“That very day, as I rode back, I witnessed another scene, which I shall never forget. High up the stream I descried an object on a large slab of ice which came floating down towards me. As it came nearer, I perceived a telega, a country cart, with a horse harnessed to it. Near it I saw a human figure kneeling. By his side was a dog, which, from its attitude, even at that distance, I guessed was looking up into his master’s face. So still were all the figures, that I might have fancied them a group chiselled out of marble. Nearer drew the sheet of ice. I then saw that the figure was that of an old man; his cap had fallen off, and his long white locks were streaming in the wind. His hands were lifted up in prayer, and his lips moved, as if imploring aid from above. His faithful dog looked up wistfully and inquiringly, as if to say, ‘Master dear, what is the matter?—how can I help you?’ The old man seemed resigned fully to his fate, and not inclined to make an effort to save himself. He turned his head, and then saw farther down the stream a number of people, who were beckoning to him, and showing their anxiety to save him. At first when he saw them, he shook his head, and once more addressed himself to prayer. He had evidently given up all hope of being saved. But when the cheering voices of his fellow-creatures reached his ears, and he saw their friendly gestures, the desire to live returned, and he rose from his knees. In his cart were a number of long poles. He seized one of them, and stood balancing it in his hand, while he looked eagerly towards the shore. He called to his dog, ‘Now, my faithful one, you and I have a dangerous work to perform. Life or death depends on the course we take.’ He approached the edge of the floe, which was now driven close to another large mass, and then whirled round again, a wide gulf being left between them. The poor dog whined, and drew back with dismay as he watched the eddying waters close before him.
“‘Courage, courage, friend!’ shouted the people on the shore, as the floe on which the old man stood approached another sheet of ice at that moment attached to the shore. ‘Leap, leap, friend!’ His tall sinewy figure showed me that he might justly in his youth have trusted to his athletic powers to save him from a similar predicament, but age, alas! Had unstrung his nerves and weakened his muscles. He hesitated. Again the people shouted, ‘Courage, courage!—leap, leap!’ He looked up to Heaven for a moment, and then sprang forward. His dog followed. There was a shriek of horror; the treacherous ice, worn at the edges by the constant abrasion of the other pieces, was rotten and unable to bear the weight suddenly placed on it. It gave way ere he could take a second leap, and sank beneath him. One cry escaped him, and the wild foaming waters closed over his head. His dog, lighter of foot, reached the shore in safety, and was till his death in my possession.”
The guests gave a shudder at the recital.
“We have had enough of tales of horror for one day,” said the Count. “Have you ever tried our Russian bath, Fairman?”
“No; I must confess to having neglected that duty of a traveller, who ought to taste every dish, go through every operation, and see every ceremony characteristic of the country,” answered Cousin Giles, laughing. “I cannot fancy a roll in the snow after a hot bath.”
“Whether it is injurious or not depends on the effect which the hot bath produces on the frame,” answered the Count. “Every country mansion has a bath, placed near a stream, if possible. It is a very simple affair. The bath-house is divided into two portions. In the inner half is a large oven, and high up round the walls are rows of seats. In the oven are placed large stones which are completely heated through. In the room stand ready some buckets of water. The people who are to bathe then come in and take their seats on the benches, having left their clothes in the outer room; the door is closed, and the water is thrown over the hot stones. This fills the whole room with hot vapour, which thoroughly penetrates the pores of the skin. The bathers are then rubbed over with towels and brushes, and a profuse perspiration ensues, which continues till all superfluous moisture has exuded from the body. There is then, it must be understood, no lassitude, no weakness, such as is produced by physical exertion, while also perspiration has in reality ceased. The frame, therefore, is not liable to receive a chill, but is, on the contrary, strengthened to resist it. Consequently, a person may either rush out into the freezing air and roll in the snow, or may plunge into a bath of pure cold water with impunity. For this purpose the bath-houses are, as I said, built near a stream or pond; and most refreshing and invigorating it is, after taking the steam-bath, to leap into the bright, sparkling stream. One comes out again like a new being, feeling capable of any exertion.”
Cousin Giles and his companions declared, after the description they had heard, that they should be anxious to take a true Russian bath before they left the country.
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of some musicians and singers, who came expressly to amuse the company. The instrumental music was very good, and received, as it merited, an abundance of applause; but the great amusement of the evening was a contest between two rival singers. On their introduction they bowed to the company, which was composed evidently of persons much superior to them in rank.
“Come, friend Nedopeouski, do you begin,” said the Count, addressing a tall man with a very quiet, almost sheepish expression of countenance. Thus summoned, the singer, who had been standing for some time alone without uttering a word, began an air, which it was evident could only be accomplished by a person capable of reaching the highest notes. He soon showed that he was equal to what he had undertaken. It was wonderful the mode in which he played with his voice: it rose and fell, and swelled again, now seeming to come through the roof from the clouds, now scarcely audible; sweet and strong notes succeeded each other with rapid transition. Then others present joined in chorus, and this seeming to encourage him to still further exertions, he quickly surpassed all his first efforts, till, utterly overcome, he could sing no longer, and would have sunk on the ground had not some of the guests, enraptured by the music, sprung up and caught him in their arms. Loud acclamations of delight broke from every one present, and it appeared as if there was no use in his rival attempting to compete with him. On the speedy recovery of the first singer, the Count, however, beckoned to him to begin. He rose and stood forward. At first his voice was weak, but his notes seemed to rivet the attention of his audience. As he proceeded, it became more and more animated, firmer, and fuller, exhibiting a wonderful combination of freshness, sweetness, and power; so exquisitely plaintive, so overflowing with poignant grief—for it was of a melancholy character—that tears, sobs, and groans broke from the breasts of most of his audience. It was truly the triumph of song over human feelings, and the palm of victory was unanimously awarded to the last singer.
“I am glad you heard these singers,” observed the Count, as his guests were retiring for the night. “We Russians are celebrated, I believe, for our musical talents, and I think you have heard a fair specimen of them this evening.”