CHAPTER V.

GOOD OUT OF EVIL.

Harding went up to his lonely tent. Like a wounded animal, he sought his

lair, and the memory of the many solitary hours he had passed there,

even at this sad moment, refreshed his spirit. There he could be

alone--away from men's eyes--free from their curiosity, from their

comments, or, what would be worse, from their pity.

He had made himself comparatively rich; he had built up a home, as it

were, in the wilderness; he had even tried, and with some success, to

gain men's esteem--and what were all these worth to him now?

Such bitter thoughts as these filled Harding's mind as he arranged his

coarse pallet, and then, throwing himself upon it, sought to forget his

grief during the short space that remained before daylight. He was

awakened, almost instantly, it seemed to him--although, in fact, three

hours had passed--by the sharp crack of a rifle. Harding leaped up and

ran to his door.

It was a dull, gray dawn--the sky overcast, but the air free from wind

or rain. A little below Harding's tent there spread a plain about a mile

wide. This extended along the bank of the river, and terminated in a

clump of redwoods which grew far up the mountain beyond. Here and there

on the plain were scattered a few small trees and copses of manzanita;

but for the most part it was clear from the outskirts of the village up

to the redwoods.

On this plain Harding now saw a remarkable sight. A man was running from

tree to tree, striving always to get nearer the mountain. Perhaps three

hundred yards behind him were five or six armed pursuers trying to close

in on the fugitive, and occasionally firing at him. As Harding gazed,

three shots were discharged in rapid succession. Yet the man still held

on his way, apparently unhurt, and it looked as if he would quickly gain

the cover of the forest. But there was one behind him far swifter than

the rest, who ran like an Indian on the river or further side from

Harding, and who threatened in a few moments to get dangerously near. It

was because this man was so distant from himself that Harding did not at

first recognize his own partner, Jack Storm, although he was in his

usual well known Mexican dress. Now, Storm was the best rifle shot on

Bullion Flat.

It appeared that the fugitive knew this. At all events, as if suddenly

realizing his peril, he turned and ran straight toward Storm, resolved

to draw his fire, apparently, and by confusing his aim to have a better

chance of escape. Storm's ready rifle flew up to his shoulder instantly,

and Harding saw the pale blue ring of smoke and heard the quick report.

Still the fugitive sped on. He was plainly unscathed, or in any case not

disabled; and in his hand there now flashed a bright something which

Harding knew was a bowie-knife. With that, although the combatants were

a mile away, Harding seized a revolver, and dashed at his highest speed

down the hill. Almost at the same moment, there also started in company

from Bullion Flat three figures on horseback. These were Miss Tinsel,

the "Demon," Mr. Bellario, and Judge Carboy. All who were now making for

the scene of the combat heard in sharp repetition five or six shots from

revolvers; but after the last of these, all was still. When they got to

the spot they found Jack Storm fainting from loss of blood, but hurt

only with flesh wounds; and they were told that the other man, his

opponent, was mortally wounded, and had been taken, by his own request,

up on the mountain side, among the redwoods, to die.

With a choking cry, Miss Tinsel galloped on, and in a few moments

Chester Harding and she were again face to face over the dying man's

body. Ghastly white as he was, all dabbled with blood, and the foam

oozing from his lips, her lover at once knew Jane's visitor of the night

before. What had happened had been hurriedly revealed to Harding--in

broken whispers by the bystanders--before Jane came up.

The man had robbed several rooms at the "Bella Union" during the night,

and had succeeded in gathering a large sum. Among the treasures stolen

were all the loose funds belonging to the "Combination Troupe," the

night's winnings of Mr. Copperas's faro bank, and Miss De Montague's

diamonds. But just as the robber, toward daylight, was on the point of

making off in safety, he met a lion in the path in Jack Storm. It

happened that Jack wanted to have a talk with his partner, Harding, and,

as they were then very busy on the claim, made up his mind to compass

this purpose bright and early, before getting to work. Stumbling on the

marauder, the latter was secured after a struggle, and "the boys"

speedily determined to make an example of him. The man begged for a

chance of life, and after some debate, had been given the option of the

halter or running the gauntlet, with three hundred yards' start, in the

way we have described. In the subsequent struggle he had been shot

through the lungs, and terribly cut with his own bowie-knife--wrested

from him by Jack Storm--and his life was now fast ebbing away.

As she came up Jane sprang from her horse, and threw herself on the

ground beside the dying man. They had propped his head on a hillock of

turf, and some charitable soul had brought water from the river. Judge

Carboy quickly put a flask of brandy to the sufferer's lips, and he

opened his eyes:

"Ja--Jane," he gasped, "my pretty Jane--this is the end--the end of

it--a dog's death--and deserved, too-but--I--I--always loved you!"

She burst into tears and began sobbing over him and fondling his head.

"Don't, darling--don't, little Jenny--it won't be long--I am better

away--better for you--there--there! I'm sliding away somewhere--and----"

His voice failed, and his dark face began to grow blue. The doctor, who

had ridden hastily up, forced between the man's teeth some strong

restorative.

"I want you to remember--always--that I was drunk when I did it--drunk

and crazy. I was bad--vile--but not so bad as that. Don't tell who--who

I am. It will only disgrace you--only disgrace you--I'm going, little

Jenny----"

"Oh, _father_! _father!_" and the poor child bowed down her pretty head

on the breast of the wretched thief and murderer, and wept as if her

heart would break.

"No--no," he muttered; "no, little Jenny, I'm not worth it. Only--don't

think worse--worse of me than I deserve. Perhaps mother--in heaven--has

forgiven me! She knows--knows--I was mad when I did it."

"Yes--yes--I shall remember," whispered she, "always. Now don't talk

more--not now."

"No--I shan't talk--much more"--a strange wan smile came over his

face--"not much more, little Jenny." He put up his hand and stroked her

sunny hair.

"Tell them about this last--that I was desperate--I had broke jail--knew

the officers were on my track--and was penniless. Give me--more--brandy.

So. Why, I can't see you any more, little Jenny--and yet it is morning,

isn't it, not night!" He gasped for breath and clutched feebly at the

air. "Kiss me--little Jenny--mer--mercy--_Lord Jesus_--better--better

times--hereafter!"

A shudder, and the man was dead, and Jane was left all alone in the

world. Poor, besotted, frantic Michael Green, all sin-scorched as he

was, had passed from the judgment of men to the more merciful judgment

beyond. Yet the orphan, if alone, lacked neither sympathy nor

protection. Nor did she ever lack from that moment the respect and

confidence of the man of whose heart she had from the first been

mistress. So that the true happiness came in time which is so often the

sweeter for being deferred.

HENRY SEDLEY.

DEFEATED.

Give me your hand--nay, both, as I confront you.

Let me look in your eyes, as once before.

I gaze, and gaze. Oh, how they change and soften!

I stand within the portal: lo! a door--

A door close shut and barred. I knock and listen.

No sound, no answer. Doubtingly I wait.

Oh! for one glance beyond that guarded entrance,

The power that mystic realm to penetrate.

I touch the barrier with hands entreating,

If it would yield to me, and none beside.

What bitter pain, what sense of loss and failure,

To come so near, and come to be denied!

Softly I call, but only silence answers--

Silence, and the quick throbbing of my heart.

Immovable, the frowning bar abideth:

Kneeling, I kiss the threshold and depart.

MARY L. RITTER.

SHALL PUNISHMENT PUNISH?

It is published that in England a man has been undergoing an aggregate

imprisonment of ten years for breaking a shop window, at different

times, and that when recently pardoned he immediately broke the same

window again for the purpose of being again arrested. One who knows

nothing more than this of the facts cannot presume to determine what

punishment should in justice be given to this particular offender; but

the case is interesting as an extreme example of what frequently occurs

in a less striking degree in this country. Police courts become

acquainted with a class of criminals who would rather go to jail for

their dinner, especially in winter, than earn a dinner by hard work.

They are the confirmed vagabonds from whom the army of summer tramps is

chiefly recruited. They never feel truly virtuous and happy in cold

weather except when they have committed a petty offence and are on the

way to "punishment," which consists in accepting from a thoughtful

public a warm shelter and all the food they want. It is their business

to live, at times if not constantly, in this way. Sending them to jail

for their offences is known by the courts that send them to be nothing

but a sorry farce.

There is another equally incorrigible class, who commit greater crimes,

but not chiefly for the sake of "punishment." Detectives keep themselves

advised of the sentences of these offenders, and prepare to shadow them

anew whenever they are released from confinement. It is not expected

that incarceration will have any reformatory effect. The question of

reforming them, as of reforming those who offend to get rid of the

trouble of taking care of themselves, comes to be left out of

consideration, after a little experience, by the officers whose duty it

is to deal with them. Only intimidation remains for a considerable

number. With these, rather than with the English window-breaker, should

probably be classed the subject of this item from a late newspaper:

"Charles Dickens is dead, and died of honest work; but the German

prisoner, Charles Langheimer, whom he saw in the penitentiary at

Philadelphia thirty-three years ago, and over whose punishment by

solitary confinement he lamented in 'American Notes,' describing him as

'a picture of forlorn affliction and distress of mind,' still lives at

the age of seventy-five, and has just been sent back to his old quarters

the sixth time, for his chronic offence of petty theft, which has kept

him in jail full half his long life."

That punishment for crime is necessary, and therefore a public duty, is

admitted, and every community professes to impose it. But what of the

criminals whom punishment as now administered does not punish--who

actually commit crimes for the purpose of receiving it? It would seem

that society has not the power or has not the wisdom to protect itself.

It has the right, of course. It has the power also.

The law does not succeed in what it attempts and professes to do. At

present when we find a criminal who has sufficient good in him to feel

our methods, we punish him in proportion to his--goodness. When we find

one so vile that our methods are like water on a duck's back, we do not

punish him--except as water punishes a duck. He goes unpunished because

he is so bad, while a better man is punished because he is better. What

is this but rewarding insensibility? It is very creditable to the hearts

of the lawmakers--perhaps--but it is fraud on the community. It is

legalized wickedness. It permits incarnate nuisances to wax fat, and

prey upon honest industry, and increase and multiply, until they become

the only prosperous and protected class.

It has been suggested that a criminal on his second conviction be deemed

a professional, and incarcerated for life. It would no doubt be cheaper

for the public to shut him up thus and support him permanently. But

there is the objection that the punishment would generally be out of

proportion to the crime, if it were a punishment at all; and if it were

not a punishment, we would be offering a greater premium on vice than we

now are. To punish petty larceny as if it were as great a crime as

manslaughter or murder would be too unjust to be long possible. The case

seems to demand a new medicine rather than a greater dose of one which

has failed when tried in any practicable quantities.

There is one remedy, so far as the infliction of real punishment is a

remedy, although those who administer justice as above described will

hold up their hands in horror at the mention of it. If it be a fact that

the punishment of criminals is necessary, and if it be a fact that a

class of them is impervious to any punishment except physical pain, then

we are bound to either inflict this pain or else abandon the principle

of punishment. There is no third course if the two facts are

admitted--and to those who will not admit them an unprejudiced reading

of the criminal news of the past three hundred and sixty-five days is

commended. If one man's heart is callous to what will break another's,

all men's backs are of nearly equal tenderness. It is doubtful whether

the whipping-post ever had a fair trial without proving that it might be

made a good thing under such circumstances as we must very soon, if we

do not now, confront.

