The Queen of Spades, and other stories

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maria looked at him in astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The old priest approached me; saying,

"'Shall I begin?'"

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

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

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

"'Kiss your wife,' said the priest."

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

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

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

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

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

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THE UNDERTAKER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The health of my good Louisa!"

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

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

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

"The health of our customers!"

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

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

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

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

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

The undertaker went home drunk and angry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did anyone come from the late Triuhina?"

"The late?Is she dead, then?"

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

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

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

"Of course," replied the servant.

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

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THE POSTMASTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Heaven knows," he answered.

"Apparently, she is married," I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does Avdotia Simeonovna live here?"he inquired.

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

The Postmaster did not reply, but walked on.

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

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

He was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of drink," she answered.

"And where is he buried?"

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

"Could someone take me to his grave?"

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

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

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

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

"And do the travellers ever speak of him?"

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

"What was the ladylike?"I inquired curiously.

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

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

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

"Did the lady come here?"I asked.

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

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

---

THE LADY RUSTIC.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Said Nastia, while dressing her young lady:

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

"Yes.Where?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How so?tell me all about it."

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

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

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

"Yes, yes!And Berestoff?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where do you come from?"

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

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

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

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

"What makes you think so?"

"Everything."

"Still——?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What is your name, my dear?"

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

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

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

"Well, I must see you again."

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

"When?"

"To-morrow, if you like."

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

"All right."

"You will not play me false?"

"No."

"Swear it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is time."

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

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

Lisa ran to meet Per father on his return.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexis answered that he had not observed her.

"That is a pity."

"Why?"

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

"What do they say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I feel I could not make her happy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How provoking, thought Alexis.

"Well, is Miss Lisa at home?"

"Yes, sir."

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

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

"Mais laissez moi donc, Monsieur!mais êtes vous fou?" she repeated, turning away.

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

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

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

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

---

KIRDJALI.

Kirdjali was by birth a Bulgarian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kirdjali grew impatient.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A fine fellow Kirdjali!

---

THE HISTORY OF THE VILLAGE OF GOROHINA.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In this extremity it struck me:

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

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

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

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

"That was Goodintention ...the writer."

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

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

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

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

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

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

This though no doubt true enough was not original.

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

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

To be the judge, the observer, and the prophet of ages and of peoples seemed to me a most attainable object of ambition to a writer.What history could I write—I with my pitiable education?Where was I not forestalled by highly cultivated and conscientious men?What history had they left unexhausted.Should I write a universal history?But was there not already the immortal work of 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.

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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.

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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 GazetteHearing 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.

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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.

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CHAPTER IV.

(Verse from "Ruslan and Ludmila.")

"Our forefathers were leisurely souls,
Right leisurely did they dine,
And they ladled slow from their silver bowls
The foaming beer and wine."

I must introduce you, gracious reader, to Gavril Afanassievitch Rjevski.He came of an ancient noble race, owned vast estates, was hospitable, loved falconry, had an enormous retinue, and was, in a word, a good old Russian gentleman.In his own words he could not bear anything foreign, and in his home he tried to maintain the customs of the good old days he loved so well.His daughter was seventeen.In childhood she had lost her mother, and she had been brought up in the old-fashioned way, amid a crowd of governesses, nurses, companions, and children from the servants' hall.She could embroider in gold and was illiterate. Her father, in spite of his dislike to all things foreign, could not oppose her wish to learn German dances from a captive Swedish officer living in their house. This worthy dancing master was about fifty; his right foot had been shot through at the battle of Narva, and therefore it was not very active at minuets and courantes; but the left was very dexterous and agile in the more difficult steps. His young pupil did credit to his teaching. Natalia Gavrilovna was celebrated at these soirees for her dancing, which was partly the cause of Korsakoff's proceedings. He came next morning to apologise to Gavril Afanassievitch. But the young dandy's manner and fine dress displeased the proud barin who nicknamed him the French monkey.

It was a holiday.Gavril Afanassievitch expected a number of friends and relations.In the ancient hall a long table was being laid.The guests were arriving with their wives and daughters, who had at last been released from their domestic prison by the order and by the example of the Tsar.Natalia Gavrilovna handed round a silver tray laden with golden cups, and each guest, as he drained one, regretted that the kiss which accompanied it on such occasions in olden times was out of fashion.

They sat down to table.In the place of honour next the host sat his father-in-law, Prince Boris Alexeievitch Lykoff, a boyar in his seventieth year. The other guests were placed in order of descent, and thus recalling the happy times of precedence by office, sat down, men on one side, women on the other. At the end of the table, the companion in the old-fashioned dress, a dwarf,—a thirty-year-old infant, affected and wrinkled,—and the captive dancing master in a shabby dark blue uniform, took their accustomed seats. The table, covered with a great number of dishes, was surrounded by numerous and busy servants, distinguishable among whom was the butler, with severe mien, big stomach, and pompous immobility. The first few moments of dinner were devoted entirely to the dishes of our time-honoured Russian cookery. The rattle of plates and the activity of spoons produced a general taciturnity.

