note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) toni, the little wood-carver by johanna spyri author of _heidi_ translated by helen b. dole new york thomas y. crowell company publishers [illustration: toni the little woodcarver.] +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | johanna spyri's alpine stories | | | | | | gritli's children. complete edition. translated by louise brooks. | | illustrated in color. vo. | | | | heidi. complete edition. translated by helene s. white. full-page | | illustrations in color. vo. | | | | little alpine musician. translated by helen b. dole. illustrated in | | color. vo. | | | | rico and wiseli. complete edition. translated by louise brooks. | | illustrated in color. vo. | | | | uncle titus. translated by louise brooks. illustrated in color. vo. | | | | veronica. translated by louise brooks. illustrated in color. vo. | | | | jo, the little machinist. translated by helen b. dole. illustrated | | in color. vo. | | | | little curly head. translated by helen b. dole. illustrated in color | | vo. | | | | little miss grasshopper. translated by helen b. dole. illustrated in | | color by charles copeland. vo. | | | | moni, the goat boy. translated by helen b. dole. illustrated in | | color by charles copeland. vo. | | | | trini, the little strawberry girl. translated by helen b. dole. | | illustrated in color. vo. | | | | toni, the little wood carver. translated by helen b. dole. | | illustrated in color. vo. | | | | tiss, a little alpine waif. translated by helen b. dole. illustrated | | in color. vo. | | | | the rose child. translated by helen b. dole. illustrated in color. | | vo. | | | | what sami sings with the birds. translated by helen b. dole. | | illustrated in color. vo. | | | +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ [illustration: in front of him next to the wall, stood a glass case.] contents at home in the little stone hut a hard sentence up in the mountains in the sanitarium chapter first at home in the little stone hut high up in the bernese oberland, quite a distance above the meadow-encircled hamlet of kandergrund, stands a little lonely hut, under the shadow of an old fir-tree. not far away rushes down from the wooded heights of rock the wild brook, which in times of heavy rains, has carried away so many rocks and bowlders that when the storms are ended a ragged mass of stones is left, through which flows a swift, clear stream of water. therefore the little dwelling near by this brook is called the stone hut. here lived the honest day-laborer toni, who conducted himself well in every farm-house, where he went to work, for he was quiet and industrious, punctual at his tasks, and reliable in every way. in his hut at home he had a young wife and a little boy, who was a joy to both of them. near the hut in the little shed was the goat, the milk of which supplied food for the mother and child, while the father received his board through the week on the farms where he worked from morning until night. only on sunday was he at home with his wife and little toni. the wife elsbeth, kept her little house in good order; it was narrow and tiny, but it always looked so clean and cheerful that every one liked to come into the sunny room, and the father, toni, was never so happy as when he was at home in the stone hut with his little boy on his knee. for five years the family lived in harmony and undisturbed peace. although they had no abundance and little worldly goods, they were happy and content. the husband earned enough, so they did not suffer want, and they desired nothing beyond their simple manner of life, for they loved each other and their greatest delight was little toni. the little boy grew strong and healthy and with his merry ways delighted his father's heart, when he remained at home on sundays, and sweetened all his mother's work on week-days, when his father was away until late in the evening. little toni was now four years old and already knew how to be helpful in all sorts of small ways, in the house and the goat's shed and also in the field behind the hut. from morning until night he tripped happily behind his mother for he was as content as the little birds up in the old fir-tree. when saturday night came the mother scrubbed and cleaned with doubled energy, to finish early, for on that day the father was through his work earlier than other days, and she always went with little toni by the hand, part way to meet him. this was a great delight to the child. he now knew very well how one task followed another in the household. when his mother began to scrub, he jumped around in the room, with delight and cried out again and again: "now we are going for father! now we are going for father!" until the moment came when his mother took him by the hand and started along. saturday evening had come again in the lovely month of may. outdoors the birds in the trees were singing merrily up to the blue sky; indoors the mother was cleaning busily, in order to get out early into the golden evening, and meanwhile now outside, now in the house, little toni was hopping around and shouting: "now we are going for father!" it was not long before the work was finished. the mother put on her shawl, tied on her best apron and stepped out of the house. toni jumped for joy and ran three times around his mother, then seized her hand and shouted once more: "now we are going for father!" then he tripped along beside his mother in the lovely, sunny evening. they wandered to the wild brook, over the wooden bridge, which crosses it, and came to the narrow foot-path, winding up through the flower-laden meadows to the farm where the father worked. the last rays of the setting sun fell across the meadows and the sound of the evening bells came up from kandergrund. the mother stood still and folded her hands. "lay your hands together toneli," she said, "it is the angelus." the child obeyed. "what must i pray, mother?" he asked. "give us and all tired people a blessed sunday! amen!" said the mother devoutly. toneli repeated the prayer. suddenly he screamed: "father is coming!" down from the farm some one was running as fast as he could come. "that is not father," said his mother, and both went towards the running man. when they met, the man stood still and said, gasping: "don't go any farther, turn around, elsbeth. i came straight to you, for something has happened." "oh, my god!" cried the woman in the greatest anguish, "has something happened to toni?" "yes, he was with the wood-cutters, and then he was struck. they have brought him back; he is lying up at the farm-but don't go up there," he added, holding elsbeth fast, for she wanted to start off as soon as she heard the news. "not go up?" she said quickly. "i must go to him; i must help him and see about bringing him home." "you cannot help him, he is--he is already dead," said the messenger in an unsteady voice. then he turned and ran back again, glad to have the message off his mind. elsbeth threw herself down on a stone by the way, unable to stand or to walk. she held her apron before her face and burst into weeping and sobbing, so that toneli was distressed and frightened. he pressed close to his mother and began to cry too. it was already dark, when elsbeth finally came to herself and could think of her child. the little one was still sitting beside her on the ground, with both hands pressed to his eyes, and sobbing pitifully. his mother lifted him up. "come, toneli, we must go home; it is late," she said, taking him by the hand. but he resisted. "no, no, we must wait for father!" he said and pulled his mother back. again she could not keep back the tears. "oh, toneli, father will come no more," she said, stifling her sobs; "he is already enjoying the blessed sunday, we prayed for, for the weary. see, the dear lord has taken him to heaven; it is so beautiful there, he will prefer to stay there." "then we will go too," replied toneli, starting "yes, yes, we shall go there too," promised his mother, "but now we must first go home to the stone hut," and without a word she went with the little one back to the silent cottage. the proprietor of the matten farm sent word to elsbeth the following day that he would do everything necessary for her husband, and so she need not come until it was time for the service, for she would not recognize her husband. he sent her some money in order that she would not have too much care in the next few days, and promised to think of her later on. elsbeth did as he advised and remained at home until the bells in kandergrund rang for the service. then she went to accompany her husband to his resting place. sad and hard days came for elsbeth. she missed her good, kind husband everywhere, and felt quite lost without him. besides, cares came now which she had known little about before, for her husband had had his good, daily work. but now she felt sometimes as if she would almost despair. she had nothing but her goat and the little potato field behind the cottage, and from these she had to feed and clothe herself and the little one, and besides furnish rent for the little house. elsbeth had only one consolation, but one that always supported her when pain and care oppressed her; she could pray, and although often in the midst of tears, still always with the firm belief that the dear lord would hear her supplication. when at night she had put little toni in his tiny bed she would kneel down beside him and repeat aloud the old hymn, which now came from the depths of her heart, as never before: oh, god of love, oh father-heart, in whom my trust is founded, i know full well how good thou art-- e'en when by grief i am wounded. oh lord, it surely can not be that thou wilt let me languish in hopeless depths of misery, and live in tears of anguish. oh lord, my soul yearns for thine aid in this dark vale of weeping; for thee i've waited, hoped and prayed assured of thy safe keeping. lord let me bear whate'er thy love may send of grief or sorrow, until thou, in thy heaven above make dawn a brighter morrow. and in the midst of her urgent praying, the mother's tears flowed abundantly, and little toni, deeply moved in his heart by his mother's weeping and earnest prayer, kept his hands folded and wept softly too. so the time passed. elsbeth struggled along and little toni was able to help her in many ways, for he was now seven years old. he was his mother's only joy, and she was able to take delight in him for he was obedient and willing to do everything she desired. he had always been so inseparable from his mother that he knew exactly how the tasks of the day had to be done, and he desired nothing but to help her whenever he could. if she was working in the little field, he squatted beside her, pulled out the weeds, and threw the stones across the path. if his mother was taking the goat out of the shed so that she could nibble the grass around the hut, he went with her step by step, for his mother had told him he must watch her so that she would not run away. if his mother was sitting in winter by her spinning-wheel, he sat the whole time beside her, mending his winter shoes with strong strips of cloth, as she had taught him to do. he had no greater wish than to see his mother happy and contented. his greatest pleasure was, when sunday came and she was resting from all work, to sit with her on the little wooden bench in front of the house and listen as she told him about his father and talk with her about all kinds of things. but now the time had come for toni to go to school. it was very hard for him to leave his mother and remain away from her so much. the long way down to kandergrund and up again took so much time, that toni was hardly ever with his mother any more through the day, but only in the evening. indeed he always came home so quickly that she could hardly believe it possible, for he looked forward with pleasure all day long to getting home again. he lost no time with his school-mates but ran immediately away from them as soon as school was over. he was not accustomed to the ways of the other boys since he had been constantly alone with his quietly working mother and used to performing definite tasks continually without any noise. so it was altogether strange to him and he took no pleasure in it, when the boys coming out of the school-house, set up a great screaming, one running after another, trying to see which was the stronger, and throwing one another on the ground, or wrestling so that their caps were thrown far away and their jackets half torn off. the wrestlers would often call to him: "come and play!" and when he ran away from them they would call after him: "you are a coward." but this made little difference to him; he didn't hear it long, for he ran with all his might in order to be at home again with his mother. now a new interest for him arose in the school: he had seen beautiful animals drawn on white sheets, which the children of the upper classes copied. he quickly tried to draw them, too, with his pencil and at home continued drawing the animals again and again as long as he had a bit of paper. then he cut out the animals and tried to make them stand on the table, but this he could not do. then suddenly the thought came to him that if they were of wood they could stand. he began quickly with his knife to cut around on a little piece of wood until there was a body and four legs; but the wood was not large enough for the neck and the head; so he had to take another piece and calculate from the beginning how high it must be and where the head must be placed. so toni cut away with much perseverance until he succeeded in making something like a goat and could show it with great satisfaction to his mother. she was much delighted at his skill and said: "you are surely going to be a wood-carver, and a very good one." from that time on toni looked at every little piece of wood which came in his way, to see if it would be good for carving, and if so he would quickly put it away, so that he often brought home all his pockets full of these pieces, which he then collected like treasures into a pile and spent every free moment carving them. thus the years passed by. although elsbeth always had many cares, she experienced only joy in her toni. he still clung to her with the same love, helped her in every way as well as he could and spent his life beside her, entirely at his quiet occupation, in which he gradually acquired a quite gratifying skill. toni was never so content as when he was sitting in the little stone hut with his carving and his mother came in and out happily employed, always saying a kindly word to him and finally sat down beside him at her spinning-wheel. chapter second a hard sentence toni was twelve years old in the winter, and now his school days were over, and the time had come to look about for some kind of work which would bring him in some money and by which he could learn something necessary for future years. spring had come and work had begun in the fields. his mother thought it would be best to ask the proprietor of the matten farm, if he had some light work for toni; but every time she spoke about it he would say beseechingly: "oh, mother, don't do that; let me be a wood-carver!" she would have had no objection to this, but knew no way to bring it about, and she had known the farmer up on the matten farm ever since her husband had worked there, and ever since his death, from time to time he had sent her a little wood or meal. she hoped that he would employ toni at first for light tasks in the field, so that he would gradually learn to do the heavier work. so on saturday night after the day's work was ended and she sat down with toni to their scanty supper, she said once more: "toni, now we must take a decided step; i think it is best for me to go up to the matten farm to-morrow." "oh, mother, don't do that!" said toni quite beseechingly. "don't go to the farmer! if you will only let me be a wood-carver, i will work so hard, that i will earn enough, and you will not have to do so much, and then i can stay at home with you. besides you would be all alone, and i can't bear it, if i have to be always away from you. let me stay with you; don't send me away, mother." "oh, you good toni," said his mother, "what wouldn't i give to be able to keep you always with me! but that really cannot be. i know of no way for you to be a wood-carver; some one would have to teach you, and when you had learned, how should we sell the carvings? you would have to know people and go about, or else your work wouldn't bring any money. if only i could talk with some one, who could give me good advice!" "don't you know any one, mother, you can ask?" said toni anxiously and racked his brain to try to think of some one. his mother too began to consider. "i think i will go to the pastor, who has already given me advice," said his mother, delighted to have found a way out of the difficulty. toni was quite happy and now was determined that early the next morning they should go down to the church and then his mother could go in to see the pastor and toni would wait outside. everything was carried out on sunday morning as they had planned. his mother had put two of the little carved animals in her pocket to show the pastor as examples of her boy's good ability. the pastor received her very cordially, had her sit down beside him and enquired with interest about her affairs, for he knew elsbeth and how bravely she had helped herself through all the hard times. she told him now the whole story, how toni from a very early age had worked at the carving with so much interest and now wished for nothing so much as to carry on this work, but how she knew of no way for him to learn, nor how, later, the work could be sold. finally she showed him the two little animals as examples of toni's skill. the pastor replied to the mother that the plan would be very difficult to carry out. although the two little goats were not badly carved, yet in order to perform the work right and to earn his bread by it, toni would have first to learn from a good carver, because making only little animals or boxes would not amount to anything or bring in any money, and he would only be wasting his time. however, down in the village of frutigen there was a very skillful, well-known wood-carver, who made wonderful large works which went far into the world, even to america. he carved whole groups of animals on high rocks, chamois and eagles and whole mountains with the herdsman and the cows. elsbeth could talk with this carver. if toni studied with him he could help him to sell the finished work, for he had ways open for it. elsbeth left the pastor with gratitude and new hope in her heart. in front of the house toni was waiting in great suspense. she had to tell him at once everything the pastor had said, and when she finally related about the wood-carver in frutigen toni suddenly stood still and said: "then come, mother, let us go to the place at once." however, his mother had not thought it over--she made many objections, but toni begged so earnestly, that she finally said: "we must go home first and have something to eat, for it is very far away; but we can do that quickly and then start off again right away." so they hurried back to the house, took a little bread and milk and started on their way again. they had several hours to travel, but toni was so busy with his plans and thoughts for the future, the time flew like a dream and he looked up in great surprise, when his mother said: "see, there is the church tower of frutigen!" they were soon standing in front of the wood-carver's house, and learned from the children before the door, that their father was at home. inside in the large, wainscotted room, sat the wood-carver with his wife at the table, looking at a large book of beautiful colored pictures of animals which he would be able to make good use of in his handicraft. when the two arrived he welcomed them and invited them to come and be seated on the wooden bench, where he and his wife were sitting and which ran along the wall around the entire room. elsbeth accepted the invitation and immediately began to tell the wood-carver why she had come and what she so much desired of him. meanwhile toni stood as if rooted to the floor and stared motionless at a single spot. in front of him next the wall was a glass case, in which could be seen two high rocks, carved out of wood. on one was standing a chamois with her little ones. they had such dainty, slender legs, and their fine heads sat so naturally on their necks that it seemed as if they were all alive and not at all made of wood. on the other rock stood a hunter, his gun hanging by his side, and his hat, with even a feather in it, sat on his head, all so finely carved, that one would think it must be a real hat and a real little feather, and yet all was of wood. next the hunter stood his dog, and it seemed as if he would even wag his tail. toni was like one enchanted and hardly breathed. when his mother finished speaking, the wood-carver said it seemed to him as if she thought the affair would half go of itself, but it was not so. if a thing was to be done right, it cost much time and patience to learn. he was not averse to taking the boy, for it seemed to him that he had a desire to learn; but she would have to pay for his board for a couple of months in frutigen, besides paying for his instruction, which would be as much as his board, and she herself must know whether she could spend so much on the boy. on the other hand he would promise that the boy would be taught right, and she could see there in the glass case, what he could learn to do. at first elsbeth was so disappointed and dismayed she was unable to speak a word. now she knew that it would be absolutely impossible for her to fulfill her boy's greatest wish. the necessary expense of board and instruction was beyond anything that she could manage, so much so that it was quite out of the question. it was all over with toni's plans. she rose and thanked the wood-carver for his willingness to take the boy, but she would have to decline his offer. then she beckoned to toni, whose eyes were still so fastened to the glass case that he paid no attention. she took him by the hand and led him quietly out of the door. outside toni said, drawing a deep breath: "did you see what was in the case? mother, did you see it?" "yes, yes, i saw it, toni," replied his mother with a sigh, "but did you hear what the wood-carver said?" toni had heard nothing; all his mind had been directed to one point. "no, i didn't hear anything; when can i go?" he asked longingly. "oh, it is not possible, toni, but don't take it so to heart! see, i can't do it, although i would like to so much," declared his mother; "but everything would come to more than i earn in a year, and you know how hard i have to work to manage to make the two ends meet." it was a hard blow for toni. all his hopes for many years lay destroyed before him; but he knew how his mother worked, how little good she herself had, and how she always tried to give him a little pleasure when she could. he said not a word and silently swallowed his rising tears, but he was very much grieved that all his hopes were over, since for the first time he had seen what wonderful things could be made out of a piece of wood. chapter third up in the mountains the next morning, the farmer on the matten farm sent word to elsbeth, to come up to see him towards evening, as he had something to talk with her about. at the right time she laid aside her hoe, tied on a clean apron, and said: "finish the hoeing, toni; then you can milk the goat and give her some fresh straw, so she will have a better bed. then i will be back again." she went up to the matten farm. the farmer was standing in the open barn-door gazing with satisfaction at his beautiful cows, wandering in a long procession to the well. elsbeth stepped up to him. "well, i am glad you have come," he said, holding out his hand to her. "i have been thinking about you on account of the boy's welfare. he is now at an age to do some light work and help you a little, at least to take care of himself." "i have already been thinking about that," replied elsbeth, "and wanted to ask you, if you could give him a little light work in the fields?" "that is fortunate," continued the farmer. "i have a little job for him, healthy and not very hard, that is to say not hard at all. he can go up to the small mountain with the cows. the herdsman with his boys is on the big mountain and a man is also there to come every morning and evening for the milking, so the boy will not be entirely alone and will have nothing to do but watch the cows so that none wander off, that they don't hook each other or do anything out of the way. while he sits there on the mountain he is master and can have all the milk he wants. a king couldn't have anything better." elsbeth was a little frightened by the offer. if toni had been more with the farm men, and had been with cows, or if he had naturally a different disposition, wilder and more roving and commanding-but as he was so quiet and shy, and besides without any knowledge of such things, to be for the first time all alone for several months, away from home, up on the mountains, watching a herd of cows, this seemed to her too hard for toni. what would the poor boy, who was not particularly strong, do if anything happened to him or to the herd? she expressed all her thoughts to the farmer, but it made no difference; he thought it would be good for the boy to get out for once, and up on the mountain he would be much stronger than at home, and nothing could happen to him, for he would be given a horn and if anything went wrong he could blow lustily, and immediately the farm man would come from the other mountain; in a half hour he would be there. elsbeth finally thought the farmer understood it much better than she, and so it was decided that the next week, when the cows went up to the mountain pasture, toni should go with them. "he shall have a good bit of money and a new suit of clothes when he comes down. that will be a help for the winter," said the farmer finally. elsbeth thanked him as she said good-by, and turned homeward. toni was at first opposed to this, when he heard that he would be away so long without being able to come home a single time; but his mother explained to him how easy the work would be, that he would grow stronger up there, so as to be able to do better things later on, and that the matten farmer would give him a new suit and a good bit of money as pay. so toni objected no longer, but said he would be glad to do something and not let his mother work alone. then it occurred to elsbeth that, if toni was going to be away the whole summer she could perhaps go to one of the big hotels in interlaken where so many strangers go for the summer. there she could earn a good sum of money and meet the coming winter without anxiety. she was already known in interlaken for she had served as chambermaid in one of the hotels for several summers before her marriage. when the day came for the big herd of cows to be taken up to the mountain pasture, toni's mother gave him his little bundle and said: "go now, in god's name! don't forget to pray, when the day begins, and when it ends, and the dear lord will not forget you, and his protection is better than that of men." so toni started off with his little bundle behind the herd up the mountain. immediately after this elsbeth closed her cottage. she took the goat up to the matten farm. when the farmer heard that she was going to interlaken, he promised her to take the goat, and thought when elsbeth came home again, she would give twice as much milk, and what he made from her, he would give back to elsbeth in cheese. then she started down to interlaken. the herd had already been climbing the mountain for several hours. the herdsman turned off to the left with the big herd, and the man went with toni up towards the right, followed by the smaller herd, which consisted of fewer cows but many young cattle, for not many cows could be kept on the small mountain pasture, because the milk had to be carried across to the big one where the herdsman's hut stood. they now reached the highest point of the pasture. there stood a little hut. all around there was nothing but pasture, not a tree, not a bush. in the hut on one side was a narrow seat fastened to the wall in front of which stood a table. on the other side stood a bed of hay. in the corner was a little, round stool and on this a wooden jug. toni and the man stepped inside. the latter placed on the floor the big wooden milk-pail, which he had brought up on his back, took out of it a round loaf of bread and a huge piece of cheese, laid both on the table and said: "of course you have a knife," to which tony assented. then the man took the wooden jug, swung the milk-pail on his back and went out. toni followed him. the man lifted a wooden basin out of the big pail, seated himself on the little round stool which he had brought out of the hut and began to milk one cow after another. if one was too far away, he would call out: "drive her here!" and toni obeyed. when the basin was full he poured it into the big pail and silently went on until all the cows had been milked. at the last the man filled the jug with milk, handed it to toni, took the pail on his back, the basin in his hand and saying "good night!" went down the mountain. then toni was all alone. he put his jug of milk in the hut and came out again. he looked around on every side. he looked over to the big mountain, but between that and his pasture was a wide valley so one had to descend in order to climb up to the big one. but all around both pastures great dark masses of mountains looked down, some rocky, gray and jagged, others covered with snow, all reaching up to the sky, so high and mighty and with such different peaks and horns and some with such broad backs, that it almost seemed to toni as if they were enormous giants, each one having his own face and looking down at him. it was a clear evening. the mountain opposite was shining in the golden evening light, and now a little star came into sight above the dark mountains, and looked down to toni in such a friendly way that it cheered him very much. he thought of his mother, where she was now and how she was in the habit of standing with him at this time in front of the little cottage and talking so pleasantly. then suddenly there came over him such a feeling of loneliness that he ran into the hut, threw himself down on the cot, buried his face in the hay and sobbed softly, until the weariness of the day overcame him and he fell asleep. the bright morning lured him out early. the man was already outside. he milked the cows, spoke not a word and went away. now a long, long day followed. it was perfectly still all around. the cows grazed and lay down around in the sun-bathed pasture. tom went into the hut two or three times, drank some milk and ate some bread and cheese. then he came out again, sat down on the ground and carved on a piece of wood he had in his pocket, for although he no longer dared to cherish the hope of becoming a wood-carver, yet he could not help carving for himself as well as he could. at last it was evening again. the man came and went. he said not a word, and toni had nothing to say either. thus passed one day after another. they were all so long! so long! in the evening, when it began to grow dark it always seemed terrible to toni, for then the high mountains looked so black and threatening, as if they would suddenly do him some harm. then he would rush back into the hut and crawl into his bed of hay. many days had passed like this, one exactly the same as the other. the sun had always shone in a cloudless sky; always at evening the friendly little star had gleamed above the dark mountain. but one afternoon, thick, gray clouds began to chase one another across the sky; now and then blinding lightning flashed, and suddenly frightful thunder-bolts sounded, which echoed roaring from the mountains, as if there were twice as many and then a terrible storm broke. it was as dark as night; the rain beat against the hut, and meanwhile the thunder rolled with fearful reverberations through the mountains; quivering lightning lighted up the black, frightful giant-forms, which seemed quite specter-like to come nearer and look down menacingly. the cattle ran together in alarm and bellowed loudly, and great birds of prey flapped around with piercing shrieks. toni had long since fled into the hut, but the lightning showed him the frightful forms and it seemed every minute as if the rolling thunder would overthrow the hut to the ground. toni was so alarmed he could hardly breathe. he climbed up on the table expecting every minute that the hut would fall and crush him. the storm lasted for hours, and the man never came over. it was now really night but still the blinding lightning flashed and new peals of thunder rolled and the storm howled and raged as if it would sweep the hut away. toni stood half the night stiff with fright, clinging to the table, and with no thought, only a feeling of a frightful power, which was crushing everything. how he reached his bed he did not know, but in the morning he lay stretched across the hay, so exhausted he could hardly rise. he looked anxiously out of the window. how must it look outside after such a night? then he went out to see about the cows. the ground was still wet, but the animals were peacefully grazing. the sky was gray, and thick, black clouds were passing over it. gloomy and frightful the high mountains stood there. they had come so near and looked more threateningly than ever at toni. he ran back into the hut. many days of thunder storms followed, one after another and if the sun came out between, it burned unbearably, and new storms followed so unceasingly and violent, that the herdsman, on the other mountain often said that he had not known such a summer for years, and if it didn't change he wouldn't make half so much butter as in former summers, because the cows gave no milk, as they didn't like the fodder. during this time the man-servant chose the most favorable time to come over to the small pasture, milked the cows as quickly as possible and did not look after the boy at all; only now and then, when he thought toni had no more milk, he would bring the jug out quickly, fill it and put it back again. then he often saw toni sitting on his bed of hay, and would call out in passing: "you are lazy!" but then he ran right away in order to get back without being wet, and did not trouble himself further about the boy. so june had passed, and already a good part of july. the thunder storms had become less frequent, but thick fog often so enveloped the mountain that one could hardly see two steps away, and only here and there a black head appeared, looking gloomily through the mist. the cattle often wandered so far that the man found some of them between the two mountains and brought them up again. this would not do. he called up to the boy, but received no answer. he ran to the hut and went in. toni crouched in the corner was sitting on his bed and staring straight before him. "why don't you look after the cows?" asked the man. he received no answer. "can't you speak? what is the matter with you?" no answer. then the man looked at the bread and cheese, to see if toni had eaten everything and was suffering from hunger. but more than half the bread was there and the larger part of the cheese. toni had taken almost nothing but milk. "what is the matter with you, then? are you sick?" asked the man again. toni gave no answer. he seemed not to hear anything and stared so motionless before him that the man was quite alarmed. he ran out of the hut. he told the herdsman how it was with the boy and they decided that when one of the herdsman's boys went down with the butter, he must tell the matten farmer about it. another week passed. then the news was brought to the farmer. he thought the boy would be happy again, that the heavy thunderstorms had only frightened him a little. but he sent word for the herdsman to go over; he had boys of his own and would understand better about this than the hired man. if anything was wrong with toni he must be brought down. some days later the herdsman really went over with one of his boys and found toni still crouched in the corner just as the man had seen him. toni made no sound to anything the herdsman said to him, did not move and kept staring always before him. "he must go down," said the herdsman to his boy, "go with him right away, but take care that nothing happens to him and be good to him; the boy is to be pitied," and he looked at toni with sympathy, for the herdsman had a good heart and took delight in his own three big, healthy boys. the one he had with him was a strong, sturdy fellow of sixteen years. he went up to toni and told him to stand up, but toni did not move. then the lad took him under the arms, lifted him up, like a feather, then swung him on his back, held him firmly with both hands, and went with his light burden down the mountain. when the matten farmer saw toni in such a sad condition, which remained just the same, he was alarmed, for he had not expected such a thing. he did not know at all what to do with the boy. his mother was far away, no relatives were there, and he himself did not want to keep toni while in this condition. he could take such a responsibility, but he did not want to do so. suddenly a good thought came to him, the same as the people there in every difficulty, in every need and every trouble, always have first of all: "take him to the pastor," he said to the herdsman's boy, "he will have some good advice to give, which will help." the lad immediately started off and went to the pastor, who allowed the boy to tell him as much as he knew about the details of the case, how toni came to be in this condition and how long it had lasted; but the lad knew very little about it all. the pastor first tried every means to make toni speak, and asked him if he would like to go to his mother, but it was all in vain, toni did not give the least sign of understanding or interest. then the pastor sat down, wrote a letter and said to the herdsman's boy: "go back to the matten farm and tell the farmer to harness his little carriage and send it to me, and then i will see that toni goes to-day to bern. he is very sick; say that to the farmer." the farmer harnessed immediately, glad that further responsibility was taken from him and he had only to carry toni as far as the railway. but the pastor sent down to his sexton, an older, kindly man, who had given him a helping hand for years in many matters of responsibility. he was commissioned to take toni with all care to the great sanitarium in bern and to give the letter to the doctor there, a good friend of the pastor's. a half hour later, the open carriage with the high seat drove up in front of the pastor's house. the sexton climbed up, placed the sick boy beside him, held him carefully but firmly and thus toni drove out into the world, with a horse, for the first time in his life. but he sat there with no sign of interest. it was as if he were no longer conscious of the outer world. chapter fourth in the sanitarium the doctor of the sanitarium was sitting with his family around the family table, engaged in merry conversation on various subjects. even the lady from geneva, who spent several hours a day with the family, seemed to-day a little infected by the children's gayety. she had never before taken so lively a part in the discussion, which the school-children carried on about different interests. this lady's beloved and gifted son had died not long before; on this account she had fallen into such deep sadness that her health had suffered greatly and therefore she had been brought to the sanitarium to recover. the animated conversation was suddenly interrupted by a letter which was handed to the doctor. "a letter from an old friend, who is sending me a patient to the sanitarium. he is a young boy, hardly as old as our max--there, read it." whereupon the doctor handed the letter to his wife. "oh, the poor boy!" exclaimed his wife. "is he here? bring him in. perhaps it will do him good to see the children." "i think he is quite near," said the doctor; he went out, and soon came in again with the sexton and toni. he led the former into a bay window and began talking with him in a low tone. meanwhile the doctor's wife drew near to toni, who on entering had pressed into the nearest corner. she spoke kindly to him and invited him to come to the table and eat something with her children. toni did not move. then lively little marie jumped down from her chair and came to toni with a large piece of bread and butter. "there, take a bite," she said encouragingly. toni remained motionless. "see, you must do so," and the little girl bit a good piece from the bread and held it to him, then again a little nearer, so he only needed to bite into it. but he stared in front of him and made no motion. this silent resistance frightened marie and she drew back quietly. then the doctor came, took toni by the hand and went out followed by the sexton. poor toni's appearance had made a great impression on the children. they had become perfectly quiet. later when they had gone to bed and the two women were sitting alone together, the doctor came back again. in reply to their urgent questions he informed them about all that the sexton had told him concerning toni's illness and his life with his mother, and that no one had ever noticed anything wrong with the boy before, only he had always been a quiet, gentle child and more slenderly built than any of the other village children. the women asked how he had come into this condition in the summer up on the beautiful mountain, and the doctor explained that it was not so strange, if one knew how terrible the thunder storms were up in the mountains. "besides," he concluded, "a delicate child, such as this boy, all alone without a human being near, for whole weeks, even months long, without hearing a word spoken, might well be so terrified through fear and horror in the awful loneliness that he would become wholly benumbed." then the lady from geneva, who took an unusual interest in poor toni's fate, exclaimed in great excitement: "how can a mother allow such a thing to happen to her child! it is wholly inconceivable, quite incomprehensible!" "you really can have no idea," replied the doctor soothingly, "what poor mothers are obliged to let happen to their children. but don't believe that it causes them less pain than others. you see how many suffer that we know nothing about, and how hard poverty oppresses." "will you be able to help the poor young boy?" asked the lady from geneva. "if i can only bring out the right emotion in him," he replied, "so that the spell, which holds him imprisoned, can be broken. now everything in him is numbed and lifeless." "oh, do help him! do help him!" begged the sick lady imploringly. "oh, if i could do something for him!" and she walked to and fro thinking about a way to help, for toni's condition went deeply to her heart. it was the second week of august, when toni came to the sanitarium. day after day, week after week passed and the doctor could only bring the same sad news to the two women, who every morning awaited his report with great anxiety. not the slightest change was noticed. every means was tried to amuse the boy, to see if he would perhaps laugh. other attempts were devised to disturb him, to make him cry. they performed all kinds of tricks to attract his attention. all, all were in vain; no trace of interest or emotion was aroused in toni. "if he could only be made to laugh or to cry once!" repeated the doctor over and over again. when he had been four weeks in the sanitarium all hope disappeared, for the doctor had exhausted every means. "now i will try one thing more," he said one morning to his wife. "i have written to my friend, the pastor, and asked him if the boy was very much attached to his mother, and if so, to send for her right away. perhaps to see her again would make an impression on him." the two women looked forward in great suspense to elsbeth's arrival. in the first week of september the last guests left the hotel in interlaken where elsbeth had spent the summer. she immediately started on her way home, for she wanted to get everything in order before toni came down from the mountain. she never thought but that he was still up there, and had no suspicion of all that had happened. when she reached home, she went at once to the matten farm to enquire for toni and to bring the goat home. the farmer was very friendly, and thought her goat was now by far one of the finest, because she had had good fodder so long. but when elsbeth asked after her toni, he broke off abruptly and said he had so much to do, she must go to the pastor, for he would have the best knowledge about the boy. it immediately seemed to elsbeth that it was a little strange for the pastor to know best what happened up on the mountain and while she was leading home the goat, and thinking about the matter, a feeling of anxiety came over her and grew stronger and stronger. as soon as she reached home, she quickly tied the goat, without going into the cottage at all, and ran back the same way she had come, down again to kandergrund. the pastor told her with great consideration, how toni had not borne the life on the mountain very well and they had been obliged to bring him down, and since it seemed best for him that he should go at once to a good physician for the right care, he had sent the boy immediately to bern. his mother was very much shocked and wanted to travel the next day to see for herself if her child was very ill. but the pastor said that would not do, but that she should wait until the doctor allowed a visit, and she could be sure that toni was receiving the best care. with a heavy heart elsbeth went back to her cottage. she could do nothing but leave it all to the dear lord, who alone had been her trust for so many years. but it was only a few days later when the pastor sent her word that she was to go to bern at once, as the doctor wished her to come. early the following day elsbeth started. about noon she reached bern and soon was standing in front of the door of the sanitarium. she was led to the doctor's living-room and here received with great friendliness by his wife and with still keener sympathy by the lady from geneva, who had so lived in the history of poor toni and his mother that she could hardly think of anything else but how to help these two. she had had only the one child and could so well understand the mother's trouble. she had even asked the doctor to allow her to be present when he took the boy to his mother, in order to share in the joy, if the poor boy's delight at seeing her again would affect him as they hoped. soon the doctor appeared, and after he had prepared the mother not to expect toni to speak at the first moment, he brought him in. he led him by the hand into the room, then he let go and stepped to one side. the mother ran to her toni and tried to seize his hand. he drew back and pressed into the corner staring into vacancy. the women and the doctor exchanged sad looks. his mother went up to him and caressed him. "toneli, toneli," she said again and again in a tender voice, "don't you know me? don't you know your mother any more?" as always before toni pressed against the wall, made no motion and stared before him. in tender tones the mother continued mournfully: "oh, toneli, say just a single word! only look at me once! toneli, don't you hear me?" toneli remained unmoved. still once again the mother looked at him full of tenderness, but only met his staring eyes. it was too much for poor elsbeth, that the only possession she had on earth, and the one she loved with all her heart, her toni, should be lost to her, and in such a sad way! she forgot everything around her. she fell on her knees beside her child, and while the tears were bursting from her eyes, she poured out aloud the sorrow in her heart: oh god of love, oh father-heart, in whom my trust is founded, i know full well how good thou art-- e'en when by grief i am wounded. oh lord, it surely can not be that thou wilt let me languish in hopeless depths of misery and live in tears of anguish. toni's eyes took on a different expression. he looked at his mother. she did not see him and went on imploring in the midst of her tears: oh lord, my soul yearns for thine aid in this dark vale of weeping; for thee i have waited, hoped and prayed, assured of thy safe keeping. suddenly toni threw himself on his mother and sobbed aloud. she threw her arms around him and her tears of sorrow turned to loud sobs of joy. the child sobbed aloud also. "it is won," said the doctor in great delight to the women, who, deeply moved, were looking on at the mother and boy. then the doctor opened the door of the next room and beckoned elsbeth to go in there with toni. he thought it would be good for both to be alone for a while. in there after a while toni began to talk quite naturally with his mother and asked her: "are we going home, mother, to the stone hut? shan't i have to go up on the mountain any more?" and she quieted him and said she would now take him right home, and they would stay there together. soon all toni's thoughts came back again quite clearly, and after a while he said: "but i must earn something, mother." "don't trouble about that now," said elsbeth quietly; "the dear lord will show a way when it is time." then they began to talk about the goat, how pretty and fat she had grown, and toni gradually became quite lively. after an hour the doctor brought them both into the living-room back to the ladies. toni was entirely changed, his eyes had now an earnest but quite different expression. the lady from geneva was indescribably delighted. she sat down beside him at once, and he had to tell her where he had been to school and what he had liked to study. but the doctor beckoned to elsbeth to come to him. "listen, my good woman," he began, "the words which you repeated made a deep, penetrating impression on the boy's heart. did he know the hymn already?" "oh, my lord," exclaimed elsbeth, "many hundred times i have repeated it beside his little bed, when he was very small, often with many tears, and he would weep too, when he didn't know why." "he wept because you wept, he suffered because you suffered," said the doctor. "now i understand how he was aroused by these words. with such impressions in early childhood it is no wonder he became a quiet and reserved boy. this explains to me much in the past." then the lady from geneva came up for she wanted to talk with the mother. "my dear, good woman, he certainly must not go up on the mountain again. he is not fit for it," she said in great eagerness. "we must find something different for him. has he no taste for some other occupation? but it must be light, for he is not strong and needs care." "oh, yes, he has a great desire to learn something," said his mother. "from a little boy he has wished for it, but i hardly dare mention it." "there, there, my good woman, tell me right away about it," said the lady encouragingly, expecting something unheard-of. "he wants so much to be a wood-carver, and has a good deal of talent for it, but the cost of board and instruction together is more than eighty francs." "is that all?" exclaimed the lady in the greatest surprise, "is that all? come, my boy," and she ran to toni again, "would you really like to become a wood-carver--better than anything else?" the joy which shone in toni's eyes, when he answered that he would, showed the lady what she had to do. she had such a longing to help toni, that she wanted to act immediately that very hour. "would you like to learn at once, go to a teacher right away?" she asked him. toni gladly replied that he would. but now came a new thought. she turned to the doctor. "perhaps he ought to recover his health first?" the doctor replied that he had been already thinking about that. the mother had told him that she knew a very good master up in frutigen. "now i think," he went on to say, "that carving is not a strenuous work, and one of the most important things for toni is to have for some time good, nourishing food. in frutigen there is a very good inn, if he only could--" "i will undertake that, doctor, i will undertake that," interrupted the lady. "i will go with him. we will start to-morrow. in frutigen i will provide for toni's board and lodging and for everything he needs." in her great delight the lady shook hands with both the mother and the boy repeatedly, and went out to instruct her maid about preparations for the journey. when the mother with her boy had been taken to their room, the doctor said with great delight to his wife: "we have two recoveries. our lady is also cured. a new interest has come to her, and you will see she will have new life in providing for this young boy. this has been a beautiful day!" on the following morning the journey was made to frutigen, and the little company were so glad and happy together that they reached there before they were aware of it. at the wood-carver's the lady was told everything that would be needed for the work, and after he had showed them all kinds of instruments, he thought a fine book with good pictures, from which one could work, would be useful. after the lady had charged him to teach toni everything in any way necessary for the future, they went to the inn. here the lady engaged a good room with comfortable bed, and herself arranged with the host a bill of fare for every day in the week. the host promised, with many bows, to follow everything exactly, for he saw very well with whom he had to deal. then toni and his mother had to eat with the lady in the inn, and during the meal she had much more to say. she was going now, she said, the next day, home to geneva, where there were large shops, in which nothing was sold but carvings. there she would immediately arrange for toni to send all his articles, so he could begin to work with fresh zeal. moreover, she insisted that toni should remain, not two, but three months with the carver, so that he could learn everything from the foundation. he could go from here to visit his mother on sundays, or she could come to him. elsbeth and toni were so full of gratitude, they could find no words to express it, but the lady understood them nevertheless and bore home a happy heart, such as she had not had for a long time. it came about just as the doctor had foreseen. the lady, who had not been able to think any more about her home now desired to return to geneva. she had so many plans to carry out there, that she could hardly wait for the day when she was to go back. the doctor was delighted to consent to her going soon. toni, who had hardly begun with his new teacher, applied himself with so much zeal and skill to his work, that the carver said to his wife in the fourth week: "if he goes on like this, he will learn to do better than i can." the three months had come to an end, and christmas was drawing near. one morning toni waded through the deep snow up to his home. he looked round and fresh, and his heart was so happy he had to sing aloud as he came along. but when after a long walk, he suddenly saw the stone hut with the fir-tree thickly covered with snow behind it, tears of joy came to his eyes. he was coming home, home for all time. he ran to the little house, and his mother, who had already seen him, hurried out, and which one of the two was the more delighted, no one could tell; but they were both so happy, as they sat together again in the cottage, that they could think of no greater fortune on earth. their highest wish was fulfilled. toni was a wood-carver, and could carry on his work at home with his mother. and with what blessings besides the dear lord was still overwhelming them! from geneva such good things kept coming to elsbeth, that she no longer had to dread anxious days, and with each package came new assurance of the ready acceptance of toni's work. such a christmas festival as was celebrated two days later in the stone hut, neither elsbeth nor toni had ever known before, for the candles which his mother had lighted shone out upon a quantity of things, which toni had received to wear, and also a whole set of the most beautiful knives for carving and a book with pictures, of a size and beauty such as toni had never in all his life seen before. his master's book was a mere child's toy beside it. elsbeth too was lovingly provided for. the lady from geneva had planned everything, and the bright reflection from it fell back radiantly into her own heart. the most beautiful deer and huntsman and the wonderful eagles on the rock, standing in the high show-window in geneva was carved by toni, and was considered by him to be a particularly successful piece, so it went, not to the dealer in geneva, but to the lady for whom toni preserved a thankful heart all his life long. [illustration: the rocky mountain series] _the rocky mountain series._ frank among the rancheros. by harry castlemon, author of "the gun-boat series," "the go-ahead series," etc. the john c. winston co., philadelphia, chicago, toronto. famous castlemon books. gunboat series. by harry castlemon. vols. mo. frank the young naturalist. frank in the woods. frank on the lower mississippi. frank on a gunboat. frank before vicksburg. frank on the prairie. rocky mountain series. by harry castlemon. vols. mo. cloth. frank among the rancheros. frank at don carlos' ranch. frank in the mountains. sportsman's club series. by harry castlemon. vols. mo. cloth. the sportsman's club in the saddle. the sportsman's club afloat. the sportsman's club among the trappers. frank nelson series. by harry castlemon. vols. mo. cloth. snowed up. frank in the forecastle. the boy traders. boy trapper series. by harry castlemon. vols. mo. cloth. the buried treasure. the boy trapper. the mail-carrier. roughing it series. by harry castlemon. vols. mo. cloth. george in camp. george at the wheel. george at the fort. rod and gun series. by harry castlemon. vols. mo. cloth. don gordon's shooting box. rod and gun club. the young wild fowlers. go-ahead series. by harry castlemon. vols. mo. cloth. tom newcombe. go-ahead. no moss. forest and stream series. by harry castlemon. vols. mo. cloth. joe wayring. snagged and sunk. steel horse. war series. by harry castlemon. vols. mo. cloth. true to his colors. rodney the partisan. rodney the overseer. marcy the blockade-runner. marcy the refugee. other volumes in preparation. * * * * * entered according to act of congress, in the year , by r.w. carroll & co., in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states, for the southern district of ohio. copyright, , by charles a. fosdick. contents. page chapter i. a novel battle, chapter ii. frank's new home, chapter iii. twelve thousand dollars, chapter iv. frank proves himself a hero, chapter v. the fight in the court, chapter vi. the mysteries solved, chapter vii. frank meets a highwayman, chapter viii. colonel arthur vane, chapter ix. an old boy, chapter x. arthur shows his courage, chapter xi. arthur plans revenge, chapter xii. off for the mountains, chapter xiii. pierre and his band, chapter xiv. a dinner in the mountains, chapter xv. more treachery, chapter xvi. the escape, chapter xvii. the struggle on the cliff, chapter xviii. conclusion, frank among the rancheros. chapter i. a novel battle. "pull him along, carlos! pull him along!" shouted a young gentleman about sixteen years of age, as he danced about on the back porch of his uncle's house, in a state of great excitement; "why don't you pull him along?" "he'll come, after awhile," replied the person addressed; "but he is very wild and obstinate." the boy on the porch was almost beside himself--so much so, in fact, that he found it utterly impossible to stand still. he was jumping wildly about, swinging his arms around his head, and laughing and shouting at the top of his lungs. we have met this young gentleman before. we have been with him through the woods, accompanied him across the prairie, and seen him in some exciting situations; but, for all that, it is by no means certain that his most intimate friend, could he have beheld him while he was dancing about on the porch, would have recognized him. the last time we saw him he was dressed in a suit of blue jeans, rather the worse for wear, a slouch hat, and a pair of heavy horseman's boots. now, he sports a suit of clothes cut in the height of fashion--that is, mexican fashion. they are not exactly of the description that we see on the streets every day, but they are common among the farmers of southern california, for that is where this young gentleman lives. he is dressed in a short jacket of dark blue cloth, trimmed around the edges, and on the sleeves, with gold lace, and wide trousers of the same material, also gaudily ornamented. the hat, with which he fans his flushed face, is a sombrero, bound with gold cord, the ends of which are adorned with tassels, that fall jauntily over the edge of the brim. an embroidered shirt of gray cloth, and shoes and stockings, complete his attire; or, we may add, a long crimson sash, which is wound several times around his waist, and tied at the side, and a pair of small mexican spurs, whose rowels are ornamented with little silver bells, which tinkle musically as he moves his feet about. if you fail to recognize an old acquaintance in this excited, sunburnt boy, you surely can call the name of the tall, broad-shouldered, sober-looking youth, who stands at his side. three months in the saddle have not changed frank nelson a great deal, only he is a little more robust, and, perhaps, more sedate. he has lost none of his love of excitement, and he is quite as interested in what is going on before him as archie; but he stands with his hands in his pockets, looking as dignified as a judge. it would be a wonder if they were not somewhat excited, as they are witnessing a desperate battle that is going on between two of their uncle's rancheros and a wild steer, which one of them has lassoed, and is trying to pull through the gate into the cow-pen. the animal is struggling furiously for his freedom, and the issue of the contest is doubtful. at the time our story begins, frank and his cousin had lived two months in southern california, where mr. winters owned a farm--or, in the language of that country, a _rancho_--of sixteen thousand acres. besides attending to his business in the mines, and superintending his affairs in sacramento, uncle james had devoted a portion of his time to stock-raising; and, when frank and archie first saw his immense droves of horses and cattle, they thought them sufficient in numbers to supply all the markets in america. mr. winters's rancho was not managed like the farms in our part of the country. to begin with, there were but three fences on it--one inclosed two small barns and corn-cribs; another, a pasture of two or three acres, and the third formed the cow-pen. in the barns, uncle james kept his riding and farm horses; the pasture was for the use of the half dozen cows which supplied the rancho with butter and milk; and the cow-pen was nothing more nor less than a prison, into which, in the spring of the year, all the young cattle and horses were driven and branded with the initials of the owner's name. this was done so that mr. winters and his hired men might be able to recognize the stock anywhere. the cattle sometimes strayed, and became mixed up with those of the neighbors, and the marks on their flanks showed to whom they belonged. [illustration] a fence around that farm would have been useless. none of the cattle and horses had ever been handled, except when they were branded, and, consequently, they were very wild. sometimes they became frightened and stampeded; and then they behaved like a herd of buffaloes, which turn aside for nothing, and stop only when they are completely tired out. on these occasions, the strongest fences that could have been made would have been trampled down like the grass beneath their feet. of course, these cattle and horses had never seen the inside of a stable. indeed, a barn large enough to accommodate them would have been an immense building, and would have cost more money than all the stock-raisers in the country were worth. however, there was no need of shelter for them. the grass on the prairie was abundant at all seasons of the year, the winters were very mild, and the cattle were always fat and in condition to be driven to market. all this stock was managed by half a dozen men, called rancheros. four of them were mexicans; the others were our old friends, dick lewis and bob kelly. so skillful were these men in their business, that a herd of cattle, which, in the hands of any one else, would have proved utterly unmanageable, was driven about by them with perfect ease. sometimes it became necessary to secure a single member of these droves. perhaps the housekeeper wanted some fresh meat for dinner, or uncle james desired a new riding horse; in either case, the services of these men were invaluable. mr. winters would issue the necessary orders to carlos--who was the chief of the rancheros, and the man who managed the farm during the absence of his employer--and an hour or two afterward four quarters of fine beef would be carried into the cellar, or mr. winters would be requested to step to the door and see if they had captured the horse he wanted. the rancheros accomplished this with their lassos, which they carried suspended from the horns of their saddles wherever they went. a lasso is a long rope, about as large as a clothes-line, and is generally made of rawhide. one end of it is fastened to the saddle, and the other, by the aid of a strong iron ring, formed into a running noose. this contrivance these herdsmen could use with a skill that was astonishing. mounted on their fleet horses, they would ride up behind a wild steer, and catch him by the horns, around his neck, or by one of his feet, as suited their fancy. on the morning we find frank and archie on the porch, their nearest neighbor, also a stock-raiser, had ridden over to inform them that one of his fine steers, which he had intended to drive to market, had escaped from his rancheros, and joined one of mr. winters's droves; whereupon frank, who, in the absence of his uncle, acted as the head man of the ranch, sent for carlos, and commanded him to capture the runaway, and confine him in the cow-pen until his owner should send for him. carlos had obeyed the first part of the order, but just then it seemed that that was all he could do. the steer had suddenly taken it into his head that he had been driven far enough, and that he would not go through the gate that led into the cow-pen; and, although carlos pulled him by his lasso, which he had thrown over his horns, and another ranchero, named felix, vigorously applied a whip from behind, the obstinate animal refused to budge an inch. sometimes he would kick, and plunge, and try to run off; and then the horse on which carlos was mounted, which seemed to understand the business quite as well as his master, would plant his fore-feet firmly on the ground to stop him. finding that he could not effect his escape in that way, the steer would run around in a circle; and the horse would turn around also, keeping his face toward the animal all the while, and thus avoid being wrapped up in the lasso. this novel battle had been going on for nearly ten minutes, and even frank had become highly excited over it. "pull him along, carlos!" shouted archie, jumping about on the porch as if he had lost all control over his legs, and they would dance in spite of every thing he could do to prevent it. "pull him along! whip up behind, felix; hit him hard!" archie continued to shout his orders at the top of his voice; but they did not seem to help the matter any, for the steer still refused to move. he had fallen to his knees, and laid his head close to the ground, as if he had deliberately resolved that he would remain there; and for a long time, all the pulling and whipping the two rancheros could do, brought nothing from him but angry snorts and shakes of the head. "now, archie," said carlos, as he stopped to wipe the big drops of perspiration from his face, "what would you do with this fellow?" the boys, who never neglected an opportunity to pick up items of information concerning every thing that came in their way, had been taking lessons of the rancheros in horsemanship, throwing the lasso, and managing wild cattle; and carlos thought this a proper occasion to ascertain how much they remembered of what they had learned. "well," replied archie, pulling off his sombrero, and digging his fingers into his head, to stir up his ideas, "i'd keep pulling and hauling at him until i got him tired out, and then i think i could manage him." "that would take up too much time," said carlos; "i've got other work to do, and i am in a hurry." "make your lasso fast to the horn of your saddle, and start up your horse, and drag him in," suggested frank. "that's the idea, and that's just what i'm going to do," said carlos. but that was just what the ranchero did _not_ do. while he was preparing to put this plan into operation, the steer suddenly jumped to his feet, and made another desperate attempt to effect his escape, and this time he was successful. there was a loud snap, carlos's heels made a flourish in the air like the shafts of a windmill, and, in an instant, he was stretched at full length on the ground. his saddle-girth had parted, and the steer was at liberty to take himself off, which he did in short order. the boys gazed in astonishment at the fallen horseman, who righted himself with alacrity, stretched his arms and legs to satisfy himself that there were no bones broken, and then commenced shouting some orders to his companion, who put spurs to his horse and started in pursuit of the steer, which was galloping over the prairie, dragging carlos's saddle after him. he was very soon overtaken, and felix, raising himself in his stirrups, swung his lasso around his head once or twice, to make sure of an accurate aim, and launched it at the steer. the lariat whistled through the air, as true to its course as a ball from a rifle, the noose settled down over his horns, the horse stopped suddenly, and the runaway lay struggling on the ground. his last attempt at escape seemed to have exhausted his energies, for when he had regained his feet, he allowed felix to lead him back to the gate and into the cow-pen, where he was turned loose, to remain until his owner should send for him. chapter ii. frank's new home. frank and archie, as we have before remarked, had been in california about two months; and, between riding, hunting, visiting, and assisting uncle james, who was engaged in selling off his stock and closing up his business, preparatory to his return to lawrence, they had passed the time most agreeably. they were as fond as ever of excitement, were almost constantly in the saddle, and mr. winters often said that if they and their horses and dog did not travel a thousand miles every day, it was not because they did not try. when the boys first arrived in california, they thought themselves expert in all manner of frontier accomplishments. but one morning, they rode over to visit johnny harris and dick thomas--two boys, about their own age, with whom they had become acquainted--and, during the day, they witnessed some feats of skill that made them wonder. johnny and dick, to show what they could do, captured and rode a couple of wild horses, that had never been handled before; and frank and archie were compelled to admit that they had some things yet to learn. every boy in that country could throw the lasso, and the cousins found that, if they desired to keep up their reputation, they must put themselves under instructions. dick and bob readily took them in hand, and, although the boys were awkward at first, they improved rapidly. they soon learned to throw the lasso with considerable skill, and frank speedily took the lead in rifle-shooting, while archie began to brag of his horsemanship. the former could bring a squirrel out of the top of the highest oak on the farm, at every shot; and his cousin could bend down from his saddle and pick up his sombrero from the ground, while his horse was going at the top of his speed. the horses the boys rode were the same that had carried them across the prairie, and they were now hitched at the end of the porch, saddled and bridled, and awaiting the pleasure of their masters. one of them, sleepy sam, looked as sleepy as ever. he stood with his head down, and his eyes half closed, as if it made no difference to him whether archie took his morning ride or not. the other, a magnificent iron-gray, pulled impatiently at his halter, and pranced about, apparently as much excited as archie had been a few moments before. this was the "king of the drove"--the one the trappers had captured during their sojourn at the old bear's hole. he answered to the name of roderick; for frank had read sir walter scott's "lady of the lake," and, admiring the character of the rebel chieftain, had named his favorite after him. perhaps the name was appropriate, for the animal sometimes showed a disposition to rebel against lawful authority, especially when any one besides frank attempted to put a saddle or bridle on him. he was a wild-looking fellow, and he had a way of laying back his ears, and opening his mouth, when any one came near him, that would have made a stranger think twice before trying to mount him. with frank, however, he was as gentle as a dog. he would come at his call, stand on his hind legs, and carry his master's whip or sombrero. he would kick and bite at frank when the latter tickled him in the ribs, all in sport, of course; but if mr. winters, or one of the herdsmen, came about him, he would use his teeth and heels in good earnest. he was as swift as ever, and frank had yet to see the horse that could beat him. the saddles these horses wore were like every thing else about themselves and masters, of the mexican pattern. they were made of beautifully-stamped leather, with high pommels in front, the tops of which were flat, and as large around as the crown of frank's sombrero. a pair of saddle-bags was fastened across the seat of each, in which the boys carried several handy articles, such as flint, steel, and tinder for lighting a fire; ammunition for their revolvers, which were safely stowed away in bearskin holsters strapped in front of the saddles, and large clasp-knives, that were useful in skinning squirrels when the boys went hunting. behind the saddles, neatly rolled up, and held in their places by straps, were a couple of pouches, which they used in rainy weather. they were pieces of india-rubber cloth, with holes in the center for the wearers' heads. they were large enough to afford complete protection from the rain, and could also be used as tents in case the boys found it necessary to camp all night on the prairie. we have spoken of frank's dog; but were we to let the matter drop here, it would be slighting an animal which had played a somewhat important part in the history of frank's life in california. his name was marmion, and he had been presented to frank by captain porter--an old fur-trader, who lived a few miles distant from the rancho, and with whom the cousins were great favorites. archie did not like the dog, and, if the truth must be told, the dog had not the smallest particle of affection for archie. in fact, he cared for no one except his master, and that was the reason the fur-trader had given him to frank. he was as large as two ordinary dogs--very courageous, and so savage that no one cared to trouble him. he had seen some stirring times during his life, and his body was covered with wounds, some of which were not entirely healed. frank was quite as fond of him as he was of brave, and with good reason, too. marmion had received those wounds while fighting for his master, and it was through his interference that frank had been saved from a long captivity. it happened before the commencement of our story, and how it came to pass shall be told in the following chapters. the house in which frank and archie lived stood in a grove of stately oak-trees, and, externally, was in perfect keeping with its surroundings. it was built of massive logs, in the form of a hollow square, with an open court in the center, which was paved with stone. the windows, which extended down to the floor, and which were used for ingress and egress quite as often as the doors, were protected by shutters made of heavy planks, and there were four loop-holes on each side of the house, showing that it had been intended to serve as a defense as well as a shelter. indeed, it looked more like a fortification than a dwelling. the house was old, and had a history--an exciting one, too, as any one could have told after examining it closely. the walls bore numerous scars, which had been made by bullets, and the trees surrounding the dwelling were marked in the same manner. the grove had not always been as peaceful and quiet as we found it. its echoes had been awakened by the yells of infuriated men and the reports of hostile rifles, and the very sod upon which frank sometimes stretched himself after dinner, to while away an hour with some favorite author, had been wet with blood. when the house was built, there was not another human habitation within a circle of twenty miles. the country was an unbroken wilderness. mr. winters's nearest neighbors were bands of roving freebooters, who robbed all who came in their way. they did not, however, content themselves with waylaying solitary travelers. they frequently made organized attacks upon remote farm-houses, and one night they made a sudden descent upon mr. winters's rancho. but the old frontiersman had lived too long in that country, and was too well acquainted with the character of his neighbors, to be caught napping. he and his rancheros were armed to the teeth, and prepared for a fight; and, after a siege of two days, during which time the robbers poured an almost constant shower of bullets against the walls of the house, they withdrew, after shooting and dispersing the cattle, and destroying the crops. not one of mr. winters's party was injured; but the outlaws suffered so severely, that they never repeated the attempt to rob that rancho. frank and archie never grew tired of hearing uncle james tell the story of that fight, and nearly every day they examined the marks of the bullets on the logs, sometimes being foolish enough to wish that they had been there to take part in those exciting scenes, or that the robbers would return and make another attack on the house, so that they might be able to say that they had been in a real battle. then they should have a story to tell that would be worth listening to. they never imagined that, before they were many years older, they could recount adventures quite as exciting as their uncle's. the interior of the house presented a strange contrast to the outside. when one crossed the threshold, he found himself surrounded with all the comforts of civilization. there were fine carpets on the floors, oil paintings on the walls, and easy chairs, sofas, and musical instruments in abundance. the room the boys occupied was the only one in which could be found any traces of the backwoods. it was a pleasant, cheerful apartment, quite as nicely furnished as the other rooms in the house, and every thing about it bespoke the taste and character of its young masters. a stranger, having taken a single glance at the numerous articles hung upon the walls, and scattered about over the floor--some of them useful and ornamental, others apparently of no value or service to any one--could have told that its presiding geniuses were live, wide-awake, restless boys. the room contained a fine library, an extensive collection of relics of all descriptions, and its walls were adorned with pictures, only they were of a different character from those in the other parts of the house. frank and archie cared nothing for such scenes as the "soldier's dream" and "sunrise in the mountains;" their tastes ran in another channel. their favorite picture hung over their writing desk, and was entitled, "one rubbed out." in the foreground was a man mounted on a mustang that was going at full speed. the man was dressed in the garb of a hunter, with leggins, moccasins, and coonskin cap, and in one hand he carried a rifle, while the other held the reins which guided his horse. the hunter was turned half around in the saddle, looking back toward half a dozen indians, who had been pursuing him, but were now gathered about their chief, who had been struck from his horse by a ball from the hunter's rifle. the latter's face wore a broad grin, which testified to the satisfaction he felt at the result of this shot. this picture had been shown to old bob kelly, who, after regarding it attentively for a few moments, declared that it must have been painted by some one who was acquainted with the story of his last trip to the saskatchewan, the particulars of which he had related to dick on the night he made his first appearance in their camp. "i don't know how the chap that made that ar' pictur' could have found it out," said old bob, who, simple-hearted fellow that he was, really believed that the hunter in the painting was intended to represent him, "'cause i never told the story to nobody 'cept you an' my chum dick. but thar's one thing wrong about it, youngsters. when i shot a injun, i didn't hold my rifle on the horn of my saddle, an' waste time laughin' over it. i loaded up again to onct, an' got ready for another shot." at the opposite end of the room hung a picture of a hunters' camp. two or three men were stretched out on the ground before a cheerful fire, resting after the labors of the day, while others were coming in from the woods--some loaded with water-fowl, some with fish, and the two who brought up the rear were staggering under the weight of a fine deer they had shot. archie often wondered where that camp could have been located. he did not believe there was a place in the united states where game of all kinds was as abundant as the hunters in the picture found it. paintings of this character occupied prominent places on the walls of the room, and between them hung numerous relics the boys had collected during their journey across the prairie, and a few trophies of their skill as hunters. over the door were the antlers of the first and only elk they had killed, and upon them hung a string of grizzly bear's claws, which had once been worn as a necklace by an indian chief, and also a bow, a quiver full of arrows, a stone tomahawk, and a scalping-knife--all of which had been presented to them by captain porter. at the head of the bed were two pairs of deer's horns fastened to the wall, and supporting their rifles, bullet-pouches, powder-horns, and hunting-knives. these articles were all highly prized by the boys; but, upon a nail driven into the wall beside the book-case, hung something that, next to his horse and dog, held the most exalted place in frank's estimation. it was the remnant of the first lasso he had ever owned. he thought more of it than of any other article he possessed, and he would have surrendered every thing, except roderick and marmion, before he would have parted with that piece of a rawhide rope. it had once saved his uncle's life; and, more than that, frank himself had been hanged with it. yes, as improbable as it may seem, one end of that lasso had been placed around his neck, the other thrown over the hook which supported one of his large pictures, and frank had been drawn up until his toes only rested on the floor; and all because he refused to tell where he had hidden a key. where the rest of the lasso was he did not know. the last time he saw it, it was around the neck of a man who was running through the grove at the top of his speed, with marmion close at his heels. the dog came back, but the man and the piece of lasso did not; and this brings us to our story. chapter iii. twelve thousand dollars. one day, about six weeks before the commencement of our story, frank and archie were sent to san diego on business for uncle james. when they returned, they found a new face among the rancheros--that of pierre costello, a man for whom frank at once conceived a violent dislike. pierre was a full-blooded mexican, dark-browed, morose, and sinister-looking, and he had a pair of small, black eyes that were never still, but constantly roving about, as if on the lookout for something. his appearance was certainly forbidding; but that was not the reason why frank disliked him. it was because marmion regarded him with suspicion, and seemed to think he had no business on the rancho. when the ranchero came about the house, marmion would follow him wherever he went, as if he feared that the man was about to attempt some mischief; and, when pierre returned to his quarters, the dog always seemed to be immensely relieved. frank invariably made common cause with his favorites, whether they belonged to the human or brute creation, and without taking the trouble to inquire into the merits of the case; and, when he found how matters stood between pierre and marmion, he at once espoused the cause of his dog, and hated the ranchero as cordially as though the latter had done him some terrible injury, although the man had never spoken to him, except to salute him very respectfully every time they met. that pierre hated and feared the dog, quite as much as the animal disliked him, was evident. he would scowl, and say "_carrajo_," every time marmion came near him, and lay his hand on his knife, as if it would have afforded him infinite pleasure could he have found an opportunity, to draw it across the dog's throat. frank had often noticed this, and consequently, when he one day came suddenly upon the dog, which was looking wistfully at a piece of meat pierre was holding out to him, he was astonished, and not a little alarmed. the mexican scowled, as he always did when frank came near him, and walked away, hiding the meat under his coat. "give it to me, pierre," said frank; "marmion don't like to be fed by strangers." the ranchero kept on as if he were not aware that he had been spoken to; and his conduct went a long way in confirming the new suspicions that had suddenly sprung up in frank's mind. "uncle," said he, that evening, after supper, as he joined mr. winters and archie, who had seated themselves on the porch to enjoy the cool breeze of evening, "how long do you intend to keep that new ranchero?" "as long as he will stay," replied mr. winters. "he is one of the most faithful men i ever had, and he is quite as skillful in his business as either carlos or dick." "he is a mean man for all that," said frank; "he tried to poison marmion, to-day." "i don't blame him," said archie; "a meaner, uglier dog i never saw"-- "now, archie," interrupted frank, "i like the dog; and even if i didn't, i would keep him because he is a present." "how do you know that pierre tried to poison him?" asked mr. winters. "why, he was holding a piece of meat out to the dog, and when i came up he walked off in a great hurry," replied frank, who, when he came to state the case, found that it was not quite so strong against the ranchero as he had at first supposed. "he may have done all that, and still be innocent of any desire to injure your favorite. marmion doesn't like him, and, no doubt, pierre is trying his best to make friends with him. i'll insure your dog's life for a quarter." frank was far from being satisfied. somehow, he did not like the scowl he had often seen on pierre's face. he was certain that the ranchero had intended to harm marmion; but why? not simply because he hated the dog, but for the reason that the animal was in his way. this was the view frank took of the case; and, believing that pierre was there for no good, he resolved to keep a close watch on all his movements. a day or two after that, mr. winters and archie set out on horseback for san diego, the former to collect the money for a drove of horses he had sold there, before his departure for the east, and archie to explore the city. frank, hourly expecting his two friends, johnny harris and dick thomas, who had promised to spend a week with him, remained at home, with the housekeeper and two of the rancheros, one of whom was pierre, for company. dick and bob, and the rest of the herdsmen, were off somewhere, attending to the stock. frank, being left to himself, tried various plans for his amusement. he read a few pages in half a dozen different books, took a short gallop over the prairie, shot a brace of quails for his dinner; all the while keeping a bright lookout for his expected visitors, who, however, did not make their appearance. about noon, he was gratified by hearing the sound of a horse's hoofs in the court. he ran out, expecting to welcome johnny and dick, but, to his disappointment, encountered a stranger, who reined up his horse at the door, and inquired: "is this mr. winters's rancho, young man?" frank replied that it was. "he is at home, i suppose?" continued the visitor. "no, sir; he started for the city early this morning." the gentleman said that was very unfortunate, and began to make inquiries concerning the road mr. winters generally traveled when he went to san diego--whether he took the upper or lower trail--and then he wondered what he should do. "my name is brown," said he; and frank knew he was the very man his uncle expected to meet in san diego. "i owe mr. winters some money for a drove of horses i bought of him before he went to the states, and i have come up to pay it. i have here twelve thousand dollars in gold," he added, laying his hand on his saddle-bags, which seemed to be heavy and well filled. "couldn't you remain until day after to-morrow?" asked frank. "uncle james will be at home then." "i can't spare the time. i am on my way to fort yuma, where i have some business to transact that may detain me three or four days. i don't like to carry this money there and back, for it is heavy, and there is no knowing what sort of travelers one may meet on the road. wouldn't it be all right if i should leave it here with you?" "yes, sir," replied frank, eager to accept the responsibility; "i can take care of it. but i thought you might want a receipt." "i am not particular about that. mr. winters has trusted me for about six months, and i think i can afford to trust him for as many days. i'll call and get the receipt when i come back." as mr. brown said this, he dismounted, and pierre, who, ever since his employer's departure, had seemed to have nothing to do but to loiter about the house, and who had stood at the opposite side of the court, listening to every word of the conversation, came up to hold his horse. the visitor shouldered his saddle-bags, and followed frank into a room which went by the name of "the office," where mr. winters transacted all his business. the room was furnished with a high desk, a three-legged stool, and a small safe, which, like those in banks, was set into the wall, so that nothing but the door could be seen. "that is just the place for it," said mr. brown; "it will be secure there." "but i haven't got the key," replied frank; "uncle always carries it in his pocket." "well, i don't suppose there would be any danger if you were to leave the money on the porch. of course, your hired people can be depended on, or your uncle wouldn't keep them." frank thought there was at least one person on the rancho who could not be trusted to any great extent; but, of course, he said nothing about it. he glanced around the room, wondering what he should do with the money, when he discovered that his uncle had left the key of the desk in the lock. for want of a better place, frank decided to put the gold in there. mr. brown took it out of his saddle-bags, and packed it away in the drawer--six bags in all, each containing two thousand dollars, in bright, new "yellow-boys." then, declining frank's invitation to stay to dinner, the gentleman bade him good-by, mounted his horse, and resumed his journey. "twelve thousand dollars!" said frank, to himself, as he locked the desk and put the key into his pocket. "why, that's a fortune! now that i think of it, i almost wish mr. brown hadn't left it here. what would uncle james say if somebody should break into the house and steal it?" as frank asked himself this question, he turned suddenly, and saw pierre standing on the porch, in front of one of the windows, watching him with eager eyes. he must have moved very quietly to have approached so near without attracting the boy's attention, and that, to frank, whose suspicions had already been thoroughly aroused, was good evidence that the ranchero was not just what he ought to be. if he was an honest man, he would not try to slip around without making any noise. finding that he was discovered, pierre removed his sombrero and said, without the least embarrassment: "is it your pleasure to ride? if so, i will saddle your horse." "you need not trouble yourself," replied frank, rather gruffly. "i shall remain at home." pierre bowed and walked away. "now, that rascal thinks he is sharp," said frank, gazing after the ranchero. "he never offered to saddle my horse before, and he wouldn't have done it then if i hadn't caught him looking in at the window. i wonder if he thinks i am foolish enough to ride for pleasure at this time of day, with the thermometer standing a hundred degrees in the shade? that fellow is a scoundrel, and he is up to something. perhaps he is after this gold. if he is, he may have the satisfaction of knowing that he won't get it." so saying, frank began to close and fasten the shutters which protected the windows, and while thus engaged, he caught a glimpse of the ranchero's dark face peering at him around the corner of the house. "if i owned this ranch," said frank, to himself, "that fellow shouldn't stay here five minutes longer. i'd pay him off, and tell him to leave as fast as his horse could carry him." having satisfied himself that the windows were so well secured that no one could effect an entrance through them, frank opened the drawer and took another good look at the money, as if he were afraid that it might have been spirited away even while he was in the room; after which he locked the desk, and hid the key under the edge of the carpet. then glancing about the office, to make sure that every thing was safe, he closed the door, and hurrying into his own room, he threw the key under his writing-desk, next to the wall. then he breathed easier. the money was as safe as it would have been in the bank at san diego. chapter iv. frank proves himself a hero. "there!" said frank, with something like a sigh of relief. "if pierre gets into that office to-night, he'll have to use an ax; and if he tries that"-- frank finished the sentence by shaking his head in a threatening manner, and taking down his rifle, which he proceeded to load very carefully. he had made up his mind to fight, if it should become necessary. he was now more anxious than ever for the arrival of his two friends, for he did not like the idea of remaining alone in the house all night, with so much money under his charge, and a villainous-looking mexican hovering about. frank, as we know, was very far from being a coward; but having by some means got it into his head that pierre was a rascal, and that something unpleasant would happen before morning, he could not help feeling rather anxious. the afternoon wore slowly away, but johnny and dick did not make their appearance. darkness came on apace, and frank, being at last satisfied that he was to be left alone in his glory for that night at least, ate his supper, and visited roderick in his stable to see that he was well provided for, and then whistled for his dog, which he had not seen since the departure of mr. brown. marmion, however, did not respond to the call. frank whistled and shouted several times in vain, and then set out to hunt up his favorite. he visited the rancheros' quarters, and found felix and pierre sitting in the door of one of the cabins, smoking their cigarettes. the former had not seen the dog; but, willing to serve frank to any extent in his power, offered to go in search of the animal. pierre, however, said that would be useless, for he had seen marmion in hot pursuit of a rabbit. no doubt he had driven the game into its burrow, and was engaged in digging it out. when he caught the rabbit, he would come home of his own free will. although frank was suspicious of every thing pierre said or did, he could see no reason for disbelieving this story. marmion was quite as fond of the chase as his young master, and frequently indulged in hunting expeditions on his own responsibility; sometimes being absent all day and nearly all night. but he was not off hunting then, and pierre had told a deliberate falsehood, when he said that he had seen him in pursuit of a rabbit. the ranchero had determined upon a course of action which he knew he could not follow out so long as the dog was at liberty, and marmion was, at that very moment, lying bound and muzzled under one of the corn-cribs, almost within hearing of his master's voice. frank slowly retraced his steps toward the house, feeling more nervous and uneasy than ever. in marmion he had an ally that could be depended on in any emergency; and, if the dog had been at his side, he would have felt perfectly safe. but he was not the one to indulge long in gloomy thoughts without a cause, and in order to drive them away, he lighted his lamp, and, drawing his easy-chair upon the porch, amused himself until nine o'clock with his guitar. the music not only served to soothe his troubled feelings, but also had the effect of banishing his suspicions to a great extent, and left him in a much more cheerful frame of mind. "how foolish i have been," said he, to himself. "because pierre is ugly, like all the rest of his race, and because he always carries a knife in his belt, and hates marmion, i have been willing to believe him capable of any villainy. i don't suppose he has thought of that gold since he saw me lock it up." as frank said this, he pulled his chair into the room, and selecting cooper's "last of the mohicans" from the numerous volumes in the library, he dismissed all thoughts of the ranchero, and sat down to read until he should become sleepy. he soon grew so deeply interested in his book, that he did not hear the light step that sounded on the porch, nor did he see the dark, glittering eyes which looked steadily at him through the open window. he saw them a moment afterward, however, for, while he was absorbed in that particular part of the fight at glen's falls, where hawk-eye snapped his unloaded rifle at the indian who was making off with the canoe in which the scout had left his ammunition, a figure glided quickly but noiselessly into the room, and stopped behind the boy's chair. "now, my opinion is that hawk-eye was not much of a backwoodsman, after all," said frank, who was in the habit of commenting upon and criticising every thing he read. "why did he leave his extra powder-horn in his canoe, when he knew that the hurons were all around him? you wouldn't catch dick or old bob kelly in any such scrape, nor me either, for that matter, for i would"-- frank's soliloquy was brought to a close very suddenly, and what he was about to say must forever remain a secret. his throat was seized with an iron grasp, and he was lifted bodily out of his chair, and thrown upon the floor. so quickly was it done that he had no time to resist or to cry out. before he could realize what had happened, he found himself lying flat on his back, and felt a heavy weight upon his breast holding him down. filled with surprise and indignation, he looked up into the face that was bending over him, and recognized pierre costello, whose features wore a fiendish expression, the effect of which was heightened by a murderous-looking knife which he carried between his teeth. scowling fiercely, as if he were trying to strike terror to the boy's heart by his very appearance, he loosened his grasp on frank's throat, and the latter, after coughing and swallowing to overcome the effects of the choking he had received, demanded: "what do you mean, you villain?" pierre, without making any reply, coolly proceeded to overhaul the contents of frank's pockets. like all boys of his age, our hero was supplied with a variety of articles, which, however serviceable they may be to a youngster of sixteen, no one else could possibly find use for, and the ranchero's investigations brought to light a fish-line, bait-box, a rooster's spur, of which frank intended to make a charger for his rifle, a piece of buckskin, half a dozen bullets, a brass cannon, a pocket comb, a quill pop-gun, a small compass, a silver ring, a match-box, a jack-knife, and a piece of lead. these articles he tossed upon the floor, rather contemptuously, and then turned all frank's pockets inside out, but failed to discover any thing more. "where are they?" demanded pierre, removing the knife from his mouth, and looking savagely at his prisoner, who all this time had lain perfectly still upon the floor, apparently not the least alarmed. "where are what?" inquired frank. "the keys, you young vagabond!" returned the ranchero, astonished at the result of his search, and in a great hurry to get through with his business. "the keys that open the office and the safe. speak quick!" "the safe key is where you'll never get your hands upon it," replied frank. "if you want it, you'll have to go to san diego, catch uncle james, and throw him down, as you did me, and search his pockets for it. but that is something a dozen such fellows as you couldn't do." "but the office key! where's that?" "it's in a safe place, also," said frank, who had already resolved that the would-be robber should never learn from him where he had hidden the key. "if i were a man, i should like to see you hold me down so easily. let me up, or i'll call for help!" "if you speak above your breath, i'll choke you!" said pierre, with savage emphasis. "i am not done with you yet! is the money in the safe?" "that's none of your business! let me up, i say! here, marmion! marmion!" "_carrajo!_" muttered the ranchero, again seizing his prisoner's throat in his powerful fingers. "do you want me to kill you?" frank, nothing daunted by this rough treatment, struggled manfully, and tried hard to make a defiant reply, but could not utter a sound. pierre tightened his grasp, until it seemed as if he had deliberately resolved to send him out of the world altogether, and then released his hold, and waited until frank was able to speak before he said: "you see that i am in earnest! now, answer me! is the gold in the safe?" "i am in earnest, too!" replied frank, as bravely as ever. "i shall not tell you where it is. are you going to let me up?" "i am going to make you tell where you have put that key!" said pierre, as he removed the sash his prisoner wore around his waist, and began to confine his arms behind his back. "if i once get inside the office, i'll soon find out where you have put that gold." "but you are not inside the office yet, and i don't think you will get there very soon. if you were well acquainted with me, you would know that you can not drive me one inch. you're a coward, pierre," he added, as he released one of his hands by a sudden jerk, and made a desperate but unsuccessful attempt to seize the ruffian by the hair. "you don't give a fellow a fair chance. i wish my dog was here." "you need not look for him," said the ranchero; "he'll never come." frank made no reply. he was wondering what his captor intended to do with him, and turning over in his mind numerous wild plans for escape. pierre, in his haste, was tying the sash in a very clumsy manner, and frank was certain that, with one vigorous twist, he could set himself at liberty. in spite of his unpleasant and even painful situation--for, after his attempt to catch the ranchero by the hair, the latter had turned him upon his face, and was kneeling upon him to hold him down--he could not help chuckling to himself when he thought how he would astonish pierre if he did not mind what he was about. "perhaps he will leave me, and try to force an entrance into the office," soliloquized frank. "if he does, i am all right! i'll jerk my arms out of this sash, pick up that rifle, and the first thing mr. pierre costello knows, he'll be the prisoner. i'll march him to the quarters, and tell felix to tie him, hand and foot." unfortunately for the success of these plans, the ranchero did not leave the room after he had tied frank's arms. he was too well acquainted with the old house to think of trying to force an entrance into the office. he knew that the doors and window-shutters were as strong as wood and iron could make them, and that it would be a dangerous piece of business to attempt to break them open. felix, all unconscious of what was going on in the house, snored lustily in his quarters, and the housekeeper slept in a room adjoining the kitchen; and if pierre awakened either of them, he might bid good-by to all hopes of ever securing possession of the gold. his only hope was in compelling frank to tell where he had put the office key. "now, then," said he, "i will give you one more chance. where is it?" "where's what?" asked frank. "the office key!" exclaimed the ranchero, enraged at the coolness of his prisoner. "tell me where it is, or i'll drive you through the floor!" as he said this, he raised his fist over frank's head, as if he were on the point of putting his threat into execution. "drive away!" replied frank. "then you won't tell me where it is?" yelled the ranchero. "no, i won't! and when i say no, i mean it; and all the threats you can make won't scare me into saying any thing else!" pierre hesitated a moment, and then jumped to his feet, his actions indicating that he was determined to waste no more words. he placed his knife upon the table, closed the windows, and dropped the curtains, so that any one who might happen to pass by could not see what was going on in the room. his next action was to seize frank by the collar of his jacket, and pull him roughly to his feet, preparatory to putting into operation his new plan for compelling him to tell where he had hidden the office key. "if you conclude to answer my question, let me know it," said the ranchero. "i will," was frank's reply. pierre stepped upon a chair, and removing one of the pictures from its hook, tossed it upon the bed. after that, he took frank's lasso down from the nail, beside the book-case, and holding the noose in his hand, threw the other end over the hook. frank had thus far shown himself to be possessed of a good share of courage. he had bravely endured the choking, and had made defiant replies to all pierre's threats; but when he saw this movement, he became thoroughly alarmed. he knew what was coming. "aha!" exclaimed the ranchero, who had not failed to notice the sudden pallor that overspread the boy's countenance; "aha!" "what are you going to do?" asked frank, in a trembling voice. "can't you see?" returned the ranchero, with a savage smile. "i told you that i was going to make you tell me where you had put that office key, didn't i? well, i intend to do it. i have tamed many a wild colt, and i know how to tame you!" as he spoke, he adroitly threw the noose over frank's head, and drew it tight around his neck. then, seizing him by the shoulders, he pushed him against the wall, under the hook, and pulled down on the lasso, until frank began to rise on his toes. this was intended merely to give him a foretaste of what was in store for him. "now you know how it feels," said pierre, slackening up on the rope, "and you ought to know, by this time, that i am not playing with you. i am in sober earnest, and if you don't answer my question, i'll hang you, right here in your own room, and with your own lasso. this is your last chance! where's that key?" frank hesitated. chapter v. the fight in the court. frank was certainly in a predicament. he had his choice between revealing the hiding-place of the office key, and being hanged with his own lasso--a most disagreeable alternative. on one side was a lingering death, and on the other, something of which frank stood almost as much in awe--disgrace. never before had so heavy a responsibility rested upon him; and if he lost that money, what other evidence would be needed to prove that he was not worthy of being trusted? "come, come!" exclaimed the ranchero, impatiently. "are you going to answer my question?" "i don't know whether i am or not," replied frank. "don't be in such a hurry. can't you give me time to think about it?" "you have had time enough already," growled pierre. "but i'll give you two minutes more, and while you are thinking the matter over, you can bear one thing in mind: and that is, if you don't tell me where that office key is, you'll never see daylight again." the expression on pierre's countenance told frank that the villain meant all he said. frank leaned his head against the wall, closed his eyes, and made use of those two minutes in trying to conjure up some plan to defeat the robber. he had not the slightest intention of allowing him to put his hands on that money if it were possible for him to prevent it, and he was wondering if he could not make use of a little strategy. if he could invent some excuse to get pierre out of the room for a few moments, he was sure that he could release his hands. would it not be a good plan to tell him where he had hidden the key, and while pierre was in the office searching for the gold, free himself from his bonds, and seize his rifle, and make the villain a prisoner? wouldn't it be a glorious exploit, one of which he could be justly proud, if he could save the twelve thousand dollars, and capture the ranchero besides? frank thought it would, and determined to try it. "pierre," said he, "if i tell you where that key is, what will you do?" "_if!_" exclaimed the ranchero; "there are no ifs or ands about it. you must tell me where it is." "but what i want to know is, what will you do with me?" "i promise you, upon the honor of a gentleman, that no harm shall be done you." "gentleman!" sneered frank. "the state's prison is full of such gentlemen as you are. if i were trying to rob a man of a few cents, i'd never think of calling myself a gentleman." "now, just look here," said pierre, "if you think you can fool me, you were never more mistaken in your life. a few cents, indeed! i heard all that passed between you and mr. brown, and i know that there are twelve thousand dollars somewhere in that office. i call it a fortune. it is much more than i could ever earn herding cattle, and i am bound to have it. where's that key?" "you must answer my question first," said frank. "if you had the key in your hand now, what would you do with me?" "well, as i am not fool enough to give you the least chance for escape, the first thing i should do would be to tie you hard and fast to that bed-post. then i'd take the gold, mount my horse, and be off to the mountains." "and leave me tied up here?" exclaimed the prisoner. "exactly. felix, or the housekeeper, would release you in the morning." this answer came upon frank like a bucket of cold water. his fine plan for releasing himself and capturing the robber would not work. the latter saw his look of disappointment, and laughed derisively. "i am too old," said he, "to allow a boy like you to play any tricks upon me. you won't tell me where the key is, then?" "no, i won't. if that money was mine, you might take it, and i would run the risk of catching you before you could get very far away with it. but it belongs to my uncle; you have no claim upon it, and, what's more, you sha'n't touch it." "is that your final answer?" asked the ranchero, bracing himself for a strong pull. "you had better ponder the matter well before you decide. what do you suppose your uncle will think, when he comes home and finds you hanging to this hook? he had rather lose the money a thousand times over than to part with you." frank shuddered as the ranchero said this, and, for the first time, he felt his firmness giving away. but he was possessed of no ordinary degree of fortitude, and, after a momentary thrill of terror, his courage returned, and he looked at pierre as bravely as ever. the ranchero paused for a moment or two, to give his last words time to have their full effect, and then said: "once more--yes or no." "no, i tell you," was the firm reply. scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when the ranchero began to pull down upon the lasso, and frank, in spite of his desperate struggles, was drawn up until he almost swung clear of the floor. pierre held him in this position for a few seconds--it seemed an age to frank, who retained his consciousness all the while--and then gradually slackened up on the lasso, until his prisoner's feet once more rested firmly on the floor. frank reeled a moment like a drunken man, gazed about him with a bewildered air, and attempted to raise his hands to his throat, while the ranchero stood watching him with a smile of triumph. "i have given you one more chance," said he. "have you come to your senses yet." frank tried in vain to reply. the choking he had endured had deprived him of his power of utterance, but it had not affected his courage or his determination. there was not the least sign of yielding about him. pierre had thus far conducted his operations with the most business-like coolness, and in much the same spirit that he would have exhibited had he been breaking one of mr. winters's wild horses to the saddle. he had smiled at times, as he would have smiled at the efforts of the horse to escape, and the thought that he should fail in his object had never entered his head. he had been certain that he could frighten or torture frank into revealing the hiding-place of the office key; but now he began to believe that he had reckoned without his host. he was astonished and enraged at the wonderful firmness displayed by his prisoner. he had never imagined that this sixteen-year-old boy would prove an obstacle too great to be overcome. "you are the most obstinate colt i ever tried to manage," said pierre, in a voice choked with passion; "but i'll break one of two things--your spirit or your neck; it makes no difference to me which." without waiting to give his prisoner time to recover his power of speech, the ranchero wound the lariat around his hands, and was about to pull him up again, when he was startled by the clatter of a horse's hoofs in the court. the sound worked a great change in pierre. as if by magic, the savage scowl faded from his face, and he stood for an instant the very picture of terror. all thoughts of the twelve thousand dollars, and the vengeance he had determined to wreak upon his prisoner, were banished from his mind, and gave place to the desire to escape from the house as secretly and speedily as possible. "who can that be?" he muttered, dropping the lasso, and throwing a frightened glance ever his shoulder toward the door. "i'm sure i don't know," said frank, speaking with the greatest difficulty; "and i don't care who it is, if he will only make a prisoner of you." the ranchero scowled fiercely upon his plucky captive, hesitated a moment, as if he had half a mind to be revenged upon him before he left the house, and then, catching up his knife, and extinguishing the lamp, he jerked open one of the windows, and disappeared in the darkness. frank was no less astonished than delighted at his unexpected deliverance. he tried to shout, to attract the attention of the unknown horseman, but all his efforts were unavailing. his attempts to release his hands, however, which he commenced the instant the ranchero left the room, were more successful. pierre's carelessness in tying the knots was a point in his favor then; for, in less time than it takes to record the fact, frank was free. he threw the noose off his neck, pulled the lasso down from the hook, and hastily coiling it up in one hand, he ran to the place where he had left his rifle, fully determined that the robber should not escape from the ranch without an attempt on his part to capture him. his rifle was gone. the ranchero had caught it up as he bounded through the window, thinking he might find use for it, in case he should happen to run against the visitor in the dark. frank looked upon the loss of his rifle as a great misfortune; for, not only did he believe the weapon lost to him forever, but he was powerless to effect the capture of the ranchero, even if he succeeded in finding him. however, he did not waste time in vain regrets. he sprang through the window, and, running around the house, entered the court, to look for the horseman whose timely arrival had saved his life. he went as far as the archway that led into the court, and there he suddenly paused, and the blood rushed back upon his heart, leaving his face as pale as death itself. he had told the ranchero that a dozen such men as he could not overcome his uncle; but the scene before him belied his words. flat upon his back, in the middle of the court, lay mr. winters, with pierre costello kneeling on his breast, one hand grasping his victim's throat, and the other holding aloft his murderous-looking bowie, whose bright blade glistened in the moonlight like burnished silver. frank started back, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. there could be no mistake about it, for the moon shone brightly, rendering all the objects in the court as plainly visible as if it had been broad daylight. he was not only terribly frightened, but he was utterly confounded. he had believed mr. winters to be fast asleep in his bed at the hotel in san diego; but there he was, when frank least expected him, and, more than that, he was being worsted in his struggle with pierre. the boy could not understand it. "unhand me, you scoundrel!" he heard uncle james say, in a feeble voice. "not until you have given me the key of the safe," was the robber's answer. "i have worked hard for that gold to-night, and i am not going to leave the ranch without it." then commenced a furious struggle, and frank turned away his head, lest he should see that gleaming knife buried in his uncle's body. never before had frank been so thoroughly overcome with fear. he had just passed through in ordeal that would have tried the nerves of the bravest man, and he had scarcely flinched; but to stand there a witness of his uncle's deadly peril, believing himself powerless to aid him, was indeed enough to strike terror to his heart. "o, if i only had my rifle, or one of my pistols!" cried frank, "wouldn't i tumble that villain in a hurry? or if i could find a club, or could loosen one of these stones"-- frank suddenly remembered that he held in his hand a weapon quite as effective at short range, when skilfully used, as either a rifle or pistol. it was his lasso; and, until that instant, he had forgotten all about it. then the blood flew to his cheeks; his power of action returned, and his arms seemed nerved with the strength of giants. how thankful was he, then, that his desire to become as expert as his two friends, johnny harris and dick thomas, had led him to practice with that novel weapon. with a bound like an antelope he started toward the struggling men, swinging his lasso around his head as he ran. pierre, believing that he had left frank securely bound, and being too intent upon taking care of his new prisoner to look for enemies in his rear, heard not the sound of his approaching footsteps, nor did he dream of danger until the noose, which, but a few moments before, had been around frank's neck, settled down over his own. then he knew that his game was up. with a piercing cry of terror he sprang to his feet, and, with frantic haste, endeavored to throw off the lariat; but frank was too quick for him. "aha!" he exclaimed, trying to imitate the tone in which the ranchero had spoken that same word but a few moments before. "aha! now i am going to break one of two things--your spirit or your neck; i don't care which. one good turn deserves another, you know." as frank said this, he threw all his strength into his arms, and gave the lasso a vigorous jerk, which caused pierre's heels to fly up, and his head to come in violent contact with the pavement of the court. "now, then, uncle james," exclaimed frank, "we've got him. no you don't!" he added, as the ranchero made a desperate attempt to regain his feet; "come back here!" and he gave him a second jerk, which brought him to the ground again. frank was blessed with more than an ordinary share of muscle for a boy of his age; but he could not hope to compete successfully with a man of pierre's size and experience, even though he held him at great disadvantage. the ranchero, as active as a cat, thrashed about at an astonishing rate, and, before frank knew what was going on, he had cut the lasso with his knife--an action which caused our hero, who was pulling back on the lariat with all his strength, to toss up his heels, and sit down upon the rough stones of the court, very suddenly, while pierre, finding himself at liberty, jumped up, and ran for his life. mr. winters had by this time regained his feet, and, catching up frank's rifle, which lay beside him on the pavement, he took a flying shot at the robber just as he was running through the archway. pierre's escape was a very narrow one; for the bullet went through the brim of his sombrero, and cut off a lock of his hair. chapter vi. the mysteries solved. pierre, finding himself uninjured by mr. winters's shot, suddenly became very courageous, and stopped to say a parting word to that gentleman. "try it again," said he, with a taunting laugh. "you are a poor shot for an old frontiersman! i will bid you good-by, now," he added, shaking his knife at uncle james, "but you have not seen the last of me. you will have reason to remember"-- the ranchero did not say what mr. winters would have reason to remember, for he happened to look toward the opposite side of the court, and saw something that brought from him an ejaculation of alarm, and caused him to turn and take to his heels. an instant afterward, a dark object bounded through the court, and, before the robber had taken half a dozen steps, marmion sprang upon his back, and threw him to the ground. "hurrah!" shouted frank. "you are not gone yet, it seems. you're caught now, easy enough; for that dog never lets go, if he once gets a good hold. hang on to him, old fellow!" but marmion seemed to be utterly unable to manage the ranchero. he had placed his fore-feet upon pierre's breast, and appeared to be holding him by the throat; but the latter, with one blow of his arm, knocked him off, and, regaining his feet, fled through the grove with the speed of the wind--the piece of the lasso, which was still around his neck, streaming straight out behind him. "take him, marmion!" yelled frank, astonished to see his dog so easily defeated. "take him! hi! hi!" the animal evidently did his best to obey; but there seemed to be something the matter with him. he ran as if he were dragging a heavy weight behind him, or as if his feet were tied together, and it was all he could do to keep up with the robber; and, when he tried to seize him, pierre would shake him off without even slackening his pace. mr. winters, in the meantime, had run to his horse--which, during the struggle, had stood perfectly still in the middle of the court--after his pistols; but, before he could get an opportunity to use them, both pierre and the dog had disappeared among the trees. a moment afterward, a horse was heard going at full speed through the grove, indicating that the robber was leaving the ranch as fast as possible. all this while, frank has been almost overwhelmed with astonishment. the ease with which the desperado had vanquished his uncle and the strange behavior of the hitherto infallible marmion, were things beyond his comprehension. he stood gazing, in stupid wonder, toward the trees among which pierre had disappeared, while the sound of the horse's hoofs grew fainter and fainter, and finally died away altogether. then he seemed to wake up, and to realize the fact that the ranchero had made good his escape, in spite of all their efforts to capture him. "let's follow him, uncle!" he exclaimed, in an excited voice. "i can soon overtake him on roderick." "i could not ride a hundred yards to save my life!" replied mr. winters, seating himself on the porch, and resting his head on his hands. "bring me some water, frank." these words alarmed the boy, who now, for the first time, saw that his uncle's face was deadly pale, and that his hair was matted with blood, which was trickling down over his collar. "o, uncle!" cried frank, in dismay. "don't be uneasy," said mr. winters, quietly. "bring me some water." without stopping to make any inquiries, frank ran into the kitchen and aroused the housekeeper, giving her a very hasty and disconnected account of what had happened, and then he hurried to the quarters to awaken felix. "go to fort yuma for the doctor, at once!" shouted frank, pounding loudly upon the door. "what's up?" inquired felix, from the inside. "no matter what's up--go for the doctor! take roderick; he's the swiftest horse on the ranch. uncle's badly wounded." "wounded!" repeated felix, jerking open the door, and appearing upon the threshold, with a revolver in each hand. "who did it? where is he?" "i can't stop to tell you who did it, or where he is. hurry up, felix, and don't stand there looking at me! we've just had the hardest kind of a fight with pierre. marmion was there, but he didn't do any good. he threw the villain down, and then wouldn't hold him. i've a good notion to shoot that dog if he ever comes back. make haste, felix! i can't stop to tell you any more." but, after all, frank did stop to tell a great deal more; and, by the time the ranchero was dressed, he had given him a complete history of all that had happened in the house since sunset. felix, astonished and enraged at the treachery of his companion, examined his pistols very carefully before he put them into his holsters, and frank knew, by the expression in his eye, that if he should happen to meet pierre, during his ride to the fort, the latter would fall into dangerous hands. as soon as frank had seen roderick saddled, he ran back to the house, and found uncle james lying on a sofa, and the housekeeper engaged in dressing a long, ragged cut on the back of his head. being weak from the loss of blood, he sank into a deep slumber before the operation was completed, and frank, finding nothing to do, and being too nervous, after the exciting events of the evening, to keep still, went out to watch for the doctor, who, seeing that the fort was sixteen miles from the ranch, could not reasonably be expected before daylight. for a long time he paced restlessly up and down the porch, his mind busy with the three questions that had so astonished and perplexed him: what had happened to bring his uncle home that night? how had he been so easily overpowered by pierre? and, what was the matter with marmion? the longer he pondered upon them, the more bewildered he became; and, finally dismissing them from his mind altogether, he went out to attend to his uncle's horse, which, all this while, had been running back and forth between the house and barn, now and then neighing shrilly, as if impatient at being so long neglected. as frank passed through the court, he picked up his rifle, which mr. winters had thrown down after taking that flying shot at pierre. the stock felt damp in his grasp, and when he looked at his hand, he saw that it was red with blood. "i understand one thing now, just as well as if i had stood here and witnessed it," said he, to himself. "when pierre went out of my room, he ran in here to see who it was visiting the ranch at this late hour, and when he found that it was uncle james, he thought he would get the safe key. he was too much of a coward to attack him openly, and so he slipped up and knocked him down with the butt of my rifle. that's what made the wound on uncle's head, and that's how it came that pierre could hold him down with one hand. didn't i know all the time that there was something up? now, if pierre had succeeded in getting the safe key, no doubt he would have renewed his attempts to make me tell where i had put the key of the office. would i have been coward enough to do it? no, sir! i would have--hallo!" this exclamation was called forth by the sudden appearance of the dog, which crept slowly toward his master, looking altogether as if he had been guilty of something very mean. "so you have got back, have you?" said frank, sternly. "what do you mean by going off to hunt rabbits when you ought to stay at home? and what excuse have you to offer for allowing that robber to get up after you had pulled him down?" marmion stopped, and, laying his head close to the pavement, wagged his tail and whined piteously. "i don't wonder that you feel ashamed of yourself," said his master. "come here, you old coward." the dog reluctantly obeyed, and, when he came nearer, another mystery was cleared up, and frank knew why his favorite had behaved so strangely. one end of a rope was twisted about his jaws so tightly that he could scarcely move them, and the other, after being wound around his head and neck to keep the muzzle from slipping off, was fastened to both his fore feet, holding them so close together that it was a wonder that he could walk at all. frank's anger vanished in an instant. he ran into his room after his knife, to release the dog from his bonds, and then he discovered that the animal had not come out of the fight unharmed. two gaping wounds in his side bore evidence to the skill with which pierre had handled his bowie. at that moment, frank felt a good deal as llewellyn must have felt when he killed the hound which he imagined had devoured his child, but which had, in reality, defended him from the attacks of a wolf. he had scolded marmion for his failure to hold the robber after he had thrown him down, and had been more than half inclined to give him a good beating; while the animal had, all the while, been doing his best, and, in spite of his wounds and bonds, had kept up the fight until pierre mounted his horse and fled from the ranch. the boy's first care, after he had removed the rope, was to bandage the wounds as well as he could, and to lead the dog to a comfortable bed on the porch, where he left him to await the arrival of the doctor; for frank resolved that, as marmion had received his injuries during the performance of his duty, he should have the very best of care. frank never closed his eyes that night. he passed the hours in pacing up and down the porch watching for the ranchero, who made his appearance shortly after daylight, accompanied by the doctor. mr. winters's wound, although very painful, was not a dangerous one, and after it had been dressed by the skillful hands of the surgeon, he felt well enough to enter into conversation with those around him. "now," said frank, who had been impatiently awaiting an opportunity to talk to his uncle, "i'd like to know what brought you back here last night?" "i came after the twelve thousand dollars," replied mr. winters. "when i arrived in the city, i learned that mr. brown had left there early in the morning to pay us a visit, taking with him the money he owed me. i wanted to use it immediately, and as i did not know what might happen if it should become known that there was so much money in the house, and no one here to take care of it, i came home; but i should have lost the money after all, if it hadn't been for you, frank, and i might have lost my life with it; for i believe the villain was in earnest." "i am quite sure he was," said frank, feeling of his neck, which still bore the marks of the lasso in the shape of a bright red streak. "if you had stayed away five minutes longer, i should have been hanged. o, it's a fact!" he added, earnestly, noticing that the doctor looked at him incredulously. "i came very near dancing on nothing, now i tell you; and if you only knew all that has happened in this house since dark, you wouldn't say that there was no one here to take care of that money. but, uncle, how came you by that wound?" "pierre gave it to me," was the reply. "he slipped up behind me when i was dismounting, and struck me with something. but what did he do to you?" "he pulled me up by the neck with my own lasso," replied frank; "that's what he did to me." "the scoundrel!" exclaimed the doctor. "tell us all about it." thus encouraged, frank began and related his story, to which his auditors listened with breathless attention. he told what he had done with the twelve thousand dollars, where he had hidden the keys, how he had detected pierre watching him through the window, and how the ranchero had told him that marmion was off hunting rabbits, when he was lying bound and muzzled in some out-of-the-way place. then he explained how the robber had overpowered him while he was reading, how he had searched his pockets for the keys, and pulled him up by the neck because he refused to tell where he had hidden them, and how he was on the very point of hanging him in earnest when the arrival of uncle james alarmed him. mr. winters was astonished, and so was the doctor, who patted frank on the head, and said: "you're a chip of the old block. and did you not tell him where you had put the key?" "no, sir;" was the answer. "he choked me pretty hard, though, and my throat feels funny yet." the boy having finished his story, mr. winters took it up where he left off, and told the doctor how frank had rescued him from the robber, and how hard he had worked to effect his capture, and all who heard it declared that he was a hero. chapter vii. frank meets a highwayman. frank passed the next day in making up for the sleep he had lost the night before. about three o'clock in the afternoon he arose refreshed, and visited his uncle, whom he found fast asleep. now that archie was gone, the old house was quiet and lonesome--too much so, indeed, to suit frank, who, after trying in vain to find some way to amuse himself until supper time, saddled roderick, and set out for a short gallop over the prairie. as he was about to mount his horse, marmion came out of the court, and frisked about his master as lively as ever, apparently none the worse for the ugly-looking wounds he had received during his encounter with the robber. "go home, sir," said frank. "don't you know that you are under the doctor's care?" if marmion did know it, he didn't bother his head about it. he had a will of his own; and having always been permitted to accompany his master wherever he went, he did not feel disposed to remain behind. instead of obeying the command to go home, he ran on before, and frank made no further attempts to drive him back. frank, having by this time become well acquainted with the country for twenty miles around his uncle's rancho, knew where he wanted to go, and about an hour after he left home, he was stretched at full length beside a spring among the mountains, where he and his friends often camped to eat their dinner during their hunting expeditions. roderick stood close by, lazily cropping the grass, but marmion was not in sight. the last time his master saw him, he was trying to gnaw his way into a hollow log where a rabbit had taken refuge. frank lay beside the spring until his increasing hunger reminded him that it was nearly supper time, and then he mounted his horse, and started for home. roderick being permitted to choose his own gait, walked slowly along a narrow bridle-path that led out of the mountains, and frank sat in his saddle with both hands in his pockets, his sombrero pulled down over his eyes, and his thoughts wandering away to the ends of the earth. he had ridden in this way about half a mile, when he was suddenly aroused from his meditations by a commotion in the bushes at his side, and the next moment a man sprang in front of the horse, and seized him by the bridle. "pierre costello!" exclaimed frank, as soon as he had somewhat recovered from his astonishment. "ay, it's pierre, and no mistake," returned the ranchero, with a triumphant smile. "you thought i had left the country, didn't you?" "i was in hopes you had; but i see you are still on hand, like a bad dollar-bill." "we are well met," continued pierre. "i have been waiting for an opportunity to thank you for the very friendly manner in which you treated me last night." "you need not have put yourself to any trouble about it. you are under no obligations to me. as i am in something of a hurry, i will now bid you good-by." "not if i know myself, and i think i do," said pierre, with a laugh. "you are just as impudent as ever. climb down off that horse." frank's actions indicated that he did not think it best to obey this order. he sat perfectly still in his saddle, looking at pierre, and wondering what he should do. he could show no weapon to intimidate the robber, for he was entirely unarmed, not having brought even his lasso or clasp-knife with him; while pierre held in his hand, ready for instant use, the bowie that had rendered him such good service during the fight in the court. at first frank entertained the bold idea of riding over the ranchero. roderick was as quick as a flash in his movements, and one touch of the spurs, if his rider could take pierre off his guard, would cause the horse to jerk the bridle from his grasp, and before the robber could recover himself, frank would be out of danger. but pierre had anticipated this movement, and he was too well acquainted with his prisoner to relax his vigilance for an instant. more than that, he held both the reins under roderick's jaw with a firm grasp, and stood in such a position that he could control the movements of both the horse and his rider. a moment's reflection having satisfied frank that his idea of running over pierre could not be carried out, he began to look around for his dog. but marmion had not yet come up, and frank was compelled to acknowledge to himself that he was as completely in the villain's power as he had been when pierre had the lasso around his neck. "get down off that horse, i say," commanded the ranchero. "so you have turned highwayman, have you?" said frank, without moving. "do you find it a more pleasant and profitable business than herding cattle?" "are you going to get off that horse?" asked the robber, impatiently. "what's the use? you will not find a red cent in my pockets." "i suppose not; but if i take you with me, i'll soon find out how many yellow boys your uncle carries in his pockets." "if you take me with you!" repeated frank. "what do you mean?" "i mean just this: i shall find it exceedingly lonesome living here in the mountains by myself, and i don't know of any one in the world i had rather have for a companion than yourself." "humph!" exclaimed frank; "that's a nice idea. i won't go." "of course," continued the ranchero, not heeding the interruption, "when you fail to make your appearance at home for three or four days, your uncle will think he has seen the last of you. he will believe that you have been clawed up by grizzlies, or that you have tumbled into some of these gullies. he will raise a hue and cry, search high and low for you, offer rewards, and all that; and, while the fuss is going on, and people are wondering what in the world could have become of you, you will be safe and sound, and living like a gentleman, with me, on the fat of the land." "but, pierre," said frank, now beginning to be really frightened, "i don't want to live with you on the fat of the land, and i won't do it. let go that bridle." the ranchero, as before, paid no attention to the interruption. he seemed to delight in tormenting his prisoner. "after you have been with me about six months," he went on, "and your friends have given up all hope of ever seeing you again, i'll send a note to mr. winters, stating that you are alive and well, and that, if he will give me twenty thousand dollars in gold, i will return you to him in good order, right side up with care. if i find that we can get along pretty well together, i may conclude to keep you a year; for the longer you remain away from your uncle, the more he will want to see you, and the bigger will be the pile he will give to have you brought back. what is your opinion of that plan? don't you think it a capital way to raise the wind?" frank listened to this speech in utter bewilderment. cruel and reckless as he knew pierre to be, he had never for a moment imagined that he could be guilty of such an enormous crime as this. he did not know what reply to make--there was nothing he could say or do. entreaties and resistance were alike useless. "well, what are you thinking about?" inquired the ranchero. "i was wondering if a greater villain than yourself ever lived," replied frank. "we will talk about that as we go along," said pierre. "get off that horse, now; i am going to send him home." frank, seeing no way of escape, was about to obey this order, when the truant, marmion, came in sight, trotting leisurely up the path, carrying in his mouth the rabbit, which he had succeeded in gnawing out of the log. he stopped short on discovering pierre, dropped his game, and gathered himself for a spring. "take him, marmion!" yelled frank, as he straightened himself up in his saddle. "if it is all the same to you, mr. pierre, i'll not go to the mountains this evening." the ranchero did not wait to receive the dog. he was an arrant coward, and, more than that, he stood as much in fear of marmion as if he had been a bear or panther. uttering a cry of terror, he dropped the bridle, and, with one bound, disappeared in the bushes. marmion followed close at his heels, encouraged by terrific yells from his master, who, now that his dog was neither bound nor muzzled, looked upon the capture of the robber as a thing beyond a doubt. there was a loud crashing and snapping in the bushes, as the pursuer and pursued sped on their way, and presently another loud yell of terror, mingled with an angry growl, told frank that the dog had come up with pierre. "he is caught at last," thought our hero; "how shall i get him home? that's the question. how desperately he fights," he added, as the commotion in the bushes increased, and the yells and growls grew louder. "but he'll find it's no use, for he can't whip that dog, if he has got a knife. now, i ought to have a rope. i'll ride up the path, and see if i can find pierre's horse; and, if i can, i'll take his lasso and tie the rascal hand and foot." frank galloped up the path a short distance, but could see nothing of the horse. the ranchero had, doubtless, left him in the bushes, and frank was about to dismount and go in search of him, when, to his utter astonishment, he saw pierre coming toward him. his face was badly scratched; his jacket and shirt had disappeared altogether; his breast and arms were covered with blood, and so was his knife, which he still held in his hand. but, where was marmion, that he was not following up his enemy? the answer was plain. the dog had been worsted in his encounter with the robber, and frank was left to fight his battles alone. he thought no more of taking pierre a prisoner to the rancho. all he cared for now was to escape. "well, now, it was good of you not to run away when you had the chance," said the ranchero, who appeared to be quite as much surprised at seeing frank as the latter had been at seeing him. "if i had thought that you could get away from that dog, i should have been a mile from here by this time," replied frank. "i was looking for your horse, and, if i had found him, i should have gone to marmion's assistance." "well, he needed you bad enough," said pierre, with a laugh. "i have fixed him this time." "you have!" cried frank, his worst suspicions confirmed. "is marmion dead?" "dead as a door-nail. now we must be off; we have wasted too much time already." if the ranchero supposed that frank would allow himself to be captured a second time, he was sadly mistaken. the boy was free, and he determined to remain so. "pierre," said he, filled with rage at the words of the robber, "i may have a chance to square accounts with you some day, and if i do i'll remember that you killed my dog." "come, now, no nonsense," said the ranchero, gruffly. "you are my prisoner, you know." "i think not. stand where you are; don't come a step nearer." while this conversation was going on, pierre had been walking slowly up the path, and, as frank ceased speaking, he made a sudden rush, intending to seize roderick by the bridle. but his rider was on the alert. gathering his reins firmly in his hands, he dashed his spurs into the flanks of his horse, which sprang forward like an arrow from a bow, and thundered down the path toward pierre, who turned pale with terror. "out of the way, you villain, or i'll ride you down," shouted frank. this was very evident to the ranchero, who, seizing upon the only chance for escape offered him, plunged head-foremost into the bushes. he barely missed being run down, for roderick flew by before he was fairly out of the path, and, by the time he had recovered his feet, frank was out of sight. when frank reached home, he shed a great many tears over marmion's untimely death; but, as it happened, it was grief wasted. one morning, about a week after his adventure with the highwayman, while frank and archie were out for their morning's ride, a sorry-looking object crawled into the court, and thence into the office, where mr. winters was busy at his desk. "mad dog!" shouted the gentleman, when he discovered the intruder; and, springing to his feet, he lifted his chair over his head, and was in the very act of extinguishing the last spark of life left in the poor brute, when the sight of a collar he wore around his neck arrested his hand. it was no wonder that uncle james had not recognized the animal, for he looked very unlike the lively, well-conditioned dog which frank was wont to regard as the apple of his eye. but, nevertheless, it was marmion, or, rather, all that was left of him. he had been severely wounded, and was nearly starved; but he received the best of care, and it was not long before he was as savage and full of fight as ever. although he had failed to capture the robber, he had rendered his master a most important service, and no one ever heard him find fault with marmion after that. frank's reputation was by this time firmly established, and he was the lion of the settlement. dick lewis was prouder than ever of him. of course, he called him a "keerless feller," and read him several long lectures, illustrating them by incidents drawn from his own experience. he related the story of frank's adventures with the robber every time he could induce any one to listen to it, and ever afterward called him "the boy that fit that ar' greaser." old bob kelly beamed benevolently upon him every time they met, and more than once told his companion that the "youngster would make an amazin' trapper;" and that, in dick's estimation, was a compliment worth all the rest. meanwhile, the country had been made exceedingly unsafe for pierre costello. the neighbors had turned out in force, every nook and corner of the mountains for miles around had been searched, and a large reward offered for the robber's apprehension; but it was all in vain. nothing more had been heard of pierre, and frank hoped that he had seen him for the last time. fate, however, had decreed that he was to have other adventures with the highwayman. chapter viii. colonel arthur vane. we left frank and archie standing on the porch, watching the wild steer which was being led toward the cow-pen. as soon as they had got over their excitement, they remembered that they had saddled their horses for the purpose of riding over to visit their nearest neighbor, johnny harris, one of the boys whose daring horsemanship, and skill with the lasso, had so excited their admiration. johnny lived four miles distant; but he and the cousins were together almost all the time. if johnny was not at their house, frank and archie were at his; and when you saw one of the three, it was a sure sign that the others were not a great way off. dick thomas, of whom mention has been made, had been one of the party; but he was now on a visit to san francisco and would not return until winter. had frank and his cousin, while at home, been compelled to ride or walk four miles in search of a playmate, they might have been disposed to grumble over what they would have considered a very hard lot in life; but they had learned to think nothing of it. there were their horses always ready and willing, and half an hour's gallop over the prairie in the cool of the morning, or evening, was not looked upon as any thing very disagreeable. on this particular morning, roderick and marmion were impatient to exhibit their mettle; and even sleepy sam lifted his head and pawed the ground when archie placed his foot in the stirrup. scarcely waiting for their riders to become firmly seated in their saddles, the horses started down the road at a rattling pace, and the dog dashed through the bushes and grass on each side, driving the rabbits from their covers, and creating great consternation among flocks of quails and prairie-chickens, which flew up at his approach. the farther the boys went, the faster they went; for roderick and sleepy sam, warming at their work, and encouraged, perhaps, by some slight touches from their riders' spurs, increased their speed until they fairly flew over the ground; and marmion, unwilling to remain behind, left the quails and rabbits to rest in security for that morning at least, and ran along beside his master, now and then looking up into his face, and uttering a little yelp, as if he were trying to tell how well he enjoyed the sport. "now, isn't this glorious?" exclaimed archie, pulling off his sombrero, and holding open his jacket, to catch every breath of the fresh morning air. "let's go faster. yip! yip!" the horses understood that yell. they had heard it before; and, knowing that it meant a race, they set off at the top of their speed. but the race was not a long one; for the old buffalo hunter, fast as he was, soon fell behind. the gray flew over the ground, as swiftly as a bird on the wing, and, after allowing him a free rein for a short distance, to show archie how badly he could beat him, frank stopped, and waited for him to come up. the four miles were quickly accomplished, and, presently, the boys drew up at the door of mr. harris's farm-house, where they found johnny waiting to receive them. "how are you, strangers?" cried johnny. "get down and make those posts fast to your horses, and come in." this was the way travelers were welcomed in that country, where every house was a hotel, and every farmer ready, at all times, to feed and shelter a stranger. "how is the rifle-shot, this morning?" continued johnny, as he shook hands with the boys; "and what news has the champion horseman to communicate?" "i didn't claim to be the champion horseman," said archie, quickly. "i am not conceited enough to believe that i can beat you riding wild horses, but i'll tell you what i can do, johnny. in a fair race from here to the mountains, i can leave you a quarter of a mile behind." "well, come in, and wait till i saddle my horse, and we'll see about that," said johnny. "until you came here, i could beat any boy in the settlement. i give in to frank, but i can show that ugly old buffalo hunter of yours a pretty pair of heels. boys!" he added, suddenly, "my day's fun is all knocked in the head. see there!" the cousins looked in the direction indicated, and saw a horseman approaching at a rapid gallop. he was mounted on a large iron-gray, which looked enough like roderick to have been his brother, sat as straight as an arrow in his saddle, and managed his fiery charger with an ease and dexterity that showed him to be an accomplished rider. "that's _colonel_ arthur vane--a neighbor with whom you are not yet acquainted," said johnny, with strong emphasis on the word colonel. "he is from kentucky. his father came to this country about six months since, and bought the rancho adjoining your uncle's. arthur remained here long enough for dick and me to become as well acquainted with him as we cared to be, and then went back to kentucky to visit his friends. he returned a few days ago, and now we may make up our minds to have him for a companion." "what sort of a fellow is he, johnny?" asked frank. "i don't admire him," replied johnny, who, like archie, never hesitated to speak his mind very freely. "from what i have seen of him, i should say that he is not a boy who is calculated to make friends. he talks and brags too much. he tries to use big words in conversation, and criticises every one around him most unmercifully. he is one of those knowing fellows; but, after you have exchanged a few words with him, you will find that he doesn't know so very much after all. he has been all over the world, if we are to believe what he says, and has been the hero of adventures that throw your encounter with pierre costello into the shade. he carries no less than seven bullets in his body." "seven bullets!" echoed archie. "why, i should think they would kill him." "so they would, most likely, if he only had them in him," replied johnny. "he is a famous hunter and trapper, owns two splendid horses, a pack of hounds, three or four fine guns, and makes himself hot and happy in a suit of buckskin. if it were not for his smooth face and dandy airs, one would take him for some old mountain man. he gave dick and me a short history of his life--which he will be sure to repeat for your benefit--and was foolish enough to believe that we were as green as two pumpkins because we had never been in the states, and that we would swallow any thing. but, if we have always lived in a wilderness, we have not neglected our books, and we are well enough posted to know that arthur makes great mistakes sometimes." "but why is your day's fun all knocked in the head?" asked archie. "because i can't enjoy myself when arthur is around. i am always afraid that i shall do or say something that he won't like. every time i look at him, i am reminded of byron's corsair, who, you know, was '--the mildest mannered man that ever scuttled ship or cut a throat.' i don't mean to say that arthur would cut any body's throat, but i do say that if he should happen to get angry at any of us, we shall wish him safe in kentucky, where he belongs. i can't very well avoid introducing him, but, after what i have said, you will understand that i do not indorse him." the conversation was brought to a close by the near approach of arthur vane, who presently dashed up to the porch, and dismounted. frank and archie made a rapid examination of the new-comer. he was dressed in a full suit of buckskin--hunting-shirt, leggins, and moccasins, the latter ornamented with bright-colored beads--which set off his tall, slender, well-knit frame to good advantage. he evidently possessed a fair share of muscle and agility, and that, according to archie's way of thinking, was a great recommendation. he little dreamed that his own pluck, strength, and endurance would one day be severely tested by that boy in buckskin. arthur's weapons were objects of no less curiosity to the cousins than his dress. instead of the short, light rifle in which the boys of that country took so much delight, and which was so handy to be used on horseback, he carried a double-barrel shot-gun as long as himself, elaborately ornamented, and the boys judged, from the way he handled it, that it must be very heavy. from his belt protruded the buckhorn handle of a sheath-knife, and the bright, polished head of an indian tomahawk. the lasso was nowhere to be seen. when the boys had noted these points, they glanced at the face of the new-comer. it was a handsome face, and might have made a favorable impression on them, had it not been for the haughty glances which its owner directed toward them as he rode up. "he looks at us as though he thought we had no business here," whispered archie, as johnny went down the steps to receive the visitor. "a second charley morgan," replied his cousin. "if he is blessed with morgan's amiable disposition," returned archie, "we'll see fun before we are done with him." "frank nelson," said johnny, leading his visitor upon the porch, "this is our new neighbor, arthur vane." "colonel of the second kentucky cavalry during the florida war, and, for a short time captain of the scouts attached to the head-quarters of the general commanding the department of the plains," said arthur, in dignified tones, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking at frank as if to ask, what do you think of me, anyhow? "how do you do?" said frank, accepting vane's proffered hand. he did not say that he was glad to see him, or happy to make his acquaintance, for he wasn't. "archie winters, colonel vane," continued johnny, "formerly commander of the second kentucky--ahem!" johnny was going on to repeat arthur's pompous speech, when he saw archie biting his lip, and knew that it was time for him to stop. "how are you, colonel?" said archie, as sober as a judge. "i can not complain of my health," replied arthur, still holding frank's hand with his right, while he extended his left to archie, in much the same manner that a monarch might have given his hand to a kneeling subject. "the musket-ball that osceola sent through my shoulder sometimes troubles me a little; but i am so accustomed to wounds that i scarcely mind it." "how do you like california," inquired frank, thinking that he ought to say something. "o, i like the country well enough; but belonging, as i do, to one of the oldest and wealthiest families of the state of kentucky, i can find no congenial society among these backwoodsmen." frank had no reply to make to this declaration. that one remark had revealed as much of the character of arthur vane as he cared to become acquainted with. the latter evidently looked upon himself as something better than the common herd of mankind, and frank wondered why he did not stay at home, if he could find no pleasure in the society of the boys of that country. "i have heard of you," continued arthur, loftily; "and i understand that you are looked upon as a hero in this settlement." "i do not claim the honor," modestly replied frank. "i have always observed," the visitor went on to say, "that the ideas which ignorant people entertain concerning heroes are ludicrous in the extreme. now, i have met with more adventures than generally fall to the lot of mortals; but, being a modest young man, i have never allowed any one to apply that name to me. i have been in battles--desperate battles. i have seen the cheek of the bravest blanched with terror; but i never flinched. twice have i been a prisoner in the hands of the indians, and once i was bound to the stake. i have whipped a grizzly bear in a fair fight, with no weapon but my knife, and i can show seven honorable scars, made by as many bullets, which i carry in my body to-day." here arthur stopped to take breath, and looked at his auditors as if waiting for applause. frank and archie had nothing to say, but johnny observed: "you have seen some rough times for one of your age." "rough!" repeated arthur, with evident disgust. "don't use such words--they are so vulgar. thrilling, or exciting, would sound much better." "i stand corrected," remarked johnny, very gravely, while archie coughed, and frank turned away his head to conceal his laughter. "i can not begin to convey to you even a slight idea of what i have endured," said arthur, as if nothing had happened. "it is true that i am young in years, but i am old in experience. i have known every variety of danger incident to a reckless and roving life. i have skirmished with arabs on the burning sands of patagonia; have hunted the ferocious polar bear amid the icebergs of india; have followed lions and tigers through the jungles and forests of europe; have risked my life in four different battles with the algerines, and, on one occasion, was captured by those murderous villains. if adventures make the hero, i can certainly lay claim to that honor as well as anybody." as the visitor ceased speaking, he looked suspiciously at the three boys before him, two of whom seemed to be strangely affected by the recital of his thrilling adventures. frank had grown very red in the face, while johnny was holding his handkerchief over his mouth, trying to restrain a violent fit of coughing with which he had suddenly been seized. archie was the only one who could keep a straight face. he stood with his hands behind his back, his feet spread out, his sombrero pushed as far back on his head as he could get it, looking intently at arthur, as if he were very much interested in what he was saying. he came to the relief of the others, however, by observing: "if i had seen all those countries you speak of, vane, i should be proud of it. no one delights more in truthful stories of adventure than i do, and, if you have no objection, we will sit down here and talk, while johnny saddles his horse. we are going over to visit old captain porter. you will go with us, of course?" "certainly. i have often heard of captain porter, and i shall be pleased to make his acquaintance. he and i can talk over our adventures, and you can listen, and you will, no doubt, learn something." johnny, knowing that frank wanted some excuse to get away where he could enjoy a hearty laugh, asked him to assist in catching his horse; and, together, they went toward the barn, leaving archie behind to listen to arthur's stories. chapter ix. an old boy. by the exercise of wonderful self-control, frank and johnny succeeded in restraining their risibilities until they reached the barn, and then one leaned against the door-post, while the other seated himself upon the floor, both holding their sides, and giving vent to peals of uproarious laughter. "o dear!" exclaimed frank, "i shall never dare look that fellow in the face again. 'icebergs of india!' 'burning sands of patagonia!' how my jaws ache!" "i wonder what part of europe he visited to find his lions and tigers?" said johnny. "and how do you suppose he escaped from the indians when they had him bound to the stake? we must ask him about that." "how old is he?" inquired frank. "he says he is sixteen." "well, he is older than that, if he risked his life in battles with the algerians; for, if my memory serves me, decatur settled our accounts with those gentlemen in the year . that would make our new friend old enough to be a grandfather. he holds his age well, doesn't he?" then the two boys looked up at the rafters, and laughed louder than ever. "i remember of hearing old captain porter say," observed johnny, as soon as he could speak, "that the strongest and most active man that ever lived could not whip a grizzly in a fair fight; and that the bravest hunter would take to his heels if he found himself in close quarters with one of those animals, and would not think he was guilty of cowardice, either." "and what i have seen with my own eyes confirms it," said frank. "while we were camped at the old bear's hole, dick lewis got into a fight with a grizzly, and, although it didn't last more than half a minute, he was so badly cut up that his own mother wouldn't have recognized him. dick is a giant in strength, and as quick as a cat in his movements, and if he can't whip a grizzly, i am sure that arthur vane can't." "humph!" said johnny, "he never saw a grizzly. i never did either, and there are plenty of them in this country. arthur had better be careful how he talks in captain porter's hearing. the rough old fellow will see through him in an instant, and he may not be as careful of his feelings as we have been." johnny, having by this time saddled his horse, he and frank returned to the house, where they found archie deeply interested in one of arthur's stories. "that is high up, i should think," they heard the former say. "yes, higher than the tops of these trees," replied arthur. "i was relating some of the incidents of one of my voyages at sea," he continued, addressing himself to frank. "i was telling archie how i used to stand on the very top of the mast and look out for whales." "which mast?" asked frank. "why, the middle mast, of course. what's the matter with you?" he added, turning suddenly upon archie, who seemed to be on the point of strangling. "nothing," was the reply, "only something got stuck in my throat." arthur had taken up a dangerous subject when he began to talk about nautical matters; for they were something in which frank and his cousin had always been interested, and were well posted. archie lived in a sea-port town, and, although he had never been a sailor, he knew the names of all the ropes, and could talk as "salt" as any old tar. he knew, and so did frank, that what arthur had called the "middle mast," was known on shipboard as the mainmast. they knew that the "very top" of the mainmast was called the main truck; and that the look-outs were not generally stationed so high up in the world. "we can talk as we ride along," said johnny. "we have ten miles to go, and we ought to reach the captain's by twelve o'clock. the old fellow tells a capital story over his after-dinner pipe." the boys mounted their horses, and, led by johnny, galloped off in the direction of the old fur-trader's ranch. they rode in silence for a few minutes, and then archie said: "if you wouldn't think me too inquisitive, arthur, i'd like to know at what age you began your travels?" "at the age of eleven," was the prompt reply, "i was a midshipman in the navy, and made my first voyage under the gallant decatur. i spent four years at sea with him, and during that time i had those terrible fights with the algerines, of which i have before spoken. in the last battle, i was captured, and compelled to walk the plank." "what do you mean by that?" asked johnny, who had never devoted any of his time to yellow-covered literature. "why, you must know that the inhabitants of algiers, and the adjacent countries, were, at one time, nothing but pirates. when they captured a vessel, their first hard work, after taking care of the valuable part of the cargo, was to dispose of their prisoners. it was too much trouble to set them ashore, so they balanced a plank out of one of the gangways--one end being out over the water, and the other on board the ship. the pirates placed their feet on the end inboard, to hold it in its place, and then ordered their prisoners, one at a time, to walk out on the plank. of course, they were compelled to obey; and, when they got out to the end of the plank over the water, the pirates lifted up their feet, and down went the prisoners; and they generally found their way to the bottom in a hurry. i escaped by swimming. i was in the water twenty-four hours, and was picked up by a vessel bound to new york." "i suppose you had a life-preserver," said johnny. "no, sir. i had nothing to depend upon but my own exertions." "you must be some relation to a duck," said archie, speaking before he thought. "i suppose you mean to convey the idea that i am an excellent swimmer," said arthur, turning around in his saddle, and looking sharply at archie. "yes; that's what i intended to say," replied archie, demurely. "the vessel landed me in new york," continued arthur, "and i went home; and, having become tired of wandering about, and our troubles with algiers being settled, i led the quiet life of a student until the florida war broke out, and then i enlisted in the army." "now, then," thought archie, who had been paying strict attention to all arthur said, "i have got a basis for a calculation, and i am going to find out how old this new friend of ours is. war was declared against algeria (not algiers) in march, ; and on the th day of june, in the same year, the dey cried for quarter, and signed a treaty of peace. if arthur began his wanderings at eleven, and spent four years with decatur, he must have been fifteen years old when the war closed. after that, he led the quiet life of a student until the florida war broke out. that commenced in ; so arthur must have spent just twenty years at school. by the way, it's a great pity that he didn't devote a portion of his time to geography and natural history, for then he would have known that there are no icebergs and polar bears in india, or arabs and burning sands in patagonia, or wild lions and tigers in europe. if he spent twenty years at school, and was fifteen years old when he had those terrible battles with the algerians, he must have been thirty-five years old when the florida war broke out." "did you go through the war?" johnny asked. "i did." "how long did it last?" inquired frank, "and what was the cause of it?" "it continued nearly two years, and was brought about by the hatred the choctaws cherished toward the white people." "three mistakes there," thought archie. "the war lasted seven years, and cost our government forty millions of dollars. the choctaws had nothing to do with it. it was the seminoles and creeks--principally the former. the immediate cause of the trouble was the attempt on the part of the government to remove those tribes to the country west of the mississippi. they didn't want to go, and they were determined they wouldn't; and, consequently, they got themselves decently whipped. if arthur was thirty-five years of age when he went into the war, and spent two years in it, he was thirty-seven when he came out." "after the war closed," continued arthur, "i went to patagonia, and there i spent five years." "thirty-seven and five are forty-two," said archie, to himself. "i had a great many thrilling adventures in patagonia. the country is one immense desert, and being directly under the equator, it is--if you will for once allow me to use a slang expression--as hot as a frying-pan. the arabs are hostile, and are more troublesome than ever the indians were on the plains. from patagonia i went to europe, and there i spent six years in hunting lions and tigers." "forty-eight," thought archie; "and patagonia isn't under the equator, either." "that must have been exciting," said frank, while johnny looked over his shoulder, and grinned at archie. "it was indeed exciting, and dangerous, too. it takes a man with nerves of iron to stand perfectly still, and let a roaring lion walk up within ten paces of him, before he puts a bullet through his head." "could you do it?" "could i? i have done it more than once. if one of those ferocious animals were here now, i would give you a specimen of my shooting, which is an accomplishment in which i can not be beaten. i expect that you would be so badly frightened that you would desert me, and leave me to fight him alone." "wouldn't you run?" "not an inch." "would you fire that blunderbuss at him?" asked johnny. "blunderbuss?" repeated arthur. "that shot-gun, i mean." "certainly i would. you see i have the nerve to do it. from europe i went to india, and there i risked my life for six years more among the polar bears." "forty-eight and six are fifty-four," soliloquized archie. "after that i went to the plains, where i remained three years; and when the governor wrote to me that he was about to remove from kentucky, i resigned my commission as captain of scouts, and here i am. i must confess that i am sorry enough for it; for i never saw a duller country than california. there's no society here, no excitement--nothing to stir up a fellow's blood." "fifty-four and three are fifty-seven," said archie. arthur had evidently finished the history of his exploits, for he had nothing more to say just then. archie, after waiting a few minutes for him to resume his narrative, pulled his sombrero down over his eyes, and thrust his hands into his pockets--two movements he always executed when he wished to concentrate his mind upon any thing--and began to ponder upon what he had just heard. "vane," said he, suddenly, an idea striking him, "who commanded your vessel when you were captured?" arthur knitted his brows, and looked down at the horn of his saddle, as if thinking intently, and finally said: "why, it was mr.--, mr.--; i declare, i have forgotten his name." archie again relapsed into silence. "we had two wars with those pirates," thought he. "the first was with tripoli; but as that happened in , arthur, of course, could not have taken part in it, for he made his first voyage at sea in . we lost but one vessel, and that was captured in --two years before war with tripoli was declared. it was the frigate philadelphia, and she wasn't whipped, either, but was run aground while pursuing a piratical vessel. she was commanded by captain bainbridge, who surrendered himself and crew. they were not compelled to 'walk the plank,' however, but were reduced to a horrible captivity, and treated worse than dogs. the tripolitans never got a chance to use the philadelphia against us, for decatur--who was at that time a lieutenant serving under commodore preble, who commanded our navy in those waters--boarded her one night with twenty men while she was lying in the harbor, swept the deck of more than double that number of pirates, burned the vessel under their very noses, and returned to his ship with only one man wounded. i never did care much for history, but a fellow finds a great deal of satisfaction sometimes in knowing a little about it." archie had at first been highly amused by what arthur had to say; but now, that the novelty had somewhat worn off, he began to wonder how it was possible for a boy to look another in the face and tell such improbable stories. if arthur was not ashamed of himself archie was heartily ashamed for him, and he was more than half inclined to put spurs to sleepy sam and start for home. he was not fond of such company. arthur vane is not an imaginary character. there are a great many like him in the world, boys, and men, too, who endeavor to make amends for the absence of real merit by recounting just such impossible exploits. the result, however, is always the exact reverse of what they wish it to be. instead of impressing their auditors with a sense of their great importance, they only succeed in awakening in their minds feelings of pity and contempt. after arthur had finished the history of his life, he rode along whistling snatches of the "hunter's chorus," happy in the belief that his reputation was established. well, it was established, but how? archie thought: "brag is a splendid dog, but holdfast is better. perhaps we may have a chance to test the courage of this mighty man of valor." johnny soliloquized: "does this fellow imagine that we are green enough to believe that he would stand and let a lion walk up within ten paces of him? hump! a good-sized rabbit would scare him to death." frank, who had taken but little part in the conversation, told himself that he had never become acquainted with a boy as deserving of pity as was arthur vane. he was not a desirable companion, and frank hoped that he would not often be thrown into his society. for a long time the boys rode in silence, keeping their horses in an easy gallop, and presently they entered the woods that fringed the base of the mountains, through which ran a bridle-path that led toward the old fur-trader's ranch. two young hounds belonging to johnny led the way, johnny came next, and frank and archie brought up the rear. they had ridden in this order for a short distance, when the singular movements of the hounds attracted their attention, and caused them to draw rein. the dogs stood in the path, snuffing the air, and gazing intently at the bushes in advance of them, and then, suddenly uttering a dismal howl, they ran back to the boys, and took refuge behind them. at the same instant, the horse on which johnny was mounted arose on his hind feet, turned square around, and, in spite of all the efforts of his rider to stop him, dashed by the others, and went down the path at the top of his speed. "good-by, fellows," shouted johnny; "and look out for yourselves, for there is"-- what else johnny said the boys could not understand, for the clatter of his horse's hoofs drowned his voice, and in a moment he was out of sight among the trees. "there's something in those bushes," said frank, with difficulty restraining his own horse, which seemed determined to follow johnny, "and who knows but it might be a grizzly?" "i am quite sure it is," said archie. "don't you remember how badly frightened pete used to be when there was one of those varmints around?" as archie said this, the bushes were violently agitated, and the twigs cracked and snapped as if some heavy body was forcing its way through them. the hounds, waiting to hear no more, turned and fled down the path, leaving the boys to themselves. frank turned and looked at arthur. could it be possible that the pale, terror-stricken youth he saw before him was the one who but a few moments ago had boasted so loudly of his courage? that noise in the bushes had produced a great change in him. chapter x. arthur shows his courage it must not be supposed that frank and archie were entirely unmoved by what had just happened. the strange conduct of the hounds, and the desperate flight of johnny's horse, were enough to satisfy them that there was some dangerous animal in the bushes in front of them, and the uncertainty of what that animal might be, caused them no little uneasiness. grizzly bears were frequently met with among the mountains, and they sometimes extended their excursions into the plains, occasioning a general stampede among the stock of the nearest ranch. the grizzly is as much the king of beasts in his own country as the lion in africa and asia; and frank and archie, during their sojourn at the old bear's hole, had become well enough acquainted with his habits and disposition to know that, if their enemy in the bushes belonged to that species, they were in a dangerous neighborhood. the grizzly might, at any moment, assume the offensive, and in that event, if their horses became entangled in the bushes, or were rendered unmanageable by fright, their destruction was certain. this knowledge caused their hearts to beat a trifle faster than usual, and frank's hand trembled a little as he unbuckled the holsters in front of his saddle, and grasped one of his revolvers. but neither he nor archie had any intention of discontinuing their journey, or of leaving the field without having at least one shot at the animal, whatever it might be. "now, boys," said frank, in an excited whisper, "we have a splendid chance to immortalize ourselves. if that is a grizzly, and we should be fortunate enough to kill him, it would be something worth bragging about, wouldn't it? if i only had my rifle!" "we must rely upon our friend, here," said archie. "it's lucky that he is with us, for he is an old hunter, and he won't mind riding into the bushes, and driving him out--will you, arthur?" "eh!" exclaimed that young gentleman, who trembled so violently that he could scarcely hold his reins. "i say, that, as you are the most experienced in such matters, we shall be obliged to depend upon you to drive the bear out of the bushes into open ground," repeated archie, who did not appear to notice his friend's trepidation. "we can't all go in there to attack him, for he would be sure to catch some of us. what have you in that gun?" "b-u-c-k-s-h-o-t," replied arthur, in an almost inaudible voice. "let's go home." "go home!" exclaimed frank; "and without even one shot at that fellow! no, sir. you've got the only gun in the party, and, of course, you are the one to attack him. go right up the path, and when you see him, bang away." "how big is he?" asked arthur. "why, if he is a full-grown grizzly, he is as big as a cow." "will he fight much?" "i should say he would," answered archie, who was somewhat surprised at these questions. "have you forgotten the one you killed with your knife? he will be certain to follow you, if you don't disable him at the first shot, but he can't catch your horse. besides, as soon as he comes in sight, frank and i will give him a volley from our revolvers. you are not afraid?" "afraid!" repeated arthur, compressing his lips, and scowling fiercely. "o, no." "well, then, make haste," said frank, who was beginning to get impatient. "ride up within ten paces of him, and let him have it. that's the way you used to serve the lions in europe." "yes, go on," urged archie; and he gave arthur's horse a cut with his whip, to hurry him up. "o, stop that!" whined arthur, as the horse sprang forward so suddenly that his rider was nearly unseated. "i am going home." what might have happened next, it is impossible to tell, had not the boys' attention been turned from arthur by the yelping of a dog in the bushes a short distance up the mountain. "that's carlo," exclaimed archie. "now we will soon know what sort of an enemy we have to deal with." the dog was evidently following the trail of the bear, for he broke out into a continuous baying, which grew louder and fiercer as he approached. the bear heard it, and was either making efforts to escape, or preparing to defend himself; for he thrashed about among the bushes in a way that quite bewildered frank and archie, who drew their revolvers, and turned their horses' heads down the path, ready to fight or run, as they might find it necessary. an instant afterward, a large, tan-colored hound bounded across the path, and dashed into the bushes where the game was concealed. it was not one of those which had so disgracefully left the field a few moments before--it was carlo, johnny's favorite hound--an animal whose strength had been tested in many a desperate encounter, and which had never been found wanting in courage. scarcely had he disappeared when marmion came in sight, also following the trail. he ran with his nose close to the ground, the hair on his back standing straight up like the quills on a porcupine, and his whole appearance indicating great rage and excitement. "hi! hi!" yelled frank. "take hold of him, you rascal! now's your time, arthur. ride up and give him the contents of your double-barrel; only, be careful, and don't shoot the dogs." for an instant, it seemed as if arthur's courage had returned, and that he was about to yield to the entreaties of his companions. he straightened up in his saddle, and, assuming what he, no doubt, imagined to be a very determined look, was on the point of urging his horse forward, when suddenly there arose from the woods a chorus of yells, and snarls, and growls, that made the cold chills creep all over him, and caused him to forget every thing in the desire to put a safe distance between himself and the terrible animal in the bushes. acting on the impulse of the moment, he wheeled his horse, and, before frank or archie could utter a word, he shot by them, and disappeared down the path. for a moment, the two boys, forgetting that a furious battle was going on a little way from them, gazed at each other in blank amazement. the mighty hunter, who had boasted of whipping a grizzly-bear in a fair fight, with no weapon but his knife, had fled ingloriously, without having seen any thing to be frightened at. "that's one lie nailed," said frank. "more than one, i should think," returned archie, contemptuously. "i shall have nothing more to do with that fellow. this is the end of my acquaintance with him." no doubt archie was in earnest when he said this; but, had he been able to look into the future, he would have discovered that he was destined to have a great deal more to do with arthur vane. instead of being the end of his acquaintance with that young gentleman, it was only the beginning of it. meanwhile, the fight in the bushes, desperate as it was, judging by the noise it occasioned, was ended, and arthur had scarcely disappeared when marmion and carlo walked out into the path, and, after looking up at the boys, and giving their tails a few jerks, as if to say "we've done it!" seated themselves on their haunches, and awaited further orders. archie threw his reins to his cousin, and, springing out of his saddle, went forward to survey the scene of the conflict. he was gone but a moment, and when he came out of the bushes, he was dragging after him--not a grizzly bear, but a large gray wolf, which had been overpowered and killed by the dogs. one of the wolf's hind-legs was caught in a trap, to which was fastened a short piece of chain and a clog. the animal had doubtless been paying his respects to some sheep-fold during the night, and had put his foot into the trap while searching for his supper. he had retreated toward the mountains, and had dragged the trap until the clog caught, and held him fast. that was the reason he did not run off when the boys came up, and the commotion in the bushes had been caused by his efforts to free himself. while the boys were examining their prize, johnny, having succeeded in stopping his frantic horse, was returning to the place from which he had started on his involuntary ride. as he was about to enter the woods at the base of the mountains, he saw a horse emerge from the trees, and come toward him at a rapid gallop. his bridle was flying loose in the wind, and johnny at first thought he was running away; but a second glance showed him that there was somebody on his back. "stampeded," thought johnny. "if i am laughed at, it will be some consolation to know that i am not alone in my misery." the rider of the stampeded horse was bent almost double; his feet were out of the stirrups, which were being thrown wildly about; both hands were holding fast to the horn of the saddle; his face was deadly pale, and, altogether, he presented the appearance of one who had been thoroughly alarmed. although he looked very unlike the dignified arthur vane, who had ridden so gayly over that road but a few moments before, johnny recognized him at once; and the first thought that flashed through his mind was that something terrible had happened to frank and archie. "what's the matter?" asked johnny, pulling up his horse with a jerk. "grizzly bears!" shouted arthur, in reply, without attempting to check his headlong flight. "grizzly bears!" echoed johnny, in dismay. "and are you going off without trying to help those boys? stop, and go back with me." but arthur was past stopping, either by ability or inclination. digging his spurs into the sides of his horse, which was already going at the top of his speed, he went by johnny like the wind, and in a moment was so far away that it was useless to make any further attempts to stop him. for an instant, johnny was irresolute; then he turned in his saddle, and shouted one word, which the wind caught up and carried to the ears of the flying horseman, and which did much to bring about the events we have yet to describe. "_coward!_" yelled johnny, with all the strength of his lungs. having thus given utterance to his opinion of arthur vane, he put spurs to his horse and galloped into the woods, hoping to reach the scene of the conflict in time to be of service to his friends. but, as we know, the grizzly bear had proved to be a wolf, and had already been killed by the dogs. chapter xi. arthur plans revenge. meanwhile, arthur vane continued his mad flight toward the settlement. his hat was gone, his fine shot-gun had been thrown aside as a useless incumbrance, and his tomahawk and knife had dropped out of his belt; but he was too frightened to stop to pick them up. no pause he knew until he reached mr. harris's rancho, where he reined up his panting horse, and electrified the family by shouting through the open window: "grizzly bears! grizzly bears!" "where?" breathlessly inquired mr. harris, running out on the porch. before arthur could reply, johnny's mother appeared; and a single glance at the frightened hunter and his dripping steed, was enough to awaken in her mind the most terrible apprehensions. she knew, instinctively, that something dreadful had happened. "o, my son!" she screamed, sinking down on the porch, and covering her face with her hands. mr. harris did not stop to ask any questions then. he knew the route the boys had taken in the morning, and his first thought was to start for the scene of the conflict, although he had little hopes of arriving in time to be of any assistance to the young hunters. "josé!" he shouted to one of his rancheros, who happened to pass by the house at that moment, "call all the men to saddle up at once. the boys have been attacked by a grizzly in the mountains." the gentleman carried his fainting wife into the house, and presently re-appeared with a brace of revolvers strapped to his waist, and a rifle in his hand. "did you see any of the boys hurt?" he asked this question in a firm voice; but his pale face and quivering lips showed that the news he had just received had not been without its effect upon him. "no, sir," replied arthur. "my horse ran away with me; but i heard the fight, and i know that the dogs were all cut to pieces. the bear was an awful monster--as large as an ox; and such teeth and claws as he had! i never saw the like in all my hunting." in a few moments, half a dozen herdsmen, all well armed, galloped up, one of them leading his employer's horse. "vane," said mr. harris, as he sprang into his saddle, "you will stop on your way home, and tell mr. winters, will you not?" arthur replied by putting spurs to his horse, and in a few moments he was standing in mr. winters's court, spreading consternation among the people of the rancho. dick and bob were there; but, unlike the rest of the herdsmen, they seemed to be but little affected by arthur's story. "you'll never see those boys again," said the latter, winding up his narrative with a description of the bear by which they had been attacked. "now, don't you be anyways oneasy," replied dick, hurrying off to saddle his horse. "if it war a grizzly, he's dead enough by this time, for i knowed them youngsters long afore you sot eyes on to 'em, an' i know what they can do. didn't i tell you, 'squire," he added, turning to mr. winters, who was pacing anxiously up and down the porch, "that frank would come out all right when he war stampeded with them buffaler? wal, i tell you the same now." arthur remained at the rancho until uncle james and his herdsmen set out for the mountains, and then turned his face homeward. it is a rule that seldom fails, that when one meets a braggadocio, he can put him down as a coward. we have seen that it held good in arthur's case; for, although he had not caught the smallest glimpse of the animal in the bushes, he was so terrified that he had run his horse eight miles; and, while he was plunging his spurs into the gray's sides at almost every jump, he imagined that the animal was running away with him. he was so badly frightened that he did not pause to consider that he might have occasioned a great deal of unnecessary anxiety and alarm by the stories he had circulated. he really believed that every word he had uttered was the truth; and he reached this conclusion by a process of reasoning perfectly satisfactory to himself. he had heard the growls and snarls uttered by the animal in the bushes, when attacked by the dogs, and they were so appalling, that he felt safe in believing that they came from some terrible monster. the conduct of the hounds, and of johnny's horse, confirmed this opinion. besides, frank and archie had pronounced the animal a grizzly, and arthur was quite sure it was; for nothing else, except a lion or tiger, could have uttered such growls. he had heard that grizzlies were very tenacious of life, and hard to whip, and, consequently, it followed, as a thing of course, that frank and archie, and the dogs, were utterly annihilated. "i'm safe, thank goodness!" said arthur, to himself. "if those fellows were foolish enough to stay there and be clawed to pieces, that's their lookout and not mine. johnny harris insulted me by calling me a coward. he may escape from the bear, and if he does, i shall think up a plan to punish him." when arthur reached home, he repeated his story as he had told it to mr. harris and uncle james, and he straightway found himself a hero. he had seen a grizzly bear with terrible claws, and a frightful array of teeth; his horse had run away with him, and carried him eight miles before he could stop him, and he had come home with a whole skin. it was wonderful. arthur threw on airs accordingly. he strutted about among the herdsmen, and entertained his servant, a mexican boy about his own age, named pedro, with a description of the fight, in which he had seen four fierce dogs completely demolished. pedro complimented him highly, and the rancheros called him a brave lad--although arthur himself failed to see what he had done that was deserving of praise. he went to bed in excellent spirits, and was awakened in the morning, about daylight, by pedro, who came into his room, carrying in his hand a double-barreled shot-gun, a tomahawk, and sheath-knife, and, under his arm, he held a hat, and a bundle wrapped up in a newspaper. pedro held his sombrero over his face, so that nothing could be seen but his eyes, which were brimful of laughter. "now, then," exclaimed arthur, raising himself on his elbow, and looking fiercely at the boy, "what do you want in here at this barbarous hour, and what are you grinning at?" "why, sir--the bear, you know; it wasn't a bear after all," stammered pedro, in reply. "it wasn't! i say it was. didn't i see him with my own eyes, and hear him growl with my own ears? take that hat down from your face, and stop your laughing." pedro obeyed. he placed the bundle on a chair beside the bed, leaned the gun up in one corner, deposited the other articles upon the table, and then pulled out of his pocket a note which he handed to arthur. "now take yourself off," commanded that young gentleman. pedro vanished, and arthur heard him laughing to himself as he passed through the hall. "what does the rascal mean, i wonder; and who can be writing to me so early in the morning?" arthur looked at the bundle, which lay on the chair beside him, felt of it with his fingers, and then turned his attention to the note, which ran as follows: "frank, archie, and johnny present their compliments to colonel vane, and beg leave to inform him that, after a struggle unequaled in the annals of hunting, they succeeded in dispatching the monster by which they were attacked yesterday. they are, also, happy to announce that the dogs, which were so badly cut up during the fight, have so far recovered as to be out, and to take their regular rations. they request the colonel to accept the accompanying articles, including the skin of the grizzly bear, and to preserve them as mementoes of the most exciting event of his life. they sincerely hope that the colonel sustained no injury during his ride on his runaway horse." arthur read this letter over twice, and, although he made no comments upon it, it was easy enough to see that he was highly enraged. he sat up in the bed, and, with trembling hands, tore off the covering of the bundle, and discovered the skin of the gray wolf. "by gracious!" exclaimed arthur, jumping out on the floor. "was a gentleman ever before so insulted? that little yankee, archie winters, is at the bottom of all this, and if he don't suffer for it, i'll know the reason why." he tore the note into fragments, pitched the bundle out of the window, and walked angrily about the room, shaking his fists in the air, and threatening all sorts of vengeance against archie and his two friends. if he had been in his sober senses, he would have felt heartily ashamed of himself; but the note had opened his eyes to the fact that he had sadly injured his reputation, and he was angry at his companions because he had done so--although how they could be blamed for that, it would have puzzled a sensible boy to determine. but, after all, his case was not an isolated one. it is by no means uncommon for boys, when they get angry, to revenge themselves upon some innocent thing. we remember that, on a certain rainy day, several boys were congregated in a barn, amusing themselves by turning hand-springs. one clumsy fellow, whose feet were so heavy that he could not get them over his head, became greatly enraged at his failures, and finally tried to soothe his wounded pride by whipping one of his companions. arthur was actuated by the same spirit. he walked up and down his room for a long time, trying to make up his mind what he should do, and, when he was called to breakfast, he had decided upon a plan of operations, which promised to make archie and his friends a great deal of trouble. "i'll be revenged upon the whole lot of them at once," said arthur, to himself. "upon johnny harris, for calling me a coward; upon archie winters, for writing me that note--for i know he did it, although johnny's name does come last--and upon frank nelson, for being a friend to those fellows, and for being so stuck up. he scarcely spoke to me yesterday, and i won't stand such treatment from any boy. i'll teach these backwoodsmen to insult a gentleman!" "well, arthur," said mr. vane, as the boy seated himself at the table, "you must have looked through a very badly-frightened pair of eyes, to make a grizzly bear out of a wolf." "who told you it was a wolf?" asked arthur, gruffly. "one of mr. winters's herdsmen--dick lewis, i believe, they call him. he came over this morning to bring your weapons and hat." dick despised a coward quite as much as he admired a boy of spirit and courage, and it is certain that the story, as he had heard it from frank and archie, lost nothing in passing through his hands. he first told it to mr. vane, as he handed him the articles he had brought, and then repeated it to one of the rancheros; and, by the time arthur had finished his breakfast, the occurrences of the previous day were known to every one on the rancho. pedro laughed when he brought out arthur's horse, and the herdsmen, as he rode through their quarters, exchanged winks with one another, and made a great many remarks about grizzly bears, especially concerning the one arthur had seen the day before. there was one man, however, who took no part in the joking and laughing, and that was joaquin, who was just mounting his horse to drive up some stock. "don't mind them," said he, as arthur rode beside him. "they are a set of blackguards, and don't know how to treat a gentleman." "now, that's like a true friend," replied arthur. "you're the only one i have on the ranch." joaquin was a villainous-looking mexican, and since he had been in mr. vane's employ, he had had little to do with the other herdsmen. he seemed to prefer to be alone, unless he could have arthur for company. he always took a great deal of interest in the boy's affairs, and it was from his lips that arthur had heard the story of frank's adventures with pierre costello. joaquin had gained arthur's good will by confiding to him a great many secrets, and one day he went so far as to confess that pierre was his particular friend, and that, if he felt so disposed, he could point out the cave in the mountains where the robber was concealed, and tell who it was that supplied him with food, and kept him posted in all that happened in the settlement. joaquin might have added, further, that he himself had held several long interviews with pierre of late, and had talked over with him certain plans, in which arthur vane and his three companions of the previous day bore prominent parts. but this was one secret that the ranchero kept to himself. "if you know where the robber is hidden, why don't you tell mr. winters, and claim the reward?" arthur had one day asked joaquin. "what! betray my best friend!" exclaimed that worthy, in great astonishment. "i am not base enough to abuse any man's confidence. do you suppose that if you were in pierre's place, and i knew where you were concealed, that i could be hired to play false to you? no, sir!" arthur remembered this remark, and on this particular morning, as he rode out with the ranchero, he called the latter's attention to it, and asked if he could trust him. the reply was a strong affirmative, which satisfied arthur that he might speak freely, and the result was, the revelation of his plan for taking revenge on frank, johnny, and archie. joaquin listened attentively, and arthur was delighted at the readiness, and even eagerness, with which the herdsman fell in with his ideas, and promised his assistance. he had one amendment to propose, that did not exactly suit arthur; but, after a little argument, he agreed to it. they talked the matter over for half an hour, and then arthur started for home, and the ranchero galloped off to attend to his stock. that night, after all his companions were asleep, joaquin crept quietly out of his quarters, and, after saddling his horse, rode toward the mountains. he was gone nearly all night, but returned in time to get to bed before the herdsmen awoke; and, when he arose with the others, none of them knew that he had been away from the rancho. arthur vane must have known something about it, however, for the next morning, as soon as he had eaten his breakfast, he mounted his horse, and overtook joaquin, just as he was leaving his quarters. "well!" said arthur. the ranchero looked suspiciously about him, and, finding that there was no one within sight or hearing, he detached his knife and sheath from his belt, produced a folded paper from the crown of his sombrero, and handed them both to arthur, saying, in a suppressed whisper: "it's all right." "did you see him?" asked arthur, eagerly. "i did, and he says your plan is an excellent one, and he will help you to carry it out. the black line on that paper points out the road you are to follow; the light lines, that branch off from it, are old bridle-paths. look at the paper often, and you can't get lost. he has never seen you, you know, and, when you find him, you must show him my knife to prove that you are a friend. bear one thing in mind, now, and that is, you are playing a dangerous game, and if you are found out, the country around here will be too hot to hold you. remember that i am your only friend in this matter, and say nothing to nobody except me." with this piece of advice, the ranchero galloped off, and arthur, after placing the knife in his belt, and putting the paper carefully away in his pocket, rode toward the mountains. during the next few hours, arthur consulted his paper frequently, and, about noon, he was standing at the base of a precipitous cliff, twenty miles from home, examining the natural features of the place, and comparing them with his diagram. he saw no one; but half way up the cliff was a huge bowlder, over which peered a pair of eyes that were closely watching every move he made; and, when arthur whistled twice, the eyes disappeared, and a man stepped from behind the rock, and said, in a gruff voice: "who are you, and what do you want here?" "are you pierre costello?" asked arthur. "well, now, that's no concern of yours," replied the man. "who are you?" as he spoke, he drew a revolver from his sash, and rested it on the rock beside him, the muzzle pointing straight at the boy's head. "don't!" cried arthur, turning pale, and stepping back. "i am arthur vane, and i have come here to have a talk with you. here is joaquin's knife, which will prove that i am all right." the man returned his revolver to his belt, and came down the cliff; and, presently, arthur found himself standing face to face with a live robber. "i am pierre costello," said the latter; "and i was waiting for you." chapter xii. off for the mountains. arthur looked at the robber with curiosity. yellow-covered novels had always been his favorite reading, and highwaymen, brigands, and pirates were, in his estimation, the only heroes worthy of emulation. pierre, but for one thing, would have come up to his beau ideal of a robber. he was loaded with weapons, and he was tall and broad-shouldered, sported a ferocious mustache, and his hair fell down upon his shoulders. he was dressed in the gayest mexican style, but his clothing had seen long service, and was not quite as neat as arthur would have liked to have seen it. it was plain that pierre did not waste much time upon his toilet; but, after all, he was a very good-looking villain. the robber was quite as much interested in his visitor as the latter was in him. he had often heard of arthur through joaquin; and, if the boy had known all pierre's intentions concerning him, he might not have felt quite so much at his ease. "i can't spare much time," said the robber, breaking the silence at last. "nor i either," returned arthur; "so i will begin my business at once, and get through as soon as i can. i have heard the particulars of your fights with frank nelson, and i propose to put you in the way of making five times the amount of money you would have made if you had captured him when you met him in the mountains. i want to be revenged upon frank and his crowd, for they have grossly insulted me." "of course they have," said pierre. "i know all about it." "i can't punish them by myself," continued arthur, "for they are three to my one. i am not afraid of johnny harris, or archie winters; but there's that other yankee, frank nelson. he is as strong as a lion, and if he once gets his blood up, he don't care for any thing. i am afraid of him." "i don't wonder at it. i have had some experience with him, and, if he had a few more years on his shoulders, i should be afraid of him myself." "i can't punish them unless i have help," repeated arthur; "and, if you will lend me your assistance, you can make sixty thousand dollars by it. i heard those fellows say, yesterday, that they are going on a hunting expedition, next week. i will make friends with them again, and find out when they intend to start, and i propose that you capture them, and take them to some safe place in the mountains, and demand twenty thousand dollars apiece for them. you can demand more, if you choose, and get it, too; for mr. harris is rich, and so is mr. winters. you must have some men to assist you, however." "i understand that," said pierre. "i'll find the men." "will you do it?" "certainly, i will." "give me your hand, pierre; i knew you would help me. but let me tell you one thing, and that is, when you capture them you must look out for yourself. they will have plenty of weapons, and, from what i have seen of them, i don't think they would hesitate to use them if they got a chance. there's one thing about this business i don't exactly admire. of course, i shall start with their expedition--i want to have the satisfaction of seeing them captured--and my idea was, that, when you made the attack on them, you should give me a chance to escape; but joaquin says, that won't do at all." "certainly not;" said pierre, quickly. "i shall have five men with me, and if we should let you get away, the boys would be suspicious of you at once." "that's just what joaquin said; and since i have thought the matter over, i have come to the conclusion that he was right. i don't want them to know that i had a hand in this matter, for they might make me some trouble." "very likely they would. you must allow yourself to be captured with the others." "well, i sha'n't mind that, for, i believe, i can enjoy myself among the mountains for a month or two. but, pierre, when you get them you must hold fast to them." "i am not the man to let sixty thousand dollars slip through my fingers," said the ranchero, with a laugh. "and there are three other things i want you to remember," continued arthur, earnestly. "the first is, you must not demand any ransom for me." "oh no; of course not." "the second is, i shall expect to be treated at all times like a visitor. i am a gentleman, and a gentleman's son." "i am well aware of that fact. i knew it the moment i put my eyes on you." "the third thing i want you to bear in mind, is, that i shall not be captured without a struggle; and that every chance i get i shall try to escape. i am going to show those fellows that i have some spunk. i want you to act natural, and to prevent me from getting away from you; but you must not abuse me. you can treat the others as roughly as you please. do you agree to all this?" "i do, and there's my hand on it," said pierre. "i fully understand your plans now, and know just what you want me to do; and, what's more, i'll do it. if you have got through with what you have to say, you had better be off. i have a good many enemies, and i am in danger as long as you are here. watch those boys closely, and keep joaquin posted. i can find out every thing i want to know from him." "my plans are working nicely," chuckled arthur, as he rode homeward. "i'll teach these backwoodsmen manners, before i am done with them." "eighty thousand dollars!" said pierre, gazing after the retreating horseman. "that's a nice little sum to be divided among six of us." this remark will show whether or not the robber intended to abide by the promises he had just made to arthur vane; and, while we are on this subject, it may not be amiss to say, that the scheme arthur had proposed, was one on which the robber had been meditating for many days. during the time he had lived in the mountains, he had kept his brain busy, and had been allowed ample opportunity to decide upon his future operations. he had been astonished and enraged at his failure to secure the twelve thousand dollars, and to make frank nelson a prisoner, and he had resolved to make amends for his defeat by capturing frank and all his companions, including arthur vane. pierre had plenty of friends to assist him, but there was one question that troubled him, and presented an obstacle that he could see no way to overcome; and that was, how to capture all the boys at once. that must be done, or his plan would fail. he could get his hands upon arthur vane at any time; but the others were like birds on the wing--here to-day, and miles away to-morrow--and pierre did not know where to find them. now, however, the difficulty was removed. frank and his friends were going on a hunting expedition, arthur would ascertain when they were going to start, and what road they intended to take, and when the day arrived, the robber could call in his men, who were employed on the neighboring ranchos, and capture the boys without the least trouble. pierre was very glad that arthur had got angry at frank. meanwhile frank, archie, and johnny, all unconscious of the plans that were being formed against them, enjoyed themselves to the utmost, and wasted a good deal of time every day in laughing over the incidents that had transpired during their ride to captain porter's ranch. archie, especially, had a great deal to say about it. he had an accomplishment, of which we have never before had occasion to speak: he was a first-class mimic; and he took no little pride in showing off his powers. he could imitate the brogue of an irishman the broken english of a dutchman, or the nasal twang of a yankee, to perfection; and one day, while he was in the barn saddling his horse, he carried on a lengthy conversation with bob kelly (who was on the outside of the building), about some runaway cattle, and the old trapper thought all the while that he was talking to his chum, dick lewis. now archie had a new subject to practice upon. he laid himself out to personate arthur vane; and he not only successfully imitated that young gentleman's pompous style of talking, and his dignified manner of riding and walking, but even the tone of his voice. he criticised frank and johnny continually, and made them laugh, till their jaws ached, by recounting imaginary adventures on the burning sands of patagonia, and among the icebergs and polar bears of india. the day following the one on which arthur vane visited the robber in the mountains, found the three boys on the back porch of mr. winters's rancho, making preparations for their hunting expedition. frank was cleaning his rifle, and archie and johnny were repairing an old pack-saddle, in which they intended to carry their provisions and extra ammunition. archie was seated on the floor, with an awl in one hand, and a piece of stout twine in the other; and, while he was working at the pack-saddle, his tongue was moving rapidly. "i am young in years, fellows," he was saying, "but i am aged in experience. if i had my rights, i should long ago have been gray-headed. i have seen thrilling times in my life, and have been the hero of adventures, that, were i to relate them to you, would make each particular hair of your heads stand on end, like the quills of a punched hedge-hog. i am--if you will kindly permit me to use a slang expression--an old hand at the business of hunting and trapping, and have accomplishments in which i can not be beaten. among them, stands my ability to whip a grizzly bear in a fair fight, with no weapon but my knife. i have hunted wild gorillas in the streets of new york city; have"-- "good morning, fellows!" archie brought the story of his adventures to a sudden close, and, looking over his shoulder, saw arthur vane standing at the end of the porch. the boys had never expected him to call upon them again, and archie and johnny were too surprised to speak; but frank, who always kept his wits about him, returned arthur's greeting, and invited him to occupy the chair he pushed toward him. he was not at all pleased to see the visitor, but he was too much of a gentleman to show it. one would suppose, that the remembrance of what had happened, three days before, would have caused arthur some embarrassment; but such was not the case. on the contrary, he was as dignified as ever, and seemed to be perfectly at his ease. frank and his friends were considerate enough to refrain from making any allusions to the fright he had sustained, but arthur brought the subject up himself. "i received your note," said he, "and also the articles you were kind enough to send me; and i am here now to say, that i feel heartily ashamed of myself. from some cause or another, that i could not explain if i should try, i was extremely nervous that day; but i may, some time, have an opportunity to show you that i am not as much of a coward as i know you now believe me to be." arthur remained at the rancho all that day, sitting down at the same, table, and eating his dinner with the boys he was about to betray into the hands of the robbers; and, when he went home that night, he had asked, and received, permission to accompany them to the mountains. their consent had been given reluctantly, and with very bad grace; but they could see no way to get around it. arthur was a boy with whom they did not care to associate; but he had done them no injury, and they could not bring themselves to refuse his request. "they will start early monday morning," soliloquized arthur, as he rode homeward, "and will take the road that leads to captain porter's. this is friday. i shall send word by joaquin to pierre to-night, and he will have plenty of time to make all his arrangements." arthur spent the next day with the boys at mr. winters's rancho, and, when he rode over on monday morning, he brought with him a supply of provisions, which were stowed away in the pack-saddle with the rest. frank and his friends had been waiting for him, and now that they were all ready, they mounted their horses and rode off--archie leading an extra horse, which carried the pack-saddle. as they galloped through the rancheros' quarters, dick appeared at the door of his cabin, and shouted after them words, which, taken in connection with the events that were about to transpire, seemed like prophecy. "you'll be wishin' fur me an' bob, to get you out of the hands of that ar' greaser, afore you're two days older," yelled dick. "you don't suppose that we four fellows will let one man capture us, do you?" shouted archie, in reply. "if we do get into trouble, and you find it out, you'll come to our rescue, won't you?" "sartin. now, don't be keerless, like you allers are." the boys kept their horses in a rapid gallop until they reached the bridle-path in the mountains, and then archie went ahead with the pack-horse, and the others followed in single file. they rode along singing and shouting, and little dreaming of the danger that was so near, until they arrived in sight of the spring, near which frank had his last encounter with the robber. he soon found that he was to have another adventure there; for, as he and his companions rode toward the spring, they were startled by a shrill whistle, which echoed among the mountains, and was answered on all sides of them; and, before they had recovered from their surprise, pierre costello appeared in the path, as suddenly as though he had dropped from the clouds, and came toward them, holding a pistol in each hand. "halt!" shouted the robber. the boys looked about them, as if seeking some avenue of escape, and then they saw that pierre was not alone. every thicket, toward which they turned their eyes, bristled with weapons, and a dozen revolvers were leveled straight at their heads. it was useless to think of flight. chapter xiii. pierre and his band. "halt, i say!" repeated pierre, riding up beside frank, and seizing his horse by the bridle. "disarm them, men, and shoot down the first one that resists," he added, as the band closed up around the boys. frank, seeing, at a glance, that it was useless to think of escape, sat quietly in his saddle, and allowed pierre to take possession of his rifle, pistols, and lasso. johnny and archie also surrendered at discretion; but arthur, believing that the time had come to retrieve the reputation he had lost so ingloriously a few days before, determined that he would not surrender without a fight. it was a part of his contract with the robber chief, that he should be allowed to resist as desperately as he pleased, and he took advantage of it. he gazed at the rancheros for a moment with well-assumed astonishment, and then, appearing to comprehend the situation, he shouted: "stick together, fellows, and fight for your liberties! don't give up, like a pack of cowards! knock 'em down! shoot 'em! take your hand off that bridle, you villain!" as arthur spoke, he dashed his spurs into the flanks of his horse, which bounded forward so suddenly, that he jerked the bridle from the grasp of the ranchero who was holding him. "hurrah! i'm free, boys!" he shouted, clubbing his gun, and swinging it around his head. "follow me, and i'll show you how we used to clean out the indians." arthur's triumph was of short duration. the ranchero, from whom he had escaped, was at his side in an instant, and, again seizing his bridle with one hand, he leveled a pistol full at his prisoner's head with the other, while pierre caught his gun from behind, and wrested it from his grasp. at the same moment, a lasso, thrown by the ranchero who had taken charge of archie, settled down over his shoulders, and was drawn tight. pierre and his band were obeying their instructions to the very letter, indeed, they were altogether too zealous in their efforts to appear "natural," and arthur began to be suspicious that they were in sober earnest with him, as well as with the others. he looked up into pierre's face, in the hope of receiving from him some friendly token--a sly wink or a nod, which would satisfy him that he was "all right," and in no danger of receiving bodily injury; but he saw nothing of the kind. the chieftain's face wore a terrible scowl, and he even lifted arthur's gun above his head, as if he had half a mind to knock him out of his saddle. "quarter! quarter!" gasped arthur, striving, with nervous fingers, to pull the lasso from his neck, and beginning to be thoroughly alarmed. "i surrender." "well, let that be your last attempt at escape," said pierre, in a very savage tone of voice, "or you will find, to your cost, that we are not to be trifled with." in the meantime, the other rancheros, while holding fast to their prisoners, had relieved them of their weapons; and, as soon as pierre had seen arthur conquered, he seized the bridle of the pack-horse, while each of the other members of the band took charge of one of the boys, and the cavalcade started down the ravine at a rapid gallop. all this happened in much less time than we have taken to describe it. before the young hunters had fairly recovered from the astonishment caused by the sudden appearance of pierre and his band, they had been disarmed, and were being led captive into the mountains. frank and his two friends were more bewildered than alarmed. the whole thing was so unexpected, and had been accomplished so quickly and quietly! remembering the particulars of frank's previous encounter with pierre costello, they did not stand in fear of bodily harm. although they had not the slightest suspicion that their capture was the result of treachery on the part of arthur vane, they well understood the motives of the robbers, and knew, as well as if pierre had explained the matter to them, that they were to be used as a means to extort money from their relatives, and that they had nothing to fear, so long as they submitted quietly to their enemies. but this was something that one of the three boys, at least, had no intention of doing. frank's brain was already busy with plans for escape. he had twice beaten pierre at his own game, and, if the robber did not keep his wits about him, he would do it again. as for arthur, although his plans were, thus far, as successful as he could have desired, he was very much disappointed. the three boys, who had dared to hold him up to the people of the settlement in his true character, were prisoners, and he had pierre's assurance that they would remain such until the demands he intended to make upon their relatives should be complied with. but, after all, arthur did not experience the satisfaction he had hoped he would, for the robbers had treated him very roughly. the chief had raised his own gun over his head; another had choked him with his lasso, and a third had pointed a loaded pistol at him. that was a nice way to treat a visitor! arthur began to wish that he had never had any thing to do with pierre and his band. the chief, who rode in advance with the pack-horse, led the way at a break-neck pace, and the boys, being one behind the other, each in company with the ranchero who had him in charge, were allowed no opportunity to converse with one another, even had they desired it. frank, for want of something better to do, began to make an examination of the members of the band. like their leader, they were full-blooded mexicans, with enormous mustaches, and long, tangled hair, which looked as though it had never seen a comb. they were dressed in gay-colored clothes--blue jackets, buckskin pants, very wide at the knee, and covered with buttons, ribbons, and gold lace. they wore long sashes around their waists, which were thrust full of bowie-knives and revolvers. they carried short, heavy rifles, slung over their shoulders by leather bands, and behind their saddles were their ponchos, which did duty both as overcoats and beds. taken altogether, they were a hard-looking set, and seemed capable of any atrocity. the man who had charge of frank was particularly noticeable in this respect, and our hero thought that all he needed were the leggins, and high-pointed hat, to make him a first-class brigand. this man kept a sharp eye upon his prisoner, and scowled at him, as if he regarded him as his most implacable foe. "you needn't look so mad," said frank, at length. "i don't remember that i ever did you any harm, and i certainly am not foolish enough to try to escape, as long as you keep hold of my bridle." "you had better not," said the ranchero, smiling grimly, and shaking his head in a very threatening manner. "i don't know that you can frighten me," returned frank, coolly. "i wish i was a man for about five minutes." "what would you do?" asked the ranchero, who seemed to be pleased, as well as astonished, at the boy's courage and independence. "i'd make your head and your heels change places in a great hurry. in other words, i'd knock you out of your saddle. then i'd say: 'good-by, mr.