The fact that it was once used and then abandoned does not settle the

case. It was erected for those who could have been otherwise dealt with,

and for those who deserved no punishment at all. It was not reserved for

only those deserving punishment, on whom our more refined penalties had

been tried and had failed. It is not a fair trial of it to put it into

the hands of a drunken or passionate ship's captain; or the hands of a

religious bigot; or the hands of a slave-driver; or the hands of a

tyrant or autocrat of any kind; or the hands of an incompetent judge; or

the hands of any judge in a ruder age than this. If an ignorant or

brutal use of it in the past condemns an enlightened use of it now, we

should abandon life-taking and imprisonment, for these have been even

more abused. We have no fear that the death penalty will be misused

hereafter because men have been hung for petty larceny heretofore. When

the lash is wielded by a barbarous hand, as it generally has been, of

course we abhor it. But how about it when the hand of Christ wields it

in the temple? Although the incarnation of charity made him a scourge

for those who needed it, yet we cannot follow His example because

Torquemadas have made scourges for those who did not need them. Such is

the logic of those who would cite the past in this matter. The truth is,

the lash was abandoned in the humane belief that criminals could be

punished without it; and the truth also is, some criminals are now

proving that they cannot be punished without it.

Go over the subject as we may, we come back to the question, Is the lash

or something equally unrefined necessary to accomplish all the law now

attempts? It must be looked at in the cold light of certain very sad

facts, as well as in the warm blaze of "chromo" civilization. If we are

not yet compelled to answer it in the affirmative, there is so much

evidence pointing toward such an answer, that it is well to consider

very respectfully indeed whatever can be said on the unpopular side. It

need not frighten those who accept the idea so tersely presented by the

Hare Brothers--of which one is strongly reminded by Mr. Greg in the

"Enigmas of Life," although perhaps he does not expressly state it--that

the tendency of civilization is to barbarism.

Of course flogging is not a panacea; but it is for those who profit by

nothing gentler; and the more enlightened society becomes the more

certainly can these be identified. The generous feeling that has

discontinued it would not cease to be a guarantee against its abuse. Our

courts cannot depart far from public sentiment. We can trust judges and

juries to determine who deserves castigation just as safely as to

determine who deserves imprisonment or death. Most of the censure they

now receive in their treatment of the hopelessly depraved is for their

lenity and not their rigor. There is no offender would not dread and

wish to avoid whipping. Certainly no one would offend for the purpose of

receiving it; and it would probably discourage a man in less than ten

years from breaking the same window. It would be inexpensive, and would

have the merit of being short and sharp, if not decisive. Punishment,

intimidation, is what is here considered, and the point is whether it

shall be administered to all who deserve it, or whether the law society

finds necessary for its protection shall be a falsehood, at war with

itself--a sham. The law cannot shrink from anything that is necessary to

its purpose without impeaching its purpose.

And is it more inhuman to hurt the back of one who cannot be made to

feel anything else than it is to pain the heart and hurt the soul of one

who can? How can Christians so exalt the flesh above the spirit? They

did not do it in the primitive days of the faith. Is it more barbarous

to scourge the body than to gall it with irons, or poison and debilitate

it by confinement, or wear it out by inches at hard labor? We have not

abolished corporeal punishment--only rejected a form of it which is

frequently more merciful, if more dreaded, than some that are retained.

All wrongs right themselves by "inhumanity," if permitted to go far

enough. You are told by good authority, and you know without telling,

that if you find a burglar in your house at night, you perform a public

duty by shooting him dead rather than see him escape. From the

humanitarian point of view, this is certainly more dreadful than it

would have been to stop, by flogging, any minor offences that led him

into your house. Indeed, if the penalty for the burglary itself were a

"barbarous" laceration of his back, it would doubtless have more effect

in keeping him from the burglary and from a bloody death, than does the

risk of imprisonment. We must not whip him in obedience to the law, but

we may safely shoot him dead without regard to it. It is our tenderness

that becomes "inhuman" if it be not wisely bestowed. Would it be quite

in keeping with the pretensions of "advanced" civilization to see the

matrons and maids of the rural neighborhoods going about their dairies

and summer kitchens with revolvers in their belts, and bowie-knives in

their bosoms? That is the spectacle the "tramp" nuisance promises to

produce. Would the whipping-post, set up in the slums of the great

cities, where the miscreants among the tramps breed and form their

characters, look any more like barbarism? The voluntary tramp has but

shown the countryman during the summer what the city suffers during the

winter. He is simply trying to distribute and equalize himself, and

while enjoying his country air, collects the same taxes he collects all

the rest of the year in town. Let the city continue to rear him

tenderly, and not hurt his precious carcass, and feed and warm him, and

punish only his sensitive spirit, until the country people get down

their shot-guns and make a barbarous end of him. And this is being true

to the cause of humanity.

It is noble for the law to withhold its hand when one who has taken a

wrong step can be won back to a good life by other means; and if the

wretches hopelessly saturated with vice can be intimidated by anything

milder than flogging, by all means be mild; but when we find one who

cannot, why not acknowledge the fact and act on it?

The reason why we do not so act is only a sentimental one. A sentimental

reason, however, may be a very good one. Society feels that it is better

to suffer, and to see its laws become a mockery to this degree, than to

shock its own best instincts. This sentiment that obstructs absolute

vindication of the law is respectable so long as it can be respected

with tolerable safety and public satisfaction. But it interferes with

justice by courtesy, and not by right. It is all very well so long as

society does not complain. But if its mouthpieces are to be believed,

society does complain. The public is not satisfied with the present

punishment of certain offenders--indicated with sufficient accuracy by

the tough old Langheimer and the English window-breaker--and is restive

under the pecuniary burden they impose.

Although the history of the whipping-post is nearly worthless to one

seeking to know what its value might be under all the favorable

conditions with which it could be surrounded now and here, yet it is

possible to point readily to one trial that should have been, and

probably was, a fair one. A very few years ago--perhaps four or

five--garroting became a terror to the London pedestrian. For assault

and robbery, without intent to kill, the death penalty was too terrible,

and the other penalties failed to intimidate, as they generally do when

the crime is lucrative, easily accomplished, and not immediately

dangerous. It could not be trifled with, and something had to be done. A

"barbarous" whipping of the bare back was resorted to, and garroting

subsided. The result was what the public wanted. Sentimental eyes may

show their whites, horrified hands may go up, floods of twaddle may come

forth in sympathy with the discouraged garroter, but men of common

sense, especially if they have been garroted themselves, will say the

end was worth what it cost, and believe in the inhumanity that achieved

it.

Nothing has been said of Delaware. No valuable lesson could be drawn

from her without considerable investigation, and perhaps not then. She

may do too much flogging, or she may not do enough. Her ministers of

justice may be models of enlightenment, or they may be models of

debasement. The lash there may be still a class instrument, or it may

not. She has no great city--an exceedingly important consideration--and

two portions of her people are jostling each other as nominal equals in

the race of life, who but the other day held the relation of master and

slave. She is probably not indifferent to a good name, and her retention

of the whip under all the sneers she receives is some evidence that she

at least regards it as still having a defensible use.

CHAUNCEY HICKOX.

RENUNCIATION.

Could I recall thee from that silent shore

Whence never word may reach our longing ears,

To gaze upon thee thro' my happy tears,

And call thee back to life and joy once more,

Could I refrain? If at my touch Death's door

Would open for thee, and thy glad eyes shine

With swift surprise of life, straight into mine,

And we might dwell with love for evermore,

Could I forbear? God knows, who still denies.

Yet being dead, thou art all mine again:

No fear of change can break that perfect rest,

Nor can I be where thou art not; thine eyes

Smile at me out of heaven, and still my pain,

And the whole pitying earth is at thy breast.

KATE HILLARD.

THE EASTERN QUESTION.

"The last word in the Eastern Question," said Lord Derby, "is

Constantinople." If for Constantinople we read not merely the city

itself, but that half of Turkey in Europe bordering upon the Black Sea

and the Sea of Marmora, and understand the real point to be, Shall or

shall not Russia have it? we have the whole Eastern Question in a

nutshell. Russia is bound by every consideration of policy and interest

to get it if she can. Great Britain is bound by every consideration of

interest, and even of self-preservation, to prevent it if she can.

Germany, Austria, and France are bound to prevent it, if possible,

unless they can at the same time gain equivalent advantages which shall

leave them relatively to each other, and especially to Russia, not less

powerful than they now are. The other nations of Europe may be left out

of view in considering the question; for their interest in it is less

vital, and they could do little toward the result, except as allies to

one side or the other, in case of a general European war in which the

great Powers should be quite evenly balanced, when their comparatively

small weight might turn the scale.

A glance at the map will show the paramount importance to Russia of the

acquisition of this territory. Comprising more than half of all Europe,

she is practically cut off from the navigable seas. She has, indeed, a

long coast-line upon the Arctic ocean, but she has there only the

inconsiderable port of Archangel, and this can be reached only by

rounding the North Cape and sailing far within the Arctic Circle, while

the port itself is blocked up by ice seven months of the year. She also

borders for seven hundred miles upon the Baltic and the Gulf of Bothnia;

but here, in the northwestern corner of her territory, she has only two

tolerable ports, Cronstadt and Riga, and these are frozen up for nearly

half the year; but from these ports is carried on three-fourths of her

foreign commerce. She next touches salt water in the Black Sea, almost

1,500 miles from St. Petersburg, on the extreme south of her territory.

This sea, half of whose shores belongs to Russia, is 720 miles long, and

380 miles wide at its broadest point, covering an area, including the

connected Sea of Azof, of nearly 200,000 square miles--more than twice

that of all the great lakes of North America. Russia wishes to be a

great maritime power. The Black Sea has good harbors and abundant

facilities for building ships and exercising fleets. Into it fall all

the great rivers of the southern half of Russia, except the Volga, whose

mouth is in the Caspian; and the Volga may properly be considered a

Black Sea river, for a railway, or perhaps even a canal of a few

leagues, would connect it with the Don and the other rivers of the Black

Sea system. The Black Sea is emphatically a Russian sea; but Russia

enjoys the valuable use of it only by the sufferance of whomsoever holds

Constantinople. By the treaty of Paris, concluded in 1856, after the

reverses of the Crimean war, Russia agreed not to maintain a fleet

there; and it was not till 1870 that taking advantage of the critical

position of the other great Powers, she declared that this article of

the treaty was abrogated. She has now a strong fleet of iron-clads and

other steamers in the sea, but the actual strength of this fleet is

unknown except to herself. It was certainly powerful three years ago,

and is doubtless much more powerful now. A vessel and crew which has

navigated the "Bad Black Sea." as the Turks call it, has nothing to fear

from the broadest ocean. But this sea is liable at any moment to be a

closed one to Russia. No Russian man-of-war has, we believe, ever sailed

into or out of it; no merchantman can enter or leave it except by the

Bosporus and the Dardanelles, which are its gates, and of these gates

Turkey holds the keys.

The Black Sea is joined to the deep, narrow Sea of Marmora by the

straits of the Bosporus, twenty miles long and from three-quarters of a

mile to two and a half miles wide. Just where the straits open out into

the Sea of Marmora stands Constantinople, a spot marked out by nature as

the one on the whole globe best fitted for the site of a great

metropolis. At its western extremity the Sea of Marmora--about one

hundred miles long, with a maximum breadth of forty-three

miles--contracts into the straits usually called the Dardanelles, which

is properly the name of four castles, which, two on each side, command

the passage, here less than a mile wide. Both straits could easily be so

fortified as to be impassable by the combined navies of the world; and

even now we suppose that only the best armored iron-clads could safely

undertake to force the passage, in or out, of the Dardanelles.

