“I do not feel capable of making her happy.”

“Do not distress yourself about making her happy. What? Is this how you

respect your father’s wish? Very well!”

“As you please. I do not wish to marry, and I will not marry.”

“You will marry, or I will curse you; and as for my possessions, as

true as God is holy, I will sell them and squander the money, and not

leave you a farthing. I will give you three days to think about the

matter; and in the meantime, don’t show yourself in my sight.”

Alexei knew that when his father once took an idea into his head, a

nail even would not drive it out, as Taras Skotinin[7] says in the

comedy. But Alexei took after his father, and was just as head-strong

as he was. He went to his room and began to reflect upon the limits

of paternal authority; Then his thoughts reverted to Lizaveta

Gregorievna, to his father’s solemn vow to make him a beggar, and

last of all to Akoulina. For the first time he saw clearly that he was

passionately in love with her; the romantic idea of marrying a peasant

girl and of living by the labour of their hands came into his head, and

the more he thought of such a decisive step, the more reasonable did

it seem to him. For some time the interviews in the wood had ceased on

account of the rainy weather. He wrote to Akoulina a letter in his most

legible handwriting, informing her of the misfortune that threatened

them, and offering her his hand. He took the letter at once to the

post-office in the wood, and then went to bed, well satisfied with

himself.

The next day Alexei, still firm in his resolution, rode over early in

the morning to visit Mouromsky, in order to explain matters frankly to

him. He hoped to excite his generosity and win him over to his side.

“Is Gregory Ivanovitch at home?” asked he, stopping his horse in front

of the steps of the Priloutchina mansion.

“No,” replied the servant; “Gregory Ivanovitch rode out early this

morning, and has not yet returned.”

“How annoying!” thought Alexei.... “Is Lizaveta Gregorievna at home,

then?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Alexei sprang from his horse, gave the reins to the lackey, and entered

without being announced.

“Everything is now going to be decided,” thought he, directing his

steps towards the parlour: “I will explain everything to Lizaveta

herself.”

He entered ... and then stood still as if petrified! Liza ... no ...

Akoulina, dear, dark-haired Akoulina, no longer in a _sarafan_, but in

a white morning robe, was sitting in front of the window, reading his

letter; she was so occupied that she had not heard him enter.

Alexei could not restrain an exclamation of joy. Liza started, raised

her head, uttered a cry, and wished to fly from the room. But he threw

himself before her and held her back.

“Akoulina! Akoulina!”

Liza endeavoured to liberate herself from his grasp.

“_Mais laissez-moi donc, Monsieur! ... Mais êtes-vous fou?_” she said,

twisting herself round.

“Akoulina! my dear Akoulina!” he repeated, kissing her hand.

Miss Jackson, a witness of this scene, knew not what to think of it. At

that moment the door opened, and Gregory Ivanovitch entered the room.

“Ah! ah!” said Mouromsky; “but it seems that you have already arranged

matters between you.”

The reader will spare me the unnecessary obligation of describing the

dénouement.

[Footnote 1: It was formerly the custom in Russia for military men only

to wear the moustache.]

[Footnote 2: A novel written by Samuel Richardson, and first published

in 1740.]

[Footnote 3: Diminutive of Praskovia.]

[Footnote 4: Diminutive of Nastia.]

[Footnote 5: An allusion to the system of education introduced into

England by Joseph Lancaster at the commencement of the present century.]

[Footnote 6: Diminutive of Alexei (Alexis).]

[Footnote 7: A character in “Nedorosl,” a comedy by Denis Von Vizin.]

THE SHOT.

CHAPTER I.

We were stationed in the little town of N----. The life of an officer

in the army is well known. In the morning, drill and the riding-school;

dinner with the Colonel or at a Jewish restaurant; in the evening,

punch and cards. In N---- there was not one open house, not a single

marriageable girl. We used to meet in each other’s rooms, where, except

our uniforms, we never saw anything.

One civilian only was admitted into our society. He was about

thirty-five years of age, and therefore we looked upon him as an old

fellow. His experience gave him great advantage over us, and his

habitual taciturnity, stern disposition and caustic tongue produced

a deep impression upon our young minds. Some mystery surrounded his

existence; he had the appearance of a Russian, although his name

was a foreign one. He had formerly served in the Hussars, and with

distinction. Nobody knew the cause that had induced him to retire

from the service and settle in a wretched little village, where he

lived poorly and, at the same time, extravagantly. He always went on

foot, and constantly wore a shabby black overcoat, but the officers

of our regiment were ever welcome at his table. His dinners, it is

true, never consisted of more than two or three dishes, prepared by

a retired soldier, but the champagne flowed like water. Nobody knew

what his circumstances were, or what his income was, and nobody dared

to question him about them. He had a collection of books, consisting

chiefly of works on military matters and a few novels. He willingly

lent them to us to read, and never asked for them back; on the other

hand, he never returned to the owner the books that were lent to him.

His principal amusement was shooting with a pistol. The walls off

his room were riddled with bullets, and were as full of holes as a

honey-comb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury in the

humble cottage where he lived. The skill which he had acquired with his

favourite weapon was simply incredible; and if he had offered to shoot

a pear off somebody’s forage-cap, not a man in our regiment would have

hesitated to place the object upon his head.

Our conversation often turned upon duels. Silvio--so I will call

him--never joined in it. When asked if he had ever fought, he drily

replied that he had; but he entered into no particulars, and it was

evident that such questions were not to his liking. We came to the

conclusion that he had upon his conscience the memory of some unhappy

victim of his terrible skill. Moreover, it never entered into the head

of any of us to suspect him of anything like cowardice. There are

persons whose mere look is sufficient to repel such a suspicion. But an

unexpected incident-occurred which astounded us all.

One day, about ten of our officers dined with Silvio. They drank as

usual, that is to say, a great deal. After dinner we asked our host

to hold the bank for a game at faro. For a long time he refused, for

he hardly ever played, but at last he ordered cards to be brought,

placed half a hundred ducats upon the table, and sat down to deal. We

took our places round him, and the play began. It was Silvio’s custom

to preserve a complete silence when playing. He never disputed, and

never entered into explanations. If the punter made a mistake in

calculating, he immediately paid him the difference or noted down the

surplus. We were acquainted with this habit of his, and we always

allowed him to have his own way; but among us on this occasion was

an officer who had only recently been transferred to our regiment.

During the course of the game, this officer absently scored one point

too many. Silvio took the chalk and noted down the correct account

according to his usual custom. The officer, thinking that he had made

a mistake, began to enter into explanations. Silvio continued dealing

in silence. The officer, losing patience, took the brush and rubbed out

what he considered was wrong. Silvio took the chalk and corrected the

score again. The officer, heated with wine, play, and the laughter of

his comrades, considered himself grossly insulted, and in his rage he

seized a brass candle-stick from the table, and hurled it at Silvio,

who barely succeeded in avoiding the missile. We were filled with

consternation. Silvio rose, white with rage, and with gleaming eyes,

said:

“My dear sir, have the goodness to withdraw, and thank God that this

has happened in my house.”

None of us entertained the slightest doubt as to what the result would

be, and we already looked upon our new comrade as a dead man. The

officer withdrew, saying that he was ready to answer for his offence

in whatever way the banker liked. The play went on for a few minutes

longer, but feeling that our host was no longer interested in the

game, we withdrew one after the other, and repaired to our respective

quarters, after having exchanged a few words upon the probability of

there soon being a vacancy in the regiment.

The next day, at the riding-school, we were already asking each other

if the poor lieutenant was still alive, when he himself appeared among

us. We put the same question to him, and he replied that he had not yet

heard from Silvio. This astonished us. We went to Silvio’s house and

found him in--the courtyard shooting bullet after bullet into an ace

pasted upon the gate. He received us as usual, but did not utter a word

about the event of the previous evening. Three days passed, and the

lieutenant was still alive. We asked each other in astonishment: “Can

it be possible that Silvio is not going to fight?”

Silvio did not fight. He was satisfied with a very lame explanation,

and became reconciled to his assailant.

This lowered him very much in the opinion of all our young fellows.

Want of courage is the last thing to be pardoned by young men, who

usually look upon bravery as the chief of all human virtues, and the

excuse for every possible fault. But, by degrees, everything became

forgotten, and Silvio regained his former influence.

I alone could not approach him on the old footing. Being endowed by

nature with a romantic imagination, I had become attached more than

all the others to the man whose life was an enigma, and who seemed to

me the hero of some mysterious drama. He was fond of me; at least,

with me alone did he drop his customary sarcastic tone, and converse

on different subjects in a simple and unusually agreeable manner.

But after this unlucky evening, the thought that his honour had been

tarnished, and that the stain had been allowed to remain upon it

in accordance with his own wish, was ever present in my mind, and

prevented me treating him as before. I was ashamed to look at him.

Silvio was too intelligent and experienced not to observe this and

guess the cause of it. This seemed to vex him; at least I observed once

or twice a desire on his part to enter into an explanation with me, but

I avoided such opportunities, and Silvio gave up the attempt. From that

time forward I saw him only in the presence of my comrades, and our

confidential conversations came to an end.

The inhabitants of the capital, with minds occupied by so many matters

of business and pleasure, have no idea of the many sensations so

familiar to the inhabitants of villages and small towns, as, for

instance, the awaiting the arrival of the post. On Tuesdays and

Fridays our regimental bureau used to be filled with officers: some

expecting money, some letters, and others newspapers. The packets were

usually opened on the spot, items of news were communicated from one

to another, and the bureau used to present a very animated picture.

Silvio used to have his letters addressed to our regiment, and he was

generally there to receive them.

One day he received a letter, the seal of which he broke with a look

of great impatience. As he read the contents, his eyes sparkled. The

officers, each occupied with his own letters, did not observe anything.

“Gentlemen,” said Silvio, “circumstances demand my immediate departure;

I leave to-night. I hope that you will not refuse to dine with me for

the last time. I shall expect you, too,” he added, turning towards me.

“I shall expect you without fail.”

With these words he hastily departed, and we, after agreeing to meet at

Silvio’s, dispersed to our various quarters.

I arrived at Silvio’s house at the appointed time, and found nearly

the whole regiment there. All his things were already packed;

nothing remained but the bare, bullet-riddled walls. We sat down to

table. Our host was in an excellent humour, and his gaiety was quickly

communicated to the rest. Corks popped every moment, glasses foamed

incessantly, and, with the utmost warmth, we wished our departing

friend a pleasant journey and every happiness. When we rose from the

table it was already late in the evening After having wished everybody

good-bye, Silvio took me by the hand and detained me just at the moment

when I was preparing to depart.

“I want to speak to you,” he said in a low voice.

I stopped behind.

The guests had departed, and we two were left alone. Sitting down

opposite each other, we silently lit our pipes. Silvio seemed greatly

troubled; not a trace remained of his former convulsive gaiety. The

intense pallor of his face, his sparkling eyes, and the thick smoke

issuing from his mouth, gave him a truly diabolical appearance. Several

minutes elapsed, and then Silvio broke the silence.

“Perhaps we shall never see each other again,” said he; “before we

part, I should like to have an explanation with you. You may have

observed that I care very little for the opinion of other people, but I

like you, and I feel that it would be painful to me to leave you with a

wrong impression upon your mind.”

