THE "GIUSTIZIA DI DIO"
Since his departure, Milenko had never received any letters from his
parents, for, in those times of sailing-ships, captains got news from
home casually, by means of such fellow-countrymen as they chanced to
meet, rather than through the post. Lately they had happened to come
across a Ragusian ship at Brindisi, but, as this ship had left Budua
only a short time after Milenko himself had sailed, all the
information the captain could give was rather stale. As for Vranic,
nothing had been heard of him these many months.
Peric (the youth sailing with Milenko) heard, however, that the
forebodings he had had concerning his brother were but too well
founded; the poor boy had been killed while taking care of his
father's horse. Still, the man who told him the news did not know, or
had partly forgotten, all the details of the dreadful accident, for
all he remembered was that the poor child had been brought home to
his mother a mangled, bleeding corpse.
Milenko then seemed again to see the vision he had witnessed within
the waters, and he could thus relate to the poor boy all the
particulars of the tragic event.
Poor Peric cried bitterly, thinking of the poor boy he had been so
fond of, and whom he would never see again; then, having somewhat
recovered from his grief:
"It is very strange," said he, "that, on the very night on which you
saw my brother dragged by the horse, I heard a voice whispering in my
ear: 'Jurye is dead!' and then I fancied that the wind whistling in
the rigging repeated: 'Jurye is dead!' and that same phrase was
afterwards lisped by the rushing waters. Just then, to crown it all,
I looked within the palm of my hand--why, I really do not know; but
that, as you are aware, brings about the death of the person we love
most. At that same moment a cold shivering came over me, and I felt
sure that my poor brother was dead. All this is very strange, is it
not?"
"Not so very strange, either," replied Milenko; "the saints allow us
to have an inkling of what is to happen, so that when misfortune does
come, we are not crushed by it."
"Oh! we all knew that one of our family would die during the year;
only, as I was going to sea, I thought that I might be the one
who----"
"How did you know?" asked Milenko.
"Because, when our grandmother died, her left eye remained open; and,
although they tried to shut it, still, after a while, the lids parted
again, and that, you well know, is a sure sign that someone of the
house would follow her during the year."
The youth remained thoughtful for a little while, and then he added:
"I wonder how my poor mother is, now that she has lost both her
sons."
"We shall soon have news from home, for, if the weather does not
change, to-morrow we shall be in Trieste, where letters are surely
awaiting us."
"Do you ever have voices whispering in your ears?" asked Peric.
"No, never; do you?"
"Very often, especially when I keep very still and try to think of
nothing at all, just as if I were not my own self, but someone else."
"Try and see if you can hear a voice now."
The youth remained for some time perfectly still, looking as if he
were going off into a trance; when he came to himself again:
"I did hear a voice," said he.
"What did it say?"
"That to-morrow you will meet the man you have been looking for."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing."
"Is it not imagination?"
"Oh, no! besides, poets often hear the voice of the moon, who tells
them all the stories they write in their books."
"Do they?" quoth Milenko, smiling.
"Yes; do you not know the story of 'The Snowdrop,' that Igo Kas heard
whilst he was seated by a newly-dug grave?"
"No, I never heard it."
"Then I'll read it to you, if you like."
Milenko having nothing better to do, listened attentively to the
youth's tale.
THE SNOWDROP.
A Slav Story.
The last feathery flakes of snow, fallen in the night, had not yet
melted away, when the first snowdrop, which had sprung up in the
dark, glinted at the dawning sun. A drop of dew, glistening on the
edge of its half-opened leaves, looked like a sparkling tear. That
dainty little flower, as white as the surrounding snow, had sprouted
up beside a newly-dug grave. As I stooped down to pick the little
snowdrop, I saw the words inscribed on the white marble slab, and
then sorrow's heavy hand was laid upon my heart. The name was that of
the Countess Anya Yarnova, a frail flower of early spring, as
spotless as the little snowdrop.
What had been the cause of her sudden death? Was it some secret
sorrow? Was it her love for that handsome stranger whose flashing
eyes revealed the hunger of his heart?
At gloaming I was again beside the newly-opened grave. The sun had
set, the birds in the bushes were hushed; the breeze, that before
seemed to be the mild breath of spring, began to blow in fitful, cold
blasts.
The round disc of the moon now rose beyond the verge of the horizon,
and its mild, amber light fell upon the marble monument of the
Yarnova family, almost hidden under a mass of white roses, camellias
and daffodils, made up in huge wreaths.