Let us now consider the fearful preponderance which Russia would gain by

the possession of these straits, including of course that half of

European Turkey bordering upon them. We have seen that the shores of the

Black Sea furnish every facility for the construction of a navy of any

required strength, and its waters afford ample space for its training.

With these approaches in her grasp, Russia might in ten years construct

and discipline her fleet there, perfectly safe from molestation by the

navies of Europe. Fleets built and equipped at Sebastopol, Kherson, and

Nicolaief, could sweep through the Dardanelles, closed to all except

themselves, enter the Archipelago and the Mediterranean, and dominate

over their shores and over the commerce of every nation which has to use

these waters as a highway. In case of its happening at any time to find

itself overmatched, the Russian fleet could repass the gates of the

Dardanelles, and be as safe from pursuit as an army would be if

sheltered behind the rocks of Gibraltar.

Great Britain would be first and most immediately menaced by this; for a

strong military and naval power established on the Bosporus would hold

in command the shortest way of communication with her possessions in

India. The Czar would hold in control the route by way of the Suez

canal: or at best Great Britain could keep it open only by maintaining a

vastly superior fleet in the Mediterranean; and it would be difficult

for her to maintain there a fleet which would not be practically

overmatched by one which Russia could easily keep up in the Black Sea

and the Sea of Marmora. The days are past when a Hood or a Nelson might

safely risk a battle if the odds against him were much less than two to

one. A British admiral must henceforth make his count upon meeting skill

and seamanship equal to his own, and whatever advantage he gains must be

gained by sheer preponderance of force.

If Great Britain is to retain her Indian empire, a collision there

between her and Russia is a foregone conclusion. An empire which, under

a succession of sovereigns of very different character, has steadily

pressed its march of conquest through the deserts of Turkistan, will not

be likely to look without longing eyes upon the fertile valley of the

Indus; and here Russia would have a fearful advantage in position. The

Suez route practically closed, as it would be in the event of a war,

Britain could only reach India by the long voyage around the Cape of

Good Hope, while Russia would have broad highways for the march of her

troops to the banks of the Indus, whence she could menace the whole

peninsula of Hindostan.

We indeed do not think that the possession of her Indian empire adds

anything to the power of Great Britain. She has never derived any direct

revenue from it. The Indian expenditures to-day exceed, and are likely

in the future to exceed, the revenues. All the vast amounts of plunder

and "loot" which individuals, the East India Company, or the Crown have

gained, have cost to get them more than they were worth. Unlike

Australia and the Dominion of Canada, India offers no field for

colonization for men of British blood, where they or their children may

build up a new Britain under strange stars. It has come to be an

accepted fact that Englishmen cannot long retain health and vigor in

India, and that their offspring, born there, rarely survive childhood

unless sent "home" at an early age. Britain holds India purely and

absolutely as a conquered and subjugated territory. Whether British rule

in India is, upon the whole, a blessing or a curse to the natives, is a

matter of grave doubt; that it is most unwillingly borne, is beyond all

question. It is a despotism pure and unmixed, and a despotism of the

most galling kind--a despotism exercised by a horde alien in race and

religion, alien in habits and modes of thought, in life and manners, in

customs and ideas. Macaulay, when in power in India, forty years ago,

said of it the best that can be said: "India cannot have a free

government; but she may have the next best thing--a firm and impartial

despotism." To maintain this despotism, even against the feeble natives

alone, imposes a heavy strain upon the British government. The British

empire in India is only a thin crust overlying a bottomless quagmire,

into which it is in peril of sinking at any moment by a force from above

or an upheaval from below. How nearly this came to pass during the

accidental Sepoy mutiny of twenty years ago, is known to all men. Had

that mutiny chanced to have broken out three years before, during the

Crimean war, it is safe to say that the course of the world's history

would have taken a different turn. Since then Great Britain has

apparently somewhat consolidated this crust, but it is yet thin, and the

weight of Russia thrown upon it could scarcely fail to break it through.

The commercial value of India to Great Britain is, we think, vastly

exaggerated. India, in proportion to her population, has always been,

and is likely long to be, a very poor country. The trade of Great

Britain with India--exports and imports--is not much greater than that

with France, considerably less than that with Germany, and far less than

that with the United States; and we see no reason to suppose that it is

perceptibly increased by the subjugation of India to the British crown.

India sells to Great Britain what she can, and buys from her what she

wants and can pay for, and would continue to do so in any case. Still,

we do not imagine that the British government or people will ever be

brought to take our view of the value of India to them. It will be held

to the last extremity of the national power, and will only be abandoned

under stress of the direst necessity. And for her secure possession of

India it is absolutely essential, for reasons which have been stated,

that whoever else may have Constantinople in the future, Russia shall

not have it. England's interest in the question is a purely selfish one.

She is content to have the Turks there because for the time being they

keep the Russians out. Whatever worth may formerly have been in the

sentimental averment that it is the duty of the European family of

nations to see to it that no weak member of it is gravely wronged by a

stronger one is past and gone. It is from no love for the Turks that

Great Britain desires that the Sultan should continue to hold at least

nominal sovereignty over Turkey in Europe, and the actual custody of the

keys of the Black Sea. An able English writer says:[H]

The position of the Turk at Constantinople is no choice of

ours, nor any creation of our policy. We do not maintain him

for any love of himself, nor because we rely on his strength

to guard the post--though that is absurdly underrated. His

corruption and weakness are at least as great an

embarrassment to us as an injury to the nations of his

empire. But the whole Eastern question hangs upon the fact

that he is there, and has been there with a long

prescriptive right which he is not likely to yield, or to

have wrested from his grasp till after a frantic struggle of

despair. Nor is any practical mode apparent by which he will

be soon displaced, save that, after a convulsion which would

involve all Europe, the Czar should be enthroned upon the

Bosporus. To prevent that catastrophe, and to avert the

horrors that must precede it, is our real Eastern policy.

[Footnote H: "Quarterly Review;" October, 1876.]

Still more emphatic is the declaration of Lord Derby, the British

Premier, when defending the action of the Government in sending the

Mediterranean fleet, last May, to Besika Bay, at the mouth of the

Dardanelles: "We have in that part of the world great interests which we

must protect.... It is said that we sent the fleet to the Dardanelles to

maintain the Turkish empire. I entirely deny it. _We sent the fleet to

maintain the interests of the British empire._"

Let us now glance rapidly at Turkey in Europe, the coveted prize in this

case. Nominally, and upon the maps, it comprises all except the southern

apex of the great triangular peninsula bounded on the east by the Black

Sea, the Sea of Marmora, and the Archipelago; on the west by the

Adriatic; on the north, the broad base of the peninsula, it is bounded

by Austria; on the south, the narrow apex, by Greece. Russia touches it

only on the northeast corner. Its area is in round numbers 200,000

square miles, not differing materially from that of France or Germany,

or about five-sixths of that of Austria. No other part of Europe, of

anything like equal extent, combines so many natural advantages of

geographical position, soil, and climate. The population is variously

estimated at from 13,000,000 upward; we think that 17,000,000 is a

tolerably close approximation. Of these, in round numbers, only about

2,000,000 are Turks, or, as they style themselves, Osmanlis; 11,500,000

are of various Sclavonic races; 1,500,000 are Albanians; 1,000,000

Greeks; the remainder Armenians, Jews, and Gipsies. In religion there,

there are about 4,800,000 Mohammedans, nearly half of whom are not

Osmanlis, the remainder being of Sclavonic descent, whose ancestors

embraced Islam in order to save their estates; they are, however, quite

as devoted Mussulmans as are the Osmanlis themselves. There are now

about 12,000,000 Christians, of whom some 11,000,000 belong to the Greek

Church, and nearly 1,000,000 are in communion with the Church of Rome.

The name Ottomans is officially given to all the subjects of the empire,

irrespective of race or religion; all except Mussulmans are specifically

designated as _Rayahs_, "the flock." Nominally, at least, by the new

Constitution promulgated in December, 1876, while Islam is the religion

of the State, all subjects are equal before the law, and all, without

distinction of race or creed, are alike eligible for civil and military

positions.

But a very considerable part of this territory is not properly included

in the Ottoman empire. The principality of Roumania, in the northeastern

corner, made up of what was formerly known as Wallachia and Moldavia,

with a population of about 4,500,000, is practically independent, under

a prince of the house of Hohenzollern, elected in 1866. It merely

acknowledges the suzerainty of the Sultan, to whom it pays an annual

tribute of some $200,000. Servia, on the north, bordering upon Austria,

with a population something less than 1,500,000, has for years been

really independent, merely paying a tribute of less than $100,000.

Roumania and Servia are strongly under Russian influence. Besides these

is the little State of Montenegro, on the Adriatic, with a population of

less than 200,000, which disowns the suzerainty of the Sultan, and has

for many months waged a fierce but desultory war against him.

Of what properly constitutes Turkey in Europe, with a population of some

11,000,000, the following are the principal divisions, designating them

by their former names, by which they are still best known: south of

Roumania, and between the Danube and the Balkhan mountains, is Bulgaria;

south of Bulgaria is Roumelia, in which Constantinople is situated; in

the northwest is Herzegovina; between which and Servia is Bosnia; on the

west, along the Adriatic, is Albania. In estimating the defensive

strength of the Ottoman empire we must take main account of Turkey in

Asia, with a population of some 17,000,000, by far the larger portion of

whom are Osmanlis, devoted to Islam, warlike by nature, and fully

capable, as was shown in the Crimean war, of being moulded into

excellent soldiers. But our present concern is with Turkey in Europe.

If the ingenuity of man, working through long centuries of misrule, had

set itself to the task of developing a form of government the most

potent for evil and the least powerful for good, the system could not

have been worse than that which exists in European Turkey; and the worst

of it is that no one but the most hopeful optimist can perceive in it

the slightest hope of reform or practical amendment. In theory the

Sultan is the recognized organ of all executive power in the State. The

dignity is hereditary in the house of Osman; but the brother of a

deceased or deposed Sultan takes precedence of the son, as being nearer

in blood to the great founder of the house. A Sultan, therefore, must

see in his brother a possible rival, who must, in case his life is

spared, be kept immured in the seclusion of the harem. A Sultan who

succeeds his brother naturally comes to the throne at a somewhat mature

age, but as ignorant as a babe of all that belongs to the duties of

government; lucky it is if he is not also physically and mentally worn

out by debauchery and excess. Turkish history is full of instances where

one of the first acts of a Sultan has been to order the execution of his

brothers and nephews. Thus Mahmoud II. put to death his infant nephew,

the son of his predecessor, and caused three pregnant inmates of the

harem to be flung into the Bosporus in order to make sure the

destruction of their unborn offspring. The actual task of government is

in some sort divided between the Sultan and the "Porte," a term which is

used to designate the chief dignitaries of the State. The "Sublime

Porte" is the Council of the Grand Vizier, who presides over the Council

of State, consisting of the ministers for home affairs, for foreign

affairs, and for executive acts, with several secretaries, one of whom

is supposed to be answerable that the acts of the ministry are in

conformity with, the supreme law of the Koran. The Porte of the

Defterdar, or Minister of Finance, whose council is styled the "Divan,"

consists of several ministers and other functionaries. The "Agha"

formerly comprised many civil and military officials whose duties were

in some way immediately connected with the person of the Sultan, not

very unlike what we call a "kitchen cabinet." The foregoing are all

designated as "Dignitaries of the Pen." The "Dignitaries of the Sword"

are the viceregal and provincial governors, styled pachas and beys. They

are at once civil and military commanders; and, most important of all,

tax-gatherers, and not infrequently farmers as well as receivers of

taxes. If they forward to the Porte the required sum of money, little

care is had as to the manner in which their other duties are performed

or neglected. The manifold extortions of the local pachas keep one part

or another of the empire, not only in Europe, but in Asia, in a state of

perpetual insurrection, of which little is ever heard abroad.

