fashion, the ruler of opinions. Women
reigned, but no longer exacted adoration. Superficial politeness took
the place of profound respect. The escapades of the Duke de Richelieu,
the Alcibiades of modern Athens, belong to history and display the
morals of that period:

    "Temps Fortune, marque par la licence,
      Ou la folie, agitant son grelot,
    D'un pied leger parcourt toute la France,
      Ou nul mortel ne daigne etre devot,
    Ou l'on fait tout excepte penitence."

Ibrahim's arrival, his appearance, culture, and native wit, attracted
general attention in Paris. All the ladies fought for a visit from
the Tsar's <DW64>. More than once was he invited to the Regent's merry
evenings; he was present at the suppers enlivened by the youth of
Voltaire and the age of Shollier, the conversations of Montesquieu
and Fontenelle. Not a ball, not a fete, not one first representation
did he miss; and he gave himself up to the general whirl with all the
passion of his youth and nature. But the idea of exchanging these
entertainments, these brilliant pleasures for the simplicity of the St.
Petersburg Court was not all that Ibrahim dreaded. Other and stronger
ties bound him to Paris. The young African was in love. No longer in
the first bloom of youth, the Countess L. was still celebrated for
her beauty. At seventeen, on leaving the convent, she was married to
a man for whom she had not learnt to feel the love which ultimately
he showed no care to win. Rumour assigned her lovers, but through
the leniency of society she still enjoyed a good repute; for nothing
ridiculous or scandalous could be brought against her. Her house was
the most fashionable, a centre of the best society in Paris. Ibrahim
was introduced by young G. de Merville, who was regarded generally
as her latest lover; an impression which he tried by every means to
strengthen. The Countess received Ibrahim with civility, but without
particular attention. He was flattered. Usually the young <DW64> was
regarded with wonder, surrounded and overwhelmed with attention
and questions; and this curiosity, though veiled by a display of
friendliness, offended his vanity.

The delightful attention of women, almost the sole aim of our
exertions, not only gave him no pleas are, but even ailed him with
bitterness and wrath. He felt that he was for them a species of rare
animal, a strange peculiar creature, accidentally brought into a
world with which he had naught in common. He even envied those whom
no one noticed, and deemed their insignificance a blessing. The idea
that nature had not formed him for tender passion robbed him of all
self-assertion and conceit, and added a rare charm to his manner
towards women. His conversation was simple and dignified. He pleased
the Countess L., who was tired of the formal pleasantries and pointed
innuendoes of French, wit.

Ibrahim visited her often. Little by little she grew used to the young
<DW64>'s looks, and even began to find something agreeable in that early
head, so black amid the powdered wigs that thronged her drawing-room
(Ibrahim had been wounded in the head and wore a bandage in the place
of a wig). He was twenty-seven, tall and well built, and more than one
beauty glanced at him with feelings more flattering to him than mere
curiosity. But Ibraham either did not observe them or thought their
notice merely coquetry. But when his gaze met that of the Countess his
mistrust vanished. Her eyes expressed so much kindness, her manner to
him was so simple, so easy, that it was impossible to suspect her of
the least coquetry or insincerity.

Though no thought of love entered his mind, to see the Countess daily
had become a necessity. He tried to meet her everywhere, and every
meeting seemed a godsend. The Countess guessed his feelings before he
did so himself. There is no doubt that a love which hopes nothing and
asks nothing touches the female heart more surely than all the arts of
the experienced. When Ibrahim was near, the Countess followed all his
movements, listened to all his words. Without him she became pensive,
and fell into her usual abstraction. Merville was first to notice their
mutual attraction, and congratulated Ibrahim. Nothing inflames love
like approving comments of outsiders. Love is blind, and putting no
trust in itself clings eagerly to every support.

Merville's words roused Ibrahim. Hope suddenly dawned upon his soul;
he fell madly in love. In vain the Countess, alarmed by the vehemence
of his passion, wished to meet him with friendly warnings and sage
counsels; but she herself was growing weak.

Nothing escapes the eye of the vigilant world. The Countess's new
attachment soon became known. Some ladies wondered at her choice;
many found him very ordinary. Some laughed; others considered her
inexcusably imprudent. In the first intoxication of their passion
Ibrahim and the Countess noticed nothing, but soon the jokes of the
men, the sarcasms of the women, began to reach them. Ibrahim's formal
and cold manner had hitherto guarded him from such attacks; he bore
them with impatience, and knew not how to retaliate. The Countess,
accustomed to the respect of society, could not calmly endure to see
herself an object of ridicule and scandal. She complained to Ibrahim
either with tears or bitter reproaches; then she begged him not to
take her part, nor ruin her completely by useless disturbance.

Fresh circumstances complicated her position still more: results of her
imprudent love began to show themselves. The Countess in distress told
Ibrahim. Consolation, advice, suggestions were in turn exhausted and
rejected. She foresaw her inevitable ruin, and in despair awaited it.
Immediately the Countesses condition became known, reports circulated
with renewed vigour. Sensitive women exclaimed in horror; the men made
bets whether she would bear a white or a black child. Epigrams poured
in about her husband, who alone in all Paris suspected nothing. The
fatal moment approached, the Countess was in a terrible state. Ibrahim
called every day. He saw her strength of mind and body gradually
failing. Her tears and terror increased momentarily. At last she felt
the first throes. Measures were taken hurriedly. Means were found to
get the Count out of the way. The doctor arrived. Two days previous
to this a poor woman had been persuaded to resign into the hands of
strangers her new-born infant, for which a messenger was sent.

Ibrahim remained in the study next the bedroom where the unhappy
Countess lay, scarcely daring to breathe; he heard muffled groans, the
maidservants whispers, and the doctor's directions. She suffered long.
Each groan lacerated Ibrahim's heart, and every silent pause filled
him with dread; suddenly he heard the weak cry of a child, and unable
to control his delight rushed into the Countess's room. A black infant
lay on the bed at her feet. Ibrahim approached it. His heart throbbed
violently. He blessed his son with a trembling hand. The Countess with
a faint smile stretched towards him a feeble hand, but the doctor,
fearing too much excitement for his patient, dragged Ibrahim away from
her bedside. The new-born babe was laid in a covered basket and carried
out by a secret staircase. The other child was brought in, and its
cradle placed in the bedroom. Ibrahim left feeling a trifle calmer. The
Count was expected. He returned late, heard of the happy confinement
of his wife, and was much pleased. Thus the public, which expected
a great scandal, was disappointed, and forced to be satisfied with
backbiting. Everything fell back into its usual routine. But Ibrahim
felt that his life must undergo a change, and that his intimacy must
sooner or later become known to Count L. In which case, whatever might
ensue, the Countess's ruin was inevitable. Ibrahim loved and was loved
with passion; but the Countess was wilful and flighty; and this was
not her first love. Disgust and hatred might in her heart replace
the tenderest feelings. Ibrahim already foresaw the time of her
indifference. Hitherto he had not known jealousy, but now with horror
he anticipated, it. Convinced that the anguish of a separation would be
less painful, he resolved to break off this luckless connection, quit
Paris, and return to Russia, whither Peter and a dull sense of duty had
long been calling him.




CHAPTER II.


Days and months passed, and love-sick Ibrahim could not resolve to
leave the woman he had wronged. The Countess from hour to hour grew
more attached to him. Their son was being brought up in a distant
province; social scandal was subsiding, and the lovers began to enjoy
greater tranquillity, in silence remembering the past storm and trying
not to think of the future.

One day Ibrahim was standing at the Duke of Orleans' door. The Duke
passing him, stopped, handed him a letter, and bade him read it at his
leisure. It was a letter from Peter I. The Tsar, guessing the real
cause of his absence, wrote to the Hake that he in no way desired to
compel Ibrahim, and left it to his free will to return to Russia or
not; but that in any case he should never forsake his foster-child.
This letter touched Ibrahim to the heart. From that moment his decision
was made. Next day he announced to the Regent his intention to start
immediately for Russia.

"Consider the step you are about to take," replied the Duke. "Russia is
not your home. I don't think you will ever have a chance of seeing your
torrid Africa, and your long residence in France has made you equally
a stranger to the climate and the semi-barbarous life of Russia. You
were not born one of Peter's subjects. Take my advice, profit by his
generous permission, stay in France, for which you have already shed
your blood, and be convinced that here your services and talents will
not be left without their due reward."

Ibrahim thanked the Duke sincerely, but remained firm in his resolve.

"I regret it," replied the Regent; "but on the whole you may be right."

He promised to let him retire and wrote to inform the Tsar.

Ibrahim was soon ready for the journey. On the eve of his departure
he passed the evening as usual at the Countess L's. She knew nothing.
Ibrahim had not the courage to tell her. The Countess was calm and
cheerful. She several times called him to her and joked about
his pensiveness. After supper everybody had gone, leaving in the
drawing-room only the Countess, her husband, and Ibrahim. The unhappy
man would have given the world to be left alone with her; but Count L.
seemed to be settled so comfortably near the grate that it appeared
hopeless to wait to see him out of the room. All three remained silent.

_"Bonne nuit!_" at last said the Countess.

Ibrahim's heart sank and he suddenly experienced all the horrors of
parting. He stood motionless.