Mute and motionless, I sat for some time musing by the tomb; then at
last, looking up at
"That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,"
I said:
"Tell me, Moon, thou pale and grey
Pilgrim of Heaven's homeless way,"
didst thou know young Countess Yarnova, so full of life a few days
ago, and now lying there in the cold bosom of the earth? Tell me what
bitter and unbearable grief broke that young heart; speak to me, and
I shall listen to thy words as to the voice of my mother, when, in
the evening, she whispered weird tales to me while putting me to
sleep.
A loud moan seemed to arise from the tomb, and then I heard a voice
as silvery sweet as the music of the spheres, lisp softly in my
ear:--
Passing by the Yarnova Castle three days ago, I peeped within its
casements, and, in a dimly-lighted hall, I saw Countess Yadviga, who
had just returned from Paris. She wore a black velvet dress, and her
head was muffled in a lace mantilla; although her features twitched
and she was sad and careworn, still she looked almost as young and
even handsomer than her fair daughter.
Presently, as she sat in the dark room, the door was opened; a page
stepped in, drew aside the gilt morocco portiere emblazoned with the
Yarnova arms, and ushered in the handsome stranger, Aleksij Orsinski.
The Baron looked round the dimly-lighted room for a while. At last he
perceived the figure of the Countess as she sat in the shadow of the
huge fire-place; then he went up to her and bowed.
"Thank you, Countess Yarnova, for snatching yourself away from
beautiful Paris and coming in this dismal place."
The figure in the high-backed arm-chair bowed slightly, and without
uttering a single word, motioned the stranger to a seat at a short
distance. The Baron sat down.
"Thank you especially for at last giving your consent to my marriage
with the beautiful Anya."
The Baron waited for a reply, but as none came, he went on:
"Although her guardian hinted that Anya was somewhat too young for
me, still I know she loves me; and as for myself, I swear that
henceforth the aim of my life will be that of making her happy."
The Baron, though sixteen years older than his childlike bride, was
himself barely thirty; he was, moreover, a most handsome man--tall,
stalwart, with dark flashing eyes, a long flowing moustache, a mass
of black hair, and a remarkably youthful appearance. He waited again
a little while for an answer, but the mother did not speak.
The large and lofty hall in which they were, with its carved stalls
jutting out of the wainscot, looked far more like a church than a
habitable room; the few fantastic oil lamps seemed like stars shining
in the darkness, while the mellow light of the moon, pouring in from
the mullioned windows, fell on the Baron's manly figure, and left the
Countess in the dark.
As no answer came, the stranger, at a loss what to say, repeated his
own words:
"Yes, all my days will be devoted to the happiness of our child."
"Our child?" said the Countess at last, with a slight tremor in her
voice.
The Baron started like a man roused in the midst of a dream.
"Your daughter I mean, Countess."
Seized by a strange feeling of oppression, which he was unable to
control, the Baron, in his endeavour to overcome it, began to relate
to the mother how he had met Anya by chance, how he had fallen in
love with her the very moment he had seen her, how from that day she
had engrossed all his thoughts, for, from their first meeting, her
image had haunted him day and night.
"In fact," added he, "it was the first time I had loved, the very
first."
"The first?" echoed the voice in the dark.
The strong man trembled like an aspen leaf. Those two words coming
from that dark, motionless figure, sitting at some distance, seemed
to be a voice from the tomb, an echo from the past; that past which
never buries its dead. To get over his increasing nervousness the
Baron began to speak with greater volubility:
"In my early youth, or rather in my childhood I should say," added
he, "I did love once----"
"Once?" repeated the voice.
The Baron started again and stopped. Was it Anya's mother who spoke,
or was there an echo in that room? Still, he went on:
"Yes, once I loved, or, at least, thought myself in love."
"Thought?" added the voice.
That repetition was getting unbearable; anyhow, he tried not to heed
it.
"Well, Countess, it was only a childish fancy, a boy's infatuation;
at sixteen, I was spoony on a girl two years younger than myself,
just about the age my Anya is now. Fate parted us; I grieved a while;
but, since I saw your daughter, I understood that I had never loved
before, no, never!"
"Never before--no, never!" uttered the woman in the dark.
The Baron almost started to his feet; that voice so silvery clear, so
mournfully sweet, actually seemed to come from the far-off regions
from where the dead do not return. After a short silence, only
interrupted by two sighs, he went on:
"There were, of course, other loves between the first and the last
--swift, evanescent shadows, leaving no traces behind them. And now
that I have made a full confession of my sins, Countess, can I not
see my Anya?"