--mr.'--what's your name?" "mercedes--antoine mercedes." "well, mr. mercedes, i'll never forget that benevolent-looking face of yours. as i was saying, i would bid you good-by, and leave. i'd pass those fellows," he added, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the robbers in the rear, "before they could say 'general jackson' with their mouth's open. you haven't got a horse, in this party, that can catch roderick." the ranchero smiled again, and tapped the butt of one of his revolvers with his finger. "oh, you wouldn't have a chance to fire a pistol at me," said frank, quickly. "by the time you could get on your feet again, after i had knocked you down, i would be a mile from here. did pierre ever tell you how nicely i fooled him?" he continued, noticing that the chief was turned half around in his saddle, listening to what he had to say. "well i am not surprised that he never mentioned it, for he ought to feel ashamed of himself." "ay; but i have got you fast this time," said pierre, with a laugh. "let us see how nicely you will fool me now. one at a time here, men," he added, in a louder tone, "and keep close watch of those prisoners." as pierre spoke, the cavalcade emerged from the woods, and frank found himself on the brink of a rocky chasm, which stretched away to the right as far as his eye could reach, and seemed to extend down into the very bowels of the earth. it was so deep that his head grew dizzy, as he looked into it. on his left, and directly in front of him, was a precipitous mountain, the top of which hung threateningly over the gorge below. it seemed to frank that they could go no farther in this direction, until pierre urged his horse upon a narrow ledge that ran around the base of the cliff. antoine followed after the pack-horse, and frank came next. roderick pricked up his ears, looked over into the gorge, and snorted loudly. he moved very slowly and carefully, and well he might: for a single misstep on his part would have sent both him and his rider to destruction. the path was so narrow that, although roderick walked on the extreme outer edge, frank's feet now and then brushed against the rock on the opposite side. our hero felt his sombrero rise on his head, whenever he looked into the chasm, or allowed himself to reflect how slight an accident might launch him into eternity. but there was no backing out. once on that ledge, a person must go forward; for there was no room to turn around. after frank came another of the band, and johnny followed at his heels. archie and his keeper came next, and arthur and _his_ keeper brought up the rear. they all rode fearlessly upon the ledge, until it came arthur's turn, and then was heard a cry of remonstrance. the young gentleman, who had been brave enough to fill the perilous office of scout among the indians of the plains, did not possess the courage necessary to carry him through this ordeal. he turned as pale as death, and stopped his horse. "go on," sternly commanded his keeper. "oh, it's dangerous," returned arthur, in pitiful tones. "what if my horse should slip off? that gully must be a thousand feet deep!" "more than that," said archie, who, although very far from being pleased at his own situation, could not resist the inclination to torment arthur. "it reaches clear through to india, where you used to hunt polar bears." "that's so," said johnny; "for just now, as i looked over into the gorge, i saw a lot of half naked hindoos tumbling about among the icebergs." "and i heard them yelling," chimed in frank; "and saw one of those big white bears after them." "go on!" repeated the ranchero, impatiently. "o, now, see here!" exclaimed arthur, in a trembling voice, trying to turn his horse's head away from the pass, "i believe, i'll"-- he was about to say, that he believed he would not go any further, but that he would return home and leave pierre and his band to take care of his three enemies; but his keeper did not give him time to finish the sentence. seeing that arthur had no intention of following the rest of the party, the robber took his lasso from the pommel of his saddle, and with it struck his prisoner's horse a blow that caused the fiery animal to give one tremendous spring, which brought him to the very brink of the precipice. in his efforts to stop himself, a portion of the earth was detached by his hoofs and fell with a loud noise into the abyss, bounding down its rocky sides, and crashing through bushes and branches of trees in its rapid descent to the bottom. the horse, frightened by the sound, and smarting under the blow of the lasso, reared so straight upon his hind legs that he seemed in imminent danger of toppling over into the chasm; and then, for the first time in his life, arthur found himself in real peril. he screamed loudly, clung to the horn of his saddle with a death grip, and closed his eyes, expecting every instant to find himself whirling through the air toward the bottom of the gorge. but help was near: the strong hand of his keeper grasped the bridle, and brought the horse back upon firm ground. "now, then, go on!" commanded the ranchero, without giving his prisoner time to recover from his fright. arthur was powerless to obey, for so great was his terror that he could not move a muscle; but his horse, being left to himself, stepped boldly upon the ledge, and followed after the rest of the party, who had, by this time, disappeared around the base of the mountain. chapter xiv. a dinner in the mountains. pass christian--for that was the name of the gorge--was two miles long. about half that distance from the entrance, was a natural recess in the mountains, comprising perhaps half an acre, which was covered with grass and stunted oaks, and watered by a spring that gushed out from under a huge bowlder, which had fallen into the glade from the mountains above. here the robber chief had decided to remain long enough to send a message to mr. winters. the horses had been unsaddled, and were cropping the grass, and the rancheros were stretched out under the shade of the trees--all except two of their number, one of whom, having lighted a fire, was engaged in cooking the dinner, and the other was standing near the entrance to the glade, leaning on his rifle, and keeping a close watch over the prisoners. frank and his two friends were reposing on their blankets near the spring, and when arthur rode up, they greeted him with a broad grin. "well, colonel," said frank, "you come near going back to india by a short route, didn't you?" "did you ever travel on horseback in such frightful places as this, during your wanderings in europe?" asked johnny. arthur had, by this time, somewhat recovered from his fright, though his face was still very pale, and he drew a long breath every now and then, when he thought of the dangers he had passed through. "no," he replied, to johnny's question. "i never traveled much among the mountains. it always makes my head dizzy, to look down from a height." "how, then, did you stand it," said archie, with a sly wink at his companions, "when you were perched upon the 'very top of the middle mast' of your ship, looking out for whales?" "eh?" exclaimed arthur. "why--i--you know"-- arthur was cornered. he did not know how to answer this question, so he kneeled down by the spring, and took a drink, in order to gain time to reflect. "i was obliged to stand it," said he, at length, looking up at his companions. "i couldn't help myself. i say, boys," he added, desiring to turn the conversation into another channel, "you've got us into a nice scrape by your cowardice. if you had followed me, those fellows would have been the prisoners now." at this moment the robber chief approached the group, holding in his hand a sheet of soiled paper and a lead pencil. "take these," said he, handing the articles to frank, "and write to your uncle, telling him how matters stand. say to him that you and your friends are prisoners, that i am going to take you where no one will ever think of looking for you, and that when i am paid eighty thousand dollars in gold, i will set you at liberty, and not before. tell him, further, that i shall send this note to him by one of my men; and that if he does not return in safety by sunrise to-morrow morning, i will make scare-crows of you." frank picked up his saddle-bags, which he used as a desk, and, after borrowing the robber's bowie-knife to sharpen his pencil, he began the letter, and wrote down what pierre had dictated, using as nearly as possible the chief's own words. "that's all right," said the latter, when his prisoner had read the letter aloud. "now," said frank, "may i not add a postscript, telling uncle james that we are well and hearty, and that we have been kindly treated, and so on." "certainly; only be careful that you do not advise him to capture my messenger." frank again picked up his pencil, and wrote as follows: "the above was written by pierre's command, and i have his permission to say a word for ourselves. you need not pay out any money for archie and me; and i know that if i was allowed an opportunity to talk to johnny, he would send the same message to his father. we are now in pass christian--a difficult place to escape from, but we intend to make the attempt this very night. detain pierre's messenger, by all means; then send dick and bob with a party of men up here by daylight, and they can capture every one of these villains." that was what frank added to the letter, but, when pierre ordered him to read it, he made up a postscript as he went along; for he knew that if the chief were made acquainted with the real contents of the note, he would not send it. the ranchero did not know one letter from another, and he was obliged to rely entirely upon frank, who read: "we're all hunky-dory thus far. pierre don't seem to be so bad a fellow, after all; in fact, he's a brick. he treats us like gentlemen; but, of course, we'd rather be at home, so please send on the money for archie and me, and see that mr. harris and mr. vane do the same for johnny and arthur." "you're sure, now," said pierre, as frank handed him the letter, after addressing it to mr. winters, "that you haven't told your uncle where we are, or advised him to try to rescue you?" "there's the note," replied the prisoner, "and if you think i have been trying to deceive you, read it yourself." "i guess it's all right," said the chief. "at any rate, i'll run the risk. i have treated you like gentlemen, and if you want me to continue to do so, you must behave yourselves, and not try to play any tricks upon me. now, mind what i say. if any of you hear the others talking of escape, and don't tell me of it, i'll pitch every one of you into that gully." having given utterance to this threat, and emphasized it by scowling savagely at his prisoners, pierre turned on his heel and walked away. by this time, dinner was ready, and the boys were invited to sit down and help themselves. the principal dish was dried meat, but there were luxuries in the shape of sandwiches, cakes, crackers, and tea and coffee, which the cook had found in the pack-saddle, and which he did not hesitate to appropriate. the table was the ground under one of the trees, and the grass did duty both as table-cloth and dishes. "now, boys," said the chief, "here's a dinner fit for a king. pitch in, and don't stand upon ceremony." "i don't think you will find us at all bashful," said archie, dryly, "seeing that the most of this grub belongs to us." as the robbers and their prisoners were hungry after their long ride, they fell to work in earnest. archie sat on his knees in the midst of the group, and, while his teeth were busy upon a sandwich, his eyes wandered from one to another of the rancheros, and finally rested upon mr. mercedes, whose actions instantly riveted his attention. it had evidently been a long time since the robbers had sat down to a respectable dinner, and they all seemed determined to make the most of it--especially antoine, who devoted his attention entirely to the eatables that had been found in the pack-saddle. he lay stretched out at full length on the ground, one hand being occupied in supporting his head, and the other in transferring the sandwiches from the table to his capacious mouth. two of the sandwiches would have made a good meal for an ordinary man, unless he was very hungry; but they did not go far toward satisfying the appetite of mr. mercedes, for, during the short time that archie sat looking at him, he put no less than half a dozen out of sight, and seemed to have room for plenty more. archie began to be alarmed. by the time he could finish one sandwich, antoine would have swallowed every one on the table, and there would be nothing left but the dried meat. "will the small gentleman from maine be kind enough to pass the plum-pudding--i mean the one that's got the most raisins in it?" said johnny, who was inclined to be facetious. "see here, fellows!" exclaimed archie, and the earnest expression of his countenance arrested the laughing at once. "this is no time for joking. the rule of this boarding-house seems to be, look out for number one. i intend to do it; and, if you want to get any thing to eat, you had better follow my example." so saying, he caught up three or four sandwiches, and half a dozen cakes, and started toward the spring, where he sat down to finish his dinner. the other boys comprehended this piece of strategy, and, in less time than it takes to tell it, the table was cleared of every thing except the dried meat. mr. mercedes uttered an angry growl, and gazed after johnny, who had snatched the last sandwich almost out of his hand, and then whipped out his knife, and turned his attention to the meat. when the robbers had finished their dinner, pierre held a whispered consultation with one of his men, who, after placing frank's letter carefully away in the crown of his sombrero, mounted his horse, and rode down the pass. the others, with the exception of a solitary sentinel, sought their blankets, and the boys were left to themselves. "now," said johnny, in a whisper, addressing himself to frank, "tell us what you wrote in that postscript. you surely did not ask your uncle to send any money for you and archie?" "of course not!" replied frank. "i, for one, am not worth twenty thousand dollars; and i would rather stay here until i am gray-headed, and live on nothing but dried meat all the while, than ask uncle james to give twenty cents for me." "that's the talk," said johnny, approvingly, while archie raised himself on his elbow, and patted his cousin on the back. frank then repeated what he had written in the postscript, as nearly as he could recollect it, and it was heartily indorsed by all the boys, even including arthur vane, who said: "i am glad to see that you are recovering your courage, frank. if you had all showed a little pluck, when pierre attacked us this morning, we should not have been in this predicament." "we'll not argue that point now," said archie. "let's talk about our plans for escape. by the way, what sort of fellows do you suppose pierre takes us for, if he imagines that he can frighten us into carrying tales about one another?" "i'd like to know, too," said arthur, sitting up on his blanket, and looking very indignant. "i wonder if he is foolish enough to believe that one of us would tell him, if he heard the others talking of escape! if i thought there was one in this party mean enough to do that, i would never speak to him again." "now, don't you be alarmed," said johnny. "we've been through too much to go back on each other. but how shall we get away? that's the question." "let us rush up and knock them down, and pitch them over into the gully," said arthur. "follow me; i'll get you out of this scrape." "we couldn't gain any thing by a fight," said frank. "four boys are no match for five grown men." "i'd give sleepy sam if i could only see dick and bob poke their noses over some of these rocks around here," said archie. "they will be after us, as soon as they find out that we are captured; and when they get their eyes on these 'greasers,' as they call them, there'll be fun." "but we don't want to wait for them," said frank. "we must escape to-night, if possible. we can find our way home from here; but, if we stay with these villains two or three days longer, they will have taken us so far into the mountains, that we never can get out. i propose that we wait until dark, and see what arrangements they intend to make for the night, before we determine upon our plans. if they allow us to remain unbound, and leave only one sentinel to guard us, we'll see what can be done. in the meantime, i move that we all take a nap." the prisoners settled themselves comfortably on their blankets, and, in a few moments, three of them were sleeping soundly, all unconscious of the fact that their wide-awake companion was impatiently awaiting an opportunity to repeat to the robber chief every word of their recent conversation. "pierre said, that if any of us heard the others talking of escape, and didn't tell him of it, he would pitch us over that precipice," muttered arthur. "he looked straight at me when he said it; so i shall take him at his word, and put him on his guard against these fellows. i'll not go back on them--o, no! johnny harris didn't call me a coward, did he? and that little spindle-shanked yankee, and his cousin, didn't insult me, by sending me my hat and gun, and the skin of that wolf, and by telling every body in the settlement that i was frightened out of my senses, without seeing any thing to be frightened at, did they? i'd like to catch that archie winters by himself. he's little, and i am sure that i could whip him. i'll pay them all for what they have done to me, and before i get through with them, they will learn, that it is always best to treat a gentleman with respect." as arthur said this, he looked contemptuously at his slumbering companions, and then turned his back to them, and went to sleep. chapter xv. more treachery. when frank awoke, it was nearly dark. the glade was lighted up by a fire, that one of the rancheros had kindled, and beside which he stood, superintending the cooking of the supper. archie and johnny were still sleeping soundly, but arthur vane's blanket was empty, and that young gentleman was nowhere to be seen. frank raised himself to a sitting posture, rubbed his eyes, and yawned; and then, seeing that the cook was rummaging in the pack-saddle after more luxuries, and judging by that that supper was nearly ready, he shook his companions, and arose to his feet. he went to the spring, and was preparing to wash his hands and face in the little brook that ran across the glade, when his attention was attracted by the sound of voices close by. he found that they came from behind the bowlder; and, after listening a moment, he recognized the voices as those of pierre costello, and arthur vane. at first, frank thought nothing of this circumstance. he bent over the brook, and plunged his hands into the water, when the thought occurred to him that this was a strange proceeding on the part of arthur vane. if the latter had any thing to say to the chief, why did he not talk to him in the camp? frank's suspicions were aroused. he stood, for a moment, undecided how to act, and then, dropping on his hands and knees, he crept cautiously around the end of the bowlder, and presently came in sight of pierre and his companion. they were sitting on the ground, facing each other--the chief calmly smoking a cigarette, while arthur was amusing himself by cutting the grass around him with the ranchero's bowie-knife. "this is very odd," thought frank. "arthur acts more like a confidential friend than a prisoner." our hero drew back, and listened to the conversation that followed, during which he gained some insight into the character of his new acquaintance. "i do not admire your way of doing business," he heard arthur say, at length. "you treat me no better than you treat them. you told me that you knew by my looks that i was a gentleman, and you promised to respect me as such. you assured me that i should be allowed to show fight whenever i pleased, and that you would not hurt me for it. how have you kept those promises? what did you do to me this morning? you jerked my gun out of my hands, and raised it over my head, as if you were going to knock me down. one of your men threw his lasso around my neck, and choked me until i could scarcely breathe, and another aimed a pistol at me. is that treating me like a gentleman or a visitor?" "what else could we do?" demanded pierre. "didn't you tell me that you wanted us to act natural, so that your three enemies would not suspect that you had a previous understanding with me in regard to their capture?" "certainly; but i didn't tell you to abuse me, did i? see how i was treated when we were coming through this pass! my keeper struck my horse with his lasso, and came near sending me over the precipice; and you laughed at it. when i look toward you, why don't you give me a wink, or a nod, to show that you have not forgotten your promises, and that you will protect me?" "because i never have had a chance to do it without being seen by the others. if you know when you are well off, you will take every precaution to keep those boys from finding out how treacherous you have been. you must not expect any signs of friendship from me. i shall stick to my promise, and see that no serious injury is done you; but, if you will insist in showing your courage by fighting us, you must make up your mind to be roughly handled. you say that frank didn't read to me what he wrote in that letter?" "no, he did not. he never said a word to his uncle about sending the money. he told him not to do it. he advised him to capture your messenger, by all means, and to send those trappers up here, with a party of men, by daylight to-morrow morning." "well, they'll not find us," said the chief, who seemed to take the matter very coolly. "by daylight we shall be miles from here. we'll start as soon as the moon rises, so that we can see to travel through the pass. after supper, i shall have those fellows bound hand and foot--that will prevent their escape, i think--and, of course, i must tie you, also." "i don't like the idea of lying all night with my hands fastened behind my back," objected arthur. "i can't help that. those boys must be confined; for i am not going to lose sixty thousand dollars, if i can help it; and, if you wish to avoid suspicion, you must be tied with the rest." "i shall resist. i want to make those fellows believe that they are a pack of cowards. don't let your men handle me too roughly." "i'll look out for that," said pierre. "now, let us go back to the camp. you have been away too long already." "o, you outrageous villain!" thought frank, who was so astonished and bewildered by what he had heard, that he scarcely knew what he was about. "won't you suffer for this day's work if we ever get back to the settlement?" the movements of the traitor, who just then arose to his feet, brought frank to himself again. he retreated precipitately, and, when arthur came out from behind the bowlder, he was sitting on his blanket, talking to archie and johnny. "fellows," said he, in an excited voice, "we're ruined! that rascal has blabbed the whole thing!" "who? what rascal? what thing?" asked both the prisoners in a breath. "what's the matter with you?" added archie, in some alarm, seeing that his cousin wore an exceedingly long face. "arthur vane has just told pierre that we had made up our minds to escape to-night," replied frank. "no!" exclaimed the boys, almost paralyzed by the information. "it's a fact. after supper, we are to be bound hand and foot; and arthur, to show how brave he is, and how cowardly we are, is going to resist, and pierre has promised that his men shall not handle him roughly. o, you'll find out!" he continued, seeing that his friends looked incredulous. "i crept up behind that bowlder, and heard all about it. i did not understand all the conversation; but i know that arthur is a traitor, and that we are indebted to him for our capture." archie and johnny were utterly confounded. they could not find words strong enough to express their feelings. they sat on their blankets, and looked at each other in blank amazement. presently, arthur came in sight, and his appearance served to restore their power of action; and then, for the first time, they seemed to realize the full enormity of the offense of which he had been guilty. archie jumped to his feet, and commenced pulling off his jacket. "fellows," said he, throwing down his sombrero, and rolling up his shirt-sleeves, "i'm going to pound some of the meanness out of him." "and i'll help you!" exclaimed johnny, excitedly. "who ever heard of such a thing?" and johnny brought his fist down into the palm of his hand, with a noise like the report of a pistol. "don't do it, boys!" interposed frank. "come here, archie! sit down, johnny. he will be punished enough, when he gets back to the settlement. let's cut him at once, and have nothing more to do with him. johnny, put on your jacket! behave yourself, archie!" frank found it hard work to turn the two boys from their purpose. their indignation had been thoroughly aroused, and, if arthur had only known it, he was in a dangerous neighborhood. although frank was quite as angry as his friends, he had more prudence. he did not believe that they were the proper ones to execute vengeance upon their enemy. his punishment would come soon enough, and it would be quite as terrible as arthur was able to bear. by dint of a good deal of coaxing, and pushing, and scolding, he finally got archie and johnny on their blankets again, and just then the traitor came up. his face wore a triumphant smile, that was exceedingly irritating to the three boys just then, and he approached them with as much assurance as though he had never in his life been guilty of a mean action. "i have been out enjoying the cool breeze," said he, not noticing the angry glances that were directed toward him. "put it all in, while you are about it," exclaimed johnny. "say that you have been holding a consultation with pierre, in regard to our escape to-night." arthur turned very red in the face, and took a step or two backward, as if johnny had aimed a blow at him; and then, somewhat recovering himself, he opened his eyes, puckered up his lips, and looked from one to the other of his companions, with an expression of intense astonishment. "how, now, innocence!" exclaimed archie. "you're a nice looking fellow. go away from here." "why, boys," stammered arthur, "i do not understand you. i have not seen pierre"-- "go away!" said johnny, again rising to his feet--a movement that was instantly imitated by the pugnacious archie. "can't you tell me what's the matter?" demanded arthur, making a desperate effort to look unconcerned, and to call up some of that courage of which he had so often boasted. "have you got the impudence--the brass, to come to us, and ask what's the matter, after what you have done?" asked archie, angrily. "we'll soon let you know what's"-- "hold on, boys!" interrupted frank, who saw that archie's rage was in a fair way to get the better of him. "johnny, stand back! keep still, archie! go about your business, arthur vane! we know just what passed between you and pierre, not five minutes ago, and we don't want to listen to any excuses or explanations." "explanations!" shouted archie. "excuses! for being a traitor!" "go over there among those yellow gentlemen," continued frank. "you are their friend, and there's where you belong. don't dare come near any of us again. start!" "yes, start--mizzle--clear out!" roared archie, getting angrier every moment. "begone! make yourself scarce about here!" "well, i think this is a nice way to treat a gentleman," growled arthur, as he turned on his heel, and walked slowly away. "pick up that blanket and saddle," said johnny. "take all your plunder away from here, and remember that this side of the glade belongs to us." "yes, remember it--bear it in mind!" exclaimed archie, who seemed to think it his duty to give emphasis to what the others said. "think of it continually." arthur glared savagely upon archie; but, fearing to irritate him and his friends further, by refusing to obey their commands, he shouldered his baggage, and walked sullenly toward the fire, around which the rancheros were congregated, awaiting the summons to supper. "benedict arnold!" said johnny, as soon as the traitor was out of hearing. frank and archie thought the name appropriate. it clung to arthur as long as he remained in that part of california. chapter xvi. the escape. had the huge bowlder in the middle of the glade suddenly burst into a thousand fragments, it could scarcely have created greater consternation than that which filled our three heroes, when they stretched themselves on their blankets, to discuss the treachery of their companion. of course, the first question that arose was, what object could he have in view? a dozen different opinions were advanced, but none of them were correct. the boys were all satisfied now, that no ransom was to be demanded for arthur, and they were quite willing to believe that he expected to share in the sixty thousand dollars which pierre hoped to receive for them. they never imagined that the traitor had been instigated by a desire to be revenged upon them, and that all that had happened to them during the day was the result of the incidents that had transpired during their ride to the old fur-trader's ranch. "i really believe that benedict arnold belongs to this band of outlaws," said frank. "if he does, that's all the good it will do him, as far as handling any of my uncle's money is concerned. it's lucky that we have found him out." "it's unfortunate that we didn't find him out long ago," said archie, who had by this time recovered his usual good nature. "our plans for escape are all knocked in the head for this night," continued frank; "but we will hold ourselves in readiness to seize the first opportunity that is offered. dick and bob will be on our trail in a few hours." at this moment, pierre entered the glade from the side opposite the spring, and stopped to say a few words to the sentinel, who immediately approached the prisoners, and took his stand within a few paces of them. "these villains must be afraid of us," said frank, with a laugh. "they'd better be," returned johnny. "i wouldn't like to have sixty thousand dollars wrapped up in such slippery customers as we are." "i wonder if pierre thinks we can fly?" said archie. "that's the only way i can see for getting out of here, while these robbers are all around us. i say, old fellow," he added, turning to the sentinel, "are you a good shot on the wing?" the ranchero shrugged his shoulders, and tapped his revolvers significantly. "i judge from that you are a good shot on the wing," continued archie. "let me advise you to keep both eyes open; for the first thing you know, you'll see us disappearing over the tops of these mountains. each of us has a patent, duplex, double-back-action flying-machine in his pocket." archie was going on to explain to the ranchero the principles on which his imaginary flying-machine operated, when the call to supper interrupted him. during the meal, the robbers were quite as polite as they had been at dinner. they gobbled up every thing within their reach, devouring it greedily, as though they feared that somebody might get more than his share, and the boys, having learned by experience, that, when one sojourns among romans, it is a good plan to do as romans do, snatched what they liked best, and ran back to their blankets. "look at benedict," said johnny, speaking as plainly as a mouthful of cracker would permit. "he's hot about something." arthur was sitting on the ground beside the robber chief, to whom he was talking earnestly, and even angrily, judging by the frantic manner in which he flourished his arms about his head, and struck with his fists at the empty air. pierre was listening attentively, and so were all the other members of the band, who appeared to be deeply interested in what he was saying. arthur had told the chief that his secret was discovered, and pierre had urged him to use every exertion to allay the suspicions of the boys. "you don't know them as well as i do," said the ranchero; "and, if you will take my advice, you will try to make friends with them again." "that's something i'll never do," said arthur, decidedly. "shall a gentleman's son stoop to beg the good-will of a lot of young arabs? not if he knows himself; and he thinks he does. they have found me out, somehow, and i don't care if they have. i may as well throw off the mask entirely. i'll let them see that, while they are prisoners, and bound hand and foot, i am at liberty to go and come when i please." when arthur said this, he was gazing into the fire, and consequently did not see the significant glances which the robber chief exchanged with his men. it might have astonished him to know that he was not free to go and come when he pleased; and that pierre, in spite of all his promises to the contrary, intended to demand twenty thousand dollars for him, as well as for the others. when frank and his friends had eaten their supper, they began to make preparations for the night, by collecting a pile of dried leaves and grass, over which they spread their blankets, placing the saddles at the head of the bed, to serve as pillows. when the couch was completed, it was very inviting, and, had it not been for the knowledge of the fact that they were to be bound hand and foot, they would have been sure of a good night's rest. frank could not go to bed without visiting roderick. he found the horse standing quietly by the spring, and when he saw his master approaching, he raised his head and welcomed him with a shrill neigh. "o, if we could only get half a minute's start of these robbers!" said frank, patting the animal's glossy neck, "wouldn't we show them a clean pair of heels? they'd never have us prisoners again, i _bet_." frank emphasized the last word by punching roderick in the ribs with his thumb--an action which caused the animal to lay back his ears, and kick viciously, with both feet, at some imaginary object behind him. when our hero returned to the place where he had left archie and johnny, he saw them lying on their beds securely bound. pierre stood close by, with a lasso in his hand, and, when frank came up, he greeted him with a fierce scowl, and, in a savage tone of voice, commanded him to cross his arms behind his back. frank obeyed, and the ranchero, while he was busy confining him, inquired: "do you remember what i said to you at noon?" "about what?" asked frank. "about making scare-crows of you and your friends, if my messenger does not return at daylight." "i believe i do remember something about it." "then why did you advise your uncle to detain him? you must be tired of life. you told mr. winters to send those rascally trappers up here, with a party of men, to capture us." "now, see here, pierre," exclaimed frank, angrily, "dick and bob are not rascals. they are honest men, and what they own, they have worked hard for. they will be up here--you may depend upon that--and, if dick once gets his hands on you"-- "o, won't he shake him up, though!" cried archie, from his blanket. "i wouldn't be in pierre's shoes then for all the money he will ever get for us." "you may make up your minds to one thing," said the chief; "and that is, if so much as a hair of that messenger's head is harmed, you will be swinging from some of these trees at sunrise." "that is a soothing story to tell to a person who is trying to go to sleep," observed johnny. "you can't make us believe that you would throw away sixty thousand dollars," said frank. "be careful," he added, as pierre, after confining his arms with one end of the lasso, began to wind the other around his ankles; "make those knots secure, or i may get away from you again." "i'll risk that. now, good-night, and pleasant dreams to you." the robber lifted frank in his arms, and laid him upon his blanket, as if he had been a sack of flour, and then walked off, leaving his prisoners to their meditations. scarcely had he disappeared, when arthur, who had stood at a little distance, watching the operations of the chief, came up, and, after regarding the three boys a moment with a smile of triumph, inquired: "how do you feel now? i hope you will enjoy a good night's rest. you see i am at liberty." and he stretched out his arms, to show that they were not confined. "of course," said frank. "you ought to be; you are one of pierre's band. we are under obligations to you for what you have done for us." "how did you find it out?" asked arthur. "why, one of those arabs you used to know in patagonia, came up here, and told us how you acted while you were in that country, and we thought it best to keep an eye on you," answered archie. "see here, benedict," said johnny. "have you forgotten that we told you to keep your distance?" "no; but i generally go where i please," replied arthur. "you have done something worth boasting of, haven't you?" "well--yes; but i am not done with you yet. if i have any influence with pierre--and i think i have--you'll not see home for a year--perhaps longer." "pierre! pierre!" shouted archie, suddenly. "i say, pierre!" "well, what's the row?" asked that worthy, from his bed by the fire. "i'll make you a present of my horse, if you will give me my liberty for just two minutes. will you do it?" "i guess not," replied the robber. "i promise you that i will not attempt any tricks," pleaded archie. "i only want to show benedict something. come, pierre, that's a good fellow." the ranchero laughed, and turned over on his blanket, without making any answer, and archie, being satisfied that it was useless to urge the matter, laid his head upon his hard pillow, and looked indignantly at the traitor. "never mind," said he. "i'll be unbound to-morrow morning, and i'll know how to get up an appetite for breakfast." arthur understood what the prisoner meant by getting up an appetite for breakfast, and it made him angry. he was very brave, now. his three enemies were lying before him unable to defend themselves, and it was a fine opportunity to execute vengeance upon them. he suddenly took it into his head that it would be a nice thing to punish them all, beginning with the one who had first excited his animosity. "hold on, you little yankee," said he. "i'll attend to you in a minute. johnny harris, what was that name you applied to me?" "it was a new one we have given you," answered johnny. "we have called you after the meanest man that ever lived--benedict arnold. do you know him? did you ever meet him while you were hunting lions and tigers in europe?" frank and his cousin laughed loudly, which so enraged arthur that he caught up a stick, that happened to be lying near him, and struck johnny a severe blow with it. "o, you coward!" shouted archie, struggling frantically to free his arms. "what do you mean by hitting a man when he is down, and can't move hand or foot?" the traitor turned fiercely upon archie, and was about to use the stick upon him, when the gruff voice of the sentinel arrested his hand. the ranchero pointed toward the fire, and arthur, understanding the motion, threw down the stick, and walked away, shaking his head, and muttering to himself. "he had better keep close to his friends to-morrow," said johnny, his face all wrinkled up with pain. the other boys thought so too. each one of them had rather that arthur had struck him instead of johnny; for the latter, although high-spirited, and inclined to be belligerent under provocation, was a good-natured, accommodating fellow, who gained hosts of friends wherever he went, and who never hesitated to make any sacrifice for the benefit of others. frank had never before witnessed such an exhibition of cowardly vindictiveness, and he was almost sorry that he had protected arthur. the traitor, well satisfied with what he had done, and only regretting that he had been interrupted before his revenge was complete, spread his blanket beside the chief; and, after that, nothing happened for a long time to disturb the silence of the camp. the rancheros were soon in a sound sleep, even including antoine mercedes, the sentinel, who sat with his back against a tree, his head hung down upon his breast and his right hand, which rested on the ground beside him, grasping a revolver. he had been placed there by his chief to watch the prisoners; but, believing that there was little danger of their escape, and being unwilling to be deprived of his usual rest, he had gone to sleep as soon as the others. the boys, however, were wide awake. the exciting events of the day, and the pain occasioned by their bonds, effectually banished sleep from their eyes, and they passed the long hours in pondering upon what arthur had done, and trying in vain to find a comfortable position on their blankets. johnny, especially, was very restless. he lay for a long time watching the sentinel, and thinking how easily he and his companions could effect their escape, if their hands and feet were free; then he wondered if pierre was in earnest, when he said that he would make "scare-crows" of them if his messenger did not return by daylight; and, finally, he turned over, and tried, for the hundredth time, to go to sleep. the fire, which was still burning brightly, lighted up every corner of the glade, and, from the new position in which he lay, johnny could see how archie's arms were bound. they were crossed behind his back, and the lasso was wrapped twice around them, and tied in a square knot--a single glance at which drove all thoughts of sleep out of johnny's mind, and suggested to him the idea of an attempt to liberate his friend. the knot, on account of the stiffness of the lasso, had not been drawn very tight, and johnny thought he had hit upon a plan to untie it. "archie," he whispered, excitedly. "hallo!" was the response. "are you asleep?" "no; nor am i likely to be to-night," growled archie. "this lasso hurts me dreadfully. pierre drew it as tight as he could." "don't talk so loud," whispered johnny. "keep your eyes on that sentinel, and, if he moves, shake your arms." "what for?" demanded archie. "what are you going to do?" "i don't know that i can do any thing; but i am going to try." "all right; go ahead." johnny took a long look at the ranchero, to make sure that he was sound asleep, and then, rolling up close to archie, he went to work with his teeth to untie the lasso, with which the latter's arms were bound. this was not so easy a task as he had imagined it would be; but the knot yielded a little with every pull he made upon it, and, after ten minutes hard work, johnny rolled back upon his blanket with an expression of great satisfaction upon his countenance, and watched his friend as he unwound the lariat with which his feet were confined. "hurrah for you, johnny!" whispered archie, a moment afterward. "we'll out-wit these greasers yet. hold easy, now, and i'll soon give you the free use of your hands and feet." archie's fingers made quick work with johnny's bonds, and, when he had untied his arms, he left him to do the rest, and turned to release his cousin. this he soon accomplished, and then the three boys, astonished at their success, crept up closer together, to hold a consultation. "lead on frank, and we'll follow," said johnny. "i will do the best i can," replied frank. "let's stick together as long as possible; but, if we are discovered, we must separate, and let each man take of himself. remember, now, the one that reaches home must not sleep soundly until the others are rescued." as frank said this, he threw himself flat upon the ground, and crawled slowly and noiselessly through the grass, toward the ledge by which they had entered the glade in the morning. they passed the sentinel without arousing him, and approached the fire around which lay the stalwart forms of the rancheros, who snored lustily, in blissful ignorance of what was going on close by them. the boys' hearts beat high with hope as they neared the ledge, and johnny was in the very act of reaching over to give frank an approving slap on the back, when the movement was arrested by a loud yawn behind him. this was followed by an ejaculation of astonishment, and, an instant afterward, the report of a pistol rang through the glade. the sentinel had just awakened from his sleep, and discovered that the prisoners' blankets were empty. "help! help!" he shouted, in stentorian tones, discharging another barrel of his revolver, to arouse his companions. "pierre, your birds have flown!" "run now, fellows!" whispered frank, and, suiting the action to the word, he jumped up, and took to his heels. chapter xvii. the struggle on the cliff. as we have before remarked, the place in which the rancheros had made their camp was a natural recess in the mountains. it was surrounded on three sides by rocky cliffs, the tops of which seemed to pierce the clouds, and whose sides were so steep that a goat could scarcely have found footing thereon. in front of the glade was the gorge, the sight of which had so terrified arthur vane, and which was so deep that the roar of the mountain torrent, that ran through it, could be but faintly heard by one standing on the cliffs above. there were three ways to get out of the glade: one was by the narrow ledge of rocks by which the rancheros and their captives had entered it in the morning; another was by a path on the opposite side of the glade, which also ran along the very brink of the precipice; the third was by climbing up the cliffs to the dizzy heights above. these avenues of escape were all more or less dangerous, and one unaccustomed to traveling in the mountains would have been at a loss to decide which to take. indeed, a very timid boy would have preferred to remain a prisoner among the rancheros, as long as he was sure of kind treatment and plenty to eat, rather than risk any of them. if he took either of the paths that ran along the chasm, he would require the skill of a rope-dancer to cross it in safety; for they were both narrow and slippery, and a single misstep in the darkness would launch him into eternity. if he tried to scale the mountains, which, in some places, overhung the glade, he would be in equal danger; for he might, at any moment, lose his balance, and come tumbling back again. frank and his two friends had thought of all these things during the day, and they knew just what perils they were likely to encounter; but they were not formidable enough to turn them from their purpose. while they were crawling cautiously through the grass, they had been allowed ample time to make up their minds what they would do, if their flight should be discovered before they got out of the glade; and, consequently, when the yells of the sentinel, and the reports of his pistol, told them that the pursuit was about to begin, they did not hesitate, but proceeded at once to carry out the plans they had formed. archie, the moment he jumped to his feet, darted toward the cliffs, while frank and johnny ran for the ledge by which they had entered the pass in the morning; and, by the time the rancheros were fairly awake, their prisoners had disappeared as completely as though they had never been in the glade at all. archie had chosen the most difficult way of escape, and he had done so with an object. he believed that, as soon as pierre and his band became aroused, they would rush in a body for the path that led toward the settlement; and archie did not like the idea of running a race through the darkness along the brink of that precipice. he might make a misstep, and fall into the gorge, and that would be infinitely worse than remaining a prisoner. his enemies, he thought, would not be likely to follow him up the cliffs; but if they did, and he found that he could not distance them, there were plenty of excellent hiding-places among the bushes and rocks, where he could remain in perfect security, with an army searching for him. johnny and frank did not look at the matter in that way. they thought not of concealment; they took the nearest and easiest way home, and trusted entirely to their heels. "help! help!" shouted the sentinel, discharging the barrels of his revolver in quick succession. "the boys have gone!" for a moment, great confusion reigned in the camp. the rancheros sprang to their feet, and hurried hither and thither, each one asking questions, and giving orders, to which nobody paid the least attention, and the babel of english and spanish that arose awoke the echoes far and near. the chief was the only one who seemed to know what ought to be done. he examined the beds to satisfy himself that the prisoners had really gone, and then his voice was heard above the tumult, commanding silence. the first thing he did, when quiet had been restored, was to swear lustily at the sentinel, for allowing the prisoners to escape, and then he set about making preparations for pursuit. he sent two of the band on foot down the path that led toward the settlement, another he ordered to saddle the horses, and the rest he commanded to search every nook and corner of the glade. as long as the noise continued, archie worked industriously; and, being a very active fellow, he got up the mountain at an astonishing rate. but as soon as the chief had succeeded in restoring order, he sat down to recover his breath, and to wait until the rancheros left the glade: for he was fearful that the noise he necessarily made, in working his way through the thick bushes, might direct his enemies in their search. although it was pitch dark on the mountainside, archie could tell exactly what was going on below him. he knew when the two men left the glade, chuckled to himself when he heard the ranchero, who had been ordered to saddle the horses, growl at the restive animals, and noted the movements of the party who were searching the bushes. he distinctly heard their voices, and he knew that arthur vane was with them. "do you think they will get away, joaquin?" he heard the traitor ask. "that's hard to tell," was the reply. "it depends a good deal upon how long they have been gone. if they get back to the settlement, you had better keep away from there." "that's so," said archie, to himself. "they'll never reach the settlement if i can help it," declared arthur. "if i get my eyes on one of them, i bet he don't escape. i'll take him prisoner." perhaps we shall find that arthur did "get his eyes on one of them," and we shall see how he kept his promise. the party went entirely around the glade, passing directly beneath archie, who held himself in readiness to continue his flight, should they begin to ascend the cliff, and finally one of them called out: "they're not here, pierre." "mount, then, every one of you," exclaimed the chief. "when you reach the end of the pass, scatter out and search the mountains, thoroughly. antoine, we have to thank you for the loss of a fortune, you idiot." archie heard the ranchero mutter an angry reply, and then came the tramping of horses as the band rode from the glade. in a few seconds the sound died away in the pass, and the fugitive was left alone. his first impulse was to descend into the glade, mount sleepy sam, and follow the robbers. archie could ride the animal without saddle or bridle as well as he could with them; and he was sure that if he could get but a few feet the start of the rancheros, his favorite could easily distance them. but he remembered the chief's order for the band to "scatter out," and knowing that every path that led toward the settlement would be closely guarded, and fearing that he might run against some of his enemies in the dark, he decided that the safest plan was to remain upon the cliffs, where he could not be followed by mounted men. it cost him a struggle to abandon his horse, which was galloping about the glade, and neighing disconsolately, but he wisely concluded that twenty thousand dollars were worth more to his uncle than sleepy sam was to him; and drawing in a long breath, he tightened his sash about his waist, and again began the ascent. his progress was necessarily slow and laborious, for, in some places, the cliff was quite perpendicular, and the only way he could advance at all, was by drawing himself up by the grass and bushes that grew out of the crevices of the rocks. sometimes these gave way beneath his weight, and then archie would descend the mountain for a short distance much more rapidly than he had gone up. he was often badly bruised by these falls. the bushes and the sharp points of the rocks tore his clothing, and it was not long before he was as ragged as any beggar he had ever seen in the streets of his native city. "by gracious!" exclaimed archie, stopping for the hundredth time to rest, and feeling of a severe bruise on his cheek which he had received in his last fall, "i am completely tired out. and this is all the work of that benedict arnold! didn't i say that we should see trouble with that fellow? if i were out on clear ground, and had my horse and gun, i'd be willing to forgive him for what he has done to me, but i'll always remember that he struck johnny over the head, when he was tied, and could not defend himself." wiping the big drops of perspiration from his forehead, and panting loudly after his violent exertions, archie again toiled up the mountain, so weary that he could scarcely drag one foot after the other. he stumbled over logs, fell upon the rocks, and dragged himself through bushes that cut into his tattered garments like a knife. hour after hour passed in this way, and, finally, just as the sun was rising, archie, faint with thirst, aching in every joint, and bleeding from numerous wounds, stepped upon a broad, flat bowlder, which formed the summit of the cliff. on his right, between him and a huge rock that rose for fifty feet without a single break or crevice, was a narrow but deep chasm which ran down the cliff he had just ascended, and into which he had more than once been in imminent danger of falling as he stumbled about in the darkness. far below him was the glade, a thin wreath of smoke rising from the smouldering camp-fire, and on his left was the gorge, a hundred times more frightful in his eyes now than it had ever seemed before. in front of him the mountain sloped gently down to the valley below, its base clothed with a thick wood, which at that height looked like an unbroken mass of green sward, and beyond that, so far away that it could be but dimly seen, was a broad expanse of prairie, from which arose the whitewashed walls of his uncle's rancho. it was a view that would have put an artist into ecstasies, but the fugitive was in no mood to appreciate it. he had no eye for the beauties of nature then--he had other things to think of; and he regarded the picturesque mountains and rocks, and the luxuriant woods, as so many grim monsters that stood between him and his home. but archie could not remain long inactive. after all the dangers he had incurred, and the bruises and scratches he had received, he had accomplished but little. he was still thirty miles from home, hungry and thirsty, and pursued by crafty enemies, who might even then be watching him from some secret covert. "oh, if i were only there!" said he, casting a longing glance toward the rancho, whose inmates, just then sitting down to a dainty breakfast, little dreamed how much good a small portion of their bounty would have done the fugitive on the mountain-top. "but, as the rancho can't come to me, i must go to it." archie found the descent of the mountain comparatively easy. there were not so many bushes and logs to impede his progress, the slope was more gradual, and he had not gone more than half a mile when he found a cool spring bubbling out from under the rocks. he bathed his hands and face, drank a little of the water, and when he set out again he felt much refreshed. he followed the course of the stream, which ran from the spring down the mountain, keeping a bright lookout for enemies all the while, and stopping now and then to listen for sounds of pursuit, when suddenly, as he came around the base of a rock, he found himself on the brink of the gorge, and confronted by a figure in buckskin, who stood leaning on a long, double-barrel shot-gun. archie started back in dismay, and so did the boy in buckskin, who turned pale, and gazed at the fugitive as if he were hardly prepared to believe that he was a human being. he speedily recovered himself, however, and after he had let down the hammer of his gun, which he had cocked when the ragged apparition first came in sight, he dropped the butt of the weapon to the ground, exclaiming: "archie winters!" "benedict arnold!" for a moment the two boys stood looking at each other without moving or speaking. archie was wondering if it were possible for him to effect the capture of the traitor, and arthur, while he gazed in astonishment at the fugitive's tattered garments and bloody face, was chuckling to himself, and enjoying beforehand the punishment he had resolved to inflict upon archie. the opportunity he had wished for so long had arrived at last. "i have found you, have i?" said arthur, resting his elbows on the muzzle of his gun, and looking at archie with a triumphant smile. "well, suppose you have; what do you propose to do about it?" "it is my intention to teach you to respect a gentleman the next time you meet one." [illustration] "how are you going to do it?" "in the first place, by giving you a good beating." "humph!" said archie, contemptuously, looking at arthur from head to foot, as if he were taking his exact measure. "it requires a boy with considerable 'get up' about him to do that." "none of your impudence, you little yankee," exclaimed arthur, angrily. "i'm going to take some of it out of you before you are two minutes older." when the traitor selected archie as the one upon whom he could wreak his vengeance without danger to himself, he had made a great mistake. archie was smaller than most boys of his age, but, after all, he was an antagonist not to be despised. he was courageous, active, and as wiry as an eel; and his body, hardened by all sorts of violent exercise, was as tough as hickory. he trembled a little when he looked over into the gorge, and thought of the possible consequences of an encounter on that cliff, but he was not the one to save himself by taking to his heels, nor did it come natural to him to stand still and take a whipping as long as he possessed the strength to defend himself. a single glance was enough to convince him that the traitor was in earnest, and archie watched the opportunity to begin the struggle himself. "yes, sir," continued arthur, "i've got you now just where i want you. i am going to settle this little difference between us, and then i shall take you back to pierre. if you have any apologies to make, i am willing to listen to them." the effect of these words not a little astonished the traitor. he had been sure that archie would be terribly frightened, and that he would either seek safety in flight, or beg hard for mercy; consequently, he was not prepared for what really happened. scarcely had arthur ceased speaking, when the place where archie was standing became suddenly vacant, and, before the traitor could move a finger, his gun was torn from his grasp and pitched over the cliff into the gorge. as the weapon fell whirling through the air, both barrels were discharged, and the reports awoke a thousand echoes, which reverberated among the mountains like peals of thunder. "now we are on equal terms," exclaimed archie, as he clasped the traitor around the body and attempted to throw him to the ground. "you remember that you struck johnny last night, when he was bound, hand and foot, and couldn't defend himself, don't you?" "yes; and now i am going to serve you worse than that," replied arthur, who, although surprised and taken at great disadvantage by the suddenness of the attack, struggled furiously, and to such good purpose that he very soon broke archie's hold; "i am going to fling you over the cliff after that gun." the contest that followed was carried on on the very edge of the precipice, and was long and desperate. archie, bruised and battered in a hundred places, and weary with a night's travel, was scarcely a match for the fresh and vigorous arthur, who, in his blind rage, seemed determined to fulfill his threat of throwing him over the cliff after the gun. fortune favored first one and then the other; but archie's indomitable courage and long wind carried the day, and he finally succeeded in bearing his antagonist to the ground and holding him there. "you are not going to throw me over, are you?" gasped arthur, who was humble enough, now that he had been worsted. "do you take me for a savage?" panted archie, in reply. "i simply wanted to save myself from a whipping that i did not deserve, and i've done it. now you must go to the settlement with me, to"-- "here you are!" exclaimed a familiar voice. "let us see if you will escape me again." archie looked up, and saw antoine mercedes advancing upon him. chapter xviii. conclusion. archie had been so fully occupied with the traitor that he had not thought of his other enemies, and for a moment he lay upon the ground beside his antagonist, gazing at antoine in speechless amazement. resistance, of course, was not to be thought of, and it also seemed useless to make any attempts at escape; for he had been so nearly exhausted by his struggle with arthur, that he scarcely possessed the power to rise from the ground. "i am caught easy enough," thought he, "and i might as well give up first as last." "i see before me twenty thousand dollars," said antoine, hastily coiling up his lasso as he approached. these words acted like a spur upon archie's flagging spirits. he no longer thought of surrender: on the contrary, almost before he knew it, he found himself on his feet and going down the mountain like the wind. "_carrajo!_" yelled the ranchero, swinging his lasso around his head. archie was afraid of that lasso, for he knew that he was in danger as long as he was within reach of it; but fortunately he had been too quick for antoine. he heard the lariat whistle through the air behind him, and snap like a whip close to his ear, and then he knew that his enemy had missed his mark. "santa maria!" shouted the robber. "stop, you young vagabond, or i'll shoot you." the fugitive was not frightened by this threat. he was not afraid of being shot, nor did he believe that he could be overtaken in a fair race; for, now that he got started, he found that he had wind enough left for a long run. he had lived among the rancheros long enough to know that they were very poor marksmen, and that they could not boast of their swiftness of foot; and, having escaped the lasso, his spirits rose again, and hope lent him wings. he heard antoine crushing through the bushes in pursuit, but the sound grew fainter and fainter as he sped on his way. he jumped over rocks and logs, and cleared ravines that at almost any other time would have effectually checked his progress, and when he reached the thick woods at the base of the mountains, the ranchero was out of sight and hearing. archie was well aware of the fact that he had now reached the most dangerous part of his route homeward. the chief had ordered the band to "scatter out" when they reached the end of the pass, and he knew that every road that led toward the settlement was closely watched. he knew, also, that his only chance for escape was to avoid these roads and keep in the thickest part of the woods. he sat down behind some bushes to rest for a few moments, and then started on again, sometimes creeping on his hands and knees, making use of every log and rock to cover his retreat, and stopping frequently to examine the woods in front of him, and to listen for sounds of pursuit. he had accomplished about a mile in this way, when he found himself in one of the numerous bridle-paths that ran through the mountains in every direction, and, what was worse, he saw the scowling visage of pierre costello arise from behind a log not ten paces from him. with the same glance he saw something else; and that was a crouching figure in buckskin, which was creeping stealthily toward the robber. "here's one caught," said pierre, stepping into the path and walking toward archie. "none of your tricks, now; you can't escape." "i don't intend to try," replied archie, with a boldness that astonished the robber. "your game is up, mr. pierre, and i advice you to surrender quietly, if you don't want to get hurt!" "what!" exclaimed the ranchero. "surrender! if you know what you are about, you will not offer any resistance. i am a desperate man." the robber spoke these words boldly enough, but he evidently did not like the looks of things. he gazed earnestly at archie, as if trying to determine what it was that had encouraged him to show so bold a front, and seeing that he held one hand behind him, pierre came to the conclusion that he must, by some means, have secured possession of a revolver. "drop that weapon, and hold your arms above your head," said the robber. archie did not move. while he appeared to be looking steadily at the chief, he was really watching the movements of the figure in buckskin, which had all this while been working its way quickly, but noiselessly, through the bushes, and had now approached within a few feet of the ranchero. "did you hear what i said?" demanded the latter, placing his hand on one of his revolvers. "you are my prisoner." "well, then, why don't you come and take me?" asked archie. at this moment a slight rustling in the leaves caught the quick ear of the robber, who turned suddenly, uttered a cry of alarm, and fled down the path, closely followed by something that to archie looked like a gray streak, so swiftly did it move. but it was not a gray streak--it was dick lewis, who, after a few of his long strides, collared the ranchero with one hand and threw him to the ground, and with the other seized the revolver he was trying to draw, and wrested it from his grasp. pierre struggled desperately, but to no purpose, for the trapper handled him as easily as though he had been a child. "now, then, you tarnal greaser," exclaimed dick, "your jig's danced, an' you must settle with the fiddler. if i only had you out on the prairie, i'd larn you a few things i reckon you never heern tell on. come here, you keerless feller, an' tell me if you 'member what i said to you yesterday! whar's frank?" before archie had time to reply, an incident happened, which, had the trapper been a less experienced man than he was, would have turned his triumph into defeat very suddenly. he had more than one enemy to contend with, and the first intimation he had of the fact, was a sound that archie had heard so often since his residence in california that it had become familiar to him--the whistling noise made by a lariat in its passage through the air. before archie could look around to discover whence this new danger came, he saw the trapper stretched at full length on the ground. for an instant his heart stood still; but it was only for an instant, for dick was on his feet again immediately, and archie drew a long breath of relief when he saw the lasso, which he feared had settled around his friend's neck, glide harmlessly over his shoulder. the trapper, from force of long habit, was always on the watch for danger, and when he heard that whistling sound in the air, he did not stop to look for his enemy, but dropped like a flash to avoid the lasso; and when he arose to his feet his long rifle was leveled at a thicket of bushes in front of him. "show yourself, greaser!" cried dick. the concealed enemy obeyed without an instant's hesitation, and when he stepped into the path, archie saw that it was antoine mercedes. "thar's nothin' like knowin' the tricks of the varmints," said dick, coolly, as he handed his rifle to archie, and proceeded to disarm antoine. "if i had been a greenhorn, i should have been well-nigh choked to death by this time; but a man who has seed prairy life, soon larns that his ears was made for use as well as his eyes. now, little un, whar's the rest of them fellers?" while the trapper was engaged in confining his prisoners' arms with their own lassos, archie gave him a rapid account of all that had happened during his captivity, dwelling with a good deal of emphasis on the treachery of arthur vane. dick opened his eyes in astonishment, and, when archie had finished his story, declared that they would be serving arthur right if they were to leave him among the robbers. "why, he doesn't want to get away from them," said archie. "he is with them now, hunting for us. he and i had a fight not half an hour ago, and, if antoine had only stayed away a few minutes longer, arthur would have been a prisoner too." at this moment, a party of rancheros galloped up, led by uncle james and mr. harris, and accompanied by the dogs, which the boys--who had intended to devote the most of their time to stalking the elks, which were abundant in the mountains--had left at home. marmion and carlo made every demonstration of joy at seeing archie once more, and mr. winters greeted him as though he had not met him for years. without any unnecessary delay, a trusty herdsman was dismounted, and sent back to the ranch with the prisoners, and archie mounted his horse. "you had better go home," said mr. winters, looking at his nephew's rags and bruises. "oh no, uncle," said archie, quickly. "i promised frank and johnny that, if i succeeded in getting away, i wouldn't sleep until they were safe among friends. i want to go with you." uncle james did not urge the matter, and dick, although he shook his head at archie, and called him a "keerless feller," was proud of his pluck. the trapper, who was the acknowledged leader of the party, set out at a rapid trot toward the pass, but had not gone far, when he stopped, and turned his head on one side to listen. "spread out, fellers," said he, waving his hand toward the bushes on each side of him. "thar's something comin'." the horsemen separated, and took up their positions on each side of the path. they could hear nothing but the chirping of the birds, and the sighing of the wind through the branches above their heads; but they had not been long in their concealments before they found that dick had not been deceived. the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the hard path, faint and far off at first, but growing louder as the animal approached, came to their ears, and presently roderick appeared in sight. the first thing archie noticed was, that he wore neither saddle nor bridle; the second, that he carried frank and johnny on his back. one of frank's hands was twisted in the horse's mane, and his body was tightly clasped in the arms of johnny, who sat behind him. archie had never seen the mustang run so swiftly before, and he made up his mind that, if any of the rancheros were pursuing him, they might as well give up the chase. he also thought that frank and johnny would enjoy a long ride before they got a chance to put their feet on the ground again; for roderick was plainly stampeded. it was fortunate that dick had sent them into the bushes; for, had the party been in the path then, some of them would have been run down, and, perhaps, trampled to death. "out of the way there, greaser!" shouted frank, when he discovered the trapper standing in the path. dick was not a greaser; but he thought it best to get out of the way; and frank would have gone by him, had not carlo and marmion recognized their masters, and set up a howl of welcome. "whoa!" shouted johnny and frank, in concert, and roderick stopped so suddenly that both his riders were thrown forward on his neck. "come here, you boy that fit that ar' greaser, an' tell me all about it, to onct," exclaimed dick. "be they follerin' you?" "not that we know of. we haven't seen any of them since daylight. lend me your lasso, carlos, and we'll go back and hunt up archie." but archie was already found, and when he rode out of the bushes, frank was relieved of a great deal of anxiety. he had not seen his cousin since he left the glade, and he feared that he had been re-captured; or, what was worse, had slipped off the ledge into the gorge. a consultation was now held, and, after uncle james and mr. harris had listened to the boys' story, they decided that it would be a waste of time to search for arthur vane. the latter's conduct had induced the belief that he was a friend of the robbers, and could go and come when he pleased. no doubt, when he got tired of life in the mountains, he would return home of his own free will. the party would keep on to the glade, however, and recover sleepy sam, and the boys' weapons. when this had been decided upon, dick's horse, which he had hidden in the bushes, was brought out for johnny, a lasso was twisted around roderick's lower jaw, to serve as a bridle, and then the trapper shouldered his long rifle, and gave another exhibition of his "travelin' qualities." he kept the horses in a steady gallop, sometimes "letting out" a little on getting far in advance of them, and, when he stopped at the entrance to the pass, he seemed as fresh as ever. the boys had expressed the hope that they would surprise some of the robbers in the glade, but were disappointed. they found their saddles, bridles, blankets, and weapons, however, and archie recovered his horse, which was standing contentedly beside the spring, half asleep, as usual. every thing was gathered up, including a few articles the robbers had left behind, and, as they rode toward the settlement, the boys told each other that the next time they went hunting, after pierre's band had all been captured, they would camp in the glade. archie was confined to the house for a day or two after that; but, if his body was stiff and bruised, his tongue was all right, and it was a long time before he got through relating the incidents of his fight with the traitor. frank and johnny had met with no adventures, not having seen any of the band after they left the glade. they crossed the ledge without accident--although they confessed that they would think twice before trying it again--and, when they reached the end of the pass, they concealed themselves in a hollow log until morning. when they were about to continue their flight, they discovered the mustang, which, unwilling to be left alone in the glade, had crossed the ledge, and was on his way home. frank easily caught him; but, knowing his favorite's disposition as well as he did, hesitated about requiring him to carry double; however, he finally decided that roderick was large enough and strong enough to carry them both, and that he must do it, or take the consequences. frank thereupon mounted the animal, johnny climbed up behind him, and roderick, after a few angry kicks, consented to the arrangement. believing the boldest course to be the safest, they put the horse to the top of his speed, trusting to his momentum to overcome any thing that might endeavor to obstruct the path. while archie was confined to the house, dick and old bob were busy, and their efforts were rewarded by the capture of three more of the band, who were sent to san diego with the others. only one was left now, and that was joaquin, who had thus far successfully eluded pursuit. the traitor was also missing; and, although mr. vane kept his herdsmen in the mountains continually, nothing had been seen of him. arthur was paying the penalty of his treachery, and was being punished in a way he had not thought of. after his unsuccessful attempt to capture archie winters, he went down the mountain to the place where he had left his horse, and there he found joaquin, who had narrowly escaped a ball from the rifle of old bob kelly. he was in ill-humor about something, but his face brightened when he discovered arthur. "we must be off at once," said he. "the mountains are full of men." "i believe i'll go home," replied arthur. "i am going to ask my father to give me money enough to take me back to kentucky; for, of course, i can't live here after what i have done. before i go, however, i want to tell you, that you and your friends are a set of blockheads. if i had known that you would be so stupid as to allow those fellows to escape, i shouldn't have had any thing to do with you. good-by, joaquin." "not quite so fast, my lad," said the ranchero, seizing arthur's horse by the bridle. "you are worth as much to us as the others." "what do you mean?" exclaimed arthur. "i mean that you are a prisoner, and that you must stay here with us. i hope you understand that?" arthur was thunderstruck. "why, joaquin," said he, "pierre promised me faithfully that i should be treated as a visitor, and that no ransom should be demanded for me." "and did you put any faith in that promise? when your father gives us twenty thousand dollars, you can go, and not before." arthur cried, begged, and threatened in vain. joaquin was firm, and the traitor was obliged to accompany him to the mountains. that night he wrote to his father, informing him of his situation, and joaquin, after tying his prisoner to a tree, and gagging him, to prevent him from shouting for assistance, rode to the settlement, and left the note on mr. vane's door-step. during the three weeks following, arthur led a most miserable life. he had nothing to eat but dried meat, and but little of that. his captor treated him very harshly, tying him to a tree every night, to prevent his escape, and moving him about in the day-time, from place to place, to avoid capture. it soon became known in the settlement, that arthur was held as a prisoner, and the search was conducted with redoubled energy. joaquin was constantly on the alert, but he was caught at last; for, one day, just as he and arthur were about to sit down to their dinner of dried meat, frank, archie, and johnny suddenly appeared in sight, accompanied by the two trappers. archie had repeatedly declared that he owed the traitor a debt, which he intended to settle the very first time he met him; but when he saw what a wretched condition arthur was in, he relented, and pitied him from the bottom of his heart. joaquin was sent to san diego to be dealt with according to law, and arthur went home. he did not remain there long; but, as soon as he was able to travel, started for kentucky, and every one was glad that he had gone. frank and archie could tell stories now that were worth listening to. they had seen exciting times since their arrival in california, had been the heroes of some thrilling adventures, and they never got weary of talking over the incidents that transpired during their captivity among the rancheros. the end. the john c. winston co.'s popular juveniles. j.t. trowbridge. neither as a writer does he stand apart from the great currents of life and select some exceptional phase or odd combination of circumstances. he stands on the common level and appeals to the universal heart, and all that he suggests or achieves is on the plane and in the line of march of the great body of humanity. the jack hazard series of stories, published in the late _our young folks_, and continued in the first volume of _st. nicholas_, under the title of "fast friends," is no doubt destined to hold a high place in this class of literature. the delight of the boys in them (and of their seniors, too) is well founded. they go to the right spot every time. trowbridge knows the heart of a boy like a book, and the heart of a man, too, and he has laid them both open in these books in a most successful manner. apart from the qualities that render the series so attractive to all young readers, they have great value on account of their portraitures of american country life and character. the drawing is wonderfully accurate, and as spirited as it is true. the constable, sellick, is an original character, and as minor figures where will we find anything better than miss wansey, and mr. p. pipkin, esq. the picture of mr. dink's school, too, is capital, and where else in fiction is there a better nick-name than that the boys gave to poor little stephen treadwell, "step hen," as he himself pronounced his name in an unfortunate moment when he saw it in print for the first time in his lesson in school. on the whole, these books are very satisfactory, and afford the critical reader the rare pleasure of the works that are just adequate, that easily fulfill themselves and accomplish all they set out to do.--_scribner's monthly_. jack hazard series. vols. by j.t. trowbridge $ . jack hazard and his fortunes. doing his best. the young surveyor. a chance for himself. past friends. lawrence's adventures. * * * * * charles asbury stephens. this author wrote his "camping out series" at the very height of his mental and physical powers. "we do not wonder at the popularity of these books; there is a freshness and variety about them, and an enthusiasm in the description of sport and adventure, which even the older folk can hardly fail to share."--_worcester spy_. "the author of the camping out series is entitled to rank as decidedly at the head of what may be called boys' literature."--_buffalo courier_. camping out series. by c.a. stephens. all books in this series are mo. with eight full page illustrations. cloth, extra, cents. camping out. as recorded by "kit." "this book is bright, breezy, wholesome, instructive, and stands above the ordinary boys' books of the day by a whole head and shoulders."--_the christian register_, boston. left on labrador; or, the cruise of the schooner yacht "curlew." as recorded by "wash." "the perils of the voyagers, the narrow escapes, their strange expedients, and the fun and jollity when danger had passed, will make boys even unconscious of hunger."--_new bedford mercury_. off to the geysers; or the young yachters in iceland. as recorded by "wade." "it is difficult to believe that wade and read and kit and wash were not live boys, sailing up hudson straits, and reigning temporarily over an esquimaux tribe."--_the independent_, new york. lynx hunting: from notes by the author of "camping out." "of first quality as a boys' book, and fit to take its place beside the best."--_richmond enquirer_. fox hunting. as recorded by "raed." "the most spirited and entertaining book that has as yet appeared. it overflows with incident, and is characterized by dash and brilliancy throughout."--_boston gazette_. on the amazon; or, the cruise of the "rambler." as recorded by "wash." "gives vivid pictures of brazilian adventure and scenery."--_buffalo courier_. file was produced from images produced by core historical literature in agriculture (chla), cornell university) change in the village by george bourne new york george h. doran company _printed in great britain by billing & sons, ltd., guildford, england_ to my sisters contents i page i. the village ii the present time ii. self-reliance iii. man and wife iv. manifold troubles v. drink vi. ways and means vii. good temper iii the altered circumstances viii. the peasant system ix. the new thrift x. competition xi. humiliation xii. the humiliated xiii. notice to quit iv the resulting needs xiv. the initial defect xv. the opportunity xvi. the obstacles xvii. the women's need xviii. the want of book-learning xix. emotional starvation xx. the children's need v xxi. the forward movement i the village i the village if one were to be very strict, i suppose it would be wrong to give the name of "village" to the parish dealt with in these chapters, because your true village should have a sort of corporate history of its own, and this one can boast nothing of the kind. it clusters round no central green; no squire ever lived in it; until some thirty years ago it was without a resident parson; its church is not half a century old. nor are there here, in the shape of patriarchal fields, or shady lanes, or venerable homesteads, any of those features that testify to the immemorial antiquity of real villages as the homes of men; and this for a very simple reason. in the days when real villages were growing, our valley could not have supported a quite self-contained community: it was, in fact, nothing but a part of the wide rolling heath-country--the "common," or "waste," belonging to the town which lies northwards, in a more fertile valley of its own. here, there was no fertility. deep down in the hollow a stream, which runs dry every summer, had prepared a strip of soil just worth reclaiming as coarse meadow or tillage; but the strip was narrow--a man might throw a stone across it at some points--and on either side the heath and gorse and fern held their own on the dry sand. such a place afforded no room for an english village of the true manorial kind; and i surmise that it lay all but uninhabited until perhaps the middle of the eighteenth century, by which time a few "squatters" from neighbouring parishes had probably settled here, to make what living they might beside the stream-bed. at no time, therefore, did the people form a group of genuinely agricultural rustics. up to a period within living memory, they were an almost independent folk, leading a sort of "crofter," or (as i have preferred to call it) a "peasant" life; while to-day the majority of the men, no longer independent, go out to work as railway navvies, builders' labourers, drivers of vans and carts in the town; or are more casually employed at digging gravel, or road-mending, or harvesting and hay-making, or attending people's gardens, or laying sewers, or in fact at any job they can find. at a low estimate nine out of every ten of them get their living outside the parish boundaries; and this fact by itself would rob the place of its title to be thought a village, in the strict sense. in appearance, too, it is abnormal. as you look down upon the valley from its high sides, hardly anywhere are there to be seen three cottages in a row, but all about the steep slopes the little mean dwelling-places are scattered in disorder. so it extends east and west for perhaps a mile and a half--a surprisingly populous hollow now, wanting in restfulness to the eyes and much disfigured by shabby detail, as it winds away into homelier and softer country at either end. the high-road out of the town, stretching away for hindhead and the south coast, comes slanting down athwart the valley, cutting it into "upper" and "lower" halves or ends; and just in the bottom, where there is a bridge over the stream, the appearances might deceive a stranger into thinking that he had come to the nucleus of an old village, since a dilapidated farmstead and a number of cottages line the sides of the road at that point. the appearances, however, are deceptive. i doubt if the cottages are more than a century old; and even if any of them have a greater antiquity, still it is not as the last relics of an earlier village that they are to be regarded. on the contrary, they indicate the beginnings of the present village. before them, their place was unoccupied, and they do but commemorate the first of that series of changes by which the valley has been turned from a desolate wrinkle in the heaths into the anomalous suburb it has become to-day. of the period and manner of that first change i have already given a hint, attributing it indefinitely to a slow immigration of squatters somewhere in the eighteenth century. neither the manner of it, however, nor the period is material here. let it suffice that, a hundred years ago or so, the valley had become inhabited by people living in the "peasant" way presently to be described more fully. the subject of this book begins with the next change, which by and by overtook these same people, and dates from the enclosure of the common, no longer ago than . the enclosure was effected in the usual fashion: a few adjacent landowners obtained the lion's share, while the cottagers came in for small allotments. these allotments, of little use to their owners, and in many cases soon sold for a few pounds apiece, became the sites of the first few cottages for a newer population, who slowly drifted in and settled down, as far as might be, to the habits and outlook of their predecessors. this second period continued until about . and now, during the last ten years, a yet greater change has been going on. the valley has been "discovered" as a "residential centre." a water-company gave the signal for development. no sooner was a good water-supply available than speculating architects and builders began to buy up vacant plots of land, or even cottages--it mattered little which--and what never was strictly speaking a village is at last ceasing even to think itself one. the population of some five hundred twenty years ago has increased to over two thousand; the final shabby patches of the old heath are disappearing; on all hands glimpses of new building and raw new roads defy you to persuade yourself that you are in a country place. in fact, the place is a suburb of the town in the next valley, and the once quiet high-road is noisy with the motor-cars of the richer residents and all the town traffic that waits upon the less wealthy. but although in the exactest sense the parish was never a village, its inhabitants, as lately as twenty years ago (when i came to live here) had after all a great many of the old english country characteristics. dependent on the town for their living the most of them may have been by that time; yet they had derived their outlook and their habits from the earlier half-squatting, half-yeoman people; so that i found myself amongst neighbours rustic enough to justify me in speaking of them as villagers. i have come across their like elsewhere, and i am not deceived. they had the country touch. they were a survival of the england that is dying out now; and i grieve that i did not realize it sooner. as it was, some years had passed by, and the movement by which i find myself living to-day in a "residential centre" was already faintly stirring before i began to discern properly that the earlier circumstances would repay closer attention. they were not all agreeable circumstances; some of them, indeed, were so much the reverse of agreeable that i hardly see now how i could ever have found them even tolerable. the want of proper sanitation, for instance; the ever-recurring scarcity of water; the plentiful signs of squalid and disordered living--how unpleasant they all must have been! on the other hand, some of the circumstances were so acceptable that, to recover them, i could at times almost be willing to go back and endure the others. it were worth something to renew the old lost sense of quiet; worth something to be on such genial terms with one's neighbours; worth very much to become acquainted again at first hand with the customs and modes of thought that prevailed in those days. here at my door people were living, in many respects, by primitive codes which have now all but disappeared from england, and things must have been frequently happening such as, henceforth, will necessitate journeys into other countries if one would see them. i remember yet how subtly the intimations of a primitive mode of living used to reach me before i had learnt to appreciate their meaning. unawares an impression of antiquity would come stealing over the senses, on a november evening, say, when the blue wood-smoke mounted from a cottage chimney and went drifting slowly down the valley in level layers; or on still summer afternoons, when there came up from the hollow the sounds of hay-making--the scythe shearing through the grass, the clatter of the whetstone, the occasional country voices. the dialect, and the odd ideas expressed in it, worked their elusive magic over and over again. to hear a man commend the weather, rolling out his "nice moarnin'" with the fat surrey "r," or to be wished "good-day, sir," in the high twanging voice of some cottage-woman or other, was to be reminded in one's senses, without thinking about it at all, that one was amongst people not of the town, and hardly of one's own era. the queer things, too, which one happened to hear of, the simple ideas which seemed so much at home in the valley, though they would have been so much to be deprecated in the town, all contributed to produce the same old-world impression. where the moon's changes were discussed so solemnly, and people numbered the "mistis in march" in expectation of corresponding "frostis in may"; where, if a pig fell sick, public opinion counselled killing it betimes, lest it should die and be considered unfit for food; where the most time-honoured saying was counted the best wit, so that you raised a friendly smile by murmuring "good for young ducks" when it rained; where the names of famous sorts of potatoes--red-nosed kidneys, _magnum bonums_, and so on--were better known than the names of politicians or of newspapers; where spades and reap-hooks of well-proved quality were treasured as friends by their owners and coveted by other connoisseurs--it was impossible that one should not be frequently visited by the feeling of something very old-fashioned in the human life surrounding one. more pointed in their suggestion of a rustic tradition were the various customs and pursuits proper to given seasons. the customs, it is true, were preserved only by the children; but they had their acceptable effect. it might have been foolish and out-of-date, yet it was undeniably pleasant to know on may day that the youngsters were making holiday from school, and to have them come to the door with their morning faces, bringing their buttercup garlands and droning out the appropriate folk ditty. at christmastime, too, it was pleasant when they came singing carols after dark. this, indeed, they still do; but either i am harder to please or the performance has actually degenerated, for i can no longer discover in it the simple childish spirit that made it gratifying years ago. meanwhile, quite apart from such celebrations, the times and seasons observed by the people in following their work gave a flavour of folk manners which dignified the life of the parish, by associating it with the doings of the countryside for many generations. in august, though one did not see, one heard about, the gangs of men trudging off at night for the sussex harvest. in september the days went very silently in the valley, because the cottages were shut up and the people were all away at the hop-picking; and then, in the gathering dusk, one heard the buzz and rumour of manifold homecomings--tired children squalling, women talking and perhaps scolding, as the little chattering groups came near and passed out of earshot to their several cottages; while, down the hollows, hovering in the crisp night air, drifted a most appetizing smell of herrings being fried for a late meal. earlier in the year there was hay-making in the valley itself. all the warm night was sometimes fragrant with the scent of the cut grass; and about this season, too, the pungent odour of shallots lying out in the gardens to ripen off would come in soft whiffs across the hedges. always, at all times, the people were glad to gossip about their gardens, bringing vividly into one's thoughts the homely importance of the month, nay, the very week, that was passing. now, around good friday, the talk would be of potato-planting; and again, in proper order, one heard of peas and runner-beans, and so through the summer fruits and plants, to the ripening of plums and apples, and the lifting of potatoes and carrots and parsnips. in all these ways the parish, if not a true village, seemed quite a country place twenty years ago, and its people were country people. yet there was another side to the picture. the charm of it was a generalized one--i think an impersonal one; for with the thought of individual persons who might illustrate it there comes too often into my memory a touch of sordidness, if not in one connection then in another; so that i suspect myself, not for the first time, of sentimentality. was the social atmosphere after all anything but a creation of my own dreams? was the village life really idyllic? not for a moment can i pretend that it was. patience and industry dignified it; a certain rough jollity, a large amount of good temper and natural kindness, kept it from being foul; but of the namby-pamby or soft-headed sentiment which many writers have persuaded us to attribute to old-english cottage life i think i have not in twenty years met with a single trace. in fact, there are no people so likely to make ridicule of that sort of thing as my labouring-class neighbours have always been. they do not, like the middle classes, enjoy it. it is a commodity for which they have no use, as may appear in the following pages. to say this, however, is to say too little. i do not mean that the prevailing temper in the village was sordid, bitter, cruel, like that, say, of the norman peasantry in de maupassant's short stories. in by far the greater majority the people have usually seemed to me at the worst a little suspicious, a little callous, a little undemonstrative, and at the best generous and happy-go-lucky to a fault. nevertheless, tales as repulsive as any that the french writer has told of his country-people could have been collected here by anyone with a taste for that sort of thing. circumstantial narratives have reached me of savage, or, say, brutish, doings: of sons ill-treating their mothers, and husbands their wives of fights, and cruelties, and sometimes--not often--of infamous vice. the likelihood of these tales, which there was no reason to doubt, was strengthened by what i saw and heard for myself. drunkenness corrupted and disgraced the village life, so that good men went wrong and their families suffered miserably. i have helped more than one drunkard home at night, and seen a wretched woman or a frightened child come to the door to receive him. even in the seclusion of my own garden i could not escape the evidences of mischief going on. for sounds echo up and down the valley as clearly as across the water of a lake; and sometimes a quiet evening would grow suddenly horrid with distracted noises of family quarrel in some distant cottage, when women shrilled and clamoured and men cursed, and all the dogs in the parish fell a-barking furiously. even in bed one could not be secure. once or twice some wild cry in the night--a woman's scream, a man's volley of oaths--has drawn me hurrying to my window in dread that outrage was afoot; and often the sounds of obscene singing from the road, where men were blundering homewards late from the public-houses in the town, have startled me out of my first sleep. then, besides the distresses brought upon the people by their own folly, there were others thrust upon them by their economic condition. of poverty, with its attendant sicknesses and neglects, there has never been any end to the tales, while the desolations due to accidents in the day's work, on the railway, or with horses, or upon scaffoldings of buildings, or in collapsing gravel-quarries, have become almost a commonplace. in short, there is no room for sentimentality about the village life. could its annals be written they would make no idyll; they would be too much stained by tragedy and vice and misery. yet the knowledge of all this--and it was not possible to live here long without such knowledge--left the other impressions i have spoken of quite unimpaired. disorders were the exception, after all. as a general rule the village character was genial, steadfast, self-respecting; one could not but recognize in it a great fund of strength, a great stability; nor could one help feeling that its main features--the limitations and the grimness, as well as the surprising virtues--were somehow closely related to that pleasant order of things suggested by the hay-making sounds, by the smell of the wood-smoke, by the children's may-day garlands. and, in fact, the relationship was essential. the temper and manners of the older people turned out to have been actually moulded by conditions of a true village kind, so that the same folk-quality that sounded in the little garland song reappeared more sternly in my neighbours' attitude towards their fate. into this valley, it is true, much had never come that had flourished and been forgotten in english villages elsewhere. at no time had there been any of the more graceful folk arts here; at no time any comely social life, such as one reads of in goldsmith's _deserted village_ or gray's _elegy_; but, as i gradually learnt, the impoverished labouring people i talked to had been, in many cases, born in the more prosperous conditions of a self-supporting peasantry. bit by bit the truth come home to me, in the course of unconcerned gossip, when my informants had no idea of the significance of those stray scraps of information which they let fall. i was not alive to it myself for a long time. but when i had heard of the village cows, which used to be turned out to graze on the heaths, and had been told how fir-timber fit for cottage roof-joists could be cut on the common, as well as heath good enough for thatching and turf excellent for firing; and when to this was added the talk of bread-ovens at half the old cottages, and of little corn-crops in the gardens, and of brewing and wine-making and bee-keeping; i understood at last that my elderly neighbours had seen with their own eyes what i should never see--namely, the old rustic economy of the english peasantry. in that light all sorts of things showed a new meaning. i looked with rather changed sentiments, for example, upon the noisome pigsties--for were they not a survival of a venerable thrift? i viewed the old tools--hoes and spades and scythes and fag-hooks--with quickened interest; and i speculated with more intelligence upon those aged people of the parish whose curious habits were described to me with so much respect. but of all the details that now gained significance, most to be noted were the hints of the comparative prosperity of that earlier time. for now some old woman, half starving on her parish pay, would indicate this or that little cottage, and remark that her grandfather had built it for her mother to go into when she married. or now, a decrepit man would explain that in such and such a puzzling nook in the hillside had once stood his father's cow-stall. here, at the edge of the arable strip, a building divided into two poor cottages proved to have been originally somebody's little hop-kiln; there, on a warm slope given over to the pleasure-garden of some "resident" like myself, a former villager used to grow enough wheat to keep him in flour half the winter; and there again, down a narrow by-way gone ruinous from long neglect, master so-and-so, whose children to-day go in fear of the workhouse, was wont to drive his little waggon and pair of horses. particulars like these, pointing to a lost state of well-being, accounted very well for the attraction which, in spite of individual faults, i had felt towards the village folk in general. the people stood for something more than merely themselves. in their odd ways and talk and character i was affected, albeit unawares, by a robust tradition of the english countryside, surviving here when the circumstances which would have explained it had already largely disappeared. after too many years of undiscernment that truth was apparent to me. and even so, it was but a gradual enlightenment; even now it is unlikely that i appreciate the facts in their deepest significance. for the "robust" tradition, as i have just called it, was something more than simply robust. it was older, by far, than this anomalous village. imported into the valley--if my surmise is correct--by squatters two centuries ago, it was already old even then; it already had centuries of experience behind it; and though it very likely had lost much in that removal, still it was a genuine off-shoot of the home-made or "folk" civilization of the south of england. no wonder that its survivals had struck me as venerable and pleasant, when there was so much vigorous english life behind them, derived perhaps from so many fair english counties. the perception came to me only just in time, for to-day the opportunities of further observation occur but rarely. the old life is being swiftly obliterated. the valley is passing out of the hands of its former inhabitants. they are being crowded into corners, and are becoming as aliens in their own home; they are receding before newcomers with new ideas, and, greatest change of all, they are yielding to the dominion of new ideas themselves. at present, therefore, the cottagers are a most heterogeneous population, presenting all sorts of baffling problems to those who have to deal with them, as the schoolmaster and the sanitary officer and others find. in no two families--hardly in two members of the same family--do the old traditions survive in equal degree. a lath-and-plaster partition may separate people who are half a century asunder in civilization, and on the same bench at school may be found side by side two children who come from homes, the one worthy of king george iii.'s time, the other not unworthy of king george v.'s. but the changes which will remove the greatest of these discrepancies are proceeding very fast; in another ten years' time there will be not much left of the traditional life whose crumbling away i have been witnessing during the twenty years that are gone. some grounds of hope--great hope, too--which begin at last to appear, and are treated of in the final chapter of this book, save the tale of change in the village from being quite a tragedy, yet still it is a melancholy tale. i have dealt with it in the two sections called respectively "the altered circumstances" and "the resulting needs." the earlier chapters, which immediately follow this one under the heading "the present time," are merely descriptive of the people and their conditions as i know them now, and aim at nothing more than to pave the way for a clearer understanding of the main subject. ii the present time ii self-reliance there is a chapter in dickens's _hard times_ which tells how it was discovered that somebody had fallen down a disused mine-shaft, and how the rescue was valiantly effected by a few men who had to be awakened for that end from their drunken sunday afternoon sleep. sobered by the dangers they foresaw, these men ran to the pit-mouth, pushed straight to the centre of the crowd there, and fell to work quietly with their ropes and winches. as you read, you seem to see them, spitting on their great hands while they knot the ropes, listening attentively to the doctor as to an equal, and speaking in undertones to one another, but regardless of the remarks of the bystanders. the best man amongst them, says dickens--and you know it to be true: dickens could have told you the men's names and life-history had he chosen--the best man amongst them was the greatest drunkard of the lot; and when his heroic work was done, nobody seems to have taken any farther notice of him. these were northcountrymen; but there was a quality about them of which i have often been reminded, in watching or hearing tell of the men in this surrey village. it is the thing that most impresses all who come into any sympathetic contact with my neighbours their readiness to make a start at the dangerous or disagreeable task when others would be still talking, and their apparent expectation that they will succeed. in this spirit they occasionally do things quite as well worthy of mention as the incident described by dickens. i remember looking on myself at just such another piece of work, in the town a mile away from here, one winter day. the sluggish "river," as we call it, which flows amongst meadows on the south of the town, is usually fordable beside one of the bridges, and men with horses and carts as often as not drive through the ford, instead of going over the bridge. but on the day i am recalling floods had so swollen the stream that a horse and cart were swept down under the narrow bridge, and had got jammed there, the driver having escaped over the iron railings of the bridge as the cart went under. i don't know what became of him then--he was but a lad, i was told. when i came on the scene, a number of people were on the bridge, while many more were down on the river banks, whence they could see the horse and cart under the arch. a few were bawling out unheeded advice as to what should be done; in fact, a heated altercation had arisen between the two loudest--a chimney-sweep and a medical man--whose theories disagreed; but it was plain to everybody that it would be a risky thing to venture under the bridge into that swirling stream. for ten minutes or more, while the horse remained invisible to us on the bridge, and likely to drown, the dispute snapped angrily from bank to bank, punctuated occasionally by excited cries, such as "he's gettin' lower!" "he's sinkin' down!" then, unobserved, a bricklayer's labourer came running with a rope, which he hurriedly made into a noose and tightened under his armpits. none of the shouters, by the way, had suggested such a plan. the man was helped over the railings and swiftly lowered--heaven knows who took a hand at that--and so he disappeared for five minutes. then a shout: the horse came into view, staggering downstream with harness cut, and scrambled up into the meadow; and the man, drenched and deadly white, and too benumbed to help himself, was hauled up on to the bridge, and carried to the nearest inn. i never heard his name--people of his sort, as dickens knew, are generally anonymous--but he was one of the labourers of the locality, and only last winter i saw him shivering at the street corners amongst other out-o'-works. behaviour like this is so characteristic of labouring men that we others expect it of them as if it were especially their duty. again and again i have noticed it. if a horse falls in the street, ten chances to one it is some obscure labouring fellow who gets him up again. whether there is danger or no, in emergencies which demand readiness and disregard of comfort, the common unskilled labourer is always to the fore. one summer night i had strolled out to the top of the road here which slants down, over-arched by tall trees, past the vicarage. at some distance down, where there should have been such a depth of darkness under the trees, i was surprised to see a little core of light, where five or six people stood around a bright lamp, which one of them was holding. the scene looked so theatrical, glowing under the trees with the summer night all round it, that, of course, i had to go down the hill and investigate it. the group i joined was, it turned out, watching a bicyclist who lay unconscious in somebody's arms, while a doctor fingered at a streaming wound in the man's forehead, and washed it, and finally stitched it up. the bicycle--its front wheel buckled by collision with the vicarage gatepost--stood against the gate, and two or three cushions lay in the hedge; for the vicar had come out to the man's assistance, and had sent for the doctor, and it was the vicar himself, old and grey, but steady, who now held his library lamp for the doctor's use. the rest of us stood looking on, one of us at least feeling rather sick at the sight, and all of us as useless as the night-moths which came out from the trees and fluttered round the lamp. at last, when all was done, and the injured man could be moved, there rose up a hitherto unnoticed fellow who had been supporting him, and i recognized one of our village labourers. he looked faint, and tottered to a chair which the vicar had ready, and gulped at some brandy, for he, too, had been overcome by sight of the surgery. but it was to him that the task of sitting in the dusty road and being smeared with blood had fallen. and this quiet acceptance of the situation, recognizing that he if anyone must suffer, and take the hard place which soils the clothes and shocks the feelings, gives the clue to the average labourer's temper. it is really very curious to think of. rarely can a labourer afford the luxury of a "change." wet through though his clothes may be, or blood-stained, or smothered with mud or dust, he must wear them until he goes to bed, and must put them on again as he finds them in the morning; but this does not excuse him in our eyes from taking the disagreeable place. still less does it excuse him in his own eyes. if you offer to help, men of this kind will probably dissuade you. "it'll make yer clothes all dirty," they say; "you'll get in such a mess." so they assume the burden, sometimes surly and swearing, oftener with a good-tempered jest. to anything with a touch of humour in it they will leap forward like schoolboys. i am reminded of a funny incident one frosty morning, when patches of the highway were slippery as glass. preceding me along the road was a horse and cart, driven by a boy who stood upright in the cart, and seemed not to notice how the horse's hoofs were skidding; and some distance ahead three railway navvies were approaching, just off their night's work, and carrying their picks and shovels. i had left the cart behind, and was near these three, when suddenly they burst into a laugh, exclaiming to one another, "look at that old 'oss!" i turned. there sat the horse on his tail between the shafts, pawing with his forefeet at the road, but unable to get a grip at its slippery surface. it was impossible not to smile; he had such an absurd look. the navvies, however, did more than smile. they broke into a run; they saw immediately what to do. in thirty seconds they were shovelling earth out from the hedgerow under the horse's feet, and in two minutes more he had scrambled up, unhurt. in such behaviour, i say, we have a clue to the labouring-man's temper. the courage, the carelessness of discomfort, the swiftness to see what should be done, and to do it, are not inspired by any tradition of chivalry, any consciously elaborated cult. it is habitual with these men to be ready, and those fine actions which win our admiration are but chance disclosures in public of a self-reliance constantly practised by the people amongst themselves--by the women quite as much as by the men--under stress of necessity, one would say at first sight. take another example of the same willing efficiency applied in rather a different way. in a cottage near to where i am writing a young labourer died last summer--a young unmarried man, whose mother was living with him, and had long depended on his support. eighteen months earlier he had been disabled for a week or two by the kick of a horse, and a heart-disease of long standing was so aggravated by the accident that he was never again able to do much work. there came months of unemployment, and as a consequence he was in extreme poverty when he died. his mother was already reduced to parish relief; it was only by the help of his two sisters--young women out at service, who managed to pay for a coffin for him--that a pauper's funeral was avoided. a labourer's wife, the mother of four or five young children, took upon herself the duty of washing and laying out the corpse, but there remained still the funeral to be managed. an undertaker to conduct it could not be engaged; there was no money to pay him. then, however, neighbours took the matter up, not as an unwonted thing, i may say--it is usual with them to help bury a "mate"--only, as a rule, there is the undertaker too. in this case they did without him--six poor men losing half a day's work, and giving their services. the coffin was too big to be carried down the crooked staircase; too big also to be got out of the bedroom window until the window-sashes had been taken out. but these men managed it all, borrowing tools and a couple of ladders and some ropes; and then, in the black clothes which they keep for such occasions, they carried the coffin to the churchyard. that same evening two of them went to work at cleaning out a cess-pit, two others spent the evening in their gardens, another had cows to milk, and the sixth, being out of work and restless, had no occupation to go home to so far as i know. of course this, too, was a piece of voluntary service, resembling in that respect those more striking examples of self-reliance which are brought out by sudden emergencies. but it points, more directly than they do, to the sphere in which that virtue is practised until it becomes a habit. for if you follow the clue on, it leads very quickly to the scene where self-reliance is so to speak at home, where it seems the natural product of the people's circumstances--the scene, namely, of their daily work. for there, not only in the employment by which the men earn their wages, but in the household and garden work of the women as well as the men, there is nothing to support them save their own readiness, their own personal force. it sounds a truism, but it is worth attention. unlike the rest of us, labouring people are unable to shirk any of life's discomforts by "getting a man" or "a woman," as we say, to do the disagreeable or risky jobs which continually need to be done. if a cottager in this village wants his chimney swept, or his pigstye cleaned out, or his firewood chopped, the only "man" he can get to do it for him is himself. similarly with his wife. she may not call in "a woman" to scrub her floor, or to wash and mend, or to skin a rabbit for dinner, or to make up the fire for cooking it. it is necessary for her to be ready to turn from one task to another without squeamishness, and without pausing to think how she shall do it. in short, she and her husband alike must practise, in their daily doings, a sort of intrepidity which grows customary with them; and this habit is the parent of much of that fine conduct which they exhibit so carelessly in moments of emergency. until this fact is appreciated there is no such thing as understanding the people's disposition. it is the principal gateway that lets you in to their character. nevertheless the subject needs no further illustration here. anyone personally acquainted with the villagers knows how their life is one continuous act of unconscious self-reliance, and those who have not seen it for themselves will surely discover plentiful evidences of it in the following pages, if they read between the lines. but i must digress to remark upon one aspect of the matter. in view of the subject of this book--namely, the transition from an old social order to present times--it should be considered whether the handiness of the villagers is after all quite so natural a thing as is commonly supposed. for a long time i took it for granted. the people's accomplishments were rough, i admit, and not knowing how much "knack" or experience was involved in the dozens of odd jobs that they did, i assumed that they did them by the light of nature. yet if we reflect how little we learn from nature, and how helpless people grow after two or three generations of life in slums, or in libraries and drawing-rooms, it would seem probable that there is more than appears on the surface in the labourer's versatility of usefulness. after all, who would know by the light of nature how to go about sweeping a chimney, as they used to do it here, with rope and furzebush dragged down? or how to scour out a watertank effectively? or where to begin upon cleaning a pigstye? easy though it looks, the closer you get down to this kind of work as the cottager does it the more surprisedly do you discover that he recognizes right and wrong methods of doing it; and my own belief is that the necessity which compels the people to be their own servants would not make them so adaptable as they are, were there not, at the back of them, a time-honoured tradition teaching them how to go on. returning from this digression, and speaking, too, rather of a period from ten to twenty years ago than of the present time, it would be foolish to pretend that the people's good qualities were unattended by defects. the men had a very rough exterior, so rough that i have known them to inspire timidity in the respectable who met them on the road, and especially at night, when, truth to tell, those of them who were out were not always too sober. after you got to know them, so as to understand the shut of their mouths and the look of their eyes--usually very steadfast and quiet--you knew that there was rarely any harm in them; but i admit that their aspect was unpromising enough at first sight. a stranger might have been forgiven for thinking them coarse, ignorant, stupid, beery, unclean. and yet there was excuse for much of it, while much more of it was sheer ill-fortune, and needed no excuse. though many of the men were physically powerful, few of them could boast of any physical comeliness. their strength had been bought dear, at the cost of heavy labour begun too early in life, so that before middle-age they were bent in the back, or gone wrong at the knees, and their walk (some of them walked miles every day to their work) was a long shambling stride, fast enough, but badly wanting in suggestiveness of personal pride. seeing them casually in their heavy and uncleanly clothes, no one would have dreamed of the great qualities in them--the kindliness and courage and humour, the readiness to help, the self-control, the patience. it was all there, but they took no pains to look the part; they did not show off. in fact, their tendency was rather in the contrary direction. they cared too little what was thought of them to be at the pains of shocking one's delicacy intentionally; but they were by no means displeased to be thought "rough." it made them laugh; it was a tribute to their stout-heartedness. nor was there anything necessarily braggart in this attitude of theirs. as they realized that work would not be readily offered to a man who might quail before its unpleasantness, so it was a matter of bread-and-cheese to them to cultivate "roughness." i need not, indeed, be writing in the past tense here. it is still bad policy for a workman to be nice in his feelings, and several times i have had men excuse themselves for a weakness which they knew me to share, but which they seemed to think needed apology when they, too, exhibited it. only a few weeks ago a neighbour's cat, affected with mange, was haunting my garden, and had become a nuisance. upon my asking the owner--a labourer who had worked up to be something of a bricklayer--to get rid of it, he said he would get a certain old-fashioned neighbour to kill it, and then he plunged into sheepish explanations why he would rather not do the deed himself. "anybody else's cat," he urged, "he wouldn't mind so much," but he had a touch of softness towards his own. it was plain that in reality he was a man of tender feelings, yet it was no less plain that he was unwilling to be thought too tender. the curious thing was that neither of us considered for a moment the possibility of any reluctance staying the hand of the older neighbour. him we both knew fairly well as a man of that earlier period with which i am concerned just now. at that period the village in general had a lofty contempt for the "meek-hearted" man capable of flinching. an employer might have qualms, though the men thought no better of him for that possession, but amongst themselves flinching was not much other than a vice. in fact, they dared not be delicate. hence through all their demeanour they displayed a hardness which in some cases went far below the surface, and approached real brutality. leaving out the brutality, the women were not very different from the men. it might have been supposed that their domestic work--the cooking and cleaning and sewing from which middle-class women seem often to derive so comely a manner--would have done something to soften these cottage women. but it rarely worked out so. the women shared the men's carelessness and roughness. that tenderness which an emergency discovered in them was hidden in everyday life under manners indicative of an unfeigned contempt for what was gentle, what was soft. and this, too, was reasonable. in theory, perhaps, the women should have been refined by their housekeeping work; in practice that work necessitated their being very tough. cook, scullery-maid, bed-maker, charwoman, laundress, children's nurse--it fell to every mother of a family to play all the parts in turn every day, and if that were all, there was opportunity enough for her to excel. but the conveniences which make such work tolerable in other households were not to be found in the cottage. everything had to be done practically in one room--which was sometimes a sleeping-room too, or say in one room and a wash-house. the preparation and serving of meals, the airing of clothes and the ironing of them, the washing of the children, the mending and making--how could a woman do any of it with comfort in the cramped apartment, into which, moreover, a tired and dirty man came home in the evening to eat and wash and rest, or if not to rest, then to potter in and out from garden or pig-stye, "treading in dirt" as he came? then, too, many cottages had not so much as a sink where work with water could be done; many had no water save in wet weather; there was not one cottage in which it could be drawn from a tap, but it all had to be fetched from well or tank. and in the husband's absence at work, it was the woman's duty--one more added to so many others--to bring water indoors. in times of drought water had often to be carried long distances in pails, and it may be imagined how the housework would go in such circumstances. for my part i have never wondered at roughness or squalor in the village since that parching summer when i learnt that in one cottage at least the people were saving up the cooking water of one day to be used over again on the day following. where such things can happen the domestic arts are simplified to nothing, and it would be madness in women to cultivate refinement or niceness. and my neighbours appeared not to wish to cultivate them. it may be added that many of the women--the numbers are diminishing rapidly--were field-workers who had never been brought up to much domesticity. far beyond the valley they had to go to earn money at hop-tying, haymaking, harvesting, potato-picking, swede-trimming, and at such work they came immediately, just as the men did, under conditions which made it a vice to flinch. as a rule they would leave work in the afternoon in time to get home and cook a meal in readiness for their husbands later, and at that hour one saw them on the roads trudging along, under the burden of coats, dinner-baskets, tools, and so on, very dishevelled--for at field-work there is no such thing as care for the toilet--but often chatting not unhappily. on the roads, too, women were, and still are, frequently noticeable, bringing home on their backs faggots of dead wood, or sacks of fir-cones, picked up in the fir-woods a mile away or more. prodigious and unwieldy loads these were. i have often met women bent nearly double under them, toiling painfully along, with hats or bonnets pushed awry and skirts draggling. occasionally tiny urchins, too small to be left at home alone, would be clinging to their mothers' frocks. in the scanty leisure that the women might enjoy--say now and then of an afternoon--there were not many circumstances to counteract the hardness contracted at their work. these off times were opportunities for social intercourse between them. they did not leave home, however, and go out "paying calls." unless on sunday evenings visiting one another's cottages was not desirable. but there were other resources. i have mentioned how sounds will travel across the valley, and i have known women come to their cottage doors high up on this side to carry on a shouting conversation with neighbours opposite, four hundred yards away. you see, they were under no constraint of propriety in its accepted forms, nor did they care greatly who heard what they had to say. i have sometimes wished that they did care. but, of course, the more comfortable way of intercourse was to talk across the quickset hedge between two gardens. sometimes one would hear--all an afternoon it seemed--the long drone of one of these confabulations going on in unbroken flow, with little variation of cadence, save for a moaning rise and fall, like the wind through a keyhole. i have a suspicion that the shortcomings of neighbours often made the staple of such conversations, but that is only a surmise. i remember the strange conclusion of one of them which reached my ears. for, as the women reluctantly parted, they raised their voices, and one said piously, "wal, they'll git paid for 't, one o' these days. gawd a'mighty's above the devil"; to which the other, with loud conviction: "yes, and always will be, thank gawd!" this ended the talk. but the last speaker, turning round, saw her two-year-old daughter asprawl in the garden, and with sudden change from satisfied drawl to shrill exasperation, "git up out of all that muck, you dirty little devil," she said. for she was a cleanly woman, proud of her children, and disliking to see them untidy. iii man and wife for general social intercourse the labouring people do not meet at one another's cottages, going out by invitation, or dropping in to tea in the casual way of friendship; they have to be content with "passing the time of day" when they come together by chance. thus two families may mingle happily as they stroll homewards after the saturday night's shopping in the town, or on a fine sunday evening they may make up little parties to go and inspect one another's gardens. until recently--so recently that the slight change may be ignored at least for the present--the prevailing note of this so restricted intercourse was a sort of _bonhomie_, or good temper and good sense. with this for a guide, the people had no need of the etiquette called "good manners," but were at liberty to behave as they liked, and talk as they liked, within the bounds of neighbourliness and civility. this has always been one of the most conspicuous things about the people--this independence of conventions. in few other grades of society could men and women dare to be so outspoken together, so much at ease, as these villagers still often are. their talk grows chaucerian at times. merrily, or seriously, as the case may be, subjects are spoken of which are never alluded to between men and women who respect our ordinary conventions. let it be admitted--if anybody wishes to feel superior--that the women must be wanting in "delicacy" to countenance such things. there are other aspects of the matter which are better worth considering. approaching it, for instance, from an opposite point of view, one perceives that the average country labourer can talk with less restraint because he has really less to conceal than many men who look down upon him. he may use coarse words, but his thoughts are wont to be cleanly, so that there is no suspicion of foulness behind his conversation, rank though it sound. a woman consequently may hear what he says, and not be offended by suggestion of something left unsaid. on these terms the jolly tale is a jolly tale, and ends at that. it does not linger to corrupt the mind with an unsavoury after-flavour. but more than this is indicated by the want of conventional manners in the village. the main fact is that the two sexes, each engaged daily upon essential duties, stand on a surprising equality the one to the other. and where the men are so well aware of the women's experienced outlook, and the women so well aware of the men's, the affectation of ignorance might almost be construed as a form of immodesty, or at any rate as an imprudence. it would, indeed, be too absurd to pretend that these wives and mothers, who have to face every trial of life and death for themselves, do not know the things which obviously they cannot help knowing; too absurd to treat them as though they were all innocence, and timidity, and daintiness. no labouring man would esteem a woman for delicacy of that kind, and the women certainly would not like to be esteemed for it. hence the sexes habitually meet on almost level terms. and the absence of convention extends to a neglect--nay, to a dislike--of ordinary graceful courtesies between them. so far as i have seen they observe no ceremonial. the men are considerate to spare women the more exhausting or arduous kinds of work; but they will let a woman open the door for herself, and will be careless when they are together who stands or who sits, or which of them walks on the inside of the path, or goes first into a gateway. and the women look for nothing different. they expect to be treated as equals. if a cottage woman found that a cottage man was raising his hat to her, she would be aflame with indignation, and would let him know very plainly indeed that she was not that sort of fine lady. in general, the relations between the sexes are too matter-of-fact to permit of any refinement of feeling about them, and it is not surprising that illegitimacy has been very common in the village. but once a man and a woman are married, they settle down into a sober pair of comrades, and instead of the looseness which might be looked for there is on the whole a remarkable fidelity between the married couples. i have no distinct memory of having heard during twenty years of any certain case of intrigue or conjugal misbehaviour amongst the cottage folk. the people seem to leave that sort of thing to the employing classes. it scandalizes them to hear of it. they despise it. oddly enough, this may be partly due to the want of a feminine ideal, such as is developed by help of our middle-class arts and recognized in our conventions. true, the business of making both ends meet provides the labourer and his wife with enough to think about, especially when the children begin to come. then, too, they have no luxuries to pamper their flesh, no lazy hours in which to grow wanton. the severity of the man's daily labour keeps him quiet; the woman, drudge that she is, soon loses the surface charm that would excite admirers. but when all this is said, it remains probable that a lowliness in their ideal preserves the villagers from temptation. they do not put woman on a pedestal to be worshipped; they are unacquainted with the finer, more sensitive, more high-strung possibilities of her nature. people who have been affected by long traditions of chivalry, or by the rich influences of art, are in another case; but here amongst the labouring folk a woman is not seen through the medium of any cherished theories; she is merely an individual woman, a man's comrade and helper, and the mother of his family. it is a fine thing, though, about the unions effected on these unromantic terms, that they usually last long, the man and wife growing more affectionate, more tender, more trustful, as they advance in years. of course, the marriages are not invariably comfortable or even tolerable. one hears sometimes of men callously disappearing--deserting their wives for a period, and going off, as if for peace, to distant parts wherever there is work to be picked up. one man, i remember, was reported to have said, when he ultimately reappeared, that he had gone away because "he thought it would do his wife good." another, who had openly quarrelled with his wife and departed, was discovered months afterwards working in a sussex harvest-field. he came back by-and-by, and now for years the couple have been living together, not without occasional brawls, it's true, but in the main good comrades, certainly helpful to one another, and very fond of their two or three children. a bad case was that of a bullying railway navvy, who, having knocked his wife about and upset his old father, went off ostensibly to work. in reality he made his way by train to a town some ten miles distant, and from there, in a drunken frolic, sent a telegram home to his wife announcing that he was dead. he had given no particulars: a long search for him followed, and he was found some days later in a public-house of that town vaingloriously drinking. i remember that bettesworth, who told me this tale, was full of indignation. "shouldn't you think he could be punished for that?" he asked. "there, if i had my way he should have twelve months reg'lar _hard labour_, and see if that wouldn't dummer a little sense into 'n." there was no suggestion, however, of "a woman in the case," to explain this man's ill-treatment of his wife; it appears to have been simply a piece of freakish brutality. when disagreements occur, it is likely that the men are oftener to blame than their wives. too often i have seen some woman or other of the village getting her drunken and abusive husband home, and never once have i seen it the other way about. nevertheless, in some luckless households the faults are on the woman's side, and it is the man who has the heartache. i knew one man--a most steady and industrious fellow, in constant work which kept him from home all day--whose wife became a sort of parasite on him in the interest of her own thriftless relatives. in his absence her brothers and sisters were at his table eating at his expense; food and coals bought with his earnings found their way to her mother's cottage; in short, he had "married the family," as they say. he knew it, too. in its trumpery way the affair was an open scandal, and the neighbours dearly wished to see him put a stop to it. yet, though he would have had public opinion to support him in taking strong measures, his own good nature deterred him from doing so. probably, too, his own course was the happier one. thrive he never could, and gloomy enough and dispirited enough he used to look at times; yet to see him with his children on sundays--two or three squalid, laughing urchins--was to see a very acceptable sight. returning to the main point, if anyone has a taste for ugly behaviour, and thinks nothing "real" but what is uncomfortable too, he may find plenty of subjects for study in the married life of this parish; but he will be ridiculously mistaken if he supposes the ugliness to be normal. a kind of dogged comradeship--i can find no better word for it--is what commonly unites the labouring man and his wife; they are partners and equals running their impecunious affairs by mutual help. i was lately able to observe a man and woman after a removal settling down into their new quarters. it was the most ordinary, matter-of-fact affair in the world. the man, uncouth and strong, like a big dog or an amiable big boy, moved about willingly under his wife's direction, doing the various jobs that required strength. one evening, in rain, his wife stood watching while he chopped away the wet summer grass that had grown tall under the garden hedge; then she pointed out four or five spots against the hedge, where he proceeded to put in wooden posts. early the next morning there was a clothes-line between the posts, and the household washing was hanging from it. nothing could have been more commonplace than the whole incident, but the commonness was the beauty of it. and it was done somehow in a way that warmed one to a feeling of great liking for those two people. very often it seems to be the woman who supplies the brains, and does the scheming, for the partnership. when old bettesworth was on his last legs, as many as half a dozen different men applied to me for his job, of whom one, i very well remember, apologized for troubling me, but said his "missus" told him to come. poor chap! it was his idea of courtesy to offer an apology, and it was the old adam in him that laid the blame on his wife, for really he desired very much to escape from his arduous night-work on the railway. at the same time there is not the least doubt that what he said was true; that he and his wife had talked the matter over, and that, when he proved timid of interviewing me, she forced him to come. again, two or three winters ago, a man despairing of work in england got in touch with some agency to assist him in emigrating to canada. it was his wife then who went round the parish trying to raise the few extra pounds that he was to contribute. that was a case to fill comfortable people with uncomfortable shame. the woman, not more than five-and-twenty, would have been strikingly handsome if she had ever in her life had a fair chance; but as it was she looked half-starved, and she had a cough which made it doubtful if she would ever live to follow her husband to canada. still, she was playing her part as the man's comrade. as soon as he could save enough money he was to send for her and her baby, she said; in the meantime she would have to earn her own living by going out to day-work. during the south african war there was many a woman in the village keeping things together at home while the men were at the front. they had to work and earn money just as they do when their men are beaten down at home. there was one woman who received from her husband a copy of verses composed by him and his companions during their occupation of a block-house on the veldt. very proud of him, she took the verses to a printer, had them printed--just one single copy--and then had the printed copy framed to hang on the bedroom wall in her cottage. her husband showed it to me there one day, mightily pleased with it and her. probably the people behind the counters at the provision shops in the town could tell many interesting things about the relations between married people of this class, for it is quite the common thing in the villages for a man and wife to lock up their cottage on a saturday evening, and go off with the children to do the week's shopping together. on a nice night the town becomes thronged with them, and so do the shops, outside which, now and then, a passer-by may notice little consultations going on, and husband or wife--sometimes one, sometimes the other--handing over precious money to the other to be spent. and if it is rather painful to see the faces grow so strained and anxious over such trifling sums, on the other hand the signs of mutual confidence and support are comforting. besides, anxiety is not the commonest note. the majority of the people make a little weekly festivity of this saturday night's outing; they meet their friends in the street, have a chat, wind up with a visit to the public-house, and so homewards at any time between seven and ten o'clock, trooping up the hill happily enough as a rule. now and then one comes across solitary couples making one another miserable. thus one night i heard a woman's voice in the dark, very tired and faint, say, "it's a long hill!" to which the surly tones of a man replied: "'ten't no longer than 'twas, is it?" brutishness like this, however, is quite the exception. as a sample of what is normal, take the following scraps of talk overheard one summer night some years ago. the people were late that night, and indeed, it was pleasant to be out. not as yet were there any of those street lamps along the road which now make all nights alike dingy; but one felt as if walking into the unspoiled country. for though it was after ten, and the sky overcast, still one could see very clearly the glimmering road and the hedgerows in the soft midsummer twilight. enjoying this tranquillity, i passed by a man and woman with two children, and heard the man say invitingly: "shall i carry the basket?" the wife answered: "'e en't 'eavy, bill, thanks.... only i got this 'ere little rosy to git along." her voice sounded gentle and cheerful, and i tried to hear more, checking my pace. but the children were walking too slowly. i was getting out of earshot, missing the drift of the peaceful-sounding chatter, when presently the woman, as if turning to the other child, said more loudly: "come along, sonny!" the man added: "hullo, old man! come along! you'll be left behind!" the children began prattling; their father and mother laughed; but i was leaving them farther and farther behind. then, however, some other homeward-goer overtook the little family. for the talk grew suddenly louder, the woman beginning cheerily: "hullo, mr. weatherall! 'ow's your poor wife?... i didn't see as 'twas you, 'till this here little rosy said...." what rosy had said i failed to catch. i missed also what followed, leading up to the woman's endearing remark: "this 'ere little rosy, she's a reg'lar gal for cherries!" the neighbour seemed to say something; then the husband; then the neighbour again. and at that there came a burst of laughter, loudest from the woman, and mr. weatherall asked: "didn't you never hear that afore?" the woman, laughing still, was emphatic: "no; i'll take my oath as i never knowed that." "well, you knows it now, don't ye?" "i ain't sure yet. i ain't had time to consider." after that the subject changed. i heard the woman say: "i've had six gals an' only one boy--one out o' seven. alice is out courtin'"; and then they seemed to get on to the question of ways and means. the last words that reached me were "fivepence ... tuppence-ha'penny;" but still, when i could no longer catch any details at all, the voices continued to sound pleasantly good-tempered. iv manifold troubles besides the unrelieved hardness of daily life--the need, which never lifts from them, of making shift and doing all things for themselves--there has always been another influence at work upon my neighbours, leaving its indelible mark on them. almost from infancy onwards, in a most personal and intimate way, they are familiar with harrowing experiences of calamity such as people who employ them are largely able to escape. the little children are not exempt. there being no nursemaids to take care of the children while fathers and mothers are busy, the tiniest are often entrusted to the perilous charge of others not quite so tiny, and occasionally they come to grief. then too often the older children, who are themselves more secure for a few years, are eyewitnesses of occurrences such as more fortunate boys and girls are hardly allowed even to hear of. nor is it only with the gory or horrible disaster that the people thus become too early acquainted. the nauseating details of sickness are better known and more openly discussed in the cottage than in comfortable middle-class homes. for it is all such a crowded business--that of living in these cramped dwellings. besides, the injured and the sick, absorbed in the interest of their ailments, are amiably willing to give others an opportunity of sharing it. the disorder or the disablement is thus almost a family possession. an elderly man, who had offered to show me a terrible ulcer on his leg, smiled at my squeamishness, as if he pitied me, when i declined the privilege. "why, the little un," he said, pointing to a four-year-old girl on the floor, "the little un rolls the bandage for me every evening, because i dresses'n here before the fire." that is the way in the labourer's cottage. even where privacy is attempted for the sufferer's sake there is no refuge for the family from the evidence of suffering. the young people in one room may hardly avoid knowing and hearing where a man is dying, or a woman giving birth to a child, just the other side of a latched deal door. in this connection it should be remembered how much more than their share of the afflictions of the community falls to the labouring people. the men's work naturally takes them where accidents happen, where disease is contracted. and then, from ignorance or the want of conveniences, from the need to continue wage-earning as long as endurance will hold out, and also from the sheer carelessness which is a part of their necessary habit, both the men and the women not seldom allow themselves to fall into sickness which a little self-indulgence, if only they dared yield to it, would enable them to avoid. i should not know how to begin counting the numbers i have personally known enfeebled for life in this way. things are better now than they were twenty years ago; there are many more opportunities than there used to be of obtaining rest or nursing, but still the evil is widespread. without going out of my way at all, during the last fortnight i have heard of--have almost stumbled across--three cases of the sort. the first was that of a woman who had been taking in washing during her husband's long illness. meeting the man, who was beginning to creep about again, i happened to ask how his wife was; and he said that she was just able to keep going, but hardly knew how to stand because of varicose veins in both legs. the second case, too, was a woman's. she met me on the road, and on the off chance asked if i could give her a letter of admission to the county hospital, and so save her the pain of going down to the vicarage to beg for a letter there. what was the matter? "i give birth to twins five months ago," she said, "and since then dropsy have set in. i gets heavier every day. the doctor wants me to go to the hospital, and i was goin' to the vicar to ask for a letter, but i dreads comin' back up that hill." as it was she had already walked half a mile. in the third case a man's indifference to his own suffering was to blame for the plight in which he found himself. driving a van, he had barked his shin against the iron step on the front of the van. just as the skin had begun to heal over he knocked it again, severely, in exactly the same way, and he described to me the immense size of the aggravated wound. but, as he said, he had supposed it would get well, and, beyond tying his leg up with a rag, he took no further trouble about it, until it grew so bad that he was obliged to see a doctor. his account of the interview went in this way: "'how long since you done this?' the doctor says. 'a month,' i says. 'then you must be a damn fool not to 'ave come to me afore,' the doctor says." the man, indeed, looked just as likely as not to be laid up for six months, if not permanently crippled, as a result of his carelessness. yet, common as such cases are now, they were commoner when i first knew the village--when there was no cottage hospital, no proper accommodation at the workhouse infirmary, no parish nurse, and when the parish contained few people of means to help those who were in distress. i remember once looking round in that early period, and noting how there was hardly a cottage to be seen which had not, to my own knowledge, been recently visited by trouble of some sort or another. true, the troubles were not all of them of a kind that could be avoided by any precaution, for some of them arose from the death of old people. yet in a little cottage held on a weekly tenancy death often involves the survivors of the family in more disturbance, more privation too, than it does elsewhere. putting these cases aside, however, i could still see where, within two hundred yards of me, there had been four other deaths--one being that of an infant, and one that of a woman in child-birth. in the other two cases the victims were strong men--one, a railway worker, who was killed on the line; the other a carter, who died of injuries received in an accident with his horse. the list of lesser misfortunes included the illness of a man who broke down while at work, with hæmorrhage of the stomach, and the bad case of a bricklayer's labourer, who lay for days raving from the effects of a sunstroke. in pre-christian times it might have been argued that the gods were offended with the people, so thickly did disasters fall upon them, but my neighbours seemed unaware of anything abnormal in the circumstances. by lifelong experience they had learned to take calamity almost as a matter of course. for, as i said, the experience begins early. the children, the young girls, have their share of it. during those earlier years i am recalling, a little girl of the village, who was just beginning domestic service in my household, was, within the space of six months, personally concerned in two accidents to little children. she came from one of half-a-dozen families whose cottages, for a wonder in this village, stood in a row; and amongst scraps of her talk which were repeated to me i heard how her little brother--only five years old, but strong at throwing stones--threw at a girl playmate and knocked out one of her eyes. that happened in the springtime. in the autumn of the same year a mishap, if possible more shocking at the moment, befell another child in that row of cottages. a man there one evening was trimming a low hedge. his tool was a fag-hook--well sharpened, for he was one of the ablest men in the village. and near by where he worked his children were at play, the youngest of them being between three and four years old. as he reached over the hedge, to chop downwards at the farther side, this little one suddenly came running dangerously near. "take care, ducky!" he cried. "don't come so close, 'r else perhaps father'll cut ye." he gave three more strokes, and again the child ran in. the hook fell, right across the neck. i had these particulars from a neighbour. "if 't had bin another half inch round, the doctor said, 'twould have bin instant death.... the man was covered with blood, and all the ground, too. i was at work when i heared of it, but i couldn't go on after that, it upset me so.... and all this mornin' i can't get it out o' my mind. there's a shiver all up that row. they be all talkin' of it. the poor little thing en't dead this mornin', and that's all's you can say. they bin up all night. ne'er a one of 'em didn't go to bed." so far the neighbour. later the little maidservant, who had gone home that evening, told me: "we was passin' by at the time--me and my older sister.... she run in and wrapped a towel round its neck." "where, then, was the mother?" "she was with its father. he'd fainted. so we went in. we thought p'raps we could run for the doctor. but she went herself, jest as she was," carrying the child down to the town. as for the girl's sister, who had behaved with some aplomb, "it made her feel rather bad afterwards. she felt sick. all the floor was covered with blood." the little maidservant had a curious look, half horror, half importance, as she said this. she herself was not more than fifteen at the time. but sickness is commoner by far than accident, and owing to the necessity the cottagers are under of doing everything for themselves they often get into dire straits. of some of the things that go on one cannot hear with equanimity. the people are english; bone of our bone. but we shut our eyes. i have heard of well-to-do folk in the parish who, giving of their abundance to foreign missions, deny that there is distress here at home. the most charitable explanation of that falsehood is to suppose that across their secluded gardens and into their luxurious rooms, or even to their back-doors, an average english cottager is too proud to go. yet it is hard to understand how all signs of what is so constantly happening can be shut out. for myself, i have never gone out of my way to look for what i see. i have never invited confidences. the facts that come to my knowledge seem to be merely the commonplaces of the village life. if examples of the people's troubles were wanted, they could be provided almost endlessly, and in almost endless diversity. but there is one feature that never varies. year after year it is still the same tale; all the extra toil, all the discomfort, or horror, or difficulty, of dealing with sickness falls immediately on the persons of the family where the sickness occurs; and it sets its cruel mark upon them, so that the signs can be seen as one goes about, in the faces of people one does not know. and the women suffer most. one winter evening a woman came to my door to see if she could borrow a bed-rest. her sister, she said, had been ill with pleurisy and bronchitis for a week or more, and for the last two days had been spitting a great deal of blood. the woman looked very poor; she might have been judged needlessly shabby. a needle and thread would so soon have remedied sundry defects in her jacket, which was gaping open at the seams. but her face suggested that there were excuses for her. i have never forgotten her face, as it showed that evening, although i have since seen it looking happier. it was dull of colour--the face of an overworked and over-burdened soul; and it had a sullen expression of helplessness and resentment. the eyes were weary and pale--i fancied that trouble had faded the colour out of them. but with all this i got an impression of something dogged and unbeaten in the woman's temper. she went away with the bed-rest, apologizing for coming to borrow it. "'tis so bad"--those were her words--"'tis so bad to see 'em layin' there like that, sufferin' so much pain." i had never seen her before--for it was years ago; and, knowing no better then, i supposed her to be between forty and fifty years old. in reality, she can hardly have been thirty. it was the stress of personal service that had marred her so young. did her jacket need mending? as i have since learnt, at that period the youngest of her family was unborn, and the oldest cannot have been more than eight or nine. besides nursing her sister, therefore, she had several children to wait upon, as well as her husband--a man often ailing in health. for all i know she was even then, as certainly she has been since, obliged to go out working for money, so as to keep the family going; and, seeing that she was a mother, it is probable that she herself had already known the extremity of hardship. because, as scarcely needs saying, the principle of self-help is strained to the uttermost at time of child-birth. then, the other members of the family have to shift for themselves as best they can, with what little aid neighbours can find time to give; and where there are young children in the cottage, it is much if they are sufficiently fed and washed. but it is the situation of the mother herself that most needs to be considered. let me give an illustration of how she fares. several years ago there was a birth in a cottage very near to me. only a few hours before it happened the woman had walked into the town to do her shopping for herself and carry home her purchases. as soon as the birth was known, a younger sister, out at service, got a week's holiday, so that she might be at hand to help, though there was no spare room in the cottage where she could sleep. during that week, also, the parish nurse came in daily, until more urgent cases occupied all her time. after that the young mother was left to her own resources. according to someone i know, who looked in from time to time, she lay in bed with her new-born baby, utterly alone in the cottage, her husband being away at work all day for twelve hours, while the elder children were at school. she made no complaint, however, of being lonely; she thought the solitude good for her. but she was worried by thinking of the fire in the next room--the living-room, which had the only fireplace in the house, there being none in her bedroom--lest it should set fire to the cottage while she lay helpless. it seems that the hearth was so narrow and the grate so high that coals were a little apt to fall out on to the floor. once, she said, there had almost been "a flare-up." it was when she was still getting about, and she had gone no farther away than into her garden to feed the fowls; but in that interval a coal fell beyond the fender, and she, returning, found the place full of smoke and the old hearthrug afire. the dread that this might happen again distressed her now as she lay alone, unable to move. i could furnish more pitiful tales than this, if need were--tales of women in child-bed tormented with anxiety because their husbands are out of work, and there is no money in the cottage, and no prospect of any; or harassed by the distress of little children who miss the help which the mother cannot give, and so on. but this case illustrates the normal situation. here there was no actual destitution, nor any fear of it, and the other children were being cared for. the husband was earning a pound a week at constant work, and the circumstances of the family were on the whole quite prosperous. but one of the conditions of prosperity was that the father of the family should be away all day, leaving the mother and infant unattended. from whatever sickness the woman suffers, there is always the same piteous story to be told--she is destitute of help. the household drudge herself, she has no drudges to wait upon her. the other day i was told of a woman suffering from pleurisy. her husband had left home at six o'clock for his work; a neighbour-woman came in to put on a poultice and make things comfortable; then she, too, had to go to her work. in the afternoon a visitor, looking in by chance, found that the sick woman had been alone for five hours; she was parched with thirst, and her poultice had gone cold. for yet one more example. i mentioned just now a man who was killed on the railway. his widow, quite a young woman then, reared her three or four children, earning some eight or nine shillings a week at charing or washing for people in the town; and still she keeps herself, pluckily industrious. there is one son living with her--an errand-boy--and there are two daughters both in service at a large new house in the village. during last spring the woman had influenza, and had to take to her bed, her girls being permitted to take turns in coming home to care for her. just as she, fortunately, began to recover, this permission was withdrawn: both girls were wanted in "their place," because a young lady there had taken influenza. so they had to forsake their mother. but by-and-by one of these girls took the infection. her "place," then, was thought to be--at home. she was sent back promptly to her mother, and it was not long before the mother herself broke down again, not being yet strong enough to do sick-nursing in addition to her daily work. it must be borne in mind that these acute and definite troubles spring up from the surface of an ill-defined but chronic anxiety, from which very few of the cottagers are free for any length of time. for though there is not much extreme destitution, a large number of the villagers live always on the brink of it; they have the fear of it always in sight. in a later chapter i shall give some particulars as to their ways and means; in this, i only wish it to be remembered that the question of ways and means is a life-and-death one for the labourer and his wife, and leaves them little peace and little hope of it. during the trade depression which culminated in - i was frequently made aware of the disquiet of their minds by the scraps of talk which reached me as i passed along the road, and were not meant for my hearing. from women who were comparing notes with one another, this was the sort of thing one would hear: "'en't had nothin' to do this six weeks; and don't sim no likelihoods of it." "i s'pose we shall get through, somehow." "i'm sure i dunno what 'tis a-comin' to." "'tis bad 'nough now, in the summer; what it'll be like in the winter, gawd only knows." again and again i heard talk like this. and all this was only an accentuation or a slight increase in volume of a note of apprehension which in better times still runs less audibly as a kind of undertone to the people's thought. i had stopped one day to say good-morning to an old widow-woman outside her cottage. she was the mother of that young man whose funeral was mentioned two chapters back; but this was before his death, and while, in fact, he was still doing a little occasional work. she spoke cheerfully, smiled even, until some chance word of mine (i have forgotten what it was) went through the armour of her fortitude, and she began to cry. then she told me of the position she was in, and the hopelessness of it, and her determination to hold out. some charitable lady had called upon her. "mrs. curtis," the lady had said, "if ever you are ill, i hope you'll be sure and send to _me_." and mrs. curtis had replied: "well, ma'am, if ever i sends, you may be sure i _am_ ill." "but," she added, "they don't understand. 'tis when you're on yer feet that help's wanted--not wait till 'tis too late." with regard to her present circumstances--she "didn't mind saying it to me--sometimes she didn't hardly know how they was goin' on," for she hadn't a penny except what her son could earn. and "people seemed to think it didn't matter for a single chap to be out o' work. they didn't think he might have a mother to keep, or, if he was in lodgin's, he couldn't live there for nothin'.... sometimes we seems to be gettin' on a little, and then you has bad luck, and there you are again where you was before. it's like gettin' part way up a hill and fallin' down to the bottom again, and you got it all to begin over again." i said something--some platitude--turning to go away. then she managed to smile--a shining-eyed smile--saying: "well, 'tis only for life. if 'twas for longer than that i don't know if we should hardly be able to bear it." this was but one old woman. yet, if you have an ear for a folk-saying, you will recognize one there in that "only for life" of hers. be sure that a by-word so compact as that was not one old woman's invention. to acquire such brevity and smoothness, it must have been wandering about the parish for years; and when it reached me at last it had been polished by the despair of hundreds of other people, as a coin is polished by passing through hundreds of hands. v drink it will be understood, from what was said on the subject in the first chapter, that the village population has its rough element, and that drunkenness, or at any rate excessive drinking, is very common. it is true that there are very few habitual drunkards in the parish--there are not even many men, perhaps, who frequently take too much; but, on the other hand, the majority are beer-drinkers, and every now and then one or another of them, normally sober, oversteps the limit. thus, possibly every other family has had its passing experience of what drunkenness means in the temporary lapse of father, or son, or brother. a rainy bank holiday invariably leads to much mischief in this way, and so does a sudden coming of hot weather in the summer. the men have too much to do to spare time for the public-house in the ordinary weekdays, but on saturday and sunday nights, when the strain is relaxed, they are apt to give way too far. the evils of drunkenness, however, are well enough known, and i do not propose to dwell on that side of the matter. but there is another aspect of it which must be considered, if only because it is so thoroughly characteristic of the old village outlook. incidentally, this other aspect may be worth a little attention from temperance reformers. for the truth is that the average villager's attitude towards drink and temperance is not that of an unrepentant or rebellious sinner; rather, it is the attitude of a man who has sound reasons for adhering to his own point of view. if he grows restive under the admonitions of the pharisaical, if he meets them defiantly, or if he merely laughs, as often as not it is because he feels that his mentors do not understand the situation so well as he does. how should they, who see it wholly from the outside--they who never go near the public-house; they who have no experience either of poverty or of hard work--how should they, who speak from prejudice, be entitled to dictate to him, who has knowledge? he resents the interference, considers it insulting, and goes his own way, supported by a village opinion which is entirely on his side, and certainly has its claims to respect. it is this village opinion which i wish to examine now. in the eyes of the older villagers or of the more old-fashioned ones mere occasional drunkenness is a very venial fault. the people make a distinction between the habitual drunkard and him who occasionally drinks too much, and they are without compassion for the former. he is a "low blackguard"; they look reproachfully if you talk of trying to help him by giving him a job of work, or at any rate they pity your wasted efforts. but for the occasional defaulter they have a friendly feeling, unless, of course, he turns savage in his cups. as long as he is cheerful he is rather a figure of fun to them than anything, or he is an object of wondering interest. on a certain august bank holiday i saw one of our villagers staggering up the hill--a middle-aged man, far gone in drink, so that all the road was none too wide for him. other wayfarers accompanied and observed him with a philosophically detached air, and between whiles a woman grabbed at his coat between the shoulders, trying to steady him. but by and by, lurching free, he wobbled across the road to within an inch of a perambulator with two children which another man was pushing. the drunken man leant over it, poised like an impending fate, and so hung for a few seconds before he staggered away, and it might be supposed that at least the man with the perambulator would be indignant. but not he. he merely remarked wonderingly: "you wouldn't ha' thought it possible he could ha' done it, would ye?" the other wayfarers laughed lightly, amongst them a young married woman with a refined face. while the comic side of a man in drink makes its strong appeal to the village folk, they are ready to see excuses for him, too. anybody, they argue, is liable to be overtaken before he knows, and where is the great disgrace in an accident that may befall themselves, or me, or you? there is at least no superiority in their outlook, no pharisaism. listen, for proof of it, to a talk of bettesworth's about a neighbour who had been working with the "ballast-train" on the railway all night. "you," he began--and this first word showed how innocent he was of shame in his own attitude, since he supposed that i must share his amusement--"you'd ha' laughed if you'd ha' sin isaac yest'day. he was got fair boozed; an' comin' up the gully, thinkin' he was goin' straight for 'ome, he run his head right into they bushes down by ol' dame smith's. then he got up the slope about a dozen yards, an' begun to go back'ards 'till he come to dame smith's wall, and that turn'd 'n, and he begun to go back'ards again down the gully. i did laugh. he bin at work all night on the ballast-train, an' come back reg'lar fagged out, an' hadn't had no vittles--an' a feller _wants_ something--and then the fust glass he has do's for 'n. he bin workin' every night for a week, an' sundays, too. and alice" ("alice" is isaac's wife) "is away hop-tyin' all day, so, of course, isaac didn't care 'bout goin' 'ome to lop about there by hisself.... i've seed a many go like that. they works all night, an' gets reg'lar fagged out, an' then the fust drop does 'em. when alice come 'ome, she looked at least to find the kettle boilin'. 'stead o' that, she couldn't git in. at least, she had to fetch the key from where she put 'n when she went away in the mornin'. i laughed at her when i went down 'ome. 'where is he now?' i says. 'ah, you may laugh,' she says, 'but i got to rouse 'n up about ten o'clock an' git 'n a cup o' tea. he got to be at work again at eleven.' that's how they do's. begins about ten or eleven o'clock, and don't leave off again afore six or seven, or p'raps nine or ten, next mornin'. makes days an' quarters for three an' ninepence. i've knowed a many like that come 'ome an' git boozed fust glass, like old isaac. i did laugh, though, and so did dame smith when she was a-tellin' of me." inheriting from their forefathers such an unimaginative point of view, most of the cottage folk have been, until quite lately, far from regarding the public-house as a public nuisance. it had a distinct value in their scheme of living. that fact was demonstrated plainly in an outburst of popular feeling some years ago. the licensing magistrates of the neighbourhood had taken the extreme, and at that time unprecedented, course of refusing to renew the licenses of several houses in the town. but while the example they had thus set was winning them applause all up and down england, they were the objects, in this and the adjacent villages, of all sorts of vituperation on account of what the cottagers considered a wanton insult to their class. it must be admitted that the action of the justices had some appearance of being directed against the poor. nobody could deny, for instance, that the houses frequented by middle-class clients, and responsible for a good deal of middle-class drinking, were all passed over, and that those singled out for extinction served only the humblest and least influential. my neighbours entertained no doubts upon the matter. they were not personally concerned--at any rate, the public-houses in this village were left open for them to go to--but the appearance of favouritism offended them. they were as sure as if it had been officially proclaimed that the intention was to impose respectability upon them against their will; their pleasures were to be curtailed to please fanatics who understood nothing and cared less about the circumstances of cottage folk. so, during some weeks the angry talk went round the village; it was not difficult to know what the people were thinking. they picked to pieces the character of the individual magistrates, planning ineffective revenge. "that old so-and-so" (chairman of the urban council)--"they'd bin to his shop all their lives, but he'd find he'd took his last shillin' from 'em now! and that what's-his-name--the workin' classes had voted for 'n at last county council election, and this was how he served 'em! he needn't trouble to put up again, when his turn was up!" then they commiserated the suffering publicans. "look at poor old mrs. ----, what kept the house down which street--always a most well-conducted house. nobody couldn't find no fault with it, and 'twas her livin'! why should she have her livin' took away like that, poor old gal?... they sims to think nobody en't right 'xcep' jest theirselves--as if we poor people could live an' go on same as they do. they can 'ave their drink at 'ome, and their music, but where be we to go to if they shuts up the 'ouses?" such were the remarks i heard over and over again. it seemed to the poor that there were to be no more cakes and ale, because malvolio was virtuous, or because their own manners were not refined enough. in the light of subsequent political events i am prepared to believe that some of this popular indignation was engineered from the public-houses. but i do not think it required much engineering. it sounded spontaneous at the time, and considering how the villagers are placed, their resentment was not unnatural. as i have said, the public-house has its value in their scheme of living. they have no means of enjoying themselves at home, no room in their cottages for entertaining friends, and they may well ask what they are to do if the public-houses are closed to them. one thing, at least, is sure. if the ordinary village inn were nothing but the foul drink-shop which its enemies allege, if all that it provided was an irresistible temptation to depravity, the majority of the people who resort to it now would very soon leave it alone. and the same is true of the little lowly places in the town. in the third chapter i mentioned how the village women, with their men-folk and their children, too--until the recent act of parliament shut the children out--would make a saturday-night call at some public-house before going home from the weekly shopping expedition. but these are the reverse of bad women. they are honest and self-respecting mothers of families; women obviously innocent of anything approaching intemperance. i have seen them chatting outside a public-house door, and then smilingly pushing it open and going in, as happily unconscious of evil as if they were going to a mothers' meeting. they see no harm in it. they are away from home, they have far to go, and they want refreshment. but it is perfectly certain that most of them would rather drop than enter such places--for they are not afraid of fatigue--if there were risk of anything really wrong within. the labouring-class woman, as already explained, takes no hurt from a frank style of talk. she is not squeamish, but she has a very strong sense of her own honour; and if you remember how keen is the village appetite for scandal, you will perceive that there can be no fear of scandal attaching to her because of a visit to a public-house, or she would not go there. it should be noted, as evidence of a strict public opinion regulating the custom, that these same women seldom enter the public-houses in the village, and never any others save on this one occasion. they require the justification of their weekly outing, when supper is delayed, and the burden of living can be forgotten amongst friends for an hour. at other times they would consider the indulgence disgraceful; and though they enjoy it just at these times, i do not remember that i have ever seen one of them showing the least sign of having carried her enjoyment too far. the men certainly are governed by no such severe public opinion, but are free to "get a drink" at any time without being thought the worse of by their neighbours; yet they, too, for the most part, are of good and sober character enough to prove that the village public-house cannot be so utterly given up to evil as might be supposed from the horrified talk of refined people. not many men in this parish would tolerate a place in which they could do nothing but get drunk. it is for something else that they go to the fox or the happy home. the drinking is but a pleasant incident. they despise the fellow who merely goes in to have his unsociable glass and be off again, as heartily as they dislike the habitual soaker who brings their entertainment into disfavour; and they themselves keep a rough sort of order--or they increase disorder in trying to quell it--rather than that the landlord should interfere. that loud harsh talk which one hears as one passes the public-house of an evening is not what the hyper-sensitive suppose. it does not betoken drunkenness so much as uncouth manners--the manners of neglected men who spend their lives at severe physical labour, and want a little relaxation in the evening. so far as i have seen, the usual conversation in the taproom of a country public-house is a lazy and innocent interchange of remarks, which wander aimlessly from one subject to another, because nobody wants to bother his head with thinking; or else it is a vehement discussion, in which dogmatic assertion does duty for argument and loudness for force. in either case it rests and stimulates the tired men, while the drink refreshes their throats, and it has no more necessary impropriety than the drawing-room talk of the well-to-do. in this intercourse men who do not read the papers get an inkling of the news of the day, those who have no books come into contact with other minds, opinions are aired, the human craving for fun gets a little exercise; and for topics of talk, instead of those which occupy moneyed people, who know about the theatre or the church, or foreign travel, or golf, or the state of the poor, or the depreciation of consols, the labourers have their gardens, and the harvest, and the horses they drive. they talk about their employers, and their work, and their wages; they dispute about county cricket or exchange notes about blight, or new buildings, or the latest public sensation; and all this in endless detail, endlessly interesting to them. so, utterly unaided by arts or any contrivances for amusement, they make entertainment for themselves. that they must make it in kindly temper, too, is obvious; for who would take part in it to be usually annoyed? and it may well be conceived that in an existence so empty of other pleasures, the pleasures to be derived from company are held precious. the scheme of living would be very desolate without that consolation, would grow very illiberal and sombre. but the public-houses at least do something to prevent this, and in clinging to them the villagers have clung to something which they need and cannot get elsewhere. it is idle to pretend that the "institute" which was started a few years ago provides a satisfactory alternative. controlled by people of another class, whose "respectability" is irksome, and open only to members and never to women, the institute does not lend itself to the easy intercourse which tired men enjoy at the public-house. its billiard-table is not for their heavy hands, used to the pick-axe and shovel; its card games interrupt their talk; its newspapers remind them that they cannot read very well, and suggest a mode of life which they are unable to share. these reasons, i believe, prevail to keep the labouring men from patronizing the institute more even than does its strictly teetotal policy. or perhaps i should say, rather, that while they dislike going without their beer, they object more strongly still to the principle on which it is forbidden in the institute. for that principle is nothing more or less than a tacit arraignment of their own point of view. it imputes evil propensities to them; it directly challenges the truth of an idea which not only have they never doubted, but which their own experience seems to them to confirm. the day-labourer really knows nothing to take the place of beer. a man who has been shovelling in a gravel-pit, or carrying bricks up a ladder, or hoeing in the fields, or carting coal, for ten hours in the day, and has, perhaps, walked six or seven miles to do it, acquires a form of thirst which no other drink he can buy will touch so coolly. of alternatives, milk fails utterly; "minerals" are worse than unsatisfactory; tea, to serve the purpose at all, must be taken very hot, and then it produces uncomfortable sweat, besides involving the expense of a fire for its preparation. there remains cold water. but cold water in copious draughts has its drawbacks, even if it can be obtained, and that is assuming too much. in this parish, at any rate, good water was, until quite lately, a scarce commodity, and nobody cared to drink the stagnant stuff out of the tanks or water-butts which supplied most of the cottages. in short, prudence itself has seemed to recommend beer as the one drink for tired men. in their view it is the safest, and the most easily obtained, and, when obtained, it affords the most refreshment. thus much their own experience has taught the villagers. and they have the tradition of long generations to support them in their taste. as far back as they can remember, the strongest and ablest men, whose virtues they still recall and admire, renewed their strength with beer daily. not labourers alone, but farmers and other employers too, whose health and prosperity were a sufficient justification of their habits, were wont to begin their morning with a glass of beer, which they took, not as a stimulant, but as a food; and the belief in it as a food was so convinced that a man denied his beer by doctor's orders was hardly to be persuaded that he was not being starved of due nourishment. such was the esteem in which beer was held twenty years ago, nor has the belief been uprooted yet. indeed, an opinion so sanctioned to a man, by the approval of his own father and grandfather and all the worthies he can remember, does not immediately become false to him just because it is condemned by strangers who do not know him, and who, with all their temperance, seem to him a delicate and feeble folk. he prefers his own standard of good and evil, and in sitting down to his glass he has no doubt that he is following a sensible old fashion, modestly trying to be, not a fine gentleman, but a sturdy englishman. on much the same principle the public-house as a place of resort is justified to the villager. i have already shown how it serves him for entertainment instead of newspaper, or book, or theatre; and here, again, he has a long-standing country tradition to support him. in spite of reformers on the one hand, and on the other hand that tendency of "the trade," which is spoiling the public-house as a place of comfortable rest by frowning upon customers who stay too long and drink too little--in spite of these discouragements, the villagers still cannot believe that what was good enough for their fathers is not good enough for themselves. it might not be equally good if they wished to be "superior persons," but for the modest needs of people like themselves they think it should serve. so they go to the public-house just as their fathers did, content to miss the approval of the cultured, so long as they can do as well as those worthies. of course, if they ever analyzed their impressions, they must often go home discerning that they had been disappointed; that the company had been dull and the comfort small; that they had got less conviviality than they wanted, and more of the drink that should have been only its excuse; but as they are never introspective, so the disappointment goes unnoticed, and leads to no disillusionment. vi ways and means before going farther i must try to give some account of the ways and means of the villagers, although, obviously, in a population so heterogeneous, nothing short of a scientific survey on the lines pursued by sir charles booth or mr. rowntree could be of much value in this direction. the observations to be offered here pretend to no such authority. they have been collected at random, and subjected to no tests, and they refer almost exclusively to the "unskilled" labouring people. during twenty years there have not been many fluctuations in the price of a day's labour in the parish, but probably on the whole there has been a slight increase. the increase, however, is very uncertain. while the south african war was in progress, and afterwards when bordon camp was building, eight miles away, labour did indeed seem to profit. but then came the inevitable trade depression, work grew scarce, and by the summer of wages had dropped to something less than they had been before the war. i heard, for instance, of a man--one of the most capable in the district--who was glad that summer to go haymaking at half a crown a day. and yet two or three years earlier he had certainly been earning from fourpence halfpenny to fivepence an hour, or, say, from three and sixpence to four shillings for a day's work. in the low-water mark was reached; the following spring saw a slight revival, and at present the average may be put at three shillings. for this sum a fairly good man can be got to do an ordinary day's work of nine hours in the vegetable-garden or at any odd job. the builders' labourers are rather better paid--if their employment were not so intermittent--with an average of from fourpence halfpenny to fivepence an hour. carters, too, and vanmen employed by coal-merchants, builders, and other tradesmen in the town, are comparatively well off with constant work at eighteen or twenty shillings a week. the men in the gravel-pits--but that industry is rapidly declining as one after another the pits are worked out--can earn perhaps five shillings a day if at piece-work, or about three and sixpence on ordinary terms. from this sum a deduction must be made for tools, which the men provide and keep in repair themselves. it is rather a heavy item. the picks frequently need repointing, and a blacksmith can hardly do this for less than twopence the point. the gravel-work, too, is very irregular. in snow or heavy rain it has to stop, and in frost it is difficult. more than once during the winter of - , it being a time of great distress, gravel-pit workers came to me with some of those worked flints--the big paleoliths of the river-gravel--which they had found and saved up, but now desired to sell, in order to raise money for pointing their pickaxes. i have wondered sometimes if the savages who shaped those flints had ever looked out upon life so anxiously as these neighbours of mine, whose iron tools were so strangely receiving this prehistoric help. at one time upwards of forty men in the parish had more or loss constant work on one of the "ballast-trains" which the south-western railway kept on the line for repairing the permanent way. the work, usually done at night and on sundays, brought them in from eighteen to twenty-four shillings a week, according to the hours they made. i do not know how many of our men are employed on the railway now, but they are certainly fewer. some years ago--it was when the great trade depression had already hit the parish badly, and dozens of men were out of work here--the railway-company suddenly stopped this train, and consternation spread through the village at the prospect of forty more being added to the numbers of its unemployed. reviewing the figures, and making allowance for short time due to bad weather, public holidays, sickness, and so on, it may be estimated that even when trade is good the average weekly wage earned by one of the village men at his recognized work is something under seventeen shillings. this, however, does not constitute quite the whole income of the family. in most cases the man's wages are supplemented by small and uncertain sums derived from the work of women and children, and from odd jobs done in the evenings, and from extra earnings in particular seasons. field-work still employs a few women, although every year their numbers decrease. it is miserably paid at a shilling a day, or in some cases on piece-work terms which hardly work out at a higher figure. piecework, for instance, was customary in the hop-gardens (now rapidly disappearing), where the women cut the bines and "tied" or "trained" the hops at so much per acre, providing their own rushes for the tying. at haymaking and at harvesting there is work for women; and again in the hop-gardens, when the picking is over, women are useful at clearing up the bines. they can earn money, too, at trimming swedes, picking up newly-dug potatoes, and so on; but when all is said, there are not many of them who can find work to do in the fields all the year round. at the best, bad weather often interrupts them, and the stress and hardships of the work, not to mention other drawbacks, make the small earnings from it a doubtful blessing. a considerable number of women formerly eked out the family income by taking in washing for people in the town. several properly equipped laundries have of late years greatly reduced this employment, but it still occupies a few. the difficulties of carrying it on are considerable, apart from the discomforts of it in a small cottage. unless a woman has a donkey and cart, it is hard for her to get the washing from her customers' homes and carry it back again. of the amount that can be earned at the work by a married woman, with husband and children to do for, i have no knowledge. charwomen, more in demand than ever as the residential character of the place grows more pronounced, earn latterly as much as two shillings a day, besides at least one substantial meal. the meal is a consideration, and obviously good for the women. in bad times, when the men and even the children go rather hungry, it often happens that the mother of the family is able to keep her strength up, thanks to the tolerable food she gets three or four days a week in the houses where she goes scrubbing and cleaning. a few women--so few that they really need not be mentioned--earn a little at needlework, two or three of them having a small dressmaking connection amongst their cottage neighbours and with servant-girls. it will be realized that the prices which such clients can afford to pay are pitifully small. in one or other of these ways most of the labouring class women do something to add to the earnings of their husbands, so that in prosperous times the family income may approach twenty-four shillings a week. yet the average must be below that sum. the woman's work is very irregular, and just when her few shillings would be most useful--namely, when she has a baby or little children to care for--of course her employment stops. if not, it is unprofitable in the end; for, involving as it does some neglect of the children, as well as of the woman's own health, it leads to sickness and expenses which may impoverish the whole family for years. with regard to the minor sources of income, i have often wondered at the eagerness of the average labourer to earn an odd shilling, and at the amount of work he will do for it, after his proper day's work is over. i know several men who frequently add two or three shillings to their week's money in this way. to give an instance of how they go on, one evening recently i was unexpectedly wanting to send a heavy parcel into the town. going out to seek somebody who would take it, i chanced upon a man--very well known to me--who was at work just within the hedge of a villa garden, where he was erecting on a pole a notice-board announcing a "sale of work" shortly to be held. he had obviously nearly done, so i proposed my errand to him. yes; he would go as soon as he had finished what he was doing. then, perceiving that he looked tired, i commented on the fact. he smiled. "i bin mowin' all day over there at ...," and he mentioned a farm two or three miles distant. still, he could go with my parcel. this was at about seven o'clock in the evening, and would mean a two-mile walk for him. the very next evening, when it was raining, i saw him in the churchyard digging a grave. "haven't been mowing to-day, have you?" "yes," he said cheerily. mowing is, perhaps, the most fatiguing work a man can do, but fatigue was nothing to this man where a few shillings could be earned. his ordinary wages, i believe, are eighteen shillings a week, but during last winter he was out of work for six or eight weeks. i have known this man, and others also, to make now and then quite a little harvest, amounting to several pounds, at the unsavoury work of cleaning out cess-pits. one man, indeed--a farm-labourer by day--had for a time a sort of trade connection in the parish for this employment, and would add the labour of two or three nights a week to that of his days; but, of course, he could not keep it up for long. it is highly-paid work, as it ought to be; but the ten shillings or so that a man may earn at it four or five times a year come rather as a welcome windfall than as a part of income upon which he can rely. the seasonal employments are disappearing from the neighbourhood, as agriculture gives place to the residential interests. hop-picking used to be the most notable of them, and even now, spite of the much-diminished acreage under hops, it is found necessary at the schools to defer the long holiday until september, because it would be impossible to get the children to school while the hops are being picked. for all the family goes into the gardens--all, that is to say, who have no constant work. the season now lasts some three weeks, during which a family may earn anything from two to four pounds. at this season a few of the more experienced and trustworthy men--my friend who mows, and digs graves, and runs errands is one of them--do better in the hop-kilns at "drying" than in the gardens. theirs is an anxious, a responsible, and almost a sleepless duty. the pay for it, when i last heard, was two guineas a week, and--pleasant survival from an older mode of employment--the prudent hop-grower gives his dryers a pound at christmas as a sort of retaining-fee. it is to be observed that failure of the crop is too frequent an occurrence. in years when there are no hops, the people feel the want of their extra money all the following winter. another custom, as it is all but extinct, needs only a passing mention now. no longer do large gangs of our labourers--with some of their womenfolk, perhaps--troop off "down into sussex" for the august harvesting there, and for the hoeing that follows it; and no longer is the village enriched by the gold they used to bring back. when july is ending, perhaps two or three men, whether enticed by some dream of old harvesting joys in sight of the sea, or driven by want at home, may stray off for a few weeks; but i do not hear that their adventure is ever so prosperous nowadays as to induce others to follow suit. where the income of a family from the united efforts of the father and mother is still so small, every shilling that can be added to it is precious, and, consequently, the children have to begin earning as early as they may. hence there is not much lingering at school, after the minimum age for leaving has been reached. nay, some little boys, and here and there a little girl, will make from a shilling to half a crown a week at carrying out milk or newspapers before morning school begins, so that they go to their lessons with the first freshness taken off them by three or four miles of burdened walking. in view of the wear and tear of shoe-leather, even those parents who countenance the practice are doubtful of its economy. still, a few of them encourage it; and though, if spread out amongst the families, these pitiful little earnings could hardly make a perceptible difference to the average income. i mention them here in order to leave no source of income unnoticed. when school-days are over, the family begins to benefit from the children's work. at fourteen years old, few of the boys are put to trades, but most of them get something to do in the town, where there is a great demand for errand-boys. their wages start at about four shillings a week, increasing in a few years to as much as seven or eight. then, at seventeen years old or so, the untrained youths begin to compete in the labour market with the men, taking too early, and at too small wages, to the driving of carts or even to work in the gravel-pits. the amount of help that these fellows then contribute towards the family expenses out of their twelve or fourteen shillings a week depends upon the parents, but it is something if they merely keep themselves; and i believe, though i do not certainly know, that it is customary for them to pay a few shillings for their lodging at least. for girls leaving school there is no difficulty in finding, as they say, "a little place" for a start in domestic service; for even the cheaper villas which have sprung up around the town generally need their cheap drudges. hence, at an earlier age than the boys, the girls are taken off their parents' hands and become self-supporting. true, it is long before they can earn much more in money than suffices for their own needs in clothes and boots--they cannot send many shillings home to their mothers; but no doubt a family may be found here and there enriched to the extent of a pound or two a year by the labour of the girls. putting the various items together, it might seem that in favourable circumstances there would be some twenty-three or twenty-four shillings a week for a family to live on all the year round. but it must be remembered, first, that the circumstances seldom remain favourable for many months together; and, second, that the greater number of families have to do without those small supplementary sums provided by the work of children, or by odd jobs, or by the good wages of hop-drying, and so forth. nor is this the only deduction to be made. as i have already explained, in the cases where money is most needed--namely, where there is a family of little children--the mother cannot go out to work, and the income is reduced to the bare amount earned by the father alone. and these cases are very plentiful, while, on the contrary, those in which the best conditions prevail are very scarce. taking the village all through, and balancing bad times against good ones, i question if the income of the labouring class families averages twenty shillings a week; indeed, i should be greatly surprised to learn that it amounted to so much. in very many instances eighteen shillings or even less would be the more correct estimate. one other item remains to be recognized, although its value is too variable to be computed with any exactness in money and added to the sum of an average week's income. what is the worth to a labourer of the crops he grows in his garden? it depends, obviously, on the man's skill, and the size of the garden, and the clemency of the seasons--matters, all of them, in which any attempt at generalization must be received with suspicion. all that can be said with certainty is that most of the cottages in the valley have gardens, and that most of the cottagers are diligent to cultivate them. but when the circumstances are considered, it will be plain that the value of the produce must not be put very high. the amount of ground that can be worked in the spring and summer evenings is, after all, not much; it is but little manure that can be bought out of a total money-income of eighteen shillings a week; and even good seed is, for the same reason, seldom obtained. the return for the labour expended, therefore, is seldom equal to what it should be, and we may surmise that he is a fortunate man, or an unusually industrious one, who can make his gardening worth more than two shillings a week to him in food. there must be many cottages in the valley where the yield of the garden is scarcely half that value. to complete the picture of the people's ways and means, it ought next to be shown how the money income is spent by an average family. to do that, however, would be beyond my power, even if it were possible to determine what an "average family" is. i know, of course, that rent takes from three and sixpence a week for the poorest hovels to six shillings for the newer tenements on the outskirts of the parish; in other words, that from a quarter to a third of the labourer's whole income goes back immediately into the pockets of the employing classes for shelter alone. i know also that payments into benefit societies drain away another eightpence to a shilling a week. i realize that very often the weekly bread bill runs away with nearly half the money that is left, and so i can reckon that tea and groceries, boots and clothes, firing and light, have somehow to be obtained at a cost of no more than seven or eight shillings weekly. but these calculations fail to satisfy me. they leave unsolved the problem of those last seven or eight shillings, on the expenditure of which turns the really vital question which an inquiry like this ought to settle. how do the people make both ends meet? are the seven shillings as a rule enough for so many purposes? or almost, but not quite enough? or nothing like enough? after all, i do not know. information breaks down just at this point where information is most to be desired. there is no doubt at all, however, as to the strain and stress of the general struggle to live in the valley, the sheer wear and tear of temper and spirits involved in the daily grappling with that problem. everywhere one comes across symptoms of it--partial evidences--but the most complete exposition that i have had was given, some years ago now, by a woman who had no intention of complaining. she came to me with a message from a neighbour who was ill, but, in explanation of her part in helping him, she began to speak of her own affairs. with some of these affairs i was already acquainted. thus i knew her to be the mother of an exceptionally large family, so that her case could not be quite typical. but i also knew that her husband had been in constant work for many years, so that, in her case, there had been no period when the income at her disposal ceased altogether, as in the case of so many other women otherwise less handicapped than she. i was aware, too, that she herself helped out the family earnings by taking in washing. to these items of vague knowledge she added a few particulars. as to income, i learnt that her husband--a labourer on a farm some three miles away--earned fifteen shillings a week during the winter, and rather more in the summer months, when he was allowed to do "piece-work." the piece-work had the further advantage of permitting him to begin so early in the day--four o'clock was his time in summer--that he usually got home again by four in the afternoon, and was able to do better than most men with his garden. amongst other things, he raised flowers for sale. he was wont to send to a well-known nursery in norfolk for his seeds--china-asters and stocks were his speciality--and he reared his plants under a little glass "light" which he had made for himself out of a few old window-sashes. his pains with these flowers were unsparing. neighbours laughed at him (so his wife assured me, with some pride) because he went to the plants down on his hands and knees, smoking each one with tobacco to clear it from green aphis. he also raised fifty or sixty sticks of celery every year, which sold for threepence apiece. meanwhile he by no means neglected his main business as a cottage-gardener--namely, the growing of food-crops for home use. by renting for five shillings a year an extra plot of ground near his cottage, he was able to keep his large family supplied with potatoes for quite half the year. it was much to do. they wanted nearly a bushel of potatoes a week, the wife said; and if that was so, the man was adding, in the shape of potatoes at half a crown a bushel, the value of more than three pounds a year to his income. no doubt he grew other vegetables too--parsnips, carrots, turnips, and some green-stuff--but these were not mentioned. a little further help was at last coming from the family, the eldest daughter having begun to pay half the rent out of her earnings as a servant-girl. help certainly must have been welcome. there were two other girls in service, and therefore off their parents' hands; but six children--the youngest only a few months old--were still at home, dependent on what their father and mother could earn. of these, the eldest was a boy near thirteen. "i shall be glad when he's schoolin's over," the mother said; and she had applied for a "labour certificate" which would allow him to finish school as a "half-timer," and to go out and earn a little money. since their marriage, twenty-three years earlier, the couple had occupied always the came cottage, at a rental of three shillings a week. after the first twenty years--the property then changing owners--the first few repairs in all that long period had been undertaken. that is to say, the outside woodwork was painted; a promise was given to do up the interior; the company's water was laid on; and--the rent was raised to three-and-sixpence. the woman thought this a hardship; but she said that her husband, looking at the bright side of things, rejoiced to think that now the water from the old tank, hitherto so precious for household uses, might be spared for his flowers. after the rent was paid--with the daughter's help--there were about fourteen shillings left. but the man was an "oddfellow," and his subscription was nine shillings a quarter, or eightpence halfpenny a week. in prudence, that amount should perhaps have been put by every week, but apparently prudence often had to give way to pressing needs. "when the club money's due, that's when we finds it wust," the woman remarked. "sometimes i've said to 'n, 'i dunno how we be goin' to git through the week.' 