"_Bonne nuit, messieurs,_" repeated the Countess.

Still he did not move. At last his eyes became dim, his head went
round, and he could scarcely get out of the room.

Arriving at home, almost mad, he wrote as follows:

"I am going, dearest Leonora, to leave you for ever. I write because I
have not the strength to tell you otherwise. Our happiness could not
continue; I have enjoyed it against the will of destiny and nature.
You must in time have ceased to love me. The enchantment must have
vanished. This idea has always haunted me, even when I seemed to
forget all, when at your feet I was intoxicated by your passionate
self-abnegation, by your boundless tenderness. The thoughtless world
mercilessly persecute that which in theory it permits. Sooner or later
its cold irony would have vanquished you, and cowed your passionate
soul, till finally you would have been ashamed of your love.

"What, then, would have become of me?

"Better to die; better to leave you before that terrible moment. Your
happiness to me is more precious than all; you could not enjoy it,
while the gaze of society was fixed upon us. Remember all you have
endured, your wounded pride, the torture of fear; the terrible birth
of our son. Think; ought I any longer to subject you to such fears and
dangers? Why should I endeavour to unite the fate of so tender, so
beautiful a creature with the miserable life of a <DW64>, a pitiable
object scarce worthy of the name of man?

"Forgive me, Leonora; dear and only friend. In leaving you, I leave
the first and last joy of my heart. I have no fatherland nor kin. I go
to Russia, where my utter solitude will be my joy. Serious pursuits
to which from henceforth I devote myself, if they do not silence must
at any rate distract painful recollections of the days of rapture.
Farewell, Leonora! I tear myself away from this letter, as if from your
embrace. Farewell, be happy, and think sometimes of the poor <DW64>, of
your faithful Ibrahim."

The same night he started for Russia. The journey did not seem as
terrible as he had expected. His imagination triumphed over fact. The
further he got from Paris the nearer and more vivid seemed to him all
the objects he was leaving for ever.

Imperceptibly he reached the Russian frontier. Autumn had already set
in, but the hired relays, notwithstanding the badness of the roads,
brought him with the swiftness of the wind, and on the seventeenth
morning he arrived at Krasnoe Selo, through which at that time passed
the high road.

There remained twenty-eight versts' journey to St. Petersburg. While
the horses were being changed Ibrahim entered the posting-house. In a
corner a tall man, in a green caftan and a clay pipe in his mouth, sat
leaning against the table reading the _Hamburg Gazette_. Hearing some
one enter he raised his head.

"Oh, Ibrahim!" he exclaimed, rising from the bench. "How do you do,
godson?"

Ibrahim recognised Peter, and in his delight rushed at him, but stopped
respectfully. The monarch approached, put his arms round him, and
kissed him on the forehead.

"I was told of your coming," said Peter, "and drove off to meet you. I
Pave been waiting for you here since yesterday."

Ibrahim could not find words to express his gratitude.

"Tell them," added the Tsar, "to let your carriage follow us, while you
get in by my side and drive to my place."

The Tsar's caleche was announced; he and Ibrahim got in and started at
a gallop. In an hour and a half they reached St. Petersburg. Ibrahim
looked with interest at the new-born city, which had sprung up by the
will of the Tsar. The bare banks, the canals without quays, the wooden
bridges, everywhere bore witness to the recent triumph of human will
over the elements. The houses seemed to have been hurriedly built.
The whole town contained nothing magnificent but the Neva, not yet
decorated with its granite framework, but already covered with ships
of war and merchantmen. The Tsar's caleche drew up at the palace,
_i.e._ at the Tsaritsa's garden. On the door-steps Peter was met by a
woman about thirty-five, handsome, and dressed in the latest Parisian
fashion. Peter kissed her, and, taking Ibrahim by the hand, said:

"Katinka, do you recognise my godson? I beg you to love and welcome him
as before."

Catherine turned on him her black searching eyes, and graciously held
out her hand. Two young beauties, tall and shapely, and fresh as roses,
stood behind her and respectfully approached Peter.

"Lisa," he said to one, "do you remember the little <DW64> who stole
apples from me at Oranienburgh to give to you? Here he is, I introduce
him to you."

The grand duchess laughed and blushed. They went into the dining-room.
In expectation of the Tsar the table had been laid. Peter, having
invited Ibrahim, sat down with all his family to dinner. During dinner
the Tsar talked to him on different topics, inquiring about the Spanish
war, the internal affairs of Prance and the Regent, whom he liked,
though he found in his conduct much to blame. Ibrahim displayed an
accurate and observant mind. Peter was much pleased with his answers;
remembering some incidents of Ibrahim's childhood, he related them with
such good-humoured merriment that no one could have suspected this kind
and hospitable host to be the hero of Poltava, the mighty and terrible
reformer of Russia.

After dinner the Tsar, according to the Russian custom, retired to
rest. Ibrahim remained with the empress and the grand duchesses. He
tried to satisfy their curiosity, described Parisian life, their fetes
and capricious fashions. In the mean-while, some of the emperor's
suite assembled in the palace. Ibrahim recognised the magnificent
Prince Menshikoff, who, seeing the <DW64> conversing with Catherine,
cast him a scornful glance; Prince Jacob Dolgoruki, Peter's stern
counsellor; the learned Bruce, known among the people as the Russian
Paustus; young Bagusinski, his former companion, and others who had
come to the Tsar to bring reports and receive instructions. In a couple
of hours the Tsar came out.

"Let us see," he said to Ibrahim, "if you remember your old duties.
Get a slate and follow me." Peter locked himself in the carpenter's
room and was engaged with state affairs. He worked alternately with
Bruce, Prince Dolgoruki, General Police-master Deviere, and dictated
to Ibrahim several ukases and decisions. Ibrahim was struck by the
rapidity and firmness of his decision, the strength and the pliability
of his intellect, and the variety of his occupations. When his work
was ended Peter took out a pocket book to compare the notes and see if
he had got through all he had meant to do that day. Then quitting the
carpenter's workroom he said to Ibrahim:

"It is late; I dare say you are tired, sleep the night here, as in the
old time; to-morrow I will wake you."

Ibrahim, left alone, could hardly realise that he was again at St.
Petersburg, in the presence of the great man; near whom, not yet
aware of his great worth, he had spent his childhood. It was almost
with regret that he confessed to himself that the Countess L. for the
first time since they parted had not been his sole thought throughout
the day. He saw that in the new mode of life awaiting him, work and
continual activity might revive his soul, exhausted by passion,
indolence, and secret sorrow. The idea of being the great man's
assistant, and with him influencing the fate of a mighty people, awoke
in him for the first time the noble feeling of ambition. In this humour
he lay down upon the camp bed prepared for him,--and then the usual
dreams carried him back to distant Paris, to the arms of his dear
countess.




CHAPTER III.


Next morning, according to his promise, Peter woke Ibrahim and greeted
him as lieutenant-captain of the Preobrajensky regiment, in which he
himself was captain. The courtiers flocked round Ibrahim, each one in
his own way trying to welcome the new favourite.

The haughty Prince Menshikoff gave him a friendly grasp of the hand.
Sheremetieff inquired after his own Parisian friend, and Golovin asked
him to dinner. Others followed his example, so that Ibrahim received
invitations for at least a whole month.

His life was now passed in regular but active occupation; consequently
he was not dull. Prom day to day he became more attached to the Tsar,
and grew better able to appreciate his lofty character. The thoughts
of a great man are a most interesting study. Ibrahim saw Peter in the
Senate debating with Buturlin and Dolgoruki, discussing important
questions in the Admiralty, fostering the Russian navy,--in his
leisure, with Theophan, Gavril, Bujinski, and Kopievitch, examining
translations from foreign publications, or visiting a factory, an
artizan's workshop, or the study of some learned man. Russia became
to Ibrahim one vast workshop, where machinery alone moved, where each
workman under ordered rules is occupied with his own task.

He felt that he too must work at his own bench, and tried to regret
as little as possible the amusements of his Parisian life. But if
was hander to forget a dearer memory. Often he thought of Countess
L., her just indignation, her tears, and grief. At times a terrible
thought oppressed him: the distractions of society: new ties: another
favourite. He shuddered; jealousy began to rage in his African blood,
and burning tears were ready to flow down his swarthy face.

One morning he was sitting in his study amid official documents, when
he heard himself loudly greeted in French. Turning quickly round he was
embraced with joyous exclamations by young Korsakoff, whom he had left
in Paris in the whirl of the great world.

"I have only just arrived," said Korsakoff "and came straight to you.
All our Parisian friends desire to be remembered to you, and regret
your absence. The Countess L. requested me to invite you without fail,
and here is her letter for you."

Ibrahim seized it eagerly, and was looking at the familiar writing on
the envelope, scarcely believing his own eyes.

"How glad I am," added Korsakoff, "that you have not been bored to
death in this barbarous Petersburg. How do they manage here? What do
they do? Who is your tailor? Have they started an opera?"

Ibrahim absently replied that the Tsar was probably at that moment at
work in the shipping dock.

Korsakoff laughed.

"I see," he said, "you are preoccupied, and don't want me just now.
Another time we will have a good talk; I am off to present my respects
to his Majesty." With these words he turned on his heel, and hurried
out of the room.

