A Swiss chalet on a woody knoll, high up on the grand slopes that bathe
their feet in the beautiful Lake of Geneva.
It is evening--a bright winter evening--with a golden glory in the sky
which reminds one powerfully of summer, and suggests the advent of
spring.
In the neighbouring town of Montreux there are busy people engaged in
the labours of the day. There are also idlers endeavouring to "kill"
the little span of time that has been given them, in which to do their
quota of duty on the earth. So, also, there are riotous young people
who are actively fulfilling their duty by going off to skate, or slide
down the snow-clad hills, after the severer duties connected with book
and slate have been accomplished. These young rioters are aided and
abetted by sundry persons of maturer years, who, having already finished
the more important labours of the day of life, renew their own youth,
and encourage the youngsters by joining them.
Besides these there are a few cripples who have been sent into the world
with deficient or defective limbs--doubtless for wise and merciful ends.
Merciful I say advisedly, for, "shall not the Judge of all the earth do
right?" These look on and rejoice, perchance, in the joy of the
juveniles.
Among them, however, are some cripples of a very different stamp. The
Creator sent these into the world with broad shoulders, deep chests,
good looks, gladsome spirits, manly frames, and vigorous wills. War has
sent them here--still in young manhood--with the deep chests pierced by
bullets or gashed by sabres, with the manly frames reduced to skeletons,
the gladsome spirits gone, the ruddy cheeks hollow and wan, and the
vigorous wills--subdued _at last_.
A few of these young cripples move slowly about with the aid of stick or
crutch, trying to regain, in the genial mountain air, some of the old
fire which has sunk so low--so very low. Others, seated in
wheel-chairs, doubled up like old, old men, are pushed about from point
to point by stalwart mountaineers, while beside them walk sisters,
mothers, or, perchance, young wives, whose cheery smiles and lightsome
voices, as they point out and refer to the surrounding objects of
nature, cannot quite conceal the feelings of profound and bitter sorrow
with which they think of the glorious manhood that has been lost, or the
tender, pitiful, heart-breaking solicitude with which they cherish the
poor shadow that remains.
In a large airy apartment of the chalet on the woody knoll, there is one
who occupies a still lower level than those to whom we have just
referred--who cannot yet use the crutch or sit in the wheelchair, and on
whose ear the sounds of glee that enter by the open window fall with
little effect.
He reclines at full length on a bed. He has lain thus, with little
effort to move, and much pain when such effort was made, for many weary
weeks. Only one side of his face is visible, and that is scarred and
torn with wounds, some of which are not yet healed. The other side is
covered with bandages.
I am seated by his side, Ivanka is sitting opposite, near to the
invalid's feet, listening intently, if I may be allowed to say so, with
her large black eyes, to a conversation which she cannot understand.
"You must not take so gloomy a view of your case, Nicholas. The doctors
say you will recover, and, my good fellow, you have no idea what can be
done by surgery in the way of putting a man together again after a
break-down. Bella would be grieved beyond measure if I were to write as
you wish."
I spoke cheerily, more because I felt it to be a duty to do so, than
because I had much hope.
The invalid paused for a few minutes as if to recover strength. Then he
said--
"Jeff, I insist on your doing what I wish. It is unkind of you to drag
me into a dispute when I am so weak. Tell the dear girl that I give her
up--I release her from our engagement. It is likely that I shall die at
any rate, which will settle the question, but if I do recover--why, just
think, my dear fellow, I put it to you, what sort of husband should I
make, with my ribs all smashed, my right leg cut off, my left hand
destroyed, an eye gone, and my whole visage cut to pieces. No, Jeff--"
He paused; the light vein of humour which he had tried to assume passed
off, and there was a twitching about the muscles of his mouth as he
resumed--
"No, Bella must never see me again."
Ivanka looked from the invalid's face to mine with eyes so earnest,
piercing, and inquiring, that I felt grieved she did not understand us.
"I'm sorry, Nicholas, very sorry," said I, "but Bella has already been
written to, and will certainly be here in a day or two. I could not
know your state of mind on my first arrival, and, acting as I fancied
for the best, I wrote to her."
Nicholas moved uneasily, and I observed a deep flush on his face, but he
did not speak.
That evening Ivanka put her arms round my neck, told me she loved
Nicholas because of his kindness to her father, and besought me
earnestly to tell her what had passed between us.
A good deal amused, I told her as much as I thought she could
understand.
"Oh! I should so like to see Bella," she said.
"So you shall, dear, when she comes."
"Does she speak Russian?"
"Yes. She has been several times in Russia, and understands the
language well."
As I had predicted, Bella arrived a few days after receiving my letter.
My mother accompanied her.
"Oh, Jeff, this is dreadful!" said my poor mother, as she untied her
bonnet-strings, and sat down on the sofa beside Bella, who could not for
some time utter a word.
"What child is that?" added my mother quickly, observing Ivanka.
"It is the daughter of Dobri Petroff.--Let me introduce you, Ivanka, to
my mother, and to my sister Bella--you know Bella?"
I had of course written to them a good deal about the poor child, and
Bella had already formed an attachment to her in imagination. She
started up on hearing Ivanka's name, and held out both hands. The child
ran to her as naturally as the needle turns to the pole.
While my mother and I were talking in a low tone about Nicholas, I could
not avoid hearing parts of a conversation between my sister and Ivanka
that surprised me much.
"Yes, oh! yes, I am quite sure of it. Your brother told me that he said
he would never, never, never be so wicked as to let you come and see
him, although he loved you so much that he--"
"Hush, my dear child, not so loud."