The Koran is the acknowledged source of all law, civil and

ecclesiastical. Its interpreter is the _Sheikh-ul-Islam_, "the Chief of

the Faithful," sometimes styled the "Grand Mufti." He is the head of the

_Ulemi_, or "Wise Men," comprising the body of great jurists,

theologians, and _literati_, any or all of whom he may summon to his

council. He is appointed for life by the Sultan, and may be removed by

him. His office is in theory, and sometimes in practice, one of great

importance. To him and his council the Sultan is supposed to refer every

act of importance. He does not declare war or conclude peace until the

Grand Mufti has formally pronounced the act "conformable to the law." It

is only in virtue of his _fetwa_, or decree, that the deposition of a

Sultan is legalized. A _fetwa_ from him would summon around the standard

of the Prophet all the fanatical hordes of Islam to fight to the death

against the infidels, in the firm belief that death on the battlefield

is a sure passport to Paradise. With the Koran as the supreme law, and

the Sheikh-ul-Islam its sole interpreter, nothing can be more futile

than the provision of the new Constitution of December, 1876, that "the

prerogatives of the Sultan are those of the constitutional sovereigns of

the West."

It is necessary here to touch only briefly upon the rise and decline of

the Turkish empire in Europe. The Osmanlis take their name from Osman,

the leader of a Tartar horde driven out from the confines of the Chinese

empire, who overran Asia Minor. His great-grandson, Amurath I., crossed

into Europe, took Adrianople in 1361, and overran Bulgaria and Servia.

Several of his successors pushed far into Hungary and Poland. Mohammed

II. took Constantinople in 1453, and brought the Byzantine empire to a

close. Selim I. (1512-'20) extended his dominion over Mesopotamia,

Syria, and Egypt. Solyman II., "the Magnificent" (1520-1566), raised the

Turkish power to its highest point. He took Buda in 1529; and in 1532

besieged Vienna with a force of 300,000 men, but was routed by the

Polish John Sobieski, with a force hardly a tenth as great. But for

another half century the Turkish power was sufficient to inspire terror

in all Christendom. With the death of Solyman, the power of the Turks

began to wane, slowly but surely, and at the close of the last century

the expulsion of the Turks from Europe seemed close at hand. The great

wars of the French Revolution gave them a new lease of possession, and

at its close Sultan Mahmoud II., who was by blood half French,[I]

endeavored to introduce reforms which some men hoped and others feared

would restore the Ottoman Empire. But the result showed the

impossibility of patching up rotten garments with new cloth. The Greek

revolution broke out, and at its close the Sultan found himself no match

for his vassal, Mehemet Ali, Pacha of Egypt, and it was only the

intervention of Russia, Austria, and Great Britain which prevented the

Pacha from establishing at Constantinople the seat of a new empire,

which, be it what it might, would not have been Turkish. What were the

reasons of Great Britain and France it is not now easy to say. Those of

Russia are patent: she wanted Constantinople to remain in the hands of

the Turks until she herself was in a position to seize it. From that

time the Ottoman Empire became the "sick man of Europe," around whose

bedside all the other powers were watching, each determined that none of

the others should gain the greater share in his estates when he died. In

1844 they formally adopted him into the family of the nations of Europe,

and promised that his safety should be the common care of all.

[Footnote I: His mother was a Creole, a native of Martinique, and cousin

of that other Creole who came to be the Empress Josephine. She had been

sent to France to be educated, and on her voyage homeward was captured

by an Algerine pirate who sold her to the Dey, by whom she was sent as a

present to the Sultan, whose favorite Sultana she became.]

Russia, in the mean while, was busy in endeavoring to make herself the

patron of the Christian subjects of the Sultan, and when the time

appeared ripe, entered upon those overt acts which led to the Crimean

war. Out of this war the Ottoman Empire came with considerable apparent

advantage. The man supposed to be sick unto death showed that there was

unexpected vitality--of a spasmodic sort indeed--in his Asiatic members;

and again there were hopes and fears of his ultimate convalescence, if

not of restoration to robust health. That those hopes and fears were

baseless is now clear enough. Never was the sick man so feeble as within

the last five years.

The existing crisis in the Eastern Question came about in the ordinary

course of things. In the summer of 1875 the pecuniary needs of the

Sublime Porte were more than usually urgent, and the tax-gatherers were

even more than usually exacting. The normal result ensued: there were

local risings in Bosnia and Herzegovina. A secret Bulgarian

revolutionary committee, favored by Russia, has for years existed in

Bucharest, the capital of Roumania. They sent emissaries into Bulgaria

to excite an insurrection in that province. The plan was to set fire to

Adrianople and Philippopolis, each in scores of places, to burn other

towns, mainly inhabited by Mussulmans, and force all the Bulgarian

Rayahs to join the uprising. The insurrection broke out prematurely in

May, 1876, and only a few were actively engaged in it. Two or three

thousand troops would have been sufficient to have quelled the rising;

but there were none in the province, and despite the urgent appeals of

the Pacha none were sent. The Mussulmans, who are in a fearful minority

there, were thrown into a panic; and the Pacha gave orders for calling

an ignorant and fanatical population to arms. Regular troops were at

last sent. The Turks gained an easy victory, and perpetrated those

ineffable atrocities, the recital of which sent a thrill of horror

throughout Christendom. The Bulgarians fled northward toward Servia,

pursued by the Turks, who it is said made predatory incursions. Prince

Milan made some extraordinary demands upon the Sultan, among which were

that the government of Bulgaria should be committed to him and that of

Bosnia to Prince Nicholas of Herzegovina. The Grand Vizier refused to

listen to these demands; whereupon the Prince called the Servians to

arms, declared war against the Sultan, invaded Bulgaria, and soon

assumed the title of King of Servia. His invasion of Bulgaria met with

ill success. Although aided by many Russian soldiers and officers,

absent on special leave from their regiments, the Servians were driven

back over their frontiers; and the war was finally suspended by a truce

for six months. We suppose that there can be no doubt that the rising in

Bulgaria and the action of Servia were favored, if not by the Czar

personally, yet by the Russian government, although it would, if

possible, have withheld Prince Milan from declaring war when he did. The

Servian Bishop Strossmayer expressly affirms that the insurrection in

Herzegovina was prematurely commenced against the advice of Russia, and

that Servia and Montenegro went to war of their own accord, though they

have naturally accepted the Russian aid since accorded to them. He adds

that Prince Gortschakoff, who in the Russian government is all that

Prince Bismarck is in that of Germany, the year before last "informed

Prince Milan that Russia was unprepared; that only within three years

did she count on taking Constantinople; and that only then would she

call on the Sclaves of the South to plant the Greek cross on the dome of

St. Sophia."

Meanwhile, on the news of the Turkish atrocities in Bulgaria, the Czar

put his troops in motion toward the Turkish frontier, and made demands

upon the Sultan which, if acceded to, would have practically made the

Czar the actual sovereign of all Turkey in Europe north of the Balkhan.

Great Britain sent her fleet to the mouth of the Dardanelles to

"maintain the interests of the British empire" in that part of the

world. Diplomatic notes and rejoinders passed between the cabinets of

the great Powers; and early in January an International Conference was

assembled at Constantinople to endeavor to settle, or at least to stave

off the present crisis in the Eastern Question; Great Britain, through

her representative, the Earl of Salisbury, apparently taking the lead.

As we write, in the early days of February, all that is definitely known

is: The Conference has utterly failed; the Sultan absolutely refused to

accede to the propositions made to him; and the ambassadors of the great

Powers have been withdrawn from Constantinople. Surmises and rumors as

to what will next be done are rife; not the least significant or the

least probable being that the Emperors of Germany, Russia, and Austria

are consulting as to taking the matter into their own hands. Whatever

the immediate issue may be--whether a peace of some kind; a partial war

between Russia on the one side, and Turkey, with or without Great

Britain, on the other; or a general European war--of one thing we may be

certain: it will not cause Russia to more than postpone still longer her

long-cherished determination to have Constantinople.

Mr. Carlyle has suggested, as a final settlement of the Eastern

Question, that Turkey in Europe should be divided between Russia,

Austria, and Great Britain. But, as is his wont, he leaves out some

essential factors in the problem. No part of this territory would be of

the slightest use to Great Britain, except perhaps the island of Candia

as a sort of half-way house in the highway to India by the Suez canal.

She has everything to lose and little more than nothing to gain by any

such partition, which, as it necessarily must, would give Constantinople

to Russia. Mr. Carlyle has so thorough a dislike to France--and with him

dislike is nearly equivalent to contempt--that he naturally leaves her

out of the problem. But it is surprising that he leaves out his favorite

Germany, perhaps the most important factor of all.

We can conceive of a partition of Turkey between Russia and Austria

which would be so manifestly and equally advantageous to both that they

might agree to it. And the line of division is clearly indicated by

nature. Austria, like every other great civilized nation, desires to be

a maritime power; but she touches the sea only at one point, the head of

the Adriatic, with the narrow strip known as Dalmatia, running half way

down its eastern coast. There are only two considerable ports, Trieste

and Fiume. Eastward, and back of Dalmatia, are Servia, Bosnia, and

Herzegovina; and below these, on the Adriatic, is the long coast-line of

Albania, with several good harbors. Across the narrowing isthmus is the

Archipelago, with the excellent harbor of Salonika. Now look on any

tolerable map, and one will see on the eastern borders of Servia, where

the Danube breaks through the Carpathians, a range of mountains shooting

southward to and crossing the Balkhan, from which it is continued still

southward to the Archipelago, the whole dividing European Turkey into

two almost equal halves. Let Russia take the eastern half, comprising

Roumania, Bulgaria, and the half of Roumelia, including Constantinople,

the whole shore of the Sea of Marmora and the Dardanelles--all that she

really needs or cares for. Let Austria take the other half, which would

give her the whole eastern coast of the Adriatic, and a large frontage

on the Archipelago, and so a double access to the Mediterranean and

thence to the ocean. She would acquire thereby an access of valuable

territory equal to almost half of her present dominions, which would

render her relatively to Russia fully as strong as she now is.

But such a partition could not be carried into effect without the

concurrence of Germany, for Germany is undoubtedly as a military power

much stronger than Russia. Germany certainly would never assent unless

she could somewhere get something equivalent to that gained by Austria

and Russia, and not an inch of Turkey would be of any use to her. But in

quite another part of Europe is a territory comparatively small in

extent, which would be of priceless value to Germany. This is the little

kingdom of Holland, which is indeed physically a part of Germany, and

essential to the rounding off of the boundaries of the new empire. It

would give her an extended sea-front, which is what she also needs in

order to become a great naval and commercial power. It would give her

also in the Zuyder Zee a naval depot and harbor of refuge inferior only

to that of the Black Sea, and immeasurably superior to any other in

Europe. Furthermore, with Holland would go the possession of Java and as

many other great islands in the Indian Ocean as she might choose to

seize and colonize. To Holland, indeed, we think such an annexation

would be a decided gain. Her people are in race, language, and religion

closely allied to the Germans. It would be better for her to become a

State, inferior only to Prussia, of the great German empire, than a

feeble kingdom, always at the mercy of her powerful neighbors. But

whether it would be for her good or not, would not be likely to be much

taken into account should the great Powers agree upon a reconstruction

of the political map of Europe. The interests of France would suffer no

material damage from this, provided she were left free to extend her

Algerian possessions over the whole Mediterranean coast of Africa, now

almost a desert, but once the granary of the Roman empire, and

abundantly capable of being restored to its ancient fertility; or in

case she should think her dignity required something more, she might

receive in Belgium far more than a counterpoise for her recent loss of

Alsace-Lorraine.