"Your Anya?"
This was carrying a joke rather too far.
"Well, my fiancee?" said he, rather abruptly.
"No, Aleksij Orsinski, not yet. You have spoken, and I have listened
to you; it is my turn to speak. I, too, have something to say about
Anya's father."
The Baron had always been considered as a brave man, but now either
the darkness oppressed him, or the past arose in front of him
threateningly, or else the strange and almost weird behaviour of his
future mother-in-law awed him; but, somehow or other, he had never
felt so uncomfortable before. Not only a disagreeable feeling of
creepiness had come over him, but even a slight perspiration had
gathered on his brow. He almost fancied that, instead of a woman, a
ghost was sitting there in front of him echoing his words. Who was
that ghost? Perhaps, he would not--probably, he dared not recognise
it. He tried, however, to shake off his nervousness, and said, with
forced lightness:
"I have had the honour of knowing Count Yarnova personally; he was
somewhat eccentric, it is true; still, a more honourable man
never----"
"He was simply mad," interrupted the Countess; "anyhow, it is not of
Count Yarnova, but of Anya'a father of whom I wish to speak." Then,
after a slight pause, as if nerving herself to the painful task, the
woman in the dark added: "For you must know that not a drop of the
Count's blood flows in my daughter's veins."
There was another awkward pause; Aleksij's heart began to beat much
faster, the perspiration was gathering on his brow in much bigger
drops.
"Count Yarnova was not your daughter's father, you say?" He would
have liked to add: "Who was, then?" but he durst not.
"No, Aleksij Orsinski, he was not."
A feeling of sickness came over the Baron; he hardly knew whether he
was awake, or asleep and dreaming. Who was that woman in the dark?
The Countess, after a while, resumed her story: "I was born in St.
Petersburg, of a wealthy and honourable, but not of a noble family.
I, too, was but a child when I fell in love, deeply in love, with a
neighbour's son. Unlike yours, Baron, and I suppose all men's, a
woman's first love is the only real one. I was then somewhat younger
than my daughter now is, for I had barely reached my thirteenth year,
and as for my lover, he was fifteen. We often met, unknown to our
parents, in our garden; I saw no harm in it--I was too young, too
guileless, not to trust him----"
She stopped.
"And he?" asked the Baron, as if called upon to say something.
"He, like Romeo, whispered vows of love, of eternal fidelity. He
believed in his vows just then, as you did, Aleksij Orsinski; for I
daresay that with you, as with all men, the last love is the only
true one."
"Then?" asked the Baron.
"Once we stepped out of the garden together; a carriage was waiting
for us; we drove to a lonely chapel not far from our house; a priest
there blessed us and made us man and wife. Our marriage, however, was
to be kept a secret till we grew older, or, at least, till my husband
was master of his actions, for he knew that his parents would never
consent to our union."
There was another pause; but now the Baron could not trust himself to
speak, his teeth were almost chattering as if with intense cold.
"A time of sickness and sorrow reigned over our country; the people
were dying by hundreds and by thousands. The plague was raging in St.
Petersburg. My husband's family were the first to flee from the
contagion. We remained. The scourge had just abated, when, to my
horror and dismay, I understood that I should in a few months become
a mother. I wrote to my husband, but I received no answer; still, I
knew he was alive and in good health. I wrote again, but with no
better success. The day came when, at last, I had to disclose my
terrible secret to my parents."
The Countess stopped, passed her hands over her brow as if to drive
away the remembrance of those dreadful days.
"It is useless to try and relate their anger and my shame. My parents
would not believe in my marriage; besides, the priest that had
married us, even the witnesses, had all been swept away by that weird
scavenger, the plague. I had no paper, no certificate, not even a
ring to show that I was married. Contumely was not enough; I was not
only treated by my parents with pitiless scorn, but I was, moreover,
turned out of their house. When our own parents shut their doors
against us, is it a wonder if the world is ruthless?
"What was I to do? where was I to go? With the few roubles I had I
could not travel very far or live very long. I wandered to the castle
where my husband was living; I asked for him, but I was told that he
was ill."
"But he was ill," said the Baron, "was he not?"
"Perhaps his watery love had already flowed away, and he had given
orders not to receive me if I should present myself. For a moment I
stood rooted on the doorstep, bewildered, not knowing what to do;
then I asked to see his mother. This was only exposing myself to one
humiliation more. She came out in the hall; there she called me
bitter names, and when I told her that I had not a bed whereon to lie
that night, she replied that the Neva was always an available bed for
girls like me; then she ordered her servants to cast me out.