'oh,' he says, 'don't you worry. we shall get to the end of 'n somehow.'" but she did not explain, nor is it easy to conceive, how it was done. for observe, the weekly bushel of potatoes did not feed the family, even for half the year. "a gallon of potatoes a day, that's what it is," she had said; and then she had enumerated other items. "a gallon of bread a day," was needed too, besides a gallon of flour once a week "for puddings." in other words, bread and flour cost upwards of six shillings weekly. seeing that this left but eight shillings for eight people, it is small wonder that the club-money was rarely put by, and great wonder how the family managed at all when the club-money was wanted in a lump. it must have been that they went short that week. for instance, they would do without puddings, and so save on flour and firing; and the man would forego his tobacco--he had never any time to visit the public-house, so that there was nothing to be saved in that direction. yet assuming all this, and assuming that the eldest daughter advanced a few extra shillings, still the situation remains baffling. on what could they save, out of eight shillings? probably one or other of the children, or may be the mother herself, would make an old pair of boots serve just one more week, until there was money in hand again; and that would go far to tide the family over. yet the next week would then have to be a pinched one; for, said the woman, "boots is the wust of all. it wants a new pair for one or t'other of us purty near every week." so far this woman's testimony. it is corroborated by what other cottagers have told me. a man said, looking fondly at his children: "i has to buy a new pair o' shoes for one or other of us every week. or if i misses one week, then next week i wants two pair." others, again, have told of spending five to six shillings a week on bread. but of the less essential items one never hears. even of clothes there is rarely any talk, and of coal not often; nor yet often of meat, or groceries. i do not suggest that meat and groceries are foresworn, but it would appear that they come second in the household expenses. they are luxuries, only to be obtained if and when more necessary things have been provided. with regard to firing--a little coal is made to go a long way in the labourer's cottage; and with regard to clothes--it is doubtful if anything new is bought, in many families, from year's end to year's end. at "rummage sales," for a few pence, the women are now able to pick up surprising bargains in cast-off garments, which they adapt as best they can for their own or their children's wear. economies like this, however, still hardly suffice to explain how the scanty resources are really spread out. apart from a few cases of palpable destitution, it is not obvious that any families in the village suffer actual want; and seeing that inquiries in the school in recent winters have failed to discover more than two or three sets of children manifestly wanting food, one is led to conclude that acute poverty is of rare occurrence here. on the other hand, all the calculations suggest that a majority perhaps of the labouring folk endure a less intense but chronic poverty, in which, at some point or other every day, the provision for bare physical needs falls a little short. vii good temper in view of their unpromising circumstances the people as a rule are surprisingly cheerful. it is true there are never any signs in the valley of that almost festive temper, that glad relish of life, which, if we may believe the poets, used to characterize the english village of old times. tested by that standard of happiness, it is a low-spirited, mirthless, and all but silent population that we have here now. of public and exuberant enjoyment there is nothing whatever. and yet, subdued though they may be, the cottagers usually manage to keep in tolerable spirits. a woman made me smile the other day. i had seen her husband a week earlier, and found him rheumatic and despondent; but when i inquired how he did, she conceded, with a laugh: "yes, he had a bit o' rheumatism, but he's better now. he 'ad the 'ump then, too." i inferred that she regarded his dejection as quite an unnecessary thing; and this certainly is the customary attitude. the people are slow to admit that they are unhappy. at a "penny readings" an entertainer caused some displeasure by a quite innocent joke in this connection. coming through the village, he noticed the sign of one of the public-houses--the happy home--and invented a conundrum which he put from the platform: "why was this a very miserable village?" but the answer, "because it has only one happy home in it," gave considerable offence. for we are not used to these subtleties of language, and the point was missed, a good many folk protesting that we have "a _lot_ o' happy homes" here. that they should be so touchy about it is perhaps suggestive--pitifully suggestive--of a suspicion in them that their happiness is open to question. none the less, the general impression conveyed by the people's manners is that of a quiet and rather cheery humour, far indeed from gaiety, but farther still from wretchedness. and in matters like this one's senses are not deceived. i know that my neighbours have abundant excuses for being down-hearted; and, as described in an earlier chapter, i sometimes overhear their complainings; but more often than not the evidence of voice-tones and stray words is reassuring rather than dispiriting. notice, for instance, the women who have done their shopping in the town early in the morning, and are coming home for a day's work. they are out of breath, and bothered with their armfuls of purchases; but nine times out of ten their faces look hopeful; there is no sound of grievance or of worry in their talk; their smiling "good-morning" to you proves somehow that it is not a bad morning with them. one day a woman going to the town a little late met another already returning, loaded up with goods. "'ullo, mrs. fry," she laughed, "you be 'bliged to be fust, then?" "yes; but i en't bought it _all_, i thought you'd be comm', so i left some for you." "that's right of ye. en't it a _nice mornin'_?" "jest what we wants! my old man was up an' in he's garden...." the words grow indistinguishable as you get farther away; you don't hear what the "old man" was doing so early, but the country voices sound for a long time, comfortably tuned to the pleasantness of the day. this sort of thing is so common that i seldom notice it, unless it is varied in some way that attracts attention. for instance, i could not help listening to a woman who was pushing her baby in a perambulator down the hill. the baby sat facing her, as bland as a little image of buddha, and as unresponsive, but she was chaffing it. "well, you _be_ a funny little gal, _ben't_ ye? why, you be goin' back'ards into the town! whoever heared tell o' such a thing--goin' to the town _back_'ards. you _be_ a funny little gal!" to me it was a funny little procession, with a touch of the pathetic hidden away in it somewhere; but it bore convincing witness to happiness in at least one home in our valley. it is not so easy to discover, or rather to point out, the corresponding evidence in the demeanour of the men, although when one knows them one is aware that their attitude towards life is quite as courageous as the women's, if not quite so playful. i confess that i rarely see them until they have put a day's work behind them; and they may be more lightsome when they start in the morning, at five o'clock or soon after it. be that as it may, in the evenings i find them taciturn, nonchalant rather than cheerful, not much disposed to be sprightly. long-striding and ungainly, they walk home; between six o'clock and seven you may be sure of seeing some of them coming up the hill from the town, alone or by twos and threes. they speak but little; they look tired and stern; very often there is nothing but a twinkle in their eyes to prove to you that they are not morose. but in fact they are still taking life seriously; their thoughts, and hopes too, are bent on the further work they mean to do when they shall have had their tea. for the more old-fashioned men allow themselves but little rest, and in many a cottage garden of an evening you may see the father of the family soberly at work, and liking it too. if his wife is able to come and look on and chatter to him, or if he can hear her laughing with a friend in the next garden, so much the better; but he does not stop work. impelled, as i shall show later, by other reasons besides those of economy, many of the men make prodigiously long days of it, at least during the summer months. i have known them to leave home at five or even four in the morning, walk five or six miles, do a day's work, walk back in the evening so as to reach home at six or seven o'clock, and then, after a meal, go on again in their gardens until eight or nine. they seem to be under some spiritual need to keep going; their conscience enslaves them. so they grow thin and gaunt in body, grave and very quiet in their spirits. but sullen they very rarely are. with rheumatism and "the 'ump" combined a man will sometimes grow exasperated and be heard to speak irritably, but usually it is a very amiable "good-evening" that greets you from across the hedge where one of these men is silently digging or hoeing. the nature of their work, shall i say, tends to bring them to quietness of soul? i hesitate to say it, because, though work upon the ground with spade or hoe has such a soothing influence upon the amateur, there is a difference between doing it for pleasure during a spare hour and doing it as a duty after a twelve hours' day, and without any prospect of holiday as long as one lives. nevertheless it is plain to be seen that, albeit their long days too often reduce them to a state of apathy, these quiet and patient men experience no less often a compensating delight in the friendly feeling of the tool responding to their skill, and in the fine freshness of the soil as they work it, and in the solace, so varied and so unfailingly fresh, of the open air. thus much at least i have seen in their looks, and have heard in their speech. on a certain june evening when it had set in wet, five large-limbed men, just off their work on the railway, came striding past me up the hill. they had sacks over their shoulders; their clothes and boots, from working in gravel all day, were of the same yellowish-brown colour as the sacks; they were getting decidedly wet; but they looked enviably easy-going and unconcerned. as they went by me one after another, one sleepy-eyed man, comfortably smoking his pipe, vouchsafed no word or glance. but the others, with friendly sidelong glance at me, all spoke; and their placid voices were full of rich contentment. "good-night"; "nice _rain_"; "g'd-evenin'"; and, last of all, "_this_'ll make the young taters grow!" the man who said this looked all alert, as if the blood were dancing in him with enjoyment of the rain; his eyes were beaming with pleasure. so the five passed up the hill homewards, to have some supper, and then, perhaps, watch and listen to the rain on their gardens until it was time to go to bed. i ought to mention, though i may hardly illustrate, one faculty which is a great support to many of the men--i mean the masculine gift of "humour." not playful-witted like the women, nor yet apt, like the women, to refresh their spirits in the indulgence of sentiment and emotion, but rather stolid and inclined to dim brooding thought, they are able to see the laughable side of their own misadventures and discomforts; and thanks to this they keep a sense of proportion, as though perceiving that if their labour accomplishes its end, it does not really matter that they get tired, or dirty, or wet through in doing it. this is a social gift, of small avail to the men working alone in their gardens; but it serves them well during the day's work with their mates, or when two or three of them together tackle some job of their own, such as cleaning out a well, or putting up a fowl-house. then, if somebody gets splashed, or knocks his knuckles, and softly swears, his wrath turns to a grin as the little dry chuckle or the sly remark from the others reminds him that his feelings are understood. it is well worth while to be present at these times. i laugh now to think of some of them that i have enjoyed; but i will not risk almost certain failure in trying to describe them, for their flavour depends on minute details into which i have no space to enter. but whatever alleviations there may be to their troubles, the people's geniality is still noteworthy. in circumstances that contrast so pitifully with those of the employing classes, it would seem natural if they were full of bitterness and envy; yet that is by no means the case. being born to poverty and the labouring life, they accept the position as if it were entirely natural. of course it has its drawbacks; but they suppose that it takes all sorts to make a world, and since they are of the labouring sort they must make the best of it. with this simple philosophy they have contrived hitherto to meet their troubles calmly, not blaming other people for them, unless in individual cases, and hardly dreaming of translating them into social injustice. they have no sense of oppression to poison their lives. the truth which economists begin to recognize, that where there are wealthy and idle classes there must as an inevitable result be classes who are impoverished and overworked, has not found its way into the villager's head. so, supported by an instinctive fatalism, the people have taken their plight for granted, without harbouring resentment against the more fortunate. it may be added that most of them are convinced believers in those fallacies which cluster around the phrase "making work." it were strange if they were not. the labourer lives by being employed at work; and, knowing his employer personally--this or that farmer or tradesman or villa-resident--he sees the work he lives by actually being "made." only very rarely does it occur to him that when he goes to the shop he, too, makes work. in bad times, perhaps, he gets an inkling of it; and then, when wages are scarce, and the public-house landlord grumbles, old-fashioned villagers will say, "ah, they misses the poor man, ye see!" but the idea is too abstract to be followed to its logical conclusion. the people do not see the multitudes at work for them in other counties, making their boots and ready-made clothes, getting their coal, importing their cheap provisions; but they do see, and know by name, the well-to-do of the neighbourhood, who have new houses built and new gardens laid out; and they naturally enough infer that labour would perish if there were no well-to-do people to be supplied. against the rich man, therefore, the labourers have no sort of animosity. if he will spend money freely, the richer he is the better. throughout the south of england this is the common attitude. i remember, not long ago, on a holiday, coming to a village which looked rarely prosperous for its county, owing, i was told, to the fact that the county lunatic asylum near by caused money to be spent there. in the next village, which was in a deplorable state, and had no asylum, the people were looking enviously towards this one, and wishing that at least their absentee landlords would come and hunt the neighbourhood, though it appeared that one of these gentlemen was a bishop. but the labouring folk were not exacting as to the sort of person--lunatics, fox-hunters, bishops--anybody would be welcome who would spend riches in a way to "make work." and so here. this village looks up to those who control wealth as if they were the sources of it; and if there is a little dislike of some of them personally, there has so far appeared but little bitterness of feeling against them as a class. i do not say that there has never been any grumbling. one day, years ago, an old friend of mine broke out, in his most contemptuous manner, "what d'ye think master dash blank bin up to now?" he named the owner of a large estate near the town. "bin an' promised all his men a blanket an' a quarter of a ton o' coal at christmas. a _blanket_, and a _quarter of a ton o' coal_! pity as somebody hadn't shoved a brick down his throat, when he _had_ got 'n open, so's to _keep_ 'n open!" the sentiment sounds envious, but in fact it was scornful. it was directed, not against the great man's riches, but against the well-known meanness he displayed anew in his contemptible gifts. a faint trace of traditional class animosity sounds in one or two customary phrases of the village, for instance in the saying that there is one law for the rich and another for the poor. yet this has become such a by-word as to be usually stated with a smile; for is it not an old acquaintance amongst opinions? the older people even have a humorous development of it. according to their improved version, there are not two only, but three kinds of law: one kind for the rich, one for the poor, and one "the law that nobody can't make." what is this last? why, the law "to make a feller pay what en't got nothink." by such witticisms the edge of bitterness is turned; the sting is taken out of that sense of inequality which, as the labourer probably knows, would poison his present comfort and lead him into dangerous courses if he let it rankle. with one exception, the angriest recognition of class differences which i have come across amongst the villagers was when i passed two women on their way home from the town, where, i surmised, they, or some friend of theirs, had just been fined at the county court or the petty sessions. "ah!" one was saying, with spiteful emphasis, "_there'll_ come a great day for they to have _their_ judge, same as we _poor_ people." yet even there, if the emotion was newly-kindled, the sentiment was too antiquated to mean much. for it is a very ancient idea--that of getting even with one's enemies in the next world instead of in this. so long as the poor can console themselves by leaving it to providence to avenge them at the day of judgment, it cannot be said that there is any virulent class-feeling amongst them. the most that you can make of it is that they occasionally feel spiteful. it happened, in this case, to be against rich people that those two women felt their momentary grudge; but it was hardly felt against the rich as a class; and if the same kind of offence had come from some neighbour, they would have said much the same kind of thing. in the family disputes which occur now and then over the inheritance of a few pounds' worth of property, the losers put on a very disinterested and superior look, and say piously of the gainers: "ah, they'll never prosper! they _can't_ prosper!" the exceptional case alluded to above was certainly startling. i was talking to an old man whom i had long known: a little wrinkled old man, deservedly esteemed for his integrity and industry, full of experience as well as of old-world notions sometimes a little "grumpy," a little caustic in his manner of talking, but on the whole quite kindly and tolerant in his disposition. you could often watch in his face the habitual practice of patience, as, with a wry smile and a contemptuous remark, he dismissed some disagreeable topic or other from his thoughts. he had come down in the world. his father's cottage, already mortgaged when he inherited it, had been sold over his head after the death of the mortgagee, so that thenceforth he was on no better footing than any other of the labourers. gradually, as the demand failed for his old-fashioned forms of skill--thatching, mowing, and so on--his position became more and more precarious; yet he remained good-tempered, in his queer acid way, until he was past seventy years old. that evening, when he startled me, he had been telling of his day's work as a road-mender, and he was mightily philosophical over the prospect of having to give up even that last form of regular employment, because of the exposure and the miles of walking which it entailed. nobody could have thought him a vindictive or even a discontented man so far. by chance, however, something was said about the uncultivated land in the neighbourhood, covered as it is with fir-woods now; and at that he suddenly fired up. pointing to the woods, which could be seen beyond the valley, he said spitefully, while his eyes blazed: "i can remember when all that was open common, and you could go where you mind to. now 'tis all fenced in, and if you looks over the fence they'll lock ye up. and they en't got no more _right_ to it, mr. bourne, than you and me have! i should _like_ to see they woods all go up in flames!" that was years ago. the woods are flourishing; the old man is past doing any mischief; but i remember his indignation. and it was the sole case i have met with in the parish, of animosity harboured not so much against persons as against the existing position of things. this one man was alive to the injustice of a social arrangement; and in that respect he differed from the rest of my neighbours, unless i am much deceived in them. of course there may be more of envious feeling abroad in the village than i know about. it is the sort of thing that would keep itself secret; and perhaps this old man's contemporaries, who shared his recollections, silently shared his bitterness too. but if so, i do not believe that they have passed the feeling on to their children. the impression is strong in me that the people have never learnt to look upon the distribution of property, which has left them so impoverished, as anything other than an inevitable dispensation of providence. if they thought otherwise, at any rate if the contrary view were at all prevalent amongst them, they must be most gifted hypocrites, to go about with the good temper in their eyes and the cheerfulness in their voices that i have been describing. to what should it be attributed--this power of facing poverty with contentment? to some extent doubtless it rests on christian teaching, although perhaps not much on the christian teaching of the present day. present-day religion, indeed, must often seem to the cottagers a tiresome hobby reserved to the well-to-do; but from distant generations there seems to have come down, in many a cottage family, a rather lofty religious sentiment which fosters honesty, patience, resignation, courage. much of the gravity, much of the tranquillity of soul of the more sedate villagers must be ascribed to this traditional influence, whose effects are attractive enough, in the character and outlook of many an old cottage man and woman. yet there is much more in the village temper than can be accounted for by this cause alone. in most of the people the cheerfulness does not suggest pious resignation, in the hope of the next world; it looks like a grim and lusty determination to make the best of this world. it is contemptuous, or laughing. as i have shown, it has a tendency to be beery. it occasionally breaks out into disorder. in fact, if the folk were not habitually overworked they would be boisterous, jolly. of course it may all proceed from the strong english nature in them; and in that case we need seek no other explanation of it. yet if one influence, namely, a traditional christianity, is to be credited--as it certainly should be--with an effect upon the village character in one direction, then probably, behind this other effect in another direction, some other influence is at work. and for my part i make no doubt of it. the cheerfulness of the cottagers rests largely upon a survival of the outlook and habits of the peasant days before the common was enclosed. it is not a negative quality. my neighbours are not merely patient and loftily resigned to distress; they are still groping, dimly, for an enjoyment of life which they have not yet realized to be unattainable. they maintain the peasant spirits. observe, i do not suggest that they are intentionally old-fashioned. i do not believe them to be sympathetic at all to those self-conscious revivals of peasant arts which are now being recommended to the poor by a certain type of philanthropists. they make no æsthetic choice. they do not deliberate which of the ancestral customs it would be "nice" for them to follow; but, other things being equal, they incline to go on in the way that has been usual in their families. it is a tendency that sways them, not a thought-out scheme of the way to live. now and again, perhaps, some memory may strengthen the tendency, as they are reminded of this or that fine old personality worthy of imitation, or as some circumstance of childhood is recalled, which it would be pleasant to restore; but in the main the force which bears them on is a traditional outlook, fifty times more potent than definite but transient memories. this it is that has to be recognized in my neighbours. down in their valley, until the "residents" began to flock in, the old style of thinking lingered on; in the little cottages the people, from earliest infancy, were accustomed to hear all things--persons and manners, houses and gardens, and the day's work--appraised by an ancient standard of the countryside; and consequently it happens that this evening while i am writing, out there on the slopes of the valley the men and women, and the very children whose voices i can just hear, are living by an outlook in which the values are different from those of easy-going people, and in which, especially, hardships have never been met by peevishness, but have been beaten by good-humour. iii the altered circumstances viii the peasant system the persistence into the twentieth century--the scarcely realized persistence--not so much of any definite ideas, as of a general temper more proper to the eighteenth century, accounts for all sorts of anomalies in the village, and explains not only why other people do not understand the position of its inhabitants to-day, but why they themselves largely fail to understand it. they are not fully aware of being behind the times, and probably in many respects they no longer are so; only there is that queer mental attitude giving its bias to their view of life. although very feebly now, still the momentum derived from a forgotten cult carries them on. but, having noticed the persistence of the peasant traditions, we have next to notice how inadequate they are to present needs. our subject swings round here. inasmuch as the peasant outlook lingers on in the valley, it explains many of those peculiarities i have described in earlier chapters; but, inasmuch as it is a decayed and all but useless outlook, we shall see in its decay the significance of those changes in the village which have now to be traced out. the little that is left from the old days has an antiquarian or a gossipy sort of interest; but the lack of the great deal that has gone gives rise to some most serious problems. for, as i hinted at the outset, the "peasant" tradition in its vigour amounted to nothing less than a form of civilization--the home-made civilization of the rural english. to the exigent problems of life it furnished solutions of its own--different solutions, certainly, from those which modern civilization gives, but yet serviceable enough. people could find in it not only a method of getting a living, but also an encouragement and a help to live well. besides employment there was an intense interest for them in the country customs. there was scope for modest ambition too. best of all, those customs provided a rough guidance as to conduct--an unwritten code to which, though we forget it, england owes much. it seems singular to think of now; but the very labourer might reasonably hope for some satisfaction in life, nor trouble about "raising" himself into some other class, so long as he could live on peasant lines. and it is in the virtual disappearance of this civilization that the main change in the village consists. other changes are comparatively immaterial. the valley might have been invaded by the leisured classes; its old appearance might have been altered; all sorts of new-fangled things might have been introduced into it; and still under the surface it would have retained the essential village characteristics, had but the peasant tradition been preserved in its integrity amongst the lowlier people; but with that dying, the village, too, dies where it stands. and that is what has been happening here. a faint influence from out of the past still has its feeble effect; but, in this corner of england at least, what we used to think of as the rural english are, as it were, vanishing away--vanishing as in a slow transformation, not by death or emigration, not even by essential change of personnel, but by becoming somehow different in their outlook and habits. the old families continue in their old home; but they begin to be a new people. it was of the essence of the old system that those living under it subsisted in the main upon what their own industry could produce out of the soil and materials of their own countryside. a few things, certainly, they might get from other neighbourhoods, such as iron for making their tools, and salt for curing their bacon; and some small interchange of commodities there was, accordingly, say between the various districts that yielded cheese, and wool, and hops, and charcoal; but as a general thing the parish where the peasant people lived was the source of the materials they used, and their well-being depended on their knowledge of its resources. amongst themselves they would number a few special craftsmen--a smith, a carpenter or wheelwright, a shoemaker, a pair of sawyers, and so on; yet the trades of these specialists were only ancillary to the general handiness of the people, who with their own hands raised and harvested their crops, made their clothes, did much of the building of their homes, attended to their cattle, thatched their ricks, cut their firing, made their bread and wine or cider, pruned their fruit-trees and vines, looked after their bees, all for themselves. and some at least, and perhaps the most, of these economies were open to the poorest labourer. though he owned no land, yet as the tenant, and probably the permanent tenant, of a cottage and garden he had the chance to occupy himself in many a craft that tended to his own comfort. a careful man and wife needed not to despair of becoming rich in the possession of a cow or a pig or two, and of good clothes and household utensils; and they might well expect to see their children grow up strong and prosperous in the peasant way. thus the claim that i have made for the peasant tradition--namely, that it permitted a man to hope for well-being without seeking to escape from his own class into some other--is justified, partially at least. i admit that the ambition was a modest one, but there were circumstances attending it to make it a truly comforting one too. look once more at the conditions. the small owners of the parish might occupy more land than the labourers, and have the command of horses and waggons, and ploughs and barns, and so on; but they ate the same sort of food and wore the same sort of clothes as the poorer folk, and they thought the same thoughts too, and talked in the same dialect, so that the labourer working for them was not oppressed by any sense of personal inferiority. he might even excel in some directions, and be valued for his excellence. hence, if his ambition was small, the need for it was not very great. and then, this life of manifold industry was interesting to live. it is impossible to doubt it. not one of the pursuits i have mentioned failed to make its pleasant demand on the labourer for skill and knowledge; so that after his day's wage-earning he turned to his wine-making or the management of his pigs with the zest that men put into their hobbies. amateurs the people were of their homely crafts--very clever amateurs, too, some of them. i think it likely, also, that normally even wage-earning labour went as it were to a peaceful tune. in the elaborate tile-work of old cottage roofs, in the decorated ironwork of decrepit farm-waggons, in the carefully fashioned field-gates--to name but a few relics of the sort--many a village of surrey and hampshire and sussex has ample proofs that at least the artisans of old time went about their work placidly, unhurriedly, taking time to make their products comely. and probably the same peaceful conditions extended to the labouring folk. of course, their ploughing and harvesting have left no traces; but there is much suggestiveness in some little things one may note, such as the friendly behaviour of carter-men to their horses, and the accomplished finish given to the thatch of ricks, and the endearing names which people in out-of-the-way places still bestow upon their cows. quietly, but convincingly, such things tell their tale of tranquillity, for they cannot have originated amongst a people habitually unhappy and harassed. but whether the day's work went comfortably or no, certainly the people's own home-work--to turn to that again--must often have been agreeable, and sometimes delightful. the cottage crafts were not all strictly useful; some had simple æsthetic ends. if you doubt it, look merely at the clipped hedges of box and yew in the older gardens; they are the result of long and loving care, but they serve no particular end, save to please the eye. so, too, in general, if you think that the folk of old were inappreciative of beauty, you have but to listen to their names of flowers--sweet-william, hearts-ease, marigold, meadow-sweet, night-shade--for proof that english peasant-life had its graceful side. still, their useful work must, after all, have been the mainstay of the villagers; and how thoroughly their spirits were immersed in it i suppose few living people will ever be able to realize. for my part, i dare not pretend to comprehend it; only at times i can vaguely feel what the peasant's attitude must have been. all the things of the countryside had an intimate bearing upon his own fate; he was not there to admire them, but to live by them--or, say, to wrest his living from them by familiar knowledge of their properties. from long experience--experience older than his own, and traditional amongst his people--he knew the soil of the fields and its variations almost foot by foot; he understood the springs and streams; hedgerow and ditch explained themselves to him; the coppices and woods, the water-meadows and the windy heaths, the local chalk and clay and stone, all had a place in his regard--reminded him of the crafts of his people, spoke to him of the economies of his own cottage life; so that the turfs or the faggots or the timber he handled when at home called his fancy, while he was handling them, to the landscape they came from. of the intimacy of this knowledge, in minute details, it is impossible to give an idea. i am assured of its existence because i have come across surviving examples of it, but i may not begin to describe it. one may, however, imagine dimly what the cumulative effect of it must have been on the peasant's outlook; how attached he must have grown--i mean how closely linked--to his own countryside. he did not merely "reside" in it; he was part of it, and it was part of him. he fitted into it as one of its native denizens, like the hedgehogs and the thrushes. all that happened to it mattered to him. he learnt to look with reverence upon its main features, and would not willingly interfere with their disposition. but i lose the best point in talking of the individual peasant; these things should rather be said of the tribe--the little group of folk--of which he was a member. as they, in their successive generations, were the denizens of their little patch of england--its human fauna--so it was with traditional feelings derived from their continuance in the land that the individual peasant man or woman looked at the fields and the woods. out of all these circumstances--the pride of skill in handicrafts, the detailed understanding of the soil and its materials, the general effect of the well-known landscape, and the faint sense of something venerable in its associations--out of all this there proceeded an influence which acted upon the village people as an unperceived guide to their conduct, so that they observed the seasons proper for their varied pursuits almost as if they were going through some ritual. thus, for instance, in this parish, when, on an auspicious evening of spring, a man and wife went out far across the common to get rushes for the wife's hop-tying, of course it was a consideration of thrift that sent them off; but an idea of doing the right piece of country routine at the right time gave value to the little expedition. the moment, the evening, became enriched by suggestion of the seasons into which it fitted, and by memories of years gone by. similarly in managing the garden crops: to be too late, to neglect the well-known signs which hinted at what should be done, was more than bad economy; it was dereliction of peasant duty. and thus the succession of recurring tasks, each one of which seemed to the villager almost characteristic of his own people in their native home, kept constantly alive a feeling that satisfied him and a usage that helped him. the feeling was that he belonged to a set of people rather apart from the rest of the world--a people necessarily different from others in their manners, and perhaps poorer and ruder than most, but yet fully entitled to respect and consideration. the usage was just the whole series or body of customs to which his own people conformed; or, more exactly, the accepted idea in the village of what ought to be done in any contingency, and of the proper way to do it. in short, it was that unwritten code i spoke of just now--a sort of _savoir vivre_--which became part of the rural labourer's outlook, and instructed him through his days and years. it was hardly reduced to thoughts in his consciousness, but it always swayed him. and it was consistent with--nay, it implied--many strong virtues: toughness to endure long labour, handiness, frugality, habits of early rising. it was consistent too--that must be admitted--with considerable hardness and "coarseness" of feeling; a man might be avaricious, loose, dirty, quarrelsome, and not offend much against the essential peasant code. nor was its influence very good upon his intellectual development, as i shall show later on. yet whatever its defects, it had those qualities which i have tried to outline; and where it really flourished it ultimately led to gracefulness of living and love of what is comely and kindly. you can detect as much still, in the flavour of many a mellow folk-saying, not to mention folk-song; you may divine it yet in all kinds of little popular traits, if once you know what to look for. in this particular valley, where the barren soil challenged the people to a severer struggle for bare subsistence, the tradition could not put forth its fairer, its gentler, features; nevertheless the backbone of the village life was of the genuine peasant order. the cottagers had to "rough it," to dispense with softness, to put up with ugliness; but by their own skill and knowledge they forced the main part of their living out of the soil and materials of their own neighbourhood. and in doing this they won at least the rougher consolations which that mode of life had to offer. their local knowledge was intensely interesting to them; they took pride in their skill and hardihood; they felt that they belonged to a set of people not inferior to others, albeit perhaps poorer and ruder; and all the customs which their situation required them to follow sustained their belief in the ancestral notions of good and evil. in other words, they had a civilization to support them--a poor thing, perhaps, a poor kind of civilization, but their own, and entirely within the reach of them all. i have no hesitation in affirming all this; because, though i never saw the system in its completeness, i came here soon enough to find a few old people still partially living by it. these old people, fortunate in the possession of their own cottages and a little land, were keepers of pigs and donkeys, and even a few cows. they kept bees, too; they made wine; they often paid in kind for any services that neighbours did for them; and with the food they could grow, and the firing they could still obtain from the woods and heath, their living was half provided for. the one of them i knew best was not the most typical. shrewd old man that he was, he had adapted himself so far as suited him to a more commercial economy, and had grown suspicious and avaricious; yet if he could have been translated suddenly back into the eighteenth century, he would scarce have needed to change any of his habits, or even his clothes. he wore an old-fashioned "smock frock," doubtless home-made; and in this he pottered about all day--pottered, at least, in his old age, when i knew him--not very spruce as to personal cleanliness, smelling of his cow-stall, saving money, wanting no holiday, independent of books and newspapers, indifferent to anything that happened farther off than the neighbouring town, liking his pipe and glass of beer, and never knowing what it was to feel dull. i speak of him because i knew him personally; but there were others of whom i used to hear, though i never became acquainted with them, who seem to have been hardly at all tainted with the commercial spirit, and were more in the position of labourers than this man, yet lived almost dignified lives of simple and self-supporting contentment. of some of them the middle-aged people of to-day still talk, not without respect. but in writing of such folk i have most emphatically to use the past tense; for although a sort of afterglow from the old civilization still rests upon the village character, it is fast fading out, and it has not much resemblance to the genuine thing of half a century ago. the direct light has gone out of the people's life--the light, the meaning, the guidance. they have no longer a civilization, but only some derelict habits left from that which has gone. and it is no wonder if some of those habits seem now stupid, ignorant, objectionable; for the fitness has departed from them, and left them naked. they were acquired under a different set of circumstances--a set of circumstances whose disappearance dates from, and was caused by, the enclosure of the common. ix the new thrift one usually thinks of the enclosure of a common as a procedure which takes effect immediately, in striking and memorable change; yet the event in this village seems to have made no lasting impression on people's minds. the older folk talk about things that happened "before the common was enclosed" much as they might say "before the flood," and occasionally they discuss the history of some allotment or other made under the award; but one hears little from them to suggest that the fateful ordinance seemed to them a fateful one at the time. it may be that the stoical village temper is in part accountable for this indifference. as the arrangement was presumably made over the heads of the people, they doubtless took it in a fatalistic way as a thing that could not be helped and had better be dismissed from their thoughts. were this all, however, i think that i should have heard more of the matter. had sudden distress fallen upon the valley, had families been speedily and obviously ruined by the enclosure, some mention of the fact would surely have reached me. but the truth appears to be that nothing very definite or striking ensued, to be remembered. the change was hardly understood, or, at any rate, its importance was not appreciated, by the people concerned. perhaps, indeed, its calamitous nature was veiled at first behind some small temporary advantages which sprang from it. true, i question if the benefits experienced here were equal to those which are said to have been realized in similar circumstances elsewhere. in other parishes, where the farmers have been impoverished and the labourers out of work, the latter, at the enclosure of a common, have sometimes found welcome employment in digging out or fencing in the boundaries of the new allotments, and in breaking up the fresh ground. so the landowners say. but here, where there were few men wanting constant labour, the opportunity of work to do was hardly called for, and the making of boundaries was in many cases neglected. in that one way, therefore, not many can have derived any profit from the enclosure. on the other hand, an advantage was really felt, i think, in the opening that arose for building cottages on the newly-acquired freeholds. quite a number of cottages seem to date from that period; and i infer that the opportunity was seized by various men who wished to provide new house-room for themselves, or for a married son or daughter. they could still go to work almost on the old lines. perhaps the recognized price--seventy pounds, it is said to have been, for building a cottage of three rooms--would have to be exceeded a little, when timbers for floor and roof could no longer be had for the cutting out of fir-trees on the common; and yet there, after all, were the trees, inexpensive to buy; and there was the peasant tradition, still unimpaired, to encourage and commend such enterprise. there is really little need, however, for these explanations of the people's unconcern at the disaster which had, in fact, befallen them. the passing of the common seemed unimportant at the time, not so much because a few short-lived advantages concealed its meaning as because the real disadvantages were slow to appear. at first the enclosure was rather a nominal event than an actual one. it had been made in theory; in practice it was deferred. i have just said that in many cases the boundaries were left unmarked; i may add now that to this day they have not quite all been defined, although the few spots which remain unfenced are not worthy of notice. they are to be found only in places where building is impossible; elsewhere all is now closed in. for it is the recent building boom that has at last caused the enclosure to take its full effect. before that began, not more than ten or twelve years ago, there were abundant patches of heath still left open; and on many a spot where nowadays the well-to-do have their tennis or their afternoon tea, of old i have seen donkeys peacefully grazing. the donkeys have had to go, their room being wanted, and not many cottagers can keep a donkey now; but kept they were, and in considerable numbers, until these late years, in spite of the enclosure. but if the end could be deferred so long, one may judge how slowly the change began--slowly and inconspicuously, so that those who saw the beginning could almost ignore it. even the cows--once as numerous as the donkeys--were not given up quite immediately, though in a few years they were all gone, i am told. but long after them, heath for thatching and firing might still be cut in waste places; fern continued until six or seven years ago to yield litter for pig-sties; and since these things still seemed to go on almost as well after the enclosure as before it, how should the people have imagined that their ancient mode of life had been cut off at the roots, and that it had really begun to die where it stood, under their undiscerning eyes? nevertheless, that was the effect. to the enclosure of the common more than to any other cause may be traced all the changes that have subsequently passed over the village. it was like knocking the keystone out of an arch. the keystone is not the arch; but, once it is gone, all sorts of forces, previously resisted, begin to operate towards ruin, and gradually the whole structure crumbles down. this fairly illustrates what has happened to the village, in consequence of the loss of the common. the direct results have been perhaps the least important in themselves; but indirectly the enclosure mattered, because it left the people helpless against influences which have sapped away their interests, robbed them of security and peace, rendered their knowledge and skill of small value, and seriously affected their personal pride and their character. observe it well. the enclosure itself, i say, was not actually the cause of all this; but it was the opening, so to speak, through which all this was let in. the other causes which have been at work could hardly have operated as they have done if the village life had not been weakened by the changes directly due to the loss of the common. they consisted--those changes--in a radical alteration of the domestic economy of the cottagers. not suddenly, but none the less inevitably, the old thrift--the peasant thrift--which the people understood thoroughly had to be abandoned in favour of a modern thrift--commercial thrift--which they understood but vaguely. that was the essential effect of the enclosure, the central change directly caused by it; and it struck at the very heart of the peasant system. for note what it involved. by the peasant system, as i have already explained, people derived the necessaries of life from the materials and soil of their own countryside. now, so long as they had the common, the inhabitants of the valley were in a large degree able to conform to this system, the common being, as it were, a supplement to the cottage gardens, and furnishing means of extending the scope of the little home industries. it encouraged the poorest labourer to practise, for instance, all those time-honoured crafts which cobbett, in his little book on cottage economy, had advocated as the one hope for labourers. the cow-keeping, the bread-making, the fattening of pigs and curing of bacon, were actually carried on here thirty years after cobbett's time, besides other things not mentioned by him, such as turf-cutting on the heath and wheat-growing in the gardens. but it was the common that made all this possible. it was only by the spacious "turn-out" which it afforded that the people were enabled to keep cows and get milk and butter; it was only with the turf-firing cut on the common that they could smoke their bacon, hanging it in the wide chimneys over those old open hearths where none but such fuel could be used; and, again, it was only because they could get furze from the common to heat their bread ovens that it was worth their while to grow a little wheat at home, and have it ground into flour for making bread. with the common, however, they could, and did, achieve all this. i am not dealing in supposition. i have mentioned nothing here that i have not learnt from men who remember the system still flourishing--men who in their boyhood took part in it, and can tell how the turfs were harvested, and how the pig-litter was got home and stacked in ricks; men who, if you lead them on, will talk of the cows they themselves watched over on the heath--two from this cottage, three from that one yonder, one more from master hack's, another couple from trusler's, until they have numbered a score, perhaps, and have named a dozen old village names. it all actually happened. the whole system was "in full swing" here, within living memory. but the very heart of it was the open common. accordingly, when the enclosure began to be a fact, when the cottager was left with nothing to depend upon save his garden alone, as a peasant he was a broken man--a peasant shut out from his countryside and cut off from his resources. true, he might still grow vegetables, and keep a pig or two, and provide himself with pork; but there was little else that he could do in the old way. it was out of the question to obtain most of his supplies by his own handiwork: they had to be procured, ready-made, from some other source. that source, i need hardly say, was a shop. so the once self-supporting cottager turned into a spender of money at the baker's, the coal-merchant's, the provision-dealer's; and, of course, needing to spend money, he needed first to get it. the change was momentous, as events have sufficiently proved. in the matter of earning, to be sure, the difference has appeared rather in the attitude of the people than in the actual method of going about to get money. to a greater or less extent, most of them were already wage-earners, though not regularly. if a few had been wont to furnish themselves with money in true peasant fashion--that is to say, by selling their goods, their butter, or milk, or pig-meat, instead of their labour--still, the majority had wanted for their own use whatever they could produce in this way, and had been obliged to sell their labour itself, when they required money. wage-earning, therefore, was no new thing in the village; only, the need to earn became more insistent, when so many more things than before had to be bought with the wages. consequently, it had to be approached in a more businesslike, a more commercial, spirit. unemployment, hitherto not much worse than a regrettable inconvenience, became a calamity. every hour's work acquired a market value. the sense of taking part in time-honoured duties of the countryside disappeared before the idea--so very important now--of getting shillings with which to go to a shop; while even the home industries which were still practicable began to be valued in terms of money, so that a man was tempted to neglect his own gardening if he could sell his labour in somebody else's garden. thus undermined, the peasant outlook gave way, perforce, to that of the modern labourer, and the old attachment to the countryside was weakened. in all this change of attitude, however, we see only one of those indirect results of the enclosure of the common which were spoken of above. if the villagers became more mercenary, it was not because the fencing in of the heaths immediately caused them to become so, but because it left them helpless to resist becoming so--left them a prey to considerations whose weight they had previously not so much felt. after all, the new order of things did but intensify the need of wage-earning; it made no difference in the procedure of it. but in regard to spending the case was otherwise. under the old régime, although probably a small regular expenditure of money had been usual, yet in the main the peasant's expenditure was not regular, but intermittent. getting so much food and firing by his own labour, he might go for weeks without needing more than a few shillings to make up occasional deficiencies. his purse was subject to no such constant drain as that for which the modern labourer has to provide. in short, the regular expenses were small, the occasional ones not crushing. but to-day, when the people can no longer produce for themselves, the proportion has changed. it has swung round so completely that nearly all the expenses have become regular, while those of the other sort have wellnigh disappeared. every week money has to be found, and not only, as of old, for rent, and boots, and for some bread and flour, but also for butter or margarine, sugar, tea, bacon or foreign meat if possible, lard, jam, and--in the winter, at least--coal. even water is an item of weekly expense; for where the company's water is laid on to a cottage, there is sixpence a week or so added to the rent. the only important thing which is still not bought regularly is clothing. the people get their clothes when they can, and when they positively must. as a result, the former thrift of the village has been entirely subverted. for earning and spending are not the whole of economy. there is saving to be considered; and, in consequence of the turn-over of expenses from the occasional to the regular group, the cottagers have been obliged to resort to methods of saving specially adapted to the changed conditions. the point is of extreme importance. under the old style, a man's chief savings were in the shape of commodities ready for use, or growing into use. they were, too, a genuine capital, inasmuch as they supported him while he replaced and increased them. the flitches of bacon, the little stores of flour and home-made wine, the stack of firing, the small rick of fern or grass, were his savings-bank, which, while he drew from it daily, he replenished betimes as he planted his garden, and brought home heath and turf from the common, and minded his pigs and his cow, and put by odd shillings for occasional need. notice that putting-by of shillings. it was not the whole, it was only the completion, of the peasant's thrift. at a pinch he could even do without the money, paying for what he wanted with a sack of potatoes, or a day's work with his donkey-cart; but a little money put by was a convenience. when it was wanted, it was wanted in lump sums--ten shillings now, say, for a little pig; and then fifteen shillings or so in six weeks' time for mending the donkey-cart, and so on; and, thanks to the real savings in the shape of food and firing ready for use, the shillings, however come by, could be hoarded up. but under the new thrift they cannot be so hoarded up; nor, fortunately, are the little lump sums so necessary as before. the real savings now, the real stores of useful capital, are no longer in the cottager's home. they are in shops. what the modern labourer chiefly requires, therefore, is not a little hoard of money lying by, but a regular supply of money, a constant stream of it, flowing in, to enable him to go to the shops regularly. in a word, he wants an income--a steady income of shillings. and since his earnings are not steady--since his income may cease any day, and continue in abeyance for weeks at a time, during which the shops will be closed against him, his chief economy is directed upon the object of insuring his weekly income. most miserably for him, he has never been able to insure it against all reverses. against trade depression, which throws him out of work and dries up the stream of money that should come flowing in, he has no protection. he has none if his employer should go bankrupt, or leave the neighbourhood, and dismiss him; none against the competition of machinery. still, the labourers do as much as they can. sickness, at least, does not find them unprepared. to cover loss of wages during sickness, they pay into a benefit society. the more careful, indeed, pay into two--the oddfellows or the foresters, or some such society--and a local "slate-club." i have known men out of work living on tea and bread, and not much of that, so that they may keep up their club payments, and be sure of an income if they should fall sick; and i have known men so circumstanced immediately feel the advantage if sickness should actually fall upon them. this is the new thrift, which has replaced that of the peasant. i do not say that there is no other saving--that no little sums are hoarded up; for, in fact, i could name one or two men who, after illness protracted to the stage when sick-pay from the club is reduced, have still fought off destitution with the small savings from better times. in most cases, however, no hoarding is possible. the club takes all the spare money; and the club alone stands between the labourer and destitution. and let this be clearly understood. at first it looks as if the member of a club had money invested in his society--money there, instead of perishable goods at home. yet, in fact, that is not the case. his payments into the club funds are no investment. they bring him no profit; they are not a useful capital that can be renewed with interest. at the christmas "share-out" he does get back a part of the twenty-six shillings contributed to the slate-club during the year; but the two pounds a year paid to the benefit society are his no longer; they cannot be "realized"; they are gone beyond reclaiming. though he be out of work and his family starving, he cannot touch the money; to derive any advantage from it he himself must first fall ill. that is what the modern thrift means to the labourer. it does nothing to further--on the contrary, it retards--his prosperity; but it helps him in a particular kind of adversity. it drains his personal wealth away, and leaves him destitute of his capital; it robs his wife and children of his savings; but in return it makes him one of a brotherhood which guarantees to him a minimum income for a short time, if he should be out of health. an oldish man, who had been telling me one evening how they used to live in his boyhood, looked pensively across the valley when he had done, and so stood for a minute or two, as if trying to recover his impressions of that lost time. at last, with appearance of an effort to speak patiently, "ah," he said, "they tells me times are better now, but i can't see it;" and it was plain enough that he thought our present times the worse. so far as this valley is concerned i incline to agree with him, although in general it is a debatable question. on the one hand, it may be that the things a labourer can buy at a shop for fifteen shillings a week are more in quantity and variety, if not better in quality, than those which his forefathers could produce by their own industry; and to that extent the advantage is with the present times. but, on the other hand, the fifteen shillings are not every week forthcoming; and whereas the old-time cottager out of work could generally find something profitable to do for himself, the modern man, having once got his garden into order, stands unprofitably idle. perhaps the worst is that, owing to the lowness of their wages, the people have never been able to give the new thrift a fair trial. after all, they miss the lump sums laid by against need. if their earnings would ever overtake their expenses and give a little margin, they might do better; but buying, as they are obliged to do, from hand to mouth, they buy at extravagant prices. coal, for instance, which costs me about twenty-six shillings for a ton, costs the labourer half as much again as that, because he can only pay for a hundredweight or so at a time. so, too, the boots he can get for four or five shillings a pair are the dearest of all boots. they wear out in a couple of months or so, and another pair must be bought almost before another four or five shillings can be spared. in its smaller degree, a still more absurd difficulty handicaps the people in dealing with their own fruit-crops. to make raspberry or gooseberry jam should be, you would think, an economy delightful to the cottage women, if only as a piece of old-fashioned thrift; yet they rarely do it. if they had the necessary utensils, still the weekly money at their disposal will not run to the purchase of extra firing and sugar. it is all too little for everyday purposes, and they are glad to eke it out by selling their fruit for middle-class women to preserve, though in the end they have to buy for their own families an inferior quality of jam at a far higher price. wherever you follow it up, you will find the modern thrift not quite successful in the cottages. it is not elastic enough; or, rather, the people's means are not elastic enough, and will not stretch to its demands. there is well-being in it--variety of food, for instance, and comfort of clothing--as soon as both ends can be made to meet and to lap over a little; but it strains the small incomes continually to the breaking-point, so that every other consideration has to give way under it to a pitiful calculation of pence. for the sake of pence the people who keep fowls sell the eggs, and feed their children on bread and margarine; and, on the same principle, they do not even seek to produce other things which are well within their power to produce, but are too luxurious for their means. "'twouldn't be no use for me to grow strawberries," a man explained; "my children'd have 'em." it sounded a strange reason, for to what better use could strawberries be put? but it shows how tightly the people are bound down by their commercial conditions. in order to make the saturday's shopping easier, they must weigh the shillings and pence value of everything they possess and everything they attempt to do. these considerations, however, though showing that present times are not good, do not prove that they are worse than past times. it may be that there was poverty in the valley before the enclosure of the common quite as severe as there is now; and, so far as concerns mere economics, that event did but change the mode of the struggle for existence, without greatly affecting its intensity. people are poor in a different way now, that is all. hence, in its more direct results, the loss of the common has not mattered much, and it might be forgotten if those results were the only ones. but they are not the only ones. the results have spread from the economic centre outwards until the whole life of the people has been affected, new influences coming into play which previously were but little felt. so searching, indeed, has the change been, and so revolutionary, that anything like a full account of it would be out of the question. the chapters that follow, therefore, do not pretend to deal with it at all exhaustively; at most they will but draw attention to a few of its more striking aspects. x competition when the half-peasant men of the valley began to enter the labour market as avowed wage-earners, a set of conditions confronted them which we are apt to think of as established by a law of nature, but which, in fact, may be almost unknown in a peasant community. for the first time the importance of a "demand for labour" came home to them. i do not say that it was wholly a new thing; but to the older villagers it had not been, as it is now to their descendants, the dominating factor in their struggle for life. on the contrary, in proportion as their labour was bestowed immediately on productive work for their own uses, the question whether there was a demand for labour elsewhere did not arise. the common was indifferent; it wanted none of them. it neither asked them to avail themselves of its resources, nor paid them money for doing so, nor refused employment to one because another was already engaged there. but to-day, instead of going for a livelihood to the impartial heath, the people must wait for others to set them to work. the demand which they supply is their own no longer, and no longer, therefore, is their living in their own hands. of all the old families in the village, i think there are only two left now who have not drifted wholly into this dependent state; but i know numbers of labourers, often out of work, whose grandfathers were half independent of employers. in theory, no doubt the advantage ought to be with the present times. under the new system a far larger population is able to live in the parish than could possibly have been supported here under the old; for now, in place of the scanty products of the little valley and the heaths, the stores of the whole world may be drawn upon by the inhabitants in return for the wages they earn. only there is the awkward condition that they must earn wages. those limitless stores cannot be approached by the labourer until he is invited--until there is "a demand" for his labour. property owners, or capitalists, standing between him and the world's capital, are able to pick and choose between him and his neighbours as the common never did, and to decide which of them shall work and have some of the supplies. and as a consequence of this picking and choosing, competition amongst the labourers seeking to be employed has become the accepted condition of getting a living in the village, and it is to a great extent a new condition. previously there was little room for anything of the kind. the old thrift lent itself to co-operation rather. i admit that i have never heard of any system being brought into the activities of this valley, such as i witnessed lately in another part of england, where the small farmers, supplying an external market, and having no hired labour, were helping one another to get their corn harvested, all being solicitous for their neighbours' welfare, and giving, not selling, their labour. here the conditions hardly required such wholesale co-operation as that; but in lesser matters both kindliness and economy would counsel the people to be mutually helpful, and there is no reason to doubt that the counsel was taken. those who had donkey-carts would willingly bring home turfs for those who had none, in return for help with their own turf-cutting. the bread-ovens, i know, were at the disposal of others besides the owners. at pig-killing, at thatching, at clearing out wells (where, in fact, i have seen the thing going on), the people would put themselves at one another's service. they still do so in cases where there is no question of earning money for a living. and if the spirit of friendly co-operation is alive now, when it can so rarely be put in practice, one may readily suppose that it was fairly vigorous fifty years ago. but no spirit of co-operation may now prompt one wage-earner to ask, or another to proffer, assistance in working for wages. as well might one shopkeeper propose to wait on another's customers for him. employers would not have it; still less would those who are employed. a man may be fainting at his job, but none dare help him. he would resent, he would fear, the proposal. the job is, as it were, his property; as long as he can stand and see he must hold it against all comers, because in losing hold he loses his claim upon the world's supplies of the necessaries of life. in spite of all the latent good-will, therefore, and in spite of the fact that the cottagers are all on the same social level, intimacies do not thrive amongst them. if there was formerly any parochial sentiment in the village, any sense of community of interest, it has all been broken up by the exigencies of competitive wage-earning, and each family stands by itself, aloof from all the others. the interests clash. men who might be helpful friends in other circumstances are in the position of rival tradesmen competing for the patronage of customers. not now may their labour be a bond of friendship between them; it is a commodity with a market value, to be sold in the market. hence, just as in trade, every man for himself is the rule with the villagers; just as in trade, the misfortune of one is the opportunity of another. all the maxims of competitive commerce apply fully to the vendor of his own labour. there must be "no friendship in business"; the weakest must go to the wall. each man is an individualist fighting for his own hand; and to give as little as he can for as much as he can get is good policy for him, with precisely the same limitations as those that govern the trading of the retail merchant, tormented with the conflicting necessities of overcharging and underselling. it follows that the villagers are a prey to jealousy and suspicion--not, perhaps, when they meet at the public-house or on the road, but in the presence of employers, when any question of employment arises. at such times one would think that labouring men have no critics so unkindly as their own neighbours and equals. it is true those who are in constant work are commended; but if you ask about a man who is "on the market" and open for any work that may be going, his rivals are unlikely to answer generously. "so-and-so?... h'm!... he do's his best; but he don't seem to get _through_, somehow." "old who-is-it? asked _he_ to come and help me, have ye? well, you'll judge for yourself; but i don't hardly fancy he'll suit." or, again: "well, we all knows how 'tis with what's-his-name. i don't say but what he keeps on work right enough; but he'll have to jump about smarter 'n what i've ever knowed 'n, if he's to work 'long o' me." so, too often, and sometimes in crueller terms, i have heard efficient labourers speak of their neighbours. certainly it is not all envy. an active man finds it penance to work with a slow one, and worse than penance; for his own reputation may suffer, if his own output of work should be diminished by the other's fault. that neighbour of mine engaged at hop-drying doubtless had good grounds for exasperation with the helper sent into the kiln, when he complained to the master: "call that a _man_ you sent me? if that's what you calls a man, i'd sooner you let me send for my old woman! blamed if she wouldn't do better than that feller!" detraction like this, no doubt, is often justified; but when it becomes the rule, the only possible inference is that an instinctive jealousy prompts men to it, in instinctive self-preservation. yet there are depths of dishonour--depths not unknown amongst employers--into which the village labourers will rarely condescend to plunge, acute though the temptation may be. not once have i met with an instance of one man deliberately scheming to get another man's job away from him. a labourer unable to keep up with his work will do almost anything to avoid having a helper thrust upon him--he fears the introduction of a possible rival into his preserve. but this is not the same thing as pushing another man out; it has no resemblance to the behaviour of the hustling capitalist, who opens his big business with the definite intention of capturing trade away from little businesses. that is a course to which my impoverished neighbours will not stoop. the nearest thing to it which i have known was the case of those men mentioned in an earlier chapter, who applied for bettesworth's work during his last illness. they came, however, believing the place to be vacant; and one and all, with a sincerity i never doubted, deprecated the idea of desiring to take it away from him. in fact, the application was distasteful to them. nothing, i believe, would have prevailed upon them to make it, short of that hunger for constant employment which many of the men feel now, under their new competitive thrift. that they should have been scrupulous at all was to their credit. all their circumstances constrain the people to be selfish, secret about their hopes, swift to be first in the field where a chance occurs. and it is surprising how vigilant a lookout is kept, and how wide a district it covers. by what routes the news of new employment travels i do not know, but travel it does, fast and far. men rise early and walk many miles to be before others at some place where they have heard of work to be had; and one gets the impression, sometimes, of a population silently but keenly watching to see what opportunity of well-being may suddenly fall to them, not in general, but individually. do what they will to be neighbourly, competition for the privilege of earning wages separates them sooner or later. there were two men i knew who maintained a sort of comradeship in work during several years, so that one of them would not take a job unless there was room for the other, and if either was paid off, the other left with him. they were amongst the ablest labourers in the parish, used to working long hours at high pressure, and indifferent to what they did, provided that the pay was good. i heard of them from time to time--now at railway work, now at harvesting, now helping where a bridge was being built, and so on. it was the depression of the winter of - that finally broke up their comradeship. during those miserable months even these two were unemployed, and went short of food at times; and now they are working separately--competing one against the other, in fact. xi humiliation still more than the relations of the villagers with their own kind their relations with other sorts of people have suffered change under the new thrift. to just that extent to which the early inhabitants of the valley were peasants, they formed, as it were, a separate group, careless of the outer world and its concerns. they could afford to ignore it, and to be ignored by it. to them, so well suited with their own outlook and customs, it was a matter of small importance, though all england should have other views than theirs, and other manners. and the outer world, on its side, was equally indifferent. it left the villagers to go their own queer way, and recognized--as it does in the case of other separate groups of folk, such as fishermen or costermongers--that what seemed singular in them was probably justified by the singularity of their circumstances. nobody supposed that they were a wrong or a regrettable type who ought to be "done good to" or reformed. they belonged to their own set. they were english, of course; but they were outside the ordinary classifications of english society. even towards those of them who went out of the valley to earn wages this was still the attitude. they went out as peasants, and were esteemed because they had the ability of peasants. in much the same way as country folk on the continent take their country produce into town markets the men of this valley took, into the hop-grounds and fields of the neighbouring valley, or into its old-fashioned streets and stable yards, their toughness, their handiness, their intimate understanding of country crafts; and, returning home in the evening, they slipped back again into their natural peasant state, without any feeling of disharmony from the day's employment. there was no reason why it should be otherwise. although, at work, they had come into contact with people unlike themselves in some ways, the contrast was not of such a kind that it disheartened or seemed to disgrace them. at the time of the enclosure of the common, a notable development, certainly, was beginning amongst the employing classes, but it had not then proceeded far. of course the day of the yeoman farmer was almost done; and with it there had disappeared some of that equality which permitted wage-earning men to be on such easy terms with their masters as one hears old people describe. no longer, probably, would a farmer take a nickname from his men, or suffer them to call his daughters familiarly by their christian names; and no longer did master and man live on quite the same quality of food, or dress in the same sort of clothes. nevertheless the distinction between employers and employed--between the lower middle-class and the working-class--was not nearly so marked fifty years ago as it has since become. the farmers, for their part, were still veritable country folk, inheritors themselves of a set of rural traditions nearly akin to those of the peasant squatters in this valley. and even the townsmen, who were the only others who could give employment to these villagers, were extremely countrified in character. in their little sleepy old town--not half its present size, and the centre then of an agricultural and especially a hop-growing district--people were intimately interested in country things. no matter what a man's trade or profession--linen-draper, or saddler, or baker, or lawyer, or banker--he found it worth while to watch the harvests, and to know a great deal about cattle and sheep, and more than a great deal about hops. some of the tradesmen were, in fact, growing wealthy as hop-planters; and one and all identified themselves with the outdoor industries of the neighbourhood. and though some grew rich, and changed their style of living, they did not change their mental equipment, but continued (as i myself remember) more "provincial" than many a farmer is nowadays. all their thoughts, all their ideas, could be quite well expressed in the west surrey and hampshire dialect, which the townspeople, like the village folk, continued to speak. meanwhile, the work required by these employers ran, as yet, very much on antiquated lines. perhaps it was that the use of machinery had received a setback, twenty years earlier, by the "swing riots," of which a few memories still survive; at any rate haymaking, harvesting, threshing--all the old tasks, indeed--were still done by hand; thatch had not gone out of use for barns and stables; nor, for house-roofs, had imported slates quite taken the place of locally made tiles. the truth is, the town, in its more complex way, had not itself passed far beyond the primitive stage of dependence on local resources and local skill. it is really surprising how few were the materials, or even the finished goods, imported into it at that time. clothing stuffs and metals were the chief of them. of course the grocers (not "provision merchants" then) did their small trade in sugar and coffee, and tea and spices; there was a tinware shop, an ironmonger's, a wine-merchant's; and all these necessarily were supplied from outside. but, on the other hand, no foreign meat or flour, or hay or straw or timber, found their way into the town, and comparatively few manufactured products from other parts of england. carpenters still used the oak and ash and elm of the neighbourhood, sawn out for them by local sawyers: the wheelwright, because iron was costly, mounted his cartwheels on huge axles fashioned by himself out of the hardest beech; the smith, shoeing horses or putting tyres on wheels, first made the necessary nails for himself, hammering them out on his own anvil. so, too, with many other things. boots, brushes, earthenware, butter and lard, candles, bricks--they were all of local make; cheese was brought back from weyhill fair in the waggons which had carried down the hops; in short, to an extent hard to realize, the town was independent of commerce as we know it now, and looked to the farms and forests and the claypits and coppices of the neighbourhood for its supplies. a leisurely yet steady traffic in rural produce therefore passed along its streets, because it was the life-centre, the heart, of its own countryside; and the village labourer, going in and out upon his town tasks, or even working all day in some secluded yard behind the street, still found a sort of homeliness in the materials he handled, and was in touch with the ideas and purposes of his employer. owing to these same circumstances, the wage-earners of that day enjoyed what their descendants would consider a most blissful freedom from anxiety. on the one side, the demand for labour was fairly steady. it was the demand of a community not rapidly growing in numbers, nor yet subject to crazes and sudden changes of a fashion--a community patiently, nay, cheerfully, conservative in its ambitions, not given to rash speculation, but contented to go plodding on in its time-honoured and modest well-being. what the townsfolk wanted one year they wanted the next, and so onwards with but quiet progress. and as the demand for labour was thus steady, so on the other side was the supply of it. a dissatisfied employer could not advertise, then, in a london daily paper, and get scores of men applying to him for work at a day's notice; nor, indeed, would strangers have been able to do the work in many cases, so curiously was its character determined by local conditions. besides, town opinion, still prejudiced by memories of the old poor law, would have viewed with extreme disfavour, had such an experiment ever been tried, the importation of men and families whose coming must surely result in pauperism for somebody, and in a consequent charge upon the rates. so, putting together the leading factors--namely, a steady demand for countrified labour, a steady supply of it, and an employing class full of country ideas--we get a rough idea of the conditions of wage-earning in the neighbourhood, when the folk of this valley, fenced out from their common, were forced to look to wage-earning as their sole means of living. that the conditions were ideal it would be foolish to suppose; but that, for villagers at least, they had certain advantages over present conditions is not to be denied. especially we may note two unpleasing features of modern wage-earning which had not then made their appearance. in the first place, the work itself was interesting to do, was almost worth doing for its own sake, when it still called for much old-world skill and knowledge, and when the praises of the master were the praises of an expert who well knew what he was talking about. on these terms, it was no mean pleasure that the able labouring men had in their labour. they took a pride in it--as you may soon discern if you will listen to the older men talking. i have heard them boast, as of a triumph, of the fine flattering surprise of some master, when he had come to look at their day's work, and found it more forward, or better done, than he had dared to hope. the words he said are treasured up with delight, and repeated with enthusiasm, after many years. as for the other point, it has already been touched upon. harsh the employers might be--more callous by far, i believe, than they are now; but in their general outlook they were not, as yet, so very far removed from the men who worked for them. their ideas of good and bad were such as the peasant labourer from this valley could understand; and master and man were not greatly out of touch in the matter of civilization. it made a vast difference to the labourer's comfort. he might be hectored, bullied, cheated even, but he hardly felt himself degraded too. it was not a being out of another sphere that oppressed him; not one who despised him, not one whose motives were strange and mysterious. the cruellest oppression was inhuman rather than unhuman--the act, after all, only of a more powerful, not of a more dazzling, personage--so that it produced in him no humiliating sense of belonging to an inferior order of creation. and, of course, oppression was exceptional. employers were obliged to get on comfortably with their work-people, by the conditions governing the supply of labour. i have in my mind several cases mentioned to me by people long ago dead, in which men for various faults (drunkenness in one instance, theft in another) were dismissed from their employment again and again, yet as often reinstated, because the master found it easier to put up with their faults than to do without their skill. it may be inferred, therefore, that ordinary men got along fairly well with their masters in the ordinary course. this state of things, however, has gradually passed away. as i shall show in another chapter, the labourer may now take but little interest and but little pride in his work; but the change in that direction is not more pronounced than is the change in the relations between the villagers and the employing classes. it is a cruel evil that the folk of the valley have suffered there. no longer are they a group whose peculiarities are respected while their qualities are esteemed. in their intercourse with the outer world they have become, as it were, degraded, humiliated; and when they go out of the valley to earn wages, it is to take the position of an inferior and almost servile race. the reason is that the employing class, as a whole, has moved on, leaving the labourers where they were, until now a great gulf divides them. merely in relative wealth, if that were all, the difference has widened enormously. seventy or eighty years ago, i have heard say, the shopkeeper in the town who had as much as a hundred pounds put by was thought a rich man. there are now many artisans there whose savings exceed that figure, while the property of the townsmen who employ labour is, of course, valued often in thousands. the labouring people alone remain without savings, as poor as their grandfathers when the common was first enclosed. but it is a question of civilization far more than of wealth that now divides the employing classes from the employed. the former have discarded much of their provincialism; they are astir with ambitions and ideas at which the old town would have stood aghast. in beliefs and in tastes they are a new people. they have new kinds of knowledge; almost one may say that they use their brains in new ways; and the result is that between them and the village labourer mutual understanding has broken down. how far the separation has gone is betrayed in the fact that the countrified speech, common to village and town fifty years ago, has become a subject of derision to the town-people, forgetful of their own ancestry. so, in field and street and shop, the two kinds of folk meet face to face, not with an outlook, and hardly with a speech, which both can appreciate, but like distinct races, the one dominant, the other subject. and, all but inevitably, the breach is daily widened by the conditions on which the new civilization of the employing class is based. for, with all its good features, it is rather a barbaric civilization, in this sense--that it is more a matter of fineness in possessions than in personal qualities. it cannot be maintained without a costly apparatus of dress and furniture, and of drudges to do the dirty work; and consequently it demands success in that competitive thrift which gives a good money-income. without that the employers are nowhere. they are themselves driven very hard; they must make things pay; to secure the means of civilization for themselves, they must get them out of the labourer with his eighteen shillings a week. in vain, therefore, are they persuaded by their newest ideas to see in him an englishman as good as themselves: they may assent to the principle, but in practice it is as imperative as ever to make him a profitable drudge. accordingly, those relations of mutual approval which were not uncommon of old between master and man cannot now be maintained. if it is impossible for the village folk to understand the town folk, it is equally impossible for the town folk to understand the village folk. they cannot afford to understand. the peasant outlook is out of date--a cast-off thing; and for cleaving to it the labourer is despised. if he could be civilized, and yet be made to "pay," that is what would best suit the middle-classes; and that is really the impossible object at which they aim, when they try to "do him good." they want to make him more like themselves, and yet keep him in his place of dependence and humiliation. it must be said that amongst a section of the employers there is no desire to "do good" even on these terms. while the labouring people, on their side, betray little or no class feeling of hostility towards employers, the converse is not true, but jealousy, suspicion, some fear--the elements of bitter class-war, in fact--frequently mark the attitude of middle-class people towards the labouring class. it seems to be forgotten that the men are english. one hears them spoken of as an alien and objectionable race, worth nothing but to be made to work. the unemployment which began to beggar so many of my village neighbours after the south african war was actually welcomed by numerous employers in this district. "it will do the men good," people said to me; "it will teach them their place. they were getting too independent." the election of , when the conservative member for the division was unseated, brought out a large crop of similarly malevolent expressions. "look at the class of people who have the vote," said a disgusted villa lady, with her nose in the air. "only the low, ignorant people wear those colours," another lady assured her little boy, whose eyes preferred "those colours" to the favours in his own buttonhole. more pointed was the overheard remark of a well-to-do employer, irritated by the election crowds in the town: "as my wife says, it was bad enough before. the children of the lower classes used, as it was, to take the inside of the pavement, and we had to walk on the kerb. but now we shall be driven out into the road." i would not mention these things were it not for their significance to the village folk. by becoming wage-earners solely, the villagers have fallen into the disfavour of an influential section of the middle-classes, most of whom have no other desire than to keep them in a sufficient state of servility to be useful. how else is one to interpret that frequent middle-class outcry against education: "what are we going to do for servants?" or how else the grudging attitude taken up towards the few comforts that cottage people are able to enjoy? i listened lately to two men talking of "tariff reform"--one of them a commercial traveller, lofty in his patriotism. when mention was made of some old man's tale, that in his boyhood be rarely tasted meat, "unless a sheep died," the commercial traveller commented scornfully, "and now every working man in the kingdom thinks he must have meat twice a day"--as though such things ought not to be in the british empire. the falsehood of the remark enhanced its significance. it was the sort of thing to say in hotel-bars, or in the offices of commerce--the sort of thing that goes down well with employers. it indicated that the animus of which i am speaking is almost a commonplace. in truth, i have heard it expressed dozens of times, in dozens of ways, yet always with the same implied suggestion, that the english labouring classes are a lower order of beings, who must be treated accordingly. and yet employers of this type, representing the wealth, perhaps, but by no means the culture, of modern civilization, are, in fact, nearer to the unlettered labourers in their outlook, and are therefore by far less embarrassing to them, than those of another and kindlier type which figures largely in this parish to-day. those people for whom the enclosure of the common, as it has turned out, made room in the valley--i mean the well-to-do residents--employ local labour, not for profit at all, but to minister to their own pleasure, in their gardens and stables, and the majority of them would be genuinely glad to be helpful to their poorer neighbours. the presence of poverty reproaches them; their consciences are uneasy; or, better still, some kind of regard, some kind of respect, goes out from them towards the toilsome men and the over-burdened women whom, in fact, they have displaced. yet compassion is not the same thing as understanding, and the cottagers know very well that even their best friends of this kind have neither the knowledge nor the taste to appreciate them in their own way. sympathy for their troubles--yes, there is that; but sympathy with their enjoyments hardly any property-owner dreams of cultivating; and this is the more true the more the property-owner has been polished by his own civilization. a lady long resident here was quite surprised to hear from me, some months ago, that the cottagers are ardent gardeners. "dear me!" she said; "i had no idea of it." and yet one of the ablest men of the parish had tended her own garden for years. hence it is in their intercourse with these--the well-meaning and cultivated--that the villagers are most at a loss. in those embittered employers who merely seek to make money out of him the labourer does at least meet with some keen recognition of his usefulness; but with these others he is all at sea. non-introspective, a connoisseur of garden crops and of pig-sties, and of saved-up seeds; cunning to understand the "set" of spade or hoe, and the temper of scythe and fag-hook; jealous of the encroachment of gravelled walk or evergreen hedge upon the useful soil; an expert in digging and dunging--he is very well aware that the praises of the villa-people employing him are ignorant praises. his best skill is, after all, overlooked. the cunning of his craft excites in them none of the sympathy of a fellow-expert, and is but poorly rewarded by their undiscriminating approval. at the same time, the things which these people require of him--the wanton things they ask him to do with the soil, levelling it to make lawns, wasting it upon shrubberies and drives, while they fence-in the heath patches and fence-out the public--prove to him more fully than any language can do that they put a different sort of value upon the countryside from its old value, and that they care not a straw for the mode of life that was his before they came here. all their ways are eloquent of condemnation of his tastes. and yet again, while his old skill fails to be understood, and his old outlook to be appreciated, he finds that the behaviour preferred in him is oftener than not a behaviour which his forefathers would have thought silly, to say the least--a finikin, fastidious behaviour, such as he would scorn to practise at home. thus in all ways the employers most conscientiously humane are those who can least avoid, in their tastes and their whole manner of living, snubbing him and setting him down in an inferior place. they cannot help it, now that they have thrust themselves upon him as neighbours. the more they interest themselves in him, the more glaringly is the difference which separates themselves from him brought out. whether, if the common had remained open, the villagers could still have held aloof, at this time of day, from the movements of the outer world is a question not worth discussion. the enclosure was brought to pass; the keystone was knocked out of the arch; and here are some of the indirect consequences. from a position in which the world's distinctions of class and caste were hardly noticed--a position which was, so to speak, an island of refuge, where self-respect could be preserved in preserving the old rough peasant ways--the valley folk have been forced into such relations with the world outside the valley as we have seen. they are no longer a separate set, unclassified, but a grade has been assigned to them in the classification of society at large, and it is wellnigh the lowest grade of all, for only the pauper and criminal classes are below them. in this sense, therefore, they are a "degraded" people, though by no fault of their own. amongst "the masses" is where they are counted. moreover, since they are now, as we have seen, competing against one another for the right to live, none of the concessions are made to them now that were of old made to the group of them, but they count, and are judged, individually, amongst the millions of the english proletariat. "inferiority" has come into their lives; it is expected of them to treat almost everybody else as a superior person. but the cruellest indignity of all is that, although we regard them as inferiors, we still look to them to admire and live up to our standards; and they are to conform to our civilization, yet without the income it requires or the social recognition it should secure. and if they will not do this willingly, then shall they be coerced, or at least kept in order, by "temperance" and other "reforming" legislation, and by the police. xii the humiliated the effects of this "inferiority" which has been thrust upon the villagers are not exactly conspicuous in any particular direction. as it has been shown already, the people themselves seem almost unaware of any grievance in the matter, the change having come upon them too gradually for it to be sharply felt. they bear no malice against their employers. you would hardly learn, from anything that they consciously say or do, that in becoming so humiliated they have been hurt in their feelings, or have found it necessary to change their habits. indeed, the positive alteration in their manners, by which i mean the adoption of new ways in place of old ones, has probably not amounted to a great deal. i admit that i have no means of estimating how much it does amount to. during fifty years, in which every cottager must now and then have become aware of constraint put upon him or her by the superior attitude of the employing class, it is quite possible that there have been innumerable small concessions and adaptations of manner, and that these have accumulated into a general change which would surprise us if it could be measured. but i incline to think that the effects of class-pressure have been chiefly negative; that, while employers have been adopting new modes of life, all that has happened to the labouring folk here in the valley is that this or that habit, found inexpedient at last, has been quietly dropped. a sort of reserve in the village temper, a want of gaiety, a subdued air--this, which one cannot help observing, is probably the shadow cast upon the people from the upraised middle-class. it looks suggestive, too. yet, upon examining it, one fails to find in it any definite token that would show exactly how and where the village temper has been touched, or in what light "superior" persons are regarded in the cottages. the people appear enigmatic. they keep their own counsel. whether they are bewildered or amused at the behaviour of employers, or alarmed or embittered by it, or actually indifferent to it, no sign escapes them when members of the employing class are by. in these circumstances, it is instructive to turn aside for a while from the grown-up people of the village, and to consider their children; because the children do not learn about the employing class by direct intercourse, but derive from their parents such ideas as they have of what is safe to do, and what is proper, where employing people are concerned. as soon as this truth is realized, a curious significance appears in some characteristic habits of the village school boys and girls. the boys, especially, deserve remark. that they are in general "rough," "uncivilized," i suppose might go without saying. it might also go without saying, were it not that the comparison turns out to be useful, that in animal spirits, physical courage, love of mischief and noise, they are at least a match for middle-class boys who go to the town grammar-school. i wish i could say that they have an equally good sense of "playing the game," an equally strong _esprit de corps_, and so on. unfortunately, these traditions have hardly reached the village school as yet, and perhaps will not easily make their way there, amongst the children of parents whom the struggle for life compels to be so suspicious and jealous. the question is, however, beside the point now. viewed without prejudice, the village boys must be thought quite as good material as any other english boys; you can see that there is the making of strong and brave men in them. with similar chances they would not be inferior in any respect to the sons of the middle classes. but under existing conditions the two sorts of boys develop some curious differences of habit. where those from middle-class homes are self-possessed, those from the labourers' cottages are not merely shy, not merely uncouth and lubberly; they grow furtive, suspicious, timid as wild animals, on the watch for a chance to run. audacious enough at bird's-nesting, sliding, tree-climbing, fighting, and impertinent enough towards people of their own kind, they quail before the first challenge of "superiority." all aplomb goes from them then. it is distressing to see how they look: with an expression of whimpering rebellion, as though the superior person had unhuman qualities, not to be reckoned on--as though there were danger in his presence. an incident of a few years ago, very trumpery in itself, displayed to me in the sharpest distinctness the contrast between the two orders of boys in this respect. in the hedge which parts my garden from the lane there is a nut-tree, too tempting to all boys when the nuts are ripe. at that season one hears whispered and exclamatory confabulations going on in the lane, and then large stones go crashing up into the tree, falling back sometimes within the hedge, where there is a bit of grass and a garden seat. occasionally, playing the absurd part of irate property-owner, i have gone to the gate near by to drive off the offenders, but have opened it only in time to see a troop of urchins, alarmed by the click of the gate-latch, scurrying away like rabbits round the bend of the lane. one sunday afternoon, however, when i looked out after a stone had fallen nearly on my head, it was to find two boys calmly waiting for me to approach them. their school caps showed them to be two boys of the grammar-school. the interview went comically. upon being told crossly that they were a nuisance, the boys apologized--an act which seemed to put me in the wrong. in my annoyance at that, i hinted ironically that, in fact, i was a benevolent person, quite willing to admit boys inside the hedge to pick up nuts, if nuts they really must have. then i turned away. to my astonishment, they took me at my word, followed me into the garden, and calmly began to pick up nuts; while i withdrew, discomfited. i have since smiled to think of the affair; but i recall it now with more interest, for the sake of the contrast it affords between middle-class boys and labouring-class boys in exactly similar circumstances. where the former behave confidently, because they feel safe, the latter are overtaken by panic, and run to cover. in this light another curious fact about the village boys gains in significance, supposing it to be indeed a fact. from the nature of the case, proof is not possible, but i have a strong impression that, excepting to go to the town, the boys of the village rarely, if ever, stray into neighbouring parishes, or more than a few hundred yards away from their parents' homes. one exception must be noted. in the lonely and silent fir-woods, which begin in the next valley and stretch away over ridge and dell for some miles from south-east to south-west, one sometimes comes upon a group of village children--little boys and girls together--filling sacks with fir-cones, and pushing an old perambulator to carry the load. but these are hardly voluntary expeditions; and the boys are always very small ones, while the girls are in charge. the bigger boys, of from ten to thirteen years old, do not go into the woods. they play in the roads and pathways, or on the corners of unused land, and as a rule within sight or call of home. i have never seen any of them, as i have occasionally seen middle-class boys from the town, rambling far afield in the outlying country, and my belief is that they would be considerably scared to find themselves in such unfamiliar scenes. assuming that i am right, yet another contrast presents itself. it was in this very neighbourhood that william cobbett, as a little boy, played off upon the huntsman that trick of revenge which he bragged about in after-life. for five or six miles across country, over various streams, through woods and heaths and ploughed upland fields, he made his way all alone, dragging his red herring, perfectly confident in himself, never at a loss to know where he was, but thoroughly familiar with the lie of the land most suitable for his game. of course, not many boys are cobbetts. yet many of the village boys, even now, would be his match at other games. for here, on the shelving sand-banks beside the stream, i have seen them enjoying rough-and-tumble romps like those which the little cobbett lived to think the best part of his education; and they do it with a recklessness which even he can scarce have surpassed. but in getting about the country they do not so much as begin to emulate him. of course, it is true that now they have to spend their days in school; true, too, that the enclosures of land throughout the neighbourhood have made wandering less easy in our times; nevertheless, within a few miles there are woods and heath-lands in plenty for adventurous boys, as those of the middle-class are aware; yet those of the village never risk the adventure. i can but infer that they are afraid of something, and a moment's thought discloses what they fear. just as in meddling with my nut-tree, so everywhere they are in danger of trouble with people of the propertied or employing kind; and behind these people stands the policeman, and behind the policeman that dim object of dread called "a summons." this it is that keeps the village children within the bounds familiar to them, where they know who is who, and what property belongs to which owner, and how far they may risk doing mischief, and round what corners they may scamper into safety. the caution they display is not unnecessary. somehow, middle-class boys do not get into trouble with the law; but it happens not infrequently that a few little villagers are "pulled up" before a magistrate for trivial acts of mischief, and if the worst punishment inflicted upon them is a shilling fine and costs, which their parents pay, that is enough to make "a summons" a very dreadful thing to a little boy. out of eighteen shillings a week, his father cannot afford "a shilling and costs" for a piece of mischief, as the little boy is but too likely to be shown. children's memories are short, however, and it takes more than an occasional punishment of two or three to inspire in them all a timorousness so instinctive in character as that of these village boys. at the back of it there must be a more constant and pervasive influence. and, to come to the point at last, i think that the boys are swayed, unwittingly, by an attitude in the grown-up people with whom they live--an attitude of habitual wariness, not to say fear, in regard to everything connected with property and employers. this is what makes the timidity of the village urchins interesting. we may discern in it the expression of a feeling prevalent throughout the cottages--an unreasoned but convinced distrust of propertied folk, and a sense of being unprotected and helpless against their privileges and power. here, accordingly, is one direction in which class distinction has seriously affected the villagers. it would be an exaggeration to say that they feel like outlaws; but they are vaguely aware of constraint imposed upon them by laws and prejudices which are none too friendly to people of their kind. one divines it in their treatment of the village policeman. there is probably no lonelier man in the parish than the constable. of course he meets with civility, but his company is avoided. one hears him mentioned in those same accents of grudging caution which the villagers use in speaking of unfriendly property-owners, as though he belonged to that alien caste. the cottagers feel that they themselves are the people whom he is stationed in the valley to watch. they feel it; nor can it be denied that there is some excuse for the feeling. it is true that they far outnumber the employers, so that, other things being equal, from their more numerous ranks there would naturally come a larger number of offenders against the law. but other things are not equal. the proportion is not kept. anyone who studies the police-court reports in the local papers will see that, apart from cases of technical offence, like riding a bicycle on the footpath, or keeping a dog without a licence, practically all the proceedings are taken in defence of the privileges and prejudices of the employing classes against the employed classes. clearly the village idea is not wholly wrong. in theory, the policeman represents the general public; in practice, he stands for middle-class decorum and the rights of property; and what the people say is roughly true--there is one law for the rich, and another for the poor. but it is only roughly true, and one must get it a little more exact to appreciate the position in which the labouring-folk stand. i am not disposed to say anything here against the administration of the law by the justices, when offenders are brought before them; but in the choice or detection of offenders i must point out that a great deal of respect of persons is shown. remember what that old man said, who would have liked to see the fir-woods go up in flames: "'tis all fenced in, and now if you looks over the fence you be locked up for it." that was an exaggeration, of course--a sort of artistic licence, a piece of oratory; yet for him the assertion held more than a grain of truth. the case is that of the two sorts of boys over again. where a middle-class man may take his sunday walk securely, risking nothing worse than being civilly turned back by a game-keeper, these village men dare not go, unless they are prepared to answer a summons for "trespassing for an unlawful purpose," or "in search of game." let it be admitted that the unlawful purpose is sometimes proved; at least, the trespassers are occasionally found to have rabbit-wires concealed about their persons. the remarkable thing, however, is that they should have been searched in order to make this discovery. the searching may be legal, for all that i know; yet i do not seem to see a middle-class man--a shopkeeper from the town, or any employer of labour--submitting to the process, as the cowed labouring man apparently does. it will be said that the middle-class man is in no fear of such an outrage, because he is not suspect. but that is conceding the greater part of what i wish to demonstrate. rightly or wrongly, the labouring man is suspect. a distinction of caste is made against him. the law, which pretends to impartiality, sets him in a lower and less privileged place than his employers; and he knows it. in alleging that he might not look over a fence without being locked up for it my old acquaintance merely overstated a palpable truth. people of his rank--cottage people, labouring people--do, indeed, not dare to wander in country places anywhere off the public roads. much more might be said on the same lines. whether inevitably or no, at all events it happens that the march of respectability gives, to regulations which may be quite proper in themselves, a very strong appearance of being directed against the poorer working people. no doubt it is right enough that the brawling of the "drunk and disorderly" on the highroads should be checked; the public interest demands it; yet the impression conveyed is that the regulations are enforced more for the pleasure of property-owners than anybody else; that, in fact, middle-class respectability has, so to speak, made this law especially with a view to keeping the working classes in order. i am not urging that in this there is any substantial grievance; the offence is rarely committed by others than labourers, and by them too often. yet it is well known that, while a labourer roystering along the road is pounced upon and locked up, an employer the worse for drink is shepherded home from his hotel by the police, and the affair hushed up. from circumstances like these--and they are very common--a suspicion is bred in cottage people that they are not in good odour with the authorities. the law rather tolerates than befriends them. they are not wanted, are not regarded as equal fellow-citizens with the well-to-do, but are expected to be quiet, or to keep out of sight. english people though they are, yet, if nobody will employ them so that they can pay rent for a cottage, they have no admitted rights in england--unless it be to go to the workhouse or to keep moving on upon the public road. in endless ways the sense of inequality is impressed upon them. i opened the local paper lately, and read of four of our young labourers accused of "card-playing." the game was "banker," the policeman told the magistrates--as if gentlemen were likely to know what that meant!--and he had caught the fellows red-handed, in some as yet unfenced nook of the heath. that was how they were in fault. they should not have been playing where they could be seen, in the open air; they should have taken their objectionable game out of sight, into some private house, as the middle-classes do--and as, i suppose, the policeman himself must have done in his time, since he knew the game. unfortunately for the labouring men, they have no private house available: there is no room for a card-party in their cottages; and thus they become subject to laws which, as they do not touch the property-owner, seem designed to catch especially them. for another example of the same insinuation of inequality, consider the local by-laws, which now forbid the keeping of pigs within a considerable distance of a dwelling-house. i will not say that the villager thinks the regulation a wrong one; at any rate he understands that it is excused in the interests of public health. but he also knows that it has been introduced since the arrival of middle-class people in the parish. they came, and his pigs had to go; so that in his eyes even the general public health looks like the health of rich residents rather than of poor ones. the people display little resentment; they accept their position with equanimity. nevertheless it drives them in upon themselves. observing the conditions, and yielding to them as to something inherent in the nature of things, they strive to keep out of the way of the superior classes. they are an aloof population, though not as their ancestors were. they are fenced out from the country; they cannot with security go into enclosed wood or coppice; they must keep to the public way, and there they must behave so as not to disturb the employing classes. accordingly, all up and down the valley they restrict themselves more and more soberly to their gardens and cottages, dreading few things so much as a collision with those impersonal forces which seem always to side with property and against people like them. xiii notice to quit it might be thought that at least when they are at home the people would be untroubled; yet that is not the case. influences from the new civilization reach them in their cottages, and the intrusion is but the more searching for being impersonal. it is borne in upon the senses in the shape of sights and sounds proclaiming across the valley that the village is an altered place, that the modern world is submerging it, that the old comfortable seclusion is gone. even the obscurity of winter nights does not veil that truth; for where, but a few years ago, the quiet depths of darkness were but emphasized by a few glimmering cottage lights, there is now a more brilliant sparkling of lit-up villa windows, while northwards the sky has a dull glare from new road-lamps which line the ridge on its town side. as for the daytime, the labourer can hardly look from his door without seeing up or down the valley some sign or other telling of the invasion of a new people, unsympathetic to his order. he sees, and hears too. as he sweats at his gardening, the sounds of piano-playing come to him, or of the affected excitement of a tennis-party; or the braying of a motor-car informs him that the rich who are his masters are on the road. and though the man should go into his cottage and shut the door, these things must often have for him a sinister meaning which he cannot so easily shut out. there is a vague menace in them. they betoken to all the labouring people that their old home is no longer quite at their own disposal, but is at the mercy of a new class who would willingly see their departure. perhaps the majority do not feel themselves personally threatened; nevertheless, the situation is disquieting for all. before the property-owners came, and while still the population was homogeneous, a sort of continuity in the life of the valley impressed itself upon one's consciousness, giving a sense of security. here amidst the heaths a laborious and frugal people, wise in their own fashion, had their home and supplied their own wants. not one of them probably thought of the significance of it all, or understood how the village traditions were his inheritance; not one considered what it meant to him to belong to the little group of folk and be independent of the whims of strangers. yet, for all that, there was comfort in the situation. to be so familiar as the people were with the peculiarities of the valley, to appreciate the usefulness of the wide heath-land, to value the weather, to comprehend at a glance the doings of the neighbours, and to have fellow-feeling with their motives and hopes and disappointments, was to be at home most intimately, most safely. but all this is a thing of the past. to-day, when the labourer looks around, much of what he sees in the new houses, roads, fences, and so on, has, indeed, been produced by his own handiwork, but it is a product in the enjoyment of which he has no share. it has nothing to do with him and his people; on the contrary, it announces the break-up of the traditional industries by which he lived, and the disintegration of the society of which he was a member. it follows that a certain suggestiveness which used to dignify the home pursuits of the village is wanting to them now. instead of being a part of the general thrift of the valley--a not unworthy contribution to that which, in the sum, was all important to the village life--those little jobs which the labourer does at home, including his garden-work, have no relation now to anything save his private necessities, because now the dominant interests of the valley are those of a different sort of people who care nothing for such homely things. i shall be told that, after all, this is mere sentiment. but, then, half the comfort of life proceeds from those large vague sentiments which lift a man's private doings up from meanness into worthiness. no such enrichment, however--no dim sense of sharing in a prosperous and approved existence--can reward the labourer's industry in this place at the present time. the clever work which, in the village of his equals, would have made him conspicuous and respected, now stamps him as belonging to the least important and least considered section of the population. still, i will waive this point. assuming--though it is much to assume--that the cottagers have no sentiment in the matter, there are other circumstances in the change which cannot fail to disquiet them. i hinted just now that the "residential" people would not grieve if the labouring folk took their departure. now, this is no figure of speech. although it is likely that not one cottager in twenty has any real cause to fear removal, there has been enough disturbance of the old families to prove that nobody is quite safe. thus, about two years ago, when some cottage property near to a new "residence" was bought up by the owner of the residence, it was commonly said that he had bought it in order to get rid of some of the tenants, whom he disliked for neighbours. whether or not that was the real reason i do not know; but certain it is that two of the tenants were forthwith turned out--one of them after twenty-five years of occupancy. it was not the first case of the kind in the village, nor yet the last. at the present moment i know of three families who are likely ere long to have to quit. they live in a block of cottages just beyond the hedge of a substantial house--a block which, it must be owned, is rather an eyesore from there, but which might easily be turned into a decent villa, and is actually up for sale for that purpose. and the dwellers in the substantial house are fervently hoping that a buyer of the cottages will soon come forward. they have told me so themselves. "of course," they say, "we shall be sorry for the poor people to be turned out, but we should like to have nicer neighbours, of our own sort." so in their own valley these english people are not safe from molestation. with scarce more care for them than would be shown by a foreign invader, gentility pursues its ungentle aims. no cottager can feel quite secure. a dim uncertainty haunts the village, with noticeable effect upon everybody's activities. for a sort of calculating prudence is begotten of it, which yet is not thrift. it dissuades the people from working for a distant future. it cuts off hope, benumbs the tastes, paralyzes the aspiration to beautify the home which may any day have to be abandoned. and in the long run this effect, from which all the people suffer more or less unconsciously, is more injurious than the actual misfortune of having to move, which, after all, falls upon the few only. not that i would make light of that calamity. men under its shadow lie awake o' nights, worrying about it. while i am writing here, in a cottage near at hand there is a man under notice to quit, who is going through all the pitiful experiences--wondering where in the world he shall take his wife and children, fearing lest it should have to be into some backyard in the town, dreading that in that case he will be too far away from his day's work and have to give it up, and scheming to save enough, from the cost of bread and boots, to pay for a van to move his furniture. it is not for any fault that he is to go. and indeed he is being well treated; for the owner, who wants to occupy the cottage himself, has waited months because the man cannot find another place. nevertheless he will have to go. as a rule, a man under notice to quit is in the position of standing by and seeing his home, and his living, and the well-being of his family sacrificed to the whim of a superior whom he dares not oppose; and i do not dream of arguing that that is a tolerable position for any englishman to be in. none the less, it is true that these acute troubles, which fall upon a few people here and there, and presently are left behind and forgotten, are of less serious import than the injury to the village at large, caused by the general sense of insecurity. the people's tastes are benumbed, i said: their aspirations to beautify their homes are paralyzed by the want of permanence in their condition. to make this quite plain, it would be only needful to look at the few cottages in the valley still inhabited by their owners, and to compare them with those let to weekly tenants. it seems to be no question of income that makes the difference between the two. in several cottages very well known to me, the owners are not earning more than fifteen shillings a week--or, including the value of the cottage, twenty shillings; yet the places, in their varied ways, all look comfortable and comely. fruit-trees, or grape-vines, or roses, are trained to the walls. the boundary hedges are kept well trimmed; here and there survives a box border--product of many years of clipping--or even a yew-tree or two fancifully shaped out. here and there, too, leading to the cottage door, is carefully preserved an example of those neat pavements of local stone once so characteristic of this countryside; and in all these things one sees what the average cottager would do if it were worth while--if he had the heart. since none of these things, however, can be had without long attention, or, at any rate, without skill carefully bestowed in due season, you do not find such things decorating the homes of weekly tenants. the cottages let by the week look shabby, slovenly, dingy; the hedges of the gardens are neglected, broken down, stopped up with anything that comes to hand. if it were not for the fruitful and well-tended vegetable plots, one might often suppose the tenants to be ignorant of order, degenerate, brutalized, materialized, so sordid and ugly are their homes. yet it is not for want of taste that they endure these conditions. amidst the pitiful shabbiness which prevails may be found many little signs that the delight in comely things would go far if it dared. there is hardly a garden in the village, i think, which does not contain a corner or a strip given over unthriftily, not to useful vegetables, but to daffodils or carnations or dahlias, or to the plants of sweet scent and pleasant names, like rosemary and lavender, and balm, and mignonette. and not seldom a weekly tenant, desirous of beauty, goes farther, takes his chance of losing his pains; nails up against his doorway some makeshift structure of fir-poles to be a porch, sowing nasturtiums or sweet-peas to cover it with their short-lived beauty; or he marks out under his window some little trumpery border to serve instead of a box-hedge as safeguard to his flowers. one of those families whose removal was mentioned above--turned out in the summertime they were, with loss of garden crops--found refuge in a hovel which stood right against a public pathway. and, although it was an encroachment, within a week a twelve-inch strip of the pathway was dug up under the cottage eaves, and fenced in with a low fencing of sticks roughly nailed together. within this narrow space were planted chrysanthemums rescued from the previous home; and when the fence gave way--as it did before the chrysanthemums flowered--big stones and brickbats were laid in its place. considered as decoration, the result was a failure; it was the product of an hour's work in which despair and bitterness had all but killed the people's hope; but that it was done at all is almost enough to prove my point. for further illustration i may refer again to that other man mentioned above, who is now under notice to leave his cottage. last year he was happy in tending four or five rose-trees which he had been allowed to bring home from the rubbish-heap of his employer's garden. i remember that when he showed them to me, gloating over them, he tried to excuse himself to me for neglecting his potatoes in their favour, and i did my best to encourage him and puff him up with pride. but it was of no use. this summer he is neglecting his roses, and is wondering if his potatoes will be ripe enough for digging before he is obliged to move. with such things going on, it is not wonderful that the people live shabbily, meanly, out at elbows. tastes so handicapped as theirs make no headway, and, though not dying, sink into disuse. the average cottager learns to despise pleasantness and to concentrate upon usefulness. his chief pride now is in his food-crops, which, if not eaten, can be turned into money. of course, these have their beauty--not undiscerned by the labourer--but they are not grown for that end, and the thriftier the man, the less time to the consideration of beauty will he give. it is, besides, an imprudence to make a cottage look comely, now that covetous eyes are upon the valley and the people's position there has grown insecure. does it seem a slight thing? whatever the practical importance of it, the extent of change involved in this hopeless attitude of the villagers towards their home-places must not be under-rated; for if it could be viewed in sharp perspective it would appear considerable enough. let us note the transitions. first the straying squatters settled here, to cultivate chosen spots of the valley and reduce them to order. they were not wedded to the place; only if it gave them a chance of getting food and shelter were they likely to remain. soon, however, that first uncertainty was forgotten. their peasant customs fitted the environment; there was no danger of molestation; already to their children the valley began to feel like a permanent home. as years went on that feeling deepened, wrapped the people round in an unthought-of security, and permitted them, here and there, to go beyond the necessary peasant crafts and think of what was pleasant as well as necessary. gardens were trimmed into beauty, grape-vines were grown for the sake of wine-making, and bees were kept for the sake of honey and mead. in the cottages decent furniture and implements began to accumulate; the women decorated their men's blouses with pretty smocking; the children were taught old-fashioned lore because it was old-fashioned and their inheritance; time-honoured customs of may-day and of christmas were not ignored. so during a few generations the old country thrift and its simple civilization were kept alive, until the loss of the common made the old thrift no longer possible and introduced the new. lastly, and within recent years, a new population has come, taking possession, with a new civilization which is by no means simple; and now once more a sense of unsettledness is upon the cottagers, although for the most part they remain here. it is, however, an unsettledness very unlike that of the earlier time. instead of hope in it there is anxiety; instead of striking deeper root in the valley, the people's hold grows shallower. the agreeable peasant arts have faded out accordingly. the whole peasant mode of life is all but forgotten. to-day we have here not a distinct group of people living by customs which their singular circumstances justify, but numerous impoverished families living provisionally from hand to mouth, because of the possibility of further changes to be thrust upon them. while they wait they still work, yet without pleasantness in their lives. as their homes by neglect have grown shabby and squalid, so their industry has become calculating and sordid. little remains to them now but their own good temper to keep their life from being quite joyless. iv the resulting needs xiv the initial defect keeping pace with the alterations in their circumstances, a great mental and spiritual destitution has made its appearance amongst the labouring people. i say "has made its appearance" because it cannot be wholly attributed to the changes we have been discussing. those changes have done their part, certainly. obliterating the country crafts and cults, breaking down the old neighbourly feelings, turning what was an interesting economy into an anxious calculation of shillings and pence, and reducing a whole village of people from independence to a position bordering on servility, the introduction of a new system of thrift must bear the greater share of the blame for the present plight of the labourers. nevertheless, their destitution--their mental and spiritual destitution--has its roots deeper down, and springs from a grave defect which was inherent in the peasant system. it is time to recognize that fact. in many ways the folk-civilization had served the cottagers excellently. they had grown up hardy and self-reliant under its influence; clever with their hands, shrewd with their heads, kindly and cheerful in their temper. but one can see now that all this had been bought very dear. to set against the good qualities that came to light there was a stifling of other qualities which were equally good, but had no chance of development at all under the peasant thrift. especially on the side of mental activity was the people's natural power cramped. i do not mean that they were stupid; it would be an error of the first magnitude to suppose anything of the sort. but the concentration of their faculties on their rural doings left them childish and inefficient in the use of their brains for other purposes. mention has been made of the "fatalism" which still prevails in the village outlook; but fatalism is too respectable a name for that mere absence of speculative thought which was characteristic of the peasant kind of people i have known. the interest of their daily pursuits kept their minds busy upon matters obvious to the senses, while attention to opinions and ideas was discouraged. for this reason the older men and women had seldom if ever indulged in fancies or day-dreams, or troubled about theories or first principles; and until lately i might have said the same of the younger ones too. as for watching themselves--watching and checking off the actions of their own intelligence--it was what they never did. a sentiment might arise in them and mellow all their temper, and they would not notice it. the inner meaning of things concerned them very little. their conception of cause and effect, or of the constancy of nature, was rudimentary. "ninety-nine times out of a hundred," said an old bricklayer of the village, baffled by some error in his work--"ninety-nine times out of a hundred it'll come right same as you sets it out, but not always." puzzles were allowed to be puzzling, and left so; or the first explanation was accepted as final. the "mistis in march" sufficiently accounted for the "frostis in may." mushrooms would only grow when the moon was "growing." even with regard to personal troubles the people were still as unspeculative as ever. were they poor, or ill? it merely happened so, and that settled it. or were they in cheerful spirits? why, so they were; and what more could be said? it was largely this simplicity of their mental processes that made the older people so companionable. they were unaccustomed to using certain powers of the brain which modern people use; nay, they were so unaware of that use as to be utterly unsuspicious of such a thing. to be as little psychological as possible, we may say that a modern man's thought goes on habitually at two main levels. on the surface are the subjects of the moment--that endless procession of things seen or heard or spoken of which make up the outer world; and here is where intercourse with the old type of villager was easy and agreeable. but below that surface the modern mind has a habit of interpreting these phenomena by general ideas or abstract principles, or referring them to imaginations all out of sight and unmentioned; and into this region of thought the peasant's attention hardly penetrated at all. given a knowledge of the neighbourhood, therefore, it was easy to keep conversation going with a man of this kind. if you could find out the set of superficial or practical subjects in which he was interested, and chatter solely on that plane, all went well. but if you dipped underneath it amongst fancies or generalizations, difficulties arose. the old people had no experience there, and were out of their depth in a moment. and yet--i must repeat it--we should be entirely wrong to infer that they were naturally stupid, unless a man is to be called stupid because he does not cultivate every one of his inborn faculties. in that sense we all have our portion in stupidity, and the peasant was no worse than the rest of us. his particular deficiency was as i have described it, and may be fully explained by his mode of life. for in cow-stall or garden or cottage, or in the fields or on the heaths, the claim of the moment was all-absorbing; and as he hurried to thatch his rick before the rain came, or to get his turfs home by nightfall, the ideas which thronged about his doings crowded out ideas of any other sort. or if, not hurrying, his mind went dreamy, it was still of peasant things that he dreamed. of what he had been told when he was a child, or what he had seen for himself in after-life, his memory was full; and every stroke of reap-hook or thrust of spade had power to entice his intellect along the familiar grooves of thought--grooves which lie on the surface and are unconnected with any systematized channels of idea-work underneath. so the strong country life tyrannized over country brains, and, apart from the ideas suggested by that life, the peasant folk had few ideas. their minds lacked freedom; there was no escape from the actual environment into a world either of imagination or of more scientific understanding. nor did this matter a great deal, so long as the environment remained intact. in the absence of what we call "views"--those generalizations about destiny or goodness, or pleasure, or what not, by which we others grope our way through life--the steady peasant environment, so well known and containing so few surprises, was itself helpful, precisely because it was so well known. if a man would but give shrewd attention to his practical affairs, it was enough; a substitute for philosophy was already made for him, to save him the trouble of thinking things out for himself. his whole mental activity proceeded, unawares, upon a substratum of customary understanding, which belonged to the village in general, and did not require to be formulated, but was accepted as axiomatic by all. "understanding" is the best word i can find for it. it differed from a philosophy or a belief, because it contained no abstract ideas; thinking or theorizing had no part in it; it was a sheer perception and recognition of the circumstances as they were. the people might dispute about details; but the general object to be striven for in life admitted of no disagreement. without giving it a thought, they knew it. there lay the valley before them, with their little homesteads, their cattle, their gardens, the common; and connected with all these things a certain old-established series of industries was recognized, leading up to a well-known prosperity. that perception was their philosophy. the environment was understood through and through. and this common knowledge, existing apart from any individual in particular, served every individual instead of a set of private opinions of his own. to get away from it was impossible, for it was real knowledge; a man's practical thoughts had to harmonize with it; supported by it, he was saved the trouble of thinking things out in "systems"; and in fact it was a better guide to him than thought-out systems could have been, because generations of experience had fitted it so perfectly to the narrow environment of the valley. so long, therefore, as the environment remained unaltered, the truth that the people's minds held few ideas upon other subjects, and had developed no method of systematic thinking, was veiled. but it has become plain enough now that the old environment is gone. the new thrift has laid bare the nakedness of the land. it has found the villagers unequipped with any efficient mental habits appropriate to the altered conditions, and shown them to be at a loss for interesting ideas in other directions. they cannot see their way any longer. they have no aims; at any rate, no man is sure what his own aims ought to be, or has any confidence that his neighbours could enlighten him. life has grown meaningless, stupid; an apathy reigns in the village--a dull waiting, with nothing in particular for which to wait. xv the opportunity amongst so many drawbacks to the new thrift, one good thing that it has brought to the villagers, in the shape of a little leisure, gives us the means of seeing in more detail how destitute of interests their life has become. it must be owned that the leisure is very scanty. it is so obscured, too, by the people's habit of putting themselves to productive work in it that i have sometimes doubted if any benefit of the kind actually filtered down into their overburdened lives. others, however, with a more business-like interest in the matter than mine, have recognized that a new thing has come into the country labourer's life, although they do not speak of it as "leisure." mere wasted time is what it looks like to them. thus, not long ago, an acquaintance who by no means shares my views of these matters was deploring to me the degenerate state, as he conceived it, of the labourers on certain farms in which he is interested, a few miles away from this valley. the men, he said, holding their cottages as one of the conditions of employment on the farms, had grown idle, and were neglecting the cottage gardens--were neglecting them so seriously that, in the interests of the estate, he had been obliged to complain to the farmers. upon my asking for explanations of a disposition so unlike that of the labourers in this parish, many of whom are not content with their cottage gardens, but take more ground when they can get it, my friend said deliberately: "i think food is too cheap. with their fifteen shillings a week the men can buy all they want without working for it; and the result is that they waste their evenings and the gardens go to ruin." with this remarkable explanation i am glad to think that i have nothing to do here. the point is that, according to a business man with lifelong experience in rural matters, country labourers now have time at their disposal. without further question we may accept it as true; the cheapening of produce has made it just possible for labouring men to live without occupying every available hour in productive work, and in this one respect they do profit a little by those innovations--the use of machinery, the division of labour, and the free importation of foreign goods--which have replaced the antiquated peasant economy. it is not necessary nowadays--not absolutely necessary--for the labourer, when his day's wage-earning is done, to fall to work again in the evening in order to produce commodities for his own use. doubtless if he does so he is the better off; but if he fails to do so he may still live. while he has been earning money away from home during the day, other men he has never met, in countries he has never seen, have been providing for him the things that he will want at home in the evening; and if these things have not been actually brought to his door, they are waiting for him in shops, whence he may get them in exchange for the money he has earned. some of them, too, are of a quality such as, with the utmost skill and industry, he never could have produced for himself. modern artificial light provides an example. those home-made rushlights eulogized by gilbert white and by cobbett may have been well enough in their way, but cheap lamps and cheap paraffin have given the villagers their winter evenings. at a cost of a few halfpence earned in the course of the day's work a cottage family may prolong their winter day as far into the night as they please; and that, without feeling that they are wasting their store of light, and without being under necessity of spending the rescued hours at any of those thrifty tasks which alone would have justified peasant folk in sitting up late. they have the evening to use at their pleasure. if it is said, as my friend interested in land seemed to suggest, that they do not know how to use it, i am not concerned to disagree. in fact, that is my own text. on an evening last winter, having occasion to ask a neighbour to do me a service, i knocked at his cottage door, and was invited in. the unshaded lamp on the table cast a hard, strong light on the appointments of the room, and in its glare the family--namely, the man, with his wife, his mother, and his sister--were sitting round the fire. on the table, which had no cloth, the remains of his hot tea-supper were not cleared away--the crust of a loaf, a piece of bacon-rind on a plate, and a teacup showed what it had been. but now he had finished, and was resting in his shirt-sleeves, nursing his baby. in fact, the evening's occupation had begun. the family, that is to say, had two or three hours to spend--for it was but little past seven o'clock--and nothing to do but to sit there and gossip. an innocent pastime that; i have no fault to find with it, excepting that it had the appearance of being very dull. the people looked comfortable, but there was no liveliness in them. no trace of vivacity in their faces gave the smallest reason to suppose that my coming had interrupted any enjoyment of the evening. a listless contentment in being at home together, with the day's work done and a fire to sit by, was what was suggested by the whole bearing of the family. their leisure was of no use to them for recreation--for "making themselves anew," that is--or for giving play to faculties which had lain quiet during the day's work. at the time, however, i saw nothing significant in all this. it was just what other cottage interiors had revealed to me on other winter evenings. the surprising, the unexpected thing would have been to find the little spell of leisure being joyfully used. shall we leave the matter there then? if we do, we shall overlook the one feature in the situation that most particularly deserves attention. for suppose that the cottagers in general do not know what to do with their leisure, yet we must not argue that therefore they do not prize it. dull though they may seem in it, tedious though i believe they often find it, nevertheless there proceeds from it a subtle satisfaction, as at something gained, in the liberty to behave as they like, in the vague sense that for an hour or two no further effort is demanded of them. yawning for bed, half sick of the evening, somewhere in the back of their consciousness they feel that this respite from labour, which they have won by the day's work, is a privilege not to be thrown away. it is more to them than a mere cessation from toil, a mere interval between more important hours; it is itself the most important part of the day--the part to which all the rest has led up. nothing of the sort, i believe, was experienced in the village in earlier times. leisure, and the problem of using it, are new things there. i do not mean that the older inhabitants of the valley never had any spare time. there were, doubtless, many hours when they "eased off," to smoke their pipes and drink their beer and be jolly; only, such hours were, so to speak, a by-product of living, not the usual and expected consummation of every day. accepting them by no means unwillingly when they occurred, the folk still were wont normally to reduce them to a minimum, or at least to see that they did not occur too often; as if spare time, after all, was only a time of waiting until work could be conveniently resumed. so lightly was it valued that most villagers cut it short by the simple expedient of going to bed at six or seven o'clock. but then, in their peasant way, they enjoyed interesting days. the work they did, although it left their reasoning and imaginative powers undeveloped, called into play enough subtle knowledge and skill to make their whole day's industry gratifying. what should they want of leisure? they wanted rest, in which to recover strength for taking up again the interesting business of living; but they approached their daily life--their pig-keeping and bread-making, their mowing and thatching and turf-cutting and gardening, and the whole round of country tasks--almost in a welcoming spirit, matching themselves against its demands and proving their manhood by their success. but the modern labourer's employment, reduced as it is to so much greater monotony, and carried on for a master instead of for the man himself, is seldom to be approached in that spirit. the money-valuation of it is the prime consideration; it is a commercial affair; a clerk going to his office has as much reason as the labourer to welcome the morning's call to work. as in the clerk's case, so in the labourer's: the act or fruition of living is postponed during the hours in which the living is being earned; between the two processes a sharp line of division is drawn; and it is not until the clock strikes, and the leisure begins, that a man may remember that he is a man, and try to make a success of living. hence the truth of what i say: the problem of using leisure is a new one in the village. deprived, by the economic changes which have gone over them, of any keen enjoyment of life while at work, the labourers must make up for the deprivation when work is over, or not at all. naturally enough, in the absence of any traditions to guide them, they fail. but self-respect forbids the old solution. to feed and go to bed would be to shirk the problem, not to solve it. so much turns upon a proper appreciation of these truths that it will be well to illustrate them from real life, contrasting the old against the new. fortunately the means are available. modernized people acquainted with leisure are in every cottage, while as for the others, the valley still contains a few elderly men whose lives are reminiscent of the earlier day. accordingly i shall finish this chapter by giving an account of one of these latter, so that in the next chapter the different position of the present-day labourers may be more exactly understood. the man i have in mind--i will rename him turner--belongs to one of the old families of the village, and inherited from his father a cottage and an acre or so of ground--probably mortgaged--together with a horse and cart, a donkey, a cow or two, a few pigs, and a fair stock of the usual rustic tools and implements. unluckily for him, he inherited no traditions--there were none in his family--to teach him how to use these possessions for making a money profit; so that, trying to go on in the old way, as if the world were not changing all round him, he muddled away his chances, and by the time that he was fifty had no property left that was worth any creditor's notice. the loss, however, came too late to have much effect on his habits. and now that he is but the weekly tenant of a tiny cottage, and owns no more than a donkey and cart and a few rabbits and fowls, he is just the same sort of man that he used to be in prosperity--thriftless from our point of view, but from the peasant point of view thrifty enough, good-tempered too, generous to a fault, indifferent to discomforts, as a rule very hard-working, yet apparently quite unacquainted with fatigue. he gets his living now as a labourer; but, unlike his neighbours, he seems by no means careful to secure constant employment. the regularity of it would hardly suit his temper; he is too keenly desirous of being his own master. and his own master he manages to be, in a certain degree. from those who employ him he obtains some latitude of choice, not alone as to the hours of the day when he shall serve them, but even as to the days of the week. i have heard him protest: "monday you says for me to come. well, i dunno about _monday_--if tuesday'd suit ye as well? i wants to do so-and-so o' monday, if 'tis fine. you see, there's mr. s---- i bin so busy i en't bin anear him this week for fear _he_ should want me up _there_. i _knows_ his grass wants cuttin'. but i 'xpects i shall ha' to satisfy 'n monday, or else p'raps he won't like it." sometimes he takes a day for his own affairs, carting home hop-bine in his donkey-cart, or getting heath for some thatching job that has been offered to him. on these terms, while he finds plenty to do in working intermittently for four or five people in the parish, he preserves a freedom of action which probably no other labourer in the village enjoys. few others could command it. but turner's manner is so ingratiating that people have a personal liking for him, and it is certain that his strength and all-round handiness make of him an extremely useful man. especially does his versatility commend him. others in the village are as strong as he and as active and willing, but there are not now many others who can do such a number of different kinds of work as he can, with so much experienced readiness. among his clients (for that is a more fitting word for them than "employers") there are two or three residents with villa gardens, and also two of those "small-holders" who, more fortunate than himself (though not more happy, i fancy), have managed to cling to the little properties which their fathers owned. turner, therefore, comes in for a number of jobs extraordinarily diverse. thus, during last summer i knew him to be tending two gardens, where his work ranged from lawn-cutting (sometimes with a scythe) to sowing seeds, taking care of the vegetable crops, and trimming hedges. but this occupied him only from seven in the morning until five in the afternoon. in the margin outside these hours--starting at five or earlier and keeping on until dark--he was helping the two small-holders, one after the other, to make their hay and get the ricks built. then the ricks required thatching, and turner thatched them. in the meantime he was getting together a little rick of his own for his donkey's use, carrying home in bags the longer grass which he had mowed in the rough places of people's gardens or had chopped off in hedgerows near his home. a month later he was harvesting for the small-holders, and again there was rick-thatching for him to do. "that's seven i've done," he remarked to me, on the day when he finished the last one. "but didn't the rain stop you this morning?" i asked, for rain had begun heavily about nine o'clock. he laughed. "no.... we got'n covered in somehow. had to sramble about, but he was thatched afore the rain come." later still he was threshing some of this corn with a flail. i heard of it with astonishment. "a flail?" "yes," he said; "my old dad put me to it when i was seventeen, so i _had_ to learn." he seemed to think little of it. but to me threshing by hand was so obsolete and antiquated a thing as to be a novelty; nor yet to me only, for a friend to whom i mentioned the matter laughed, and asked if i had come across any knights in armour lately. one autumn, when he was doing some work for myself, he begged for a day or two away in order to take a job at turf-cutting. when he returned on the third or fourth day, he said: "me and my nipper" (a lad of about sixteen years old) "cut sixteen hundred this time." now, lawn-turfs are cut to a standard size, three feet by one, wherefore i remarked: "why, that's nearly a mile you have cut." "oh, is it?" he said. "but it didn't take long. ye see, i had the nipper to go along with the edgin' tool in front of me, and 'twan't much trouble to get 'em up." he could not keep on for me regularly. the thought of mr. s----'s work waiting to be done fidgeted him. "when i was up there last he was talkin' about fresh gravellin' all his paths. i said to'n, 'if i was you i should wait anyhow till the leaves is down--they'll make the new gravel so ontidy else.' so they would, sure. i keeps puttin' it off. but i shall ha' to go. i sold'n a little donkey in the summer, and he's hoofs'll want parin' again. i done 'em not so long ago...." so his work varies, week after week. from one job to another up and down the valley he goes, not listlessly and fatigued, but taking a sober interest in all he does. you can see in him very well how his forefathers went about their affairs, for he is plainly a man after their pattern. his day's work is his day's pleasure. it is changeful enough, and calls for skill enough, to make it enjoyable to him. furthermore, things on either side of it--things he learnt to understand long ago--make their old appeal to his senses as he goes about, although his actual work is not concerned with them. in the early summer--he had come to mow a little grass plot for me--i found him full of a boyish delight in birds and birds'-nests. a pair of interesting birds had arrived; at any time in the day they could be seen swooping down from the branch of a certain apple-tree and back again to their starting-place without having touched the ground. "flycatchers!" said turner exultantly. "i shall ha' to look about. they got their nest somewhere near, you may be sure o' that! a little wisp o' grass somewhere in the clunch (fork) of a tree ..." (his glance wandered speculatively round in search of a likely place) "that's where they builds. ah! look now! there he goes again! right in the clunch you'll find their nest, and as many as ten young 'uns in'n.... yes, i shall be bound to find where he is afore i done with it." the next day, hard by where he was at work, an exclamation of mine drew him to look at a half-fledged bird, still alive, lying at the foot of a nut-tree. "h'm: so 'tis. a young blackbird," he said pitifully. the next moment he had the bird in his hand. "where can the nest be, then? up in that nut? well, to be sure! wonders i hadn't seen that afore now. that's it though, 'pend upon it; right up in the clunch o' that bough." before i could say a word he was half-way up amongst the branches, long-legged and struggling, to put the bird back into its nest. as he has always lived in the valley, he is full of memories of it, and especially early memories; recalling the comparative scantiness of its population when he was a boy, and the great extent of the common; and the warm banks where hedgehogs abounded--hedgehogs which his father used to kill and cook; and the wells of good water, so few and precious that each had its local name. for instance, "butcher's well" (so-called to this day, he says) "was where jack butcher used to live, what was shepherd for mr. warner up there at manley bridge." at eight years old he was sent out on to the common to mind cows; at ten he was thought big enough to be helpful to his father, at piece-work in the hop-grounds; and in due time he began to go "down into sussex" with his father and others for the harvesting. his very first experience there was of a wet august, when the men could earn no money and were reduced to living on bread and apples; but other years have left him with happier memories of that annual outing. "old sussex!" he laughed once in appreciative reminiscence--"old sussex! them old hills! i did use to have a appetite there! i could eat anything.... you could go to the top of a hill and look down one way and p'raps not see more'n four or five places (houses or farmsteads), and look t'other way and mebbe not be able to see e'er a one at all. oh, a reg'lar wild, out-o'-th'-way place 'twas." on this farm, to which his gang went year after year, the farmer "didn't _pay_ very high--you couldn't expect'n to. but he used to treat us very well. send out great puddin's for us two or three times a week, and cider, and bread-an'-cheese.... nine rabbits old fisher the roadman out here says 'twas, but i dunno 'bout that, but i _knows_ 'twas as many as seven, the farmer put into one puddin' for us. there was a rabbit for each man, be how 'twill. in a great yaller basin...." turner held out his arms to illustrate a large circumference. in the time of his prosperity the main of his work was with his own horse and cart, so that i know him to have had considerable experience in that way; and i recollect, too, his being at plough in one of the slanting gardens of this valley, not with his horse--the ground was too steep for that--but with two donkeys harnessed to a small plough which he kept especially for such work. truly it would be hard to "put him out," hard to find him at a loss, in anything connected with country industry. he spoilt some sea-kale for me once, admitting, however, before he began that he was not very familiar with its management; but that is the only matter of its kind in which i have proved him inefficient. to see him putting young cabbage-plants in rows is to realize what a fine thing it is to know the best way of going to work, even at such a simple-seeming task as that; and i would not undertake to count in how many such things he is proficient. one day he was telling me an anecdote of his taking honey from an old-fashioned straw beehive; another day the talk was of pruning fruit-trees. i had shown him an apple--the first one to be picked from a young tree--and he at once named it correctly as a "blenheim orange," recognizing it by its "eye," whereupon i asked a question or two, and, finally, if he understood pruning. there came his customary laugh, while his eyes twinkled, as if the question amused him, as if i might have known that he understood pruning. "yes, i've done it many's a time. grape vines, too." who taught him? "oh, 'twas my old uncle made me do that. he was laid up one time--'twas when i was eighteen year old--and he says to me: 'you'll ha' to do it. now's your time to learn....' of course he showed me _how_. so 'twas he as showed me how to thatch.... my father never knowed how to do thatchin', nor anythink else much. he was mostly hop-ground. he done a little mowin', of course." equally of course, the father had reaped and harvested, and kept pigs and cows, and a few odd things besides; nevertheless, being chiefly a wage-earner, "he never knowed much," and it was to the uncle that the lad owed his best training. from talk of the uncle, and of the uncle's cows, of which he had charge for a time, he drifted off to mention a curious piece of old thrift connected with the common, and practised apparently for some time after the enclosure. there was a man he knew in those now remote days who fed his cows for a part of the year on furze, or "fuzz," as we call it here. two acres of furze he had, which he cut close in alternate years, the second year's growth making a fine juicy fodder when chopped small into a sort of chaff. an old hand-apparatus for that purpose--a kind of chaff-cutting box--was described to me. the same man had a horse, which also did well on furze diet mixed with a little malt from the man's own beer-brewing. to the lore derived from his uncle and others, turner has added much by his own observation--not, of course, intentional observation scientifically verified, but that shrewd and practical folk-observation, if i may so call it, by which in the course of generations the rural english had already garnered such a store of mingled knowledge and error. so he knows, or thinks he knows, why certain late-bearing apple-trees have fruit only every other year, and what effect on the potato crop is caused by dressing our sandy soil with chalk or lime; so he watches the new mole-runs, or puzzles to make out what birds they can be that peck the ripening peas out of the pods, or estimates the yield of oats to the acre by counting the sheaves that he stacks, or examines the lawn to see what kinds of grass are thriving. about all such matters his talk is the talk of an experienced man habitually interested in his subject, and yet it is never obtrusive. the remarks fall from him casually; you feel, too, that while he is telling you something that he noticed yesterday or years ago his eyes are alert to seize any new detail that may seem worthy of attention. details are always really his subject, for the generalizations he sometimes offers are built on the flimsiest foundation of but one or two observed facts. but i am not now concerned with the value of his observations for themselves; the point is that to him they are so interesting. he is a man who seems to enjoy his life with an undiminished zest from morning to night. it is doubtful if the working hours afford, to nine out of ten modern and even "educated" men, such a constant refreshment of acceptable incidents as turner's hours bring to him. he is perhaps the best specimen of the old stock now left in the valley; but it must not be thought that he is singular. others there are not very unlike him; and all that one hears of them goes to prove that the old cottage thrift, whatever its limitations may have been, did at least make the day's work interesting enough to a man, without his needing to care about leisure evenings. turner, for his part, does not value them at all. in the winter he is often in bed before seven o'clock. xvi the obstacles keeping this old-fashioned kind of life in mind as we turn again to the modern labourer's existence, we see at once where the change has come in, and why leisure, from being of small account, has become of so great importance. it is the amends due for a deprivation that has been suffered. unlike the industry of a peasantry, commercial wage-earning cannot satisfy the cravings of a man's soul at the same time that it occupies his body, cannot exercise many of his faculties or appeal to many of his tastes; and therefore, if he would have any profit, any enjoyment, of his own human nature, he must contrive to get it in his leisure time. in illustration of this position, i will take the case--it is fairly typical--of the coal-carter mentioned in the last chapter. he is about twenty-five years old now; and his career so far, from the time when he left school, may be soon outlined. it is true, i cannot say what his first employment was; but it can be guessed; for there is no doubt that he began as an errand-boy, and that presently, growing bigger, he took a turn at driving a gravel-cart to and fro between the gravel-pits and the railway. assuming this, i can go on to speak from my own knowledge. his growth and strength came early; i remember noticing him first as a powerful fellow, not more than seventeen or eighteen years old, but already doing a man's work as a gravel-digger. when that work slackened after two or three years, he got employment--not willingly, but because times were bad--at night-work with the "ballast-train" on the railway. exhausting if not brutalizing labour, that is. at ten or eleven at night the gangs of men start off, travelling in open trucks to the part of the line they are to repair, and there they work throughout the night, on wind-swept embankment or in draughty cutting, taking all the weather that the nights bring up. this man endured it for some twelve months, until a neglected chill turned to bronchitis and pleurisy, and nearly ended his life. after that he had a long spell of unemployment, and was on the point of going back to the ballast-train as a last resource when, by good fortune, he got his present job. he has been a coal-carter for three or four years--a fact which testifies to his efficiency. by half-past six o'clock in the morning he has to be in the stables; then comes the day on the road, during which he will lift on his back, into the van and out of it, and perhaps will carry for long distances, nine or ten tons of coal--say, twenty hundredweight bags every hour; by half-past five or six in the evening he has put up his horse for the night; and so his day's work is over, excepting that he has about a mile to walk home. of this employment, which, if the man is lucky, will continue until he is old and worn-out, we may admit that it is more useful by far--to the community--than the old village industries were wont to be. concentrated upon one kind of effort, it perhaps doubles the productivity of a day's work. but just because it is so concentrated it cannot yield to the man himself any variety of delights such as men occupied in the old way were wont to enjoy. it demands from him but little skill; it neither requires him to possess a great fund of local information and useful lore, nor yet takes him where he could gather such a store for his own pleasure. the zest and fascination of living, with the senses alert, the tastes awake, and manifold sights and sounds appealing to his happy recognition--all these have to be forgotten until he gets home and is free for a little while. then he may seek them if he can, using art or pastimes--what we call "civilization"--for that end. the two hours or so of leisure are his opportunity. but after a day like the coal-carter's, where is the man that could even begin to refresh himself with the arts, or even the games, of civilization? for all the active use he can make of them those spare hours of his do not deserve to be called leisure; they are the fagged end of the day. slouching home to them, as it were from under ten tons of coal, he has no energy left for further effort. the community has had all his energy, all his power to enjoy civilization; and has paid him three shillings and sixpence for it. it is small wonder that he seems not to avail himself of the opportunity, prize it though he may. yet there is still a possibility to be considered. albeit any active use of leisure is out of the question, is he therefore debarred from a more tranquil enjoyment? he sits gossiping with his family, but why should the gossip be listless and yawning? why should not he, to say nothing of his relations, enjoy the refreshment of talk enlivened by the play of pleasant and varied thoughts? as everyone knows, the actual topic of conversation is not what makes the charm; be what it may, it will still be agreeable, provided that it goes to an accompaniment of ideas too plentiful and swift to be expressed. every allusion then extends the interest of it; reawakened memories add to its pleasure; if the minds engaged are fairly well furnished with ideas, either by experience or by education, the intercourse between them goes on in a sort of luminous medium which fills the whole being with contentment. supposing, then, that by education, or previous experience, the coal-carter's mind has been thus well furnished, his scanty leisure may still compensate him for the long dull hours of his wage-earning, and the new thrift will after all have made amends for the deprivation of the old peasant enjoyments. but to suppose this is to suppose a most unlikely thing. previous experience, at any rate, has done little for the man. the peasants themselves were better off. compare his chances, once more, with those of a man like turner. from earliest childhood, turner's days and nights have been bountiful to him in many-coloured impressions. at the outset he saw and had part in those rural activities, changeful, accomplished, carried on by many forms of skill and directed by a vast amount of traditional wisdom, whereby the country people of england had for ages supported themselves in their quiet valleys. his brain still teems with recollections of all this industry. and then to those recollections must be added memories of the scenes in which the industry went on--the wide landscapes, the glowing cornfields, the meadows, woods, heaths; and likewise the details of barn and rick-yard, and stable and cow-stall, and numberless other corners into which his work has taken him. to anyone who understands them, those details are themselves like an interesting book, full of "idea" legible everywhere in the shapes which country craftsmanship gave to them; and turner understands them through and through. nor is this all. if not actual adventure and romance, still many of the factors of adventure and romance have accompanied him through his life; so that it is good even to think of all that he has seen. he has had experience (travelling down to sussex) of the dead silence of country roads at midnight under the stars; has known the august sunrise, and the afternoon heat, and the chilly moonlight, high up on the south downs; and the glint of the sunshine in apple-orchards at cider-making time; and the grey coming of the rain that urges a man to hurry with his thatching; and the thickening of the white winter fog across the heaths towards night-fall, when wayfarers might miss the track and wander all night unless they knew well what they were about. of such stuff as this for the brain-life to feed upon there has been great abundance in turner's career, but of such stuff what memories can the coal-carter have? already in his earliest childhood the principal chances were gone. the common had been enclosed; no little boys were sent out to mind cows there all day, and incidentally to look for birds'-nests and acquaint themselves with the ways of the rabbits and hedgehogs and butterflies and birds of the heath. fenced-in property, guarded by the policeman and the law, restricted the boy's games to the shabby waste-places of the valley, and to the footpaths and roads, where there was not much for a child to do or to see. at home, and in the homes of his companions, the new thrift was in vogue; he might not watch the homely cottage doings, and listen to traditional talk about them, and look up admiringly at able men and women engaged upon them, for the very good reason that no such things went on. men slaving at their gardens he might see, and women weary at their washing and mending, amid scenes of little dignity and much poverty and makeshift untidiness; but that was all. the coherent and self-explanatory village life had given place to a half blind struggle of individuals against circumstances and economic processes which no child could possibly understand; and it was with the pitiful stock of ideas to be derived from these conditions that the coal-carter passed out of childhood, to enter upon the wage-earning career which i have already outlined. i need not spend much time in discussing that career as a source of ideas. from first to last, and with the coal-carting period thrown in, monotony rather than variety has been the characteristic of it. i do not say that it has been quite fruitless. there are impressions to be derived, and intense ones probably, from working all day against the "face" of a gravel-pit, with the broken edge of the field up above one's head for horizon; and from the skilled use of pick and shovel; and from the weight of the wheelbarrow full of gravel as one wheels it along a sagging plank. that is something to have experienced; as it is to have sweated at night in a railway-cutting along with other men under the eye of a ganger, and to have known starlight, or rain, or frost, or fog, or tempest meanwhile. it is something, even, to see the life of the roads year after year from the footboard of a coal-van, and to be in charge of a horse hour after hour; but i am talking now of ideas which might give buoyancy and zest to the gossip beside a man's fireside in the evening when he is tired; and i think it unnecessary to argue that, in regard to providing this kind of mental furniture, the coal-carter's experience of life cannot have done great things for him. it has been poverty-stricken just where the peasant life was so rich; it has left a great deficiency, which could only have been made good by an education intentionally given for that end. but it goes almost without saying that the man's "education" did very little to enrich his mind. the ideas and accomplishments he picked up at the elementary school between his fourth and fourteenth years were of course in themselves insufficient for the needs of a grown man, and it would be unfair to criticize his schooling from that standpoint. its defect was that it failed to initiate him into the inner significance of information in general, and failed wholly to start him on the path of learning. it was sterile of results. it opened to him no view, no vista; set up in his brain no stir of activity such as could continue after he had left school; and this for the reason that those simple items of knowledge which it conveyed to him were too scrappy and too few to begin running together into any understanding of the larger aspects of life. a few rules of arithmetic, a little of the geography of the british islands, a selection of anecdotes from the annals of the ancient jews; no english history, no fairy-tales or romance, no inkling of the infinities of time and space, or of the riches of human thought; but merely a few "pieces" of poetry, and a few haphazard and detached observations (called "nature study" nowadays) about familiar things--"the cat," "the cow," "the parsnip," "the rainbow," and so forth--this was the jumble of stuff offered to the child's mind--a jumble to which it would puzzle a philosopher to give coherence. and what could a child get from it to kindle his enthusiasm for that civilized learning in which, none the less, it all may have its place? when the boy left school his "education" had but barely begun. and hardly anything has happened since then to carry it farther, although once there seemed just a chance of something better. during two successive winters the lad, being then from sixteen to seventeen years old, went to a night-school, which was opened for twenty-six weeks in each "session," and for four hours in each week. but the hope proved fallacious. in those hundred and four hours a year--hours which came after a tiring day's work--his brain was fed upon "mensuration" and "the science of horticulture," the former on the chance that some day he might want to measure a wall for paper-hanging or do some other job of the sort, and the latter in case fate should have marked him out for a nursery-gardener, when it would be handy to know that germinating seeds begin by pushing down a root and pushing up a leaf or two. this gives a notion of the sort of idea the luckless fellow derived from the night-school. i do not think that the joinery-classes at present being held in the night-school had begun in his time; but supposing that he also learnt joinery, he might, now that he is a man, add thoughts of mortices and tenons and mitre-joints to his other thoughts about wall areas and germinating seeds. of course, all these things--like jewish history or english geography--are worth knowing; but again it is true, of these things no less than of the childish learning acquired at the day-school, that whatever their worth may be to the people concerned to know them, they were very unlikely to set up in this young man's brain any constructive idea-activity, any refreshing form of thought that would enrich his leisure now, or give zest to his conversation. they were odds and ends of knowledge; more comparable to the numberless odds and ends in which peasants were so rich than to the flowing and luminous idea-life of modern civilization. adequate help having thus failed to reach the man from any source at any time of his life, it cannot be surprising if now the evening's opportunity finds him unprepared. he is between two civilizations, one of which has lapsed, while the other has not yet come his way. and what is true of him is true of the younger labouring men in general. in bread-and-cheese matters they are perhaps as well off as their forefathers in the village, but they are at a disadvantage in the matter of varied and successful vitality. the wage-earning thrift which has increased their usefulness as drudges has diminished their effectiveness as human beings; for it has failed to introduce into their homes those enlivening, those spirit-stirring influences which it denies to them when they are away from home doing their work. hence a strange thing. the unemployed hours of the evening, which should be such a boon, are a time of blank and disconsolate tediousness, and when the longer days of the year come round many a man in the valley who ought to be glad of his spare time dodges the wearisome problem of what to do with it by putting himself to further work, until he can go to bed without feeling that he has been wasting his life. yet that is really no solution of the problem. it means that the men are trying to be peasants again, because they can discover no art of living, no civilization, compatible with the new thrift. of course it is true that they are handicapped by the lowness of the wages they receive. however much time one may have, it would be all but impossible to follow up modern civilization without any of its apparatus, in the shape of books and musical instruments, and the comfort of seclusion in a spare room; and none of these advantages can be bought out of an income of eighteen shillings a week. that is plainly the central difficulty--a difficulty which, unless it can be put right, condemns our commercial economy as wholly inadequate to the needs of labouring people. supposing, however, that this defect could be suddenly remedied; supposing, that is, that by some miracle wages could be so adjusted as to put the labourer in command of the apparatus of civilization; still, he could not use the apparatus without a personal adjustment. he is impoverished, not in money only, but also in development of his natural faculties, since the old village civilization has ceased to help him. xvii the women's need if, while the common was still open, very few even of the men of the village troubled about regular employment, we may well believe that there were still fewer regular wage-earners amongst the women. i do not mean that wage-earning was a thing they never did. there was not a woman in the valley, perhaps, but had experience of it at hay-making and harvesting, while all would have been disappointed to miss the hop-picking. but these occasional employments had more resemblance to holidays and outings than they had to constant work for a living. as the new thrift gradually established itself, the younger women at least had to alter their ways. for observe what had happened. a number of men, once half-independent, but now wanting work constantly, had been forced into a market where extra labour was hardly required; and it needs no argument to prove that, under such conditions, they were not only unable to command high wages, but were often unemployed. of necessity, therefore, the women were obliged to make up the week's income by their own earnings. the situation, in fact, was similar to that which had been produced in earlier times and in other parishes by the old poor law, when parish pay enabled men to work for less than a living wage; only now the deficiency was made up, not at the expense of employers and ratepayers, but at the expense of women and girls. but, though becoming wage-earners, the women missed the first advantage that wage-earners should enjoy--namely, leisure time. after all, the new thrift had but partially freed them from their old occupations. they might buy at a shop many things which their mothers had had to make; but there was no going to a shop to get the washing and scrubbing done, the beds made, the food cooked, the clothes mended. all this remained to the women as before. when they came home from the fields--at first it was principally by field-work that they earned wages--it was not to be at leisure, but to fall-to again on these domestic doings, just as if there had been no change, just as if they were peasant women still. and yet, though this work had not changed, there was henceforth a vast difference in its meaning to the women. to approach it in the true peasant or cottage woman's temper was impossible; nor in doing it might the labourer's wife enjoy half the satisfaction that had rewarded the fatigue of her mother and grandmother. something dropped away from it that could not be replaced when the old conditions died out. to discover what the "something" was, one need not idealize those old conditions. it would be a mistake to suppose that the peasant economy, as practised in this valley, was nearly so good a thing for women as it was for the other sex; a mistake to think that their life was all honey, all simple sweetness and light, all an idyll of samplers and geraniums in cottage windows. on the contrary, i believe that very often it grew intensely ugly, and was as narrowing as it was ugly. the women saw nothing, and learnt nothing, of the outer world; and, in their own world, they saw and learnt much that was ill. all the brutalities connected with getting a living on peasant terms tended to coarsen them--the cruelties of men to one another, the horrors that had to be inflicted on animals, the miseries of disease suffered by ignorant human beings. their perpetual attention to material cares tended to make them materialized and sordid; they grew callous; there was no room to cultivate delicacy of imagination. all this you must admit into the picture of the peasant woman's life, if you would try to see it fairly on the bad side as well as on the good side. still, a good side there was, and that it was far oftener in evidence than the other i am well persuaded, when i remember the older village women who are dead now. they, so masculine in their outlook, yet so true-hearted and, now and then, so full of womanly tenderness and high feeling, could not have been the product of conditions that were often evil. and one merit in particular must be conceded to the old style of life. say that the women's work was too incessant, and that some of it was distinctly ill to do; yet, taken as a whole, it was not uninteresting, and it was just that wholeness of it that made all the difference. the most tiresome duties--those domestic cares which were destined to become so irksome to women of a later day--were less tiresome because they were parts of a whole. through them all shone the promise of happier hours to be won by their performance. for although in this rough valley women might not achieve the finer successes of cottage folk-life, where it led up into gracefulness and serenity, in a coarser fashion the essential spirit of pride in capable doing was certainly theirs. they could, and did, enjoy the satisfaction of proficiency, and win respect for it from their neighbours. if they were not neat, they were very handy; if there was no superlative finish about their work, there was soundness of quality, which they knew would be recognized as so much to their credit. old gossip bears me out. conceive the nimble and self-confident temper of those two cottage women--not in this village, i admit, but in the next one to it, and the thing was quite possible here--who always planned to do their washing on the same day, for the pleasure of seeing who had the most "pieces," and the best, to hang out on the clothes-lines. the story must be seventy years old, and i don't know who told it me; but it has always seemed to me very characteristic of the good side of cottage life, whether one thinks of the eager rivalry itself in the gardens, where the white clothes flapped, or of the long record implied in it of careful housewifery and quiet needlework. this spirit of joy in proficiency must have sweetened many of the cottage duties, and may well have run through them all. when a woman treated her friends to home-made wine at christmas, she was exhibiting to them her own skill; when she cut up the loaf she had baked, or fried the bacon she had helped to cure, the good result was personal to herself; the very turf she piled on the fire had a homely satisfaction for her, because, cut as it was by her husband's own tools, and smelling of the neighbouring heath as it burnt, it was suggestive of the time-honoured economies of all the valley. in this way another comfort was added to that of her own more personal pleasure. for there was hardly a duty that the old-time village woman did, but was related closely to what the men were doing out of doors, and harmonized with the general industry of her people. she may be figured, almost, as the member of a tribe whose doings explained all her own doings, and to whose immemorial customs her scrubbing and washing belonged, not unworthily. her conscience was in the work. from one thing to another she went, now busily at a pleasant task, now doggedly at a wearisome one, and she knew no leisure; but at every point she was supported by what we may call the traditional feeling of the valley--nay, of the whole countryside--commending her perhaps; at any rate, fully understanding her position. to be like her mother and her grandmother; to practise the time-honoured habits, and to practise them efficiently, was a sort of religious cult with her, in the same way as it is nowadays with women of a certain position not to be dowdy. the peasant-cottager's wife could never think of herself as a mere charwoman or washerwoman; she had no such ignoble career. she was mrs. this, or dame that, with a recognized place in the village; and all the village traditions were her possession. the arts of her people--the flower-gardening, the songs and old sayings and superstitions, the customs of harvest-time and christmas--were hers as much as anybody's; if the stress of work kept her from partaking in them, still she was not shut out from them by reason of any social inferiority. and so we come back to the point at issue. house-drudgery might fill the peasant woman's days and years, and yet there was more belonging to it. it was the core of a fruit: the skeleton of something that was full of warm life. a larger existence wrapped it in, and on the whole a kindlier one. in view of all this it is easy to see why the house-duties can no longer be approached in the old temper, or yield their former satisfaction while they are being done. the larger existence has been stripped away from them. they do not lead up to happier, more interesting, duties; they are not preparatory to pleasantness. the washing and scrubbing, the very cooking and needlework, are but so much trouble awaiting a woman when she gets up in the morning and when she comes home tired at night; they spoil the leisure that wage-earning should win, and they are undertaken, not with the idea of getting on to something productive, something that would make the cottage a more prosperous home, but solely to keep it from degenerating into an entirely offensive one. there is no hope surrounding these doings. nor do they fail only because they have become dissociated from pleasanter work. even the best of them are actually less interesting in themselves. look, for instance, at cooking. that cheap and coarse food which women now buy because its coarseness makes it cheap is of a quality to discourage any cook; it is common to the village--the rough rations of the poor; and the trumpery crocks and tins, the bad coal, and worse fireplaces, do nothing to make the preparation of it more agreeable. with needlework it is the same story: commercial thrift has degraded that craft. she must be an enthusiast indeed who would expend any art of the needle upon the shabby second-hand garments, or the shoddy new ones, which have to content the labourer's wife. and if the family clothes are not good to make or to mend, neither are they good to wash, or worth displaying on the clothes-lines in the hope of exciting envy in neighbours. not at first, but in due time, inefficiency was added to the other causes which tended to make housework unpalatable to the women, and of no use to them as an uplifting experience. the inefficiency could hardly be avoided. the mothers, employed in the fields, had but little chance of teaching their daughters; and these daughters, growing up, to marry and to follow field-work themselves, kept their cottages as best they could, by the light of nature. in not a few cases all sense of an art of well-doing in such matters was lost, and the home became a place to sleep in, to feed in; not a place in which to try to live well. perhaps the lowest ebb was reached some fifteen or twenty years ago. by then that feeling of belonging intimately to the countryside and sharing its traditions had died out, and nothing had come to replace it. for all practical purposes there were no traditions, nor were there any true country-folk living a peculiar and satisfying life of their own. the women had become merely the "hands" or employées of farmers, struggling to make up money enough every week for a wretched shopping. with health, a joking humour, and the inevitable habit of self-reliance, they preserved a careless good-temper, and they had not much time to realize their own plight; but it was, for all that, a squalid life that many of them led, a neglected life. only in a very few cottages did there linger any serviceable memory of better things. of late years some recovery is discernible. field-work, which fostered a blowsy carelessness, has declined, and at the same time the arrival of "residents" has greatly increased the demand for charwomen and washerwomen. the women, therefore, find it worth while to cultivate a certain tidiness in their persons, which extends to their homes. it is true i am told that their ideas of good housework are often rudimentary in the extreme; that the charwoman does not know when to change her scrubbing water; that the washerwoman is easily satisfied with quite dubious results; and i can well believe it. the state of the cottages is betrayed naïvely by the young girls who go from them into domestic service. "you don't seem to like things sticky," one of these girls observed to a mistress distressed by sticky door-handles one day and sticky table-knives the next day. that remark which richard jefferies heard a mother address to her daughter, "gawd help the poor missus as gets hold o' _you_!" might very well be applied to many and many a child of fourteen in this valley, going out, all untrained, to her first "place"; but these things, indicating what has been and is, do not affect the truth that a slight recovery has occurred. it is an open question how much of the recovery is a revival of old ideas, called into play again by new forms of employment. perhaps more of it is due to experience which the younger women now bring into the valley when they marry, after being in comfortable domestic service outside the valley. in other words, perhaps middle-class ideas of decent house-work are at last coming in, to fill the place left empty by the obsolete peasant ideas. may we, then, conclude that the women are now in a fair way to do well; that nothing has been lost which those middle-class ideas cannot make good? in my view the circumstances warrant no such conclusion. consider what it is that has to be made good. it is something in the nature of a civilization. it is the larger existence which enwrapped the peasant woman's house-drudgery and made it worth while. a good domestic method is all very well, and the middle-class method is probably better than the old method; but alike in the peasant cottages, and now in middle-class homes, we may see in domestic work a nucleus only--the core of a fruit, the necessary framework of a more acceptable life. with the cottage women in the old days that work favoured such developments of ability and of character as permitted the women to look with complacency upon women bred in other ways. they experienced no humiliating contrasts. their household drudgery put within their reach the full civilization of which it was an organic part. but who can affirm as much of their household drudgery to-day? who can pretend that the best accomplishment of it on middle-class lines admits the cottage woman into the full advantages of middle-class civilization, and enables her to look without humiliation upon the accomplishments of well-to-do women? i know that villa ladies and district visitors cling to some such belief, but the notion is false, and may be dismissed without argument, until the ladies can show that they owe all their own refinement to the inspiring influences of the washing-tub, and the scrubbing-pail, and the kitchen-range. the truth is that middle-class domesticity, instead of setting cottage women on the road to middle-class culture of mind and body, has side-tracked them--has made of them charwomen and laundresses, so that other women may shirk these duties and be "cultured." of course, their wage-earning and their home-work are not the only sources from which ideas that would explain and beautify life might be obtained by them. the other sources, however, are of no great value. at school, where (as we have seen) the boys get little enough general information, the girls have hitherto got less, instruction in needlework and cookery being given to them in preference to certain more bookish lessons that the boys get. they leave school, therefore, intellectually most ignorant. then, in domestic service, again it is in cookery and that sort of thing that they are practised; there may be culture of thought and taste going on elsewhere in the house, but they are not admitted to it. afterwards, marrying, and confronted with the problem of making both ends meet on eighteen shillings a week, they get experience indeed of many things, and, becoming mothers, they learn invaluable lessons; yet still the _savoir vivre_ that should make up for the old peasant cult, the happy outlook, the inspiring point of view, is not attained. their best chance is in the ideas and knowledge they may pick up from their husbands, and if from them they do not learn anything of the best that has been thought and said in the world, they do not learn it. of their husbands, in this connection, there will be something further to be said presently; in the meantime i may leave it to the reader to judge whether the cottage woman's needs, since the peasant system broke down, are being well met. but i must not leave it to be inferred that the women, thus stranded between two civilizations, are therefore degraded or brutalized. from repeated experience one knows that their sense of courtesy--of good manners as distinct from merely fashionable or cultured manners--is very keen: in kindness and good-will they have nothing to learn from anybody, and most of their "superiors" and would-be teachers might learn from them. nor would i disparage their improved housekeeping, as though it had no significance. it may open no doorway for them into middle-class civilization, but i think it puts their spirits, as it were, on the watch for opportunities of personal development. i judge by their looks. an expression, not too often seen elsewhere, rests in the eyes of most of the cottage women--an expression neither self-complacent nor depressed, nor yet exactly docile, though it is near to that. the interpretation one would put upon it depends on the phrases one is wont to use. thus some would say that the women appear to be reaching out towards "respectability" instead of the blowsy good-temper bred of field-work; others, more simply, but perhaps more truly, that they are desirous of being "good." but whatever epithet one gives it, there is the fine look: a look hardly of expectancy--it is not alert enough for that--but rather of patient quietness and self-possession, the innermost spirit being held instinctively unsullied, in that receptive state in which a religion, a brave ethic, would flourish if the seeds of such a thing could be sown there. a hopeful, a generous and stimulating outlook--that is what must be regained before the loss of the peasant outlook can be made good to them. they are in want of a view of life that would reinstate them in their own--yes, and in other people's--estimation; a view of social well-being, not of the village only, but of all england now, in which they can hold the position proper to women who are wives and mothers. and this, vague though it is, shows up some of the more pressing needs of the moment. above all things the economic state of the cottage-women requires improvement. there must be some definite leisure for them, and they must be freed from the miserable struggle with imminent destitution, if they are to find the time and the mental tranquillity for viewing life largely. but leisure is not all. they need, further, an education to enable them to form an outlook fit for themselves; for nobody else can provide them with such an outlook. the middle-classes certainly are not qualified to be their teachers. it may be said at once that the attempts of working-women here and there to emulate women of the idle classes are of no use to themselves and reflect small credit on those they imitate. in this connection some very curious things--the product of leisure and no outlook--are to be seen in the village. that objectionable yet funny cult of "superiority," upon which the "resident" ladies of the valley spend so much emotion, if not much thought, has its disciples in the cottages; and now and then the prosperous wife or daughter of some artisan or other gives herself airs, and does not "know," or will not "mix with," the wives and daughters of mere labourers in the neighbouring cottages. whether women of this aspiring type find their reward, or mere bitterness, in the patronage of still higher women who are intimate with the clergy is more than i can say. the aspiration has nothing to do with that "religion," that new ethic, which i have just claimed to be the thing ultimately needed, before the loss of the peasant system can be made up to the women. xviii the want of book-learning some light was thrown on the more specific needs of the village by an experiment in which i had a share from ten to thirteen years ago. the absence of any reasonable pastime for the younger people suggested it. at night one saw boys and young men loafing and shivering under the lamp outside the public-house doors, or in the glimmer that shone across the road from the windows of the one or two village shops. they had nothing to do there but to stand where they could just see one another and try to be witty at one another's expense, or at the expense of any passers-by--especially of women--who might be considered safe game: that was their only way of spending the evenings and at the same time enjoying a little human companionship. true, the county council had lately instituted evening classes for "technical education" in the elementary schools; but these classes were of no very attractive nature, and at best they occupied only two evenings a week. as many as twenty or five-and-twenty youths, however, attended them, glad of the warmth and light, though bored by the instruction. they were mischievous and inattentive; they kept close watch on the clock, and as soon as half-past nine came they were up and off helter-skelter, as if the gloomy precincts of the shop or the public-house were, after all, less irksome than the night-school. there was no recreation whatever for the growing girls, none for the grown-up women; nothing but the public-house for the men, unless one excepts the two or three occasions during the winter when the more well-to-do residents chose to give an entertainment in the schoolroom, and admitted the poor into the cheaper seats. everybody knows the nature of these functions. there were readings and recitations; young ladies sang drawing-room songs or played the violin; tableaux were displayed or a polite farce was performed; a complimentary speech wound up the entertainment; and then the performers withdrew again for several months into the aloofness of their residences, while the poor got through their winter evenings as best they could, in their mean cottages or under the lamp outside the public-house. it was in full view of these circumstances that an "entertainment club" was started, with the idea of inducing the cottage people to help themselves in the matter of recreation instead of waiting until it should please others to come and amuse them. i am astonished now to think how democratic the club contrived to be. in the fortnightly programmes which were arranged the performers were almost exclusively of the wage-earning sort, and offers of help from "superior people" were firmly declined. and for at least one, and, i think, two winters, the experiment was wildly successful--so successful that, to the best of my recollection, the "gentry" were crowded out, and gave no entertainments at all. but the enthusiasm could not last. during the third winter decay set in, and early in the fourth the club, although with funds in hand, ceased its activities, leaving the field open, as it has since remained, to the recognized exponents of leisured culture. the fact is, it died of their culture, or of a reflection of it. at the first nobody had cared a straw about artistic excellence. the homely or grotesque accomplishments of the village found their way surprisingly on to a public platform, and were not laughed to scorn; anyone who could sing a song or play a musical instrument--it mattered not what--was welcomed and applauded. but how could it go on? the people able to do anything at all were not many, and when their repertory of songs learnt by ear was exhausted, there was nothing new forthcoming. gradually, therefore, the club began to depend on the few members with a smattering of middle-class attainments; and they, imitating the rich--asking for piano accompaniments to their singing, and so on--at the same time gave themselves airs of superiority to the crowd. and that was fatal. the less cultivated behaved in the manner usual to them where there is any unwarrantable condescension going--that is to say, they kept out of the way of it, until, finally, the performers and organizers had the club almost to themselves. from the outset the strong labouring men had contemptuously refused to have anything to do with what was often, i admit, a foolish and "gassy" affair; but their wives and sons and daughters had been very well pleased, until the taint of superiority drove them away. the club died when its democratic character was lost. yet, though i was glad to have done with it, i have never regretted the experience. it is easy now to see the absurdity of my idea, but at that time i knew less than i do now of the labouring people's condition, and in furthering the movement i entertained a shadowy hope of finding amongst the illiterate villagers some fragment or other of primitive art. it is almost superfluous to say that nothing of the sort was found. my neighbours had no arts of their own. for any refreshment of that kind they were dependent on the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table, or on such cheap refuse as had come into the village from london music-halls or from the canteens at aldershot. street pianos in the neighbouring town supplied them with popular airs, which they reproduced--it may be judged with what amazing effect--on flute or accordion; but the repertory of songs was filled chiefly from the sources just mentioned. the young men--the shyest creatures in the country, and the most sensitive to ridicule--found safety in comic songs which, if produced badly, raised but the greater laugh. only once or twice were these songs imprudently chosen; as a rule, they dealt with somebody's misfortunes or discomforts, in a humorous, practical-joking spirit, and so came nearer, probably, to the expression of a genuine village sentiment than anything else that was done. but for all that they were an imported product. instead of an indigenous folk-art, with its roots in the traditional village life, i found nothing but worthless forms of modern art which left the people's taste quite unfed. once, it is true, a hint came that, democratic though the club might be, it was possibly not democratic enough. a youth mentioned that at home one evening he and his family had sat round the table singing songs, out of song-books, i think. it suggested that there might still lurk in the neglected cottages a form of artistic enjoyment more crude than anything that had come to light, and perhaps more native to the village. but i have no belief that it was so. before i could inquire further, this boy dropped out of the movement. when asked why he had not come to one entertainment, he said that he had been sent off late in the afternoon to take two horses miles away down the country--i forget where--and had been on the road most of the night. a few weeks afterwards, turning eighteen, he went to aldershot and enlisted. so far as i remember, he was the only boy of the true labouring class who ever took any active part in the proceedings--he performed once in a farce. the other lads, although some were sons of labourers and grandsons of peasants, were of those who had been apprenticed to trades, and therefore knew a little more than mere labourers, though i do not say that they were more intelligent by nature. if, however, they were the pick of the village youth, the fact only makes the more impressive certain truths which forced themselves upon my notice at that time with regard to the needs of the village since the old peasant habits had vanished. there was no mistaking it: intercourse with these young men showed only too plainly how slow modern civilization had been to follow modern methods of industry and thrift. understand, they were well-intentioned and enterprising fellows. they had begun to look beyond the bounds of this parish, and to seek for adaptations to the larger world. moreover, they were learning trades--those very trades which have since been introduced into our elementary schools as a means of quickening the children's intellectual powers. but these youths somehow had not drawn enlightenment from their trades, being, in fact, handicapped all the time by the want of quite a different education. to put it rather brutally, they did not understand their own language--the standard english language in which modern thinking has to go on in this country. for several of the entertainments they came forward to perform farces. after the first diffidence had worn off, they took a keen delight in the preparations, working hard and cordially; they were singularly ready to be shown what to do, and to be criticized. "knock-about" farce--the counterpart in drama of their comic songs--pleased them best, and they did well in it. but "box and cox" was almost beyond them, because they missed the meanings of the rather stilted dialogue. in helping to coach them in their parts i had the best of opportunities to know this. they produced a resemblance to the sound of the sentences, and were satisfied, though they missed the sense. instead of saying that he "divested" himself of his clothing, mr. box--or was it cox?--said that he "invested" himself, and no correction could cure him of saying that. when one of them came to describing the lady's desperate wooing of him, "to escape her importunities" is what he should have said; but what he did say was "to escape our opportunities"--an error which the audience, fortunately, failed to notice, for it slipped out again at the time of performance, after having been repeatedly put right at rehearsal. and this sort of thing happened all through the piece. almost invariably the points which depended on a turn of phrase were lost. "i at once give you warning that i give you warning at once" became, "i at once give you warning. that is, i give you warning at once." cox (or box) reading the lawyer's letter, never made out the following passage: "i soon discovered her will, the following extract from which will, i am sure, give you satisfaction." it was plain that he thought the second word "will" meant the same as the first. as evidence of a lack of "book-learning" in the village, this might have been insufficient, had it stood alone. but it did not. the misbehaviour of the boys at the night-school has been mentioned. being a member of the school managing committee, i went in to the school occasionally, and what i saw left me satisfied that a large part of the master's difficulty arose from the unfamiliarity of the scholars with their own language. that initial ignorance blocked the road to science even more completely than, in the entertainment club, it did to art. "the science of horticulture" was the subject of the lesson on one dismal evening, this being the likeliest of some half-dozen "practical sciences" prescribed for village choice by the educational authority at whitehall. about twenty "students," ranging from sixteen to nineteen years old, were--no, not puzzling over it: they were "putting in time" as perfunctorily as they dared, making the lesson an excuse for being present together in a warmed and lighted room. when i went in it was near the close of the evening; new matter was being entered upon, apparently as an introduction to the next week's lesson. i stood and watched. the master called upon first one, then another, to read aloud a sentence or two out of the textbook with which each was provided; and one after another the boys stood up, shamefaced or dogged, to stumble through sentences which seemed to convey absolutely no meaning to them. if it had been only the hard words that floored them--such as "cotyledon" and "dicotyledon"--i should not have been surprised; but they blundered over the ordinary english, and had next to no sense of the meaning of punctuation. i admit that probably they were not trying to do their best; that they might have put on a little intentional clumsiness, in the instinctive hope of escaping derision by being thought waggish. but the pity of it was that they should need to protect themselves so. they had not the rudimentary accomplishment: that was the plain truth. they could not understand ordinary printed english. of science, of course, they were learning nothing. they may have taken away from those lessons a few elementary scientific terms, and possibly they got hold of the idea of the existence of some mysterious knowledge that was not known in the village; but the advantage ended there. i doubt if a single member of the class had begun to use his brain in a scientific way, reasoning from cause to effect; i doubt if it dawned upon one of them that there was such an unheard-of accomplishment to be acquired. they were trying--if they were trying anything at all--to pick up modern science in the folk manner, by rote, as though it were a thing to be handed down by tradition. so at least i infer, not only from watching this particular class then and on other occasions, but also from the following circumstance. at christmastime in one of these winters a few of the boys of the night-school went round the village, mumming. they performed the same old piece that mr. hardy has described in "the return of the native"--the same old piece that, as a little child, i witnessed years ago in a real village; but it had degenerated lamentably. the boys said that they had learnt it from an elder brother of one of them, and had practised it in a shed; and at my request the leader consented to write out the piece, and in due time he brought me his copy. i have mislaid the thing, and write from memory; but i recall enough of it to affirm that he had never understood, or even cared to fix a meaning to, the words--or sounds, rather--which he and his companions had gabbled through as they prowled around the kitchen clashing their wooden swords. that st. george had become king william was natural enough; but what is to be said of changing the turkish knight into the turkey snipe? that was one of the "howlers" this youth perpetrated, amongst many others less striking, perhaps, but not less instructive. the whole thing showed plainly where the difficulty lay at the night-school. the breaking up of the traditional life of the village had failed to supply the boys either with the language or with the mental habits necessary for living successfully under the new conditions. some of these boys were probably the sons of parents unable to read and write; none of them came from families where those accomplishments were habitually practised or much esteemed. the argument, thus illustrated by the state of the boys, extends in its application to practically the whole of the village. "book-learning" had been very unimportant to the peasant with his traditional lore, but it would be hard to exaggerate the handicap against which the modern labourer strives, for want of it. look once more at his position. in the new circumstance the man lives in an environment never dreamt of by the peasant. economic influences affecting him most closely come, as it were, vibrating upon him from across the sea. vast commercial and social movements, unfelt in the valley under the old system, are altering all its character; instead of being one of a group of villagers tolerably independent of the rest of the world, he is entangled in a network of economic forces as wide as the nation; and yet, to hold his own in this new environment, he has no new guidance. parochial customs and the traditions of the village make up the chief part of his equipment. but for national intercourse parochial customs and traditions are almost worse than none at all--like a babel of tongues. national standards have to be set up. we cannot, for instance, deal in winchester quarts and cheshire acres, in long hundreds and baker's dozens; we have no use for weights and measures that vary from county to county, or for a token coinage that is only valid in one town or in one trade. but most of all, for making our modern arrangements a standard english language is so necessary that those who are unfamiliar with it can neither manage their own affairs efficiently nor take their proper share in the national life. and this is the situation of the labourer to-day. the weakness of it, moreover, is in almost daily evidence. one would have thought that at least in a man's own parish and his own private concerns illiteracy would be no disadvantage; yet, in fact, it hampers him on every side. whether he would join a benefit society, or obtain poor-law relief, or insure the lives of his children, or bury his dead, or take up a small holding, he finds that he must follow a nationalized or standardized procedure, set forth in language which his forefathers never heard spoken and never learned to read. even in the things that are really of the village the same conditions prevail. the slate-club is managed upon lines as businesslike as those of the national benefit society. the "institute" has its secretary, and treasurer, and balance-sheet, and printed rules; the very cricket club is controlled by resolutions proposed and seconded at formal committee meetings, and duly entered in minute-books. but all this is a new thing in the village, and no guidance for it is to be found in the lingering peasant traditions. to this day, therefore, the majority of my neighbours, whose ability for the work they have been prepared to do proves them to be no fools, are, nevertheless, pitiably helpless in the management of their own affairs. most disheartening it is, too, for those whose help they seek, to work with them. in the cricket-club committee, on which i served for a year or two, it was noticeable that the members, eager for proper arrangements to be made, often sat tongue-tied and glum, incapable of urging their views, so that only after the meeting had broken up and they had begun talking with one another did one learn that the resolutions which had been passed were not to their mind. formalities puzzled them--seemed to strike them as futilities. and so in other matters besides cricket. a local builder--a man of blameless integrity--had a curious experience. somewhat against his wishes, he was appointed treasurer of the village lodge of oddfellows; but when, inheriting a considerable sum of money, he began to buy land and build houses, nothing would persuade the illiterate members of the society that he was not speculating with their funds. audited accounts had no meaning for them; possibly the fact that he was doing a service for no pay struck them as suspicious; at any rate they murmured so openly that he threw up his office. whom they have got in his place, and whether they are suspicious of him too, i do not know. my point is that, while modern thrift obliges them to enter into these fellowships, they remain, for mere want of book-learning, unable to help themselves, and dependent on the aid of friends from the middle or employing classes. in other words, the greater number of the englishmen in the village have to stand aside and see their own affairs controlled for them by outsiders. this is so wholly the case in some matters that nobody ever dreams of consulting the people who are chiefly concerned in them. in the education of their children, for one thing, they have no voice at all. it is administered in a standardized form by a committee of middle-class people appointed in the neighbouring town, who carry out provisions which originate from unapproachable permanent officials at whitehall. the county council may modify the programme a little; his majesty's inspectors--strangers to the people, and ignorant of their needs--issue fiats in the form of advice to the school teachers; and meanwhile the parents of the children acquiesce, not always approving what is done, but accepting it as if it were a law of fate that all such things must be arranged over their heads by the classes who have book-learning. and this customary attitude of waiting for what the "educated" may do for them renders them apathetic where they might be, and where it is highly important that they should be, reliant upon their own initiative--i mean, in political action. the majority of the labourers in the village have extremely crude ideas of representative government. a candidate for parliament is not, in their eyes, a servant whom they may appoint to give voice to their own wishes; he is a "gentleman" who, probably from motives of self-interest, comes to them as a sort of quack doctor, with occult remedies, which they may have if they will vote for him, and which might possibly do them good. hence they hardly look upon the government as an instrument at all under the control of people like themselves; they view it, rather, as a sort of benevolent tyranny, whose constitution is no concern of theirs. commons or lords, liberals or tories--what does it matter to the labourer which of them has the power, so long as one or other will cast an occasional look in his direction, and try to do something or other to help him? what they should do rests with the politicians: it is their part to suggest, the labourer's to acquiesce. such are some of the more obvious disabilities from which the cottage people suffer, largely for want of book-learning. i think, however, that they are beginning to be aware of the disadvantage, for, though they say little about it, i have heard of several men getting their children to teach them, in the evening, the lessons learnt at school during the day. certainly the old contempt for "book-learning" is dying out. and now and then one hears the most ingenuous confessions of incompetence to understand matters of admitted interest. an old woman, discussing "tariff reform," said: "we sort o' people can't understand it for ourselves. what we wants is for somebody to come and explain it to us. and then," she added, "we dunno whether we dares believe what they says." if you could hear one even of the better-taught labourers trying to read out something from a newspaper, you would appreciate his difficulties. he goes too slowly to get the sense; the end of a paragraph is too far off from the beginning of it; the thread of the argument is lost sight of. an allusion, a metaphor, a parenthesis, may easily make nonsense of the whole thing to a reader who has never heard of the subject alluded to, or of the images called up by the metaphor, and whose mind is unaccustomed to those actions of pausing circumspection which a parenthesis demands. xix emotional starvation remembering the tales which get into the papers now and then of riot amongst the "high-spirited young gentlemen" at the universities, i am a little unwilling to say more about the unruliness of our village youths, as though it were something peculiar to their rank of life. yet it must not be quite passed over. to be sure, not all the village lads, any more than all undergraduates, are turbulent and mischievous; yet here, as at oxford, there is a minority who apparently think it manly to be insubordinate and to give trouble, while here, just as there, the better sense of the majority is too feeble to make up a public opinion which the offenders would be afraid to defy. the disorder of the village lads was noticeable long ago at the night-school; for example, on an evening shortly after the "khaki" election, when mr. brodrick (now lord midleton) had been re-elected for this division. on that evening a lecture on norway, illustrated by lantern slides, could hardly be got through owing to the liveliness of a few lads, who amused all their comrades by letting off volleys of electioneering cries. i have forgotten who the lecturer was, but i remember well how the shouts of "good old brodrick!" often prevailed, so that one could not hear the man's voice. since then there have been more striking examples of the same sort of vivacity. not two winters ago the weekly meetings of a "boys' club," which aimed only to help the village lads pass an evening sensibly, had to be abandoned, owing to the impossible behaviour of the members. one week i heard that they had run amok amongst the furniture of the schoolroom where the meetings were held; on the next, they blew out the lamps, and locked one of the organizers into the room for an hour; and a week or two afterwards they piled window-curtains and door-mats on to the fire, and nearly got the building ablaze. in short, to judge from what was told me, there seems to have been little to distinguish them from frolicsome undergraduates, save their poverty-stricken clothes and their unaspirated speech. it is true they kept their excesses within doors, but then, they had no influential relatives to take their part against an interfering police force; and moreover, most of them came to the meetings a little subdued by ten hours or so of work at wage-earning. still, their "high spirits" were in evidence, uncontrolled--just as elsewhere--by any high sentiment. the sense of personal responsibility for their actions, the power to understand that there is such a thing as "playing the game" even towards people in authority or towards the general public, seemed to be as foreign to them as if they had never had to soil their hands with hard work. whatever may be the case with others, in the village lads a merely intellectual unpreparedness is doubtless partly accountable for this behaviour. the villagers having had no previous experience of action in groups, unless under compulsion like that of the railway-ganger or of the schoolmaster with his cane, it is strange now to the boys to find themselves at a school where there is no compulsion, but all is left to their voluntary effort. and stranger still is the club. a formal society, dependent wholly on the loyal co-operation of its members and yet enforcing no obvious discipline upon them, is a novelty in village life. the idea of it is an abstraction, and because the old-fashioned half-peasant people fifty years ago never needed to think about abstractions at all, it turns out now that no family habit of mind for grasping such ideas has come down from them to their grandsons. this mental inefficiency, however, is only a form--a definite form for once--of a more vague but more prevalent backwardness. the fact is that the old ideas of conduct in general are altogether too restricted for the new requirements, so that the village life suffers throughout from a sort of ethical starvation. i gladly admit that, for the day's work and its hardships, the surviving sentiments in favour of industry, patience, good-humour, and so on, still are strong; and i do not forget the admirable spirit of the cottage women in particular; yet it is true that for the wider experiences of modern life other sentiments or ideals, in addition to those of the peasants, need development, and that progress in them is behindhand in the village. what the misbehaviour of the village boys illustrates in one direction may be seen in other directions amongst the men and women and children. like other people, the cottagers have their emotional susceptibilities, which, however, are either more robust than other people's or else more sluggish. at any rate it takes more than a little to disturb them. during last winter i heard of a man--certainly he was one of the older sort, good at many an obsolete rural craft--who had had chilblains burst on his fingers, and had sewn up the wounds himself with needle and cotton. there is no suspicion of inhumanity against him, yet it seemed to me that in fiercer times he would have made a willing torturer; and other little incidents--all of them recent ones too--came back to my mind when i heard of him. in one of these a servant-girl from the village was concerned--a quiet and timid girl she was said to be; yet, on her own initiative, and without consulting her mistress, she drowned a stray cat which was trying to get a footing in the household. again, i myself heard and wondered at the happy prattle of two little girls--the children, they, of a most conscientious man and woman--as they told of the fun they had enjoyed, along with their father and mother, in watching a dog worry a hedgehog. and yet it is plain enough that the faculty for compassion and kindness is inborn in the villagers, so that their susceptibilities might just as well be keen as blunt. in their behaviour to their pets the gentle hands and the caressing voices betoken a great natural aptitude for tenderness. and not to their pets only. all one afternoon i heard, proceeding from a pig-stye, the voice of an elderly man who was watching an ailing sow there. "_come_ on, ol' gal ... _come_ on, ol' gal," he said, over and over again in tireless repetition, as sympathetically as if he were talking to a child. where the people fail in sensitiveness is from a want of imagination, as we say, though we should say, rather, a want of suppleness in their ideas. they can sympathize when their own dog or cat is suffering, because use has wakened up their powers in that direction; but they do not abstract the idea of suffering life and apply it to the tormented hedgehog, because their ideas have not been practised upon imagined or non-existent things in such a way as to become, as it were, a detached power of understanding, generally applicable. but is it to be wondered at if some unlovely features appear in the village character? or is it not rather a circumstance to give one pause, that these commercially unsuccessful and socially neglected people, whose large families the self-satisfied eugenist views with such solemn misgivings, should be in the main so kindly, so generous, and sometimes so lofty in their sentiments as in fact they are? with like disadvantages, where are there any other people in the country who would do so bravely? if it is clear that they miss a rich development of their susceptibilities, a reason why is no less clear. i have just hinted at it. the ample explanation is in the fact that they have hardly any imaginary or non-existent subjects upon which to exercise emotional sensibility for its own sake, so that it may grow strong and fine by frequent practice; but they have to wait for some real thing to move them--some distressful occurrence in the valley itself, like that mentioned earlier in this book, when a man trimming a hedge all but killed his own child, and a thrill of horror shuddered through the cottages. of matters like this the people talk with an excited fascination, there being so little else to stir them. instead of the moving accident by flood or field, they have the squalid or merely agonizing accident. sickness amongst friends or neighbours affords another topic upon which their emotion seeks exercise: they linger over the discussion of it, talking in moaning tones instinctively intended to stimulate feeling. then there are police-court cases. some man gets drunk, and is fined; or cannot pay his rent, and is turned out of his cottage; or misbehaves in such a way that he is sent to gaol. the talk of it threads its swift way about the village--goes into intimate details, too, relating how the culprit's wife "took on" when her man was sentenced; or how his children suffer; or perhaps how the magistrates bullied him, or how he insulted the prosecuting lawyer. it is natural that the people should be greedy readers (when they can read at all) of the sensational matter supplied by newspapers. earthquakes, railway disasters, floods, hurricanes, excite them not really disagreeably. so, too, does it animate them to hear of prodigies and freaks of nature, as when, a little while ago, the papers told of a man whose flesh turned "like marble," so that he could not bend his limbs for fear lest they should snap. anything to wonder at will serve; anything about which they can exclaim. that feeling of the crowd when fireworks call forth the fervent "_o-oh!