Left alone Ibrahim quickly opened the letter. The countess complained
tenderly, reproached him with falseness and inconstancy.

"You used to say," she wrote, "that my happiness was more to you than
all the world. Ibrahim, if this were true, could you have left me in
the state to which the sudden news of your departure brought me. You
were afraid I might detain you. Be assured that, in spite of my love,
I should have known how to sacrifice it for your good and to what you
deem your duty."

The countess ended with passionate assurances of love, begging him to
write, if only occasionally, and even if there were no hope that they
would ever meet again.

Ibrahim read and re-read this letter twenty times, rapturously kissing
those precious lines. Burning with impatience for news about the
countess, he set out for the Admiralty, hoping to find his friend still
there, when the door opened, and Korsakoff re-entered. He had seen the
Tsar, and he seemed as usual perfectly self-satisfied.

"Between ourselves," he said to Ibrahim, "the Tsar is a most
extraordinary man. Fancy! I found him in a sort of linen vest on the
mast of a new ship, whither I had to scramble with my dispatches. I
stood on a rope ladder, and had not room enough to make a proper bow.
I lost my presence of mind for the first time in all my life. However,
the Tsar, when he had read my papers, looked at me from head to foot.
Ho doubt he was agreeably impressed by my good taste and splendid
attire. At any rate he smiled, and invited me to the assembly today.
But I am a perfect stranger in Petersburg. For my six years' absence I
have quite forgotten the local customs. Please be my mentor; call for
me on your way, and introduce me."

Ibrahim promised, and hastened to turn the conversation on the subject
that most interested him.

"How was the Countess L.?"

"The countess? At first she was naturally most unhappy at your
departure; then, of course by degrees, she grew reconciled, and took
to herself another lover--who do you think? The lanky Marquis R. Why
do you open those African eyes of yours? Does this appear to you so
strange? Don't you know that enduring grief is not in human nature,
particularly in a woman. Meditate duly upon that while I go and rest
after my journey, and don't forget to call for me on your way."

What terrible thoughts crowded Ibrahim's soul? Jealousy? Rage?
Despair?--Ho!--but a deep, crushing sorrow.

He murmured to himself. I foresaw it, it was bound to happen. Then he
opened the countess's letter, read it over again, hung his head, and
wept bitterly. Long did he weep. Those tears relieved him. He looked
at his watch and found that it was time to start. Gladly would he have
stayed away, but the party was an affair of duty, and the Tsar was
strict in exacting the attendance of those attached to him.

He dressed and started to fetch Korsakoff. Korsakoff was sitting in his
dressing gown, reading a French book.

"So early?" he exclaimed, seeing Ibrahim.

"Excuse me," the other replied, "it's already half-past five, we shall
be late; make haste and dress, and let us go."

Korsakoff hurriedly rang the bell with all his might; the servants
hurried in, and he began hastily to dress. His French valet handed him
slippers with red heels, light blue velvet breeches, a pink kaftan
embroidered with spangles. In the antechamber his wig was hurriedly
powdered and brought in; Korsakoff pushed into it his closely cropped
head, asked for his sword and gloves, turned ten times before the
glass, and announced to Ibrahim that he was ready. The footmen handed
them their bearskin overcoats, and they drove off to the Winter Palace.

Korsakoff smothered Ibrahim with questions.

Who was the belle of St. Petersburg. Which man was considered the
best dancer? and which dance was the most fashionable? Ibrahim very
reluctantly gratified his curiosity. Meanwhile they reached the
palace. A number of long sledges, old carriages, and gilded coaches
stood on the lawn. Near the steps were crowded coachmen in livery and
moustaches, outriders glittering with tinsel, with feathers and maces,
hussars, pages and awkward footmen carrying their masters' furcoats
and muffs, a following indispensable according to the notions of the
gentry of that period. At sight of Ibrahim a general murmur ran. "The
<DW64>, the <DW64>, the Tzar's <DW64>!" He hurriedly led Korsakoff through
this motley crowd. The Court footman opened wide the doors; and they
entered a large room. Korsakoff was dumb with astonishment. In this big
hall, lighted up with tallow candles dimly burning amidst clouds of
tobacco smoke, sat magnates with blue ribbons across their shoulders,
ambassadors, foreign merchants, officers of the guards in their green
uniform, shipbuilders in jackets and striped trousers, all moving to
and fro in crowds to the unceasing sound of sacred music. The ladies
sat near to the walls;--the young attired in all the splendour of
fashion. Gold and silver shone upon their gowns; from the midst of wide
crinolines their slender figures rose like flower stalks. Diamonds
glittered in their ears, in their long curls, and round their neck.
They turned gaily to the right and left awaiting the gentlemen and the
dancing.

Elderly ladies tried cunningly to combine the new style of dress with
the vanished past; caps were modelled on the small sable hat of the
Tsaritsa Natalia Kirilovna, and gowns and mantles somehow recalled the
sarafan and dushegreika (short jacket without sleeves). They seemed
to share rather with wonder than enjoyment in these new imported
amusements, and glanced angrily at the wives and daughters of the Dutch
skippers, who in cotton skirts and red jackets knitted their stockings
and sat laughing and talking quite at ease amongst themselves. Seeing
the fresh arrivals, a servant approached with beer and tumblers on a
tray. Korsakoff in bewilderment whispered to Ibrahim.

"Que diable est ce que tout cela?" Ibrahim could not repress a smile.
The empress and the grand duchess, radiant in their own beauty and
their attire, walked through the rows of guests, talking affably to
them. The emperor was in another room, Korsakoff, wishing to show
himself to him, with difficulty pushed his way through the ever-moving
crowd. Sitting in that room were mostly foreigners solemnly smoking
their clay pipes and drinking from their earthen jugs. On the tables
were bottles of beer and wine, leather pouches with tobacco, tumblers
of punch, and a few draught-boards. At one of these was Peter playing
draughts with a broad-shouldered English skipper. They solemnly saluted
one another with gulps of tobacco smoke, and the Tsar was so engrossed
by an unexpected move of his opponent that he did not notice Korsakoff,
in spite of the latter's contortions. At that moment a stout gentleman
with a large bouquet on his breast rushed in, announced in a loud voice
that dancing had begun, and instantly retired. He was followed by a
large number of the guests, including Korsakoff among the rest.

The unexpected sight surprised him. Along the whole length of the
hall, to the sound of the most doleful music, the ladies and gentlemen
stood in two rows face to face. The gentlemen bowed low; the ladies
curtsied lower still, first to their _vis-a-vis_, then to the right,
then to the left; again to their _vis-a-vis_, then to the right, and
so on. Korsakoff, gazing at this fantastic pastime, opened his eyes
and bit his lips. The curtsying and bowing went on for about half an
hour. At last they ended, and the stout gentleman with the bouquet
announced that the dances of ceremony were ended, and ordered the band
to play a minuet. Korsakoff was delighted, and made ready to show
off. Among the young ladies was one whom he particularly admired. She
was about sixteen, dressed richly but with taste, and sat next an
elderly gentleman of dignified and stern appearance. Korsakoff rushed
up to her and begged the honour of a dance. The young beauty was
disconcerted, and seemed to be at a loss what to say. The man sitting
next her frowned more than before. Korsakoff awaited her reply, when
the gentleman with the bouquet approached, led him to the middle of the
hall, and said pompously:

"Dear sip, you have done wrong. In the first place, you approached this
young person without first rendering her the three requisite salutes,
and secondly, you took upon yourself the right of choosing her, whereas
in the minuet that privilege is hers and not the gentleman's. For this
you must undergo severe punishment, that is you must drain the goblet
of the Great Eagle."

Korsakoff from hour to hour grew more astonished. In a moment the
guests surrounded him, loudly demanding instant compliance with the
law. Peter, hearing the laughter and loud talk, came from the next
room, being very fond of witnessing such punishments. The crowd divided
before him and he stepped into the centre, where stood the accused with
the master of the ceremonies before him holding an enormous cup full
of malmsey wine. He was earnestly persuading the culprit to submit
willingly to the law.

"Aha!" said Peter, seeing Korsakoff, "you are caught, brother. Drink,
monsieur, and no wry faces."

There was nothing for it. The poor dandy, without stopping, drained the
goblet and returned it to the master of the ceremonies.

"Hark, Korsakoff," said Peter, "your breeches are of velvet, the like
even I don't wear, who am much richer than you. That is extravagance,
take care I do not quarrel with you."

After this rebuke Korsakoff wished to leave the circle, but staggered
and nearly fell, to the great delight of the emperor and the merry
company. This incident not only did not mar the harmony nor interest of
the principal entertainment, but on the contrary enlivened it.

The gentlemen began to scrape and bow, and the ladies to curtsy and
knock their little heels together with great diligence, no longer
keeping time to the music. Korsakoff could not share in the general
merriment. By her father Gavril Afanassievitch Rjevski's orders, the
lady whom Korsakoff had chosen approached Ibrahim, and, dropping her
eyes, timidly held out her hand to him. Ibrahim danced the minuet with
her and led her back to her seat, then went in search of Korsakoff,
led him out of the hall, placed him in the carriage, and drove him
home. At the beginning of the journey Korsakoff mumbled, "Curses upon
the soiree and the goblet of the Great Eagle," but he soon fell into
a deep sleep. He knew not how he got home, undressed, and was put to
bed, and he awoke next day with a headache, and a dim remembrance of
the scraping, curtseying, and tobacco smoke, the gentleman with the
enormous bouquet, and the mighty goblet of the Great Eagle.




