"I will tell you. The first time it broke out, some disguised men—of course I knew nothing of it, you understand," said he, opening his eyes and shutting them again with a cunning look—"took seven of these howling devils in the middle of the night, and, cutting a hole in the ice of the lake, dipped them in two or three times. One of them—old Mother Petroff—died the next day, but that was no great loss—the village has been twice as peaceable ever since."
"The remedy was severe, but does not appear to have been effectual," said I.
"Oh, yes, yes! Now, when they begin to be troublesome—that is, more troublesome than women usually are—some fine morning they see a big square hole cut in the ice, and they leave off as suddenly as they began. Women are plagues at best," he continued after a pause of deep reflection.
"Well, little father," said I, still laughing, "if one wishes a picture of the dark side of Russian humanity, I know of no one so well fitted to give it as you."
"I am indeed well acquainted with it in my own parishioners. St. Nicholas help me to abuse them!" said he, piously crossing himself.
But there was for me something more interesting than the village priest or the commune: Count Kourásoff was seriously contemplating marriage. He scarcely allowed me time to make my modest toilet and eat my simple dinner on the day of my arrival before I was carried off to see his fiancée. He told me she was Mademoiselle Olga Orviéff, that she lived at Antokollo,—one of the two fine suburbs of Wilna,—and that she enjoyed a virtual independence, having as her only companion an old aunt quite deaf, nearly blind, and totally incapable.
"I suppose," said I on the way to Antokollo, "that Mademoiselle Orviéff is one of those gentle creatures with whom life flows—"
"As placidly as a canal," said my friend.
"I am gratified to hear it," I replied. "In marriage one needs repose."