_" of admiration, is the village feeling which delights in portents of whatever kind. but nothing else is quite so effectual to that end as are crimes of violence, and especially murder. for, after all, it is the human element that counts; and these descendants of peasants, having no fictitious means of acquainting themselves with human passion and sentiment, such as novels and dramas supply in such abundance to other people, turn with all the more avidity to the unchosen and unprepared food furnished to their starving faculties by contemporary crime. there is, indeed, another side to their sensationalism which should be noticed. i was a little startled some years ago by a scrap of conversation between two women. the papers at that time were full of a murder which had been committed in a village neighbouring this, the young man accused of it being even then on his trial. it was in the evidence that he had visited his home quite an hour after the time when the deed must have been done, and these women were discussing that point, one of them saying: "i don't believe _my_ boy would ha' come 'ome that sunday night if _he'd_ ha' done it." it was surprising to me to hear a respectable mother speculate as to how her own son would behave in such a case, or contemplate even the possibility of his being guilty of murder; and i thought it all too practical a way of considering the subject. but it revealed how appallingly real such things may be to people who, as i tried to show farther back, have reason to feel a little like an alien race under our middle-class law. very often one may discern this personal or practical point of view in their sensationalism: they indulge it chiefly for the sake of excitement, but with a side glance at the bearing which the issue may have upon their own affairs. in a foul case which was dealt with under the criminal law amendment act, large numbers of our cottage women flocked to the town to hear the trial, attracted partly by the hope of sensation, of course, but also very largely actuated by a sentiment of revenge against the offender; for here the safety of their own young daughters was involved. be this as it may, still it is true that the two sources i have mentioned--namely, the sensational news in the papers and the distresses and misdemeanours in the village itself--supply practically all that the average cottager gets to touch his sentiments and emotions into life; and it is plain enough that from neither of these sources, even when supplemented by a fine traditional family life, can a very desirable spiritual nourishment be obtained. "real" enough the fare is, in all conscience; but, as usual with realities of that sort, it wants choiceness. it provides plenty of objects for compassion, for anxiety, for contempt, for ridicule even, but very little for emulation, for reverence. the sentiments of admiration and chivalry, the enthusiastic emotions, are hardly ever aroused in man or woman, boy or girl, in the village. nothing occurs in the natural course to bring what is called "good form" into notice and make it attractive, and at the same time the means of bringing this about by art demand more money, more leisure and seclusion, more book-learning too, than the average labourer can obtain. in the middle-classes this is not the case. it is true that the middle-classes have little to boast of in this respect, but generous ideas of modesty and reverence, and of "playing the game," and of public duty, and of respect for womanhood, have at least a chance of spreading amongst boys and girls, in households where art and books are valued, and where other things are talked of than the sordid scandals of the valley and of the police-courts. the difference that the want of this help may make was brought forcibly home to me one day. i came upon a group of village boys at play in the road, just as one of them--a fellow about thirteen years old--conceived a bright idea for a new game. "now i'll be a murderer!" he cried, waving his arms ferociously. there are other circumstances that tend to keep the standard of sentiment low. as the boys begin to work for money at so early an age, the money-value of conduct impresses itself strongly upon them, and they soon learn to think more of what they can get than of what they can do or are worth. and while they have lost all the steadying influence that used to flow from the old peasant crafts, they get none of the steadiness which would come from continuity of employment. the work they do as errand-boys calls neither for skill in which they might take pride nor for constancy to any one master; but it encourages them to be mannish and "knowing" long before their time. of course the more generous sentiments are at a discount under such conditions. then, too, there can be little doubt that the "superior" attitude of the employing classes has its injurious effect upon the village character. the youth who sees his father and mother and sisters treated as inferiors, and finds that he is treated so too, is led unconsciously to take a low view of what is due either to himself or to his friends. the sort of view he takes may be seen in his behaviour. the gangs of boys who troop and lounge about the roads on sundays are generally being merely silly in the endeavour to be witty. they laugh loudly, yet not humorously and kindly (one very rarely hears really jolly laughter in the village), but in derision of one another or of the wayfarers--girls by preference. so far as one can overhear it, their fun is always of that contumacious character, and it must be deadly to any sentiment of modesty, or honour, or reverence. it requires but little penetration to see how these circumstances react upon the village girls. the frolicsome and giddy appear to enjoy themselves much as the boys do, but the position must be cruel to those of a serious tendency. to be treated with disrespect and be made the subjects of rough wit as they go about is only the more acute part of their difficulty. one may suppose that at home they find little appreciation of any high sentiments, but are driven, in self-defence, to be rather flippant, rather "worldly." the greater number of house mistresses, meanwhile, if one may judge from their own complacent conversation, behave in a way most unlikely to contribute to their servants' self-respect. it is hard to believe that any really high sentiment is to be learnt from women who, for all the world as if they were village louts, make light of a girl's feelings, and regard her love-affairs especially as a proper subject for ridicule or for suspicion. xx the children's need as one of the managing committee of the village schools for a good many years, i have had considerable opportunity of watching the children collectively. the circumstances, perhaps, are not altogether favourable to the formation of trustworthy opinions. seen in large numbers, and under discipline too, the children look too much alike; one misses the infinite variety of their personalities such as would appear in them at home. on the other hand, characteristics common to them all, which might pass unnoticed in individuals, become obvious enough when there are many children together. in the main the "stock" has always seemed to me good, and to some extent my impression is supported by the results of the medical inspection now undertaken at the schools by the county council. such defects as the doctor finds are generally of no deep-seated kind: bad teeth, faulty vision (often due, probably, to improper use of the eyes in school), scalp troubles, running ears, adenoids, and so on, are the commonest. insufficient nutrition is occasionally reported. in fact the medical evidence tells, in a varied form, much the same tale that school managers have been able to read for themselves in the children's dilapidated boots and clothes, and their grimy hands and uncared-for hair, for it all indicates poverty at home, want of convenience for decent living, and ignorance as well as carelessness in the parents. all this we have known, but now we learn from the doctor that the evil effects of these causes do not stop at the clothes and skin, but go a little deeper. yet probably they have not hurt the essential nature of the children. congenital defects are rare; the doctor discovers even a high average of constitutional fitness, due, it may be, to severe "natural" selection weeding out the more delicate. it is certain that the village produces quite a fair proportion of really handsome children, besides those of several of the old families, who are wont to be of exceptional beauty. unhappily, before the school-years are over, the fineness usually begins to disappear, being spoilt, i suspect, partly by the privations of the home-life and partly by another cause, of which i will speak by-and-by. i think, further--but it is only a vague impression, not worth much attention--that as regards physique the girls are as a rule more thriving and comely than the boys. the latter appear very apt to become knottled and hard, and there is a want of generosity in their growth, as though they received less care than the girls, and were more used to going hungry, and being cold and wet. but if my impression is right, there are two points to be noticed in further explanation of it. the first point relates to the early age at which the boys begin to be useful at work. it has been already told how soon they are set to earn a little money out of school-hours; but even before that stage is reached the little boys have to make themselves handy. on the saturday holiday it is no uncommon thing to see a boy of eight or nine pushing up the hill a little truck loaded with coal or coke, which he has been sent to buy at the railway yard. smaller ones still are sent to the shops, and not seldom they are really overloaded. thus at an age when boys in better circumstances are hardly allowed out alone, these village children practise perforce a considerable self-reliance, and become acquainted with the fatigue of labour. some little chaps, as they go about their duties--leading lesser brothers by the hand perhaps, or perhaps dealing very sternly with them, and making them "keep up" without help--have unawares the manner of responsible men. that is one point which may help to account for the apparent physical disparity between the boys and girls of the village. the other is a subject of remark amongst all who know the school-children. there is no doubt about it; whether the girls are comelier of growth than the boys or not, they are in behaviour so much more civilized that one might almost suppose them to come from different homes. to my mind this might be sufficiently explained by the fact that they are usually spared those burdensome errands and responsibilities which are thrust so soon upon their brothers; but the schoolmaster has another explanation, which probably contains some truth. his view is that at home the girls come chiefly under the influence of their mothers, whose experience of domestic service gives them an idea of manners, while the boys take pattern from their fathers, whose work encourages roughness. whatever the cause, the fact remains: the boys may be physically as sound as the girls, but they certainly have less charm. it is not often delightful to see them. they do not stand up well; they walk in a slouching and narrow-chested way; and, though they are mischievous enough, there is strangely wanting in them an air of alertness, of vivacity, of delight in life. there is no doubt that their heavily-ironed and ill-fitting boots cause them to walk badly; yet it is only reasonable to suppose that this is but one amongst many difficulties, and that, in general, the conditions in which the boys live are unfavourable to a good physical growth. as regards intellectual power, in boys and girls too, the evidence--to be quite frank--does not bear out all that i wish to believe; for, in spite of appearances, i am not yet persuaded that these cottage children are by birth more dull of wit than town-bred children and those in better circumstances. it must be remembered that in this village, so near as it is to a town, there has been little of that migration to towns which is said to have depleted other villages of their cleverer people. a few lads go to sea, more than a few into the army; some of the girls marry outside, and are lost to the parish. but it would be easy to go through the valley and find, in cottage after cottage, the numerous descendants of old families that flourished here, and were certainly not deficient in natural brain-power, two generations ago, although it was not developed in them on modern lines. nor need one go back two generations. to be acquainted with the fathers and mothers of the school-children is to know people whose minds are good enough by nature, and are only wanting in acquired power; and when, aware of this, one goes into the school and sees the children of these parents, some of them very graceful, with well-shaped heads and eyes that can sparkle and lips that can break into handsome, laughing curves, it is very hard to believe that the breed is dull. the stupidity is more likely due merely to imperfect nurture; at any rate, one should not accept an explanation of it that disparages the village capacity for intelligence until it is made clear that the state of the children cannot be explained in any other way. leaving explanations aside, however, there is the fact, not to be gainsaid, that the children in general are slow of wit. one notes it in the infant school first, and especially in the very youngest classes. there, newly come from their mother's care, the small boys and girls from five to six years old have often a wonderfully vacant expression. there is little of that speculative dancing of the eyes, that evident appetite for perceptions and ideas, which you will find in well-to-do nurseries and playrooms. and whereas in the latter circumstances children will take up pencil or paintbrush confidently, as if born to master those tools, the village infant is hesitating, clumsy, feeble. upon the removal of a child to the upper or "mixed" school, a certain increase of intelligence often seems to come at a bound. the circumstance is highly suggestive. the "infant" of seven is suddenly brought into contact with older scholars already familiarized with particular groups of ideas, and those ideas are speedily absorbed by the little ones, while the swifter methods of teaching also have their quickening effect, for a time. but after this jump has been made and lost sight of--that is to say amongst the older scholars, who do not again meet with such a marked change of environment--one is again aware of considerable mental density throughout the school. the children resemble their parents. they are quick enough to observe details, though not always the details with which the teacher is concerned, but they have very little power of dealing with the simplest abstractions. they are clumsy in putting two thoughts together for comparison; clumsy in following reasons, or in discussing underlying principles. in short, "thinking" is an art they hardly begin to practise. they can learn and apply a "rule of thumb," a folk-rule, so to speak--but there is no flow, nor anything truly consecutive, in the movement of their ideas. elsewhere one may hear children of six or seven--little well-cared-for people--keep up a continual stream of intelligent and happy talk with their parents or nursemaids; but to the best of my belief this does not happen amongst the village children, at any age. observations of them at play, in the cottage gardens or on the road, throw some light on their condition. it would appear that they are extremely ill-supplied with subjects to think about. in the exercise of imagination, other children fall naturally into habits of consecutive thought, or at any rate of consecutive fancy; but these of the labouring class have hardly any ideas which their young brains could play with, other than those derived from their own experience of real life in the valley, or those which they hear spoken of at home. hence in their histrionic games of "pretending" it is but a very limited repertory of parts that they can take. two or three times i have come upon a little group of them under a hedgerow or sun-warmed bank, playing at school; the teacher being delightfully severe, and the scholars delightfully naughty. and now and again there is a feeble attempt at playing soldiers. very often, too, one may see boys, in string harness, happy in being very mettlesome horses. in one case a subtle variant of this game inspired two small urchins to what was, perhaps, as good an imaginative effort as i have met with in the village. the horse, instead of being frisky, was being slow, so that the driver had to swear at him. and most vindictive and raucous was the infant voice that i heard saying, "git up, you blasted lazy cart-'orse!" other animals are sometimes represented. with a realistic grunt, a little boy, beaming all over his face, said to his companion, "now i'll be your pig." another day it puzzled me to guess what a youngster was doing, as he capered furiously about the road, wearing his cap pushed back and two short sticks protruding from beneath it over his forehead; but presently i perceived that he was a "bullick" being driven to market. excepting the case already mentioned, of the boy who proposed to "be a murderer," i do not recall witnessing any other forms of the game of "pretending" amongst the village children, unless in the play of little girls with their dolls. there was one very pretty child who used to prattle to me sometimes about her "baby," and how it had been "bad," that is to say, naughty, and put to bed; or had not had its breakfast. this little girl was an orphan who lived with her grandfather and a middle-aged aunt, and was much petted by them. she was almost alone too, amongst the village children of that period, in being the possessor of a doll, for no more than five or six years ago one rarely saw such a thing in the village. christmas-trees have since done something to make up the deficiency. a month or two ago i saw a four-year-old girl--a friend of mine from a neighbour's cottage--solemnly walking down a by-lane alone, carrying a rag-doll half as big as herself. i stopped, and admired; but, in spite of her pride, she took a very matter-of-fact view of her toy. "it's head keeps comin' off," was all that she could be persuaded to say. "matter-of-fact" is what the children are, for the most part. one autumn evening, after dark, titterings and little squeals of excitement sounded from a neighbour's garden, where a man, going to draw water from his well, and carrying a lantern, was accompanied by four or five children. in the security of his presence they were pretending to be afraid of "bogies." "if a bogie was to come," i heard, "i should get up that apple-tree, and then if he come up after me i should get down t'other side." an excited laugh was followed by the man's contemptuous remonstrance, "_shut_ up!" which produced silence for a minute or two, until the party were returning to the cottage; when a very endearing voice called softly, "bo-gie! bo-gie! come, bogie!" this instance of fancy in a cottage child stands, however, alone in my experience. i have never heard anything else like it in the village. the children romp and squabble and make much noise; they play, though rarely, at hide-and-seek; or else they gambol about aimlessly, or try to sing together, or troop off to look at the fowls or the rabbits. the bigger children are as a rule extremely kind to the lesser ones. a family of small brothers and sisters who lived near me some time ago were most pleasant to listen to for this reason. the smallest of them, a three-year-old boy commonly called "'arry," was their pet. "look, 'arry; here's a _dear_ little flow-wer! a little 'arts-ease--look, 'arry!" "'ere, 'arry, have a bite o' this nice apple!" they were certainly attractive children, though formidably grubby as to their faces. i heard them with their father, admiring a litter of young rabbits in the hutch. "o-oh, en't that a _dear_ little thing!" they exclaimed, again and again. sunday was especially delightful to them because their father was at home then; and i liked to hear him playing with them. one particularly happy hour they had, in which he feigned to be angry and they to be defiant. they jumped about just out of his reach, jeering at him. "old father smither!" they cried, as often as their peals of laughter would let them cry anything at all. but it struck me as very strange that their sing-song derision was not going to the right tune and rhythm; for there is a genuine folk-tune which i thought indissolubly wedded to this derisive formula. beginning in a long drawl, it throws all the weight on the first and fourth syllables: "_old_ father _smith_-er." but these children, apparently ignorant of it, had invented a rhythm of their own, in which the first syllable, "old," was almost elided, and the weight was thrown on the next. i could not help wondering at the breach which this indicated with the ancient folk traditions. if it were necessary, plentiful other evidence could be produced of the children's great need for more subjects upon which to exercise their thoughts and fancies. for one example: some years ago a little maidservant from this village was found, when she went to her first "place" in the town, never to have seen a lamb, or a pond of water. this was an extreme case, perhaps; but it suggests how badly the children are handicapped. as recently as last year, when a circus was visiting the town, i asked two village boys on the road if they had seen the procession. they had not; nor had they ever in their lives seen a camel or an elephant; but one of them "thought he should know an elephant, by his trunk." he was probably eight years old; and it is worth noting that he must have owed his enlightenment to books or pictures seen at school; indeed, there is nothing of the sort to be learnt at home, where there are no books, and where the parents, themselves limited to so narrow a range of experience and therefore of ideas, are not apt to encourage inquisitiveness in their children. a man who lived near me a few years ago could often be heard, on sundays and on summer evenings, chiding his little son for that fault. "don't you keep on astin' so many questions," was his formula, which i must have heard dozens of times. one can sympathize: it would be so much easier to give the child a bun, or the cottage equivalent, and order him to eat it; but that does not satisfy the child's appetite for information. probably the great difficulty is that the children's questions can hardly any longer turn upon those old-fashioned subjects which the parents understand, but upon new-fangled things. and, apart from all this, i suspect that in most of the cottages the old notion prevails that children should be kept in their place, and not encouraged to bother grown-up people with their trumpery affairs. from the contrast between the talk of the village youngsters and that of children who are better cared for, i inferred just now a want of "flow" in the thoughts of the former, as though the little scrappy ideas existed in their brains without much relationship to one another. of course it is possible that the brain activity is far greater than one would surmise, and that it only seems sluggish because of the insufficiency of our village speech as a means of expression, for certainly the people's vocabulary is extremely limited, while they have no habit of talking in sentences of any complexity. yet where a language has neither abundant names for ideas, nor flexible forms of construction to exhibit variations of thought, it is hard to believe that the brain-life itself is anything but cramped and stiff. and if the crude phrasing indicates poverty in the more definite kinds of ideas, i cannot help thinking that another feature of the children's talk betrays no less a poverty, in respect to those more vague ideas which relate to behaviour and to perception of other people's position and feelings. it was since beginning this chapter that i happened to be walking for some distance in front of four children--three girls and a boy--from a comfortable middle-class home. it was a sunday morning, and they were chatting very quietly, so that their words did not reach me; but i found it very agreeable to hear the variety of cadence in their voices, with occasionally pauses, and then a resumption of easy talk, as if they had got a subject to consider in serious lights, and recognized each other's right to be heard and understood. indeed, it bordered on priggishness, and perhaps over-stepped the border; but nevertheless it made me feel jealous for our village children, for in the conversation of village children one never hears that suggestion of a considerate mental attitude towards one another. the speech is without flexibility or modulation of tone; harsh, exclamatory, and screaming, or guttural and drawling. rarely, if ever, does one derive from it an impression that the children are growing to regard one another's feelings, or one another's thoughts. a further point must be mentioned. i hinted that there might be an additional cause, besides physical privations, for the loss of the children's attractiveness in many cases even before they leave school. my belief is that, as they approach the age when ideas of a sensitive attitude towards life should begin to sway them, unconsciously moulding the still growing features into fineness, those ideas do not come their way. the boys of eight begin to look, at times, like little men; and the girls of eleven and upwards begin to show signs of acquaintance with struggling domestic economies; but neither boys nor girls discover, in the world into which they are growing up, any truly helpful ideas of what it is comely to be and to think. lingering peasant notions of personal fitness and of integrity keep them from going viciously wrong, so that when they come to puberty their perplexed spirits are not quite without guidance; yet, after all, the peasant conditions are gone, and seeing that the new wage-earning conditions do not, of themselves, suggest worthy ideas of personal bearing, the children's faculties for that sort of thing soon cease to unfold, and with a gradual slackening of development the attractiveness disappears. the want is the more to be regretted in that, at a later time of life, when the women have been moulded by motherhood and the men by all the stress and responsibility of their position, such composure and strength often appear in them as to justify a suspicion that these uncared-for people are by nature amongst the very best of the english. v the forward movement xxi the forward movement the last twenty years having witnessed so much change in the village, it is interesting to speculate as to the farther changes that may be looked for in the years to come; indeed, it is more than merely interesting. educational enthusiasts are busy; legislators have their eye on villages; throughout the leisured classes it is habitual to look upon "the poor" as a sort of raw material, to be remodelled according to leisured ideas of what is virtuous, or refined, or useful, or nice; and nobody seems to reflect that the poor may be steadily, albeit unconsciously, moving along a course of their own, in which they might be helped a little, or hindered a little, by outsiders, but from which they will not in the long run be turned aside. yet such a movement, if it is really proceeding, will obviously stultify the most well-intentioned schemes that are not in accordance with it. and, if i am not greatly mistaken, it is under way. that seems to me an ill-grounded complacency which permits easy-going people to say lightly, "of course we want a few reforms," as if, once those reforms were brought to pass, the labouring population would thereafter settle down and change no more. in one respect, no doubt, there is little more to be looked for. the changes so far observed have been thrust upon the people from outside--changes in their material or social environment, followed by mere negations on their part, in the abandonment of traditional outlooks and ambitions; and of course in that negative direction the movement must come to an end at last. but when there are no more old habits to be given up, there is still plenty of scope for acquiring new ones, and this is the possibility that has to be considered. what if, quietly and out of sight--so quietly and inconspicuously as to be unnoticed even by the people themselves--their english nature, dissatisfied with negations, should have instinctively set to work in a positive direction to discover a new outlook and new ambitions? what if the merely mechanical change should have become transmuted into a vital growth in the people's spirit--a growth which, having life in it, must needs go on spontaneously by a process of self-unfolding? if that should be the case, as i am persuaded that it is, then the era of change in the village is by no means over; on the contrary, it is more likely that the greatest changes are yet to come. as the signs which should herald their approach will be those of recovery from the mental and spiritual stagnation into which the village has been plunged, and as we may regard that stagnation as the starting-point from which any further advance will proceed, it is worth while to fix it in our minds by a similitude. what has most obviously happened to the village population resembles an eviction, when the inmates of a cottage have been turned out upon the road-side with their goods and chattels, and there they sit, watching the dismantling of their home, and aware only of being moved against their will. it is a genuine movement of them; yet it does not originate with them; and the first effect of it upon them is stagnation. unable to go on in their old way, yet knowing no other way in which to go on, they merely wait disconsolate. the similitude really fits the case very well, in this village at least, and probably in many others. of the means whereby the people have been thrust out from the peasant traditions in which they were at home i have discussed only the chief one--namely, the enclosure of the common. that was the cause which irresistibly compelled the villagers to quit their old life; but of course there were other causes, less conspicuous here than they have been elsewhere, yet operative here too. free trade, whilst it made the new thrift possible, at the same time effectually undermined many of the old modes of earning a living; and more destructive still has been the gradual adoption of machinery for rural work. we are shocked to think of the unenlightened peasants who broke up machines in the riots of the eighteen-twenties, but we are only now beginning to see fully what cruel havoc the victorious machines played with the defeated peasants. living men were "scrapped"; and not only living men. what was really demolished in that struggle was the country skill, the country lore, the country outlook; so that now, though we have no smashed machinery, we have a people in whom the pride of life is broken down: a shattered section of the community; a living engine whose fly-wheel of tradition is in fragments, and will not revolve again. let us mark the finality of that destruction before going further. whatever prosperity may return to our country places, it will not be on the old terms. the "few reforms," whether in the direction of import duties, or small holdings, or "technical education" in ploughing or fruit-pruning or forestry or sheep-shearing, can never in themselves be a substitute for the lost peasant traditions, because they are not the same kind of thing. for those traditions were no institutions set up and cherished by outside authority. associated though they were with industrial and material well-being, they meant much more than that to country folk; they lived in the popular tastes and habits, and they passed on spontaneously from generation to generation, as a sort of rural civilization. and you cannot create that sort of thing by act of parliament, or by juggling with tariffs, or by school lessons. an imitation of the shell of it might be set up; but the life of it is gone, not to be restored. that is the truth of the matter. the old rural outlook of england is dead; and the rural english, waiting for something to take its place, for some new tradition to grow up amongst them, are in a state of stagnation. in looking for signs of new growth, it must be observed that not all steps in the transition are equally significant. amongst the modifications of habit slowly proceeding in the village to-day, there are some which should be regarded rather as a final relinquishment of old ways than as a spontaneous forward movement into new ones. thus, although the people comply more and more willingly with the by-laws of the sanitary authority, i could not say with conviction that this is anything more than a compliance. as they grow less used to squalor, no doubt they cannot bear its offensiveness so well as of old; but we may not infer from this fact that any new and positive aspirations towards a comelier home-life have been born in them. the improvement is only one of those negative changes that have been thrust upon them from the outside. nor can anything better be said of their increasing conformity to the requirements of the new thrift. i think it true that the wages are spent more prudently than of old. the sight of a drunken man begins to be unusual; he who does not belong to a "club" is looked upon as an improvident fool; but to imagine the people thus parsimonious for the pleasure of it is to imagine a vain thing. their occasional outbursts of extravagance and generosity go to show that their innermost taste has not found a suitable outlet in wage-earning economy. that miserly "thrift" which is preached to them as the whole duty of "the poor"--what attractions can it have for their human nature? if men practise it, they do so under the compulsion of anxiety, of fear. their acquiescence may seem like a change; yet as it springs from no germinating tastes or desires or inner initiative, so it acquires no true momentum. not in that, nor in any other submissive adaptation to the needs of the passing moment, shall we see where the villagers are really rousing out of stagnation into a new mode of life. on the other hand, where their vitality goes out, under no necessity, but of its own accord, to do something new just for the sake of doing it, there a true growth is proceeding; and there are signs that this is happening. especially one notes three main directions in which, as i think, the village is astir--three directions, coinciding with three kinds of opportunity. the opportunities are those afforded, first by the church and other agencies of a missionary kind; second, by newspapers; and third, by political agitation. in each of these directions the village instincts appear to be finding something that they want, and to be moving towards it spontaneously--for they are under no compulsion to move. the invitations from the church, it is true, never cease; but no villager is obliged to accept them against his will, any more than a horse need drink water put before him. . in estimating the influence of the church (dissent has but a small following here) it should be remembered that until some time after the enclosure of the common the village held no place of worship of any denomination. moreover, the comparatively few inhabitants of that time were free from interference by rich people or by resident employers. they had the valley to themselves; they had always lived as they liked, and been as rough as they liked; and there must have been memories amongst them--quite recent memories then--of the lawless life of other heath-dwellers, their near neighbours, in the wide waste hollows of hindhead. we may therefore surmise that when the church was built a sprinkling at least of the villagers were none too well pleased. this may partly explain the sullen hostility of which the clergy are still the objects in certain quarters of the village, and which the pharisaism of some of their friends does much to keep alive. the same causes may have something to do with the fact that the majority of the labouring men appear to take no interest at all in religion. still, there are more than a few young men, and of the old village stock too, who yield very readily to the influences of the church. a family tradition no doubt predisposes them to do so; for, be it said, not all of the old villagers were irreligious. echoes of a rustic christianity, gentle and resigned as that which the vicar of wakefield taught to his flock, may be heard to-day in the talk of aged men and women here and there; and though that piety has gone rather out of fashion, the taste for something like it survives in these young men. the church attracts them; they approve its ideas of decorous life; it is a school of good manners to them, if not of high thinking, with the result that they begin to be quite a different sort of people from their fathers and grandfathers. a pleasant suavity and gentleness marks their behaviour. they are greatly self-respecting. their tendency is to adopt and live up to the middle-class code of respectability. neither by temperament nor by outlook are they equipped for the hardship of real labouring life. these are the men, rather, who get the lighter work required by the residential people in the villa gardens; or they fill odd places in the town, where character is wanted more than strength or skill. they fill them well, too, in very trustworthy and industrious fashion. a few of them have learnt trades, and are saving money, as bricklayers, carpenters, clerks even. it was from the ranks of this group that a young man emerged, some years ago, as a speculating builder. he put up three or four cottages, and then came to grief; but i never heard that anybody but himself suffered loss by the collapse of his venture. he has left the neighbourhood, and i mention him now only to exhibit the middle-class tendencies of his kind. you will not find any of these men going to a public-house. the "institute" caters for them, with its decorous amusements--billiards, dominoes, cribbage; but they do not much affect the institute reading room; indeed, i believe them to be intellectually very docile to authority. opinions they have, on questions of the day, but not opinions formed by much effort of their own. the need of the village, as they have felt it, is less for mental than for ethical help. they desire something to guide their conduct and their pastimes, and this leads them to respond to the invitation of the church and its allied influences. i have an impression, too, that indirectly, through their example, others are affected by those influences who do not so consciously yield to them; at any rate a softening of manners seems to be in progress in the village. it is not much, perhaps; it is certainly very indefinite, and no doubt there are other causes helping to further it; but, such as it is, the chief credit for it is due to the lead given by the church. indeed, no other agency has done anything at all in the way of proposing to the people an art of living, a civilization, to replace that of the old rustic days. . with few exceptions the newspapers--chiefly weeklies, but here and there a daily--which come into the villagers' hands are of the "yellow press" kind; but for once a good effect may be attributed to them. it resembles that which, in a smaller way, springs from the opportunities of travelling afforded by railways. just as few of our people now are wholly restricted in their ideas of the world to this valley and the horizons visible from its sides, but the most of them, in excursion holidays at least, have seen a little of the extent and variety of england, so, thanks to the cheap press, ideas and information about the whole world are finding their way into the cottages of the valley; and at the present stage it is not greatly important that the information is less trustworthy than it might be. the main thing is that the village mind should stretch itself, and look beyond the village; and this is certainly happening. the mere material of thought, the quantity of subjects in which curiosity may take an interest, is immeasurably greater than it was even twenty years ago; and, if but sleepily as yet, still the curiosity of the villagers begins to wake up. however superior you may think yourself, you must not now approach any of the younger labouring men in the assumption that they have not heard of the subject you speak of. the coal-heaver, whose poverty of ideas i described farther back, was talking to me (after that chapter was written) about the life of coal-miners. he told of the poor wages they get for their dangerous work; he discoursed of mining royalties, and explained some points as to freightage and railway charges; and he was drifting towards the subject of trades unions when our short walk home together came to an end. of course in this case the man's calling had given a direction to his curiosity; but there are many subjects upon which the whole village may be supposed to be getting ideas. shackleton and the south pole are probably household words in most of the cottages; it may be taken for granted that the wonders of flying machines are being eagerly watched; it must not be taken for granted at all that the villagers are ignorant about disease germs, and the causes of consumption, and the spreading of plague by rats. long after the king's visit to india, ideas of indian scenes will linger in the valley; and presently, when the panama canal nears completion, and pictures of it begin to be given in the papers, there will hardly be a labourer but is more or less familiar with the main features of the work, and is more or less aware of its immense political and commercial importance. thus the field of vision opens out vastly, ideas coming into it in enough variety and abundance to begin throwing side-lights upon one another and to illumine the whole village outlook upon life. and while the field widens, the people are winning their way to a greater power of surveying it intelligently; for one must notice how the newspapers, besides giving information, encourage an acceptance of non-parochial views. the reader of them is taken into the public confidence. instead of a narrow village tradition, national opinions are at his disposal, and he is helped to see, as it were from the outside, the general aspect of questions which, but for the papers, he would only know by his individual experience from the inside. to give one illustration: the labourer out of work understands now more than his own particular misfortunes from that cause. he is discovering that unemployment is a world-wide evil, which spreads like an infectious disease, and may be treated accordingly. it is no small change to note, for in such ways, all unawares, the people fall into the momentous habit of thinking about abstract ideas which would have been beyond the range of their forefathers' intellectual power; and with the ideas, their sentiments gain in dignity, because the newspapers, with whatever ulterior purpose, still make their appeal to high motives of justice, or public spirit, or public duty. fed on this fare, a national or standardized sentiment is growing amongst the villagers, in place of the local prejudices which, in earlier times, varied from valley to valley and allowed the people of one village occasionally to look upon those in the next as their natural enemies. . once or twice before i have mentioned, as characteristic of the peasant outlook, the fatalism which allowed the poor to accept their position as part of the unalterable scheme of the universe, and i associated the attitude with their general failure to think in terms of cause and effect. it would seem that this settled state of mind is slowly giving way under the political excitement of the last ten years. i cannot say, as yet, that anything worthy to be called hope has dawned upon the cottagers; but an inclination to look into things for themselves is discernible. the change, such as it is, was begun--or, let us say, the ground was prepared for its beginning--by the distress of unemployment which followed the south african war; for then was bred that great discontent which came to the surface at last in the general election of . i well remember how, on the day when the liberal victory in this division was made known, the labouring men, standing about with nothing to do, gladdened at the prospects of the relief which they supposed must at once follow, and how their hungry eyes sparkled with excitement. "time there _was_ a change," one of them said to me, "with so many o' we poor chaps out o' work." then, as the months went by, and things worsened rather than bettered, reaction set in. "'twas bad enough under the conservatives, but 'tis ten times worse under the liberals." that was the opinion i heard expressed, often enough to suggest that it was passing into a by-word. so, to all appearance, the old apathy was falling upon the people, as no doubt it had often done before after a momentary gleam of hope, confirming them in the belief that, whatever happened, it would not, as they said, "make much odds to the likes o' we." this time, however, a new factor in the situation had been introduced, which tended to keep alive in village minds the possibility that poverty, instead of being the act of god, was an effect of causes which might be removed. the gospel of "tariff reform" promised so much as to make it worth the people's while to pay a little attention to politics. men who had never before in their lives tried to follow a logical argument began at last to store up in their memory reasons and figures in support of the fascinating doctrine, and if they were puzzle-headed over it, they were not more so than their leaders. besides, in their case merely to have begun is much. look at the situation. during six or seven years, there has been before the village a vision of better times to be realized by political action, and by support of a programme or a policy, and the interest which the people have taken in it marks a definite step forwards from the lethargy of stagnation in which they had previously been sunk. true, this particular vision seems fading now. just when it ought to have been growing clearer and nearer, if it was to justify itself, it becomes dim and remote, and my neighbours, i fancy, are reverting to their customary attitude of aloofness from party politics; but i should be much surprised to find that it is quite in the old spirit. for the old spirit was one of indifference; it rested in the persuasion that politicians of either side were only seeking their own ends, and that the game was a rich man's game, in which the poor were not meant to share. that, however, is hardly the persuasion now. if the labourers hold aloof, keeping their own counsel, it is no longer as outsiders, but as interested watchers, ready to take part strongly whenever a programme shall be put before them that deserves their help. i have suggested that the tendency of those who are influenced by the church is towards a middle-class outlook, and that their interest centres in developments of taste and conduct rather than of intellect and opinion. nothing so definite can be said as to the effects of newspaper reading and political excitement; nevertheless, i am conscious of effects everywhere present. the labourers whose interests turn in this direction seem to be treading in the footsteps of the skilled artisans in the town, towards ambitions not in all respects identical with those of the middle-classes. of course the unskilled labourer earning eighteen shillings a week has not equal opportunities with the man who earns thirty-six; he cannot buy the newspapers and occasional books to which the other treats himself and his children, and in general he is less well informed. but the same grave and circumspect talk goes down with the one as with the other; to both the same topics are interesting. and for me the probability of a development for our village labourers similar to that of the town artisans is heightened, by recollection of what artisans themselves were like, say a quarter of a century ago. i knew a few of these very well. as craftsmen they were as able as those of to-day; but their crafts had not taught them to think. while they worked by rule of thumb, outside their work they were as full of prejudices, and as unable to grasp reasons, as any of my village neighbours. the most of them, in fact, had been born in villages near the town, and retained a good deal of the rural outlook. their gardens, and the harvest--yes, and odd scraps of very ancient folk-lore which they still believed--occupied an important place in their attention. they had quite the old attitude towards their employers; quite the old stubborn distrust of innovations in their work. when, however, you turn to their successors, you find a difference. i will not say that they are less able than their predecessors, or less trustworthy; but they have broken away from all that old simplicity of mind; they are thinking for themselves, and informing themselves, with an unresting and unhasting interest, about what the rest of the world knows. it fills me with shame, when i consider my own so much better opportunities, to find how much these hard-working men have learnt, and with what cool tenacity they think. where they are most wanting is in enthusiasm and the hopes that breed it; or say, in belief that the world may yet change for the better--though here, too, political excitement is doing its fateful work. i find them very jealous for their children to do well: free education has not sapped their sense of parental responsibility, but has inspired them with ambitions, though not for themselves. for themselves they are conscious of a want of that book-learned culture which the practice of their skilled crafts cannot bestow, and this makes them suspicious of those who have it and diffident in conversation with them. but underneath this reticence and willingness to hear dwells a quiet scepticism which has no docility in it, and is not to be persuaded out of its way by any eloquence or any emotion. missionary influences, like those of church and chapel, make but little impression on these quiet-eyed men. the tendency is towards a scientific rather than an æsthetic outlook. and just as, amongst the skilled craftsmen, there are individuals representing every stage of the advance from five-and-twenty years ago until now, so the earlier stages at least of the same advance are represented, one beyond another, by labouring men in this village. i could not find any labourers who are so far forward as the forwardest artisans; but i could find some who have travelled, say, half the way, and many who have reached different points between that and the stagnation which was the starting-point for all. hence i cannot doubt that the villagers in general are moving on the route along which the town artisans have passed a generation ahead of them. they are hindered by great poverty; hampered by the excessive fatigues of their daily work; entrammelled by remnants of the peasant traditions which still cling about them; but the movement has begun. the first stupefying effect of their eviction from the peasant life is passing away, and they are setting their faces towards the future, to find a new way of life. it may be urged that, along with the church, the newspaper and politics, education should have been named, as a fourth power affecting the village destinies. a moment's consideration, however, will discover that it does not come into the same category with those three influences, if only for this reason, that it is forced upon the village children from outside, while the older people have no chance to interest themselves in it as they have in the church teachings or in the daily paper. no spontaneous movement, therefore, such as i have outlined in the other cases, can be traced in regard to education; but i had a stronger reason than that for omitting mention of it. to be quite plain, i do not think it is making anything like so much impression on the village life as it ought to make, and as it is commonly supposed to be making. it is not quite a failure; but it is by no means a great success. in so far as it has enabled the people to read their papers (and it has not done that very well) it has been serviceable; but neither as a cause of change nor as a guide into happier ways of life has it any claim to especial mention in these chapters. i am not saying that it is unworthy of attention: on the contrary, there is no subject relating to the village that demands so much. if, as i believe, it is one, and the foremost, of those activities which are largely abortive because they have not got into touch with the spontaneous movement of the village life, the matter is of the utmost seriousness. but this is not the place for entering into it; for i have not set out to criticize the varied experiments in reform which are being tried upon the labouring people. my book is finished, now that i have pointed to the inner changes going on in the village itself. as to the future of those changes, i will not add to what i have already said, but there is evidently much room for speculation; and those who best know the villagers--their brave patience, their sincerity, the excellent groundwork of their nature--and those who see how full of promise are the children, generation after generation, until hardship and neglect spoil them, will be slow to believe what leisured folk are so fond of saying--namely, that these lowly people owe their lowliness to defects in their inborn character. it is too unlikely. the race which, years ago, in sequestered villages, unaided by the outer world at all, and solely by force of its own accumulated traditions, could build up that sturdy peasant civilization which has now gone--that race, i say, is not a race naturally deficient. there is no saying what its offspring may not achieve, once they get their powers of intellect awake on modern lines and can draw freely upon the great world for ideas. at any rate, the hope is great enough to forbid the indulgence of any deep regret for what has gone by. the old system had gone on long enough. for generations the villagers had grown up and lived and died with large tracts of their english vitality neglected, unexplored; and i do not think the end of that wasteful system can be lamented by anyone who believes in the english. rather it should reconcile us to the disillusionments of this present time of transition. they are devastating, i admit; for me, they have spoilt a great deal of that pleasure which the english country used to give me, when i still fancied it to be the scene of a joyful and comely art of living. i know now that the landscape is not peopled by a comfortable folk, whose dear and intimate love of it gave a human interest to every feature of its beauty; i know that those who live there have in fact lost touch with its venerable meanings, while all their existence has turned sordid and anxious and worried; and knowing this, i feel a forlornness in country places, as if all their best significance were gone. but, notwithstanding this, i would not go back. i would not lift a finger, or say a word, to restore the past time, for fear lest in doing so i might be retarding a movement which, when i can put these sentiments aside, looks like the prelude to a renaissance of the english country-folk. note.--in the preceding chapters no reference is made either to the new insurance act or to recent labour unrest. the book was, in fact, already in the publishers' hands when those matters began to excite general attention; and it hardly seems necessary now, merely for the sake of being momentarily up to date, to begin introducing allusions which after all would leave the main argument unchanged. _december_, . the end billing and sons, ltd., printers, guildford the waters of edera by o u i d a author of "moths," "under two flags," "the silver christ," etc. london t. fisher unwin paternoster square the waters of edera i it was a country of wide pastures, of moors covered with heath, of rock-born streams and rivulets, of forest and hill and dale, sparsely inhabited, with the sea to the eastward of it, unseen, and the mountains everywhere visible always, and endlessly changing in aspect. herdsmen and shepherds wandered over it, and along its almost disused roads pedlars and pack mules passed at times but rarely. minerals and marbles were under its turf, but none sought for them; pools and lakes slept in it, undisturbed save by millions of water fowl and their pursuers. the ruins of temples and palaces were overgrown by its wild berries and wild flowers. the buffalo browsed where emperors had feasted, and the bittern winged its slow flight over the fields of forgotten battles. it was the season when the flocks are brought through this lonely land, coming from the plains to the hills. many of them passed on their way thus along the course of the edera water. the shepherds, clothed in goatskin, with the hair worn outward, bearded, brown, hirsute men, looking like savage satyrs, the flocks they drove before them travel-worn, lame, heart-broken, the lambs and kids bleating painfully. they cannot keep up with the pace of the flock, and, when they fall behind, the shepherds slit their throats, roast their bodies over an evening fire, or bake them under its ashes, and eat them; if a town or village be near, the little corpses are sold in it. often a sheep dog or a puppy drops down in the same way, footsore and worn out; then the shepherds do not tarry, but leave the creatures to their fate, to die slowly of thirst and hunger. the good shepherd is a false phrase. no one is more brutal than a shepherd. if he were not so he could not bear his life for a day. all that he does is brutal. he stones the flock where it would tarry against his will. he mutilates the males, and drags the females away from their sucking babes. he shears their fleeces every spring, unheeding how the raw skin drops blood. he drives the halting, footsore, crippled animals on by force over flint and slate and parching dust. sometimes he makes them travel twenty miles a day. for his pastime he sets the finest of his beasts to fight. this is the feast day and holiday sport of all the shepherds; and they bet on it, until all they have, which is but little, goes on the heads of the rams; and one will wager his breeches, and another his skin jacket, and another his comely wife, and the ram which is beaten, if he have any life left in him, will be stabbed in the throat by his owner: for he is considered to have disgraced the _branca_. this sunday and saints' day sport was going on a piece of grass land in the district known as the vale of edera. on the turf, cleared of its heaths and ferns, there was a ring of men, three of them shepherds, the rest peasants. in the midst of them were the rams, two chosen beasts pitted against each other like two pugilists. they advanced slowly at first, then more quickly, and yet more quickly, till they met with a crash, their two foreheads, hard as though carven in stone, coming in collision with a terrible force; then each, staggered by the encounter, drew back, dizzy and bruised, to recoil, and take breath, and gather fresh force, and so charge one on the other in successive rounds until the weaker should succumb, and, mangled and senseless, should arise no more. one of the rams was old, and one was young; some of the shepherds said that the old one was more wary and more experienced, and would have the advantage; in strength and height they were nearly equal, but the old one had been in such duels before and the young one never. the young one thought he had but to rush in, head downward, to conquer; the old one knew that this was not enough to secure victory. the young one was blind with ardour and impatience for the fray; the old one was cool and shrewd and could parry and wait. after three rounds, the two combatants met in a final shock; the elder ram butted furiously, the younger staggered and failed to return the blow, his frontal bone was split, and he fell to the ground; the elder struck him once, twice, thrice, amidst the uproarious applause of his backers; a stream of blood poured from his skull, which was pounded to splinters; a terrible convulsion shook his body and his limbs; he stretched his tongue out as if he tried to lap water; the men who had their money on him cursed him with every curse they knew; they did not cut his throat, for they knew he was as good as dead. "this is a vile thing you have done," said a little beggar girl who had been passing, and had been arrested by the horrible fascination of the combat, and forced against her will to stand and watch its issue. the shepherds jeered; those who had backed the victor were sponging his wounds beside a runlet of water which was close at hand; those who had lost were flinging stones on the vanquished. the girl knelt down by the dying ram to save him from the shower of stones; she lifted his head gently upward, and tried to pour water through his jaws from a little wooden cup which she had on her, and which she had filled at the river. but he could not swallow; his beautiful opaline eyes were covered with film, he gasped painfully, a foam of blood on his lips and a stream of blood coursing down his face; a quiver passed over him again; then his head rested lifeless on his knees. she touched his shattered horns, his clotted wool, tenderly. "why did you set him to fight?" she said with an indignation which choked her voice. "it was vile. he was younger than the other, and knew less." those who had won laughed. those who had lost cursed him again; he had disgraced his _branca_. they would flay him, and put him in the cauldron over the wood fire, and would curse him even whilst they picked his bones for a white-livered spawn of cowards; a son of a thrice-damned ewe. the girl knew that was what they do. she laid his battered head gently down upon the turf, and poured the water out of her cup; her eyes were blind with tears; she could not give him back his young life, his zest in his pastoral pleasures, his joy in cropping the herbage, his rude loves, his merry gambols, his sound sleep, his odorous breath. he had died to amuse and excite the ugly passions of men, as, if he had lived longer, he would, in the end, have died to satisfy their ugly appetites. she looked at his corpse with compassion, the tears standing in her eyes; then she turned away, and as she went saw that her poor ragged clothes were splashed here and there with blood, and that her arms and hands were red with blood: she had not thought of that before; she had thought only of him. the shepherds did not notice her; they were quarrelling violently in dispute over what had been lost and won, thrusting their fingers in each other's faces, and defiling the fair calm of the day with filthy oaths. the girl shrank away into the heather with the silent swiftness of a hare; now that she had lost the stimulus of indignant pity she was afraid of these brutes; if the whim entered into them they would be as brutal to her as to their flock. out of fear of them she did not descend at once to the river, but pushed her way through the sweet-smelling, bee-haunted, cross-leaved heaths; she could hear the sound of the water on her right all the time as she went. she knew little of this country, but she had seen the edera, and had crossed it farther up its course on one of its rough tree-bridges. when, as well as she could judge, she had got half a mile away from the scene of the rams' combat, she changed her course and went to the right, directed by the murmur of the river. it was slow walking through the heath and gorse which grew above her head, and were closely woven together, but in time she reached shelving ground, and heard the song of the river louder on her ear. the heath ceased to grow within a few yards of the stream and was replaced by various water plants and acacia thickets; she slid down the banks between the stems and alighted on her bare feet where the sand was soft and the water-dock grew thick. she looked up and down the water; there was no one in sight, nothing but the banks rosehued with the bloom of the heather, and, beyond the opposite shore, in the distance, the tender amethystine hues of the mountains. the water was generally low, leaving the stretches of sand and of shingle visible, but it was still deep in many parts. she stripped herself and went down into it, and washed the blood which had by this time caked upon her flesh. it seemed a pity, she thought, to sully with that dusky stain this pure, bright, shining stream; but she had no other way to rid herself of it, and she had in all the world no other clothes than these poor woollen rags. her heart was still sore for the fate of the conquered ram; and her eyes filled again with tears as she washed his blood off her in the gay running current. but the water was soothing and fresh, the sun shone on its bright surface; the comfrey and fig-wart blew in the breeze, the heather smell filled the atmosphere. she was only a child, and her spirits rose, and she capered about in the shallows, and flung the water over her head, and danced to her own reflection in it, and forgot her sorrow. then she washed her petticoats as well as she could, having nothing but water alone, and all the while she was as naked as a naiad, and the sun smiled on her brown, thin, childish body as it smiled on a stem of plaintain or on the plumage of a coot. then when she had washed her skirt she spread it out on the sand to dry, and sat down beside it, for the heat to bake her limbs after her long bath. there was no one, and there was nothing, in sight; if any came near she could hide under the great dock leaves until such should have passed. it was high noon, and the skirt of wool and the skirt of hemp grew hot and steamed under the vertical rays; she was soon as dry as the shingles from which the water had receded for months. she sat with her hands clasped round her updrawn knees, and her head grew heavy with the want of slumber, but she would not sleep, though it was the hour of sleep. some one might pass by and steal her clothes, she thought, and how or when would she ever get others? when the skirt was quite dried, the blood stains still showed on it; they were no longer red, but looked like the marks from the sand. she tied it on round her waist and her shirt over it, and wound an old crimson sash round both. then she took up her little bundle in which were the wooden cup and a broken comb, and some pieces of hempen cloth and a small loaf of maize bread, and went on along the water, wading and hopping in it, as the water-wagtails did, jumping from stone to stone, and sometimes sinking up to her knees in a hole. she had no idea where she would rest at night, or where she would get anything to eat; but that reflection scarcely weighed on her; she slept well enough under stacks or in outhouses, and she was used to hunger. so long as no one meddled with her she was content. the weather was fine and the country was quiet. only she was sorry for the dead ram. by this time they would have hung him up by his heels to a tree, and have pulled the skin off his body. she was sorry; but she jumped along merrily in the water, as a kingfisher does, and scarcely even wondered where its course would lead her. at a bend in it she came to a spot where a young man was seated amongst the bulrushes, watching his fishing net. "aie!" she cried with a shrill cry of alarm, like a bird who sees a fowler. she stopped short in her progress; the water at that moment was up to her knees. with both hands she held up her petticoat to save it from another wetting; her little bundle was balanced on her head, the light shone in her great brown eyes. the youth turned and saw her. she was a very young girl, thirteen at most; her small flat breasts were those of a child, her narrow shoulders and her narrow loin spoke of scanty food and privation of all kinds, and her arms and legs were brown from the play of the sun on their nakedness; they were little else than skin and bone, nerves and sinew, and looked like stakes of wood. all the veins and muscles stood revealed as in anatomy, and her face, which would have been a child's face, a nymph's face, with level brows, a pure straight profile, and small close ears like shells, was so fleshless and sunburnt that she looked almost like a mummy. her eyes had in them the surprise and sadness of those of a weaning calf; and her hair, too abundant for such a small head, would, had it not been so dusty and entangled, have been of a red golden bronze, the hue of a chestnut which has just burst open its green husk. "who are you?" said the young man, looking at her in surprise. "i am nerina," answered the child. "where do you come from? what is your country?" she pointed vaguely to the south-west mountains, where the snow on the upper ranges was still lying with bands of cloud resting on it. "from the abruzzo?" she was silent. she did not know the mountains of her birthplace by their names. "who was your father?" he asked, with some impatience. "he was black fausto." "what did he do for a living?" "he went down with the fair season to the roman plain." he understood: the man had no doubt been a labourer, one of those who descend in bands from the villages of the abruzzo heights to plough, and mow, and sow, and reap, on the lands of the castelli romani; men who work in droves, and are fed and stalled in droves, as cattle are, who work all through the longest and hottest days in summer, and in the worst storms of winter; men who are black by the sun, are half naked, are lean and hairy and drip with continual sweat, but who take faithfully back the small wage they receive to where their women and children dwell in their mountain-villages. "he went, you say? is he ill? does he work no longer?" "he died last year." "of what?" she gave a hopeless gesture. "who knows? he came back with a wolf in his belly, he said, always gnawing and griping, and he drank water all day and all night, and his face burned, and his legs were cold, and all of a sudden his jaw fell, and he spoke no more to us. there are many of them who die like that after a hot season down in the plains." he understood; hunger and heat, foul air in their sleeping places, infusoria in the ditch and rain water, and excessive toil in the extremes of heat and cold, make gaps in the ranks of these hired bands every year as if a cannon had been fired into them. "who takes care of you now?" he asked with pity, as for a homeless bitch. "nobody. there is nobody. they are all gone down into the earth." "but how do you live?" "i work when i can. i beg when i cannot. people let me sleep in the stalls, or the barns, and give me bread." "that is a bad life for a girl." she shrugged her shoulders. "i did not make it." "and where are you going?" she opened her arms wide and swept the air with them. "anywhere. along the water, until i find something to do." "i cannot do much," she added, after a pause. "i am little, and no one has taught me. but i can cut grass and card wool." "the grass season is short, and the wool season is far off. why did you not stay in your village?" she was mute. she did not know why she had left it, she had come away down the mountainside on a wandering instinct, with a vague idea of finding something better the farther she went: her father had always come back with silver pieces in his pocket after his stay down there in those lands which she had never seen, lying as they did down far below under the golden haze of what seemed an immeasurable distance. "are you not hungry?" said the fisher. "i am always hungry," she said, with some astonishment at so simple a question. "i have been hungry ever since i can remember. we all were up there. sometimes even the grass was too dried up to eat. father used to bring home with him a sack of maize; it was better so long as that lasted." "are you hungry now?" "of course." "come to my house with me. we will feed you. come. have no fear. i am adone alba, of the terra vergine, and my mother is a kind woman. she will not grudge you a meal." the child laughed all over her thin, brown face. "that will be good," she said, and leapt up out of the water. "poor soul! poor soul!" thought the young man, with a profound sense of pity. as the child sprang up out of the river, shaking the water off her as a little terrier does, he saw that she must have been in great want of food for a long time; her bones were almost through her skin. he set his fishing pole more firmly in the ground, and left the net sunk some half a yard below the surface; then he said to the little girl: "come, come and break your fast. it has lasted long, i fear." nerina only understood that she was to be fed; that was enough for her. she trotted like a stray cur, beckoned by a benevolent hand, behind him as he went, first through some heather and broom, then over some grass, where huge olive trees grew, and then through corn and vine lands, to an old farmhouse, made of timber and stone; large, long, solid; built to resist robbers in days when robbers came in armed gangs. there was a wild garden in front of it, full of cabbage roses, lavender, myrtle, stocks and wallflowers. over the arched door a four-season rose-tree clambered. the house, ancient and spacious, with its high-pitched roof of ruddy tiles, impressed nerina with a sense of awe, almost of terror. she remained hesitating on the garden path, where white and red stocks were blossoming. "mother," said adone, "here is a hungry child. give her, in your kindness, some broth and bread." clelia alba came out into the entrance, and saw the little girl with some displeasure. she was kind and charitable, but she did not love beggars and vagabonds, and this half-naked female tatterdemalion offended her sense of decency and probity, and her pride of sex. she was herself a stately and handsome woman. "the child is famished," said adone, seeing his mother's displeasure. "she shall eat then, but let her eat outside," said clelia alba, and went back into the kitchen. nerina waited by the threshold, timid and mute and humble, like a lost dog; her eyes alone expressed overwhelming emotions: fear and hope and one ungovernable appetite, hunger. clelia alba came out in a few minutes with a bowl of hot broth made of herbs, and a large piece of maize-flour bread. "take them," she said to her son. adone took them from her, and gave them to the child. "sit and eat here," he said, pointing to a stone settle by the wall under the rose of four seasons. the hands of nerina trembled with excitement, her eyes looked on fire, her lips shook, her breath came feverishly and fast. the smell of the soup made her feel beside herself. she said nothing, but seized the food and began to drink the good herb-broth with thirsty eagerness though the steam of it scorched her. adone, with an instinct of compassion and delicacy, left her unwatched and went within. "where did you find that scarecrow?" asked his mother. "down by the river. she has nobody and nothing. she comes from the mountains." "there are poor folks enough in ruscino without adding to them from without," said clelia alba impatiently. "mind she does not rob the fowl-house before she slips sway." "she has honest eyes," said adone. "i am sure she will do us no harm." when he thought that she had been given time enough to finish her food he went out; the child was stretched at full length on the stone seat, and was already sound asleep, lying on her back; the empty bowl was on the ground, of the bread there was no longer a crumb; she was sleeping peacefully, profoundly, her thin hands crossed on her naked brown bosom, on which some rose leaves had fallen from the rose on the wall above. he looked at her in silence for a little while, then returned to his mother. "she is tired. she sleeps. let her rest." "it is unsafe." "how unsafe, mother? she is only a child." "she may have men behind her." "it is not likely." adone could not say (for he had no idea himself) why he felt sure that this miserable little waif would not abuse hospitality: "she is a child," he answered rather stupidly, for children are often treacherous and wicked, and he knew nothing of this one except what she had chosen to tell of herself. "she may have men behind her," repeated his mother. "such men as you are thinking of, mother, do not come to this valley nowadays. ulisse ferrero was the last of them. indeed, i think this poor little creature is all alone in the world. go and look at her. you will see how forlorn and small she is." she went to the doorway and looked at the sleeping beggar; her eyes softened as she gazed, the whole attitude and appearance of the child were so miserable and so innocent, so helpless, and yet so tranquil, that her maternal heart was touched; the waif slept on the stone bench beside the door of strangers as though she were in some safe and happy home. clelia alba looked down on her a few moments, then took the kerchief off her hair, and laid it gently, without awakening the sleeper, over the breast and the face of the child, on which flies were settling and the sun was shining. then she picked up the empty earthenware bowl, and went indoors again. "i will go back to the river," said adone. "i have left the net there." his mother nodded assent. "you will not send this little foreigner away till i return?" he asked. every one was a foreigner who had not been born in the vale of edera. "no; not till you return." he went away through the sunshine and shadow of the olive-trees. he knew that his mother never broke her word. but she thought as she washed the bowl: "a little stray mongrel bitch like that may bite badly some day. she must go. she is nothing now; but by and by she may bite." clelia alba knew human nature, though she had never been out of sight of the river edera. she took her spinning-wheel and sat down by the door. there was nothing urgent to do, and she could from the threshold keep a watch on the little vagabond, and would be aware if she awoke. all around was quiet. she could see up and down the valley, beyond the thin, silvery foliage of the great olive-trees, and across it to where the ruins of a great fortress towered in their tragic helplessness. the sun shone upon her fields of young wheat, her slopes of pasture. the cherry-trees and the pear-trees were in bloom, her trellised vines running from tree to tree. ragged-robin, yellow crowsfoot, purple orchis, filled the grass, intermixed with the blue of borage and the white and gold of the oxeye. she did not note these things. those fancies were for her son. herself, she would have preferred that there should be no flower in the grasses, for before the cow was fed the flowers had to be picked out of the cut grass, and had served no good end that she could perceive, for she knew of no bees except the wild ones, whose honey no one ever tasted, hidden from sight in hollow trees as it was. nerina slept on in peace and without dreams. now and then another rose let fall some petals on her, or a bee buzzed above her, but her repose remained undisturbed. the good food filled her, even in her sleep, with deep contentment, and the brain, well nourished by the blood, was still. clelia alba felt her heart soften despite herself for this lonely creature; though she was always suspicious of her, for she had never known any good thing come down from the high mountains, but only theft and arson and murder, and men banded together to solace their poverty with crime. in her youth the great brigands of the upper abruzzo had been names of terror in ruscino, and in the hamlets lying along the course of the edera, and many a time a letter written in blood had been fastened with a dagger to the door of church or cottage, intimating the will of the unseen chief to the subjugated population. of late years less had been heard and seen of such men; but they or their like were still heard and felt sometimes, up above in lonely forests, or down where the moorland and macchia met, and the water of edera ran deep and lonely. in her girlhood, a father, a son, and a grandson had been all killed on a lonely part of the higher valley because they had dared to occupy a farm and a water-mill after one of these hillmen had laid down the law that no one was to live on the land or to set the waterwheel moving. that had been a good way off, indeed, and for many a year the edera had not seen the masked men, with their belts, crammed with arms and gold, round their loins; but still, one never knew, she thought; unbidden guests were oftener devils than angels. and it seemed to her that the child could not really be asleep all this time in a strange place and the open air. at last she got up, went again to the bench and drew her handkerchief aside, and looked down on the sleeper; on the thin, narrow chest, the small, bony hands, the tiny virginal nipples like wood strawberries. she saw that the slumber was real, the girl very young and more than half-starved. "let her forget while she can," she thought, and covered her face again. "it is still early in the day." the bees hummed on; a low wind swept over a full-blown rose and shook its loose leaves to the ground. the shadow from the ruined tower began to touch the field which lay nearest the river, a sign that it was two hours after noon. ii the large square fresh-water fishing-net had sunk under the surface, the canes which framed it were out of sight; only the great central pole, which sustained the whole, and was planted in the ground of the river-bank, remained visible as it bent and swayed but did not yield or break. such nets as this had been washed by the clear green waters of the pools and torrents of the edera ever since the days of etruscan gods and latin augurs; religions had changed, but the river, and the ways of the men of the river, had not altered. adone did not touch it, for it was well where it was; he seated himself on the bank ready to seize and hold it if its pole showed any sign of yielding and giving way and heeling over into the stream. he sat thus amongst the bulrushes for many an hour, on many a spring day and summer night. although fish were not numerous he never tired of his vigil, lulled by the sound of the current as it splashed among the stones and rippled through the rushes; a deeper music coming from its higher reaches, where it fell over a ledge of rock and leapt like a live thing into the air. and, indeed, what thing could be more living than this fresh, pure, untroubled water, glad as a child, swift as a swallow, singing for sport, as a happy boy sings, as it ran down on its way from the hills? to the young man sitting now on its bank amidst the bulrushes it was as living as himself, his playmate, friend, and master, all in one. first of all things which he could remember were the brightness and the coolness of it as it had laved his limbs in his childhood on mid-summer noons, his mother's hands holding him safely as he waded with rosy feet and uncertain steps along its pebbly bottom! how many mornings, when he had grown to boyhood and to manhood, had he escaped from the rays of the vertical sun into its acacia-shadowed pools; how many moonlit, balmy nights had he bathed in its still reaches, the liquid silver of its surface breaking up like molten metal as he dived! how many hours of peace had he passed, as he was spending this, waiting for the fish to float into his great net, whilst the air and the water were alike so still that he could hear the little voles stealing in and out amongst the reeds, and the water-thrush pushing the pebbles on its sands in search for insects, though beast and bird were both unseen by him! how many a time upon the dawn of a holy-day had he washed and swam in its waters whilst the bells of the old church in the village above had tolled in the softness of dusk! he thought of none of these memories distinctly, for he was young and contented, and those who are satisfied with their lot live in their present; but they all drifted vaguely through his mind as he sat by the side of the river, as the memories of friends dear from infancy drift through our waking dreams. he was in every way a son of the edera, for he had been born almost in the water itself; his mother had been washing linen with other women at the ford when she had been taken with the pains of labour two months before her time. her companions had had no time or thought to do more than to stretch her on the wet sand, with some hempen sheets, which had not yet been thrown in the water, between her and the ground; and the cries of her in her travail had echoed over the stream and had startled the kingfishers in the osiers, and the wild ducks in the marshes, and the tawny owls asleep in the belfry tower of the village. but her pains had been brief though sharp, and her son had first seen the light beside the water; a strong and healthy child, none the worse for his too early advent, and the rough river-women had dipped him in the shallows, where their linen and their wooden beaters were, and had wrapped him up in a soiled woollen shirt, and had laid him down with his face on his mother's young breast, opening his shut unconscious mouth with their rough fingers, and crying in his deaf ear, "suck! and grow to be a man!" clelia alba was now a woman of forty-one years old, and he, her only son, was twenty-four; they had named him adone; the beautiful greek adonais having passed into the number of the saints of the latin church, by a transition so frequent in hagiology that its strangeness is not remembered save by a scholar here and there. when he had been born she had been a young creature of seventeen, with the wild grace of a forest doe; with that nobility of beauty, that purity of outline, and that harmony of structure, which still exist in those italians in whom the pure italiote blood is undefiled by jew or gentile. now her abundant hair was white, and her features were bronzed and lined by open-air work, and her hands of beautiful shape were hard as horn through working in the fields. she looked an old woman, and was thought so by others, and thought herself so: for youth is soon over in these parts, and there is no half-way house between youth and age for the peasant. clelia alba, moreover, had lost her youth earlier even than others: lost it for ever when her husband at five-and-twenty years of age had been killed by falling from an olive-tree of which the branch sustaining him had cracked and broken under his weight. his neck had been broken in the fall. she had been dancing and shouting with her two-year-old child on the grassland not far off, romping and playing ball with some dropped chestnuts; and when their play was over she had lifted her boy on to her shoulder and run with him to find his father. under one of the great, gnarled, wide-spreading olives she had seen him, lying asleep as she thought. "oh, lazy one, awake! the sun is only two hours old!" she had cried merrily, and the child on her shoulder had cooed and shouted in imitation, "wake--wake--wake!" and she, laughing, had cast a chestnut she had carried in her hand upon the motionless figure. then, as the prostrate form did not stir, a sudden terror had seized her, and she had set the baby down upon the grass and run to the olive-tree. there she had seen that this was death, for when she had raised him his head had dropped, and seemed to hang like a poppy broken in a blast of wind, and his eyes had no sight, and his mouth had no breath. from that dread hour clelia alba had never laughed again. her hair grew white, and her youth went away from her for ever. she lived for the sake of her son, but she and joy had parted company for ever. his death had made her sole ruler of the terra vergine; she had both the knowledge and the strength necessary for culture of the land, and she taught her boy to value and respect the soil. "as you treat the ground ill or well, so will your ground treat you," she said to him. she always wore the costume of the province, which was similar to that of the abruzzo villages, and suited her cast of features and her strong and haughty carriage. on feast-days she wore three strings of fine pearls round her throat, and bracelets of massive gold and of fine workmanship, so many in number that her arms were stiff with them; they had been her mother's and grandmother's and great-grandmother's, and had been in her dower. to sell or pawn them under stress of need, had such occurred, would never have seemed to any of her race to be possible. it would have seemed as sacrilegious as to take the chalice off the church altar, and melt its silver and jewels in the fire. when she should go to her grave these ornaments would pass to adone as heirlooms; none of her family were living. "never talk of death, mother," he said, whenever she spoke of these things. "death is always listening; and if he hear his name he taps the talker on the shoulder, just to show that he is there and must be reckoned with." "not so, my son!" replied clelia alba, with a sigh. "he has every soul of us written down in his books from the time we are born; we all have our hour to go and none of us can alter it." "i do not believe that," said adone. "we kill ourselves oftentimes; or we hasten our end, as drunkards do." "did your father hasten his end?" said his mother. "did not some one break that olive branch? it was not the tree itself, though the ruscino folks would have it cut down because they called it a felon." "was it not the devil?" said adone. he believed in the devil, of course, as he had been taught to do; and had he not as a child met the infernal effigy everywhere--in marble, in stone, in wood, in colour, in the church and outside it, on water-spout and lamp-iron, and even on the leaves of his primer? but it seemed to him that the devil had "_troppo braccia_" given him, was allowed too long a tether, too free a hand; if indeed he it were that made everything go wrong, and adone did not see who else it could be. here, in the vale of edera, all the world believed in satan as in holy water, or in daily bread. clelia alba crossed herself hastily, for she was a pious woman. "we are talking blasphemy, my son," she said gravely. "of course there is the good god who orders the number of our days for each of us, and is over us all." adone was silent. to him it seemed doubtful. did the good god kill the pretty little children as the butcher in a city killed his lambs? but he never contradicted or vexed his mother; he loved her with a great and tender affection. he was less ignorant than she was, and saw many things she could not see; he was, as it were, on a hilltop and she down in a valley, but he had a profound respect for her; he obeyed her implicitly, as if he were still a child, and he thought the world held no woman equal to her. when he went back to his house that evening, with his great net on his shoulder and swinging in one hand some fresh-water fish, he looked at the stone bench, which was empty of all except some fallen rose-leaves, and then anxiously, questioningly, in the face of his mother. so he answered the regard. "the girl is gone to gianna's custody," she said rather harshly. "gianna will give her her supper, and will let her sleep in the loft. with the morning we will see what we can do for her, and how she can be sped upon her way." adone kissed her hands. "you are always good," he said simply. "i am weak," answered his mother, "i am weak, adone; when you wish anything i consent to it against my judgment." but she was not weak; or at least only weak in the way in which all generous natures are so. on the morrow nerina was not sped on her way. the old woman, gianna, thought well of her. "she is as clean as a stone in the water," she said; "she has foul-smelling rags, but her flesh is clean. she woke at dawn, and asked for something to do. she knows nought, but she is willing and teachable. we can make her of use. she has nowhere to go. she is a stray little puppy. her people were miserable, but they seem to have been pious folks. she has a cross pricked on her shoulder. she says her mother did it when she was a babe to scare the devil off her. i do not know what to say; she is a poor, forlorn little wretch; if you like to keep her, i for my part will see to her. i am old: it is well to do a good work before one dies." gianna was an old woman, half house-servant, half farm-servant, wholly friend; she had lived at the terra vergine all her life; big, gaunt, and very strong, she could do the work of a man, although she was over seventy years of age; burnt black by the sun, and with a pile of grey hair like the hank of flax on her distaff, she was feared by the whole district for her penetrating glance and her untiring energy. when gianna was satisfied the stars had changed their courses, said the people, so rare was the event; therefore, that this little wanderer contented her was at once a miracle and a voucher indisputable. so the child remained there; but her presence troubled adone's mother, though nerina was humble as a homeless dog, was noiseless and seldom seen, was obedient, agile, and became useful in many manners, and learned with equal eagerness the farm work taught her by gianna, and the doctrine taught her by don silverio, for she was intelligent and willing in every way. only clelia alba thought, "perhaps gianna's good heart misleads her. gianna is rough; but she has a heart as tender at bottom as a ripe melon's flesh." anyhow, she took her old servant's word and allowed the child to remain. she could not bring herself to turn adrift a female thing to stray about homeless and hungry, and end in some bottomless pit. the child might be the devil's spawn. no one could be sure. but she had eyes which looked up straight and true, and were as clear as the river water where it flowed over pebbles in the shade. when the devil is in a soul he always grins behind the eyes; he cannot help it; and so you know him; thus, at least, they thought at ruscino and in all the vale of edera; and the devil did not lurk in the eyes of nerina. "have i done right, reverend sir?" asked clelia alba of the vicar of ruscino. "oh, yes--yes--charity is always right," he answered, unwilling to discourage her in her benevolence; but in his own mind he thought, "the child is a child, but she will grow; she is brown, and starved, and ugly now, but she will grow; she is a female thing and she will grow, and i think she will be handsome later on; it would have been more prudent to have put some money in her hand and some linen in her wallet, and have let her pass on her way down the river. the saints forbid that i should put aloes into the honey of their hearts; but this child will grow." clelia alba perceived that he had his doubts as she had hers. but they said nothing of them to each other. the issue would lie with time, whom men always depict as a mower, but who is also a sower, too. however, for good or ill, she was there; and he knew that, having once harboured her, they would never drive her adrift. clelia alba was in every sense a good woman; a little hard at times, narrow of sympathy, too much shut up in her maternal passion; but in the main merciful and correct in judgment. "if the child were not good the river would not have given her to us," said adone to her; and believed it. "good-day, my son," said the voice of the vicar, don silverio frascara, behind him, where adone worked in the fields. "where did you find that scarecrow whom your mother has shown me just now?" "she was in the river, most reverend, dancing along in it, as merry as a princess." "but she is a skeleton!" "almost." "and you know nothing of her?" "nothing, sir." "you were more charitable than wise." "one cannot let a little female thing starve whilst one has bread in the hutch. my mother is a virtuous woman. she will teach the child virtue." "let us hope so," said don silverio. "but all, my son, do not take kindly to that lesson." "what will be, will be. the river brought her." he credited the river with a more than human sagacity. he held it in awe and in reverence as a deity, as the greeks of old held their streams. it would have drowned the child, he thought, if she had been an evil creature or of evil augury. but he did not say so, for he did not care to provoke don silverio's fine fleeting ironical smile. a goatherd who passed some few days later with his flock on his way to the mountains recognised the little girl. "you are black fausto's daughter," he said to her. "is he dead? eh, well, we must all die. may his soul rest." to gianna, who questioned him, he said, "yes, he was a good soul. often have i seen him down in the roman plains. he worked himself to death. these gangs of labourers get poor pay. i saw him also in the hills where this girl comes from, ever so high up, you seem to touch the sky. i summered there two years ago; he had his womankind in a cabin, and he took all that he got home to them. aye, he was a good soul. we can come away out of the heats, but they have to stay down in them; for the reaping and the sowing are their chief gain, and they get the fever into their blood, and the worms into their bellies, and it kills them mostly before they are forty. you see, at ansalda, where he came from, it was snow eight months out of the twelve, so the heats and the mists killed him: for the air you are born in you want, and if you do not get it in time you sicken." "like enough," said gianna, who herself had never been out of sight of the river edera ever since she had been a babe in swaddling clothes. "tell me, gossip, was the child born in wedlock?" "eh, eh!" said the goatherd grinning. "that i would not take on me to say. but like enough, like enough; they are always ready to go before the priest in those high hills." the little girl glided into her place humbly and naturally, with no servility but with untiring willingness and thankfulness. it seemed to her an amazing favour of heaven to live with these good people; to have a roof over her head and food regularly every day. up there in her home, amongst the crags of ansalda, she had never known what it was not to have a daily hunger gnawing always in her entrails, and making her writhe at night on her bed of dry leaves. in her thirteen years of life she had never once had enough--no one ever had. a full stomach had been a thing unknown. she began to grow, she began to put a little flesh on her bones; they had cut her hair short, for it had been so rough, and it grew again burnished and bright like copper; colour came into her cheeks and lips; she seemed to spring upward, visibly, like a young cane. she worked hard, but she worked willingly, and she was well nourished on sound food, though it had little variety and was entirely vegetable; and every day she went down and bathed in the river at the same place where she had sat nude under the dock leaves whilst her skirt dried in the sun. to her the terra vergine was paradise itself; to be fed, to be clothed, to have a mattress to sleep on, to work amongst the flowers and the grass and the animals--it was all so beautiful, she thought sometimes that she must be in heaven. she spoke little. since she had been under this roof she had grown ashamed of the squalor and starvation and wretchedness of her past existence. she did not like to think of it even; it had been no fault of hers, but she felt ashamed that she ever should have been that little, filthy, unkempt, naked thing, grovelling on the clay floor, and fighting for mouldy crusts with the other children on the rock of ansalda. "if i had only known when father was alive," she thought; but even if she had known all she knew now, what could she have done? there had been nothing to use, nothing to eat, nothing to wear, and the rain and the snow and the wind had come in on them where they had lain huddled together on their bed of rotten leaves. now and then she said something of that rude childhood of hers to adone; she was afraid of the women, but not of him; she trotted after him as the little white curly dog signorino trotted after don silverio. "do not think of those dark days, little one," he said to her. "they are gone by. think of your parents and pray for their souls; but let the rest go; you have all your life to live." "my mother was young when she died," said the child. "if she had had food she would not have died. she said so. she kept on gnawing a bit of rag which was soaked in water; you cheat hunger that way, you know, but it does not fill you." "pour soul! poor soul!" said adone, and he thought of the great markets he had seen in the north, the droves of oxen, the piles of fruits, the long lines of wine carts, the heaps of slaughtered game, the countless shops with their electric light, the trains running one after another all the nights and every night to feed the rich; and he thought, as he had thought when a boy, that the devil had _troppo braccio_, if any devil indeed there were beside man himself. should there be anywhere on the face of the earth, young women, good women, mothers of babes who died of sheer hunger like this mother of nerina's up yonder in the snows of the abruzzo? he thought not; his heart revolted at the vision of her, a living skeleton on her heap of leaves. "father brought all he had," continued the child, "but he could not come back until after harvest, and when he came back she had been in the ground two months and more. they put him in the same ditch when his turn came; but she was no longer there, for they take up the bones every three years and burn them. they say they must, else the ditch would get too full." adone shuddered. he knew that tens of thousands died so, and had died so ever since the days of phenicians and gauls and goths. but it revolted him. the few gorged, the many famished--strange disproportion! unkind and unfair balance! but what remedy was there? adone had read some socialistic and communistic literature; but it had not satisfied him; it had seemed to him vain, verbose, alluring, but unreal, no better adapted to cure any real hunger than the soaked rag of nerina's mother. iii the valdedera is situated on the south of the marches, on the confines of what is now the territorial division of the abruzzo-molese, and so lies between the apennines and the adriatic, fanned by cool winds in summer from the eternal snow of the mountain peaks, and invigorated in all seasons by breezes from the adrian sea. ruscino, placed midway in the valley, is only a village to which no traveller has for many years come, and of which no geographer ever speaks; it is marked on the maps of military topographers, and is, of course, inscribed on the fiscal rolls, but is now no more than a village; though once, when the world was young, it was the etruscan rusciae, and then the latin ruscinonis; and then, when the papacy was mighty, it was the militant principality of the fortified town of ruscino. but it was, when the parish of don silverio, an almost uninhabited village; a pale, diminutive, shrunken relic of its heroic self; and of it scarcely any man knows anything except the few men who make their dwelling there; sons of the soil, who spring from its marble dust and return to it. it had shrunk to a mere hamlet as far as its population was counted; it shrank more and more with every census. there was but a handful of poor people who, when gathered together in the great church, looked no more than a few flies on a slab of marble. the oldest men and women of the place could recall the time when it had been still of some importance as a posting place on the mountain route between the markets of the coast and the western towns, when its highway had been kept clean and clear through the woods for public and private conveyance, and when the clatter of horses' hoofs and merry notes of horns had roused the echoes of its stones. in that first half of the century, too, they had lived fairly well, and wine and fowls had cost next to nothing, and home-made loaves had been always large enough to give a beggar or a stray dog a slice. but these times had long been over; every one was hungry now, and every one a beggar, by way of change, and to make things equal, as the people said, with dreary mirth and helpless acquiescence in their lot. like most riverain people, they lived chiefly by the river, cutting and selling its canes, its sallows, its osiers, its sedges, catching its fish, digging its sand; but there were few buyers in this depopulated district. don silverio frascara, its vicar, had been sent thither as a chastisement for his too sceptical and inquiring mind, his too undisciplined temper. nearly twenty years in this solitude had chastened both; the fire had died out of his soul and the light out of his eyes. his days were as monotonous as those of the blinded ass set to turn the wine-press. all the steel of his spirit rusted, all the brilliancy of his brain clouded; his life was like a fine rapier which is left in a corner of a dusty attic and forgotten. in certain rare states of the atmosphere the gold cross on st. peter's is visible from some of the peaks of the abruzzese apennines. it looks like a speck of light far, far away in the silver-green of the western horizon. when one day he climbed to such an altitude and saw it thus, his heart contracted with a sickly pain, for in rome he had dreamed many dreams; and in rome, until his exile to the vale of edera, he had been a preacher of noted eloquence, of brilliant fascination, and of daring thought. there had been long cypress alleys which at sunset had glowed with rose and gold, where he had in his few leisure hours builded up such visions for the future as illumined the unknown years to the eyes of an ignatius, a hildebrand, a lacordaire, a bossuet. on the place where those grand avenues had stretched their green length in the western light, and the seminarist had paced over the sward, there were now long, dreary lines of brick and stone, the beaten dust of roadways, the clang and smoke of engines: as the gardens had passed away so had passed his ambitions and visions; as the cypresses had been ground to powder in the steam mill, so was he crushed and effaced under an inexorable fate. the church, intolerant of individuality, like all despotisms, had broken his spirit; like all despotisms the tyranny had been blind. but he had been rebellious to doctrine; she had bound him to her stake. he would have been a great prelate, perhaps even a great pope; but he would have been also a great reformer, so she stamped him down into nothingness under her iron heel. and for almost a score of years she had kept him in ruscino, where he buried and baptized the old and new creatures who squirmed in the dust, where any ordinary country priest able to gabble through the ritual could have done as well as he. some few of the more liberal and learned dignitaries of the church did indeed think that it was waste of great powers, but he had the sacred college against him, and no one ventured to speak in his favour at the vatican. he had no pious women of rank to plead for him, no millionaires and magnates to solicit his preferment. he was with time forgotten as utterly as a folio is forgotten on a library shelf until mildew eats its ink away and spiders nest between its leaves. he had the thirty pounds a year which the state pays to such parish priests; and he had nothing else. he was a tall and naturally stately man, but his form was bent by that want of good food which is the chronic malady of many parts of italy. there was little to eat in ruscino, and had there been more there would have been no one who knew how to prepare it. bread, beans, a little oil, a little lard, herbs which grew wild, goat's milk, cheese, and at times a few small river fish; these were all his sustenance: his feasts and his fasts were much alike, and the little wine he had he gave away to the sick and the aged. for this reason his high stature was bent and his complexion was of the clear, yellow pallor of old marbles; his profile was like the caesarian outline on a medallion, and his eyes were deep wells of impenetrable thought; his finely cut lips rarely smiled, they had always upon them an expression of bitterness, as though the apple of life in its eating had been harsh and hard as a crab. his presbytery was close to his church, a dreary place with only a few necessaries and many books within it, and his only servant was an old man, lame and stupid, who served also as sacristan. it was a cure of souls which covered many miles but counted few persons. outside the old walls of ruscino nearly all the land of vale of edera was untilled, and within them a few poverty-stricken people dragged out their days uncared for by any one, only remembered by the collectors of fiscal dues. "_they_ never forget," said the people. "as soon as one is born, always and in every season, until one's bones rattle down into the ditch of the dead, _they_ remember always." the grasp of an invisible power took the crust off their bread, the toll off their oil, off their bed of sacking, off their plate of fish, and took their children when they grew to manhood and sent them into strange lands and over strange seas; they felt the grip of that hard hand as their forefathers had felt it under the caesars, under the popes, under the feudal lords, under the foreign kings; they felt it so now under the casa sabauda; the same, always the same; for the manners and titles of the state may change, but its appetite never lessens, and its greed never spares. for twice a thousand years their blood had flowed and their earnings had been wrung out of them in the name of the state, and nothing was changed in that respect; the few lads they begot amongst them went to africa, now as under pompeius or scipio; and their corn sack was taken away from them under depretis or crispi, as under the borgia or the malatesta; and their grape skins soaked in water were taxed as wine, their salt for their soup-pot was seized as contraband, unless it bore the government stamp, and, if they dared say a word of resistance, there were the manacles and the prison under vittorio and umberto as under bourbon or bonaparte; for there are some things which are immutable as fate. at long intervals, during the passing of ages, the poor stir, like trodden worms, under this inexorable monotony of their treatment by their rulers; and then baleful fires redden the sky, and blood runs in the conduits, and the rich man trembles; but the cannon are brought up at full gallop and it is soon over; there is nothing ever really altered; the iron wheels only press the harder on the unhappy worm, and there is nothing changed. here at ruscino there were tombs of nenfro which had overhung the river for thirty centuries; but those tombs have never seen any other thing than this, nor ever will, until the light and the warmth of the sun shall be withdrawn for ever, and the earth shall remain alone with her buried multitudes. there was only don silverio who thought of such a thing as this, a scholar all alone amongst barbarians; for his heart ached for his barbarians, though they bore him no love in return for his pity. they would have liked better a gossiping, rotund, familiar, ignorant, peasant priest, one of themselves, chirping formula comfortably over skeleton corpses. in default of other interests he interested himself in this ancient place, passing from neglect into oblivion, as his own life was doing. there were etruscan sepulchres and pelasgic caves which had been centuries earlier rifled of their objects of value, but still otherwise remained untouched under the acacia woods by the river. there were columns and terraces and foundations of marble which had been there when the latin city of ruscinonis had flourished, from the time of augustus until its destruction by theodoric. and nearest of all these to him were the longobardo church and the ancient houses and the dismantled fortress and the ruined walls of what had been the fief of the toralba, the mediaeval fortified town of ruscino. it still kept this, its latest, name, but it kept little else. thrice a thousand centuries had rolled over it, eating it away as the sea eats away a cliff. war and fire and time had had their will with it for so long that dropped acorns and pine-pips had been allowed leisure to sink between the stones, and sprout and bud and rise and spread, and were now hoary and giant trees, of which the roots were sunk deep into its ruins, its graves, its walls. it had been etruscan, it had been latin, it had been longobardo, it had been borgian and papal; through all these changes a fortified city, then a castellated town, then a walled village; and a village it now remained. it will never be more; before many generations pass it will probably have become still less; a mere tumulus, a mere honeycomb of buried tombs. it was now perishing, surely though slowly, but in peace, with the grass growing on its temple stairs and the woodbine winding round its broken columns. the trained and stored intellect of don silverio could set each period of its story apart, and read all the vestiges remaining of each. ruscino was now to all others a mere poverty-stricken place, brown and gaunt and sorrowful, scorching in the sun, with only the river beneath it to keep it clean and alive. but to him it was as a palimpsest of surpassing value and interest, which, sorely difficult to decipher, held its treasures close from the profane and the ignorant, but tempted and rewarded the scholar, like the lettering on a pompeian nuptial ring, the cyphers on a funeral urn of herculaneum. "after all, my lot might be worse than it is," he thought with philosophy. "they might have sent me to a modern manufacturing town in one of the lombard provinces, or exiled me to some native settlement in eritrea." here, at least, he had history and nature, and he enjoyed thousands of hours undisturbed in which to read or write, or muse and ponder on this chronicle of brick and stone, this buried mass of dead men's labours and of dead men's dust. doubtless, his manuscripts would lie unknown, unread; no man would care for them; but the true scholar cares neither for public not posterity; he lives for the work he loves; and if he knows that he will have few readers in the future--maybe none--how many read grotius, or boethius, or chrysostom, or jerome? here, like a colony of ants, the generations had crowded one on another, now swept away by the stamp of a conqueror's heel and now succeeded by another toiling swarm, building anew each time out of ruin, undaunted by the certainty of destruction, taught nothing by the fate of their precursors. from the profound sense of despair which the contemplation of the uselessness of human effort, and the waste of human life, produces on the scholar's mind, it was a relief to him to watch the gladness of its river, the buoyancy of its currents, the foam of white blossom on its acacia and syringa thickets, the gold sceptres and green lances of its iris-pseudacorus, the sweep of the winds through its bulrushes and canebreaks, the glory of colour in the blue stars of its veronica, the bright rosy spikes of its epilobium. the river seemed always happy, even when the great rainfall of autumn churned it into froth and the lightnings illumined its ink-black pools. it was on the river that he had first made friends with adone, then a child of six, playing and splashing in the stream, on a midsummer noon. don silverio also was bathing. adone, a little nude figure, as white as alabaster in the hot light, for he was very fair of skin, sprang suddenly out of the water on to the turf above where his breeches and shirt had been left; he was in haste, for he had heard his mother calling to him from their fields; an adder started out of a coil of bindweed and would itself round his ankle as he stooped for his clothes. the priest, standing waist-deep in the river a few yards away, saw it before the child did, and cried out to him: "stand still till i come! be not afraid!" adone understood, and, although trembling with terror and loathing as he realised his danger, and felt the slimy clasp of the snake, remained motionless as he was bidden to do. in a second of time the priest had leaped through the water to his side, seized the adder, and killed it. "good boy," he said to the child. "if you had moved your foot the creature would have bitten you." adone's eyes filled with tears. "thank you, sir; thank you for mother," he said very gently, for he was a shy child, though courageous. the priest stroked his curls. "there is death in the grass very often. we should not fear death, but neither should we run risk of it uselessly, especially when we have a mother whom it would grieve. come and bathe at this spot, at this hour, to-morrow and every day, if you like. i will be here and look after you, you are little to be alone." they were often together from that day onwards. the brutishness and greed of his flock oppressed him. he was sent here to have care of their souls, but where were their souls? they would all have sold them to the foul fiend for a mess of artichokes fried in oil. in such a solitude as this he had been glad to be able to teach and move the young malleable mind of adone alba; the only one of them who seemed to have any mind at all. adone also had a voice as sweet as a nightingale in the syringa bushes in may; and it pierced the gloom of the old naked gaunt church as a nightingale's thrills through the dark hour before dawn. there was no other music in that choir except the children's or youths' voices; there was nothing to make music with except those flexible pipes of the boyish throats; and don silverio loved and understood choral music; he had studied it in rome. adone never refused to sing for him, and when the voice of adolescence had replaced that of childhood, he would still stand no less docilely by the old marble lectern, and wake the melodies of early masters from the yellow pages. the church was as damp as a vault of the dead; cold even when the dog-star reigned in the heavens. the brasses and bronzes were rusted with moisture, and the marbles were black with the spores of mould; rain dripped through the joints of the roof, and innumberable sparrows made their nests there; the mosaics of the floor were green from these droppings, and from those of the rain; the sun never entered through any of the windows, which were yellow with age and dust; but here, with a lantern for their only light, they solaced each other with the song of the great choral masters. only adone, although he never said or showed it, was glad when the huge key groaned in the lock of the outer door, and he ran out into the evening starlight, down the steep streets, across the bridge, and felt the fresh river air blowing on him, and heard the swirling of the water amongst the frost-stiffened canes, and saw far off in the darkened fields the glimmer of a light--the light of home. that old home was the dearest thing on earth to the young man. he had never been away from it but once, when the conscription called him. in that time, which had been to him like a nightmare, the time of his brief exile to the army, because he was the only son of a widow, he had been sent to a northern city, one of commerce and noise and crowded, breathless life; he had been cooped up in it like a panther in a den, like a hawk in a cage. what he saw of the vices and appetites of men, the pressure of greed and of gain, the harsh and stupid tyranny of the few, the slavish and ignoble submission of the many, the brutish bullying, the crouching obedience, the deadly routine, the lewd licence of reaction--all filled him with disdain and with disgust. when he returned to his valley he bathed in the waters of edera before he crossed his mother's threshold. "make me clean as i was when i left you!" he cried, and took the water in the hollow of his hands and kissed it. but no water flows on the earth, from land to sea, which can wholly cleanse the soul as it cleanses the body. that brief time under arms he cursed as thousands of youths have cursed it. its hated stigma and pollution never wholly passed away. it left a bitterness on his lips, a soil upon his memories. but how sweet to him beyond expression, on his return, were the sound of the rushing river in the silence of the night, the pure odours of the blossoming beanfields, the clear dark sky with its radiant stars, the sense of home, the peace of his own fields! "mother, whether life for me shall be long or short, here its every hour shall be spent!" he said, as he stood on his own ground and looked through the olive-trees to the river, running swiftly and strong beneath the moon. "those are good words, my son," said clelia alba, and her hands rested on his bowed head. he adored both the soil and the water of this place of his birth; no toil upon either seemed to him hard or mean. all which seemed to him to matter much in the life of a man was to be free, and he was so. in that little kingdom of fertile soil and running stream no man could bid him come and go, no law ruled his uprising and his down lying; he had enough for his own wants and the wants of those about him, enough for the needs of the body, and the mind here had not many needs; at the terra vergine he was his own master, except so far as he cheerfully deferred to his mother; and all which he put into the earth he could take out of it for his own usage, though indeed the fiscal authorities claimed well nigh one-half, rating his land at far more than its worth. no doubt scientific agriculture might have made it yield more than he did; but he was content to follow the ways of old; he farmed as men did when the sun-god was the farm slave of admetus. the hellebore and the violets grew at will in his furrows; the clematis and the ivy climbed his figtrees; the fritillaria and daphne grew in his pastures, and he never disturbed them, or scared the starling and the magpie which fluttered in the wake of his wooden plough. the land was good land, and gave him whatever he wanted; he grudged nothing off it to bird, or beast, or leaf, or flower, or to the hungry wayfarer who chanced to pass by his doors. in remote places the old liberal, frank, open-handed hospitality of an earlier time is still in italy a practice as well as a tradition. the house was their own, and the earth gave them their bread, their wine, their vegetables, their oil, hemp, and flax for their linen, and herbs for their soup; of the olive-oil they had more than enough for use, and the surplus was sold once a year in the nearest town, san beda, and served to meet the fiscal demands. they had rarely any ready money, but no peasant in italy ever expects, unless by some luck at lotto, to have money in his pocket. he worked hard; at some seasons extremely hard; he hired labour sometimes, but not often, for to pay for the hiring takes the profit off the land. but he had been used to such work from childhood, and it was never irksome to him; even though he rose in the dark, and rarely went home to supper till the stars were shining. he had no near neighbours except the poor folks in ruscino. all surrounding him was grass and moor and wood, called communal property, but in reality belonging legally to no one; vast, still, fragrant leagues of uninhabited country stretching away to the blue hills, home of the fox and the hare and the boar, of the hawk and the woodpecker and the bittern. through those wilds he loved to wander alone; the sweet stillness of a countryside which was uncontaminated by the residence of men stilling the vague unrest of his youth, and the mountains towering in the light lending to the scene the charm of the unknown. in days of storm or rain he read with don silverio or sang in the church; on fine holy-days he roamed far afield in the lonely heatherlands and woodlands which were watered by the edera. he carried a gun, for defence if need be, for there were boars and wolves in these solitudes; but he never used it upon bird or beast. like st. francis of assissi, both he and don silverio took more pleasure in the life than in the death of fair winged things. "we are witness, twice in every year, of that great and inexplicable miracle," the priest said often, "that passage of small, frail, unguided creatures, over seas and continents, through tempests and simoons, and with every man's hand against them, and death waiting to take them upon every shore, by merciless and treacherous tricks, and we think nought of it; we care nought for it; we spread the nets and the gins--that is all. we are unworthy of all which makes the earth beautiful--vilely unworthy!" one of the causes of his unpopularity in ruscino was the inexorable persistence with which he broke their gins, lifted their nets, cleared off their birdlime, dispersed their watertraps, and forbade the favourite night poaching by lanterns in the woods. more than once they threatened his life, but he only smiled. "_faccia pure_!" he said, "you will cut a knot which i did not tie, and which i cannot myself undo." but they held him in too much awe to dare to touch him, and they knew that again and again he went on bread and water himself to give his wine to their sick, or his strip of meat to their old people. moreover, they feared adone. "if you touch a hair of don silverio's head, or the hem of his cassock, i will burn ruscino," said adone to one of those who had threatened his friend, "and you will all burn with it, for the river will not help you; the river will turn to oil and make the flames rage tenfold." the people were afraid as they heard him, for the wrath of the gentle is terrible from its rarity. "for sure 'tis the dead tor'alba as speak in him," they said with fright under their breath, for there was a tale told in the district that adone alba was descended from the old war-lords. the veterans of the village and the countryside remembered hearing their fathers say that the family of the terra vergine were descended from those great marquises who had reigned for centuries in that rocca which was now a grim, ivy-covered ruin on the north of the edera water. but more than this no one could say; no one could tell how the warlike race had become mere tillers of the soil, or how those who had measured out life and death up and down the course of the valley had lost their power and possessions. there were vague traditions of a terrible siege, following on a great battle in the vale; that was all. iv the church in which don silverio officiated every morning and evening for the benefit of a few old crones, had once been a latin temple; it had been built from the corinthian pillars, the marble peristyle, the rounded, open dome, like that of the pantheon, of a pagan edifice; and to these had been added a longobardo belfry and chancel; pigeons and doves roosted and nested in it, and within it was cold even in midsummer, and dark always as a vault. it was dedicated to st. jerome, and was a world too wide for the shrunken band of believers who came to worship in it; there was a high, dark altar said to have been painted by ribera, and nothing else that spoke in any way of art, except the capitals of its pillars and the roman mosaics of its floor. the longobardo bell-tower was of vast height and strength; within it were various chambers, and these chambers had served through many ages as muniment-rooms. there were innumerable documents of many different epochs, almost all in latin, a few in greek. don silverio, who was a fine classic as well as a learned archæologist, spent all his lonely and cold winter evenings in the study of these early chronicles, his oil lamp burning pale and low, his little white dog lying on his knees. these manuscripts gave him great trouble, and were in many parts almost unintelligible, in others almost effaced by damp, in others again gnawed by rats and mice. but he was interested in his labours and in his subject, and after several years of work on them, he was able to make out a consecutive history of the valdedera, and he was satisfied that the peasant of the terra vergine had been directly descended from the feudal-lords of ruscino. that pittance of land by the waterside under the shadow of the ruined citadel was all which remained of the great fief of the youth in whose veins ran the blood of men who had given princes, and popes, and cardinals, and captains of condottieri, and patrons of art, and conquerors or revolted provinces, to the italy of old from the beginning of the thirteenth century to the end of the sixteenth. for three hundred years the tor'alba had been lords there, owning all their eyes could reach from mountain to sea; then after long siege the walled town and their adjacent stronghold had fallen into the hands of hereditary foes whose forces had been united against them. fire and steel had done their worst, and only a month-old child had escaped from the burning rocca, being saved in a boat laden with reeds at anchor in the river, and hidden by a faithful vassal. the child had grown to manhood and had lived to old age, leading a peasant's life on the banks of the edera; the name had been mutilated in common usage amongst those who spoke only the dialect of the province, and for three more centuries father and son had succeeded each other, working for their daily bread where their ancestors had defied borgia and della rovere, and feltrio, and malatesta; the gaunt dark shade of the dismantled citadel lying athwart their fields between them and the setting sun. should he tell adone this or not? would the knowledge of his ancestry put a thorn in the boy's contented heart? would it act as a spur to higher things, or be merely as the useless sting of a nettle? who could say? don silverio remembered the gorgeous dreams of his own youth; and what had been their issue? at fifty years old he was buried in a deserted village, never hearing from year's end to year's end one word of friendship or phrase of culture. would it be well or would it be wrong to disturb that tranquil acquiescence in a humble destiny? he could not decide. he dared not take upon himself so much responsibility. "in doubt do nothing" has been the axiom of many wise men. the remembrance of the maxim closed his lips. he had himself been in early manhood passionately ambitious; he was only a priest, but of priests are made the gregorio, the bonifazio, the leone of the papal throne; to the dreams of a seminarist nothing is impossible. but adone had no such dreams; he was as satisfied with his lot as any young steer which wants nothing more than the fair, fresh fields of its birth. but one day as he was sitting with the boy, then fifteen years old, on the south bank of the edera, the spirit moved him and he spake. it was the day of san benedetto, when the swallows come. the grass was full of pink lychnis and yellow buttercups. a strong east wind was blowing from the sea. a number of martins, true to the proverb, were circling gaily above the stream. the water, reflecting the brilliant hues of the heavens, was hurrying on its seaward way, swollen by recent rains and hastened by a strong wind blowing from the eastern mountains. the lands of the terra vergine lay entirely on the south-east bank of the river, and covered many acres, of which some was moorland still. almost opposite to it was the one-arched stone bridge, attributed to theodoric, and on the northern bank was the ruined rocca, towering above the trees which had grown up around it; whilst hidden by it and by the remains of the fortifications was that which was now the mere village of ruscino. "listen, adone!" he said in his deep, melodious voice, grave and sweet as a mass of palestrina. "listen, and i will tell you the tale of yonder donjon and village, and of the valley of the edera, so far as i have been able to make it out for myself." according to the writers whose manuscripts he had discovered the town of ruscino, like cremona, had existed before the siege of troy, that is, six hundred years before the foundation of rome. of this there was no proof except tradition, but the ruins of the walls and the tombs by the riverside and in the fields proved that it had been an etruscan city, and of some considerable extent and dignity, in those remote ages. "the foundations of the rocca," he continued, "were probably part of a great stronghold raised by the gauls, who undoubtedly conquered the whole of this valley at the time when they settled themselves in what is now the marches, and founded senegallia. it was visited by asdrubal, and burned by alaric; then occupied by the greek free lances of justinian; in the time of the frankish victories, in common with greater places, it was forced to swear allegiance to the first papal adrian. after that it had been counted as one of the fiefs comprised in the possessions of the pentapolis; and later on, when the saracens ravaged the shores of the adriatic, they had come up the valdedera and pillaged and burned again. gregory the ninth gave the valley to the family of its first feudal lords, the tor'alba, in recompense for military service, and they, out of the remains of the gallic, etruscan, and roman towns, rebuilt ruscino and raised the rocca on the ruins of the castle of the gauls. there, though at feud many time with their foes, the della rovere, the malatesta, and the dukes of urbino, they held their own successfully, favoured usually by rome, and for three centuries grew in force and in possessions. but they lost the favour of rome by their haughtiness and independence; and under pretext that they merited punishment, cesare borgia brought troops of mercenaries against them, and after a fierce conflict in the valley (the terrible battle of which the villagers preserved the memory) the town was besieged and sacked. "after this battle, which must have taken place on yonder moor, to the north-west, for the assailants had crossed the apennines, the tor'alba and the remnant of men remaining to them retreated within the walls of ruscino. "the whole place and the citadel were burning, set on fire by order of borgia. the church alone was spared, and the dead men were as thick as stones on the walls, and in the streets, and in the nave of the church, and on the streets, and in the houses. this river was choked with corpses, and dark with blood. the black smoke towered to the sky in billows like a sea. the mercenaries swarmed over the bastions and violated the women, and cut off their breasts and threw their bodies down into the stream and their children after them. the lady of tor'alba, valiant as caterina sforza, was the first slain. "the whole place was given up to flame and carnage, and the great captains were as helpless as dead oxen. they were all slain amongst their troopers and their vassals, and their bodies were burnt when the fortress was fired. "only one little child escaped the massacre, a month-old babe, son of the marquis of tor'alba, who was hidden by a faithful servant amongst the reeds of the edera in a basket. this servant was the only male who escaped slaughter. "the river rushes were more merciful than man, they kept the little new-born lordling safe until his faithful vassal, under cover of the night, when the assailants were drunk and stupid with licence gratified, could take him to a poor woman to be suckled in a cottage farther down the river. how he grew up i know not, but certain it is that thirty years later one federigo tor'alba was living where you live, and your house and land have never changed hands or title since; only your name has been truncated, as often happens in the speech of the people. how this land called the terra vergine was first obtained i cannot say; the vassal may have saved some gold or jewels which belonged to his masters, and have purchased these acres, or the land may have been taken up and put gradually into cultivation without any legal right to it; of this there is no explanation, no record. but from that time the mighty lordship of tor'alba has been extinct, and scarcely exists now even in local tradition; although their effigies are on their tombs, and the story of their reign can be deciphered by any one who can read a sixteenth-century manuscript, as you might do for yourself, my son, had you been diligent." adone was silent. he had listened with attention, as he did to everything which was said or read to him by don silverio. but he was not astonished, because he had often heard, though vaguely, the legend of his descent. "of what use is it?" he said, as he sat moving the bright water with his bare slim feet. "nothing will bring it all back." "it should serve some great end," said don silverio, not knowing very well what he meant or to what he desired to move the young man's mind. "nobility of blood should make the hands cleaner, the heart higher, the aims finer." adone had shrugged his shoulders. "we are all equal!" he answered. "we are not all equal," the priest said curtly. "there is not equality in nature. are there even two pebbles alike in the bed of the river?" don silverio, for the first time in his life, could have willingly let escape him some unholy word. it incensed him that he could not arouse in the boy any of that interest and excitement which had moved his own feelings so strongly as he had spent his spare evenings poring over the crabbed characters and the dust-weighted vellum of the charred and mutilated archives discovered by him in a secret closet in the bell-tower of his church. with infinite toil, patience, and ability he had deciphered the latin of rolls, registers, letters, chronicles, so damaged by water, fire, and the teeth of rats and mice, that it required all an archæologist's ingenuity and devotion to make out any sense from them. summer days and winter nights had found him poring over the enigma of these documents, and now, when he had conquered and revealed their secret, he who was most concerned in it was no more stirred by curiosity or pride than if he had been one of the big tawny owls dwelling in the dusk of the belfry. don silverio was a learned man and a holy man, and should have despised such vanities, but an historic past had great seduction for him; a militant race fascinated him against his conscience, and aristocracy allured him despite all his better judgement; it seemed to him that if he had learned that he had come from a knightly _gens_ such as this of the tor'alba, he would have been more strongly moved to self-glorification than would have become a servant of the church. he himself had no knowledge even of his own near parentage; he had been a forsaken child, left one dark autumn night in the iron cradle of the gates of a foundling hospital in reggio calabrese. his names had been bestowed on him by the chaplain of the institution; and his education had been given him by an old nobleman of the town, attracted by his appearance and intelligence as a child. he was now fifty years of age; and he had never known anything of kith and kin, or of the mingled sweetness and importunity of any human tie. adone sat silent, looking up at the fortress of his forefathers. he was more moved than his words showed. "if we were lords of the land and the town and the people, we were also lords of the river," was what he was thinking; and that thought moved him to strong pride and pleasure, for he loved the river with a great love, only equalled by that which he felt for his mother. "they were lords of the river?" he asked aloud. "undoubtedly," answered the priest. "it was one of the highways of the province from east to west and _vice versâ_ in that time; the signoria of this rocca took toll, kept the fords and bridges and ferries; none could pass up and down under ruscino without being seen by the sentinels on the ramparts here. the edera was different then; more navigable, perhaps less beautiful. rivers change like nations. there have been landslips which have altered its course and made its torrents. in some parts it is shallower, in others deeper. the woods which enclosed its course then have been largely felled, though not wholly. sand has been dug from it incessantly, and rocks have fallen across it. as you know, no boats or barges which draw any depth of water can ascend or descend it now without being towed by horses; and in some parts, as here, it is course, too precipitous in its fall for even small boats to adventure themselves upon it: its shoals of lilies can blossom unmolested where its surface is level. yes; undoubtedly, the lords of ruscino were also lords of the edera, from its mouth to its source; and their river formed at once their strongest defence and their weakest point. it was difficult sufficiently to guard so many miles of water; above all because, as i say, its course was so much clearer, and its depth so much greater, that a flotilla of rafts or cutters could ascend it from its mouth as far as this town in the middle ages; in fact, more than once, corsairs from the levant and from morocco did so ascend it, and though they were driven back by the culverins of the citadel, they every time carried off to slavery some of the youths and maidens of the plain." adone gazed across the river to the moss-grown walls which had once been fortifications still visible on the side of the hill, and to the frowning donjon, the blackened towers, the ruined bastions, of what had been once the rocca, with the amber light and rosy clouds of the unseen sun behind them. "teach me latin, your reverence," was all he said. "i have always offered to do so," said don silverio. adone was again silent, swinging his slender brown feet in the water, and looking always upward at the evening sky beyond the great round shape of the dismantled fortress. he learned some latin with much difficulty, studying hard in his evening leisure in the winters, and with time he could decipher for himself, with assistance from don silverio, the annals of the tor'alba; and he saw that it was as certain as anything grown over with the lichens and cobwebs of time can be that he himself was the last of the race. "your father used to say something of the sort," his mother said; "but he had only heard it piecemeal from old people, and never heard enough to put the pieces together as you have done. 'what does it matter either?' he used to say; and he said those great lords had been cut-throats on the land and robbers on the river. for your father's father had worn the red shirt in his youth, as i have told you often, and thought but little of lords and princes." but adone was different; the past allured him with the fascination which it has for poets and scholars; he was neither of these, except in a vague, unconscious way; but his imagination was strong and fertile once aroused; the past, as suggested to him by the vicar, by degrees became to him a living thing and nearer than the present, as it is to scholars who are poets. he was neither scholar nor poet; but he loved to muse upon that far-off time when his forefathers had been lords of the land and of the water. he did not want the grandeur, he did not envy the power which they had possessed; but he wished that, like them, he could own the edera from its rise in the hills to its fall into the sea. "oh, dear river!" he sang to it tenderly, "i love you. i love you as the dragon-flies do, as the wagtails do, as the water voles do; i am you and you are me. when i lean over you and smile, you smile back to me. you are beautiful in the night and the morning, when you mirror the moon and play with the sunbeams, when you are angry under the wind, and when you are at peace in the heat of the noon. you have been purple with the blood of my people, and now you are green and fresh as the leaves of the young vine. you have been black with powder and battle, now you are fair with the hue of the sky and the blue of the myosotis. you are the same river as you were a thousand years ago, and yet you only come down to-day from the high hills, young and strong, and ever renewing. what is the life of man beside yours?" that was the ode which he sang in the dialect of the province, and the stream washed his feet as he sang; and with his breath on his long reed flute--the same flute as youths have made and used ever since the days that apollo reigned on saracte--he copied the singing of the river, which piped as it ran, like birds at dawn. but this was only at such times as daybreak or early night when he was alone. there were but a few people within the ruined walls of ruscino; most of the houses were tenantless and tottering to their fall. a few old bent men and weather-beaten women and naked children climbed its steep lanes and slept under its red-brown roofs, bawled to each other from its deep arched doorways to tell of death or birth, and gathered dandelion leaves upon its ramparts to cure their shrunken and swollen bladders. he knew them every one, he was familiar with and kind to them; but he was aloof from them by temperament and thought, and he showed them his soul no more than the night birds in the towers showed their tawny breasts and eyes of topaz to the hungry and ragged fowls which scratched amongst the dust and refuse on the stones in the glare of day. "_il bel adone_!" sighed matrons and the maidens of the scattered farms and the old gloomy castellated granges which here and there, leagues distant from one another, broke the green and silent monotony of the vast historic country whose great woods sloped from hill to plain. but to these, too, he was indifferent, though they had the stern and solid beauty of the latium women on their broad low brows, their stately busts, their ox-like eyes, their shapely feet and limbs; and often, joined to that, the red-gold hair and the fair skin of the adriatic type. as they bound the sheaves, and bore the water-jars, and went in groups through the seeding grass to chapel, or fountain, or shrine, they had the free, frank grace of an earlier time; just such as these had carried the votive doves to the altars of venus and chanted by the waters of the edera the worship of isis and her son. but to adone they had no charm. what did he desire or dream of? himself he could not have said. perhaps they were too warm; it was certain that they left him cold. sometimes he learned over the river and looked longingly into its depths. "show me the woman i shall love," he said to the water, but it hastened on, glad, tumultuous, unheeding; and he only saw the reflection of the white jonquils or of the golden sword rush on its banks. v fruits ripen quickly in these provinces, and children become women in a summer hour; but with nerina, through want and suffering and hunger, physical growth had been slow, and she remained long a child in many things and many ways. only in her skill and strength for work was she older than her actual age. she could hoe and reap and sow: she could row and steer the boat amongst the shallows as well as any man; she could milk the cow, and put the steers in the waggon; she could card hemp and flax, and weave and spin either; she could carry heavy weights balanced on her head; she was strong and healthy and never ill, and with it all she was happy. her large bright eyes were full of contentment, and her rosy mouth often smiled out of the mere gladness of living. her senses were still asleep and her young soul wanted nothing more than life gave her. "you can earn your bread anywhere now, little one," said clelia alba to her one day, when she had been there three years. the girl shrank as under a blow; her brown and rosy face grew colourless. "do you wish me to go away?" she said humbly. "no, no," said clelia, although that was what she did desire. "no, not while i live. but should i die, you could not stay here with my son." "why?" said nerina. she did not understand why. clelia hesitated. "you ought to feel that yourself," she said harshly. "young men and young maids do not dwell together, unless" "unless what?" asked nerina. "you are a simpleton indeed, or you are shamming," thought adone's mother; but aloud she only said, "it is not in our usage." "but you will not die," said nerina anxiously. "why should you think of dying, madonna? you are certainly old, but you are not so very, very old." clelia smiled. "you do not flatter, child. so much the better. run away and drive in those fowls. they are making havoc in the beanfield." she could not feel otherwise than tenderly towards this young creature, always so obedient, so tractable, so contented, so grateful; but she would willingly have placed her elsewhere could she have done so with a clear conscience. "my son will never do ill by any creature under his roof," she thought. "but still youth is youth; and the girl grows." "we must dower her and mate her; eh, your reverence?" she said to don silverio when he passed by later in that day. "willingly," he answered. "but to whom? to the owls or the cats at ruscino?" in himself he thought, "she is as straight and as slight as a chestnut wand, but she is as strong. when you shall try to bend her where she shall not want to go you will not succeed." for he knew the character of nerina in the confessional better than clelia alba judged of it in her house. "it was not wise to bring her here," he added aloud. "but having committed that error it would be unfair to charge the child with the painful payment of it. you are a just woman, my good friend; you must see that." clelia saw it clearly, for she never tried to trick her conscience. "your reverence mistakes me," she answered. "i would not give her to any but a good man and a good home." "they are not common," said don silverio. "nor are they as easy to find as flies in summer." what was the marriage of the poor for the woman? what did it bring? what did it mean? the travail of child-bearing, the toil of the fields, the hardship of constant want, the incessant clamour on her ear of unsatisfied hunger, the painful rearing of sons whom the state takes away from her as soon as they are of use, painful ending of life on grudged crusts as a burden to others on a hearth no longer her own. this, stripped of glamour, is the lot nine times out of ten of the female peasant -- a creature of burden like the cow she yokes, an animal valued only in her youth and her prime; in old age or in sickness like the stricken and barren goat, who has nought but its skin and its bones. poor little nerina! as he went home he saw her cutting fodder for a calf; she was kneeling in a haze of rose colour made by the many blossoms of the _orchis maculat_ which grew there. the morning light sparkled in the wet grass. she got up as she saw him cross the field, dropped her curtsey low with a smile, then resumed her work, the dew, the sun, the sweet fresh scents shed on her like a benison. "poor little soul," thought don silverio. "poor little soul! has adone no eyes?" adone had eyes, but they saw other things than a little maiden in the meadow-grass. to her he was a deity; she believed in him and worshipped him with the strongest faith, as a little sister might have done. she would have fought for him like a little mastiff; she would have suffered in his service with rapture and pride; she was as vigilant for his interests as if she were fidelity incarnated. she watched over all that belonged to him, and the people of ruscino feared her more than they feared pierino the watch-dog. woe betided the hapless wight who made free with the ripe olives, or the ripe grapes, with the fig or the peach or the cherry which grew on adone's lands; it seemed to such marauders that she had a thousand eyes and lightning in her feet. one day, when she had dealt such vigorous blows with a blackthorn stick on the back of a lad who had tried to enter the fowl-house, that he fell down and shrieked for pardon, adone reproved her. "remember they are very poor, nerina," he said to her. "so were your own folks, you say." "i know they are poor," replied nerina; she held to her opinions. "but when they ask, you always give. therefore it is vile to rob you. besides," she added, "if you go on and let them steal and steal till you will have nothing left." whatever she saw, whatever she heard, she told adone; and he gave ear to her because she was not a chatterer, but was usually of few words. all her intelligence was spent in the defence and in the culture of the terra vergine; she did not know her alphabet, and did not wish to do so; but she had the quickest of ears, the keenest of eyes, the brightest of brains. one morning she came running to him where he was cutting barley. "adone! adone!" she cried breathlessly, "there were strange men by the river to-day." "indeed," said adone astonished, because strangers were never seen there. ruscino was near no highroad, and the river had long ceased to be navigable. "they asked me questions, but i put my hands to my ears and shook my head; they thought i was deaf." "what sort of men were they?" he asked with more attention, for there were still those who lived by violence up in the forests which overhung the valley of the edera. "how do i know? they were clothed in long woollen bed-gowns, and they had boots on their feet, and on their heads hats shaped like kitchen-pans." adone smiled. he saw men from a town, or country fellows who aped such men, with a contempt which was born at once of that artistic sense of fitness which was in him, and of his adherence to the customs and habits of his province. the city-bred and city-clothed man looked to him a grotesque and helpless creature, much sillier than an ape. "that sounds like citizens or townsfolk. what did they say?" "i could not understand; but they spoke of the water, i think, for they pointed to it and said a great deal which i did not understand, and seemed to measure the banks, and took your punt and threw a chain into the water in places." "took castings? used my punt? that is odd! i have never seen a stranger in my life by the edera. were they anglers?" "no." "or sportsmen?" "they had no guns." "how many were they?" "three. they went away up the river talking." "did they cross the bridge?" "no. they were not shepherds, or labourers, or priests," said nerina. to these classes of men her own acquaintance was confined. "painters, perhaps?" said adone; but no artists were ever seen there; the existence even of the valley was scarcely known, except to topographers. "what are painters?" said nerina. "men who sit and stare and then make splashes of colour." "no; they did not do that." "it is strange." he felt vaguely uneasy that any had come near the water; as a lover dislikes the pressure of a crowd about his beloved in a street, so he disliked the thought of foreign eyes resting on the edera. that they should have used his little punt, always left amongst the sedges, seemed to him a most offensive and unpardonable action. he went to the spot where the intruders had been seen, but there was no trace of them, except that the wet sand bore footprints of persons who had, as she had said of them, worn boots. he followed these footprints for some mile or more up the edge of the stream, but there he lost them from sight; they had passed on to the grass of a level place, and the dry turf, cropped by sheep to its roots, told no tales. near this place was a road used by cattle drivers and mules; it crossed the heather for some thousand yards, then plunged into the woods, and so went up over the hills to the town of teramo, thirty-five kilometres away. it was a narrow, rough, steep road, wholly unfit for vehicles of any kind more tender than the rude ox-treggia, slow as a snail, with rounds of a tree-trunk for its wheels, and seldom used except by country folks. he would have asked don silverio if he had heard or seen anything of any strangers, but the priest was away that day at one of the lonely moorland cabins comprised in his parish of ruscino, where an old man, who had been a great sinner in his past, was at his last gasp, and his sons and grandsons and great-grandchildren all left him to meet his end as he might. it was a fine day, and they had their grain to get in, and even the women were busy. they set a stoup of water by him, and put some in his nostrils, and shut the door to keep out the flies. it was no use to stay there they thought. if you helped a poor soul to give up the ghost by a hand on his mouth, or an elbow in his stomach, you got into trouble; it was safer to leave him alone when he was a-dying. don silverio had given the viaticum to the old man the night before, not thinking he would outlive the night. he now found the door locked and saw the place was deserted. he broke the door open with a few kicks, and found the house empty save for the dying creature on the sacks of leaves. "they would not wait! they would not wait -- hell take them!" said the old man, with a groan, his bony hands fighting the air. "hush, hush! the holy oil is on you," said don silverio. "they knew i should be here." it was a charitable falsehood, but the brain of the old man was still too awake to be deceived by it. "why locked they the door, then? hell take them! they are reaping in the lower fields -- hell take them!" he repeated, his bony, toothless jaws gnashing with each word. he was eighty-four years old; he had been long the terror of his district and of his descendants, and they paid him out now that he was powerless; they left him alone in that sun-baked cabin, and they had carefully put his crutch out of reach, so that if any force should return to his paralysed body he should be unable to move. it was the youngest of them, a little boy of seven years old, who had thought to do that; the crutch had hit him so often. the day had been only beginning when don silverio had reached the cabin, but he resolved to await there the return of the family; its hours were many and long and cruel in the midsummer heat, in this foetid place, where more than a score of men, women, and children of all ages, slept and swarmed through every season, and where the floors of beaten earth were paven with filth three millimetres thick. the people were absent, but their ordure, their urine, their lice, their saliva were left there after them, and the stench of all was concentrated on this bed where the old man wrestled with death. don silverio stayed on in the sultry and pestilent steam which rose up from the floor. gnats and flies of all kinds buzzed in the heavy air, or settled in black knots on the walls and the rafters. with a bunch of dried maize-leaves he drove them off the old man's face and hands and limbs, and ever and again at intervals gave the poor creature a draught of water with a few drops in it from a phial of cordial which he had brought with him. the hours passed, each seeming longer than a day; at last the convulsive twitching of the jaws ceased; the jaw had fallen, the dark cavern of the toothless mouth yawned in a set grimace, the vitreous eyes were turned up into the head: the old man was dead. but don silverio did not leave him; two sows and a hog were in a stye which was open to the house; he knew that they would come and gnaw the corpse if it were left to them; they were almost starving, and grunted angrily. he spent so many vigils similar to this that the self-sacrifice entailed in them never struck either him or those he served. when the great heat had passed he set the door wide open; the sun was setting; a flood of light inundated the plain from the near mountains on the west, where the leonessa towered, to those shadowy green clouds which far away in the east were the marshes before the sea. through the ruddy glory of the evening the family returned, dark figures against the gold; brown women, half-nude men, footsore children, their steps dragging reluctantly homeward. at the sight of the priest on the threshold they stopped and made obeisance humbly in reverent salutation. "is he dead, most reverend?" said the eldest of the brood, a man of sixty, touching the ground with his forehead. "your father is dead," said don silverio. the people were still; relieved to hear that all was over, yet vaguely terrified, rather by his gaze than by his words. a woman wept aloud out of fear. "we could net let the good grain spoil," said the eldest man, with some shame in his voice. "pray that your sons may deal otherwise with you when your turn shall come," said don silverio; and then he went through them, unmoved by their prayers and cries, and passed across the rough grass-land out of sight. the oldest man, he who was now head of the house, remained prostrate on the threshold and beat the dust with his hands and heels; he was afraid to enter, afraid of that motionless, lifeless bag of bones of which the last cry had been a curse at him. don silverio went on his way over the moors homeward, for he had no means except his own limbs whereby to go his scattered parishioners. when he reached the village and climbed its steep stones night had long fallen and he was sorely tired. he entered by a door which was never locked, and found an oil wick burning on his table, which was set out with the brown crockery used for his frugal supper of cheese and lettuce and bread. his old servant was abed. his little dog alone was on the watch to welcome him. it was a poor, plain place, with whitewashed walls and a few necessary articles of use; but it was clean and sweet, its brick floors were sanded, and the night air blew in from its open casement with the freshness from the river in it. its quiet was seldom disturbed except by the tolling of the bell for the church services; and it was welcome to him after the toil and heat and stench of the past day. "my lot might have been worse," he thought, as he broke his loaf; he was disinclined to eat; the filthy odours of the cabin pursued him. he was used to have had a little weekly journal sent to him by the post; which came at rare intervals on an ass's back to ruscino, the ass and his rider, with a meal sack half filled by the meagre correspondence of the district, making the rounds of that part of the province with an irregularity which seemed as natural to the sufferers by it as to the postman himself. "he cannot be everywhere at once," they said of him with indulgence. when he reached his home that evening the little news-sheet was lying on his table beside the brown crockery, the cheese, lettuces, and bread. he scarcely touched the food; he was saddened and sickened by the day he had passed, although there had been nothing new in it, nothing of which he had not been witness a hundred times in the cabins of his parishioners. the little paper caught his eye, he took it and opened it. it was but a meagre thing, tardy of news, costing only two centimes, but it was the only publication which brought him any intelligence of that outer world from which he was as much separated as though he had been on a deserted isle in mid-ocean. by the pale light of the single wick he turned over its thin sheet to distract his thoughts; there was war news in east and west, church news in his own diocese and elsewhere; news all ten days old and more; political news also, scanty and timidly related. the name of the stream running underneath the walls of ruscino caught his regard; a few lines were headed with it, and these lines said curtly: "_the project to divert the course of the edera river will be brought before the chamber shortly; the minister of agriculture is considered to favour the project_." he held the sheet nearer to the light and read the paragraph again, and yet again. the words were clear and indisputable in their meaning; they could not be misconstrued. there was but one river edera in the whole province, in the whole country; there could be no doubt as to what river was meant; yet it seemed to him utterly impossible that any such project could be conceived by any creature. divert the course of the edera? he felt stupefied. he read the words over and over again; then he read them aloud in the stillness of the night, and his voice sounded strong in his own ears. "it must be a misprint; it must be a mistake for the era of volterra, or the esino, north of ancona," he said to himself, and he went to his book closet and brought out an old folio geography which he had once bought for a few pence on a roman bookstall, spread it open before him, and read one by one the names of all the streams of the peninsula, from the dora baltea to the giarretta. there was no other edera river. unless it were indeed a misprint altogether, the stream which flowed under his church walls was the one which was named in the news-sheet. "but it is impossible, it is impossible!" he said so loudly, that his little dog awoke and climbed on his knee uneasily and in alarm. "what could the people do? what could the village do, or the land or the fisher folk? are we to have drought added to hunger? can they respect nothing? the river belongs to the valley: to seize it, to appraise it, to appropriate it, to make it away with it, would be as monstrous as to steal his mother's milk from a yearling babe!" he shut the folio and pushed it away from him across the table. "if this is true," he said to himself, "if, anyhow, this monstrous thing be true, it will kill adone!" in the morning he awoke from a short perturbed sleep with that heavy sense of a vaguely remembered calamity which stirs in the awakening brain like a worm in the unclosing flower. the morning-office over, he sought out the little news-sheet, to make sure that he had read aright; his servant had folded it up and laid it aside on a shelf, he unfolded it with a hand which trembled; the same lines stared at him in the warm light of sunrise as in the faint glimmer of the floating wick. the very curtness and coldness of the announcement testified to its exactitude. he did not any longer doubt its truth; but there were no details, no explanations: he pondered on the possibilities of obtaining them; it was useless to seek them in the village or the countryside, the people were as ignorant as sheep. adone alone had intelligence, but he shrank from taking these tidings to the youth, as he would have shrunk from doing him a physical hurt. the news might be false or premature; many projects were discussed, many schemes sketched out, many speculations set on foot which came to nothing in the end: were this thing true, adone would learn it all too soon and read it on the wounded face of nature. not at least until he could himself be certain of its truth would he speak of it to the young man whose fathers had been lords of the river. his duties over for the forenoon, he went up the three hundred stairs of his bell-tower, to the wooden platform, between the machicolations. it was a dizzy height, and both stairs and roof were in ruins, but he went cautiously, and was familiar with the danger. the owls which bred there were so used to him that they did not stir in their siesta as he passed them. he stood aloft in the glare of noonday, and looked down on the winding stream as it passed under the ruined walls of ruscino, and growing, as it flowed, clearer and clearer, and wilder and wilder, as it rushed over stones and boulders, foaming and shouting, rushed through the heather on its way towards the marches. under ruscino it had its brown mountain colour still, but as it ran it grew green as emeralds, blue as sapphires, silver and white and gray like a dove's wings; it was unsullied and translucent; the white clouds were reflected on it. it went through a country lonely, almost deserted, only at great distances from one another was there a group of homesteads, a cluster of stacks, a conical cabin in some places where the woods gave place to pasture; here and there were the ruins of a temple, of a fortress, of some great marble or granite tomb; but there was no living creature in sight except a troop of buffaloes splashing in a pool. don silverio looked down on its course until his dazzled eyes lost it from sight in the glory of light through which it sped, and his heart sank, and he would fain have been a woman to have wept aloud. for he saw that its beauty and its solitude were such as would likely enough tempt the spoilers. he saw that it lay fair and defenceless as a maiden on her bed. he dwelt out of the world now, but he had once dwelt in it; and the world does not greatly change, it only grows more rapacious. he knew that in this age there is only one law, to gain; only one duty, to prosper: that nature is of no account, nor beauty either, nor repose, nor ancient rights, nor any of the simple claims of normal justice. he knew that if in the course of the river there would be gold for capitalists, for engineers, for attorneys, for deputies, for ministers, that then the waters of the edera were in all probability doomed. he descended the rotten stairs slowly, with a weight as of lead at his heart. he did not any longer doubt the truth of what he had read. who, or what, shall withstand the curse of its time? "they have forgotten us so long," he thought, with bitterness in his soul. "we have been left to bury our dead as we would, and to see the children starve as they might; they remember us now, because we possess something which they can snatch from us!" he did not doubt any more. he could only wait: wait and see in what form and in what time the evil would come to them. meantime, he said to himself, he would not speak of it to adone, and he burned the news-sheet. administrations alter frequently and unexpectedly, and the money-changers, who are fostered by them, sometimes fall with them, and their projects remain in the embryo of a mere prospectus. there was that chance. he knew that, in the age he lived in, all things were estimated only by their value to commerce or to speculation; that there was neither space nor patience amongst men for what was, in their reckoning, useless; that the conqueror was now but a trader in disguise; that civilisation was but the shibboleth of traffic; that because trade follows the flag, therefore to carry the flag afar, thousands of young soldiers of every nationality are slaughtered annually in poisonous climes and obscure warfare, because such is the _suprema lex_ and will of the trader. if the waters of edera would serve to grind any grit for the mills of modern trade they would be taken into bondage with many other gifts of nature as fair and as free as they were. all creation groaned and travailed in pain that the great cancer should spread. "it is not only ours," he remembered with a pang; on its way to and from the valdedera the river passed partially through two other communes, and water belongs to the district in which it runs. true, the country of each of these was like that of this valley, depopulated and wild; but, however great a solitude any land may be, it is still locally and administratively dependent on the chief town of its commune. ruscino and its valley were dependent on san beda; these two other communes were respectively under a little town of the abruzzo and under a seaport of the adriatic. the interest of the valley of the edera in its eponymous stream was a large share; but it was not more than a share, in this gift of nature. if it came to any question of conflicting interests, ruscino and the valley might very likely be powerless, and could only, in any event, be represented by and through san beda; a strongly ecclesiastical and papal little place, and, therefore, without influence with the ruling powers, and consequently viewed with an evil eye by the prefecture. he pondered anxiously on the matter for some days, then, arduous as the journey was, he resolved to go to san beda and inquire. the small mountain city was many miles away upon a promontory of marble rocks, and its many spires and towers were visible only in afternoon light from the valley of the edera. it was as old as ruscino, a dull, dark, very ancient place with monasteries and convents like huge fortresses and old palaces still fortified and grim as death amongst them. a cistercian monastery, which had been chiefly built by the second giulio, crowned a prominent cliff, which dominated the town, and commanded a view of the whole of the valley of the edera, and, on the western horizon, of the leonessa and her tributary mountains and hills. he had not been there for five years; he went on foot, for there was no other means of transit, and if there had been he would not have wasted money on it; the way was long and irksome; for the latter half, entirely up a steep mountain road. he started in the early morning as soon as mass had been celebrated, and it was four in the afternoon before he had passed the gates of the town, and paid his respects to the bishop. he rested in the certosa, of which the superior was known to him; the monks, like the bishop, had heard nothing. so far as he could learn when he went into the streets no one in the place had heard anything of the project to alter the course of the river. he made the return journey by night, so as to reach his church by daybreak, and was there in his place by the high altar when the bell tolled at six o'clock, and the three or four old people, who never missed an office, were kneeling on the stones. he had walked over forty miles, and had eaten nothing except some bread and a piece of dried fish. but he always welcomed physical fatigue; it served to send to sleep the restless intellect, the gnawing regrets, the bitter sense of wasted powers and of useless knowledge, which were his daily company. he had begged his friends, the friars, to obtain an interview with the syndic of sand beda, and interrogate him on the subject. until he should learn something positive he could not bring himself to speak of the matter to adone: but the fact of his unusual absence had too much astonished his little community for the journey not to have been the talk of ruscino. surprised and disturbed like others, adone was waiting for him in the sacristy after the first mass. "you have been away a whole day and night and never told me, reverendissimo!" he cried in reproach and amazement. "i have yet to learn that you are my keeper," said don silverio with a cold and caustic intonation. adone coloured to the roots of his curling hair. "that is unkind, sir!" he said humbly; "i only meant that -- that --" "i know, i know!" said the priest impatiently, but with contrition. "you meant only friendship and good-will; but there are times when the best intentions irk one. i went to see the prior of the certosa, and old friend; i had business in san beda." adone was silent, afraid that he had shown an unseemly curiosity; he saw that don silverio was irritated and not at ease, and he hesitated what words to choose. his friend relented, and blamed himself for being hurried by disquietude into harshness. "come and have a cup of coffee with me, my son," he said in his old, kind tones. "i am going home to break my fast." but adone was hurt and humiliated, and made excuse of field work, which pressed by reason of the weather, and so he did not name to his friend and councillor the visit of the three men to the river. don silverio went home and boiled his coffee; he always did this himself; it was the only luxury he ever allowed himself, and he did not indulge even in this very often. but for once the draught had neither fragrance nor balm for him. he was overtired, weary in mind as in body, and greatly dejected; even though nothing was known at san beda he felt convinced that what he had read was the truth. he knew but little of affairs of speculation, but he knew that it was only in reason to suppose that such projects would be kept concealed, as long as might be expedient, from those who would be known to be hostile to them, in order to minimise the force of opposition. vi on the morning of the fourth day which followed on the priest's visit to san beda, about ten in the forenoon, adone, with his two oxen, orlando and rinaldo, were near the river on that part of his land which was still natural moorland, and on which heather, and ling, and broom, and wild roses, and bracken grew together. he had come to cut a waggon load of furze, and had been at work there since eight o'clock, when he had come out of the great porch of the church after attending mass, for it was the twentieth of june, the name-day of don silverio. scarcely had that day dawned when adone had risen and had gone across the river to the presbytery, bearing with him a dozen eggs, two flasks of his best wine, and a bunch of late-flowering roses. they were his annual offerings on this day; he felt some trepidation as he climbed the steep, stony, uneven street lest they should be rejected, for he was conscious that three evenings before he had offended don silverio, and had left the presbytery too abruptly. but his fears were allayed as soon as he entered the house; the vicar was already up and dressed, and was about to go to the church. at the young man's first contrite words don silverio stopped him with a kind smile. "i was impatient and to blame," he said as he took the roses. "you heap coals of fire on my head, my son, with your welcome gifts." then together they had gone to the quaint old church of which the one great bell was tolling. mass over, adone had gone home, broken his fast, taken off his velvet jacket, his long scarlet waistcoat, and his silver-studded belt, and put the oxen to the pole of the waggon. "shall i come?" cried nerina. "no," he answered. "go and finish cutting the oats in the triangular field." always obedient, she went, her sickle swinging to her girdle. she was sorry, but she never murmured. adone had been at work amongst the furze two hours when old pierino, who always accompanied the oxen, got up, growled, and then barked. "what is it, old friend?" asked adone, and left off his work and listened. he heard voices by the waterside, and steps on the loose shingle of its shrunken summer bed. he went out of the wild growth round him and looked. there were four men standing and talking by the water. they were doubtless the same persons as nerina had seen, for they were evidently men from a city and strangers. disquietude and offence took alarm in him at once. he conquered that shyness which was natural to him, and which was due to the sensitiveness of his temperament and the solitude in which he had been reared. "excuse me, sirs," he said, as he advanced to them with his head uncovered; "what is it you want with my river?" "your river!" repeated the head of the group, and he smiled. "how is it more yours than your fellows?" adone advanced nearer. "the whole course of the water belonged to my ancestors," he answered, "and this portion at least is mine now; you stand on my ground; i ask you what is your errand?" he spoke with courtesy, but in a tone of authority which seemed to the intruders imperious and irritating. but they controlled their annoyance; they did not wish to offend this haughty young peasant. "to be owner of the water it is necessary to own both banks of it," the stranger replied politely, but with some impatience. "the opposite bank is communal property. do not fear, however, whatever your rights may be they will be carefully examined and considered." "by whom? they concern only myself." "none of our rights concern only ourselves. what are those which you claim in special on the edera water?" adone was silent for a few moments; he was astonished and embarrassed; he had never reflected on the legal side of his claim to the river; he had grown up in love and union with it; such affections, born with us at birth, are not analysed until they are assailed. "you are strangers," he replied. "but what right do you question me? i was born here. what is your errand?" "you must be adone alba?" said the person, as if spokesman for the others. "i am." "and you own the land known as the terra vergine?" "i do." "you will hear from us in due time, then. meantime" "meantime you trespass on my ground. leave it, sirs." the four strangers drew a few paces, and conferred together in a low tone, consulting a sheaf of papers. their council over, he who appeared the most conspicuous in authority turned again to the young man, who was watching them with a vague apprehension which he could not explain to himself. "there is no question of trespass; the river-side is free to all," said the stranger, with some contempt. "courtesy would become you better, sir adone." adone coloured. he knew that courtesy was at all times wise, and useful, and an obligation amongst men; but his anger was stronger than his prudence and his vague alarm was yet stronger still. "say your errand with the water," he replied imperiously. "then i can judge of it. no one, sirs, comes hither against my will." "you will hear from us in due time," answered the intruder. "and believe me, young man, you may lose much, you cannot gain anything, by rudeness and opposition." "opposition to what?" the stranger turned his back upon him, rolled up his papers, spoke again with his companions, and lifted from a large stone on which he had placed it a case of surveyor's instruments. adone went close up to him. "opposition to what? what is it you are doing here?" "we are not your servants," said the gentleman with impatience. "do not attempt any brawling i advise you; it will tell against you and cannot serve you in any way." "the soil and the water are mine, and you meddle with them," said adone. "if you were honest men you would not be ashamed of what you do, and would declare your errand. brawling is not in my habit; but i will drive my oxen over you. the land and the waters are mine." the chief of the group gave a disdainful, incredulous gesture, but the others pulled him by the sleeve and argued with him in low tones and a strange tongue, which adone thought was german. the leader of the group was a small man with a keen and mobile face and piercing eyes; he did not yield easily to the persuasions of his companions; he was disposed to be combative; he was offended by what seemed to him the insults of a mere peasant. adone went back to his oxen, standing dozing with drooped heads; he gathered up the reins of rope and mounted the waggon, raising the heads of the sleepy beasts. he held his goad in his hand; the golden gorze was piled behind him; he was in full sunlight, his hair was lifted by the breeze from his forehead; his face was flushed and set and stern. they saw that he would keep his word and drive down on to them, and make his oxen knock them down and the wheels grind their bodies into pulp. they had no arms of any kind, they felt they had no choice but to submit: and did so, with sore reluctance. "he looks like a young god," said one of them with an angry laugh. "mortals cannot fight against the gods." with discomfiture they retreated before him and went along the grassy path northward, as nerina had seen them do on the day of their first arrival. so far adone had conquered. but no joy or pride of a victor was with him. he stood and watched them pass away with a heavy sense of impending ill upon him; the river was flowing joyously, unconscious of its doom, but on him, though he knew nothing, and conceived nothing, of the form which the approaching evil would take, a great weight of anxiety descended. he got down from the waggon when he had seen them disappear, and continued his uninterrupted work amongst the furze; and he remained on the same spot long after the waggon was filled, lest in his absence the intruders should return. only when the sun set did he turn the heads of the oxen homeward. he said nothing to the women, but when he had stalled and fed his cattle he changed his leathern breeches and put a clean shirt on his back, and went down the twilit fields and across the water to ruscino; he told his mother that he would sup with don silverio. when adone entered the book-room his friend was seated at a deal table laden with volumes and manuscripts, but he was neither writing nor reading, nor had he lighted his lamp. the moonlight shone through the vine climbing up and covering the narrow window. he looked up and saw by adone's countenance that something was wrong. "what are they coming for, sir, to the river?" said the young man as he uncovered his head on the threshold of the chamber. don silverio hesitated to reply; in the moonlight his features looked like a mask of a dead man, it was so white and its lines so deep. "why do they come to the river, these strangers?" repeated adone. "they would not say. they were on my land. i threatened to drive my cattle over them. then they went. but can you guess, sir, why they come?" don silverio still hesitated. adone repeated his question with more insistence; he came up to the table and leaned his hands upon it, and looked down on the face of his friend. "why do they come?" he repeated a fourth time. "they must have some reason. surely you know?" "listen, adone, and control yourself," said don silverio. "i saw something in a journal a few days ago which made me go to san beda. but there they knew nothing at all of what the newspaper had stated. what i said startled and alarmed them. i begged the prior to acquaint me if he heard of any scheme affecting us. to-day, only, he has sent a young monk over with a letter to me, for it was only yesterday that he heard that there is a project in rome to turn the river out of its course, and use it for hydraulic power; to what purpose he does not know. the townsfolk of san beda are in entire sympathy with this district and against the scheme, which will only benefit a foreign syndicate. that is all i know, for it is all he knows; he took his information direct from the syndic, count corradini. my boy, my dear boy, control yourself!" adone had dropped down on a chair, and leaning his elbow on the table hid his face upon his hands. a tremor shook his frame from head to foot. "i knew it was some deviltry," he muttered. "oh, lord! oh, lord! would that i had made the oxen trample them into thousand pieces! they ought never to have left my field alive!" "hush, hush!" said the priest sternly. "i cannot have such language in my house. compose yourself." adone raised his head; his eyes were alight as with fire; his face was darkly red. "what, sir! you tell me the river is to be taken away from us, and you ask me to be calm! it is not in human nature to bear such a wrong in peace. take away the edera! take away the water! they had better cut our throats. what! a poor wretch who steals a few grapes off a vine, a few eggs from a hen roost, is called a thief and hounded to the galleys, and such robbery as this is to be borne in silence because the thieves wear broadcloth! it cannot be. it cannot be; i swear it shall never be whilst i have life. the river is mine. we reigned here three hundred years and more; you have told me so. it is written on the parchments. i will hold my own." don silverio was silent; he was silent from remorse. he had told adone what, without him, adone would have lived and died never knowing or dreaming. he had thought only to stimulate the youth to gentle conduct, honourable pride, perhaps to some higher use of his abilities: no more than this. he had never seen the young man thus violent and vehement; he had always found him tranquil to excess, difficult to rouse, slow to anger, indeed almost incapable of it; partaking of the nature of the calm and docile cattle with whom so much of his time was passed. but under the spur of an intolerable menace the warrior's blood which slumbered in adone leapt to action; all at once the fierce temper of the lords of ruscino displayed its fire and its metal; it was not the peasant of the terra vergine who was before him now, but the heir of the seigneury of the rocca. "it is not only what i told him of his race," he thought. "if he had known nothing, none the less would the blood in his veins have stirred and the past have moved him." aloud he said: "my son, i feel for you from the depths of my soul. i feel with you also. for if these foreigners take the river-water from us what will become of my poor, desolate people, only too wretched already as they are? you would not be alone in your desperation, adone. but do not let us take alarm too quickly. this measure is in gestation; but it may never come to birth. many such projects are discussed which from one cause or another are not carried out; this one must pass through many preliminary phases before it becomes fact. there must be surely many vested rights which cannot with impunity be invaded. take courage. have patience." he paused, for he saw that for the first time since they had known each other, adone was not listening to him. adone was staring up at the moon which hung, golden and full, in the dark blue sky, seeming framed in the leaves and coils of the vine. "the river is mine," he muttered. "the river and i are as brothers. they shall kill me before they touch the water." "he will go mad or commit some great crime," thought his friend, looking at him. "we must move every lever and strain every nerve, to frustrate this scheme, to prevent this spoliation. but if the thieves see money in it who shall stay their hands?" he rose and laid his hands on adone's shoulders. "to-night you are in no fitting state for calm consideration of this possible calamity. go home, my son. go to your room. say nothing to your mother. pray and sleep. in the forenoon come to me and we will speak of the measures which it may be possible to take to have this matter examined and opposed. we are very poor; but still we are not altogether helpless. only, there must be no violence. you wrong yourself and you weaken a good cause by such wild threats. good-night, my son. go home." the long habit of obedience to his superior, and the instinctive docility of his temper compelled adone to submit; he drew a long, deep breath and the blood faded from his face. without a word he turned from the table and wept out of the presbytery into the night and the white glory of the moonshine. vii don silverio drew to him his unfinished letter to the prior; the young monk who would take it back in the morning to san beda was already asleep in a little chamber above. but he could not write, he was too perturbed and too anxious. although he had spoken so calmly he was full of carking care; both for the threatened evil in itself, and for its effects upon his parishioners; and especially upon adone. he knew that in this age it is more difficult to check the devouring monster of commercial covetousness than it ever was to stay the bull of crete; and that for a poor and friendless community to oppose a strong and wealthy band of speculators is indeed for the wooden lance to shiver to atoms on the brazen shield. he left his writing table and extinguished his lamp. bidding the little dog lie still upon his chair, he went through the house to a door which opened from it into the bell tower of his church and which allowed him to go from the house to the church without passing out into the street. he climbed the belfry stairs once more, lighting himself at intervals by striking a wooden match; for through the narrow loopholes in the walls the moonbeams did not penetrate. he knew the way so well that he could have gone up and down those rotting stairs even in total darkness, and he safely reached the platform of the bell tower, though one halting step might have sent him in that darkness head foremost to his death. he stood there, and gazed downwards on the moonlit landscape far below, over the roofs and the walls of the village towards the open fields and the river, with beyond that the wooded country and the cultured land known as the terra vergine, and beyond those again the moors, the marshes, and the mountains. the moonlight shone with intense clearness on the waters of the edera and on the stone causeway of the old one-arched bridge. on the bridge there was a figure moving slowly; he knew it to be that of adone. adone was going home. he was relieved from the pressure of one immediate anxiety, but his apprehensions for the future were great, both for the young man and for the people of ruscino and its surrounding country. to take away their river was to deprive them of the little which they had to make life tolerable and to supply the means of existence. its winter overflow nourished the fields which they owned around it, and the only cornmill of the district worked by a huge wheel in its water. if the river were turned out of its course above ruscino the whole of this part of the vale would be made desolate. life was already hard for the human creatures in these fair scenes on which he looked; without the river their lot would be intolerable. "forbid it, o lord! forbid this monstrous wrong," he said, as he stood with bared head under the starry skies. when the people of a remote place are smitten by a public power the blow falls on them as unintelligible in its meaning, as invisible in its agency, as a thunderbolt is to the cattle whom it slays in their stalls. even don silverio, with his classic culture and his archæological learning, had little comprehension of the means and methods by which these enterprises were combined and carried out; the world of commerce and speculation is as aloof from the scholar and the recluse as the rings of saturn or the sun of aldebaran. its mechanism, its intentions, its combinations, its manners of action, its ways of expenditure, its intrigues with banks and governments: all these, to men who dwell in rural solitudes, aloof from the babble of crowds, are utterly unknown; the very language of the bourses has no more meaning to them than the jar of wheels or roar of steam. he stood and looked with a sinking heart on the quiet, moonlit country, and the winding course of the water where it flowed, now silvery in the light, now black in the gloom, passing rapidly through the heather and the sallows under the gigantic masses of the etruscan walls. it seemed to him to the full as terrible as to adone; but it did not seem to him so utterly impossible, because he knew more of the ways of men and of their unhesitating and immeasurable cruelty whenever their greed was excited. if the fury of speculation saw desirable prey in the rape of the edera then the edera was doomed, like the daughter of �dipus or the daughter of jephtha. adone had gone across the bridge, but he had remained by the waterside. "pray and sleep!" don silverio had said in his last words. but to adone it seemed that neither prayer nor sleep would ever come to him again so long as this impending evil hung over him and the water of edera. he spent the first part of that summer night wandering aimlessly up and down his own bank, blind to the beauty of the moonlight, deaf to the songs of the nightingales, his mind filled with one thought. an hour after midnight he went home and let himself into the silent house by a small door which opened at the back, and which he used on such rare occasions as he stayed out late. he struck a match and went up to his room, and threw himself, dressed, upon his bed. his mother was listening for his return, but she did not call to him. she knew he was a man now, and must be left to his own will. "what ails adone that he is not home?" had asked old gianna. clelia alba had been herself perturbed by his absence at that hour, but she had answered:-- "what he likes to tell, he tells. prying questions make false tongues. i have never questioned him since he was breeched." "there are not many women like you," had said gianna, partly in admiration, half in impatience. "adone is a boy for you and me," had replied his mother. "but for himself and for all others he is a man. we must remember it." gianna had muttered mumbled, rebellious words; he did not seem other than a child to her; she had been one of those present at this birth on the shining sands of the edera. he could not sleep. he could only listen to the distant murmur of the river. with dawn the women awoke. nerina came running down the steep stone stair and went to let out and feed her charges, the fowls. gianna went to the well in the court with her bronze pitcher and pail. clelia alba cut great slices of bread at the kitchen table; and hooked the cauldron of maize flour to the chain above the fire on the kitchen hearth. he could not wait for their greetings, their questions, the notice which his changed mien would surely attract. for the first time in all his twenty-four years of life he went out of the house without a word to his mother, and took his way to the river again; for the first time he was neglectful of his cattle and forgetful of the land. nerina came in from the fowl-house with alarm on her face. "madama clelia!" she said timidly, "adone has gone away without feeding and watering the oxen. may i do it?" "can you manage them, little one?" "oh, yes; they love me." "go then; but take care." "she is a good child!" said gianna. "the beasts won't hurt her. they know their friends." clelia alba, to whom her own and her son's dignity was dear, said nothing of her own displeasure and surprise at adone's absence. but she was only the more distressed by it. never, since he had been old enough to work at all, had he been missing in the hours of labour. "i only pray," she thought, "that no woman may have hold of him." adone hardly knew what he did; he was like a man who has had a blow on the temple; his sight was troubled; his blood seemed to burn in his brain. he wandered from habit through the field and down to the river, to the spot where from his infancy he had been used to bathe. he took off his clothes and waded into the water, which was cold as snow after the night. the shock of the cold, and the sense of the running current laving his limbs, restored him in a measure to himself. he swam down the stream in the shadow of the early morning. the air was full of the scent of dog-roses and flowering thyme; he turned on his back and floated; between him and the sky a hawk passed; the bell of the church was tolling for the diurnal mass. he ran along in the sun, as it grew warm, to dry his skin by movement, as his wont was. he was still stupefied by the fear which had fallen upon him; but the water had cooled and braced him. he had forgotten his mother, the cattle, the labours awaiting him; his whole mind was absorbed in this new horror sprung up in his path, none knew from where, or by whom begotten. the happy, unconscious stream ran singing at his feet as the nightingale sang in the acacia thickets, its brown mountain water growing green and limpid as it passed over submerged grass and silver sand. how could any thieves conspire to take it from the country in which it was born? how could any dare to catch it, and imprison it, and put it to vile uses? it was a living thing, a free thing, a precious thing, more precious than jewel or gold. both jewels and gold the law protected. could it not protect the edera? "something must be done," he said to himself. "but what?" he had not the faintest knowledge of what could or should be done; he regretted that he had not written his mark with the horns and the hoofs of his oxen on the foreign invaders; they might never again fall into his power. he had never felt before such ferocious or cruel instincts as arose in him now. don silverio seemed to him tame and lukewarm before this monstrous conspiracy of strangers. he knew that a priest must not give way to anger; yet it seemed to him that even a priest should be roused to fury here; there was a wrath which was holy. when he was clothed he stood and looked down again at the gliding stream. a feeble, cracked voice called to him from the opposite bank. "adone, my lad, what is this tale?" the speaker was an old man of eighty odd years, a native of ruscino, one patrizio cambi, who was not yet too feeble to cut the rushes and osiers, and maintained a widowed daughter and her young children by that means. "what tale?" said adone, unwilling to be roused from his own dark thoughts. "what tale, trizio?" "that they are going to meddle with the river," answered the old man. "they can't do it, can they?" "what have you heard?" "that they are going to meddle with the river." "in what way?" "the lord knows, or the devil. there was a waggon with four horses came as near as it could get to us in the woods yonder by ruffo's, and the driver told ruffo that the gentry he drove had come by road from that town by the sea-- i forget its name-- in order to see the river, this river, our river; and that he had brought another posse of gentry two weeks or more on the same errand, and that they were a-measuring and a-plumbing it, and that they were going to get possession of its somehow or other, but ruffo could not hear anything more than that; and i supposed that you knew, because this part of it is yours if it be any man's; this part of it that runs through the terra vergine." "yes, it is mine," answered adone very slowly. "it is mine here, and it was once ours from source to sea." "aye, it is ours!" said old trizio cambi mistaking him. he was a man once tall, but now bent nearly double; he had a harsh, wrinkled face, brown as a hazel nut, and he was nearly a skeleton; but he had eyes which were still fine and still had some fire in them. in his youth he had been a garibaldino. "it is ours," repeated trizio. "at least if anything belongs to poor folks. what say you, adone?" "much belongs to the poor, but others take it from them," said adone. "you have seen a hawk take a sparrow, trizio. the poor count no more than the sparrows." "but the water is the gift of god," said the old man. adone did not answer. "what can we do?" said trizio, wiping the dew off his sickle. "who knows aught of us? who cares? if the rich folks want the river they will take it, curse them!" adone did not answer. he knew that it was so, all over the earth. "we shall know no more than birds tangled in a net," said trizio. "they will come and work their will." adone rose up out of the grass. "i will go and see ruffo," he said. he was glad to do something. "ruffo knows no more than that," said trizio angrily. "the driver of the horses knew no more." adone paid him no need, but began to push his way through the thick network of the interlaced heather. he thought that perhaps ruffo, a man who made wooden shoes, and hoops for casks, and shaped chestnut poles for vines, might tell him more than had been told to old trizio; might at least be able to suggest from what quarter and in what shape this calamity was rising, to burst over their valley as a hailstorm broods above, then breaks, on helpless fields and defenceless gardens, beating down without warning the birds and the blossoms of spring. when he had been in lombardy he had seen once a great steam-engine at work, stripping a moorland of its natural growth and turning it into ploughed land. he remembered how the huge machine with its stench of oil and fire had forced its way through the furze and ferns and wild roses and myrtle, and torn them up, and flung them on one side, and scattered and trampled all the insect life, and all the bird life, and all the hares, and field mice, and stoats, and hedgehogs, who made their home there. "a fine sight," a man had said to him; and he had answered, "a cursed wickedness." was this what they would do to the vale of edera? if they took the river they could not spare the land. he felt scared, bruised, terrified, like one of these poor moorland hares. he remembered a poor stoat which, startled out of its sleep, had turned and bitten one of the iron wheels of the machine, and the wheel had gone over it and crushed it into a mass of blood and fur. he was as furious and as helpless as the stoat had been. but when he had walked the four miles which separated the terra vergine from the chestnut woods where the maker of wooden shoes lived, he heard nothing else from ruffo than this: that gentlemen had come from teramo to study the edera water; they were going to turn it aside and use it; more than that the man who had driven them had not heard and could not explain. "there were four horses, and he had nothing to give them but water and grass," said the cooper. "the gentry brought wine and food for themselves. they came the day before yesterday and slept here. they went away this morning. they paid me well, oh, very well. i did what i could for them. it is five-and-thirty miles if one off teramo, aye, nearer forty. they followed the old posting road; but you know where it enters the woods it is all overgrown, and gone to rack and ruin, from want of use. in my grandfather's time it was a fine, well-kept highway, with posthouses every ten miles, though a rare place for robbery; but nowadays nobody wants it at all, for nobody comes or goes. it will soon be blocked, so the driver says; it will soon be quite choked up what with brambles, and rocks, and fallen trees, and what not. he was black with rage, for he was obliged to go back as he had come, and he said he had been cheated into the job." adone listened wearily to the garrulous ruffo, who emphasised each phrase with a blow of his little hammer on a shoe. he had wasted all his morning hours, and learned nothing. he felt like a man who is lost in a strange and deserted country at night; he could find no clue, could see no light. perhaps if he went to the seaport town, which was the prefecture, he might hear something? but he had never left the valley of the edera except for that brief time which he had passed under arms in the north. he felt that he had no means, no acquaintance, no knowledge, whereby he could penetrate the mystery of this scheme. he did not even know the status of the promoters, or the scope of their speculation. the prefecture was placed in a port on the adriatic which had considerable trade to the dalmatian and greek coasts, but he scarcely knew its name. if he went there what could he do or learn? would the stones speak, or the waves tell that which he thirsted to know? what use was the martial blood in his veins? he could not strike an invisible foe. "don't go to meet trouble half way," said the man ruffo, meaning well. "i may have mistaken the driver. they cannot take hold of a river, how should they? water slips through your fingers. where it was set running in the beginning of the world, there it will go on running till the crack of doom. let them look; let them prate; they can't take it." but adone's reason would not allow him to be so consoled. he understood a little of what hydraulic science can compass; he knew what canalisation meant, and its assistance to traffic and trade; he had seen the waterworks on the po, on the adige, on the mincio; he had heard how the velino had been enslaved for the steel foundry of terni, how the nerino fed the ironworks of narni; he had seen the adda captive at lodi, and the lakes held in bond at mantua; he had read of the water drawn from monte amiata; and not very many miles off him, in the abruzzo, was that hapless fuscino, which had been emptied and dried up by rich meddlers of rome. he knew also enough of the past to know how water had been forced to serve the will and the wants of the roman consulate and the roman empire, of how the marble aqueducts had cast the shadow of their arches over the land, and how the provinces had been tunnelled and bridged and canalised and irrigated, during two thousand years, by those whose bones were dust under the latin soil. he could not wholly cheat himself, as these unlettered men could do; he knew that if the commerce which has succeeded the caesars as ruler of the world coveted the waters of edera, the river was lost to the home of its birth and to him. "how shall i tell my mother?" he asked himself as he walked back through the fragrant and solitary country. he felt ashamed at his own helplessness and ignorance. if courage could have availed anything he would not have been wanting; but all that was needed here was a worldly and technical knowledge, of which he possessed no more than did the trout in the stream. as he neared his home, pushing his way laboriously through the interlaced bracken and heaths which had never been cut for a score of years, he saw approaching him the tall, slender form of don silverio, moving slowly, for the heather was breast high, his little dog barking at a startled wood-pigeon. "they are anxious about you at your house," don silverio said with some sternness. "is it well to cause your mother this disquietude?" "no, it is not well," replied adone. "but how can i see her and not tell her, and how can i tell her this thing?" "women to bear trouble are braver than men," said the priest. "they have more patience in pain than we. i have said something to her; but we need not yet despair. we know nothing of any certainty. sometimes such schemes are abandoned at the last moment because too costly or too unremunerative. sometimes they drag on for half a lifetime; and at the end nothing comes of them." "you have told my mother?" "i told her what troubles you, and made you leave your work undone. the little girl was feeding the cattle." adone coloured. he was conscious of the implied rebuke. "sir," he said in a low tone, "if this accursed thing comes to pass what will become of us? what i said in my haste last night i say in cold reason to-day." "then you are wrong, and you will turn a calamity into a curse. men often do so." "it is more than a calamity." "perhaps. would not some other grief be yet worse? if you were stricken with blindness?" "no; i should still hear the river running." don silverio looked at him. he saw by the set, sleepless, reckless look on his face that the young man was in no mood to be reached by any argument, or to be susceptible to either rebuke or consolation. the time might come when he would be so; but that time was far off he feared. the evenness, the simplicity, the loneliness of adone's existence, made it open to impressions, and absorbed by them, as busy and changeful lives never are; it was like the heather plants around them, it would not bear transplanting; its birthplace would be its tomb. "let us go back to your mother," he said. "why should you shun her? what you feel she feels also. why leave her alone?" "i will go home," said adone. "yes, come home. you must see that there is nothing to be done or to be learned as yet. when they know anything fresh at san beda they will let me know. the prior is a man of good faith." adone turned on him almost savagely; his eyes were full of sullen anger. "and i am to bear my days like this? knowing nothing, hearing nothing, doing nothing to protect the water that is as dear to me as a brother, and the land which is my own? what will the land be without the river? you forget, sir, you forget!" "no, i do not forget," said don silverio without offence. "but i ask you to hear reason. what can you possibly do? think you no man has been wronged before you? think you that you alone here will suffer? the village will be ruined. do you feel for yourself alone?" adone seemed scarcely to hear. he was like a man in a fever who sees one set of images and cannot see anything else. "sir," he said suddenly, "why will you not go to rome?" "to rome?" echoed the priest in amazement. "there alone can the truth of this thing be learned," said adone. "it is to rome that the promoters of this scheme must carry it; there to be permitted or forbidden as the government chooses. all these things are brought about by bribes, by intrigues, by union. without authority from high office they cannot be done. we here do not even know who are buying or selling us--" "no, we do not," said don silverio; and he thought, "when the cart-horse is bought by the knacker what matter to him the name of his purchaser or his price?" "sir," said adone, with passionate entreaty. "do go to rome. there alone can the truth be learnt. you, a learned man, can find means to meet learned people. i would go, i would have gone yesternight, but, when i should get there, i know no more than a stray dog where to go or from whom to inquire. they would see i am a country fellow. they would shut the doors in my face. but you carry respect with you. no one would dare to flout you. you could find ways and means to know who moves this scheme, how far it is advanced, what chance there is of our defeating it. go, i beseech you, go!" "my son, you amaze me," said don silverio. "i? in rome? i have not stirred out of this district for eighteen years. i am nothing. i have no voice. i have no weight. i am a poor rural vicar buried here for punishment." he stopped abruptly, for no complaint of the injustice from which he suffered had ever in those eighteen years escaped him. "go, go," said adone. "you carry respect with you. you are learned and will know how to find those in power and how to speak to them. go, go! have pity on all of us, your poor, helpless, menaced people." don silverio was silent. was it now his duty to go into the haunts of men, as it had been his duty to remain shut up in the walls of ruscino? the idea appalled him. accomplished and self-possessed though he was, his fine mind and his fine manners had not served wholly to protect him from that rust and nervousness which come from the disuse of society and the absence of intercourse with equals. it seemed to him impossible that he could again enter cities, recall usages, seek out acquaintances, move in the stir of streets, and wait in antechambers. that was the life of the world; he had done with it, forsworn it utterly, both by order of his superiors and by willing self-sacrifice. yet he knew that adone was right. it was only from men of the world and amongst them, it was only in the great cities, that it was possible to follow up the clue of such speculations as now threatened the vale of edera. the young man he knew could not do what was needed, and certainly would get no hearing--a peasant of the abruzzo border, who looked like a figure of giorgione's, and would probably be arrested as an anarchist if he were to endeavour to enter any great house or public office. but to go to rome himself! to revisit the desecrated city! this seemed to him a pilgrimage impossible except for the holiest purpose. he felt as if the very stones of trastevere would rise up and laugh at him, a country priest with the moss and the mould of a score of years passed in rural obscurity upon him. moreover, to revisit rome would be to tear open wounds long healed. there his studious youth had been passed, and there his ambitious dreams had been dreamed. "i cannot go to rome," he said abruptly. "do not ask me, i cannot go to rome." "then i will go," said adone; "and if in no other way, i will force myself into the king's palace and make him hear." "and his guards will seize you, and his judges will chain you up in a solitary cell for life! do not say such mad things. what could the king reply, even if he listened, which he would not do? he would say that these things were for ministers and prefects and surveyors and engineers to judge of, not for him or you. be reasonable, adone; do not speak or act like a fool. this is the first grief you have known in your life, and you are distraught by it. that is natural enough, my poor boy. but you exaggerate the danger. it must be far off as yet. it is a mere project." "and i am to remain here, tilling the land in silence and inaction until, one day without notice, i shall see a crowd of labourers at work upon the river, and shall see appraisers measuring my fields! you know that is how things are done. you know the poor are always left in the dark until all is ripe for their robbery. look you, sir, if you go to rome i will wait in such patience as i can for whatever you may learn. but if you do not go, i go, and if i can do no better i will take the king by the throat." "i have a mind to take you by the throat myself," said don silverio, with an irritation which he found it hard to control. "well, i will think over what you wish, and if i find it possible, if i think it justified, if i can afford the means, if i can obtain the permission, for such a journey, i will go to rome; for your sake, for your mother's sake. i will let you know my decision later. let us walk homeward. the sun is low. at your house the three women must be anxious." adone accompanied him in silence through the heather, of which the blossoming expanse was reddening in the light of the late afternoon until the land looked a ruby ocean. they did not speak again until they reached the confines of the terra vergine. then don silverio took the path which went through the pasture to the bridge, and adone turned towards his own dwelling. "spare your mother. speak gently," said the elder man; the younger man made a sign of assent and of obedience. "he will go to rome," said adone to himself, and almost he regretted that he had urged the journey, for in his own veins the fever of unrest and the sting of fierce passions were throbbing, and he panted and pined for action. he was the heir of the lords of the river. viii like the cooper ruffo, clelia alba had received the tidings with incredulity, though aghast at the mere suggestion. "it is impossible," she said. she had seen the water there ever since she had been a babe in swaddling clothes. "it is not possible," she said, "that any man could be profane enough to alter the bed which heaven had given it." but she was sorely grieved to see the effect such a fear had upon adone. "i was afraid it was a woman," she thought; "but this thing, could it be true, would be worse than any harlot or adulteress. if they took away the river the land would perish. it lives by the river." "the river is our own as far as we touch it," she said aloud to her son; "but it was the earth's before it was ours. to sever water from the land it lives in were worse than to snatch a child from its mother's womb." adone did not tell her that water was no more sacred than land to the modern contractor. she would learn that all to soon if the conspiracy against the edera succeeded. but he tried to learn from her what legal rights they possessed to the stream: what had his father thought? he knew well that his old hereditary claim to the lordship of ruscino, however capable of proof, would be set aside as fantastic and untenable; but their claim to the water through the holding of terra vergine could surely not be set aside. "your father never said aught about the water that i can remember," she answered. "i think he would no more have thought it needful to say it was his than to say that you were his son. it is certain we are writ down in the district as owners of the ground; we pay taxes for it; and the title of the water must be as one with that." "so say i; at least over what runs through our fields we, alone, have any title, and for that title i will fight to the death," said adone. "river rights go with the land through which the river passes." "but, my son," she said with true wisdom, "your father would never have allowed any danger to the water to make him faithless to the land. if you let this threat, this dread, turn you away from your work; if you let your fears make you neglect your field and your olives, and your cattle and your vines, you will do more harm to yourself than the worst enemy can do you. to leave a farm to itself is to call down the vengeance of heaven. a week's abandonment undoes the work of years. i and gianna and the child do what we can, but we are women, and nerina is young." "no doubt you speak wisely, mother," replied adone humbly. "but of what use is it to dress and manure a vine, if the accursed phylloxera be in its sap and at its root? what use is it to till these lands if they be doomed to perish from thirst?" "do your best," said his mother, "then the fault will not lie with you, whatever happen." the counsel was sound; but to adone all savour and hope were gone out of his labour. when he saw the green gliding water shine through the olive branches, and beyond the foliage of the walnut-trees, his arms fell nerveless to his side, his throat swelled with sobs, which he checked as they rose, but which were only the more bitter for that--all the joy and the peace of his day's work were gone. it was but a small space of it to one whose ancestors had reigned over the stream from its rise in the oak woods to its fall into the sea; but he thought that no one could dispute or diminish or disregard his exclusive possession of the edera water where it ran through his fields. they could not touch that, even if they seized it lower down, where it ran through other communes. were they to take it above his land, above the bridge of ruscino, its bed here would be dried up, and his homestead and the village both be ruined. the clear, intangible right which he meant to defend at any cost, in any manner, was his right to have the river run untouched through his fields. the documents which proved the rights of the great extinct seigneury might be useless, but the limited, shrunken right of the peasant ownership was as unassailable as his mother's right to the three strings of pearls; or so he believed. the rights of the lords of ruscino might be but shadows of far-off things, things of tradition, of history, of romance, but the rights of the peasant proprietors of the terra vergine must, he thought, be respected if there were any justice upon earth, for they were plainly writ down in the municipal registers of san beda. to rouse others to defend their equal rights in the same way, from the source of the edera to its union with the adriatic, seemed to him the first effort to be made. he was innocent enough to believe that it would suffice to prove that its loss would be their ruin to obtain redress at once. whilst don silverio was still hesitating as to what seemed to him this momentous and painful journey to rome his mind was made up by a second letter received from the superior of the certosa at san beda, the friend to whom he had confided the task of inquiring as to the project for the edera. this letter was long, and in latin. they were two classics, who liked thus to refresh themselves and each other with epistles such as st. augustine or tertullian might have penned. the letter was of elegant scholarship, but its contents were unwelcome. it said that the most honourable the syndic of san beda had enjoyed a conference with the prefect of the province, and it had therein transpired that the project for the works upon the river edera had been long well known to the prefect, and that such project was approved by the existing government, and therefore by all the government officials, as was but natural. it was not admitted that the commune of san beda had any local interest or local right sufficiently strong to oppose the project, as such a claim would amount to a monopoly, and no monopoly could exist in a district through which a running river partially passed, and barely one-fifth of the course of this stream lay through that district known as the valley of the edera. the entire circondario, except the valley, was believed to be in favour of the project, which the prefect informed the syndic could not be otherwise than most favourable to the general interests of the country at large. "therefore, most honoured and revered friend," wrote the superior of the cistercians, "his most esteemed worship does not see his way to himself suggest opposition to this course in our town council, or in our provincial council, and the most worshipful the assessors do not either see theirs; it being, as you know, an equivocal and onerous thing for either council to express or suggest in their assembly views antagonistic to those of the prefecture, so that i fear, most honoured and reverend friend, it will not be in my power farther to press this matter, and i fear also that your parish of ruscino, being isolated and sparsely populated, and its chief area uncultivated, will be possessed of but one small voice in this matter, the interests of the greater number being always in such a case preferred." don silverio read the letter twice, its stately and correct latinity not serving to disguise the mean and harsh fact of its truly modern logic. "because we are few and poor and weak we have no rights!" he said bitterly. "because the water comes from others, and goes to others, it is not ours whilst in our land!" he did not blame his friend at san beda. ecclesiastics existed only on sufferance, and any day the certosa might be closed if its inmates offended the ruling powers. but the letter, nevertheless, lay like a stone on his heart. all the harshness, the narrowness, the disregard of the interests of the weak, the rude, rough, tyrannical pressing onward of the strong to their own selfish aims, all the characteristics of the modern world seemed to find voice in it and jeer at him. it was not for the first time in his life that he had pressed against the iron gates of interest and formula and oppression, and only bruised his breast and torn his hands. he had a little sum of money put by in case of illness and for his burial; that was the only fund on which he could draw to take him to rome and keep him when there, and it was so small that it would be soon exhausted. he passed the best part of the night doubting which way his duty pointed. he fasted, prayed, and communed with his soul, and at length it seemed to him as if a voice from without said to him, "take up your staff, and go." for the journey appalled him, and where his inclination pointed he had taught himself to see error. he shrank inexpressibly from going into the noise and glare and crowd of men; he clung to his solitude as a timid animal to its lair; and therefore he felt persuaded that he ought to leave ruscino on his errand, because it was so acutely painful to him. whilst he should be gone adone at least would do nothing rash; would of course await the issue of his investigations. time brings council, and time, he hoped, would in this instance befriend him. he had already obtained the necessary permission to leave his parish; he then asked for a young friend from san beda to take his place in the village; left his little dog to the care of nerina; took his small hoard in a leathern bag strapped to his loins, and went on his way at daybreak along the southwest portion of the valley, to cover on foot the long distance which lay between him and the nearest place at which a public vehicle went twice a week to a railway station; whence he could take the train to terni and so to rome. adone accompanied him the first half of the way, but they said little to one another; their hearts were full. adone could not forget the rebuke given to him, and don silverio was too wise a man to lean heavily on a sore and aching wound, or repeat counsels already given and rejected. at the third milestone he stopped and begged, in a tone which was a command, the young man to return home. "do not leave your land for me," he said. "every hour is of gold at this season. go back, my son! i pray that i may bring you peace." "give me your blessing," said adone meekly, and he knelt down in the dust of the roadside. his friend gave it; then their hands met in silent farewell. the sun had risen, and the cold clear air was yielding to its rays. the young man reluctantly turned back, and left the priest to go onward alone, a tall, dark