CHAPTER IV.


    _(Verse from "Ruslan and Ludmila.")_

    "Our forefathers were leisurely souls,
      Right leisurely did they dine,
    And they ladled slow from their silver bowls
      The foaming beer and wine."


I must introduce you, gracious reader, to Gavril Afanassievitch
Rjevski. He came of an ancient noble race, owned vast estates, was
hospitable, loved falconry, had an enormous retinue, and was, in a
word, a good old Russian gentleman. In his own words he could not bear
anything foreign, and in his home he tried to maintain the customs of
the good old days he loved so well. His daughter was seventeen. In
childhood she had lost her mother, and she had been brought up in the
old-fashioned way, amid a crowd of governesses, nurses, companions, and
children from the servants' hall. She could embroider in gold and was
illiterate. Her father, in spite of his dislike to all things foreign,
could not oppose her wish to learn German dances from a captive Swedish
officer living in their house. This worthy dancing master was about
fifty; his right foot had been shot through at the battle of Narva,
and therefore it was not very active at minuets and courantes; but
the left was very dexterous and agile in the more difficult steps.
His young pupil did credit to his teaching. Natalia Gavrilovna was
celebrated at these soirees for her dancing, which was partly the cause
of Korsakoff's proceedings. He came next morning to apologise to Gavril
Afanassievitch. But the young dandy's manner and fine dress displeased
the proud _barin_ who nicknamed him the French monkey.

It was a holiday. Gavril Afanassievitch expected a number of friends
and relations. In the ancient hall a long table was being laid. The
guests were arriving with their wives and daughters, who had at last
been released from their domestic prison by the order and by the
example of the Tsar. Natalia Gavrilovna handed round a silver tray
laden with golden cups, and each guest, as he drained one, regretted
that the kiss which accompanied it on such occasions in olden times was
out of fashion.

They sat down to table. In the place of honour next the host sat his
father-in-law, Prince Boris Alexeievitch Lykoff, a boyar in his
seventieth year. The other guests were placed in order of descent, and
thus recalling the happy times of precedence by office, sat down, men
on one side, women on the other. At the end of the table, the companion
in the old-fashioned dress, a dwarf,--a thirty-year-old infant,
affected and wrinkled,--and the captive dancing master in a shabby dark
blue uniform, took their accustomed seats. The table, covered with a
great number of dishes, was surrounded by numerous and busy servants,
distinguishable among whom was the butler, with severe mien, big
stomach, and pompous immobility. The first few moments of dinner were
devoted entirely to the dishes of our time-honoured Russian cookery.
The rattle of plates and the activity of spoons produced a general
taciturnity.

At last the host, perceiving that the time had come for entertaining
the guests with agreeable conversation, turned and asked:

"Where, then, is Ekimovna? Let her be summoned!"

Several attendants were about to rush off in different directions,
when an old woman, painted white and pink, decorated with flowers and
tinsel, in a silk damask gown with a low neck, entered, singing and
dancing. Her advent occasioned general delight.

"Good-day to you, Ekimovna?" said Prince Lykoff. "How are you getting
on?"

"Well and healthily, gossip; all night dancing, my suitors awaiting."

"Where have you been, fool?" asked the host.

"Dressing, gossip, to receive the dear guests, on the Lord's festival,
by order of the Tsar, by command of the master, to the derision of the
world in the German style."

At these words there was a loud burst of laughter, and the jester took
her place behind the host's chair.

"And folly talks foolishly, and sometimes tells the truth in her
folly," said Tatiana Afanassievna, eldest sister of the host, and much
respected by him. "Naturally the present style of dress must seem
ridiculous to everybody. When you, my friends, have shaved your beards
and put on a short coat, it is of course no use talking of women's
rags; but really it is a pity the sarafan, the maiden's ribbons, and
the povoinik [a head-dress] should be discarded. It is really sad and
comic to see the beauties of to-day, their hair frizzed like flax,
greased and covered with French powder, the waist laced in so tight
that it seems on the point of snapping--their bodies encased in hoops,
so that they have to go sideways through a carriage door. They stoop;
they can neither stand, sit, nor breathe--real martyrs, my poor dears."

"Dear mother Tatiana Afanassievna!" said Kirila Petrovitch, formerly a
_voievod_ at Riasan, where he acquired 3,000 serfs and a young wife,
neither by strictly honourable means. "But my wife may dress as she
likes as long as she does not order new gowns every month and throw
away the previous ones, while still quite perfectly new. Formerly the
granddaughter included in her dowry the grandmother's sarafan; but
now you see the mistress in a gown to-day and to-morrow it is on the
maid. What is to be done? Nothing but ruin confronts the Russian noble.
Very sad!" he said, with a sigh, looking at his Maria Ilienitchna, who
seemed to like neither his praise of olden times nor his disparagement
of the latest fashions. The rest of the ladies shared her displeasure,
but they said nothing, for modesty was in those days still deemed
essential in young women.

"And who is to blame?" asked Gravril Afanassievitch, frothing a mug of
_kissli shtchi_ (sort of lemonade). "Is it not our own fault? The young
women play the fool and we encourage them."

"What can we do? We cannot help ourselves," replied Kirila Petrovitch.
"A man would gladly shut his wife up in the house, but she is summoned
with beating of drums to attend the assemblies. The husband follows
the whip, but the wife runs after dress. Oh, those assemblies! The Lord
has sent them upon us to punish us for our sins."

Maria Ilienitchna sat on needles; her tongue itched. At last she could
bear it no longer, and turning to her husband inquired with a little
acid smile what he found to object to in the assemblies.

"This is what I find to object to," replied the irritated husband.
Since they began, husbands cannot manage their wives; wives have
forgotten the teaching of the apostles--that a wife shall reverence her
husband. They trouble themselves not about their domestic affairs, but
about new apparel. They consider not how to please the husband, but
how to attract the officers. And is it becoming, madam, for a Russian
lady--wife or maid--to hobnob with German tobacconists and with their
workmen? Who ever heard of dancing till night and talking with young
men? If they were relatives, all well and good--but with strangers and
with men they do not know."

"I would say a word, but there is a wolf near," said Gavril
Afanassievitch, with a frown. "I confess these assemblies are not to my
taste; at any moment you may jostle against a drunken man, or perhaps
be made drunk yourself to amuse others. Then there is the danger
that some blackguard may be up to mischief with your daughter; the
modern young men are so spoilt, it is disgraceful. Take for instance
the son of the late Evgraff Sergueievitch Korsakoff; who at the last
assembly made such a fuss about Natasha, that he brought the blood into
my cheeks. Next day he coolly drives up to my gate. I was wondering
whether it could be Prince Alexander Danilovitch. No such luck. Ivan
Evgrafovitch! He would not stop at the gate and take the trouble to
walk up to the door, it is not likely! Korsakoff rushed in, bowing
and scraping, and chattered at such a rate, the Lord preserve us! The
fool Ekimovna mimics him most comically; by-the-bye, fool, give us the
foreign monkey."

Foolish Ekimovna seized the cover off a dish, tucked it under her arm
like a hat, and began wriggling, scraping with her feet, and bowing
in all directions, saying _monsieur_, _mademoiselle_, _assemblee_,
_pardon_. General and prolonged laughter again showed the delight of
the guests.

"Exactly like Korsakoff," said old Prince Lykoff, wiping away his tears
of laughter when the noise had gradually subsided. "It must be owned,
however, he is not the first nor the last who has come from foreign
parts to holy Russia a buffoon. What do our children learn abroad? To
scrape their feet, to chatter the Lord knows what lingo, not to respect
their elders, and to dangle after other men's wives. Of all the young
people who have been educated abroad (the Lord forgive me) the Tzar's
<DW64> most resembles a man."

"Oh, prince!" said Tatiana Afanassievna. I have--I have seen him close.
What a frightful muzzle he has. I was quite frightened of him."

"Certainly," added Gavril Afanassievitch. "He is a steady, decent man,
not a brother of the whirlwind. Who is it that has just driven through
the gate into the courtyard? Surely it is never that foreign monkey
again? What are you animals doing?" he exclaimed, turning towards the
servants. "Run and keep him out, and never let him in again."

"Old beard, are you dreaming?" foolish Ekimovna interrupted. "Are you
blind? It is the royal sledge. The Tsar has come."

Gavril Afanassievitch rose hurriedly from the table. Everybody rushed
to the windows; and positively saw the emperor ascending the steps
leaning on the arm of his orderly. There was a great commotion. The
host rushed to meet Peter; the servants flew hither and thither as if
mad; the guests were alarmed, and some wondered how they might escape.
Suddenly the thunder voice of Peter resounded in the hall. All was
silence as the Tsar entered, accompanied by his host, in a flutter of
joy.

"How do you do, ladies and gentlemen?" said Peter gaily.

All made obeisance. The Tsar's sharp eyes sought in this crowd
the host's young daughter. He beckoned to her. Natalia Gavrilovna
approached rather boldly, but blushed not only to her ears but to her
shoulders.

