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 Abbé 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 fête 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 NEGRO.]
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 negro. 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 protégé, 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, marqué par la licence,
Ou la folie, agitant son grelot,
D'un pied leger parcourt toute la France,
Ou nul mortel ne daigne être dévot,
Ou l'on fait tout excepté pénitence."
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 negro. 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 fête, 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 negro 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 negro'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 negro, 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 negro, 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 calèche 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 calèche 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 negro 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 fêtes 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 negro 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 Devière, 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 negro, the negro, the Tzar's negro!" 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-à-vis, then to the right, then to the left; again to their vis-à-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 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, assemblée, 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 negro 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 Negro Ibrahim."
The old lady exclaimed and threw up her arms. Prince Lykoff raised his head from the pillows, and in astonishment repeated: "The negro 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 negro?"
"He's of good birth," said Gavril Afanassievitch, "he is the son of a negro Sultan. He was not taken prisoner by the Mussulmen but sold at Constantinople. Our ambassador bought him and presented him to Peter. The negro'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 negro, 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 negro."
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 negro? 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 negro, 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 planté la the old liar and all his race, including Natalia Gavrilovna, who is only affected and shamming illness, une petite santé. Tell me truly, is it possible that you are in love with that little mijaurée?"
"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 negro. 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 negro." 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 negro 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 negro, 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 negro, 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 negro 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 negro, 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-coloured 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 coloured 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.