"Houseless, homeless, almost penniless; my husband's mother was
right--the Neva was the only place where I could find rest. In its
fast-fleeting waters I might indeed find shelter.
"With my thoughts all of suicide I directed myself towards the open
country, hoping soon to reach the banks of the broad river, for I was
not only tired out, but weak and faint for want of food. My legs at
last began to give way; weary, disheartened, I sank down by the
roadside and began to sob aloud. All at once I heard a creaking noise
of wheels, the tramp of horses, and merry human voices singing in
chorus. As I lifted up my head I saw two carts passing, wherein a
band of gipsies were all huddled together. Seeing my grief and
hearing my sobs, the driver stopped; a number of boys and young men,
girls and women jumped, crawled or scrambled down from the carts, as
crabs do out of a basket; then they all crowded around me to find out
what had befallen me. I would not answer their questions, nor could I
have done so even if I had wanted. I was almost too faint to speak.
An elderly woman, the chief's wife, pushed all the others aside, came
up to me, took my hand and examined it carefully; then she began to
speak in a language I did not understand.
"'Poor child!' said she at last, patting my hair and kissing me on my
eyes; 'you are indeed in trouble; still, bright days are in store for
you; take courage, cheer up, live, for you will soon be a grand lady,
and then you will trample over all your enemies--yes, over every one
of them. You have no home,' said she, as if answering my own
thoughts; 'What does it matter? Have we a home? Have the little birds
that nestle in the leafy boughs a home? No, all the world is their
home. Come with us. You have no family; well, you will be our child.'
"Saying this she gave an order to the men around her, and almost
before I was aware of it, half-a-dozen brawny arms lifted me tenderly
and placed me on a heap of clothes in one of the carts. Soon my
protectress was by my side whispering words of endearment in my ear;
and as for myself, weak and starving, forlorn and dejected as I was,
I cared very little what became of me.
"The gipsy woman, who was versed in medicine, poured me out some kind
of cordial or sleeping draught and made me drink it; a few minutes
afterwards a pleasant drowsiness came over me, then I fell fast
asleep. I only awoke some hours later, and I found myself lying on a
mattress in a tent. I remained for some time bewildered, unable to
understand where and with whom I was; still, when I came to my senses
the keen edge of my grief was blunted. The gipsy woman, my
protectress, kissed me in a fond, mother-like way; then she brought
me a plate of food.
"'Eat,' said she, 'grief has a much greater hold on an empty stomach
than on a satiated one.'
"I was young and hungry; the smell of the food was good; I did not
wait to be asked twice. I never remembered to have tasted anything so
delicious. It was not soup, but a kind of savoury stew, containing
vegetables and meat--an _olla-podrida_ of ham, beef and poultry.
After that, they offered me some fragrant drink, which soon made me
feel drowsy, and then sent me off to sleep again. I woke early the
next morning, when they were about to start on their daily
wanderings. With my head still muddled with sleep, I was helped into
the cart, and sat down between my new friend and her husband.
"That life in the open air, the kindness and good-humour of the
people amongst whom I lived, soothed and quieted me. All ideas of
suicide vanished entirely from my mind. Self-murder is an unknown
thing amongst gipsies. Besides, my friend assured me, again and
again, that I should soon become a very great lady, and then all my
enemies would be at my mercy.
"'But how shall I ever repay you for your kindness?' I asked.
"'The day will come when the hand of persecution will be uplifted
against us; then you alone will protect us.'
"In the meanwhile I was treated like a queen by all of them.
Moreover, they were a wealthy band, possessing not only horses, carts
and tents, but also money. They might have lived comfortably in some
town, or settled as farmers somewhere; but their life was by far too
pleasant to give it up. Heedless, jovial, contented people, their
only care seemed to be where they were to have their next meal.
"A few months afterwards, my daughter was born in a tent, not far
from Warsaw."
"She must have been a great comfort to you," quoth the Baron,
thinking he ought to say something appropriate.
"A comfort? The unwished-for child of a man that had blighted my
life, a comfort? No, indeed, Baron. In fact, I saw very little of
this daughter of mine; a young gipsy nursed her and took care of her.
My own parents had taught me what love was. My husband's mother--a
grand lady--thought that the Neva was the best cradle for her unborn
grandchild. Besides, other work was waiting for me than nursing and
rearing Anya.