Suppose that in some not remote future the policy of Russia, Germany,

and Austria shall happen to be directed by statesmen as able and

unscrupulous as Gortschakoff, Bismarck, and Von Beust, we think such a

settlement of the Eastern Question by no means an improbable one. And

should these Powers agree to effect it, all the rest of Europe could do

nothing to the contrary.

A. H. GUERNSEY.

THE LASSIE'S COMPLAINT.

Now simmer cleeds the groves in green,

An' decks the flow'ry brae;

An' fain I'd wander out at e'en,

But out I daurna gae.

For there's a laddie down the gate

Wha's like a ghaist to me;

An' gin I meet him air or late,

He winna lat me be.

He glow'rs like ony silly gowk,

He ca's me heavenly fair.

I bid him look like ither fowk,

Nor fash me sae nae mair.

I ca' him coof an' hav'rel too,

An' frown wi' scornfu' ee.

But a' I say, or a' I do,

He winna lat me be.

JAMES KENNEDY.

ASSJA.

BY IVAN TOURGUENEFF.

I was then twenty-five years old, began N. N. As you see, the story is

of days long past. I was absolutely my own master, and was making a

foreign tour, not to "finish my education," as the phrase is nowadays,

but to look about me in the world a little. I was healthy, young,

light-hearted; I had plenty of money and as yet no cares; I lived in the

present and did precisely as I wished; in one word, life was in full

flower with me. It did not occur to me that man is not like a plant, and

that his time of bloom is but once. Youth eats its gilded gingerbread,

and thinks that is to be its daily food; but the time comes when one

longs in vain for a bit of dry bread. But it is not worth while to speak

of that.

I was travelling without aim or plan: made stops wherever it pleased me,

and went on whenever I felt the need of seeing fresh faces--especially

faces. Men interested me above all things. I detested monuments,

collections of curiosities. The mere sight of a guide roused in me

feelings of weariness and fury. In the Dresden "Gruene Gewoelbe" I nearly

lost my wits. Nature made a powerful impression upon me; but I did not

love her so-called beauties--her mighty hills, her crags and torrents. I

did not like to have them take possession of me and disturb my

tranquillity. Faces, on the contrary--living, earthly faces, men's talk,

laughter, movements--I could not do without. In the midst of a crowd I

was always particularly gay and at my ease. It gave me real pleasure

merely to go where others went, to shout when others shouted, and at the

same time to observe how these others shouted. It pleased me to observe

men--yes, I did not observe them merely; I studied them with a delighted

and insatiable curiosity. But I am digressing again.

Twenty years ago, then, I was living in the little German town of S----,

on the left bank of the Rhine. I sought solitude. I had been wounded to

the heart by a young widow whose acquaintance I had made at a

watering-place. She was extremely pretty and vivacious, flirted with

everybody--alas! with me also, poor rustic! At first she had lifted me

to the skies, but soon plunged me in despair when she sacrificed me to a

rosy-cheeked lieutenant from Bavaria. Seriously speaking, the wound in

my heart was not very deep; but I considered it my duty to give myself

for a time to melancholy and retirement--what pleasure youth finds in

these!--and accordingly settled myself in S----.

This little town had attracted me by its position at the foot of high

hills, by its old walls and towers, its hundred-year-old diadems, its

steep bridges over the clear little brook which flowed into the Rhine,

but above all by its good wine. And after sunset--it was in June--the

loveliest of fair-haired Rhineland girls sauntered through the narrow

streets and cried, "Good evening!" in their sweet tones to the stranger

whom they met, some of them even lingering still when the moon rose

behind the peaked roofs of the old houses, and the little stones of the

pavement showed distinctly in her steady light. Then I delighted in

strolling about the old town. The moon seemed to look down benignly from

a cloudless sky, and the town received this glance and lay peacefully

there wrapped in sleep and veiled in moonbeams--the light that at once

soothes and vaguely stirs the soul. The weathercock upon the high, sharp

spire gleamed in dull gold; long gleams of gold quivered on the dark

surface of the stream; some dim lights--O thrifty German folk!--burned

here and there in the small windows under the slated roofs; the vines

stretched out mysterious fingers from the walls; something stirred

perhaps in the shadow of the fountain in the little three-cornered

market-place; suddenly the sleepy cry of the watchman sounded; then a

good-natured dog growled in an undertone; and the air kissed the brow so

softly, and the lindens smelled so sweet, that the breast involuntarily

heaved quicker, and the word "Gretchen" rose to the lips, half a cry,

half question.

This little town of S---- lies about two versts from the Rhine. I went

often to look at the majestic river, and would sit for hours upon a

stone bench under a lonely, large oak, thinking, not without a certain

exertion, of my faithless widow. A little statue of the Virgin, with a

red heart pierced with swords upon her breast, looked sadly out from the

leaves. On the opposite bank lay the town of L----, somewhat larger than

the one in which I had established myself. One evening I was sitting in

my favorite spot, looking in turn at the stream, the sky, and the

vineyards. Before me some white-hooded urchins were climbing over the

sides of a boat that was drawn up on the shore and lay there keel

upward. Little skiffs with sails hardly swollen passed slowly along;

green waves slid by with a gentle, rushing sound. All at once strains of

music greeted my ears. I listened. They were playing a waltz in L----.

The double bass grumbled out its broken tones, the violins rang clear

between, the flutes trilled noisily.

"What is that?" I asked an old man who approached me dressed in a plush

waistcoat, blue stockings, and shoes with buckles.

"That?" he replied, shifting his pipe from one corner of his mouth to

the other. "Those are the students who have come from B---- to the

_Commers_."

"I will see this Commers," I thought. "Besides, I have not yet been in

L----." I found a ferryman and crossed the river.

Perhaps not every one knows what a Commers is. It is a particular kind

of drinking bout, in which the students from one section, or of one

society, unite. Almost every participant of a Commers wears the

conventional costume of the German student: a short jacket, high boots,

and a little cap with colored vizor. The students generally assemble at

midday and carouse till morning, drinking, singing, smoking, and

occasionally they hire a band.

Such a Commers was at this moment held in L---- at a little inn called

the Sun, in a garden adjoining the street. Flags were flying from the

inn and over the garden itself. The students sat round tables under the

spreading lindens; a huge bulldog under one of the tables. The musicians

were under a trellis at one side, playing with great spirit, and

refreshing themselves from time to time with mugs of beer. A great crowd

had collected in the street before the unpretending little inn. The good

citizens of L---- were not of the stuff to let slip a good opportunity

of seeing strange guests. I mingled with the crowd of lookers-on. It

gave me an immense satisfaction to watch the faces of the students,

their embraces, their exclamations, the innocent affectations of youth,

the eager glances, the unrestrained laughter--the best laughter in the

world. All this generous ferment of young, fresh life, this striving

forward, no matter whither so it be forward, this rollicking,

untrammelled existence excited and infected me. Why not join them, I

thought?

"Assja, have you had enough?" suddenly asked in Russian a man's voice

behind me.

"Let us wait a little longer," answered another voice, a woman's, in the

same tongue.

I turned hastily. My eyes fell on a handsome young fellow in a loose

jacket and cap. On his arm hung a girl of medium height, with a straw

hat which entirely hid the upper part of her face.

"You are Russians?" I said aloud involuntarily.

The young man smiled and answered, "Yes; we are Russians."

"I did not expect, in such an out-of-the-way place----" I began.

"Nor did we," he interrupted me. "But what does that signify? All the

better. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Gagin, and this

is"--he paused for an instant--"my sister. May we ask your name?"

I told him, and we began a conversation. I learned that Gagin, like

myself, was travelling for pleasure; that he had arrived at L---- the

week previous, and was now staying there. To speak candidly, I was

always unwilling to make the acquaintance of Russians in other

countries. I could recognize them at any distance by their gait, the cut

of their clothes, and more than all by the expression of their faces.

The self-satisfied, scornful, and usually haughty expression would

change suddenly to one timid and suspicious; in a moment the whole man

is on his guard, his glance wanders about unsteadily. "Have I said

anything ridiculous? Are they laughing at me?" this anxious look seems

to say. But a moment more, and the majesty of the physiognomy is

restored, only occasionally replaced by stupidity. Yes, I avoided

Russians, but Gagin pleased me at once. There are such fortunate faces

in the world. To look at them is a pleasure for every one. One feels at

once cheered and caressed by them. Gagin had just such a gentle,

attractive face, with great soft eyes and fine curly hair. When he

spoke, even if you did not see his face, you felt by the mere sound of

his voice that he was smiling.

The young girl whom he had called his sister also seemed to me at the

first glance very lovely. There was something peculiar and remarkable in

the traits of her round, brown face, with its thin, delicate nose, its

round, almost babyish cheeks, and its clear, dark eyes. Her form was

graceful, but apparently not yet fully developed. She did not in the

least resemble her brother.

"Will you come home with us?" Gagin asked me. "I think we have seen

enough of the Germans. Our beloved countrymen would certainly have

broken some window panes or smashed a few chairs, but these fellows are

quite too well behaved. What do you say, Assja, shall we go home?"

The young girl nodded assent.

"We live just beyond the village," Gagin continued, "in a little

solitary house far up the hillside. It is really fine there. You shall

see for yourself. The landlady promised me to have some buttermilk for

us. It will be dark very soon, and then you can cross the Rhine far more

pleasantly by moonlight."

We set out. Through a low gate--for the town was surrounded on all sides

by an old wall, some of whose loop-holes even yet remained

undestroyed--we gained the open country, and after we had walked about a

hundred paces beside a stone wall we came to a steep and narrow path up

the hill, into which Gagin turned. The slope on both sides was planted

with grapes. The sun had but just set, and a soft purple light rested on

the green vines, the long poles, the dusty soil covered with bits of

broken slate and stone, and upon the white walls of a small house with

steep roof and light windows, which stood high above us on the mountain

which we were climbing.

"Here is our place!" exclaimed Gagin as we drew near the house. "And

here is the landlady just bringing us our buttermilk. Good evening,

madam! We will be there in a moment. But first," he added, "look about

you once. What do you say to this outlook?"

The view was indeed charming. The Rhine lay before us, a strip of silver

between green banks. In one place it glowed in the purple and gold of

the sunset. All the houses in the little towns clustering on the shores

stood out distinctly; hills and fields spread far before us. Below us it

was lovely, but above it was lovelier still. The brilliant transparency

of the atmosphere, and the depth and purity of the sky, made a profound

impression on me. The air was fresh and exhilarating. It blew with a

light wave motion, as if it felt itself more free on the hilltop.

"You have chosen a magnificent situation," I said.

"Assja found it out," Gagin answered. "Now, Assja, give your orders. Let

us have everything brought here. We will take tea in the open air. We

can hear the music better here. Haven't you noticed it?" he went on. "A

waltz close at hand may be often good for nothing--mere commonplace

jingle. It becomes exquisite at a distance; sets all the sentimental

strings in one's heart a twanging." Assja (her name was properly Anna;

but Gagin always called her Assja, and I shall allow myself that

privilege)--Assja went into the house and soon returned with the

landlady. Both together they carried a great tea-tray with a jug full of

milk, plates, spoons, sugar, berries, and bread. We seated ourselves and

began to eat. Assja took off her hat. Her black hair, cut rather short,

and curled like a boy's, fell in thick ringlets over neck and shoulders.