"You grow prettier every hour," said the Tsar, and according to his
custom kissed her on the head. Then turning to the guests he exclaimed:

"Why, I have interrupted you! You were dining? I beg you will sit down
again, and to me, Gavril Afanassievitch, give some aniseed vodka."

The host rushed at the stately butler, snatched from him a tray,
and himself filling a small golden goblet, handed it to the Tsar.
Peter drank it, ate a piece of bread, and again invited the guests
to continue their dinner. All resumed their seats but the dwarf and
the companion, who did not dare to remain at the table honoured by
the presence of the monarch. Peter sat down beside the host and asked
for some shtchee (a cabbage soup). The Tsar's orderly handed him a
wooden spoon inlaid with ivory, a knife and fork with green bone
handles--Peter never used any others but his own. The dinner table
conversation, which a moment before had been boisterously merry,
ended by being forced and scanty. The host from respect and delight
ate nothing; the guests, too, became ceremonious and listened with
reverence to the Tsar as he discussed in German the campaign of 1701
with the captive Swede.

The fool, Ekimovna, several times interrogated by the monarch, replied
with a sort of cold timidity, which, by-the-bye, did not in the least
prove her natural folly.

At last the dinner ended. The monarch rose, and after him all the
guests.

"Gavril Afanassievitch!" he said, addressing the host. "I want a word
with you alone." Taking his arm, he led him into the drawing-room and
locked the door. The guests remaining in the dining-room whispered
about the unexpected visit, and fearing to intrude, dispersed speedily
without expressing to their host the usual after-dinner thanks. His
father-in-law, daughter, and sister accompanied each in silence to the
door, and remained alone in the dining-room awaiting his Majesty's
departure.




CHAPTER V.


Half an hour later the door opened and Peter came out. With a solemn
bow to the treble salute from Prince Lykoff, Tatiana Afanassievna, and
Natasha, he passed out into the lobby. The host handed him his long
red overcoat, conducted him to the sledge, and on the door steps again
thanked him for the honour he had done him.

Peter drove off.

Returning to the dining-room, Gavril Afanassievitch seemed much
troubled; angrily bade the servants clear the table, sent Natasha to
her apartments, and informed his sister and father-in-law that he must
talk with them. He led them into the bedroom, where he usually took his
after-dinner nap. The old Prince lay down upon the oak bed; Tatiana
Afanassievna sat down upon the ancient damask easy chair, and drew the
footstool towards her; Gavril Afanassievitch locked all the doors and
sat down at Prince Lykoffs feet. In a low voice he began:

"The Tzar had a reason for coming here to-day. Guess what it was."

"How can we know, dear brother?" replied Tatiana Afanassievna.

"Has he commanded you to a voievod?" asked his father-in-law. It is
time he did so long ago. Or he has proposed a mission to you? Why not?
Not always clerks. Important people are sometimes sent to foreign
monarchs.

"No," replied his son-in-law, scowling. "I am a man of the old pattern;
our services are not required in the present day, though perhaps an
Orthodox Russian nobleman is superior to modern upstarts, pancake
hawkers, and Mussulmen. But that is a different matter."

"Then what was it, brother?" asked Tatiana Afanassievna crossing,
herself.

"The maiden is ready for marriage, the bridegroom must be in keeping
with the proposer. God grant them love and discretion; of honour there
is plenty."

"On whose behalf then does the Tzar propose?"

"Hum, whose? indeed!" exclaimed Gavril Afanassievitch. "Whose! That is
just the point."

"Whose?" repeated Prince Lykoff half dozing already.

"Guess," said Gavril Afanassievitch.

"Dear brother," replied the old lady, "how can we guess? There are many
gentlemen at court. Any one of them would be delighted to marry your
Natasha. Is it Dolgoruki?"

"No, not Dolgoruki."

"The Lord be with him, he is so haughty. Shein? Troekuroff?"

"Neither of them."

"I don't care for them either. They are flighty and too German. Then it
is Miloslavsky?"

"No, not he."

"God be with him, he is rich and stupid. Who then? Is it Eletsky, Lvof?
It cannot be Ragusinski? Well, I cannot imagine. Then whom does the
Tzar wish Natasha to marry?"

"The <DW64> Ibrahim."

The old lady exclaimed and threw up her arms. Prince Lykoff raised
his head from the pillows, and in astonishment repeated: "The <DW64>
Ibrahim?"

"Dear brother!" said the old lady in a voice full of tears. "Do not
destroy your darling daughter, do not deliver Natashinka into the claws
of the black devil."

"But how then?" replied Gavril Afanassievitch, "refuse the Tzar, who in
return promises us his protection to me and all our house."

"What!" exclaimed the old Prince, who was wide awake now. "Natasha, my
granddaughter, to be married to a bought <DW64>?"

"He's of good birth," said Gavril Afanassievitch, "he is the son of a
<DW64> Sultan. He was not taken prisoner by the Mussulmen but sold at
Constantinople. Our ambassador bought him and presented him to Peter.
The <DW64>'s eldest brother came to Russia with a handsome ransom
and----"

"We have the legend of Bova Koroleviteh and Eruslana Lasarevitch."

"Gavril Afanassievitch," added the old lady, "tell us rather how you
replied to the Tzar's proposal."

"I said that he was in authority over us, and that it was our duty to
submit to him in everything."

At that moment a noise was heard behind the door. Gavril Afanassievitch
went to open it, but something obstructed; he gave a hard push,
the door opened, and he beheld Natasha unconscious lying on the
blood-smeared floor.

Her heart misgave her when the Tzar was closeted with her father. A
sort of presentiment whispered to her that the matter concerned her;
and when Gavril Afanassievitch bade her to retire, while he conferred
with her aunt and grandfather, she could not resist feminine curiosity,
crawled quietly through the back rooms to the bedroom door, and missed
no word of their terrible conversation. When she heard her father's
last sentence, the poor girl fainted, and falling, struck her head
against the metal-bound chest which held her dowry.

The servants rushed in, lifted Natasha, carried her to her own suite
of apartments, and laid her upon her bed. After a little she came to
and opened her eyes, but recognised neither father nor aunt. Fever
set in; in her delirium she spoke of marriage and the Tzar's <DW64>,
and suddenly cried in a plaintive and piercing voice: "Valerian, dear
Valerian, my life, save me: There they are, there they are."

Tatiana Afanassievna glanced anxiously at her brother, who turned
white, bit his lip, and left the room in silence. He returned to the
old Prince, who, unable to mount the stairs, had remained below.

"How is Natasha?" he asked.

"Poorly," replied the sad father; "worse than I thought: in her
delirium she raves about Valerian."

"Who is this Valerian?" inquired the anxious old man. "Can it be the
orphan son of the musketeer whom you brought up in your house?"

"The same, to my sorrow!" replied Gavril Afanassievitch. "His father
saved my life during the insurrection, and the devil induced me to take
home the accursed young wolf. Two years ago, at his own request, he
was drafted into the army. Natasha cried at parting with him, while he
stood as if turned to stone. I thought it suspicious, and spoke to my
sister about it. But Natasha has never mentioned him since; and nothing
has been heard of him. I hoped she had forgotten him, but it seems not.
I have decided; she shall marry the <DW64>."

Prince Lykoff did not contradict him; it would have been useless. He
returned home. Tatiana Afanassievna remained by Natasha's bedside.
Gavril Afanassievitch, after sending for the doctor, locked himself in
his own room, and in his house all was still and sad. This unexpected
proposal of marriage surprised Ibrahim, at any rate, quite as much as
it surprised Gavril Afanassievitch. It happened thus.

Peter, while busy at work with Ibrahim, said to him:

"I have remarked, my friend, that you are low-spirited; tell me frankly
what it is you want."'

Ibrahim assured the Tsar that he was contented with his lot, and wished
for nothing better.

"Good," said the monarch; "if you are sad without a cause, then I know
how to cheer you."

At the conclusion of their work, Peter inquired of Ibrahim:

"Do you admire the young lady with whom you danced the minuet at the
last ball?"

"Sire, she is very nice, and seems a modest, amiable girl."

"Then you shall make her more intimate acquaintance. Should you like to
marry her?"

"I, sire?"

"Listen, Ibrahim; you are a lonely man, without birth or clan, a
stranger to everybody but myself. If I were to die to-day what would
become of you to-morrow, my poor <DW64>? You must get settled while
there is yet time, find support in new ties, connect yourself with the
Russian nobility."

"Sire, I am contented with you; the protection and favour of your
Majesty. God grant I may not survive my Tsar and benefactor. I desire
nothing more, and even if I had any views of matrimony, would the
young girl or her relations consent? My personal appearance----"

"Your personal appearance? What nonsense! How, are you not a fine
fellow? A young girl must obey her parent's wishes; but we will see
what old Gavril Rjevski will say when I go myself as your matchmaker."

With these words the Tsar ordered his sledge, and left Ibrahim wrapped
in deep meditation.

"Marry," thought the African; "and why not? Surely I am not destined to
pass my life alone, and never know the greatest happiness and the most
sacred duties of manhood, simply because I was born in the torrid zone?
I cannot hope to be loved; what a childish thought! Is it possible to
believe in love? Can it exist in the frivolous heart of woman? The Tsar
is right; I must assure my own future. Marriage with young Rjevski will
unite me to the haughty Russian nobility, and I shall cease to be a
stranger in my new country. From my wife I shall not require love; I
shall content myself with her fidelity and friendship."