figure in the morning light; the river running between acacia thickets and rushes on his right. before long he was forced to leave the course of the stream, and ascend a rugged and precipitous road which mounted southward and westward through oak woods into the mountains between the leonessa and gran sasso, until it reached a shrunken, desolate village, with fine etruscan and roman remains left to perish, and a miserable hostelry, with the miserable diligences starting from it on alternate days, the only remains of its former posting activity. there he arrived late in the evening, and broke his fast on a basin of bean soup, then rested on a bench, for he could not bring himself to enter the filthy bed which was alone to be obtained, and spent the following morning examining the ancient ruins, for the conveyance did not start until four o'clock in the afternoon. when that hour came he made one of the travellers, all country folks, who were packed close as pigeons in a crate in the ramshackle, noisy, broken-down vehicle, which lumbered on its way behind its lean and suffering horses, through woods and hills and along mountain passes of a grandeur and a beauty on which the eyes of educated travellers rarely looked. the journey by this conveyance occupied seven hours, and he was obliged to wait five more at that village station which was the nearest point at which he could meet the train which went from terni to rome. only parliamentary trains stop at such obscure places; and this one seemed to him slower even than the diligence had been. it was crammed with country lads going to the conscription levy in the capital: some of them drunk, some of them noisy and quarrelsome, some in tears, some silent and sullen, all of them sad company. the dusty, stinking, sun-scorched waggons, open one to another, with the stench of hot unwashed flesh, and the clouds of dust driven through the unglazed windows, seemed to don silverio a hell of man's own making, and in remembrance his empty quiet room, with its vine-hung window, at ruscino, seemed by comparison a lost heaven. to think that there were thousands of men who travelled thus, every day of every year, in every country, many of them from no obligation whatever, but from choice! "what lunatics, what raving idiots we should look to plato or to socrates, could they see us!" he thought. was what is called progress anything else except increased insanity in human life? he leaned back in his corner, and bore the dust in his eyes and his throat as best he might, and spoke a few kind words to the boys nearest to him, and felt as if every bone in his body was broken as the wooden and iron cage shook him from side to side. the train stopped finally in that area of bricks and mortar and vulgarity and confusion where once stood the baths of diocletian. it was late in the night when he heard the name of rome. no scholar can hear that name without emotion. on him it smote with a keen personal pain, awakening innumerable memories, calling from their graves innumerable dreams. he had left it a youth, filled with all the aspirations, the fire, the courage, the faith, of a lofty and spiritual temper. he returned to it a man aged before his time, worn, weary, crushed, spiritless, with no future except death. he descended from the waggon with the crowd of jaded conscripts and mingled with that common and cosmopolitan crowd which now defiles the city of the caesars. the fatigue of his body, and the cramped pain of his aching spine, added to the moral and the mental suffering which was upon him as he moved a stranger and alone along the new, unfamiliar streets where, alone here and there, some giant ruin, some stately arch, some marble form of god or prophet, recalled to him the urbs that he had known. but he remembered the mission on which he came; and he rebuked his self-indulgence in mourning for his own broken fate. "i am a faithless servant and a feeble friend," he thought in self-reproach. "let me not weaken my poor remnant of strength in egotism and repining. i come hither for adone and the edera. let me think of my errand only; not of myself, nor even of this desecrated city." ix it was now the season to plough the reapen fields, and he had always taken pleasure in his straight furrows; as straight as though measured by a rule on the level lands; and of the skill with which on the hilly ground orlando and rinaldo moved so skillfully, turning in so small a space, answering to every inflection of his voice, taking such care not to break a twig of the fruit trees, or bend a shoot of the vines, or graze a stem of the olives. "good hearts, dear hearts, faithful friends and trusty servants!" he murmured to the oxen. he leaned his bare arms on the great fawn-coloured flanks of orlando, and his forehead on his arms, which grew wet with hidden tears. the cattle stood motionless, breathing loudly through their distended nostrils, the yokes on their shoulders crinking, their hides twitching under the torment of the flies. nerina, who had been washing linen in the edera, approached through the olives; she hesitated a few minutes, then put the linen down off her head on to the grass, gathered some plumes of featherfew and ferns, and brushed the flies off the necks of the oxen. adone started, looked up in displeasure at being thus surprised, then, seeing the intruder was only the little girl, he sat down on the side of the plough, and made believe to break his noon-day bread. "you have no wine," said the child. "shall i run to the house for a flask?" "no, my dear, no. if i am athirst there is water -- as yet there is water!" he murmured bitterly, for the menace of this impending horror began to grow on him with the fixity and obsession of a mania. nerina continued to fan the cattle and drive off the flies from their necks. she looked at him wistfully from behind the figures of the stately animals. she was afraid of the sorrow which was in the air. no one had told her what the evil was which hung over the terra vergine; and she never asked questions. the two elder women never took her into their confidence on any subject, and she had no communication with the few people in ruscino. she had seen that something was wrong, but she could not guess what: something which made madonna clelia's brows dark, and gianna's temper bad, and adone himself weary and ill at ease. seeing him sitting there, not eating, throwing his bread to some wild pigeons which followed the plough, she plucked up courage to speak; he was always kind to her, though he noticed her little. "what is it that ails you all?" she asked. "tell me, adone, i am not a foolish thing to babble." he did not answer. what use were words? deeds were wanted. "adone, tell me," she said in a whisper; "what is this that seems to lie like a stone on you all? tell me why don silverio has gone away. i will never tell again." there was a pathetic entreaty in the words which touched and roused him; there was in it the sympathy which would not criticise or doubt, and which is to the sore heart as balm and soothes it by its very lack of reason. he told her; told her the little that he knew, the much that he feared; he spent all the force of his emotion in the narrative. the child leaned against the great form of the ox and listened, not interrupting by a word or cry. she did not rebuke him as don silverio had done, or reproach him as did his mother; she only listened with a world of comprehension in her eyes more eloquent than speech, not attempting to arrest the fury of imprecation or the prophecies of vengeance which poured from his lips. hers was that undoubting, undivided, implicit faith which is so dear to the wounded pride and impotent strength of a man in trouble who is conscious that what he longs to do would not be approved by law or sanctioned by religion. that faith spoke in her eyes, in her absorbed attention, in the few breathless sentences which escaped her; there was also on her youthful face a set, stern anger akin to his own. "could we not slay these men?" she said in a low, firm voice; she came of a mountain race by whom life was esteemed little and revenge honour. "we must not even say such a thing," said adone bitterly, in whose ears the rebuke of don silverio still rang. "in these days everything is denied us, even speech. if we take our rights we are caged in their prisons." "but what will you do, then?" "for the moment i wait to learn more. these things are done in the dark, or at least in no light that we can see. to kill these men as you wish, little one, would do nothing. others of their kind would fill their places. the seekers of gold are like ants. slay thousands, tens of thousands come on; if once the scent of gain be on the wind it brings men in crowds from all parts, as the smell of carrion brings meat-flies. if they think of seizing the edera it is because men of business will turn it into gold. the edera gives us our grain, our fruits, our health, our life; but if it will give money to the foreigner, the foreigner will take it as he would take the stars and coin them if he could. the brigand of the hills is caged or shot; the brigand of the banks is allowed to fatten and die in the odour of success. there are two measures." nerina failed to understand, but her own mind was busy with what seemed to her this monstrous injustice. "but why do they let them do it? they take and chain the men who rob a traveller or a house." adone cast his last atom of bread to the birds. "there are two measures," he answered. "kill one, you go to the galleys for life. kill half a million, you are a hero in history, and get in your own generation titles, and money, and applause." "baruffo was a good man and my father's friend," nerina said, following her own thoughts. "baruffo was in the oak woods always, far below us, but he often brought us wine and game at night, and sometimes money too. baruffo was a good man. he was so kind. twice my father aided him to escape. but one night they seized him; there was a whole troop of carabineers against him, they took him in a trap, they could never have got him else, and i saw him brought down the mountain road and i ran and kissed him before they could stop me; and he never came back -- they kept him." "no doubt they kept him," said adone bitterly. "baruffo was a peasant outlawed; if he had been a banker, or a minister, or a railway contractor, he might have gone on thieving all his life, and met only praise. they keep poor baruffo safe in their accursed prisons, but they will take care never to keep, or take even for a day, law-breakers whose sins are far blacker than his, and whose victims are multitudes." "if baruffo were here he would help you," said nerina. "he was such a fine strong man and had no fear." adone rose and put his hands on the handles of the plough. "take up your linen, little one," he said to the girl, "and go home, or my mother will be angry with you for wasting time." nerina came close to him and her brown dog-like eyes looked up like a dog's into his face. "tell me what you do, adone," she said beseechingly, "i will tell no one. i was very little when baruffo came and went to and fro in our hut; but i had sense; i never spoke. only when the guards had him i kissed him, because then it did not matter what they knew; there was no hope." "yes, i will tell you," said adone. "maybe i shall end like baruffo." then he called on orlando and rinaldo by their names, and they lowered their heads and strained at their collars, and with a mighty wrench of their loins and shoulders they forced the share through the heavy earth. nerina stood still and looked after him as he passed along under the vine-hung trees. "baruffo may have done some wrong," she thought, "but adone, he has done none, he is as good as if he were a saint of god, and if he should be obliged to do evil it will be no fault of his, but because other men are wicked." then she put the load of linen on her head, and went along the grassy path homeward, and she saw the rosy gladioli, and the golden tansy, by which she passed through tears. yet she was glad because adone had trusted her; and because she now knew as much as the elder women in his house, who had put no confidence in her. x "i shall not write," don silverio had said to adone. "as soon as i know anything for certain i shall return. of that you may be sure." for he knew that letters took a week or more to find their slow way to ruscino, and he hoped to return in less than that time; having no experience of "what hell it is in waiting to abide," and of the endless doublings and goings to earth of that fox-like thing, a modern speculation; he innocently believed that he would only have to ask a question to have it answered. day after day adone mounted to the bell-tower roof, and gazed over the country in vain. day after day the little dog escaped from the custody of nerina, trotted over the bridge, pattered up the street, and ran whining into his master's study. every night the people of ruscino hung up a lantern on a loophole of the belfry, and another on the parapet of the bridge, that their pastor might not miss his way if he were coming on foot beside the river; and every night adone himself watched on the river bank or by the town wall, sleepless, longing for, yet dreading that which he should hear. but more than a week passed, and the priest did not return. the anxiety of adone consumed him like fire. he strove to dull his anxiety by incessant work, but it was too acute to be soothed by physical fatigue. he counted the days and the hours, and he could not sleep. the women watched him in fear and silence; they dared ask nothing, lest they should wound him. only nerina whispered to him once or twice in the fields, "where is he gone? when will he come back?" "god knows!" he answered. every evening that he saw the sun set beyond the purple line of the mountains which were heaped in their masses of marble and snow between him and the patrimonium petrus, he felt as if he could never bear another night. he could hear the clear, fresh sound of the running river, and it seemed to him like the voice of some friend crying aloud to him in peril. whilst these summer days and nights sped away what was being done to save it? he felt like a coward; like one who stands by and sees a comrade murdered. in his solitude and apprehension he began to lose all self-control; he imagined impossible things; he began to see in his waking dreams, as in a nightmare, the dead body of don silverio lying with a knife in its breast in some cut-throat alley of rome. for two weeks passed, and there was no sign of his return, and no message from him. the poor people of ruscino also were troubled. their vicar had never left them before. they did not love him; he was too unlike them; but they honoured him, they believed in him; he was always there in their sickness and sorrow; they leaned on his greater strength in all their penury and need; and he was poor like them, and stripped himself still barer for their sakes. through the young friar who had replaced him they had heard something of the calamity which threatened to befall them through the edera. it was all dark to them; they could understand nothing. why others should want their river and why they should lose it, or in what manner a stream could be turned from its natural course -- all these things were to them incomprehensible. in the beginning of the world it had been set running there. who would be impious enough to meddle with it? whoever tried to do so would be smitten with the vengeance of heaven. of that they were sure. nevertheless, to hear the mention of such a thing tormented them; and when they opened their doors at dawn they looked out in terror lest the water should have been taken away in the night. their stupidity irritated adone so greatly that he ceased altogether to speak to them of the impending calamity. "they are stocks and stones. they have not the sense of sheep nor the courage of goats," he said, with the old scorn which his forefathers had felt for their rustic vassals stirring in him. "i believe that they would dig sand and carry wood for the engineers and the craftsmen who would build the dykes!" he said to his mother. clelia alba sighed. "my son, hunger is a hard master; it makes the soul faint, the heart hard, the belly ravenous. we have never known it. we cannot judge those who know nothing else." "even hunger need not make one vile," he answered. but he did not disclose all his thoughts to his mother. he was so intolerant of these poor people of ruscino because he foresaw the hopelessness of forging their weak tempers into the metal necessary for resistance. as well might he hope to change a sword-rush of the river into a steel sabre for combat. masaniello, rienzi, garibaldi, had roused the peasantry and led them against their foes; but the people they dealt with must, he thought, have been made of different stuff than these timorous villagers, who could not even be make to comprehend the magnitude of the wrong which was plotted against them. "tell them," he said to old trizio: "tell them their wells will run dry; their fish will rot on the dry bed of what was once the river; their canes, their reeds and rushes, their osiers, will all fail them; when they shall go out into their fields nothing which they sow or plant will grow, because the land will be cracked and parched; there will be no longer the runlets and rivulets to water the soil; birds will die of thirst, and thousands of little river creatures will be putrid carcasses in the sun; for the edera, which is life and joy and health to this part of the country, will be carried far away, imprisoned in brick walls, drawn under ground, forced to labour like a slave, put to vile uses, soiled and degraded. cannot you tell them this, and make them see?" the old man shook his white head. "they would never believe. it is too hard for them. where the river runs, there it will always be. so they think." "they are dolts, they are mules, they are swine!" said adone. "nay, may the poor beasts forgive me! the beasts cannot help themselves, but men can if they choose." "humph!" said trizio doubtfully. "my lad, you have not seen men shot down by the hundred. i have -- long ago, long ago." "there is no chance of their being shot," he said with contempt, almost with regret. "all that is wanted of them are common sense, union, protestation, comprehension of their rights." "aye, you all begin with that," said the old garabaldino. "but, my lad, you do not end there, for it is just those things which are your right which those above you will never hear of; and then up come the cannon thundering, and when the smoke clears away there are your dead -- and that is all you get." the voice of the old soldier was thin and cracked and feeble, but it had a sound in it which chilled the hot blood of his hearer. yet surely this was no revolutionary question, no socialistic theory, no new alarming demand; it was only a claim old as the hills, only a resolve to keep what the formation of the earth had given to this province. as well blame a father for claiming his own child as blame him and his neighbours for claiming their own river! they were tranquil and docile people, poor and patient, paying what they were told to pay, letting the fiscal wolf gnaw and glut as it chose unopposed, not loving their rulers indeed, but never moving or speaking against them, accepting the snarl, the worry, the theft, the greed, the malice of the state without questioning. were they to stand by and see their river ruined, and do nothing, as the helpless fishermen of fuscino have accepted the ruin of their lake? to all young men of courage and sensibility and enthusiasm the vindication of a clear right seems an act so simple that it is only through long and painful experience that they realize that there is nothing under the sun which is so hard to compass, or which is met by such strong antagonism. to adone, whose nature was unspoilt by modern influences, and whose world was comprised in the fields and moors around ruscino, it seemed incredible that such a title as that of his native soil to the water of edera could be made clear to those in power without instant ratification of it. "whether you do aught or naught it comes to the same thing," said the old garibaldino, who was wiser. "we did much; we spent our blood like water, and what good has it been? for one devil we drove out before our muskets, a thousand worse devils have entered since." "it is different," said adone, impatient. "all we have to do is to keep out the stranger. you had to drive him out. no politics or doctrines come into our cause; all we mean, all we want, is to be left alone, to remain as we are. that is all. it is simple and just." "aye, it is simple; aye, it is just," said the old man; but he sucked his pipe-stem grimly: he had never seen these arguments prosper; and in his own youth he had cherished such mistakes himself, to his own hindrance. had he not sung in those glorious days of hope and faith, "fratelli d'italia! l'italia s'e desta!" in the night which followed on the fourteenth day of the vicar's absence, adone, unable either to rest or to labour, went into his cattle-stalls and fed and watered all the animals, then he crossed the river and went along its north bank by the same path which he had followed with don silverio two weeks earlier. he had passed to and fro that path often since his friend's departure, for by it the priest must return; there was no other way to and from the west. rain had fallen in the night, and the river was buoyant, and the grass sparkled, the mountains were of sapphire blue, and above the shallows clouds of flies and gnats were fluttering, waterlilies were blossoming where the water was still, and in the marshes buffaloes pushed their dark forms amongst the nymphoea and the nuphar. he had no longer any eyes to see these things; he only strained his sight to catch the first glimpse of a tired traveler. the landscape here was level for many miles of moor and pasture and a human form approaching could be seen from a great distance. it was such a dawn as he had used to love beyond all other blessings of nature; but now the buffaloes in the pools and swamps were not more blind to its charm than he. the sun rose behind him out of the unseen adrian waves, and a rosy light spread itself over the earth; and at that moment he saw afar off a dark form moving slowly. with a loud cry he sprang forward and ran with the fleetness of a colt the hundred yards which were between him and that familiar figure. "my son! my dear son!" cried don silverio, as adone reached him and fell on his knees on the scorched turf. "at last!" he murmured, choked with joy and fear. "oh, where have you been? we are half dead, your people and i. what tidings do you bring? what comfort?" "rise up, and remember that you are a man," said don silverio; and the youth, gazing upwards keenly into his face, suddenly lost all hope, seeing no ray of hope on that weary countenance. "you cannot save us?" he cried, with a scream like a wounded hare's. "i cannot, my dear son," answered don silverio. adone dropped backward as if a bullet had struck him; his head smote the dry ground; he had lost consciousness, his face was livid. don silverio raised him and dragged him into the shade of a bay-tree and dashed water on him from the river. in a few minutes he was roused and again conscious, but on his features there was a dazed, stunned look. "you cannot save us?" he repeated. "neither you nor i have millions," said don silverio with bitterness. "it is with no other weapon that men can fight successfully now." adone had risen to his feet; he was pale as a corpse, only the blood was set in his forehead. "is it true, then?" he muttered. "do they mean to come here?" "yes." "who are they? jews?" "jews and gentiles. there is no difference between those races now; they have a common credo -- greed; they adore one jehovah -- gold. my boy, i am very tired, and you are ill. let us get home as quickly as we can." "i am not ill. it was nothing. it is passed. tell me the worst." "the worst, in a work, is that a foreign company, already established for several years in this country, has obtained a faculty to turn this water out if its course and use it as the motive power of an electric railway and of an acetylene manufactory, and of other enterprises." "and this cannot be undone?" "i fear not; they are rich and powerful. what are we? let me get home. there you shall hear all, and judge." adone asked and said no more. he turned and went backward. his steps were slow and unsteady, his head was hung down. the dry, hot air was like fire around them; the sun, though still low, darted fierce rays upon them, like spears thrown with a sure aim. he had not known how much and how strongly he had hoped until now that he heard that there was no hope left. don silverio, though he did not speak of himself, was faint with fatigue; the return journey had tried him more cruelly than the first, since on his way to rome he had been sustained by the hope to find the project abandoned, or at the least uncertain. he had spent all his scanty earnings, so hardly and tediously collected through a score of years, and he had brought back to his poor people, and to the youth he loved, nothing except the confirmation of their worst fears. it was with difficulty that he could drag his aching feet over the burn grass back to his parish. when they reached the bridge they were on the village side of the stream. adone, with an effort, raised himself from the trance into which he had fallen. "forgive me, sir; you are overtired, you must rest. i will come to you later." "no, no," said don silverio quickly, for he thought the youth in no state to be alone. "i will wash and take a cup of coffee, then i will tell you all. wait in my book-room." they went together to his house. there was no one in the street or on the walls except some children gathering dandelion leaves in the ditch. they reached the priest's house unobserved; only the little dog, who was making his diurnal search there, rushed out of the entrance in a frenzy of rapture. "poor little man! dear signorino!" murmured don silverio, and he took the little creature in his arms. then he opened the door of his study. "wait there," he said to adone. "i will soon come downstairs. i will only wash off the dust of this journey." adone obeyed. the room was dusky, cool, silent; he sat down in it and waited; he could hear the loud, uneven beating of his own heart in the stillness. as he felt now, so, he thought, must feel men who have heard their own death-sentence, and are thrust alone into a cell. if don silverio could do nothing, to whom could he turn? could he induce the people to rise? it would be their ruin as well as his, this rape of the river. would they bear it as they bore taxation, neglect, conscription, hunger? it was not half an hour, although it seemed to him half a day, which passed before don silverio came down the stone stair, his little dog running and leaping about him. he seated himself before adone, by the shuttered window, through which, by chinks and holes in the wood, there came rays of light and tendrils of vine. then detail by detail, with lucidity and brevity, he narrated all he had heard and done in rome, and which it was exceeding hard to bring home to the comprehension of a mind wholly ignorant of such things. "when i reached rome," he explained, "i was for some days in despair. the deputy of san beda was not at the chamber. he was in sicily. another deputy, a friend of the prior at san beda, to whom i had a letter, was very ill with typhoid fever. i knew not where to turn. i could not knock at the doors of strangers without credentials. then i remembered that one with whom i had been friends, great friends, when we were both seminarists, had become a great man at the vaticano. it was scarcely possible that he, in his great elevation, would recollect one unseen for a quarter of a century. but i took courage and sent in my name. imagine my surprise and emotion when i was admitted at once to his presence, and was received by him with the uttermost kindness. he assisted me in every way. he could not of course move ostensibly in a matter of the government, himself, but he gave me letters to those who could obtain me the information and the interviews which i desired. he was goodness itself, and through him i was even received by his holiness. but from all those political and financial people whom i saw i learned but the same thing. the matter is far advanced, is beyond any alteration. the company is formed. the concurrence of parliament is not to be, but has long been, given. the ministry favours the project. they all repeated to me the same formula: public works are to the public interest. they babbled commonplaces. they spoke of great advantages to the province. i pleaded as forcibly as i could in the interests of this valley, and i opposed fact to formula. but my facts were not those which they wanted; and they told me, politely but unmistakably, that a churchman should not seek to interfere with civil matters. the promoters are masters of the position. they are all of accord: the foreign bankers, the italian bankers; the foreign engineers, the italian engineers; the technical office, the president of council, the dicastero of hygiene, of agriculture, of public works, all of them. our poor little valley seems to them a desirable prey; they have seized it, they will keep it. they were all courteous enough. they are polite, and even unwilling to cause what they call unnecessary friction. but they will not give an inch. their talons are in our flesh as an eagle's in a lamb's. one thinks fondly that what a man possesses is his own, be it land, house, stream--what not! but we mistake. there is a thing stronger, higher, more powerful than any poor title of property acquired by heritage, by purchase, or by labour. it is what they call expropriation. you think the edera cannot be touched: it can be expropriated. you think the terra vergine cannot be touched: it can be expropriated. against expropriation no rights can stand. it is the concentration and crystallisation of theft legitamised by government; that is by force. a vagrant may not take a sheaf of your wheat, a fowl from your hen-house: if he do so, the law protects you and punishes him. a syndicate of rich men, of powerful men, may take the whole of your land, and the state will compel you to accept any arbitrary price which it may choose to put upon your loss. according as you are rich or poor yourself, so great or so small will be the amount awarded to you. all the sub-prefects, all the syndics, all the officials in this province, will be richly rewarded; the people defrauded of the soil and the river will get what may be given them by an enforced valuation. i have conversed with all kinds and conditions of men; and i have heard only one statement in the mouths of all: the matter is beyond all alteration. there is money in it; the men whose trade is money will not let it go. my son, my dearest son, be calm, be prudent. violence can only injure yourself, and it can save nothing." he had for the moment spoken as he had been speaking for the last two weeks to men of education and of the world. he was recalled to the fact that his present auditor did not reason, did not comprehend, only felt, and was drunk with his own force of feeling. the look on adone's face appalled him. the youth seemed almost to have no intelligence left, almost as if all which had been said to him had reached neither his ear nor his brain. don silverio had been in the world of men, and unconsciously he had adopted their phraseology and their manner. to adone, who had expected some miracle, some rescue almost archangelic, some promise of immediate and divine interposition, these calm and rational statements conveyed scarcely any sense, so terrible was the destruction of his hopes. all the trust and candour and sweetness of his nature turned to gall. he listened, a sullen, savage darkness stealing over his countenance. "and our rights? theirs? -- mine?" he said as don silverio paused. "for all rights taken away they will give legal compensation." "you dare repeat that, sir?" don silverio controlled his indignation with difficulty. "i dare do whatever i deem right to do. you should know that by this time." "you think this right?" "i think it right to repeat exactly what has been said to me. i do not of necessity approve because i repeat." "you know no compensation is possible!" "morally, none. i speak of but what the law allows." "the law of pirates, of cut-throats!" "the law of the state, alas!" adone laughed. his hearer had heard such laughter as that in madhouses. "the state kills a soldier, and gives his family a hundred francs! that is the compensation of the state. if they emptied their treasuries, could they give the soldier back his life? if they emptied their treasuries, could they give us back what they will take from us?" "my dear son, do not doubt my sympathy. all my heart is with you. but what can be done? can a poor village, a poor commune, struggle with any chance of success against a rich company and a government? can a stalk of wheat resist the sickle? can an ear of wheat resist the threshing-flail? i have told you the story of don quixote della mancha. would you fight the empty air like him?" adone did not reply. his beautiful face grew moody, dark, fierce; in his eyes flamed passions which had no voice upon his lips; his white teeth ground against one another. "believe me, adone," said his friend, "we are in evil days, when men babble of liberty, and are so intent on the mere empty sound of their lips that they perceive not the fetters on their wrists and feet. there was never any time when there was so little freedom and so little justice as in ours. two gigantic dominions now rule the human race; they are the armies and the moneymakers. science serves them turn by turn, and receives from each its wage. the historian mommsen has written that we are probably inferior both in intelligence and in humanity, in prosperity and in civilisation, at the close of this century to what the human race was under severus antonius; and it is true." adone did not seem to hear. what were these abstract reasonings to him? all he cared for were his river and his fields. "i sought for an old friend of mine in rome," said don silverio, endeavouring to gain his attention and divert his thought, "one pamfilio scoria. he was a learned scholar; he had possessed a small competence and a house of his own, small too, but of admirable architecture, a quattrocentisto house. i could not find this house in rome. after long search i learned that it had been pulled down to make a new street. pamfilio scoria had in vain tried to preserve his rights. the city had turned him out and taken his property, paying what it chose. his grief was so great to see it destroyed, and to be turned adrift with his books and manuscripts, that he fell ill and died not long afterwards. on the site of the house there is a drinking-place kept by germans; a street railway runs before it. this kind of theft, of pillage, takes place every week. it is masked as public utility. we are not alone sufferers from such a crime." adone was still silent. his thoughts were not such as he could utter aloud in the priest's presence; and he heard nothing that was said; he heard only little nerina's voice saying: "could we not kill these men?" that flutelike whisper seemed to him to sigh with the very voice of the river itself. don silverio rose, his patience, great as it was, exhausted. "my son, as you do not give ear to me it is useless for me to speak. i must go to my office. the friar from san beda desires to return this evening. i have done all i can. i have told you the facts as they stand. take courage, be peaceable for your mother's sake and restrain yourself for your own. it is a frightful calamity which hangs over us all. but it is our duty to meet it like men." "like men!" muttered adone as he rose to his feet; had not the child from the abruzzo rocks a better sense of men's duty than this priest so calm and wise? "men resist," he said very low. "men resist," repeated don silverio. "they resist when their resistance serves any purpose, but when it can only serve to crush them uselessly under a mass of iron they are not men if they resist, but madmen." "farewell, sir," said adone. and with an obeisance he went out of the chamber. "poor boy! poor, passionate, dear youth!" thought don silverio as the door closed. "he thinks me cold and without emotion; how little he knows! he cannot suffer as i suffer for him and for my poor wretched people. what will they do when they shall know? they will mourn like starved sheep bleating in a field of stones, and i, their shepherd, shall not have a blade of grass wherewith to comfort them!" xi adone's sight was troubled as soon as he passed out of the dusky room into the blaze of noonday sunshine. his eyes seemed filled with blood. his brain was dizzy. that which had been his sheet-anchor in all doubts and contrition, his faith in and his reverence for don silverio, availed him nothing now. a blind sympathy with his most violent instincts was the only thing which could now content or console him. he was in that state to which all counsels of moderation appear but so much treason and unkindness. as he went out of the priest's house in that dazzling light, a hand caught his sleeve and that young flutelike voice of which he had thought murmured to him -- "adone! what tidings? what has he told you?" nerina, having run across the bridge and up the street after the little dog, had seen him and don silverio enter, and had waited for adone to come out of the house. adone pushed her away. "let me be!" he said impatiently. "it is all bad -- bad -- bad. bad as ill-blood. bad as crime." she clung to his arm nevertheless. "come into the church and tell me. no one cares as i do." "poor little soul!" he let her draw him into the great porch of the church and thence into the church itself; it was dark, as it always was, cold as an autumn evening, damp even in the canicular heat. "no one will hear; tell me!" said the child. he told her. "and what are you to do?" she asked, her eyes dilated with horror. "according to him," said adone bitterly, "i am to be meek and helpless as the heifer which goes to the slaughter. men must not resist what the law permits." nerina was mute. to dispute what don silverio said was like blasphemy to her; she honoured him with all her soul, but she loved adone. she loved the edera water too; that fair green rippling water, on whose bank she had sat naked under the dock leaves the day the two rams had fought. that which was threatened was an unholy, wicked, cruel robbery. was it indeed necessary to yield to it in submission? she remembered a saying of baruffo's: "if a man stand up to me i leave him some coins in his pocket, some life in his body; but if he crouch and cringe i stick him in the throat. he is a craven." the doctrine of baruffo seemed to her the more sound. it warmed the blood of the little abruzzo-born maiden to recall it. in the high mountains and forests the meeker virtues are not greatly honoured. she stood by adone's side, knitting her brows under her auburn curling locks, clenching her hands. "is there _one_ who does this evil most of all?" she said at length. "_one_ we could reach?" "you are a brave child, nerina!" said adone, and his words made her proud. "i fear there is a crowd. such men are like locusts; they come in swarms. but the first man who touches the water--" "shall sup of it and drown!" the little girl added the words with a fierce joy in her great bright eyes. "hush!" said adone, "and get you homeward, and tell my mother that don silverio has returned, and that i will come back to my work in a little while. tell her he says there is no hope." nerina obeyed him instantly, her bare feet flying over the stones of the street. he was left alone in the sombre church, with the great winged angels of stone above his head. he was grateful for its gloom. he shrank from the light of the morning. every drop of blood in his body, and in his brain, and in his limbs, seemed to him to turn to fire -- a fire which all the waters of the edera would never quench. how could they be accused of rebellion or wrong-doing because they wanted to keep the water running in the channel which it had made for itself in the very beginning of the world? the edera was ancient as its neighbours, the fiumicino which heard the voice of cæsar, or the marecchia which was bridged by augustus; ancient as the fountain of arethusa, as the lake of diana nemorensis. what sacrilege could be more heinous than to chase it from its chosen course? no lucumon of etruria, or esarch of ravenna, or pope or rome, had ever dared to touch it. revolutionists! they, who only sought to preserve it? the revolutionists were those who with alien hands and vampire's greed would seek to disturb its peace. xii all that day the people of ruscino crowded round the presbytery. "what of the edera water, sir?" they asked him a hundred times in the shrill cries of the women, in the rude bellow of the men, in the high-pitched, dissonant clamour of angry speakers. and all the day his patience and kindness were abused, and his nerves racked and strained, in the effort to persuade them that the river which ran beneath their walls was no more theirs than the stars which shone above it. it was hopeless to bring home to their intelligence either the invalidity of their claim, or the peril which would lie in their opposition. "'twas there in the beginning of time," they said. "there it must be for our children's children." he talked nonsense, they thought; who should be able to stop a river which was for ever running? the edera water was carried in the womb of the leonessa: leonessa gave it fresh birth every day. yes! thought don silverio, as he walked by the river after sunset, and watched its bright, impetuous current dash over the stones and shingle whilst two kingfishers flashed along its surface. yes, truly nature would pour it forth every day from her unfailing breast so long as man did not do it outrage. but how long would that be? a year, two years, three years, at most; then its place would know it no more, and its song would be silent. the water-pipet would make its nest no more in its sedges, and the blue porphyrion would woo his mate no more on its bosom. as one of the rich men in rome had said to him with a cynical smile, "the river will be there always, only it will be dry!" in the gloaming he went and spoke to adone's mother. she was at her spinning-wheel, but her hands moved mechanically; her face was dark and her eyelids swollen. "my friend," he said, as he sat down on the bench beneath the rose-tree, "i have brought you ill-tidings." "it is true then, sir?" "alas!" "i do not believe it. god will not let it be." "would that i could think so." "'tis you, sir, who should think so, and not i." "my good clelia," he said, with some impatience, "it is no use to dream dreams. try and persuade your son to accept the inevitable. my words seem harsh. they are not so. but i dare not let you cherish your illusions like this; blind yourself to fact, you expect some supernatural intercession. they will take your river; they will take your lands. your house will be yours no more. if you do not go peaceably they will have you turned out, as if you were a debtor. this may take some time, for it will be done with all due legal forms, but it will be done. they will pay you and your son some value by appraisement, but they will take your land and your house and all that is yours and his; i have seen the plans in rome. can you think that i should invent this to torture you? there will be a process, a sentence, an award; the money the law allots to you will be strictly paid to you; but you will be driven away from the terra vergine. realise this. try and keep your reason and save your son from madness. surely, where there is great love between two people, and bonds of memory and mutual duty, and strong faith, there a home may be made anywhere, even over seas?" clelia alba snapped with violence the thread she span. "they have talked you over, sir," she said curtly. "when you went away you were with us." "with you!" he echoed. "in heart, in pity, in sympathy, yes; never could i be otherwise. but were i to see you struck with lightning, should i save you by telling you that lightning did not kill? i did not know that the enterprise was as mature as i found it to be when i saw the promoters of it in rome. but i know now that it has been long in incubation; you must remember that every bend and ordnance maps; every stream, however small, is known to the technical office, and the engineers civil and military. i abhor the project. it is to me a desecration, an infamy, a robbery; it will ruin the valdedera from every point of view; but we can do nothing; this is what i implore you to realise. we are as helpless as one of your fowls when you cut its throat. violence can only hurry your son into the grip of the law. his rights are morally as plain as yonder snow on those mountains; but because they will buy his rights at what will be publicly estimated as a fair price, the law will not allow him to consider himself injured. my dear friend, you are a woman of sense and foresight; try to see this thing as it is." "i will hear what adone says, sir," replied clelia alba doggedly. "if he bids me burn the house, i shall burn it." don silverio was heart-sick and impatient. what use was it to argue with such minds as these? as well might he waste his words on the trunks of the olives, on the oxen in their stalls. they were wronged. that the wrong done them was masked under specious pretences, and was protected by all the plate armour of law and government, made the outrage little the worse to them. the brigand from the hills who used to harry their cattle and pillage their strong-box looked to them a hero, a saint, a christ, compared to these modern thieves who were environed with all the defences and impunity which the law and the state could give. when an earth-shock makes the soil under your feet quiver, and gape, and mutter, you feel that unnatural forces are being hurled against you, you feel that you are the mere sport and jest of an unjust deity. this was what they felt now. "nay," said clelia alba, "if the earth opened, and took us, it would be kinder; it would bury us at least under our own rooftree." what use was it to speak to such people as these of the right of expropriation granted by parliament, of the authority of a _dicastero_, and of a prefecture, of the sophistries and arguments of lawyers, of the adjudication of values, of the appraisement of claims? they were wronged: and they came of a race and of a soil in which the only fitting redresser of wrong was revenge. "mother," cried adone, "my father would not have given up his land as meekly as a sheep yields up her life." "no," said clelia alba; "whether he came from those war-lords of old i know not, but he would have fought as they fought." xiii the autumn and winter passed without more being heard in the valdedera of the new invasion. the peasantry generally believed that such silence was favourable to their wishes; but don silverio knew that it was otherwise. the promoters of the work did not concern themselves with the local population, they dealt with greater folks; with those who administered the various communes, and who controlled the valuation of the land through which the course of the edera ran; chiefly those well-born persons who constituted the provincial council. a great deal of money would change hands, but it was intended, by all through whose fingers those heavy sums would pass, that as little of the money as possible should find its way to the owners of the soil. a public work is like a fat hog; between the slaughterers, the salesmen, the middlemen, and the consumers, little falls to the original holder of the hog. the peasants of the valdedera were astonished that no one came to treat with them; but they did not understand that they dwelt under a paternal government, and the first care of a paternal government is to do everything for its children which is likely to promise any profit to itself. the men of business whom don silverio had seen in rome did not trouble themselves with the rustic proprietors of either water or land; they treated with the great officials of the department, with the deputies, the prefects, and sub-prefects, the syndics and assessors; so a perfect silence on the question reigned from the rise of the river to its mouth, and many of the men said over their wood-fires that they had been scared for nothing. the younger men, however, and those who were under adone's influence, were more wary; they guessed that the matter was being matured without them; that when the hog should be eaten, the smallest and rustiest flitch would then be divided amongst them. agents, such agents as were ministerial instruments of these magnates in election time, went amongst the scattered people and spoke to them of the great public utility of the contemplated works, and made them dispirited and doubtful of the value of their holdings, and uncertain of the legality of their tenures. but these agents were cautious and chary of promises, for they knew that in this district the temper of men was proud and hot and revengeful; and they knew also that when these rural owners should be brought into the courts to receive their price they would be dealt with just as the great men chose. one by one, so that each should be unsupported by his neighbours, the men of the valley were summoned, now to this town, now to the other, and were deftly argued with, and told that what was projected would be their salvation, and assured that the delegates who would be sent in their name by their provincial council to the capital would defend all their dearest interests. the rich man, the man of business, the man of cities, may receive in such transactions compensation, which is greatly to their advantage, because traffic is their trade, because to buy and sell, and turn and return, and roll the ball of gold so that it grows bigger every hour, is their custom and interest. but the poor man, the rustic, the man with the one ewe lamb, loses always, whether he assents to the sale or has it forced upon him. these people of the valley might have a little ready money given them on valuation, but it would be money clipped and cropped by the avarice of intermediates until little of it would remain, and they would be driven out to begin life anew; away from their old rooftree and the fruits of long years of labour. from far and near men came to ruscino to take counsel of its vicar; his wisdom being esteemed and his intelligence known in the valley beyond the confines of his parish: and what advice could he give them? he could but tell them that it was useless to kick against the pricks. he knew so well the cold, curt, inflexible official answer; the empty, vapouring regrets, false, simpering, pharisaical; the parrot-phrases of public interests, public considerations, public welfare; the smile, the sneer, the self-complacent shrug of those who know that only the people whom they profess to serve will suffer. to him, as to them, it seemed a monstrous thing to take away the water from its natural channel and force the men who lived on it and by it to alter all their ways of life and see their birthplace changed into a desert in order that aliens might make money. but he could not counsel them to resist; no resistance was possible. it was like any other tyranny of the state: like the fiscal brutality which sold up a poor man's hayrick or clothing because he could not pay the poll-tax. if the poor man resisted, if he fired his old fowling-piece, or used his knife on the minions of the state, what use was such resistance? he went to rot in prison. his calling, his conscience, his good sense, his obedience to law, all alike compelled him to urge on them patience, submission, and inaction before the provocation of a great wrong. he dared not even let them see one tithe of the sympathy he felt, lest if he did so they should draw from it an incentive to illegal action. the part which he was obliged to take in thus persuading the people to be tranquil under injustice estranged him farther and farther from adone alba, who found it a cowardice and a treachery, although he dared not say so in words. had he retained the coolness of reason the youth would have known and acknowledged that in the position of don silverio no other course would have been possible or decent. but reason had long left him, and inaction and impulse alone remained. he would not allow that a wrong might be condemned, and yet endured. to him all endurance had in it the meanness of condonation. he ceased to have any faith in his friend and teacher; and gradually grew more and more alienated from him; their intimate affection, their frequent intercourse, their long walks and evening meeting were over; and even as his spiritual director the vicar had no longer power over him. most of his actions and intentions were concealed; except in the younger men of the district, who saw as he saw, he had now no confidence in any one. the impending loss of the land and the water turned all the sweetness of his nature to gall. he thought that never in the history of the world had any wrong so black been done. he, himself, flung broadcast the fires of burning incitation without heeding or caring whither the flames might reach. riots had been successful before this: why not now? he was young enough and innocent enough to believe in the divine right of a just cause. if that were denied, what remained to the weak? if he could, he would have set the valley in flames from one end to the other rather than have allowed the foreigners to seize it. had not his forefather perished in fire on yonder hill rather than cede to the borgia? evening after evening he looked at the sun setting behind the rocca and felt the black rage in him gnaw at his heart like a vulture. they would offer him money for this dear earth, for this fair, beloved stream! -- the mere thought choked him as a man who loved his wife would be choked at the though of her dishonoured sale. some were half persuaded that it would be a fine thing to get some crisp banknotes in exchange for waste ground which yielded little, or a cabin which was falling to pieces, or a strip of woodland which gave them fuel, but not much more. but the majority were angry, irreconcilable, furious to lose the water, full of their wrongs. these were glad to find adone alba a spokesman and a leader: they were tow which caught fire at his torch. they comprehended little, but they knew that they were wronged; and they agreed with him that the labourers who should come from over the border to meddle with them should be made to rue it bitterly. the italian goes over seas, indeed; huddled under the hatches of emigrant ships; miserable, starved, confined; unable to move, scarce able to breathe, like the unhappy beasts carried with him. but he never goes willingly; he never wrenches himself from the soil without torn nerves and aching heart; if he lives and makes a little money in exile he comes back to the shadow of the village church, to the sound of the village bell which he knew in his boyhood, to walk in the lanes where he threw his wooden quoit as a lad, and to play dominoes under the green bough of the winehouse where as a child he used to watch his elders and envy them. most of these people dwelling on the edera water had not been five miles away from the river in all their lives. the moorland birds and beasts went farther afield than they. they had no interest in what was beyond their own freehold; they did not even know or care whither the water went, or whence it came. where it was, they owned it. that was enough for them. "sir, what is it adone does?" said clelia alba, one dusky and stormy eve after vespers. "at nightfall out he goes; and never a word to me, only 'your blessing, mother,' he says, as if he might lose his life where he goes. i thought at first it was some love matter, for he is young; but it cannot be that, for he is too serious, and he goes fully armed, with his father's pistols in his belt and his own long dagger in his stocking. true, they go so to a love tryst, if it be a dangerous one; if the woman be wedded; only i think it is not that, for men in love are different. i think that he broods over some act." "neither you nor i can do aught. he is of age to judge for himself," said don silverio; "but, like you, i do not think a woman is the cause of his absence." "can you not speak to him, sir?" "i have spoken. it is useless. he is moved by a motive stronger than any argument we can use. in a word, good clelia, this coming seizure of the water is suffering so great to him that he loses his reason. he is trying to make the men of the commune see as he sees. he wants to rouse them, to arm them. he might as well set the calves in your stalls to butt the mountain granite." "maybe, sir," said clelia alba, unwillingly; but her eye gleamed, and her stern, proud face grew harder. "but he has the right to do it if he can. if they touch the water they are thieves, worse than those who came down from the hills in the years of my girlhood." "you would encourage him in insurrection, then?" "nay, i would not do that; but neither would i blame him. every man has a right to defend his own. neither his father nor mine, sir, were cowards." "this is no question of cowardice. it is a question of common sense. a few country lads cannot oppose a government. with what weapons can they do so? courage i honour; without it all active virtues are supine; but it is not courage to attempt the impossible, to lead the ignorant to death -- or worse." "of that my son must judge, sir," said adone's mother, inflexible to argument. "i shall not set myself against him. he is master now. if he bid me fire the place i shall do it. for four-and-twenty years he obeyed me like a little child; never a murmur, never a frown. now he is his own master, and master of the land. i shall do as he tells me. it is his turn now, and he is no fool, sir, adone." "he is no fool; no. but he is beside himself. he is incapable of judgment. his blood is on fire and fires his brain." "i think not, sir. he is quiet. he speaks little" "because he meditates what will not bear speech. were he violent i should be less alarmed. he shuns me -- me -- his oldest friend." "because no doubt, sir, he feels you are against him." "against him! how can i, being what i am, be otherwise? could you expect me to foment insurrection, and what less than that can opposition such as he intends become?" "you speak as you feel bound to speak, sir, no doubt." "but think of the end? must not every action be weighed and considered and judgment passed on it by what will be its issue? no rising of our poor people can effect anything except their own destruction. it is only a demagogue who would urge them on to it. adone is not a demagogue. he is a generous youth frantic from sorrow, but helpless. can you not see that?" "i do not see that he is helpless," said his mother with obstinacy. "the thing that are about to do us is unjust. i would load a gun myself against them, and if money be what is wanted i would give adone my pearls. he asks me for nothing, but when he does i will strip myself to my shift to aid him." "it is a terrible madness!" cried don silverio. "what can your fowling-piece or your necklace do against all the force these speculators and contractors will employ? it is a great, a heinous wrong which will be done to you; that no one can feel more strongly than i. but there are wrongs to which we must submit when we are weak; and, my good clelia, against this we poor folks in the vale of edera are as weak as the teal in the marshes against the swivel guns of the sportsmen's punts." but he argued in vain; logic and persuasion are alike useless when opposed to the rock of ignorance and obstinacy. she held him in deep reverence; she brought her conscience to his judgment; she thought him beyond ordinary humanity: but when he endeavoured to persuade her that her son was wrong he failed. "sir, you know that this crime against the river will ruin us," she said doggedly. "why then should you try to tie our hands? i do not know what adone does; his mind is hid from me, but if, as you say, he wants a rising of our people, it is natural and just." when the mind of the peasant -- man or woman -- be made up in its stubbornness, all learning, wisdom, experience, even fact, speak in vain; it opposes to all proofs the passive resistance of a dogged incredulity: to reason with it is as useless as to quarry stone with a razor. many and many a time had he given up in exhaustion and nausea his endeavours to convince the rural mind of some simple fact, some clear cause, some elementary principle. he knew that clelia alba would never believe in the exile which would be her certain fate until the armed and liveried creatures of the state should drive her from her home by order of the state. he had seen in rome that there was no possible chance of opposing this enterprise against the edera water. it had been decided on by men of money who had the ear of ministers, the precedence in ante-chambers, the means of success in political departments and in commercial centres. a few scattered provincial owners of land and labourers on land might as well try to oppose these men as the meek steinbok in the mountain solitudes to escape the expanding bullet of a prince's rifle. yet he also saw how impossible it was to expect a young man like adone, with his lineage, his temperament, his courage, and his mingling of ignorance and knowledge, to accept the inevitable without combat. as well might he be bidden to accept dishonour. the remorse in his soul was keen, inasmuch as without him adone would never have known of his descent from the lords of ruscino, and never, probably, have acquired that "little learning" which a poet of the north has said is a dangerous thing. "better," thought don silverio, with tormenting self-reproach, "better have left him to his plough, to his scythe, to his reaping-hook; better have left him in ignorance of the meaning of art and of study; better have left him a mere peasant to beget peasants like himself. then he would have suffered less, and might possibly have taken peaceably such compensation as the law would have allowed him for the loss to his land, and have gone away to the west, as so many go, leaving the soil they were born on to pass out of culture." would adone ever have done that? no; he would not; he was wedded to the soil like the heaths that grew out of it. he might be violently dragged away, but he would never live elsewhere; his heart had struck its roots too deeply into the earth which nurtured him. "why did you tell him of all the great men that lived?" clelia alba had often said to him. "why did you fill his soul with that hunger which no bread that is baked can content? we, who work to live, have no time to do aught except work, and sleep awhile to get strength for more work; and so on, always the same, until age ties knots in our sinews, and makes our blood thin and slow. what use is it to open gates to him which he must never pass, to make his mind a tangled skein that can never be undone? when you work hard you want to rest in your resting hours, not to dream. dreaming is no rest. he is always dreaming, and now he dreams of blood and fire." don silverio's heart was with them, and by all the obligations of his calling was forced to be against them. he was of a militant temper; he would gladly have led them into action as did the martial priests of old; but his sense, his duty, his conscience, all forbade him to even show them such encouragement as would lie in sympathy. had he been rich he would have taken their cause into the tribunals and contested this measure inch by inch, however hopelessly. but who would plead for a poor parish, for a penniless priest? what payment could he offer, he who could scarcely find the coins to fill his salt-box or to mend his surplice? a great anxiety consumed him. he saw no way out of this calamity. the people were wronged, grossly wronged, but how could they right that wrong? bloodshed would not alter it, or even cure it. what was theirs, and the earth's, was to be taken from them; and how were they to be persuaded that to defend their own would be a crime. "there is nothing, then, but for the people to lie down and let the artillery roll over them!" said adone once, with bitter emphasis. "and the drivers and the gunners are their own brothers, sons, nephews, who will not check their gallop an instant for that fact; for the worst thing about force is that it makes its human instruments mere machines like the guns which they manoeuver," thought don silverio, as he answered aloud: "no; i fear there will be nothing else for them to do under any tyranny, until all the nations of the earth shall cease to send their children to be made the janissaries of the state. no alteration of existing dominions will be possible so long as the armies exist." adone was silent; convinced against his will, and therefore convinced without effect or adhesion. he dared not tell his friend of the passionate propaganda which he had begun up and down the course of the edera, striving to make these stocks and stones stir, striving to make the blind see, the deaf hear, the infirm rise and leap. "let us go and make music," said the priest at last. "that will not harm any one, and will do our own souls good. it is long since i heard your voice." "it will be longer," thought adone, as he answered: "excuse me, sir; i cannot think of any other thing than this great evil which hangs over us. there is not one of our country people who does not curse the scheme. they are frightened and stupid, but they are angry and miserable. those who are their spokesmen, or who ought to be, do not say what they wish, do not care what they wish, do not ask what they wish. they are the sons of the soil, but they count for nothing. if they met to try and do anything for themselves, guards -- soldiery -- would come from a distance, they say, and break up the meetings, and carry those who should speak away to some prison. the government approves the theft of the water: that is to be enough." "yet public meeting has been a right of the people on the latin soil ever since the cæsars." "what matter right, what matter wrong? no one heeds either." "we must help ourselves." he spoke sullenly and under his breath. he did not dare to say more clearly what was in his thoughts. "by brute force?" said don silverio. "that were madness. what would be the number of the able-bodied men of all three communes? let us say two thousand; that is over the mark. what weapons would they have? old muskets, old fowling-pieces, and not many of those; their scythes, their axes, their sticks. a single battalion would cut them down as you mow grass. you have not seen rioters dispersed by trained troops. i have. i have seen even twenty carabineers gallop down a street full of armed citizens, the carabineers shooting right and left without selection; and the street, before they had ridden two hundred yards, was empty except for a few fallen bodies which the horses trampled. you can never hope to succeed in these days with a mere _jacquerie_. you might as well set your wheatsheaves up to oppose a field battery." "garibaldi," muttered adone, "he had naught but raw levies!" "garabaldi was an instinctive military genius, like aguto, like ferruccio, like gian delle bande neri, like all the great condottieri. but he would probably have rotted in the spielberg, or been shot in some fortress of the quadrilateral, if he had not been supported by that proclamation of genoa and campaign of lombardy, which were louis napoleon's supreme errors in french policy." adone was silent, stung by that sense of discomfiture and mortification which comes upon those who feel their own inability to carry on an argument. to him garibaldi was superhuman, fabulous, far away in the mists of an heroic past, as ulysses to greek youths. "you, sir, may preach patience," he said sullenly. "it is no doubt your duty to preach it. but i cannot be patient. my heart would choke in my throat." don silverio looked him straight in the face. "what is it you intend to do?" "i tell you that you can do nothing, my son." "how know you that, reverend? you are a priest, not a man." a faint red colour came over don silverio's colourless face. "one may be both," he said simply. "you are distraught, my son, by a great calamity. try and see yourself as other see you, and do not lead the poor and ignorant into peril. will the edera waters be freer because your neighbours and you are at the galleys? the men of gold, who have the men of steel behind them, will be always stronger than you." "god is over us all," said adone. don silverio was silent. he could not refute that expression of faith, but in his soul he could not share it; and adone had said it, less in faith than in obstinacy. he meant to rouse the country if he could, let come what might of the rising. who could tell the issue? a spark from a poor man's hearth had set a city in flames before now. "how can you think me indifferent?" said don silverio. "had i no feeling for you should i not feel for myself? almost certainly my life will be doomed to end here. think you that i shall see with callousness the ruin of this fair landscape, which has been my chief consolation through so many dreary years? you, who deem yourself so wholly without hope, may find solace if you choose to take it. you are young, you are free, all the tenderest ties of life can be yours if you choose; if this home be destroyed you may make another where you will. but i am bound here. i must obey; i must submit. i cannot move; i cannot alter or renew my fate; and to me the destruction of the beauty of the edera valley will be the loss of the only pleasure of my existence. try and see with my eyes, adone; it may help you to bear your burden." but he might as well have spoken to the water itself, or to the boulders of its rocks, or to the winds which swept its surface. "it is not yours," said adone, almost brutally. "you were not born here. you cannot know! live elsewhere? my mother and i? sooner a thousand times would we drown in edera!" the water was golden under the reflections of the sun as he spoke; the great net was swaying in it, clear of the sword rush and iris; a kingfisher like a jewel was threading its shallows; there was the fresh smell of the heather and the wild tulips on the air. "you do not know what it is to love a thing! -- how should you? -- you, a priest!" said adone. don silverio did not reply. he went on down the course of the stream. xiv one morning in early april adone received a printed invitation to attend in five days' time at the municipality of san beda to hear of something which concerned him. it was brought by the little old postman who went the rounds of the district once a week on his donkey; the five days had already expired before the summons was delivered. adone's ruddy cheeks grew pale as he glanced over it; he thrust it into the soil and drove his spade through it. the old man waiting, in hopes to get a draught of wine, looked at him in dismay. "is that a way to treat their honours' commands?" he said aghast. adone did not answer or raise his head; he went on with his digging; he was turning and trenching the soil to plant potatoes; he flung spadefuls of earth over the buried summons. "what's amiss with you, lad?" said the old fellow, who had known him from his infancy. "leave me," said adone, with impatience. "go to the house if you want to drink and to bait your beast." "thank ye," said the old man. "but you will go, won't you, adone? it fares ill with those who do not go." "who told you to say that?" "nobody; but i have lived a' many years, and i have carried those printed papers a' many years, and i know that those who do not go when they are called rue it. their honours don't let you flout them." "their honours be damned!" said adone. "go to the house." the little old man, sorely frightened, dropped his head, and pulling his donkey by its bridle went away along the grass path under the vines. adone went on delving, but his strong hands shook with rage and emotion as they grasped the handle of the spade. he knew as well as if he had been told by a hundred people that he was called to treat of the sale of the terra vergine. he forced himself to go on with his forenoon's labour, but the dear familiar earth swam and spun before his sight. "what?" he muttered to it, "i who love you am not your owner? i who was born on you am not your lawful heir? i who have laboured on you ever since i was old enough to use a tool at all am now in my manhood to give you up to strangers? i will make you run red with blood first!" it wanted then two hours of noon. when twelve strokes sounded from across the river, tolled slowly by the old bronze bell of the church tower, he went for the noonday meal and rest to the house. the old man was not longer there, but clelia alba said to him -- "dario says they summon you to dan beda, and that you will not go?" "he said right." "but, my son," cried his mother, "go you must! these orders are not to be shirked. those who give them have the law behind them. you know that." "they have the villainy of the law behind them: the only portion of the law the people ever suffered to see." "but how can you know what it is about if you do not go?" "there is only one thing which it can be. one thing that i will not hear." "you mean for the river -- for the land?" "what else?" her face grew as stern as his own. "if that be so... still you should go, my son; you should go to hold your own." "i will hold my own," said adone; and in his thoughts he added, "but not by words." "what is the day of the month for which they call you?" asked his mother. "the date is passed by three days. that is a little feat which authority often plays upon the people." they went within. the meal was eaten in silence; the nut-brown eyes of nerina looked wistfully in their faces, but she asked nothing; she guessed enough. adone said nothing to don silverio of the summons, for he knew that the priest would counsel strongly his attendance in person at san beda, even though the date was already passed. but the vicar had heard of it from the postman, who confided to him the fears he felt that adone would neglect the summons, and so get into trouble. he perceived at once the error which would be committed if any sentence should be allowed to go by default through absence of the person cited.. by such absence the absentee discredits himself; whatsoever may be the justice of his cause, it is prejudiced at the outset. but how to persuade of this truth a man so blind with pain and rage and so dogged in self-will as adone had become, don silverio did not see. he shrank from renewing useless struggles and disputes which led to no issue. he felt that adone and he would only drift farther and farther apart with every word they spoke. the young man viewed this thing through a red mist of hatred and headstrong fury; it was impossible for his elder to admit that such views were wise or pardonable, or due to anything more than the heated visions evoked by a great wrong. that evening at sunset he saw the little girl nerina at the river. she had led the cows to the water, and they and she were standing knee deep in the stream. the western light shone on their soft, mottled, dun hides and on her ruddy brown hair and bright young face. the bearded bulrushes were round them; the light played on the broad leaves of the docks and the red spikes of great beds of willow-herb; the water reflected the glowing sky, and close to its surface numbers of newly-come swallows whirled and dipped and darted, chasing gnats, whilst near at hand on a spray a little woodlark sang. the scene was fair, peaceful, full of placid and tender loveliness. "and all this is to be changed and ruined in order that some sons of the mammon of unrighteousness may set up their mills to grind their gold," he thought to himself as he passed over the stepping-stones, which at this shallow place could be crossed dryfoot. "where is adone?" he called to the child. "he is gone down the river in the punt, most reverend." "and his mother?" "is at the house, sir." don silvero went through the pastures under the great olives. when he reached the path leading to the house he saw clelia alba seated before the doorway spinning. the rose-tree displayed its first crimson buds above her head; on the roof sparrows and starlings were busy. clelia alba rose and dropped a low courtesy to him, then resumed her work at the wheel. "you have heard, sir?" she said in a low tone. "they summons him to san beda." "old dario told me; but adone will not go?" "no sir; he will never go." "he is in error." "i do not know sir. he is best judge of that." "i fear he is in no state of mind to judge calmly of anything. his absence will go against him. instead of an amicable settlement the question will go to the tribunals, and if he be unrepresented there he will be condemned _in contumacium_." "amicable settlement?" repeated his mother, her fine face animated and stern, and her deep dark eyes flashing. "can you, sir, dare you, sir, name such a thing? what they would do is robbery, vile robbery, a thousand times worse than aught the men of night ever did when they came down from the hills to harass our homesteads." "i do not say this otherwise; but the law is with those who harass you now. we cannot alter the times, good clelia; we must take them as they are. your son should go to san beda and urge his rights, not with violence but with firmness and lucidity; he should also provide himself with an advocate, or he will be driven out of his home by sheer force, and with some miserable sum as compensation." clelia alba's brown skin grew ashen grey, and its heavy lines deepened. "you mean... that is possible?" "it is more than possible. it is certain. these things always end so. my poor dear friend! do you not understand, even yet, that nothing can save your homestead?" clelia alba leaned her elbows on her knees and bowed her face upon her hands. she felt as women of her race had felt on some fair morn when they had seen the skies redden with baleful fires, and the glitter of steel corslets shine under the foliage, and had heard the ripe corn crackle under the horses' hoofs, and had heard the shrieking children scream, "the lances are coming, mother! mother! save us!" those women had had no power to save homestead or child; they had seen the pikes twist in the curling locks, and the daggers thrust in the white young throats, and the flames soar to heaven, burning rooftree and clearing stackyard, and they had possessed no power to stay the steel or quench the torch. she was like them. she lifted her face up to the light. "he will kill them." "he may kill one man -- two men -- he will have blood on his hands. what will that serve? i have told you again and again. this thing is inevitable -- frightful, but inevitable, like war. in war do not millions of innocent and helpless creatures suffer through no fault of their own, no cause of their own, on account of some king's caprice or statesman's blunder? you are just such victims here. nothing will preserve to you the terra vergine. my dear old friend, have courage." "i cannot believe it, sir; i cannot credit it. the land is ours; this little bit of the good and solid earth is ours; god will not let us be robbed of it." "my friend! no miracles are wrought now. i have told you again and again and again you must lose this place." "i will not believe it!" "alas! i pray hat you may not be forced to believe; but i know that i pray in vain. tell me, you are certain that adone will not answer that summons?" "i am certain." "he is mad." "no, sir he is not mad. no more than i, his mother. we have faith in heaven." don silverio was silent. it was not for him to tell them that such faith was a feeble staff. "i must not tarry," he said, and rose. "the night is near at hand. tell your son what i have said. my dear friend, i would almost as soon stab you in the throat as say these things to you; but as you value your son's sanity and safety make him realise this fact, which you and he deny: the law will take your home from you, as it will take the river from the province." "no, sir!" said clelia alba fiercely. "no, no, no! there is a god above us!" don silverio bade her sadly farewell, and insisted no more. he went through the odorous grasslands, where the primrose and wild hyacinth grew so thickly and the olive branches were already laden with small green berries, and his soul was uneasy, seeing how closed is the mind of the peasant to argument or to persuasion. often had he seen a poor beetle pushing its ball of dirt up the side of a sandhill only to fall back, and begin again, and again fall; for any truth to endeavour to penetrate the brain of the rustic is as hard as for the beetle to climb the sand. he was disinclined to seek the discomfiture of another useless argument, but neither could he be content in his conscience to let this matter wholly alone. long and dreary as the journey was to san beda, he undertook it again, saying nothing to any one of his purpose. he hoped to be able to put adone's contumacy in a pardonable light before the syndic, and perhaps to plea his cause better than the boy could plead it for himself. to don silverio he always seemed a boy still, and therefore excusable in all his violence and extravagances. the day was fine and cool, and walking was easier and less exhausting than it had been at the season of his first visit; moreover, his journey to rome had braced his nerves and sinews to exertion, and restored to him the energy and self-possession which the long, tedious, monotonous years of solitude in ruscino had weakened. there was a buoyant wind coming from the sea with rain in its track, and a deep blue sky with grand clouds drifting past the ultramarine hues of the abruzzo range. the bare brown rocks grew dark as bronze, and the forest-clothed hills were almost black in the shadows, as the clustered towers and roofs of the little city came in sight. he went, fatigued as he was, straight to the old ducal palace, which was now used as the municipality, without even shaking the dust off his feet. "say that i come for the affair of adone alba," he said to the first persons he saw in the ante-room on the first floor. in the little ecclesiastical town his calling commanded respect. they begged him to sit own and rest, and in a few minutes returned to say that the most illustrious the count corradini would receive him at once in his private room; it was a day of general council, but the council would not meet for an hour. the syndic was a tall, spare, frail man, with a patrician's face and an affable manner. he expressed himself in courteous terms as flattered by the visit of the vicar ruscino, and inquired if in any way he could be of the slightest service. "of the very greatest, your excellency," said don silverio. "i have ventured to come hither on behalf of a young parishioner of mine, adone alba, who, having received the summons of your excellency only yesterday, may, i trust, be excused for not having obeyed it on the date named. he is unable to come to-day. may i offer myself for his substitute as _amicus curie_!" "certainly, certainly," said corradini, relieved to meet an educated man instead of the boor he had expected. "if the summons were delayed by any fault of my officials, the delay must be inquired into. meanwhile, most reverend, have you instructions to conclude the affair?" "as yet, i venture to remind your excellency, we do not even know what is the affair of which you speak." "oh no; quite true. the matter is the sale of the land known under the title of the terra vergine." "thank heaven i am here, and not adone," thought don silverio. aloud he answered, "what sale? the proprietor has heard of none." "he must have heard. it can be no news to you that the works about to be made upon the river edera will necessitate the purchase of the land known as the terra vergine." here the syndic put on gold spectacles, drew towards him a black portfolio filled by plans and papers, and began to move them about, muttering, as he searched, little scraps of phrases out of each of them. at last he turned over the sheets which concerned the land of the alba. "terra vergine -- commune of ruscino -- owners alba from -- family of good report -- regular taxpayers -- sixty hectares -- land productive; value -- just so -- humph, humph, humph!" then he laid down the documents and looked at don silverio from over his spectacles. "i conclude, most reverend, that you come empowered by this young man to treat with us?" "i venture, sir," replied don silverio respectfully, "to remind you again that it is impossible i should be so empowered, since adone alba was ignorant of the reason for which he was summoned here." corradini shuffled his documents nervously with some irritation. "this conference, then, is a mere waste of time? i hold council to-day --" "pardon me, your excellency," said don silverio blandly. "it will not be a waste of time if you will allow me to lay before you certain facts, and, first, to ask you one question: who is, or are, the buyer or buyers of this land?" the question was evidently unwelcome to the syndic; it was direct, which every italian considers ill-bred, and it was awkward to answer. he was troubled for personal reasons, and the calm and searching gaze of the priest's dark eyes embarrassed him. after all, he thought, it would have been better to deal with the boor himself. "why do you ask that?" he said irritably. "you are aware that the national society for the improvement of land and the foreign company of the teramo-tronto electric railway combine in these projected works?" "to which of these two societies, then, is adone alba, or am i, as his _locum tenens_, to address ourselves?" "to neither. this commune deals with you." "why?" count corradini took off his glasses, put them on again, shifted the papers and plans in his imposing portfolio. "may i ask again -- why?" said don silverio in the gentlest tones of his beautiful voice. "because, because," answered the syndic irritably, "because the whole affair is in treaty between our delegates and the companies. public societies do not deal with private individuals directly, but by proxy." "pardon my ignorance," said don silverio, "but why does the commune desire to substitute itself for the owner?" "it is usual." "ah! it is usual." corradini did not like the repetition of his phrase, which would not perhaps bear very close examination. he looked at his watch. "excuse me, reverend father, but time presses." "allow me to crave of your bounty a little more time, nevertheless. i am not habituated to business, but i believe, if i understand your worshipful self aright, the commune contemplates purchasing from the individuals, with power and intent to sell to the companies." what an unmannerly ecclesiastic! thought corradini; for indeed, put thus bluntly and crudely what the commune, as represented by himself, was doing did not look as entirely correct as could be desired. "i was in rome, most illustrious," said don silverio, "in connection with this matter some months ago?" "in rome?" to hear this was unpleasant to the syndic; it ha never occurred to him that his rural, illiterate, and sparsely populated district would have contained any person educated enough to think of inquiring in rome about this local matter. "to rome! why did you go to rome?" "to acquire information concerning this scheme." "you are an owner of land?" "no, sir. i am a poor, very poor, priest." "it cannot concern you, then." "it concerns my people. nothing which concerns them is alien to me." "humph, humph! most proper, most praiseworthy. but we have no time for generalities. you came to treat of the terra vergine?" "pardon me, sir; i came to hear why you summoned adone alba, one of my flock." "could he not have come himself? it had been but his duty." "he could not, sir; and, to say truth, he would not. he does not intend to sell his land." "what!" corradini half rose from his chair, leaning both hands on the table, and staring though his glasses across the mass of portfolios and papers at the priest. "he will have no choice allowed him," he said with great anger. "to the interests of the state all minor interests must bend. what! a mere peasant stand in the way of a great enterprise?" "you intend expropriation then?" the voice of don silverio was very calm and sweet, but his countenance was stern. corradini was irritated beyond measure. he did not desire to play that great card so early in the game. "i do not say that," he muttered. "there must be parliamentary sanction for any forced sale. i spoke in general terms. private interest must cede to public" "there is parliamentary sanction already given to the project for the valley of edera," said don silverio, "expropriation included." count corradini threw himself back in his chair with an action expressive at once of wrath and of impotence. he had an irritating sense that this priest was master of the position, and knew much more than he said. in reality don silverio knew very little, but he had skill and tact enough to give a contrary impression to his auditor. he followed up his advantage. "expropriation is to be permitted to enforce sales on recalcitrant landowners," he continued. "but that measure, even though conceded in theory, will take time to translate into practice. i fear, sir, that if it be ever put into execution we shall have trouble in your commune. your council has been over hasty in allying itself with these speculators. you and they have not taken into account the immense injury which will be done to the valley and to my own village or town, call it as you will, of ruscino. the people are quiet, patient, meek, but they will not be so if they are robbed of the water of the edera. it is the source of all the little -- the very little -- good which comes to them. so it is with adone alba. he has been god-fearing, law-abiding, a good son, excellent in all relations; but he will not recognise as law the seizure of his land. sir, you are the elected chief of this district; all these people look to you for support in their emergency. what are these foreign speculators to you that you should side with them? you say this commune will purchase from its peasant proprietors in the interests of these foreigners. was it to do this that they elected you? why should the interests of the foreigners be upheld by you to the injury of those of your own people? speaking for my own parish, i can affirm to you that, simple souls as they are, poor in the extreme, and resigned to poverty, you will have trouble with them all if you take it on you to enforce the usurpation of the edera water." count corradini, still leaning back in his large leathern chair, listened as if he were hypnotised; he was astounded, offended, enraged, but he was fascinated by the low, rich, harmonious modulations of the voice which addressed him, and by the sense of mastery which the priest conveyed without by a single word asserting it. "you would threaten me with public disorder?" he said feebly, and with consciousness of feebleness. "no sir; i would adjure you, in god's name, not to provoke it." "it does not rest with me." he raised himself in his chair: his slender aristocratic hands played nervously with the strings of the portfolio, his eyelids flickered, and his eyes avoided those of his visitor. "i have no voice in this matter. you mistake." "surely your excellency speaks with the voice of all you electors?" "of my administrative council, then? but they are all in favour of the project; so is his excellency the prefect, so is the deputy, so is the government. can i take upon myself in my own slender personality to oppose these?" "yes, sir, because you are the mouthpiece of those who cannot speak for themselves." "euh! euh! that may be true in a sense. but you mistake; my authority is most limited. i have but two votes in council. i am as wholly convinced as you can be that some will suffer for the general good. the individual is crushed by the crowd in these days. we are in a period of immense and febrile development; of wholly unforeseen expansion; we are surrounded by the miracles of science; we are witnesses of an increase of intelligence which will lead to results whereof no living man can dream; civilisation in its vast and ineffable benevolence sometimes wounds, even as the light and heat of the blessed sun --" "pardon me, sir," said don soverio, "at any other moment it would be my dearest privilege to listen to your eloquence. but time passes. i came here on a practical errand. i desire to take back some definite answer to adone and clelia alba. am i to understand from you that the municipality, on behalf of these foreign companies, desires to purchase his land, and even insists upon its right to do so?" the syndic, accustomed to seek shelter from all plain speaking in the cover of flowery periods such as those in which he had been arrested, was driven from his usual refuge. he could not resume the noble and enlightened discourse which had been thus recklessly cut in two. he tied the strings of the portfolio into a bow, and undid them, and tied them again. "i have received you, sir, _ex officio_," he replied after a long silence. "you address me as if i possessed some special individual power. i have none. i am but the mouthpiece, the representative of my administrative council. you, a learned ecclesiastic, cannot want to be taught what are the functions of a syndic." "i am to understand then that i must address myself on behalf of my people to the prefect?" corradini was silent. the last thing he desired was for this importunate priest to see the prefect. "i must go into council at once," he said, again looking at his watch. "could you return? are you remaining here?" "some hours, sir." "will you dine with me at my house at three? you will give me much pleasure, and the countess corradini will be charmed." "i am grateful for so much offered honour, but i have promised to make my noonday meal with an old friend, the superior of the cistercians." "an excellent, a holy person," said corradini, with a bend of his head. "be at my house, reverend sir, at five of the clock. i shall then have spoken with the assessors of your errand, and it will be dealt with probably in council." don silverio made a low bow, and left him free to go to his awaiting councillors, who were already gathered round a long table covered by green cloth, in a vaulted and stately chamber, stories from greek mythology carved on its oaken doors and stone cornices. "pray excuse me, gentleman," said the courtly mayor to his assessors, taking his seat on an old walnut-wood throne at the head of the table. "i have been detained by this matter of the valdedera. i fear the people of that valley will show an ungrateful and refractory temper. how hard it is to persuade the ignorant where their true interests lie! but let us to business." "it will be a hard matter," said the prior to don silverio as they walked together in the little burial-ground of the monastery between its lines of rose-trees and its lines of crosses, after the frugal noonday meal had been eaten in the refrectory. "it will be a hard matter. you will fail, i fear. the municipalities here smell money. that is enough to make them welcome the invasion. what can you do against the force of gold?" "would it avail anything to see the prefect?" "nothing. he is cousin to the minister of agriculture, whose brother is chairman of the teramo-fermo company. we are governed solely by what the french call _tripotage_." "what character does this syndic bear?" "a good one. he is blameless in his domestic relation, an indulgent landlord, a gentleman, respectful of religion, assiduous in his duties; but he is in debt; his large estates produce little; he has no other means. i would not take upon me to say that he would be above a bribe." at five of the clock, as the syndic had told him to do, don silverio presented himself at the palazzo corradini. he was shown with much deference by an old liveried servant into a fine apartment with marble busts in niches in the walls, and antique bookcases of oak, and doorhangings of tuscan tapestry. the air of the place was cold, and had the scent of a tomb. it was barely luminated by two bronze lamps in which unshaded oil wicks burned. corradini joined him there in five minutes' time, and welcomed him to the house with grace and warmth of courtesy. "what does he want of me?" thought don silverio, who had not been often met in life by such sweet phrases. "does he want me to be blind?" "dear and reverend sir," said the mayor, placing himself with his back to the brass lamps, "tell me fully about this youth whom you protect, who will not sell the terra vergine. here we can speak at our ease; yonder at the municipality, there may be always some eavesdropper." "most worshipful, what i said is matter well known to the whole countryside; all the valley can bear witness to its truth," replied don silverio, and he proceeded to set forth all that he knew of adone and clelia alba, and of their great love for their lands; he only did not mention what he believed to be adone's descent, because he feared that it might sound fantastical or presumptuous. nearly three hundred years of peasant ownership and residence were surely titles enough for consideration. "if land owned thus, and tilled thus by one family, can be taken away from that family by act of parliament to please the greedy schemes of strangers, why preserve the eighth commandment in the decalogue? it becomes absurd. there cannot be a more absolute ownership than this of the alba to the farm they live on and cultivate. so long as there is any distinction at all between _meum et tuum_, how can its violent seizure be by any possibility defended?" "there will be no violent seizure," said corradini. "the young man will be offered a good price; even, since you are interested in him, a high price." "but he will take no price -- no price, if he were paid million; they would not compensate for his loss." "he must be a very singular young man." "his character is singular, no doubt, in an age in which money is esteemed the sole goal of existence, and discontent constitutes philosophy. adone alba wants nothing but what he has; he only asks to be left alone." "it is difficult to be left alone in a world full of other people! if your hero wants a thebaid, he can go and buy one in la plata, or the argentine, with the price we shall give for his land." "we?" repeated don silverio with significant emphasis. corradini reddened a little. "i only use the word because i am greatly interested in the success of this enterprise, being convinced of its general utility to the province. being cognisant as i am of the neighbourhood, i hoped i could prevent some friction." "the shares are, i believe, already on the market?" it was a harmless remark, yet it was a disagreeable one to the syndic of san beda. "what would be the selling price of the terra vergine?" he said abruptly. "it is valued at twelve thousand francs." "it is useless to discuss its price," replied don silverio, "and the question is much wider than the limits of the terra vergine. in one word, is the whole of the valdedera to be ruined because a minister has a relation who desires to create an unnecessary railway?" "ruined is a large word. these constructions appear to all, except primitive and ignorant people, to be improvements, acquisitions, benefits. in our province we are so aloof from all movement, so remote in our seclusion, so moss-grown in our antiquity, so wedded to the past, to old customs, old habits, old ways of act and thought, that the modern world shocks us as impious, odious, and intolerable." "sir," said don silverio with his most caustic smile, "if you are here to sing the praises of modernity, allow me to withdraw from the duet. i venture to ask you, as i asked you this morning, one plain question. to whom is adone alba, to whom are my people of ruscino, to appeal against the sequestration?" "to no one. the prefect approves; the minister approves; the local deputies approve; i and my municipal and provincial councils approve; parliament has approved and authorised. who remain opposed? a few small landowners and a mob of poor persons living in your village of ruscino and in similar places." "who can create grave disorders and will do so." "disorders, even insurrections, do not greatly alarm authority nowadays; they are easily pressed since the invention of the quick-firing guns. the army is always on the side of order." don silverio rose. "most honourable corradini! your views and mine are so far asunder that no amount of discussion can assimilate them. allow me to salute you." "wait one instant, reverence," said the syndic. "may i ask how it is that an ecclesiastic of your appearance and your intellect can have been buried so long in such an owls' nest as ruscino?" "sir," replied don silverio very coldly, "ask my superiors: i am but one of the least of the servants of the church." "you might be one of her greatest servants, if influence --" "i abhor the word influence. it means a bribe too subtle to be punished, too gilded to alarm." "nay, sometimes it is but a word in season, a pressure in the right place." "it means that which cannot serve the poor man without degrading him." "but -- but -- if as a reward for duty, advancement cane to you?" "i fail to understand." "let me speak frankly. with your superiority to them you must easily rule the embryo rioters of the valdedera. if, to your efforts it should be owing that the population remain quiet, and that this adone alba and others in a similar position come to me in an orderly manner and a pliant spirit, i will engage that this service to us on your part shall not be forgotten." he paused; but don silverio did not reply. "it is lamentable and unjust," continued the mayor, "that any one of your evident mental powers and capacity for higher place should be wasting your years and wasting your mind in a miserable solitude like ruscino. if you will aid us to a pacific cession of the valdedera i will take upon myself to promise that your translation to a higher office shall be favoured by the government-" he paused again, for he did not see upon don silverio's countenance that flattered and rejoiced expression which he expected; there was even upon it a look of scorn. he regretted that he had said so much. "i thank your excellency for so benevolent an interest in my poor personality," said don silverio. "but with the king's government i have nothing to do. i am content in the place whereto i have been called, and have no disposition to assist the speculations of foreign companies. i have the honour to bid your excellency good evening." he bowed low, and backed out of the apartment this time. count corradini did not endeavour to detain him. when he got out into the air the strong mountain wind was blowing roughly down the steep and narrow street. he felt it with pleasure smite his cheeks and brows. "truly only from nature can we find strength and health," he murmured. "in the houses of men there are but fever and corruption, and uncleanliness." xv to neglect no possible chance, he resolved to see the prefect, if the prefect consented to see him. this great official dwelt in a seaport city, whence he ruled the province, for such a period at least as his star should be in the ascendant, that is, whilt his political group should be in power. it was scarcely likely that a government official would be accessible to any arguments which a poor country priest could bring forward against a government project. still, he resolved to make the effort, for at the prefect's name apprehension, keen and quaking, had leapt into count corradini's faded eyes. from san beda to the seaport city there stretched some forty miles of distance; the first part a descent down the spurs of the apennines, the latter half through level sandy country, with pine woods here and there. the first half he covered on foot, the second by the parliamentary train, which drew its long black line snake-like and slow, through the dunes and the stagnant waters. he had but a few francs in his waistband, and could ill afford to expend those. when he reached his destination it was evening; too late for him to present himself at the prefecture with any chance of admittance. the prior at san beda had given him a letter to the vicar of the church of sant anselmo in the city, and by this gentleman he was received and willingly lodged for the night. "a government project -- a project approved by ministers and deputies?" said his host on hearing what was the errand on which he came there. "as well, my brother, might you assail the gran sasse d'italia! there must be money in it, much money, for our conscript fathers." "i suppose so," said don silverio, "but i cannot see where it is to come from." "from the pockets of the taxpayers, my friend!" replied the incumbent of sant anselmo, with a smile as of a man who knows the world he lives in. "the country is honeycombed by enterprises undertaken solely to this end -- to pass the money which rusts in the pockets of fools into those of wise men who know how to make it run about and multiply. in what other scope are all our betterments, our hygiene, our useless railway lines, our monstrous new streets, all our modernisation, put in the cauldron and kept boiling like a witch's supper?" "i know, i know," said don silverio wearily. "the whole land is overrun by _affaristi_, like red ants." "do not slander the ants!" replied his host; "i would not offend the name of any honest, hard-working little insect by giving it to the men through whom this country is eaten up by selfish avarice and unscrupulous speculation! but tell me, what do you hope for from our revered prefect?" "i hope nothing, but i wish to leave no stone unturned. tell me of him." "of his excellency, giovacchino gallo, senator, grand cross, and whatnot? there is much to tell, though there is nothing which could not be also told of many another gentleman in high place. it is the usual story: the supple spine, the sharp eye, the greased foot. he was a young lawyer, useful to deputies. he married a lovely woman whom a prince had admired beyond him. he asked no questions; her dower was large. to do him justice, he has always behaved very well to her. he entered parliament early, and there was useful also, to existing institutions. he was instrumental in carrying many railway and canal bills through the chamber. he has been always successful in his undertakings, and he knows that nothing succeeds like success. i am told that he and his wife are _persone gratissime_ at the quirinale, and that her jewels are extremely fine. when he was named senator two years ago the press, especially the press of the right, saluted his nomination as strengthening the senate by the accession to it of a person of impeccable virtue, of enlightened intellect, and of a character cast in antique moulds of noble simplicity and spartan courage. you think, my brother, that this favourite of fortune is likely to favour your plea for your parishioners?" "dear and revered brother," replied don silverio, "i came hither with no such illusions. if i had done, your biography of this functionary would have dispelled them." nevertheless, although without hope, at two o'clock of that day he went to the audience which was granted him at the intervention of the bishop of the city, obtained by means of the vicar of sant anselmo. the prefecture was situated in a palace of sixteenth century architecture, a noble and stately place of immense size, greatly injured by telegraph and telephone wires stretching all round it, the post-office and the tax offices being situated on the ground floor, and the great central court daubed over with fresh paint and whitewash. some little soldiers in dingy uniforms, ill-cut and ill-fitting, stood about gates and doors. on the first floor were the apartments occupied by his excellency. don silverio was kept waiting for some time in a vestibule of fine proportions painted by diotisalvi, with a colossal marble group in its centre of the death of caesar. he looked at it wistfully. "ah, guilio!" he murmured, "what use were your conquests, what use was your genius, the greatest perchance the world has ever seen? what use? you were struck in the throat like a felled ox, and the land you ruled lies bleeding at every pore!" in a quarter of an hour he was ushered through other large rooms into one of great architectural beauty, where the prefect was standing by a writing-table. giovacchino gallo was a short, stout person with a large stomach, a bald head, bright restless eyes, and a high, narrow forehead; his face was florid, like the face of one to whom the pleasures of the table are not alien. his address was courteous but distant, stiff, and a little pompous; he evidently believed in himself as a great person and only unbent to other greater persons, when he unbent so vastly that he crawled. "what can i do for your reverence?" he asked, as he seated himself behind the writing-table and pointed to a chair. the words were polite but the tone was curt; it was officialism crystallised. don silverio explained the purpose of his visit, and urged the prayers of his people. "i am but the vicar of ruscino," he said in explanation, "but in this matter i plead for all the natives of the valdedera. your excellency is governor of this province, in which the edera takes its rise and has its course. my people, and all those others who are not under my ministry, but whose desires and supplications i represent, venture to look to you for support in their greatest distress, and intercession for them against this calamity." the face of the prefect grew colder and sterner, his eyes got an angry sparkle, his plump, rosy hands closed on a malachite paper-knife; he wished the knife were of steel, and the people of the valdedera had but one head. "are you aware, sir," he said impatiently, "that the matter of which you speak has had the ratification of parliament?" "but it has not had the ratification of the persons whom it most concerns." "do you supposed, then, when a great public work is to be accomplished the promoters are to go hat in hand for permission to every peasant resident on the area?" "a great public work seems to me a large expression: too large for this case. the railway is not needed. the acetylene works are a private speculation. i venture to recall to your excellency that these people, whom you would ignore, own the land, or, where they do not own it, have many interests both in the land and the water." "pardon me, your excellency, but that is a phrase: it is not a fact. you could not, if you gave them millions, compensate them for the seizure of their river and their lands. these belong to them and to their descendants by natural right. they cannot be deprived of these by act of parliament without gross injury and injustice." "there must be suffering for the individual in all benefit of the general!" "and doubtless, sir, when one is not the individual the suffering appears immaterial!" "what an insolent priest!" thought giovacchino gallo, and struck the paper-knife with anger on the table. "take my own parishioners alone," pursued don silverio. "their small earnings depend entirely upon the edera water; it gives them their food, their bed, their occupation; it gives them health and strength; it irrigates their little holdings, _extra murus_, on which they and their families depend for grain and maize and rice. if you change their river-bed into dry land they will starve. are not your own countrymen dearer to you than the members of a foreign syndicate?" "there will be work for them at the acetylene factory." "are they not free men? are they to be driven like slaves to a work which would be hateful to them? these people are country born and country bred. they labour in the open air, and have done so for generations. pardon me, your excellency, but every year the king's government forces into exile thousands, tens of thousands, of our hard working peasants with their families. the taxation of the land and of all its products lays waste thousands of square miles in this country. the country is being depleted and depopulated, and the best of its manhood is being sent out of it by droves to brazil, to la plata, to the argentines, to anywhere and everywhere, where labour is cheap and climate homicidal. the poor are packed on emigrant ships and sent with less care than crated of fruit receive. they consent to go because they are famished here. is it well for a country to lose its labouring classes, its frugal, willing, and hard-working manhood? to pack them off across the oceans by contract with other states? the government has made a contract with a pacific island for five thousand italians? are they free men or are they slaves? can your excellency call my people free who are allowed no voice against the seizure of their own river, and to whom you offer an unwholesome and indoor labour as compensation for the ruin of their lives? now, they are poor indeed, but they are contented; they keep body and soul together, they live on their natal soil, they live as their fathers lived. is it just, is it right, is it wise to turn these people into disaffection and despair by an act of tyranny and spoilation through which the only gainers will be foreign speculators abroad and at home the gamblers of the bourses? sir, i do not believe that the world holds people more patient, more long-suffering, more pacific under dire provocation, or more willing to subsist on the poorest and hardest conditions than italians are; is it right or just or wise to take advantage of that national resignation to take from half a province the natural aid and the natural beauty with which god himself has dowered it in the gift of the mountainborn stream? you are powerful, sir, you have the ear of the government; you will not try to stop this infamous theft of the edera water whilst there is still time?" don silverio spoke with that eloquence and with that melody of voice which few could bear unmoved; and even the dull ear and the hard heart of the official who heard him were for one brief moment moved as by the pathos of a song sung by some great tenor. but that moment was very brief. over the face of giovacchino gallo a look passed at once brutal and suspicious. "curse this priest!" he thought; "he will give us trouble." he rose, stiff, cold, pompous, with a frigid smile on his red, full, _bon viveur's_ lips. "if you imagine that i should venture to attack, or even presume to criticise, a matter which the most honourable the minister of agriculture has in his wisdom approved and ratified, you must have a strange conception of my fitness for my functions. as regards yourself, reverend sir, i regret that you appear to forget that the chief duty of your sacred office is to inculcate to your flock unquestioning submission to governmental decrees." "is that your excellency's last word?" "it is my first, and my last, word." don silverio bowed low. "you may regret it, sir," he said simply, and left the writing-table and crossed the room. but as he approached the door the prefect, still standing, said, "wait!" gallo opened two or three drawers in his table, searched for some papers, looked over them, leaving the priest always standing between him and the door. don silverio was erect; his tall frail form had a great majesty in it; his pallid features were stern. "return a moment," said gallo. "i can hear your excellency where i am," replied don silverio, and did not stir. "i have here reports from certain of my agents," said gallo, fingering his various papers, "that there is and has been for some time a subversive movement amongst the sparse population of the valdedera." don silverio did not speak or stir. "it is an agrarian agitation," continued gallo, "limited to its area, with little probability of spreading, but it exists; there are meetings by night, both open-air and secret meetings; the latter take place now in one farmhouse, now in another. the leader of this noxious and unlawful movement is one adone alba. he is of your parish." he lifted his eyelids and flashed a quick, searching glance at the priest. "he is of my parish," repeated don silverio, with no visible emotion. "you know of this agitation?" "if i did, sir, i should not say so. but i am not in the confidence of adone alba." "of course i do not ask you to reveal the secrets of the confessional, but --" "neither in the confessional nor out of it have i heard anything whatever from him concerning any such matter as that of which you speak." "he is a young man?" "yes." "and the owner of the land known as the terra vergine?" "yes." "and his land is comprised in that which will be taken by the projected works?" "yes." "are you sure that he has not sent you here?" "my parishoners are not in the habit of 'sending' me anywhere. you reverse our respective positions." "humility is not one of your ecclesiastical virtues, most reverend." "it may be so." gallo thrust his papers back into their drawer and locked it with a sharp click. "you saw the syndic of san beda?" "i did." "much what you say. official language is always limited and learned by rote." gallo would willingly have thrown his bronze inkstand at the insolent ecclesiastic; his temper was naturally choleric, though years of sycophancy and state service had taught him to control it. "well, reverend sir!" he said, with ill-concealed irritation, "this conversation is, i see, useless. you protect and screen your people. perhaps i cannot blame you for that, but you will allow me to remind you that it is my duty to see that the order and peace of this district are not in any manner disturbed; and that any parish priest if he fomented dissatisfaction or countenanced agitation in his district, would be much more severely dealt with by me than any civilian would be in the same circumstances. we tolerate and respect the church so long as she remains strictly within her own sphere, but so long only." "we are all perfectly well aware of the conditions attached to the _placet_ and the _exequatur_ at all times, and we are all conscious that even the limited privileges of civilians are denied to us!" replied don silverio. "i have the honour to wish your excellency good morning." he closed the door behind him. "damnation!" said giovacchino gallo; "that is a strong man! is mother church blind that she lets such an one rust and rot in the miserable parish of ruscino?" when don silverio rejoined the vicar of sant anselmo the latter asked him anxiously how his errand had sped. "it was a waste of breath and words," he answered. "i might have known that it would be so with any government official." "but you might have put a spoke in count corradini's wheel. if you had told gallo that the other is trafficking --" "why should i betray a man who received me in all good faith? and what good would it have accomplished if i had done so?" and more weary than ever in mind and body he returned to ruscino. as he had left the prefect's presence that eminent person had rung for his secretary. "brandone, send me sarelli." in a few moments sarelli had appeared; he was the usher of the prefecture by appointment; by taste and in addition he was its chief spy. he was a native of the city, and a person of considerable acumen and excellent memory; he never needed to make memoranda -- there is nothing so dangerous to an official as written notes. "sarelli, what are the reports concerning the vicar of ruscino?" sarelli stood respectfully at attention; he had been a non-commissioned officer of artillery; and answered in rapid but clear tones -- "great ability -- great eloquence -- disliked by superiors; formerly great preacher in rome; supposed to be at ruscino as castigation; learned -- benevolent -- correct." "humph!" said gallo, disappointed. "not likely then to cause trouble or disorder? -- to necessitate painful measures?" sarelli rapidly took his cue. "hitherto, your excellency, uniformly correct; except in one instance --" "that instance?" "your excellency will have heard of ulisse ferrero, a great robber of the lower abruzzo citeriore primo?" "i have: continue." "ulisse ferrero was outlawed; his band had been killed or captured, every one; he had lost his right arm; he hid for many years in the lower woods of abruzzo; he came down at night to the farmhouses, the people gave him food and drink, and aided him --" "their criminal habit always: continue." "sometimes in one district, sometimes in another, he was often in the _macchia_ of the valdedera. the people of the district, and especially of ruscino, protected him. they thought him a saint, because once when at the head of his band, which was then very strong, he had come into ruscino and done them no harm, but only eaten and drunk, and left a handful of silver pieces to pay for what he and his men had taken. so they protected him now, and oftentimes for more than a year he came out of the _macchia_, and the villagers gave him all they could, and he went up and down ruscino as if he were a king; and this lasted for several seasons, and, as we learned afterwards, don silverio frascara had cognisance of this fact, but did nothing. when ulisse ferrero was at last captured (it is nine years ago come november, and it was not in ruscino but in the woods above), and brought to trial, many witnesses were summoned, and amongst them this don silverio; and the judge said to him, 'you had knowledge that this man came oftentimes into you parish?' and don silverio answered, 'i had.' 'you knew that he was an outlaw, in rupture with justice?' 'i did,' he answered. then the judge struck his fist with anger on his desk. 'and you a priest, a guardian of order, did not denounce him to the authorities?' then don silverio, your excellency, quite quietly, but with a smile (i was there close to him), had the audacity to answer the judge. 'i am a priest,' he said 'and i study my breviary, but do not find in it any command which authorises me to betray my fellow creatures.' that made a terrible stir in the tribunal, you excellency. they talked of committing him to gaol for contempt of court and for collusion with the outlaw. but it took place at san beda, where they are all _papalini_, as your excellency knows, and nothing was done, sir." "that reply is verily like this priest!" thought giovacchino gallo. "a man of ability, of intellect, of incorruptible temper, but a man as like as not to encourage and excuse sedition." aloud he said, "you may go, sarelli. good morning." "may i be allowed a word, sir?" "speak." "may it not well be, sir, that don silverio's organisation or suggestion is underneath this insurrectionary movement of the young men in the valdedera?" "it is possible; yes. see to it." "your servant, sir." sarelli withdrew, elated. he loved tracking, like a bloodhound, for the sheer pleasure of the "cold foot chase." the official views both layman and priest with contempt and aversion; both are equally his prey, both equally his profit: he lives by them and on them, as the galleruca does on the elm-tree, whose foliage it devours, but he despises them because they are not officials, as the galleruca doubtless, if it can think, despises the elm. xvi of course his absence could not be hidden from any in his parish. the mere presence of the rector of an adjacent parish, who had taken his duties, sufficed to reveal it. for so many years he had never stirred out of ruscino in winter cold or summer heat, that none of his people could satisfactorily account to themselves for his now frequent journeys. the more sagacious supposed that he was trying to get the project for the river undone; but they did not all have so much faith in him. many had always been vaguely suspicious of him; he was so wholly beyond their comprehension. they asked adone what he knew, or, if he knew nothing, what he thought. adone put them aside with an impatient, imperious gesture. "but you knew when he went to rome?" they persisted. adone swung himself loose from them with a movement of anger. it hurt him to speak of the master he had renounced, of the friend he had forsaken. his conscience shrank from any distrust of don silverio; yet his old faith was no more alive. he was going rapidly down a steep descent, and in that downward rush he lost all his higher instincts; he was becoming insensible to everything except the thirst for action, for vengeance. to the man who lives in a natural state away from cities it appears only virile and just to defend himself, to avenge himself, with the weapons which nature and art have given him; he feels no satisfaction in creeping and crawling through labyrinths of the law, and he cannot see why he, the wronged, should be forced to spend, and wait, and humbly pray, while the wrongdoer may go, in the end, unchastised. such a tribunal as st. louis held under an oak-tree, or the emperor akbar in a mango grove, would be intelligible to him; but the procedure, the embarrassments, the sophistries, the whole machinery of modern law are abhorrent to him. he yearned to be the tell, the massaniello, the andreas hofer, of his province; but the apathy and supineness and timidity of his neighbors tied his hands. he knew that they were not made of the stuff with which a leader could hope to conquer. all his fiery appeals fell like shooting stars, brilliant but useless; all his vehement excitations did little more than scare the peasants whom he sought to rouse. a few bold spirits like his own seconded his efforts and aided his propaganda; but these were not numerous enough to leaven the inert mass. his plan was primitive and simple: it was to oppose by continual resistance every attempt which should be made to begin the projected works upon the river; to destroy at night all which should be done in the day, and so harass and intimidate the workmen who should be sent there that they should, in fear and fatigue, give up their labours. they would certainly be foreign workmen; that is, workmen from another province; probably from the puglie. it was said that three hundred of them were coming that week from the terra d'otranto to work above ruscino. he reckoned that he and those he led would have the advantage of local acquaintance with the land and water, and could easily, having their own homes as base, carry on a guerrilla warfare for any length of time. no doubt, he knew, the authorities would send troops to the support of the labours, but he believed that when the resolve of the district to oppose at all hazards any interference with the edera should be made clear, the government would not provoke an insurrection for the sake of favouring a foreign syndicate. so far as he reasoned at all, he reasoned thus. but he forgot, or rather he did not know, that the lives of its people, whether soldiers or civilians, matter very little to any government, and that its own vanity, which it calls dignity, and the financial interests of its supporters, matter greatly; where the executive has been defied there it is inexorable and unscrupulous. both up and down the river there was but one feeling of bitter rage against the impending ruin of the water; there was but one piteous cry of helpless desperation. but to weld this, which was mere emotion, into that sterner passion of which resistance and revolt are made, was a task beyond his powers. "no on will care for us; we are too feeble, we are too small," they urged; they were willing to do anything were they sure it would succeed, but -- "but who can be sure of anything under heaven?" replied adone. "you are never sure of your crops until the very last day they are reaped and carried; yet you sow." yes, they granted that; but sowing grain was a safe, familiar labour; the idea of sowing lead and death alarmed them. still there were some, most of them those who were dwellers on the river, or owners of land abutting on it, who were of more fiery temper, and these thought as adone thought, that never had a rural people juster cause for rebellion; and these gathered around him in those meetings by night of which information had reached the prefecture, for there are spies in every province. adone had changed greatly; he had grown thin and almost gaunt; he had lost his beautiful aspect of adolescence; his eyes had no longer their clear and happy light; they were keen and fierce, and looked out defiantly from under his level brows. he worked on his own land usually, by day, to stave off suspicion; but by night he scoured the country up and down the stream wherever he believed he could find proselytes or arms. he had no settled plan of action; he had no defined project; his only idea was to resist, to resist, to resist. under a leader he would have been an invaluable auxiliary, but he had not the knowledge whatever of stratagem, or manoeuvre, or any of the manifold complications of guerrilla warfare. his calm and dreamy life had not prepared him to be all at once a man of action: action was alien alike to his temperament and to his habits. all his heart, his blood, his imagination, were on fire; but behind them there was not that genius of conception and command which alone makes the successful chief of a popular cause. his mother said nothing to disturb or deter him on his course, but in herself she was sorely afraid. she kept her lips shut because she would have thought it unworthy to discourage him, and she could not believe in his success, try how she might to compel her faith to await miracles. little nerina alone gave him that unquestioning, blind belief which is so dear to the soul of man. nerina was convinced that at his call the whole of the valdedera would rise full-armed, and that no hostile power on earth would dare to touch the water. to her any miracle seemed possible. whatever he ordered, she did. she had neither fear nor hesitation. she would slip out of her room unheard, and speed over the dark country on moonless nights on his errands; she would seek for weapons and bring them in and distribute them; she would take his messages to those on whom he could rely, and rouse to his cause the hesitating and half-hearted by repetition of his words. her whole young life had caught fire at his; and her passionate loyalty accepted without comprehending all he enjoined her or told to her. the danger which she ran and the concealment of which she was guilty, never disturbed her for an instant. what adone ordained was her law. had he not taken pity on her in her misery that day by the river? was she not to do anything and everything to serve him and save the river? this was her sole creed; but it sufficed to fill her still childish soul. if, with it, there were mingled a more intense and more personal sentiment, she was unconscious of, and he indifferent to, it. he sent her to do his bidding as he would have sent a boy, because he recognised in her that zeal and fervent fidelity to a trust of which he was not sure in others. although she was a slender brown thing, like a nightingale, she was strong, elastic, untiring; nothing seemed to fatigue her; she always looked as fresh as the dew, as vigorous as a young cherry-tree. her big hazel eyes danced under their long lashes, and her pretty mouth was like one of the four-season roses which bloomed on the house wall. she was not thought much to look at in a province where the fine roman type is blended with the venetian colouring in the beauty of its women; but she had a charm and a grace of her own; wild and rustic, like that of a spray of grass or a harvest mouse swinging on a stalk of wheat. she was so lithe, so swift, so agile; so strong without effort, so buoyant and content, that she carried with her the sense of her own perfect health and happiness, as the east wind blowing up the edera water bore with it the scent of the sea. but of any physical charm in her adone saw nothing. a great rage filled his soul, and a black cloud seemed to float between him and all else which was not the wrong done to him and his and the water of edera. until he should have lifted off the land and the stream this coming curse which threatened them, life held nothing for him which could tempt or touch him. he used the girl for his own purposes and did not spare her; but those purposes were only those of his self-imposed mission, and of all which was youthful, alluring, feminine, in her he saw nothing: she was to him no more than a lithe, swift, hardy filly would have been which he should have ridden over the moors and pastures to its death in pursuit of his end. he who had been always so tender of heart had grown cruel; he would have flung corpse upon corpse into the water if by such holocaust he could have reached his purpose. what had drawn him to nernia had been that flash of ferocity which he had seen in her; that readiness to go to the bitter end in the sweet right of vengeance; instincts which formed so singular a contrast to the childish gaiety and the sunny goodwill of her normal disposition. he knew that nothing which could have been done to her would have made her reveal any confidence placed in her. that she was often out all the hours of the night on errands to the widely scattered dwellings of the peasants did not prevent her coming at dawn into the cattle stalls to feed and tend the beasts. and she was so dexterous, so sure, so silent; even the sharp eyes of old gianna never detected her nocturnal absence, even the shrewd observation of clelia alba never detected any trace of fatigue in her or any negligence in her tasks. she was always there when they needed her, did all that she was used to do, was obedient to every word or sign; they did not know that as she carried the water pails, or cut the grass, or swept the bricks, or washed the linen, her heart sung proudly within her a joyous song because she shared a secret -- a perilous secret -- of which the elder woman knew nothing. any night a stray shot might strike her as she ran over the moors, or through the heather; any night a false step might pitch her headlong into a ravine or a pool; any night, returning through the shallows of the ford, she might miss her footing and fall into one of the bottomless holes that the river hid in its depths: but the danger of it only endeared her errand the more to her; made her the prouder that she was chosen for it. "i fear nothing," she said to him truthfully; "i fear only that you should not be content." and as signal fires run from point to point, or hill to hill, so she ran from one farmhouse to another, bearing the messages which organised those gatherings whereof giavacchino gallo had the knowledge. the men she summoned and spoke with were rough peasants, for the most part, rude as the untanned skins they wore at their work, but not one of them ever said a gross word or gave a lewd glance to the child. she was _la bimba_ to them all; a brave little soul and honest; they respected her as if she were one of their own children, or one of their own sisters, and nernia coming through the starlight, with an old musket slung at her back, which adone had taught her to use, and her small, bronzed feet leaping over the ground like a young goat's, was a figure which soon became familiar and welcome to the people. she seemed to them like a harbinger of hope; she had few words, but those words reverberated with courage and energy; she moved the supine, she braced the timid; she brought the wavering firmness and the nervous strength; she said what adone had taught her to say, but she put into it all her own immense faith in him, all her own innocent and undoubting certainty that his cause was just and would be blessed by heaven. the edera water belonged to them. would they let it be turned away from their lands and given to strangers? as a little spaniel or beagle threshes a covert, obedient to his master's will and working only to please him, so she scoured the country-side and drove in, by persuasion, or appeal, or threat, all those who would lend ear to her, to the midnight meetings on the moors, or in the homesteads, where adone harangued them, with eloquence ever varied, on a theme which was never stale, because it appealed at once to the hearts and to the interests of his hearers. but many of them, though fascinated, remained afraid. "when all is said, what can we do?" they muttered. "authority has a long arm." the people of the district talked under their breath of nothing else than of this resistance which was being preached as a holy war by the youth of terra vergine. they were secret and silent, made prudent by many generations which had suffered from harsh measures and brutal reprisals, but the league he proclaimed fascinated and possessed them. conspiracy has a seduction subtle and irresistible as gambling for those who have once become its servants. it is potent as wine, and colours the brain which it inflames. to these lowly, solitary men, who knew nothing beyond their own fields and coppices and wastelands, its excitement came like a magic philter to change the monotony of their days. they were most of them wholly unlettered; knew not their a b c; had only learned the law of the seasons, and the earth, and the trees which grew, and the beasts which grazed; but they had imagination; they had the blood of ancient races; they were neither dolts not boors, though adone in his wrath called them so. they were fascinated by the call to rise and save their river. a feeling, more local than patriotism, but more noble than interest, moved them to share in his passionate hatred of the intruders, and to hearken to his appeals to them to arm and rise as one man. but, on the other hand, long years of servitude and hardship had made them timid as gallant dogs are made so by fasting or the whip. "what are we?" some of them said to him. "we are no more than the earthworms in the soil." for there is a pathetic humility in these descendants of the ancient rulers of the world; it is a humility born of hope deferred, of the sense of every change of masters, of knowledge that the sun rises and sets upon their toil, as it did on that of their fathers, as it will do on that of their children, and will never see it lessened, nor see the fruits thereof given to themselves or to their sons. it is a humility which is never ignoble, but is infinitely, because hopelessly, sad. the river was their own, surely, yes; but, like so much else that was their own, the state claimed it. "what can be more yours than the son you beget, the fruit of your loins, the child for whom you have laboured through long years?" said an old man to him once. "yet the state, as soon as he is of use to you, the state takes him, makes a beast of burden of him, kills his youth and his manhood; sends him without a word to you, to be maimed and slaughtered in africa, his very place of death unknown to you; his body -- the body you begat and which his mother bore in her womb and nourished and cherished -- is devoured by the beasts of the desert and the birds of the air. they take all; why shall they not take the river also?" the glowing faith of adone was flung, as the sunlit salt spray of the ocean is cast on a cliff of basalt, against the barrier of that weary and prostrate despair which the state dares to tell the poor is their duty and their portion upon earth. but the younger men listened to him more readily, being less bent and broken by long labour, and poor food, and many years of unanswered prayers. of these some had served their time in regiments, and aided him to give some knowledge of drill and of the use of weapons to those who agreed with him to dispute by force the claim of strangers to the edera water. these gatherings took place on waste lands or bare heaths, or in clearings or hollows in the woods, and the tramp of feet and click of weapons scared the affrighted fox and the astounded badger. they dared not fire lest the sound should betray their whereabouts to some unfriendly ear; but they went through all other military exercises as far as it lay in their power to do so. the extreme loneliness of the edera valley was in their favour. once in half a year, perhaps, half a troop of carabineers might ride through the district, but this was only if there had been any notable assassination or robbery; and of police there was none nearer than the town of san beda. it was to arrange these nightly exercises, and summon to or warn off men from them, as might be expedient, that nernia was usually sent upon her nocturnal errands. one night when she had been bidden by adone to go to a certain hamlet in the woods to the north, the child, as she was about to slip back the great steel bolts which fastened the house door, saw a light upon the stairs which she had just descended, and turning round, her hand upon the lock, saw clelia alba. "why are you out of your bed at this hour?" said the elder woman. her face was stern and dark. nernia did not answer; her gay courage forsook her; she trembled. "why?" asked adone's mother. "i was going out," answered the child. her voice shook. she was clothed as usual in the daytime, but she had over her head a woollen wrapper. she had not her musket, for she kept it in the hen-house, and was accustomed to take it as she passed that place. "going out! at the fourth hour of the night? is that an answer for a decent maiden?" nernia was silent. "go back to your room, and i will lock you in it; in the morning you will account to me." nernia recovered her self-possession, though she trembled still. "pardon me, madama clelia," she said humbly, "i must go out." she did not look ashamed, and her small brown face had a resolute expression. a great anguish seized and wrung the heart of clelia alba. she knew that adone was not in the house, did he, the soul of purity and honour, seduce a girl who dwelt under his own roof? -- carry on an intrigue with a little beggar, to his own shame and the outrage of his mother? was this the true cause of his frequent absence, his many nights abroad? her dark brows contracted, her black eyes blazed. "go to your room, wanton!" she said in tones of thunder. "in the morning you will answer to me." but nernia, who had before this slipped the bolt aside, and who always kept her grasp upon the great key in the lock, suddenly turned it, pushed the oak door open, and before the elder woman was conscious of what she was doing, had dashed out into the air, and slammed the door behind her. the rush of wind had blown out the lamp in clelia alba's hand. when, after fumbling vainly for some minutes to find the door, and bruising her hands against the wall and oaken chair, she at last found it and thrust it open, the night without was moonless and starless and stormy, and in its unillumined blackness she saw no trace of the little girl. she went out on to the doorstep and listened, but there was no sound. the wind was high; the perfume of the stocks and wallflowers was strong; far away the sound of the river rushing through the sedges was audible in the intense stillness, an owl hooted, a nightjar sent forth its sweet, strange, sighing note. of nernia there was no trace. clelia alba came within and closed the door, and locked and bolted it. the old woman gianna had come downstairs with a lighted rush candle in her hand; she was scared and afraid. "what is it? what is it, madama?" clelia alba dropped down on the chair by the door. "it is -- it is -- that the beggar's spawn you would have me shelter is the leman of my son; and he has dishonoured his house and mine." gianna shook her grey head in solemn denial and disbelief. "sior'a, clelia, do not say such words or think such thoughts of your son or of the child. she is as harmless as any flower that blows out there in the garden, and he is a noble youth, though now, by the wickedness of me, distraught and off his head. what makes you revile them so?" "they are both out this night. is not that enough?" gianna was distressed; from her chamber above she had heard the words which had passed between adone's mother and nernia, and knew the girl was gone. "i would condemn others, but not adone and the child," she returned. "for sure they do not do right to have secrets from you, but they are not such secrets as you think." "enough!" said clelia alba sternly. "the morning will show who is right. it suffices for me that the son of valeria albo, my son, has forgot his duty to his mother and his respect for himself." clelia alba rose with effort from her chair, relighted her lamp at the old woman's rush candle, and went slowly and heavily up the stairs. she felt stunned and outraged. her son! -- hers! -- to lie out of nights with a little nameless vagrant! gianna caught hold of her skirt. "madama -- listen. i saw him born that day by the edera water, and i have seen him every day of his life since till now. he would never do a base thing. do not you, his mother, disgrace him by thinking of it for an hour. this thing is odd, is ugly, is strange, but wait to judge it --" clelia alba released her skirt from her old servant's grasp. "you mean well, but you are crazed. get you gone." gianna let go her hold and crept submissively down the stair. she set her rushlight on the floor and sat down in the chair beside the door, and told her beads with shaking fingers. one or other of them, she thought, might come home either soon or late, for she did not believe that any amorous intimacy was the reason that they were both out -- god knew where -- in this windy, pitch-dark night. "but he does wrong, he does wrong," she thought. "he sends the child on his errands perhaps, but he should remember a girl is like a peach, you cannot handle it ever so gently but its bloom goes; and he leaves us alone, two old women here, and we might have our throats cut before we should be able to wake old ettore in the stable." the night seemed long to her in the lone stone entrance, with the owls hooting round the house, and the winds blowing loud and tearing the tiles from the roof. above, in her chamber, adone's mother walked to and fro all night sleepless. xvii gianna before it was dawn went out in the hope that she might meet adone on his return, and be able to speak to him before he could see his mother. she was also in extreme anxiety for nerina, of whom she had grown fond. she did not think the little girl would dare return after the words of clelia alba. she knew the child was courageous, but timid, like an otter or a swallow. she went to the edge of the river and waited; he must cross it to come home; but whether he would cross higher up or lower down she could not tell. there was the faint light which preceded the rising of the sun. a great peace, a great freshness, were on the water and the land. "oh lord, what fools we are!" thought the old woman. "the earth makes itself anew for us with every dawn, and our own snarling, and fretting, and mourning cloud it all over for us, and we only see our own silly souls!" soon, before the sun was rising, adone came in sight, passing with firm, accustomed step across the undressed trunks of trees which were here thrown across the river to make a passage lower down the stream than the bridge of ruscino. he was walking with spirit and ease, his head was erect, his belt was filled with arms, his eyes had sternness and command in them; he came from one of the military drillings in the woods, and had been content with it. seeing old gianna waiting there he understood that something must have happened, and his first fears were for his mother. "is she ill?" he cried, as he reached the bank of his own land. "no; she is well in health," answered gianna, "but she is sorely grieved and deeply angered; she found the girl nerina going out at the dead of night." adone changed colour. he was silent. gianna came close to him. "the child and you both out all night, heaven knows where! what but one thing can your mother think?" "if she thinks but one thing, that thing is false." "maybe. i believe so myself, but, sior' clelia will not. why do you send the child out at such hours?" "what did she say to my mother?" "nothing; only that she had to go." "faithful little soul!" "aye! and it is when little maids are faithful like this that men ruin them. i do not want to speak without respect to you, adone, for i have eaten your bread and been sheltered by your roof through many a year; but for whatever end you send that child out of nights, you do a bad thing, a cruel thing, a thing unworthy of your stock; and if i know clelia alba----and who should know her if not i?-- she will never let nerina enter her house again." adone's face grew dark. "the house is mine. nerina shall not be turned out of it." "perhaps it is yours; but it is your mother's too, and you will scarce turn out your mother for the sake of a little beggar-girl?" adone was silent; he saw the dilemma; he knew his mother's nature; he inherited it. "go you," he said at last; "go you and tell her that the child went out on my errands, indeed, but i have not seen her; there is no collusion with her, and she is not and never will be _dama_ of mine." "i will take her no such message, for she would not listen. go you; say what you choose; perhaps she will credit you, perhaps she will not. anyhow, you are warned. as for me, i will go and search for nerina." "do you mean she has not returned?" "certainly she has not. she will no more dare to return than a kicked dog. you forget she is a young thing, a creature of nothing; she thinks herself no more than a pebble or a twig. besides, your mother called her a wanton. that is a word not soon washed out. she is humble as a blade of grass, but she will resent that. you have made much trouble with your rebellious work. you have done ill -- ill -- ill!" adone submitted mutely to the upbraiding; he knew he had done selfishly, wrongfully, brutally, that which had seemed well to himself with no consideration of others. "get you gone and search for the child," he said at last. "i will go myself to my mother." "it is the least you can do. but you must not forget the cattle. nerina is not there to see to them." she pushed past him and went on to the footbridge; but midway across it she turned and called to him: "i lit the fire, and the coffee is on it. where am i to look for the child? in the heather? in the woods? up in ruscino? down in the lower valley? or may be at the presbytery?" "don silverio is absent," adone called back to her; and he passed on under the olive-trees towards his home. gianna paused on the bridge and watched him till he was out of sight; then she went back herself by another path which led to the stables. a thought had struck her: nerina was too devoted to the cattle to have let them suffer; possible she was even now attending to them in their stalls. "she is a faithful little thing as he said!" the old servant muttered. "yes; and such as she are born to labour and to suffer, and to eat the bread of bitterness." "where is she, pierino?" she said to the old white dog; he was lying on the grass; if the girl were lost, she thought, pierino would be away somewhere looking for her. gianna's heart was hard against adone; in a dim way she understood the hopes and the schemes which occupied him, but she could not forgive him for sacrificing to them his mother and this friendless child. it was so like a man, she said to herself, to tear along on what he thought a road to glory, and never heed what he trampled down as he went -- never heed any more than the mower heeds the daisies. in the cattle stalls she found the oxen and the cows already watered, brushed, and content, with their pile of fresh grass beside them; there was no sound in the stables but of their munching and breathing, and now and then the rattle of the chains which linked them to their mangers. "maybe she is amongst the hay," thought gianna, and painfully she climbed the wide rungs of the ladder which led to the hay loft. there, sure enough, was nerina, sound asleep upon the fodder. she looked very small, very young, very innocent. the old woman thought of the first day that she had seen the child asleep on the stone bench by the porch; and her eyes grew dim. "who knows where you will rest to-morrow?" she thought; and she went backwards down the ladder noiselessly so as not to awaken a sleeper, whose awaking might be so sorrowful. gianna went back to the house and busied herself with her usual tasks; she could hear the voices of adone and clelia alba in the chamber above; they sounded in altercation, but their words she could not hear. it was at dawn that same day that don silverio returned from his interviews with count corradini and senatore gallo. when he reached ruscino the little rector of the village in the woods had already celebrated mass. don silverio cleansed himself from the dust of travel, entered his church for his orisons, then broke his fast with bread and a plate of lentils, and whilst the day was still young took the long familiar way to the terra vergine. whatever the interview might cost in pain and estrangement he felt that he dared not lose an hour in informing adone of what was so dangerously known at the prefecture. "he will not kill me," he thought; "and if he did, it would not matter much;-- except for you, my poor little man," he added to his dog signorino, who was running gleefully in his shadow. gianna saw him approaching as she looked from the kitchen window, and cried her thanks to the saints with passionate gratitude. then she went out and met him. "praise be to the madonna that you have come back, reverendissimo!" she cried. "there are sore trouble and disputes under our roof." "i grieve to hear that," he answered; and thought, "i fear i have lost my power to cast oil on the troubled waters." he entered the great vaulted kitchen and sat down, for he was physically weary, having walked twenty miles in the past night. "what you feel at liberty to tell me, let me hear," he said to the old servant. gianna told him in her picturesque, warmly-coloured phrase what had passed between sior' clelia and the little girl in the night; and what she had herself said to adone at dawn; and how nerina was lying asleep in the hay-loft, being afraid, doubtless, to come up to the house. don silverio listened with pain and indignation. "what is he about to risk a female child on such errands? and why is his mother in such vehement haste to say cruel words and think unjust and untrue things?" "they are unjust and untrue, sir, are they not?" said gianna. "but it looked ill, you see; a little creature going out in the middle of the night, and to be sure she was but a vagrant when she came to us." "and now -- how does the matter stand? has adone convinced his mother of the girl's innocence?" "whew! that i cannot say, sir. they are upstairs; and their voices were loud an hour ago. now they are still. i had a mind to go up, but i am afraid." "go up; and send adone to me." "he is perhaps asleep, sir; he came across the water at dawn." "if so, wake him. i must speak to him without delay." gianna went and came down quickly. "he is gone out to work in the fields, sir. madama told me so. if he does not work, the land will go out of cultivation, sir." "he may have gone to nerina?" "i do not think so, sir. but i will go back to the stable and see." "and beg sior' clelia to come down to me." he was left alone a few minutes in the great old stone chamber, with its smell of dried herbs hanging from its rafters and of maize leaves baking in the oven. the land would go out of cultivation -- yes! -- and the acetylene factories would take the place of the fragrant garden, the olive orchards, the corn lands, the pastures. he did not wonder that adone was roused to fury; but what fury would avail aught? what pain, what despair, what tears, would stay the desecration for an hour? the hatchet would hew it all down, and the steam plough would pass over it all, and then the stone and the mortar, the bricks and the iron, the engines, and the wheels, and the cauldrons, would be enthroned on the ruined soil: the gods of a soulless age. "oh, the pity of it! the pity of it!" thought don silverio, as the blue sky shone through the grated window and against the blue sky a rose branch swung and a swallow circled. "your servant, reverendissimo," said the voice of clelia alba, and don silverio rose from his seat. "my friend," he said to her, "i find you in trouble, and i fear that i shall add to it. but tell me first, what is this tale of nerina?" "it is but this, sir; if nerina enter here, i go." "you cannot be serious!" "if you think so, look at me." he did look at her; at her severe aquiline features, at her heavy eyelids drooping over eyes of implacable wrath, at her firm mouth and jaw, cold as if cut in marble. she was not a woman to trifle or to waver; perhaps she was one who having received offence would never forgive. "but it is monstrous!" he exclaimed; "you cannot turn adrift a little friendless girl -- you cannot leave your own house, your dead husband's house -- neither is possible -- you rave!" "it is my son's house. he will harbour whom he will. but if the girl pass the doorstep i go. i am not too old to labour for myself." "my good woman -- my dear friend -- it is incredible! i see what you believe, but i cannot pardon you for believing it. even were it what you choose to think -- which is not possible -- surely your duty to a motherless and destitute girl of her tender years should counsel more benevolence?" the face of clelia alba grew chillier and harder still. "sir, leave me to judge of my own duties as the mother of adone, and the keeper of this house. he has told me that he is master here. i do not deny it. he is over age. he can bring her here if he chooses, but i go." "but you must know the child cannot live here with a young man!" "why not?" said clelia alba, and a cruel smile passed over her face. "it seems to me more decent than lying out in the fields together night after night." "silence!" said don silverio in that tone which awed the boldest. "of what avail is your own virtue if it make you thus harsh, thus unbelieving, thus ready to condemn?" "i claim no more virtue than any clean-living woman should possess; but valerio alba would not have brought his leman into my presence, neither shall his son do so." "in your present mood, words are wasted on you. go to your chamber, sior' clelia, and entreat heaven to soften your heart. there is sorrow enough in store for you without your creating misery out of suspicion and unbelief. this house will not long be either yours or adone's." he left the kitchen and went out into the air; clelia alba was too proud, too dogged, in her obstinancy to endeavour to detain him or to ask him what he meant. "where is adone?" he asked of the old labourer ettore, who was carrying manure in a great skip upon his back. "he is down by the five apple-trees, sir," answered ettore. the five apple-trees were beautiful old trees, gnarled, moss-grown, hoary, but still bearing abundant blossom; they grew in a field which was that year being trenched for young vines, a hard, back-breaking labour; the trenches were being cut obliquely, so as not to disturb the apple-trees or injure some fine fig-trees which grew there. adone was at work, stripped to his shirt and hidden in the delved earth to his shoulders. he looked up from the trench and lifted his hat as he saw the priest enter the field; then he resumed his labour. "come out of your ditch and hearken to me. i will not weary you with many words." adone, moved by long habit of obedience and deference, leapt with his agile feet on to the border of the trench and stood there, silent, sullen, ready to repel reproof with insolence. "is it worthy of you to ruin the name of a girl of sixteen by sending her on midnight errands to your fellow-rebels?" don silverio spoke bluntly; he spoke only on suspicion, but his tone was that of a direct charge. adone did not doubt for a moment that he was in possession of facts. "has the girl played us false?" he said moodily. "i have not seen the girl," replied don silvero. "but it is a base thing to do, to use that child for errands of which she cannot know either the danger or the illegality. you misuse one whose youth and helplessness should have been her greatest protection." "i had no one else that i could trust." "pour little soul! you could trust her, so you abused her trust! no: i do not believe you are her lover. i do not believe you care for her more than for the clod of earth you stand on. but to my thinking that makes what you have done worse; colder, more cruel, more calculating. had you seduced her, you would at least feel that you owed her something. she has been a mere little runner and slave to you -- no more. surely your knowledge that she depends on you ought to have sufficed to make her sacred?" adone looked on the ground. his face was red with the dull flush of shame. he knew that he merited all these words and more. "i will provide temporarily for her; and you will send her out no more upon these errands," continued don silverio. "perhaps, with time, your mother may soften to her; but i doubt it." "the house is mine," said adone sullenly. "she shall not keep nerina out of it." "you certainly cannot turn your mother away from her own hearth," replied don silverio with contempt. "i tell you i will take the girl to some place in ruscino where she will be safe for the present time. but i came to say another thing to you as well as this. i have been away three days. i have seen the prefect, senatore gallo. he has informed me that your intentions, your actions, your plans and coadjutors are known to him, and that he is aware that you are conspiring to organise resistance and riot." a great shock struck adone as he heard; he felt as if an electric charge had passed through him. he had believed his secret to be as absolutely unknown as the graves of the lucomone under the ivy by the riverside. "how could he know?" he stammered. "who is the traitor?" "that matters little," said don silverio. "what matters much is, that all you do and desire to do is written down at the prefecture." adone was sceptical. he laughed harshly. "if so, sir, why do they not arrest me? that would be easy enough. i do not hide." "have you not ofttimes seen a birdcatcher spread his net? does he seize the first bird which approaches it? he is not so unwise. he waits until all the feathered innocents are in the meshes: then he fills his sack. that is how the government acts always. it gives its enemies full rope to hang themselves. it is cold of blood, and slow, and sure." "you say this to scare me, to make me desist." "i say it because it is the truth; and if you were not a boy, blind with rage and unreason, you would long since have known that such actions as yours, in rousing or trying to rouse the peasants of the valdedera, must come to the ear of the authorities. do not mistake. they let you alone as yet, not because they love you or fear you; but because they are too cunning and too wise to touch the pear before it is ripe." adone was silent. he was convinced; and many evil thoughts were black within his brain. his first quarrel with a mother he adored had intensified all the desperate ferocity awake in him. "you are as blind as a mole," said don silverio, "but you have not the skill of the mole in constructing its hidden galleries. you scatter your secrets broadcast as you scatter grain over your ploughed field. you think it is enough to choose a moonless night for you and your companions-in-arms to be seen by no living creature! does the stoat, does the wild cat, make such a mistake as that? if you make war on the state, study the ways of your foe. realise that it has as many eyes, as many ears, as many feet as the pagan god; that its arm is as long as its craft, that it has behind it unscrupulous force and unlimited gold, and the support of all those who only want to pursue their making of wealth in ease and in peace. do you imagine you can meet and beat such antagonists with a few rusty muskets, a few beardless boys, a poor little girl like nerina?" don silverio's voice was curt, imperious, sardonic; his sentences cut like whips; then after a moment of silence his tone changed to an infinite softness and sweetness of pleading and persuasion. "my son, my dear son! cease to live in this dream of impossible issues. wake to the brutality of fact, to nakedness of truth. you have to suffer a great wrong; but will you be consoled for it by the knowledge that you have led to the slaughter men whom you have known from your infancy? it can but end in one way -- your conflict with the power of the state. you, and those who have listened to you, will be shot down without mercy, or flung into prison, or driven to lead the life of tracked beasts in the woods. there is no other possible end to the rising which you are trying to bring about. if you have no pity for your mother, have pity on your comrades, for the women who bore them, for the women who love them." adone quivered with breathless fury as he heard. all the blackness of his soul gathered into a storm of rage, burst forth in shameful doubt and insult. he set his teeth, and his voice hissed through them, losing all its natural music. "sir, your clients are men in high places; mine are my miserable brethren. you take the side of the rich and powerful; i take that of the poor and the robbed. maybe your reverence has deemed it your duty to tell the authorities that which you say they have learned?" a knife through his breast-bone would have given a kindlier wound to his hearer. amazement under such an outrage was stronger in don silverio than any other feeling for the first moment. adone -- adone! -- his scholar, his beloved, his disciple! -- spoke to him thus! then an overwhelming disgust and scorn swept over him, and was stronger than his pain. he could have stricken the ungrateful youth to the earth. the muscles of his right arm swelled and throbbed; but, with an intense effort, he controlled the impulse to avenge his insulted honour. without a word, and with one glance of reproach and of disdain, he turned away and went through the morning shadows under the drooping apple boughs. adone, with his teeth set hard and his eyes filled with savage fire, sprang down into the trench and resumed his work. he was impenitent. "he is mad! he knows not what he says!" thought the man whom he had insulted. but though he strove to excuse the outrage it was like a poisoned blade in his flesh. adone could suspect him! adone could believe him to be an informer! was this all the recompense for eighteen years of unwearying affection, patience, and tuition? though the whole world had witnessed against him, he would have sworn that adone alba would have been faithful to him. "he is mad," he thought. "his first great wrong turns his blood to poison. he will come to me weeping to-morrow." but he knew that what adone had said to him, however repented of, however washed away with tears, was one of those injuries which may be forgiven, but can never be forgotten, by any living man. it would yawn like a pit between them for ever. xviii to this apple-tree field there was a high hedge of luxuriant elder and ash, myrtle and field-roses. behind this hedge old gianna was waiting for him; the tears were running down her face. she took the skirt of his coat between her hands. "wait, your reverence, wait! the child is in the cattle stable." don silverio looked down on her a few moments without comprehension. then he remembered. "is she there indeed? poor little soul! she must not go to the house." "she does not dream of it, sir. only she cannot understand why madonna clelia's anger is so terrible. what can i do -- oh, lord!" "keep her where she is for the present. i am going home. i will speak with some of the women in ruscino, and find her some temporary shelter." "she will go to none, sir. she says she must be where she can serve adone. if she be shut up, she will escape and run into the woods. three years ago she was a wild thing; she will turn wild again." "like enough! but we must do what we can. i am going home. i will come or send to you in a few hours." gianna reluctantly let him go. as he crossed the river he looked down on the bright water, here green as emeralds, there brown as peat, eddying round the old stone piers of the bridge, and an infinite sorrow was on him. as a forest fire sweeps away under its rolling smoke and waves of flame millions of obscure and harmless creatures, so the baneful fires of men's greed and speculations came from afar and laid low these harmless lives with neither thought of them or pity. later in the day he sent word to gianna to bring nernia to the presbytery. they both came, obedient. the child looked tired and had lost her bright colour; but she had a resolute look on her face. "my poor little girl," he said gently to her, "madonna clelia is angered against you. we will hope her anger will pass ere long. meanwhile you must not go to the house. you would not make ill-blood between a mother and her son?" "no," said nernia. "i have found a home for awhile for you, with old alaida manzi; you know her; she is a good creature. i am very sorry for you, my child; but you did wrong to be absent at night; above all not to go back to your chamber when clelia alba bade you to do so." nernia's face darkened. "i did no harm." "i am sure you did not mean to do any; but you disobeyed madonna clelia." nernia was silent. "you are a young girl; you must not roam the country at night. it is most perilous. decent maidens and women are never abroad after moonrise." nernia said nothing. "you will promise me never to go out at night again?" "i cannot promise that, sir." "why?" "if i be wanted, i shall go." "if adone alba bid you -- is that your meaning?" nernia was silent. "do you think that it is fitting for you to have secrets from me, your confessor?" nernia was silent; her rosy mouth was closed firmly. it was very terrible to have to displease and disobey don silverio; but she would not speak, not if she should burn in everlasting flames for ever. "take her away. take her to alaida," he said wearily to gianna. "she only obeys adone, sir," said the old woman. "all i can say counts as naught." "adone will send her on no more midnight errands, unless he be brute and fool both. take her away. look to her, you and alaida." "i will do what i can, sir," said gianna humbly, and pushed the girl out into the village street before her. don silverio sat down at his deal writing-table and wrote in his fine, clear calligraphy a few lines: "_in the name of my holy office i forbid you to risk the life and good name of the maiden nernia on your unlawful errands_." then he signed and sealed the sheet, and sent it by his sacristan to adone. he received no answer. the night which followed was one of the most bitter in its meditations that he had ever spent; and he had spent many cruel and sleepless nights ere then. that adone could for one fleeting moment have harboured so vile a thought filled him with nausea and amaze. betray them! he! -- who would willingly have given up such years of life as might remain to him could he by such a sacrifice have saved their river and their valley from destruction. there was nothing short of vice or crime which he would not have done to save the edera water from its fate. but it was utterly impossible to do anything. even men of eminence had often brought all their forces of wealth and argument against similar enterprises, and had failed in their opposition. what could a few score of peasants, and one poor ecclesiastic, do against all the omnipotence of parliament, of millionaires, of secretaries of state, of speculators, of promoters, tenacious and forcible and ravenous as the octopus? in those lonely night hours when the moonbeams shone on his bed and the little white dog nestled itself close to his shoulder, he was tortured also by the sense that it was his duty to arrest adone and the men of the valdedera in their mad course, even at the price of such treachery to them as adone had dared to attribute to him. but if that were his duty it must be the first duty which consciously he had left undone! if he could only stop them on their headlong folly by betraying them they must rush on to their doom! he saw no light, no hope, no assistance anywhere. these lads would not be able to save a single branch of the river water, nor a sword-rush on its banks, nor a moorhen in its shallows, nor a cluster of myosotis upon its banks, and they would ruin themselves. the golden glory of the planet venus shone between the budding vine-leaves at his casement. "are you not tire?" he said to the shining orb. "are you not tired of watching the endless cruelties and insanities on earth?" xix the people of ruscino went early to their beds; the light of the oil-wicks of the presbytery was always the only light in the village half an hour after dark. nerina went uncomplainingly to hers in the dark stone house within the walls where she had been told that it was her lot to dwell. she did not break her fast; she drank great draughts of water; then, with no word except a brief good-night, she went to the sacking filled with leaves which the old woman alaida pointed out for her occupancy. "she is soon reconciled," thought the old crone. "they have trained her well." relieved of all anxiety, she herself lay down in the dark and slept. the girl seemed a good, quiet, tame little thing, and said her paternosters as she should do. but nerina did not sleep. she was stifled in this little close room with its one shuttered window. she who was used to sleeping with the fresh fragrant air of the dark fields blowing over her in her loft, felt the sour, stagnant atmosphere take her like a hand by the throat. as soon as she heard by the heavy breathing of the aged woman that she was sunk in the congested slumber of old age, the child got up noiselessly -- she had not undressed -- and stole out of the chamber, taking the door key from the nail on which alaida had hung it. a short stone stair led down to the entrance. no one else was sleeping in the house; all was dark, and she had not even a match or a tinder-box; but she felt her way to the outer door, unlocked it, as she had been used to unlock the door at the terra vergine, and in another moment ran down the steep and stone street. she laughed as the wind from the river blew against her lips, and brought her the fragrance of adone's fields. "i shall be in time!" she thought, as she ran down a short cut which led, in a breakneck descent, over the slope of what had once been the glacis of the fortress, beneath the rocca to the bridge. the usual spot for the assembly of the malcontents was a grassy hollow surrounded on all sides with woods, and called the tomb of asdrubal, from a mound of masonry which bore that name, although it was utterly improbable that asdrubal, who had been slain a hundred miles to the northeast on the marecchia water, should have been buried in the valdedera at all. but the place and the name were well known in the district to hundreds of peasants, who knew no more who or what asdrubal had been than they knew the names of the stars which form the constellation of perseus. adone had summoned his friends to be there by nightfall, and he was passing from the confines of his own lands on to those of the open moors when the child saw him. he was dressed in his working clothes, but he was fully armed: his gun on his shoulder, his great pistols in his sash, his dagger in his stocking. they were ancient arms; but they had served in matters of life and death, and would so serve again. on the three-edged blade of the sixteenth-century poignard was a blood-stain more than a century old which nothing would efface. "nerina!" he cried as the girl stopped him, and was more distressed than pleased to see her there; he had not thought of her. in the moonlight, under the silvery olive foliage her little sunburnt face and figure took a softer and more feminine grace. but adone had not sight for it. for him she was but a sturdy little pony, who would trot till she dropped. he was cruel as those who are possessed by one intense and absorbing purpose always are: he was cruel to nerina as garibaldi, in the days of ravenna, was cruel to anita. but through that intense egotism which sees in all the world only its own cause, its own end, its own misery, there touched him for one instant an unselfish pity for the child of whom he had made so mercilessly his servant and his slave. "poor little girl! i have been hard to you, i have been cruel and unfair," he said, as a vague sense of her infinite devotion to his cause moved him as a man may be moved by a dog's fidelity. "you have been good to me," said nerina; and from the bottom of her heart she thought so. "i came to see if you wanted me," she added humbly. "no, no. they think ill of you for going my errands. poor child, i have done you harm enough. i will not do you more." "you have done me only good." "what! when my mother has turned you out of the house!" "it is her right." "let it be so for a moment. you shall come back. you are with old alaida?" "yes." "how can you be out to-night?" "she sleeps heavily, and the lock is not hard." "you are a brave child." "is there nothing to do to-night?" "no, dear." "where do you go?" "to meet the men at the tomb of asdrubal." "who summoned them?" "i myself. you must be sad and sorry, child, and it is my fault." she checked a sob in her throat. "i am not far away, and old alaida is kind. let me go on some errand to-night?" "no, my dear, i cannot." he recalled the words of the message which he had received from don silverio that day. he knew the justice of this message, he knew that it only forbade what all humanity, hospitality, manhood, and compassion forbade to him. one terrible passion had warped his nature, closed his heart, and invaded his reason to the exclusion of all other thoughts or instincts; but he was not yet so lost to shame as, now that he knew what he had done, to send out a female creature into peril to do his bidding. "tell me, then, tell me," pleaded nerina, "when will anything be done?" "whenever the foreign labourers come to work on the water we shall drive them away." "but if they will not go?" "child, the river is deep; we know its ways and its soundings; they do not." her great bright eyes flashed fire: an unholy joy laughed in them. "we will baptize them over again!" she said; and all her face laughed and sparkled in the moonlight. there was fierce mountain blood in her veins; it grew hot at the thought of slaughter like the juice of grapes warmed in an august noon. he laughed slow, savagely. "their blood will be on their own heads!" he meant to drive them out, swamp them in the stream, choke them in the sand, hunt them in the heather; make every man of them rue the day that ever they came thither to meddle with the edera water. "curse them! their blood will be on their own heads!" he said between his teeth. he was thinking of the strange men who it was said would be at work on the land and the water before the moon, young now, should be in her last quarter; men hired by the hundreds, day-labourers of the romagna and the puglie, leased by contract, marshalled under overseers, different in nothing from slaves who groan under the white man's lash in africa. "let me come with you to-night," she pleaded again. "i will hide in the bushes. the men shall not see me." "no, no," he said sternly. "get you back to your rest at ruscino. i did wrong, i did basely to use your ignorance and abuse your obedience. get you gone, and listen to your priest, not to me." the child, ever obedient, vanished through the olive boughs. adone went onward northward to his tryst: his soul was dark as night; it enraged him to have been forced by his conscience and his honour to obey the command of don silverio. but she did not go over the bridge to ruscino. she waited a little while then followed on his track. gianna was right. she was a wild bird. she had been caught and tamed for a time, but she was always wild. the life which they had given her had been precious and sweet to her, and she had learned willingly all its ways; but at the bottom of her heart the love of liberty, the love of movement, the love of air and sky and freedom were stronger than all else. she was of an adventurous temper also, and brave like all abruzzese, and she longed to see one of those moonlit midnight meetings of armed men to which she had escaped from alaida's keeping, she could not have forced herself to go back out of this clear, cool, radiant night into the little, close, dark sleeping-chamber. no, not if don silverio himself had stood in her path with the cross raised. she was like a year-old lioness who smells blood. she knew the way to the tomb of asdrubal, even in the darkness, as well as he did. it was situated in a grassy hollow surrounded by dense trees, some five miles or more from the terra vergine, on the north bank of the river. the solitude was absolute, and the place large enough to permit the assemblage of several scores of men. adone went on, unconscious that he was followed; he went at a swinging trot, easy and swift; the sinews of his lithe limbs were strong as steel, and his rage, all aflame, lent lightning to his feet. she allowed him to precede her by half a mile or more, for if he had seen her his anger would have been great, and she feared it. she went skipping and bounding along, where the path was clear, in all the joy of liberty and rapture of the fresh night air. the hours spent in alaida's close house in the village had been as terrible to her as his hours in a birdcatcher's hamper are to a wild bird. up at ansalda she had always been out of doors, and at the terra vergine she had gone under a roof only to eat and sleep. the moon, which was in the beginning of its first quarter, had passed behind some heavy clouds; there was little light, for there were as yet few stars visible, but that was not matter to her. she knew her way as well as any mountain hare. the pungent odour of the heaths through which she went seemed to her like a draught of wine, the strong sea breeze which was blowing bore her up like wings. she forgot that she was once more a homeless waif, as she had been that day when she had sat under the dock leaves by the edera water. he had told her she should go back; she believed him: that was enough. madonna clelia would forgive, she felt sure, for what harm had she done? all would be well; she would feed the oxen again, and go again to the spring for water, and all would be as it had been before -- her thoughts, her desires, went no farther than that. so, with a light heart she followed him gaily, running where there was open ground, pushing hard where the heather grew, going always in the same path as adone had done. all of a sudden she stopped short, in alarm. the night was still; the spring of the river was loud upon it, owls hooted and chuckled, now and then a fox in the thickets barked. there are many sounds in the open country at night; sounds of whirring pinions, of stealthy feet, of shrill, lone cries, of breaking twigs, of breaking ferns, of little rivulets unheard by day, of timid creatures taking courage in the dark. but to these sounds she was used; she could give a name to every one of them. she heard now what was unfamiliar to her in these solitudes; she heard the footsteps of men; and it seemed to her, all around her, as though in a moment of time, the heath and bracken and furze grew alive to their tryst with adone? she did not think so, for she had never known the few men in the village summon courage to join the armed meetings of the men of the valley. she stopped and listened, as a pole-cat which was near her did; the sounds were those of human beings, breathing, creeping, moving under the heather. suddenly she felt some presence close to her in the dark; she held her breath; she shrank noiselessly between the plumes of heath. if they were men of the country they would not hurt her, but if not -- she was not sure. near her was an open space where the wild growth had been recently cut. the men debouched on to it from the undergrowth, there was a faint light from the stars on that strip of rough grass; by it she saw that they were soldiers, five in number. a great terror cowed her, like a hand of ice at her heart, a terror not for herself, but for those away there, in the green hollow by the three stone-pines. they were soldiers; yes, they were soldiers; the sounds she had heard had been the crushing of the plants under their feet, the click of their muskets as they moved; they were soldiers! where had they come from? there were no soldiers at ruscino. the only time when she had ever seen soldiers had been when the troopers had captured baruffo. these were not troopers; they were small men, on foot, linen-clad, moving stealthily, and as if in fear; only the tubes of their muskets glistened in the light of the great planets. she crouched down lower and lower, trying to enter the ground and hide; she hoped they would go onward, and then she could run -- faster than they -- and reach the hollow, and warn adone and his fellows. she had no doubt that they came to surprise the meeting; but she hoped from their pauses and hesitating steps that they were uncertain what way to take. "if you come to me to lead you -- aye! i will lead you! -- you will not forget where i lead!" she said to herself, as she hid under the heather; and her courage rose, for she saw a deed to be done. for they were now very near to the place of meeting, and could have taken the rebels like mice in a trap, if they had only known where they were; but she, watching them stand still, and stare, and look up to the stars, and then north, south, east, and west, saw that they did not know, and that it might be possible to lead them away from the spot by artifice, as the quail leads the sportsman away from the place where her nest is hidden. as the thought took shape in her brain a sixth man, a sergeant who commanded them, touched her with his foot, stooped, clutched her, and pulled her upward. she did not try to escape. "what beast of night have we here?" he cried. "spawn of devils, who are you?" nerina writhed under the grip of his iron fingers, but she still did not try to escape. he cursed her, swore at her, shook her, crushed her arm black and blue. she was sick with pain, but she was mute. "who are you?" he shouted. "i come down from the mountains to work here in summer." "can any of you speak her dialect?" cried the sergeant to his privates: the sergeant was a man of milan. one man answered, "i come from paganica; it is much the same tongue there as in these parts." "ask her the way, then." the soldier obeyed. "what is the way to the three pines? -- to the tomb of asdrubal?" "the way is long," said nerina. "do you know it?" "i know it." "have you heard tell of it?" "yes." "that men meet at night there?" "yes." "meet this night there?" "yes." "you know where the tomb of asdrubal is?" "have i not told you?" the soldier repeated her answer translated to his sergeant; the latter kept his grasp on her. "ask her if she will take us there." the soldier asked her and translated her answer. "if we give her two gold pieces she will take us there." "spawn of hell! i will give her nothing. but if she do not lead us aright i will give her a bullet for her breakfast." the soldier translated to nerina: "he will give you two gold pieces if you guide us aright; and you need have no fear; we are honest men and the king's servants." "i will guide the king's servants." "you are sure of the way?" "is the homing pigeon sure of his?" "let us be off," said the sergeant. "a bullet for her if she fail." he had little pleasure in trusting to this girl of the abruzzo hills, but he and his men were lost upon these moors, and might grope all night, and miss the meeting, and fail to join his comrades and surprise those who gathered at it. he reckoned upon fear as a sure agent to keep her true, as it kept his conscripts under arms. "bid him take his hand off me," said nerina, "or i do not move." the private translated to his superior. "she prays of your mercy to leave her free, or she cannot pass through the heather." the sergeant let her go unwillingly, but pushed her in front of him, and levelled his revolver at her. "tell her, if she try to get away, i fire." "tell him i know that," said nerina. she was not afraid, for a fierce, unholy joy was in her veins; she could have sung, she could have laughed, she could have danced; she held them in her power; they had come to ensnare adone, and she had got them in her power as if they were so many moles! they tied her hands behind her; she let them do it; she did not want her hands. then she began to push her way doggedly, with her head down, to the south. the tomb of asdrubal was due north; she could see the pole star, and turned her back to it and went due south. three miles or more southward there was a large _pollino_, or swamp as l'erba molle, the wet grass; the grass was luxuriant, the flora was varied and beautiful; in appearance it was a field, in reality it was a morass; to all people of the valdedera it was dreaded and avoided, as quicksand are by the seashore. she went on as fast as the narrow path, winding in and out between the undergrowth, permitted her to go; the armed soldiers, heavy laden with their knapsacks and their boots, following her clumsily, and with effort, uttering curses on their ill-luck and their sleepless night. the stars were now larger and brighter; the darkness was lightened, the river was running away from its southern birthplace in the hills which lie like couched lions about the feet of the gran sasso. she could hear its distant murmur. "they come to capture you," she said to it, "and i will kill them. they shall choke and go down, down, down -- " her heart leapt within her; and she went with the loaded revolver pointed at her from behind as though she went to her bridal-bed. "where are you taking us, vile little bitch?" the sergeant cried, and the soldier from paganica translated: "pretty little brown one, whither do you go?" "i take you straight," said nerina, "only you go to clumsily, for men in these parts should not wear leather upon their feet." the soldiers sighed assent, and would willingly have gone barefoot, and the sergeant swore in tones of thunder because he could not understand what she said. before long they came in sight of the erba molle; it looked like a fair, peaceful pasture, with thousands of sword rushes golden upon its surface. the light of the stars, which was now brilliant, shone upon its verdure; there were great flocks of water-birds at roost around it, and they rose with shrill cries and great noise of wings, with a roar as though a tide were rising. across it stretched a line of wooden piles which served as a rude causeway to those who had the courage and the steadiness to leap from one to another of them. it was not three times in a season that any one dared to do so. adone did so sometimes; and he had taught nerina how to make the passage. "pass you after me, and set your feet where i set mine," said nerina to the little soldier of the abruzzo, and she put down her foot on the first pile, sunk almost invisible under the bright green slime, where thousands of frogs were croaking. the soldier of the abruzzo said to his superior, "she says we must set our feet where she sets hers. we are quite near now to the tomb of the barbarian." nerina, with the light leap of a kid, bounded from pile to pile. they thought she went on solid ground; on meadow grass. the sergeant and his men crowded on to what they thought was pasture. in the uncertain shadows and scarce dawning light, they did not see the row of submerged timber. they sank like stones in the thick ooze; they were sucked under to their knees, to their waists, to their shoulders, to their mouths; the yielding grasses, the clutching slime, the tangled weed, the bottomless mud, took hold of them; the water-birds shrieked and beat their wings; the hideous clamour of dying men answered them. nerina had reached the other side of the morass in safety, and her mocking laughter rang upon their ears. "i have led you well!" she cried to them. "i have led you well, oh servants of the king! -- oh swine! -- oh slaves! -- oh spies!-- oh hunters and butchers of men!" and she danced on the edge of the field of death, and the light of the great planets shone upon her face. had she run onward at once the wood beyond she would have been saved. that instant of triumph and mockery lost her. the sergeant had put his revolver in his teeth; he knew now that he was a dead man; the slime was up to his chin, under his feet the grass and the mud quaked, yielded, yawned like a grave. he drew his right arm out of the ooze, seized his revolver, and aimed at the dancing, mocking, triumphant figure beyond the border of golden sword rushes. with a supreme effort he fired; then he sank under the mud and weed. the child dropped dead on the edge of the morass. one by one each soldier sank. not one escaped. the water-birds came back from their upward flight and settled again on the swamp. underneath it all was still, save for the loud croaking of the frogs. xx don silverio rose with the dawn of day, and entered his church at five of the clock. there were but a few women gathered in the gaunt, dark vastness of the nave. the morning was hot, and the scent of buds and blossoms and fresh-cut grass came in from the fields over the broken walls and into the ancient houses. when mass was over, old alaida crept over the mouldy mosaics timidly to his side, and kneeled down on the stones. "most reverend," she whispered, "'twas not my fault. i slept heavily; she must have unlocked the door, for it was undone at dawn; her bed is empty, she has not returned." "you speak of nerina?" "of nerina, reverence. i did all i could. it was not my fault. she was like a hawk in a cage." "i am grieved," he said; and he thought: "is it adone?" he feared so. "is she not at the terra vergine?" he asked. alaida shook her head. "no, reverend sir. i sent my grandchild to ask there. gianna has not seen her, and says the girl would never dare to go near clelia alba." "i am grieved," said don silverio again. he did not blame the old woman, as who, he thought, blames one who could not tame an eaglet? he went back to the presbytery and broke his fast on a glass of water, some bread, and some cresses from the river. he had sent for gianna. in half an hour she came, distressed and frightened. "sir, i know not of her; i should not dare to harbour her, even in the cattle-stall. madonna clelia would turn me adrift. when madonna clelia has once spoken --" "adone is at home?" "alas! no, sir. he went out at nightfall; we have not seen him since. he told me he went to a meeting of men at the three pines, at what they call the tomb of the barbarian." don silverio was silent. "it is very grave," he said at last. "aye, sir, grave indeed," said gianna. "would that it were love between them, sir. love is sweet and wholesome and kind, but there is no such thing in adone's heart. there it is only, alas! blackness and fire and hatred, sir; bloodlust against those who mean ill to the river." "and his mother has lost all influence over him?" "all, sir. she is no more to him now than a bent stick. yet, months ago, she gave him her pearls and her bracelets, and he sold them in a distant town to buy weapons." "indeed? what madness!" "how else could the men have been armed, sir?" "armed!" he repeated. "and of what use is it to arm? what use is it for two hundred peasants to struggle against the whole forces of the state? they will rot in prison; that is all that they will do." "maybe yes, sir. maybe no," said the old woman, with the obstinacy of ignorance. "some one must begin. they have no right to take the water away, sir; no more right than to take the breast from the babe." then, afraid of having said so much, she dropped her curtsey and went out into the street. but in another moment she came back into the study with a scared, blanched face, in which the wrinkles were scarred deep like furrows in a field. "sir -- sir!" she gasped, "there are the soldiery amongst us." don silverio rose in haste, put the little dog on his armchair, closed the door of his study, and went down the narrow stone passage which parted his bookroom from the entrance. the lofty doorway showed him the stones of the familiar street, a buttress of his church, a great branch of one of the self-sown ilex-trees, the glitter of the arms and the white leather of the cross belts of a sentinel. the shrill lamentations of the women seemed to rend the sunny air. he shuddered as he heard. coming up the street farther off were half a troop of carabineers and a score of dragoons; the swords of the latter were drawn, the former had their carbines levelled. the villagers, screaming with terror, were closing their doors and shutters in frantic haste; the door of the presbytery alone remained open. don silverio went into the middle of the road and addressed the officer who headed the carabineers. "may i ask to what my parish owes this visit?" "we owe no answer to you, reverend sir," said the lieutenant. the people were sobbing hysterically, catching their children in their arms, calling to the holy mother to save them, kneeling down on the sharp stones in the dust. their priest felt ashamed of them. "my people," he called to them, "do not be afraid. do not hide yourselves. do not kneel to these troopers. you have done no wrong." "i forbid you to address the crowd," said the officer. "get you back into your house." "what is my offence?" "you will learn in good time," said the commandant. "get you into your presbytery." "my place is with my people." the officer, impatient, struck him on the chest with the pommel of his sword. two carabineers thrust him back into the passage. "no law justifies your conduct," he said coldly, "or authorises you to sever me from my flock." "the sabre is law here," said the lieutenant in command. "it is the only law known anywhere in this kingdom," said don silverio. "arrest him," said the officer. "he is creating disorder." the carabineers drove him into his study, and a brigadier began to ransack his papers and drawers. he said nothing; the seizure of his manuscripts and documents was indifferent to him, for there was nothing he had ever written which would not bear the fullest light. but the insolent and arbitrary act moved him to keen anxiety, because it showed that the military men had licence to do their worst, at their will, and his anguish of apprehension was for adone. he could only hope and pray that adone had returned, and might be found tranquilly at work in the fields of the terra vergine. but his fears were great. unless more soldiery were patrolling the district in all directions it was little likely, he thought, that these men would conduct themselves thus in ruscino; he had no doubt that it was a concerted movement, directed by the prefect, and the general commanding the garrisons of the province, and intended to net in one haul the malcontents of the valdedera. from his study there was no view upon the street; he could hear the wailing of women and screaming of children from the now closed houses: that was all. "what is it your men do to my people?" he said sternly. the brigadier did not reply; he went on throwing papers into a trunk. "where is your warrant for this search? we are not in a state of siege?" asked don silverio. the man, with a significant gesture, drew his sabre up half way out of its sheath; then let it fall again with a clash. he vouchsafed no other answer. some women's faces pressed in at the grating of the window which looked on the little garden, scared, blanched, horrified, the white head, and sunburnt features of gianna foremost. "reverendissimo!" they screamed as with one voice. "they are bringing the lads in from the moors." and gianna shrieked, "adone! they have got adone!" don silverio sprang to his feet. "adone! have you taken adone alba?" "the ringleader! by bacchus! yes," cried the brigadier, with a laugh. "he will get thirty years at the galleys. your flock does you honour, reverendissimo!" "let me go to my flock," said don silverio; and some tone in his voice, some gesture of his hand, had an authority in them which compelled the carabineer to let him pass unopposed. he went down the stone passage to the archway of the open door. a soldier stood sentinel there. the street was crowded with armed men. the air was full of clangour and clamour; above all rose the shrill screams of the women. "no one passes," said the sentinel, and he levelled the mouth of his musket at don silverio's breast. "i pass," said the priest, and with his bare hand he grasped the barrel of the musket and forced it upward. "i rule here, in the name of god," he said in a voice which rolled down the street with majestic melody, dominating the screams, the oaths, the hell of evil sound; and he went down the steps of his house, and no man dared lay a hand on him. he could hear the trampling of horses and the jingling of spears and scabbards; some lancers who had beaten the moors that night were coming up the street. half a company of soldiers of the line, escorted by carabineers, came in from the country, climbing the steep street, driving before them a rabble of young men, disarmed, wounded, lame, with their hands tied behind them, the remnant of those who had met at the tomb of asdrubal in the night just passed. they had been surprised, seized, surrounded by a wall of steel; some had answered to their leader's call and had defended themselves, but these had been few; most of them had thrown down their weapons and begged for mercy when the cold steel of the soldiers was at their throats. adone had fought as though the shade of asdrubal had passed into him; but his friends had failed him; his enemies had outnumbered him a score to one; he had been overpowered, disarmed, bound, dragged through his native heather backward and upward to ruscino, reaching the shadow of the walls as the sun rose. the child lay dead by the stagnant pond, and the men she had led to their death lay choked with the weeds and the slime; but of that he knew naught. all he knew was that his cause was lost, his life forfeit, his last hope dead. only by his stature and his bearing could he be recognised. his features were black from powder and gore; his right arm hung broken by a shot; his clothing had been torn off him to his waist; he was lame; but he alone still bore himself erect as he came on up the village street. the others were huddled together in a fainting, tottering, crazed mob; all were sick and swooning from the long march, beaten when they paused by the buckles of belts and the flat of sabres. don silverio saw that sight in front of his church, in the white, clear light of early morning, and on the air there was a sickly stench of sweat, of powder, of wounds, of dust. he went straight to the side of adone. "my son, my son! i will come with you. they cannot refuse me that." but the soul of adone was as a pit in which a thousand devils strove for mastery. there was no light in it, no conscience, no gratitude, no remorse. "judas!" he cried aloud; and there was foam on his lips and there was red blood in his eyes. "judas! you betrayed us!" then, as a young bull lowers his horns, he bent his head and bit through and through to the bone the wrist of the soldier who held him; in terror and pain the man shrieked and let go his hold; adone's arms remained bound behind him, but his limbs, though they dripped blood, were free. he fronted the church, and that breach in the blocks of the etruscan wall through which nerina had taken her path to the river a few hours before. he knew every inch of the descent. hundreds of times in his boyhood had he run along the ruined wall and leaped in sport over the huge stones, to spring with joyous shouts into the river below. as the soldier with a scream of agony let go his hold, he broke away like a young lion released from the den. before they could seize him he had sprung over the wall, and was tearing down the slope; the linesmen, rushing in swift pursuit behind him, stumbled, rolled down the slippery grass, fell over the blocks of granite. he, sure of foot, knowing the way from childhood, ran down the hill safely, though blood poured from his wounds and blinded his sight, and a sickness like the swooning of death dulled his brain. beyond him and below him was the river. he dashed into it like a hunted beast swimming to sanctuary; he ran along in it, with its brightness and coolness rippling against his parched throat. he stooped and kissed it for the last time. "take me! -- save me! -- comrade, brother, friend!" he cried aloud to it with his last breath of life; and he plunged where it was deepest. then the sky grew dark, and only the sound of the water was heard in his ears. by the bridge its depth was great, and the current was strong under the shade of the ruined keep. it swept his body onward to the sea. xxi it was the beginning of winter when don silverio frascara, having been put upon his trial and no evidence of any sort having been adduced against him, was declared innocent and set free, no compensation or apology being offered to him. "were it only military law it had been easy enough to find him guilty," said senator giovacchino gallo to the syndic of san beda, and the count corradini warmly agreed with his excellency that for the sake of law, order, and public peace it would be well could the military tribunals be always substituted for the civil; but alas! the monarchy was not yet absolute! he had been detained many weeks and months at the city by the sea, where the trial of the young men of the valdedera had been held with all the prolonged, tedious, and cruel delays common to the national laws. great efforts had been made to implicate him in the criminal charges; but it had been found impossible to verify such suspicions; every witness by others, and every action of his own, proved the wisdom, the purity, and the excellence in counsel and example of his whole life at ruscino. the unhappy youths who had been taken with arms in their hands were condemned for overt rebellion and conspiracy against authority, and were sentenced, some to four, some to seven, some to ten, and, a few who were considered the ringleaders, to twenty-five years of cellular confinement. but against don silverio it was found impossible even to make out the semblance of an accusation, the testimony event of those hostile to him being irresistibly in his favour in all ways. he had done his utmost to defend the poor peasantry who had been misled by adone to their own undoing, and he had defended also the motives and the character of the dead with an eloquence which moved to tears the public who heard him, and touched even the hearts of stone of president and advocates; and he had done this at his own imminent risk; for men of law can never be brought to understand that comprehension is not collusion, or that pity is not fellowship. but all his efforts failed to save the young men from the utmost rigour of the law. the judge, agreeing with the state prosecutor, declared that the most severe example was necessary to check once for all by its terrors the tendency of the common people to resist the state and its public works and decrees. useful and patriotic enterprises must not be impeded or wrecked because ignorance was opposed to progress: thus said the king's advocate in an impassioned oration which gained for him eventually emolument and preferment. the rustics were sent in a body to the penitentiaries; and don silverio was permitted to go home. cold northern blasts blew from the upper apennines, and piled the snows upon the grey and yellow rocks of the abruzzo heights, as he crossed the valley of the edera towards ruscino. it seemed to him as though a century had passed since he had left it. in the icy wind which blew form the hills he shivered, for he had only one poor, thin coat to cover him. his strength, naturally great, had given way under the mental and physical sufferings of the last six months, although no word of lament had ever escaped him. like all generous natures he rebuked himself for the sins of others. incessantly he asked himself -- might he not have saved adone? as he came to the turn in the road which brought him within sight of the river, he sat down on a stone and covered his eyes with his hands. the sacristan had come to meet him, bringing the little dog, grown thin, and sad, and old with sorrow. "i did all i could for him, but he would not be consoled," murmured the old man. from the point which they had reached the course of the edera, and the lands of the terra vergine, were visible. with an effort, like one who forces his will to look on a dead face, he uncovered his eyes and looked downward. the olive-trees were still standing; where the house had stood there was a black, charred, roofless shell; the untilled fields lay bare beneath the frost. "reverend sir," said the old man below his breath, "when clelia alba knew that adone was drowned she set fire to the house, and so perished. they say she had promised her son." the wind from the north swept across the valley and drove the river in yellow foam and black eddies through the dead sedges. above ruscino the acacia thickets had been cut down, the herbage was crushed under timber and iron and stone, the heather was trampled and hacked, the sand and gravel were piled in heaps, the naked soil yawned in places like fresh-dug graves; along the southern bank were laid the metals of a light railway; on the lines of it were some trucks filled with bricks; the wooden huts of the workmen covered a dreary, dusty space; the water was still flowing, but on all the scene were the soil, the disorder, the destruction, the vulgar meanness and disfigurement which accompany modern labour, and affront like a coarse bruise the gracious face of nature. "there have been three hundred men from the puglie at work," said the sacristan. "they have stopped awhile now on account of the frost, but as soon as the weather opens --" "enough, enough!" murmured don silverio; and he rose, and holding the little dog in his arms, went on down the familiar road. "his body has never been found?" he asked under his breath. the old man shook his head. "nay, sir; what edera takes it keeps. he dropped where he knew it was deepest." as the vicar returned up the village street there was not a soul to give him greeting except old gianna, who kneeled weeping at his feet. the people poured out of their doorways, but they said not a word of welcome. the memory of adone was an idolatry with them, and adone had said that their priest had betrayed them. one woman threw a stone at signorino. don silverio covered the little dog, and received the blow on his own arm. "for twenty years i have had no thought but to serve these, my people!" he thought; but he neither rebuked nor reproached them. the women as he passed them hissed at him; "judas! judas!" one man alone said: "nay, 'tis a shame. have you forgot what he did in the cholera? 