"Count Yarnova one day met our band of gipsies on the road, and he
stretched his ungloved hand to have his fate read and explained. My
friend--no ordinary fortune-teller--was well versed in palmistry, and
a most lucid thought-reader; she told him that before the year was
out he would be a married man.
"'In a few days,' added she, 'on Christmas Eve, you will see your
young bride in your own mirror; you will see her again after a few
days, and she will tend upon you and cure you from a fever when the
doctor's help will be worse than useless. As soon as you get well you
will start on a journey; then you will stop for some days in two
large towns, both of which begin with the same letter; there you will
see again that beautiful child you saw on Christmas Eve.'
"'But when and where shall I meet her, not as a vision, but as a real
person?'
"The Baron wore on the forefinger of his right hand a kind of magic
ring, in which a little crystal ball was set. The gipsy lifted the
Baron's hand to her eyes and looked at the crystal ball for a few
seconds.
"'It is spring,' said she; 'the trees are in bloom, and Nature wears
her festive garb. In a splendid saloon, where all the furniture is of
gold and the walls are covered with rich silks, I see a handsome
young girl dressed in spotless white, holding a guitar and singing;
behind her there is a mass of flowers; around her gentlemen and
ladies are listening to the sound of her sweet voice.'
"Count Yarnova was a Swedenborgian, and he not only believed in the
occult art, but had dabbled himself in magic, until his rather weak
mind was somewhat unhinged. He, of course, did not doubt the truth of
what the gipsy had foretold him; moreover, he was right, because
everything happened exactly as she had predicted.
"On Christmas Eve the Count was alone in his room sitting at a little
table reading, and glancing every now and then, first at a clock,
afterwards at a huge cheval-glass opposite the alcove. All the
servants of the house, except his valet--a young gipsy of our band
--had gone to Mass, according to the custom of the place. At half-past
eleven my friends accompanied me to the Count's palace; the valet
opened the door noiselessly and led me unseen, unheard, in the
alcove. I was dressed in white and shrouded in a mass of silvery
veils. On the stroke of twelve I appeared between the two draped
columns which formed the opening of the alcove; the light hanging in
the middle of the room was streaming on me, and my image, reflected
in the glass, looked, in fact, like a vision. The Count, seeing it,
heaved a deep breath, started to his feet, drew back, stood still for
an instant, uttered an exclamation of surprise, then made a step
towards the looking-glass. At that moment the valet opened the door
as if in answer to his master's summons. The Count looked round,
thus giving me time to slip away; when he glanced again at the mirror
I had disappeared. Then the thought came to him that the image he had
seen within the glass was only the reflection of some one standing in
the alcove; he ordered the valet to look within the inner part of the
room, and when the servant man assured him that there was nobody, he
ventured to look in it himself. The valet swore that nobody had come
in the house, and by the time the servants returned from midnight
Mass I was already far away.
"The Count had not been well for some days, and the shock he received
upset his nerves in such a way that he took to his bed with a kind of
brain fever. I attended him during his illness whilst he was
delirious, and when he recovered he had a slight remembrance of me,
just as of a vision we happen to see in a dream. He asked if a young
girl had not tended him during his illness; his valet and the other
servants told him that a mysterious stranger had come to take care of
him, and that she had soothed him much more by placing her hand upon
his brow, than all the doctor's stuff had done; still, no one had
ever seen her before, or knew where she had come from.
"As soon as the Count was strong enough to travel, he decided to go
and visit some of the large towns of Europe, thus hoping to find me.
"The vigilant eye of the police had long suspected Yarnova of being
an agitator; some letters addressed to him, and some of his own
writings on occult lore, had been strangely misinterpreted, and from
that time a constant watch had been held over him. No sooner had he
started than information was sent to the police that he was
conspiring against the Government, and thus I managed to be sent
after him and watch over him. Money, passports, and letters of
introduction to the ambassadors were handed to me.
"Vienna was one of the towns where he stopped for a few days. A
follower of Cagliostro's was at that time showing there the phantoms
of the living, and those of the dead--not for money, of course, but
for any slight donation the visitors were pleased to give. The gipsy,
who accompanied Yarnova as valet, came to inform me that the Count
intended to go to this spiritualistic seance. The medium was also
acquainted of the fact, and for a slight consideration I was allowed
to appear before the public as my own materialised spirit. How most
of the ghosts were shown to the public, I cannot tell; I only know
that I appeared on a dimly-lighted stage, behind a thick gauze
curtain, wrapped up in a cloud of tulle, whilst harps and viols were
playing some weird funereal dirges. The people--huddled all together
in a dark corner--saw, I fancy, nothing but vague, dim forms passing
or floating by; but they were so anxious to be deceived that they
would have taken the wizard at his word, even if he had shown them an
ape and told them it was their grandmother.
