dogs are by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy,
obliged to work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his
mill, obliged to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops,
and forbidden for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own,
pillaged and plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a
bit of meat, we ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters
closed, that his people should not see it and take it from us--I say,
we were so robbed, and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father
told us it was a dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and
that what we should most pray for was, that our women might be barren
and our miserable race die out!'
"I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed bursting forth
like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people
somewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the
dying boy.
"'Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that
time, poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and
comfort him in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it.
She had not been married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her
and admired her, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are
husbands among us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and
virtuous, and hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine.
What did the two then, to persuade her husband to use his influence
with her, to make her willing?'
"The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the
looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The
two opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even
in this Bastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the
peasant's, all trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.
"'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to
harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him
and drove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in
their grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their
noble sleep may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the
unwholesome mists at night and ordered him back into his harness in
the day. But he was not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one
day at noon, to feed--if he could find food--he sobbed twelve times,
once for every stroke of the bell, and died on her bosom.'
"Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination
to tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of
death, as he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and
to cover his wound.
"'Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his brother
took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his
brother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor,
if it is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and
diversion, for a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When
I took the tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one
of the words that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have
another) to a place beyond the reach of this man, and where, at
least, she will never be his vassal. Then, I tracked the brother
here, and last night climbed in--a common dog, but sword in hand.--
Where is the loft window? It was somewhere here?'
"The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around
him. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were
trampled over the floor, as if there had been a struggle.
"'She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he
was dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then
struck at me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at
him as to make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he
will, the sword that he stained with my common blood; he drew to
defend himself--thrust at me with all his skill for his life.'
"My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of
a broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's.
In another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a
soldier's.
"'Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?'
"'He is not here,' I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he
referred to the brother.
"'He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is
the man who was here? Turn my face to him.'
"I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for
the moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely:
obliging me to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.
"'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide,
and his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to
be answered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad
race, to answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a
sign that I do it. In the days when all these things are to be
answered for, I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to
answer for them separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as
a sign that I do it.'
"Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his
forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the
finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid
him down dead. * * * *
"When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her
raving in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this
might last for many hours, and that it would probably end in the
silence of the grave.
"I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of
the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the
piercing quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness
or order of her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, and
my brother! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,
ten, eleven, twelve. Hush!'
"This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I
had come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began
to falter. I did what little could be done to assist that
opportunity, and by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like
the dead.
"It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and
fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist
me to compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then
that I knew her condition to be that of one in whom the first
expectations of being a mother have arisen; and it was then that I
lost the little hope I had had of her.
"'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the
elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.
"'Not dead,' said I; 'but like to die.'
"'What strength there is in these common bodies!' he said, looking
down at her with some curiosity.
"'There is prodigious strength,' I answered him, 'in sorrow and
despair.'
"He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a
chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in
a subdued voice,
"'Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I
recommend that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high,
and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably
mindful of your interest. The things that you see here are things to
be seen, and not spoken of.'
"I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering.
"'Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?'
"'Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of
patients are always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my
answer, for I was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.
"Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the
pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as
I resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me. * * * *
"I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so
fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and
total darkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no
confusion or failure in my memory; I can recall, and could detail,
every word that was ever spoken between me and those brothers.
"She lingered for a week. Toward the last, I could understand some
few syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her
lips. She asked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I
told her. It was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She
faintly shook her head upon the pillow and kept her secret, as the
boy had done.
"I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told
the brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day.
Until then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness
save the woman and myself, one or the other of them had always
jealously sat behind the curtain at the head of the bed when I was
there. But when it came to that, they seemed careless what
communication I might hold with her; as if--the thought passed
through my mind--I were dying too.
"I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger
brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and
that peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect
the mind of either of them was the consideration that this was highly
degrading to the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught
the younger brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he
disliked me deeply, for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was
smoother and more polite to me than the elder; but I saw this. I
also saw that I was an incumbrance in the mind of the elder, too.
"My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch,
answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was
alone with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one
side, and all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.
"The brothers were waiting in a room downstairs, impatient to ride
away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots
with their riding-whips, and loitering up and down.
"'At last she is dead?' said the elder, when I went in.
"'She is dead,' said I.
"'I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.
"He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He
now gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it
on the table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to
accept nothing.
"'Pray excuse me,' said I. 'Under the circumstances, no.'
"They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to
them, and we parted without another word on either side. * * * *
"I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I
have written with this gaunt hand.
"Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a
little box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had
anxiously considered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to
write privately to the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases
to which I had been summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in
effect, stating all the circumstances. I knew what Court influence
was, and what the immunities of the Nobles were, and I expected that
the matter would never be heard of; but, I wished to relieve my own
mind. I had kept the matter a profound secret, even from my wife;
and this, too, I resolved to state in my letter. I had no
apprehension whatever of my real danger; but I was conscious that
there might be danger for others, if others were compromised by
possessing the knowledge that I possessed.