Ibrahim wished to work according to his custom, but his imagination was
too excited. He left the papers, and went out to stroll along the banks
of the Neva. Suddenly he heard Peter's voice, looked round, and saw
the Tsar, who had dismissed his sledge and was following "him with a
lively countenance.

"It is all settled, my friend," said Peter, taking him by the arm; "I
have betrothed you. Tomorrow, call upon your father-in-law, but be
careful to honour the pride of the _boyar_; leave your sledge at the
gates, and go across the yard on foot, talk to him of his honours and
distinction, and he will be delighted with you. And now," he added,
shaking his cudgel, "take me to the rogue Danileitch, with whom I must
have an interview about his latest pranks."

Ibrahim thanked Peter most sincerely for his fatherly care, accompanied
him as far as the magnificent mansion of Prince Menshikoff, and
returned home.




CHAPTER VI.


Gently burnt the hanging lamp before the glass case, wherein glittered
the gold and silver frames of the ancestral _icons._ The flickering
light lit faintly the curtained bed, and the table strewn with labelled
phials. Near the fireplace sat a servant at her spinning wheel, and
only the light sound of her distaff broke the silence.

"Who is there?" asked a weak voice. The maid rose instantly, approached
the bed, and quietly raised the curtain.

"Will it soon be dawn?" asked Natalia.

"It is already noon," replied the maid.

"Oh, heavens! and why is it so dark?"

"The shutters are closed, miss."

"Then let me dress quickly."

"You must not, miss; the doctor forbids it."

"Am I ill then? How long?"

"Nearly a fortnight now."

"Is it really so? And it seems to me but last night that I went to bed."

Natasha was silent; she tried to collect her scattered thoughts.
Something had happened to her, what it was she could not remember. The
maid stood before her, awaiting her orders. At that moment a muffled
sound was heard below.

"What is it?" asked the patient.

"The masters have finished dinner," answered the attendant; "they are
rising from table. Tatiana Afanassievna will be here directly."

Natasha seemed pleased, she waved her feeble hand. The maid dropped the
curtain and resumed her seat at the spinning wheel.

A few minutes after, a head, covered with a broad white cap with dark
ribbons, peeped through the door and asked in a low voice:

"How is Natasha?"

"How do you do, auntie?" said the invalid gently, and Tatiana
Afanassievna hurried towards her.

"The young lady is conscious," said the maid, cautiously moving up
an easy chair. With tears in her eyes the old lady kissed the pale
languid face of her niece, and sat down beside her. Immediately after
her came the German doctor in a black caftan and learned wig. He
counted Natalia's pulse, and told them first in Latin, then in Russian,
that the crisis was over. He asked for paper and ink, wrote a new
prescription, and departed. The old lady rose, kissed Natalia again,
and at once went down with the good news to Gavril Afanassievitch.

In the drawing-room in full uniform, with sword and hat in hand, sat
the royal <DW64>, talking respectfully with Gavril Afanassievitch.
Korsakoff, stretched full length upon a downy couch, reclined,
listening to their conversation while he teased the greyhound. Tired of
this occupation, he approached a mirror, the usual refuge of the idle,
and in it saw Tatiana Afanassievna behind the door making unperceived
signs to her brother.

"You are wanted, Gavril Afanassievitch," said Korsakoff to him,
interrupting Ibrahim.

Gavril Afanassievitch instantly went to his sister, closing the door
behind him.

"I am astonished at your patience," said Korsakoff to Ibrahim. "A whole
hour have you been listening to ravings about the ancient descent
of the Lykoffs and the Rjevskis, and have even added your own moral
observations. In your place _j'aurais plante la_ the old liar and
all his race, including Natalia Gavrilovna, who is only affected and
shamming illness, _une petite sante._ Tell me truly, is it possible
that you are in love with that little _mijauree?_"

"No," replied Ibrahim, "I am of course marrying, not from love, but
from consideration, and that only if she has no actual dislike for me."
"Listen, Ibrahim," said Korsakoff, "for once take my advice; really I
am wiser than I look. Give up this silly idea--don't marry. It seems
to me that your chosen bride has no particular liking for you. Don't
many things happen in this world? For instance: of course I am not bad
looking, but it has happened to me to deceive husbands who were really
not a whit my inferior. Yourself too.... you remember our Parisian
friend Count L.? A woman's fidelity cannot be counted on. Happy is
he who can bear the change with equanimity. But you! with "your
passionate, brooding, and suspicious nature, with your flat nose, thick
lips, is it with these that you propose to rush into all the dangers of
matrimony?"

"Thank you for your friendly advice," said Ibrahim, coldly; "you know
the proverb: 'it is not your duty to rock other folk's children.'"

"Take care, Ibrahim," replied Korsakoff, smiling, "that it does not
fall to your lot to illustrate that proverb literally later on."

The conversation in the next room waxed hot.

"You will kill her," the old lady was saying; "she cannot bear the
sight of him."

"But just consider," replied her obstinate brother. "For a fortnight
now he has been calling as her accepted bridegroom, and hitherto has
not seen his bride. He might think at last that her illness is simply
an invention, and that we are seeking only to gain time in order to get
rid of him. Besides, what will the Tsar say? He has already sent three
times to ask after Natasha. Do as you please, but I do not intend to
fall out with him."

"My God!" exclaimed Tatiana Afanassievna; "how will she bear it? At any
rate, let me prepare her for this."

Gavril Afanassievitch consented, and returned to the drawing-room.

"Thank God!" he said to Ibrahim; "the crisis is over. Natalia is much
better. I do not like to leave our dear guest, Mr. Korsakoff, here
alone> or I would take you upstairs to get a glimpse of your bride."

Korsakoff congratulated Gavril Afanassievitch, begged them not to put
themselves out on his account, assured them that he was obliged to go,
and rushed into the lobby, whither be refused to allow his host to
follow him.

Meanwhile, Tatiana Afanassievna hastened to prepare the invalid for the
arrival of her terrible visitor. Entering the apartments, she sat down
breathless by the bedside and took Natalia by the hand. But before she
had time to say a word, the door opened.

"Who has come in?" Natasha asked.

The old lady felt faint, Gavril Afanassievitch drew back the curtain,
looked coldly at the patient, and inquired how she was. The sick girl
tried to smile but could not. Her father's stern gaze startled her, and
fear overcame her. She fancied some one stood at the head of her bed.
With an effort she raised her head and instantly recognised the Tsar's
<DW64>. At that moment she remembered all, and all the horror of the
future presented itself before her. But exhausted nature could receive
no further perceptible shock. Natasha dropped her head back on the
pillow and closed her eyes, her heart within her gave sickly throbs.
Tatiana Afanassievna signed to her brother that the patient wanted to
go to sleep, and everybody left the apartments quietly. The maid alone
remained and resumed her seat.

The unhappy beauty opened her eyes, and seeing no one by her bedside,
called the maid and sent her for the dwarf. But at that moment an old,
round creature, like a ball, rolled up to her bed. Tie Swallow (so
the dwarf was nicknamed) had rushed as fast as her short legs would
carry her up the stairs after Gavril Afanassievitch and Ibrahim, and
hid behind the door. Natasha saw her and sent the maid away. The dwarf
sat down on a stool by the bedside Never had so small a body contained
so active a soul. She interfered in everything, knew everything, and
exerted herself about everything. With cunning penetration she knew how
to gain the affection of her masters, and the envy of all the household
over which she wielded autocratic sway. Gavril Afanassievitch listened
to her tales, complaints, and petty requests. Tatiana Afanassievna
asked her opinion every moment and took her advice, while Natasha's
affection for her was unbounded. She confided to her all the thoughts,
all the impulses of her sixteen-year-old heart.

"Do you know, Swallow," she said, "my father is going to marry me to
the <DW64>." The dwarf sighed deeply, and her wrinkled face became more
wrinkled.

"Is there no hope?" added Natasha. "Do you think my father will not
have compassion upon me?"

The dwarf shook her cap.

"Won't grandfather intercede for me, or my aunt."

"No, miss, the <DW64> during your illness managed to bewitch everybody.
Master is mad about him, the prince dreams of him alone, and Tatiana
Afanassievna says it is a pity he is a <DW64>, otherwise we could not
wish for a better bridegroom."

"My God, my God!" sobbed poor Natasha.

"Don't grieve, dear beauty," said the dwarf, kissing her feeble
hand. "If you must marry the <DW64>, at any rate you will be your own
mistress. Now it is not as it was in olden times; husbands no longer
imprison their wives; the <DW64> is said to be rich, the house will be
like a full cup--you'll live merrily."

"Poor Valerian," said Natasha, but so low, that the dwarf only guessed
but did not hear the words.

"That is just it, miss," she said mysteriously, lowering her voice; "if
you thought less of the sharpshooter's orphan you would not rave of him
in your delirium, and your father would not be angry."

"What!" inquired Natasha, in alarm; "I raved about Valerian? My father
heard? My father was angry?"

"That is the misfortune," replied the dwarf. "Now, if you ask him not
to marry you to the <DW64>, he will think Valerian is the cause. There
is nothing to be done, you had better submit, and what is to be will
be."