At last the host, perceiving that the time had come for entertaining the guests with agreeable conversation, turned and asked:

"Where, then, is Ekimovna?Let her be summoned!"

Several attendants were about to rush off in different directions, when an old woman, painted white and pink, decorated with flowers and tinsel, in a silk damask gown with a low neck, entered, singing and dancing.Her advent occasioned general delight.

"Good-day to you, Ekimovna?"said Prince Lykoff."How are you getting on?"

"Well and healthily, gossip; all night dancing, my suitors awaiting."

"Where have you been, fool?"asked the host.

"Dressing, gossip, to receive the dear guests, on the Lord's festival, by order of the Tsar, by command of the master, to the derision of the world in the German style."

At these words there was a loud burst of laughter, and the jester took her place behind the host's chair.

"And folly talks foolishly, and sometimes tells the truth in her folly," said Tatiana Afanassievna, eldest sister of the host, and much respected by him."Naturally the present style of dress must seem ridiculous to everybody.When you, my friends, have shaved your beards and put on a short coat, it is of course no use talking of women's rags; but really it is a pity the sarafan, the maiden's ribbons, and the povoinik [a head-dress] should be discarded.It is really sad and comic to see the beauties of to-day, their hair frizzed like flax, greased and covered with French powder, the waist laced in so tight that it seems on the point of snapping—their bodies encased in hoops, so that they have to go sideways through a carriage door. They stoop; they can neither stand, sit, nor breathe—real martyrs, my poor dears."

"Dear mother Tatiana Afanassievna!" said Kirila Petrovitch, formerly a voievod at Riasan, where he acquired 3,000 serfs and a young wife, neither by strictly honourable means. "But my wife may dress as she likes as long as she does not order new gowns every month and throw away the previous ones, while still quite perfectly new. Formerly the granddaughter included in her dowry the grandmother's sarafan; but now you see the mistress in a gown to-day and to-morrow it is on the maid. What is to be done? Nothing but ruin confronts the Russian noble. Very sad!" he said, with a sigh, looking at his Maria Ilienitchna, who seemed to like neither his praise of olden times nor his disparagement of the latest fashions. The rest of the ladies shared her displeasure, but they said nothing, for modesty was in those days still deemed essential in young women.

"And who is to blame?" asked Gravril Afanassievitch, frothing a mug of kissli shtchi (sort of lemonade). "Is it not our own fault? The young women play the fool and we encourage them."

"What can we do?We cannot help ourselves," replied Kirila Petrovitch."A man would gladly shut his wife up in the house, but she is summoned with beating of drums to attend the assemblies. The husband follows the whip, but the wife runs after dress. Oh, those assemblies! The Lord has sent them upon us to punish us for our sins."

Maria Ilienitchna sat on needles; her tongue itched.At last she could bear it no longer, and turning to her husband inquired with a little acid smile what he found to object to in the assemblies.

"This is what I find to object to," replied the irritated husband.Since they began, husbands cannot manage their wives; wives have forgotten the teaching of the apostles—that a wife shall reverence her husband.They trouble themselves not about their domestic affairs, but about new apparel.They consider not how to please the husband, but how to attract the officers.And is it becoming, madam, for a Russian lady—wife or maid—to hobnob with German tobacconists and with their workmen?Who ever heard of dancing till night and talking with young men?If they were relatives, all well and good—but with strangers and with men they do not know."

"I would say a word, but there is a wolf near," said Gavril Afanassievitch, with a frown."I confess these assemblies are not to my taste; at any moment you may jostle against a drunken man, or perhaps be made drunk yourself to amuse others.Then there is the danger that some blackguard may be up to mischief with your daughter; the modern young men are so spoilt, it is disgraceful. Take for instance the son of the late Evgraff Sergueievitch Korsakoff; who at the last assembly made such a fuss about Natasha, that he brought the blood into my cheeks. Next day he coolly drives up to my gate. I was wondering whether it could be Prince Alexander Danilovitch. No such luck. Ivan Evgrafovitch! He would not stop at the gate and take the trouble to walk up to the door, it is not likely! Korsakoff rushed in, bowing and scraping, and chattered at such a rate, the Lord preserve us! The fool Ekimovna mimics him most comically; by-the-bye, fool, give us the foreign monkey."

Foolish Ekimovna seized the cover off a dish, tucked it under her arm like a hat, and began wriggling, scraping with her feet, and bowing in all directions, saying monsieur, mademoiselle, assemblée, pardonGeneral 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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