He paused, and began to knock the ashes out of his pipe. I sat gazing

silently at the ground.

“You thought it strange,” he continued, “that I did not demand

satisfaction from that drunken idiot R----. You will admit, however,

that having the choice of weapons, his life was in my hands, while

my own was in no great danger. I could ascribe my forbearance to

generosity alone, but I will not tell a lie. If I could have chastised

R---- without the least risk to my own life, I should never have

pardoned him.”

I looked at Silvio with astonishment. Such a confession completely

astounded me. Silvio continued:

“Exactly so: I have no right to expose myself to death. Six years ago I

received a slap in the face, and my enemy still lives.”

My curiosity was greatly excited.

“Did you not fight with him?” I asked. “Circumstances probably

separated you.”

“I did fight with him,” replied Silvio: “and here is a souvenir of our

duel.”

Silvio rose and took from a cardboard box a red cap with a gold tassel

and embroidery (what the French call a _bonnet de police_); he put it

on--a bullet had passed through it about an inch above the forehead.

“You know,” continued Silvio, “that I served in one of the Hussar

regiments. My character is well-known to you: I am accustomed to

taking the lead. From my youth this has been my passion. In our time

dissoluteness was the fashion, and I was the most outrageous man in the

army. We used to boast of our drunkenness: I beat in a drinking bout

the famous Bourtsoff,[1] of whom Denis Davidoff[2] has sung. Duels in

our regiment were constantly taking place, and in all of them I was

either second or principal. My comrades adored me, while the regimental

commanders, who were constantly being changed, looked upon me as a

necessary evil.

“I was calmly enjoying my reputation, when a young man belonging to a

wealthy and distinguished family--I will not mention his name--joined

our regiment. Never in my life have I met with such a fortunate

fellow! Imagine to yourself youth, wit, beauty, unbounded gaiety, the

most reckless bravery, a famous name, untold wealth--imagine all these,

and you can form some idea of the effect that he would be sure to

produce among us. My supremacy was shaken. Dazzled by my reputation,

he began to seek my friendship, but I received him coldly, and without

the least regret he held aloof from me. I took a hatred to him. His

success in the regiment and in the society of ladies brought me to the

verge of despair. I began to seek a quarrel with him; to my epigrams

he replied with epigrams which always seemed to me more spontaneous

and more cutting than mine, and which were decidedly more amusing, for

he joked while I fumed. At last, at a ball given by a Polish landed

proprietor, seeing him the object of the attention of all the ladies,

and especially of the mistress of the house, with whom I was upon very

good terms, I whispered some grossly insulting remark in his ear. He

flamed up and gave me a slap in the face. We grasped our swords; the

ladies fainted; we were separated; and that same night we set out to

fight.

“The dawn was just breaking. I was standing at the appointed place with

my three seconds. With inexplicable impatience I awaited my opponent.

The spring sun rose, and it was already growing hot. I saw him coming

in the distance. He was walking on foot, accompanied by one second.

We advanced to meet him. He approached, holding his cap filled with

black cherries. The seconds measured twelve paces for us. I had to fire

first, but my agitation was so great, that I could not depend upon the

steadiness of my hand; and in order to give myself time to become calm,

I ceded to him the first shot. My adversary would not agree to this. It

was decided that we should cast lots. The first number fell to him, the

constant favourite of fortune. He took aim, and his bullet went through

my cap. It was now my turn. His life at last was in my hands; I looked

at him eagerly, endeavouring to detect if only the faintest shadow of

uneasiness. But he stood in front of my pistol, picking out the ripest

cherries from his cap and spitting out the stones, which flew almost as

far as my feet. His indifference annoyed me beyond measure. ‘What is

the use,’ thought I, ‘of depriving him of life, when he attaches no

value whatever to it?’ A malicious thought flashed through my mind. I

lowered my pistol.

“‘You don’t seem to be ready for death just at present,’ I said to him:

‘you wish to have your breakfast; I do not wish to hinder you.’

“‘You are not hindering me in the least,’ replied he. ‘Have the

goodness to fire, or just as you please--the shot remains yours; I

shall always be ready at your service.’

“I turned to the seconds, informing them that I had no intention of

firing that day, and with that the duel came to an end.

“I resigned my commission and retired to this little place. Since then,

not a day has passed that I have not thought of revenge. And now my

hour has arrived.”

Silvio took from his pocket the letter that he had received that

morning, and gave it to me to read. Someone (it seemed to be his

business agent) wrote to him from Moscow, that a _certain person_ was

going to be married to a young and beautiful girl.

“You can guess,” said Silvio, “who the certain person is. I am going to

Moscow. We shall see if he will look death in the face with as much

indifference now, when he is on the eve of being married, as he did

once with his cherries!”

With these words, Silvio rose, threw his cap upon the floor, and began

pacing up and down the room like a tiger in his cage. I had listened to

him in silence; strange conflicting feelings agitated me.

The servant entered and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio

grasped my hand tightly, and we embraced each other. He seated himself

in his _telega_, in which lay two trunks, one containing his pistols,

the other his effects. We said good-bye once more, and the horses

galloped off.

[Footnote 1: A cavalry officer, notorious for his drunken escapades.]

[Footnote 2: A military poet who flourished in the reign of Alexander L

I.]

CHAPTER II.

Several years passed, and family circumstances compelled me to settle

in the poor little village of M----. Occupied with agricultural

pursuits, I ceased not to sigh in secret for my former noisy and

careless life. The most difficult thing of all was having to accustom

myself to passing the spring and winter evenings in perfect solitude.

Until the hour for dinner I managed to pass away the time somehow or

other, talking with the bailiff, riding about to inspect the work, or

going round to look at the new buildings; but as soon as it began to

get dark, I positively did not know what to do with myself. The few

books that I had found in the cupboards and store-rooms, I already

knew by heart. All the stories that my housekeeper Kirilovna could I

remember, I had heard over and over again. The songs of the peasant

women made me feel depressed. I tried drinking spirits, but it made my

head ache; and moreover, I confess I was afraid of becoming a drunkard

from mere chagrin, that is to say, the saddest kind of drunkard, of

which I had seen many examples in our district.

I had no near neighbours, except two or three topers, whose

conversation consisted for the most part of hiccups and sighs. Solitude

was preferable to their society. At last I decided to go to bed as

early as possible, and to dine as late as possible; in this way I

shortened the evening and lengthened out the day, and I found that the

plan answered very well.

Four versts from my house was a rich estate belonging to the Countess

B----; but nobody lived there except the steward. The Countess had

only visited her estate once, in the first year of her married life,

and then she had remained there no longer than a month. But in the

second spring of my hermitical life, a report was circulated that the

Countess, with her husband, was coming to spend the summer on her

estate. The report turned out to be true, for they arrived at the

beginning of June.

The arrival of a rich neighbour is an important event in the lives

of country people. The landed proprietors and the people of their

household talk about it for two months beforehand, and for three years

afterwards. As for me, I must confess that the news of the arrival of

a young and beautiful neighbour affected me strongly. I burned with

impatience to see her, and the first Sunday after her arrival I set

out after dinner for the village of A----, to pay my respects to the

Countess and her husband, as their nearest neighbour and most humble

servant.

A lackey conducted me into the Count’s study, and then went to announce

me. The spacious apartment was furnished with every’ possible luxury.

Around the walls were cases filled with books and surmounted by bronze

busts; over the marble mantelpiece was a large mirror; on the floor

was a green cloth covered with carpets. Unaccustomed to luxury in my

own poor corner, and not having seen the wealth of other people for

a long time, I awaited the appearance of the Count with some little

trepidation, as a suppliant from the provinces awaits the arrival of

the minister. The door opened, and a handsome-looking man, of about

thirty-two years of age, entered the room. The Count approached me

with a frank and friendly air: I endeavoured to be self-possessed and

began to introduce myself, but he anticipated me. We sat down. His

conversation, which was easy and agreeable, soon dissipated my awkward

bashfulness; and I was already beginning to recover my usual composure,

when the Countess suddenly entered, and I became more confused than

ever. She was indeed beautiful. The Count presented me. I wished to

appear at ease, but the more I tried to assume an air of unconstraint,

the more awkward I felt. They, in order to give me time to recover

myself and to become accustomed to my new acquaintances, began to talk

to each other, treating me as a good neighbour, and without ceremony.

Meanwhile, I walked about the room, examining the books and pictures.

I am no judge of pictures, but one of them attracted my attention. It

represented some view in Switzerland, but it was not the painting that

struck me, but the circumstance that the canvas was shot through by two

bullets, one planted just above the other.

“A good shot, that!” said I, turning to the Count.

“Yes,” replied he, “a very remarkable shot.... Do you shoot well?” he

continued.

“Tolerably,” replied I, rejoicing that the conversation had turned at

last upon a subject that was familiar to me. “At thirty paces I can

manage to hit a card without fail,--I mean, of course, with a pistol

that I am used to.”

“Really?” said the Countess, with a look of the greatest interest. “And

you, my dear, could you hit a card at thirty paces?”

“Some day,” replied the Count, “we will try. In my time I did not shoot

badly, but it is now four years since I touched a pistol.”

“Oh!” I observed, “in that case, I don’t mind laying a wager that Your

Excellency will not hit the card at twenty paces: the pistol demands

practice every day. I know that from experience. In our regiment I was

reckoned one of the best shots. It once happened that I did not touch

a pistol for a whole month, as I had sent mine to be mended; and

would you believe it, Your Excellency, the first time I began to shoot

again, I missed a bottle four times in succession at twenty paces! Our

captain, a witty and amusing fellow, happened to be standing by, and

he said to me: ‘It is evident, my friend, that your hand will not lift

itself against the bottle,’ No, Your Excellency, you must not neglect

to practise, or your hand will soon lose its cunning. The best shot

that I ever met used to shoot at least three times every day before

dinner. It was as much his custom to do this, as it was to drink his

daily glass of brandy.”

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

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

“Well, it was this way with him, Your Excellency: if he saw a fly

settle on the wall--you smile, Countess, but, before Heaven, it is the

truth. If he saw a fly, he would call out: ‘Kouzka, my pistol!’ Kouzka

would bring him a loaded pistol--bang! and the fly would be crushed

against the wall.”

“Wonderful!” said the Count. “And what was his name?”

“Silvio, Your Excellency.”

“Silvio!” exclaimed the Count, starting up. “Did you know Silvio?”

“How could I help knowing him, Your Excellency: we were intimate

friends; he was received in our regiment like a brother officer, but it

is now five years since I had any tidings of him. Then Your Excellency

also knew him?”

“Oh, yes, I knew him very well. Did he ever tell you of one very

strange incident in his life?”

“Does Your Excellency refer to the slap in the face that he received

from some blackguard at a ball?”

“Did he tell you the name of this blackguard?”

“No, Your Excellency, he never mentioned his name.... Ah! Your

Excellency!” I continued, guessing the truth: “pardon me ... I did not

know ... could it really have been you?”

“Yes, I myself,” replied the Count, with a look of extraordinary

agitation; “and that bullet-pierced picture is a memento of our last

meeting.”