At first she was shy; but Gagin said to her:

"Assja, don't be afraid. He won't hurt you!"

She smiled, and immediately addressed a little conversation to me. I

have never seen a more restless creature. She did not sit still a

moment. She stood up, ran into the house, came out again, sang in an

undertone, and laughed often in an odd way. It seemed as if she was not

laughing at what she heard, but at stray thoughts which came into her

head. Her large, clear eyes looked at us frankly and fearlessly. Now and

then, however, the lids fell, and then her glance became suddenly deep

and gentle.

For nearly two hours we chatted together. Daylight was long past, and

the twilight had changed from scarlet and gold to a faint redness, then

to a clear gray, and finally all was lost in night; but our speech

flowed as uninterruptedly, peaceful, and quiet as the air that

surrounded us. Gagin brought a bottle of Rhine wine, and we drank it

leisurely. We could still hear the music. The notes seemed fainter and

sweeter to us. Lights began to appear in the town and on the river.

Assja's head drooped forward so that her hair fell over her eyes. She

was silent and breathed heavily. Then she declared that she was sleepy,

and went into the house; but I saw that she stood for a long time behind

the closed window without lighting her lamp. Then the moon rose, and her

beams quivered on the surface of the water. Everything was bright or in

deep shadow, but certainly took on a different appearance. Even the wine

in our glasses sparkled with a mysterious brilliancy. The wind had

fallen as if it had folded its wings and were resting. Warm, spicy odors

of the night rose from the ground.

"It is time for me to go, or I shall not find a ferryman," I said.

"Yes; it is time," Gagin repeated.

We descended the footpath. Suddenly stones began to rattle down. Assja

was running after us.

"Aren't you asleep then?" her brother asked her. But she ran on before

us without replying. The last dim lights which the students had lighted

in the little inn garden showed through the branches of the trees, and

lent them a gay, fantastic appearance. We found Assja at the shore

talking to the old boatmen. I sprang into the boat and took leave of my

new friends. Gagin promised to visit me on the next day. I shook his

hand and held mine out to Assja, but she merely looked at me and nodded.

The boat was pushed off and was borne down on the swift current. The

ferryman, a hale old fellow, dipped his oars deep into the dark flood.

"You're in the streak of moonshine--you've spoiled it," Assja called

after me.

I looked down. The waves were rippling darkly about the boat.

"Good-by!" rang her voice again.

"Till to-morrow," Gagin added.

The boat touched the bank. I stepped out and looked back, but could see

no one on the shore behind me. The moonshine spanned the stream again

like a golden bridge, and like another good-by I caught the strains of

an old country waltz. Gagin was right. I felt that all the strings of my

heart trembled responsively. I crossed the dusky fields to my house,

drinking great draughts of the balmy air, and giving myself up wholly to

a sweet, vague feeling of expectation. I felt myself happy. But why? I

wished for nothing, I thought of nothing. I was merely happy.

Still smiling from the fulness of delightful and changing sensations, I

sank into bed, and had already closed my eyes when it suddenly occurred

to me that I had not thought of my cruel fair one once in the whole

evening. "What does it mean?" I asked myself. "Am I not hopelessly in

love?" But just as I put this question to myself I fell asleep, as it

seemed, like a baby in its cradle.

* * * * *

The next morning (I was awake, but had not risen) some one knocked with

a stick under my window, and a voice that I immediately recognized as

Gagin's began to sing,

Sleepest thou still?

My lute shall wake thee.

I ran to open the door for him.

"Good morning," said Gagin as he entered. "I disturb you a little early.

But what a morning it is! Fresh, dewy; the larks singing." With his

wavy, shining hair, his bare neck and ruddy checks, he was as fresh as

the morning himself.

I dressed myself, and we went out into the garden, sat down upon a

bench, ordered coffee, and began to talk. Gagin confided to me his plans

for the future. Possessed of a fair property, and entirely independent,

he wished to devote himself to painting; only he regretted that this

decision had been a late one, and that he had already lost much time. I

also detailed my projects, and even took him into the secret of my

unhappy love affair. He listened patiently, but, so far as I could see,

the story of my passion did not awake any very lively sympathy in him.

After he had sighed once or twice out of good manners, he proposed to me

to come and see his studio. I was ready at once.

We did not find Assja. She had gone to the "ruin," the landlady assured

us. Two versts from L---- were the remains of a castle of the middle

ages. Gagin laid all his canvases before me. There was life and truth in

his sketches, a certain breadth and freedom of treatment, but not one

was finished, and the drawing was careless and often faulty. I told him

my opinion frankly.

"Yes, yes," he interrupted me with a sigh. "You are right; it is all

weak and unsatisfactory. But what is to be done? I haven't studied

properly, and the inexcusable carelessness shows everywhere. Before

working it always seems as if I were capable of eagle flights--it seems

as I could hurl the earth out of her course; but when it comes to

execution one loses strength quickly enough, and is tired."

I began to encourage him, but he motioned with his hand that I should be

silent, rolled up his canvases, and threw himself on the sofa. "If my

patience lasts, I shall make something yet," he muttered in his beard;

"if not--then I shall stay a country lout. Come, let us look after

Assja." We started.

* * * * *

The way to the ruin wound round the slope of a wooded valley, at whose

bottom a brook flowed noisily over its pebbles as if it were anxious to

lose itself in the great stream that was shining peacefully behind the

sharply indented mountain side. Gagin called my attention to some

partially lighted spots; in his words the artist certainly spoke, if not

the painter. The river soon appeared. On the summit of the naked rock

rose a square town, black with age but in tolerable preservation, though

it was cleft from top to bottom. Moss-grown walls adjoined this town,

ivy clung here and there, a tangle of briars filled the embrasures and

the shattered arches. A stone foot-walk led to the door that remained

intact. We were already near it when suddenly a girl's figure sped by

us, sprang over the heaps of rubbish, and seated herself on a projection

of the wall directly over the abyss. "There is Assja," cried Gagin. "Is

she mad?"

Through the gate we stepped into a spacious courtyard half filled with

wild apple trees and stinging nettles. It was indeed Assja, who was

sitting on the projection. She looked down at us and laughed, but did

not stir from her place. Gagin threatened her with his finger. I began

to expostulate aloud with her on her recklessness.

"Don't do that," Gagin whispered to me. "Don't exasperate her. You don't

know her. She would be capable of clambering up the town. Look yonder,

rather, and see how ingenious the people hereabouts are."

I looked about me. A thrifty old lady had made herself very comfortable

in a kind of narrow booth made of boards piled up in one corner, and

knitted her stocking, while she occasionally glanced askance at us. She

had beer, cake, and soda-water for tourists. We sat down on a bench and

attacked our heavy tin mugs of cooling beer. Assja still sat motionless;

she had drawn up her feet, and wound her muslin scarf about her head.

Her charming, slender figure showed sharp against the sky, but I could

not look at it without annoyance. Even on the previous day I had seen

something intense, unnatural in her. "Does she want to astonish us?" I

thought. "What for? What a childish freak!" As if she had fathomed my

thought, she cast a quick and piercing glance at me, laughed loudly,

sprang in two bounds from the wall, and going to the old woman, asked

for a glass of water.

"You think that I want to drink it?" she said, turning to her brother.

"No; there are some flowers up there that I must water."

Gagin made no reply, but she scrambled up the ruins glass in hand, and,

stopping from time to time and bending down, with extraordinary

painstaking she let fall some drops of water, which glistened in the

sun. Her movements were full of grace, but I was vexed as before,

although I was forced to admire her lightness and dexterity. In one

perilous spot she uttered a little shriek with design, and then laughed

loudly again. That annoyed me still more.

"The young lady climbs like a goat," mumbled the old woman, and stopped

knitting for a moment.

Meanwhile Assja had emptied her glass and come down, roguishly swaying

to and fro. A strange, imperceptible smile played round her brows, and

nostrils, and lips; half audacious, half merry, the dark eyes were

shining.

"You find my behavior scandalous," her face seemed to say. "Very well. I

know that you admire me."

"Neatly done, Assja; neatly done," said Gagin under his breath.

It seemed as if she felt suddenly ashamed of herself. Her long lashes

fell, and she sat down near us meekly, as if conscious of naughtiness.

Now for the first time I could see her face fairly--the most changeful

that I had ever beheld. For a few moments it was very pale, and took on

a reserved, almost a melancholy expression. Her features seemed larger,

stronger, and more simple. She was perfectly still. We made the tour of

the ruins (Assja followed us), and were very enthusiastic over the view.

Meanwhile dinnertime approached. Gagin paid the old woman, asked for

another glass of beer, and cried, turning to me with a sly look,

"To the health of the lady of your heart!"

"Has he--have you such a lady?" asked Assja suddenly.

"Who hasn't?" replied Gagin.

Assja became thoughtful. Her face assumed yet another expression. The

challenging, almost bold smile returned.

On the way home she laughed more, and her behavior was more whimsical

than ever. She broke for herself a long branch, carried it over her

shoulder like a gun, and bound her scarf about her head. A party of

fair-haired young English dandies met us. As if at a word of command,

they all stood aside to let Assja pass, with a cold glare of

astonishment in their eyes, while she began to sing loudly in mockery.

As soon as we had reached the house she went to her chamber, and

appeared at dinner in a most elaborate dress, with carefully arranged

hair, and wearing gloves. She behaved with great propriety, not to say

stillness, at table, hardly touched her food, and drank water out of a

wineglass. Evidently she wished to appear before me in a new role, that

of a conventional and well brought up young lady. Gagin let her alone.

It was easy to see that it had become a habit with him to let her have

her will in all things. At times he looked at her good-naturedly and

shrugged his shoulders slightly, as much as to say, "Be indulgent; she

is only a child." When the meal was ended Assja rose, made us a

courtesy, and taking up her hat, asked Gagin if she might go to see Frau

Luise.

"Since when have you begun to ask permission?" answered Gagin with his

ready smile, but with a little astonishment. "Is the time long to you

with us?"

"No; but yesterday I promised Frau Luise that I would visit her. And

then I think you two would rather be alone. Mr. N." (she pointed to me)

"may have something to tell you."

She went.

"Frau Luise," Gagin began, taking pains to avoid my glance, "is the

widow of a former burgomaster of this place; a good old soul, but rather

narrow-minded. She has taken a great fancy to Assja. It is Assja's

passion to make the acquaintance of people of the lower classes. I have

found that pride is at the bottom of the matter every time. I have

spoiled her thoroughly, you see," he went on after a pause; "but what

was there for me to do? I never could carry a point by firmness with any

one; most of all not with her. It is my duty to be indulgent with her."

I was silent. Gagin gave another direction to the conversation. The more

I learned of him the more he pleased me. I soon understood him. His was

a real Russian character--truth-loving, faithful, simple, but

unfortunately rather sluggish, lacking firmness, and without the inward

fire. Youth did not flame up in him; it burned with a gentle glow. He

was most amiable and sensible; but I could not imagine what he would

become in manhood. He wished to be an artist. Without constant,

absorbing endeavor, no one is an artist. You exhaust yourself, I

thought, looking at his gentle face and listening to the slow cadence of

his voice. No; you will not strain every nerve; you will never succeed

in mastering yourself. And yet it was impossible not to be attracted by

him. My heart was really drawn to him. It may have been four hours that

we talked together, sometimes sitting on the sofa, sometimes walking

quietly up and down before the house; and in these four hours we became

real friends.

The day was at its close, and it was time to go home. Assja had not

returned.

"She is a wild creature," Gagin said. "If you please, I will go back

with you, and we will go to Frau Luise's on the way, and I will ask if

she is still there. The distance is trifling."