'tis long ago, but still --" but the women said: "he betrayed the poor lads. he brought the soldiers. he sold the water." under that outrage, his manhood and his dignity revived. he drew his tall form erect, and passed through the reviling crowd, and gave them his blessing as he passed. then he went within his church; and remained there alone. "he is gone to pray for the soul of adone," said the sacristan. when he came out of the church and entered his house, the street was empty; the people were afraid of what they had done and of their own ingratitude. he crossed the threshold of the presbytery. the sere vine veiled his study casement; in the silence he could hear the sound of the edera water; he sat down at his familiar table, with the dog upon his knees. his eyes were wet, and his heart was sick; his courage was broken. "how shall i bear my life here?" he thought. all which had made it of value and lightened its solitude was gone. even his people had turned against him; suspicious, thankless, hostile. the old sacristan, standing doubtful and timid at the entrance of the chamber, drew near and reverently touched his arm. "sir -- here is a letter -- it came three days ago." don silverio stretched out his hand over the little dog's head, and took it. he changed colour as he saw its seal and superscription. rome had at last remembered him, and awakened to his value. at the latest consistory he had been nominated to the cardinalate. the end. note as it may appear strange to the english reader that the porpora romana should be given to a village priest, i may here say that, to my knowledge, a country vicar was himself sweeping out his rural church when he was informed of his nomination as cardinal, and m. s. de mérode was only deacon when raised to that elevation. my lady of the chimney corner by alexander irvine author of "from the bottom up," etc. new york the century co. copyright, , by the century co. _published, august, _ to lady gregory and the players of the abbey theatre dublin foreword this book is the torn manuscript of the most beautiful life i ever knew. i have merely pieced and patched it together, and have not even changed or disguised the names of the little group of neighbors who lived with us, at "the bottom of the world." a. i. contents chapter page i love is enough ii the wolf and the carpenter iii rehearsing for the show iv sunday in pogue's entry v his arm is not shortened vi the apotheosis of hughie thornton vii in the glow of a peat fire viii the wind bloweth where it listeth ix "beyond th' meadows an' th' clouds" x the empty corner my lady of the chimney-corner a story of love and poverty in irish peasant life chapter i love is enough "anna's purty, an' she's good as well as purty, but th' beauty an' goodness that's hers is short lived, i'm thinkin'," said old bridget mcgrady to her neighbor mrs. tierney, as mrs. gilmore passed the door, leading her five-year-old girl, anna, by the hand. the old women were sitting on the doorstep as the worshipers came down the lane from early mass on a summer morning. "thrue for you, bridget, for th' do say that th' virgin takes all sich childther before they're ten." "musha, but mrs. gilmore'll take on terrible," continued mrs. tierney, "but th' will of god must be done." anna was dressed in a dainty pink dress. a wide blue ribbon kept her wealth of jet black hair in order as it hung down her back and the squeaking of her little shoes drew attention to the fact that they were new and in the fashion. "it's a mortal pity she's a girl," said bridget, "bekase she might hev been an althar boy before she goes." "aye, but if she was a bhoy shure there's no tellin' what divilmint she'd get into; so maybe it's just as well." the gilmores lived on a small farm near crumlin in county antrim. they were not considered "well to do," neither were they poor. they worked hard and by dint of economy managed to keep their children at school. anna was a favorite child. her quiet demeanor and gentle disposition drew to her many considerations denied the rest of the family. she was a favorite in the community. by the old women she was considered "too good to live"; she took "kindly" to the house of god. her teacher said, "anna has a great head for learning." this expression, oft repeated, gave the gilmores an ambition to prepare anna for teaching. despite the schedule arranged for her she was confirmed in the parish chapel at the age of ten. at fifteen she had exhausted the educational facilities of the community and set her heart on institutions of higher learning in the larger cities. while her parents were figuring that way the boys of the parish were figuring in a different direction. before anna was seventeen there was scarcely a boy living within miles who had not at one time or another lingered around the gate of the gilmore garden. mrs. gilmore watched anna carefully. she warned her against the danger of an alliance with a boy of a lower station. the girl was devoted to the church. she knew her book of devotions as few of the older people knew it, and before she was twelve she had read the lives of the saints. none of these things made her an ascetic. she could laugh heartily and had a keen sense of humor. the old women revised their prophecies. they now spoke of her "takin' th' veil." some said she would make "a gey good schoolmisthress," for she was fond of children. while waiting the completion of arrangements to continue her schooling, she helped her mother with the household work. she spent a good deal of her time, too, in helping the old and disabled of the village. she carried water to them from the village well and tidied up their cottages at least once a week. the village well was the point of departure in many a romance. there the boys and girls met several times a day. many a boy's first act of chivalry was to take the girl's place under the hoop that kept the cans apart and carry home the supply of water. half a century after the incident that played havoc with the dreams and visions of which she was the central figure, anna said to me: "i was fillin' my cans at th' well. he was standin' there lukin' at me. "'wud ye mind,' says he, 'if i helped ye?' "'deed no, not at all,' says i. so he filled my cans an' then says he: 'i would give you a nice wee cow if i cud carry thim home fur ye.' "'it's not home i'm goin',' says i, 'but to an' oul neighbor who can't carry it herself.' "'so much th' betther fur me,' says he, an' off he walked between the cans. at mary mckinstry's doore that afthernoon we stood till the shadows began t' fall." from the accounts rendered, old mary did not lack for water-carriers for months after that. one evening mary made tea for the water-carriers and after tea she "tossed th' cups" for them. "here's two roads, dear," she said to anna, "an' wan day ye'll haave t' choose betwixt thim. on wan road there's love an' clane teeth (poverty), an' on t'other riches an' hell on earth." "what else do you see on the roads, mary?" anna asked. "plenty ov childther on th' road t' clane teeth, an' dogs an' cats on th' road t' good livin'." "what haave ye fur me, mary?" jamie irvine, anna's friend, asked. she took his cup, gave it a shake, looked wise and said: "begorra, i see a big cup, me bhoy--it's a cup o' grief i'm thinkin' it is." "oul mary was jist bletherin'," he said, as they walked down the road in the gloaming, hand in hand. "a cup of sorrow isn't so bad, jamie, when there's two to drink it," anna said. he pressed her hand tighter and replied: "aye, that's thrue, fur then it's only half a cup." jamie was a shoemaker's apprentice. his parents were very poor. the struggle for existence left time for nothing else. as the children reached the age of eight or nine they entered the struggle. jamie began when he was eight. he had never spent a day at school. his family considered him fortunate, however, that he could be an apprentice. the cup that old mary saw in the tea leaves seemed something more than "blether" when it was noised abroad that anna and jamie were to be married. the gilmores strenuously objected. they objected because they had another career mapped out for anna. jamie was illiterate, too, and she was well educated. he was a protestant and she an ardent catholic. illiteracy was common enough and might be overlooked, but a mixed marriage was unthinkable. the irvines, on the other hand, although very poor, could see nothing but disaster in marriage with a catholic, even though she was as "pure and beautiful as the virgin." "it's a shame an' a scandal," others said, "that a young fella who can't read his own name shud marry sich a nice girl wi' sich larnin'." jamie made some defense but it wasn't convincing. "doesn't the bible say maan an' wife are wan?" he asked mrs. gilmore in discussing the question with her. "aye." "well, when anna an' me are wan won't she haave a thrade an' won't i haave an education?" "that's wan way ov lukin' at a vexed question, but you're th' only wan that luks at it that way!" "there's two," anna said. "that's how i see it." when jamie became a journeyman shoemaker, the priest was asked to perform the marriage ceremony. he refused and there was nothing left to do but get a man who would give love as big a place as religion, and they were married by the vicar of the parish church. not in the memory of man in that community had a wedding created so little interest in one way and so much in another. they were both "turncoats," the people said, and they were shunned by both sides. so they drank their first big draft of the "cup o' grief" on their wedding-day. "sufferin' will be yer portion in this world," anna's mother told her, "an' in th' world t' come separation from yer maan." anna kissed her mother and said: "i've made my choice, mother, i've made it before god, and as for jamie's welfare in the next world, i'm sure that love like his would turn either limbo, purgatory or hell into a very nice place to live in!" a few days after the wedding the young couple went out to the four cross-roads. jamie stood his staff on end and said: "are ye ready, dear?" "aye, i'm ready, but don't tip it in the direction of your preference!" he was inclined toward dublin, she toward belfast. they laughed. jamie suddenly took his hand from the staff and it fell, neither toward belfast nor dublin, but toward the town of antrim, and toward antrim they set out on foot. it was a distance of less than ten miles, but it was the longest journey she ever took--and the shortest, for she had all the world beside her, and so had jamie. it was in june, and they had all the time there was. there was no hurry. they were as care-free as children and utilized their freedom in full. between moira and antrim they came to willie withero's stone pile. willie was antrim's most noted stone-breaker in those days. he was one of the town's news centers. at his stone-pile he got the news going and coming. he was a strange mixture of philosophy and cynicism. he had a rough exterior and spoke in short, curt, snappish sentences, but behind it all he had a big heart full of kindly human feeling. "anthrim's a purty good place fur pigs an' sich to live in," he told the travelers. "ye see, pigs is naither fenians nor orangemen. i get along purty well m'self bekase i sit on both sides ov th' fence at th' same time." "how do you do it, misther withero?" anna asked demurely. "don't call me 'misther,'" willie said; "only quality calls me 'misther' an' i don't like it--it doesn't fit an honest stone breaker." the question was repeated and he said: "i wear a green ribbon on pathrick's day an' an orange cockade on th' twelfth ov july, an' if th' ax m' why, i tell thim t' go t' h--l! that's withero fur ye an' wan ov 'im is enough fur anthrim, that's why i niver married, an' that'll save ye the throuble ov axin' me whither i've got a wife or no!" "what church d'ye attend, willie?" jamie asked. "church is it, ye're axin' about? luk here, me bhoy, step over th' stile." willie led the way over into the field. "step over here, me girl." anna followed. a few yards from the hedge there was an ant-hill. "see thim ants?" "aye." "now if withero thought thim ants hated aych other like th' men ov anthrim d'ye know what i'd do?" "what?" "i'd pour a kittle ov boilin' wather on thim an' roast th' hides off ivery mother's son ov thim. aye, that's what i'd do, shure as gun's iron!" "that would be a sure and speedy cure," anna said, smiling. "what's this world but an ant-hill?" he asked. "jist a big ant-hill an' we're ants begorra an' uncles, but instead ov workin' like these wee fellas do--help aych other an' shouldther aych other's burdens, an' build up th' town, an' forage fur fodder, begobs we cut aych other's throats over th' color ov ribbon or th' kind ov a church we attind! ugh, what balderdash!" the stone-breaker dropped on his knees beside the ant-hill and eyed the manoeuvering of the ants. "luk here!" he said. they looked in the direction of his pointed finger and observed an ant dragging a dead fly over the hill. "jist watch that wee fella!" they watched. the ant had a big job, but it pulled and pushed the big awkward carcass over the side of the hill. a second ant came along, sized up the situation, and took a hand. "ha, ha!" he chortled, "that's th' ticket, now kape yez eye on him!" the ants dragged the fly over the top of the hill and stuffed it down a hole. "now," said withero, "if a fella in anthrim wanted a han' th' other fellah wud say: 'where d'ye hing yer hat up on sunday?' or some other sich fool question!" "he wud that." "now mind ye, i'm not huffed at th' churches, aither orange or green, or th' praychers aither--tho 'pon m' sowl ivery time i luk at wan o' thim i think ov god as a first class journeyman tailor! but i get more good switherin' over an ant-hill than whin wan o' thim wee praychers thry t' make me feel as miserable as th' divil!" "there's somethin' in that," jamie said. "aye, ye kin bate a pair ov oul boots there is!" "what will th' ants do wi' th' fly?" jamie asked. "huh!" he grunted with an air of authority, "they'll haave rump steaks fur tay and fly broth fur breakvist th' morra!" "th' don't need praychers down there, do th', willie?" "don't need thim up here!" he said. "they're sign-boards t' point th' way that iverybody knows as well as th' nose on his face!" "good-by," anna said, as they prepared to leave. "good-by, an' god save ye both kindly," were willie's parting words. he adjusted the wire protectors to his eyes and the sojourners went on down the road. they found a mossy bank and unpacked their dinner. "quare, isn't he?" jamie said. "he has more sense than any of our people." "that's no compliment t' withero, anna, but i was jist thinkin' about our case; we've got t' decide somethin' an' we might as well decide it here as aanywhere." "about religion, jamie?" "aye." "i've decided." "when?" "at the ant-hill." "ye cudn't be withero?" "no, dear, willie sees only half th' world. there's love in it that's bigger than color of ribbon or creed of church. we've proven that, jamie, haven't we?" "but what haave ye decided?" "that love is bigger than religion. that two things are sure. one is love of god. he loves all his children and gets huffed at none. the other is that the love we have for each other is of the same warp and woof as his for us, and _love is enough_, jamie." "aye, love is shure enough an' enough's as good as a faste, but what about childther if th' come, anna?" "we don't cross a stile till we come to it, do we?" "that's right, that's right, acushla; now we're as rich as lords, aren't we, but i'm th' richest, amn't i? i've got you an' you've only got me." "i've got book learning, but you've got love and a trade, what more do i want? you've got more love than any man that ever wooed a woman--so i'm richer, amn't i?" "oh, god," jamie said, "but isn't this th' lovely world, eh, anna?" within a mile of antrim they saw a cottage, perched on a high bluff by the roadside. it was reached by stone steps. they climbed the steps to ask for a drink of water. they were kindly received. the owner was a follower of wesley and his conversation at the well was in sharp contrast to the philosophy at the stone-pile. the young journeyman and his wife were profoundly impressed with the place. the stone cottage was vine-clad. there were beautiful trees and a garden. the june flowers were in bloom and a cow grazed in the pasture near by. "some day we'll haave a home like this," jamie said as they descended the steps. anna named it "the mount of temptation," for it was the nearest she had ever been to the sin of envy. a one-armed crimean pensioner named steele occupied it during my youth. it could be seen from pogue's entry and anna used to point it out and tell the story of that memorable journey. in days when clouds were heavy and low and the gaunt wolf stood at the door she would say: "do you mind the journey to antrim, jamie?" "aye," he would say with a sigh, "an' we've been in love ever since, haven't we, anna?" chapter ii the wolf and the carpenter for a year after their arrival in antrim they lived in the home of the master-shoemaker for whom jamie worked as journeyman. it was a great hardship, for there was no privacy and their daily walk and conversation, in front of strangers, was of the "yea, yea" and "nay, nay" order. in the summer time they spent their sundays on the banks of lough neagh, taking whatever food they needed and cooking it on the sand. they continued their courting in that way. they watched the water-fowl on the great wide marsh, they waded in the water and played as children play. in more serious moods she read to him moore's poems and went over the later lessons of her school life. even with but part of a day in each week together they were very happy. the world was full of sunshine for them then. there were no clouds, no regrets, no fears. it was a period--a brief period--that for the rest of their lives they looked back upon as a time when they really lived. i am not sure, but i am of the impression that the chief reason she could not be persuaded to visit the lough in later life was because she wanted to remember it as she had seen it in that first year of their married life. their first child was two years of age when the famine came--the famine that swept over ireland like a plague, leaving in its wake over a million new-made graves. they had been in their own house for over a year. it was scantily furnished, but it was _home_. as the ravages of the famine spread, nearly every family in the town mourned the absence of some member. men and women met on the street one day, were gone the next. jamie put his bench to one side and sought work at anything he could get to do. prices ran up beyond the possibilities of the poor. the potato crop only failed. the other crops were reaped and the proceeds sent to england as rent and interest, and the reapers having sent the last farthing, lay down with their wives and children and died. of the million who died four hundred thousand were able-bodied men. the wolf stood at every door. the carpenter alone was busy. of course it was the poor who died--the poor only. in her three years of married life anna realized in a measure that the future held little change for her or her husband, but she saw a ray of hope for the boy in the cradle. when the foodless days came and the child was not getting food enough to survive, she gave vent to her feelings of despair. jamie did not quite understand when she spoke of the death of hope. "spake what's in yer heart plainly, anna!" he said plaintively. "jamie, we must not blame each other for anything, but we must face the fact--we live at the bottom of the world where every hope has a headstone--a headstone that only waits for the name." "aye, dear, god help us, i know, i know what ye mane." "above and beyond us," she continued, "there is a world of nice things--books, furniture, pictures--a world where people and things can be kept clean, but it's a world we could never reach. but i had hope"-- she buried her face in her hands and was silent. "aye, aye, acushla, i know yer hope's in the boy, but don't give up. we'll fight it out together if th' worst comes to th' worst. the boy'll live, shure he will!" he could not bear the agony on her face. it distracted him. he went out and sought solitude on a pile of stones back of the house. there was no solitude there, nor could he have remained long if there had been. he returned and drawing a stool up close beside her he sat down and put an arm tenderly over her shoulder. "cheer up, wee girl," he said, "our ship's comin' in soon." "if we can only save him!" she said, pointing to the cradle. "well, we won't cry over spilt milk, dear--not at laste until it's spilt." "ah," she exclaimed, "i had such hopes for him!" "aye, so haave i, but thin again i've thought t' myself, suppose th' wee fella did get t' be kind-a quality like, wudn't he be ashamed ov me an' you maybe, an' shure an ingrate that's somethin' is worse than nothin'!" "a child born in pure love couldn't be an ingrate, jamie; that isn't possible, dear." "ah, who knows what a chile will be, anna?" the child awoke and began to cry. it was a cry for food. there was nothing in the house; there had been nothing all that day. they looked at each other. jamie turned away his face. he arose and left the house. he went aimlessly down the street wondering where he should try for something to eat for the child. there were several old friends whom he supposed were in the same predicament, but to whom he had not appealed. it was getting to be an old story. a score of as good children as his had been buried. everybody was polite, full of sympathy, but the child was losing his vitality, so was the mother. something desperate must be done and done at once. for the third time he importuned a grocer at whose shop he had spent much money. the grocer was just putting up the window shutters for the night. "if ye cud jist spare us a ha'p'orth ov milk to keep th' life in th' chile fur th' night?" he pleaded. "it wudn't be a thimbleful if i had it, jamie, but i haven't--we haave childther ov our own, ye know, an' life is life!" "aye, aye," he said, "i know, i know," and shuffled out again. back to the house he went. he lifted the latch gently and tiptoed in. anna was rocking the child to sleep. he went softly to the table and took up a tin can and turned again toward the door. anna divined his stealthy movement. she was beside him in an instant. "where are you going, jamie?" he hesitated. she forced an answer. "jamie," she said in a tone new to her, "there's been nothing but truth and love between us; i must know." "i'm goin' out wi' that can to get somethin' fur that chile, anna, if i haave t' swing fur it. that's what's in my mind an' god help me!" "god help us both," she said. he moved toward the street. she planted herself between him and the door. "no, we must stand together. they'll put you in jail and then the child and i will die anyway. let's wait another day!" they sat down together in the corner. it was dark now and they had no candle. the last handful of turf was on the fire. they watched the sparks play and the fitful spurts of flame light up for an instant at a time the darkened home. it was a picture of despair--the first of a long series that ran down the years with them. they sat in silence for a long time. then they whispered to each other with many a break the words they had spoken in what now seemed to them the long ago. the fire died out. they retired, but not to sleep. they were too hungry. there was an insatiable gnawing at their vitals that made sleep impossible. it was like a cancer with excruciating pain added. sheer exhaustion only, stilled the cries of the starving child. there were no more tears in their eyes, but anguish has by-valves more keen, poignant and subtle. in agony they lay in silence and counted time by the repercussion of pain until the welcome dawn came with its new supply of hope. the scream of a frenzied mother who had lost a child in the night was the prelude to a tragic day. anna dressed quickly and in a few minutes stood by the side of the woman. there was nothing to say. nothing to do. it was her turn. it would be anna's next. all over the town the specter hovered. every day the reaper garnered a new harvest of human sheaves. every day the wolf barked. every day the carpenter came. when anna returned jamie had gone. she took her station by the child. jamie took the tin can and went out along the gray-stone road for about a mile and entered a pasture where three cows were grazing. he was weak and nervous. his eyes were bloodshot and his hands trembled. he had never milked a cow. he had no idea of the difficulty involved in catching a cow and milking her in a pasture. there was the milk and yonder his child, who without it would not survive the day. desperation dominated and directed every movement. the cows walked away as he approached. he followed. he drove them into a corner of the field and managed to get his hand on one. he tried to pet her, but the jingling of the can frightened her and off they went--all of them--on a fast trot along the side of the field. he became cautious as he cornered them a second time. this time he succeeded in reaching an udder. he got a tit in his hand. he lowered himself to his haunches and proceeded to tug vigorously. his hand was waxy and stuck as if glued to the flesh. before there was any sign of milk the cow gave him a swift kick that sent him flat on his back. by the time he pulled himself together again the cows were galloping to the other end of the pasture. "god!" he muttered as he mopped the sweat from his face with his sleeve, "if ye've got aany pity or kindly feelin' giv me a sup ov that milk fur m' chile! come on!" his legs trembled so that he could scarcely stand. again he approached. the cows eyed him with sullen concern. they were thoroughly scared now and he couldn't get near enough to lay a hand on any of them. he stood in despair, trembling from head to foot. he realized that what he would do he must do quickly. the morning had swift wings--it was flying away. some one would be out for the cows ere long and his last chance would be gone. he dropped the can and ran to the farm-house. there was a stack-yard in the rear. he entered and took a rope from a stack. it was a long rope--too long for his use, but he did not want to destroy its usefulness. he dragged it through the hedge after him. this time with care and caution he got near enough to throw the rope over the horns of a cow. leading her to a fence he tied her to it and began again. it came slowly. his strength was almost gone. he went from one side to the other--now at one tit, now at another. from his haunches he went to his knees and from that position he stretched out his legs and sat flat on the grass. he no sooner had a good position than the cow would change hers. she trampled on his legs and swerved from side to side, but he held on. it was a life and death struggle. the little milk at the bottom of the can gave him strength and courage. as he literally pulled it out of her his strength increased. when the can was half full he turned the cow loose and made for the gap in the hedge. within a yard of it he heard the loud report of a gun and the can dropped to the ground. the ball had plowed through both lugs of the can disconnecting the wire handle. not much of the milk was lost. he picked up the can and started down the road as fast as his legs could take him. he had only gone a hundred yards when a man stepped out into the road and leveled a gun at him. "another yard an' i'll blow yer brains out!" the man said. "is this yer milk?" jamie asked. "aye, an' well ye know it's m' milk!" jamie put the can down on the road and stood silent. the farmer delivered himself of a volume of profane abuse. jamie did not reply. he stood with his head bowed and to all appearances in a mood of penitence. when the man finished his threats and abuse he stooped to pick up the can. before his hand touched it jamie sprang at him with the ferocity of a panther. there was a life and death tussle for a few seconds and both men went down on the road--jamie on top. sitting on the man's chest he took a wrist in each hand and pinned him to the ground. "ye think i'm a thief," he said to the man as he looked at him with eyes that burned like live coals. "i'm not, i'm an honest maan, but i haave a chile dying wi' hunger--now it's your life or his, by ---- an' ye'll decide!" "i think yer a liar as well as a thief," the man said, "but if we can prove what ye say i'm yer friend." "will ye go with me?" "aye." "d'ye mane it?" "aye, i do!" "i'll carry th' gun." "ye may, there's nothin' in it." "there's enough in th' butt t' batther a maan's brains out." jamie seized the gun and the can and the man got up. they walked down the road in silence, each watching the other out of the corners of his eyes. "d'ye believe in god?" jamie asked abruptly. the farmer hesitated before answering. "why d'ye ask?" "i'd like t' see a maan in these times that believed wi' his heart insted ov his mouth!" "wud he let other people milk his cows?" asked the man, sneeringly. "he mightn't haave cows t' milk," jamie said. "but he'd be kind and not a glutton!" they arrived at the house. the man went in first. he stopped near the door and jamie instinctively and in fear shot past him. what he saw dazed him. "ah, god!" he exclaimed. "she's dead!" anna lay on her back on the floor and the boy was asleep by the hearth with his head in the ashes. the neighbors were alarmed and came to assist. the farmer felt anna's pulse. it was feebly fluttering. "she's not dead," he said. "get some cold wather quickly!" they dashed the water in her face and brought her back to consciousness. when she looked around she said: "who 's this kind man come in to help, jamie?" "he's a farmer," jamie said, "an' he's brot ye a pint ov nice fresh milk!" the man had filled a cup with milk and put it to anna's lips. she refused. "he's dying," she said, pointing to the boy, who lay limp on the lap of a neighbor. the child was drowsy and listless. they gave him the cup of milk. he had scarcely enough strength to drink. anna drank what was left, which was very little. "god bless you!" anna said as she held out her hand to the farmer. "god save you kindly," he answered as he took her hand and bowed his head. "i've a wife an' wains myself," he continued, "but we're not s' bad off on a farm." turning to jamie he said: "yer a protestant!" "aye." "an' i'm a fenian, but we're in t' face ov bigger things!" he extended his hand. jamie clasped it, the men looked into each other's faces and understood. that night in the dusk, the fenian farmer brought a sack of potatoes and a quart of fresh milk and the spark of life was prolonged. chapter iii rehearsing for the show famine not only carried off a million of the living, but it claimed also the unborn. anna's second child was born a few months after the siege was broken, but the child had been starved in its mother's womb and lived only three months. there was no wake. wakes are for older people. there were no candles to burn, no extra sheet to put over the old dresser, and no clock to stop at the moment of death. the little wasted thing lay in its undressed pine coffin on the table and the neighbors came in and had a look. custom said it should be kept the allotted time and the tyrant was obeyed. a dozen of those to whom a wake was a means of change and recreation came late and planted themselves for the night. "ye didn't haave a hard time wi' th' second, did ye, anna?" asked mrs. mulholland. "no," anna said quietly. "th' hard times play'd th' divil wi' it before it was born, i'll be bound," said a second. a third averred that the child was "the very spit out of its father's mouth." ghost stories, stories of the famine, of hard luck, of hunger, of pain and the thousand and one aspects of social and personal sorrow had the changes rung on them. anna sat in the corner. she had to listen, she had to answer when directly addressed and the prevailing idea of politeness made her the center of every story and the object of every moral! the refreshments were all distributed and diplomatically the mourners were informed that there was nothing more; nevertheless they stayed on and on. nerve-racked and unstrung, anna staggered to her feet and took jamie to the door. "i'll go mad, dear, if i have to stand it all night!" they dared not be discourteous. a reputation for heartlessness would have followed anna to the grave if she had gone to bed while the dead child lay there. withero had been at old william farren's wake and was going home when he saw anna and jamie at the door. they explained the situation. "take a dandther down toward th' church," he said, "an' then come back." willie entered the house in an apparently breathless condition. "yer takin' it purty aisy here," he said, "whin 'jowler' hainey's killin' his wife an' wreckin' th' house!" in about two minutes he was alone. he put a coal in his pipe and smoked for a minute. then he went over to the little coffin. he took his pipe out of his mouth, laid it on the mantel-shelf and returned. the little hands were folded. he unclasped them, took one of them in his rough calloused palm. "poore wee thing," he said in an undertone, "poore wee thing." he put the hands as he found them. still looking at the little baby face he added: "heigho, heigho, it's bad, purty bad, but it's worse where there isn't even a dead wan!" when anna returned she lay down on her bed, dressed as she was, and jamie and withero kept the vigil--with the door barred. next morning at the earliest respectable hour withero carried the little coffin under his arm and jamie walked beside him to the graveyard. during the fifteen years that followed the burial of "the famine child" they buried three others and saved three--four living and four dead. i was the ninth child. anna gave me a greek name which means "helper of men." shortly after my arrival in scott's entry, they moved to pogue's entry. the stone cabin was thatch-covered and measured about twelve by sixteen feet. the space comprised three apartments. one, a bedroom; over the bedroom and beneath the thatch a little loft that served as a bedroom to those of climbing age. the rest of it was workshop, dining-room, sitting-room, parlor and general community news center. the old folks slept in a bed, the rest of us slept on the floor and beneath the thatch. between the bedroom door and the open fireplace was the chimney-corner. near the door stood an old pine table and some dressers. they stood against the wall and were filled with crockery. we never owned a chair. there were several pine stools, a few creepies (small stools), and a long bench that ran along the bedroom wall, from the chimney corner to the bedroom door. the mud floor never had the luxury of a covering, nor did a picture ever adorn the bare walls. when the floor needed patching, jamie went to somebody's garden, brought a shovelful of earth, mixed it and filled the holes. the stools and creepies were scrubbed once a week, the table once a day. i could draw an outline of that old table now and accurately mark every dent and crack in it. i do not know where it came from, but each of us had a _hope_ that one day we should possess a pig. we built around the hope a sty and placed it against the end of the cabin. the pig never turned up, but the hope lived there throughout a generation! we owned a goat once. in three months it reduced the smooth kindly feeling in pogue's entry to the point of total eclipse. we sold it and spent a year in winning back old friends. we had a garden. it measured thirty-six by sixteen inches, and was just outside the front window. at one end was a small currant bush and in the rest of the space anna grew an annual crop of nasturtiums. once we were prosperous. that was when two older brothers worked with my father at shoemaking. i remember them, on winter nights, sitting around the big candlestick--one of the three always singing folk-songs as he worked. as they worked near the window, anna sat in her corner and by the light of a candle in her little sconce made waxed ends for the men. i browsed among the lasts, clipping, cutting and scratching old leather parings and dreaming of the wonderful days beyond when i too could make a boot and sing "black-eyed susan." then the news came--news of a revolution. "they're making boots by machinery now," anna said one day. "it's dotin' ye are, anna," jamie replied. she read the account. "how cud a machine make a boot, anna?" he asked in bewilderment. "i don't know, dear." barney mcquillan was the village authority on such things. when he told jamie, he looked aghast and said, "how quare!" then makers became menders--shoemakers became cobblers. there was something of magic and romance in the news that a machine could turn out as much work as twenty-five men, but when my brothers moved away to other parts of the world to find work, the romance was rubbed off. "maybe we can get a machine?" jamie said. "aye, but shure ye'd have to get a factory to put it in!" "is that so?" "aye, an' we find it hard enough t' pay fur what we're in now!" barney mcquillan was the master-shoe-maker in our town who was best able to readjust himself to changed conditions. he became a master-cobbler and doled out what he took in to men like jamie. he kept a dozen men at work, making a little off each, just as the owner of the machine did in the factory. in each case the need of skill vanished and the power of capital advanced. jamie dumbly took what was left--cobbling for barney. to anna the whole thing meant merely the death of a few more hopes. for over twenty years she had fought a good fight, a fight in which she played a losing part, though she was never wholly defeated. her first fight was against slang and slovenly speech. she started early in their married life to correct jamie. he tried hard and often, but he found it difficult to speak one language to his wife and another to his customers. from the lips of anna, it sounded all right, but the same pronunciation by jamie seemed affected and his customers gaped at him. then she directed her efforts anew to the children. one after another she corrected their grammar and pronunciation, corrected them every day and every hour of the day that they were in her presence. here again she was doomed to failure. the children lived on the street and spoke its language. it seemed a hopeless task. she never whined over it. she was too busy cleaning, cooking, sewing and at odd times helping jamie, but night after night for nearly a generation she took stock of a life's effort and each milestone on the way spelt failure. she could see no light--not a glimmer. not only had she failed to impress her language upon others, but she found herself gradually succumbing to her environment and actually lapsing into vulgar forms herself. there was a larger and more vital conflict than the one she had lost. it was the fight against dirt. in such small quarters, with so many children and such activity in work she fought against great odds. bathing facilities were almost impossible: water had to be brought from the town well, except what fell on the roof, and that was saved for washing clothes. whatever bathing there was, was done in the tub in which jamie steeped his leather. we children were suspicious that when jamie bathed anna had a hand in it. they had a joke between them that could only be explained on that basis. she called it "grooming the elephant." "jist wait, m' boy," she would say in a spirit of kindly banter, "till the elephant has to be groomed, and i'll bring ye down a peg or two." there was a difference of opinion among them as to the training of children. "no chile iver thrived on saft words," he said; "a wet welt is betther." "aye, yer wet welt stings th' flesh, jamie, but it niver gets at a chile's mind." "thrue for you, but who th' ---- kin get at a chile's mind?" one day i was chased into the house by a bigger boy. i had found a farthing. he said it was his. the money was handed over and the boy left with his tongue in his cheek. i was ordered to strip. when ready he laid me across his knee and applied the "wet welt." an hour later it was discovered that a week had elapsed between the losing and finding of the farthing. no sane person would believe that a farthing could lie for a whole week on the streets of antrim. "well," he said, "ye need a warmin' like that ivery day, an' ye had nown yestherday, did ye?" on another occasion i found a ball, one that had never been lost. a boy, hoping to get me in front of my father, claimed the ball. my mother on this occasion sat in judgment. "where did _you_ get the ball?" she asked the boy. he couldn't remember. she probed for the truth, but neither of us would give in. when all efforts failed she cut the ball in half and gave each a piece! "nixt time i'll tell yer dah," the boy said when he got outside, "he makes you squeal like a pig." when times were good--when work and wages got a little ahead of hunger, which was seldom, anna baked her own bread. three kinds of bread she baked. "soda,"--common flour bread, never in the shape of a loaf, but bread that lay flat on the griddle; "pirta oaten"--made of flour and oatmeal; and "fadge"--potato bread. she always sung while baking and she sang the most melancholy and plaintive airs. as she baked and sang i stood beside her on a creepie watching the process and awaiting the end, for at the close of each batch of bread i always had my "duragh"--an extra piece. when hunger got ahead of wages the family bread was bought at sam johnson's bakery. the journey to sam's was full of temptation to me. hungry and with a vested interest in the loaf on my arm, i was not over punctilious in details of the moral law. anna pointed out the opportunities of such a journey. it was a chance to try my mettle with the arch tempter. it was a mental gymnasium in which moral muscle got strength. there wasn't in all ireland a mile of highway so well paved with good intentions. i used to start out, well keyed up morally and humming over and over the order of the day. when, on the home stretch, i had made a dent in sam's architecture, i would lay the loaf down on the table, good side toward my mother. while i was doing that she had read the story of the fall on my face. i could feel her penetrating gaze. "so he got ye, did he?" "aye," i would say in a voice too low to be heard by my father. the order at sam's was usually a sixpenny loaf, three ha'pence worth of tea and sugar and half an ounce of tobacco. there were times when barney had no work for my father, and on such occasions i came home empty-handed. then jamie would go out to find work as a day laborer. periods like these were glossed over by anna's humor and wit. as they sat around the table, eating "stir-about" without milk, or bread without tea, jamie would grunt and complain. "aye, faith," anna would say, "it's purty bad, but it's worse where there's none at all!" when the wolf lingered long at the door i went foraging--foraging as forages a hungry dog and in the same places. around the hovels of the poor where dogs have clean teeth a boy has little chance. one day, having exhausted the ordinary channels of relief without success, i betook myself to the old swimming-hole on the mill race. the boys had a custom of taking a "shiverin' bite" when they went bathing. it was on a sunday afternoon in july and quite a crowd sat around the hole. i neither needed nor wanted a bath--i wanted a bite. no one offered a share of his crust. a big boy named healy was telling of his prowess as a fighter. "i'll fight ye fur a penny!" said i. "where's yer penny?" said healy. "i'll get it th' morra." a man seeing the difficulty and willing to invest in a scrap advanced the wager. i was utterly outclassed and beaten. peeling my clothes off i went into the race for a swim and to wash the blood off. when i came out healy had hidden my trousers. i searched for hours in vain. the man who paid the wager gave me an extra penny and i went home holding my jacket in front of my legs. the penny saved me from a "warming," but anna, feeling that some extra discipline was necessary, made me a pair of trousers out of an old potato sack. "that's sackcloth, dear," she said, "an' ye can aither sit in th' ashes in them or wear them in earning another pair! hold fast t' yer penny!" in this penitential outfit i had to sell my papers. every fiber of my being tingled with shame and humiliation. i didn't complain of the penance, but i swore vengeance on healy. she worked the desire for vengeance out of my system in her chimney-corner by reading to me often enough, so that i memorized the fifty-third chapter of isaiah. miss mcgee, the postmistress, gave me sixpence for the accomplishment and that went toward a new pair of trousers. concerning healy, anna said: "bate 'im with a betther brain, dear!" despite my fistic encounters, my dents in the family loaves, my shinny, my marbles and the various signs of total or at least partial depravity, anna clung to the hope that out of this thing might finally come what she was looking, praying and hoping for. an item on the credit side of my ledger was that i was born in a caul--a thin filmy veil that covered me at birth. of her twelve i was the only one born in "luck." in a little purse she kept the caul, and on special occasions she would exhibit it and enumerate the benefits and privileges that went with it. persons born in a caul were immune from being hung, drawn and quartered, burned to death or lost at sea. it was on the basis of the caul i was rented to old mary mcdonagh. my duty was to meet her every monday morning. the meeting insured her luck for the week. mary was a huckster. she carried her shop on her arm--a wicker basket in which she had thread, needles, ribbons and other things which she sold to the farmers and folks away from the shopping center. no one is lucky while bare-footed. having no shoes i clattered down sandy somerville's entry in my father's. at the first clatter, she came out, basket on arm, and said: "morra, bhoy, god's blessin' on ye!" "morra, mary, an' good luck t' ye," was my answer. i used to express my wonder that i couldn't turn this luck of a dead-sure variety into a pair of shoes for myself. anna said: "yer luck, dear, isn't in what ye can get, but in what ye can give!" when antrim opened its first flower show i was a boy of all work at old mrs. chaine's. the gardener was pleased with my work and gave me a hothouse plant to put in competition. i carried it home proudly and laid it down beside her in the chimney-corner. "the gerd'ner says it'll bate th' brains out on aany geranium in the show!" i said. "throth it will that, dear," she said, "but sure ye couldn't take a prize fur it!" "why?" i growled. "ah, honey, shure everybody would know that ye didn't grow it--forby they know that th' smoke in here would kill it in a few days." i sulked and protested. "that's a nice way t' throw cowld wather on th' chile," jamie said. "why don't ye let 'im go on an' take his chances at the show?" a pained look overspread her features. it was as if he had struck her with his fist. her eyes filled with tears and she said huskily: "the whole world's a show, jamie, an' this is the only place the wee fella has to rehearse in." i sat down beside her and laid my head in her lap. she stroked it in silence for a minute or two. i couldn't quite see, however, how i could miss that show! she saw that after all i was determined to enter the lists. she offered to put a card on it for me so that they would know the name of the owner. this is what she wrote on the card: "this plant is lent for decorative purposes." that night there was an unusual atmosphere in her corner. she had a newly tallied cap on her head and her little sunday shawl over her shoulders. her candle was burning and the hearthstones had an extra coat of whitewash. she drew me up close beside her and told me a story. "once, a long, long time ago, god, feelin' tired, went to sleep an' had a nice wee nap on his throne. his head was in his han's an' a wee white cloud came down an' covered him up. purty soon he wakes up an' says he: "'where's michael?' "'here i am, father!' said michael. "'michael, me boy,' says god, 'i want a chariot and a charioteer!' "'right ye are!' says he. up comes the purtiest chariot in the city of heaven an' finest charioteer. "'me boy,' says god, 'take a million tons ov th' choicest seeds of th' flowers of heaven an' take a trip around th' world wi' them. scatther them,' says he, 'be th' roadsides an' th' wild places of th' earth where my poor live.' "'aye,' says the charioteer, 'that's jist like ye, father. it's th' purtiest job of m' afther-life an' i'll do it finely.' "'it's jist come t' me in a dream,' says th' father, 'that th' rich have all the flowers down there and th' poor haave nown at all. if a million tons isn't enough take a billion tons!'" at this point i got in some questions about god's language and the kind of flowers. "well, dear," she said, "he spakes irish t' irish people and the charioteer was an irishman." "maybe it was a wuman!" i ventured. "aye, but there's no difference up there." "th' flowers," she said, "were primroses, butthercups an' daisies an' th' flowers that be handy t' th' poor, an' from that day to this there's been flowers a-plenty for all of us everywhere!" "now you go to-morra an' gether a basketful an' we'll fix them up in th' shape of th' pryamid of egypt an' maybe ye'll get a prize." i spent the whole of the following day, from dawn to dark, roaming over the wild places near antrim gathering the flowers of the poor. my mother arranged them in a novel bouquet--a bouquet of wild flowers, the base of it yellow primroses, the apex of pink shepherd's sundials, and between the base and the apex one of the greatest variety of wild flowers ever gotten together in that part of the world. it created a sensation and took first prize. at the close of the exhibition mrs. james chaine distributed the prizes. when my name was called i went forward slowly, blushing in my rags, and received a twenty-four piece set of china! it gave me a fit! i took it home, put it in her lap and danced. we held open house for a week, so that every man, woman and child in the community could come in and "handle" it. withero said we ought to save up and build a house to keep it in! she thought that a propitious time to explain the inscription she put on the card. "ah, thin," i said, "shure it's thrue what ye always say." "what's that, dear?" "it's nice t' be nice." chapter iv sunday in pogue's entry jamie and anna kept the sabbath. it was a habit with them and the children got it, one after another, as they came along. when the town clock struck twelve on saturday night the week's work was done. the customers were given fair warning that at the hour of midnight the bench would be put away until monday morning. there was nothing theological about the observance. it was a custom, not a code. anna looked upon it as an over-punctilious notion. more than once she was heard to say: "the sabbath was made for maan, jamie, and not maan for th' sabbath." his answer had brevity and point. "i don't care a damn what it was made for, anna, i'll quit at twelve." and he quit. sometimes anna would take an unfinished job and finish it herself. there were things in cobbling she could do as well as jamie. her defense of doing it in the early hours of the sabbath was: "sure god has more important work to do than to sit up late to watch us mend the boots of the poor; forby it's better to haave ye're boots mended an' go to church than to sit in th' ashes on sunday an' swallow the smoke of bad turf!" "aye," jamie would say, "it's jist wondtherful what we can do if we haave th' right kind ov a conscience!" jamie's first duty on sunday was to clean out the thrush's cage. he was very proud of dicky and gave him a bath every morning and a house cleaning on sunday. we children loved sunday. on that day anna reigned. she wore her little shawl over her shoulders and her hair was enclosed in a newly tallied white cap. she smoked little, but on sundays after dinner she always had her "dhraw" with jamie. anna's sunday chore was to whitewash the hearthstones and clean the house. when the table was laid for sunday breakfast and the kettle hung on the chain singing and anna was in her glory of white linen, the children were supremely happy. in their wildest dreams there was nothing quite as beautiful as that. whatever hunger, disappointment, or petty quarrel happened during the week it was forgotten on sunday. it was a day of supreme peace. sunday breakfast was what she called a "puttiby," something light to tide them over until dinner time. dinner was the big meal of the week. at every meal i sat beside my mother. if we had stir-about, i was favored, but not enough to arouse jealousy: i scraped the pot. if it was "tay," i got a few bits of the crust of anna's bread. we called it "scroof." about ten o'clock the preparations for the big dinner began. we had meat once a week. at least it was the plan to have it so often. of course there were times when the plan didn't work, but when it did sunday was meat day. the word "meat" was never used. it was "kitchen" or "beef." both words meant the same thing, and bacon might be meant by either of them. in nine cases out of ten, sunday "kitchen" was a cow's head, a "calf's head and pluck," a pair of cow's feet, a few sheep's "trotters" or a quart of sheep's blood. sometimes it was the entrails of a pig. only when there was no money for "kitchen" did we have blood. it was at first fried and then made part of the broth. the broth-pot on sunday was the center. the economic status of a family could be as easily gaged by tasting their broth as by counting the weekly income. big money, good broth; little money, thin broth. the slimmer the resource the fewer the ingredients. the pot was an index to every condition and the talisman of every family. it was an opportunity to show off. when jamie donned a "dickey" once to attend a funeral and came home with it in his pocket, no comment was made; but if anna made poor broth it was the talk of the entry for a week. good broth consisted of "kitchen," barley, greens and lithing. next to "kitchen" barley was the most expensive ingredient. folks in pogue's entry didn't always have it, but there were a number of cheap substitutes, such as hard peas or horse beans. amongst half a dozen families in and around the entry there was a broth exchange. each family made a few extra quarts and exchanged them. they were distributed in quart tin cans. each can was emptied, washed, refilled and returned. ann o'hare, the chimneysweep's wife, was usually first on hand. she had the unenviable reputation of being the "dhirtiest craither" in the community. jamie called her "sooty ann." "there's a gey good smell from yer pot, anna," she said; "what haave ye in it th' day?" "oh, jist a few sheep's throtters and a wheen of nettles." "who gethered th' nettles?" anna pointed to me. "did th' sting bad, me baughal?" "ded no, not aany," i said. "did ye squeeze thim tight?" "i put m' dah's socks on m' han's." "aye, that's a good thrick." anna had a mouth that looked like a torn pocket. she could pucker it into the queerest shapes. she smacked her thin blue lips, puckered her mouth a number of times while anna emptied and refilled the can. "if this is as good as it smells," she said as she went out, "i'll jist sup it myself and let oul billy go chase himself!" jamie was the family connoisseur in matters relating to broth. he tasted ann's. the family waited for the verdict. "purty good barley an' lithin'," he said, "but it smells like billy's oul boots." "shame on ye, jamie," anna said. "well, give us your highfalutin' opinion ov it!" anna sipped a spoonful and remarked: "it might be worse." "aye, it's worse where there's nown, but on yer oath now d'ye think sooty ann washed her han's?" "good clane dhirt will poison no one, jamie." "thrue, but this isn't clane dhirt, it's soot--bitther soot!" it was agreed to pass the o'hare delection. when it cooled i quietly gave it to my friend rover--mrs. lorimer's dog. hen cassidy came next. hen's mother was a widow who lived on the edge of want. hen and i did a little barter and exchange on the side, while anna emptied and refilled his can. he had scarcely gone when the verdict was rendered: "bacon an' nettles," jamie said, "she's as hard up as we are, this week!" "poor craither," anna said; "i wondther if she's got aanything besides broth?" nobody knew. anna thought she knew a way to find out. "haave ye aany marbles, dear?" she asked me. "aye, a wheen." "wud ye give a wheen to me?" "aye, are ye goin' t' shoot awhile? if ye are i'll give ye half an' shoot ye fur thim!" i said. "no, i jist want t' borra some." i handed out a handful of marbles. "now don't glunch, dear, when i tell ye what i want thim fur." i promised. "whistle fur hen," she said, "and give him that han'ful of marbles if he'll tell ye what his mother haas fur dinner th' day." i whistled and hen responded. "i'll bate ye two chanies, hen, that i know what ye've got fur dinner!" "i'll bate ye!" said hen, "show yer chanies!" "show yours!" said i. hen had none, but i volunteered to trust him. "go on now, guess!" said he. "pirtas an' broth!" said i. "yer blinked, ye cabbage head, we've got two yards ov thripe forby!" i carried two quarts to as many neighbors. mary carried three. as they were settling down to dinner arthur gainer arrived with his mother's contribution. jamie sampled it and laughed outright. "an oul cow put 'er feet in it," he said. anna took a taste. "she didn't keep it in long aither," was her comment. "d'ye iver mind seein' barley in gainer's broth?" jamie asked. "i haave no recollection." "if there isn't a kink in m' power of remembrance," jamie said, "they've had nothin' but bacon an' nettles since th' big famine." "what did th' haave before that?" anna asked. "bacon an' nettles," he said. "did ye ever think, jamie, how like folks are to th' broth they make?" "no," he said, "but there's no raisin why people should sting jist because they've got nothin' but nettles in their broth!" the potatoes were emptied out of the pot on the bare table, my father encircling it with his arms to prevent them from rolling off. a little pile of salt was placed beside each person and each had a big bowl full of broth. the different kinds had lost their identity in the common pot. in the midst of the meal came visitors. "much good may it do ye!" said billy baxter as he walked in with his hands in his pockets. "thank ye, billy, haave a good bowl of broth?" "thank ye, thank ye," he said. "i don't mind a good bowl ov broth, anna, but i'd prefer a bowl--jist a bowl of good broth!" "ye've had larks for breakvist surely, haaven't ye, billy?" anna said. "no, i didn't, but there's a famine of good broth these days. when i was young we had the rale mckie!" billy took a bowl, nevertheless, and went to jamie's bench to "sup" it. eliza wallace, the fish woman, came in. "much good may it do ye," she said. "thank ye kindly, 'liza, sit down an' haave a bowl of broth!" it was baled out and eliza sat down on the floor near the window. mcgrath, the rag man, "dhrapped in." "much good may it do ye!" he said. "thank ye kindly, tom," anna said, "ye'll surely have a bowl ov broth." "jist wan spoonful," mcgrath said. i emptied my bowl at a nod from anna, rinsed it out at the tub and filled it with broth. mcgrath sat on the doorstep. after the dinner anna read a story from the _weekly budget_ and the family and guests sat around and listened. then came the weekly function, over which there invariably arose an altercation amongst the children. it was the sunday visit of the methodist tract distributor--miss clarke. it was not an unmixed dread, for sometimes she brought a good story and the family enjoyed it. the usual row took place as to who should go to the door and return the tract. it was finally decided that i should face the ordeal. my preparation was to wash my feet, rake my hair into order and soap it down, cover up a few holes and await the gentle knock on the doorpost. it came and i bounded to the door, tract in hand. "good afternoon," she began, "did your mother read the tract this week?" "yis, mem, an' she says it's fine." "do you remember the name of it?" "'get yer own cherries,'" said i. "_b-u-y_," came the correction in clear tones from behind the partition. "'_buy_ yer own cherries,' it is, mem." "that's better," the lady said. "some people _get_ cherries, other people _buy_ them." "aye." i never bought any. i knew every wild-cherry tree within twenty miles of antrim. the lady saw an opening and went in. "did you ever get caught?" she asked. i hung my head. then followed a brief lecture on private property--brief, for it was cut short by anna, who, without any apology or introduction, said as she confronted the slum evangel: "is god our father?" "yes, indeed," the lady answered. "an' we are all his childther?" "assuredly." "would ye starve yer brother tom?" "of course not." "but ye don't mind s' much th' starvation of all yer other wee brothers an' sisters on th' streets, do ye?" there was a commotion behind the paper partition. the group stood in breathless silence until the hunger question was put, then they "dunched" each other and made faces. my father took a handful of my hair, and gave it a good-natured but vigorous tug to prevent an explosion. "oh, anna!" she said, "you are mistaken; i would starve nobody--and far be it from me to accuse--" "accuse," said anna, raising her gentle voice. "why, acushla, nobody needs t' accuse th' poor; th' guilty need no accuser. we're convicted by bein' poor, by bein' born poor an' dying poor, aren't we now?" "with the lord there is neither rich nor poor, anna." "aye, an' that's no news to me, but with good folks like you it's different." "no, indeed, i assure you i think that exactly." "well, now, if it makes no diff'rence, dear, why do ye come down pogue's entry like a bailiff or a process-sarver?" "i didn't, i just hinted--" "aye, ye hinted an' a wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse. now tell me truly an' cross yer heart--wud ye go to ballycraigie doore an' talk t' wee willie chaine as ye talked t' my bhoy jist now?" "no--" "no, 'deed ye wudn't for th' wudn't let ye, but because we've no choice ye come down here like a petty sessions-magistrate an' make my bhoy feel like a thief because he goes like a crow an' picks a wild cherry or a sloe that wud rot on the tree. d'ye know luke thirteen an' nineteen?" the lady opened her bible, but before she found the passage anna was reading from her old yellow backless bible about the birds that lodged in the branches of the trees. "did they pay aany rent?" she asked as she closed the book. "did th' foxes have leases fur their holes?" "no." "no, indeed, an' d'ye think he cares less fur boys than birds?" "oh, no." "oh, no, an' ye know rightly that everything aroun' antrim is jist a demesne full o' pheasants an' rabbits for them quality t' shoot, an' we git thransported if we get a male whin we're hungry!" the lady was tender-hearted and full of sympathy, but she hadn't traveled along the same road as anna and didn't know. behind the screen the group was jubilant, but when they saw the sympathy on the tract woman's face they sobered and looked sad. "i must go," she said, "and god bless you, anna," and anna replied, "god bless you kindly, dear." when anna went behind the screen jamie grabbed her and pressed her closely to him. "ye're a match for john rae any day, ye are that, woman!" the kettle was lowered to the burning turf and there was a round of tea. the children and visitors sat on the floor. "now that ye're in sich fine fettle, anna," jamie said, "jist toss th' cups for us!" she took her own cup, gave it a peculiar twist and placed it mouth down on the saucer. then she took it up and examined it quizzically. the leaves straggled hieroglyphically over the inside. the group got their heads together and looked with serious faces at the cup. "there's a ship comin' across th' sea--an' i see a letther!" "it's for me, i'll bate," jamie said. "no, dear, it's fur me." "take it," jamie said, "it's maybe a dispossess from oul savage th' landlord!" she took jamie's cup. "there's a wee bit of a garden wi' a fence aroun' it." "wud that be savage givin' us a bit of groun' next year t' raise pirtas?" "maybe." "maybe we're goin' t' flit, where there's a perch or two wi' th' house!" a low whistle outside attracted my attention and i stole quietly away. it was sonny johnson, the baker's son, and he had a little bundle under his arm. we boys were discussing a very serious proposition when anna appeared on the scene. "morra, sonny!" "morra, anna!" "aany day but sunday he may go, dear, but not th' day." that was all that was needed. sonny wanted me to take him bird-nesting. he had the price in the bundle. "if i give ye this _now_," he said, "will ye come some other day fur nothin'?" "aye." in the bundle was a "bap"--a diamond-shaped, flat, penny piece of bread. i rejoined the cup-tossers. another whistle. "that's arthur," anna said. "no shinny th' day, mind ye." i joined arthur and we sat on the wall of gainer's pigsty. we hadn't been there long when "chisty" mcdowell, the superintendent of the methodist sunday school, was seen over in scott's garden rounding up his scholars. we were in his line of vision and he made for us. we saw him coming and hid in the inner sanctum of the sty. the pig was in the little outer yard. "chisty" was a wiry little man of great zeal but little humor. it was his minor talent that came into play on this occasion, however. "come, boys, come," he said, "i know ye're in there. we've got a beautiful lesson to-day." we crouched in a corner, still silent. "come, boys," he urged, "don't keep me waiting. the lesson is about the prodigal son." "say somethin', arthur," i urged. he did. "t' hell wi' the prodigal son!" he said, whereupon the little man jumped the low wall into the outer yard and drove the big, grunting, wallowing sow in on top of us! our yells could be heard a mile away. we came out and were collared and taken off to sunday school. when i returned, the cups were all tossed and the visitors had gone, but willie withero had dropped in and was invited to "stap" for tea. he was our most welcome visitor and there was but one house where he felt at home. "tay" that evening consisted of "stir-about," sonny johnson's unearned bap and buttermilk. willie made more noise "suppin'" his stir-about than jamie did, and i said: "did ye iver hear ov th' cow that got her foot stuck in a bog, willie?" "no, boy, what did she do?" "she got it out!" a stern look from jamie prevented the application. "tell me, willie," anna said, "is it thrue that ye can blink a cow so that she can give no milk at all?" "it's jist a hoax, anna, some oul bitch said it an' th' others cackle it from doore to doore. i've naither wife nor wain, chick nor chile, i ate th' bread ov loneliness an' keep m' own company an' jist bekase i don't blether wi' th' gossoons th' think i'm uncanny. isn't that it, jamie, eh!" "aye, ye're right, willie, it's quare what bletherin' fools there are in this town!" willie held his full spoon in front of his mouth while he replied: "it's you that's the dacent maan, jamie, 'deed it is." "the crocks are empty, dear," anna said to me. after "tay," to the town well i went for the night's supply of water. when i returned the dishes were washed and on the dresser. the floor was swept and the family were swappin' stories with withero. sunday was ever the day of broth and romance. anna made the best broth and told the best stories. no sunday was complete without a good story. on the doorstep that night she told one of her best. as she finished the church bell tolled the curfew. then the days of the month were tolled off. "sammy's arm is gey shtrong th' night," willie said. "aye," jamie said, "an' th' oul bell's got a fine ring." chapter v his arm is not shortened when anna had to choose between love and religion--the religion of an institution--she chose love. her faith in god remained unshaken, but her methods of approach were the forms of love rather than the symbols or ceremonies of a sect. twelve times in a quarter of a century she appeared publicly in the parish church. each time it was to lay on the altar of religion the fruit of her love. nine-tenths of those twelve congregations would not have known her if they had met her on the street. one-tenth were those who occupied the charity pews. religion in our town had arrayed the inhabitants into two hostile camps. she never had any sympathy with the fight. she was neutral. she pointed out to the fanatics around her that the basis of religion was love and that religion that expressed itself in faction fights must have hate at the bottom of it, not love. she had a philosophy of religion that _worked_. to the sects it would have been rank heresy, but the sects didn't know she existed and those who were benefited by her quaint and unique application of religion to life were almost as obscure as she was. i was the first to discover her "heresy" and oppose it. she lived to see me repent of my folly. in a town of two thousand people less than two hundred were familiar with her face, and half of them knew her because at one time or another they had been to "jamie's" to have their shoes made or mended, or because they lived in our immediate vicinity. of the hundred who knew her face, less than half of them were familiar enough to call her "anna." of all the people who had lived in antrim as long as she had, she was the least known. no feast or function could budge her out of her corner. there came a time when her family became as accustomed to her refusal as she had to her environment and we ceased to coax or urge her. she never attended a picnic, a soirée or a dance in antrim. one big opportunity for social intercourse amongst the poor is a wake--she never attended a wake. she often took entire charge of a wake for a neighbor, but she directed the affair from her corner. she had a slim sort of acquaintance with three intellectual men. they were john galt, william green and john gordon holmes, vicars in that order of the parish of antrim. they visited her once a year and at funerals--the funerals of her own dead. none of them knew her. they hadn't time, but there were members of our own family who knew as little of her mind as they did. she did not seek obscurity. it seemed to have sought and found her. one avenue of escape after another was closed and she settled down at last to her lot in the chimney-corner. her hopes, beliefs and aspirations were expressed in what she did rather than in what she said, though she said much, much that is still treasured, long after she has passed away. henry lecky was a young fisherman on lough neagh. he was a great favorite with the children of the entries. he loved to bring us a small trout each when he returned after a long fishing trip. he died suddenly, and eliza, his mother, came at once for help to the chimney corner. "he's gone, anna, he's gone!" she said as she dropped on the floor beside anna. "an' ye want me t' do for yer dead what ye'd do for mine, 'liza?" "aye, aye, anna, yer god's angel to yer frien's." "go an' fetch 'liza conlon, jane burrows and marget houston!" was anna's order to jamie. the women came at once. the plan was outlined, the labor apportioned and they went to work. jamie went for the carpenter and hired william gainer to dig the grave. eliza conlon made the shroud, jane burrows and anna washed and laid out the corpse, and mrs. houston kept eliza in anna's bed until the preliminaries for the wake were completed. "ye can go now, mrs. houston," anna said, "an' i'll mind 'liza." "the light's gone out o' m' home an' darkness fills m' heart, anna, an' it's the sun that'll shine for m' no more! ochone, ochone!" "'liza dear, i've been where ye are now, too often not t' know that aanything that aanybody says is jist like spittin' at a burnin' house t' put it out. yer boy's gone--we can't bring 'im back. fate's cut yer heart in two an' oul docther time an' the care of god are about the only shure cures goin'." "cudn't the ministher help a little if he was here, anna?" "if ye think so i'll get him, 'liza!" "he might put th' love of god in me!" "puttin' th' love of god in ye isn't like stuffin' yer mouth with a pirta, 'liza!" "that's so, it is, but he might thry, anna!" "well, ye'll haave 'im." mr. green came and gave 'liza what consolation he could. he read the appropriate prayer, repeated the customary words. he did it all in a tender tone and departed. "ye feel fine afther that, don't ye, 'liza?" "aye, but henry's dead an' will no come back!" "did ye expect mr. green t' bring 'im?" "no." "what did ye expect, 'liza?" "i dunno." "shure ye don't. ye didn't expect aanything an' ye got jist what ye expected. ah, wuman, god isn't a printed book t' be carried aroun' b' a man in fine clothes, nor a gold cross t' be danglin' at the watch chain ov a priest." "what is he, anna, yer wiser nor me; tell a poor craither in throuble, do!" "if ye'll lie very quiet, 'liza--jist cross yer hands and listen--if ye do, i'll thry!" "aye, bless ye, i'll blirt no more; go on!" "wee henry is over there in his shroud, isn't he?" "aye, god rest his soul." "he'll rest henry's, 'liza, but he'll haave the divil's own job wi' yours if ye don't help 'im." "och, aye, thin i'll be at pace." "as i was sayin', henry's body is jist as it was yesterday, han's, legs, heart an' head, aren't they?" "aye, 'cept cold an' stiff." "what's missin' then?" "his blessed soul, god love it." "that's right. now when the spirit laves th' body we say th' body's dead, but it's jist a partnership gone broke, wan goes up an' wan goes down. i've always thot that kissin' a corpse was like kissin' a cage whin the bird's dead--_there's nothin' in it_. now answer me this, 'liza lecky: is henry a livin' spirit or a dead body?" "a livin' spirit, god prosper it." "aye, an' god is th' same kind, but henry's can be at but wan point at once, while god's is everywhere at once. he's so big he can cover the world an' so small he can get in be a crack in th' glass or a kayhole." "i've got four panes broke, anna!" "well, they're jist like four doores." "feeries can come in that way too." "aye, but feeries can't sew up a broken heart, acushla." "where's henry's soul, anna?" eliza asked, as if the said soul was a naavy over whom anna stood as gaffer. "it may be here at yer bedhead now, but yer more in need of knowin' where god's spirit is, 'liza." jamie entered with a cup of tea. "for a throubled heart," he said, "there's nothin' in this world like a rale good cup o' tay." "god bless ye kindly, jamie, i've a sore heart an' i'm as dhry as a whistle." "now jamie, put th' cups down on th' bed," anna said, "an' then get out, like a good bhoy!" "i want a crack wi' anna, jamie," eliza said. "well, ye'll go farther an' fare worse--she's a buffer at that!" eliza sat up in bed while she drank the tea. when she drained her cup she handed it over to anna. "toss it, anna, maybe there's good luck in it fur me." "no, dear, it's a hoax at best; jist now it wud be pure blasphemy. ye don't need luck, ye need at this minute th' help of god." "och, aye, ye're right; jist talk t' me ov him." "i was talkin' about his spirit when jamie came in." "aye." "it comes in as many ways as there's need fur its comin', an' that's quite a wheen." "god knows." "ye'll haave t' be calm, dear, before he'd come t' ye in aany way." "aye, but i'm at pace now, anna, amn't i?" "well, now, get out here an' get down on th' floor on yer bare knees and haave a talk wi' 'im." eliza obeyed implicitly. anna knelt beside her. "i don't know what t' say." "say afther me," and anna told of an empty home and a sore heart. when she paused, eliza groaned. "now tell 'im to lay 'is hand on yer tired head in token that he's wi' ye in yer disthress!" even to a dull intellect like eliza's the suggestion was startling. "wud he do it, anna?" "well, jist ask 'im an' then wait an' see!" in faltering tones eliza made her request and waited. as gently as falls an autumn leaf anna laid her hand on eliza's head, held it there for a moment and removed it. "oh, oh, oh, he's done it, anna, he's done it, glory be t' god, he's done it!" "rise up, dear," anna said, "an' tell me about it." "there was a nice feelin' went down through me, anna, an' th' han' was jist like yours!" "the han' was mine, but it was god's too." anna wiped her spectacles and took eliza over close to the window while she read a text of the bible. "listen, dear," anna said, "god's arm is not shortened." "did ye think that an arm could be stretched from beyont th' clouds t' pogue's entry?" "aye." "no, dear, but god takes a han' where ever he can find it and jist diz what he likes wi' it. sometimes he takes a bishop's and lays it on a child's head in benediction, then he takes the han' of a dochter t' relieve pain, th' han' of a mother t' guide her chile, an' sometimes he takes th' han' of an aul craither like me t' give a bit comfort to a neighbor. but they're all han's touch't be his spirit, an' his spirit is everywhere lukin' fur han's to use." eliza looked at her open-mouthed for a moment. "tell me, anna," she said, as she put her hands on her shoulders, "was th' han' that bro't home trouts fur th' childther god's han' too?" "aye, 'deed it was." "oh, glory be t' god--thin i'm at pace--isn't it gran' t' think on--isn't it now?" eliza conlon abruptly terminated the conversation by announcing that all was ready for the wake. "ah, but it's the purty corpse he is," she said, "--luks jist like life!" the three women went over to the lecky home. it was a one-room place. the big bed stood in the corner. the corpse was "laid out" with the hands clasped. the moment eliza entered she rushed to the bed and fell on her knees beside it. she was quiet, however, and after a moment's pause she raised her head and laying a hand on the folded hands said: "ah, han's ov god t' be so cold an' still!" anna stood beside her until she thought she had stayed long enough, then led her gently away. from that moment anna directed the wake and the funeral from her chimney-corner. "here's a basket ov flowers for henry, anna, the childther gethered thim th' day," maggie mckinstry said as she laid them down on the hearthstones beside anna. "ye've got some time, maggie?" "oh, aye." "make a chain ov them an' let it go all th' way aroun' th' body, they'll look purty that way, don't ye think so?" "illigant, indeed, to be shure! 'deed i'll do it." and it was done. to eliza conlon was given the task of providing refreshments. i say "task," for after the carpenter was paid for the coffin and jamie scott for the hearse there was only six shillings left. "get whey for th' childther," anna said, and "childther" in this catalog ran up into the twenties. for the older "childther" there was something from mrs. lorimer's public house--something that was kept under cover and passed around late, and later still diluted and passed around again. concerning this item anna said: "wather it well, dear, an' save their wits; they've got little enough now, god save us all!" "anna," said sam johnson, "i am told you have charge of henry's wake. is there anything i can do?" sam was the tall, imperious precentor of the mill row meeting-house. he was also the chief baker of the town and "looked up to" in matters relating to morals as well as loaves. "mister gwynn has promised t' read a chapther, mister johnson. he'll read, maybe, the fourteenth of john. if he diz, tell him t' go aisy over th' twelth verse an' explain that th' works he did can be done in antrim by any poor craither who's got th' spirit." sam straightened up to his full height and in measured words said: "ye know, no doubt, anna, that misther gwynn is a churchman an' i'm a presbyterian. he wouldn't take kindly to a hint from a mill row maan, i fear, especially on a disputed text." "well, dear knows if there's aanything this oul world needs more than another it's an undisputed text. couldn't ye find us wan, misther johnson?" "all texts are disputed," he said, "but there are texts not in dispute." "i think i could name wan at laste, mister johnson." "maybe." "'deed no, not maybe at all, but _sure-be_. jamie dear, get m' th' bible if ye plaze." while jamie got the bible she wiped her glasses and complained in a gentle voice about the "mortal pity of it" that texts were pins for christians to stick in each other's flesh. "here it is," she said, "'th' poor ye haave always with ye.'" "aye," sam said, "an' how true it is." "'deed it's true, but who did he mane by 'ye'?" "th' world, i suppose." "not all th' world, by a spoonful, but a wheen of thim like sandy somerville, who's got a signboard in front of his back that tells he ates too much while the rest of us haave backbones that could as aisily be felt before as behine!" "so that's what you call an _undisputed_ text?" she looked over the rim of her spectacles at him for a moment in silence, and then said, slowly: "ochane--w-e-l-l--tell mister gwynn t' read what he likes, it'll mane th' same aanyway." kitty coyle came in. henry and she were engaged. they had known each other since childhood. her eyes were red with weeping. henry's mother led her by the arm. "anna, dear," eliza said, "she needs ye as much as me. give 'er a bit ov comfort." they went into the little bedroom and the door was shut. jamie stood as sentry. when they came out young johnny murdock, henry's chum, was sitting on jamie's workbench. "i want ye t' take good care of kitty th' night, johnny. keep close t' 'er and when th' moon comes out take 'er down the garden t' get fresh air. it'll be stuffy wi' all th' people an' the corpse in lecky's." "aye," he said, "i'll do all i can." to kitty she said, "i've asked johnny t' keep gey close t' ye till it's all over, kitty. ye'll understand." "aye," kitty said, "henry loved 'im more'n aany maan on th' lough!" "had tay yit?" willie withero asked as he blundered in on the scene. "no, willie, 'deed we haaven't thought ov it!" "well, t' haave yer bowels think yer throat's cut isn't sauncy!" he said. the fire was low and the kettle cold. "here, johnny," withero said, "jist run over t' farren's for a ha'p'orth ov turf an' we'll haave a cup o' tay fur these folks who're workin' overtime palaverin' about th' dead! moses alive, wan corpse is enough fur a week or two--don't kill us all entirely!" shortly after midnight anna went over to see how things were at the wake. they told her of the singing of the children, of the beautiful chapther by misther gwynn, and the "feelin'" by graham shannon. the whey was sufficient and nearly everybody had "a dhrap o' th' craither" and a bite of fadge. "ah, anna dear," eliza said, "shure it's yerself that knows how t' make a moi'ty go th' longest distance over dhry throats an' empty stomachs! 'deed it was a revival an' a faste in wan, an' th' only pity is that poor henry cudn't enjoy it!" the candles were burned low in the sconces, the flowers around the corpse had faded, a few tongues, loosened by stimulation, were still wagging, but the laughter had died down and the stories were all told. there had been a hair-raising ghost story that had sent a dozen home before the _respectable_ time of departure. the empty stools had been carried outside and were largely occupied by lovers. anna drew eliza's head to her breast and pressing it gently to her said, "i'm proud of ye, dear, ye've borne up bravely! now i'm goin' t' haave a few winks in th' corner, for there'll be much to do th' morra." scarcely had the words died on her lips when kitty coyle gave vent to a scream of terror that brought the mourners to the door and terrified those outside. "what ails ye, in th' name of god?" anna asked. she was too terrified to speak at once. the mourners crowded closely together. "watch!" kitty said as she pointed with her finger toward conlon's pigsty. johnny murdock had his arm around kitty's waist to keep her steady and assure her of protection. they watched and waited. it was a bright moonlight night, and save for the deep shadows of the houses and hedges as clear as day. tensely nerve-strung, open-mouthed and wild-eyed stood the group for what seemed to them hours. in a few minutes a white figure was seen emerging from the pigsty. the watchers were transfixed in terror. most of them clutched at each other nervously. old mrs. houston, the midwife who had told the ghost story at the wake, dropped in a heap. peter hannen and jamie wilson carried her indoors. the white figure stood on the pathway leading through the gardens for a moment and then returned to the sty. most of the watchers fled to their homes. some didn't move because they had lost the power to do so. others just stood. "it's a hoax an' a joke," anna said. "now wan of you men go down there an' see!" no one moved. every eye was fixed on the pigsty. a long-drawn-out, mournful cry was heard. it was all that tradition had described as the cry of the banshee. "the banshee it is! ah, merciful god, which ov us is t' b' tuk, i wondther?" it was eliza who spoke, and she continued, directing her talk to anna, "an' it's th' long arm ov th' almighty it is raychin' down t' give us a warnin', don't ye think so now, anna?" "if it's wan arm of god, i know where th' other is, 'liza!" addressing the terror-stricken watchers, anna said: "stand here, don't budge, wan of ye!" along the sides of the houses in the deep shadow anna walked until she got to the end of the row; just around the corner stood the sty. in the shadow she stood with her back to the wall and waited. the watchers were breathless and what they saw a minute later gave them a syncope of the heart that they never forgot. they saw the white figure emerge again and they saw anna stealthily approach and enter into what they thought was a struggle with it. they gasped when they saw her a moment later bring the white figure along with her. as she came nearer it looked limp and pliable, for it hung over her arm. "it's that divil, ben green!" she said as she threw a white sheet at their feet. "hell roast 'im on a brandther!" said one. "the divil gut 'im like a herrin'!" said another. four of the younger men, having been shamed by their own cowardice, made a raid on the sty, and next day when ben came to the funeral he looked very much the worse for wear. ben was a friend of henry's and a good deal of a practical joker. anna heard of what happened and she directed that he be one of the four men to lower the coffin into the grave, as a moiety of consolation. johnny murdock made strenuous objections to this. "why?" anna asked. "bekase," he said, "shure th' divil nearly kilt kitty be th' fright!" "but she was purty comfortable th' rest of th' time?" "oh, aye." "ye lifted a gey big burden from 'er heart last night, didn't ye, johnny?" "aye; an' if ye won't let on i'll tell ye, anna." he came close and whispered into her ear: "am goin' t' thry danged hard t' take th' heart as well as th' throuble!" "what diz kitty think?" "she's switherin'." chapter vi the apotheosis of hughie thornton anna was an epistle to pogue's entry and my only excuse for dragging hughie thornton into this narrative is that he was a commentary on anna. he was only once in our house, but that was an "occasion," and for many years we dated things that happened about that time as "about," "before" or "after" "the night hughie stayed in the pigsty." we lived in the social cellar; hughie led a precarious existence in the _sub-cellar_. he was the beggar-man of several towns, of which antrim was the largest. he was a short, thick-set man with a pock-marked face, eyes like a mouse, eyebrows that looked like well-worn scrubbing brushes, and a beard cropped close with scissors or a knife. he wore two coats, two pairs of trousers and several waistcoats--all at the same time, winter and summer. his old battered hat looked like a crow's nest. his wardrobe was so elaborately patched that practically nothing at all of the originals remained; even then patches of his old, withered skin could be seen at various angles. the thing that attracted my attention more than anything else about him was his pockets. he had dozens of them and they were always full of bread crusts, scraps of meat and cooking utensils, for like a snail he carried his domicile on his back. his boots looked as if a blacksmith had made them, and for whangs (laces) he used strong wire. he was preëminently a citizen of the world. he had not lived in a house in half a century. a haystack in summer and a pigsty in winter sufficed him. he had a deep graphophone voice and when he spoke the sound was like the creaking of a barn door on rusty hinges. when he came to town he was to us what a circus is to boys of more highly favored communities. there were several interpretations of hughie. one was that he was a "sent back." that is, he had gone to the gates of a less cumbersome life and peter or the porter at the other gate had sent him back to perform some unfulfilled task. another was that he was a nobleman of an ancient line who was wandering over the earth in disguise in search of the grail. a third, and the most popular one, was that he was just a common beggar and an unmitigated liar. the second interpretation was made more plausible by the fact that he rather enjoyed his reputation as a liar, for wise ones said: "he's jist lettin' on." on one of his semi-annual visits to antrim, hughie got into a barrel of trouble. he was charged--rumor charged him--with having blinked a widow's cow. it was noised abroad that he had been caught in the act of "skellyin'" at her. the story gathered in volume as it went from mouth to mouth until it crystallized as a crime in the minds of half a dozen of our toughest citizens--boys who hankered for excitement as a hungry stomach hankers for food. he was finally rounded up in a field adjoining the mill row meeting-house and pelted with stones. i was of the "gallery" that watched the fun. i watched until a track of blood streaked down hughie's pock-marked face. then i ran home and told anna. "ma!" i yelled breathlessly, "they're killin' hughie thornton!" jamie threw his work down and accompanied anna over the little garden patches to the wall that protected the field. through the gap they went and found poor hughie in bad shape. he was crying and he cried like a brass band. his head and face had been cut in several places and his face and clothes were red. they brought him home. a crowd followed and filled pogue's entry, a crowd that was about equally divided in sentiment against hughie and against the toughs. i borrowed a can of water from mrs. mcgrath and another from the gainers and anna washed old hughie's wounds in jamie's tub. it was a great operation. hughie of course refused to divest himself of any clothing, and as she said afterwards it was like "dhressin' th' woonds of a haystack." one of my older brothers came home and cleared the entry, and we sat down to our stir-about and buttermilk. an extra cup of good hot strong tea was the finishing touch to the samaritan act. jamie had scant sympathy with the beggar-man. he had always called him hard names in language not lawful to utter, and even in this critical exigency was not over tender. anna saw a human need and tried to supply it. "did ye blink th' cow?" jamie asked as we sat around the candle after supper. "divil a blink," said hughie. "what did th' raise a hue-an'-cry fur?" was the next question. "i was fixin' m' galluses, over crawford's hedge, whin a gomeral luked over an' says, says he: "'morra, hughie!' "'morra, bhoy!' says i. "'luks like snow,' says he (it was in july). "'aye,' says i, 'we're goin' t' haave more weather; th' sky's in a bad art'" (direction). anna arose, put her little sunday shawl around her shoulders, tightened the strings of her cap under her chin and went out. we gasped with astonishment! what on earth could she be going out for? she never went out at night. everybody came to her. there was something so mysterious in that sudden exit that we just looked at our guest without understanding a word he said. jamie opened up another line of inquiry. "th' say yer a terrible liar, hughie." "i am that," hughie said without the slightest hesitation. "i'm th' champ'yun liar ov county anthrim." "how did ye get th' belt?" "aisy, as aisy as tellin' th' thruth." "that's harder nor ye think." "so's lyin', jamie!" "tell us how ye won th' champ'yunship." "whin i finish this dhraw." he took a live coal and stoked up the bowl of his old cutty-pipe. the smacking of his lips could have been heard at the mouth of pogue's entry. we waited with breathless interest. when he had finished he knocked the ashes out on the toe of his brogue and talked for nearly an hour of the great event in which he covered himself with glory. it was a fierce encounter according to hughie, the then champion being a ballymena man by the name of jack rooney. jack and a bunch of vagabonds sat on a stone pile near ballyclare when hughie hove in sight. the beggar-man was at once challenged to divest himself of half his clothes or enter the contest. he entered, with the result that ballymena lost the championship! the concluding round as hughie recited it was as follows: "i dhruv a nail throo th' moon wanst," said jack. "ye did, did ye," said hughie, "but did ye iver hear ov the maan that climbed up over th' clouds wid a hammer in his han' an' clinched it on th' other side?" "no," said the champion. "i'm him!" said hughie. "i'm bate!" said jack rooney, "an' begobs if i wor st. peether i'd kape ye outside th' gate till ye tuk it out agin!" anna returned with a blanket rolled up under her arm. she gave hughie his choice between sleeping in jamie's corner among the lasts or occupying the pigsty. he chose the pigsty, but before he retired i begged anna to ask him about the banshee. "did ye ever really see a banshee, hughie?" "is there aanythin' a champ'yun liar haasn't seen?" jamie interrupted. "aye," hughie said, "'deed there is, he niver seen a maan who'd believe 'im even whin he was tellin' th' thruth!" "that's broth for your noggin', jamie," anna said. encouraged by anna, hughie came back with a thrust that increased jamie's sympathy for him. "i'm undther yer roof an' beholdin' t' yer kindness, but i'd like t' ax ye a civil quest'yun if i may be so bowld." "aye, go on." "did ye blow a farmer's brains out in th' famine fur a pint ov milk?" "it's a lie!" jamie said, indignantly. "well, me bhoy, there must b' quite a wheen, thrainin' fur me belt in anthrim!" "there's something in that, hughie!" "aye, somethin' hughie thornton didn't put in it!" we youngsters were irritated and impatient over what seemed to us useless palaver about minor details. we wanted the story and wanted it at once, for we understood that hughie went to bed with the crows and we stood in terror lest this huge bundle of pockets with its unearthly voice should vanish into thin air. "d'ye know mcshane?" he asked. "aye, middlin'." "ax 'im what hughie thornton towld 'im wan night be th' hour ov midnight an' afther. ax 'im, i say, an' he'll swear be th' holy virgin an' st. peether t' it!" "jist tell us aanyway, hughie," anna urged and the beggar-man proceeded. "i was be th' oul quaker graveyard be moylena wan night whin th' shadows fell an' bein' more tired than most i slipt in an' lay down be th' big wall t' slape. i cros't m'self seven times an' says i--'god rest th' sowls ov all here, an' god prosper th' sowl ov hughie thornton.' i wint t' slape an' slept th' slape ov th' just till twelve be th' clock. i was shuk out ov slape be a screech that waked th' dead! "och, be th' powers, jamie, me hair stud like th' brisels on o'hara's hog. i lukt and what m' eyes lukt upon froze me blood like icicles hingin' frum th' thatch. it was a woman in a white shift, young an' beautiful, wid hair stramin' down her back. she sat on th' wall wid her head in her han's keenin' an' moanin': 'ochone, ochone!' i thried to spake but m' tongue cluv t' th' roof ov m' mouth. i thried t' move a han' but it wudn't budge. m' legs an' feet wor as stiff and shtrait as th' legs ov thim tongs in yer chimley. och, but it's th' prackus i was frum top t' toe! dead intirely was i but fur th' eyes an' th' wit behint thim. she ariz an' walked up an' down, back an' fort', up an' down, back an' fort', keenin' an' cryin' an' wringin' her han's! maan alive, didn't she carry on terrible! purty soon wid a yell she lept into the graveyard, thin she lept on th' wall, thin i heerd her on th' road, keenin'; an' iverywhere she wint wor long bars of light like sunbames streamin' throo th' holes in a barn. th' keenin' become waker an' waker till it died down like the cheep ov a willy-wag-tail far off be the ind ov th' road. "i got up an' ran like a red shank t' mcshane's house. i dundthered at his doore till he opened it, thin i towld him i'd seen th' banshee! "'that bates bannagher!' says he. "'it bates th' divil,' says i. 'but whose fur above th' night is what i'd like t' know.' "'oul misther chaine,' says he, 'as sure as gun's iron!'" the narrative stopped abruptly, stopped at mcshane's door. "did oul misther chaine die that night?" anna asked. "ax mcshane!" was all the answer he gave and we were sent off to bed. hughie was escorted to the pigsty with his blanket and candle. what jamie saw on the way to the pigsty made the perspiration stand in big beads on his furrowed brow. silhouetted against the sky were several figures. some were within a dozen yards, others were farther away. two sat on a low wall that divided the adair and mulholland gardens. they were silent and motionless, but there was no mistake about it. he directed anna's attention to them and she made light of it. when they returned to the house jamie expressed fear for the life of the beggar-man. anna whispered something into his ear, for she knew that we were wide-awake. they went into their room conversing in an undertone. the thing was so uncanny to me that it was three o'clock next morning before i went to sleep. as early as six there was an unusual shuffling and clattering of feet over the cobblestones in pogue's entry. we knew everybody in the entry by the sound of their footfall. the clatter was by the feet of strangers. i "dunched" my brother, who lay beside me, with my elbow. "go an' see if oul hughie's livin' or dead," i said. "ye cudn't kill 'im," he said. "how d'ye know?" "i heerd a quare story about 'im last night!" "where?" "in th' barber's shop." "is he a feerie?" "no." "what is he?" "close yer thrap an' lie still!" somebody opened the door and walked in. i slid into my clothes and climbed down. it was withero. he shook anna and jamie in their bed and asked in a loud voice: "what's all this palaver about an' oul throllop what niver earned salt t' 'is pirtas?" "go on t' yer stone pile, willie," anna said, as she sat up in bed; "what ye don't know will save docther's bills." "if i catch m'self thinkin' aanythin' sauncy ov that aul haythen baste i'll change m' name!" he said, as he turned and left in high dudgeon. when i got to the pigsty there were several early callers lounging around. "jowler" hainey sat on a big stone near the slit. mary mcconnaughy stood with her arms akimbo, within a yard of the door, and tommy wilson was peeping into the sty through a knot-hole on the side. i took my turn at the hole. hughie had evidently been awakened early. he was sitting arranging his pockets. con mulholland came down the entry with his gun over his shoulder. he had just returned from his vigil as night watchman at the greens and was going the longest way around to his home. he leaned his gun against the house side and lit his pipe. then he opened the sty door, softly, and said: "morra, hughie." "morra, con," came the answer, in calliope tones from our guest. "haave ye a good stock ov tubacca?" con asked hughie. "i cud shtart a pipe shap, con, fur be th' first strake ov dawn i found five new pipes an' five half ounces ov tubacca inside th' doore ov th' sty!" "take this bit too. avic, ye don't come ofen," and he gave him a small package and took his departure. eliza conlon brought a cup of tea. without even looking in, she pushed the little door ajar, laid it just inside, and went away without a word. mulholland and hainey seemed supremely concerned about the weather. from all they said it was quite evident that each of them had "jist dhrapped aroun' t' find out what jamie thought ov th' prospects fur a fine day!" old sandy somerville came hatless and in his shirt-sleeves, his hands deep in his pockets and his big watchchain dangling across what anna called the "front of his back." sandy was some quality, too, and owned three houses. "did aany o' ye see my big orange cat?" he asked the callers. without waiting for an answer he opened the door of the pigsty and peeped in. by the time hughie scrambled out there were a dozen men, women and boys around the sty. as the beggar-man struggled up through his freight to his feet the eyes of the crowd were scrutinizing him. sandy shook hands with him and wished him a pleasant journey. hainey hoped he would live long and prosper. as he expressed the hope he furtively stuffed into one of hughie's pockets a small package. anna came out and led hughie into the house for breakfast. the little crowd moved toward the door. on the doorstep she turned around and said: "hughie's goin' t' haave a cup an' a slice an' go. ye can all see him in a few minutes. excuse me if i shut the doore, but jamie's givin' the thrush its mornin' bath an' it might fly out." she gently closed the door and we were again alone with the guest. "the luck ov god is m' portion here," he said, looking at anna. nothing was more evident. his pockets were taxed to their full capacity and those who gathered around the table that morning wished that the "luck of god" would spread a little. "th' feeries must haave been t' see ye," jamie said, eyeing his pockets. "aye, gey sauncy feeries, too!" "did ye see aany, hughie?" anna asked. "no, but i had a wondtherful dhrame." the announcement was a disappointment to us. we had dreams of our own and to have right at our fireside the one man in all the world who _saw_ things and get merely a dream from him was, to say the least, discouraging. "i thocht i heer'd th' rat, tap; rat, tap, ov th' lepracaun--th' feerie shoemaker. "'is that th' lepracaun?' says i. 'if it is i want m' three wishes.' 'get thim out,' says he, 'fur i'm gey busy th' night.' "'soun' slape th' night an' safe journey th' morra,' says i. "'get yer third out or i'm gone,' says he. "i scratched m' head an' swithered, but divil a third cud i think ov. jist as he was goin', 'oh,' says i, 'i want a pig fur this sty!' "'ye'll git him!' says he, an' off he wint." here was something, after all, that gave us more excitement than a banshee story. we had a sty. we had hoped for years for a pig. we had been forced often to use some of the sty for fuel, but in good times jamie had always replaced the boards. this was a real vision and we were satisfied. jamie's faith in hughie soared high at the time, but a few months later it fell to zero. anna with a twinkle in her eye would remind us of hughie's prophecy. one day he wiped the vision off the slate. "t' h--l wi' hughie!" he said. "some night he'll come back an' slape there, thin we'll haave a pig in th' sty shure!" as he left our house that morning he was greeted in a most unusual manner by a score of people who crowded the entry. men and women gathered around him. they inspected the wounds. they gave their blessing in as many varieties as there were people present. the new attitude toward the beggar baffled us. generally he was considered a good deal of a nuisance and something of a fraud, but that morning he was looked upon as a saint--as one inspired, as one capable of bestowing benedictions on the young and giving "luck" to the old. out of their penury and want they brought gifts of food, tobacco, cloth for patches and needles and thread. he was overwhelmed and over-burdened, and as his mission of gathering food for a few weeks was accomplished, he made for the town head when he left the entry. the small crowd grew into a big one and he was the center of a throng as he made his way north. when he reached the town well, maggie mckinstry had several small children in waiting and hughie was asked to give them a blessing. it was a new atmosphere to him, but he bungled through it. the more unintelligible his jabbering, the more assured were the recipients of his power to bless. one of the boys who stoned him was brought by his father to ask forgiveness. "god save ye kindly," hughie said to him. "th' woonds ye made haave been turned into blessin's galore!" he came in despised. he went out a saint. it proved to be hughie's last visit to antrim. his going out of life was a mystery, and as the years went by tradition accorded him an exit not unlike that of moses. i was amongst those the current of whose lives were supposed to have been changed by the touch of his hand on that last visit. anna alone knew the secret of his alleged sainthood. she was the author and publisher of it. that night when she left us with hughie she gathered together in 'liza conlon's a few "hand-picked" people whose minds were as an open book to her. she told them that the beggar-man was of an ancient line, wandering the earth in search of the holy grail, but that as he wandered he was recording in a secret book the deeds of the poor. she knew exactly how the news would travel and where. one superstition stoned him and another canonized him. "dear," she said to me, many, many years afterwards. "a good thought will thravel as fast an' as far as a bad wan if it gets th' right start!" chapter vii in the glow of a peat fire "it's a quare world," jamie said one night as we sat in the glow of a peat fire. "aye, 'deed yer right, jamie," anna replied as she gazed into the smokeless flames. he took his short black pipe out of his mouth, spat into the burning sods and added: "i wondther if it's as quare t' everybody, anna?" "ochane," she replied, "it's quare t' poor craithers who haave naither mate, money nor marbles, nor chalk t' make th' ring." there had been but one job that day--a pair of mcguckin's boots. they had been half-soled and heeled and my sister had taken them home, with orders what to bring home for supper. the last handful of peat had been put on the fire. the cobbler's bench had been put aside for the night and we gathered closely around the hearth. the town clock struck eight. "what th' h--l's kapin' th' hussy!" jamie said petulantly. "hugh's at a fenian meeting more 'n likely an' it's worth a black eye for th' wife t' handle money when he's gone," anna suggested. "more likely he's sleepin' off a dhrunk," he said. "no, jamie, he laves that t' the craithers who give 'im a livin'." "yer no judge o' human naiture, anna. a squint out o' th' tail o' yer eye at what mcguckin carries in front ov 'im wud tell ye betther if ye had th' wits to obsarve." over the fire hung a pot on the chain and close to the turf coals sat the kettle singing. nothing of that far-off life has left a more lasting impression than the singing of the kettle. it sang a dirge that night, but it usually sang of hope. it was ever the harbinger of the thing that was most indispensable in that home of want--a cup of tea. often it was tea without milk, sometimes without sugar, but always tea. if it came to a choice between tea and bread, we went without bread. anna did not relish the reflection on her judgment and remained silent. there was a loud noise at the door. "jazus!" jamie exclaimed, "it's snowin'." some one was kicking the snow off against the door-post. the latch was lifted and in walked felix boyle the bogman. "what th' blazes are ye in th' dark fur?" felix asked in a deep, hoarse voice. his old rabbit-skin cap was pulled down over his ears, his head and shoulders were covered with snow. as he shook it off we shivered. we were in debt to felix for a load of turf and we suspected he had called for the money. anna lit the candle she was saving for supper-time. the bogman threw his cap and overcoat over in the corner on the lasts and sat down. "i'm frozen t' death!" he said as he proceeded to take off his brogues. as he came up close to the coals, we were smitten with his foul breath and in consequence gave him a wider berth. he had been drinking. "where's th' mare?" anna asked. "gone home, th' bitch o' h--l," he said, "an' she's got m' load o' turf wid 'er, bad cess t' 'er dhirty sowl!" the town clock struck nine. felix removed his socks, pushed his stool aside and sat down on the mud floor. a few minutes later he was flat on his back, fast asleep and snoring loudly. the fire grew smaller. anna husbanded the diminishing embers by keeping them closely together with the long tongs. the wind howled and screamed. the window rattled, the door creaked on its hinges and every few minutes a gust of wind came down the chimney and blew the ashes into our faces. we huddled nearer the fire. "can't ye fix up that oul craither's head a bit?" jamie asked. i brought over the bogman's coat. anna made a pillow of it and placed it under his head. he turned over on his side. as he did so a handful of small change rolled out of his pocket. "think of that now," jamie said as he gathered it up and stuffed it back where it belonged, "an oul dhrunken turf dhriver wi' money t' waste while we're starvin'." from that moment we were acutely hungry. this new incident rendered the condition poignant. "maybe mrs. boyle an' th' wains are as hungry as we are," anna remarked. "wi' a bogful o' turf at th' doore?" "th' can't eat turf, jamie!" "th' can warm their shins, that's more'n we can do, in a minute or two." the rapidly diminishing coals were arranged once more. they were a mere handful now and the house was cold. there were two big holes in the chimney where jamie kept old pipes, pipe cleaners, bits of rags and scraps of tobacco. he liked to hide a scrap or two there and in times of scarcity make himself believe he _found_ them. his last puff of smoke had gone up the chimney hours ago. he searched both holes without success. a bright idea struck him. he searched for boyle's pipe. he searched in vain. "holy moses!" he exclaimed, "what a breath; a pint ov that wud make a mule dhrunk!" "thry it, jamie," anna said, laughing. "thry it yerself,--yer a good dale more ov a judge!" he said snappishly. a wild gust of wind came down the chimney and blew the loose ashes off the hearth. jamie ensconced himself in his corner--a picture of despair. "i wondther if billy o'hare's in bed?" he said. "ye'd need fumigatin' afther smokin' billy's tobacco, jamie!" "i'd smoke tobacco scraped out o' the breeches-pocket ov th' oul divil in hell!" he replied. he arose, put on his muffler and made ready to visit the sweep. on the way to the door another idea turned him back. he put on the bogman's overcoat and rabbit-skin cap. anna, divining his intention, said: "that's th' first sign of sense i've see in you for a month of sundays." "ye cudn't see it in a month ov easther sundays, aanyway," he retorted with a superior toss of his head. anna kept up a rapid fire of witty remarks. she injected humor into the situation and laughed like a girl, and although she felt the pangs more keenly than any of us, her laughter was genuine and natural. jamie had his empty pipe in his mouth and by force of habit he picked up in the tongs a little bit of live coal to light it. we all tittered. "th' h--l!" he muttered, as he made for the door. before he reached it my sister walked in. mcguckin wasn't at home. his wife couldn't pay. we saw the whole story on her face, every pang of it. her eyes were red and swollen. before she got out a sentence of the tale of woe, she noticed the old man in boyle's clothing and burst out laughing. so hearty and boisterous was it that we all again caught the contagion and laughed with her. sorrow was deep-seated. it had its roots away down at the bottom of things, but laughter was always up near the surface and could be tapped on the slightest provocation. it was a by-valve--a way of escape for the overflow. there were times when sorrow was too deep for tears. but there never was a time when we couldn't laugh! people in our town who expected visitors to knock provided a knocker. the knocker was a distinct line of social demarcation. we lived below the line. the minister and the tract distributor were the only persons who ever knocked at our door. scarcely had our laughter died away when the door opened and there entered in the sweep of a blizzard's tail billy o'hare. the gust of cold winter wind made us shiver again and we drew up closer to the dying fire--so small now as to be seen with difficulty. "be th' seven crosses ov arbow, jamie," he said, "i'm glad yer awake, me bhoy, if ye hadn't i'd haave pulled ye out be th' tail ov yer shirt!" "i was jist within an ace ov goin' over an' pullin' ye out be th' heels myself." the chimney-sweep stepped forward and, tapping jamie on the forehead, said: "two great minds workin' on th' same thought shud projuce wondtherful results, jamie; lend me a chew ov tobacco!" "ye've had larks for supper, billy; yer jokin'!" jamie said. "larks be damned," billy said, "m' tongue's stickin' t' th' roof ov me mouth!" again we laughed, while the two men stood looking at each other--speechless. "ye can do switherin' as easy sittin' as standin'," anna said, and billy sat down. the bogman's story was repeated in minutest detail. the sweep scratched his sooty head and looked wise. "it's gone!" anna said quietly, and we all looked toward the fire. it was dead. the last spark had been extinguished. we shivered. "we don't need so many stools aanyway," jamie said. "i'll get a hatchet an' we'll haave a fire in no time." "t' be freezin' t' death wi a bogman goin' t' waste is unchristian, t' say th' laste," billy ventured. "every time we get to th' end of th' tether god appears!" anna said reassuringly, as she pinned her shawl closer around her neck. "there's nothin' but empty bowels and empty pipes in our house," the sweep said, "but we've got half a dozen good turf left!" "well, it's a long lane that's got no turnin'--ye might lend us thim," jamie suggested. "if ye'll excuse m' fur a minit, i'll warm this house, an' may the virgin choke m' in th' nixt chimley i sweep if i don't!" in a few minutes he returned with six black turf. the fire was rebuilt and we basked in its warm white glow. the bogman snored on. billy inquired about the amount of his change. then he became solicitous about his comfort on the floor. each suggestion was a furtive flank movement on boyle's loose change. anna saw the bent of his mind and tried to divert his attention. "did ye ever hear, billy," she said, "that if we stand a dhrunk maan on his head it sobers him?" "be the powers, no." "they say," she said with a twinkle in her eyes, "that it empties him of his contents." "aye," sighed the sweep, "there's something in that, anna; let's thry it on boyle." there was an element of excitement in the suggestion and we youngsters hoped it would be carried out. billy made a move to suit the action to the thought, but anna pushed him gently back. "jamie's mouth is as wathry as yours, billy, but we'll take no short cuts, we'll go th' long way around." that seemed a death-blow to hope. my sisters began to whimper and sniffle. we had many devices for diverting hunger. the one always used as a last resort was the stories of the "great famine." we were particularly helped by one about a family half of whom died around a pot of stir-about that had come too late. when we heard jamie say, "things are purty bad, but they're not as bad as they might be," we knew a famine story was on the way. "hould yer horses there a minute!" billy o'hare broke in. he took the step-ladder and before we knew what he was about he had taken a bunch of dried rosemary from the roof-beams and was rubbing it in his hands as a substitute for tobacco. after rubbing it between his hands he filled his pipe and began to puff vigorously. "wud ye luk at 'im!" jamie exclaimed. "i've lived with th' mother ov invintion since i was th' size ov a mushroom," he said between the puffs, "an begorra she's betther nor a wife." the odor filled the house. it was like the sweet incense of a censer. the men laughed and joked over the discovery. the sweep indulged himself in some extravagant, self-laudatory statements, one of which became a household word with us. "jamie," he said as he removed his pipe and looked seriously at my father, "who was that poltroon that discovered tobacco?" anna informed him. "what'll become ov 'im whin compared wid o'hare, th' inventor of th' rosemary delection? i ax ye, jamie, bekase ye're an honest maan." "heaven knows, billy." "aye, heaven only knows, fur i'll hand down t' m' future ancestors the o'hara brand ov rosemary tobacco!" "wondtherful, wondtherful!" jamie said, in mock solemnity. "aye, t' think," anna said, "that ye invinted it in our house!" we forgot our hunger pangs in the excitement. jamie filled his pipe and the two men smoked for a few minutes. then a fly appeared in the precious ointment. my father took his pipe out of his mouth and looked inquisitively at billy. "m' head's spinnin' 'round like a peerie!" he exclaimed. "whin did ye ate aanything?" asked the sweep. "yestherday." "aye, well, it's th' mate ye haaven't in yer bowels that's makin' ye feel quare." "what's th' matther wi th' invintor?" anna asked. billy had removed his pipe and was staring vacantly into space. "i'm seein' things two at a time, b' jazus!" he answered. "we've got plenty of nothin' but wather, maybe ye'd like a good dhrink, billy?" before he could reply the bogman raised himself to a half-sitting posture, and yelled with all the power of his lungs: "whoa! back, ye dhirty baste, back!" the wild yell chilled the blood in our veins. he sat up, looked at the black figure of the sweep for a moment, then made a spring at billy, and before any one could interfere poor billy had been felled to the floor with a terrible smash on the jaw. then he jumped on him. we youngsters raised a howl that awoke the sleepers in pogue's entry. jamie and billy soon overpowered boyle. when the neighbors arrived they found o'hare sitting on boyle's neck and jamie on his legs. "where am i?" boyle asked. "in the home of friends," anna answered. "wud th' frien's donate a mouthful ov breath?" he was let up. the story of the night was told to him. he listened attentively. when the story was told he thrust his hand into his pocket and brought forth some change. "hould yer han' out, ye black imp o' hell," he said to o'hare. the sweep obeyed, but remarked that the town clock had already struck twelve. "i don't care a damn if it's thirteen!" he said. "that's fur bread, that's fur tay, that's fur tobacco an' that's fur somethin' that runs down yer throat like a rasp, _fur me_. now don't let th' grass grow undther yer flat feet, ye divil." after some minor instructions from anna, the sweep went off on his midnight errand. the neighbors were sent home. the kettle replaced the pot on the chain, and we gathered full of ecstasy close to the fire. "whisht!" anna said. we listened. above the roar of the wind and the rattling of the casement we heard a loud noise. "it's billy thunderin' at marget hurll's doore," jamie said. o'hare arrived with a bang! he put his bundles down on the table and vigorously swung his arms like flails around him to thaw himself out. anna arranged the table and prepared the meal. billy and jamie went at the tobacco. boyle took the whiskey and said: "i thank my god an' the holy angels that i'm in th' house ov timperance payple!" then looking at jamie, he said: "here's t' ye, jamie, an' ye, anna, an' th' scoundthrel o'hare, an' here's t' th' three that niver bred, th' priest, th' pope, an' th' mule!" then at a draft he emptied the bottle and threw it behind the fire, grunting his satisfaction. "wudn't that make a corpse turn 'round in his coffin?" billy said. "keep yer eye on that loaf, billy, or he'll be dhrinkin' our health in it!" jamie remarked humorously. boyle stretched himself on the floor and yawned. the little table was brought near the fire, the loaf was cut in slices and divided. it was a scene that brought us to the edge of tears--tears of joy. anna's face particularly beamed. she talked as she prepared, and her talk was of god's appearance at the end of every tether, and of the silver lining on the edge of every cloud. she had a penchant for mottoes, but she never used them in a siege. it was when the siege was broken she poured them in and they found a welcome. as she spoke of god bringing relief, boyle got up on his haunches. "anna," he said, "if aanybody brot me here th' night it was th' oul divil in hell." "'deed yer mistaken, felix," she answered sweetly. "when god sends a maan aanywhere he always gets there, even if he has to be taken there by th' divil." when all was ready we gathered around the table. "how i wish we could sing!" she said as she looked at us. the answer was on every face. hunger would not wait on ceremony. we were awed into stillness and silence, however, when she raised her hand in benediction. we bowed our heads. boyle crossed himself. "father," she said, "we thank thee for sendin' our friend felix here th' night. bless his wife an' wains, bless them in basket an' store an' take good care of his oul mare. amen!" chapter viii the wind bloweth where it listeth i sat on a fence in a potato field, whittling an alder stick into a pea-blower one afternoon in the early autumn when i noticed at the other end of the field the well-known figure of "the master." he was dressed as usual in light gray and as usual rode a fine horse. i dropped off the fence as if i had been shot. he urged the horse to a gallop. i pushed the clumps of red hair under my cap and pressed it down tightly on my head. then i adjusted the string that served as a suspender. on came the galloping horse. a few more lightning touches to what covered my nakedness and he reined up in front of me! i straightened up like a piece of whalebone! "what are you doing?" he asked in that far-off imperious voice of his. "kapin' th' crows off th' pirtas, yer honor!" "you need a new shirt!" he said. the blood rushed to my face. i tried to answer, but the attempt seemed to choke me. "you need a new shirt!" he almost yelled at me. i saw a smile playing about the corners of his fine large eyes. it gave me courage. "aye, yer honor, 'deed that's thrue." "why don't you get one?" the answer left my mind and traveled like a flash to the glottis, but that part of the machinery was out of order and the answer hung fire. i paused, drew a long breath that strained the string. then matching his thin smile with a thick grin i replied: "did yer honor iver work fur four shillin's a week and share it wid nine others?" "no!" he said and the imprisoned smile was released. "well, if ye iver do, shure ye'll be lucky to haave skin, let alone shirt!" "you consider yourself lucky, then?" "aye, middlin'." he galloped away and i lay down flat on my back, wiped the sweat from my brow with the sleeve of my jacket, turned the hair loose and eased up the string. that night at the first sound of the farm-yard bell i took to my heels through the fields, through the yard and down the belfast road to withero's stone-pile. willie was just quitting for the day. i was almost breathless, but i blurted out what then seemed to me the most important happening in my life. willie took his eye-protectors off and looked at me. "so ye had a crack wi' the masther, did ye?" "aye, quite a crack." "he mistuk ye fur a horse!" he said. this damper on my enthusiasm drew an instant reply. "'deed no, nor an ass naither." willie bundled up his hammers and prepared to go home. he took out his flint and steel. over the flint he laid a piece of brown paper, chemically treated, then he struck the flint a sharp blow with the steel, a spark was produced, the spark ignited the paper, it began to burn in a smoldering, blazeless way, he stuffed the paper into the bowl of his pipe, and began the smoke that was to carry him over the journey home. i shouldered some of his hammers and we trudged along the road toward antrim. "throth, i know yer no ass, me bhoy, though jamie's a good dale ov a mule, but yer ma's got wit enough fur the family. that answer ye gave misther chaine was frum yer ma. it was gey cute an'll git ye a job, i'll bate." i had something else to tell him, but i dreaded his critical mind. when we got to the railway bridge he laid his hammers on the wall while he relit his pipe. i saw my last opportunity and seized it. "say, willie, did ye iver haave a feelin' that made ye feel fine all over and--and--made ye pray?" "i niver pray," he said. "these wathery-mouthed gossoons who pray air jist like oul hughie thornton wi' his pockets bulgin' wi' scroof (crusts). they're naggin at god from aysther t' christmas t' fill their pockets! a good day's stone breakin's my prayer. at night i jist say, 'thank ye, father!' in th' mornin' i say 'morra, father, how's all up aroun' th' throne this mornin'?'" "an' does he spake t' ye back?" "ov coorse, d'ye think he's got worse manners nor me? he says, 'hello, willie,' says he. 'how's it wi' ye this fine mornin'?' 'purty fine, father, purty fine,' says i. but tell me, bhoy, was there a girl aroun' whin that feelin' struck ye?" "divil a girl, at all!" "them feelin's sometimes comes frum a girl, ye know. i had wan wanst, but that's a long story, heigh ho; aye, that's a long story!" "did she die, willie?" "never mind her. that feelin' may haave been from god. yer ma hes a quare notion that wan chile o' her'n will be inclined that way. she's dhrawn eleven blanks, maybe she's dhrawn a prize, afther all; who knows." old mccabe, the road mender, overtook us and for the rest of the journey i was seen but not heard. that night i sat by her side in the chimney-corner and recited the events of the day. it had been full of magic, mystery and meaning to me. the meaning was a little clearer to me after the recital. "withero sometimes talks like a ha'penny book wi' no laves in it," she said. "but most of the time he's nearer the facts than most of us. it isn't all blether, dear." we sat up late, long after the others had gone to sleep. she read softly a chapter of "pilgrim's progress," the chapter in which he is relieved of his burden. i see now that woodcut of a gate and over the gate the words: "knock and it shall be opened unto you." she had read it before. i was familiar with it, but in the light of that day's experience it had a new meaning. she warned me, however, that my name was neither pilgrim nor withero, and in elucidating her meaning she explained the phrase, "the wind bloweth where it listeth." i learned to listen for the sound thereof and i wondered from whence it came, not only the wind of the heavens, but the spirit that moved men in so many directions. the last act of that memorable night was the making of a picture. it took many years to find out its meaning, but every stroke of the brush is as plain to me now as they were then. "ye'll do somethin' for me?" "aye, aanything in th' world." "ye won't glunch nor ask questions?" "not a question." "shut yer eyes an' stan' close t' th' table." i obeyed. she put into each hand a smooth stick with which jamie had smoothed the soles of shoes. "jist for th' now these are the handles of a plow. keep yer eyes shut tight. ye've seen a maan plowin' a field?" "aye." "think that ye see a long, long field. ye're plowin' it. the other end is so far away ye can't see it. ye see a wee bit of the furrow, jist a wee bit. squeeze th' plow handles." i squeezed. "d'ye see th' trees yonder?" "aye." "an' th' birds pickin' in th' furrow?" "ay-e." she took the sticks away and gently pushed me on a stool and told me i might open my eyes. "that's quare," i said. "listen, dear, ye've put yer han' t' th' plow; ye must niver, niver take it away. all through life ye'll haave thim plow handles in yer han's an' ye'll be goin' down th' furrow. ye'll crack a stone here and there, th' plow'll stick often an' things'll be out of gear, but yer in th' furrow all the time. ye'll change horses, ye'll change clothes, ye'll change yerself, but ye'll always be in the furrow, plowin', plowin', plowin'! i'll go a bit of th' way, jamie'll go a bit, yer brothers an' sisters a bit, but we'll dhrap out wan b' wan. ye're god's plowmaan." as i stood to say good-night she put her hand on my head and muttered something that was not intended for me to hear. then she kissed me good night and i climbed to my pallet under the thatch. i was afraid to sleep, lest the "feelin'" should take wings. when i was convinced that some of it, at least, would remain, i tried to sleep and couldn't. the mingled ecstasy and excitement was too intense. i heard the town clock strike the hours far into the morning. before she awoke next morning i had exhausted every agency in the house that would coördinate flesh and spirit. when i was ready i tiptoed to her bedside and touched her on the cheek. instantly she awoke and sat upright. i put my hands on my hips and danced before her. it was a noiseless dance with bare feet on the mud floor. her long thin arms shot out toward me and i buried myself in them. "so it stayed," she whispered in my ear. "aye, an' there's more of it." she arose and dressed quickly. a live coal was scraped out of the ashes and a turf fire built around it. my feet were winged as i flew to the town well for water. when i returned she had several slices of toast ready. toast was a luxury. of course there was always--or nearly always--bread, and often there was butter, but toast to the very poor in those days wasn't merely a matter of bread and butter, fire and time! it was more often inclination that turned the balance for or against it, and inclination always came on the back of some emotion, chance or circumstance. here all the elements met and the result was toast. i took a mouthful of her tea out of her cup; she reciprocated. we were like children. maybe we were. love tipped our tongues, winged our feet, opened our hearts and hands and permeated every thought and act. she stood at the mouth of the entry until i disappeared at the town head. while i was yet within sight i looked back half a dozen times and we waved our hands. it was nearly a year before a dark line entered this spiritual spectrum. it was inevitable that such a mental condition--ever in search of a larger expression--should gravitate toward the church. it has seemed also that it was just as inevitable that the best thought of which the church has been the custodian should be crystallized into a creed. i was promoted to the "big house." there, of course, i was overhauled and put in touch with the fittings and furniture. as a flunkey i had my first dose of boiled linen and i liked it. i was enabled now to attend church and sunday school. indeed, i would have gone there, religion or no religion, for where else could i have sported a white shirt and collar? with my boiled linen and my brain stuffed with texts i gradually drew away from the chimney-corner and never again did i help willie withero to carry his hammers. ah, if one could only go back over life and correct the mistakes. gradually i lost the warm human feeling and substituted for it a theology. i began to look upon my mother as one about whose salvation there was some doubt. i urged her to attend church. forms and ceremonies became the all-important things and the life and the spirit were proportionately unimportant. i became mildewed with the blight of respectability. i became the possessor of a hard hat that i might ape the respectables. i walked home every night from ballycraigie with jamie wallace, and jamie was the best-dressed working man in the town. i was treading a well-worn pathway. i was "getting on." a good slice of my new religion consisted in excellency of service to my employers--my "betters." preacher, priest and peasant thought alike on these topics. anna was pleased to see me in a new garb, but she noticed and i noticed that i had grown away from the corner. in the light of my new adjustment i saw _duties_ plainer, but duty may become a hammer by which affection may be beaten to death. i imagined the plow was going nicely in the furrow, for i wasn't conscious of striking any snags or stones, but anna said: "a plowman who skims th' surface of th' sod strikes no stones, dear, but it's because he isn't plowin' _deep_!" i have plowed deep enough since, but too late to go back and compare notes. she was pained, but tried to hide it. if she was on the point of tears she would tell a funny story. "acushla," she said to me one night after a theological discussion, "sure ye remind me of a ducklin' hatched by a hen." "why?" "we're at home in conthrary elements. ye use texts t' fight with an' i use thim to get pace of heart!" "are you wiser nor mr. holmes, an' william brennan an' miss mcgee?" i asked. "them's th' ones that think as i do--i mane i think as they do!" "no, 'deed i'm not as wise as aany of thim, but standin' outside a wee bit i can see things that can't be seen inside. forby they haave no special pathway t' god that's shut t' me, nor yer oul father nor willie withero!" sometimes jamie took a hand. once when he thought anna was going to cry, in an argument, he wheeled around in his seat and delivered himself. "i'll tell ye, anna, that whelp needs a good argyment wi' th' tongs! jist take thim an' hit 'im a skite on the jaw wi' thim an' i'll say, 'amen.'" "that's no clinch to an argyment," i said, "an thruth is thruth!" "aye, an' tongs is tongs! an' some o' ye young upstarts whin ye get a dickey on an' a choke-me-tight collar think yer jist ready t' sit down t' tay wi' god!" anna explained and gave me more credit than was due me. so jamie ended the colloquy by the usual cap to his every climax. "well, what th' ---- do i know about thim things, aanyway. let's haave a good cup o' tay an' say no more about it!" the more texts i knew the more fanatical i became. and the more of a fanatic i was the wider grew the chasm that divided me from my mother. i talked as if i knew "every saint in heaven and every divil in hell." she was more than patient with me, though my spiritual conceit must have given her many a pang. antrim was just beginning to get accustomed to my new habiliments of boots, boiled linen and hat when i left to "push my fortune" in other parts. my enthusiasm had its good qualities too, and she was quick to recognize them, quicker than to notice its blemishes. my last hours in the town--on the eve of my first departure--i spent with her. "i feel about you, dear," she said, laughing, "as micky free did about the soul of his father in purgatory. he had been payin' for masses for what seemed to him an uncommonly long time. 'how's th' oul bhoy gettin' on?' micky asked the priest. 'purty well, micky, his head is out.' 'begorra, thin, i know th' rist ov 'im will be out soon--i'll pay for no more masses!' your head is up and out from the bottom of th' world, and i haave faith that ye'll purty soon be all out, an' some day ye'll get the larger view, for ye'll be in a larger place an' ye'll haave seen more of people an' more of the world." i have two letters of that period. one i wrote her from jerusalem in the year . as i read the yellow, childish epistle i am stung with remorse that it is full of the narrow sectarianism that still held me in its grip. the other is dated antrim, july, , and is her answer to my sectarian appeal. "dear boy," she says, "antrim has had many soldier sons in far-off lands, but you are the first, i think, to have the privilege of visiting the holy land. jamie and i are proud of you. all the old friends have read your letter. they can hardly believe it. don't worry about our souls. when we come one by one in the twilight of life, each of us, jamie and i, will have our sheaves. they will be little ones, but we are little people. i want no glory here or hereafter that jamie cannot share. i gave god a plowman, but your father says i must chalk half of that to his account. hold tight the handles and plow deep. we watch the candle and every wee spark thrills our hearts, for we know it's a letter from you. "your loving mother." chapter ix "beyond th' meadows an' th' clouds" when the bill-boards announced that i was to deliver a lecture on "england in the soudan" in the only hall in the town, antrim turned out to satisfy its curiosity. "how doth this man know, not having learned," the wise ones said, for when i shook the dust of its blessed streets from my brogues seven years previously i was an illiterate. anna could have told them, but none of the wise knew her, for curiously enough to those who knew of her existence, but had never seen her, she was known as "jamie's wife." butchers and bakers and candlestick makers were there; several ministers, some quality, near quality, the inhabitants of the entries in the "scotch quarter" and all the newsboys in town. the fact that i personally bribed the newsboys accounted for their presence. i bought them out and reserved the front seats for them. it was in the way of a class reunion with me. billy o'hare had gone beyond--where there are no chimneys, and ann where she could keep clean: they were both dead. many of the old familiar faces were absent, they too had gone--some to other lands, some to another world. jamie was there. he sat between willie withero and ben baxter. he heard little of what was said and understood less of what he heard. the vicar, mr. holmes, presided. there was a vote of thanks, followed by the customary seconding by public men, then "god save the queen," and i went home to tell anna about it. jamie took one arm and withero clung to the other. "jamie!" shouted withero in a voice that could be heard by the crowd that followed us, "d'ye mind th' first time i seen ye wi' anna?" "aye, 'deed i do!" "ye didn't know it was in 'er, did ye, jamie?" "yer a liar, willie; i know'd frum th' minute i clapped eyes on 'er that she was th' finest wuman on god's futstool!" "ye can haave whativer benefit ov th' doubt there is, jamie, but jist th' same any oul throllop can be a father, but by g-- it takes a rale wuman t' be th' mother ov a rale maan! put that in yer pipe an' smoke it." "he seems t' think," said jamie, appealing to me, "that only quality can projuce fine childther!" "yer spakin' ov clothes, jamie; i'm spakin' ov mind, an' ye wor behind th' doore whin th' wor givin' it out, but begorra, anna was at th' head ov th' class, an' that's no feerie story, naither, is it, me bhoy?" at the head of pogue's entry, bob dougherty, tommy wilson, sam manderson, lucinda gordon and a dozen others stopped for a "partin' crack." the kettle was boiling on the chain. the hearth had been swept and a new coat of whitening applied. there was a candle burning in her sconce and the thin yellow rays lit up the glory on her face--a glory that was encased in a newly tallied white cap. my sister sat on one side of the fireplace and she on the other--in her corner. i did not wonder, i did not ask why they did not make a supreme effort to attend the lecture--i knew. they were more supremely interested than i was. they had never heard a member of the family or a relative speak in public, and their last chance had passed by. there they were, in the light of a peat fire and the tallow dip, supremely happy. the neighbors came in for a word with anna. they filled the space. the stools and creepies were all occupied. "sit down, willie," my father said. "take a nice cushioned chair an' be at home." withero was leaning against the table. he saw and was equal to the joke. "whin nature put a pilla on maan, it was intinded fur t' sit on th' groun', jamie!" and down he sat on the mud floor. "it's th' proud wuman ye shud be th' night," marget hurll said, "an misther armstrong it was that said it was proud th' town shud be t' turn out a boy like him!" withero took his pipe out of his mouth and spat in the ashes--as a preface to a few remarks. "aye," he grunted, "i cocked m' ears up an' dunched oul jamie whin armshtrong said that. jamie cudn't hear it, so i whispered t' m'self, 'begorra, if a wee fella turns _up_ whin anthrim turns 'im out it's little credit t' anthrim i'm thinkin'!'" anna laughed and jamie, putting his hand behind his ear, asked: "what's that--what's that?" the name and remarks of the gentleman who seconded the vote of thanks were repeated to him. "ha, ha, ha!" he laughed as he slapped me on the knee. "well, well, well, if that wudn't make a brass monkey laugh!" "say," he said to me, "d'ye mind th' night ye come home covered wi' clabber--" "whisht!" i said, as i put my mouth to his ear. "i only want to mind that he had three very beautiful daughters!" "did ye iver spake t' aany o' thim?" jamie asked. "yes." "whin?" "when i sold them papers." "ha, ha, a ha'penny connection, eh?" "it's betther t' mind three fine things about a maan than wan mean thing, jamie," anna said. "if both o' ye's on me i'm bate," he said. "stop yer palaver an' let's haave a story ov th' war wi' th' naygars in egypt," mrs. hurll said. "aye, that's right," one of the gainer boys said. "tell us what th' queen give ye a medal fur!" they wanted a story of blood, so i smeared the tale red. when i finished anna said, "now tell thim, dear, what ye tuk th' shillin' fur!" "you tell them, mother." "ye tuk it t' fight ignorance an' not naygars, didn't ye?" "yes, but that fight continues." "aye, with you, but--" "ah, never mind, mother, i have taken it up where you laid it down, and long after--" that was far as i got, for jamie exploded just then and said: "now get t' h--l home, ivery wan o' ye, an' give 's a minute wi' 'im jist for ourselves, will ye?" he said it with laughter in his voice and it sounded in the ears of those present as polite and pleasing as anything in the domain of their amenities. they arose as one, all except withero, and he couldn't, for jamie gripped him by a leg and held him on the floor just as he sat. in their good-night expressions the neighbors unconsciously revealed what the lecture and the story meant to them. summed up it meant, "sure it's jist wondtherful ye warn't shot!" when we were alone, alone with withero, mary "wet" a pot of tea and warmed up a few farrels of fadges! and we commenced. little was said, but feeling ran high. it was like a midnight mass. anna was silent, but there were tears, and as i held her in my arms and kissed them away jamie was saying to withero: "ye might take 'im fur a dandther out where ye broke whin we first met ye, willie!" "aye," willie said, "i'm m' own gaffer, i will that." i slept at jamie wallace's that night, and next morning took the "dandther" with withero up the dublin road, past "the mount of temptation" to the old stone-pile that was no longer a pile, but a hole in the side of the road. it was a sentimental journey that gave willie a chance to say some things i knew he wanted to say. "d'ye mind the pirta sack throusers anna made ye onct?" "yes, what of them?" "did ye iver think ye cud git used t' aanything if ye wor forced t' haave nothin' else fur a while?" "what's the point, willie?" "sit down here awhile an' i'll tell ye." we sat down on the bank of the roadside. he took out his pipe, steel and flint, filled his pipe and talked as he filled. "me an' jamie wor pirta sack people, purty damned rough, too, but yer ma was a piece ov fine linen frum th' day she walked down this road wi' yer dah till this minit whin she's waitin' fur ye in the corner. ivery sunday i've gone in jist t' hai a crack wi' 'er an' d' ye know, bhoy, i got out o' that crack somethin' good fur th' week. she was i' hell on sayin' words purcisely, but me an' jamie wor too thick, an' begorra she got used t' pirta sack words herself, but she was i' fine linen jist th' same. "wan day she says t' me, 'willie,' says she, 'ye see people through dirty specs.' 'how's that?' says i. 'i don't know,' says she, 'fur i don't wear yer specs, but i think it's jist a poor habit ov yer mind. aych poor craither is made up ov some good an' much that isn't s' good, an' ye see only what isn't s' good!' "thin she towld m' somethin' which she niver towld aanyone else, 'cept yer dah, ov coorse. 'willie,' says she, 'fur twenty years i've seen th' son ov maan ivery day ov m' life!' "'how's that?' says i. "'i've more'n seen 'm. i've made tay fur 'im, an' broth on sunday. i've mended 'is oul duds, washed 'is dhirty clothes, shuk 'is han', stroked 'is hair an' said kind words to 'im!' "'god almighty!' says i, 'yer goin' mad, anna!' she tuk her oul bible an' read t' me these words; i mind thim well: "'whin ye do it t' wan o' these craithers ye do it t' me!' "well, me bhoy, i thunk an' i thunk over thim words an' wud ye believe it--i begun t' clane m' specs. wan day th' 'dummy' came along t' m' stone-pile. ye mind 'er, don't ye?" (the dummy was a harlot, who lived in the woods up the dublin road in summer, and heaven only knows where in winter.) "th' dummy," willie continued, "came over t' th' pile an' acted purty gay, but says i, 'dummy, if there's anythin' i kin give ye i'll give it, but there's nothin' ye kin give me!' "'ye break stones fur a livin',' says she. "'aye,' says i. "'what wud ye do if ye wor a lone wuman an' cudn't get nothin' at all t' do?' "'i dunno,' says i. "'i don't want to argufy or palaver wi' a dacent maan,' says she, 'but i'm terrible hungry.' "'luk here,' says i, 'i've got a dozen pirtas i'm goin' t' roast fur m' dinner. i'll roast thim down there be that gate, an' i'll lave ye six an' a dhrink ov butthermilk. whin ye see m' lave th' gate ye'll know yer dinner's ready.' "'god save ye,' says she, 'may yer meal barrel niver run empty an' may yer bread foriver be roughcasted wi' butther!' "i begun t' swither whin she left. says i, 'withero, is yer specs clane? kin ye see th' son ov maan in th' dummy?' 'begorra, i dunno,' says i t' m'self. i scratched m' head an' swithered till i thought m' brains wud turn t' stone. "says i t' m'self at last, 'aye, 'deed there must be th' spark there what anna talks about!' jist then i heard yer mother's voice as plain as i hear m' own now at this minute--an' what d'ye think anna says?" "i don't know, willie." "'so ye haave th' son ov maan t' dinner th' day?' 'aye,' says i. "'an' givin' 'im yer lavins!' "it was like a piece ov stone cuttin' the ball ov m' eye. it cut deep! "i ran down th' road an' says i t' th' dummy, 'i'll tie a rag on a stick an' whin ye see m' wavin' it come an' take yer dinner an' i'll take what's left!' "i didn't wait fur no answer, but went and did what i shud. "that summer whin she was hungry she hung an oul rag on th' thorn hedge down be the wee plantain where she camped, and i answered be a rag on a stick that she cud share mine and take hers first. one day i towld 'er yer mother's story about th' son ov maan. it was th' only time i ever talked wi' 'er. that winther she died in th' poorhouse and before she died she sint me this." he pulled out of an inside pocket a piece of paper yellow with age and so scuffed with handling that the scrawl was scarcely legible: _m withero_ stone breaker dublin road antrim "i seen him in the ward last night and i'm content to go now. god save you kindly. the dummy." withero having unburdened, we dandered down the road, through masserene and home. i proposed to anna a little trip to lough neagh in a jaunting car. "no, dear, it's no use; i want to mind it jist as jamie and i saw it years an' years ago. i see it here in th' corner jist as plain as i saw it then; forby antrim wud never get over th' shock of seein' me in a jauntin' car." "then i'll tell you of a shorter journey. you have never seen the steeple. it's the most perfect of all the round towers in ireland and just one mile from this corner. now don't deny me the joy of taking you there. i'll guide you over the strand and away back of the poorhouse, out at the station, and then it's just a hundred yards or so!" it took the combined efforts of jamie, withero, mary and me to persuade her, but she was finally persuaded, and dressed in a borrowed black knitted cap and her wee sunday shawl, she set out with us. "this is like a weddin'," jamie said, as he tied the ribbons under her chin. "oh, it's worse, dear. it's a circus an' wake in wan, fur i'm about dead an' he's turned clown for a while." in five minutes everybody in pogue's entry heard the news. they stood at the door waiting to have a look. matty mcgrath came in to see if there was "aanythin'" she could do. "aye," anna said, smiling, "ye can go over an' tell oul ann agnew where i'm goin' so she won't worry herself t' death findin' out!" "she won't see ye," jamie said. "she'd see a fly if it lit within a hundred yards of her!" we went down the kill entry and over the rivulet we called "the strand." there were stepping stones in the water and the passage was easy. as we crossed she said: "right here was th' first place ye ever came t' see th' sun dance on th' water on easter sunday mornin'." we turned to the right and walked by the old burying ground of the unitarian meeting-house and past mr. smith's garden. next to smith's garden was the garden of a cooper--i think his name was farren. "right here," i said, "is where i commited my first crime!" "what was it?" she asked. "stealing apples!" "aye, what a townful of criminals we had then!" we reached the back of the poorhouse. james gardner was the master of it, and "goin' t' jamie gardner" was understood as the last march of many of the inhabitants of antrim, beginning with "totther jack welch," who was a sort of pauper _primus inter pares_ of the town. as we passed the little graveyard, we stood and looked over the fence at the little boards, all of one size and one pattern, that marked each grave. "god in heaven!" she exclaimed, "isn't it fearful not to git rid of poverty even in death!" i saw a shudder pass over her face and i turned mine away. ten minutes later we emerged from the fields at the railway station. "you've never seen mr. mckillop, the station master, have you?" i asked. "no." "let us wait here for a minute, we may see him." "oh, no, let's hurry on t' th' steeple!" so on we hurried. it took a good deal of courage to enter when we got there, for the far-famed round tower of antrim is _private property_. around it is a stone wall enclosing the grounds of an estate. the tower stands near the house of the owner, and it takes temerity in the poor to enter. they seldom do enter, as a matter of fact, for they are not particularly interested in archeology. we timidly entered and walked up to the tower. "so that's th' steeple!" "isn't it fine?" "aye, it's wondtherful, but wudn't it be nice t' take our boots off an' jist walk aroun' on this soft nice grass on our bare feet?" the lawn was closely clipped and as level as a billiard table. the trees were dressed in their best summer clothing. away in the distance we caught glimpses of an abundance of flowers. the air was full of the perfume of honeysuckle and sweet clover. anna drank in the scenery with almost childish delight. "d'ye think heaven will be as nice?" she asked. "maybe." "if it is, we will take our boots off an' sit down, won't we?" and she laughed like a girl. "if there are boots in the next world," i said, "there will be cobblers, and you wouldn't want our old man to be a cobbler to all eternity?" "you're right," she said, "nor afther spending seventy-five years here without bein' able to take my boots off an' walk on a nice lawn like this wud i care to spend eternity without that joy!" "do we miss what we've never had?" "aye, 'deed we do. i miss most what i've never had!" "what, for instance?" "oh, i'll tell ye th' night when we're alone!" we walked around the tower and ventured once beneath the branches of a big tree. "if we lived here, d'ye know what i'd like t' do?" "no." "jist take our boots off an' play hide and go seek--wudn't it be fun?" i laughed loudly. "whisht!" she said. "they'll catch us if you make a noise!" "you seem bent on getting your boots off!" i said laughingly. her reply struck me dumb. "honey," she said, so softly and looking into my eyes, "do ye realize that i have never stood on a patch of lawn in my life before?" hand in hand we walked toward the gate, taking an occasional, wistful glance back at the glory of the few, and thinking, both of us, of the millions of tired feet that never felt the softness of a smooth green sward. at eight o'clock that night the door was shut _and barred_. jamie tacked several copies of the _weekly budget_ over the window and we were alone. we talked of old times. we brought back the dead and smiled or sighed over them. old tales, of the winter nights of long ago, were retold with a new interest. the town clock struck nine. we sat in silence as we used to sit, while another sexton tolled off the days of the month after the ringing of the curfew. "many's th' time ye've helter-skeltered home at th' sound of that bell!" she said. "yes, because the sound of the bell was always accompanied by a vision of a wet welt hanging over the edge of the tub!" jamie laughed and became reminiscent. "d'ye mind what ye said wan time whin i bate ye wi' th' stirrup?" "no, but i used to think a good deal more than i said." "aye, but wan time i laid ye across m' knee an' give ye a good shtrappin', then stud ye up an' says i, 'it hurts me worse than it hurts ye, ye divil!' "'aye,' says you, 'but it dizn't hurt ye in th' same place!' "i don't remember, but from time immemorial boys have thought and said the same thing." "d'ye mind when _i_ bate ye?" anna asked with a smile. "yes, i remember you solemnly promised jamie you would punish me and when he went down to barney's you took a long straw and lashed me fearfully with it!" the town clock struck ten. mary, who had sat silent all evening, kissed us all good night and went to bed. i was at the point of departure for the new world. jamie wanted to know what i was going to do. i outlined an ambition, but its outworking was a problem. it was beyond his ken. he could not take in the scope of it. anna could, for she had it from the day she first felt the movement of life in me. it was unpretentious--nothing the world would call great. "och, maan, but that wud be th' proud day fur anna if ye cud do it." when the town clock struck eleven, anna trembled. "yer cowld, anna," he said. "i'll put on a few more turf." "there's plenty on, dear; i'm not cold in my body." "acushla, m' oul hide's like a buffalo's or i'd see that ye want 'im t' yerself. i'm off t' bed!" we sat in silence gazing into the peat fire. memory led me back down the road to yesterday. she was out in the future and wandering in an unknown continent with only hope to guide her. yet we must get together, and that quickly. "minutes are like fine gold now," she said, "an' my tongue seems glued, but i jist must spake." "we have plenty of time, mother." "plenty!" she exclaimed. "every clang of th' town clock is a knife cuttin' th' cords--wan afther another--that bind me t' ye." "i want to know about your hope, your outlook, your religion," i said. "th' biggest hope i've ever had was t' bear a chile that would love everybody as yer father loved me!" "a sort of john-three-sixteen in miniature." "aye." "the aim is high enough to begin with!" "not too high!" "and your religion?" "all in all, it's bein' kind an' lovin' kindness. _that_ takes in god an' maan an' pogue's entry an' th' world." the town clock struck twelve. each clang "a knife cutting a cord" and each heavier and sharper than the last. each one vibrating, tingling, jarring along every nerve, sinew and muscle. a feeling of numbness crept over me. "that's the end of life for me," she said slowly. there was a pause, longer and more intense than all the others. "maybe ye'll get rich an' forget." "yes, i shall be rich. i shall be a millionaire--a millionaire of love, but no one shall ever take your place, dear!" my overcoat served as a pillow. an old quilt made a pallet on the hard floor. i found myself being pressed gently down from the low creepie to the floor. i pretended to sleep. her hot tears fell on my face. her dear toil-worn fingers were run gently through my hair. she was on her knees by my side. the tender mysticism of her youth came back and expressed itself in prayer. it was interspersed with tears and "ave maria!" when the first streak of dawn penetrated the old window we had our last cup of tea together and later, when i held her in a long, lingering embrace, there were no tears--we had shed them all in the silence of the last vigil. when i was ready to go, she stood with her arm on the old yellow mantel-shelf. she was rigid and pale as death, but around her eyes and her mouth there played a smile. there was a look ineffable of maternal love. "we shall meet again, mother," i said. "aye, dearie, i know rightly we'll meet, but ochanee, it'll be out there beyond th' meadows an' th' clouds." chapter x the empty corner when i walked into pogue's entry about fifteen years later, it seemed like walking into another world--i was a foreigner. "how quare ye spake!" jamie said, and mary added demurely: "is it quality ye are that ye spake like it?" "no, faith, not at all," i said, "but it's the quality of america that makes me!" "think of that, now," she exclaimed. the neighbors came, new neighbors--a new generation, to most of whom i was a tradition. other boys and girls had left antrim for america, scores of them in the course of the years. there was a popular supposition that we all knew each other. "ye see th' wilson bhoys ivery day, i'll bate," mrs. hainey said. "no, i have never seen any of them." "saints alive, how's that?" "because we live three thousand miles apart." "aye, well, shure that 'ud be quite a dandther!" "it didn't take ye long t' git a fortune, did it?" another asked. "i never acquired a fortune such as you are thinking of." "anna said ye wor rich!" "anna was right, i am rich, but i was the richest boy in antrim when i lived here." they looked dumbfounded. "how's that?" mrs. conner queried. "because anna was my mother." i didn't want to discuss anna at that time or to that gathering, so i gave the conversation a sudden turn and diplomatically led them in another direction. i explained how much easier it was for a policeman than a minister to make a "fortune" and most irishmen in america had a special bias toward law! jamie had grown so deaf that he could only hear when i shouted into his ear. visitors kept on coming, until the little house was uncomfortably full. "wouldn't it be fine," i shouted into jamie's ear, "if billy o'hare or withero could just drop in now?" "god save us all," he said, "th' oul days an' oul faces are gone foriver." after some hours of entertainment the uninvited guests were invited to go home. i pulled jamie's old tub out into the center of the floor and, taking my coat off, said gently: "now, good neighbors, i have traveled a long distance and need a bath, and if you don't mind i'll have one at once!" they took it quite seriously and went home quickly. as soon as the house was cleared i shut and barred the door and mary and i proceeded to prepare the evening meal. i brought over the table and put it in its place near the fire. in looking over the old dresser i noticed several additions to the inventory i knew. the same old plates were there, many of them broken and arranged to appear whole. all holes, gashes, dents and cracks were turned back or down to deceive the beholder. there were few whole pieces on the dresser. "great guns, mary," i exclaimed, "here are two new plates and a new cup! well, well, and you never said a word in any of your letters about them." "ye needn't get huffed if we don't tell ye all the startlin' things!" mary said. "ah!" i exclaimed, "there's _her_ cup!" i took the precious thing from the shelf. the handle was gone, there was a gash at the lip and a few new cracks circling around the one i was familiar with twenty years previously. what visions of the past came to me in front of that old dresser! how often in the long ago she had pushed that old cup gently toward me along the edge of the table--gently, to escape notice and avoid jealousy. always at the bottom of it a teaspoonful of _her_ tea and beneath the tea a bird's-eye-full of sugar. each fairy picture of straggling tea leaves was our moving picture show of those old days. we all had tea leaves, but she had imagination. how we laughed and sighed and swithered over the fortunes spread out all over the inner surface of that cup! "if ye stand there affrontin' our poor oul delf all night we won't haave aany tea at all!" mary said. the humor had gone from my face and speech from my tongue. i felt as one feels when he looks for the last time upon the face of his best friend. mary laughed when i laid the old cup on a comparatively new saucer at my place. there was another laugh when i laid it out for customs inspection in the port of new york. i had a set of rather delicate after-dinner coffee cups. one bore the arms of coventry in colors; another had the seal of st. john's college, oxford; one was from edinburgh and another from paris. they looked aristocratic. i laid them out in a row and at the end of the row sat the proletarian, forlorn and battered--anna's old tea-cup. "what did you pay for this?" asked the inspector as he touched it contemptuously with his official toe. "never mind what i paid for it," i replied, "it's valued at a million dollars!" the officer laughed and i think the other cups laughed also, but they were not contemptuous; they were simply jealous. leisurely i went over the dresser, noting the new chips and cracks, handling them, maybe fondling some of them and putting them as i found them. "i'll jist take a cup o' tay," jamie said, "i'm not feelin' fine." i had less appetite than he had, and mary had less than either of us. so we sipped our tea for awhile in silence. "she didn't stay long afther ye left," jamie said, without looking up. turning to mary he continued, "how long was it, aanyway, mary?" "jist a wee while." "aye, i know it wasn't long." "did she suffer much?" i asked. "she didn't suffer aany at all," he said, "she jist withered like th' laves on th' threes." "she jist hankered t' go," mary added. "wan night whin mary was asleep," jamie continued, "she read over again yer letther--th' wan where ye wor spakin' so much about fishin'." "aye," i said, "i had just been appointed missionary to a place called the bowery, in new york, and i wrote her that i was no longer her plowman, but her _fisher of men_." "och, maan, if ye cud haave heard her laugh over th' different kinds ov fishes ye wor catchin'! iv'ry day for weeks she read it an' laughed an' cried over it. that night she says t' me, 'jamie,' says she, 'i don't care s' much fur fishers ov men as i do for th' plowman.' 'why?' says i. "'because,' says she, 'a gey good voice an' nice clothes will catch men, an' wimen too, but it takes brains t' plow up th' superstitions ov th' ignorant.' "'there's somethin' in that,' says i. "'tell 'im whin he comes,' says she, 'that i put th' handles ov a plow in his han's an' he's t' let go ov thim only in death.' "'i'll tell 'm,' says i, 'but it's yerself that'll be here whin he comes,' says i. she smiled like an' says she, 'what ye don't know, jamie, wud make a pretty big library.' 'aye,' says i, 'i haaven't aany doubt ov that, anna.'" "there was a loud knock at the door." "let thim dundther," mary said. he put his hand behind his ear and asked eagerly: "what is 't?" "somebody's dundtherin'." "let thim go t' h----," he said angrily. "th' tuk 'im frum anna last time, th' won't take 'im frum me an' you, mary." another and louder knock. "it's misthress healy," came a voice. again his hand was behind his ear. the name was repeated to him. "misthress healy, is it; well, i don't care a d--n if it was misthress toe-y!" for a quarter of a century my sister has occupied my mother's chimney-corner, but it was vacant that night. she sat on my father's side of the fire. he and i sat opposite each other at the table--i on the same spot, on the same stool where i used to sit when her cup toward the close of the meal came traveling along the edge of the table and where her hand with a crust in it would sometimes blindly grope for mine. but she was not there. in all my life i have never seen a space so empty! my father was a peasant, with all the mental and physical characteristics of his class. my sister is a peasant woman who has been cursed with the same grinding poverty that cursed my mother's life. about my mother there was a subtlety of intellect and a spiritual quality that even in my ignorance was fascinating to me. i returned equipped to appreciate it and she was gone. gone, and a wide gulf lay between those left behind, a gulf bridged by the relation we have to the absent one more than by the relation we bore to each other. we felt as keenly as others the kinship of the flesh, but there are kinships transcendentally higher, nobler and of a purer nature than the nexus of the flesh. there were things to say that had to be left unsaid. they had not traveled that way. the language of my experience would have been a foreign tongue to them. _she_ would have understood. "wan night be th' fire here," jamie said, taking the pipe out of his mouth, "she says t' me, 'jamie,' says she, 'i'm clane done, jist clane done, an' i won't be long here.' "'och, don't spake s' downmouth'd, anna,' says i. 'shure ye'll feel fine in th' mornin'.' "'don't palaver,' says she, an' she lukt terrible serious. "'my god, anna,' says i, 'ye wudn't be lavin' me alone,' says i, 'i can't thole it.' "'yer more strong,' says she, 'an' ye'll live till he comes back--thin we'll be t'gether.'" he stopped there. he could go no farther for several minutes. "i hate a maan that gowls, but--" "go on," i said, "have a good one and mary and i will wash the cups and saucers." "d'ye know what he wants t' help me fur?" mary asked, with her mouth close to his ear. "no." "he wants t' dhry thim so he can kiss _her_ cup whin he wipes it! kiss her _cup_, ye mind; and right content with that!" "i don't blame 'im," said he, "i'd kiss th' very groun' she walked on!" as we proceeded to wash the cups, mary asked: "diz th' ministhers in america wash dishes?" "some of them." "what kind?" "my kind." "what do th' others do?" "the big ones lay corner-stones and the little ones lay foundations." "saints alive," she said, "an' what do th' hens do?" "they clock" (hatch). "pavin' stones?" "i didn't say pavin' stones!" "oh, aye," she laughed loudly. "luk here," jamie said, "i want t' laugh too. now what th' ---- is't yer gigglin' at?" i explained. he smiled and said: "jazus, bhoy, that reminds me ov anna, she cud say more funny things than aany wan i iver know'd." "and that reminds me," i said, "that the word you have just misused _she_ always pronounced with a caress!" "aye, i know rightly, but ye know i mane no harm, don't ye?" "i know, but you remember when _she_ used that word every letter in it was dressed in its best sunday clothes, wasn't it?" "och, aye, an' i'd thravel twinty miles jist t' hear aany wan say it like anna!" "well, i have traveled tens of thousands of miles and i have heard the greatest preachers of the age, but i never heard any one pronounce it so beautifully!" "but as i was a-sayin' bhoy, i haaven't had a rale good laugh since she died; haave i, mary?" "i haaven't naither," mary said. "aye, but ye've had double throuble, dear." "we never let trouble rob us of laughter when i was here." "because whin ye wor here she was here too. in thim days whin throuble came she'd tear it t' pieces an' make fun ov aych piece, begorra. ye might glour an' glunch, but ye'd haave t' laugh before th' finish--shure ye wud!" the neighbors began to knock again. some of the knocks were vocal and as plain as language. some of the more familiar gaped in the window. "hes he hed 'is bath yit?" asked mcgrath, the ragman. we opened the door and in marched the inhabitants of our vicinity for the second "crack." this right of mine own people to come and go as they pleased suggested to me the thought that if i wanted to have a private conversation with my father i would have to take him to another town. the following day we went to the churchyard together--jamie and i. over her grave he had dragged a rough boulder and on it in a straggling, unsteady, amateur hand were painted her initials and below them his own. he was unable to speak there, and maybe it was just as well. i knew everything he wanted to say. it was written on his deeply furrowed face. i took his arm and led him away. our next call was at willie withero's stone-pile. there, when i remembered the nights that i passed in my new world of starched linen, too good to shoulder a bundle of his old hammers, i was filled with remorse. i uncovered my head and in an undertone muttered, "god forgive me." "great oul bhoy was willie," he said. "aye." "och, thim wor purty nice times whin he'd come in o' nights an' him an' anna wud argie; but they're gone, clane gone, an' i'll soon be wi' thim." i bade farewell to mary and took him to belfast--for a private talk. every day for a week we went out to the cave hill--to a wild and lonely spot where i had a radius of a mile for the sound of my voice. the thing of all things that i wanted him to know was that in america i had been engaged in the same fight with poverty that they were familiar with at home. it was hard for him to think of a wolf of hunger at the door of any home beyond the sea. it was astounding to him to learn that around me always there were thousands of ragged, starving people. he just gaped and exclaimed: "it's quare, isn't it?" we sat on the grass on the hillside, conscious each of us that we were saying the things one wants to say on the edge of the grave. "she speyed i'd live t' see ye," he said. "she speyed well," i answered. "th' night she died somethin' wontherful happened t' me. i wasn't as deef as i am now, but i was purty deef. d'ye know, that night i cud hear th' aisiest whisper frum her lips--i cud that. she groped fur m' han; 'jamie,' says she, 'it's nearly over, dear.' "'god love ye,' says i. "'aye,' says she, 'if he'll jist love me as ye've done it'll be fine.' knowin' what a rough maan i'd been, i cudn't thole it. "'th' road's been gey rocky an' we've made many mistakes.' "'aye,' i said, 'we've barged (scolded) a lot, anna, but we didn't mane it.' "'no,' says she, 'our crock ov love was niver dhrained.' "i brot a candle in an' stuck it in th' sconce so 's i cud see 'er face." "'we might haave done betther,' says she, 'but sich a wee house, so many childther an' so little money.' "'we war i' hard up,' says i. "'we wor niver hard up in love, wor we?' "'no, anna,' says i, 'but love dizn't boil th' kittle.' "'wud ye rather haave a boilin' kittle than love if ye had t' choose?' "'och, no, not at all, ye know rightly i wudn't.' "'forby, jamie, we've given antrim more'n such men as lord massarene.' "'what's that?' says i. "'a maan that loves th' poorest craithers on earth an' serves thim.' "she had a gey good sleep afther that." "'jamie,' says she whin she awoke, 'was i ravin'?' "'deed no, anna,' says i. "'i'm not ravin' now, am i?' "'acushla, why do ye ask sich a question?' "'tell 'im i didn't like "fisher ov men" as well as "th' plowman." it's aisy t' catch thim fish, it's hard t' plow up ignorance an' superstition--tell 'im that fur me, jamie?' "'aye, i'll tell 'im, dear.' "'ye mind what i say'd t' ye on th' road t' antrim, jamie? that "love is enough"?' "'aye.' "'i tell ye again wi' my dyin' breath.' "i leaned over an' kiss't 'er an' she smiled at me. ah, bhoy, if ye could haave seen that luk on 'er face, it was like a picture ov th' virgin, it was that. "'tell th' childther there's only wan kind ov poverty, jamie, an' that's t' haave no love in th' heart,' says she. "'aye, i'll tell thim, anna,' says i." he choked up. the next thought that suggested itself for expression failed of utterance. the deep furrows on his face grew deeper. his lips trembled. when he could speak, he said: "my god, bhoy, we had to beg a coffin t' bury 'er in!" "if i had died at the same time," i said, "they would have had to do the same for me!" "how quare!" he said. i persuaded him to accompany me to one of the largest churches in belfast. i was to preach there. that was more than he expected and the joy of it was overpowering. i do not remember the text, nor could i give at this distance of time an outline of the discourse: it was one of those occasions when a man stands on the borderland of another world. i felt distinctly the spiritual guidance of an unseen hand. i took her theme and spoke more for her approval than for the approval of the crowd. he could not hear, but he listened with his eyes. on the street, after the service, he became oblivious of time and place and people. he threw his long lean arms around my neck and kissed me before a crowd. he hoped anna was around listening. i told him she was and he said he would like to be "happed up" beside her, as he had nothing further to hope for in life. in fear and trembling he crossed the channel with me. in fear lest he should die in scotland and they would not bury him in antrim churchyard beside anna. we visited my brothers and sisters for several days. every day we took long walks along the country roads. these walks were full of questionings. big vital questions of life and death and immorality. they were quaintly put: "there's a lot of balderdash about another world, bhoy. on yer oath now, d'ye think there is wan?" "i do." "if there is wud he keep me frum anna jist because i've been kinda rough?" "i am sure he wouldn't!" "he wudn't be s' d--d niggardly, wud he?" "never! god is love and love doesn't work that way!" at the railway station he was still pouring in his questions. "d'ye believe in prayer?" "aye." "well, jist ax sometimes that anna an' me be together, will ye?" "aye." a little group of curious bystanders stood on the platform watching the little trembling old man clinging to me as the tendril of a vine clings to the trunk of a tree. "we have just one minute, father!" "aye, aye, wan minute--my god, why cudn't ye stay?" "there are so many voices calling me over the sea." "aye, that's thrue." he saw them watching him and he feebly dragged me away from the crowd. he kissed me passionately, again and again, on the lips. the whistle blew. "all aboard!" the guard shouted. he clutched me tightly and clung to me with the clutch of a drowning man. i had to extricate myself and spring on board. i caught a glimpse of him as the train moved out; despair and a picture of death was on his face. his lips were trembling and his eyes were full of tears. * * * * * a few months later they lowered him to rest beside my mother. i want to go back some day and cover them with a slab of marble, on which their names will be cut, and these words: "love is enough." the end +-----------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | |inconsistent hyphenization retained| +-----------------------------------+ russia by donald mackenzie wallace copyright contents preface chapter i travelling in russia railways--state interference--river communications--russian "grand tour"--the volga--kazan--zhigulinskiya gori--finns and tartars--the don--difficulties of navigation--discomforts--rats--hotels and their peculiar customs--roads--hibernian phraseology explained--bridges--posting--a tarantass--requisites for travelling--travelling in winter--frostbitten--disagreeable episodes--scene at a post-station. chapter ii in the northern forests bird's-eye view of russia--the northern forests--purpose of my journey--negotiations--the road--a village--a peasant's house--vapour-baths--curious custom--arrival. chapter iii voluntary exile ivanofka--history of the place--the steward of the estate--slav and teutonic natures--a german's view of the emancipation--justices of the peace--new school of morals--the russian language--linguistic talent of the russians--my teacher--a big dose of current history. chapter iv the village priest priests' names--clerical marriages--the white and the black clergy--why the people do not respect the parish priests--history of the white clergy--the parish priest and the protestant pastor--in what sense the russian people are religious--icons--the clergy and popular education--ecclesiastical reform--premonitory symptoms of change--two typical specimens of the parochial clergy of the present day. chapter v a medical consultation unexpected illness--a village doctor--siberian plague--my studies--russian historians--a russian imitator of dickens--a ci-devant domestic serf--medicine and witchcraft--a remnant of paganism--credulity of the peasantry--absurd rumours--a mysterious visit from st. barbara--cholera on board a steamer--hospitals--lunatic asylums--amongst maniacs. chapter vi a peasant family of the old type ivan petroff--his past life--co-operative associations--constitution of a peasant's household--predominance of economic conceptions over those of blood-relationship--peasant marriages--advantages of living in large families--its defects--family disruptions and their consequences. chapter vii the peasantry of the north communal land--system of agriculture--parish fetes--fasting--winter occupations--yearly migrations--domestic industries--influence of capital and wholesale enterprise--the state peasants--serf-dues--buckle's "history of civilisation"--a precocious yamstchik--"people who play pranks"--a midnight alarm--the far north. chapter viii the mir, or village community social and political importance of the mir--the mir and the family compared--theory of the communal system--practical deviations from the theory--the mir a good specimen of constitutional government of the extreme democratic type--the village assembly--female members--the elections--distribution of the communal land. chapter ix how the commune has been preserved, and what it is to effect in the future sweeping reforms after the crimean war--protest against the laissez faire principle--fear of the proletariat--english and russian methods of legislation contrasted--sanguine expectations--evil consequences of the communal system--the commune of the future--proletariat of the towns--the present state of things merely temporary. chapter x finnish and tartar villages a finnish tribe--finnish villages--various stages of russification--finnish women--finnish religions--method of "laying" ghosts--curious mixture of christianity and paganism--conversion of the finns--a tartar village--a russian peasant's conception of mahometanism--a mahometan's view of christianity--propaganda--the russian colonist--migrations of peoples during the dark ages. chapter xi lord novgorod the great departure from ivanofka and arrival at novgorod--the eastern half of the town--the kremlin--an old legend--the armed men of rus--the northmen--popular liberty in novgorod--the prince and the popular assembly--civil dissensions and faction-fights--the commercial republic conquered by the muscovite tsars--ivan the terrible--present condition of the town--provincial society--card-playing--periodicals--"eternal stillness." chapter xii the towns and the mercantile classes general character of russian towns--scarcity of towns in russia--why the urban element in the population is so small--history of russian municipal institutions--unsuccessful efforts to create a tiers-etat--merchants, burghers, and artisans--town council--a rich merchant--his house--his love of ostentation--his conception of aristocracy--official decorations--ignorance and dishonesty of the commercial classes--symptoms of change. chapter xiii the pastoral tribes of the steppe a journey to the steppe region of the southeast--the volga--town and province of samara--farther eastward--appearance of the villages--characteristic incident--peasant mendacity--explanation of the phenomenon--i awake in asia--a bashkir aoul--diner la tartare--kumyss--a bashkir troubadour--honest mehemet zian--actual economic condition of the bashkirs throws light on a well-known philosophical theory--why a pastoral race adopts agriculture--the genuine steppe--the kirghiz--letter from genghis khan--the kalmyks--nogai tartars--struggle between nomadic hordes and agricultural colonists. chapter xiv the mongol domination the conquest--genghis khan and his people--creation and rapid disintegration of the mongol empire--the golden horde--the real character of the mongol domination--religious toleration--mongol system of government--grand princes--the princes of moscow--influence of the mongol domination--practical importance of the subject. chapter xv the cossacks lawlessness on the steppe--slave-markets of the crimea--the military cordon and the free cossacks--the zaporovian commonwealth compared with sparta and with the mediaeval military orders--the cossacks of the don, of the volga, and of the ural--border warfare--the modern cossacks--land tenure among the cossacks of the don--the transition from pastoral to agriculture life--"universal law" of social development--communal versus private property--flogging as a means of land-registration. chapter xvi foreign colonists on the steppe the steppe--variety of races, languages, and religions--the german colonists--in what sense the russians are an imitative people--the mennonites--climate and arboriculture--bulgarian colonists--tartar-speaking greeks--jewish agriculturists--russification--a circassian scotchman--numerical strength of the foreign element. chapter xvii among the heretics the molokanye--my method of investigation--alexandrof-hai--an unexpected theological discussion--doctrines and ecclesiastical organisation of the molokanye--moral supervision and mutual assistance--history of the sect--a false prophet--utilitarian christianity--classification of the fantastic sects--the "khlysti"--policy of the government towards sectarianism--two kinds of heresy--probable future of the heretical sects--political disaffection. chapter xviii the dissenters dissenters not to be confounded with heretics--extreme importance attached to ritual observances--the raskol, or great schism in the seventeenth century--antichrist appears!--policy of peter the great and catherine ii.--present ingenious method of securing religious toleration--internal development of the raskol--schism among the schismatics--the old ritualists--the priestless people--cooling of the fanatical enthusiasm and formation of new sects--recent policy of the government towards the sectarians--numerical force and political significance of sectarianism. chapter xix church and state the russian orthodox church--russia outside of the mediaeval papal commonwealth--influence of the greek church--ecclesiastical history of russia--relations between church and state--eastern orthodoxy and the russian national church--the synod--ecclesiastical grumbling--local ecclesiastical administration--the black clergy and the monasteries--the character of the eastern church reflected in the history of religious art--practical consequences--the union scheme. chapter xx the noblesse the nobles in early times--the mongol domination--the tsardom of muscovy--family dignity--reforms of peter the great--the nobles adopt west-european conceptions--abolition of obligatory service--influence of catherine ii.--the russian dvoryanstvo compared with the french noblesse and the english aristocracy--russian titles--probable future of the russian noblesse. chapter xxi landed proprietors of the old school russian hospitality--a country-house--its owner described--his life, past and present--winter evenings--books---connection with the outer world--the crimean war and the emancipation--a drunken, dissolute proprietor--an old general and his wife--"name days"--a legendary monster--a retired judge--a clever scribe--social leniency--cause of demoralisation. chapter xxii proprietors of the modern school a russian petit maitre--his house and surroundings--abortive attempts to improve agriculture and the condition of the serfs--a comparison--a "liberal" tchinovnik--his idea of progress--a justice of the peace--his opinion of russian literature, tchinovniks, and petits maitres--his supposed and real character--an extreme radical--disorders in the universities--administrative procedure--russia's capacity for accomplishing political and social evolutions--a court dignitary in his country house. chapter xxiii social classes do social classes or castes exist in russia?--well-marked social types--classes recognised by the legislation and the official statistics--origin and gradual formation of these classes--peculiarity in the historical development of russia--political life and political parties. chapter xxiv the imperial administration and the officials the officials in norgorod assist me in my studies--the modern imperial administration created by peter the great, and developed by his successors--a slavophil's view of the administration--the administration briefly described--the tchinovniks, or officials--official titles, and their real significance--what the administration has done for russia in the past--its character determined by the peculiar relation between the government and the people--its radical vices--bureaucratic remedies--complicated formal procedure--the gendarmerie: my personal relations with this branch of the administration; arrest and release--a strong, healthy public opinion the only effectual remedy for bad administration. chapter xxv moscow and the slavophils two ancient cities--kief not a good point for studying old russian national life--great russians and little russians--moscow--easter eve in the kremlin--curious custom--anecdote of the emperor nicholas--domiciliary visits of the iberian madonna--the streets of moscow--recent changes in the character of the city--vulgar conception of the slavophils--opinion founded on personal acquaintance--slavophil sentiment a century ago--origin and development of the slavophil doctrine--slavophilism essentially muscovite--the panslavist element--the slavophils and the emancipation. chapter xxvi st. petersburg and european influence st. petersburg and berlin--big houses--the "lions"--peter the great--his aims and policy--the german regime--nationalist reaction--french influence--consequent intellectual sterility--influence of the sentimental school--hostility to foreign influences--a new period of literary importation--secret societies--the catastrophe--the age of nicholas--a terrible war on parnassus--decline of romanticism and transcendentalism--gogol--the revolutionary agitation of --new reaction--conclusion. chapter xxvii the crimean war and its consequences the emperor nicholas and his system--the men with aspirations and the apathetically contented--national humiliation--popular discontent and the manuscript literature--death of nicholas--alexander ii.--new spirit--reform enthusiasm--change in the periodical literature--the kolokol--the conservatives--the tchinovniks--first specific proposals--joint-stock companies--the serf question comes to the front. chapter xxviii the serfs the rural population in ancient times--the peasantry in the eighteenth century--how was this change effected?--the common explanation inaccurate--serfage the result of permanent economic and political causes--origin of the adscriptio glebae--its consequences--serf insurrection--turning-point in the history of serfage--serfage in russia and in western europe--state peasants--numbers and geographical distribution of the serf population--serf dues--legal and actual power of the proprietors--the serfs' means of defence--fugitives--domestic serfs--strange advertisements in the moscow gazette--moral influence of serfage. chapter xxix the emancipation of the serfs the question raised--chief committee--the nobles of the lithuanian provinces--the tsar's broad hint to the noblesse--enthusiasm in the press--the proprietors--political aspirations--no opposition--the government--public opinion--fear of the proletariat--the provincial committees--the elaboration commission--the question ripens--provincial deputies--discontent and demonstrations--the manifesto--fundamental principles of the law--illusions and disappointment of the serfs--arbiters of the peace--a characteristic incident--redemption--who effected the emancipation? chapter xxx the landed proprietors since the emancipation two opposite opinions--difficulties of investigation--the problem simplified--direct and indirect compensation--the direct compensation inadequate--what the proprietors have done with the remainder of their estates--immediate moral effect of the abolition of serfage--the economic problem--the ideal solution and the difficulty of realising it--more primitive arrangements--the northern agricultural zone--the black-earth zone--the labour difficulty--the impoverishment of the noblesse not a new phenomenon--mortgaging of estates--gradual expropriation of the noblesse-rapid increase in the production and export of grain--how far this has benefited the landed proprietors. chapter xxxi the emancipated peasantry the effects of liberty--difficulty of obtaining accurate information--pessimist testimony of the proprietors--vague replies of the peasants--my conclusions in --necessity of revising them--my investigations renewed in --recent researches by native political economists--peasant impoverishment universally recognised--various explanations suggested--demoralisation of the common people--peasant self-government--communal system of land tenure--heavy taxation--disruption of peasant families--natural increase of population--remedies proposed--migration--reclamation of waste land--land-purchase by peasantry--manufacturing industry--improvement of agricultural methods--indications of progress. chapter xxxii the zemstvo and the local self-government necessity of reorganising the provincial administration--zemstvo created in --my first acquaintance with the institution--district and provincial assemblies--the leading members--great expectations created by the institution--these expectations not realised--suspicions and hostility of the bureaucracy--zemstvo brought more under control of the centralised administration--what it has really done--why it has not done more---rapid increase of the rates--how far the expenditure is judicious--why the impoverishment of the peasantry was neglected--unpractical, pedantic spirit--evil consequences--chinese and russian formalism--local self-government of russia contrasted with that of england--zemstvo better than its predecessors--its future. chapter xxxiii the new law courts judicial procedure in the olden times--defects and abuses--radical reform--the new system--justices of the peace and monthly sessions--the regular tribunals--court of revision--modification of the original plan--how does the system work?--rapid acclimatisation--the bench--the jury--acquittal of criminals who confess their crimes--peasants, merchants, and nobles as jurymen--independence and political significance of the new courts. chapter xxxiv revolutionary nihilism and the reaction the reform-enthusiasm becomes unpractical and culminates in nihilism--nihilism, the distorted reflection of academic western socialism--russia well prepared for reception of ultra-socialist virus--social reorganisation according to latest results of science--positivist theory--leniency of press-censure--chief representatives of new movement--government becomes alarmed--repressive measures--reaction in the public--the term nihilist invented--the nihilist and his theory--further repressive measures--attitude of landed proprietors--foundation of a liberal party--liberalism checked by polish insurrection--practical reform continued--an attempt at regicide forms a turning-point of government's policy--change in educational system--decline of nihilism. chapter xxxv socialist propaganda, revolutionary agitation, and terrorism closer relations with western socialism--attempts to influence the masses--bakunin and lavroff--"going in among the people"--the missionaries of revolutionary socialism--distinction between propaganda and agitation--revolutionary pamphlets for the common people--aims and motives of the propagandists--failure of propaganda--energetic repression--fruitless attempts at agitation--proposal to combine with liberals--genesis of terrorism--my personal relations with the revolutionists--shadowers and shadowed--a series of terrorist crimes--a revolutionist congress--unsuccessful attempts to assassinate the tsar--ineffectual attempt at conciliation by loris melikof--assassination of alexander ii.--the executive committee shows itself unpractical--widespread indignation and severe repression--temporary collapse of the revolutionary movement--a new revolutionary movement in sight. chapter xxxvi industrial progress and the proletariat russia till lately a peasant empire--early efforts to introduce arts and crafts--peter the great and his successors--manufacturing industry long remains an exotic--the cotton industry--the reforms of alexander ii.--protectionists and free trade--progress under high tariffs--m. witte's policy--how capital was obtained--increase of exports--foreign firms cross the customs frontier--rapid development of iron industry--a commercial crisis--m. witte's position undermined by agrarians and doctrinaires--m. plehve a formidable opponent--his apprehensions of revolution--fall of m. witte--the industrial proletariat chapter xxxvii the revolutionary movement in its latest phase influence of capitalism and proletariat on the revolutionary movement--what is to be done?--reply of plekhanof--a new departure--karl marx's theories applied to russia--beginnings of a social democratic movement--the labour troubles of - in st. petersburg--the social democrats' plan of campaign--schism in the party--trade-unionism and political agitation--the labour troubles of --how the revolutionary groups are differentiated from each other--social democracy and constitutionalism--terrorism--the socialist revolutionaries--the militant organisation--attitude of the government--factory legislation--government's scheme for undermining social democracy--father gapon and his labour association--the great strike in st. petersburg--father gapon goes over to the revolutionaries. chapter xxxviii territorial expansion and foreign policy rapid growth of russia--expansive tendency of agricultural peoples--the russo-slavonians--the northern forest and the steppe--colonisation--the part of the government in the process of expansion--expansion towards the west--growth of the empire represented in a tabular form--commercial motive for expansion--the expansive force in the future--possibilities of expansion in europe--persia, afghanistan, and india--trans-siberian railway and weltpolitik--a grandiose scheme--determined opposition of japan--negotiations and war--russia's imprudence explained--conclusion. chapter xxxix the present situation reform or revolution?--reigns of alexander ii. and nicholas ii. compared and contrasted--the present opposition--various groups--the constitutionalists--zemski sobors--the young tsar dispels illusions--liberal frondeurs--plehve's repressive policy--discontent increased by the war--relaxation and wavering under prince mirski--reform enthusiasm--the constitutionalists formulate their demands--the social democrats--father gapon's demonstration--the socialist-revolutionaries--the agrarian agitators--the subject-nationalities--numerical strength of the various groups--all united on one point--their different aims--possible solutions of the crisis--difficulties of introducing constitutional regime--a strong man wanted--uncertainty of the future. preface the first edition of this work, published early in january, , contained the concentrated results of my studies during an uninterrupted residence of six years in russia--from the beginning of to the end of . since that time i have spent in the european and central asian provinces, at different periods, nearly two years more; and in the intervals i have endeavoured to keep in touch with the progress of events. my observations thus extend over a period of thirty-five years. when i began, a few months ago, to prepare for publication the results of my more recent observations and researches, my intention was to write an entirely new work under the title of "russia in the twentieth century," but i soon perceived that it would be impossible to explain clearly the present state of things without referring constantly to events of the past, and that i should be obliged to embody in the new work a large portion of the old one. the portion to be embodied grew rapidly to such proportions that, in the course of a few weeks, i began to ask myself whether it would not be better simply to recast and complete my old material. with a view to deciding the question i prepared a list of the principal changes which had taken place during the last quarter of a century, and when i had marshalled them in logical order, i recognised that they were neither so numerous nor so important as i had supposed. certainly there had been much progress, but it had been nearly all on the old lines. everywhere i perceived continuity and evolution; nowhere could i discover radical changes and new departures. in the central and local administration the reactionary policy of the latter half of alexander ii.'s reign had been steadily maintained; the revolutionary movement had waxed and waned, but its aims were essentially the same as of old; the church had remained in its usual somnolent condition; a grave agricultural crisis affecting landed proprietors and peasants had begun, but it was merely a development of a state of things which i had previously described; the manufacturing industry had made gigantic strides, but they were all in the direction which the most competent observers had predicted; in foreign policy the old principles of guiding the natural expansive forces along the lines of least resistance, seeking to reach warm-water ports, and pegging out territorial claims for the future were persistently followed. no doubt there were pretty clear indications of more radical changes to come, but these changes must belong to the future, and it is merely with the past and the present that a writer who has no pretensions to being a prophet has to deal. under these circumstances it seemed to me advisable to adopt a middle course. instead of writing an entirely new work i determined to prepare a much extended and amplified edition of the old one, retaining such information about the past as seemed to me of permanent value, and at the same time meeting as far as possible the requirements of those who wish to know the present condition of the country. in accordance with this view i have revised, rearranged, and supplemented the old material in the light of subsequent events, and i have added five entirely new chapters--three on the revolutionary movement, which has come into prominence since ; one on the industrial progress, with which the latest phase of the movement is closely connected; and one on the main lines of the present situation as it appears to me at the moment of going to press. during the many years which i have devoted to the study of russia, i have received unstinted assistance from many different quarters. of the friends who originally facilitated my task, and to whom i expressed my gratitude in the preface and notes of the early editions, only three survive--mme. de novikoff, m. e. i. yakushkin, and dr. asher. to the numerous friends who have kindly assisted me in the present edition i must express my thanks collectively, but there are two who stand out from the group so prominently that i may be allowed to mention them personally: these are prince alexander grigorievitch stcherbatof, who supplied me with voluminous materials regarding the agrarian question generally and the present condition of the peasantry in particular, and m. albert brockhaus, who placed at my disposal the gigantic russian encyclopaedia recently published by his firm (entsiklopeditcheski slovar, leipzig and st. petersburg, - ). this monumental work, in forty-one volumes, is an inexhaustible storehouse of accurate and well-digested information on all subjects connected with the russian empire, and it has often been of great use to me in matters of detail. with regard to the last chapter of this edition i must claim the reader's indulgence, because the meaning of the title, "the present situation," changes from day to day, and i cannot foresee what further changes may occur before the work reaches the hands of the public. london, nd may, . russia chapter i travelling in russia railways--state interference--river communications--russian "grand tour"--the volga--kazan--zhigulinskiya gori--finns and tartars--the don--difficulties of navigation--discomforts--rats--hotels and their peculiar customs--roads--hibernian phraseology explained--bridges--posting--a tarantass--requisites for travelling--travelling in winter--frostbitten--disagreeable episodes--scene at a post-station. of course travelling in russia is no longer what it was. during the last half century a vast network of railways has been constructed, and one can now travel in a comfortable first-class carriage from berlin to st. petersburg or moscow, and thence to odessa, sebastopol, the lower volga, the caucasus, central asia, or eastern siberia. until the outbreak of the war there was a train twice a week, with through carriages, from moscow to port arthur. and it must be admitted that on the main lines the passengers have not much to complain of. the carriages are decidedly better than in england, and in winter they are kept warm by small iron stoves, assisted by double windows and double doors--a very necessary precaution in a land where the thermometer often descends to degrees below zero. the train never attains, it is true, a high rate of speed--so at least english and americans think--but then we must remember that russians are rarely in a hurry, and like to have frequent opportunities of eating and drinking. in russia time is not money; if it were, nearly all the subjects of the tsar would always have a large stock of ready money on hand, and would often have great difficulty in spending it. in reality, be it parenthetically remarked, a russian with a superabundance of ready money is a phenomenon rarely met with in real life. in conveying passengers at the rate of from fifteen to thirty miles an hour, the railway companies do at least all that they promise; but in one very important respect they do not always strictly fulfil their engagements. the traveller takes a ticket for a certain town, and on arriving at what he imagines to be his destination, he may find merely a railway-station surrounded by fields. on making inquiries, he discovers, to his disappointment, that the station is by no means identical with the town bearing the same name, and that the railway has fallen several miles short of fulfilling the bargain, as he understood the terms of the contract. indeed, it might almost be said that as a general rule railways in russia, like camel-drivers in certain eastern countries, studiously avoid the towns. this seems at first a strange fact. it is possible to conceive that the bedouin is so enamoured of tent life and nomadic habits that he shuns a town as he would a man-trap; but surely civil engineers and railway contractors have no such dread of brick and mortar. the true reason, i suspect, is that land within or immediately beyond the municipal barrier is relatively dear, and that the railways, being completely beyond the invigorating influence of healthy competition, can afford to look upon the comfort and convenience of passengers as a secondary consideration. gradually, it is true, this state of things is being improved by private initiative. as the railways refuse to come to the towns, the towns are extending towards the railways, and already some prophets are found bold enough to predict that in the course of time those long, new, straggling streets, without an inhabited hinterland, which at present try so severely the springs of the ricketty droshkis, will be properly paved and kept in decent repair. for my own part, i confess i am a little sceptical with regard to this prediction, and i can only use a favourite expression of the russian peasants--dai bog! god grant it may be so! it is but fair to state that in one celebrated instance neither engineers nor railway contractors were directly to blame. from st. petersburg to moscow the locomotive runs for a distance of miles almost as "the crow" is supposed to fly, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left. for twelve weary hours the passenger in the express train looks out on forest and morass, and rarely catches sight of human habitation. only once he perceives in the distance what may be called a town; it is tver which has been thus favoured, not because it is a place of importance, but simply because it happened to be near the bee-line. and why was the railway constructed in this extraordinary fashion? for the best of all reasons--because the tsar so ordered it. when the preliminary survey was being made, nicholas i. learned that the officers entrusted with the task--and the minister of ways and roads in the number--were being influenced more by personal than technical considerations, and he determined to cut the gordian knot in true imperial style. when the minister laid before him the map with the intention of explaining the proposed route, he took a ruler, drew a straight line from the one terminus to the other, and remarked in a tone that precluded all discussion, "you will construct the line so!" and the line was so constructed--remaining to all future ages, like st. petersburg and the pyramids, a magnificent monument of autocratic power. formerly this well-known incident was often cited in whispered philippics to illustrate the evils of the autocratic form of government. imperial whims, it was said, over-ride grave economic considerations. in recent years, however, a change seems to have taken place in public opinion, and some people now assert that this so-called imperial whim was an act of far-seeing policy. as by far the greater part of the goods and passengers are carried the whole length of the line, it is well that the line should be as short as possible, and that branch lines should be constructed to the towns lying to the right and left. evidently there is a good deal to be said in favour of this view. in the development of the railway system there has been another disturbing cause, which is not likely to occur to the english mind. in england, individuals and companies habitually act according to their private interests, and the state interferes as little as possible; private initiative does as it pleases, unless the authorities can prove that important bad consequences will necessarily result. in russia, the onus probandi lies on the other side; private initiative is allowed to do nothing until it gives guarantees against all possible bad consequences. when any great enterprise is projected, the first question is--"how will this new scheme affect the interests of the state?" thus, when the course of a new railway has to be determined, the military authorities are among the first to be consulted, and their opinion has a great influence on the ultimate decision. the natural consequence is that the railway-map of russia presents to the eye of the strategist much that is quite unintelligible to the ordinary observer--a fact that will become apparent even to the uninitiated as soon as a war breaks out in eastern europe. russia is no longer what she was in the days of the crimean war, when troops and stores had to be conveyed hundreds of miles by the most primitive means of transport. at that time she had only miles of railway; now she has over , miles, and every year new lines are constructed. the water-communication has likewise in recent years been greatly improved. on the principal rivers there are now good steamers. unfortunately, the climate puts serious obstructions in the way of navigation. for nearly half of the year the rivers are covered with ice, and during a great part of the open season navigation is difficult. when the ice and snow melt the rivers overflow their banks and lay a great part of the low-lying country under water, so that many villages can only be approached in boats; but very soon the flood subsides, and the water falls so rapidly that by midsummer the larger steamers have great difficulty in picking their way among the sandbanks. the neva alone--that queen of northern rivers--has at all times a plentiful supply of water. besides the neva, the rivers commonly visited by the tourist are the volga and the don, which form part of what may be called the russian grand tour. englishmen who wish to see something more than st. petersburg and moscow generally go by rail to nizhni-novgorod, where they visit the great fair, and then get on board one of the volga steamers. for those who have mastered the important fact that russia is not a country of fine scenery, the voyage down the river is pleasant enough. the left bank is as flat as the banks of the rhine below cologne, but the right bank is high, occasionally well wooded, and not devoid of a certain tame picturesqueness. early on the second day the steamer reaches kazan, once the capital of an independent tartar khanate, and still containing a considerable tartar population. several metchets (as the mahometan houses of prayer are here termed), with their diminutive minarets in the lower part of the town, show that islamism still survives, though the khanate was annexed to muscovy more than three centuries ago; but the town, as a whole, has a european rather than an asiatic character. if any one visits it in the hope of getting "a glimpse of the east," he will be grievously disappointed, unless, indeed, he happens to be one of those imaginative tourists who always discover what they wish to see. and yet it must be admitted that, of all the towns on the route, kazan is the most interesting. though not oriental, it has a peculiar character of its own, whilst all the others--simbirsk, samara, saratof--are as uninteresting as russian provincial towns commonly are. the full force and solemnity of that expression will be explained in the sequel. probably about sunrise on the third day something like a range of mountains will appear on the horizon. it may be well to say at once, to prevent disappointment, that in reality nothing worthy of the name of mountain is to be found in that part of the country. the nearest mountain-range in that direction is the caucasus, which is hundreds of miles distant, and consequently cannot by any possibility be seen from the deck of a steamer. the elevations in question are simply a low range of hills, called the zhigulinskiya gori. in western europe they would not attract much attention, but "in the kingdom of the blind," as the french proverb has it, "the one-eyed man is king"; and in a flat region like eastern russia these hills form a prominent feature. though they have nothing of alpine grandeur, yet their well-wooded slopes, coming down to the water's edge--especially when covered with the delicate tints of early spring, or the rich yellow and red of autumnal foliage--leave an impression on the memory not easily effaced. on the whole--with all due deference to the opinions of my patriotic russian friends--i must say that volga scenery hardly repays the time, trouble and expense which a voyage from nizhni to tsaritsin demands. there are some pretty bits here and there, but they are "few and far between." a glass of the most exquisite wine diluted with a gallon of water makes a very insipid beverage. the deck of the steamer is generally much more interesting than the banks of the river. there one meets with curious travelling companions. the majority of the passengers are probably russian peasants, who are always ready to chat freely without demanding a formal introduction, and to relate--with certain restrictions--to a new acquaintance the simple story of their lives. often i have thus whiled away the weary hours both pleasantly and profitably, and have always been impressed with the peasant's homely common sense, good-natured kindliness, half-fatalistic resignation, and strong desire to learn something about foreign countries. this last peculiarity makes him question as well as communicate, and his questions, though sometimes apparently childish, are generally to the point. among the passengers are probably also some representatives of the various finnish tribes inhabiting this part of the country; they may be interesting to the ethnologist who loves to study physiognomy, but they are far less sociable than the russians. nature seems to have made them silent and morose, whilst their conditions of life have made them shy and distrustful. the tartar, on the other hand, is almost sure to be a lively and amusing companion. most probably he is a peddler or small trader of some kind. the bundle on which he reclines contains his stock-in-trade, composed, perhaps, of cotton printed goods and especially bright-coloured cotton handkerchiefs. he himself is enveloped in a capacious greasy khalat, or dressing-gown, and wears a fur cap, though the thermometer may be at degrees in the shade. the roguish twinkle in his small piercing eyes contrasts strongly with the sombre, stolid expression of the finnish peasants sitting near him. he has much to relate about st. petersburg, moscow, and perhaps astrakhan; but, like a genuine trader, he is very reticent regarding the mysteries of his own craft. towards sunset he retires with his companions to some quiet spot on the deck to recite evening prayers. here all the good mahometans on board assemble and stroke their beards, kneel on their little strips of carpet and prostrate themselves, all keeping time as if they were performing some new kind of drill under the eve of a severe drill-sergeant. if the voyage is made about the end of september, when the traders are returning home from the fair at nizhni-novgorod, the ethnologist will have a still better opportunity of study. he will then find not only representatives of the finnish and tartar races, but also armenians, circassians, persians, bokhariots, and other orientals--a motley and picturesque but decidedly unsavoury cargo. however great the ethnographical variety on board may be, the traveller will probably find that four days on the volga are quite enough for all practical and aesthetic purposes, and instead of going on to astrakhan he will quit the steamer at tsaritsin. here he will find a railway of about fifty miles in length, connecting the volga and the don. i say advisedly a railway, and not a train, because trains on this line are not very frequent. when i first visited the locality, thirty years ago, there were only two a week, so that if you inadvertently missed one train you had to wait about three days for the next. prudent, nervous people preferred travelling by the road, for on the railway the strange jolts and mysterious creakings were very alarming. on the other hand the pace was so slow that running off the rails would have been merely an amusing episode, and even a collision could scarcely have been attended with serious consequences. happily things are improving, even in this outlying part of the country. now there is one train daily, and it goes at a less funereal pace. from kalatch, at the don end of the line, a steamer starts for rostoff, which is situated near the mouth of the river. the navigation of the don is much more difficult than that of the volga. the river is extremely shallow, and the sand-banks are continually shifting, so that many times in the course of the day the steamer runs aground. sometimes she is got off by simply reversing the engines, but not unfrequently she sticks so fast that the engines have to be assisted. this is effected in a curious way. the captain always gives a number of stalwart cossacks a free passage on condition that they will give him the assistance he requires; and as soon as the ship sticks fast he orders them to jump overboard with a stout hawser and haul her off! the task is not a pleasant one, especially as the poor fellows cannot afterwards change their clothes; but the order is always obeyed with alacrity and without grumbling. cossacks, it would seem, have no personal acquaintance with colds and rheumatism. in the most approved manuals of geography the don figures as one of the principal european rivers, and its length and breadth give it a right to be considered as such; but its depth in many parts is ludicrously out of proportion to its length and breadth. i remember one day seeing the captain of a large, flat-bottomed steamer slacken speed, to avoid running down a man on horseback who was attempting to cross his bows in the middle of the stream. another day a not less characteristic incident happened. a cossack passenger wished to be set down at a place where there was no pier, and on being informed that there was no means of landing him, coolly jumped overboard and walked ashore. this simple method of disembarking cannot, of course, be recommended to those who have no local knowledge regarding the exact position of sand-banks and deep pools. good serviceable fellows are those cossacks who drag the steamer off the sand-banks, and are often entertaining companions. many of them can relate from their own experience, in plain, unvarnished style, stirring episodes of irregular warfare, and if they happen to be in a communicative mood they may divulge a few secrets regarding their simple, primitive commissariat system. whether they are confidential or not, the traveller who knows the language will spend his time more profitably and pleasantly in chatting with them than in gazing listlessly at the uninteresting country through which he is passing. unfortunately, these don steamers carry a large number of free passengers of another and more objectionable kind, who do not confine themselves to the deck, but unceremoniously find their way into the cabin, and prevent thin-skinned travellers from sleeping. i know too little of natural history to decide whether these agile, bloodthirsty parasites are of the same species as those which in england assist unofficially the sanitary commissioners by punishing uncleanliness; but i may say that their function in the system of created things is essentially the same, and they fulfil it with a zeal and energy beyond all praise. possessing for my own part a happy immunity from their indelicate attentions, and being perfectly innocent of entomological curiosity, i might, had i been alone, have overlooked their existence, but i was constantly reminded of their presence by less happily constituted mortals, and the complaints of the sufferers received a curious official confirmation. on arriving at the end of the journey i asked permission to spend the night on board, and i noticed that the captain acceded to my request with more readiness and warmth than i expected. next morning the fact was fully explained. when i began to express my thanks for having been allowed to pass the night in a comfortable cabin, my host interrupted me with a good-natured laugh, and assured me that, on the contrary, he was under obligations to me. "you see," he said, assuming an air of mock gravity, "i have always on board a large body of light cavalry, and when i have all this part of the ship to myself they make a combined attack on me; whereas, when some one is sleeping close by, they divide their forces!" on certain steamers on the sea of azof the privacy of the sleeping-cabin is disturbed by still more objectionable intruders; i mean rats. during one short voyage which i made on board the kertch, these disagreeable visitors became so importunate in the lower regions of the vessel that the ladies obtained permission to sleep in the deck-saloon. after this arrangement had been made, we unfortunate male passengers received redoubled attention from our tormentors. awakened early one morning by the sensation of something running over me as i lay in my berth, i conceived a method of retaliation. it seemed to me possible that, in the event of another visit, i might, by seizing the proper moment, kick the rat up to the ceiling with such force as to produce concussion of the brain and instant death. very soon i had an opportunity of putting my plan into execution. a significant shaking of the little curtain at the foot of the berth showed that it was being used as a scaling-ladder. i lay perfectly still, quite as much interested in the sport as if i had been waiting, rifle in hand, for big game. soon the intruder peeped into my berth, looked cautiously around him, and then proceeded to walk stealthily across my feet. in an instant he was shot upwards. first was heard a sharp knock on the ceiling, and then a dull "thud" on the floor. the precise extent of the injuries inflicted i never discovered, for the victim had sufficient strength and presence of mind to effect his escape; and the gentleman at the other side of the cabin, who had been roused by the noise, protested against my repeating the experiment, on the ground that, though he was willing to take his own share of the intruders, he strongly objected to having other people's rats kicked into his berth. on such occasions it is of no use to complain to the authorities. when i met the captain on deck i related to him what had happened, and protested vigorously against passengers being exposed to such annoyances. after listening to me patiently, he coolly replied, entirely overlooking my protestations, "ah! i did better than that this morning; i allowed my rat to get under the blanket, and then smothered him!" railways and steamboats, even when their arrangements leave much to be desired, invariably effect a salutary revolution in hotel accommodation; but this revolution is of necessity gradual. foreign hotelkeepers must immigrate and give the example; suitable houses must be built; servants must be properly trained; and, above all, the native travellers must learn the usages of civilised society. in russia this revolution is in progress, but still far from being complete. the cities where foreigners most do congregate--st. petersburg, moscow, odessa--already possess hotels that will bear comparison with those of western europe, and some of the more important provincial towns can offer very respectable accommodation; but there is still much to be done before the west-european can travel with comfort even on the principal routes. cleanliness, the first and most essential element of comfort, as we understand the term, is still a rare commodity, and often cannot be procured at any price. even in good hotels, when they are of the genuine russian type, there are certain peculiarities which, though not in themselves objectionable, strike a foreigner as peculiar. thus, when you alight at such an hotel, you are expected to examine a considerable number of rooms, and to inquire about the respective prices. when you have fixed upon a suitable apartment, you will do well, if you wish to practise economy, to propose to the landlord considerably less than he demands; and you will generally find, if you have a talent for bargaining, that the rooms may be hired for somewhat less than the sum first stated. you must be careful, however, to leave no possibility of doubt as to the terms of the contract. perhaps you assume that, as in taking a cab, a horse is always supplied without special stipulation, so in hiring a bedroom the bargain includes a bed and the necessary appurtenances. such an assumption will not always be justified. the landlord may perhaps give you a bedstead without extra charge, but if he be uncorrupted by foreign notions, he will certainly not spontaneously supply you with bed-linen, pillows, blankets, and towels. on the contrary, he will assume that you carry all these articles with you, and if you do not, you must pay for them. this ancient custom has produced among russians of the old school a kind of fastidiousness to which we are strangers. they strongly dislike using sheets, blankets, and towels which are in a certain sense public property, just as we should strongly object to putting on clothes which had been already worn by other people. and the feeling may be developed in people not russian by birth. for my own part, i confess to having been conscious of a certain disagreeable feeling on returning in this respect to the usages of so-called civilised europe. the inconvenience of carrying about the essential articles of bedroom furniture is by no means so great as might be supposed. bedrooms in russia are always heated during cold weather, so that one light blanket, which may be also used as a railway rug, is quite sufficient, whilst sheets, pillow-cases, and towels take up little space in a portmanteau. the most cumbrous object is the pillow, for air-cushions, having a disagreeable odour, are not well suited for the purpose. but russians are accustomed to this encumbrance. in former days--as at the present time in those parts of the country where there are neither railways nor macadamised roads--people travelled in carts or carriages without springs and in these instruments of torture a huge pile of cushions or pillows is necessary to avoid contusions and dislocations. on the railways the jolts and shaking are not deadly enough to require such an antidote; but, even in unconservative russia, customs outlive the conditions that created them; and at every railway-station you may see men and women carrying about their pillows with them as we carry wraps. a genuine russian merchant who loves comfort and respects tradition may travel without a portmanteau, but he considers his pillow as an indispensable article de voyage. to return to the old-fashioned hotel. when you have completed the negotiations with the landlord, you will notice that, unless you have a servant with you, the waiter prepares to perform the duties of valet de chambre. do not be surprised at his officiousness, which seems founded on the assumption that you are three-fourths paralysed. formerly, every well-born russian had a valet always in attendance, and never dreamed of doing for himself anything which could by any possibility be done for him. you notice that there is no bell in the room, and no mechanical means of communicating with the world below stairs. that is because the attendant is supposed to be always within call, and it is so much easier to shout than to get up and ring the bell. in the good old times all this was quite natural. the well-born russian had commonly a superabundance of domestic serfs, and there was no reason why one or two of them should not accompany their master when his honour undertook a journey. an additional person in the tarantass did not increase the expense, and considerably diminished the little unavoidable inconveniences of travel. but times have changed. in the domestic serfs were emancipated by imperial ukaz. free servants demand wages; and on railways or steamers a single ticket does not include an attendant. the present generation must therefore get through life with a more modest supply of valets, and must learn to do with its own hands much that was formerly performed by serf labour. still, a gentleman brought up in the old conditions cannot be expected to dress himself without assistance, and accordingly the waiter remains in your room to act as valet. perhaps, too, in the early morning you may learn in an unpleasant way that other parts of the old system are not yet extinct. you may hear, for instance, resounding along the corridors such an order as--"petrusha! petrusha! stakan vody!" ("little peter, little peter, a glass of water!") shouted in a stentorian voice that would startle the seven sleepers. when the toilet operations are completed, and you order tea--one always orders tea in russia--you will be asked whether you have your own tea and sugar with you. if you are an experienced traveller you will be able to reply in the affirmative, for good tea can be bought only in certain well-known shops, and can rarely be found in hotels. a huge, steaming tea-urn, called a samovar--etymologically, a "self-boiler"--will be brought in, and you will make your tea according to your taste. the tumbler, you know of course, is to be used as a cup, and when using it you must be careful not to cauterise the points of your fingers. if you should happen to have anything eatable or drinkable in your travelling basket, you need not hesitate to take it out at once, for the waiter will not feel at all aggrieved or astonished at your doing nothing "for the good of the house." the twenty or twenty-five kopeks that you pay for the samovar--teapot, tumbler, saucer, spoon, and slop-basin being included under the generic term pribor--frees you from all corkage and similar dues. these and other remnants of old customs are now rapidly disappearing, and will, doubtless, in a very few years be things of the past--things to be picked up in out-of-the-way corners, and chronicled by social archaeology; but they are still to be found in towns not unknown to western europe. many of these old customs, and especially the old method of travelling, may be studied in their pristine purity throughout a great part of the country. though railway construction has been pushed forward with great energy during the last forty years, there are still vast regions where the ancient solitudes have never been disturbed by the shrill whistle of the locomotive, and roads have remained in their primitive condition. even in the central provinces one may still travel hundreds of miles without ever encountering anything that recalls the name of macadam. if popular rumour is to be trusted, there is somewhere in the highlands of scotland, by the side of a turnpike, a large stone bearing the following doggerel inscription: "if you had seen this road before it was made, you'd lift up your hands and bless general wade." any educated englishman reading this strange announcement would naturally remark that the first line of the couplet contains a logical contradiction, probably of hibernian origin; but i have often thought, during my wanderings in russia, that the expression, if not logically justifiable, might for the sake of vulgar convenience be legalised by a permissive bill. the truth is that, as a frenchman might say, "there are roads and roads"--roads made and roads unmade, roads artificial and roads natural. now, in russia, roads are nearly all of the unmade, natural kind, and are so conservative in their nature that they have at the present day precisely the same appearance as they had many centuries ago. they have thus for imaginative minds something of what is called "the charm of historical association." the only perceptible change that takes place in them during a series of generations is that the ruts shift their position. when these become so deep that fore-wheels can no longer fathom them, it becomes necessary to begin making a new pair of ruts to the right or left of the old ones; and as the roads are commonly of gigantic breadth, there is no difficulty in finding a place for the operation. how the old ones get filled up i cannot explain; but as i have rarely seen in any part of the country, except perhaps in the immediate vicinity of towns, a human being engaged in road repairing, i assume that beneficent nature somehow accomplishes the task without human assistance, either by means of alluvial deposits, or by some other cosmical action only known to physical geographers. on the roads one occasionally encounters bridges; and here, again, i have discovered in russia a key to the mysteries of hibernian phraseology. an irish member once declared to the house of commons that the church was "the bridge that separated the two great sections of the irish people." as bridges commonly connect rather than separate, the metaphor was received with roars of laughter. if the honourable members who joined in the hilarious applause had travelled much in russia, they would have been more moderate in their merriment; for in that country, despite the laudable activity of the modern system of local administration created in the sixties, bridges often act still as a barrier rather than a connecting link, and to cross a river by a bridge may still be what is termed in popular phrase "a tempting of providence." the cautious driver will generally prefer to take to the water, if there is a ford within a reasonable distance, though both he and his human load may be obliged, in order to avoid getting wet feet, to assume undignified postures that would afford admirable material for the caricaturist. but this little bit of discomfort, even though the luggage should be soaked in the process of fording, is as nothing compared to the danger of crossing by the bridge. as i have no desire to harrow unnecessarily the feelings of the reader, i refrain from all description of ugly accidents, ending in bruises and fractures, and shall simply explain in a few words how a successful passage is effected. when it is possible to approach the bridge without sinking up to the knees in mud, it is better to avoid all risks by walking over and waiting for the vehicle on the other side; and when this is impossible, a preliminary survey is advisable. to your inquiries whether it is safe, your yamstchik (post-boy) is sure to reply, "nitchevo!"