_THE VISITORS’ QUEST._
Father Peter retired to his chamber, drew the curtains, put the candle
on the night-table, threw himself without undressing on the bed,
unrolled the crumpled manuscript of blue foreign note-paper with gilt
edges, and began reading. He did not close his eyes till morning.
The whole history of the Princess Tarakanova, or Princess
Wladimirskaya, of which Father Peter had only heard the most
contradictory rumours, was now open to him, with unexpected details.
“Ah! that is what it is about,” he thought, on reading the first lines;
“about the mysterious Princess.”
Sometimes he would leave off reading the manuscripts, and lie with
closed eyes, then again begin to read. “And where now is that poor
unfortunate, betrayed girl?” he asked himself, on reading the incident
of Livorno. “Where is she now dragging out her miserable existence? And
he, who wrote these lines, was he saved?”
One candle after another burnt out. Father Peter finished the
manuscript, snuffed out the last little piece of candle, and began
walking up and down on the drugget. He went on walking till dawn
reminded him that he had not slept all night. “What events! ah! what
events! What an unfortunate tissue of incidents!” whispered the priest.
“Poor martyr! May God help her!”
The blackbird in the cage woke up, and seeing the very unusual
promenade of its master, set up a loud unwonted scream.
“He’ll wake every one up,” thought the priest.
He returned on tiptoe to his bedroom, threw himself on his bed, and
began reflecting on all that he had read. His thoughts wandered to the
last reign, to the sea of mysterious and common events, known to others
as well as to him; at last he fell asleep.
The sound of the bells ringing for morning service awoke him. The
pale November sun was struggling through the curtains. Father Peter
locked up the manuscript in the drawer of his table, went to church to
celebrate morning service, and returned home, through the back door,
into the kitchen. On seeing his god-daughter going up the attic stairs
with a hot iron in her hands he beckoned her.
“Tell me, Vâra,” he whispered; “he who wrote that diary--Konsov--must,
it’s plain, have been her _fiancé_?”
Vâra moistened her finger and then touched the hot iron; it fizzed.
“He did woo her,” she answered, dangling her iron.
“Well! and what then?”
“Well! Irena Lvovna liked him. Her father would not hear of it.”
“Then the match was broken off?”
“Of course!”
“And now?”
“Well, what can I say? She is an orphan now, and of course would be
delighted. She is her own mistress--but where is he?”
“Oh! of course the ship was wrecked,” said Father Peter.
“And in our wilderness, what could we learn about it? Uncle, you might
go and make some inquiries of naval people, because, you see, not only
the command was lost, but all the count’s riches.… Somewhere, you would
be sure to learn something.”
“Who sent your friend this diary?”
“God alone knows. The post brought it; Irisha received it. On the roll
was only ‘Rakitin,’ and the address; and in the note, written in
French, it was merely said that the manuscript had been found by some
fishermen in a bottle on the sea-shore. Irena is now the only survivor
of Rakitin … and so of course she received it.”
The priest, without saying anything either to his niece or her friend,
began most energetically to make inquiries in all directions, but his
efforts were fruitless.
The only information he gained at the Marine Department was that
the frigate, _The Northern Eagle_, which was laden with the rich
collections of Count Orloff, had been driven along into the Atlantic
Ocean--it had been seen for some time beyond Gibraltar, near the
African coast, not far off from Tangiers--and that in all probability
it had been shipwrecked and sunk not far from the Azores or the
Canaries. Of the fate of Lieutenant Konsov nothing could be gathered;
it was not even known for a surety whether he was on the frigate or
not, as the whole of the crew had perished. The commander of the
squadron, and Admiral Greig, were both now in Moscow, and there
remained no one else to apply to. There had been some rumours in
foreign newspapers that a disabled ship had been seen somewhere about
on the ocean, but with no crew on board, as far as could be noticed;
it was being driven by the storm in the direction of the Azores or
Madeira. The violence of the storm had effectually prevented any
efforts being made to rescue it.