"We descended to the town, turned into a crooked and narrow cross

street, and came to a standstill before a house of four stories with two

windows on a floor. The second story projected into the street beyond

the first; the third and fourth reached still further forward than the

second. The whole house, with its old-fashioned carving, its two thick

pillars below, its steep, tiled roof, and the beak-shaped gutter running

out from the eaves, had the appearance of some monstrous, squatting

bird.

"Assja," called Gagin, "are you there?"

A lighted window in the third story was thrown up, and Assja's little

dark head appeared. Behind her peered forth the face of a toothless and

blear-eyed old woman.

"Here I am," answered Assja, coquettishly leaning over the window-sill

on her elbows. "It is exceedingly pleasant here. Catch," she added,

flinging a bit of geranium down to Gagin. "Imagine that I am the lady of

your heart."

Frau Luise laughed.

"N. is going," responded Gagin. "He would like to take leave of you."

"Indeed?" said Assja. "In that case give him my sprig. I am coming home

directly."

She shut the window, and I fancied that she gave Frau Luise a kiss.

Gagin handed me the sprig without a word. Without a word I put it in my

pocket, went to the ferry, and crossed to the other side.

I remember that I went home thinking of nothing definite, but feeling a

certain dull ache at my heart, when suddenly a strong odor, well known

to me, but not usual in Germany, made me stop puzzled. I stood still and

recognized by the roadside a hemp field of moderate size, whose smell

reminded me at once of my native steppes. A mighty homesickness arose in

me. I had a longing to feel Russian air blowing on my cheeks, to have

Russian ground beneath my feet. "What am I doing here? Why am I

wandering about among strangers in a strange land?" I cried aloud, and

the vague uneasiness that weighed on my spirits changed suddenly to a

bitter burning pain. I reached the house in a mood entirely different

from the one of the preceding day. I was strangely excited. I could not

compose myself. A feeling of vexation which I could not explain to

myself possessed me. At last I sat down to think of my faithless widow

(for I devoted the close of every day to official recollections of this

lady), and I took out one of her letters. But this time I did not even

open it. My thoughts had taken another turn; I thought--of Assja. I

remembered that Gagin, in the course of conversation, had spoken of

certain obstacles which would make his return to Russia very difficult.

"Is she then really his sister?" I cried aloud.

I undressed myself, went to bed, and tried to sleep; but an hour

afterward I was sitting up with my elbow on the pillow, and still

thinking of the "capricious maid with her affected laugh." "She has a

form like the little Galatea of Raphael in the Farnese," I said to

myself. "Yes, and she is not his sister."

Meanwhile the widow's letter lay quietly on the floor, bleached by a

moonbeam.

* * * * *

However, on the following day I went again to L----. I said to myself

that I wished to visit Gagin, but in truth I was curious to watch Assja,

to see if she would pursue the extravagances of the day previous. I

found them both in the parlor, and wonderful!--was it because I had

thought so much of Russia in the night and the morning?--Assja appeared

to me a real Russian girl--yes, even a very ordinary one, almost like a

servant. She wore a shabby gown; her hair was combed back behind her

ears. She sat quietly by the window, busy with some sewing, sedate and

still as if she never in her life had been otherwise. She hardly spoke,

examined her work from time to time; and her features had an expression

so dull and commonplace that I was involuntarily reminded of our own

Kathinkas and Maschinkas. To complete the resemblance, she began to hum

"My darling little mother." I looked at her sallow, languid face,

thought of yesterday's fantasies, and got suddenly out of temper. The

weather was magnificent. Gagin declared that he was going to sketch from

nature. I asked if he would permit me to accompany him, if it would not

disturb him?

"On the contrary," said he, "you will assist me by your suggestions."

He put on his Vandyk hat and his painting blouse, took his canvas under

his arm, and started. I followed him slowly; Assja remained at home. In

going out Gagin begged her to take care that the soup should not be too

watery. Assja promised to oversee it in the kitchen. Gagin reached a

dell which I already knew, sat down upon a stone, and began to sketch an

old, hollow, wide-branched oak. I lay down in the grass and took out a

book, but my reading did not advance beyond the second page, nor did he

blacken much paper. We chatted a great deal, and, if my memory does not

deceive me, we discoursed very subtly and profoundly about work: what

one should avoid, what strive for, and in what consisted the real merit

of the artists of our day. At last Gagin declared that he was not in the

mood for work, threw himself down beside me, and then for the first time

our youthful talk flowed free, now passionate, now dreamy, now almost

inspired, but always vague--a conversation peculiar to Russians. After

we had talked ourselves tired we started for home, filled with

satisfaction that we had accomplished something, had arrived at some

result. I found Assja precisely as I had left her. Whatever pains I

might take with my scrutiny I could discover no trace of coquetry, no

evidence of a part designedly played. This time it was impossible to

accuse her of oddity. "Aha!" Gagin said; "you have imposed penance and

fasting on yourself." In the evening she gaped several times without

pretence at concealment, and retired early. I also took leave of Gagin

betimes, and having reached home, I gave myself up to no more dreams.

This day ended in sober reflections. But I remember that as I settled

myself to sleep I said aloud, "What a chameleon the girl is!" And after

a moment's thought I added, "And she is certainly not his sister."

* * * * *

In this way two whole weeks passed. I visited the Gagins every day.

Assja seemed to shun me. She indulged in no more of those extravagances

which had so astonished me on the first days of our acquaintance. It

seemed to me that she was secretly troubled or perplexed. Neither did

she laugh so much. I observed her with interest.

She spoke French and German indifferently well, but one could see in

everything that she had not been in the hands of women since her

childhood, and the strange, desultory education which she had received

had nothing in common with Gagin's. In spite of the Vandyk hat and the

painter's blouse, the delicate, almost effeminate Russian nobleman was

always apparent in him; but she was not in the least like a noblewoman.

In all her movements there was something unsteady. Here was a graft

lately made, wine not yet fermented. Naturally of a timid and shy

disposition, she yet was annoyed by her own timidity, and in her

vexation she compelled herself to be unconcerned and at her ease, in

which she did not always succeed. Several times I turned the

conversation to her life in Russia, her past. She answered my questions

reluctantly. I learned, however, that she had lived in the country for a

long time before her travels. Once I found her with a book. She was

alone. Her head supported by both hands, the fingers twisted deep in her

hair, she was devouring the words with her eyes.

"Bravo!" I called out to her on entering. "You are very busy."

She raised her head and looked at me with great gravity and earnestness.

"Do you really think that I can do nothing but laugh?" she said, and was

about to withdraw.

I glanced at the title of the book; it was a French novel.

"I can't commend your choice," I said.

"What shall I read then?" she cried. And throwing her book on the table,

she added, "It's better that I fill up my time with nonsense," and with

this she ran out into the garden.

That evening I read "Hermann and Dorothea" aloud to Gagin. At first

Assja occupied herself rather noisily near us, then suddenly ceased and

became attentive, seated herself quietly beside me, and listened to the

reading to the end. On the following day I was again puzzled by her mood

till it occurred to me that she had been seized with a whim to be

womanly and discreet like Dorothea. In a word, she was an enigmatical

creature. Full of conceit and irritable as she was, she attracted me

even while she made me angry. I was more and more convinced that she was

not Gagin's sister. His behavior toward her was not that of a brother;

it was too gentle, too considerate, and at the same time a little

constrained. A singular occurrence seemed, by every token, to confirm my

suspicions.

One evening, when I came to the vineyard where the Gagins lived, I found

the gate locked. Without much thought I went to a broken place which I

had often noticed in the wall, and sprang over. Not far from this place,

and aside from the path, there was a small clump of acacia. I had

reached it, and was on the point of passing it. Suddenly I heard Assja's

voice, the words spoken excitedly and through tears:

"No. I will love no one but you: no, no--you alone and for ever!"

"Listen, Assja. Compose yourself," replied Gagin. "You know that I

believe you." I heard the voices of both in the arbor. I saw both

through the sparse foliage. They were not aware of my presence.

"You--you alone," she repeated, threw herself on his neck, and clinging

to his breast, she kissed him amid violent sobs. "Come, enough," he

said, while he smoothed her hair gently with his hand.

For a moment I stood motionless. Suddenly I recollected myself. Enter

and join them? For nothing in the world! it shot through my brain. With

hasty steps I gained the wall, leaped it, and reached my dwelling almost

on the run. I laughed, rubbed my hands together, and congratulated

myself on the chance which had so unexpectedly confirmed my suspicion

(whose truth I had not doubted for an instant); but my heart was heavy.

"They dissemble well?" I thought. "And for what purpose? Why do they

wish to amuse themselves at my expense? I would not have thought it of

them!" What a disturbing discovery it was!

* * * * *

I slept ill, and on the following day I rose early, buckled on my

knapsack, and after telling my landlady not to expect me at night, I

turned my steps toward the mountains, following the stream on which the

town of S---- is built. These mountains are very interesting from a

geological point of view; they are particularly remarkable for the

regularity and purity of their basaltic formations; but I was not bent

on geological investigation. I could give no account to myself of my own

feelings. One thing, however, was clear: I had not the least desire to

see the Gagins. I insisted to myself that the only ground of my sudden

distaste for their society lay in vexation at their falseness.

What had been the necessity of calling themselves brother and sister? I

resolutely avoided thinking of them, loitered idly among the hills and

valleys, spent much time in village inns in friendly talk with the

landlord and his guests, or lay on a flat or sunny rock in the lovely

weather, and watched the clouds float over. In this way three days

passed not unpleasantly, though from time to time I had a stifled

feeling at my heart. This quiet nature accorded perfectly with my state

of mind. I gave myself up completely to the chance of the moment and the

impressions that it brought to me; following one another without haste,

they flooded my soul, and left finally a single feeling where everything

which I had seen or heard or experienced during these three days was

blended--everything: the faint resinous smell of the woods, cry and

tapping of the woodpeckers, the continual murmur of the clear brooks

with spotted trout in their sandy shallows, the not too bold outlines of

the mountains, gray rock, the friendly villages with venerable churches

and trees, storks in the meadows, snug mills with wheels merrily

turning, the honest faces of the country people with their blue smocks

and gray stockings, the slow creaking wagons and well-fed horses, or

sometimes a yoke of oxen, long-haired lads strolling along the cleanly

kept paths under apple and pear trees. To this day I remember with

pleasure the impressions of that time. I greet you, little nook of

modest ground, with your modest content, with your signs everywhere

visible of busy hands, of labor constant if not severe--greetings to you

and peace.

At the end of the third day I returned to S----. I have forgotten to say

that in my vexation with the Gagins, I had endeavored to reinstate the

image of my hard-hearted widow. But I remember, as I began to think of

her, I saw before me a little peasant girl, about five years old, out of

whose round little face a pair of great innocent eyes were regarding me

curiously. The look was so childlike, so confiding, a kind of shame

swept over me. I could not continue a lie before that gaze, and at once

and for ever I said good-by to my early flame.

I found a note from Gagin waiting for me. My sudden whim astonished him.

He made me some reproaches that I had not taken him with me, and begged

me to come to him as soon as I should return. Distrustfully I read this

note, yet the following day found me at L----.