--a word which, according to the dictionaries, means "nothing" but which has, in the mouths of the peasantry, a great variety of meanings, as i may explain at some future time. in the present case it may be roughly translated. "there is no danger." "nitchevo, barin, proyedem" ("there is no danger, sir; we shall get over"), he repeats. you may refer to the generally rotten appearance of the structure, and point in particular to the great holes sufficient to engulf half a post-horse. "ne bos', bog pomozhet" ("do not fear. god will help"), replies coolly your phlegmatic jehu. you may have your doubts as to whether in this irreligious age providence will intervene specially for your benefit; but your yamstchik, who has more faith or fatalism, leaves you little time to solve the problem. making hurriedly the sign of the cross, he gathers up his reins, waves his little whip in the air, and, shouting lustily, urges on his team. the operation is not wanting in excitement. first there is a short descent; then the horses plunge wildly through a zone of deep mud; next comes a fearful jolt, as the vehicle is jerked up on to the first planks; then the transverse planks, which are but loosely held in their places, rattle and rumble ominously, as the experienced, sagacious animals pick their way cautiously and gingerly among the dangerous holes and crevices; lastly, you plunge with a horrible jolt into a second mud zone, and finally regain terra firma, conscious of that pleasant sensation which a young officer may be supposed to feel after his first cavalry charge in real warfare. of course here, as elsewhere, familiarity breeds indifference. when you have successfully crossed without serious accident a few hundred bridges of this kind you learn to be as cool and fatalistic as your yamstchik. the reader who has heard of the gigantic reforms that have been repeatedly imposed on russia by a paternal government may naturally be astonished to learn that the roads are still in such a disgraceful condition. but for this, as for everything else in the world, there is a good and sufficient reason. the country is still, comparatively speaking, thinly populated, and in many regions it is difficult, or practically impossible, to procure in sufficient quantity stone of any kind, and especially hard stone fit for road-making. besides this, when roads are made, the severity of the climate renders it difficult to keep them in good repair. when a long journey has to be undertaken through a region in which there are no railways, there are several ways in which it may be effected. in former days, when time was of still less value than at present, many landed proprietors travelled with their own horses, and carried with them, in one or more capacious, lumbering vehicles, all that was required for the degree of civilisation which they had attained; and their requirements were often considerable. the grand seigneur, for instance, who spent the greater part of his life amidst the luxury of the court society, naturally took with him all the portable elements of civilisation. his baggage included, therefore, camp-beds, table-linen, silver plate, a batterie de cuisine, and a french cook. the pioneers and part of the commissariat force were sent on in advance, so that his excellency found at each halting-place everything prepared for his arrival. the poor owner of a few dozen serfs dispensed, of course, with the elaborate commissariat department, and contented himself with such modest fare as could be packed in the holes and corners of a single tarantass. it will be well to explain here, parenthetically, what a tarantass is, for i shall often have occasion to use the word. it may be briefly defined as a phaeton without springs. the function of springs is imperfectly fulfilled by two parallel wooden bars, placed longitudinally, on which is fixed the body of the vehicle. it is commonly drawn by three horses--a strong, fast trotter in the shafts, flanked on each side by a light, loosely-attached horse that goes along at a gallop. the points of the shafts are connected by the duga, which looks like a gigantic, badly formed horseshoe rising high above the collar of the trotter. to the top of the duga is attached the bearing-rein, and underneath the highest part of it is fastened a big bell--in the southern provinces i found two, and sometimes even three bells--which, when the country is open and the atmosphere still, may be heard a mile off. the use of the bell is variously explained. some say it is in order to frighten the wolves, and others that it is to avoid collisions on the narrow forest-paths. but neither of these explanations is entirely satisfactory. it is used chiefly in summer, when there is no danger of an attack from wolves; and the number of bells is greater in the south, where there are no forests. perhaps the original intention was--i throw out the hint for the benefit of a certain school of archaeologists--to frighten away evil spirits; and the practice has been retained partly from unreasoning conservatism, and partly with a view to lessen the chances of collisions. as the roads are noiselessly soft, and the drivers not always vigilant, the dangers of collision are considerably diminished by the ceaseless peal. altogether, the tarantass is well adapted to the conditions in which it is used. by the curious way in which the horses are harnessed it recalls the war-chariot of ancient times. the horse in the shafts is compelled by the bearing-rein to keep his head high and straight before him--though the movement of his ears shows plainly that he would very much like to put it somewhere farther away from the tongue of the bell--but the side horses gallop freely, turning their heads outwards in classical fashion. i believe that this position is assumed not from any sympathy on the part of these animals for the remains of classical art, but rather from the natural desire to keep a sharp eye on the driver. every movement of his right hand they watch with close attention, and as soon as they discover any symptoms indicating an intention of using the whip they immediately show a desire to quicken the pace. now that the reader has gained some idea of what a tarantass is, we may return to the modes of travelling through the regions which are not yet supplied with railways. however enduring and long-winded horses may be, they must be allowed sometimes, during a long journey, to rest and feed. travelling long distances with one's own horses is therefore necessarily a slow operation, and is now quite antiquated. people who value their time prefer to make use of the imperial post organisation. on all the principal lines of communication there are regular post-stations, at from ten to twenty miles apart, where a certain number of horses and vehicles are kept for the convenience of travellers. to enjoy the privilege of this arrangement, one has to apply to the proper authorities for a podorozhnaya--a large sheet of paper stamped with the imperial eagle, and bearing the name of the recipient, the destination, and the number of horses to be supplied. in return, a small sum is paid for imaginary road-repairs; the rest of the sum is paid by instalments at the respective stations. armed with this document you go to the post-station and demand the requisite number of horses. three is the number generally used, but if you travel lightly and are indifferent to appearances, you may content yourself with a pair. the vehicle is a kind of tarantass, but not such as i have just described. the essentials in both are the same, but those which the imperial government provides resemble an enormous cradle on wheels rather than a phaeton. an armful of hay spread over the bottom of the wooden box is supposed to play the part of seats and cushions. you are expected to sit under the arched covering, and extend your legs so that the feet lie beneath the driver's seat; but it is advisable, unless the rain happens to be coming down in torrents, to get this covering unshipped, and travel without it. when used, it painfully curtails the little freedom of movement that you enjoy, and when you are shot upwards by some obstruction on the road it is apt to arrest your ascent by giving you a violent blow on the top of the head. it is to be hoped that you are in no hurry to start, otherwise your patience may be sorely tried. the horses, when at last produced, may seem to you the most miserable screws that it was ever your misfortune to behold; but you had better refrain from expressing your feelings, for if you use violent, uncomplimentary language, it may turn out that you have been guilty of gross calumny. i have seen many a team composed of animals which a third-class london costermonger would have spurned, and in which it was barely possible to recognise the equine form, do their duty in highly creditable style, and go along at the rate of ten or twelve miles an hour, under no stronger incentive then the voice of the yamstchik. indeed, the capabilities of these lean, slouching, ungainly quadrupeds are often astounding when they are under the guidance of a man who knows how to drive them. though such a man commonly carries a little harmless whip, he rarely uses it except by waving it horizontally in the air. his incitements are all oral. he talks to his cattle as he would to animals of his own species--now encouraging them by tender, caressing epithets, and now launching at them expressions of indignant scorn. at one moment they are his "little doves," and at the next they have been transformed into "cursed hounds." how far they understand and appreciate this curious mixture of endearing cajolery and contemptuous abuse it is difficult to say, but there is no doubt that it somehow has upon them a strange and powerful influence. any one who undertakes a journey of this kind should possess a well-knit, muscular frame and good tough sinews, capable of supporting an unlimited amount of jolting and shaking; at the same time he should be well inured to all the hardships and discomforts incidental to what is vaguely termed "roughing it." when he wishes to sleep in a post-station, he will find nothing softer than a wooden bench, unless he can induce the keeper to put for him on the floor a bundle of hay, which is perhaps softer, but on the whole more disagreeable than the deal board. sometimes he will not get even the wooden bench, for in ordinary post-stations there is but one room for travellers, and the two benches--there are rarely more--may be already occupied. when he does obtain a bench, and succeeds in falling asleep, he must not be astonished if he is disturbed once or twice during the night by people who use the apartment as a waiting-room whilst the post-horses are being changed. these passers-by may even order a samovar, and drink tea, chat, laugh, smoke, and make themselves otherwise disagreeable, utterly regardless of the sleepers. then there are the other intruders, smaller in size but equally objectionable, of which i have already spoken when describing the steamers on the don. regarding them i desire to give merely one word of advice: as you will have abundant occupation in the work of self-defence, learn to distinguish between belligerents and neutrals, and follow the simple principle of international law, that neutrals should not be molested. they may be very ugly, but ugliness does not justify assassination. if, for instance, you should happen in awaking to notice a few black or brown beetles running about your pillow, restrain your murderous hand! if you kill them you commit an act of unnecessary bloodshed; for though they may playfully scamper around you, they will do you no bodily harm. another requisite for a journey in unfrequented districts is a knowledge of the language. it is popularly supposed that if you are familiar with french and german you may travel anywhere in russia. so far as the great cities and chief lines of communication are concerned, this may be true, but beyond that it is a delusion. the russian has not, any more than the west-european, received from nature the gift of tongues. educated russians often speak one or two foreign languages fluently, but the peasants know no language but their own, and it is with the peasantry that one comes in contact. and to converse freely with the peasant requires a considerable familiarity with the language--far more than is required for simply reading a book. though there are few provincialisms, and all classes of the people use the same words--except the words of foreign origin, which are used only by the upper classes--the peasant always speaks in a more laconic and more idiomatic way than the educated man. in the winter months travelling is in some respects pleasanter than in summer, for snow and frost are great macadamisers. if the snow falls evenly, there is for some time the most delightful road that can be imagined. no jolts, no shaking, but a smooth, gliding motion, like that of a boat in calm water, and the horses gallop along as if totally unconscious of the sledge behind them. unfortunately, this happy state of things does not last all through the winter. the road soon gets cut up, and deep transverse furrows (ukhaby) are formed. how these furrows come into existence i have never been able clearly to comprehend, though i have often heard the phenomenon explained by men who imagined they understood it. whatever the cause and mode of formation may be, certain it is that little hills and valleys do get formed, and the sledge, as it crosses over them, bobs up and down like a boat in a chopping sea, with this important difference, that the boat falls into a yielding liquid, whereas the sledge falls upon a solid substance, unyielding and unelastic. the shaking and jolting which result may readily be imagined. there are other discomforts, too, in winter travelling. so long as the air is perfectly still, the cold may be very intense without being disagreeable; but if a strong head wind is blowing, and the thermometer ever so many degrees below zero, driving in an open sledge is a very disagreeable operation, and noses may get frostbitten without their owners perceiving the fact in time to take preventive measures. then why not take covered sledges on such occasions? for the simple reason that they are not to be had; and if they could be procured, it would be well to avoid using them, for they are apt to produce something very like seasickness. besides this, when the sledge gets overturned, it is pleasanter to be shot out on to the clean, refreshing snow than to be buried ignominiously under a pile of miscellaneous baggage. the chief requisite for winter travelling in these icy regions is a plentiful supply of warm furs. an englishman is very apt to be imprudent in this respect, and to trust too much to his natural power of resisting cold. to a certain extent this confidence is justifiable, for an englishman often feels quite comfortable in an ordinary great coat when his russian friends consider it necessary to envelop themselves in furs of the warmest kind; but it may be carried too far, in which case severe punishment is sure to follow, as i once learned by experience. i may relate the incident as a warning to others: one day in mid-winter i started from novgorod, with the intention of visiting some friends at a cavalry barracks situated about ten miles from the town. as the sun was shining brightly, and the distance to be traversed was short, i considered that a light fur and a bashlyk--a cloth hood which protects the ears--would be quite sufficient to keep out the cold, and foolishly disregarded the warnings of a russian friend who happened to call as i was about to start. our route lay along the river due northward, right in the teeth of a strong north wind. a wintry north wind is always and everywhere a disagreeable enemy to face; let the reader try to imagine what it is when the fahrenheit thermometer is at degrees below zero--or rather let him refrain from such an attempt, for the sensation produced cannot be imagined by those who have not experienced it. of course i ought to have turned back--at least, as soon as a sensation of faintness warned me that the circulation was being seriously impeded--but i did not wish to confess my imprudence to the friend who accompanied me. when we had driven about three-fourths of the way we met a peasant-woman, who gesticulated violently, and shouted something to us as we passed. i did not hear what she said, but my friend turned to me and said in an alarming tone--we had been speaking german--"mein gott! ihre nase ist abgefroren!" now the word "abgefroren," as the reader will understand, seemed to indicate that my nose was frozen off, so i put up my hand in some alarm to discover whether i had inadvertently lost the whole or part of the member referred to. it was still in situ and entire, but as hard and insensible as a bit of wood. "you may still save it," said my companion, "if you get out at once and rub it vigorously with snow." i got out as directed, but was too faint to do anything vigorously. my fur cloak flew open, the cold seemed to grasp me in the region of the heart, and i fell insensible. how long i remained unconscious i know not. when i awoke i found myself in a strange room, surrounded by dragoon officers in uniform, and the first words i heard were, "he is out of danger now, but he will have a fever." these words were spoken, as i afterwards discovered, by a very competent surgeon; but the prophecy was not fulfilled. the promised fever never came. the only bad consequences were that for some days my right hand remained stiff, and for a week or two i had to conceal my nose from public view. if this little incident justifies me in drawing a general conclusion, i should say that exposure to extreme cold is an almost painless form of death; but that the process of being resuscitated is very painful indeed--so painful, that the patient may be excused for momentarily regretting that officious people prevented the temporary insensibility from becoming "the sleep that knows no waking." between the alternate reigns of winter and summer there is always a short interregnum, during which travelling in russia by road is almost impossible. woe to the ill-fated mortal who has to make a long road-journey immediately after the winter snow has melted; or, worse still, at the beginning of winter, when the autumn mud has been petrified by the frost, and not yet levelled by the snow! at all seasons the monotony of a journey is pretty sure to be broken by little unforeseen episodes of a more or less disagreeable kind. an axle breaks, or a wheel comes off, or there is a difficulty in procuring horses. as an illustration of the graver episodes which may occur, i shall make here a quotation from my note-book: early in the morning we arrived at maikop, a small town commanding the entrance to one of the valleys which run up towards the main range of the caucasus. on alighting at the post-station, we at once ordered horses for the next stage, and received the laconic reply, "there are no horses." "and when will there be some?" "to-morrow!" this last reply we took for a piece of playful exaggeration, and demanded the book in which, according to law, the departure of horses is duly inscribed, and from which it is easy to calculate when the first team should be ready to start. a short calculation proved that we ought to get horses by four o'clock in the afternoon, so we showed the station-keeper various documents signed by the minister of the interior and other influential personages, and advised him to avoid all contravention of the postal regulations. these documents, which proved that we enjoyed the special protection of the authorities, had generally been of great service to us in our dealings with rascally station-keepers; but this station-keeper was not one of the ordinary type. he was a cossack, of herculean proportions, with a bullet-shaped head, short-cropped bristly hair, shaggy eyebrows, an enormous pendent moustache, a defiant air, and a peculiar expression of countenance which plainly indicated "an ugly customer." though it was still early in the day, he had evidently already imbibed a considerable quantity of alcohol, and his whole demeanour showed clearly enough that he was not of those who are "pleasant in their liquor." after glancing superciliously at the documents, as if to intimate he could read them were he so disposed, he threw them down on the table, and, thrusting his gigantic paws into his capacious trouser-pockets, remarked slowly and decisively, in something deeper than a double-bass voice, "you'll have horses to-morrow morning." wishing to avoid a quarrel we tried to hire horses in the village, and when our efforts in that direction proved fruitless, we applied to the head of the rural police. he came and used all his influence with the refractory station-keeper, but in vain. hercules was not in a mood to listen to officials any more than to ordinary mortals. at last, after considerable trouble to himself, our friend of the police contrived to find horses for us, and we contented ourselves with entering an account of the circumstances in the complaint book, but our difficulties were by no means at an end. as soon as hercules perceived that we had obtained horses without his assistance, and that he had thereby lost his opportunity of blackmailing us, he offered us one of his own teams, and insisted on detaining us until we should cancel the complaint against him. this we refused to do, and our relations with him became what is called in diplomatic language "extremement tendues." again we had to apply to the police. my friend mounted guard over the baggage whilst i went to the police office. i was not long absent, but i found, on my return, that important events had taken place in the interval. a crowd had collected round the post-station, and on the steps stood the keeper and his post-boys, declaring that the traveller inside had attempted to shoot them! i rushed in and soon perceived, by the smell of gunpowder, that firearms had been used, but found no trace of casualties. my friend was tramping up and down the little room, and evidently for the moment there was an armistice. in a very short time the local authorities had assembled, a candle had been lit, two armed cossacks stood as sentries at the door, and the preliminary investigation had begun. the chief of police sat at the table and wrote rapidly on a sheet of foolscap. the investigation showed that two shots had been fired from a revolver, and two bullets were found imbedded in the wall. all those who had been present, and some who knew nothing of the incident except by hearsay, were duly examined. our opponents always assumed that my friend had been the assailant, in spite of his protestations to the contrary, and more than once the words pokyshenie na ubiistvo (attempt to murder) were pronounced. things looked very black indeed. we had the prospect of being detained for days and weeks in the miserable place, till the insatiable demon of official formality had been propitiated. and then? when things were thus at their blackest they suddenly took an unexpected turn, and the deus ex machina appeared precisely at the right moment, just as if we had all been puppets in a sensation novel. there was the usual momentary silence, and then, mixed with the sound of an approaching tarantass, a confused murmur: "there he is! he is coming!" the "he" thus vaguely and mysteriously indicated turned out to be an official of the judicial administration, who had reason to visit the village for an entirely different affair. as soon as he had been told briefly what had happened he took the matter in hand and showed himself equal to the occasion. unlike the majority of russian officials he disliked lengthy procedure, and succeeded in making the case quite clear in a very short time. there had been, he perceived, no attempt to murder or anything of the kind. the station-keeper and his two post-boys, who had no right to be in the traveller's room, had entered with threatening mien, and when they refused to retire peaceably, my friend had fired two shots in order to frighten them and bring assistance. the falsity of their statement that he had fired at them as they entered the room was proved by the fact that the bullets were lodged near the ceiling in the wall farthest away from the door. i must confess that i was agreeably surprised by this unexpected turn of affairs. the conclusions arrived at were nothing more than a simple statement of what had taken place; but i was surprised at the fact that a man who was at once a lawyer and a russian official should have been able to take such a plain, commonsense view of the case. before midnight we were once more free men, driving rapidly in the clear moonlight to the next station, under the escort of a fully-armed circassian cossack; but the idea that we might have been detained for weeks in that miserable place haunted us like a nightmare. chapter ii in the northern forests bird's-eye view of russia--the northern forests--purpose of my journey--negotiations--the road--a village--a peasant's house--vapour-baths--curious custom--arrival. there are many ways of describing a country that one has visited. the simplest and most common method is to give a chronological account of the journey; and this is perhaps the best way when the journey does not extend over more than a few weeks. but it cannot be conveniently employed in the case of a residence of many years. did i adopt it, i should very soon exhaust the reader's patience. i should have to take him with me to a secluded village, and make him wait for me till i had learned to speak the language. thence he would have to accompany me to a provincial town, and spend months in a public office, whilst i endeavoured to master the mysteries of local self-government. after this he would have to spend two years with me in a big library, where i studied the history and literature of the country. and so on, and so on. even my journeys would prove tedious to him, as they often were to myself, for he would have to drive with me many a score of weary miles, where even the most zealous diary-writer would find nothing to record beyond the names of the post-stations. it will be well for me, then, to avoid the strictly chronological method, and confine myself to a description of the more striking objects and incidents that came under my notice. the knowledge which i derived from books will help me to supply a running commentary on what i happened to see and hear. instead of beginning in the usual way with st. petersburg, i prefer for many reasons to leave the description of the capital till some future time, and plunge at once into the great northern forest region. if it were possible to get a bird's-eye view of european russia, the spectator would perceive that the country is composed of two halves widely differing from each other in character. the northern half is a land of forest and morass, plentifully supplied with water in the form of rivers, lakes, and marshes, and broken up by numerous patches of cultivation. the southern half is, as it were, the other side of the pattern--an immense expanse of rich, arable land, broken up by occasional patches of sand or forest. the imaginary undulating line separating those two regions starts from the western frontier about the th parallel of latitude, and runs in a northeasterly direction till it enters the ural range at about degrees n.l. well do i remember my first experience of travel in the northern region, and the weeks of voluntary exile which formed the goal of the journey. it was in the summer of . my reason for undertaking the journey was this: a few months of life in st. petersburg had fully convinced me that the russian language is one of those things which can only be acquired by practice, and that even a person of antediluvian longevity might spend all his life in that city without learning to express himself fluently in the vernacular--especially if he has the misfortune of being able to speak english, french, and german. with his friends and associates he speaks french or english. german serves as a medium of communication with waiters, shop keepers, and other people of that class. it is only with isvoshtchiki--the drivers of the little open droshkis which fulfil the function of cabs--that he is obliged to use the native tongue, and with them a very limited vocabulary suffices. the ordinal numerals and four short, easily-acquired expressions--poshol (go on), na pravo (to the right), na lyevo (to the left), and stoi (stop)--are all that is required. whilst i was considering how i could get beyond the sphere of west-european languages, a friend came to my assistance, and suggested that i should go to his estate in the province of novgorod, where i should find an intelligent, amiable parish priest, quite innocent of any linguistic acquirements. this proposal i at once adopted, and accordingly found myself one morning at a small station of the moscow railway, endeavouring to explain to a peasant in sheep's clothing that i wished to be conveyed to ivanofka, the village where my future teacher lived. at that time i still spoke russian in a very fragmentary and confused way--pretty much as spanish cows are popularly supposed to speak french. my first remark therefore being literally interpreted, was--"ivanofka. horses. you can?" the point of interrogation was expressed by a simultaneous raising of the voice and the eyebrows. "ivanofka?" cried the peasant, in an interrogatory tone of voice. in russia, as in other countries, the peasantry when speaking with strangers like to repeat questions, apparently for the purpose of gaining time. "ivanofka," i replied. "now?" "now!" after some reflection the peasant nodded and said something which i did not understand, but which i assumed to mean that he was open to consider proposals for transporting me to my destination. "roubles. how many?" to judge by the knitting of the brows and the scratching of the head, i should say that that question gave occasion to a very abstruse mathematical calculation. gradually the look of concentrated attention gave place to an expression such as children assume when they endeavour to get a parental decision reversed by means of coaxing. then came a stream of soft words which were to me utterly unintelligible. i must not weary the reader with a detailed account of the succeeding negotiations, which were conducted with extreme diplomatic caution on both sides, as if a cession of territory or the payment of a war indemnity had been the subject of discussion. three times he drove away and three times returned. each time he abated his pretensions, and each time i slightly increased my offer. at last, when i began to fear that he had finally taken his departure and had left me to my own devices, he re-entered the room and took up my baggage, indicating thereby that he agreed to my last offer. the sum agreed upon would have been, under ordinary circumstances, more than sufficient, but before proceeding far i discovered that the circumstances were by no means ordinary, and i began to understand the pantomimic gesticulation which had puzzled me during the negotiations. heavy rain had fallen without interruption for several days, and now the track on which we were travelling could not, without poetical license, be described as a road. in some parts it resembled a water-course, in others a quagmire, and at least during the first half of the journey i was constantly reminded of that stage in the work of creation when the water was not yet separated from the dry land. during the few moments when the work of keeping my balance and preventing my baggage from being lost did not engross all my attention, i speculated on the possibility of inventing a boat-carriage, to be drawn by some amphibious quadruped. fortunately our two lean, wiry little horses did not object to being used as aquatic animals. they took the water bravely, and plunged through the mud in gallant style. the telega in which we were seated--a four-wheeled skeleton cart--did not submit to the ill-treatment so silently. it creaked out its remonstrances and entreaties, and at the more difficult spots threatened to go to pieces; but its owner understood its character and capabilities, and paid no attention to its ominous threats. once, indeed, a wheel came off, but it was soon fished out of the mud and replaced, and no further casualty occurred. the horses did their work so well that when about midday we arrived at a village, i could not refuse to let them have some rest and refreshment--all the more as my own thoughts had begun to turn in that direction. the village, like villages in that part of the country generally, consisted of two long parallel rows of wooden houses. the road--if a stratum of deep mud can be called by that name--formed the intervening space. all the houses turned their gables to the passerby, and some of them had pretensions to architectural decoration in the form of rude perforated woodwork. between the houses, and in a line with them, were great wooden gates and high wooden fences, separating the courtyards from the road. into one of these yards, near the farther end of the village, our horses turned of their own accord. "an inn?" i said, in an interrogative tone. the driver shook his head and said something, in which i detected the word "friend." evidently there was no hostelry for man and beast in the village, and the driver was using a friend's house for the purpose. the yard was flanked on the one side by an open shed, containing rude agricultural implements which might throw some light on the agriculture of the primitive aryans, and on the other side by the dwelling-house and stable. both the house and stable were built of logs, nearly cylindrical in form, and placed in horizontal tiers. two of the strongest of human motives, hunger and curiosity, impelled me to enter the house at once. without waiting for an invitation, i went up to the door--half protected against the winter snows by a small open portico--and unceremoniously walked in. the first apartment was empty, but i noticed a low door in the wall to the left, and passing through this, entered the principal room. as the scene was new to me, i noted the principal objects. in the wall before me were two small square windows looking out upon the road, and in the corner to the right, nearer to the ceiling than to the floor, was a little triangular shelf, on which stood a religious picture. before the picture hung a curious oil lamp. in the corner to the left of the door was a gigantic stove, built of brick, and whitewashed. from the top of the stove to the wall on the right stretched what might be called an enormous shelf, six or eight feet in breadth. this is the so-called palati, as i afterwards discovered, and serves as a bed for part of the family. the furniture consisted of a long wooden bench attached to the wall on the right, a big, heavy, deal table, and a few wooden stools. whilst i was leisurely surveying these objects, i heard a noise on the top of the stove, and, looking up, perceived a human face, with long hair parted in the middle, and a full yellow beard. i was considerably astonished by this apparition, for the air in the room was stifling, and i had some difficulty in believing that any created being--except perhaps a salamander or a negro--could exist in such a position. i looked hard to convince myself that i was not the victim of a delusion. as i stared, the head nodded slowly and pronounced the customary form of greeting. i returned the greeting slowly, wondering what was to come next. "ill, very ill!" sighed the head. "i'm not astonished at that," i remarked, in an "aside." "if i were lying on the stove as you are i should be very ill too." "hot, very hot?" i remarked, interrogatively. "nitchevo"--that is to say, "not particularly." this remark astonished me all the more as i noticed that the body to which the head belonged was enveloped in a sheep-skin! after living some time in russia i was no longer surprised by such incidents, for i soon discovered that the russian peasant has a marvellous power of bearing extreme heat as well as extreme cold. when a coachman takes his master or mistress to the theatre or to a party, he never thinks of going home and returning at an appointed time. hour after hour he sits placidly on the box, and though the cold be of an intensity such as is never experienced in our temperate climate, he can sleep as tranquilly as the lazzaroni at midday in naples. in that respect the russian peasant seems to be first-cousin to the polar bear, but, unlike the animals of the arctic regions, he is not at all incommoded by excessive heat. on the contrary, he likes it when he can get it, and never omits an opportunity of laying in a reserve supply of caloric. he even delights in rapid transitions from one extreme to the other, as is amply proved by a curious custom which deserves to be recorded. the reader must know that in the life of the russian peasantry the weekly vapour-bath plays a most important part. it has even a certain religious signification, for no good orthodox peasant would dare to enter a church after being soiled by certain kinds of pollution without cleansing himself physically and morally by means of the bath. in the weekly arrangements it forms the occupation for saturday afternoon, and care is taken to avoid thereafter all pollution until after the morning service on sunday. many villages possess a public or communal bath of the most primitive construction, but in some parts of the country--i am not sure how far the practice extends--the peasants take their vapour-bath in the household oven in which the bread is baked! in all cases the operation is pushed to the extreme limit of human endurance--far beyond the utmost limit that can be endured by those who have not been accustomed to it from childhood. for my own part, i only made the experiment once; and when i informed my attendant that my life was in danger from congestion of the brain, he laughed outright, and told me that the operation had only begun. most astounding of all--and this brings me to the fact which led me into this digression--the peasants in winter often rush out of the bath and roll themselves in the snow! this aptly illustrates a common russian proverb, which says that what is health to the russian is death to the german. cold water, as well as hot vapour, is sometimes used as a means of purification. in the villages the old pagan habit of masquerading in absurd costumes at certain seasons--as is done during the carnival in roman catholic countries with the approval, or at least connivance, of the church--still survives; but it is regarded as not altogether sinless. he who uses such disguises places himself to a certain extent under the influence of the evil one, thereby putting his soul in jeopardy; and to free himself from this danger he has to purify himself in the following way: when the annual mid-winter ceremony of blessing the waters is performed, by breaking a hole in the ice and immersing a cross with certain religious rites, he should plunge into the hole as soon as possible after the ceremony. i remember once at yaroslavl, on the volga, two young peasants successfully accomplished this feat--though the police have orders to prevent it--and escaped, apparently without evil consequences, though the fahrenheit thermometer was below zero. how far the custom has really a purifying influence, is a question which must be left to theologians; but even an ordinary mortal can understand that, if it be regarded as a penance, it must have a certain deterrent effect. the man who foresees the necessity of undergoing this severe penance will think twice before putting on a disguise. so at least it must have been in the good old times; but in these degenerate days--among the russian peasantry as elsewhere--the fear of the devil, which was formerly, if not the beginning, at least one of the essential elements, of wisdom, has greatly decreased. many a young peasant will now thoughtlessly disguise himself, and when the consecration of the water is performed, will stand and look on passively like an ordinary spectator! it would seem that the devil, like his enemy the pope, is destined to lose gradually his temporal power. but all this time i am neglecting my new acquaintance on the top of the stove. in reality i did not neglect him, but listened most attentively to every word of the long tale that he recited. what it was all about i could only vaguely guess, for i did not understand more than ten per cent of the words used, but i assumed from the tone and gestures that he was relating to me all the incidents and symptoms of his illness. and a very severe illness it must have been, for it requires a very considerable amount of physical suffering to make the patient russian peasant groan. before he had finished his tale a woman entered, apparently his wife. to her i explained that i had a strong desire to eat and drink, and that i wished to know what she would give me. by a good deal of laborious explanation i was made to understand that i could have eggs, black bread, and milk, and we agreed that there should be a division of labour: my hostess should prepare the samovar for boiling water, whilst i should fry the eggs to my own satisfaction. in a few minutes the repast was ready, and, though not very delicate, was highly acceptable. the tea and sugar i had of course brought with me; the eggs were not very highly flavoured; and the black rye-bread, strongly intermixed with sand, could be eaten by a peculiar and easily-acquired method of mastication, in which the upper molars are never allowed to touch those of the lower jaw. in this way the grating of the sand between the teeth is avoided. eggs, black bread, milk, and tea--these formed my ordinary articles of food during all my wanderings in northern russia. occasionally potatoes could be got, and afforded the possibility of varying the bill of fare. the favourite materials employed in the native cookery are sour cabbage, cucumbers, and kvass--a kind of very small beer made from black bread. none of these can be recommended to the traveller who is not already accustomed to them. the remainder of the journey was accomplished at a rather more rapid pace than the preceding part, for the road was decidedly better, though it was traversed by numerous half-buried roots, which produced violent jolts. from the conversation of the driver i gathered that wolves, bears, and elks were found in the forest through which we were passing. the sun had long since set when we reached our destination, and i found to my dismay that the priest's house was closed for the night. to rouse the reverend personage from his slumbers, and endeavour to explain to him with my limited vocabulary the object of my visit, was not to be thought of. on the other hand, there was no inn of any kind in the vicinity. when i consulted the driver as to what was to be done, he meditated for a little, and then pointed to a large house at some distance where there were still lights. it turned out to be the country-house of the gentleman who had advised me to undertake the journey, and here, after a short explanation, though the owner was not at home, i was hospitably received. it had been my intention to live in the priest's house, but a short interview with him on the following day convinced me that that part of my plan could not be carried out. the preliminary objections that i should find but poor fare in his humble household, and much more of the same kind, were at once put aside by my assurance, made partly by pantomime, that, as an old traveller, i was well accustomed to simple fare, and could always accommodate myself to the habits of people among whom my lot happened to be cast. but there was a more serious difficulty. the priest's family had, as is generally the case with priests' families, been rapidly increasing during the last few years, and his house had not been growing with equal rapidity. the natural consequence of this was that he had not a room or a bed to spare. the little room which he had formerly kept for occasional visitors was now occupied by his eldest daughter, who had returned from a "school for the daughters of the clergy," where she had been for the last two years. under these circumstances, i was constrained to accept the kind proposal made to me by the representative of my absent friend, that i should take up my quarters in one of the numerous unoccupied rooms in the manor-house. this arrangement, i was reminded, would not at all interfere with my proposed studies, for the priest lived close at hand, and i might spend with him as much time as i liked. and now let me introduce the reader to my reverend teacher and one or two other personages whose acquaintance i made during my voluntary exile. chapter iii voluntary exile ivanofka--history of the place--the steward of the estate--slav and teutonic natures--a german's view of the emancipation--justices of the peace--new school of morals--the russian language--linguistic talent of the russians--my teacher--a big dose of current history. this village, ivanofka by name, in which i proposed to spend some months, was rather more picturesque than villages in these northern forests commonly are. the peasants' huts, built on both sides of a straight road, were colourless enough, and the big church, with its five pear-shaped cupolas rising out of the bright green roof and its ugly belfry in the renaissance style, was not by any means beautiful in itself; but when seen from a little distance, especially in the soft evening twilight, the whole might have been made the subject of a very pleasing picture. from the point that a landscape-painter would naturally have chosen, the foreground was formed by a meadow, through which flowed sluggishly a meandering stream. on a bit of rising ground to the right, and half concealed by an intervening cluster of old rich-coloured pines, stood the manor-house--a big, box-shaped, whitewashed building, with a verandah in front, overlooking a small plot that might some day become a flower-garden. to the left of this stood the village, the houses grouping prettily with the big church, and a little farther in this direction was an avenue of graceful birches. on the extreme left were fields, bounded by a dark border of fir-trees. could the spectator have raised himself a few hundred feet from the ground, he would have seen that there were fields beyond the village, and that the whole of this agricultural oasis was imbedded in a forest stretching in all directions as far as the eye could reach. the history of the place may be told in a few words. in former times the estate, including the village and all its inhabitants, had belonged to a monastery, but when, in , the church lands were secularised by catherine, it became the property of the state. some years afterwards the empress granted it, with the serfs and everything else which it contained, to an old general who had distinguished himself in the turkish wars. from that time it had remained in the k---- family. some time between the years and the big church and the mansion-house had been built by the actual possessor's father, who loved country life, and devoted a large part of his time and energies to the management of his estate. his son, on the contrary, preferred st. petersburg to the country, served in one of the public offices, loved passionately french plays and other products of urban civilisation, and left the entire management of the property to a german steward, popularly known as karl karl'itch, whom i shall introduce to the reader presently. the village annals contained no important events, except bad harvests, cattle-plagues, and destructive fires, with which the inhabitants seem to have been periodically visited from time immemorial. if good harvests were ever experienced, they must have faded from the popular recollection. then there were certain ancient traditions which might have been lessened in bulk and improved in quality by being subjected to searching historical criticism. more than once, for instance, a leshie, or wood-sprite, had been seen in the neighbourhood; and in several households the domovoi, or brownie, had been known to play strange pranks until he was properly propitiated. and as a set-off against these manifestations of evil powers, there were well-authenticated stories about a miracle-working image that had mysteriously appeared on the branch of a tree, and about numerous miraculous cures that had been effected by means of pilgrimages to holy shrines. but it is time to introduce the principal personages of this little community. of these, by far the most important was karl karl'itch, the steward. first of all i ought, perhaps, to explain how karl schmidt, the son of a well-to-do bauer in the prussian village of schonhausen, became karl karl'itch, the principal personage in the russian village of ivanofka. about the time of the crimean war many of the russian landed proprietors had become alive to the necessity of improving the primitive, traditional methods of agriculture, and sought for this purpose german stewards for their estates. among these proprietors was the owner of ivanofka. through the medium of a friend in berlin he succeeded in engaging for a moderate salary a young man who had just finished his studies in one of the german schools of agriculture--the institution at hohenheim, if my memory does not deceive me. this young man had arrived in russia as plain karl schmidt, but his name was soon transformed into karl karl'itch, not from any desire of his own, but in accordance with a curious russian custom. in russia one usually calls a man not by his family name, but by his christian name and patronymic--the latter being formed from the name of his father. thus, if a man's name is nicholas, and his father's christian name is--or was--ivan, you address him as nikolai ivanovitch (pronounced ivan'itch); and if this man should happen to have a sister called mary, you will address her--even though she should be married--as marya ivanovna (pronounced ivanna). immediately on his arrival young schmidt had set himself vigorously to reorganise the estate and improve the method of agriculture. some ploughs, harrows, and other implements which had been imported at a former period were dragged out of the obscurity in which they had lain for several years, and an attempt was made to farm on scientific principles. the attempt was far from being completely successful, for the serfs--this was before the emancipation--could not be made to work like regularly trained german labourers. in spite of all admonitions, threats, and punishments, they persisted in working slowly, listlessly, inaccurately, and occasionally they broke the new instruments from carelessness or some more culpable motive. karl karl'itch was not naturally a hard-hearted man, but he was very rigid in his notions of duty, and could be cruelly severe when his orders were not executed with an accuracy and punctuality that seemed to the russian rustic mind mere useless pedantry. the serfs did not offer him any open opposition, and were always obsequiously respectful in their demeanour towards him, but they invariably frustrated his plans by their carelessness and stolid, passive resistance. thus arose that silent conflict and that smouldering mutual enmity which almost always result from the contact of the teuton with the slav. the serfs instinctively regretted the good old times, when they lived under the rough-and-ready patriarchal rule of their masters, assisted by a native "burmister," or overseer, who was one of themselves. the burmister had not always been honest in his dealings with them, and the master had often, when in anger, ordered severe punishments to be inflicted; but the burmister had not attempted to make them change their old habits, and had shut his eyes to many little sins of omission and commission, whilst the master was always ready to assist them in difficulties, and commonly treated them in a kindly, familiar way. as the old russian proverb has it, "where danger is, there too is kindly forgiveness." karl karl'itch, on the contrary, was the personification of uncompassionate, inflexible law. blind rage and compassionate kindliness were alike foreign to his system of government. if he had any feeling towards the serfs, it was one of chronic contempt. the word durak (blockhead) was constantly on his lips, and when any bit of work was well done, he took it as a matter of course, and never thought of giving a word of approval or encouragement. when it became evident, in , that the emancipation of the serfs was at hand, karl karl'itch confidently predicted that the country would inevitably go to ruin. he knew by experience that the peasants were lazy and improvident, even when they lived under the tutelage of a master, and with the fear of the rod before their eyes. what would they become when this guidance and salutary restraint should be removed? the prospect raised terrible forebodings in the mind of the worthy steward, who had his employer's interests really at heart; and these forebodings were considerably increased and intensified when he learned that the peasants were to receive by law the land which they occupied on sufferance, and which comprised about a half of the whole arable land of the estate. this arrangement he declared to be a dangerous and unjustifiable infraction of the sacred rights of property, which savoured strongly of communism, and could have but one practical result: the emancipated peasants would live by the cultivation of their own land, and would not consent on any terms to work for their former master. in the few months which immediately followed the publication of the emancipation edict in , karl karl'itch found much to confirm his most gloomy apprehensions. the peasants showed themselves dissatisfied with the privileges conferred upon them, and sought to evade the corresponding duties imposed on them by the new law. in vain he endeavoured, by exhortations, promises, and threats, to get the most necessary part of the field-work done, and showed the peasants the provision of the law enjoining them to obey and work as of old until some new arrangement should be made. to all his appeals they replied that, having been freed by the tsar, they were no longer obliged to work for their former master; and he was at last forced to appeal to the authorities. this step had a certain effect, but the field-work was executed that year even worse than usual, and the harvest suffered in consequence. since that time things had gradually improved. the peasants had discovered that they could not support themselves and pay their taxes from the land ceded to them, and had accordingly consented to till the proprietor's fields for a moderate recompense. "these last two years," said karl karl'itch to me, with an air of honest self-satisfaction, "i have been able, after paying all expenses, to transmit little sums to the young master in st. petersburg. it was certainly not much, but it shows that things are better than they were. still, it is hard, uphill work. the peasants have not been improved by liberty. they now work less and drink more than they did in the times of serfage, and if you say a word to them they'll go away, and not work for you at all." here karl karl'itch indemnified himself for his recent self-control in the presence of his workers by using a series of the strongest epithets which the combined languages of his native and of his adopted country could supply. "but laziness and drunkenness are not their only faults. they let their cattle wander into our fields, and never lose an opportunity of stealing firewood from the forest." "but you have now for such matters the rural justices of the peace," i ventured to suggest. "the justices of the peace!" . . . here karl karl'itch used an inelegant expression, which showed plainly that he was no unqualified admirer of the new judicial institutions. "what is the use of applying to the justices? the nearest one lives six miles off, and when i go to him he evidently tries to make me lose as much time as possible. i am sure to lose nearly a whole day, and at the end of it i may find that i have got nothing for my pains. these justices always try to find some excuse for the peasant, and when they do condemn, by way of exception, the affair does not end there. there is pretty sure to be a pettifogging practitioner prowling about--some rascally scribe who has been dismissed from the public offices for pilfering and extorting too openly--and he is always ready to whisper to the peasant that he should appeal. the peasant knows that the decision is just, but he is easily persuaded that by appealing to the monthly sessions he gets another chance in the lottery, and may perhaps draw a prize. he lets the rascally scribe, therefore, prepare an appeal for him, and i receive an invitation to attend the session of justices in the district town on a certain day. "it is a good five-and-thirty miles to the district town, as you know, but i get up early, and arrive at eleven o'clock, the hour stated in the official notice. a crowd of peasants are hanging about the door of the court, but the only official present is the porter. i enquire of him when my case is likely to come on, and receive the laconic answer, 'how should i know?' after half an hour the secretary arrives. i repeat my question, and receive the same answer. another half hour passes, and one of the justices drives up in his tarantass. perhaps he is a glib-tongued gentleman, and assures me that the proceedings will commence at once: 'sei tchas! sei tchas!' don't believe what the priest or the dictionary tells you about the meaning of that expression. the dictionary will tell you that it means 'immediately,' but that's all nonsense. in the mouth of a russian it means 'in an hour,' 'next week,' 'in a year or two,' 'never'--most commonly 'never.' like many other words in russian, 'sei tchas' can be understood only after long experience. a second justice drives up, and then a third. no more are required by law, but these gentlemen must first smoke several cigarettes and discuss all the local news before they begin work. "at last they take their seats on the bench--a slightly elevated platform at one end of the room, behind a table covered with green baize--and the proceedings commence. my case is sure to be pretty far down on the list--the secretary takes, i believe, a malicious pleasure in watching my impatience--and before it is called the justices have to retire at least once for refreshments and cigarettes. i have to amuse myself by listening to the other cases, and some of them, i can assure you, are amusing enough. the walls of that room must be by this time pretty well saturated with perjury, and many of the witnesses catch at once the infection. perhaps i may tell you some other time a few of the amusing incidents that i have seen there. at last my case is called. it is as clear as daylight, but the rascally pettifogger is there with a long-prepared speech, he holds in his hand a small volume of the codified law, and quotes paragraphs which no amount of human ingenuity can make to bear upon the subject. perhaps the previous decision is confirmed; perhaps it is reversed; in either case, i have lost a second day and exhausted more patience than i can conveniently spare. and something even worse may happen, as i know by experience. once during a case of mine there was some little informality--someone inadvertently opened the door of the consulting-room when the decision was being written, or some other little incident of the sort occurred, and the rascally pettifogger complained to the supreme court of revision, which is a part of the senate. the case was all about a few roubles, but it was discussed in st. petersburg, and afterwards tried over again by another court of justices. now i have paid my lehrgeld, and go no more to law." "then you must expose yourself to all kinds of extortion?" "not so much as you might imagine. i have my own way of dispensing justice. when i catch a peasant's horse or cow in our fields, i lock it up and make the owner pay a ransom." "is it not rather dangerous," i inquired, "to take the law thus into your own hands? i have heard that the russian justices are extremely severe against any one who has recourse to what our german jurists call selbsthulfe." "that they are! so long as you are in russia, you had much better let yourself be quietly robbed than use any violence against the robber. it is less trouble, and it is cheaper in the long run. if you do not, you may unexpectedly find yourself some fine morning in prison! you must know that many of the young justices belong to the new school of morals." "what is that? i have not heard of any new discoveries lately in the sphere of speculative ethics." "well, to tell you the truth, i am not one of the initiated, and i can only tell you what i hear. so far as i have noticed, the representatives of the new doctrine talk chiefly about gumannost' and tchelovetcheskoe dostoinstvo. you know what these words mean?" "humanity, or rather humanitarianism and human dignity," i replied, not sorry to give a proof that i was advancing in my studies. "there, again, you allow your dictionary and your priest to mislead you. these terms, when used by a russian, cover much more than we understand by them, and those who use them most frequently have generally a special tenderness for all kinds of malefactors. in the old times, malefactors were popularly believed to be bad, dangerous people; but it has been lately discovered that this is a delusion. a young proprietor who lives not far off assures me that they are the true protestants, and the most powerful social reformers! they protest practically against those imperfections of social organisation of which they are the involuntary victims. the feeble, characterless man quietly submits to his chains; the bold, generous, strong man breaks his fetters, and helps others to do the same. a very ingenious defence of all kinds of rascality, isn't it?" "well, it is a theory that might certainly be carried too far, and might easily lead to very inconvenient conclusions; but i am not sure that, theoretically speaking, it does not contain a certain element of truth. it ought at least to foster that charity which we are enjoined to practise towards all men. but perhaps 'all men' does not include publicans and sinners?" on hearing these words karl karl'itch turned to me, and every feature of his honest german face expressed the most undisguised astonishment. "are you, too, a nihilist?" he inquired, as soon as he had partially recovered his breath. "i really don't know what a nihilist is, but i may assure you that i am not an 'ist' of any kind. what is a nihilist?" "if you live long in russia you'll learn that without my telling you. as i was saying, i am not at all afraid of the peasants citing me before the justice. they know better now. if they gave me too much trouble i could starve their cattle." "yes, when you catch them in your fields," i remarked, taking no notice of the abrupt turn which he had given to the conversation. "i can do it without that. you must know that, by the emancipation law, the peasants received arable land, but they received little or no pasturage. i have the whip hand of them there!" the remarks of karl karl'itch on men and things were to me always interesting, for he was a shrewd observer, and displayed occasionally a pleasant, dry humour. but i very soon discovered that his opinions were not to be accepted without reserve. his strong, inflexible teutonic nature often prevented him from judging impartially. he had no sympathy with the men and the institutions around him, and consequently he was unable to see things from the inside. the specks and blemishes on the surface he perceived clearly enough, but he had no knowledge of the secret, deep-rooted causes by which these specks and blemishes were produced. the simple fact that a man was a russian satisfactorily accounted, in his opinion, for any kind of moral deformity; and his knowledge turned out to be by no means so extensive as i had at first supposed. though he had been many years in the country, he knew very little about the life of the peasants beyond that small part of it which concerned directly his own interests and those of his employer. of the communal organisation, domestic life, religious beliefs, ceremonial practices, and nomadic habits of his humble neighbours, he knew little, and the little he happened to know was far from accurate. in order to gain a knowledge of these matters it would be better, i perceived, to consult the priest, or, better still, the peasants themselves. but to do this it would be necessary to understand easily and speak fluently the colloquial language, and i was still very far from having, acquired the requisite proficiency. even for one who possesses a natural facility for acquiring foreign tongues, the learning of russian is by no means an easy task. though it is essentially an aryan language like our own, and contains only a slight intermixture of tartar words,--such as bashlyk (a hood), kalpak (a night-cap), arbuz (a water-melon), etc.--it has certain sounds unknown to west-european ears, and difficult for west-european tongues, and its roots, though in great part derived from the same original stock as those of the graeco-latin and teutonic languages, are generally not at all easily recognised. as an illustration of this, take the russian word otets. strange as it may at first sight appear, this word is merely another form of our word father, of the german vater, and of the french pere. the syllable ets is the ordinary russian termination denoting the agent, corresponding to the english and german ending er, as we see in such words as--kup-ets (a buyer), plov-ets (a swimmer), and many others. the root ot is a mutilated form of vot, as we see in the word otchina (a paternal inheritance), which is frequently written votchina. now vot is evidently the same root as the german vat in vater, and the english fath in father. quod erat demonstrandum. all this is simple enough, and goes to prove the fundamental identity, or rather the community of origin, of the slav and teutonic languages; but it will be readily understood that etymological analogies so carefully disguised are of little practical use in helping us to acquire a foreign tongue. besides this, the grammatical forms and constructions in russian are very peculiar, and present a great many strange irregularities. as an illustration of this we may take the future tense. the russian verb has commonly a simple and a frequentative future. the latter is always regularly formed by means of an auxiliary with the infinitive, as in english, but the former is constructed in a variety of ways, for which no rule can be given, so that the simple future of each individual verb must be learned by a pure effort of memory. in many verbs it is formed by prefixing a preposition, but it is impossible to determine by rule which preposition should be used. thus idu (i go) becomes poidu; pishu (i write) becomes napishu; pyu (i drink) becomes vuipyu, and so on. closely akin to the difficulties of pronunciation is the difficulty of accentuating the proper syllable. in this respect russian is like greek; you can rarely tell a priori on what syllable the accent falls. but it is more puzzling than greek, for two reasons: firstly, it is not customary to print russian with accents; and secondly, no one has yet been able to lay down precise rules for the transposition of the accent in the various inflections of the same word, of this latter peculiarity, let one illustration suffice. the word ruka (hand) has the accent on the last syllable, but in the accusative (ruku) the accent goes back to the first syllable. it must not, however, be assumed that in all words of this type a similar transposition takes place. the word beda (misfortune), for instance, as well as very many others, always retains the accent on the last syllable. these and many similar difficulties, which need not be here enumerated, can be mastered only by long practice. serious as they are, they need not frighten any one who is in the habit of learning foreign tongues. the ear and the tongue gradually become familiar with the peculiarities of inflection and accentuation, and practice fulfils the same function as abstract rules. it is commonly supposed that russians have been endowed by nature with a peculiar linguistic talent. their own language, it is said, is so difficult that they have no difficulty in acquiring others. this common belief requires, as it seems to me, some explanation. that highly educated russians are better linguists than the educated classes of western europe there can be no possible doubt, for they almost always speak french, and often english and german also. the question, however, is whether this is the result of a psychological peculiarity, or of other causes. now, without venturing to deny the existence of a natural faculty, i should say that the other causes have at least exercised a powerful influence. any russian who wishes to be regarded as civilised must possess at least one foreign language; and, as a consequence of this, the children of the upper classes are always taught at least french in their infancy. many households comprise a german nurse, a french tutor, and an english governess; and the children thus become accustomed from their earliest years to the use of these three languages. besides this, russian is phonetically very rich and contains nearly all the sounds which are to be found in west-european tongues. perhaps on the whole it would be well to apply here the darwinian theory, and suppose that the russian noblesse, having been obliged for several generations to acquire foreign languages, have gradually developed a hereditary polyglot talent. several circumstances concurred to assist me in my efforts, during my voluntary exile, to acquire at least such a knowledge of the language as would enable me to converse freely with the peasantry. in the first place, my reverend teacher was an agreeable, kindly, talkative man, who took a great delight in telling interminable stories, quite independently of any satisfaction which he might derive from the consciousness of their being understood and appreciated. even when walking alone he was always muttering something to an imaginary listener. a stranger meeting him on such occasions might have supposed that he was holding converse with unseen spirits, though his broad muscular form and rubicund face militated strongly against such a supposition; but no man, woman, or child living within a radius of ten miles would ever have fallen into this mistake. every one in the neighbourhood knew that "batushka" (papa), as he was familiarly called, was too prosaical, practical a man to see things ethereal, that he was an irrepressible talker, and that when he could not conveniently find an audience he created one by his own imagination. this peculiarity of his rendered me good service. though for some time i understood very little of what he said, and very often misplaced the positive and negative monosyllables which i hazarded occasionally by way of encouragement, he talked vigorously all the same. like all garrulous people, he was constantly repeating himself; but to this i did not object, for the custom--however disagreeable in ordinary society--was for me highly beneficial, and when i had already heard a story once or twice before, it was much easier for me to assume at the proper moment the requisite expression of countenance. another fortunate circumstance was that at ivanofka there were no distractions, so that the whole of the day and a great part of the night could be devoted to study. my chief amusement was an occasional walk in the fields with karl karl'itch; and even this mild form of dissipation could not always be obtained, for as soon as rain had fallen it was difficult to go beyond the verandah--the mud precluding the possibility of a constitutional. the nearest approach to excitement was mushroom-gathering; and in this occupation my inability to distinguish the edible from the poisonous species made my efforts unacceptable. we lived so "far from the madding crowd" that its din scarcely reached our ears. a week or ten days might pass without our receiving any intelligence from the outer world. the nearest post-office was in the district town, and with that distant point we had no regular system of communication. letters and newspapers remained there till called for, and were brought to us intermittently when some one of our neighbours happened to pass that way. current history was thus administered to us in big doses. one very big dose i remember well. for a much longer time than usual no volunteer letter-carrier had appeared, and the delay was more than usually tantalising, because it was known that war had broken out between france and germany. at last a big bundle of a daily paper called the golos was brought to me. impatient to learn whether any great battle had been fought, i began by examining the latest number, and stumbled at once on an article headed, "latest intelligence: the emperor at wilhelmshohe!!!" the large type in which the heading was printed and the three marks of exclamation showed plainly that the article was very important. i began to read with avidity, but was utterly mystified. what emperor was this? probably the tsar or the emperor of austria, for there was no german emperor in those days. but no! it was evidently the emperor of the french. and how did napoleon get to wilhelmshohe? the french must have broken through the rhine defences, and pushed far into germany. but no! as i read further, i found this theory equally untenable. it turned out that the emperor was surrounded by germans, and--a prisoner! in order to solve the mystery, i had to go back to the preceding numbers of the paper, and learned, at a sitting, all about the successive german victories, the defeat and capitulation of macmahon's army at sedan, and the other great events of that momentous time. the impression produced can scarcely be realised by those who have always imbibed current history in the homeopathic doses administered by the morning and evening daily papers. by the useful loquacity of my teacher and the possibility of devoting all my time to my linguistic studies, i made such rapid progress in the acquisition of the language that i was able after a few weeks to understand much of what was said to me, and to express myself in a vague, roundabout way. in the latter operation i was much assisted by a peculiar faculty of divination which the russians possess in a high degree. if a foreigner succeeds in expressing about one-fourth of an idea, the russian peasant can generally fill up the remaining three-fourths from his own intuition. as my powers of comprehension increased, my long conversations with the priest became more and more instructive. at first his remarks and stories had for me simply a philological interest, but gradually i perceived that his talk contained a great deal of solid, curious information regarding himself and the class to which he belonged--information of a kind not commonly found in grammatical exercises. some of this i now propose to communicate to the reader. chapter iv the village priest priests' names--clerical marriages--the white and the black clergy--why the people do not respect the parish priests--history of the white clergy--the parish priest and the protestant pastor--in what sense the russian people are religious--icons--the clergy and popular education--ecclesiastical reform--premonitory symptoms of change--two typical specimens of the parochial clergy of the present day. in formal introductions it is customary to pronounce in a more or less inaudible voice the names of the two persons introduced. circumstances compel me in the present case to depart from received custom. the truth is, i do not know the names of the two people whom i wish to bring together! the reader who knows his own name will readily pardon one-half of my ignorance, but he may naturally expect that i should know the name of a man with whom i profess to be acquainted, and with whom i daily held long conversations during a period of several months. strange as it may seem, i do not. during all the time of my sojourn in ivanofka i never heard him addressed or spoken of otherwise than as "batushka." now "batushka" is not a name at all. it is simply the diminutive form of an obsolete word meaning "father," and is usually applied to all village priests. the ushka is a common diminutive termination, and the root bat is evidently the same as that which appears in the latin pater. though i do not happen to know what batushka's family name was, i can communicate two curious facts concerning it: he had not possessed it in his childhood, and it was not the same as his father's. the reader whose intuitive powers have been preternaturally sharpened by a long course of sensation novels will probably leap to the conclusion that batushka was a mysterious individual, very different from what he seemed--either the illegitimate son of some great personage, or a man of high birth who had committed some great sin, and who now sought oblivion and expiation in the humble duties of a parish priest. let me dispel at once all delusions of this kind. batushka was actually as well as legally the legitimate son of an ordinary parish priest, who was still living, about twenty miles off, and for many generations all his paternal and maternal ancestors, male and female, had belonged to the priestly caste. he was thus a levite of the purest water, and thoroughly levitical in his character. though he knew by experience something about the weakness of the flesh, he had never committed any sins of the heroic kind, and had no reason to conceal his origin. the curious facts above stated were simply the result of a peculiar custom which exists among the russian clergy. according to this custom, when a boy enters the seminary he receives from the bishop a new family name. the name may be bogoslafski, from a word signifying "theology," or bogolubof, "the love of god," or some similar term; or it may be derived from the name of the boy's native village, or from any other word which the bishop thinks fit to choose. i know of one instance where a bishop chose two french words for the purpose. he had intended to call the boy velikoselski, after his native place, velikoe selo, which means "big village"; but finding that there was already a velikoselski in the seminary, and being in a facetious frame of mind, he called the new comer grandvillageski--a word that may perhaps sorely puzzle some philologist of the future. my reverend teacher was a tall, muscular man of about forty years of age, with a full dark-brown beard, and long lank hair falling over his shoulders. the visible parts of his dress consisted of three articles--a dingy-brown robe of coarse material buttoned closely at the neck and descending to the ground, a wideawake hat, and a pair of large, heavy boots. as to the esoteric parts of his attire, i refrained from making investigations. his life had been an uneventful one. at an early age he had been sent to the seminary in the chief town of the province, and had made for himself the reputation of a good average scholar. "the seminary of that time," he used to say to me, referring to that part of his life, "was not what it is now. nowadays the teachers talk about humanitarianism, and the boys would think that a crime had been committed against human dignity if one of them happened to be flogged. but they don't consider that human dignity is at all affected by their getting drunk, and going to--to--to places that i never went to. i was flogged often enough, and i don't think that i am a worse man on that account; and though i never heard then anything about pedagogical science that they talk so much about now, i'll read a bit of latin yet with the best of them. "when my studies were finished," said batushka, continuing the simple story of his life, "the bishop found a wife for me, and i succeeded her father, who was then an old man. in that way i became a priest of ivanofka, and have remained here ever since. it is a hard life, for the parish is big, and my bit of land is not very fertile; but, praise be to god! i am healthy and strong, and get on well enough." "you said that the bishop found a wife for you," i remarked. "i suppose, therefore, that he was a great friend of yours." "not at all. the bishop does the same for all the seminarists who wish to be ordained: it is an important part of his pastoral duties." "indeed!" i exclaimed in astonishment. "surely that is carrying the system of paternal government a little too far. why should his reverence meddle with things that don't concern him?" "but these matters do concern him. he is the natural protector of widows and orphans, especially among the clergy of his own diocese. when a parish priest dies, what is to become of his wife and daughters?" not perceiving clearly the exact bearing of these last remarks, i ventured to suggest that priests ought to economise in view of future contingencies. "it is easy to speak," replied batushka: "'a story is soon told,' as the old proverb has it, 'but a thing is not soon done.' how are we to economise? even without saving we have the greatest difficulty to make the two ends meet." "then the widow and daughters might work and gain a livelihood." "what, pray, could they work at?" asked batushka, and paused for a reply. seeing that i had none to offer him, he continued, "even the house and land belong not to them, but to the new priest." "if that position occurred in a novel," i said, "i could foretell what would happen. the author would make the new priest fall in love with and marry one of the daughters, and then the whole family, including the mother-in-law, would live happily ever afterwards." "that is exactly how the bishop arranges the matter. what the novelist does with the puppets of his imagination, the bishop does with real beings of flesh and blood. as a rational being he cannot leave things to chance. besides this, he must arrange the matter before the young man takes orders, because, by the rules of the church, the marriage cannot take place after the ceremony of ordination. when the affair is arranged before the charge becomes vacant, the old priest can die with the pleasant consciousness that his family is provided for." "well, batushka, you certainly put the matter in a very plausible way, but there seem to be two flaws in the analogy. the novelist can make two people fall in love with each other, and make them live happily together with the mother-in-law, but that--with all due respect to his reverence, be it said--is beyond the power of a bishop." "i am not sure," said batushka, avoiding the point of the objection, "that love-marriages are always the happiest ones; and as to the mother-in-law, there are--or at least there were until the emancipation of the serfs--a mother-in-law and several daughters-in-law in almost every peasant household." "and does harmony generally reign in peasant households?" "that depends upon the head of the house. if he is a man of the right sort, he can keep the women-folks in order." this remark was made in an energetic tone, with the evident intention of assuring me that the speaker was himself "a man of the right sort"; but i did not attribute much importance to it, for i have occasionally heard henpecked husbands talk in this grandiloquent way when their wives were out of hearing. altogether i was by no means convinced that the system of providing for the widows and orphans of the clergy by means of mariages de convenance was a good one, but i determined to suspend my judgment until i should obtain fuller information. an additional bit of evidence came to me a week or two later. one morning, on going into the priest's house, i found that he had a friend with him--the priest of a village some fifteen miles off. before we had got through the ordinary conventional remarks about the weather and the crops, a peasant drove up to the door in his cart with a message that an old peasant was dying in a neighbouring village, and desired the last consolations of religion. batushka was thus obliged to leave us, and his friend and i agreed to stroll leisurely in the direction of the village to which he was going, so as to meet him on his way home. the harvest was already finished, so that our road, after emerging from the village, lay through stubble-fields. beyond this we entered the pine forest, and by the time we had reached this point i had succeeded in leading the conversation to the subject of clerical marriages. "i have been thinking a good deal on this subject," i said, "and i should very much like to know your opinion about the system." my new acquaintance was a tall, lean, black-haired man, with a sallow complexion and vinegar aspect--evidently one of those unhappy mortals who are intended by nature to take a pessimistic view of all things, and to point out to their fellows the deep shadows of human life. i was not at all surprised, therefore, when he replied in a deep, decided tone, "bad, very bad--utterly bad!" the way in which these words were pronounced left no doubt as to the opinion of the speaker, but i was desirous of knowing on what that opinion was founded--more especially as i seemed to detect in the tone a note of personal grievance. my answer was shaped accordingly. "i suspected that; but in the discussions which i have had i have always been placed at a disadvantage, not being able to adduce any definite facts in support of my opinion." "you may congratulate yourself on being unable to find any in your own experience. a mother-in-law living in the house does not conduce to domestic harmony. i don't know how it is in your country, but so it is with us." i hastened to assure him that this was not a peculiarity of russia. "i know it only too well," he continued. "my mother-in-law lived with me for some years, and i was obliged at last to insist on her going to another son-in-law." "rather selfish conduct towards your brother-in-law," i said to myself, and then added audibly, "i hope you have thus solved the difficulty satisfactorily." "not at all. things are worse now than they were. i agreed to pay her three roubles a month, and have regularly fulfilled my promise, but lately she has thought it not enough, and she made a complaint to the bishop. last week i went to him to defend myself, but as i had not money enough for all the officials in the consistorium, i could not obtain justice. my mother-in-law had made all sorts of absurd accusations against me, and consequently i was laid under an inhibition for six weeks!" "and what is the effect of an inhibition?" "the effect is that i cannot perform the ordinary rites of our religion. it is really very unjust," he added, assuming an indignant tone, "and very annoying. think of all the hardship and inconvenience to which it gives rise." as i thought of the hardship and inconvenience to which the parishioners must be exposed through the inconsiderate conduct of the old mother-in-law, i could not but sympathise with my new acquaintance's indignation. my sympathy was, however, somewhat cooled when i perceived that i was on a wrong tack, and that the priest was looking at the matter from an entirely different point of view. "you see," he said, "it is a most unfortunate time of year. the peasants have gathered in their harvest, and can give of their abundance. there are merry-makings and marriages, besides the ordinary deaths and baptisms. altogether i shall lose by the thing more than a hundred roubles!" i confess i was a little shocked on hearing the priest thus speak of his sacred functions as if they were an ordinary marketable commodity, and talk of the inhibition as a pushing undertaker might talk of sanitary improvements. my surprise was caused not by the fact that he regarded the matter from a pecuniary point of view--for i was old enough to know that clerical human nature is not altogether insensible to pecuniary considerations--but by the fact that he should thus undisguisedly express his opinions to a stranger without in the least suspecting that there was anything unseemly in his way of speaking. the incident appeared to me very characteristic, but i refrained from all audible comments, lest i should inadvertently check his communicativeness. with the view of encouraging it, i professed to be very much interested, as i really was, in what he said, and i asked him how in his opinion the present unsatisfactory state of things might be remedied. "there is but one cure," he said, with a readiness that showed he had often spoken on the theme already, "and that is freedom and publicity. we full-grown men are treated like children, and watched like conspirators. if i wish to preach a sermon--not that i often wish to do such a thing, but there are occasions when it is advisable--i am expected to show it first to the blagotchinny, and--" "i beg your pardon, who is the blagotchinny?" "the blagotchinny is a parish priest who is in direct relations with the consistory of the province, and who is supposed to exercise a strict supervision over all the other parish priests of his district. he acts as the spy of the consistory, which is filled with greedy, shameless officials, deaf to any one who does not come provided with a handful of roubles. the bishop may be a good, well-intentioned man, but he always sees and acts through these worthless subordinates. besides this, the bishops and heads of monasteries, who monopolise the higher places in the ecclesiastical administration, all belong to the black clergy--that is to say, they are all monks--and consequently cannot understand our wants. how can they, on whom celibacy is imposed by the rules of the church, understand the position of a parish priest who has to bring up a family and to struggle with domestic cares of every kind? what they do is to take all the comfortable places for themselves, and leave us all the hard work. the monasteries are rich enough, and you see how poor we are. perhaps you have heard that the parish priests extort money from the peasants--refusing to perform the rites of baptism or burial until a considerable sum has been paid. it is only too true, but who is to blame? the priest must live and bring up his family, and you cannot imagine the humiliations to which he has to submit in order to gain a scanty pittance. i know it by experience. when i make the periodical visitation i can see that the peasants grudge every handful of rye and every egg that they give me. i can overbear their sneers as i go away, and i know they have many sayings such as--'the priest takes from the living and from the dead.' many of them fasten their doors, pretending to be away from home, and do not even take the precaution of keeping silent till i am out of hearing." "you surprise me," i said, in reply to the last part of this long tirade; "i have always heard that the russians are a very religious people--at least the lower classes." "so they are; but the peasantry are poor and heavily taxed. they set great importance on the sacraments, and observe rigorously the fasts, which comprise nearly a half of the year; but they show very little respect for their priests, who are almost as poor as themselves." "but i do not see clearly how you propose to remedy this state of things." "by freedom and publicity, as i said before." the worthy man seemed to have learned this formula by rote. "first of all, our wants must be made known. in some provinces there have been attempts to do this by means of provincial assemblies of the clergy, but these efforts have always been strenuously opposed by the consistories, whose members fear publicity above all things. but in order to have publicity we must have more freedom." here followed a long discourse on freedom and publicity, which seemed to me very confused. so far as i could understand the argument, there was a good deal of reasoning in a circle. freedom was necessary in order to get publicity, and publicity was necessary in order to get freedom; and the practical result would be that the clergy would enjoy bigger salaries and more popular respect. we had only got thus far in the investigation of the subject when our conversation was interrupted by the rumbling of a peasant's cart. in a few seconds our friend batushka appeared, and the conversation took a different turn. since that time i have frequently spoken on this subject with competent authorities, and nearly all have admitted that the present condition of the clergy is highly unsatisfactory, and that the parish priest rarely enjoys the respect of his parishioners. in a semi-official report, which i once accidentally stumbled upon when searching for material of a different kind, the facts are stated in the following plain language: "the people"--i seek to translate as literally as possible--"do not respect the clergy, but persecute them with derision and reproaches, and feel them to be a burden. in nearly all the popular comic stories the priest, his wife, or his labourer is held up to ridicule, and in all the proverbs and popular sayings where the clergy are mentioned it is always with derision. the people shun the clergy, and have recourse to them not from the inner impulse of conscience, but from necessity. . . . and why do the people not respect the clergy? because it forms a class apart; because, having received a false kind of education, it does not introduce into the life of the people the teaching of the spirit, but remains in the mere dead forms of outward ceremonial, at the same time despising these forms even to blasphemy; because the clergy itself continually presents examples of want of respect to religion, and transforms the service of god into a profitable trade. can the people respect the clergy when they hear how one priest stole money from below the pillow of a dying man at the moment of confession, how another was publicly dragged out of a house of ill-fame, how a third christened a dog, how a fourth whilst officiating at the easter service was dragged by the hair from the altar by the deacon? is it possible for the people to respect priests who spend their time in the gin-shop, write fraudulent petitions, fight with the cross in their hands, and abuse each other in bad language at the altar? "one might fill several pages with examples of this kind--in each instance naming the time and place--without overstepping the boundaries of the province of nizhni-novgorod. is it possible for the people to respect the clergy when they see everywhere amongst them simony, carelessness in performing the religious rites, and disorder in administering the sacraments? is it possible for the people to respect the clergy when they see that truth has disappeared from it, and that the consistories, guided in their decisions not by rules, but by personal friendship and bribery, destroy in it the last remains of truthfulness? if we add to all this the false certificates which the clergy give to those who do not wish to partake of the eucharist, the dues illegally extracted from the old ritualists, the conversion of the altar into a source of revenue, the giving of churches to priests' daughters as a dowry, and similar phenomena, the question as to whether the people can respect the clergy requires no answer." as these words were written by an orthodox russian,* celebrated for his extensive and intimate knowledge of russian provincial life, and were addressed in all seriousness to a member of the imperial family, we may safely assume that they contain a considerable amount of truth. the reader must not, however, imagine that all russian priests are of the kind above referred to. many of them are honest, respectable, well-intentioned men, who conscientiously fulfil their humble duties, and strive hard to procure a good education for their children. if they have less learning, culture, and refinement than the roman catholic priesthood, they have at the same time infinitely less fanaticism, less spiritual pride, and less intolerance towards the adherents of other faiths. * mr. melnikof, in a "secret" report to the grand duke constantine nikolaievitch. both the good and the bad qualities of the russian priesthood at the present time can be easily explained by its past history, and by certain peculiarities of the national character. the russian white clergy--that is to say, the parish priests, as distinguished from the monks, who are called the black clergy--have had a curious history. in primitive times they were drawn from all classes of the population, and freely elected by the parishioners. when a man was elected by the popular vote, he was presented to the bishop, and if he was found to be a fit and proper person for the office, he was at once ordained. but this custom early fell into disuse. the bishops, finding that many of the candidates presented were illiterate peasants, gradually assumed the right of appointing the priests, with or without the consent of the parishioners; and their choice generally fell on the sons of the clergy as the men best fitted to take orders. the creation of bishops' schools, afterwards called seminaries, in which the sons of the clergy were educated, naturally led, in the course of time, to the total exclusion of the other classes. the policy of the civil government led to the same end. peter the great laid down the principle that every subject should in some way serve the state--the nobles as officers in the army or navy, or as officials in the civil service; the clergy as ministers of religion; and the lower classes as soldiers, sailors, or tax-payers. of these three classes the clergy had by far the lightest burdens, and consequently many nobles and peasants would willingly have entered its ranks. but this species of desertion the government could not tolerate, and accordingly the priesthood was surrounded by a legal barrier which prevented all outsiders from entering it. thus by the combined efforts of the ecclesiastical and the civil administration the clergy became a separate class or caste, legally and actually incapable of mingling with the other classes of the population. the simple fact that the clergy became an exclusive caste, with a peculiar character, peculiar habits, and peculiar ideals, would in itself have had a prejudicial influence on the priesthood; but this was not all. the caste increased in numbers by the process of natural reproduction much more rapidly than the offices to be filled, so that the supply of priests and deacons soon far exceeded the demand; and the disproportion between supply and demand became every year greater and greater. in this way was formed an ever-increasing clerical proletariat, which--as is always the case with a proletariat of any kind--gravitated towards the towns. in vain the government issued ukazes prohibiting the priests from quitting their places of domicile, and treated as vagrants and runaways those who disregarded the prohibition; in vain successive sovereigns endeavoured to diminish the number of these supernumeraries by drafting them wholesale into the army. in moscow, st. petersburg, and all the larger towns the cry was, "still they come!" every morning, in the kremlin of moscow, a large crowd of them assembled for the purpose of being hired to officiate in the private chapels of the rich nobles, and a great deal of hard bargaining took place between the priests and the lackeys sent to hire them--conducted in the same spirit, and in nearly the same forms, as that which simultaneously took place in the bazaar close by between extortionate traders and thrifty housewives. "listen to me," a priest would say, as an ultimatum, to a lackey who was trying to beat down the price: "if you don't give me seventy-five kopeks without further ado, i'll take a bite of this roll, and that will be an end to it!" and that would have been an end to the bargaining, for, according to the rules of the church, a priest cannot officiate after breaking his fast. the ultimatum, however, could be used with effect only to country servants who had recently come to town. a sharp lackey, experienced in this kind of diplomacy, would have laughed at the threat, and replied coolly, "bite away, batushka; i can find plenty more of your sort!" amusing scenes of this kind i have heard described by old people who professed to have been eye-witnesses. the condition of the priests who remained in the villages was not much better. those of them who were fortunate enough to find places were raised at least above the fear of absolute destitution, but their position was by no means enviable. they received little consideration or respect from the peasantry, and still less from the nobles. when the church was situated not on the state domains, but on a private estate, they were practically under the power of the proprietor--almost as completely as his serfs; and sometimes that power was exercised in a most humiliating and shameful way. i have heard, for instance, of one priest who was ducked in a pond on a cold winter day for the amusement of the proprietor and his guests--choice spirits, of rough, jovial temperament; and of another who, having neglected to take off his hat as he passed the proprietor's house, was put into a barrel and rolled down a hill into the river at the bottom! in citing these incidents, i do not at all mean to imply that they represent the relations which usually existed between proprietors and village priests, for i am quite aware that wanton cruelty was not among the ordinary vices of russian serf-owners. my object in mentioning the incidents is to show how a brutal proprietor--and it must be admitted that they were not a few brutal individuals in the class--could maltreat a priest without much danger of being called to account for his conduct. of course such conduct was an offence in the eyes of the criminal law; but the criminal law of that time was very shortsighted, and strongly disposed to close its eyes completely when the offender was an influential proprietor. had the incidents reached the ears of the emperor nicholas he would probably have ordered the culprit to be summarily and severely punished but, as the russian proverb has it, "heaven is high, and the tsar is far off." a village priest treated in this barbarous way could have little hope of redress, and, if he were a prudent man, he would make no attempt to obtain it; for any annoyance which he might give the proprietor by complaining to the ecclesiastical authorities would be sure to be paid back to him with interest in some indirect way. the sons of the clergy who did not succeed in finding regular sacerdotal employment were in a still worse position. many of them served as scribes or subordinate officials in the public offices, where they commonly eked out their scanty salaries by unblushing extortion and pilfering. those who did not succeed in gaining even modest employment of this kind had to keep off starvation by less lawful means, and not unfrequently found their way into the prisons or to siberia. in judging of the russian priesthood of the present time, we must call to mind this severe school through which it has passed, and we must also take into consideration the spirit which has been for centuries predominant in the eastern church--i mean the strong tendency both in the clergy and in the laity to attribute an inordinate importance to the ceremonial element of religion. primitive mankind is everywhere and always disposed to regard religion as simply a mass of mysterious rites which have a secret magical power of averting evil in this world and securing felicity in the next. to this general rule the russian peasantry are no exception, and the russian church has not done all it might have done to eradicate this conception and to bring religion into closer association with ordinary morality. hence such incidents as the following are still possible: a robber kills and rifles a traveller, but he refrains from eating a piece of cooked meat which he finds in the cart, because it happens to be a fast-day; a peasant prepares to rob a young attache of the austrian embassy in st. petersburg, and ultimately kills his victim, but before going to the house he enters a church and commends his undertaking to the protection of the saints; a housebreaker, when in the act of robbing a church, finds it difficult to extract the jewels from an icon, and makes a vow that if a certain saint assists him he will place a rouble's-worth of tapers before the saint's image! these facts are within the memory of the present generation. i knew the young attache, and saw him a few days before his death. all these are of course extreme cases, but they illustrate a tendency which in its milder forms is only too general amongst the russian people--the tendency to regard religion as a mass of ceremonies which have a magical rather than a spiritual significance. the poor woman who kneels at a religious procession in order that the icon may be carried over her head, and the rich merchant who invites the priests to bring some famous icon to his house, illustrates this tendency in a more harmless form. according to a popular saying, "as is the priest, so is the parish," and the converse proposition is equally true--as is the parish, so is the priest. the great majority of priests, like the great majority of men in general, content themselves with simply striving to perform what is expected of them, and their character is consequently determined to a certain extent by the ideas and conceptions of their parishioners. this will become more apparent if we contrast the russian priest with the protestant pastor. according to protestant conceptions, the village pastor is a man of grave demeanour and exemplary conduct, and possesses a certain amount of education and refinement. he ought to expound weekly to his flock, in simple, impressive words, the great truths of christianity, and exhort his hearers to walk in the paths of righteousness. besides this, he is expected to comfort the afflicted, to assist the needy, to counsel those who are harassed with doubts, and to admonish those who openly stray from the narrow path. such is the ideal in the popular mind, and pastors generally seek to realise it, if not in very deed, at least in appearance. the russian priest, on the contrary, has no such ideal set before him by his parishioners. he is expected merely to conform to certain observances, and to perform punctiliously the rites and ceremonies prescribed by the church. if he does this without practising extortion his parishioners are quite satisfied. he rarely preaches or exhorts, and neither has nor seeks to have a moral influence over his flock. i have occasionally heard of russian priests who approach to what i have termed the protestant ideal, and i have even seen one or two of them, but i fear they are not numerous. in the above contrast i have accidentally omitted one important feature. the protestant clergy have in all countries rendered valuable service to the cause of popular education. the reason of this is not difficult to find. in order to be a good protestant it is necessary to "search the scriptures," and to do this, one must be able at least to read. to be a good member of the greek orthodox church, on the contrary, according to popular conceptions, the reading of the scriptures is not necessary, and therefore primary education has not in the eyes of the greek orthodox priest the same importance which it has in the eyes of the protestant pastor. it must be admitted that the russian people are in a certain sense religions. they go regularly to church on sundays and holy-days, cross themselves repeatedly when they pass a church or icon, take the holy communion at stated seasons, rigorously abstain from animal food--not only on wednesdays and fridays, but also during lent and the other long fasts--make occasional pilgrimages to holy shrines, and, in a word, fulfil punctiliously the ceremonial observances which they suppose necessary for salvation. but here their religiousness ends. they are generally profoundly ignorant of religious doctrine, and know little or nothing of holy writ. a peasant, it is said, was once asked by a priest if he could name the three persons of the trinity, and replied without a moment's hesitation, "how can one not know that, batushka? of course it is the saviour, the mother of god, and saint nicholas the miracle-worker!" that answer represents fairly enough the theological attainments of a very large section of the peasantry. the anecdote is so often repeated that it is probably an invention, but it is not a calumny of theology and of what protestants term the "inner religious life" the orthodox russian peasant--of dissenters, to whom these remarks do not apply, i shall speak later--has no conception. for him the ceremonial part of religion suffices, and he has the most unbounded, childlike confidence in the saving efficacy of the rites which he practises. if he has been baptised in infancy, has regularly observed the fasts, has annually partaken of the holy communion, and has just confessed and received extreme unction, he feels death approach with the most perfect tranquillity. he is tormented with no doubts as to the efficacy of faith or works, and has no fears that his past life may possibly have rendered him unfit for eternal felicity. like a man in a sinking ship who has buckled on his life-preserver, he feels perfectly secure. with no fear for the future and little regret for the present or the past, he awaits calmly the dread summons, and dies with a resignation which a stoic philosopher might envy. in the above paragraph i have used the word icon, and perhaps the reader may not clearly understand the word. let me explain then, briefly, what an icon is--a very necessary explanation, for the icons play an important part in the religious observances of the russian people. icons are pictorial, usually half-length, representations of the saviour, of the madonna, or of a saint, executed in archaic byzantine style, on a yellow or gold ground, and varying in size from a square inch to several square feet. very often the whole picture, with the exception of the face and hands of the figure, is covered with a metal plaque, embossed so as to represent the form of the figure and the drapery. when this plaque is not used, the crown and costume are often adorned with pearls and other precious stones--sometimes of great price. in respect of religions significance, icons are of two kinds: simple, and miraculous or miracle-working (tchudotvorny). the former are manufactured in enormous quantities--chiefly in the province of vladimir, where whole villages are employed in this kind of work--and are to be found in every russian house, from the hut of the peasant to the palace of the emperor. they are generally placed high up in a corner facing the door, and good orthodox christians on entering bow in that direction, making at the same time the sign of the cross. before and after meals the same short ceremony is always performed. on the eve of fete-days a small lamp is kept burning before at least one of the icons in the house. the wonder-working icons are comparatively few in number, and are always carefully preserved in a church or chapel. they are commonly believed to have been "not made with hands," and to have appeared in a miraculous way. a monk, or it may be a common mortal, has a vision, in which he is informed that he may find a miraculous icon in such a place, and on going to the spot indicated he finds it, sometimes buried, sometimes hanging on a tree. the sacred treasure is then removed to a church, and the news spreads like wildfire through the district. thousands flock to prostrate themselves before the heaven-sent picture, and some are healed of their diseases--a fact that plainly indicates its miracle-working power. the whole affair is then officially reported to the most holy synod, the highest ecclesiastical authority in russia, in order that the existence of the miracle-working power may be fully and regularly proved. the official recognition of the fact is by no means a mere matter of form, for the synod is well aware that wonder-working icons are always a rich source of revenue to the monasteries where they are kept, and that zealous superiors are consequently apt in such cases to lean to the side of credulity, rather than that of over-severe criticism. a regular investigation is therefore made, and the formal recognition is not granted till the testimony of the finder is thoroughly examined and the alleged miracles duly authenticated. if the recognition is granted, the icon is treated with the greatest veneration, and is sure to be visited by pilgrims from far and near. some of the most revered icons--as, for instance, the kazan madonna--have annual fete-days instituted in their honour; or, more correctly speaking, the anniversary of their miraculous appearance is observed as a religions holiday. a few of them have an additional title to popular respect and veneration: that of being intimately associated with great events in the national history. the vladimir madonna, for example, once saved moscow from the tartars; the smolensk madonna accompanied the army in the glorious campaign against napoleon in ; and when in that year it was known in moscow that the french were advancing on the city, the people wished the metropolitan to take the iberian madonna, which may still be seen near one of the gates of the kremlin, and to lead them out armed with hatchets against the enemy. if the russian priests have done little to advance popular education, they have at least never intentionally opposed it. unlike their roman catholic brethren, they do not hold that "a little learning is a dangerous thing," and do not fear that faith may be endangered by knowledge. indeed, it is a remarkable fact that the russian church regards with profound apathy those various intellectual movements which cause serious alarm to many thoughtful christians in western europe. it considers religion as something so entirely apart that its votaries do not feel the necessity of bringing their theological beliefs into logical harmony with their scientific conceptions. a man may remain a good orthodox christian long after he has adopted scientific opinions irreconcilable with eastern orthodoxy, or, indeed, with dogmatic christianity of any kind. in the confessional the priest never seeks to ferret out heretical opinions; and i can recall no instance in russian history of a man being burnt at the stake on the demand of the ecclesiastical authorities, as so often happened in the roman catholic world, for his scientific views. this tolerance proceeds partly, no doubt, from the fact that the eastern church in general, and the russian church in particular, have remained for centuries in a kind of intellectual torpor. even such a fervent orthodox christian as the late ivan aksakof perceived this absence of healthy vitality, and he did not hesitate to declare his conviction that, "neither the russian nor the slavonic world will be resuscitated . . . so long as the church remains in such lifelessness (mertvennost'), which is not a matter of chance, but the legitimate fruit of some organic defect."* * solovyoff, "otcherki ig istorii russkoi literaturi xix. veka." st. petersburg, , p. . though the unsatisfactory condition of the parochial clergy is generally recognised by the educated classes, very few people take the trouble to consider seriously how it might be improved. during the reform enthusiasm which raged for some years after the crimean war ecclesiastical affairs were entirely overlooked. many of the reformers of those days were so very "advanced" that religion in all its forms seemed to them an old-world superstition which tended to retard rather than accelerate social progress, and which consequently should be allowed to die as tranquilly as possible; whilst the men of more moderate views found they had enough to do in emancipating the serfs and reforming the corrupt civil and judicial administration. during the subsequent reactionary period, which culminated in the reign of the late emperor, alexander iii., much more attention was devoted to church matters, and it came to be recognised in official circles that something ought to be done for the parish clergy in the way of improving their material condition so as to increase their moral influence. with this object in view, m. pobedonostsef, the procurator of the holy synod, induced the government in to make a state-grant of about , , roubles, which should be increased every year, but the sum was very inadequate, and a large portion of it was devoted to purposes of political propaganda in the form of maintaining greek orthodox priests in districts where the population was protestant or roman catholic. consequently, of the , parishes which russia contains, only , , or a little more than one-half, were enabled to benefit by the grant. in an optimistic, semi-official statement published as late as it is admitted that "the means for the support of the parish clergy must even now be considered insufficient and wanting in stability, making the priests dependent on the parishioners, and thereby preventing the establishment of the necessary moral authority of the spiritual father over his flock." in some places the needs of the church are attended to by voluntary parish-curatorships which annually raise a certain sum of money, and the way in which they distribute it is very characteristic of the russian people, who have a profound veneration for the church and its rites, but very little consideration for the human beings who serve at the altar. in , parishes possessing such curatorships no less than , , roubles were collected, but of this sum , , were expended on the maintenance and embellishment of churches, and only , were devoted to the personal wants of the clergy. according to the semi-official document from which these figures are taken the whole body of the russian white clergy in numbered , , of whom , were priests, , deacons, and , clerks. in more recent observations among the parochial clergy i have noticed premonitory symptoms of important changes. this may be illustrated by an entry in my note-book, written in a village of one of the southern provinces, under date of th september, : "i have made here the acquaintance of two good specimens of the parish clergy, both excellent men in their way, but very different from each other. the elder one, father dmitri, is of the old school, a plain, practical man, who fulfils his duties conscientiously according to his lights, but without enthusiasm. his intellectual wants are very limited, and he devotes his attention chiefly to the practical affairs of everyday life, which he manages very successfully. he does not squeeze his parishioners unduly, but he considers that the labourer is worthy of his hire, and insists on his flock providing for his wants according to their means. at the same time he farms on his own account and attends personally to all the details of his farming operations. with the condition and doings of every member of his flock he is intimately acquainted, and, on the whole, as he never idealised anything or anybody, he has not a very high opinion of them. "the younger priest, father alexander, is of a different type, and the difference may be remarked even in his external appearance. there is a look of delicacy and refinement about him, though his dress and domestic surroundings are of the plainest, and there is not a tinge of affectation in his manner. his language is less archaic and picturesque. he uses fewer biblical and semi-slavonic expressions--i mean expressions which belong to the antiquated language of the church service rather than to modern parlance--and his armoury of terse popular proverbs which constitute such a characteristic trait of the peasantry, is less frequently drawn on. when i ask him about the present condition of the peasantry, his account does not differ substantially from that of his elder colleague, but he does not condemn their sins in the same forcible terms. he laments their shortcomings in an evangelical spirit and has apparently aspirations for their future improvement. admitting frankly that there is a great deal of lukewarmness among them, he hopes to revive their interest in ecclesiastical affairs and he has an idea of constituting a sort of church committee for attending to the temporal affairs of the village church and for works of charity, but he looks to influencing the younger rather than the older generation. "his interest in his parishioners is not confined to their spiritual welfare, but extends to their material well-being. of late an association for mutual credit has been founded in the village, and he uses his influence to induce the peasants to take advantage of the benefits it offers, both to those who are in need of a little ready money and to those who might invest their savings, instead of keeping them hidden away in an old stocking or buried in an earthen pot. the proposal to create a local agricultural society meets also with his sympathy." if the number of parish priests of this type increase, the clergy may come to exercise great moral influence on the common people. chapter v a medical consultation unexpected illness--a village doctor--siberian plague--my studies--russian historians--a russian imitator of dickens--a ci-devant domestic serf--medicine and witchcraft--a remnant of paganism--credulity of the peasantry--absurd rumours--a mysterious visit from st. barbara--cholera on board a steamer--hospitals--lunatic asylums--amongst maniacs. in enumerating the requisites for travelling in the less frequented parts of russia, i omitted to mention one important condition: the traveller should be always in good health, and in case of illness be ready to dispense with regular medical attendance. this i learned by experience during my stay at ivanofka. a man who is accustomed to be always well, and has consequently cause to believe himself exempt from the ordinary ills that flesh is heir to, naturally feels aggrieved--as if some one had inflicted upon him an undeserved injury--when he suddenly finds himself ill. at first he refuses to believe the fact, and, as far as possible, takes no notice of the disagreeable symptoms. such was my state of mind on being awakened early one morning by peculiar symptoms which i had never before experienced. unwilling to admit to myself the possibility of being ill, i got up, and endeavoured to dress as usual, but very soon discovered that i was unable to stand. there was no denying the fact; not only was i ill, but the malady, whatever it was, surpassed my powers of diagnosis; and when the symptoms increased steadily all that day and the following night, i was constrained to take the humiliating decision of asking for medical advice. to my inquiries whether there was a doctor in the neighbourhood, the old servant replied, "there is not exactly a doctor, but there is a feldsher in the village." "and what is a feldsher?" "a feldsher is . . . . is a feldsher." "i am quite aware of that, but i would like to know what you mean by the word. what is this feldsher?" "he's an old soldier who dresses wounds and gives physic." the definition did not predispose me in favour of the mysterious personage, but as there was nothing better to be had i ordered him to be sent for, notwithstanding the strenuous opposition of the old servant, who evidently did not believe in feldshers. in about half an hour a tall, broad-shouldered man entered, and stood bolt upright in the middle of the room in the attitude which is designated in military language by the word "attention." his clean-shaven chin, long moustache, and closely-cropped hair confirmed one part of the old servant's definition; he was unmistakably an old soldier. "you are a feldsher," i said, making use of the word which i had recently added to my vocabulary. "exactly so, your nobility!" these words, the ordinary form of affirmation used by soldiers to their officers, were pronounced in a loud, metallic, monotonous tone, as if the speaker had been an automaton conversing with a brother automaton at a distance of twenty yards. as soon as the words were pronounced the mouth of the machine closed spasmodically, and the head, which had been momentarily turned towards me, reverted to its former position with a jerk as if it had received the order "eyes front!" "then please to sit down here, and i'll tell you about my ailment." upon this the figure took three paces to the front, wheeled to the right-about, and sat down on the edge of the chair, retaining the position of "attention" as nearly as the sitting posture would allow. when the symptoms had been carefully described, he knitted his brows, and after some reflection remarked, "i can give you a dose of . . . ." here followed a long word which i did not understand. "i don't wish you to give me a dose of anything till i know what is the matter with me. though a bit of a doctor myself, i have no idea what it is, and, pardon me, i think you are in the same position." noticing a look of ruffled professional dignity on his face, i added, as a sedative, "it is evidently something very peculiar, so that if the first medical practitioner in the country were present he would probably be as much puzzled as ourselves." the sedative had the desired effect. "well, sir, to tell you the truth," he said, in a more human tone of voice, "i do not clearly understand what it is." "exactly; and therefore i think we had better leave the cure to nature, and not interfere with her mode of treatment." "perhaps it would be better." "no doubt. and now, since i have to lie here on my back, and feel rather lonely, i should like to have a talk with you. you are not in a hurry, i hope?" "not at all. my assistant knows where i am, and will send for me if i am required." "so you have an assistant, have you?" "oh, yes; a very sharp young fellow, who has been two years in the feldsher school, and has now come here to help me and learn more by practice. that is a new way. i never was at a school of the kind myself, and had to pick up what i could when a servant in the hospital. there were, i believe, no such schools in my time. the one where my assistant learned was opened by the zemstvo." "the zemstvo is the new local administration, is it not?" "exactly so. and i could not do without the assistant," continued my new acquaintance, gradually losing his rigidity, and showing himself, what he really was, a kindly, talkative man. "i have often to go to other villages, and almost every day a number of peasants come here. at first i had very little to do, for the people thought i was an official, and would make them pay dearly for what i should give them; but now they know that they don't require to pay, and come in great numbers. and everything i give them--though sometimes i don't clearly understand what the matter is--seems to do them good. i believe that faith does as much as physic." "in my country," i remarked, "there is a sect of doctors who get the benefit of that principle. they give their patients two or three little balls no bigger than a pin's head, or a few drops of tasteless liquid, and they sometimes work wonderful cures." "that system would not do for us. the russian muzhik would have no faith if he swallowed merely things of that kind. what he believes in is something with a very bad taste, and lots of it. that is his idea of a medicine; and he thinks that the more he takes of a medicine the better chance he has of getting well. when i wish to give a peasant several doses i make him come for each separate dose, for i know that if i did not he would probably swallow the whole as soon as he was out of sight. but there is not much serious disease here--not like what i used to see on the sheksna. you have been on the sheksna?" "not yet, but i intend going there." the sheksna is a river which falls into the volga, and forms part of the great system of water-communication connecting the volga with the neva. "when you go there you will see lots of diseases. if there is a hot summer, and plenty of barges passing, something is sure to break out--typhus, or black small-pox, or siberian plague, or something of the kind. that siberian plague is a curious thing. whether it really comes from siberia, god only knows. so soon as it breaks out the horses die by dozens, and sometimes men and women are attacked, though it is not properly a human disease. they say that flies carry the poison from the dead horses to the people. the sign of it is a thing like a boil, with a dark-coloured rim. if this is cut open in time the person may recover, but if it is not, the person dies. there is cholera, too, sometimes." "what a delightful country," i said to myself, "for a young doctor who wishes to make discoveries in the science of disease!" the catalogue of diseases inhabiting this favoured region was apparently not yet complete, but it was cut short for the moment by the arrival of the assistant, with the announcement that his superior was wanted. this first interview with the feldsher was, on the whole, satisfactory. he had not rendered me any medical assistance, but he had helped me to pass an hour pleasantly, and had given me a little information of the kind i desired. my later interviews with him were equally agreeable. he was naturally an intelligent, observant man, who had seen a great deal of the russian world, and could describe graphically what he had seen. unfortunately the horizontal position to which i was condemned prevented me from noting down at the time the interesting things which he related to me. his visits, together with those of karl karl'itch and of the priest, who kindly spent a great part of his time with me, helped me to while away many an hour which would otherwise have been dreary enough. during the intervals when i was alone i devoted myself to reading--sometimes russian history and sometimes works of fiction. the history was that of karamzin, who may fairly be called the russian livy. it interested me much by the facts which it contained, but irritated me not a little by the rhetorical style in which it is written. afterwards, when i had waded through some twenty volumes of the gigantic work of solovyoff--or solovief, as the name is sometimes unphonetically written--which is simply a vast collection of valuable but undigested material, i was much less severe on the picturesque descriptions and ornate style of his illustrious predecessor. the first work of fiction which i read was a collection of tales by grigorovitch, which had been given to me by the author on my departure from st. petersburg. these tales, descriptive of rural life in russia, had been written, as the author afterwards admitted to me, under the influence of dickens. many of the little tricks and affectations which became painfully obtrusive in dickens's later works i had no difficulty in recognising under their russian garb. in spite of these i found the book very pleasant reading, and received from it some new notions--to be afterwards verified, of course--about russian peasant life. one of these tales made a deep impression upon me, and i still remember the chief incidents. the story opens with the description of a village in late autumn. it has been raining for some time heavily, and the road has become covered with a deep layer of black mud. an old woman--a small proprietor--is sitting at home with a friend, drinking tea and trying to read the future by means of a pack of cards. this occupation is suddenly interrupted by the entrance of a female servant, who announces that she has discovered an old man, apparently very ill, lying in one of the outhouses. the old woman goes out to see her uninvited guest, and, being of a kindly nature, prepares to have him removed to a more comfortable place, and properly attended to; but her servant whispers to her that perhaps he is a vagrant, and the generous impulse is thereby checked. when it is discovered that the suspicion is only too well founded, and that the man has no passport, the old woman becomes thoroughly alarmed. her imagination pictures to her the terrible consequences that would ensue if the police should discover that she had harboured a vagrant. all her little fortune might be extorted from her. and if the old man should happen to die in her house or farmyard! the consequences in that case might be very serious. not only might she lose everything, but she might even be dragged to prison. at the sight of these dangers the old woman forgets her tender-heartedness, and becomes inexorable. the old man, sick unto death though he be, must leave the premises instantly. knowing full well that he will nowhere find a refuge, he walks forth into the cold, dark, stormy night, and next morning a dead body is found at a short distance from the village. why this story, which was not strikingly remarkable for artistic merit, impressed me so deeply i cannot say. perhaps it was because i was myself ill at the time, and imagined how terrible it would be to be turned out on the muddy road on a cold, wet october night. besides this, the story interested me as illustrating the terror which the police inspired during the reign of nicholas i. the ingenious devices which they employed for extorting money formed the subject of another sketch, which i read shortly afterwards, and which has likewise remained in my memory. the facts were as follows: an officer of rural police, when driving on a country road, finds a dead body by the wayside. congratulating himself on this bit of good luck, he proceeds to the nearest village, and lets the inhabitants know that all manner of legal proceedings will be taken against them, so that the supposed murderer may be discovered. the peasants are of course frightened, and give him a considerable sum of money in order that he may hush up the affair. an ordinary officer of police would have been quite satisfied with this ransom, but this officer is not an ordinary man, and is very much in need of money; he conceives, therefore, the brilliant idea of repeating the experiment. taking up the dead body, he takes it away in his tarantass, and a few hours later declares to the inhabitants of a village some miles off that some of them have been guilty of murder, and that he intends to investigate the matter thoroughly. the peasants of course pay liberally in order to escape the investigation, and the rascally officer, emboldened by success, repeats the trick in different villages until he has gathered a large sum. tales and sketches of this kind were very much in fashion during the years which followed the death of the great autocrat, nicholas i., when the long-pent-up indignation against his severe, repressive regime was suddenly allowed free expression, and they were still much read during the first years of my stay in the country. now the public taste has changed. the reform enthusiast has evaporated, and the existing administrative abuses, more refined and less comical than their predecessors, receive comparatively little attention from the satirists. when i did not feel disposed to read, and had none of my regular visitors with me, i sometimes spent an hour or two in talking with the old man-servant who attended me. anton was decidedly an old man, but what his age precisely was i never could discover; either he did not know himself, or he did not wish to tell me. in appearance he seemed about sixty, but from certain remarks which he made i concluded that he must be nearer seventy, though he had scarcely a grey hair on his head. as to who his father was he seemed, like the famous topsy, to have no very clear ideas, but he had an advantage over topsy with regard to his maternal ancestry. his mother had been a serf who had fulfilled for some time the functions of a lady's maid, and after the death of her mistress had been promoted to a not very clearly defined position of responsibility in the household. anton, too, had been promoted in his time. his first function in the household had been that of assistant-keeper of the tobacco-pipes, from which humble office he had gradually risen to a position which may be roughly designated as that of butler. all this time he had been, of course, a serf, as his mother had been before him; but being naturally a man of sluggish intellect, he had never thoroughly realised the fact, and had certainly never conceived the possibility of being anything different from what he was. his master was master, and he himself was anton, obliged to obey his master, or at least conceal disobedience--these were long the main facts in his conception of the universe, and, as philosophers generally do with regard to fundamental facts or axioms, he had accepted them without examination. by means of these simple postulates he had led a tranquil life, untroubled by doubts, until the year , when the so-called freedom was brought to ivanofka. he himself had not gone to the church to hear batushka read the tsar's manifesto, but his master, on returning from the ceremony, had called him and said, "anton, you are free now, but the tsar says you are to serve as you have done for two years longer." to this startling announcement anton had replied coolly, "slushayus," or, as we would say, "yes, sir," and without further comment had gone to fetch his master's breakfast; but what he saw and heard during the next few weeks greatly troubled his old conceptions of human society and the fitness of things. from that time must be dated, i suppose, the expression of mental confusion which his face habitually wore. the first thing that roused his indignation was the conduct of his fellow-servants. nearly all the unmarried ones seemed to be suddenly attacked by a peculiar matrimonial mania. the reason of this was that the new law expressly gave permission to the emancipated serfs to marry as they chose without the consent of their masters, and nearly all the unmarried adults hastened to take advantage of their newly-acquired privilege, though many of them had great difficulty in raising the capital necessary to pay the priest's fees. then came disorders among the peasantry, the death of the old master, and the removal of the family first to st. petersburg, and afterwards to germany. anton's mind had never been of a very powerful order, and these great events had exercised a deleterious influence upon it. when karl karl'itch, at the expiry of the two years, informed him that he might now go where he chose, he replied, with a look of blank, unfeigned astonishment, "where can i go to?" he had never conceived the possibility of being forced to earn his bread in some new way, and begged karl karl'itch to let him remain where he was. this request was readily granted, for anton was an honest, faithful servant, and sincerely attached to the family, and it was accordingly arranged that he should receive a small monthly salary, and occupy an intermediate position between those of major-domo and head watch-dog. had anton been transformed into a real watch-dog he could scarcely have slept more than he did. his power of sleeping, and his somnolence when he imagined he was awake, were his two most prominent characteristics. out of consideration for his years and his love of repose, i troubled him as little as possible; but even the small amount of service which i demanded he contrived to curtail in an ingenious way. the time and exertion required for traversing the intervening space between his own room and mine might, he thought, be more profitably employed; and accordingly he extemporised a bed in a small ante-chamber, close to my door, and took up there his permanent abode. if sonorous snoring be sufficient proof that the performer is asleep, then i must conclude that anton devoted about three-fourths of his time to sleeping and a large part of the remaining fourth to yawning and elongated guttural ejaculations. at first this little arrangement considerably annoyed me, but i bore it patiently, and afterwards received my reward, for during my illness i found it very convenient to have an attendant within call. and i must do anton the justice to say that he served me well in his own somnolent fashion. he seemed to have the faculty of hearing when asleep, and generally appeared in my room before he had succeeded in getting his eyes completely open. anton had never found time, during his long life, to form many opinions, but he had somehow imbibed or inhaled a few convictions, all of a decidedly conservative kind, and one of these was that feldshers were useless and dangerous members of society. again and again he had advised me to have nothing to do with the one who visited me, and more than once he recommended to me an old woman of the name of masha, who lived in a village a few miles off. masha was what is known in russia as a znakharka--that is to say, a woman who is half witch, half medical practitioner--the whole permeated with a strong leaven of knavery. according to anton, she could effect by means of herbs and charms every possible cure short of raising from the dead, and even with regard to this last operation he cautiously refrained from expressing an opinion. the idea of being subjected to a course of herbs and charms by an old woman who probably knew very little about the hidden properties of either, did not seem to me inviting, and more than once i flatly refused to have recourse to such unhallowed means. on due consideration, however, i thought that a professional interview with the old witch would be rather amusing, and then a brilliant idea occurred to me! i would bring together the feldsher and the znakharka, who no doubt hated each other with a kilkenny-cat hatred, and let them fight out their differences before me for the benefit of science and my own delectation. the more i thought of my project, the more i congratulated myself on having conceived such a scheme; but, alas! in this very imperfectly organised world of ours brilliant ideas are seldom realised, and in this case i was destined to be disappointed. did the old woman's black art warn her of approaching danger, or was she simply actuated by a feeling of professional jealousy and considerations of professional etiquette? to this question i can give no positive answer, but certain it is that she could not be induced to pay me a visit, and i was thus balked of my expected amusement. i succeeded, however, in learning indirectly something about the old witch. she enjoyed among her neighbours that solid, durable kind of respect which is founded on vague, undefinable fear, and was believed to have effected many remarkable cures. in the treatment of syphilitic diseases, which are fearfully common among the russian peasantry, she was supposed to be specially successful, and i have no doubt, from the vague descriptions which i received, that the charm which she employed in these cases was of a mercurial kind. some time afterward i saw one of her victims. whether she had succeeded in destroying the poison i know not, but she had at least succeeded in destroying most completely the patient's teeth. how women of this kind obtain mercury, and how they have discovered its medicinal properties, i cannot explain. neither can i explain how they have come to know the peculiar properties of ergot of rye, which they frequently employ for illicit purposes familiar to all students of medical jurisprudence. the znakharka and the feldsher represent two very different periods in the history of medical science--the magical and the scientific. the russian peasantry have still many conceptions which belong to the former. the great majority of them are already quite willing, under ordinary circumstances, to use the scientific means of healing; but as soon as a violent epidemic breaks out, and the scientific means prove unequal to the occasion, the old faith revives, and recourse is had to magical rites and incantations. of these rites many are very curious. here, for instance, is one which had been performed in a village near which i afterwards lived for some time. cholera had been raging in the district for several weeks. in the village in question no case had yet occurred, but the inhabitants feared that the dreaded visitor would soon arrive, and the following ingenious contrivance was adopted for warding off the danger. at midnight, when the male population was supposed to be asleep, all the maidens met in nocturnal costume, according to a preconcerted plan, and formed a procession. in front marched a girl, holding an icon. behind her came her companions, dragging a sokha--the primitive plough commonly used by the peasantry--by means of a long rope. in this order the procession made the circuit of the entire village, and it was confidently believed that the cholera would not be able to overstep the magical circle thus described. many of the males probably knew, or at least suspected, what was going on; but they prudently remained within doors, knowing well that if they should be caught peeping indiscreetly at the mystic ceremony, they would be unmercifully beaten by those who were taking part in it. this custom is doubtless a survival of old pagan superstitions. the introduction of the icon is a modern innovation, which illustrates that curious blending of paganism and christianity which is often to be met with in russia, and of which i shall have more to say in another chapter. sometimes, when an epidemic breaks out, the panic produced takes a more dangerous form. the people suspect that it is the work of the doctors, or that some ill-disposed persons have poisoned the wells, and no amount of reasoning will convince them that their own habitual disregard of the most simple sanitary precautions has something to do with the phenomenon. i know of one case where an itinerant photographer was severely maltreated in consequence of such suspicions; and once, in st. petersburg, during the reign of nicholas i., a serious riot took place. the excited populace had already thrown several doctors out of the windows of the hospital, when the emperor arrived, unattended, in an open carriage, and quelled the disturbance by his simple presence, aided by his stentorian voice. of the ignorant credulity of the russian peasantry i might relate many curious illustrations. the most absurd rumours sometimes awaken consternation throughout a whole district. one of the most common reports of this kind is that a female conscription is about to take place. about the time of the duke of edinburgh's marriage with the daughter of alexander ii. this report was specially frequent. a large number of young girls were to be kidnapped and sent to england in a red ship. why the ship was to be red i can easily explain, because in the peasants' language the conceptions of red and beautiful are expressed by the same word (krasny), and in the popular legends the epithet is indiscriminately applied to everything connected with princes and great personages; but what was to be done with the kidnapped maidens when they arrived at their destination, i never succeeded in discovering. the most amusing instance of credulity which i can recall was the following, related to me by a peasant woman who came from the village where the incident had occurred. one day in winter, about the time of sunset, a peasant family was startled by the entrance of a strange visitor, a female figure, dressed as st. barbara is commonly represented in the religious pictures. all present were very much astonished by this apparition; but the figure told them, in a low, soft voice, to be of good cheer, for she was st. barbara, and had come to honour the family with a visit as a reward for their piety. the peasant thus favoured was not remarkable for his piety, but he did not consider it necessary to correct the mistake of his saintly visitor, and requested her to be seated. with perfect readiness she accepted the invitation, and began at once to discourse in an edifying way. meanwhile the news of this wonderful apparition spread like wildfire, and all the inhabitants of the village, as well as those of a neighbouring village about a mile distant, collected in and around the house. whether the priest was among those who came my informant did not know. many of those who had come could not get within hearing, but those at the outskirts of the crowd hoped that the saint might come out before disappearing. their hopes were gratified. about midnight the mysterious visitor announced that she would go and bring st. nicholas, the miracle-worker, and requested all to remain perfectly still during her absence. the crowd respectfully made way for her, and she passed out into the darkness. with breathless expectation all awaited the arrival of st. nicholas, who is the favourite saint of the russian peasantry; but hours passed, and he did not appear. at last, toward sunrise, some of the less zealous spectators began to return home, and those of them who had come from the neighbouring village discovered to their horror that during their absence their horses had been stolen! at once they raised the hue-and-cry; and the peasants scoured the country in all directions in search of the soi-disant st. barbara and her accomplices, but they never recovered the stolen property. "and serve them right, the blockheads!" added my informant, who had herself escaped falling into the trap by being absent from the village at the time. it is but fair to add that the ordinary russian peasant, though in some respects extremely credulous, and, like all other people, subject to occasional panics, is by no means easily frightened by real dangers. those who have seen them under fire will readily credit this statement. for my own part, i have had opportunities of observing them merely in dangers of a non-military kind, and have often admired the perfect coolness displayed. even an epidemic alarms them only when it attains a certain degree of intensity. once i had a good opportunity of observing this on board a large steamer on the volga. it was a very hot day in the early autumn. as it was well known that there was a great deal of asiatic cholera all over the country, prudent people refrained from eating much raw fruit; but russian peasants are not generally prudent men, and i noticed that those on board were consuming enormous quantities of raw cucumbers and water-melons. this imprudence was soon followed by its natural punishment. i refrain from describing the scene that ensued, but i may say that those who were attacked received from the others every possible assistance. had no unforeseen accident happened, we should have arrived at kazan on the following morning, and been able to send the patients to the hospital of that town; but as there was little water in the river, we had to cast anchor for the night, and next morning we ran aground and stuck fast. here we had to remain patiently till a smaller steamer hove in sight. all this time there was not the slightest symptom of panic, and when the small steamer came alongside there was no frantic rush to get away from the infected vessel, though it was quite evident that only a few of the passengers could be taken off. those who were nearest the gangway went quietly on board the small steamer, and those who were less fortunate remained patiently till another steamer happened to pass. the old conceptions of disease, as something that may be most successfully cured by charms and similar means, are rapidly disappearing. the zemstvo--that is to say, the new local self-government--has done much towards this end by enabling the people to procure better medical attendance. in the towns there are public hospitals, which generally are--or at least seem to an unprofessional eye--in a very satisfactory condition. the resident doctors are daily besieged by a crowd of peasants, who come from far and near to ask advice and receive medicines. besides this, in some provinces feldshers are placed in the principal villages, and the doctor makes frequent tours of inspection. the doctors are generally well-educated men, and do a large amount of work for a very small remuneration. of the lunatic asylums, which are generally attached to the larger hospitals, i cannot speak very favourably. some of the great central ones are all that could be desired, but others are badly constructed and fearfully overcrowded. one or two of those i visited appeared to me to be conducted on very patriarchal principles, as the following incident may illustrate. i had been visiting a large hospital, and had remained there so long that it was already dark before i reached the adjacent lunatic asylum. seeing no lights in the windows, i proposed to my companion, who was one of the inspectors, that we should delay our visit till the following morning, but he assured me that by the regulations the lights ought not to be extinguished till considerably later, and consequently there was no objection to our going in at once. if there was no legal objection, there was at least a physical obstruction in the form of a large wooden door, and all our efforts to attract the attention of the porter or some other inmate were unavailing. at last, after much ringing, knocking, and shouting, a voice from within asked us who we were and what we wanted. a brief reply from my companion, not couched in the most polite or amiable terms, made the bolts rattle and the door open with surprising rapidity, and we saw before us an old man with long dishevelled hair, who, as far as appearance went, might have been one of the lunatics, bowing obsequiously and muttering apologies. after groping our way along a dark corridor we entered a still darker room, and the door was closed and locked behind us. as the key turned in the rusty lock a wild scream rang through the darkness! then came a yell, then a howl, and then various sounds which the poverty of the english language prevents me from designating--the whole blending into a hideous discord that would have been at home in some of the worst regions of dante's inferno. as to the cause of it i could not even form a conjecture. gradually my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and i could dimly perceive white figures flitting about the room. at the same time i felt something standing near me, and close to my shoulder i saw a pair of eyes and long streaming hair. on my other side, equally close, was something very like a woman's night-cap. though by no means of a nervous temperament, i felt uncomfortable. to be shut up in a dark room with an indefinite number of excited maniacs is not a comfortable position. how long the imprisonment lasted i know not--probably not more than two or three minutes, but it seemed a long time. at last a light was procured, and the whole affair was explained. the guardians, not expecting the visit of an inspector at so late an hour, had retired for the night much earlier than usual, and the old porter had put us into the nearest ward until he could fetch a light--locking the door behind us lest any of the lunatics should escape. the noise had awakened one of the unfortunate inmates of the ward, and her hysterical scream had terrified the others. by the influence of asylums, hospitals, and similar institutions, the old conceptions of disease, as i have said, are gradually dying out, but the znakharka still finds practice. the fact that the znakharka is to be found side by side not only with the feldsher, but also with the highly trained bacteriologist, is very characteristic of russian civilisation, which is a strange conglomeration of products belonging to very different periods. the enquirer who undertakes the study of it will sometimes be scarcely less surprised than would be the naturalist who should unexpectedly stumble upon antediluvian megatheria grazing tranquilly in the same field with prize southdowns. he will discover the most primitive institutions side by side with the latest products of french doctrinairism, and the most childish superstitions in close proximity with the most advanced free-thinking. chapter vi a peasant family of the old type ivan petroff--his past life--co-operative associations--constitution of a peasant's household--predominance of economic conceptions over those of blood-relationship--peasant marriages--advantages of living in large families--its defects--family disruptions and their consequences. my illness had at least one good result. it brought me into contact with the feldsher, and through him, after my recovery, i made the acquaintance of several peasants living in the village. of these by far the most interesting was an old man called ivan petroff. ivan must have been about sixty years of age, but was still robust and strong, and had the reputation of being able to mow more hay in a given time than any other peasant in the village. his head would have made a line study for a portrait-painter. like russian peasants in general, he wore his hair parted in the middle--a custom which perhaps owes its origin to the religious pictures. the reverend appearance given to his face by his long fair beard, slightly tinged with grey, was in part counteracted by his eyes, which had a strange twinkle in them--whether of humour or of roguery, it was difficult to say. under all circumstances--whether in his light, nondescript summer costume, or in his warm sheep-skin, or in the long, glossy, dark-blue, double-breasted coat which he put on occasionally on sundays and holidays--he always looked a well-fed, respectable, prosperous member of society; whilst his imperturbable composure, and the entire absence of obsequiousness or truculence in his manner, indicated plainly that he possessed no small amount of calm, deep-rooted self-respect. a stranger, on seeing him, might readily have leaped to the conclusion that he must be the village elder, but in reality he was a simple member of the commune, like his neighbour, poor zakhar leshkof, who never let slip an opportunity of getting drunk, was always in debt, and, on the whole, possessed a more than dubious reputation. ivan had, it is true, been village elder some years before. when elected by the village assembly, against his own wishes, he had said quietly, "very well, children; i will serve my three years"; and at the end of that period, when the assembly wished to re-elect him, he had answered firmly, "no, children; i have served my term. it is now the turn of some one who is younger, and has more time. there's peter alekseyef, a good fellow, and an honest; you may choose him." and the assembly chose the peasant indicated; for ivan, though a simple member of the commune, had more influence in communal affairs than any other half-dozen members put together. no grave matter was decided without his being consulted, and there was at least one instance on record of the village assembly postponing deliberations for a week because he happened to be absent in st. petersburg. no stranger casually meeting ivan would ever for a moment have suspected that that big man, of calm, commanding aspect, had been during a great part of his life a serf. and yet a serf he had been from his birth till he was about thirty years of age--not merely a serf of the state, but the serf of a proprietor who had lived habitually on his property. for thirty years of his life he had been dependent on the arbitrary will of a master who had the legal power to flog him as often and as severely as he considered desirable. in reality he had never been subjected to corporal punishment, for the proprietor to whom he had belonged had been, though in some respects severe, a just and intelligent master. ivan's bright, sympathetic face had early attracted the master's attention, and it was decided that he should learn a trade. for this purpose he was sent to moscow, and apprenticed there to a carpenter. after four years of apprenticeship he was able not only to earn his own bread, but to help the household in the payment of their taxes, and to pay annually to his master a fixed yearly sum--first ten, then twenty, then thirty, and ultimately, for some years immediately before the emancipation, seventy roubles. in return for this annual sum he was free to work and wander about as he pleased, and for some years he had made ample use of his conditional liberty. i never succeeded in extracting from him a chronological account of his travels, but i could gather from his occasional remarks that he had wandered over a great part of european russia. evidently he had been in his youth what is colloquially termed "a roving blade," and had by no means confined himself to the trade which he had learned during his four years of apprenticeship. once he had helped to navigate a raft from vetluga to astrakhan, a distance of about two thousand miles. at another time he had been at archangel and onega, on the shores of the white sea. st. petersburg and moscow were both well known to him, and he had visited odessa. the precise nature of ivan's occupations during these wanderings i could not ascertain; for, with all his openness of manner, he was extremely reticent regarding his commercial affairs. to all my inquiries on this topic he was wont to reply vaguely, "lesnoe dyelo"--that is to say, "timber business"; and from this i concluded that his chief occupation had been that of a timber merchant. indeed, when i knew him, though he was no longer a regular trader, he was always ready to buy any bit of forest that could be bought in the vicinity for a reasonable price. during all this nomadic period of his life ivan had never entirely severed his connection with his native village or with agricultural life. when about the age of twenty he had spent several months at home, taking part in the field labour, and had married a wife--a strong, healthy young woman, who had been selected for him by his mother, and strongly recommended to him on account of her good character and her physical strength. in the opinion of ivan's mother, beauty was a kind of luxury which only nobles and rich merchants could afford, and ordinary comeliness was a very secondary consideration--so secondary as to be left almost entirely out of sight. this was likewise the opinion of ivan's wife. she had never been comely herself, she used to say, but she had been a good wife to her husband. he had never complained about her want of good looks, and had never gone after those who were considered good-looking. in expressing this opinion she always first bent forward, then drew herself up to her full length, and finally gave a little jerky nod sideways, so as to clench the statement. then ivan's bright eye would twinkle more brightly than usual, and he would ask her how she knew that--reminding her that he was not always at home. this was ivan's stereotyped mode of teasing his wife, and every time he employed it he was called an "old scarecrow," or something of the kind. perhaps, however, ivan's jocular remark had more significance in it than his wife cared to admit, for during the first years of their married life they had seen very little of each other. a few days after the marriage, when according to our notions the honeymoon should be at its height, ivan had gone to moscow for several months, leaving his young bride to the care of his father and mother. the young bride did not consider this an extraordinary hardship, for many of her companions had been treated in the same way, and according to public opinion in that part of the country there was nothing abnormal in the proceeding. indeed, it may be said in general that there is very little romance or sentimentality about russian peasant marriages. in this as in other respects the russian peasantry are, as a class, extremely practical and matter-of-fact in their conceptions and habits, and are not at all prone to indulge in sublime, ethereal sentiments of any kind. they have little or nothing of what may be termed the hermann and dorothea element in their composition, and consequently know very little about those sentimental, romantic ideas which we habitually associate with the preliminary steps to matrimony. even those authors who endeavour to idealise peasant life have rarely ventured to make their story turn on a sentimental love affair. certainly in real life the wife is taken as a helpmate, or in plain language a worker, rather than as a companion, and the mother-in-law leaves her very little time to indulge in fruitless dreaming. as time wore on, and his father became older and frailer, ivan's visits to his native place became longer and more frequent, and when the old man was at last incapable of work, ivan settled down permanently and undertook the direction of the household. in the meantime his own children had been growing up. when i knew the family it comprised--besides two daughters who had married early and gone to live with their parents-in-law--ivan and his wife, two sons, three daughters-in-law, and an indefinite and frequently varying number of grandchildren. the fact that there were three daughters-in-law and only two sons was the result of the conscription, which had taken away the youngest son shortly after his marriage. the two who remained spent only a small part of the year at home. the one was a carpenter and the other a bricklayer, and both wandered about the country in search of employment, as their father had done in his younger days. there was, however, one difference. the father had always shown a leaning towards commercial transactions, rather than the simple practice of his handicraft, and consequently he had usually lived and travelled alone. the sons, on the contrary, confined themselves to their handicrafts, and were always during the working season members of an artel. the artel in its various forms is a curious institution. those to which ivan's sons belonged were simply temporary, itinerant associations of workmen, who during the summer lived together, fed together, worked together, and periodically divided amongst themselves the profits. this is the primitive form of the institution, and is now not very often met with. here, as elsewhere, capital has made itself felt, and destroyed that equality which exists among the members of an artel in the above sense of the word. instead of forming themselves into a temporary association, the workmen now generally make an engagement with a contractor who has a little capital, and receive from him fixed monthly wages. the only association which exists in this case is for the purchase and preparation of provisions, and even these duties are very often left to the contractor. in some of the larger towns there are artels of a much more complex kind--permanent associations, possessing a large capital, and pecuniarily responsible for the acts of the individual members. of these, by far the most celebrated is that of the bank porters. these men have unlimited opportunities of stealing, and are often entrusted with the guarding or transporting of enormous sums; but the banker has no cause for anxiety, because he knows that if any defalcations occur they will be made good to him by the artel. such accidents very rarely happen, and the fact is by no means so extraordinary as many people suppose. the artel, being responsible for the individuals of which it is composed, is very careful in admitting new members, and a man when admitted is closely watched, not only by the regularly constituted office-bearers, but also by all his fellow-members who have an opportunity of observing him. if he begins to spend money too freely or to neglect his duties, though his employer may know nothing of the fact, suspicions are at once aroused among his fellow-members, and an investigation ensues--ending in summary expulsion if the suspicions prove to have been well founded. mutual responsibility, in short, creates a very effective system of mutual supervision. of ivan's sons, the one who was a carpenter visited his family only occasionally, and at irregular intervals; the bricklayer, on the contrary, as building is impossible in russia during the cold weather, spent the greater part of the winter at home. both of them paid a large part of their earnings into the family treasury, over which their father exercised uncontrolled authority. if he wished to make any considerable outlay, he consulted his sons on the subject; but as he was a prudent, intelligent man, and enjoyed the respect and confidence of the family, he never met with any strong opposition. all the field work was performed by him with the assistance of his daughters-in-law; only at harvest time he hired one or two labourers to help him. ivan's household was a good specimen of the russian peasant family of the old type. previous to the emancipation in there were many households of this kind, containing the representatives of three generations. all the members, young and old, lived together in patriarchal fashion under the direction and authority of the head of the house, called usually the khozain--that is to say, the administrator; or, in some districts, the bolshak, which means literally "the big one." generally speaking, this important position was occupied by the grandfather, or, if he was dead, by the eldest brother, but the rule was not very strictly observed. if, for instance, the grandfather became infirm, or if the eldest brother was incapacitated by disorderly habits or other cause, the place of authority was taken by some other member--it might be by a woman--who was a good manager, and possessed the greatest moral influence. the relations between the head of the household and the other members depended on custom and personal character, and they consequently varied greatly in different families. if the big one was an intelligent man, of decided, energetic character, like my friend ivan, there was probably perfect discipline in the household, except perhaps in the matter of female tongues, which do not readily submit to the authority even of their owners; but very often it happened that the big one was not thoroughly well fitted for his post, and in that case endless quarrels and bickerings inevitably took place. those quarrels were generally caused and fomented by the female members of the family--a fact which will not seem strange if we try to realise how difficult it must be for several sisters-in-law to live together, with their children and a mother-in-law, within the narrow limits of a peasant's household. the complaints of the young bride, who finds that her mother-in-law puts all the hard work on her shoulders, form a favourite motive in the popular poetry. the house, with its appurtenances, the cattle, the agricultural implements, the grain and other products, the money gained from the sale of these products--in a word, the house and nearly everything it contained--were the joint property of the family. hence nothing was bought or sold by any member--not even by the big one himself, unless he possessed an unusual amount of authority--without the express or tacit consent of the other grown-up males, and all the money that was earned was put into the common purse. when one of the sons left home to work elsewhere, he was expected to bring or send home all his earnings, except what he required for food, lodgings, and other necessary expenses; and if he understood the word "necessary" in too lax a sense, he had to listen to very plain-spoken reproaches when he returned. during his absence, which might last for a whole year or several years, his wife and children remained in the house as before, and the money which he earned could be devoted to the payment of the family taxes. the peasant household of the old type is thus a primitive labour association, of which the members have all things in common, and it is not a little remarkable that the peasant conceives it as such rather than as a family. this is shown by the customary terminology, for the head of the household is not called by any word corresponding to paterfamilias, but is termed, as i have said, khozain, or administrator--a word that is applied equally to a farmer, a shopkeeper or the head of an industrial undertaking, and does not at all convey the idea of blood-relationship. it is likewise shown by what takes place when a household is broken up. on such occasions the degree of blood-relationship is not taken into consideration in the distribution of the property. all the adult male members share equally. illegitimate and adopted sons, if they have contributed their share of labour, have the same rights as the sons born in lawful wedlock. the married daughter, on the contrary--being regarded as belonging to her husband's family--and the son who has previously separated himself from the household, are excluded from the succession. strictly speaking, the succession or inheritance is confined to the wearing apparel and any little personal effects of a deceased member. the house and all that it contains belong to the little household community; and, consequently, when it is broken up, by the death of the khozain or other cause, the members do not inherit, but merely appropriate individually what they had hitherto possessed collectively. thus there is properly no inheritance or succession, but simply liquidation and distribution of the property among the members. the written law of inheritance founded on the conception of personal property, is quite unknown to the peasantry, and quite inapplicable to their mode of life. in this way a large and most important section of the code remains a dead letter for about four-fifths of the population. this predominance of practical economic considerations is exemplified also by the way in which marriages are arranged in these large families. in the primitive system of agriculture usually practised in russia, the natural labour-unit--if i may use such a term--comprises a man, a woman, and a horse. as soon, therefore, as a boy becomes an able-bodied labourer he ought to be provided with the two accessories necessary for the completion of the labour-unit. to procure a horse, either by purchase or by rearing a foal, is the duty of the head of the house; to procure a wife for the youth is the duty of "the female big one" (bolshukha). and the chief consideration in determining the choice is in both cases the same. prudent domestic administrators are not to be tempted by showy horses or beautiful brides; what they seek is not beauty, but physical strength and capacity for work. when the youth reaches the age of eighteen he is informed that he ought to marry at once, and as soon as he gives his consent negotiations are opened with the parents of some eligible young person. in the larger villages the negotiations are sometimes facilitated by certain old women called svakhi, who occupy themselves specially with this kind of mediation; but very often the affair is arranged directly by, or through the agency of, some common friend of the two houses. care must of course be taken that there is no legal obstacle, and these obstacles are not always easily avoided in a small village, the inhabitants of which have been long in the habit of intermarrying. according to russian ecclesiastical law, not only is marriage between first-cousins illegal, but affinity is considered as equivalent to consanguinity--that is to say a mother-in-law and a sister-in-law are regarded as a mother and a sister--and even the fictitious relationship created by standing together at the baptismal font as godfather and godmother is legally recognised, and may constitute a bar to matrimony. if all the preliminary negotiations are successful, the marriage takes place, and the bridegroom brings his bride home to the house of which he is a member. she brings nothing with her as a dowry except her trousseau, but she brings a pair of good strong arms, and thereby enriches her adopted family. of course it happens occasionally--for human nature is everywhere essentially the same--that a young peasant falls in love with one of his former playmates, and brings his little romance to a happy conclusion at the altar; but such cases are very rare, and as a rule it may be said that the marriages of the russian peasantry are arranged under the influence of economic rather than sentimental considerations. the custom of living in large families has many economic advantages. we all know the edifying fable of the dying man who showed to his sons by means of a piece of wicker-work the advantages of living together and assisting each other. in ordinary times the necessary expenses of a large household of ten members are considerably less than the combined expenses of two households comprising five members each, and when a "black day" comes a large family can bear temporary adversity much more successfully than a small one. these are principles of world-wide application, but in the life of the russian peasantry they have a peculiar force. each adult peasant possesses, as i shall hereafter explain, a share of the communal land, but this share is not sufficient to occupy all his time and working power. one married pair can easily cultivate two shares--at least in all provinces where the peasant allotments are not very large. now, if a family is composed of two married couples, one of the men can go elsewhere and earn money, whilst the other, with his wife and sister-in-law, can cultivate the two combined shares of land. if, on the contrary a family consists merely of one pair with their children, the man must either remain at home--in which case he may have difficulty in finding work for the whole of his time--or he must leave home, and entrust the cultivation of his share of the land to his wife, whose time must be in great part devoted to domestic affairs. in the time of serfage the proprietors clearly perceived these and similar advantages, and compelled their serfs to live together in large families. no family could be broken up without the proprietor's consent, and this consent was not easily obtained unless the family had assumed quite abnormal proportions and was permanently disturbed by domestic dissension. in the matrimonial affairs of the serfs, too, the majority of the proprietors systematically exercised a certain supervision, not necessarily from any paltry meddling spirit, but because their own material interests were thereby affected. a proprietor would not, for instance, allow the daughter of one of his serfs to marry a serf belonging to another proprietor--because he would thereby lose a female labourer--unless some compensation were offered. the compensation might be a sum of money, or the affair might be arranged on the principle of reciprocity by the master of the bridegroom allowing one of his female serfs to marry a serf belonging to the master of the bride. however advantageous the custom of living in large families may appear when regarded from the economic point of view, it has very serious defects, both theoretical and practical. that families connected by the ties of blood-relationship and marriage can easily live together in harmony is one of those social axioms which are accepted universally and believed by nobody. we all know by our own experience, or by that of others, that the friendly relations of two such families are greatly endangered by proximity of habitation. to live in the same street is not advisable; to occupy adjoining houses is positively dangerous; and to live under the same roof is certainly fatal to prolonged amity. there may be the very best intentions on both sides, and the arrangement may be inaugurated by the most gushing expressions of undying affection and by the discovery of innumerable secret affinities, but neither affinities, affection, nor good intentions can withstand the constant friction and occasional jerks which inevitably ensue. now the reader must endeavour to realise that russian peasants, even when clad in sheep-skins, are human beings like ourselves. though they are often represented as abstract entities--as figures in a table of statistics or dots on a diagram--they have in reality "organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions." if not exactly "fed with the same food," they are at least "hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means," and liable to be irritated by the same annoyances as we are. and those of them who live in large families are subjected to a kind of probation that most of us have never dreamed of. the families comprising a large household not only live together, but have nearly all things in common. each member works, not for himself, but for the household, and all that he earns is expected to go into the family treasury. the arrangement almost inevitably leads to one of two results--either there are continual dissensions, or order is preserved by a powerful domestic tyranny. it is quite natural, therefore, that when the authority of the landed proprietors was abolished in , the large peasant families almost all crumbled to pieces. the arbitrary rule of the khozain was based on, and maintained by, the arbitrary rule of the proprietor, and both naturally fell together. households like that of our friend ivan were preserved only in exceptional cases, where the head of the house happened to possess an unusual amount of moral influence over the other members. this change has unquestionably had a prejudicial influence on the material welfare of the peasantry, but it must have added considerably to their domestic comfort, and may perhaps produce good moral results. for the present, however, the evil consequences are by far the most prominent. every married peasant strives to have a house of his own, and many of them, in order to defray the necessary expenses, have been obliged to contract debts. this is a very serious matter. even if the peasants could obtain money at five or six per cent., the position of the debtors would be bad enough, but it is in reality much worse, for the village usurers consider twenty or twenty-five per cent. a by no means exorbitant rate of interest. a laudable attempt has been made to remedy this state of things by village banks, but these have proved successful only in certain exceptional localities. as a rule the peasant who contracts debts has a hard struggle to pay the interest in ordinary times, and when some misfortune overtakes him--when, for instance, the harvest is bad or his horse is stolen--he probably falls hopelessly into pecuniary embarrassments. i have seen peasants not specially addicted to drunkenness or other ruinous habits sink to a helpless state of insolvency. fortunately for such insolvent debtors, they are treated by the law with extreme leniency. their house, their share of the common land, their agricultural implements, their horse--in a word, all that is necessary for their subsistence, is exempt from sequestration. the commune, however, may bring strong pressure to bear on those who do not pay their taxes. when i lived among the peasantry in the seventies, corporal punishment inflicted by order of the commune was among the means usually employed; and though the custom was recently prohibited by an imperial decree of nicholas ii, i am not at all sure that it has entirely disappeared. chapter vii the peasantry of the north communal land--system of agriculture--parish fetes--fasting--winter occupations--yearly migrations--domestic industries--influence of capital and wholesale enterprise--the state peasants--serf-dues--buckle's "history of civilisation"--a precocious yamstchik--"people who play pranks"--a midnight alarm--the far north. ivanofka may be taken as a fair specimen of the villages in the northern half of the country, and a brief description of its inhabitants will convey a tolerably correct notion of the northern peasantry in general. nearly the whole of the female population, and about one-half of the male inhabitants, are habitually engaged in cultivating the communal land, which comprises about two thousand acres of a light sandy soil. the arable part of this land is divided into three large fields, each of which is cut up into long narrow strips. the first field is reserved for the winter grain--that is to say, rye, which forms, in the shape of black bread, the principal food of the rural population. in the second are raised oats for the horses, and buckwheat, which is largely used for food. the third lies fallow, and is used in the summer as pasturage for the cattle. all the villagers in this part of the country divide the arable land in this way, in order to suit the triennial rotation of crops. this triennial system is extremely simple. the field which is used this year for raising winter grain will be used next year for raising summer grain, and in the following year will lie fallow. before being sown with winter grain it ought to receive a certain amount of manure. every family possesses in each of the two fields under cultivation one or more of the long narrow strips or belts into which they are divided. the annual life of the peasantry is that of simple husbandman, inhabiting a country where the winter is long and severe. the agricultural year begins in april with the melting of the snow. nature has been lying dormant for some months. awaking now from her long sleep, and throwing off her white mantle, she strives to make up for lost time. no sooner has the snow disappeared than the fresh young grass begins to shoot up, and very soon afterwards the shrubs and trees begin to bud. the rapidity of this transition from winter to spring astonishes the inhabitants of more temperate climes. on st. george's day (april rd*) the cattle are brought out for the first time, and sprinkled with holy water by the priest. they are never very fat, but at this period of the year their appearance is truly lamentable. during the winter they have been cooped up in small unventilated cow-houses, and fed almost exclusively on straw; now, when they are released from their imprisonment, they look like the ghosts of their former emaciated selves. all are lean and weak, many are lame, and some cannot rise to their feet without assistance. * with regard to saints' days, i always give the date according to the old style. to find the date according to our calendar, thirteen days must be added. meanwhile the peasants are impatient to begin the field labour. an old proverb which they all know says: "sow in mud and you will be a prince"; and they always act in accordance with this dictate of traditional wisdom. as soon as it is possible to plough they begin to prepare the land for the summer grain, and this labour occupies them probably till the end of may. then comes the work of carting out manure and preparing the fallow field for the winter grain, which will last probably till about st. peter's day (june th), when the hay-making generally begins. after the hay-making comes the harvest, by far the busiest time of the year. from the middle of july--especially from st. elijah's day (july th), when the saint is usually heard rumbling along the heavens in his chariot of fire*--until the end of august, the peasant may work day and night, and yet he will find that he has barely time to get all his work done. in little more than a month he has to reap and stack his grain--rye, oats, and whatever else he may have sown either in spring or in the preceding autumn--and to sow the winter grain for next year. to add to his troubles, it sometimes happens that the rye and the oats ripen almost simultaneously, and his position is then still more difficult. * it is thus that the peasants explain the thunder, which is often heard at that season. whether the seasons favour him or not, the peasant has at this time a hard task, for he can rarely afford to hire the requisite number of labourers, and has generally the assistance merely of his wife and family; but he can at this season work for a short time at high pressure, for he has the prospect of soon obtaining a good rest and an abundance of food. about the end of september the field labour is finished, and on the first day of october the harvest festival begins--a joyous season, during which the parish fetes are commonly celebrated. to celebrate a parish fete in true orthodox fashion it is necessary to prepare beforehand a large quantity of braga--a kind of home-brewed small beer--and to bake a plentiful supply of piroghi or meat pies. oil, too, has to be procured, and vodka (rye spirit) in goodly quantity. at the same time the big room of the izba, as the peasant's house is called, has to be cleared, the floor washed, and the table and benches scrubbed. the evening before the fete, while the piroghi are being baked, a little lamp burns before the icon in the corner of the room, and perhaps one or two guests from a distance arrive in order that they may have on the morrow a full day's enjoyment. on the morning of the fete the proceedings begin by a long service in the church, at which all the inhabitants are present in their best holiday costumes, except those matrons and young women who remain at home to prepare the dinner. about mid-day dinner is served in each izba for the family and their friends. in general the russian peasant's fare is of the simplest kind, and rarely comprises animal food of any sort--not from any vegetarian proclivities, but merely because beef, mutton, and pork are too expensive; but on a holiday, such as a parish fete, there is always on the dinner table a considerable variety of dishes. in the house of a well-to-do family there will be not only greasy cabbage-soup and kasha--a dish made from buckwheat--but also pork, mutton, and perhaps even beef. braga will be supplied in unlimited quantities, and more than once vodka will be handed round. when the repast is finished, all rise together, and, turning towards the icon in the corner, bow and cross themselves repeatedly. the guests then say to their host, "spasibo za khelb za sol"--that is to say, "thanks for your hospitality," or more literally, "thanks for bread and salt"; and the host replies, "do not be displeased, sit down once more for good luck"--or perhaps he puts the last part of his request into the form of a rhyming couplet to the following effect: "sit down, that the hens may brood, and that the chickens and bees may multiply!" all obey this request, and there is another round of vodka. after dinner some stroll about, chatting with their friends, or go to sleep in some shady nook, whilst those who wish to make merry go to the spot where the young people are singing, playing, and amusing themselves in various ways. as the sun sinks towards the horizon, the more grave, staid guests wend their way homewards, but many remain for supper; and as evening advances the effects of the vodka become more and more apparent. sounds of revelry are heard more frequently from the houses, and a large proportion of the inhabitants and guests appear on the road in various degrees of intoxication. some of these vow eternal affection to their friends, or with flaccid gestures and in incoherent tones harangue invisible audiences; others stagger about aimlessly in besotted self-contentment, till they drop down in a state of complete unconsciousness. there they will lie tranquilly till they are picked up by their less intoxicated friends, or more probably till they awake of their own accord next morning. as a whole, a village fete in russia is a saddening spectacle. it affords a new proof--where, alas! no new proof was required--that we northern nations, who know so well how to work, have not yet learned the art of amusing ourselves. if the russian peasant's food were always as good and plentiful as at this season of the year, he would have little reason to complain; but this is by no means the case. gradually, as the harvest-time recedes, it deteriorates in quality, and sometimes diminishes in quantity. besides this, during a great part of the year the peasant is prevented, by the rules of the church, from using much that he possesses. in southern climes, where these rules were elaborated and first practised, the prescribed fasts are perhaps useful not only in a religious, but also in a sanitary sense. having abundance of fruit and vegetables, the inhabitants do well to abstain occasionally from animal food. but in countries like northern and central russia the influence of these rules is very different. the russian peasant cannot get as much animal food as he requires, whilst sour cabbage and cucumbers are probably the only vegetables he can procure, and fruit of any kind is for him an unattainable luxury. under these circumstances, abstinence from eggs and milk in all their forms during several months of the year seems to the secular mind a superfluous bit of asceticism. if the church would direct her maternal solicitude to the peasant's drinking, and leave him to eat what he pleases, she might exercise a beneficial influence on his material and moral welfare. unfortunately she has a great deal too much inherent immobility to attempt anything of the kind, so the muzhik, while free to drink copiously whenever he gets the chance, must fast during the seven weeks of lent, during two or three weeks in june, from the beginning of november till christmas, and on all wednesdays and fridays during the remainder of the year. from the festival time till the following spring there is no possibility of doing any agricultural work, for the ground is hard as iron, and covered with a deep layer of snow. the male peasants, therefore, who remain in the villages, have very little to do, and may spend the greater part of their time in lying idly on the stove, unless they happen to have learned some handicraft that can be practised at home. formerly, many of them were employed in transporting the grain to the market town, which might be several hundred miles distant; but now this species of occupation has been greatly diminished by the extension of railways. another winter occupation which was formerly practised, and has now almost fallen into disuse, was that of stealing wood in the forest. this was, according to peasant morality, no sin, or at most a very venial offence, for god plants and waters the trees, and therefore forests belong properly to no one. so thought the peasantry, but the landed proprietors and the administration of the domains held a different theory of property, and consequently precautions had to be taken to avoid detection. in order to ensure success it was necessary to choose a night when there was a violent snowstorm, which would immediately obliterate all traces of the expedition; and when such a night was found, the operation was commonly performed with success. during the hours of darkness a tree would be felled, stripped of its branches, dragged into the village, and cut up into firewood, and at sunrise the actors would be tranquilly sleeping on the stove as if they had spent the night at home. in recent years the judicial authorities have done much towards putting down this practice and eradicating the loose conceptions of property with which it was connected. for the female part of the population the winter used to be a busy time, for it was during these four or five months that the spinning and weaving had to be done, but now the big factories, with their cheap methods of production, are rapidly killing the home industries, and the young girls are not learning to work at the jenny and the loom as their mothers and grandmothers did. in many of the northern villages, where ancient usages happen to be preserved, the tedium of the long winter evenings is relieved by so-called besedy, a word which signifies literally conversazioni. a beseda, however, is not exactly a conversazione as we understand the term, but resembles rather what is by some ladies called a dorcas meeting, with this essential difference, that those present work for themselves and not for any benevolent purposes. in some villages as many as three besedy regularly assemble about sunset; one for the children, the second for the young people, and the third for the matrons. each of the three has its peculiar character. in the first, the children work and amuse themselves under the superintendence of an old woman, who trims the torch* and endeavours to keep order. the little girls spin flax in a primitive way without the aid of a jenny, and the boys, who are, on the whole, much less industrious, make simple bits of wicker-work. formerly--i mean within my own recollection--many of them used to make rude shoes of plaited bark, called lapty, but these are being rapidly supplanted by leather boots. these occupations do not prevent an almost incessant hum of talk, frequent discordant attempts to sing in chorus, and occasional quarrels requiring the energetic interference of the old woman who controls the proceedings. to amuse her noisy flock she sometimes relates to them, for the hundredth time, one of those wonderful old stories that lose nothing by repetition, and all listen to her attentively, as if they had never heard the story before. * the torch (lutchina) has now almost entirely disappeared and been replaced by the petroleum lamp. the second beseda is held in another house by the young people of a riper age. here the workers are naturally more staid, less given to quarrelling, sing more in harmony, and require no one to look after them. some people, however, might think that a chaperon or inspector of some kind would be by no means out of place, for a good deal of flirtation goes on, and if village scandal is to be trusted, strict propriety in thought, word, and deed is not always observed. how far these reports are true i cannot pretend to say, for the presence of a stranger always acts on the company like the presence of a severe inspector. in the third beseda there is always at least strict decorum. here the married women work together and talk about their domestic concerns, enlivening the conversation occasionally by the introduction of little bits of village scandal. such is the ordinary life of the peasants who live by agriculture; but many of the villagers live occasionally or permanently in the towns. probably the majority of the peasants in this region have at some period of their lives gained a living elsewhere. many of the absentees spend yearly a few months at home, whilst others visit their families only occasionally, and, it may be, at long intervals. in no case, however, do they sever their connection with their native village. even the peasant who becomes a rich merchant and settles permanently with his family in moscow or st. petersburg remains probably a member of the village commune, and pays his share of the taxes, though he does not enjoy any of the corresponding privileges. once i remember asking a rich man of this kind, the proprietor of several large houses in st. petersburg, why he did not free himself from all connection with his native commune, with which he had no longer any interests in common. his answer was, "it is all very well to be free, and i don't want anything from the commune now; but my old father lives there, my mother is buried there, and i like to go back to the old place sometimes. besides, i have children, and our affairs are commercial (nashe dyelo torgovoe). who knows but my children may be very glad some day to have a share of the commune land?" in respect to these non-agricultural occupations, each district has its specialty. the province of yaroslavl, for instance, supplies the large towns with waiters for the traktirs, or lower class of restaurants, whilst the best hotels in petersburg are supplied by the tartars of kasimof, celebrated for their sobriety and honesty. one part of the province of kostroma has a special reputation for producing carpenters and stove-builders, whilst another part, as i once discovered to my surprise, sends yearly to siberia--not as convicts, but as free laborours--a large contingent of tailors and workers in felt! on questioning some youngsters who were accompanying as apprentices one of these bands, i was informed by a bright-eyed youth of about sixteen that he had already made the journey twice, and intended to go every winter. "and you always bring home a big pile of money with you?" i inquired. "nitchevo!" replied the little fellow, gaily, with an air of pride and self-confidence; "last year i brought home three roubles!" this answer was, at the moment, not altogether welcome, for i had just been discussing with a russian fellow-traveller as to whether the peasantry can fairly be called industrious, and the boy's reply enabled my antagonist to score a point against me. "you hear that!" he said, triumphantly. "a russian peasant goes all the way to siberia and back for three roubles! could you get an englishman to work at that rate?" "perhaps not," i replied, evasively, thinking at the same time that if a youth were sent several times from land's end to john o' groat's house, and obliged to make the greater part of the journey in carts or on foot, he would probably expect, by way of remuneration for the time and labour expended, rather more than seven and sixpence! very often the peasants find industrial occupations without leaving home, for various industries which do not require complicated machinery are practised in the villages by the peasants and their families. wooden vessels, wrought iron, pottery, leather, rush-matting, and numerous other articles are thus produced in enormous quantities. occasionally we find not only a whole village, but even a whole district occupied almost exclusively with some one kind of manual industry. in the province of vladimir, for example, a large group of villages live by icon-painting; in one locality near nizhni-novgorod nineteen villages are occupied with the manufacture of axes; round about pavlovo, in the same province, eighty villages produce almost nothing but cutlery; and in a locality called ouloma, on the borders of novgorod and tver, no less than two hundred villages live by nail-making. these domestic industries have long existed, and were formerly an abundant source of revenue--providing a certain compensation for the poverty of the soil. but at present they are in a very critical position. they belong to the primitive period of economic development, and that period in russia, as i shall explain in a future chapter, is now rapidly drawing to a close. formerly the head of a household bought the raw material, had it worked up at home, and sold with a reasonable profit the manufactured articles at the bazaars, as the local fairs are called, or perhaps at the great annual yarmarkt* of nizhni-novgorod. this primitive system is now rapidly becoming obsolete. capital and wholesale enterprise have come into the field and are revolutionising the old methods of production and trade. already whole groups of industrial villages have fallen under the power of middle-men, who advance money to the working households and fix the price of the products. attempts are frequently made to break their power by voluntary co-operative associations, organised by the local authorities or benevolent landed proprietors of the neighbourhood--like the benevolent people in england who try to preserve the traditional cottage industries--and some of the associations work very well; but the ultimate success of such "efforts to stem the current of capitalism" is extremely doubtful. at the same time, the periodical bazaars and yarmarki, at which producers and consumers transacted their affairs without mediation, are being replaced by permanent stores and by various classes of tradesmen--wholesale and retail. * this term is a corruption of the german word jahrmarkt. to the political economist of the rigidly orthodox school this important change may afford great satisfaction. according to his theories it is a gigantic step in the right direction, and must necessarily redound to the advantage of all parties concerned. the producer now receives a regular supply of raw material, and regularly disposes of the articles manufactured; and the time and trouble which he formerly devoted to wandering about in search of customers he can now employ more profitably in productive work. the creation of a class between the producers and the consumers is an important step towards that division and specialisation of labour which is a necessary condition of industrial and commercial prosperity. the consumer no longer requires to go on a fixed day to some distant point, on the chance of finding there what he requires, but can always buy what he pleases in the permanent stores. above all, the production is greatly increased in amount, and the price of manufactured goods is proportionally lessened. all this seems clear enough in theory, and any one who values intellectual tranquillity will feel disposed to accept this view of the case without questioning its accuracy; but the unfortunate traveller who is obliged to use his eyes as well as his logical faculties may find some little difficulty in making the facts fit into the a priori formula. far be it from me to question the wisdom of political economists, but i cannot refrain from remarking that of the three classes concerned--small producers, middle-men, and consumers--two fail to perceive and appreciate the benefits which have been conferred upon them. the small producers complain that on the new system they work more and gain less; and the consumers complain that the manufactured articles, if cheaper and more showy in appearance, are far inferior in quality. the middlemen, who are accused, rightly or wrongly, of taking for themselves the lion's share of the profits, alone seem satisfied with the new arrangement. interesting as this question undoubtedly is, it is not of permanent importance, because the present state of things is merely transitory. though the peasants may continue for a time to work at home for the wholesale dealers, they cannot in the long run compete with the big factories and workshops, organised on the european model with steam-power and complicated machinery, which already exist in many provinces. once a country has begun to move forward on the great highway of economic progress, there is no possibility of stopping halfway. here again the orthodox economists find reason for congratulation, because big factories and workshops are the cheapest and most productive form of manufacturing industry; and again, the observant traveller cannot shut his eyes to ugly facts which force themselves on his attention. he notices that this cheapest and most productive form of manufacturing industry does not seem to advance the material and moral welfare of the population. nowhere is there more disease, drunkenness, demoralisation and misery than in the manufacturing districts. the reader must not imagine that in making these statements i wish to calumniate the spirit of modern enterprise, or to advocate a return to primitive barbarism. all great changes produce a mixture of good and evil, and at first the evil is pretty sure to come prominently forward. russia is at this moment in a state of transition, and the new condition of things is not yet properly organised. with improved organisation many of the existing evils will disappear. already in recent years i have noticed sporadic signs of improvement. when factories were first established no proper arrangements were made for housing and feeding the workmen, and the consequent hardships were specially felt when the factories were founded, as is often the case, in rural districts. now, the richer and more enterprising manufacturers build large barracks for the workmen and their families, and provide them with common kitchens, wash-houses, steam-baths, schools, and similar requisites of civilised life. at the same time the government appoints inspectors to superintend the sanitary arrangements and see that the health and comfort of the workers are properly attended to. on the whole we must assume that the activity of these inspectors tends to improve the condition of the working-classes. certainly in some instances it has that effect. i remember, for example, some thirty years ago, visiting a lucifer-match factory in which the hands employed worked habitually in an atmosphere impregnated with the fumes of phosphorus, which produce insidious and very painful diseases. such a thing is hardly possible nowadays. on the other hand, official inspection, like factory acts, everywhere gives rise to a good deal of dissatisfaction and does not always improve the relations between employers and employed. some of the russian inspectors, if i may credit the testimony of employers, are young gentlemen imbued with socialist notions, who intentionally stir up discontent or who make mischief from inexperience. an amusing illustration of the current complaints came under my notice when, in , i was visiting a landed proprietor of the southern provinces, who has a large sugar factory on his estate. the inspector objected to the traditional custom of the men sleeping in large dormitories and insisted on sleeping-cots being constructed for them individually. as soon as the change was made the workmen came to the proprietor to complain, and put their grievance in an interrogative form: "are we cattle that we should be thus couped up in stalls?" to return to the northern agricultural region, the rural population have a peculiar type, which is to be accounted for by the fact that they never experienced to its full extent the demoralising influence of serfage. a large proportion of them were settled on state domains and were governed by a special branch of the imperial administration, whilst others lived on the estates of rich absentee landlords, who were in the habit of leaving the management of their properties to a steward acting under a code of instructions. in either case, though serfs in the eye of the law, they enjoyed practically a very large amount of liberty. by paying a small sum for a passport they could leave their villages for an indefinite period, and as long as they sent home regularly the money required for taxes and dues, they were in little danger of being molested. many of them, though officially inscribed as domiciled in their native communes, lived permanently in the towns, and not a few succeeded in amassing large fortunes. the effect of this comparative freedom is apparent even at the present day. these peasants of the north are more energetic, more intelligent, more independent, and consequently less docile and pliable than those of the fertile central provinces. they have, too, more education. a large proportion of them can read and write, and occasionally one meets among them men who have a keen desire for knowledge. several times i encountered peasants in this region who had a small collection of books, and twice i found in such collections, much to my astonishment, a russian translation of buckle's "history of civilisation." how, it may be asked, did a work of this sort find its way to such a place? if the reader will pardon a short digression, i shall explain the fact. immediately after the crimean war there was a curious intellectual movement--of which i shall have more to say hereafter--among the russian educated classes. the movement assumed various forms, of which two of the most prominent were a desire for encyclopaedic knowledge, and an attempt to reduce all knowledge to a scientific form. for men in this state of mind buckle's great work had naturally a powerful fascination. it seemed at first sight to reduce the multifarious conflicting facts of human history to a few simple principles, and to evolve order out of chaos. its success, therefore, was great. in the course of a few years no less than four independent translations were published and sold. every one read, or at least professed to have read, the wonderful book, and many believed that its author was the greatest genius of his time. during the first year of my residence in russia ( ), i rarely had a serious conversation without hearing buckle's name mentioned; and my friends almost always assumed that he had succeeded in creating a genuine science of history on the inductive method. in vain i pointed out that buckle had merely thrown out some hints in his introductory chapter as to how such a science ought to be constructed, and that he had himself made no serious attempt to use the method which he commended. my objections had little or no effect: the belief was too deep-rooted to be so easily eradicated. in books, periodicals, newspapers, and professional lectures the name of buckle was constantly cited--often violently dragged in without the slightest reason--and the cheap translations of his work were sold in enormous quantities. it is not, then, so very wonderful after all that the book should have found its way to two villages in the province of yaroslavl. the enterprising, self-reliant, independent spirit which is often to be found among those peasants manifests itself occasionally in amusing forms among the young generation. often in this part of the country i have encountered boys who recalled young america rather than young russia. one of these young hopefuls i remember well. i was waiting at a post-station for the horses to be changed, when he appeared before me in a sheep-skin, fur cap, and gigantic double-soled boots--all of which articles had been made on a scale adapted to future rather than actual requirements. he must have stood in his boots about three feet eight inches, and he could not have been more than twelve years of age; but he had already learned to look upon life as a serious business, wore a commanding air, and knitted his innocent little brows as if the cares of an empire weighed on his diminutive shoulders. though he was to act as yamstchik he had to leave the putting in of the horses to larger specimens of the human species, but he took care that all was done properly. putting one of his big boots a little in advance, and drawing himself up to his full shortness, he watched the operation attentively, as if the smallness of his stature had nothing to do with his inactivity. when all was ready, he climbed up to his seat, and at a signal from the station-keeper, who watched with paternal pride all the movements of the little prodigy, we dashed off at a pace rarely attained by post-horses. he had the faculty of emitting a peculiar sound--something between a whirr and a whistle--that appeared to have a magical effect on the team and every few minutes he employed this incentive. the road was rough, and at every jolt he was shot upwards into the air, but he always fell back into his proper position, and never lost for a moment his self-possession or his balance. at the end of the journey i found we had made nearly fourteen miles within the hour. unfortunately this energetic, enterprising spirit sometimes takes an illegitimate direction. not only whole villages, but even whole districts, have in this way acquired a bad reputation for robbery, the manufacture of paper-money, and similar offences against the criminal law. in popular parlance, these localities are said to contain "people who play pranks" (narod shalit). i must, however, remark that, if i may judge by my own experience, these so-called "playful" tendencies are greatly exaggerated. though i have travelled hundreds of miles at night on lonely roads, i was never robbed or in any way molested. once, indeed, when travelling at night in a tarantass, i discovered on awaking that my driver was bending over me, and had introduced his hand into one of my pockets; but the incident ended without serious consequences. when i caught the delinquent hand, and demanded an explanation from the owner, he replied, in an apologetic, caressing tone, that the night was cold, and he wished to warm his fingers; and when i advised him to use for that purpose his own pockets rather than mine, he promised to act in future according to my advice. more than once, it is true, i believed that i was in danger of being attacked, but on every occasion my fears turned out to be unfounded, and sometimes the catastrophe was ludicrous rather than tragical. let the following serve as an illustration. i had occasion to traverse, in company with a russian friend, the country lying to the east of the river vetluga--a land of forest and morass, with here and there a patch of cultivation. the majority of the population are tcheremiss, a finnish tribe; but near the banks of the river there are villages of russian peasants, and these latter have the reputation of "playing pranks." when we were on the point of starting from kozmodemiansk a town on the bank of the volga, we received a visit from an officer of rural police, who painted in very sombre colours the habits and moral character--or, more properly, immoral character--of the people whose acquaintance we were about to make. he related with melodramatic gesticulation his encounters with malefactors belonging to the villages through which we had to pass, and ended the interview with a strong recommendation to us not to travel at night, and to keep at all times our eyes open and our revolver ready. the effect of his narrative was considerably diminished by the prominence of the moral, which was to the effect that there never had been a police-officer who had shown so much zeal, energy, and courage in the discharge of his duty as the worthy man before us. we considered it, however, advisable to remember his hint about keeping our eyes open. in spite of our intention of being very cautious, it was already dark when we arrived at the village which was to be our halting-place for the night, and it seemed at first as if we should be obliged to spend the night in the open air. the inhabitants had already retired to rest, and refused to open their doors to unknown travellers. at length an old woman, more hospitable than her neighbours, or more anxious to earn an honest penny, consented to let us pass the night in an outer apartment (seni), and this permission we gladly accepted. mindful of the warnings of the police officer, we barricaded the two doors and the window, and the precaution was evidently not superfluous, for almost as soon as the light was extinguished we could hear that an attempt was being made stealthily to effect an entrance. notwithstanding my efforts to remain awake, and on the watch, i at last fell asleep, and was suddenly aroused by some one grasping me tightly by the arm. instantly i sprang to my feet and endeavoured to close with my invisible assailant. in vain! he dexterously eluded my grasp, and i stumbled over my portmanteau, which was lying on the floor; but my prompt action revealed who the intruder was, by producing a wild flutter and a frantic cackling! before my companion could strike a light the mysterious attack was fully explained. the supposed midnight robber and possible assassin was simply a peaceable hen that had gone to roost on my arm, and, on finding her position unsteady, had dug her claws into what she mistook for a roosting-pole! when speaking of the peasantry of the north i have hitherto had in view the inhabitants of the provinces of old-novgorod, tver, yaroslavl, nizhni-novgorod, kostroma, kazan, and viatka, and i have founded my remarks chiefly on information collected on the spot. beyond this lies what may be called the far north. though i cannot profess to have the same personal acquaintance with the peasantry of that region, i may perhaps be allowed to insert here some information regarding them which i collected from various trustworthy sources. if we draw a wavy line eastward from a point a little to the north of st. petersburg, as is shown in the map facing page of this volume, we shall have between that line and the polar ocean what may be regarded as a distinct, peculiar region, differing in many respects from the rest of russia. throughout the whole of it the climate is very severe. for about half of the year the ground is covered by deep snow, and the rivers are frozen. by far the greater part of the land is occupied by forests of pine, fir, larch, and birch, or by vast, unfathomable morasses. the arable land and pasturage taken together form only about one and a half per cent, of the area. the population is scarce--little more than one to the english square mile--and settled chiefly along the banks of the rivers. the peasantry support themselves by fishing, hunting, felling and floating timber, preparing tar and charcoal, cattle-breeding, and, in the extreme north, breeding reindeer. these are their chief occupations, but the people do not entirely neglect agriculture. they make the most of their short summer by means of a peculiar and ingenious mode of farming, well adapted to the peculiar local conditions. the peasant knows of course nothing about agronomical chemistry, but he, as well as his forefathers, have observed that if wood be burnt on a field, and the ashes be mixed with the soil, a good harvest may be confidently expected. on this simple principle his system of farming is based. when spring comes round and the leaves begin to appear on the trees, a band of peasants, armed with their hatchets, proceed to some spot in the woods previously fixed upon. here they begin to make a clearing. this is no easy matter, for tree-felling is hard and tedious work; but the process does not take so much time as might be expected, for the workmen have been brought up to the trade, and wield their axes with marvellous dexterity. when they have felled all the trees, great and small, they return to their homes, and think no more about their clearing till the autumn, when they return, in order to strip the fallen trees of the branches, to pick out what they require for building purposes or firewood, and to pile up the remainder in heaps. the logs for building or firewood are dragged away by horses as soon as the first fall of snow has made a good slippery road, but the piles are allowed to remain till the following spring, when they are stirred up with long poles and ignited. the flames rapidly spread in all directions till they join together and form a gigantic bonfire, such as is never seen in more densely-populated countries. if the fire does its work properly, the whole of the space is covered with a layer of ashes; and when these have been slightly mixed with soil by means of a light plough, the seed is sown. on the field prepared in this original fashion is sown barley, rye, or flax, and the harvests, nearly always good, sometimes border on the miraculous. barley or rye may be expected to produce about sixfold in ordinary years, and they may produce as much as thirty-fold under peculiarly favourable circumstances. the fertility is, however, short-lived. if the soil is poor and stony, not more than two crops can be raised; if it is of a better quality, it may give tolerable harvests for six or seven successive years. in most countries this would be an absurdly expensive way of manuring, for wood is much too valuable a commodity to be used for such a purpose; but in this northern region the forests are boundless, and in the districts where there is no river or stream by which timber may be floated, the trees not used in this way rot from old age. under these circumstances the system is reasonable, but it must be admitted that it does not give a very large return for the amount of labour expended, and in bad seasons it gives almost no return at all. the other sources of revenue are scarcely less precarious. with his gun and a little parcel of provisions the peasant wanders about in the trackless forests, and too often returns after many days with a very light bag; or he starts in autumn for some distant lake, and comes back after five or six weeks with nothing better than perch and pike. sometimes he tries his luck at deep-sea fishing. in this case he starts in february--probably on foot--for kem, on the shore of the white sea, or perhaps for the more distant kola, situated on a small river which falls into the arctic ocean. there, in company with three or four comrades, he starts on a fishing cruise along the murman coast, or, it may be, off the coast of spitzbergen. his gains will depend on the amount caught, for it is a joint-venture; but in no case can they be very great, for three-fourths of the fish brought into port belongs to the owner of the craft and tackle. of the sum realised, he brings home perhaps only a small part, for he has a strong temptation to buy rum, tea, and other luxuries, which are very dear in those northern latitudes. if the fishing is good and he resists temptation, he may save as much as roubles--about pounds--and thereby live comfortably all winter; but if the fishing season is bad, he may find himself at the end of it not only with empty pockets, but in debt to the owner of the boat. this debt he may pay off, if he has a horse, by transporting the dried fish to kargopol, st. petersburg, or some other market. it is here in the far north that the ancient folk-lore--popular songs, stories, and fragments of epic poetry--has been best preserved; but this is a field on which i need not enter, for the reader can easily find all that he may desire to know on the subject in the brilliant writings of m. rambaud and the very interesting, conscientious works of the late mr. ralston,* which enjoy a high reputation in russia. * rambaud, "la russie epique," paris, ; ralston, "the songs of the russian people," london, ; and "russian folk-tales," london, . chapter viii the mir, or village community social and political importance of the mir--the mir and the family compared--theory of the communal system--practical deviations from the theory--the mir a good specimen of constitutional government of the extreme democratic type--the village assembly--female members--the elections--distribution of the communal land. when i had gained a clear notion of the family-life and occupations of the peasantry, i turned my attention to the constitution of the village. this was a subject which specially interested me, because i was aware that the mir is the most peculiar of russian institutions. long before visiting russia i had looked into haxthausen's celebrated work, by which the peculiarities of the russian village system were first made known to western europe, and during my stay in st. petersburg i had often been informed by intelligent, educated russians that the rural commune presented a practical solution of many difficult social problems with which the philosophers and statesmen of the west had long been vainly struggling. "the nations of the west"--such was the substance of innumerable discourses which i had heard--"are at present on the high-road to political and social anarchy, and england has the unenviable distinction of being foremost in the race. the natural increase of population, together with the expropriation of the small landholders by the great landed proprietors, has created a dangerous and ever-increasing proletariat--a great disorganised mass of human beings, without homes, without permanent domicile, without property of any kind, without any stake in the existing institutions. part of these gain a miserable pittance as agricultural labourers, and live in a condition infinitely worse than serfage. the others have been forever uprooted from the soil, and have collected in the large towns, where they earn a precarious living in the factories and workshops, or swell the ranks of the criminal classes. in england you have no longer a peasantry in the proper sense of the term, and unless some radical measures be very soon adopted, you will never be able to create such a class, for men who have been long exposed to the unwholesome influences of town life are physically and morally incapable of becoming agriculturists. "hitherto," the disquisition proceeded, "england has enjoyed, in consequence of her geographical position, her political freedom, and her vast natural deposits of coal and iron, a wholly exceptional position in the industrial world. fearing no competition, she has proclaimed the principles of free trade, and has inundated the world with her manufactures--using unscrupulously her powerful navy and all the other forces at her command for breaking down every barrier tending to check the flood sent forth from manchester and birmingham. in that way her hungry proletariat has been fed. but the industrial supremacy of england is drawing to a close. the nations have discovered the perfidious fallacy of free-trade principles, and are now learning to manufacture for their own wants, instead of paying england enormous sums to manufacture for them. very soon english goods will no longer find foreign markets, and how will the hungry proletariat then be fed? already the grain production of england is far from sufficient for the wants of the population, so that, even when the harvest is exceptionally abundant, enormous quantities of wheat are imported from all quarters of the globe. hitherto this grain has been paid for by the manufactured goods annually exported, but how will it be procured when these goods are no longer wanted by foreign consumers? and what then will the hungry proletariat do?"