Natasha made no reply. The notion that the secret of her heart was
known to her father had a powerful effect upon her mind. One hope only
was left to her--that she might die before the completion of this
hateful marriage. This idea comforted her. With a weak and sad heart
she resigned herself to her fate.




CHAPTER VII.


In Gavril Afanassievitch's house opening from the hall on the right was
a a narrow room with one window. In it stood a simple bed covered with
a blanket. Before the bed stood a small table of pine wood, on which a
tallow candle burnt, and a book of music lay open. On the wall hung an
old blue uniform and its contemporary, a three-cornered hat; above it
nailed to the wall with three nails hung a picture representing Charles
XII. on horseback. The notes of a flute sounded through this humble
abode. The captive dancing-master, its solitary occupant, in a skull
cap and cotton dressing-gown, was enlivening the dulness of a winter's
evening practising some strange Swedish, marches. After devoting two
whole hours to this exercise the Swede took his flute to pieces, packed
it in a box, and began to undress.




THE GYPSIES,

NARRATIVE AND DRAMATIC POEM.


A noisy band of gypsies are wandering through. Bessarabia. To-day they
will pitch their ragged tents on the banks of the river. Sweet as
freedom is their nights rest, peaceful their slumber.

Between the cart wheels, half screened by rugs, burns a fire around
which the family is preparing supper. In the open fields graze the
horses, and behind the tents a tame bears lies free. In the heart of
the desert all is movement with the preparations for the morning's
march, with the songs of the women, the cries of the children, and the
sound of the itinerant anvil. But soon upon the wandering band falls
the silence of sleep, and the stillness of the desert is broken only by
the barking of the dogs and the neighing of the horses.

The fires are everywhere extinguished, all is calm; the moon shines
solitary in the sky, shedding its light over the silent camp.

In one of the tents is an old man who does not sleep, but remains
seated by the embers, warming himself by their last glow. He gazes
into the distant steppes, which are now wrapped in the mists of night.
His youthful daughter has wandered into the distant plains. She is
accustomed to her wild freedom; she will return. But night wears on,
and the moon in the distant clouds is about to set. Zemphira tarries,
and the old man's supper is getting cold. But here she comes, and,
following on her footsteps, a youth, a stranger to the old gypsy.

"Father," says the maiden, "I bring a guest; I found him beyond the
tombs in the steppes, and I have invited him to the camp for the night.
He wishes to become a gypsy like us. He is a fugitive from the law. But
I will be his companion. He is ready to follow wherever I lead."

_The Old Gypsy:_ "I am glad. Stay in the shelter of our camp till
morning, or longer it thou wilt. I am-ready to share with thee both
bread and roof. Be one of us. Make trial of our life; of our wandering,
poverty, and freedom. To-morrow, at daybreak, in one van, we will go
together. Choose thy trade: forge iron, or sing songs, leading the bear
from village to village."

_Aleko:_ "I will remain."

_Zemphira_: "He is mine; who shall take him from me? But it is late....
the young moon has set, the fields are hidden in darkness, and sleep
overpowers me."

Day breaks. The old man moves softly about the silent camp.

"Wake, Zemphira, the sun is rising; awake, my guest. 'Tis time, tis
time! Leave, my children, the couch of slothfulness."

Noisily the clustering crowd expands; the tents are struck; the vans
are ready to start. All is movement, and the horde advances over the
desert.

Asses with paniers full of sportive children lead the way; husbands,
brothers, wives, daughters, young and old, follow in their wake. What
shouting and confusion! Gypsy songs are mingled with the growling
of the bear, impatiently gnawing at his chain. What a motley of
bright- rags! The naked children! The aged men! Dogs bark and
howl, the bagpipes drone, the carts creak. All is so poor, so wild,
so disorderly, but full of the life and movement ever absent from our
dead, slothful, idle life, monotonous as the songs of slaves.

The youth gazes disheartened over the desert plain. The secret cause of
his sadness he admits not even to himself. By his side is the dark-eyed
Zemphira. Now he is a free inhabitant of the world, and radiant above
him shines the sun in midday glory. Why, then, does the youth's heart
tremble--what secret sorrow preys upon him?

God's little bird knows neither care nor labour, Why should it strive
to build a lasting nest? The night is long, but a branch suffices for
its sleeping place. When the sun comes in his glory, birdie hears the
voice of God, flutters his plumage, and sings his song. After spring,
Nature's fairest time, comes hot summer. Late autumn follows, bringing
mist and cold. Poor men and women are sad and dismal. To distant lands,
to warmer climes beyond the blue sea, flies birdie to the spring. Like
a little careless bird is the wandering exile. For him there is no
abiding nest, no home! Every road is his; at each stopping-place is his
night's lodging. Waking at dawn, he leaves his day at God's disposal,
and the toil of life disturbs not his calm, indolent heart. At times,
glory's enchantment, like a distant star, attracts his gaze; or sudden
visions of luxury and pleasure float before him. Sometimes above his
solitary head growls the thunder, and beneath the thunder, as beneath a
peaceful sky, he sleeps serene. And thus he lives, ignoring the power
of blind treacherous Fate. But once, oh God! how passion played with
his obedient soul! How it raged in his tormented breast! Is it long,
and for how long, that it has left him calm? It will rage again; let
him but wait!

_Zemphira_: "Friend, tell me, dost thou not regret what thou hast left
for ever?"

_Aleko_: "What have I left?"

_Zemphira:_ "Thou knowest; thy people, thy cities."

_Aleko:_ "Regret? If thou knewest, if thou could'st imagine the
confinement of our stifling towns! There people crowded behind walls
never breathe the cool breeze of the morning, nor the breath of
spring-scented meadows. They are ashamed to love, and chase away the
thought. They traffic with liberty, bow their heads to idols, and beg
for money and chains. What have I left? The excitement of treason, the
prejudged sentence, the mob's mad persecution or splendid infamy."

_Zemphira:_ "But there thou hadst magnificent palaces, many 
carpets, entertainments, and loud revels; and the maiden's dresses are
so rich!"

_Aleko:_ "What is there to please in our noisy towns? The genuine
love, no veritable joy. The maidens. How much dost thou surpass them,
without their rich apparel, their pearls, or their necklaces! Be true,
my gentle friend! My sole wish is to share with thee love, leisure, and
this self-sought exile."

_The Old Gypsy:_ "Thou lovest us, though born amongst the rich.. But
freedom is not always agreeable to those used to luxury. We have a
legend:--

"Once a king banished a man from the South to live amongst us--I once
knew but have forgotten his difficult name--though old in years he was
youthful, passionate, and simple-hearted. He had a wondrous gift of
song, with a voice like running waters. Everyone liked him. He dwelt
on the banks of the Danube, harming no one, but pleasing many with his
stories. He was helpless, weak, and timid as a child. Strangers brought
him game and fish caught in nets. When the rapid river froze and
winter storms raged high, they clad the saintly old man in soft warm
furs. But he could never be inured to the hardships of a poor man's
life. He wandered about pale and thin, declaring that an offended God
was chastening him for some crime. He waited, hoping for deliverance,
and full of sad regret. The wretched man wandered on the banks of the
Danube shedding bitter tears, as he remembered his distant home, and,
dying, he desired that his unhappy bones should be carried to the
South. Even in death the stranger to these parts could find no rest."

_Aleko:_ "Such is thy children's fate, O Borne, O world-famed Empire!
Singer of love, singer of the gods, say what is glory? The echo from
the tomb, the voice of praise continued from generation to generation,
or a tale told by a gypsy in his smoky tent?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Two years passed. The peaceful gypsy band still wanders, finding
everywhere rest and hospitality. Scorning the fetters of civilisation,
Aleko is free, like them; without regret or care he leads a wandering
life. He is unchanged, unchanged the gypsy band. Forgetful of his past,
he has grown used to a gypsy life. He loves sleeping under their tents,
the delight of perpetual idleness, and their poor but sonorous tongue.
The bear, a deserter from his native haunts, is now a shaggy guest
within his tent. In the villages along the deserted route that passes
in front of some Moldavian dwelling, the bear dances clumsily before
a timid crowd and growls and gnaws his tiresome chain. Leaning on his
staff the old man lazily strikes the tambourine; Aleko, singing, leads
the bear; Zemphira makes the round of the villagers, collecting their
voluntary gifts; when night sets in all three prepare the corn they
have not reaped, the old man sleeps, and all is still.... The tent is
quiet and dark.

In the spring the old man is warming his numbed blood; at a cradle his
daughter sings of love. Aleko listens, and turns pale.

_Zemphira_: "Old husband, cruel husband, cut me, burn me, I am firm,
and fear neither knife nor fire. I hate thee, despise thee; I love
another, and loving him will die."

_Aleko:_ "Silence, thy singing annoys me. I dislike wild songs."

_Zemphira:_ "Dislike them? And what do I care! I am singing for myself.
Cut me, burn me, I will not complain. Old husband, cruel husband, thou
shalt not discover him. He is fresher than the spring, warmer than
the summer-day. How young and bold he is! How much he loves me! How I
caressed him in the stillness of the night! How we laughed together at
thy white hair."

_Aleko:_ "Silence, Zemphira. Enough!"