* * * * *

Gagin's reception was friendly. He overwhelmed me with affectionate

reproaches; but no sooner had Assja caught sight of me than she broke

into loud laughter, designedly, it seemed, and without the least cause,

and ran away precipitately. Gagin lost his temper, grumbled at her for a

crazy girl, and begged me to excuse her. I must confess that I was very

cross with Assja. I was uncomfortable before, and now this unnatural

laughter and ridiculous behavior must be added. However, I acted as if I

had observed nothing, and detailed to Gagin all the incidents of my

little journey. He told me what he had done during my absence. But the

conversation went lame. Assja kept running in and out. Finally I

declared that I had some pressing work, and that it was time for me to

be at home. Gagin tried to detain me at first, then looking keenly at

me, he begged permission to accompany me. In the hall Assja approached

me suddenly, and held out her hand to me. I gave her fingers an almost

imperceptible pressure, and bade her good-by carelessly. We crossed the

Rhine together, strolled to my favorite oak tree near the little shrine

to the Virgin, and sat down on a bench to enjoy the landscape. There a

remarkable conversation took place between us.

At first we only spoke in the briefest words, then fell into silence and

fixed our eyes on the shining river.

"Tell me," Gagin began suddenly, with his accustomed smile, "what is

your opinion of Assja? She must appear a little singular to you. Not

so?"

"Yes," I answered, not without a certain constraint. I had not expected

him to speak of her.

"One must learn to know her well to form a judgment upon her," he

continued. "She has a very good heart, but a wild head. It is hard to

live quietly with her. However, it is not her fault, and if you knew her

history----"

"Her history!" I interrupted him. "Isn't she then your----" Gagin looked

at me.

"Is it possible that you have doubted that she was my sister? No," he

went on, without heeding my confusion. "She is; at least she is my

father's daughter. Listen to me. I have confidence in you, and I will

tell you all about her.

"My father was a very honest, sensible, cultivated, and unfortunate man.

Fate had no harder blows for him than for others, but he could not bear

the first one that he felt from her. He had married early--a love match;

his wife, my mother, soon died, and I was left a six months' old baby.

My father took me to his country estates, and for twelve whole years he

lived there in absolute seclusion. He himself took charge of my

education, and would never have been separated from me if my uncle, his

brother, had not come to visit us in our country house. This uncle lived

in Petersburg, where he held a rather important post. He persuaded my

father, who could not be induced to quit his home under any

consideration, to trust me to his care. He showed his brother what an

injury it was to a boy of my age to live in such complete isolation, and

that, with a companion always melancholy and silent as my father, I

should inevitably remain behind boys of my age--yes, that my character

might easily be endangered by such a life. For a long time my father

resisted his brother's arguments, but at last he yielded. I cried at

parting from my father, whom I loved, though I had never seen a smile on

his face; but Petersburg once reached, our gloomy and silent nest was

soon forgotten. I went to school, and was afterward placed in a regiment

of the Guards. Every year I spent some weeks at our country house, and

with every year I found my father more melancholy, more reserved, and

depressed to an alarming degree. He went to church daily, and had almost

given up speech. On one of my visits--I was then in my twentieth year--I

saw for the first time about the house a little lean, black-eyed girl,

who might have been about ten years old. It was Assja. My father said

she was an orphan whose care he had undertaken: those were his own

words. I gave her no further attention. She was as wild, quick, and shy

as a little animal, and if I entered my father's favorite room, a great

dismal chamber in which my mother had died, and which had to be lighted

even by day, she always slunk out of sight behind my father's

old-fashioned easy chair, or hid behind the bookcase. It happened that

for the three or four years following I was prevented by my service from

visiting our estate. Every month I received a short letter from my

father, in which Assja was spoken of seldom and always incidentally. My

father was already past his fiftieth year, but looked still a young man.

Imagine my distress then when I suddenly received a perfectly unexpected

letter from our steward, announcing the fatal illness of my father, and

begging me urgently to come home as quickly as possible if I wished to

see him alive. I rushed headlong home, and found my father, though in

the last agony. My presence seemed the greatest joy to him; he clasped

me in his wasted arms, turned on me his gaze half doubtful, half

imploring, and after he had obtained from me a promise that I would

carry out his last wishes, he ordered his old servant to fetch Assja.

The old man brought her. She could hardly support herself on her feet,

and was trembling in every limb.

"'Now take her,' said my father to me with earnestness. 'I bequeathe to

you my daughter, your sister. You will hear everything from Jacob,' he

added, while he pointed to his valet.

"Assja burst out sobbing, and threw herself on the bed. Half an hour

afterward my father was dead.

"I learned the following story: Assja was the daughter of my father and

a former waiting maid of my mother's, named Tatiana. She rose distinct

to my remembrance, this Tatiana, with her tall, slender figure, her

serious face, regular features, her dark and earnest eyes. She had the

reputation of a proud, unapproachable girl. As nearly as I could learn

from Jacob's reserved and respectful story, my father had entered into

close relations with her some years after my mother's death. At that

time Tatiana was not in her master's house, but living with a married

sister, the dairywoman, in a separate hut. My father became very much

attached to her, and wished to marry her after my departure, but she

herself refused this in spite of his entreaties.

"'The departed Tatiana Vlassievna'--so Jacob told me, standing against

the door, with his hands crossed behind his back--'was in all things

very thoughtful, and would not lower your father. "A fine wife I should

be for you--a real lady wife!" she said to him--in my presence she has

said it.' Tatiana never would come back to the house, but remained,

together with Assja, living with her sister as before. As a child I had

often seen Tatiana at church on saint days. She stood among the

servants, usually near a window. She wore a dark cloth wound about her

head and a yellow shawl on her shoulders--the strong outline of her face

clear against the transparent pane; and she prayed silently and humbly,

bowing very low after the old fashion. When my uncle took me away Assja

was just two; when she lost her mother, just nine years old.

"Immediately after Tatiana's death my father took Assja home to himself.

He had already expressed a wish to have her with him, but Tatiana had

refused it. You can imagine what Assja must have felt when she was taken

into the master's house. To this day she has not forgotten the hour when

for the first time they dressed her in a silk dress and kissed her

little hand. In her mother's lifetime she had been brought up with great

strictness: my father left her without a single restraint. He was her

instructor; except him, she saw no one. He did not spoil her; at least

he did not follow her about like a nursemaid, but he loved her fondly,

and refused her nothing. He was conscious of guilt toward her. Assja

soon discovered that she was the principal person in the household. She

knew the master was her father, but at the same time she began to

understand her equivocal position. Wilfulness and distrust were

developed to an extreme degree in her. Bad manners were contracted;

simplicity vanished. She wished (she herself told me) to compel the

whole world to forget her origin. She was ashamed of her mother, was

ashamed of being ashamed, and was in turn proud of her. You see that she

knew and knows still many things that should not be known at her age.

But does the blame rest with her? Youth was strong in her: her blood

flowed hot, and no hand near to guide her--the fullest independence in

everything! Is such a fate easily borne? She would not be inferior to

other girls. She rushed headlong into study. But what good could result

from it? The life, lawlessly begun, seemed likely to develop lawlessly.

But the heart remained true and the reason sound.

"And so I found myself, a young fellow of twenty, weighted with the care

of a thirteen-year old girl! In the first days after my father's death

my voice caused her a feeling of feverish horror, my caresses made her

sad, and only by degrees and after a long time did she become accustomed

to me. And later, when she had gained security that I really considered

her my sister, and that I loved her as a sister, she attached herself

passionately to me: with her there is no half feeling.

"I brought her to Petersburg. Hard as it was to leave her--I could not

live with her in any case--I placed her at one of the best

boarding-schools. Assja agreed to the necessity of our separation, but

it cost her a sickness which came near to being a fatal one. Little by

little she reconciled herself, and she staid four years in this

establishment. But contrary to my expectations, she remained almost her

old self. The principal of the school often complained to me. 'I cannot

punish her,' she would say; 'and I can do nothing by kindness.' Assja

comprehended everything with great quickness, learned

wonderfully--better than all; but it was utterly impossible to bring her

under the common rule. She rebelled; was sulky. I could not blame her

much. In her position she must keep herself at the service of every one,

or avoid every one. Only one of all her companions was intimate with

her--an insignificant, silent, and poor girl. The other young girls with

whom she was associated, of good families for the most part, did not

like her, and taunted and jibed her whenever they could find

opportunity. Assja was not behind them by a hair's breadth. Once, in the

hour for religious instruction, the teacher came to speak of the idea of

vice. 'Sycophancy and cowardice,' said Assja aloud, 'are the meanest

vices.' In a word, she continued to walk in her own way, only her

manners improved somewhat; but even in this respect, I fancy, she has

made no wonderful advance.

"She had reached her seventeenth year. It was useless to keep her longer

at school. I found myself in great perplexity. All of a sudden a happy

thought struck me: to quit the service, and to travel with Assja for a

year or two. Done as soon as thought. So here are we both now on the

banks of the Rhine: I occupied in learning to paint, she following out

her whims in her usual way. But now I must hope that you will not pass

too harsh judgment upon her; for however much she may insist that

everything is indifferent to her, she does care very much for the

opinion of others, and especially for your own."

And Gagin smiled again his gentle smile. I wrung his hand.

"That is how it stands now," Gagin continued. "But I have my hands full

with her. A real firebrand, that girl! Up to this time no one has ever

pleased her; but alas if ever she falls in love! At times I do not know

what to do with her. Lately she took it into her head to declare that I

was growing cold to her, but that she loved only me, and would love only

me her life long. And how she sobbed!"

"So that was it," I said to myself, and bit my lip. "But tell me," I

asked Gagin, "now that our hearts are open, has really no one ever

caught her fancy? Surely she must have seen many young men in

Petersburg?"

"And they are all absolutely distasteful to her. No. Assja is seeking a

hero--an entirely extraordinary man, or else an artistic shepherd among

his flock. But enough of this gossip. I am detaining you," he added as

he rose.

"Come," I said, "let us go back. I don't care to go home."

"And your work?"

I made no reply. Gagin laughed good-naturedly, and we returned to L----.

As the well-known vineyard and the little white house on the hillside

came in sight, my heart was warmed in a curious way--yes, that was

it--warmed and soothed as if, unknown to me, some one had poured some

healing drops there. Gagin's story had made me cheerful.

Assja met us at the threshold. I had expected to find her still

laughing, but she stepped forward to us, pale, silent, and with eyes

down cast.

"Here he is again," Gagin said to her, "and be sure of this: it was his

own wish to come back."

Assja looked at me inquiringly. I held out my hand to her, and this time

I grasped tightly her cold and slender fingers. I felt deep pity for

her. Now I understood much that had before disturbed me in her: her

inner restlessness, her offensive manner, her endeavor to show herself

other than she was--all was clear to me. I had had a glimpse into this

soul. A constant weight oppressed it. Fearfully the untrained will

fought and struggled, yet her whole being was striving after truth. Now

I understood why this singular girl had attracted me: it was not only

the charm which invested her whole body; it was her soul which drew me.

Gagin began to fumble among his sketches. I asked Assja to come for a

walk with me through the vineyard. She gave a ready, almost humble

assent. We climbed the hill about half way, and stopped on a broad

plateau.

"And you felt no _ennui_ without us?" Assja began.

"Did you, then, feel any in my absence?" I asked.

Assja looked at me sideways.

"Yes," she replied. "Is it pleasant in the mountains?" she immediately

continued. "Are they high? Higher than the clouds? Tell me what you have

seen. You have told my brother, but I have heard nothing about it."

"Why did you go away?" I interrupted her.

"I went--because---- Now I will not go away," she added in a gentle,

confiding tone. "You were cross today."

"I?"

"You."

"But why? I beg you----"

"I don't know; but you were cross, and went away cross. It was very

unpleasant to me to have you go away in that manner, and I am glad that

you have come back."

"I am equally glad," I replied.

Assja moved her shoulders slightly, one after the other, as children do

when they are in good humor.