"When Yarnova saw me, he got so excited that it was with the greatest
difficulty that he could be kept quiet.
"On the morrow the Count started for Venice, this being the nearest
town the name of which began with the same letter as Vienna. We got
there on the last days of the Carnival; an excellent time for the
purpose I had in hand, as the whole town seemed to have gone stark
mad. The Piazza San Marco was like a vast pandemonium, where dominoes
of every hue glided about, and masks of every kind walked, ran and
capered, or pushed their way through the dense crowd, chattering,
laughing, shouting. Bands of music were playing in front of several
coffee-houses, people were blowing horns; in fact, the uproar was
deafening. Dressed up as a Russian gipsy, and masked, I met the Count
on the square, and I told him all that had happened to him from the
day he had met the gipsies on the road. I only managed to escape from
him when he was stopped by a wizard--his own valet--who told him he
would see again that evening, at the masked ball of the Venice
theatre, the beautiful girl whose vision he had seen in his own
castle on Christmas Eve.
"The Count, of course, went to the masked ball, followed by his valet
and myself, both in dominoes. Seeing a box empty, I went in it,
remained rather in the background, took off my hood and appeared in
the white veils, as he had already seen me twice. As soon as I
appeared, the valet, who was standing behind his master, laid his
hand on the Count's shoulder and whispered to him: 'Yarnova, look at
that lady in that box on the second tier--the third from the stage.'
The Count saw me, uttered an exclamation of surprise, turned round to
find out who had spoken to him; but the black domino had slipped away
amongst the crowd. I remained in the same position for a few moments,
then I put on my domino and mask and left the box. I met the Count
coming up, but, in the crowd, he, of course, did not notice me.
"A few days afterwards, we left Venice; even before the Carnival was
quite over."
"I suppose you were sorry to leave that beautiful town of pleasure?"
said the Baron.
"Very sorry indeed; still, there was something to me sweeter than
pleasure, young as I was."
"What was it, Countess?"
"Revenge, so sweet to all Slavs."
"And you revenged yourself?"
"I have bided my time, Baron; every knot comes to the comb, they
say."
"Did they all come?"
"Sooner or later, all, to the very last; some of my enemies even
rotted in the mines of Siberia----"
The Baron shivered, thinking of his father.
"Others----" The Countess, for a moment, seemed to be thinking of the
past.
"Well?"
"But it is my own story I am telling you, not theirs. Count Yarnova
and I reached Paris almost at the same time. On my arrival, I
presented myself at the Russian Embassy. As the Ambassadress happened
to be looking for a companion or reader, the place was offered to me;
I accepted it most willingly. A few days afterwards, I was informed
by the gipsy, that the Count was to call on the Ambassadress the next
day. I remembered the prediction; I did my best to bring it about.
The room was exactly like the one described by my friend the gipsy;
the furniture was gilt, the walls were covered over with old damask;
as the Ambassadress was fond of flowers, the room looked like a
hot-house. I had put on the same white dress in which he had already
seen me three times, and knowing the very moment the Count would
come, I spoke of Russian peasant songs; I mentioned the one I was to
sing, and being requested to sing it, I did so. Before I ended it,
the door was opened and Count Yarnova was announced.
"I do not know whether his could be called love at first sight, but
surely everybody in the room thought that his sudden passion for me
had almost deprived him of his reason.
"The Count called on the morrow, and asked if I could receive him; I
did so, and he at once confessed his love for me. He told me that
although he was old enough to be my father, still, he felt sure I
should in time be fond of him, for marriages being made in heaven, I
was ordained to be his wife.
"I tried to explain the plight in which I found myself, but he
interrupted me at once, telling me that he knew everything.
"'I am aware that you have been forsaken by a cruel-hearted man,'
said he, 'but henceforth I shall be everything to you.'
"I summoned my courage, I spoke to him of my child.
"'The child that was born on Christmas night?'
"'Yes,' I answered below my breath.
"'It is my own spiritual child,' said he.
"I looked at him astonished.