“Ah, my dear,” said the Countess, “for Heaven’s sake, do not speak

about that; it would be too terrible for me to listen to.”

“No,” replied the Count: “I will relate everything. He knows how I

insulted his friend, and it is only right that he should know how

Silvio revenged himself.”

The Count pushed a chair towards me, and with the liveliest interest I

listened to the following story:

“Five years ago I got married. The first month--the honeymoon--I

spent here, in this village. To this house I am indebted for the

happiest moments of my life, as well as for one of its most painful

recollections.

“One evening we went out together for a ride on horseback. My wife’s

horse became restive; she grew frightened, gave the reins to me, and

returned home on foot. I rode on before. In the courtyard I saw a

travelling carriage, and I was told that in my study sat waiting for

me a man, who would not give his name, but who merely said that he

had business with me. I entered the room and saw in the darkness a

man, covered with dust and wearing a beard of several days’ growth. He

was standing there, near the fireplace. I approached him, trying to

remember his features.

“‘You do not recognize me, Count?’ said he, in a quivering voice.

“‘Silvio!’ I cried, and I confess that I felt as if my hair had

suddenly stood on end.

“‘Exactly,’ continued he. ‘There is a shot due to me, and I have come

to discharge my pistol. Are you ready?’

“His pistol protruded from a side pocket. I measured twelve paces and

took my stand there in that corner, begging him to fire quickly, before

my wife arrived. He hesitated, and asked for a light. Candles were

brought in. I closed the doors, gave orders that nobody was to enter,

and again begged him to fire. He drew out his pistol and took aim.... I

counted the seconds ... I thought of her.... A terrible minute passed!

Silvio lowered his hand.

“‘I regret,’ said he, ‘that the pistol is not loaded with cherry-stones

... the bullet is heavy. It seems to me that this is not a duel, but a

murder. I am not accustomed to taking aim at unarmed men. Let us begin

all over again; we will cast lots as to who shall fire first.’

“My head went round ... I think I raised some objection.... At last we

loaded another pistol, and rolled up two pieces of paper. He placed

these latter in his cap--the same through which I had once sent a

bullet--and again I drew the first number.

“‘You are devilish lucky, Count,’ said he, with a smile that I shall

never forget.

“I don’t know what was the matter with me, or how it was that he

managed to make me do it ... but I fired and hit that picture.”

The Count pointed with his finger to the perforated picture; his face

glowed like fire; the Countess was whiter than her own handkerchief;

and I could not restrain an exclamation.

“I fired,” continued the Count, “and, thank Heaven, missed my aim. Then

Silvio ... at that moment he was really terrible.... Silvio raised his

hand to take aim at me. Suddenly the door opens, Masha rushes into the

room, and with a loud shriek throws herself upon my neck. Her presence

restored to me all my courage.

“‘My dear,’ said I to her, ‘don’t you see that we are joking? How

frightened you are! Go and drink a glass of water and then come back to

us; I will introduce you to an old friend and comrade.’

“Masha still doubted.

“‘Tell me, is my husband speaking the truth?’ said she, turning to the

terrible Silvio: ‘is it true that you are only joking?’

“‘He is always joking, Countess,’ replied Silvio: ‘once he gave me

a slap in the face in a joke; on another occasion he sent a bullet

through my cap in a joke; and just now, when he fired at me and missed

me, it was all in a joke. And, now I feel inclined for a joke.’

“With these words he raised his pistol to take aim at me--right before

her! Masha threw herself at his feet.

“‘Rise, Masha; are you not ashamed!’ I cried in a rage: ‘and you, sir,

will you cease to make fun of a poor woman? Will you fire or not?’

“‘I will not,’ replied Silvio: ‘I am satisfied. I have seen your

confusion, your alarm. I forced you to fire at me. That is sufficient.

You will remember me. I leave you to your conscience.’

“Then he turned to go, but pausing in the doorway, and looking at the

picture that my shot had passed through, he fired at it almost without

taking aim, and disappeared. My wife had fainted away; the servants did

not venture to stop him, the mere look of him filled them with terror.

He went out upon the steps, called his coachman, and drove off before I

could recover myself.”

The Count was silent. In this way I learned the end of the story,

whose beginning had once made such a deep impression upon me. The hero

of it I never saw again. It is said that Silvio commanded a detachment

of Hetairists during the revolt under Alexander Ipsilanti, and that he

was killed in the battle of Skoulana.

THE SNOWSTORM.

Towards the end of the year 1811, a memorable period for us, the good

Gavril Gavrilovitch R---- was living on his domain of Nenaradova.

He was celebrated throughout the district for his hospitality and

kind-heartedness. The neighbours were constantly visiting him: some

to eat and drink; some to play at five copeck “Boston” with his

wife, Praskovia Petrovna; and some to look at their daughter, Maria

Gavrilovna, a pale, slender girl of seventeen. She was considered a

wealthy match, and many desired her for themselves or for their sons.

Maria Gavrilovna had been brought up on French novels, and consequently

was in love. The object of her choice was a poor sub-lieutenant in the

army, who was then on leave of absence in his village. It need scarcely

be mentioned that the young man returned her passion with equal ardour,

and that the parents of his beloved one, observing their mutual

inclination, forbade their daughter to think of him, and received him

worse than a discharged assessor.

Our lovers corresponded with one another and daily saw each other alone

in the little pine wood or near the old chapel. There they exchanged

vows of eternal love, lamented their cruel fate, and formed various

plans. Corresponding and conversing in this way, they arrived quite

naturally at the following conclusion:

If we cannot exist without each other, and the will of hard-hearted

parents stands in the way of our happiness, why cannot we do without

them?

Needless to mention that this happy idea originated in the mind of the

young man, and that it was very congenial to the romantic imagination

of Maria Gavrilovna.

The winter came and put a stop to their meetings, but their

correspondence became all the more active. Vladimir Nikolaievitch in

every letter implored her to give herself up to him, to get married

secretly, to hide for some time, and then throw themselves at the

feet of their parents, who would, without any doubt, be touched at

last by the heroic constancy and unhappiness of the lovers, and would

infallibly say to them: “Children, come to our arms!”

Maria Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time, and several plans for a

flight were rejected. At last she consented: on the appointed day she

was not to take supper, but was to retire to her room under the pretext

of a headache. Her maid was in the plot; they were both to go into the

garden by the back stairs, and behind the garden they would find ready

a sledge, into which they were to get, and then drive straight to the

church of Jadrino, a village about five versts from Nenaradova, where

Vladimir would be waiting for them.

On the eve of the decisive day, Maria Gavrilovna did not sleep the

whole night; she packed and tied up her linen and other articles of

apparel, wrote a long letter to a sentimental young lady, a friend of

hers, and another to her parents. She took leave of them in the most

touching terms, urged the invincible strength of passion as an excuse

for the step she was taking, and wound up with the assurance that she

should consider it the happiest moment of her life, when she should be

allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dear parents.

After having sealed both letters with a Toula seal, upon which were

engraved two flaming hearts with a suitable inscription, she threw

herself upon her bed just before daybreak, and dozed off: but even

then she was constantly being awakened by terrible dreams. First

it seemed to her that at the very moment when she seated herself

in the sledge, in order to go and get married, her father stopped

her, dragged her over the snow with fearful rapidity, and threw her

into a dark bottomless abyss, down which she fell headlong with an

indescribable sinking of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir lying on the

grass, pale and bloodstained. With his dying breath he implored her

in a piercing voice to make haste and marry him.... Other fantastic

and senseless visions floated before her one after another. At last

she arose, paler than usual, and with an unfeigned headache. Her

father and mother observed her uneasiness; their tender solicitude and

incessant inquiries: “What is the matter with you, Masha? Are you ill,

Masha?” cut her to the heart. She tried to reassure them and to appear

cheerful, but in vain.

The evening came. The thought, that this was the last day she would

pass in the bosom of her family, weighed upon her heart. She was more

dead than alive. In secret she took leave of everybody, of all the

objects that surrounded her.

Supper was served; her heart began to beat violently. In a trembling

voice she declared that she did not want any supper, and then took

leave of her father and mother. They kissed her and blessed her as

usual, and she could hardly restrain herself from weeping.

On reaching her own room, she threw herself into a chair and burst into

tears. Her maid urged her to be calm and to take courage. Everything

was ready. In half an hour Masha would leave for ever her parents’

house, her room, and her peaceful girlish life....

Out in the courtyard the snow was falling heavily; the wind howled, the

shutters shook and rattled, and everything seemed to her to portend

misfortune.

Soon all was quiet in the house: everyone was asleep. Masha wrapped

herself in a shawl, put on a warm cloak, took her small box in her

hand, and went down the back staircase. Her maid followed her with

two bundles.’ They descended into the garden. The snowstorm had not

subsided; the wind blew in their faces, as if trying to stop the young

criminal. With difficulty they reached the end of the garden. In the

road a sledge awaited them. The horses, half-frozen with the cold,

would not keep still; Vladimir’s coachman was walking up and down in

front of them, trying to restrain their impatience. He helped the young

lady and her maid into the sledge, placed the box and the bundles in

the vehicle, seized the reins, and the horses dashed off.

Having intrusted the young lady to the care of fate and to the skill of

Tereshka the coachman, we will return to our young lover.

Vladimir had spent the whole of the day in driving about. In the

morning he paid a visit to the priest of Jadrino, and having come to an

agreement with him after a great deal of difficulty, he then set out to

seek for witnesses among the neighbouring landowners. The first to whom

he presented himself, a retired cornet of about forty years of age,

and whose name was Dravin, consented with pleasure. The adventure, he

declared, reminded him of his young days and his pranks in the Hussars.

He persuaded Vladimir to stay to dinner with him, and assured him that

he would have no difficulty in finding the other two witnesses. And,

indeed, immediately after dinner, appeared the surveyor Schmidt, with

moustache and spurs, and the son of the captain of police, a lad of

sixteen years of age, who had recently entered the Uhlans. They not

only accepted Vladimir’s proposal, but even vowed that they were ready

to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced them with rapture,

and returned home to get everything ready.

It had been dark for some time. He dispatched his faithful Tereshka to

Nenaradova with his sledge and with detailed instructions, and ordered

for himself the small sledge with one horse, and set out alone, without

any coachman, for Jadrino, where Maria Gavrilovna ought to arrive in

about a couple of hours. He knew the road well, and the journey would

only occupy about twenty minutes altogether.

But scarcely had Vladimir issued from the paddock into the open field,

when the wind rose and such a snowstorm came on that he could see

nothing. In one minute the road was completely hidden; all surrounding

objects disappeared in a thick yellow fog, through which fell the

white flakes of snow; earth and sky became confounded. Vladimir found

himself in the middle of the field, and tried in vain to find the

road again. His horse went on at random, and at every moment; kept

either stepping into a snowdrift or stumbling into a hole, so that the

sledge was constantly being overturned.. Vladimir endeavoured not to

lose the right direction. But it seemed to him that more than half an

hour had already passed, and he had not yet reached the Jadrino wood.

Another ten minutes elapsed--still no wood was to be seen. Vladimir

drove across a field intersected by deep ditches. The snowstorm did

not abate, the sky did not become any clearer. The horse began to grow

tired, and the perspiration rolled from him in great drops, in spite of

the fact that he was constantly being half-buried in the snow.