"I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that
night. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.
It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just
completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.
* * * *
"I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself.
It is so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon
me is so dreadful.
"The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long
life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as
the wife of the Marquis St. Evrémonde. I connected the title by
which the boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial
letter embroidered on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at
the conclusion that I had seen that nobleman very lately.
"My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our
conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was,
and I know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part
suspected, and in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story,
of her husband's share in it, and my being resorted to. She did not
know that the girl was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great
distress, to show her, in secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had
been to avert the wrath of Heaven from a House that had long been
hateful to the suffering many.
"She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living,
and her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her
nothing but that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew
nothing. Her inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had
been the hope that I could tell her the name and place of abode.
Whereas, to this wretched hour I am ignorant of both. * * * *
"These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a
warning, yesterday. I must finish my record to-day.
"She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage.
How could she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his
influence was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in
dread of her husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there
was a child, a pretty boy from two to three years old, in her
carriage.
"'For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'I would
do all I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper
in his inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other
innocent atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of
him. What I have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth
of a few jewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to
bestow, with the compassion and lamentation of his dead mother, on
this injured family, if the sister can be discovered.'
"She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own
dear sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' The child
answered her bravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in
her arms, and went away caressing him. I never saw her more.
"As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it,
I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not
trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.
"That night, the last night of the year, toward nine o'clock, a man
in a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly
followed my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my
servant came into the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife,
beloved of my heart! My fair young English wife!--we saw the man,
who was supposed to be at the gate, standing silent behind him.
"An urgent case in the Rue St. Honoré, he said. It would not detain
me, he had a coach in waiting.
"It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of
the house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from
behind, and my arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road
from a dark corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The
Marquis took from his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me,
burnt it in the light of a lantern that was held, and extinguished
the ashes with his foot. Not a word was spoken. I was brought here,
I was brought to my living grave.
"If it had pleased God to put it in the hard heart of either of the
brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of my
dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or
dead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them.
But, now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them,
and that they have no part in His mercies. And them and their
descendants, to the last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy
prisoner, do this last night of the year 1767, in my unbearable
agony, denounce to the times when all these things shall be answered
for. I denounce them to Heaven and to earth."
VIII
SILENCE*
LEONIDAS ANDREIYEFF
*Reprinted by permission of Nicholas L. Brown, Publisher.
I
One moonlight night in May, while the nightingales sang, Father
Ignatius' wife entered his chamber. Her countenance expressed
suffering, and the little lamp she held in her hand trembled.
Approaching her husband, she touched his shoulder, and managed to say
between her sobs:
"Father, let us go to Verochka."
Without turning his head, Father Ignatius glanced severely at his
wife over the rims of his spectacles, and looked long and intently,
till she waved her unoccupied hand and dropped on a low divan.
"That one toward the other be so pitiless!" she pronounced slowly,
with emphasis on the final syllables, and her good plump face was
distorted with a grimace of pain and exasperation, as if in this
manner she wished to express what stern people they were--her husband
and daughter.
Father Ignatius smiled and arose. Closing his book, he removed his
spectacles, placed them in the case, and meditated. His long, black
beard, inwoven with silver threads, lay dignified on his breast, and
it slowly heaved at every deep breath.
"Well, let us go!" said he.
Olga Stepanovna quickly arose and entreated in an appealing, timid
voice:
"Only don't revile her, father! You know the sort she is."
Vera's chamber was in the attic, and the narrow, wooden stair bent
and creaked under the heavy tread of Father Ignatius. Tall and
ponderous, he lowered his head to avoid striking the floor of the
upper story, and frowned disdainfully when the white jacket of his
wife brushed his face. Well he knew that nothing would come of their
talk with Vera.
"Why do you come?" asked Vera, raising a bared arm to her eyes. The
other arm lay on top of a white summer blanket hardly distinguishable
from the fabric, so white, translucent, and cold was its aspect.
"Verochka!" began her mother, but sobbing, she grew silent.
"Vera!" said her father, making an effort to soften his dry and hard
voice. "Vera, tell us, what troubles you?"
Vera was silent.
"Vera, do not we, your mother and I, deserve your confidence? Do we
not love you? And is there someone nearer to you than we? Tell us
about your sorrow, and, believe me, you'll feel better for it. And
we too. Look at your aged mother, how much she suffers!"
"Verochka!"
"And I..." The dry voice trembled, truly something had broken in it.
"And I ... do you think I find it easy? As if I did not see that
some sorrow is gnawing at you--and what is it? And I, your father,
do not know what it is. Is it right that it should be so?"
Vera was silent. Father Ignatius very cautiously stroked his beard,
as if afraid that his fingers would enmesh themselves involuntarily
in it, and continued:
"Against my wish you went to St. Petersburg--did I pronounce a curse
upon you, you who disobeyed me? Or did I not give you money? Or,
you'll say, I have not been kind? Well, why then are you silent?