"'I know all about it,' he continued. 'On that night I saw you in a
vision, just as it had been predicted to me; I saw you just as I see
you now. That very night I had, moreover, a vision. I was married to
you, and---- but never mind about that dream. I have seen you after
that--first in this magic ring; then I saw you materialised at
Vienna, and again in Venice. Of course, it was not you, but your
double, for you were at that time here in Paris, quite unconscious,
quietly asleep, having, perhaps, a dream of what your other self was
seeing.'
"Then he began to speak of materialisation, of the influence of
planets, in fact, of many chaotic and uninteresting things to which
I, apparently at least, listened with the greatest attention. I was
well repaid for my trouble, for a few weeks afterwards we were
married."
"And your former husband?"
"Was dead to me."
"Did not the Government give you any trouble?"
"The Russian Government knew that Countess Yarnova could be of great
help."
"And was she?"
"Even more than had been expected."
The Countess paused a moment. "It happened that my enemies, Aleksij
Orsinski, were also those of my country, so I crushed them."
The Baron trembled perceptibly.
"But that is their own tale, not mine. We came back to Russia, my
husband worshipping me as a superhuman creature."
"And you loved him?"
"I loved but once."
"Then you still loved the man who----"
"Love either flows away like water, or it rankles in a festering
heart and changes into gall. At St. Petersburg I saw again my
parents. Their curse had fallen on their own heads; fortune's wheel
had turned--their wealth was all gone--they were paupers. How
despicable people are who, having once been rich, cannot get
reconciled to the idea of being poor! How mean all their little
makeshifts are! how cringing they get to be! You can even make them
swallow any amount of dirt for a dinner you give them. They are all
loathsome parasites. I might have ignored my parents--left them to
their fate, or else helped them anonymously. I went to see them; it
was so pleasant to heap burning coals on their heads. I doled out a
pittance to them, received their thanks, allowed them to kiss my
hands, knowing how they cursed me within their hearts. Gratitude is
the bitterest of all virtues; it sours the very milk of human
kindness."
The Countess laughed a harsh, bitter, shrill laugh, and her guest
wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"I shall tell you all about them some other time, in the long winter
evenings when the wind howls outside and the country is all covered
with its pall of snow. It will be pleasant to sit by the fire and
tell you all these old family stories, Aleksij Orsinski."
And the dark figure buried in the big arm-chair laughed again in a
mocking, discordant way.
"After some years the Count died, and then I was left sole mistress
of all his wealth."
"And Anya?"
"Why, I hardly ever saw her. She was brought up here, in this dreary
old castle, like a sleeping beauty; you, like Prince Charming, came
to waken her up. You found her here by chance, did you not?"
"Yes, Countess; I happened----"
"Count Yarnova, likewise, found me by chance," said the woman in the
dark, jeeringly, and interrupting him.
"What do you mean?" asked the Baron, breathing hard.
"I mean that the last knot has come to the comb." Aleksij Orsinski
covered his face with his hands.
"Perhaps, after all," he thought, "this is nothing but a hideous
dream."
"Do you not find, Baron, that Anya, _your_ Anya as you call her,
reminds you of another girl, the girl you----"
"Countess, for mercy's sake, I can bear this no longer; who are you?"
The Baron, trembling, panting, sprang to his feet and went up to the
Countess. She thereupon threw off her mantilla, and appeared in the
bright light of the full moon, which was streaming through the
mullioned windows.
The Baron stretched out his arms.
"Jadviga!" he said, in a low, muffled tone; then he again covered his
face with his hands.
"And now, Aleksij Orsinski, now that my story is at an end," said the
Countess, in a jeering tone; "now that, at last, you have wakened
from your day-dream, whom am I to call--Anya your fiancee, or Anya
your own daughter?"
A low moan was the only answer.
"Speak, man, speak!" said the Countess, sneeringly.
Another moan was heard; not from the Baron, but from behind one of
the thick Arras portieres. Then it moved, and Anya appeared within
the room. She advanced a few steps, stretched out her arms, just as
if she were walking in the dark; then, at last, she sank senseless
on the floor. The father ran to her, caught her up in his arms,
pressed her to his heart, tried to bring her back from her
fainting-fit, called her by the most endearing names; but, alas! she
was already beyond hearing him.
"You have killed your daughter!" cried Aleksij, beside himself with
grief.
"I?" said the Countess.
"Yes, and you have blasted my life!"
"Have you not blasted mine?" replied the Countess, laughing, and yet
looking as scared as a ghost.
The Baron was moaning over his daughter's lifeless body.
"You are happy, my Anya; but what is to become of me?"