At last Vladimir perceived that he was going in the wrong direction.

He stopped, began to think, to recollect, and compare, and he felt

convinced that he ought to have turned to the right. He turned to the

right now. His horse could scarcely move forward. He had now been on

the road for more than an hour. Jadrino could not be far off. But on

and on he went, and still no end to the field--nothing but snowdrifts

and ditches. The sledge was constantly being overturned, and as

constantly being set right again. The time was passing: Vladimir began

to grow seriously uneasy.

At last something dark appeared in the distance. Vladimir directed his

course towards it. On drawing near, he perceived that it was a wood.

“Thank Heaven!” he thought, “I am not far off now.”

He drove along by the edge of the wood, hoping by-and-by to fall upon

the well-known road or to pass round the wood: Jadrino was situated

just behind it. He soon found the road, and plunged into the darkness

of the wood, now denuded of leaves by the winter. The wind could not

rage here; the road was smooth; the horse recovered courage, and

Vladimir felt reassured.

But he drove on and on, and Jadrino was not to be seen; there was no

end to the wood. Vladimir discovered with horror that he had entered an

unknown forest. Despair took possession of him. He whipped the horse;

the poor animal broke into a trot, but it soon slackened its pace,

and in about a quarter of an hour it was scarcely able to drag one

leg after the other, in spite of all the exertions of the unfortunate

Vladimir.

Gradually the trees began to get sparser, and Vladimir emerged from

the forest; but Jadrino was not to be seen. It must now have been

about midnight. Tears gushed from his eyes; he drove on at random.

Meanwhile the storm had subsided, the clouds dispersed, and before him

lay a level plain covered with a white undulating carpet The night was

tolerably clear. He saw, not far off, a little village, consisting of

four or five houses. Vladimir drove towards it. At the first cottage he

jumped out of the sledge, ran to the window and began to knock. After a

few minutes, the wooden shutter was raised, and an old man thrust out

his grey beard.

“What do you want?”

“Is Jadrino far from here?”

“Is Jadrino far from here?”

“Yes, yes! Is it far?”

“Not far; about ten versts.”

At this reply, Vladimir grasped his hair and stood motionless, like a

man condemned to death.

“Where do you come from?” continued the old man. Vladimir had not the

courage to answer the question.

“Listen, old man,” said he: “can you procure me horses to take me to

Jadrino?”

“How should we have such things as horses?” replied the peasant.

“Can I obtain a guide? I will pay him whatever he pleases.”

“Wait,” said the old man, closing the shutter; “I will send my son out

to you; he will guide you.”

Vladimir waited. But a minute had scarcely elapsed when he began

knocking again. The shutter was raised, and the beard again appeared.

“What do you want?”

“What about your son?”

“He’ll be out presently; he is putting on his boots. Are you cold? Come

in and warm yourself.”

“Thank you; send your son out quickly.”

The door creaked: a lad came out with a cudgel and went on in front, at

one time pointing out the road, at another searching for it among the

drifted snow.

“What is the time?” Vladimir asked him.

“It will soon be daylight,” replied the young peasant. Vladimir spoke

not another word.

The cocks were crowing, and it was already light when they reached

Jadrino. The church was closed. Vladimir paid the guide and drove into

the priest’s courtyard. His sledge was not there. What news awaited

him! But let us return to the worthy proprietors of Nenaradova, and see

what is happening there.

Nothing.

The old people awoke and went into the parlour, Gavril Gavrilovitch

in a night-cap and flannel doublet, Praskovia; Petrovna in a wadded

dressing-gown. The tea-urn was brought in, and Gavril Gavrilovitch

sent a servant to ask Maria Gavrilovna how she was and how she had

passed the night. The servant returned, saying that the young lady had

not slept very well, but that she felt better now, and that she would

come down presently into the parlour. And indeed, the door opened and

Maria Gavrilovna entered the room and wished her father and mother good

morning.

“How is your head, Masha?” asked Gavril Gavrilovitch.

“Better, papa,” replied Masha.

“Very likely you inhaled the fumes from the charcoal yesterday,” said

Praskovia Petrovna.

“Very likely, mamma,” replied Masha.

The day passed happily enough, but in the night Masha was taken ill. A

doctor was sent for from the town. He arrived in the evening and found

the sick girl delirious. A violent fever ensued, and for two weeks the

poor patient hovered on the brink of the grave.

Nobody in the house knew anything about her flight. The letters,

written by her the evening before, had been burnt; and her maid,

dreading the wrath of her master, had not whispered a word about it to

anybody. The priest, the retired cornet, the moustached surveyor, and

the little Uhlan were discreet, and not without reason. Tereshka, the

coachman, never uttered one word too much about it, even when he was

drunk. Thus the secret was kept by more than half-a-dozen conspirators.

But Maria Gavrilovna herself divulged her secret during her delirious

ravings. But her words were so disconnected, that her mother, who never

left her bedside, could only understand from them that her daughter

was deeply in love with Vladimir Nikolaievitch, and that probably love

was the cause of her illness. She consulted her husband and some of

her neighbours, and at last it was unanimously decided that such was

evidently Maria Gavrilovna’s fate, that a woman cannot ride away from

the man who is destined to be her husband, that poverty is not a crime,

that one does not marry wealth, but a man, etc., etc. Moral proverbs

are wonderfully useful in those cases where we can invent little in our

own justification.

In the meantime the young lady began to recover. Vladimir had not

been seen for a long time in the house of Gavril Gavrilovitch. He was

afraid of the usual reception. It was resolved to send and announce to

him an unexpected piece of good news: the consent of Maria’s parents

to his marriage with their daughter. But what was the astonishment

of the proprietor of Nenaradova, when, in reply to their invitation,

they received from him a half-insane letter. He informed them that he

would never set foot in their house again, and begged-them to forget an

unhappy creature whose only hope was in death. A few days afterwards

they heard that Vladimir had joined the army again. This was in the

year 1812.

For a long time they did not dare to announce this to Masha, who was

now convalescent. She never mentioned the name of Vladimir. Some

months afterwards, finding his name in the list of those who had

distinguished themselves and been severely wounded at Borodino,[1]

she fainted away, and it was feared that she would have another attack

of fever. But, Heaven be thanked! the fainting fit had no serious

consequences.

Another misfortune fell upon her: Gavril Gavrilovitch died, leaving her

the heiress to all his property. But the inheritance did not console

her; she shared sincerely the grief of poor Praskovia Petrovna, vowing

that she would never leave her. They both quitted Nenaradova, the scene

of so many sad recollections, and went to live on another estate.

Suitors crowded round the young and wealthy heiress, but she gave not

the slightest hope to any of them. Her mother sometimes exhorted her to

make a choice; but Maria Gavrilovna shook her head and became pensive.

Vladimir no longer existed: he had died in Moscow on the eve of the

entry of the French. His memory seemed to be held sacred by Masha; at

least she treasured up everything that could remind her of him: books

that he had once read, his drawings, his notes, and verses of poetry

that he had copied out for her. The neighbours, hearing of all this,

were astonished at her constancy, and awaited with curiosity the hero

who should at last triumph over the melancholy fidelity of this virgin

Artemisia.

Meanwhile the war had ended gloriously. Our regiments returned from

abroad, and the people went out to meet them. The bands played the

conquering songs: “Vive Henri-Quatre,” Tyrolese waltzes and airs from

“Joconde.” Officers, who had set out for the war almost mere lads,

returned grown men, with martial air, and their breasts decorated with

crosses. The soldiers chatted gaily among themselves, constantly

mingling French and German words in their speech. Time never to be

forgotten! Time of glory and enthusiasm! How throbbed the Russian heart

at the word “Fatherland!” How sweet were the tears of meeting! With

what unanimity did we unite feelings of national pride with love for

the Czar! And for him--what a moment!

The women, the Russian women, were then incomparable. Their usual

coldness disappeared. Their enthusiasm was truly intoxicating, when

welcoming the conquerors they cried “Hurrah!”

“And threw their caps high in the air!”[2]

What officer of that time does not confess that to the Russian women he

was indebted for his best and most precious reward?

At this brilliant period Maria Gavrilovna was living with her mother

in the province of ----, and did not see how both capitals celebrated

the return of the troops. But in the districts and villages the general

enthusiasm was, if possible, even still greater. The appearance of an

officer in those places was for him a veritable triumph, and the lover

in a plain coat felt very ill at ease in his vicinity.

We have already said that, in spite of her coldness, Maria Gavrilovna

was, as before, surrounded by suitors. But all had to retire into

the background when the wounded Colonel Bourmin of the Hussars, with

the Order of St. George in his button-hole, and with an “interesting

pallor,” as the young ladies of the neighbourhood observed, appeared

at the castle. He was about twenty-six years of age. He had obtained

leave of absence to visit his estate, which was contiguous to that of

Maria Gavrilovna. Maria bestowed special attention upon him. In his

presence her habitual pensiveness disappeared. It cannot be said that

she coquetted with him, but a poet, observing her behaviour, would have

said:

“Se amor non è che dunque?”

Bourmin was indeed a very charming young man. He possessed that

spirit which is eminently pleasing to women: a spirit of decorum

and observation, without any pretensions, and yet not without a

slight tendency towards careless satire. His behaviour towards Maria

Gavrilovna was simple and frank, but whatever she said or did, his

soul and eyes followed her. He seemed to be of a quiet and modest

disposition, though report said that he had once been a terrible

rake; but this did not injure him in the opinion of Maria Gavrilovna,

who--like all young ladies in general--excused with pleasure follies

that gave indication of boldness and ardour of temperament.

But more than everything else--more than his tenderness, more than his

agreeable conversation, more than his interesting pallor, more than his

arm in a sling,--the silence of the young Hussar excited her curiosity

and imagination. She could, not but confess that he pleased her very

much; probably he, too, with his perception and experience, had

already observed that she made a distinction between him and others;

how was it then that she had not yet seen him at her feet or heard

his declaration? What restrained him? Was it timidity, inseparable

from true love, or pride, or the coquetry of a crafty wooer? It was an

enigma to her. After long reflection, she came to the conclusion that

timidity alone was the cause of it, and she resolved to encourage him

by greater attention and, if circumstances should render it necessary,

even by an exhibition of tenderness. She prepared a most unexpected

dénouement, and waited with impatience for the moment of the romantic

explanation. A secret, of whatever nature it may be, always presses

heavily upon the female heart. Her stratagem had the desired success;

at least Bourmin fell into such a reverie, and his black eyes rested

with such fire upon her, that the decisive moment seemed close at hand.

The neighbours spoke about the marriage as if it were a matter already

decided upon, and good Praskovia Petrovna rejoiced that her daughter

had at last found a lover worthy of her.

On one occasion the old lady was sitting alone in the parlour, amusing

herself with a pack of cards, when Bourmin entered the room and

immediately inquired for Maria Gavrilovna.

“She is in the garden,” replied the old lady: “go out to her, and I

will wait here for you.”

Bourmin went, and the old lady made the sign of the cross and thought:

“Perhaps the business will be settled to-day!”