There, you've had your St. Petersburg!"
Father Ignatius became silent, and an image arose before him of
something huge, of granite, and terrible, full of invisible dangers
and strange and indifferent people. And there, alone and weak, was
his Vera and there they had lost her. An awful hatred against that
terrible and mysterious city grew in the soul of Father Ignatius, and
an anger against his daughter who was silent, obstinately silent.
"St. Petersburg has nothing to do with it," said Vera, morosely, and
closed her eyes. "And nothing is the matter with me. Better go to
bed, it is late."
"Verochka," whimpered her mother. "Little daughter, do confess to
me."
"Akh, mamma!" impatiently Vera interrupted her.
Father Ignatius sat down on a chair and laughed.
"Well, then it's nothing?" he inquired, ironically.
"Father," sharply put in Vera, raising herself from the pillow, "you
know that I love you and mother. Well, I do feel a little weary.
But that will pass. Do go to sleep, and I also wish to sleep. And
to-morrow, or some other time, we'll have a chat."
Father Ignatius impetuously arose so that the chair hit the wall, and
took his wife's hand.
"Let us go."
"Verochka!"
"Let us go, I tell you!" shouted Father Ignatius. "If she has
forgotten God, shall we..."
Almost forcibly he led Olga Stepanovna out of the room, and when they
descended the stairs, his wife, decreasing her gait, said in a harsh
whisper:
"It was you, priest, who have made her such. From you she learnt her
ways. And you'll answer for it. Akh, unhappy creature that I am!"
And she wept, and, as her eyes filled with tears, her foot, missing a
step, would descend with a sudden jolt, as if she were eager to fall
into some existent abyss below.
From that day Father Ignatus ceased to speak with his daughter, but
she seemed not to notice it. As before she lay in her room, or
walked about, continually wiping her eyes with the palms of her hands
as if they contained some irritating foreign substance. And crushed
between these two silent people, the jolly, fun-loving wife of the
priest quailed and seemed lost, not knowing what to say or do.
Occasionally Vera took a stroll. A week following the interview she
went out in the evening, as was her habit. She was not seen alive
again, as on this evening she threw herself under the train, which
cut her in two.
Father Ignatius himself directed the funeral. His wife was not
present in church, as at the news of Vera's death she was prostrated
by a stroke. She lost control of her feet, hands, and tongue, and
she lay motionless in the semi-darkened room when the church bells
rang out. She heard the people, as they issued out of church and
passed the house, intone the chants, and she made an effort to raise
her hand, and to make a sign of the cross, but her hand refused to
obey; she wished to say: "Farewell, Vera!" but the tongue lay in her
mouth huge and heavy. And her attitude was so calm, that it gave one
an impression of restfulness or sleep. Only her eyes remained open.
At the funeral, in church, were many people who knew Father Ignatius,
and many strangers, and all bewailed Vera's terrible death, and tried
to find in the movements and voice of Father Ignatius tokens of a
deep sorrow. They did not love Father Ignatius because of his
severity and proud manners, his scorn of sinners, for his unforgiving
spirit, his envy and covetousness, his habit of utilising every
opportunity to extort money from his parishioners. They all wished
to see him suffer, to see his spirit broken, to see him conscious in
his two-fold guilt for the death of his daughter--as a cruel father
and a bad priest--incapable of preserving his own flesh from sin.
They cast searching glances at him, and he, feeling these glances
directed toward his back, made efforts to hold erect its broad and
strong expanse, and his thoughts were not concerning his dead
daughter, but concerning his own dignity.
"A hardened priest!" said, with a shake of his head, Karzenoff, a
carpenter, to whom Father Ignatius owed five roubles for frames.
And thus, hard and erect, Father Ignatius reached the burial ground,
and in the same manner he returned. Only at the door of his wife's
chamber did his spine relax a little, but this may have been due to
the fact that the height of the door was inadequate to admit his tall
figure. The change from broad daylight made it difficult for him to
distinguish the face of his wife, but, after scrutiny, he was
astonished at its calmness and because the eyes showed no tears. And
there was neither anger, nor sorrow in the eyes--they were dumb, and
they kept silent with difficulty, reluctantly, as did the entire
plump and helpless body, pressing against the feather bedding.
"Well, how do you feel?" inquired Father Ignatius.
The lips, however, were dumb; the eyes also were silent. Father
Ignatius laid his hand on her forehead; it was cold and moist, and
Olga Stepanovna did not show in any way that she had felt the hand's
contact. When Father Ignatius removed his hand there gazed at him,
immobile, two deep grey eyes, seeming almost entirely dark from the
dilated pupils, and there was neither sadness in them, nor anger.
"I am going into my own room," said Father Ignatius, who began to
feel cold and terror.
He passed through the drawing-room, where everything appeared neat
and in order, as usual, and where, attired in white covers, stood
tall chairs, like corpses in their shrouds. Over one window hung an
empty wire cage, with the door open.