"Aleksij, rest can always be found within the waters of the Neva; its
bed is as soft as down, whilst the breeze blowing in the sedges sings
such a soft lullaby."
Orsinski looked up at his wife.
"I think you are right, Jadviga," said he.
"Oh! I know I am," replied the Countess, bursting into a loud,
croaking, jarring fit of hysterical laughter. The Baron shuddered,
but the Countess laughed louder and ever louder, until the lofty room
resounded with that horrible, untimely merriment.
And now, if you pass by the dreary and deserted old Yarnova Castle,
you will, perhaps, hear in the dead of the night those dreadful,
discordant peals of laughter, whilst the belated peasant who passes
by crosses himself devoutly on hearing that sound of fiendish mirth.
The southerly wind which had accompanied the _Giustizia di Dio_ to
Cape Salvore suddenly shifted, and a smacking northeasterly breeze
began to blow. The whole of that night was a most stormy one; still,
the ship bravely weathered the gale. At dawn the wind began to abate,
still the sea was very heavy.
At about eight o'clock they perceived a ship, not only in distress,
but sinking fast. Milenko at once gave orders to reef the topsails
and tack about, so as to be able to approach the wreck, for the sea
was by far too heavy to allow them to use their boats.
When they managed to get near enough to hear the shouts of the
starving crew, they found out that the sinking ship was the _Ave
Maria_, an Austrian barque. After much manoeuvring they got as close
to the stern of the sinking ship as they possibly could. Ropes were
then thrown across, so that the sailors might catch and tie them
around their bodies and jump into the sea. The weakest were first
helped to leap overboard, and then they were hauled into the
_Giustizia di Dio_, where they received all the help their state
required.
Five men were thus saved, and then the two ships were driven apart by
the gale. A scene of despair at once ensued on board the _Ave Maria_,
which was sinking lower and lower. By dint of tacking about, the
_Giustizia di Dio_ was once more brought by the side of the wreck,
and then the captain and boatswain were saved; one of the men, who
was drunk, when about to be tied, reeled back to the wine, which,
apparently, was sweeter to him than life itself.
Milenko, who had remained at the helm, now came to the prow. It was
just then that Vranic caught the rope that had been flung to him, and
tied it round his waist. He stood on the stern and was about to leap
into the foaming waves below. Milenko, who perceived him, uttered a
loud cry, almost a raucous cry of joy, just as mews do as they pounce
upon their prey.
"Vranic at last!" said he.
Vranic heard himself called; but, when he recognised his foe, it was
too late to keep back--he had already sprung into the sea.
Milenko had snatched the rope from the hands of the sailor who had
thrown it. His first impulse was to cut the rope and leave his
friend's murderer to the mercy of the waves.
Vranic, who had disappeared for an instant within the abyss of the
waters, was seen again, struggling in the midst of the whirling foam.
He looked up, and saw one of the _pobratim_ holding the rope. Milenko
remained for a moment undecided as to what he was to do.
"Let me help you to pull up," said the boatswain.
The young captain almost mechanically heaved up the rope, and was
astonished to find it so light. The rope came home; evidently it had
got undone, for Vranic was presently seen battling against the huge
billows, trying to regain the sinking ship.
"What has happened?"
"Did the rope get loose?"
"Why did he not hold on?"
"Why does he not try to catch it?"
"Look, he is swimming back towards the wreck."
"He must have cut the rope."
These were the many exclamations of the astonished sailors.
"Thank Heaven, he is guilty of his own blood," replied Milenko, "for
this is, after all, the justice of God."
In fact, as soon as Vranic saw that it was Milenko himself who was
holding the rope that was tied round his waist, he pulled out the
black dagger that he always carried about him, and freed himself;
then he turned round and began to swim back towards the _Ave Maria_.
At the same time, a big wave came rolling over him; it uplifted and
dashed him against the sharp icicles hanging from the wrecked ship,
and which looked so many _chevaux de frise_. He tried to catch hold,
to cling to the frozen ropes, but they slipped from his grasp, and
the retreating surges carried him off and he disappeared for ever.
The two vessels were parted once more, and Milenko, perceiving that
it was useless to remain there any longer and try and save the three
drunken sailors who had remained on board, thought it far more
advisable to proceed on to Trieste and send them help from there.
When the _Giustizia di Dio_ reached Trieste, the storm had abated,
the wind had gone down, and the sea was almost calm. Help was at once
sent to the shipwrecked vessel, but, alas! all that could be seen of
the _Ave Maria_ was the utmost tops of her masts.