Bourmin found Maria Gavrilovna near the pond, under a willow-tree

with a book in her hands, and in a white dress: a veritable heroine

of romance. After the first few questions and observations, Maria

Gavrilovna purposely allowed the conversation to drop, thereby

increasing their mutual embarrassment, from which there was no possible

way of escape except only by a sudden and decisive declaration.

And this is what happened: Bourmin, feeling the difficulty of his

position, declared that he had long sought for an opportunity to open

his heart to her, and requested a moment’s attention. Maria Gavrilovna

closed her book and cast down her eyes, as a sign of compliance with

his request.

“I love you,” said Bourmin: “I love you passionately....”

Maria Gavrilovna blushed and lowered her head still more. “I have

acted imprudently in accustoming myself to the sweet pleasure of seeing

and hearing you daily....” Maria Gavrilovna recalled to mind the first

letter of St. Preux.[3] “But it is now too late to resist my fate; the

remembrance of you, your dear incomparable image, will henceforth be

the torment and the consolation of my life, but there still remains a

grave duty for me to perform--to reveal to you a terrible secret which

will place between us an insurmountable barrier....”

“That barrier has always existed,” interrupted Maria Gavrilovna

hastily: “I could never be your wife.”

“I know,” replied he calmly: “I know that you once loved, but death and

three years of mourning.... Dear, kind Maria Gavrilovna, do not try

to deprive me of my last consolation: the thought that you would have

consented to make me happy, if----”

“Don’t speak, for Heaven’s sake, don’t speak. You torture me.”

“Yes, I know, I feel that you would have been mine, but--I am the most

miserable creature under the sun--I am already married!”

Maria Gavrilovna looked at him in astonishment.

“I am already married,” continued Bourmin: “I have been married four

years, and I do not know who is my wife, or where she is, or whether I

shall ever see her again!”

“What do you say?” exclaimed Maria Gavrilovna. “How very strange!

Continue: I will relate to you afterwards.... But continue, I beg of

you.”

“At the beginning of the year 1812,” said Bourmin, “I was hastening

to Vilna, where my regiment was stationed. Arriving late one evening

at one of the post-stations, I ordered the horses to be got ready as

quickly as possible, when suddenly a terrible snowstorm came on,

and the postmaster and drivers advised me to wait till it had passed

over. I followed their advice, but an unaccountable uneasiness took

possession of me: it seemed as if someone were pushing me forward.

Meanwhile the snowstorm did not subside; I could endure it no longer,

and again ordering out the horses, I started off in the midst of the

storm. The driver conceived the idea of following the course of the

river, which would shorten our journey by three versts. The banks were

covered with snow: the driver drove past the place where we should have

come out upon the road, and so we found ourselves in an unknown part of

the country.... The storm did not cease; I saw a light in the distance,

and I ordered the driver to proceed towards it. We reached a village;

in the wooden church there was a light. The church was open. Outside

the railings stood several sledges, and people were passing in and out

through the porch.

“‘This way! this way!’ cried several voices.

“I ordered the driver to proceed.

“‘In the name of Heaven, where have you been loitering’ said somebody

to me. ‘The bride has fainted away; the pope does not know what to do,

and we were just getting ready to go back. Get out as quickly as you

can.’

“I got out of the sledge without saying a word, and went into the

church, which was feebly lit up by two or three tapers. A young girl

was sitting on a bench in a dark corner of the church; another girl was

rubbing her temples.

“‘Thank God!’ said the latter, ‘you have come at last. You have almost

killed the young lady.’

“The old priest advanced towards me, and said:

“‘Do you wish me to begin?’

“‘Begin, begin, father,’ replied I, absently.

“The young girl was raised up. She seemed to me not at all

bad-looking.... Impelled by an incomprehensible, unpardonable levity,

I placed myself by her side in front of the pulpit; the priest hurried

on; three men and a chambermaid supported the bride and only occupied

themselves with her. We were married.

“‘Kiss each other!’ said the witnesses to us.

“My wife turned her pale face towards me. I was about to kiss her, when

she exclaimed: ‘Oh! it is not he! it is not he!’ and fell senseless.

“The witnesses gazed at me in alarm. I turned round and left the church

without the least hindrance, flung myself into the _kibitka_ and cried:

‘Drive off!’

“My God!” exclaimed Maria Gavrilovna. “And you do not know what became

of your poor wife?”

“I do not know,” replied Bourmin; “neither do I know the name of the

village where I was married, nor the poststation where I set out from.

At that time I attached so little importance to my wicked prank, that

on leaving the church, I fell asleep, and did not awake till the next

morning after reaching the third station. The servant, who was then

with me, died during the campaign, so that I have no hope of ever

discovering the woman upon whom I played such a cruel joke, and who is

now so cruelly avenged.”

“My God! my God!” cried Maria Gavrilovna, seizing him by the hand:

“then it was you! And you do not recognize me?”

Bourmin turned pale--and threw himself at her feet.

[Footnote 1: A village about fifty miles from Moscow, and the scene of

a sanguinary battle between the French and Russian forces during the

invasion of Russia by Napoleon I.]

[Footnote 2: Griboiedoff.]

[Footnote 3: In “La Nouvelle Héloise,” by Jean-Jacques Rousseau.]

THE POSTMASTER.

Who has not cursed postmasters, who has not quarrelled with them?

Who, in a moment of anger, has not demanded from them the fatal book

in order to record in it unavailing complaints of their extortions,

rudeness and unpunctuality? Who does not look upon them as monsters

of the human race, equal to the defunct attorneys, or, at least, the

brigands of Mourom? Let us, however, be just; let us place ourselves

in their position, and perhaps we shall begin to judge them with more

indulgence. What is a postmaster? A veritable martyr of the fourteenth

class,[1] only protected by his rank from blows, and that not always (I

appeal to the conscience of my readers). What is the function of this

dictator, as Prince Viazemsky jokingly calls him? Is he not an actual

galley-slave? He has no rest either day or night. All the vexation

accumulated during the course of a wearisome journey the traveller

vents upon the postmaster. Should the weather prove intolerable, the

road abominable, the driver obstinate, the horses ungovernable--the

postmaster is to blame. Entering into his poor abode, the traveller

looks upon him as an enemy, and the postmaster is fortunate if he

succeeds in soon getting rid of his uninvited guest; but if there

should happen to be no horses!... Heavens! what volleys of abuse, what

threats are showered upon his head! In rain and sleet he is compelled

to go out into the courtyard; during times of storm and nipping frost,

he is glad to seek shelter in the vestibule, if only to enjoy a

minute’s repose from the shouting and jostling of incensed travellers.

A general arrives: the trembling postmaster gives him the two last

_troikas_, including that intended for the courier. The general drives

off without uttering a word of thanks. Five minutes afterwards--a

bell!... and a courier throws down upon the table before him his order

for fresh post-horses!... Let us bear all this well in mind, and,

instead of anger, our hearts will be filled with sincere compassion. A

few words more. During a period of twenty years I have traversed Russia

in every direction; I know nearly all the post roads, and I have made

the acquaintance of several generations of drivers. There are very few

postmasters that I do not know personally, and few with whom I have

not had business relations. In the course of time I hope to publish

some curious observations that I have noted down during my travels. For

the present I will only say that the body of postmasters is presented

to the public in a very false light. These much-calumniated officials

are generally very peaceful persons, obliging by nature, disposed to

be sociable, modest in their pretensions and not too much addicted to

the love of money. From their conversation (which travelling gentlemen

very unreasonably despise) much may be learnt that is both interesting

and instructive. For my own part, I confess that I prefer their talk

to that of some official of the sixth class travelling on government

business.

It may easily be supposed that I have friends among the honourable

body of postmasters. Indeed, the memory of one of them is dear to me.

Circumstances once brought us together, and it is of him that I now

intend to tell my amiable readers.

In the month of May of the year 1816, I happened to be travelling

through the Government of N----, upon a road now destroyed. I then

held an inferior rank, and I travelled by post stages, paying the fare

for two horses. As a consequence, the postmasters treated me with very

little ceremony, and I often had to take by force what, in my opinion,

belonged to me by right. Being young and passionate, I was indignant at

the baseness and cowardice of the postmaster, when the latter harnessed

to the caliche of some, official noble, the horses prepared for me. It

was a long time, too, before I could get accustomed to being served out

of my turn by a discriminating servant at the governor’s dinner. To-day

the one and the other seem to me to be in the natural order of things.

Indeed, what would become of us, if, instead of the generally observed

rule: “Let rank honour rank,” another were to be brought into use, as

for example: “Let mind honour mind?” What disputes would arise! And

with whom would the servants begin in serving the dishes? But to return

to my story.

The day was hot. About three versts from A----, a drizzling rain came

on, and in a few minutes it began to pour down in torrents and I was

drenched to the skin. On arriving at the station, my first care was to

change my clothes as quickly as possible, my second to ask for some tea.

“Hi! Dounia!”[2] cried the Postmaster: “prepare the tea-urn and go and

get some cream.”

At these words, a young girl of about fourteen years of age appeared

from behind the partition, and ran out into the vestibule. Her beauty

struck me.

“Is that your daughter?” I inquired of the Postmaster.

“That is my daughter,” he replied, with a look of gratified pride; “and

she is so sharp and sensible, just like her late mother.”

Then he began to register my travelling passport, and I occupied

myself with examining the pictures that adorned his humble abode. They

illustrated the story of the Prodigal Son. In the first, a venerable

old man, in a night-cap and dressing-gown, is taking leave of the

restless youth, who is eagerly accepting his blessing and a bag of

money. In the next picture, the dissipated life of the young man

is depicted in vivid colours: he is represented sitting at a table

surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Further on, the

ruined youth, in rags and a three-cornered hat, is tending swine and

sharing with them their food: on his face is expressed deep grief and

repentance. The last picture represented his return to his father: the

good old man, in the same night-cap and dressing-gown, runs forward

to meet him; the prodigal son falls on his knees; in the distance the

cook is killing the fatted calf, and the elder brother is asking the

servants the cause of all the rejoicing. Under each picture I read

some suitable German verses. All this I have preserved in my memory

to the present day, as well as the little pots of balsams, the bed

with speckled curtains, and the other objects with which I was then

surrounded. I can see at the present moment the host himself, a man of

about fifty years of age, fresh and strong, in his long green surtout

with three medals on faded ribbons.

I had scarcely settled my account with my old driver, when Dounia

returned with the tea-urn. The little coquette saw at the second

glance the impression she had produced upon me; she lowered her large

blue eyes; I began to talk to her; she answered me without the least

timidity, like a girl who has seen the world. I offered her father a

glass of punch, to Dounia herself I gave a cup of tea, and then the

three of us began to converse together, as if we were old acquaintances.

The horses had long been ready, but I felt reluctant to take leave of

the Postmaster and his daughter. At last I bade them good-bye, the

father wished me a pleasant journey, the daughter accompanied me to

the _telega._ In the vestibule I stopped and asked her permission to

kiss her; Dounia consented.... I can reckon up a great many kisses

since that time, but not one which has left behind such a long, such a

pleasant recollection.

Several years passed, and circumstances led me to the same road, and to

the same places.