_Zemphira:_ "Then thou hast understood my song."

_Aleko:_ "Zemphira!"

_Zemphira_: "Be angry if thou wilt.... the song is about thee." (_She
retires singing_, "_Old husband, &c._")

_The Old Gypsy:_ "Yes, I remember; that song was made in my time, and
has long been sung for folk's amusement. Marioula used; as we wandered
over the Kagula Steppes, to sing it in the winter nights. The memory of
past years grows fainter hourly, but that song impressed me deeply."
. . . . . . . . . . . All is still. It is night, and the moon casts a
sheen over the blue of the southern sky. Zemphira has awakened the old
man.

"Oh, father! Aleko is terrible; listen to him! In his heavy sleep he
groans and sobs."

_The Old Gypsy_: "Do not disturb him, keep quiet. I have heard a
Russian saying that at this time, at midnight, the house spirit often
oppresses a sleeper's breathing, and before dawn quits him again. Stay
with me."

_Zemphira:_ "Father, he murmurs Zemphira!"

_The Old Gypsy:_ "He seeks thee even in his sleep. Thou art dearer to
him than all the world."

_Zemphira_: "I care no longer for his love; I am weary, my heart wants
freedom. I have already--But hush! dost thou hear? He repeats another
name."

_The Old Gypsy:_ "Whose name?"

_Zemphira:_ "Dost thou not hear? The hoarse groan, the savage grinding
of his teeth! How terrible! I will rouse him."

_The Old Gypsy:_ "No, don't chase away the night spirit; it will leave
him of its own accord!"

_Zemphira:_ "He has turned, and raised himself; he calls me, he is
awake. I will go to him. Good night, and sleep."

_Aleko:_ "Where hast thou been?"

_Zemphira:_ "With my father. Some spirit has oppressed thee. In sleep
thy soul has suffered tortures. Thou didst frighten me; grinding thy
teeth and calling out to me."

_Aleko:_ "I dreamt of thee, and saw as if between us.... I had horrible
thoughts."

_Zemphira:_ "Put no faith in treacherous dreams."

_Aleko:_ "Alas! I believe in nothing Neither in dreams, nor in sweet
assurances, nor in thy heart."

_The Old Gypsy:_ "Young madman. Why dost thou sigh so often? We here
are free. The sky is clean, the women famous for their beauty. Weep
not. Grief will destroy thee."

_Aleko:_ "Father! she loves me no more."

_The Old Gypsy:_ "Be comforted, friend. She is but a child. Thy sadness
is unreasonable. Thou lovest anxiously and earnestly, but a woman's
heart loves playfully. Behold, through the distant vault the full moon
wanders free, throwing her light equally over all the world. First
she peeps into one cloud, lights it brilliantly, and then glides to
another, making to each a rapid visit. Who shall point out to her one
spot in the heavens and say, 'There shalt thou stay'? Who to the young
girl's heart shall say, 'Love only once and change not'? Be pacified."

_Aleko:_ "How she loved me! How tenderly she leant upon me in the
silent desert when we were together in the hours of night! Full of
child-like gaiety, how often, with her pleasant prattle or intoxicating
caress, has she in an instant chased away my gloom! And now, Zemphira
is false! My Zemphira is cold!"

_The Old Gypsy:_ "Listen, and I will tell thee a story about myself.
Long, long ago, before the Danube was threatened by the Muscovite (thou
seest, Aleko, I speak of an ancient sorrow), at a time when we feared
the Sultan who, through Boodjak Pasha, ruled the country from the lofty
towers of Ackerman. I was young then, and my bosom throbbed with the
passion of youth. My curly locks were not streaked with white. Among
the young beauties there was one.... To whom I turned as to the sun,
till at last I called her mine. Alas! like a falling star, my youth
swiftly sped. Still briefer was our love. Marioula loved me but one
year."

"One day, by the waters of Kagula, we encountered a strange band of
gypsies, who pitched their tents near ours at the foot of the hill.
Two nights we passed together. On the third, they left, and Marioula
forsook her little daughter and followed them. I slept peacefully.
Day broke, and I awoke; my companion was not there. I searched, I
called--no trace remained. Zemphira cried, I wept too! From that moment
I became indifferent to all womankind. Never since has my gaze sought
amongst them a new companion. My dreary hours I have spent alone."

_Aleko:_ "What! Didst thou not instantly pursue the ingrate and her
paramour, to plunge thy dagger in their false hearts?"

_The Old Gypsy:_ "Why should I? Youth is freer than the birds. Who can
restrain love? Everyone has his turn of happiness. Once fled, it will
never return."

_Aleko:_ "No, I am different. Without a struggle never would I yield
my rights. At least, I would enjoy revenge. Ah, no! Even if I were to
find my enemy lying asleep over the abyss of the sea, I declare that
even then my foot should not spare him, but should unflinchingly kick
the helpless villain into the depths of the ocean, and mock his sudden
terrible awakening with a savage laugh of exultation. Long would his
fall resound a sweet and merry echo in my ears." . . . . . . . _A Young
Gypsy_: "One kiss, just one more embrace."

_Zemphira:_ "My husband is jealous and angry. I must go!"

_The Young Gypsy_: "Once more.... a longer one.... at parting."

_Zemphira:_ "Good-bye. Here he comes."

_The Young Gypsy:_ "Tell me. When shall we meet again?"

_Zemphira:_ "To-night, when the moon rises over the hill beyond the
tombs."

_The Young Gypsy:_ "She is deceiving me; she will not come."

_Zemphira_: "Run--there he is! I will be there, beloved!"

Aleko sleeps, and in his mind dim visions play. With a cry he wakes in
the dark, and, stretching out his jealous arm, clutches with a startled
hand the cold bed. His companion is far away..... Trembling he sits up
and listens.... All is quiet! Fear comes upon him. He shivers, then
grows hot. Rising from his bed, he leaves the tent, and, terribly
pale, wanders round the vans. All is silent, the fields are still,
and it is dark. The moon has risen in a mist, and the twinkling stars
are scarcely seen. But on the dewy grass slight footprints can be
discovered, leading to the tombs. With hurried tread he follows on the
path made by the ill-omened footmarks.

In the distance, on the road side, a tomb shines white before him.
Carried along by his hesitating feet, full of dread presentiment,
his lips quivering, his knees trembling ... he proceeds ... when
suddenly ... can it be a dream? Suddenly he perceives two shadows close
together, and hears two voices whispering over the desecrated grave.

_The First Voice_: "'Tis time."

_The Second Voice_: "Wait."

_The First Voice_: "'Tis time, my love."

_The Second Voice_: "No, no! We will wait till morning."

_The First Voice_: "'Tis late already."

_The Second Voice_ "How timidly thou lovest! One moment more."

_The First Voice_: "Thou wilt destroy me!"

_The Second Voice_: "One moment!"

_The First Voice_: "If my husband wakes and I am not----"

_Aleko:_ "I am awake. Whither are you going? Don't hurry; you both are
well here--by the grave."

_Zemphira_: "Run, run, my friend."

_Aleko:_ "Stop! Whither goest thou, my beautiful youth? Lie there!"
(_He plunges his knife into him._)

_Zemphira:_ "Aleko!"

_The Young Gypsy:_ "I am dying!"

_Zemphira:_ "Aleko, thou wouldst kill him! Look, thou art covered with
blood! Oh, what hast thou done?"

_Aleko:_ "Nothing; thou canst now enjoy his love."

_Zemphira:_ "Enough, I do not fear thee! Thy threats I despise, and thy
deed of murder I curse."

_Aleko:_ "Then die thyself!"

_Zemphira:_ "I die, loving him." . . . . . . . From the east the
light of day is shining. Beyond the hill Aleko, besmeared with blood,
sits on the grave-stone, knife in hand. Two corpses lie before him.
The murderer's face is terrible. An excited crowd of timid gypsies
surrounds him. A grave is being dug. A procession of sorrowing women
approaches, and each in turn kisses the eyes of the dead. The old
father sits apart, staring at his dead daughter in dumb despair. The
corpses are then raised, and into the cold bosom of the earth the young
couple are lowered. From a distance Aleko looks on. When they are
buried, and the last handful of earth thrown over them, without a word
he slowly rolls from off the stone on to the grass. Then the old man
approaches him, and says:

"Leave us, proud man. We area wild people and have no laws. We neither
torture nor execute. We exact neither tears nor blood, but with a
murderer we cannot live. Thou art not born to our wild life. Thou
wouldst have freedom for thyself alone. The sight of thee would be
intolerable to us; we are a timid, gentle folk. Thou art fierce and
bold. Depart, then; forgive us, and peace be with thee!"

He ended, and with great clamour all the wandering band arose, and at
once quitted the ill-fated camp and quickly vanished into the distant
desert tract. But one van, covered with old rugs, remained in the fatal
plain standing alone.

So, at the coming of winter and its morning mists, a flock of belated
cranes rise from a field loudly shrieking and flying to the distant
South, while one sad bird, struck by a fatal shot, with wounded
drooping wing, remains behind. Evening came. By the melancholy van no
fire was lighted; and no one slept beneath its covering of rugs that
night.

THE END.









End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Queen of Spades and other stories, by
Alexander Pushkin

*** 