“Poor young girl!” thought the priest, looking at Rakitina; “so clever,
so modest, so rich, and so young. They would have been a couple, if God
had only spared him! No, he must be dead. Had he been alive, he would
have sent some token to his native land, to his fellow officers, to his
relations.”
Once, when he had some spare time, he took the opportunity of speaking
with Irena.
“Young lady,” said he, “I have heard from my niece of your loss. Of
course, it is plain your enemies had their own reasons for separating
you from your wooer and giving you another. Why did it all happen? Why
was Konsov treated with such disdain?”
“I know not myself,” answered Irena. “My late father was very fond of
Pavel Efstafitch, was always very kind to him, treated him not only
as a near neighbour, but as one dear to him. And I, what words can
describe my love for him? I lived only in his love.”
“Well, then, how came this separation about?”
“Oh, don’t ask me,” said Irena, covering her face with her hands.
“It is such anguish to me--such grief. We saw each other often,
corresponded; we used to have meetings. I gave him my word; we were
only awaiting a fitting time to tell all to my father.”
Rakitina was silent for some minutes.
“Oh, it is dreadful to recollect it all!” she continued. “I suppose
some one must have calumniated Konsov to my father. All at once--it
was evening--I saw the horses being put to the carriage. ‘Where to?’
I asked. My father would answer nothing. My things were carried out,
put into the carriage. At that time a relative from Petersburg was on
a visit to us. We three took our seats in the carriage. ‘Where to?’
I again asked my father. ‘Oh, hereabouts, not very far; we will just
have a drive,’ said my father, joking. Yes; it turned out a nice joke!
We went on with post-horses, without one relay, as far as our other
property, one thousand versts[46] distant. I could neither write nor
send any message to Konsov for a long time, I was watched so closely.
It was only when my father fell dangerously ill that I implored him not
to break my heart, but to allow me to write to Konsov. He began crying
bitterly, and said, ‘Forgive me, Irisha. We have both been deceived
cruelly.’ ‘What? what?’ I could only ask. ‘Is it possible that that
cousin sought my hand?’
“‘Not your hand, my dear, but the money,’ my father said. ‘He
intercepted one of Konsov’s letters to you, and so stirred up my anger
against him, that I decided on carrying you off. Forgive me, Irenushka,
forgive me. God has punished him, the wicked one. He borrowed a large
sum from me, lost it at cards in Moscow, and has blown his brains out.
He left a letter … there it is, read it … I received it a few days ago.’
“My poor father did not live long after this. I returned to my own
property, but of Konsov I could get no tidings. His grandmother was
also dead. I wrote to Petersburg, whence he had started, wrote into
foreign parts, to the fleet; but then war was raging, and of course he
did not get my letters. Then his captivity in Turkey … then … and that
is all my sad fate.”
“Pray, my dear young lady, pray,” said the priest. “Your lot is a
bitter one; only the good God above can help you.”
Meantime, several days passed by. Rakitina, ceaselessly without
respite, went about gathering all the information she could, regretting
neither time nor money, but all was of no avail.
“I can see, Irena Lvovna,” said Father Peter to his guest one day,
“that you are constantly going about, first to one, then to another,
troubling yourself and all for nothing. I have heard it said that the
empress will not be here for some time yet; why should you not write to
the superior officer of Pavel Efstafitch, to Moscow? may not the Count
Orloff know of something?”
“Thank you, Father,” answered Rakitina, bowing. “Let us pray God
that we may learn something about that unfortunate ship without a
crew, and if no one else were saved, perhaps Konsov.… Yesterday Count
Pânin promised me to get some information from a foreign Marine
Department--in Spain--in Madeira; Von Viesing, the author, has also
offered his services. Shall I not hear of something? I shall wait a
little longer; still I ought to be going home, but how can I go without
any hope! Oh! that unfortunate ship, it haunts me night and day!…”