“But,” thought I, “perhaps the old Postmaster has been changed, and

Dounia may already be married.”

The thought that one or the other of them might be dead also flashed

through my mind, and I approached the station of A---- with a sad

presentiment. The horses drew up before the little post-house. On

entering the room, I immediately recognized the pictures illustrating

the story of the prodigal son. The table and the bed stood in the same

places as before, but the flowers were no longer on the window-sills,

and everything around indicated decay and neglect.

The Postmaster was asleep under his sheep-skin pelisse; my arrival

awoke him, and he rose up.... It was certainly Simeon Virin, but how

aged! While he was preparing to register my travelling passport, I

gazed at his grey hairs, the deep wrinkles upon his face, that had not

been shaved for a long time, his bent back, and I was astonished to see

how three or four years had been able to transform a strong and active

individual into a feeble old man.

“Do you recognize me?” I asked him: “we are old acquaintances.”

“May be,” replied he mournfully; “this is a high road, and many

travellers have stopped here.”

“Is your Dounia well?” I continued.

The old man frowned.

“God knows,” he replied.

“Probably she is married?” said I.

The old man pretended not to have heard my question, and went on

reading my passport in a low tone. I ceased questioning him and ordered

some tea. Curiosity began to torment me, and I hoped that the punch

would loosen the tongue of my old acquaintance.

I was not mistaken; the old man did not refuse the proffered glass. I

observed that the rum dispelled his mournfulness. At the second glass

he began to talk; he remembered me, or appeared as if he remembered me,

and I heard from him a story, which at the time, deeply interested and

affected me.

“So you knew my Dounia?” he began. “But who did not know her? Ah,

Dounia, Dounia! What a girl she was! Everybody who passed this way

praised her; nobody had a word to say against her. The ladies used to

give her presents--now a handkerchief, now a pair of earrings. The

gentlemen used to stop intentionally, as if to dine or to take supper,

but in reality only to take a longer look at her. However angry a

gentleman might be, in her presence he grew calm and spoke graciously

to me. Would you believe it, sir: couriers and Court messengers used

to talk to her for half-hours at a stretch. It was she who kept the

house; she put everything in order, got everything ready, and looked

after everything. And I, like an old fool, could not look at her

enough, could not idolize her enough. Did I not love my Dounia? Did I

not indulge my child? Was not her life a happy one? But no, there is

no escaping misfortune: there is no evading what has been decreed.”

Then he began to tell me his sorrow in detail. Three years before, one

winter evening, when the Postmaster was ruling a new book, and his

daughter behind the partition was sewing a dress, a _troika_ drove up,

and a traveller in a Circassian cap and military cloak, and enveloped

in a shawl, entered the room and demanded horses. The horses were all

out. On being told this, the traveller raised his voice and whip; but

Dounia, accustomed to such scenes, ran out from behind the partition

and graciously inquired of the traveller whether he would not like

something to eat and drink.

The appearance of Dounia produced the usual effect. The traveller’s

anger subsided; he consented to wait for horses, and ordered supper.

Having taken off his wet shaggy cap, and divested himself of his shawl

and cloak, the traveller was seen to be a tall, young Hussar with a

black moustache He made himself comfortable with the Postmaster, and

began to converse in a pleasant manner with him and his daughter.

Supper was served. Meanwhile the horses returned, and the Postmaster

ordered them, without being fed, to be harnessed immediately to the

traveller _kibitka_. But on returning to the room, he found the young

man lying almost unconscious on the bench; he had come over faint, his

head ached, 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

decided that if the sick man did not get better, they would send next

day to C---- for the doctor.

The next day the Hussar was worse. His servant rode to the town for

the doctor. Dounia bound round his head a handkerchief steeped in

vinegar, and sat with her needlework beside his bed. In the presence of

the Postmaster, the sick man sighed and scarcely uttered a word; but

he drank two cups of coffee, and, with a sigh, ordered dinner. Dounia

did not quit his side. He constantly asked for something to drink,

and Dounia gave him a jug of lemonade prepared by herself. The sick

man moistened his lips, and each time, on returning the jug, he feebly

pressed Dounia’s hand in token of gratitude.

About dinner time the doctor arrived. He felt the sick man’s pulse,

spoke to him in German, and declared in Russian that he only needed

rest, and that in about a couple of days he would be able to set out on

his journey. The Hussar gave him twenty-five roubles for his visit, and

invited him to dinner; the doctor accepted the invitation. They both

ate with a good appetite, drank a bottle of wine, and separated very

well satisfied with each other.

Another day passed, and the Hussar felt quite himself again. He was

extraordinarily lively, joked unceasingly, now with Dounia, now

with the Postmaster, whistled tunes, chatted with the travellers,

copied their passports into the post-book, and so won upon the worthy

Postmaster, that when the third day arrived, it was with regret that he

parted with his amiable guest.

The day was Sunday; Dounia was preparing to go to mass. The Hussar’s

_kibitka_ stood ready. He took leave of the Postmaster, after having

generously recompensed him for his board and lodging, bade farewell

to Dounia, and offered to drive her as far as the church, which was

situated at the end of the village. Dounia hesitated.

“What are you afraid of?” asked her father. “His Excellency is not a

wolf: he won’t eat you. Drive with him as far as the church.”

Dounia seated herself in the _kibitka_ by the side of the Hussar,

the servant sprang upon the box, the driver whistled, and the horses

started off at a gallop.

The poor Postmaster could not understand how he could have allowed his

Dounia to drive off with the Hussar, how he could have been so blind,

and what had become of his senses at that moment. A half-hour had not

elapsed, before his heart began to grieve, and anxiety and uneasiness

took possession of him to such a degree, that he could contain himself

no longer, and started off for mass himself. On reaching the church,

he saw that the people were already beginning to disperse, but Dounia

was neither in the churchyard nor in the porch. He hastened into the

church: the priest was leaving the altar, the clerk was extinguishing

the candles, two old women were still praying in a corner, but Dounia

was not in the church. The poor father was scarcely able to summon

up sufficient resolution to ask the clerk if she had been to mass.

The clerk replied that she had not. The Postmaster returned home

neither alive nor dead. One hope alone remained to him: Dounia, in the

thoughtlessness of youth, might have taken it into her head to go on

as far as the next station, where her godmother lived. In agonizing

agitation he awaited the return of the _troika_ in which he had let her

set out. The driver did not return. At last, in the evening, he arrived

alone and intoxicated, with the terrible news that Dounia had gone on

with the Hussar at the other station.

The old man could not bear his misfortune: he immediately took to that

very same bed where, the evening before, the young deceiver had lain.

Taking all the circumstances into account, the Postmaster now came to

the conclusion that the illness had been a mere pretence. The poor

man fell ill with a violent fever; he was removed to C----, and in

his place another person was appointed for the time being. The same

doctor, who had attended the Hussar, attended him also. He assured the

Postmaster that the young man had been perfectly well, and that at the

time of his visit he had suspected him of some evil intention, but

that he had kept silent through fear of his whip. Whether the German

spoke the truth or only wished to boast of his perspicacity, his

communication afforded no consolation to the poor invalid. Scarcely had

the latter recovered from his illness, when he asked the Postmaster of

C---- for two months’ leave of absence, and without saying a word to

anybody of his intention, he set out on foot in search of his daughter.

From the travelling passport he found out that Captain Minsky was

journeying from Smolensk to St. Petersburg. The _yemshik_[3] who drove

him, said that Dounia had wept the whole of the way, although she

seemed to go of her own free will.

“Perhaps,” thought the Postmaster, “I shall bring back home my erring

ewe-lamb.”

With this thought he reached St. Petersburg, stopped at the barracks of

the Ismailovsky Regiment, in the quarters of a retired non-commissioned

officer, an old comrade of his, and then began his search. He soon

discovered that Captain Minsky was in St. Petersburg, and was living at

the Demoutoff Hotel. The Postmaster resolved to call upon him.

Early in the morning he went to Minsky’s ante-chamber, and requested

that His Excellency might be informed that an old soldier wished to

see him. The military servant, who was cleaning a boot on a boot-tree,

informed him that his master was still asleep, and that he never

received anybody before eleven o’clock. The Postmaster retired and

returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him in his

dressing-gown and red skull-cap.

“Well, my friend, what do you want?” he asked.

The old man’s heart began to boil, tears started to his eyes, and he

was only able to say in a trembling voice:

“Your Excellency!... do me the divine favour!...”

Minsky glanced quickly at him, grew confused, took him by the hand, led

him into his cabinet and locked the door.

“Your Excellency!” continued the old man: “what has fallen from the

load is lost; give me back at least my poor Dounia. You have made her

your plaything; do not ruin her entirely.”

“What is done cannot be undone,” said the young man, in the utmost

confusion; “I am guilty before you, and am ready to ask your pardon,

but do not think that I could forsake Dounia: she shall be happy, I

give you my word of honour. Why do you want her? She loves me; she has

become disused to her former existence. Neither you nor she will forget

what has happened.”

Then, pushing something up the old man’s sleeve, he opened the door,

and the Postmaster, without remembering how, found himself in the

street again.

For a long time he stood immovable; at last he observed in the cuff

of his sleeve a roll of papers; he drew them out and unrolled several

fifty rouble notes. Tears again filled his eyes, tears of indignation!

He crushed the notes into a ball, flung them upon the ground, stamped

upon them with the heel of his boot, and then walked away.... After

having gone a few steps, he stopped, reflected, and returned ... but

the notes were no longer there. A well-dressed young man, observing

him, ran towards a _droshky_, jumped in hurriedly, and cried to the

driver: “Go on!”

The Postmaster did not pursue him. He resolved to return home to his

station, but before doing so he wished to see his poor Dounia once

more. For that purpose, he returned to Minsky’s lodgings a couple of

days afterwards, but the military servant told him roughly that his

master received nobody, pushed him out of the ante-chamber and slammed

the door in his face. The Postmaster stood waiting for a long time,

then he walked away.

That same day, in the evening, he was walking along the Liteinaia,

having been to a service at the Church of the Afflicted. Suddenly a

stylish _droshky_ flew past him, and the Postmaster recognized Minsky.

The _droshky_ stopped in front of a three-storeyed house, close to the

entrance, and the Hussar ran up the steps. A happy thought flashed

through the mind of the Postmaster. He returned, and, approaching the

coachman:

“Whose horse is this, my friend?” asked he: “Doesn’t it belong to

Minsky?”

“Exactly so,” replied the coachman: “what do you want?”

“Well, your master ordered me to carry a letter to his Dounia, and I

have forgotten where his Dounia lives.”

“She lives here, on the second floor. But you are late with your

letter, my friend; he is with her himself just now.”

“That doesn’t matter,” replied the Postmaster, with an inexplicable

beating of the heart. “Thanks for your information, but I shall know

how to manage my business.” And with these words he ascended the

staircase.

The door was locked; he rang. There was a painful delay of several

seconds. The key rattled, and the door was’ opened.

“Does Avdotia Simeonovna live here?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied a young female servant: “what do you want with her?”

The Postmaster, without replying, walked into the room.

“You mustn’t go in, you mustn’t go in!” the servant cried put after

him: “Avdotia Simeonovna has visitor.”

But the Postmaster, without heeding her, walked straight on. The first

two rooms were dark; in the third there was a light. He approached the

open door and paused. In the room, which was beautifully furnished, sat

Minsky in deep thought. Dounia, attired in the most elegant fashion,

was sitting upon the arm of his chair, like a lady rider upon her

English saddle. She was gazing tenderly at Minsky, and winding his

black curls round her sparkling fingers. Poor Postmaster! Never had his

daughter seemed to him so beautiful; he admired her against his will.

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

He remained silent. Receiving no reply, Dounia raised her head.... and

with a cry she fell upon the carpet. The alarmed Minsky hastened to

pick her up, but suddenly catching sight of the old Postmaster in the

doorway, he left Dounia and approached him, trembling with rage.

“What do you want?” he said to him, clenching his teeth. “Why do you

steal after me everywhere, like a thief? Or do you want to murder me?

Be off!” and with a powerful hand he seized the old man by the collar

and pushed him down the stairs.

The old man returned to his lodging. His friend advised him to lodge a

complaint, but the Postmaster reflected, waved his hand, and resolved

to abstain from taking any further steps in the matter. Two days

afterwards he left St. Petersburg and returned to his station to resume

his duties.

“This is the third year,” he concluded, “that I have been living

without Dounia, and I have not heard a word about her. Whether she is

alive or not--God only knows. So many things happen. She is not the

first, nor yet the last, that a travelling scoundrel has seduced, kept

for a little while, and then forsaken. There are many such young fools

in St. Petersburg, to-day in satin and velvet, and to-morrow sweeping

the streets along with the wretched hangers-on of the dram-shops.

Sometimes, when I think that Dounia also may come to such an end, then,

in spite of myself, I sin and wish her in her grave....”

Such was the story of my friend, the old Postmaster, a story more than

once interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with the

skirt of his coat, like the zealous Terentitch in Dmitrieff’s beautiful

ballad. These tears were partly induced by the punch, of which he had

drunk five glasses during the course of his narrative, but for all

that, they produced a deep impression upon my heart After taking leave

of him, it was a long time before I could forget the old Postmaster,

and for a long time I thought of poor Dounia....

* * * * *

Passing through the little town of a short time ago, I remembered

my friend. I heard that the station, over which he ruled, had been

abolished. To my question: “Is the old Postmaster still alive?” nobody

could give me a satisfactory reply. I resolved to pay a visit to the

well-known place, and having hired horses, I set out for the village of

N----.

It was in the autumn. Grey clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew

across the reaped fields, carrying along with it the red and yellow

leaves from the trees that it encountered. I arrived in the village at

sunset, and stopped at the little post-house. In the vestibule (where

Dounia had once kissed me) a stout woman came out to meet me, and in

answer to my questions replied, that the old Postmaster had been dead

for about a year, that his house was occupied by a brewer, and that she

was the brewer’s wife. I began to regret my useless journey, and the

seven roubles that I had spent in vain.

“Of what did he die?” I asked the brewer’s wife.

“Of drink, little father,” replied she.

“And where is he buried?”

“On the outskirts of the village, near his late wife.”

“Could somebody take me to his grave?”

“To be sure! Hi, Vanka,[4] you have played with that cat long enough.

Take this gentleman to the cemetery, and show him the Postmaster’s

grave.”

At these words a ragged lad, with red hair, and a cast in his eye,

ran up to me and immediately began to lead the way towards the

burial-ground.

“Did you know the dead man?” I asked him on the road.

“Did I not know him! He taught me how to cut blowpipes. When he came

out of the dram-shop (God rest his soul!) we used to run after him and

call out: ‘Grandfather! grandfather! some nuts!’ and he used to throw

nuts to us. He always used to play with us.”

“And do the travellers remember him?”

“There are very few travellers now; the assessor passes this way

sometimes, but he doesn’t trouble himself about dead people. Last

summer a lady passed through here, and she asked after the old

Postmaster, and went to his grave.”

“What sort of a lady?” I asked with curiosity.

“A very beautiful lady,” replied the lad. “She was in a carriage with

six horses, and had along with her three little children, a nurse, and

a little black dog; and when they told her that the old Postmaster was

dead, she began to cry, and said to the children: ‘Sit still, I will

go to the cemetery.’ I offered to show her the way. But the lady said:

‘I know the way.’ And she gave me a five-copeck piece.... such a kind

lady!”

We reached the cemetery, a dreary place, not inclosed in the least; it

was sown with wooden crosses, but there was not a single tree to throw

a shade over it. Never in my life had I seen such a dismal cemetery.

“This is the old Postmaster’s grave,” said the lad to me, leaping upon

a heap of sand, in which was planted a black cross with a copper image.

“And did the lady come here?” asked I.

“Yes,” replied Vanka; “I watched her from a distance. She lay down

here, and remained lying down for a long time. Then she went back to

the village, sent for the pope, gave him some money and drove off,

after giving me a five-copeck piece.... such an excellent lady!”

And I, too, gave the lad a five-copeck piece, and I no longer regretted

the journey nor the seven roubles that I had spent on it.

[Footnote 1: The _Chinnovniks,_ or official nobles of Russia, are

divided into fourteen classes, the fourteenth being the lowest. The

members of this latter class were formerly little removed from serfs.]

[Footnote 2: Diminutive of Avdotia.]

[Footnote 3: Driver.]

[Footnote 4: One of the many diminutives of Ivan.]

THE COFFIN-MAKER.

The last of the effects of the coffin-maker, Adrian Prokhoroff, were

placed upon the hearse, and a couple of sorry-looking jades dragged

themselves along for the fourth time from Basmannaia to Nikitskaia,

whither the coffin-maker was removing with all his household. After

locking up the shop, he posted upon the door a placard announcing that

the house was to be let or sold, and then made his way on foot to his

new abode. On approaching the little yellow house, which had so long

captivated his imagination, and which at last he had bought for a

considerable sum, the old coffin-maker was astonished to find that his

heart did not rejoice. When he crossed the unfamiliar threshold and

found his new home in the greatest confusion, he sighed for his old

hovel, where for eighteen years the strictest order had prevailed. He

began to scold his two daughters and the servant for their slowness,

and then set to work to help them himself. Order was soon established;

the ark with the sacred images, the cupboard with the crockery, the

table, the sofa, and the bed occupied the corners reserved for them

in the back room; in the kitchen and parlour were placed the articles

comprising the stock-in-trade of the master--coffins of all colours and

of all sizes, together with cupboards containing mourning hats, cloaks

and torches.

Over the door was placed a sign representing a fat Cupid with an

inverted torch in his hand and bearing this inscription: “Plain and

coloured coffins sold and lined here; coffins also let out on hire, and

old ones repaired.”

The girls retired to their bedroom; Adrian made a tour of inspection of

his quarters, and then sat down by the window and ordered the tea-urn

to be prepared.

The enlightened reader knows that Shakespeare and Walter Scott

have both represented their grave-diggers as merry and facetious

individuals, in order that the contrast might more forcibly strike

our imagination. Out of respect for the truth, we cannot follow their

example, and we are compelled to confess that the disposition of

our coffin-maker was in perfect harmony with his gloomy occupation.

Adrian Prokhoroff was usually gloomy and thoughtful. He rarely opened

his mouth, except to scold his daughters when he found them standing

idle and gazing out of the window at the passers by, or to demand for

his wares an exorbitant price from those who had the misfortune--and

sometimes the good fortune--to need them. Hence it was that Adrian,

sitting near the window and drinking his seventh cup of tea, was

immersed as usual in melancholy reflections. He thought of the pouring

rain which, just a week before, had commenced to beat down during the

funeral of the retired brigadier. Many of the cloaks had shrunk in

consequence of the downpour, and many of the hats had been put quite

out of shape. He foresaw unavoidable expenses, for his old stock of

funeral dresses was in a pitiable condition. He hoped to compensate

himself for his losses by the burial of old Trukhina, the shopkeeper’s

wife, who for more than a year had been upon the point of death. But

Trukhina lay dying at Rasgouliai, and Prokhoroff was afraid that her

heirs, in spite of their promise, would not take the trouble to send so

far for him, but would make arrangements with the nearest undertaker.

These reflections were suddenly interrupted by three masonic knocks at

the door.

“Who is there?” asked the coffin-maker.

The door opened, and a man, who at the first glance could be recognized

as a German artisan, entered the room, and with a jovial air advanced

towards the coffin-maker.

“Pardon me, respected neighbour,” said he in that Russian dialect which

to this day we cannot hear without a smile: “pardon me for disturbing

you.... I wished to make your acquaintance as soon as possible. I am a

shoemaker, my name is Gottlieb Schultz, and I live across the street,

in that little house just facing your windows. To-morrow I am going to

celebrate my silver wedding, and I have come to invite you and your

daughters to dine with us.”

The invitation was cordially accepted. The coffin-maker asked the

shoemaker to seat himself and take a cup of tea, and thanks to the

open-hearted disposition of Gottlieb Schultz, they were soon engaged in

friendly conversation.

“How is business with you?” asked Adrian.

“Just so so,” replied Schultz; “I cannot complain. My wares are not

like yours: the living can do without shoes, but the dead cannot do

without coffins.”

“Very true,” observed Adrian; “but if a living person hasn’t anything

to buy shoes with, you cannot find fault with him, he goes about

barefooted; but a dead beggar gets his coffin for nothing.”

In this manner the conversation was carried on between them for some

time; at last the shoemaker rose and took leave of the coffin-maker,

renewing his invitation.

The next day, exactly at twelve o’clock, the coffin-maker and his

daughters issued from the doorway of their newly-purchased residence,

and directed their steps towards the abode of their neighbour. I will

not stop to describe the Russian _caftan_ of Adrian Prokhoroff, nor

the European toilettes of Akoulina and Daria, deviating in this respect

from the usual custom of modern novelists. But I do not think it

superfluous to observe that they both had on the yellow cloaks and red

shoes, which they were accustomed to don on solemn occasions only.

The shoemaker’s little dwelling was filled with guests, consisting

chiefly of German artisans with their wives and foremen. Of the Russian

officials there was present but one, Yourko the Finn, a watchman,

who, in spite of his humble calling, was the special object of the

host’s attention. For twenty-five years he had faithfully discharged

the duties of postilion of Pogorelsky. The conflagration of 1812,

which destroyed the ancient capital, destroyed also his little yellow

watch-house. But immediately after the expulsion of the enemy, a new

one appeared in its place, painted grey and with white Doric columns,

and Yourko began again to pace to and fro before it, with his axe and

grey coat of mail. He was known to the greater part of the Germans who

lived near the Nikitskaia Gate, and some of them had even spent the

night from Sunday to Monday beneath his roof.

Adrian immediately made himself acquainted with him, as with a man

whom, sooner or later, he might have need of, and when the guests

took their places at the table, they sat down beside each other. Herr

Schultz and his wife, and their daughter Lotchen, a young girl of

seventeen, did the honours of the table and helped the cook to serve.

The beer flowed in streams; Yourko ate like four, and Adrian in no way

yielded to him; his daughters, however, stood upon their dignity. The

conversation, which was carried on in German, gradually grew more and

more boisterous. Suddenly the host requested a moment’s attention, and

uncorking a sealed bottle, he said with a loud voice in Russian:

“To the health of my good Louise!”

The champagne foamed. The host tenderly kissed the fresh face of his

partner, and the guests drank noisily to the health of the good Louise.

“To the health of my amiable guests!” exclaimed the host, uncorking

a second bottle; and the guests thanked him by draining their glasses

once more.

Then followed a succession of toasts. The health of each individual

guest was drunk; they drank to the health of Moscow and to quite a

dozen little German towns; they drank to the health of all corporations

in general and of each in particular; they drank to the health of the

masters and foremen. Adrian drank with enthusiasm and became so merry,

that he proposed a facetious toast to himself. Suddenly one of the

guests, a fat baker, raised his glass and exclaimed:

“To the health of those for whom we work, our customers!”

This proposal, like all the others, was joyously and unanimously

received. The guests began to salute each other; the tailor bowed to

the shoemaker, the shoemaker to the tailor, the baker to both, the

whole company to the baker, and so on. In the midst of these mutual

congratulations, Yourko exclaimed, turning to his neighbour:

“Come, little father! Drink to the health of your corpses!”

Everybody laughed, but the coffin-maker considered himself insulted,

and frowned. Nobody noticed it, the guests continued to drink, and the

bell had already rung for vespers when they rose from the table.

The guests dispersed at a late hour, the greater part of them in a

very merry mood. The fat baker and the bookbinder, whose face seemed

as if bound in red morocco, linked their arms in those of Yourko and

conducted him back to his little watch-house, thus observing the

proverb: “One good turn deserves another.”

The coffin-maker returned home drunk and angry.

“Why is it,” he exclaimed aloud, “why is it that my trade is not as

honest as any other? Is a coffin-maker brother to the hangman? Why did

those heathens laugh? Is a coffin-maker a buffoon? I wanted to invite

them to my new dwelling and give them a feast, but now I’ll do nothing

of the kind. Instead of inviting them, I will invite those for whom I

work: the orthodox dead.”

“What is the matter, little father?” said the servant, who was engaged

at that moment in taking off his boots: “why do you talk such nonsense?

Make the sign of the cross! Invite the dead to your new house! What

folly!”

“Yes, by the Lord! I will invite them,” continued Adrian, “and that,

too, for to-morrow!... Do me the favour, my benefactors, to come and

feast with me to-morrow evening; I will regale you with what God has

sent me.”

With these words the coffin-maker turned into bed and soon began to

snore.

It was still dark when Adrian was awakened out of his sleep. Trukhina,

the shopkeeper’s wife, had died during the course of that very night,

and a special messenger was sent off on horseback by her bailiff to

carry the news to Adrian. The coffin-maker gave him ten copecks to buy

brandy with, dressed himself as hastily as possible, took a _droshky_

and set out for Rasgouliai. Before the door of the house in which

the deceased lay, the police had already taken their stand, and the

trades-people were passing backwards and forwards, like ravens that

smell a dead body. The deceased lay upon a table, yellow as wax, but

not yet disfigured by decomposition. Around her stood her relatives,

neighbours and domestic servants. All the windows were open; tapers

were burning_;_ and the priests were reading the prayers for the

dead. Adrian went up to the nephew of Trukhina, a young shopman in a

fashionable surtout, and informed him that the coffin, wax candles,

pall, and the other funeral accessories would be immediately delivered

with all possible exactitude. The heir thanked him in an absent-minded

manner, saying that he would not bargain about the price, but would

rely upon him acting in everything according to his conscience. The

coffin-maker, in accordance with his usual custom, vowed that he

would not charge him too much, exchanged significant glances with the

bailiff, and then departed to commence operations.

The whole day was spent in passing to and fro between Rasgouliai

and the Nikitskaia Gate. Towards evening everything was finished,

and he returned home on foot, after having dismissed his driver. It

was a moonlight night. The coffin-maker reached the Nikitskaia Gate

in safety. Near the Church of the Ascension he was hailed by our

acquaintance Yourko, who, recognizing the coffin-maker, wished him

good-night. It was late. The coffin-maker was just approaching his

house, when suddenly he fancied he saw some one approach his gate, open

the wicket, and disappear within.

“What does that mean?” thought Adrian. “Who can be wanting me again?

Can it be a thief come to rob me? Or have my foolish girls got lovers

coming after them? It means no good, I fear!”

And the coffin-maker thought of calling his friend Yourko to his

assistance. But at that moment, another person approached the wicket

and was about to enter, but seeing the master of the house hastening

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

examine it closely.

“You are favouring me with a visit,” said Adrian, out of breath. “Walk

in, I beg of you.”

“Don’t stand on ceremony, little father,” replied the other, in a

hollow voice; “you go first, and show your guests the way.”

Adrian had no time to spend upon ceremony. The wicket was open; he

ascended the steps followed by the other. Adrian thought he could hear

people walking about in his rooms.

“What the devil does all this mean!” he thought to himself, and he

hastened to enter. But the sight that met his eyes caused his legs to

give way beneath him.

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. Adrian, with horror, recognized in them

people that he himself had buried, and in the guest who entered with

him, the brigadier who had been buried during the pouring rain.

They all, men and women, surrounded the coffin-maker, with bowings

and salutations, except one poor fellow lately buried gratis, who,

conscious and ashamed of his rags, did not venture to approach, but

meekly kept aloof in a corner. All the others were decently dressed:

the female corpses in caps and ribbons, the officials in uniforms, but

with their beards unshaven, the tradesmen in their holiday _caftans._

“You see, Prokhoroff,” said the brigadier in the name of all the

honourable company, “we have all risen in response to your invitation.

Only those have stopped at home who were unable to come, who have

crumbled to pieces and have nothing left but fleshless bones. But even

of these there was one who hadn’t the patience to remain behind--so

much did he want to come and see you....”

At this moment a little skeleton pushed his way through the crowd

and approached Adrian. His fleshless face smiled affably at the

coffin-maker. Shreds of green and red cloth and rotten linen hung on

him here and there as on a pole, and the bones of his feet rattled

inside his big jack-boots, like pestles in mortars.

“You do not recognize me, Prokhoroff,” said the skeleton. “Don’t

you remember the retired sergeant of the Guards, Peter Petrovitch

Kourilkin, the same to whom, in the year 1799, you sold your first

coffin, and that, too, of deal instead of oak?”

With these words the corpse stretched out his bony arms towards him;

but Adrian, collecting all his strength, shrieked and pushed him from

him. Peter Petrovitch staggered, fell, and crumbled all to pieces.

Among the corpses arose a murmur of indignation; all stood up for

the honour of their companion, and they overwhelmed Adrian with such

threats and imprecations, that the poor host, deafened by their shrieks

and almost crushed to death, lost his presence of mind, fell upon the

bones of the retired sergeant of the Guards, and swooned away.

For some time the sun had been shining upon the bed on which lay

the coffin-maker. At last he opened his eyes and saw before him the

servant attending to the tea-urn. With horror, Adrian recalled all

the incidents of the previous day. Trukhina, the brigadier, and the

sergeant, Kourilkin, rose vaguely before his imagination. He waited in

silence for the servant to open the conversation and inform him of the

events of the night.

“How you have slept, little father Adrian Prokhorovitch!” said Aksinia,

handing him his dressing-gown. “Your neighbour, the tailor, has been

here, and the watchman also called to inform you that to-day is his

name-day; but you were so sound asleep, that we did not wish to wake

you.” “Did anyone come for me from the late Trukhina?”

“The late? Is she dead, then?”

“What a fool you are! Didn’t you yourself help me yesterday to prepare

the things for her funeral?”

“Have you taken leave of your senses, little father, or have you not

yet recovered from the effects of yesterday’s drinking-bout? What

funeral was there yesterday? You spent the whole day feasting at the

German’s, and then came home drunk and threw yourself upon the bed, and

have slept till this hour, when the bells have already rung for mass.”

“Really!” said the coffin-maker, greatly relieved.

“Yes, indeed,” replied the servant.

“Well, since that is the case, make the tea as quickly as possible and

call my daughters.”

KIRDJALI.

Kirdjali was by birth a Bulgarian. Kirdjali, in the Turkish language,

signifies a knight-errant, a bold fellow. His real name I do not know.

Kirdjali with his acts of brigandage brought terror upon the whole of

Moldavia. In order to give some idea of him, I will relate one of his

exploits. One night he and the Arnout Mikhaelaki fell together upon

a Bulgarian village. They set it on fire at both ends, and began to

go from hut to hut. Kirdjali dispatched the inmates, and Mikhaelaki

carried off the booty. Both cried: “Kirdjali! Kirdjali!” The whole

village took to flight.

When Alexander Ipsilanti[1] proclaimed the revolt and began to collect

his army, Kirdjali brought to him some of his old companions. The real

object of the revolt was but ill understood by them, but war presented

an opportunity for getting rich at the expense of the Turks, and

perhaps of the Moldavians, and that was object enough in their eyes.

Alexander Ipsilanti was personally brave, but he did not possess the

qualities necessary for the rôle which he had assumed with such ardour

and such a want of caution. He did not know how to manage the people

over whom he was obliged to exercise control. They had neither respect

for him nor confidence in him. After the unfortunate battle, in which

perished the flower of Greek youth, Iordaki Olimbioti persuaded him to

retire, and he himself took his place. Ipsilanti escaped to the borders

of Austria, and thence sent his curses to the people whom he termed

traitors, cowards and scoundrels. These cowards and scoundrels for the

most part perished within the walls of the monastery of Seko, or on the

banks of the Pruth, desperately defending themselves against an enemy

ten times their number.

Kirdjali found himself in the detachment of George Kantakuzin, of whom

might be repeated the same that has been said of Ipsilanti. On the eve

of the battle near Skoulana, Kantakuzin asked permission of the Russian

authorities to enter our lines. The detachment remained without a

leader, but Kirdjali, Saphianos, Kantagoni, and others stood in no need

whatever of a leader.

The battle near Skoulana does not seem to have been described

by anybody in all its affecting reality. Imagine seven hundred

men--Arnouts, Albanians, Greeks, Bulgarians and rabble of every

kind--with no idea of military art, retreating in sight of fifteen

thousand Turkish cavalry. This detachment hugged the bank of the Pruth,

and placed in front of themselves two small cannons, found at Jassy,

in the courtyard of the Governor, and from which salutes used to be

fired on occasions of rejoicing. The Turks would have been glad to make

use of their cartridges, but they dared not without the permission of

the Russian authorities: the shots would infallibly have flown over to

our shore. The commander of our lines (now deceased), although he had

served forty years in the army, had never in his life heard the whistle

of a bullet, but Heaven ordained that he should hear it then. Several

of them whizzed past his ears. The old man became terribly angry, and

abused the major of the Okhotsky infantry regiment, who happened to be

in advance of the lines. The major, not knowing what to do, ran towards

the river, beyond which some of the mounted insurgents were caracoling

about, and threatened them with his finger. The insurgents, seeing

this, turned round and galloped off, with the whole Turkish detachment

after them. The major, who had threatened them with his finger, was

called Khortcheffsky. I do not know what became of him.