* * this passage was written, precisely as it stands, long before the fiscal question was raised by mr. chamberlain. it will be found in the first edition of this work, published in . (vol. i., pp. - .) this sombre picture of england's future had often been presented to me, and on nearly every occasion i had been assured that russia had been saved from these terrible evils by the rural commune--an institution which, in spite of its simplicity and incalculable utility, west europeans seemed utterly incapable of understanding and appreciating. the reader will now easily conceive with what interest i took to studying this wonderful institution, and with what energy i prosecuted my researches. an institution which professes to solve satisfactorily the most difficult social problems of the future is not to be met with every day, even in russia, which is specially rich in material for the student of social science. on my arrival at ivanofka my knowledge of the institution was of that vague, superficial kind which is commonly derived from men who are fonder of sweeping generalisations and rhetorical declamation than of serious, patient study of phenomena. i knew that the chief personage in a russian village is the selski starosta, or village elder, and that all important communal affairs are regulated by the selski skhod, or village assembly. further, i was aware that the land in the vicinity of the village belongs to the commune, and is distributed periodically among the members in such a way that every able-bodied peasant possesses a share sufficient, or nearly sufficient, for his maintenance. beyond this elementary information i knew little or nothing. my first attempt at extending my knowledge was not very successful. hoping that my friend ivan might be able to assist me, and knowing that the popular name for the commune is mir, which means also "the world," i put to him the direct, simple question, "what is the mir?" ivan was not easily disconcerted, but for once he looked puzzled, and stared at me vacantly. when i endeavoured to explain to him my question, he simply knitted his brows and scratched the back of his head. this latter movement is the russian peasant's method of accelerating cerebral action; but in the present instance it had no practical result. in spite of his efforts, ivan could not get much further than the "kak vam skazat'?" that is to say, "how am i to tell you?" it was not difficult to perceive that i had adopted an utterly false method of investigation, and a moment's reflection sufficed to show me the absurdity of my question. i had asked from an uneducated man a philosophical definition, instead of extracting from him material in the form of concrete facts, and constructing therefrom a definition for myself. these concrete facts ivan was both able and willing to supply; and as soon as i adopted a rational mode of questioning, i obtained from him all i wanted. the information he gave me, together with the results of much subsequent conversation and reading, i now propose to present to the reader in my own words. the peasant family of the old type is, as we have just seen, a kind of primitive association in which the members have nearly all things in common. the village may be roughly described as a primitive association on a larger scale. between these two social units there are many points of analogy. in both there are common interests and common responsibilities. in both there is a principal personage, who is in a certain sense ruler within and representative as regards the outside world: in the one case called khozain, or head of the household, and in the other starosta, or village elder. in both the authority of the ruler is limited: in the one case by the adult members of the family, and in the other by the heads of households. in both there is a certain amount of common property: in the one case the house and nearly all that it contains, and in the other the arable land and possibly a little pasturage. in both cases there is a certain amount of common responsibility: in the one case for all the debts, and in the other for all the taxes and communal obligations. and both are protected to a certain extent against the ordinary legal consequences of insolvency, for the family cannot be deprived of its house or necessary agricultural implements, and the commune cannot be deprived of its land, by importunate creditors. on the other hand, there are many important points of contrast. the commune is, of course, much larger than the family, and the mutual relations of its members are by no means so closely interwoven. the members of a family all farm together, and those of them who earn money from other sources are expected to put their savings into the common purse; whilst the households composing a commune farm independently, and pay into the common treasury only a certain fixed sum. from these brief remarks the reader will at once perceive that a russian village is something very different from a village in our sense of the term, and that the villagers are bound together by ties quite unknown to the english rural population. a family living in an english village has little reason to take an interest in the affairs of its neighbours. the isolation of the individual families is never quite perfect, for man, being a social animal, takes necessarily a certain interest in the affairs of those around him, and this social duty is sometimes fulfilled by the weaker sex with more zeal than is absolutely indispensable for the public welfare; but families may live for many years in the same village without ever becoming conscious of common interests. so long as the jones family do not commit any culpable breach of public order, such as putting obstructions on the highway or habitually setting their house on fire, their neighbour brown takes probably no interest in their affairs, and has no ground for interfering with their perfect liberty of action. amongst the families composing a russian village, such a state of isolation is impossible. the heads of households must often meet together and consult in the village assembly, and their daily occupation must be influenced by the communal decrees. they cannot begin to mow the hay or plough the fallow field until the village assembly has passed a resolution on the subject. if a peasant becomes a drunkard, or takes some equally efficient means to become insolvent, every family in the village has a right to complain, not merely in the interests of public morality, but from selfish motives, because all the families are collectively responsible for his taxes.* for the same reason no peasant can permanently leave the village without the consent of the commune, and this consent will not be granted until the applicant gives satisfactory security for the fulfilment of his actual and future liabilities. if a peasant wishes to go away for a short time, in order to work elsewhere, he must obtain a written permission, which serves him as a passport during his absence; and he may be recalled at any moment by a communal decree. in reality he is rarely recalled so long as he sends home regularly the full amount of his taxes--including the dues which he has to pay for the temporary passport--but sometimes the commune uses the power of recall for purposes of extortion. if it becomes known, for instance, that an absent member is receiving a good salary or otherwise making money, he may one day receive a formal order to return at once to his native village, but he is probably informed at the same time, unofficially, that his presence will be dispensed with if he will send to the commune a certain specified sum. the money thus sent is generally used by the commune for convivial purposes. ** * this common responsibility for the taxes was abolished in by the emperor, on the advice of m. witte, and the other communal fetters are being gradually relaxed. a peasant may now, if he wishes, cease to be a member of the commune altogether, as soon as he has defrayed all his outstanding obligations. ** with the recent relaxing of the communal fetters, referred to in the foregoing note, this abuse should disappear. in all countries the theory of government and administration differs considerably from the actual practice. nowhere is this difference greater than in russia, and in no russian institution is it greater than in the village commune. it is necessary, therefore, to know both theory and practice; and it is well to begin with the former, because it is the simpler of the two. when we have once thoroughly mastered the theory, it is easy to understand the deviations that are made to suit peculiar local conditions. according, then, to theory, all male peasants in every part of the empire are inscribed in census-lists, which form the basis of the direct taxation. these lists are revised at irregular intervals, and all males alive at the time of the "revision," from the newborn babe to the centenarian, are duly inscribed. each commune has a list of this kind, and pays to the government an annual sum proportionate to the number of names which the list contains, or, in popular language, according to the number of "revision souls." during the intervals between the revisions the financial authorities take no notice of the births and deaths. a commune which has a hundred male members at the time of the revision may have in a few years considerably more or considerably less than that number, but it has to pay taxes for a hundred members all the same until a new revision is made for the whole empire. now in russia, so far at least as the rural population is concerned, the payment of taxes is inseparably connected with the possession of land. every peasant who pays taxes is supposed to have a share of the land belonging to the commune. if the communal revision lists contain a hundred names, the communal land ought to be divided into a hundred shares, and each "revision soul" should enjoy his share in return for the taxes which he pays. the reader who has followed my explanations up to this point may naturally conclude that the taxes paid by the peasants are in reality a species of rent for the land which they enjoy. such a conclusion would not be altogether justified. when a man rents a bit of land he acts according to his own judgment, and makes a voluntary contract with the proprietor; but the russian peasant is obliged to pay his taxes whether he desires to enjoy land or not. the theory, therefore, that the taxes are simply the rent of the land will not bear even superficial examination. equally untenable is the theory that they are a species of land-tax. in any reasonable system of land-dues the yearly sum imposed bears some kind of proportion to the quantity and quality of the land enjoyed; but in russia it may be that the members of one commune possess six acres of bad land, and the members of the neighbouring commune seven acres of good land, and yet the taxes in both cases are the same. the truth is that the taxes are personal, and are calculated according to the number of male "souls," and the government does not take the trouble to inquire how the communal land is distributed. the commune has to pay into the imperial treasury a fixed yearly sum, according to the number of its "revision souls," and distributes the land among its members as it thinks fit. how, then, does the commune distribute the land? to this question it is impossible to reply in brief, general terms, because each commune acts as it pleases!* some act strictly according to the theory. these divide their land at the time of the revision into a number of portions or shares corresponding to the number of revision souls, and give to each family a number of shares corresponding to the number of revision souls which it contains. this is from the administrative point of view by far the simplest system. the census-list determines how much land each family will enjoy, and the existing tenures are disturbed only by the revisions which take place at irregular intervals.** but, on the other hand, this system has serious defects. the revision-list represents merely the numerical strength of the families, and the numerical strength is often not at all in proportion to the working power. let us suppose, for example, two families, each containing at the time of the revision five male members. according to the census-list these two families are equal, and ought to receive equal shares of the land; but in reality it may happen that the one contains a father in the prime of life and four able-bodies sons, whilst the other contains a widow and five little boys. the wants and working power of these two families are of course very different; and if the above system of distribution be applied, the man with four sons and a goodly supply of grandchildren will probably find that he has too little land, whilst the widow with her five little boys will find it difficult to cultivate the five shares alloted to her, and utterly impossible to pay the corresponding amount of taxation--for in all cases, it must be remembered, the communal burdens are distributed in the same proportion as the land. * a long list of the various systems of allotment to be found in individual communes in different parts of the country is given in the opening chapter of a valuable work by karelin, entitled "obshtchinnoye vladyenie v rossii" (st. petersburg, ). as my object is to convey to the reader merely a general idea of the institution, i refrain from confusing him by an enumeration of the endless divergencies from the original type. ** since eleven revisions have been made, the last in . the intervals varied from six to forty-one years. but why, it may be said, should the widow not accept provisionally the five shares, and let to others the part which she does not require? the balance of rent after payment of the taxes might help her to bring up her young family. so it seems to one acquainted only with the rural economy of england, where land is scarce, and always gives a revenue more than sufficient to defray the taxes. but in russia the possession of a share of communal land is often not a privilege, but a burden. in some communes the land is so poor and abundant that it cannot be let at any price. in others the soil will repay cultivation, but a fair rent will not suffice to pay the taxes and dues. to obviate these inconvenient results of the simpler system, many communes have adopted the expedient of allotting the land, not according to the number of revision souls, but according to the working power of the families. thus, in the instance above supposed, the widow would receive perhaps two shares, and the large household, containing five workers, would receive perhaps seven or eight. since the breaking-up of the large families, such inequality as i have supposed is, of course, rare; but inequality of a less extreme kind does still occur, and justifies a departure from the system of allotment according to the revision-lists. even if the allotment be fair and equitable at the time of the revision, it may soon become unfair and burdensome by the natural fluctuations of the population. births and deaths may in the course of a very few years entirely alter the relative working power of the various families. the sons of the widow may grow up to manhood, whilst two or three able-bodied members of the other family may be cut off by an epidemic. thus, long before a new revision takes place, the distribution of the land may be no longer in accordance with the wants and capacities of the various families composing the commune. to correct this, various expedients are employed. some communes transfer particular lots from one family to another, as circumstances demand; whilst others make from time to time, during the intervals between the revisions, a complete redistribution and reallotment of the land. of these two systems the former is now more frequently employed. the system of allotment adopted depends entirely on the will of the particular commune. in this respect the communes enjoy the most complete autonomy, and no peasant ever dreams of appealing against a communal decree.* the higher authorities not only abstain from all interference in the allotment of the communal lands, but remain in profound ignorance as to which system the communes habitually adopt. though the imperial administration has a most voracious appetite for symmetrically constructed statistical tables--many of them formed chiefly out of materials supplied by the mysterious inner consciousness of the subordinate officials--no attempt has yet been made, so far as i know, to collect statistical data which might throw light on this important subject. in spite of the systematic and persistent efforts of the centralised bureaucracy to regulate minutely all departments of the national life, the rural communes, which contain about five-sixths of the population, remain in many respects entirely beyond its influence, and even beyond its sphere of vision! but let not the reader be astonished overmuch. he will learn in time that russia is the land of paradoxes; and meanwhile he is about to receive a still more startling bit of information. in "the great stronghold of caesarian despotism and centralised bureaucracy," these village communes, containing about five-sixths of the population, are capital specimens of representative constitutional government of the extreme democratic type! * this has been somewhat modified by recent legislation. according to the emancipation law of , redistribution of the land could take place at any time provided it was voted by a majority of two-thirds at the village assembly. by a law of redistribution cannot take place oftener than once in twelve years, and must receive the sanction of certain local authorities. when i say that the rural commune is a good specimen of constitutional government, i use the phrase in the english, and not in the continental sense. in the continental languages a constitutional regime implies the existence of a long, formal document, in which the functions of the various institutions, the powers of the various authorities, and the methods of procedure are carefully defined. such a document was never heard of in russian village communes, except those belonging to the imperial domains, and the special legislation which formerly regulated their affairs was repealed at the time of the emancipation. at the present day the constitution of all the village communes is of the english type--a body of unwritten, traditional conceptions, which have grown up and modified themselves under the influence of ever-changing practical necessity. no doubt certain definitions of the functions and mutual relations of the communal authorities might be extracted from the emancipation law and subsequent official documents, but as a rule neither the village elder nor the members of the village assembly ever heard of such definitions; and yet every peasant knows, as if by instinct, what each of these authorities can do and cannot do. the commune is, in fact, a living institution, whose spontaneous vitality enables it to dispense with the assistance and guidance of the written law, and its constitution is thoroughly democratic. the elder represents merely the executive power. the real authority resides in the assembly, of which all heads of households are members.* * an attempt was made by alexander iii. in to bring the rural communes under supervision and control by the appointment of rural officials called zemskiye natchalniki. of this so-called reform i shall have occasion to speak later. the simple procedure, or rather the absence of all formal procedure, at the assemblies, illustrates admirably the essentially practical character of the institution. the meetings are held in the open air, because in the village there is no building--except the church, which can be used only for religious purposes--large enough to contain all the members; and they almost always take place on sundays or holidays, when the peasants have plenty of leisure. any open space may serve as a forum. the discussions are occasionally very animated, but there is rarely any attempt at speech-making. if any young member should show an inclination to indulge in oratory, he is sure to be unceremoniously interrupted by some of the older members, who have never any sympathy with fine talking. the assemblage has the appearance of a crowd of people who have accidentally come together and are discussing in little groups subjects of local interest. gradually some one group, containing two or three peasants who have more moral influence than their fellows, attracts the others, and the discussion becomes general. two or more peasants may speak at a time, and interrupt each other freely--using plain, unvarnished language, not at all parliamentary--and the discussion may become a confused, unintelligible din; but at the moment when the spectator imagines that the consultation is about to be transformed into a free fight, the tumult spontaneously subsides, or perhaps a general roar of laughter announces that some one has been successfully hit by a strong argumentum ad hominem, or biting personal remark. in any case there is no danger of the disputants coming to blows. no class of men in the world are more good-natured and pacific than the russian peasantry. when sober they never fight, and even when under the influence of alcohol they are more likely to be violently affectionate than disagreeably quarrelsome. if two of them take to drinking together, the probability is that in a few minutes, though they may never have seen each other before, they will be expressing in very strong terms their mutual regard and affection, confirming their words with an occasional friendly embrace. theoretically speaking, the village parliament has a speaker, in the person of the village elder. the word speaker is etymologically less objectionable than the term president, for the personage in question never sits down, but mingles in the crowd like the ordinary members. objection may be taken to the word on the ground that the elder speaks much less than many other members, but this may likewise be said of the speaker of the house of commons. whatever we may call him, the elder is officially the principal personage in the crowd, and wears the insignia of office in the form of a small medal suspended from his neck by a thin brass chain. his duties, however, are extremely light. to call to order those who interrupt the discussion is no part of his functions. if he calls an honourable member "durak" (blockhead), or interrupts an orator with a laconic "moltchi!" (hold your tongue!), he does so in virtue of no special prerogative, but simply in accordance with a time-honoured privilege, which is equally enjoyed by all present, and may be employed with impunity against himself. indeed, it may be said in general that the phraseology and the procedure are not subjected to any strict rules. the elder comes prominently forward only when it is necessary to take the sense of the meeting. on such occasions he may stand back a little from the crowd and say, "well, orthodox, have you decided so?" and the crowd will probably shout, "ladno! ladno!" that is to say, "agreed! agreed!" communal measures are generally carried in this way by acclamation; but it sometimes happens that there is such a diversity of opinion that it is difficult to tell which of the two parties has a majority. in this case the elder requests the one party to stand to the right and the other to the left. the two groups are then counted, and the minority submits, for no one ever dreams of opposing openly the will of the mir. during the reign of nicholas i. an attempt was made to regulate by the written law the procedure of village assemblies amongst the peasantry of the state domains, and among other reforms voting by ballot was introduced; but the new custom never struck root. the peasants did not regard with favour the new method, and persisted in calling it, contemptuously, "playing at marbles." here, again, we have one of those wonderful and apparently anomalous facts which frequently meet the student of russian affairs: the emperor nicholas i., the incarnation of autocracy and the champion of the reactionary party throughout europe, forces the ballot-box, the ingenious invention of extreme radicals, on several millions of his subjects! in the northern provinces, where a considerable portion of the male population is always absent, the village assembly generally includes a good many female members. these are women who, on account of the absence or death of their husbands, happen to be for the moment heads of households. as such they are entitled to be present, and their right to take part in the deliberations is never called in question. in matters affecting the general welfare of the commune they rarely speak, and if they do venture to enounce an opinion on such occasions they have little chance of commanding attention, for the russian peasantry are as yet little imbued with the modern doctrines of female equality, and express their opinion of female intelligence by the homely adage: "the hair is long, but the mind is short." according to one proverb, seven women have collectively but one soul, and, according to a still more ungallant popular saying, women have no souls at all, but only a vapour. woman, therefore, as woman, is not deserving of much consideration, but a particular woman, as head of a household, is entitled to speak on all questions directly affecting the household under her care. if, for instance, it be proposed to increase or diminish her household's share of the land and the burdens, she will be allowed to speak freely on the subject, and even to indulge in personal invective against her male opponents. she thereby exposes herself, it is true, to uncomplimentary remarks; but any which she happens to receive she is pretty sure to repay with interest--referring, perhaps, with pertinent virulence to the domestic affairs of those who attack her. and when argument and invective fail, she can try the effect of pathetic appeal, supported by copious tears. as the village assembly is really a representative institution in the full sense of the term, it reflects faithfully the good and the bad qualities of the rural population. its decisions are therefore usually characterised by plain, practical common sense, but it is subject to occasional unfortunate aberrations in consequence of pernicious influences, chiefly of an alcoholic kind. an instance of this fact occurred during my sojourn at ivanofka. the question under discussion was whether a kabak, or gin-shop, should be established in the village. a trader from the district town desired to establish one, and offered to pay to the commune a yearly sum for the necessary permission. the more industrious, respectable members of the commune, backed by the whole female population, were strongly opposed to the project, knowing full well that a kabak would certainly lead to the ruin of more than one household; but the enterprising trader had strong arguments wherewith to seduce a large number of the members, and succeeded in obtaining a decision in his favour. the assembly discusses all matters affecting the communal welfare, and, as these matters have never been legally defined, its recognised competence is very wide. it fixes the time for making the hay, and the day for commencing the ploughing of the fallow field; it decrees what measures shall be employed against those who do not punctually pay their taxes; it decides whether a new member shall be admitted into the commune, and whether an old member shall be allowed to change his domicile; it gives or withholds permission to erect new buildings on the communal land; it prepares and signs all contracts which the commune makes with one of its own members or with a stranger; it interferes whenever it thinks necessary in the domestic affairs of its members; it elects the elder--as well as the communal tax-collector and watchman, where such offices exist--and the communal herd-boy; above all, it divides and allots the communal land among the members as it thinks fit. of all these various proceedings the english reader may naturally assume that the elections are the most noisy and exciting. in reality this is a mistake. the elections produce little excitement, for the simple reason that, as a rule, no one desires to be elected. once, it is said, a peasant who had been guilty of some misdemeanor was informed by an arbiter of the peace--a species of official of which i shall have occasion to speak in the sequel--that he would be no longer capable of filling any communal office; and instead of regretting this diminution of his civil rights, he bowed very low, and respectfully expressed his thanks for the new privilege which he had acquired. this anecdote may not be true, but it illustrates the undoubted fact that the russian peasant regards office as a burden rather than as an honour. there is no civic ambition in those little rural commonwealths, whilst the privilege of wearing a bronze medal, which commands no respect, and the reception of a few roubles as salary afford no adequate compensation for the trouble, annoyance, and responsibility which a village elder has to bear. the elections are therefore generally very tame and uninteresting. the following description may serve as an illustration: it is a sunday afternoon. the peasants, male and female, have turned out in sunday attire, and the bright costumes of the women help the sunshine to put a little rich colour into the scene, which is at ordinary times monotonously grey. slowly the crowd collects on the open space at the side of the church. all classes of the population are represented. on the extreme outskirts are a band of fair-haired, merry children--some of them standing or lying on the grass and gazing attentively at the proceedings, and others running about and amusing themselves. close to these stand a group of young girls, convulsed with half-suppressed laughter. the cause of their merriment is a youth of some seventeen summers, evidently the wag of the village, who stands beside them with an accordion in his hand, and relates to them in a half-whisper how he is about to be elected elder, and what mad pranks he will play in that capacity. when one of the girls happens to laugh outright, the matrons who are standing near turn round and scowl; and one of them, stepping forward, orders the offender, in a tone of authority, to go home at once if she cannot behave herself. crestfallen, the culprit retires, and the youth who is the cause of the merriment makes the incident the subject of a new joke. meanwhile the deliberations have begun. the majority of the members are chatting together, or looking at a little group composed of three peasants and a woman, who are standing a little apart from the others. here alone the matter in hand is being really discussed. the woman is explaining, with tears in her eyes, and with a vast amount of useless repetition, that her "old man," who is elder for the time being, is very ill, and cannot fulfil his duties. "but he has not yet served a year, and he'll get better," remarks one peasant, evidently the youngest of the little group. "who knows?" replies the woman, sobbing. "it is the will of god, but i don't believe that he'll ever put his foot to the ground again. the feldsher has been four times to see him, and the doctor himself came once, and said that he must be brought to the hospital." "and why has he not been taken there?" "how could he be taken? who is to carry him? do you think he's a baby? the hospital is forty versts off. if you put him in a cart he would die before he had gone a verst. and then, who knows what they do with people in the hospital?" this last question contained probably the true reason why the doctor's orders had been disobeyed. "very well, that's enough; hold your tongue," says the grey-beard of the little group to the woman; and then, turning to the other peasants, remarks, "there is nothing to be done. the stanovoi [officer of rural police] will be here one of these days, and will make a row again if we don't elect a new elder. whom shall we choose?" as soon as this question is asked several peasants look down to the ground, or try in some other way to avoid attracting attention, lest their names should be suggested. when the silence has continued a minute or two, the greybeard says, "there is alexei ivanof; he has not served yet!" "yes, yes, alexei ivanof!" shout half-a-dozen voices, belonging probably to peasants who fear they may be elected. alexei protests in the strongest terms. he cannot say that he is ill, because his big ruddy face would give him the lie direct, but he finds half-a-dozen other reasons why he should not be chosen, and accordingly requests to be excused. but his protestations are not listened to, and the proceedings terminate. a new village elder has been duly elected. far more important than the elections is the redistribution of the communal land. it can matter but little to the head of a household how the elections go, provided he himself is not chosen. he can accept with perfect equanimity alexei, or ivan, or nikolai, because the office-bearers have very little influence in communal affairs. but he cannot remain a passive, indifferent spectator when the division and allotment of the land come to be discussed, for the material welfare of every household depends to a great extent on the amount of land and of burdens which it receives. in the southern provinces, where the soil is fertile, and the taxes do not exceed the normal rent, the process of division and allotment is comparatively simple. here each peasant desires to get as much land as possible, and consequently each household demands all the land to which it is entitled--that is to say, a number of shares equal to the number of its members inscribed in the last revision list. the assembly has therefore no difficult questions to decide. the communal revision list determines the number of shares into which the land must be divided, and the number of shares to be allotted to each family. the only difficulty likely to arise is as to which particular shares a particular family shall receive, and this difficulty is commonly obviated by the custom of drawing lots. there may be, it is true, some difference of opinion as to when a redistribution should be made, but this question is easily decided by a vote of the assembly. very different is the process of division and allotment in many communes of the northern provinces. here the soil is often very unfertile and the taxes exceed the normal rent, and consequently it may happen that the peasants strive to have as little land as possible. in these cases such scenes as the following may occur: ivan is being asked how many shares of the communal land he will take, and replies in a slow, contemplative way, "i have two sons, and there is myself, so i'll take three shares, or somewhat less, if it is your pleasure." "less!" exclaims a middle-aged peasant, who is not the village elder, but merely an influential member, and takes the leading part in the proceedings. "you talk nonsense. your two sons are already old enough to help you, and soon they may get married, and so bring you two new female labourers." "my eldest son," explains ivan, "always works in moscow, and the other often leaves me in summer." "but they both send or bring home money, and when they get married, the wives will remain with you." "god knows what will be," replies ivan, passing over in silence the first part of his opponent's remark. "who knows if they will marry?" "you can easily arrange that!" "that i cannot do. the times are changed now. the young people do as they wish, and when they do get married they all wish to have houses of their own. three shares will be heavy enough for me!" "no, no. if they wish to separate from you, they will take some land from you. you must take at least four. the old wives there who have little children cannot take shares according to the number of souls." "he is a rich muzhik!" says a voice in the crowd. "lay on him five souls!" (that is to say, give him five shares of the land and of the burdens). "five souls i cannot! by god, i cannot!" "very well, you shall have four," says the leading spirit to ivan; and then, turning to the crowd, inquires, "shall it be so?" "four! four!" murmurs the crowd; and the question is settled. next comes one of the old wives just referred to. her husband is a permanent invalid, and she has three little boys, only one of whom is old enough for field labour. if the number of souls were taken as the basis of distribution, she would receive four shares; but she would never be able to pay four shares of the communal burdens. she must therefore receive less than that amount. when asked how many she will take, she replies with downcast eyes, "as the mir decides, so be it!" "then you must take three." "what do you say, little father?" cries the woman, throwing off suddenly her air of submissive obedience. "do you hear that, ye orthodox? they want to lay upon me three souls! was such a thing ever heard of? since st. peter's day my husband has been bedridden--bewitched, it seems, for nothing does him good. he cannot put a foot to the ground--all the same as if he were dead; only he eats bread!" "you talk nonsense," says a neighbour; "he was in the kabak [gin-shop] last week." "and you!" retorts the woman, wandering from the subject in hand; "what did you do last parish fete? was it not you who got drunk and beat your wife till she roused the whole village with her shrieking? and no further gone than last sunday--pfu!" "listen!" says the old man, sternly cutting short the torrent of invective. "you must take at least two shares and a half. if you cannot manage it yourself, you can get some one to help you." "how can that be? where am i to get the money to pay a labourer?" asks the woman, with much wailing and a flood of tears. "have pity, ye orthodox, on the poor orphans! god will reward you!" and so on, and so on. i need not worry the reader with a further description of these scenes, which are always very long and sometimes violent. all present are deeply interested, for the allotment of the land is by far the most important event in russian peasant life, and the arrangement cannot be made without endless talking and discussion. after the number of shares for each family has been decided, the distribution of the lots gives rise to new difficulties. the families who have plentifully manured their land strive to get back their old lots, and the commune respects their claims so far as these are consistent with the new arrangement; but often it happens that it is impossible to conciliate private rights and communal interests, and in such cases the former are sacrificed in a way that would not be tolerated by men of anglo-saxon race. this leads, however, to no serious consequences. the peasants are accustomed to work together in this way, to make concessions for the communal welfare, and to bow unreservedly to the will of the mir. i know of many instances where the peasants have set at defiance the authority of the police, of the provincial governor, and of the central government itself, but i have never heard of any instance where the will of the mir was openly opposed by one of its members. in the preceding pages i have repeatedly spoken about "shares of the communal land." to prevent misconception i must explain carefully what this expression means. a share does not mean simply a plot or parcel of land; on the contrary, it always contains at least four, and may contain a large number of distinct plots. we have here a new point of difference between the russian village and the villages of western europe. communal land in russia is of three kinds: the land on which the village is built, the arable land, and the meadow or hay-field, if the village is fortunate enough to possess one. on the first of these each family possesses a house and garden, which are the hereditary property of the family, and are never affected by the periodical redistributions. the other two kinds are both subject to redistribution, but on somewhat different principles. the whole of the communal arable land is first of all divided into three fields, to suit the triennial rotation of crops already described, and each field is divided into a number of long narrow strips--corresponding to the number of male members in the commune--as nearly as possible equal to each other in area and quality. sometimes it is necessary to divide the field into several portions, according to the quality of the soil, and then to subdivide each of these portions into the requisite number of strips. thus in all cases every household possesses at least one strip in each field; and in those cases where subdivision is necessary, every household possesses a strip in each of the portions into which the field is subdivided. it often happens, therefore, that the strips are very narrow, and the portions belonging to each family very numerous. strips six feet wide are by no means rare. in villages of the province of moscow, regarding which i have special information, they varied in width from to yards, with an average of yards. of these narrow strips a household may possess as many as thirty in a single field! the complicated process of division and subdivision is accomplished by the peasants themselves, with the aid of simple measuring-rods, and the accuracy of the result is truly marvellous. the meadow, which is reserved for the production of hay, is divided into the same number of shares as the arable land. there, however, the division and distribution take place, not at irregular intervals, but annually. every year, on a day fixed by the assembly, the villagers proceed in a body to this part of their property, and divide it into the requisite number of portions. lots are then cast, and each family at once mows the portion allotted to it. in some communes the meadow is mown by all the peasants in common, and the hay afterwards distributed by lot among the families; but this system is by no means so frequently used. as the whole of the communal land thus resembles to some extent a big farm, it is necessary to make certain rules concerning cultivation. a family may sow what it likes in the land allotted to it, but all families must at least conform to the accepted system of rotation. in like manner, a family cannot begin the autumn ploughing before the appointed time, because it would thereby interfere with the rights of the other families, who use the fallow field as pasturage. it is not a little strange that this primitive system of land tenure should have succeeded in living into the twentieth century, and still more remarkable that the institution of which it forms an essential part should be regarded by many intelligent people as one of the great institutions of the future, and almost as a panacea for social and political evils. the explanation of these facts will form the subject of the next chapter. chapter ix how the commune has been preserved, and what it is to effect in the future sweeping reforms after the crimean war--protest against the laissez faire principle--fear of the proletariat--english and russian methods of legislation contrasted--sanguine expectations--evil consequences of the communal system--the commune of the future--proletariat of the towns--the present state of things merely temporary. the reader is probably aware that immediately after the crimean war russia was subjected to a series of sweeping reforms, including the emancipation of the serfs and the creation of a new system of local self-government, and he may naturally wonder how it came to pass that a curious, primitive institution like the rural commune succeeded in weathering the bureaucratic hurricane. this strange phenomena i now proceed to explain, partly because the subject is in itself interesting, and partly because i hope thereby to throw some light on the peculiar intellectual condition of the russian educated classes. when it became evident, in , that the serfs were about to be emancipated, it was at first pretty generally supposed that the rural commune would be entirely abolished, or at least radically modified. at that time many russians were enthusiastic, indiscriminate admirers of english institutions, and believed, in common with the orthodox school of political economists, that england had acquired her commercial and industrial superiority by adopting the principle of individual liberty and unrestricted competition, or, as french writers term it, the "laissez faire" principle. this principle is plainly inconsistent with the rural commune, which compels the peasantry to possess land, prevents an enterprising peasant from acquiring the land of his less enterprising neighbours, and places very considerable restrictions on the freedom of action of the individual members. accordingly it was assumed that the rural commune, being inconsistent with the modern spirit of progress, would find no place in the new regime of liberty which was about to be inaugurated. no sooner had these ideas been announced in the press than they called forth strenuous protests. in the crowd of protesters were two well-defined groups. on the one hand there were the so-called slavophils, a small band of patriotic, highly educated moscovites, who were strongly disposed to admire everything specifically russian, and who habitually refused to bow the knee to the wisdom of western europe. these gentlemen, in a special organ which they had recently founded, pointed out to their countrymen that the commune was a venerable and peculiarly russian institution, which had mitigated in the past the baneful influence of serfage, and would certainly in the future confer inestimable benefits on the emancipated peasantry. the other group was animated by a very different spirit. they had no sympathy with national peculiarities, and no reverence for hoary antiquity. that the commune was specifically russian or slavonic, and a remnant of primitive times, was in their eyes anything but a recommendation in its favour. cosmopolitan in their tendencies, and absolutely free from all archaeological sentimentality, they regarded the institution from the purely utilitarian point of view. they agreed, however, with the slavophils in thinking that its preservation would have a beneficial influence on the material and moral welfare of the peasantry. for the sake of convenience it is necessary to designate this latter group by some definite name, but i confess i have some difficulty in making a choice. i do not wish to call these gentlemen socialists, because many people habitually and involuntarily attach a stigma to the word, and believe that all to whom the term is applied must be first-cousins to the petroleuses. to avoid misconceptions of this kind, it will be well to designate them simply by the organ which most ably represented their views, and to call them the adherents of the contemporary. the slavophils and the adherents of the contemporary, though differing widely from each other in many respects, had the same immediate object in view, and accordingly worked together. with great ingenuity they contended that the communal system of land tenure had much greater advantages, and was attended with much fewer inconveniences, than people generally supposed. but they did not confine themselves to these immediate practical advantages, which had very little interest for the general reader. the writers in the contemporary explained that the importance of the rural commune lies, not in its actual condition, but in its capabilities of development, and they drew, with prophetic eye, most attractive pictures of the happy rural commune of the future. let me give here, as an illustration, one of these prophetic descriptions: "thanks to the spread of primary and technical education the peasants have become well acquainted with the science of agriculture, and are always ready to undertake in common the necessary improvements. they no longer exhaust the soil by exporting the grain, but sell merely certain technical products containing no mineral ingredients. for this purpose the communes possess distilleries, starch-works, and the like, and the soil thereby retains its original fertility. the scarcity induced by the natural increase of the population is counteracted by improved methods of cultivation. if the chinese, who know nothing of natural science, have succeeded by purely empirical methods in perfecting agriculture to such an extent that a whole family can support itself on a few square yards of land, what may not the european do with the help of chemistry, botanical physiology, and the other natural sciences?" coming back from the possibilities of the future to the actualities of the present, these ingenious and eloquent writers pointed out that in the rural commune, russia possessed a sure preventive against the greatest evil of west-european social organisation, the proletariat. here the slavophils could strike in with their favourite refrain about the rotten social condition of western europe; and their temporary allies, though they habitually scoffed at the slavophil jeremiads, had no reason for the moment to contradict them. very soon the proletariat became, for the educated classes, a species of bugbear, and the reading public were converted to the doctrine that the communal institutions should be preserved as a means of excluding the monster from russia. this fear of what is vaguely termed the proletariat is still frequently to be met with in russia, and i have often taken pains to discover precisely what is meant by the term. i cannot, however, say that my efforts have been completely successful. the monster seems to be as vague and shadowy as the awful forms which milton placed at the gate of the infernal regions. at one moment he seems to be simply our old enemy pauperism, but when we approach a little nearer we find that he expands to colossal dimensions, so as to include all who do not possess inalienable landed property. in short, he turns out to be, on examination, as vague and undefinable as a good bugbear ought to be; and this vagueness contributed probably not a little to his success. the influence which the idea of the proletariat exercised on the public mind and on the legislation at the time of the emancipation is a very notable fact, and well worthy of attention, because it helps to illustrate a point of difference between russians and englishmen. englishmen are, as a rule, too much occupied with the multifarious concerns of the present to look much ahead into the distant future. we profess, indeed, to regard with horror the maxim, apres nous le deluge! and we should probably annihilate with our virtuous indignation any one who should boldly profess the principle. and yet we often act almost as if we were really partisans of that heartless creed. when called upon to consider the interests of the future generations, we declared that "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," and stigmatise as visionaries and dreamers all who seek to withdraw our attention from the present. a modern cassandra who confidently predicts the near exhaustion of our coal-fields, or graphically describes a crushing national disaster that must some day overtake us, may attract some public attention; but when we learn that the misfortune is not to take place in our time, we placidly remark that future generations must take care of themselves, and that we cannot reasonably be expected to bear their burdens. when we are obliged to legislate, we proceed in a cautious, tentative way, and are quite satisfied with any homely, simple remedies that common sense and experience may suggest, without taking the trouble to inquire whether the remedy adopted is in accordance with scientific theories. in short, there is a certain truth in those "famous prophetick pictures" spoken of by stillingfleet, which "represent the fate of england by a mole, a creature blind and busy, continually working under ground." in russia we find the opposite extreme. there reformers have been trained, not in the arena of practical politics, but in the school of political speculation. as soon, therefore, as they begin to examine any simple matter with a view to legislation, it at once becomes a "question," and flies up into the region of political and social science. whilst we have been groping along an unexplored path, the russians have--at least in recent times--been constantly mapping out, with the help of foreign experience, the country that lay before them, and advancing with gigantic strides according to the newest political theories. men trained in this way cannot rest satisfied with homely remedies which merely alleviate the evils of the moment. they wish to "tear up evil by the roots," and to legislate for future generations as well as for themselves. this tendency was peculiarly strong at the time of the emancipation. the educated classes were profoundly convinced that the system of nicholas i. had been a mistake, and that a new and brighter era was about to dawn upon the country. everything had to be reformed. the whole social and political edifice had to be reconstructed on entirely new principles. let us imagine the position of a man who, having no practical acquaintance with building, suddenly finds himself called upon to construct a large house, containing all the newest appliances for convenience and comfort. what will his first step be? probably he will proceed at once to study the latest authorities on architecture and construction, and when he has mastered the general principles he will come down gradually to the details. this is precisely what the russians did when they found themselves called upon to reconstruct the political and social edifice. they eagerly consulted the most recent english, french, and german writers on social and political science, and here it was that they made the acquaintance of the proletariat. people who read books of travel without ever leaving their own country are very apt to acquire exaggerated notions regarding the hardships and dangers of uncivilised life. they read about savage tribes, daring robbers, ferocious wild beasts, poisonous snakes, deadly fevers, and the like; and they cannot but wonder how a human being can exist for a week among such dangers. but if they happen thereafter to visit the countries described, they discover to their surprise that, though the descriptions may not have been exaggerated, life under such conditions is much easier than they supposed. now the russians who read about the proletariat were very much like the people who remain at home and devour books of travel. they gained exaggerated notions, and learned to fear the proletariat much more than we do, who habitually live in the midst of it. of course it is quite possible that their view of the subject is truer than ours, and that we may some day, like the people who live tranquilly on the slopes of a volcano, be rudely awakened from our fancied security. but this is an entirely different question. i am at present not endeavouring to justify our habitual callousness with regard to social dangers, but simply seeking to explain why the russians, who have little or no practical acquaintance with pauperism, should have taken such elaborate precautions against it. but how can the preservation of the communal institutions lead to this "consummation devoutly to be wished," and how far are the precautions likely to be successful? those who have studied the mysteries of social science have generally come to the conclusion that the proletariat has been formed chiefly by the expropriation of the peasantry or small land-holders, and that its formation might be prevented, or at least retarded, by any system of legislation which would secure the possession of land for the peasants and prevent them from being uprooted from the soil. now it must be admitted that the russian communal system is admirably adapted for this purpose. about one-half of the arable land has been reserved for the peasantry, and cannot be encroached on by the great landowners or the capitalists, and every adult peasant, roughly speaking, has a right to a share of this land. when i have said that the peasantry compose about five-sixths of the population, and that it is extremely difficult for a peasant to sever his connection with the rural commune, it will be at once evident that, if the theories of social philosophers are correct, and if the sanguine expectations entertained in many quarters regarding the permanence of the present communal institutions are destined to be realised, there is little or no danger of a numerous proletariat being formed, and the russians are justified in maintaining, as they often do, that they have successfully solved one of the most important and most difficult of social problems. but is there any reasonable chance of these sanguine expectations being realised? this is, doubtless, a most complicated and difficult question, but it cannot be shirked. however sceptical we may be with regard to social panaceas of all sorts, we cannot dismiss with a few hackneyed phrases a gigantic experiment in social science involving the material and moral welfare of many millions of human beings. on the other hand, i do not wish to exhaust the reader's patience by a long series of multifarious details and conflicting arguments. what i propose to do, therefore, is to state in a few words the conclusions at which i have arrived, after a careful study of the question in all its bearings, and to indicate in a general way how i have arrived at these conclusions. if russia were content to remain a purely agricultural country of the sleepy hollow type, and if her government were to devote all its energies to maintaining economic and social stagnation, the rural commune might perhaps prevent the formation of a large proletariat in the future, as it has tended to prevent it for centuries in the past. the periodical redistributions of the communal land would secure to every family a portion of the soil, and when the population became too dense, the evils arising from inordinate subdivision of the land might be obviated by a carefully regulated system of emigration to the outlying, thinly populated provinces. all this sounds very well in theory, but experience is proving that it cannot be carried out in practice. in russia, as in western europe, the struggle for life, even among the conservative agricultural classes, is becoming yearly more and more intense, and is producing both the desire and the necessity for greater freedom of individual character and effort, so that each man may make his way in the world according to the amount of his intelligence, energy, spirit of enterprise, and tenacity of purpose. whatever institutions tend to fetter the individual and maintain a dead level of mediocrity have little chance of subsisting for any great length of time, and it must be admitted that among such institutions the rural commune in its present form occupies a prominent place. all its members must possess, in principle if not always in practice, an equal share of the soil and must practice the same methods of agriculture, and when a certain inequality has been created by individual effort it is in great measure wiped out by a redistribution of the communal land. now, i am well aware that in practice the injustice and inconveniences of the system, being always tempered and corrected by ingenious compromises suggested by long experience, are not nearly so great as the mere theorist might naturally suppose; but they are, i believe, quite great enough to prevent the permanent maintenance of the institution, and already there are ominous indications of the coming change, as i shall explain more fully when i come to deal with the consequences of serf-emancipation. on the other hand there is no danger of a sudden, general abolition of the old system. though the law now permits the transition from communal to personal hereditary tenure, even the progressive enterprising peasants are slow to avail themselves of the permission; and the reason i once heard given for this conservative tendency is worth recording. a well-to-do peasant who had been in the habit of manuring his land better than his neighbours, and who was, consequently, a loser by the existing system, said to me: "of course i want to keep the allotment i have got. but if the land is never again to be divided my grandchildren may be beggars. we must not sin against those who are to come after us." this unexpected reply gave me food for reflection. surely those muzhiks who are so often accused of being brutally indifferent to moral obligations must have peculiar deep-rooted moral conceptions of their own which exercise a great influence on their daily life. a man who hesitates to sin against his grandchildren still unborn, though his conceptions of the meum and the tuum in the present may be occasionally a little confused, must possess somewhere deep down in his nature a secret fund of moral feeling of a very respectable kind. even among the educated classes in russia the way of looking at these matters is very different from ours. we should naturally feel inclined to applaud, encourage, and assist the peasants who show energy and initiative, and who try to rise above their fellows. to the russian this seems at once inexpedient and immoral. the success of the few, he explains, is always obtained at the expense of the many, and generally by means which the severe moralist cannot approve of. the rich peasants, for example, have gained their fortune and influence by demoralising and exploiting their weaker brethren, by committing all manner of illegalities, and by bribing the local authorities. hence they are styled miroyedy (commune-devourers) or kulaki (fists), or something equally uncomplimentary. once this view is adopted, it follows logically that the communal institutions, in so far as they form a barrier to the activity of such persons, ought to be carefully preserved. this idea underlies nearly all the arguments in favour of the commune, and explains why they are so popular. russians of all classes have, in fact, a leaning towards socialistic notions, and very little sympathy with our belief in individual initiative and unrestricted competition. even if it be admitted that the commune may effectually prevent the formation of an agricultural proletariat, the question is thereby only half answered. russia aspires to become a great industrial and commercial country, and accordingly her town population is rapidly augmenting. we have still to consider, then, how the commune affects the proletariat of the towns. in western europe the great centres of industry have uprooted from the soil and collected in the towns a great part of the rural population. those who yielded to this attractive influence severed all connection with their native villages, became unfit for field labour, and were transformed into artisans or factory-workers. in russia this transformation could not easily take place. the peasant might work during the greater part of his life in the towns, but he did not thereby sever his connection with his native village. he remained, whether he desired it or not, a member of the commune, possessing a share of the communal land, and liable for a share of the communal burdens. during his residence in the town his wife and family remained at home, and thither he himself sooner or later returned. in this way a class of hybrids--half-peasants, half-artisans--has been created, and the formation of a town proletariat has been greatly retarded. the existence of this hybrid class is commonly cited as a beneficent result of the communal institutions. the artisans and factory labourers, it is said, have thus always a home to which they can retire when thrown out of work or overtaken by old age, and their children are brought up in the country, instead of being reared among the debilitating influences of overcrowded cities. every common labourer has, in short, by this ingenious contrivance, some small capital and a country residence. in the present transitional state of russian society this peculiar arrangement is at once natural and convenient, but amidst its advantages it has many serious defects. the unnatural separation of the artisan from his wife and family leads to very undesirable results, well known to all who are familiar with the details of peasant life in the northern provinces. and whatever its advantages and defects may be, it cannot be permanently retained. at the present time native industry is still in its infancy. protected by the tariff from foreign competition, and too few in number to produce a strong competition among themselves, the existing factories can give to their owners a large revenue without any strenuous exertion. manufacturers can therefore allow themselves many little liberties, which would be quite inadmissible if the price of manufactured goods were lowered by brisk competition. ask a lancashire manufacturer if he could allow a large portion of his workers to go yearly to cornwall or caithness to mow a field of hay or reap a few acres of wheat or oats! and if russia is to make great industrial progress, the manufacturers of moscow, lodz, ivanovo, and shui will some day be as hard pressed as are those of bradford and manchester. the invariable tendency of modern industry, and the secret of its progress, is the ever-increasing division of labour; and how can this principle be applied if the artisans insist on remaining agriculturists? the interests of agriculture, too, are opposed to the old system. agriculture cannot be expected to make progress, or even to be tolerably productive, if it is left in great measure to women and children. at present it is not desirable that the link which binds the factory-worker or artisan with the village should be at once severed, for in the neighbourhood of the large factories there is often no proper accommodation for the families of the workers, and agriculture, as at present practised, can be carried on successfully though the head of the household happens to be absent. but the system must be regarded as simply temporary, and the disruption of large families--a phenomenon of which i have already spoken--renders its application more and more difficult. chapter x finnish and tartar villages a finnish tribe--finnish villages--various stages of russification--finnish women--finnish religions--method of "laying" ghosts--curious mixture of christianity and paganism--conversion of the finns--a tartar village--a russian peasant's conception of mahometanism--a mahometan's view of christianity--propaganda--the russian colonist--migrations of peoples during the dark ages. when talking one day with a landed proprietor who lived near ivanofka, i accidentally discovered that in a district at some distance to the northeast there were certain villages the inhabitants of which did not understand russian, and habitually used a peculiar language of their own. with an illogical hastiness worthy of a genuine ethnologist, i at once assumed that these must be the remnants of some aboriginal race. "des aborigenes!" i exclaimed, unable to recall the russian equivalent for the term, and knowing that my friend understood french. "doubtless the remains of some ancient race who formerly held the country, and are now rapidly disappearing. have you any aborigines protection society in this part of the world?" my friend had evidently great difficulty in imagining what an aborigines protection society could be, and promptly assured me that there was nothing of the kind in russia. on being told that such a society might render valuable services by protecting the weaker against the stronger race, and collecting important materials for the new science of social embryology, he looked thoroughly mystified. as to the new science, he had never heard of it, and as to protection, he thought that the inhabitants of the villages in question were quite capable of protecting themselves. "i could invent," he added, with a malicious smile, "a society for the protection of all peasants, but i am quite sure that the authorities would not allow me to carry out my idea." my ethnological curiosity was thoroughly aroused, and i endeavoured to awaken a similar feeling in my friend by hinting that we had at hand a promising field for discoveries which might immortalise the fortunate explorers; but my efforts were in vain. the old gentleman was a portly, indolent man, of phlegmatic temperament, who thought more of comfort than of immortality in the terrestrial sense of the term. to my proposal that we should start at once on an exploring expedition, he replied calmly that the distance was considerable, that the roads were muddy, and that there was nothing to be learned. the villages in question were very like other villages, and their inhabitants lived, to all intents and purposes, in the same way as their russian neighbours. if they had any secret peculiarities they would certainly not divulge them to a stranger, for they were notoriously silent, gloomy, morose, and uncommunicative. everything that was known about them, my friend assured me, might be communicated in a few words. they belonged to a finnish tribe called korelli, and had been transported to their present settlements in comparatively recent times. in answer to my questions as to how, when, and by whom they had been transported thither my informant replied that it had been the work of ivan the terrible. though i knew at that time little of russian history, i suspected that the last assertion was invented on the spur of the moment, in order to satisfy my troublesome curiosity, and accordingly i determined not to accept it without verification. the result showed how careful the traveller should be in accepting the testimony of "intelligent, well-informed natives." on further investigation i discovered, not only that the story about ivan the terrible was a pure invention--whether of my friend or of the popular imagination, which always uses heroic names as pegs on which to hang traditions, i know not--but also that my first theory was correct. these finnish peasants turned out to be a remnant of the aborigines, or at least of the oldest known inhabitants of the district. men of the same race, but bearing different tribal names, such as finns, korelli, tcheremiss, tchuvash, mordva, votyaks, permyaks, zyryanye, voguls, are to be found in considerable numbers all over the northern provinces, from the gulf of bothnia to western siberia, as well as in the provinces bordering the middle volga as far south as penza, simbirsk, and tamboff.* the russian peasants, who now compose the great mass of the population, are the intruders. * the semi-official "statesman's handbook for russia," published in , enumerates fourteen different tribes, with an aggregate of about , , souls, but these numbers must not be regarded as having any pretensions to accuracy. the best authorities differ widely in their estimates. i had long taken a deep interest in what learned germans call the volkerwanderung--that is to say, the migrations of peoples during the gradual dissolution of the roman empire, and it had often occurred to me that the most approved authorities, who had expended an infinite amount of learning on the subject, had not always taken the trouble to investigate the nature of the process. it is not enough to know that a race or tribe extended its dominions or changed its geographical position. we ought at the same time to inquire whether it expelled, exterminated, or absorbed the former inhabitants, and how the expulsion, extermination, or absorption was effected. now of these three processes, absorption may have been more frequent than is commonly supposed, and it seemed to me that in northern russia this process might be conveniently studied. a thousand years ago the whole of northern russia was peopled by finnish pagan tribes, and at the present day the greater part of it is occupied by peasants who speak the language of moscow, profess the orthodox faith, present in their physiognomy no striking peculiarities, and appear to the superficial observer pure russians. and we have no reason to suppose that the former inhabitants were expelled or exterminated, or that they gradually died out from contact with the civilisation and vices of a higher race. history records no wholesale finnish migrations like that of the kalmyks, and no war of extermination; and statistics prove that among the remnants of those primitive races the population increases as rapidly as among the russian peasantry.* from these facts i concluded that the finnish aborigines had been simply absorbed, or rather, were being absorbed, by the slavonic intruders. * this latter statement is made on the authority of popoff ("zyryanye i zyryanski krai," moscow, ) and tcheremshanski ("opisanie orenburgskoi gubernii," ufa, ). this conclusion has since been confirmed by observation. during my wanderings in these northern provinces i have found villages in every stage of russification. in one, everything seemed thoroughly finnish: the inhabitants had a reddish-olive skin, very high cheek-bones, obliquely set eyes, and a peculiar costume; none of the women, and very few of the men, could understand russian, and any russian who visited the place was regarded as a foreigner. in a second, there were already some russian inhabitants; the others had lost something of their pure finnish type, many of the men had discarded the old costume and spoke russian fluently, and a russian visitor was no longer shunned. in a third, the finnish type was still further weakened: all the men spoke russian, and nearly all the women understood it; the old male costume had entirely disappeared, and the old female costume was rapidly following it; while intermarriage with the russian population was no longer rare. in a fourth, intermarriage had almost completely done its work, and the old finnish element could be detected merely in certain peculiarities of physiognomy and pronunciation.* * one of the most common peculiarities of pronunciation is the substitution of the sound of ts for that of tch, which i found almost universal over a large area. the process of russification may be likewise observed in the manner of building the houses and in the methods of farming, which show plainly that the finnish races did not obtain rudimentary civilisation from the slavs. whence, then, was it derived? was it obtained from some other race, or is it indigenous? these are questions which i have no means of answering. a positivist poet--or if that be a contradiction in terms, let us say a positivist who wrote verses--once composed an appeal to the fair sex, beginning with the words: "pourquoi, o femmes, restez-vous en arriere?" the question might have been addressed to the women in these finnish villages. like their sisters in france, they are much more conservative than the men, and oppose much more stubbornly the russian influence. on the other hand, like women in general, when they do begin to change, they change more rapidly. this is seen especially in the matter of costume. the men adopt the russian costume very gradually; the women adopt it at once. as soon as a single woman gets a gaudy russian dress, every other woman in the village feels envious and impatient till she has done likewise. i remember once visiting a mordva village when this critical point had been reached, and a very characteristic incident occurred. in the preceding villages through which i had passed i had tried in vain to buy a female costume, and i again made the attempt. this time the result was very different. a few minutes after i had expressed my wish to purchase a costume, the house in which i was sitting was besieged by a great crowd of women, holding in their hands articles of wearing apparel. in order to make a selection i went out into the crowd, but the desire to find a purchaser was so general and so ardent that i was regularly mobbed. the women, shouting "kupi! kupi!" ("buy! buy!"), and struggling with each other to get near me, were so importunate that i had at last to take refuge in the house, to prevent my own costume from being torn to shreds. but even there i was not safe, for the women followed at my heels, and a considerable amount of good-natured violence had to be employed to expel the intruders. it is especially interesting to observe the transformation of nationality in the sphere of religious conceptions. the finns remained pagans long after the russians had become christians, but at the present time the whole population, from the eastern boundary of finland proper to the ural mountains, are officially described as members of the greek orthodox church. the manner in which this change of religion was effected is well worthy of attention. the old religion of the finnish tribes, if we may judge from the fragments which still remain, had, like the people themselves, a thoroughly practical, prosaic character. their theology consisted not of abstract dogmas, but merely of simple prescriptions for the ensuring of material welfare. even at the present day, in the districts not completely russified, their prayers are plain, unadorned requests for a good harvest, plenty of cattle, and the like, and are expressed in a tone of childlike familiarity that sounds strange in our ears. they make no attempt to veil their desires with mystic solemnity, but ask, in simple, straightforward fashion, that god should make the barley ripen and the cow calve successfully, that he should prevent their horses from being stolen, and that he should help them to gain money to pay their taxes. their religious ceremonies have, so far as i have been able to discover, no hidden mystical signification, and are for the most part rather magical rites for averting the influence of malicious spirits, or freeing themselves from the unwelcome visits of their departed relatives. for this latter purpose many even of those who are officially christians proceed at stated seasons to the graveyards and place an abundant supply of cooked food on the graves of their relations who have recently died, requesting the departed to accept this meal, and not to return to their old homes, where their presence is no longer desired. though more of the food is eaten at night by the village dogs than by the famished spirits, the custom is believed to have a powerful influence in preventing the dead from wandering about at night and frightening the living. if it be true, as i am inclined to believe, that tombstones were originally used for keeping the dead in their graves, then it must be admitted that in the matter of "laying" ghosts the finns have shown themselves much more humane than other races. it may, however, be suggested that in the original home of the finns--"le berceau de la race," as french ethnologists say--stones could not easily be procured, and that the custom of feeding the dead was adopted as a pis aller. the decision of the question must be left to those who know where the original home of the finns was. as the russian peasantry, knowing little or nothing of theology, and placing implicit confidence in rites and ceremonies, did not differ very widely from the pagan finns in the matter of religious conceptions, the friendly contact of the two races naturally led to a curious blending of the two religions. the russians adopted many customs from the finns, and the finns adopted still more from the russians. when yumala and the other finnish deities did not do as they were desired, their worshippers naturally applied for protection or assistance to the madonna and the "russian god." if their own traditional magic rites did not suffice to ward off evil influences, they naturally tried the effect of crossing themselves, as the russians do in moments of danger. all this may seem strange to us who have been taught from our earliest years that religion is something quite different from spells, charms, and incantations, and that of all the various religions in the world one alone is true, all the others being false. but we must remember that the finns have had a very different education. they do not distinguish religion from magic rites, and they have never been taught that other religions are less true than their own. for them the best religion is the one which contains the most potent spells, and they see no reason why less powerful religions should not be blended therewith. their deities are not jealous gods, and do not insist on having a monopoly of devotion; and in any case they cannot do much injury to those who have placed themselves under the protection of a more powerful divinity. this simple-minded eclecticism often produces a singular mixture of christianity and paganism. thus, for instance, at the harvest festivals, tchuvash peasants have been known to pray first to their own deities, and then to st. nicholas, the miracle-worker, who is the favourite saint of the russian peasantry. such dual worship is sometimes even recommended by the yomzi--a class of men who correspond to the medicine-men among the red indians--and the prayers are on these occasions couched in the most familiar terms. here is a specimen given by a russian who has specially studied the language and customs of this interesting people:* "look here, o nicholas-god! perhaps my neighbour, little michael, has been slandering me to you, or perhaps he will do so. if he does, don't believe him. i have done him no ill, and wish him none. he is a worthless boaster and a babbler. he does not really honour you, and merely plays the hypocrite. but i honour you from my heart; and, behold, i place a taper before you!" sometimes incidents occur which display a still more curious blending of the two religions. thus a tcheremiss, on one occasion, in consequence of a serious illness, sacrificed a young foal to our lady of kazan! * mr. zolotnitski, "tchuvasko-russki slovar," p. . though the finnish beliefs affected to some extent the russian peasantry, the russian faith ultimately prevailed. this can be explained without taking into consideration the inherent superiority of christianity over all forms of paganism. the finns had no organised priesthood, and consequently never offered a systematic opposition to the new faith; the russians, on the contrary, had a regular hierarchy in close alliance with the civil administration. in the principal villages christian churches were built, and some of the police-officers vied with the ecclesiastical officials in the work of making converts. at the same time there were other influences tending in the same direction. if a russian practised finnish superstitions he exposed himself to disagreeable consequences of a temporal kind; if, on the contrary, a finn adopted the christian religion, the temporal consequences that could result were all advantageous to him. many of the finns gradually became christians almost unconsciously. the ecclesiastical authorities were extremely moderate in their demands. they insisted on no religious knowledge, and merely demanded that the converts should be baptised. the converts, failing to understand the spiritual significance of the ceremony, commonly offered no resistance, so long as the immersion was performed in summer. so little repugnance, indeed, did they feel, that on some occasions, when a small reward was given to those who consented, some of the new converts wished the ceremony to be repeated several times. the chief objection to receiving the christian faith lay in the long and severe fasts imposed by the greek orthodox church; but this difficulty was overcome by assuming that they need not be strictly observed. at first, in some districts, it was popularly believed that the icons informed the russian priests against those who did not fast as the church prescribed; but experience gradually exploded this theory. some of the more prudent converts, however, to prevent all possible tale-telling, took the precaution of turning the face of the icon to the wall when prohibited meats were about to be eaten! this gradual conversion of the finnish tribes, effected without any intellectual revolution in the minds of the converts, had very important temporal consequences. community of faith led to intermarriage, and intermarriage led rapidly to the blending of the two races. if we compare a finnish village in any stage of russification with a tartar village, of which the inhabitants are mahometans, we cannot fail to be struck by the contrast. in the latter, though there may be many russians, there is no blending of the two races. between them religion has raised an impassable barrier. there are many villages in the eastern and north-eastern provinces of european russia which have been for generations half tartar and half russian, and the amalgamation of the two nationalities has not yet begun. near the one end stands the christian church, and near the other stands the little metchet, or mahometan house of prayer. the whole village forms one commune, with one village assembly and one village elder; but, socially, it is composed of two distinct communities, each possessing its peculiar customs and peculiar mode of life. the tartar may learn russian, but he does not on that account become russianised. it must not, however, be supposed that the two races are imbued with fanatical hatred towards each other. on the contrary, they live in perfect good-fellowship, elect as village elder sometimes a russian and sometimes a tartar, and discuss the communal affairs in the village assembly without reference to religious matters. i know one village where the good-fellowship went even a step farther: the christians determined to repair their church, and the mahometans helped them to transport wood for the purpose! all this tends to show that under a tolerably good government, which does not favour one race at the expense of the other, mahometan tartars and christian slavs can live peaceably together. the absence of fanaticism and of that proselytising zeal which is one of the most prolific sources of religious hatred, is to be explained by the peculiar religious conceptions of these peasants. in their minds religion and nationality are so closely allied as to be almost identical. the russian is, as it were, by nature a christian, and the tartar a mahometan; and it never occurs to any one in these villages to disturb the appointed order of nature. on this subject i had once an interesting conversation with a russian peasant who had been for some time living among tartars. in reply to my question as to what kind of people the tartars were, he replied laconically, "nitchevo"--that is to say, "nothing in particular"; and on being pressed for a more definite expression of opinion, he admitted that they were very good people indeed. "and what kind of faith have they?" i continued. "a good enough faith," was the prompt reply. "is it better than the faith of the molokanye?" the molokanye are russian sectarians--closely resembling scotch presbyterians--of whom i shall have more to say in the sequel. "of course it is better than the molokan faith." "indeed!" i exclaimed, endeavouring to conceal my astonishment at this strange judgment. "are the molokanye, then, very bad people?" "not at all. the molokanye are good and honest." "why, then, do you think their faith is so much worse than that of the mahometans?" "how shall i tell you?" the peasant here paused as if to collect his thoughts, and then proceeded slowly, "the tartars, you see, received their faith from god as they received the colour of their skins, but the molokanye are russians who have invented a faith out of their own heads!" this singular answer scarcely requires a commentary. as it would be absurd to try to make tartars change the colour of their skins, so it would be absurd to try to make them change their religion. besides this, such an attempt would be an unjustifiable interference with the designs of providence, for, in the peasant's opinion, god gave mahometanism to the tartars just as he gave the orthodox faith to the russians. the ecclesiastical authorities do not formally adopt this strange theory, but they generally act in accordance with it. there is little official propaganda among the mahometan subjects of the tsar, and it is well that it is so, for an energetic propaganda would lead merely to the stirring up of any latent hostility which may exist deep down in the nature of the two races, and it would not make any real converts. the tartars cannot unconsciously imbibe christianity as the finns have done. their religion is not a rude, simple paganism without theology in the scholastic sense of the term, but a monotheism as exclusive as christianity itself. enter into conversation with an intelligent man who has no higher religious belief than a rude sort of paganism, and you may, if you know him well and make a judicious use of your knowledge, easily interest him in the touching story of christ's life and teaching. and in these unsophisticated natures there is but one step from interest and sympathy to conversion. try the same method with a mussulman, and you will soon find that all your efforts are fruitless. he has already a theology and a prophet of his own, and sees no reason why he should exchange them for those which you have to offer. perhaps he will show you more or less openly that he pities your ignorance and wonders that you have not been able to advance from christianity to mahometanism. in his opinion--i am supposing that he is a man of education--moses and christ were great prophets in their day, and consequently he is accustomed to respect their memory; but he is profoundly convinced that however appropriate they were for their own times, they have been entirely superseded by mahomet, precisely as we believe that judaism was superseded by christianity. proud of his superior knowledge, he regards you as a benighted polytheist, and may perhaps tell you that the orthodox christians with whom he comes in contact have three gods and a host of lesser deities called saints, that they pray to idols called icons, and that they keep their holy days by getting drunk. in vain you endeavour to explain to him that saints and icons are not essential parts of christianity, and that habits of intoxication have no religious significance. on these points he may make concessions to you, but the doctrine of the trinity remains for him a fatal stumbling-block. "you christians," he will say, "once had a great prophet called jisous, who is mentioned with respect in the koran, but you falsified your sacred writings and took to worshipping him, and now you declare that he is the equal of allah. far from us be such blasphemy! there is but one god, and mahomet is his prophet." a worthy christian missionary, who had laboured long and zealously among a mussulman population, once called me sharply to account for having expressed the opinion that mahometans are very rarely converted to christianity. when i brought him down from the region of vague general statements and insisted on knowing how many cases he had met with in his own personal experience during sixteen years of missionary work, he was constrained to admit that he had know only one: and when i pressed him farther as to the disinterested sincerity of the convert in question his reply was not altogether satisfactory. the policy of religious non-intervention has not always been practised by the government. soon after the conquest of the khanate of kazan in the sixteenth century, the tsars of muscovy attempted to convert their new subjects from mahometanism to christianity. the means employed were partly spiritual and partly administrative, but the police-officers seem to have played a more important part than the clergy. in this way a certain number of tartars were baptised; but the authorities were obliged to admit that the new converts "shamelessly retain many horrid tartar customs, and neither hold nor know the christian faith." when spiritual exhortations failed, the government ordered its officials to "pacify, imprison, put in irons, and thereby unteach and frighten from the tartar faith those who, though baptised, do not obey the admonitions of the metropolitan." these energetic measures proved as ineffectual as the spiritual exhortations; and catherine ii. adopted a new method, highly characteristic of her system of administration. the new converts--who, be it remembered, were unable to read and write--were ordered by imperial ukaz to sign a written promise to the effect that "they would completely forsake their infidel errors, and, avoiding all intercourse with unbelievers, would hold firmly and unwaveringly the christian faith and its dogmas"*--of which latter, we may add, they had not the slightest knowledge. the childlike faith in the magical efficacy of stamped paper here displayed was not justified. the so-called "baptised tartars" are at the present time as far from being christians as they were in the sixteenth century. they cannot openly profess mahometanism, because men who have been once formally admitted into the national church cannot leave it without exposing themselves to the severe pains and penalties of the criminal code, but they strongly object to be christianised. * "ukaz kazanskoi dukhovnoi konsistorii." anno . on this subject i have found a remarkable admission in a semiofficial article, published as recently as .* "it is a fact worthy of attention," says the writer, "that a long series of evident apostasies coincides with the beginning of measures to confirm the converts in the christian faith. there must be, therefore, some collateral cause producing those cases of apostasy precisely at the moment when the contrary might be expected." there is a delightful naivete in this way of stating the fact. the mysterious cause vaguely indicated is not difficult to find. so long as the government demanded merely that the supposed converts should be inscribed as christians in the official registers, there was no official apostasy; but as soon as active measures began to be taken "to confirm the converts," a spirit of hostility and fanaticism appeared among the mussulman population, and made those who were inscribed as christians resist the propaganda. * "zhurnal ministerstva narodnago prosveshtcheniya." june, . it may safely be said that christians are impervious to islam, and genuine mussulmans impervious to christianity; but between the two there are certain tribes, or fractions of tribes, which present a promising field for missionary enterprise. in this field the tartars show much more zeal than the russians, and possess certain advantages over their rivals. the tribes of northeastern russia learn tartar much more easily than russian, and their geographical position and modes of life bring them in contact with russians much less than with tartars. the consequence is that whole villages of tcheremiss and votiaks, officially inscribed as belonging to the greek orthodox church, have openly declared themselves mahometans; and some of the more remarkable conversions have been commemorated by popular songs, which are sung by young and old. against this propaganda the orthodox ecclesiastical authorities do little or nothing. though the criminal code contains severe enactments against those who fall away from the orthodox church, and still more against those who produce apostasy,* the enactments are rarely put in force. both clergy and laity in the russian church are, as a rule, very tolerant where no political questions are involved. the parish priest pays attention to apostasy only when it diminishes his annual revenues, and this can be easily avoided by the apostate's paying a small yearly sum. if this precaution be taken, whole villages may be converted to islam without the higher ecclesiastical authorities knowing anything of the matter. * a person convicted of converting a christian to islamism is sentenced, according to the criminal code (§ ), to the loss of all civil rights, and to imprisonment with hard labour for a term varying from eight to ten years. whether the barrier that separates christians and mussulmans in russia, as elsewhere, will ever be broken down by education, i do not know; but i may remark that hitherto the spread of education among the tartars has tended rather to imbue them with fanaticism. if we remember that theological education always produces intolerance, and that tartar education is almost exclusively theological, we shall not be surprised to find that a tartar's religious fanaticism is generally in direct proportion to the amount of his intellectual culture. the unlettered tartar, unspoiled by learning falsely so called, and knowing merely enough of his religion to perform the customary ordinances prescribed by the prophet, is peaceable, kindly, and hospitable towards all men; but the learned tartar, who has been taught that the christian is a kiafir (infidel) and a mushrik (polytheist), odious in the sight of allah, and already condemned to eternal punishment, is as intolerant and fanatical as the most bigoted roman catholic or calvinist. such fanatics are occasionally to be met with in the eastern provinces, but they are few in number, and have little influence on the masses. from my own experience i can testify that during the whole course of my wanderings i have nowhere received more kindness and hospitality than among the uneducated mussulman bashkirs. even here, however, islam opposes a strong barrier to russification. though no such barrier existed among the pagan finnish tribes, the work of russification among them is still, as i have already indicated, far from complete. not only whole villages, but even many entire districts, are still very little affected by russian influence. this is to be explained partly by geographical conditions. in regions which have a poor soil, and are intersected by no navigable river, there are few or no russian settlers, and consequently the finns have there preserved intact their language and customs; whilst in those districts which present more inducements to colonisation, the russian population is more numerous, and the finns less conservative. it must, however, be admitted that geographical conditions do not completely explain the facts. the various tribes, even when placed in the same conditions, are not equally susceptible to foreign influence. the mordva, for instance, are infinitely less conservative than the tchuvash. this i have often noticed, and my impression has been confirmed by men who have had more opportunities of observation. for the present we must attribute this to some occult ethnological peculiarity, but future investigations may some day supply a more satisfactory explanation. already i have obtained some facts which appear to throw light on the subject. the tchuvash have certain customs which seem to indicate that they were formerly, if not avowed mahometans, at least under the influence of islam, whilst we have no reason to suppose that the mordva ever passed through that school. the absence of religious fanaticism greatly facilitated russian colonisation in these northern regions, and the essentially peaceful disposition of the russian peasantry tended in the same direction. the russian peasant is admirably fitted for the work of peaceful agricultural colonisation. among uncivilised tribes he is good-natured, long-suffering, conciliatory, capable of bearing extreme hardships, and endowed with a marvellous power of adapting himself to circumstances. the haughty consciousness of personal and national superiority habitually displayed by englishmen of all ranks when they are brought in contact with races which they look upon as lower in the scale of humanity than themselves, is entirely foreign to his character. he has no desire to rule, and no wish to make the natives hewers of wood and drawers of water. all he desires is a few acres of land which he and his family can cultivate; and so long as he is allowed to enjoy these he is not likely to molest his neighbours. had the colonists of the finnish country been men of anglo-saxon race, they would in all probability have taken possession of the land and reduced the natives to the condition of agricultural labourers. the russian colonists have contented themselves with a humbler and less aggressive mode of action; they have settled peaceably among the native population, and are rapidly becoming blended with it. in many districts the so-called russians have perhaps more finnish than slavonic blood in their veins. but what has all this to do, it may be asked, with the aforementioned volkerwanderung, or migration of peoples, during the dark ages? more than may at first sight appear. some of the so-called migrations were, i suspect, not at all migrations in the ordinary sense of the term, but rather gradual changes, such as those which have taken place, and are still taking place, in northern russia. a thousand years ago what is now known as the province of yaroslavl was inhabited by finns, and now it is occupied by men who are commonly regarded as pure slays. but it would be an utter mistake to suppose that the finns of this district migrated to those more distant regions where they are now to be found. in reality they formerly occupied, as i have said, the whole of northern russia, and in the province of yaroslavl they have been transformed by slav infiltration. in central europe the slavs may be said in a certain sense to have retreated, for in former times they occupied the whole of northern germany as far as the elbe. but what does the word "retreat" mean in this case? it means probably that the slays were gradually teutonised, and then absorbed by the teutonic race. some tribes, it is true, swept over a part of europe in genuine nomadic fashion, and endeavoured perhaps to expel or exterminate the actual possessors of the soil. this kind of migration may likewise be studied in russia. but i must leave the subject till i come to speak of the southern provinces. chapter xi lord novgorod the great departure from ivanofka and arrival at novgorod--the eastern half of the town--the kremlin--an old legend--the armed men of rus--the northmen--popular liberty in novgorod--the prince and the popular assembly--civil dissensions and faction-fights--the commercial republic conquered by the muscovite tsars--ivan the terrible--present condition of the town--provincial society--card-playing--periodicals--"eternal stillness." country life in russia is pleasant enough in summer or in winter, but between summer and winter there is an intermediate period of several weeks when the rain and mud transform a country-house into something very like a prison. to escape this durance vile i determined in the month of october to leave ivanofka, and chose as my headquarters for the next few months the town of novgorod--the old town of that name, not to be confounded with nizhni novgorod--i.e., lower novgorod, on the volga--where the great annual fair is held. for this choice there were several reasons. i did not wish to go to st. petersburg or moscow, because i foresaw that in either of those cities my studies would certainly be interrupted. in a quiet, sleepy provincial town i should have much more chance of coming in contact with people who could not speak fluently any west-european languages, and much better opportunities for studying native life and local administration. of the provincial capitals, novgorod was the nearest, and more interesting than most of its rivals; for it has had a curious history, much older than that of st. petersburg or even of moscow, and some traces of its former greatness are still visible. though now a town of third-rate importance--a mere shadow of its former self--it still contains about , inhabitants, and is the administrative centre of the large province in which it is situated. about eighty miles before reaching st. petersburg the moscow railway crosses the volkhof, a rapid, muddy river which connects lake ilmen with lake ladoga. at the point of intersection i got on board a small steamer and sailed up stream towards lake ilmen for about fifty miles.* the journey was tedious, for the country was flat and monotonous, and the steamer, though it puffed and snorted inordinately, did not make more than nine knots. towards sunset novgorod appeared on the horizon. seen thus at a distance in the soft twilight, it seemed decidedly picturesque. on the east bank lay the greater part of the town, the sky line of which was agreeably broken by the green roofs and pear-shaped cupolas of many churches. on the opposite bank rose the kremlin. spanning the river was a long, venerable stone bridge, half hidden by a temporary wooden one, which was doing duty for the older structure while the latter was being repaired. a cynical fellow-passenger assured me that the temporary structure was destined to become permanent, because it yielded a comfortable revenue to certain officials, but this sinister prediction has not been verified. * the journey would now be made by rail, but the branch line which runs near the bank of the river had not been constructed at that time. that part of novgorod which lies on the eastern bank of the river, and in which i took up my abode for several months, contains nothing that is worthy of special mention. as is the case in most russian towns, the streets are straight, wide, and ill-paved, and all run parallel or at right angles to each other. at the end of the bridge is a spacious market-place, flanked on one side by the town-house. near the other side stand the houses of the governor and of the chief military authority of the district. the only other buildings of note are the numerous churches, which are mostly small, and offer nothing that is likely to interest the student of architecture. altogether this part of the town is unquestionably commonplace. the learned archaeologist may detect in it some traces of the distant past, but the ordinary traveller will find little to arrest his attention. if now we cross over to the other side of the river, we are at once confronted by something which very few russian towns possess--a kremlin, or citadel. this is a large and slightly-elevated enclosure, surrounded by high brick walls, and in part by the remains of a moat. before the days of heavy artillery these walls must have presented a formidable barrier to any besieging force, but they have long ceased to have any military significance, and are now nothing more than an historical monument. passing through the gateway which faces the bridge, we find ourselves in a large open space. to the right stands the cathedral--a small, much-venerated church, which can make no pretensions to architectural beauty--and an irregular group of buildings containing the consistory and the residence of the archbishop. to the left is a long symmetrical range of buildings containing the government offices and the law courts. midway between this and the cathedral, in the centre of the great open space, stands a colossal monument, composed of a massive circular stone pedestal and an enormous globe, on and around which cluster a number of emblematic and historical figures. this curious monument, which has at least the merit of being original in design, was erected in , in commemoration of russia's thousandth birthday, and is supposed to represent the history of russia in general and of novgorod in particular during the last thousand years. it was placed here because novgorod is the oldest of russian towns, and because somewhere in the surrounding country occurred the incident which is commonly recognised as the foundation of the russian empire. the incident in question is thus described in the oldest chronicle: "at that time, as the southern slavonians paid tribute to the kozars, so the novgorodian slavonians suffered from the attacks of the variags. for some time the variags exacted tribute from the novgorodian slavonians and the neighbouring finns; then the conquered tribes, by uniting their forces, drove out the foreigners. but among the slavonians arose strong internal dissensions; the clans rose against each other. then, for the creation of order and safety, they resolved to call in princes from a foreign land. in the year slavonic legates went away beyond the sea to the variag tribe called rus, and said, 'our land is great and fruitful, but there is no order in it; come and reign and rule over us.' three brothers accepted the invitation, and appeared with their armed followers. the eldest of these, rurik, settled in novgorod; the second, sineus, at byelo-ozero; and the third, truvor, in isborsk. from them our land is called rus. after two years the brothers of rurik died. he alone began to rule over the novgorod district, and confided to his men the administration of the principal towns." this simple legend has given rise to a vast amount of learned controversy, and historical investigators have fought valiantly with each other over the important question, who were those armed men of rus? for a long time the commonly received opinion was that they were normans from scandinavia. the slavophils accepted the legend literally in this sense, and constructed upon it an ingenious theory of russian history. the nations of the west, they said, were conquered by invaders, who seized the country and created the feudal system for their own benefit; hence the history of western europe is a long tale of bloody struggles between conquerors and conquered, and at the present day the old enmity still lives in the political rivalry of the different social classes. the russo-slavonians, on the contrary, were not conquered, but voluntarily invited a foreign prince to come and rule over them! hence the whole social and political development of russia has been essentially peaceful, and the russian people know nothing of social castes or feudalism. though this theory afforded some nourishment for patriotic self-satisfaction, it displeased extreme patriots, who did not like the idea that order was first established in their country by men of teutonic race. these preferred to adopt the theory that rurik and his companions were slavonians from the shores of the baltic. though i devoted to the study of this question more time and labour than perhaps the subject deserved, i have no intention of inviting the reader to follow me through the tedious controversy. suffice it to say that, after careful consideration, and with all due deference to recent historians, i am inclined to adopt the old theory, and to regard the normans of scandinavia as in a certain sense the founders of the russian empire. we know from other sources that during the ninth century there was a great exodus from scandinavia. greedy of booty, and fired with the spirit of adventure, the northmen, in their light, open boats, swept along the coasts of germany, france, spain, greece, and asia minor, pillaging the towns and villages near the sea, and entering into the heart of the country by means of the rivers. at first they were mere marauders, and showed everywhere such ferocity and cruelty that they came to be regarded as something akin to plagues and famines, and the faithful added a new petition to the litany, "from the wrath and malice of the normans, o lord, deliver us!" but towards the middle of the century the movement changed its character. the raids became military invasions, and the invaders sought to conquer the lands which they had formerly plundered, "ut acquirant sibi spoliando regna quibus possent vivere pace perpetua." the chiefs embraced christianity, married the daughters or sisters of the reigning princes, and obtained the conquered territories as feudal grants. thus arose norman principalities in the low countries, in france, in italy, and in sicily; and the northmen, rapidly blending with the native population, soon showed as much political talent as they had formerly shown reckless and destructive valour. it would have been strange indeed if these adventurers, who succeeded in reaching asia minor and the coasts of north america, should have overlooked russia, which lay, as it were, at their very doors. the volkhof, flowing through novgorod, formed part of a great waterway which afforded almost uninterrupted water-communication between the baltic and the black sea; and we know that some time afterwards the scandinavians used this route in their journeys to constantinople. the change which the scandinavian movement underwent elsewhere is clearly indicated by the russian chronicles: first, the variags came as collectors of tribute, and raised so much popular opposition that they were expelled, and then they came as rulers, and settled in the country. whether they really came on invitation may be doubted, but that they adopted the language, religion, and customs of the native population does not militate against the assertion that they were normans. on the contrary, we have here rather an additional confirmation, for elsewhere the normans did likewise. in the north of france they adopted almost at once the french language and religion, and the son and successor of the famous rollo was sometimes reproached with being more french than norman.* *strinnholm, "die vikingerzuge" (hamburg, ), i., p. . though it is difficult to decide how far the legend is literally true, there can be no possible doubt that the event which it more or less accurately describes had an important influence on russian history. from that time dates the rapid expansion of the russo-slavonians--a movement that is still going on at the present day. to the north, the east, and the south new principalities were formed and governed by men who all claimed to be descendants of rurik, and down to the end of the sixteenth century no russian outside of this great family ever attempted to establish independent sovereignty. for six centuries after the so-called invitation of rurik the city on the volkhof had a strange, checkered history. rapidly it conquered the neighbouring finnish tribes, and grew into a powerful independent state, with a territory extending to the gulf of finland, and northwards to the white sea. at the same time its commercial importance increased, and it became an outpost of the hanseatic league. in this work the descendants of rurik played an important part, but they were always kept in strict subordination to the popular will. political freedom kept pace with commercial prosperity. what means rurik employed for establishing and preserving order we know not, but the chronicles show that his successors in novgorod possessed merely such authority as was freely granted them by the people. the supreme power resided, not in the prince, but in the assembly of the citizens called together in the market-place by the sound of the great bell. this assembly made laws for the prince as well as for the people, entered into alliances with foreign powers, declared war, and concluded peace, imposed taxes, raised troops, and not only elected the magistrates, but also judged and deposed them when it thought fit. the prince was little more than the hired commander of the troops and the president of the judicial administration. when entering on his functions he had to take a solemn oath that he would faithfully observe the ancient laws and usages, and if he failed to fulfil his promise he was sure to be summarily deposed and expelled. the people had an old rhymed proverb, "koli khud knyaz, tak v gryaz!" "if the prince is bad, into the mud with him!", and they habitually acted according to it. so unpleasant, indeed, was the task of ruling those sturdy, stiff-necked burghers, that some princes refused to undertake it, and others, having tried it for a time, voluntarily laid down their authority and departed. but these frequent depositions and abdications--as many as thirty took place in the course of a single century--did not permanently disturb the existing order of things. the descendants of rurik were numerous, and there were always plenty of candidates for the vacant post. the municipal republic continued to grow in strength and in riches, and during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries it proudly styled itself "lord novgorod the great" (gospodin velilki novgorod). "then came a change, as all things human change." to the east arose the principality of moscow--not an old, rich municipal republic, but a young, vigorous state, ruled by a line of crafty, energetic, ambitious, and unscrupulous princes of the rurik stock, who were freeing the country from the tartar yoke and gradually annexing by fair means and foul the neighbouring principalities to their own dominions. at the same time, and in a similar manner, the lithuanian princes to the westward united various small principalities and formed a large independent state. thus novgorod found itself in a critical position. under a strong government it might have held its own against these rivals and successfully maintained its independence, but its strength was already undermined by internal dissensions. political liberty had led to anarchy. again and again on that great open space where the national monument now stands, and in the market-place on the other side of the river, scenes of disorder and bloodshed took place, and more than once on the bridge battles were fought by contending factions. sometimes it was a contest between rival families, and sometimes a struggle between the municipal aristocracy, who sought to monopolise the political power, and the common people, who wished to have a large share in the administration. a state thus divided against itself could not long resist the aggressive tendencies of powerful neighbours. artful diplomacy could but postpone the evil day, and it required no great political foresight to predict that sooner or later novgorod must become lithuanian or muscovite. the great families inclined to lithuania, but the popular party and the clergy, disliking roman catholicism, looked to moscow for assistance, and the grand princes of muscovy ultimately won the prize. the barbarous way in which the grand princes effected the annexation shows how thoroughly they had imbibed the spirit of tartar statesmanship. thousands of families were transported to moscow, and muscovite families put in their places; and when, in spite of this, the old spirit revived, ivan the terrible determined to apply the method of physical extermination which he had found so effectual in breaking the power of his own nobles. advancing with a large army, which met with no resistance, he devastated the country with fire and sword, and during a residence of five weeks in the town he put the inhabitants to death with a ruthless ferocity which has perhaps never been surpassed even by oriental despots. if those old walls could speak they would have many a horrible tale to tell. enough has been preserved in the chronicles to give us some idea of this awful time. monks and priests were subjected to the tartar punishment called pravezh, which consisted in tying the victim to a stake, and flogging him daily until a certain sum of money was paid for his release. the merchants and officials were tortured with fire, and then thrown from the bridge with their wives and children into the river. lest any of them should escape by swimming, boatfuls of soldiers despatched those who were not killed by the fall. at the present day there is a curious bubbling immediately below the bridge, which prevents the water from freezing in winter, and according to popular belief this is caused by the spirits of the terrible tsar's victims. of those who were murdered in the villages there is no record, but in the town alone no less than , human beings are said to have been butchered--an awful hecatomb on the altar of national unity and autocratic power! this tragic scene, which occurred in , closes the history of novgorod as an independent state. its real independence had long since ceased to exist, and now the last spark of the old spirit was extinguished. the tsars could not suffer even a shadow of political independence to exist within their dominions. in the old days, when many hanseatic merchants annually visited the city, and when the market-place, the bridge, and the kremlin were often the scene of violent political struggles, novgorod must have been an interesting place to live in; but now its glory has departed, and in respect of social resources it is not even a first-rate provincial town. kief, kharkof, and other towns which are situated at a greater distance from the capital, in districts fertile enough to induce the nobles to farm their own land, are in their way little semi-independent centres of civilisation. they contain a theatre, a library, two or three clubs, and large houses belonging to rich landed proprietors, who spend the summer on their estates and come into town for the winter months. these proprietors, together with the resident officials, form a numerous society, and during the winter, dinner-parties, balls, and other social gatherings are by no means infrequent. in novgorod the society is much more limited. it does not, like kief, kharkof, and kazan, possess a university, and it contains no houses belonging to wealthy nobles. the few proprietors of the province who live on their estates, and are rich enough to spend part of the year in town, prefer st. petersburg for their winter residence. the society, therefore, is composed exclusively of the officials and of the officers who happen to be quartered in the town or the immediate vicinity. of all the people whose acquaintance i made at novgorod, i can recall only two men who did not occupy some official position, civil or military. one of these was a retired doctor, who was attempting to farm on scientific principles, and who, i believe, soon afterwards gave up the attempt and migrated elsewhere. the other was a polish bishop who had been compromised in the insurrection of , and was condemned to live here under police supervision. this latter could scarcely be said to belong to the society of the place; though he sometimes appeared at the unceremonious weekly receptions given by the governor, and was invariably treated by all present with marked respect, he could not but feel that he was in a false position, and he was rarely or never seen in other houses. the official circle of a town like novgorod is sure to contain a good many people of average education and agreeable manners, but it is sure to be neither brilliant nor interesting. though it is constantly undergoing a gradual renovation by the received system of frequently transferring officials from one town to another, it preserves faithfully, in spite of the new blood which it thus receives, its essentially languid character. when a new official arrives he exchanges visits with all the notables, and for a few days he produces quite a sensation in the little community. if he appears at social gatherings he is much talked to, and if he does not appear he is much talked about. his former history is repeatedly narrated, and his various merits and defects assiduously discussed. if he is married, and has brought his wife with him, the field of comment and discussion is very much enlarged. the first time that madame appears in society she is the "cynosure of neighbouring eyes." her features, her complexion, her hair, her dress, and her jewellery are carefully noted and criticised. perhaps she has brought with her, from the capital or from abroad, some dresses of the newest fashion. as soon as this is discovered she at once becomes an object of special curiosity to the ladies, and of envious jealousy to those who regard as a personal grievance the presence of a toilette finer or more fashionable than their own. her demeanour, too, is very carefully observed. if she is friendly and affable in manner, she is patronised; if she is distant and reserved, she is condemned as proud and pretentious. in either case she is pretty sure to form a close intimacy with some one of the older female residents, and for a few weeks the two ladies are inseparable, till some incautious word or act disturbs the new-born friendship, and the devoted friends become bitter enemies. voluntarily or involuntarily the husbands get mixed up in the quarrel. highly undesirable qualities are discovered in the characters of all parties concerned, and are made the subject of unfriendly comment. then the feud subsides, and some new feud of a similar kind comes to occupy the public attention. mrs. a. wonders how her friends mr. and mrs. b. can afford to lose considerable sums every evening at cards, and suspects that they are getting into debt or starving themselves and their children; in her humble opinion they would do well to give fewer supper-parties, and to refrain from poisoning their guests. the bosom friend to whom this is related retails it directly or indirectly to mrs. b., and mrs. b. naturally retaliates. here is a new quarrel, which for some time affords material for conversation. when there is no quarrel, there is sure to be a bit of scandal afloat. though russian provincial society is not at all prudish, and leans rather to the side of extreme leniency, it cannot entirely overlook les convenances. madame c. has always a large number of male admirers, and to this there can be no reasonable objection so long as her husband does not complain, but she really parades her preference for mr. x. at balls and parties a little too conspicuously. then there is madame d., with the big dreamy eyes. how can she remain in the place after her husband was killed in a duel by a brother officer? ostensibly the cause of the quarrel was a trifling incident at the card-table, but every one knows that in reality she was the cause of the deadly encounter. and so on, and so on. in the absence of graver interests society naturally bestows inordinate attention on the private affairs of its members; and quarrelling, backbiting, and scandal-mongery help indolent people to kill the time that hangs heavily on their hands. potent as these instruments are, they are not sufficient to kill all the leisure hours. in the forenoons the gentlemen are occupied with their official duties, whilst the ladies go out shopping or pay visits, and devote any time that remains to their household duties and their children; but the day's work is over about four o'clock, and the long evening remains to be filled up. the siesta may dispose of an hour or an hour and a half, but about seven o'clock some definite occupation has to be found. as it is impossible to devote the whole evening to discussing the ordinary news of the day, recourse is almost invariably had to card-playing, which is indulged in to an extent that we had no conception of in england until bridge was imported. hour after hour the russians of both sexes will sit in a hot room, filled with a constantly-renewed cloud of tobacco-smoke--in the production of which most of the ladies take part--and silently play "preference," "yarolash," or bridge. those who for some reason are obliged to be alone can amuse themselves with "patience," in which no partner is required. in the other games the stakes are commonly very small, but the sittings are often continued so long that a player may win or lose two or three pounds sterling. it is no unusual thing for gentlemen to play for eight or nine hours at a time. at the weekly club dinners, before coffee had been served, nearly all present used to rush off impatiently to the card-room, and sit there placidly from five o'clock in the afternoon till one or two o'clock in the morning! when i asked my friends why they devoted so much time to this unprofitable occupation, they always gave me pretty much the same answer: "what are we to do? we have been reading or writing official papers all day, and in the evening we like to have a little relaxation. when we come together we have very little to talk about, for we have all read the daily papers and nothing more. the best thing we can do is to sit down at the card-table, where we can spend our time pleasantly, without the necessity of talking." in addition to the daily papers, some people read the monthly periodicals--big, thick volumes, containing several serious articles on historical and social subjects, sections of one or two novels, satirical sketches, and a long review of home and foreign politics on the model of those in the revue des deux mondes. several of these periodicals are very ably conducted, and offer to their readers a large amount of valuable information; but i have noticed that the leaves of the more serious part often remain uncut. the translation of a sensation novel by the latest french or english favourite finds many more readers than an article by an historian or a political economist. as to books, they seem to be very little read, for during all the time i lived in novgorod i never discovered a bookseller's shop, and when i required books i had to get them sent from st. petersburg. the local administration, it is true, conceived the idea of forming a museum and circulating library, but in my time the project was never realised. of all the magnificent projects that are formed in russia, only a very small percentage come into existence, and these are too often very short-lived. the russians have learned theoretically what are the wants of the most advanced civilisation, and are ever ready to rush into the grand schemes which their theoretical knowledge suggests; but very few of them really and permanently feel these wants, and consequently the institutions artificially formed to satisfy them very soon languish and die. in the provincial towns the shops for the sale of gastronomic delicacies spring up and flourish, whilst shops for the sale of intellectual food are rarely to be met with. about the beginning of december the ordinary monotony of novgorod life is a little relieved by the annual provincial assembly, which sits daily for two or three weeks and discusses the economic wants of the province.* during this time a good many landed proprietors, who habitually live on their estates or in st. petersburg, collect in the town, and enliven a little the ordinary society. but as christmas approaches the deputies disperse, and again the town becomes enshrouded in that "eternal stillness" (vetchnaya tishina) which a native poet has declared to be the essential characteristic of russian provincial life. * of these assemblies i shall have more to say when i come to describe the local self-government. chapter xii the towns and the mercantile classes general character of russian towns--scarcity of towns in russia--why the urban element in the population is so small--history of russian municipal institutions--unsuccessful efforts to create a tiers-etat--merchants, burghers, and artisans--town council--a rich merchant--his house--his love of ostentation--his conception of aristocracy--official decorations--ignorance and dishonesty of the commercial classes--symptoms of change. those who wish to enjoy the illusions produced by scene painting and stage decorations should never go behind the scenes. in like manner he who wishes to preserve the delusion that russian provincial towns are picturesque should never enter them, but content himself with viewing them from a distance. however imposing they may look when seen from the outside, they will be found on closer inspection, with very few exceptions, to be little more than villages in disguise. if they have not a positively rustic, they have at least a suburban, appearance. the streets are straight and wide, and are either miserably paved or not paved at all. trottoirs are not considered indispensable. the houses are built of wood or brick, generally one-storied, and separated from each other by spacious yards. many of them do not condescend to turn their facades to the street. the general impression produced is that the majority of the burghers have come from the country, and have brought their country-houses with them. there are few or no shops with merchandise tastefully arranged in the window to tempt the passer-by. if you wish to make purchases you must go to the gostinny dvor,* or bazaar, which consists of long, symmetrical rows of low-roofed, dimly-lighted stores, with a colonnade in front. this is the place where merchants most do congregate, but it presents nothing of that bustle and activity which we are accustomed to associate with commercial life. the shopkeepers stand at their doors or loiter about in the immediate vicinity waiting for customers. from the scarcity of these latter i should say that when sales are effected the profits must be enormous. * these words mean literally the guests' court or yard. the ghosti--a word which is etymologically the same as our "host" and "guest"--were originally the merchants who traded with other towns or other countries. in the other parts of the town the air of solitude and languor is still more conspicuous. in the great square, or by the side of the promenade--if the town is fortunate enough to have one--cows or horses may be seen grazing tranquilly, without being at all conscious of the incongruity of their position. and, indeed, it would be strange if they had any such consciousness, for it does not exist in the minds either of the police or of the inhabitants. at night the streets may be lighted merely with a few oil-lamps, which do little more than render the darkness visible, so that cautious citizens returning home late often provide themselves with lanterns. as late as the sixties the learned historian, pogodin, then a town-councillor of moscow, opposed the lighting of the city with gas on the ground that those who chose to go out at night should carry their lamps with them. the objection was overruled, and moscow is now fairly well lit, but the provincial towns are still far from being on the same level. some retain their old primitive arrangements, while others enjoy the luxury of electric lighting. the scarcity of large towns in russia is not less remarkable than their rustic appearance. according to the last census ( ) the number of towns, officially so-called, is , , but about three-fifths of them have under , inhabitants; only have over , , and only over , . these figures indicate plainly that the urban element of the population is relatively small, and it is declared by the official statisticians to be only per cent., as against per cent. in great britain, but it is now increasing rapidly. when the first edition of this work was published, in , european russia in the narrower sense of the term--excluding finland, the baltic provinces, lithuania, poland, and the caucasus--had only towns with a population of over , , and now there are ; that is to say, the number of such towns has more than trebled. in the other portions of the country a similar increase has taken place. the towns which have become important industrial and commercial centres have naturally grown most rapidly. for example, in a period of twelve years ( - ) the populations of lodz, of ekaterinoslaf, of baku, of yaroslavl, and of libau, have more than doubled. in the five largest towns of the empire--st. petersburg, moscow, warsaw, odessa and lodz--the aggregate population rose during the same twelve years from , , to , , , or nearly per cent. in ten other towns, with populations varying from , to , , the aggregate rose from , to , , , or about per cent. that russia should have taken so long to assimilate herself in this respect to western europe is to be explained by the geographical and political conditions. her population was not hemmed in by natural or artificial frontiers strong enough to restrain their expansive tendencies. to the north, the east, and the southeast there was a boundless expanse of fertile, uncultivated land, offering a tempting field for emigration; and the peasantry have ever shown themselves ready to take advantage of their opportunities. instead of improving their primitive system of agriculture, which requires an enormous area and rapidly exhausts the soil, they have always found it easier and more profitable to emigrate and take possession of the virgin land beyond. thus the territory--sometimes with the aid of, and sometimes in spite of, the government--has constantly expanded, and has already reached the polar ocean, the pacific, and the northern offshoots of the himalayas. the little district around the sources of the dnieper has grown into a mighty empire, comprising one-seventh of the land surface of the globe. prolific as the russian race is, its power of reproduction could not keep pace with its territorial expansion, and consequently the country is still very thinly peopled. according to the latest census ( ) in the whole empire there are under millions of inhabitants, and the average density of population is only about fifteen to the english square mile. even the most densely populated provinces, including moscow with its , inhabitants, cannot show more than to the english square mile, whereas england has about . a people that has such an abundance of land, and can support itself by agriculture, is not naturally disposed to devote itself to industry, or to congregate in large cities. for many generations there were other powerful influences working in the same direction. of these the most important was serfage, which was not abolished till . that institution, and the administrative system of which it formed an essential part, tended to prevent the growth of the towns by hemming the natural movements of the population. peasants, for example, who learned trades, and who ought to have drifted naturally into the burgher class, were mostly retained by the master on his estate, where artisans of all sorts were daily wanted, and the few who were sent to seek work in the towns were not allowed to settle there permanently. thus the insignificance of the russian towns is to be attributed mainly to two causes. the abundance of land tended to prevent the development of industry, and the little industry which did exist was prevented by serfage from collecting in the towns. but this explanation is evidently incomplete. the same causes existed during the middle ages in central europe, and yet, in spite of them, flourishing cities grew up and played an important part in the social and political history of germany. in these cities collected traders and artisans, forming a distinct social class, distinguished from the nobles on the one hand, and the surrounding peasantry on the other, by peculiar occupations, peculiar aims, peculiar intellectual physiognomy, and peculiar moral conceptions. why did these important towns and this burgher class not likewise come into existence in russia, in spite of the two preventive causes above mentioned? to discuss this question fully it would be necessary to enter into certain debated points of mediaeval history. all i can do here is to indicate what seems to me the true explanation. in central europe, all through the middle ages, a perpetual struggle went on between the various political factors of which society was composed, and the important towns were in a certain sense the products of this struggle. they were preserved and fostered by the mutual rivalry of the sovereign, the feudal nobility, and the church; and those who desired to live by trade or industry settled in them in order to enjoy the protection and immunities which they afforded. in russia there was never any political struggle of this kind. as soon as the grand princes of moscow, in the sixteenth century, threw off the yoke of the tartars, and made themselves tsars of all russia, their power was irresistible and uncontested. complete masters of the situation, they organised the country as they thought fit. at first their policy was favourable to the development of the towns. perceiving that the mercantile and industrial classes might be made a rich source of revenue, they separated them from the peasantry, gave them the exclusive right of trading, prevented the other classes from competing with them, and freed them from the authority of the landed proprietors. had they carried out this policy in a cautious, rational way, they might have created a rich burgher class; but they acted with true oriental short-sightedness, and defeated their own purpose by imposing inordinately heavy taxes, and treating the urban population as their serfs. the richer merchants were forced to serve as custom-house officers--often at a great distance from their domiciles*--and artisans were yearly summoned to moscow to do work for the tsars without remuneration. * merchants from yaroslavl, for instance, were sent to astrakhan to collect the custom-dues. besides this, the system of taxation was radically defective, and the members of the local administration, who received no pay and were practically free from control, were merciless in their exactions. in a word, the tsars used their power so stupidly and so recklessly that the industrial and trading population, instead of fleeing to the towns to secure protection, fled from them to escape oppression. at length this emigration from the towns assumed such dimensions that it was found necessary to prevent it by administrative and legislative measures; and the urban population was legally fixed in the towns as the rural population was fixed to the soil. those who fled were brought back as runaways, and those who attempted flight a second time were ordered to be flogged and transported to siberia.* * see the "ulozhenie" (i.e. the laws of alexis, father of peter the great), chap. xix. . with the eighteenth century began a new era in the history of the towns and of the urban population. peter the great observed, during his travels in western europe, that national wealth and prosperity reposed chiefly on the enterprising, educated middle classes, and he attributed the poverty of his own country to the absence of this burgher element. might not such a class be created in russia? peter unhesitatingly assumed that it might, and set himself at once to create it in a simple, straightforward way. foreign artisans were imported into his dominions and foreign merchants were invited to trade with his subjects; young russians were sent abroad to learn the useful arts; efforts were made to disseminate practical knowledge by the translation of foreign books and the foundation of schools; all kinds of trade were encouraged, and various industrial enterprises were organised. at the same time the administration of the towns was thoroughly reorganised after the model of the ancient free-towns of germany. in place of the old organisation, which was a slightly modified form of the rural commune, they received german municipal institutions, with burgomasters, town councils, courts of justice, guilds for the merchants, trade corporations (tsekhi) for the artisans, and an endless list of instructions regarding the development of trade and industry, the building of hospitals, sanitary precautions, the founding of schools, the dispensation of justice, the organisation of the police, and similar matters. catherine ii. followed in the same track. if she did less for trade and industry, she did more in the way of legislating and writing grandiloquent manifestoes. in the course of her historical studies she had learned, as she proclaims in one of her manifestoes, that "from remotest antiquity we everywhere find the memory of town-builders elevated to the same level as the memory of legislators, and we see that heroes, famous for their victories, hoped by town-building to give immortality to their names." as the securing of immortality for her own name was her chief aim in life, she acted in accordance with historical precedent, and created towns in the short space of twenty-three years. this seems a great work, but it did not satisfy her ambition. she was not only a student of history, but was at the same time a warm admirer of the fashionable political philosophy of her time. that philosophy paid much attention to the tiers-etat, which was then acquiring in france great political importance, and catherine thought that as she had created a noblesse on the french model, she might also create a bourgeoisie. for this purpose she modified the municipal organisation created by her great predecessor, and granted to all the towns an imperial charter. this charter remained without essential modification until the publication of the new municipality law in . the efforts of the government to create a rich, intelligent tiers-etat were not attended with much success. their influence was always more apparent in official documents than in real life. the great mass of the population remained serfs, fixed to the soil, whilst the nobles--that is to say, all who possessed a little education--were required for the military and civil services. those who were sent abroad to learn the useful arts learned little, and made little use of the knowledge which they acquired. on their return to their native country they very soon fell victims to the soporific influence of the surrounding social atmosphere. the "town-building" had as little practical result. it was an easy matter to create any number of towns in the official sense of the term. to transform a village into a town, it was necessary merely to prepare an izba, or log-house, for the district court, another for the police-office, a third for the prison, and so on. on an appointed day the governor of the province arrived in the village, collected the officials appointed to serve in the newly-constructed or newly-arranged log-houses, ordered a simple religious ceremony to be performed by the priest, caused a formal act to be drawn up, and then declared the town to be "opened." all this required very little creative effort; to create a spirit of commercial and industrial enterprise among the population was a more difficult matter and could not be effected by imperial ukaz. to animate the newly-imported municipal institutions, which had no root in the traditions and habits of the people, was a task of equal difficulty. in the west these institutions had been slowly devised in the course of centuries to meet real, keenly-felt, practical wants. in russia they were adopted for the purpose of creating those wants which were not yet felt. let the reader imagine our board of trade supplying the masters of fishing-smacks with accurate charts, learned treatises on navigation, and detailed instructions for the proper ventilation of ships' cabins, and he will have some idea of the effect which peter's legislation had upon the towns. the office-bearers, elected against their will, were hopelessly bewildered by the complicated procedure, and were incapable of understanding the numerous ukazes which prescribed to them their multifarious duties and threatened the most merciless punishments for sins of omission and commission. soon, however, it was discovered that the threats were not nearly so dreadful as they seemed; and accordingly those municipal authorities who were to protect and enlighten the burghers, "forgot the fear of god and the tsar," and extorted so unblushingly that it was found necessary to place them under the control of government officials. the chief practical result of the efforts made by peter and catherine to create a bourgeoisie was that the inhabitants of the towns were more systematically arranged in categories for the purpose of taxation, and that the taxes were increased. all those parts of the new administration which had no direct relation to the fiscal interests of the government had very little vitality in them. the whole system had been arbitrarily imposed on the people, and had as motive only the imperial will. had that motive power been withdrawn and the burghers left to regulate their own municipal affairs, the system would immediately have collapsed. rathhaus, burgomasters, guilds, aldermen, and all the other lifeless shadows which had been called into existence by imperial ukaz would instantly have vanished into space. in this fact we have one of the characteristic traits of russian historical development compared with that of western europe. in the west monarchy had to struggle with municipal institutions to prevent them from becoming too powerful; in russia, it had to struggle with them to prevent them from committing suicide or dying of inanition. according to catherine's legislation, which remained in force until , and still exists in some of its main features, the towns were divided into three categories: ( ) government towns (gubernskiye goroda)--that is to say, the chief towns of provinces, or governments (gubernii)--in which are concentrated the various organs of provincial administration; ( ) district towns (uyezdniye goroda), in which resides the administration of the districts (uyezdi) into which the provinces are divided; and ( ) supernumerary towns (zashtatniye goroda), which have no particular significance in the territorial administration. in all these the municipal organisation is the same. leaving out of consideration those persons who happen to reside in the towns, but in reality belong to the noblesse, the clergy, or the lower ranks of officials, we may say that the town population is composed of three groups: the merchants (kuptsi), the burghers in the narrower sense of the term (meshtchanye), and the artisans (tsekhoviye). these categories are not hereditary castes, like the nobles, the clergy, and the peasantry. a noble may become a merchant, or a man may be one year a burgher, the next year an artisan, and the third year a merchant, if he changes his occupation and pays the necessary dues. but the categories form, for the time being, distinct corporations, each possessing a peculiar organisation and peculiar privileges and obligations. of these three groups the first in the scale of dignity is that of the merchants. it is chiefly recruited from the burghers and the peasantry. any one who wishes to engage in commerce inscribes himself in one of the three guilds, according to the amount of his capital and the nature of the operations in which he wishes to embark, and as soon as he has paid the required dues he becomes officially a merchant. as soon as he ceases to pay these dues he ceases to be a merchant in the legal sense of the term, and returns to the class to which he formerly belonged. there are some families whose members have belonged to the merchant class for several generations, and the law speaks about a certain "velvet-book" (barkhatnaya kniga) in which their names should be inscribed, but in reality they do not form a distinct category, and they descend at once from their privileged position as soon as they cease to pay the annual guild dues. the artisans form the connecting link between the town population and the peasantry, for peasants often enrol themselves in the trades-corporations, or tsekhi, without severing their connection with the rural communes to which they belong. each trade or handicraft constitutes a tsekh, at the head of which stands an elder and two assistants, elected by the members; and all the tsekhi together form a corporation under an elected head (remeslenny golova) assisted by a council composed of the elders of the various tsekhi. it is the duty of this council and its president to regulate all matters connected with the tsekhi, and to see that the multifarious regulations regarding masters, journeymen, and apprentices are duly observed. the nondescript class, composed of those who are inscribed as permanent inhabitants of the towns, but who do not belong to any guild or tsekh, constitutes what is called the burghers in the narrower sense of the term. like the other two categories, they form a separate corporation, with an elder and an administrative bureau. some idea of the relative numerical strength of these three categories may be obtained from the following figures. thirty years ago in european russia the merchant class (including wives and children) numbered about , , the burghers about , , , and the artisans about , . the numbers according to the last census are not yet available. in the entire municipal administration was reorganised on modern west-european principles, and the town council (gorodskaya duma), which formed under the previous system the connecting link between the old-fashioned corporations, and was composed exclusively of members of these bodies, became a genuine representative body composed of householders, irrespective of the social class to which they might belong. a noble, provided he was a house-proprietor, could become town councillor or mayor, and in this way a certain amount of vitality and a progressive spirit were infused into the municipal administration. as a consequence of this change the schools, hospitals, and other benevolent institutions were much improved, the streets were kept cleaner and somewhat better paved, and for a time it seemed as if the towns in russia might gradually rise to the level of those of western europe. but the charm of novelty, which so often works wonders in russia, soon wore off. after a few years of strenuous effort the best citizens no longer came forward as candidates, and the office-bearers selected no longer displayed zeal and intelligence in the discharge of their duties. in these circumstances the government felt called upon again to intervene. by a decree dated june , , it introduced a new series of reforms, by which the municipal self-government was placed more under the direction and control of the centralised bureaucracy, and the attendance of the town councillors at the periodical meetings was declared to be obligatory, recalcitrant members being threatened with reprimands and fines. this last fact speaks volumes for the low vitality of the institutions and the prevalent popular apathy with regard to municipal affairs. nor was the unsatisfactory state of things much improved by the new reforms; on the contrary, the increased interference of the regular officials tended rather to weaken the vitality of the urban self government, and the so-called reform was pretty generally condemned as a needlessly reactionary measure. we have here, in fact, a case of what has often occurred in the administrative history of the russian empire since the time of peter the great, and to which i shall again have occasion to refer. the central authority, finding itself incompetent to do all that is required of it, and wishing to make a display of liberalism, accords large concessions in the direction of local autonomy; and when it discovers that the new institutions do not accomplish all that was expected of them, and are not quite so subservient and obsequious as is considered desirable, it returns in a certain measure to the old principles of centralised bureaucracy. the great development of trade and industry in recent years has of course enriched the mercantile classes, and has introduced into them a more highly educated element, drawn chiefly from the noblesse, which formerly eschewed such occupations; but it has not yet affected very deeply the mode of life of those who have sprung from the old merchant families and the peasantry. when a merchant, contractor, or manufacturer of the old type becomes wealthy, he builds for himself a fine house, or buys and thoroughly repairs the house of some ruined noble, and spends money freely on parquetry floors, large mirrors, malachite tables, grand pianos by the best makers, and other articles of furniture made of the most costly materials. occasionally--especially on the occasion of a marriage or a death in the family--he will give magnificent banquets, and expend enormous sums on gigantic sterlets, choice sturgeons, foreign fruits, champagne, and all manner of costly delicacies. but this lavish, ostentatious expenditure does not affect the ordinary current of his daily life. as you enter those gaudily furnished rooms you can perceive at a glance that they are not for ordinary use. you notice a rigid symmetry and an indescribable bareness which inevitably suggest that the original arrangements of the upholsterer have never been modified or supplemented. the truth is that by far the greater part of the house is used only on state occasions. the host and his family live down-stairs in small, dirty rooms, furnished in a very different, and for them more comfortable, style. at ordinary times the fine rooms are closed, and the fine furniture carefully covered. if you make a visite de politesse after an entertainment, you will probably have some difficulty in gaining admission by the front door. when you have knocked or rung several times, some one will come round from the back regions and ask you what you want. then follows another long pause, and at last footsteps are heard approaching from within. the bolts are drawn, the door is opened, and you are led up to a spacious drawing-room. at the wall opposite the windows there is sure to be a sofa, and before it an oval table. at each end of the table, and at right angles to the sofa, there will be a row of three arm-chairs. the other chairs will be symmetrically arranged round the room. in a few minutes the host will appear, in his long double-breasted black coat and well-polished long boots. his hair is parted in the middle, and his beard shows no trace of scissors or razor. after the customary greetings have been exchanged, glasses of tea, with slices of lemon and preserves, or perhaps a bottle of champagne, are brought in by way of refreshments. the female members of the family you must not expect to see, unless you are an intimate friend; for the merchants still retain something of that female seclusion which was in vogue among the upper classes before the time of peter the great. the host himself will probably be an intelligent, but totally uneducated and decidedly taciturn, man. about the weather and the crops he may talk fluently enough, but he will not show much inclination to go beyond these topics. you may, perhaps, desire to converse with him on the subject with which he is best acquainted--the trade in which he is himself engaged; but if you make the attempt, you will certainly not gain much information, and you may possibly meet with such an incident as once happened to my travelling companion, a russian gentleman who had been commissioned by two learned societies to collect information regarding the grain trade. when he called on a merchant who had promised to assist him in his investigation, he was hospitably received; but when he began to speak about the grain trade of the district the merchant suddenly interrupted him, and proposed to tell him a story. the story was as follows: once on a time a rich landed proprietor had a son, who was a thoroughly spoilt child; and one day the boy said to his father that he wished all the young serfs to come and sing before the door of the house. after some attempts at dissuasion the request was granted, and the young people assembled; but as soon as they began to sing, the boy rushed out and drove them away. when the merchant had told this apparently pointless story at great length, and with much circumstantial detail, he paused a little, poured some tea into his saucer, drank it off, and then inquired, "now what do you think was the reason of this strange conduct?" my friend replied that the riddle surpassed his powers of divination. "well," said the merchant, looking hard at him, with a knowing grin, "there was no reason; and all the boy could say was, 'go away, go away! i've changed my mind; i've changed my mind'" (poshli von; otkhotyel). there was no possibility of mistaking the point of the story. my friend took the hint and departed. the russian merchant's love of ostentation is of a peculiar kind--something entirely different from english snobbery. he may delight in gaudy reception-rooms, magnificent dinners, fast trotters, costly furs; or he may display his riches by princely donations to churches, monasteries, or benevolent institutions: but in all this he never affects to be other than he really is. he habitually wears a costume which designates plainly his social position; he makes no attempt to adopt fine manners or elegant tastes; and he never seeks to gain admission to what is called in russia la societe. having no desire to seem what he is not, he has a plain, unaffected manner, and sometimes a quiet dignity which contrasts favourably with the affected manner of those nobles of the lower ranks who make pretensions to being highly educated and strive to adopt the outward forms of french culture. at his great dinners, it is true, the merchant likes to see among his guests as many "generals"--that is to say, official personages--as possible, and especially those who happen to have a grand cordon; but he never dreams of thereby establishing an intimacy with these personages, or of being invited by them in return. it is perfectly understood by both parties that nothing of the kind is meant. the invitation is given and accepted from quite different motives. the merchant has the satisfaction of seeing at his table men of high official rank, and feels that the consideration which he enjoys among people of his own class is thereby augmented. if he succeeds in obtaining the presence of three generals, he obtains a victory over a rival who cannot obtain more than two. the general, on his side, gets a first-rate dinner, a la russe, and acquires an undefined right to request subscriptions for public objects or benevolent institutions. of course this undefined right is commonly nothing more than a mere tacit understanding, but in certain cases the subject is expressly mentioned. i know of one case in which a regular bargain was made. a moscow magnate was invited by a merchant to a dinner, and consented to go in full uniform, with all his decorations, on condition that the merchant should subscribe a certain sum to a benevolent institution in which he was particularly interested. it is whispered that such bargains are sometimes made, not on behalf of benevolent institutions, but simply in the interest of the gentleman who accepts the invitation. i cannot believe that there are many official personages who would consent to let themselves out as table decorations, but that it may happen is proved by the following incident, which accidentally came to my knowledge. a rich merchant of the town of t---- once requested the governor of the province to honour a family festivity with his presence, and added that he would consider it a special favour if the "governoress" would enter an appearance. to this latter request his excellency made many objections, and at last let the petitioner understand that her excellency could not possibly be present, because she had no velvet dress that could bear comparison with those of several merchants' wives in the town. two days after the interview a piece of the finest velvet that could be procured in moscow was received by the governor from an unknown donor, and his wife was thus enabled to be present at the festivity, to the complete satisfaction of all parties concerned. it is worthy of remark that the merchants recognise no aristocracy but that of official rank. many merchants would willingly give twenty pounds for the presence of an "actual state councillor" who perhaps never heard of his grandfather, but who can show a grand cordon; whilst they would not give twenty pence for the presence of an undecorated prince without official rank, though he might be able to trace his pedigree up to the half-mythical rurik. of the latter they would probably say, "kto ikh znact?" (who knows what sort of a fellow he is?) the former, on the contrary, whoever his father and grandfather may have been, possesses unmistakable marks of the tsar's favour, which, in the merchant's opinion, is infinitely more important than any rights or pretensions founded on hereditary titles or long pedigrees. some marks of imperial favour the old-fashioned merchants strive to obtain for themselves. they do not dream of grand cordons--that is far beyond their most sanguine expectations--but they do all in their power to obtain those lesser decorations which are granted to the mercantile class. for this purpose the most common expedient is a liberal subscription to some benevolent institution, and occasionally a regular bargain is made. i know of at least one instance where the kind of decoration was expressly stipulated. the affair illustrates so well the commercial character of these transactions that i venture to state the facts as related to me by the official chiefly concerned. a merchant subscribed to a society which enjoyed the patronage of a grand duchess a considerable sum of money, under the express condition that he should receive in return a st. vladimir cross. instead of the desired decoration, which was considered too much for the sum subscribed, a cross of st. stanislas was granted; but the donor was dissatisfied with the latter and demanded that his money should be returned to him. the demand had to be complied with, and, as an imperial gift cannot be retracted, the merchant had his stanislas cross for nothing. this traffic in decorations has had its natural result. like paper money issued in too large quantities, the decorations have fallen in value. the gold medals which were formerly much coveted and worn with pride by the rich merchants--suspended by a ribbon round the neck--are now little sought after. in like manner the inordinate respect for official personages has considerably diminished. fifty years ago the provincial merchants vied with each other in their desire to entertain any great dignitary who honoured their town with a visit, but now they seek rather to avoid this expensive and barren honour. when they do accept the honour, they fulfil the duties of hospitality in a most liberal spirit. i have sometimes, when living as an honoured guest in a rich merchant's house, found it difficult to obtain anything simpler than sterlet, sturgeon, and champagne. the two great blemishes on the character of the russian merchants as a class are, according to general opinion, their ignorance and their dishonesty. as to the former of these there cannot possibly be any difference of opinion. many of them can neither read nor write, and are forced to keep their accounts in their memory, or by means of ingenious hieroglyphics, intelligible only to the inventor. others can decipher the calendar and the lives of the saints, can sign their names with tolerable facility, and can make the simpler arithmetical calculations with the help of the stchety, a little calculating instrument, composed of wooden balls strung on brass wires, which resembles the "abaca" of the old romans, and is universally used in russia. it is only the minority who understand the mysteries of regular book-keeping, and of these very few can make any pretensions to being educated men. all this, however, is rapidly undergoing a radical change. children are now much better educated than their parents, and the next generation will doubtless make further progress, so that the old-fashioned type above described is destined to disappear. already there are not a few of the younger generation--especially among the wealthy manufacturers of moscow--who have been educated abroad, who may be described as tout a fait civilises, and whose mode of life differs little from that of the richer nobles; but they remain outside fashionable society, and constitute a "set" of their own. as to the dishonesty which is said to be so common among the russian commercial classes, it is difficult to form an accurate judgment. that an enormous amount of unfair dealing does exist there can be no possible doubt, but in this matter a foreigner is likely to be unduly severe. we are apt to apply unflinchingly our own standard of commercial morality, and to forget that trade in russia is only emerging from that primitive condition in which fixed prices and moderate profits are entirely unknown. and when we happen to detect positive dishonesty, it seems to us especially heinous, because the trickery employed is more primitive and awkward than that to which we are accustomed. trickery in weighing and measuring, for instance, which is by no means uncommon in russia, is likely to make us more indignant than those ingenious methods of adulteration which are practised nearer home, and are regarded by many as almost legitimate. besides this, foreigners who go to russia and embark in speculations without possessing any adequate knowledge of the character, customs, and language of the people positively invite spoliation, and ought to blame themselves rather than the people who profit by their ignorance. all this, and much more of the same kind, may be fairly urged in mitigation of the severe judgments which foreign merchants commonly pass on russian commercial morality, but these judgments cannot be reversed by such argumentation. the dishonesty and rascality which exist among the merchants are fully recognised by the russians themselves. in all moral affairs the lower classes in russia are very lenient in their judgments, and are strongly disposed, like the americans, to admire what is called in transatlantic phraseology "a smart man," though the smartness is known to contain a large admixture of dishonesty; and yet the vox populi in russia emphatically declares that the merchants as a class are unscrupulous and dishonest. there is a rude popular play in which the devil, as principal dramatis persona, succeeds in cheating all manner and conditions of men, but is finally overreached by a genuine russian merchant. when this play is acted in the carnival theatre in st. petersburg the audience invariably agrees with the moral of the plot. if this play were acted in the southern towns near the coast of the black sea it would be necessary to modify it considerably, for here, in company with jews, greeks, and armenians, the russian merchants seem honest by comparison. as to greeks and armenians, i know not which of the two nationalities deserves the palm, but it seems that both are surpassed by the children of israel. "how these jews do business," i have heard a russian merchant of this region exclaim, "i cannot understand. they buy up wheat in the villages at eleven roubles per tchetvert, transport it to the coast at their own expense, and sell it to the exporters at ten roubles! and yet they contrive to make a profit! it is said that the russian trader is cunning, but here 'our brother' [i.e., the russian] can do nothing." the truth of this statement i have had abundant opportunities of confirming by personal investigations on the spot. if i might express a general opinion regarding russian commercial morality, i should say that trade in russia is carried on very much on the same principle as horse-dealing in england. a man who wishes to buy or sell must trust to his own knowledge and acuteness, and if he gets the worst of a bargain or lets himself be deceived, he has himself to blame. commercial englishmen on arriving in russia rarely understand this, and when they know it theoretically they are too often unable, from their ignorance of the language, the laws, and the customs of the people, to turn their theoretical knowledge to account. they indulge, therefore, at first in endless invectives against the prevailing dishonesty; but gradually, when they have paid what germans call lehrgeld, they accommodate themselves to circumstances, take large profits to counterbalance bad debts, and generally succeed--if they have sufficient energy, mother-wit, and capital--in making a very handsome income. the old race of british merchants, however, is rapidly dying out, and i greatly fear that the rising generation will not be equally successful. times have changed. it is no longer possible to amass large fortunes in the old easy-going fashion. every year the conditions alter, and the competition increases. in order to foresee, understand, and take advantage of the changes, one must have far more knowledge of the country than the men of the old school possessed, and it seems to me that the young generation have still less of that knowledge than their predecessors. unless some change takes place in this respect, the german merchants, who have generally a much better commercial education and are much better acquainted with their adopted country, will ultimately, i believe, expel their british rivals. already many branches of commerce formerly carried on by englishmen have passed into their hands. it must not be supposed that the unsatisfactory organisation of the russian commercial world is the result of any radical peculiarity of the russian character. all new countries have to pass through a similar state of things, and in russia there are already premonitory symptoms of a change for the better. for the present, it is true, the extensive construction of railways and the rapid development of banks and limited liability companies have opened up a new and wide field for all kinds of commercial swindling; but, on the other hand, there are now in every large town a certain number of merchants who carry on business in the west-european manner, and have learnt by experience that honesty is the best policy. the success which many of these have obtained will doubtless cause their example to be followed. the old spirit of caste and routine which has long animated the merchant class is rapidly disappearing, and not a few nobles are now exchanging country life and the service of the state for industrial and commercial enterprises. in this way is being formed the nucleus of that wealthy, enlightened bourgeoisie which catherine endeavoured to create by legislation; but many years must elapse before this class acquires sufficient social and political significance to deserve the title of a tiers-etat. chapter xiii the pastoral tribes of the steppe a journey to the steppe region of the southeast--the volga--town and province of samara--farther eastward--appearance of the villages--characteristic incident--peasant mendacity--explanation of the phenomenon--i awake in asia--a bashkir aoul--diner la tartare--kumyss--a bashkir troubadour--honest mehemet zian--actual economic condition of the bashkirs throws light on a well-known philosophical theory--why a pastoral race adopts agriculture--the genuine steppe--the kirghiz--letter from genghis khan--the kalmyks--nogai tartars--struggle between nomadic hordes and agricultural colonists. when i had spent a couple of years or more in the northern and north-central provinces--the land of forests and of agriculture conducted on the three-field system, with here and there a town of respectable antiquity--i determined to visit for purposes of comparison and contrast the southeastern region, which possesses no forests nor ancient towns, and corresponds to the far west of the united states of america. my point of departure was yaroslavl, a town on the right bank of the volga to the northeast of moscow--and thence i sailed down the river during three days on a large comfortable steamer to samara, the chief town of the province or "government" of the name. here i left the steamer and prepared to make a journey into the eastern hinterland. samara is a new town, a child of the last century. at the time of my first visit, now thirty years ago, it recalled by its unfinished appearance the new towns of america. many of the houses were of wood. the streets were still in such a primitive condition that after rain they were almost impassable from mud, and in dry, gusty weather they generated thick clouds of blinding, suffocating dust. before i had been many days in the place i witnessed a dust-hurricane, during which it was impossible at certain moments to see from my window the houses on the other side of the street. amidst such primitive surroundings the colossal new church seemed a little out of keeping, and it occurred to my practical british mind that some of the money expended on its construction might have been more profitably employed. but the russians have their own ideas of the fitness of things. religious after their own fashion, they subscribe money liberally for ecclesiastical purposes--especially for the building and decoration of their churches. besides this, the government considers that every chief town of a province should possess a cathedral. in its early days samara was one of the outposts of russian colonisation, and had often to take precautions against the raids of the nomadic tribes living in the vicinity; but the agricultural frontier has since been pushed far forward to the east and south, and the province was until lately, despite occasional droughts, one of the most productive in the empire. the town is the chief market of this region, and therein lies its importance. the grain is brought by the peasants from great distances, and stored in large granaries by the merchants, who send it to moscow or st. petersburg. in former days this was a very tedious operation. the boats containing the grain were towed by horses or stout peasants up the rivers and through the canals for hundreds of miles. then came the period of "cabestans"--unwieldly machines propelled by means of anchors and windlasses. now these primitive methods of transport have disappeared. the grain is either despatched by rail or put into gigantic barges, which are towed up the river by powerful tug-steamers to some point connected with the great network of railways. when the traveller has visited the cathedral and the granaries he has seen all the lions--not very formidable lions, truly--of the place. he may then inspect the kumyss establishments, pleasantly situated near the town. he will find there a considerable number of patients--mostly consumptive--who drink enormous quantities of fermented mare's-milk, and who declare that they receive great benefit from this modern health-restorer. what interested me more than the lions of the town or the suburban kumyss establishments were the offices of the local administration, where i found in the archives much statistical and other information of the kind i was in search of, regarding the economic condition of the province generally, and of the emancipated peasantry in particular. having filled my note-book with material of this sort, i proceeded to verify and complete it by visiting some characteristic villages and questioning the inhabitants. for the student of russian affairs who wishes to arrive at real, as distinguished from official, truth, this is not an altogether superfluous operation. when i had thus made the acquaintance of the sedentary agricultural population in several districts i journeyed eastwards with the intention of visiting the bashkirs, a tartar tribe which still preserved--so at least i was assured--its old nomadic habits. my reasons for undertaking this journey were twofold. in the first place i was desirous of seeing with my own eyes some remnants of those terrible nomadic tribes which had at one time conquered russia and long threatened to overrun europe--those tartar hordes which gained, by their irresistible force and relentless cruelty, the reputation of being "the scourge of god." besides this, i had long wished to study the conditions of pastoral life, and congratulated myself on having found a convenient opportunity of doing so. as i proceeded eastwards i noticed a change in the appearance of the villages. the ordinary wooden houses, with their high sloping roofs, gradually gave place to flat-roofed huts, built of a peculiar kind of unburnt bricks, composed of mud and straw. i noticed, too, that the population became less and less dense, and the amount of fallow land proportionately greater. the peasants were evidently richer than those near the volga, but they complained--as the russian peasant always does--that they had not land enough. in answer to my inquiries why they did not use the thousands of acres that were lying fallow around them, they explained that they had already raised crops on that land for several successive years, and that consequently they must now allow it to "rest." in one of the villages through which i passed i met with a very characteristic little incident. the village was called samovolnaya ivanofka--that is to say, "ivanofka the self-willed" or "the non-authorised." whilst our horses were being changed my travelling companion, in the course of conversation with a group of peasants, inquired about the origin of this extraordinary name, and discovered a curious bit of local history. the founders of the village had settled on the land without the permission of the absentee owner, and obstinately resisted all attempts at eviction. again and again troops had been sent to drive them away, but as soon as the troops retired these "self-willed" people returned and resumed possession, till at last the proprietor, who lived in st. petersburg or some other distant place, became weary of the contest and allowed them to remain. the various incidents were related with much circumstantial detail, so that the narration lasted perhaps half an hour. all this time i listened attentively, and when the story was finished i took out my note-book in order to jot down the facts, and asked in what year the affair had happened. no answer was given to my question. the peasants merely looked at each other in a significant way and kept silence. thinking that my question had not been understood, i asked it a second time, repeating a part of what had been related. to my astonishment and utter discomfiture they all declared that they had never related anything of the sort! in despair i appealed to my friend, and asked him whether my ears had deceived me--whether i was labouring under some strange hallucination. without giving me any reply he simply smiled and turned away. when we had left the village and were driving along in our tarantass the mystery was satisfactorily cleared up. my friend explained to me that i had not at all misunderstood what had been related, but that my abrupt question and the sight of my note-book had suddenly aroused the peasants' suspicions. "they evidently suspected," he continued, "that you were a tchinovnik, and that you wished to use to their detriment the knowledge you had acquired. they thought it safer, therefore, at once to deny it all. you don't yet understand the russian muzhik!" in this last remark i was obliged to concur, but since that time i have come to know the muzhik better, and an incident of the kind would now no longer surprise me. from a long series of observations i have come to the conclusion that the great majority of the russian peasants, when dealing with the authorities, consider the most patent and barefaced falsehoods as a fair means of self-defence. thus, for example, when a muzhik is implicated in a criminal affair, and a preliminary investigation is being made, he probably begins by constructing an elaborate story to explain the facts and exculpate himself. the story may be a tissue of self-evident falsehoods from beginning to end, but he defends it valiantly as long as possible. when he perceives that the position which he has taken up is utterly untenable, he declares openly that all he has said is false, and that he wishes to make a new declaration. this second declaration may have the same fate as the former one, and then he proposes a third. thus groping his way, he tries various stories till he finds one that seems proof against all objections. in the fact of his thus telling lies there is of course nothing remarkable, for criminals in all parts of the world have a tendency to deviate from the truth when they fall into the hands of justice. the peculiarity is that he retracts his statements with the composed air of a chess-player who requests his opponent to let him take back an inadvertent move. under the old system of procedure, which was abolished in the sixties, clever criminals often contrived by means of this simple device to have their trial postponed for many years. such incidents naturally astonish a foreigner, and he is apt, in consequence, to pass a very severe judgment on the russian peasantry in general. the reader may remember karl karl'itch's remarks on the subject. these remarks i have heard repeated in various forms by germans in all parts of the country, and there must be a certain amount of truth in them, for even an eminent slavophil once publicly admitted that the peasant is prone to perjury.* it is necessary, however, as it seems to me, to draw a distinction. in the ordinary intercourse of peasants among themselves, or with people in whom they have confidence, i do not believe that the habit of lying is abnormally developed. it is only when the muzhik comes in contact with authorities that he shows himself an expert fabricator of falsehoods. in this there is nothing that need surprise us. for ages the peasantry were exposed to the arbitrary power and ruthless exactions of those who were placed over them; and as the law gave them no means of legally protecting themselves, their only means of self-defence lay in cunning and deceit. * kireyefski, in the russakaya beseda. we have here, i believe, the true explanation of that "oriental mendacity" about which eastern travellers have written so much. it is simply the result of a lawless state of society. suppose a truth-loving englishman falls into the hands of brigands or savages. will he not, if he have merely an ordinary moral character, consider himself justified in inventing a few falsehoods in order to effect his escape? if so, we have no right to condemn very severely the hereditary mendacity of those races which have lived for many generations in a position analogous to that of the supposed englishman among brigands. when legitimate interests cannot be protected by truthfulness and honesty, prudent people always learn to employ means which experience has proved to be more effectual. in a country where the law does not afford protection, the strong man defends himself by his strength, the weak by cunning and duplicity. this fully explains the fact that in turkey the christians are less truthful than the mahometans. but we have wandered a long way from the road to bashkiria. let us therefore return at once. of all the journeys which i made in russia this was one of the most agreeable. the weather was bright and warm, without being unpleasantly hot; the roads were tolerably smooth; the tarantass, which had been hired for the whole journey, was nearly as comfortable as a tarantass can be; good milk, eggs, and white bread could be obtained in abundance; there was not much difficulty in procuring horses in the villages through which we passed, and the owners of them were not very extortionate in their demands. but what most contributed to my comfort was that i was accompanied by an agreeable, intelligent young russian, who kindly undertook to make all the necessary arrangements, and i was thereby freed from those annoyances and worries which are always encountered in primitive countries where travelling is not yet a recognised institution. to him i left the entire control of our movements, passively acquiescing in everything, and asking no questions as to what was coming. taking advantage of my passivity, he prepared for me one evening a pleasant little surprise. about sunset we had left a village called morsha, and shortly afterwards, feeling drowsy, and being warned by my companion that we should have a long, uninteresting drive, i had lain down in the tarantass and gone to sleep. on awaking i found that the tarantass had stopped, and that the stars were shining brightly overhead. a big dog was barking furiously close at hand, and i heard the voice of the yamstchik informing us that we had arrived. i at once sat up and looked about me, expecting to see a village of some kind, but instead of that i perceived a wide open space, and at a short distance a group of haystacks. close to the tarantass stood two figures in long cloaks, armed with big sticks, and speaking to each other in an unknown tongue. my first idea was that we had been somehow led into a trap, so i drew my revolver in order to be ready for all emergencies. my companion was still snoring loudly by my side, and stoutly resisted all my efforts to awaken him. "what's this?" i said, in a gruff, angry voice, to the yamstchik. "where have you taken us to?" "to where i was ordered, master!" for the purpose of getting a more satisfactory explanation i took to shaking my sleepy companion, but before he had returned to consciousness the moon shone out brightly from behind a thick bank of clouds, and cleared up the mystery. the supposed haystacks turned out to be tents. the two figures with long sticks, whom i had suspected of being brigands, were peaceable shepherds, dressed in the ordinary oriental khalat, and tending their sheep, which were grazing close by. instead of being in an empty hay-field, as i had imagined, we had before us a regular tartar aoul, such as i had often read about. for a moment i felt astonished and bewildered. it seemed to me that i had fallen asleep in europe and woke up in asia! in a few minutes we were comfortably installed in one of the tents, a circular, cupola-shaped erection, of about twelve feet in diameter, composed of a frame-work of light wooden rods covered with thick felt. it contained no furniture, except a goodly quantity of carpets and pillows, which had been formed into a bed for our accommodation. our amiable host, who was evidently somewhat astonished at our unexpected visit, but refrained from asking questions, soon bade us good-night and retired. we were not, however, left alone. a large number of black beetles remained and gave us a welcome in their own peculiar fashion. whether they were provided with wings, or made up for the want of flying appliances by crawling up the sides of the tent and dropping down on any object they wished to reach, i did not discover, but certain it is that they somehow reached our heads--even when we were standing upright--and clung to our hair with wonderful tenacity. why they should show such a marked preference for human hair we could not conjecture, till it occurred to us that the natives habitually shaved their heads, and that these beetles must naturally consider a hair-covered cranium a curious novelty deserving of careful examination. like all children of nature they were decidedly indiscreet and troublesome in their curiosity, but when the light was extinguished they took the hint and departed. when we awoke next morning it was broad daylight, and we found a crowd of natives in front of the tent. our arrival was evidently regarded as an important event, and all the inhabitants of the aoul were anxious to make our acquaintance. first our host came forward. he was a short, slimly-built man, of middle age, with a grave, severe expression, indicating an unsociable disposition. we afterwards learned that he was an akhun*--that is to say, a minor officer of the mahometan ecclesiastical administration, and at the same time a small trader in silken and woollen stuffs. with him came the mullah, or priest, a portly old gentleman with an open, honest face of the european type, and a fine grey beard. the other important members of the little community followed. they were all swarthy in colour, and had the small eyes and prominent cheek-bones which are characteristic of the tartar races, but they had little of that flatness of countenance and peculiar ugliness which distinguish the pure mongol. all of them, with the exception of the mullah, spoke a little russian, and used it to assure us that we were welcome. the children remained respectfully in the background, and the women, with faces veiled, eyed us furtively from the doors of the tents. * i presume this is the same word as akhund, well known on the northwest frontier of india, where it was applied specially to the late ruler of svat. the aoul consisted of about twenty tents, all constructed on the same model, and scattered about in sporadic fashion, without the least regard to symmetry. close by was a watercourse, which appears on some maps as a river, under the name of karalyk, but which was at that time merely a succession of pools containing a dark-coloured liquid. as we more than suspected that these pools supplied the inhabitants with water for culinary purposes, the sight was not calculated to whet our appetites. we turned away therefore hurriedly, and for want of something better to do we watched the preparations for dinner. these were decidedly primitive. a sheep was brought near the door of our tent, and there killed, skinned, cut up into pieces, and put into an immense pot, under which a fire had been kindled. the dinner itself was not less primitive than the manner of preparing it. the table consisted of a large napkin spread in the middle of the tent, and the chairs were represented by cushions, on which we sat cross-legged. there were no plates, knives, forks, spoons, or chopsticks. guests were expected all to eat out of a common wooden bowl, and to use the instruments with which nature had provided them. the service was performed by the host and his son. the fare was copious, but not varied--consisting entirely of boiled mutton, without bread or other substitute, and a little salted horse-flesh thrown in as an entree. to eat out of the same dish with half-a-dozen mahometans who accept their prophet's injunction about ablutions in a highly figurative sense, and who are totally unacquainted with the use of forks and spoons, is not an agreeable operation, even if one is not much troubled with religious prejudices; but with these bashkirs something worse than this has to be encountered, for their favourite method of expressing their esteem and affection for one with whom they are eating consists in putting bits of mutton, and sometimes even handfuls of hashed meat, into his month! when i discovered this unexpected peculiarity in bashkir manners and customs, i almost regretted that i had made a favourable impression upon my new acquaintances. when the sheep had been devoured, partly by the company in the tent and partly by a nondescript company outside--for the whole aoul took part in the festivities--kumyss was served in unlimited quantities. this beverage, as i have already explained, is mare's milk fermented; but what here passed under the name was very different from the kumyss i had tasted in the establissements of samara. there it was a pleasant effervescing drink, with only the slightest tinge of acidity; here it was a "still" liquid, strongly resembling very thin and very sour butter-milk. my russian friend made a wry face on first tasting it, and i felt inclined at first to do likewise, but noticing that his grimaces made an unfavourable impression on the audience, i restrained my facial muscles, and looked as if i liked it. very soon i really came to like it, and learned to "drink fair" with those who had been accustomed to it from their childhood. by this feat i rose considerably in the estimation of the natives; for if one does not drink kumyss one cannot be sociable in the bashkir sense of the term, and by acquiring the habit one adopts an essential principle of bashkir nationality. i should certainly have preferred having a cup of it to myself, but i thought it well to conform to the habits of the country, and to accept the big wooden bowl when it was passed round. in return my friends made an important concession in my favour: they allowed me to smoke as i pleased, though they considered that, as the prophet had refrained from tobacco, ordinary mortals should do the same. whilst the "loving-cup" was going round i distributed some small presents which i had brought for the purpose, and then proceeded to explain the object of my visit. in the distant country from which i came--far away to the westward--i had heard of the bashkirs as a people possessing many strange customs, but very kind and hospitable to strangers. of their kindness and hospitality i had already learned something by experience, and i hoped they would allow me to learn something of their mode of life, their customs, their songs, their history, and their religion, in all of which i assured them my distant countrymen took a lively interest. this little after-dinner speech was perhaps not quite in accordance with bashkir etiquette, but it made a favourable impression. there was a decided murmur of approbation, and those who understood russian translated my words to their less accomplished brethren. a short consultation ensued, and then there was a general shout of "abdullah! abdullah!" which was taken up and repeated by those standing outside. in a few minutes abdullah appeared, with a big, half-picked bone in his hand, and the lower part of his face besmeared with grease. he was a short, thin man, with a dark, sallow complexion, and a look of premature old age; but the suppressed smile that played about his mouth and a tremulous movement of his right eye-lid showed plainly that he had not yet forgotten the fun and frolic of youth. his dress was of richer and more gaudy material, but at the same time more tawdry and tattered, than that of the others. altogether he looked like an artiste in distressed circumstances, and such he really was. at a word and a sign from the host he laid aside his bone and drew from under his green silk khalat a small wind-instrument resembling a flute or flageolet. on this he played a number of native airs. the first melodies which he played reminded me of a highland pibroch--at one moment low, solemn, and plaintive, then gradually rising into a soul-stirring, martial strain, and again descending to a plaintive wail. the amount of expression which he put into his simple instrument was truly marvellous. then, passing suddenly from grave to gay, he played a series of light, merry airs, and some of the younger onlookers got up and performed a dance as boisterous and ungraceful as an irish jig. this abdullah turned out to be for me a most valuable acquaintance. he was a kind of bashkir troubadour, well acquainted not only with the music, but also with the traditions, the history, the superstitions, and the folk-lore of his people. by the akhun and the mullah he was regarded as a frivolous, worthless fellow, who had no regular, respectable means of gaining a livelihood, but among the men of less rigid principles he was a general favourite. as he spoke russian fluently i could converse with him freely without the aid of an interpreter, and he willingly placed his store of knowledge at my disposal. when in the company of the akhun he was always solemn and taciturn, but as soon as he was relieved of that dignitary's presence he became lively and communicative. another of my new acquaintances was equally useful to me in another way. this was mehemet zian, who was not so intelligent as abdullah, but much more sympathetic. in his open, honest face, and kindly, unaffected manner there was something so irresistibly attractive that before i had known him twenty-four hours a sort of friendship had sprung up between us. he was a tall, muscular, broad-shouldered man, with features that suggested a mixture of european blood. though already past middle age, he was still wiry and active--so active that he could, when on horseback, pick a stone off the ground without dismounting. he could, however, no longer perform this feat at full gallop, as he had been wont to do in his youth. his geographical knowledge was extremely limited and inaccurate--his mind being in this respect like those old russian maps in which the nations of the earth and a good many peoples who had never more than a mythical existence are jumbled together in hopeless confusion--but his geographical curiosity was insatiable. my travelling-map--the first thing of the kind he had ever seen--interested him deeply. when he found that by simply examining it and glancing at my compass i could tell him the direction and distance of places he knew, his face was like that of a child who sees for the first time a conjuror's performance; and when i explained the trick to him, and taught him to calculate the distance to bokhara--the sacred city of the mussulmans of that region--his delight was unbounded. gradually i perceived that to possess such a map had become the great object of his ambition. unfortunately i could not at once gratify him as i should have wished, because i had a long journey before me and i had no other map of the region, but i promised to find ways and means of sending him one, and i kept my word by means of a native of the karalyk district whom i discovered in samara. i did not add a compass because i could not find one in the town, and it would have been of little use to him: like a true child of nature he always knew the cardinal points by the sun or the stars. some years later i had the satisfaction of learning that the map had reached its destination safely, through no less a personage than count tolstoy. one evening at the home of a friend in moscow i was presented to the great novelist, and as soon as he heard my name he said: "oh! i know you already, and i know your friend mehemet zian. when i passed a night this summer in his aoul he showed me a map with your signature on the margin, and taught me how to calculate the distance to bokhara!" if mehemet knew little of foreign countries he was thoroughly well acquainted with his own, and repaid me most liberally for my elementary lessons in geography. with him i visited the neighbouring aouls. in all of them he had numerous acquaintances, and everywhere we were received with the greatest hospitality, except on one occasion when we paid a visit of ceremony to a famous robber who was the terror of the whole neighbourhood. certainly he was one of the most brutalised specimens of humanity i have ever encountered. he made no attempt to be amiable, and i felt inclined to leave his tent at once; but i saw that my friend wanted to conciliate him, so i restrained my feelings and eventually established tolerably good relations with him. as a rule i avoided festivities, partly because i knew that my hosts were mostly poor and would not accept payment for the slaughtered sheep, and partly because i had reason to apprehend that they would express to me their esteem and affection more bashkirico; but in kumyss-drinking, the ordinary occupation of these people when they have nothing to do, i had to indulge to a most inordinate extent. on these expeditions abdullah generally accompanied us, and rendered valuable service as interpreter and troubadour. mehemet could express himself in russian, but his vocabulary failed him as soon as the conversation ran above very ordinary topics; abdullah, on the contrary, was a first-rate interpreter, and under the influence of his musical pipe and lively talkativeness new acquaintances became sociable and communicative. poor abdullah! he was a kind of universal genius; but his faded, tattered khalat showed only too plainly that in bashkiria, as in more civilised countries, universal genius and the artistic temperament lead to poverty rather than to wealth. i have no intention of troubling the reader with the miscellaneous facts which, with the assistance of these two friends, i succeeded in collecting--indeed, i could not if i would, for the notes i then made were afterwards lost--but i wish to say a few words about the actual economic condition of the bashkirs. they are at present passing from pastoral to agricultural life; and it is not a little interesting to note the causes which induce them to make this change, and the way in which it is made. philosophers have long held a theory of social development according to which men were at first hunters, then shepherds, and lastly agriculturists. how far this theory is in accordance with reality we need not for the present inquire, but we may examine an important part of it and ask ourselves the question, why did pastoral tribes adopt agriculture? the common explanation is that they changed their mode of life in consequence of some ill-defined, fortuitous circumstances. a great legislator arose amongst them and taught them to till the soil, or they came in contact with an agricultural race and adopted the customs of their neighbours. such explanations must appear unsatisfactory to any one who has lived with a pastoral people. pastoral life is so incomparably more agreeable than the hard lot of the agriculturist, and so much more in accordance with the natural indolence of human nature, that no great legislator, though he had the wisdom of a solon and the eloquence of a demosthenes, could possibly induce his fellow-countrymen to pass voluntarily from the one to the other. of all the ordinary means of gaining a livelihood--with the exception perhaps of mining--agriculture is the most laborious, and is never voluntarily adopted by men who have not been accustomed to it from their childhood. the life of a pastoral race, on the contrary, is a perennial holiday, and i can imagine nothing except the prospect of starvation which could induce men who live by their flocks and herds to make the transition to agricultural life. the prospect of starvation is, in fact, the cause of the transition--probably in all cases, and certainly in the case of the bashkirs. so long as they had abundance of pasturage they never thought of tilling the soil. their flocks and herds supplied them with all that they required, and enabled them to lead a tranquil, indolent existence. no great legislator arose among them to teach them the use of the plough and the sickle, and when they saw the russian peasants on their borders laboriously ploughing and reaping, they looked on them with compassion, and never thought of following their example. but an impersonal legislator came to them--a very severe and tyrannical legislator, who would not brook disobedience--i mean economic necessity. by the encroachments of the ural cossacks on the east, and by the ever-advancing wave of russian colonisation from the north and west, their territory had been greatly diminished. with diminution of the pasturage came diminution of the live stock, their sole means of subsistence. in spite of their passively conservative spirit they had to look about for some new means of obtaining food and clothing--some new mode of life requiring less extensive territorial possessions. it was only then that they began to think of imitating their neighbours. they saw that the neighbouring russian peasant lived comfortably on thirty or forty acres of land, whilst they possessed a hundred and fifty acres per male, and were in danger of starvation. the conclusion to be drawn from this was self-evident--they ought at once to begin ploughing and sowing. but there was a very serious obstacle to the putting of this principle in practice. agriculture certainly requires less land than sheep-farming, but it requires very much more labour, and to hard work the bashkirs were not accustomed. they could bear hardships and fatigues in the shape of long journeys on horseback, but the severe, monotonous labour of the plough and the sickle was not to their taste. at first, therefore, they adopted a compromise. they had a portion of their land tilled by russian peasants, and ceded to these a part of the produce in return for the labour expended; in other words, they assumed the position of landed proprietors, and farmed part of their land on the metayage system. the process of transition had reached this point in several aouls which i visited. my friend mehemet zian showed me at some distance from the tents his plot of arable land, and introduced me to the peasant who tilled it--a little-russian, who assured me that the arrangement satisfied all parties. the process of transition cannot, however, stop here. the compromise is merely a temporary expedient. virgin soil gives very abundant harvests, sufficient to support both the labourer and the indolent proprietor, but after a few years the soil becomes exhausted and gives only a very moderate revenue. a proprietor, therefore, must sooner or later dispense with the labourers who take half of the produce as their recompense, and must himself put his hand to the plough. thus we see the bashkirs are, properly speaking, no longer a purely pastoral, nomadic people. the discovery of this fact caused me some little disappointment, and in the hope of finding a tribe in a more primitive condition i visited the kirghiz of the inner horde, who occupy the country to the southward, in the direction of the caspian. here for the first time i saw the genuine steppe in the full sense of the term--a country level as the sea, with not a hillock or even a gentle undulation to break the straight line of the horizon, and not a patch of cultivation, a tree, a bush, or even a stone, to diversify the monotonous expanse. traversing such a region is, i need scarcely say, very weary work--all the more as there are no milestones or other landmarks to show the progress you are making. still, it is not so overwhelmingly wearisome as might be supposed. in the morning you may watch the vast lakes, with their rugged promontories and well-wooded banks, which the mirage creates for your amusement. then during the course of the day there are always one or two trifling incidents which arouse you for a little from your somnolence. now you descry a couple of horsemen on the distant horizon, and watch them as they approach; and when they come alongside you may have a talk with them if you know the language or have an interpreter; or you may amuse yourself with a little pantomime, if articulate speech is impossible. now you encounter a long train of camels marching along with solemn, stately step, and speculate as to the contents of the big packages with which they are laden. now you encounter the carcass of a horse that has fallen by the wayside, and watch the dogs and the steppe eagles fighting over their prey; and if you are murderously inclined you may take a shot with your revolver at these great birds, for they are ignorantly brave, and will sometimes allow you to approach within twenty or thirty yards. at last you perceive--most pleasant sight of all--a group of haystack-shaped tents in the distance; and you hurry on to enjoy the grateful shade, and quench your thirst with "deep, deep draughts" of refreshing kumyss. during my journey through the kirghiz country i was accompanied by a russian gentleman, who had provided himself with a circular letter from the hereditary chieftain of the horde, a personage who rejoiced in the imposing name of genghis khan,* and claimed to be a descendant of the great mongol conqueror. this document assured us a good reception in the aouls through which we passed. every kirghis who saw it treated it with profound respect, and professed to put all his goods and chattels at our service. but in spite of this powerful recommendation we met with none of the friendly cordiality and communicativeness which i had found among the bashkirs. a tent with an unlimited quantity of cushions was always set apart for our accommodation; the sheep were killed and boiled for our dinner, and the pails of kumyss were regularly brought for our refreshment; but all this was evidently done as a matter of duty and not as a spontaneous expression of hospitality. when we determined once or twice to prolong our visit beyond the term originally announced, i could perceive that our host was not at all delighted by the change of our plans. the only consolation we had was that those who entertained us made no scruples about accepting payment for the food and shelter supplied. * i have adopted the ordinary english spelling of this name. the kirghiz and the russians pronounce it "tchinghiz." from all this i have no intention of drawing the conclusion that the kirghiz are, as a people, inhospitable or unfriendly to strangers. my experience of them is too limited to warrant any such inference. the letter of genghis khan insured us all the accommodation we required, but it at the same time gave us a certain official character not at all favourable to the establishment of friendly relations. those with whom we came in contact regarded us as russian officials, and suspected us of having some secret designs. as i endeavoured to discover the number of their cattle, and to form an approximate estimate of their annual revenue, they naturally feared--having no conception of disinterested scientific curiosity--that these data were being collected for the purpose of increasing the taxes, or with some similar intention of a sinister kind. very soon i perceived clearly that any information we might here collect regarding the economic conditions of pastoral life would not be of much value, and i postponed my proposed studies to a more convenient season. the kirghiz are, ethnographically speaking, closely allied to the bashkirs, but differ from them both in physiognomy and language. their features approach much nearer the pure mongol type, and their language is a distinct dialect, which a bashkir or a tartar of kazan has some difficulty in understanding. they are professedly mahometans, but their mahometanism is not of a rigid kind, as may be seen by the fact that their women do not veil their faces even in the presence of ghiaours--a laxness of which the ghiaour will certainly not approve if he happen to be sensitive to female beauty and ugliness. their mode of life differs from that of the bashkirs, but they have proportionately more land and are consequently still able to lead a purely pastoral life. near their western frontier, it is true, they annually let patches of land to the russian peasants for the purpose of raising crops; but these encroachments can never advance very far, for the greater part of their territory is unsuited to agriculture, on account of a large admixture of salt in the soil. this fact will have an important influence on their future. unlike the bashkirs, who possess good arable land, and are consequently on the road to become agriculturists, they will in all probability continue to live exclusively by their flocks and herds. to the southwest of the lower volga, in the flat region lying to the north of the caucasus, we find another pastoral tribe, the kalmyks, differing widely from the two former in language, in physiognomy, and in religion. their language, a dialect of the mongolian, has no close affinity with any other language in this part of the world. in respect of religion they are likewise isolated, for they are buddhists, and have consequently no co-religionists nearer than mongolia or thibet. but it is their physiognomy that most strikingly distinguishes them from the surrounding peoples, and stamps them as mongols of the purest water. there is something almost infra-human in their ugliness. they show in an exaggerated degree all those repulsive traits which we see toned down and refined in the face of an average chinaman; and it is difficult, when we meet them for the first time, to believe that a human soul lurks behind their expressionless, flattened faces and small, dull, obliquely set eyes. if the tartar and turkish races are really descended from ancestors of that type, then we must assume that they have received in the course of time a large admixture of aryan or semitic blood. but we must not be too hard on the poor kalmyks, or judge of their character by their unprepossessing appearance. they are by no means so unhuman as they look. men who have lived among them have assured me that they are decidedly intelligent, especially in all matters relating to cattle, and that they are--though somewhat addicted to cattle-lifting and other primitive customs not tolerated in the more advanced stages of civilisation--by no means wanting in some of the better qualities of human nature. formerly there was a fourth pastoral tribe in this region--the nogai tartars. they occupied the plains to the north of the sea of azof, but they are no longer to be found there. shortly after the crimean war they emigrated to turkey, and their lands are now occupied by russian, german, bulgarian, and montenegrin colonists. among the pastoral tribes of this region the kalmyks are recent intruders. they first appeared in the seventeenth century, and were long formidable on account of their great numbers and compact organisation; but in the majority of them suddenly struck their tents and retreated to their old home in the north of the celestial empire. those who remained were easily pacified, and have long since lost, under the influence of unbroken peace and a strong russian administration, their old warlike spirit. their latest military exploits were performed during the last years of the napoleonic wars, and were not of a very serious kind; a troop of them accompanied the russian army, and astonished western europe by their uncouth features, their strange costume, and their primitive accoutrements, among which their curious bows and arrows figured conspicuously. the other pastoral tribes which i have mentioned--bashkirs, kirghiz, and nogai tartars--are the last remnants of the famous marauders who from time immemorial down to a comparatively recent period held the vast plains of southern russia. the long struggle between them and the agricultural colonists from the northwest, closely resembling the long struggle between the red-skins and the white settlers on the prairies of north america, forms an important page of russian history. for centuries the warlike nomads stoutly resisted all encroachments on their pasture-grounds, and considered cattle-lifting, kidnapping, and pillage as a legitimate and honorable occupation. "their raids," says an old byzantine writer, "are as flashes of lightning, and their retreat is at once heavy and light--heavy from booty and light from the swiftness of their movements. for them a peaceful life is a misfortune, and a convenient opportunity for war is the height of felicity. worst of all, they are more numerous than bees in spring, their numbers are uncountable." "having no fixed place of abode," says another byzantine authority, "they seek to conquer all lands and colonise none. they are flying people, and therefore cannot be caught. as they have neither towns nor villages, they must be hunted like wild beasts, and can be fitly compared only to griffins, which beneficent nature has banished to uninhabited regions." as a persian distich, quoted by vambery, has it-- "they came, conquered, burned, pillaged, murdered, and went." their raids are thus described by an old russian chronicler: "they burn the villages, the farmyards, and the churches. the land is turned by them into a desert, and the overgrown fields become the lair of wild beasts. many people are led away into slavery; others are tortured and killed, or die from hunger and thirst. sad, weary, stiff from cold, with faces wan from woe, barefoot or naked, and torn by the thistles, the russian prisoners trudge along through an unknown country, and, weeping, say to one another, 'i am from such a town, and i from such a village.'" and in harmony with the monastic chroniclers we hear the nameless slavonic ossian wailing for the fallen sons of rus: "in the russian land is rarely heard the voice of the husbandman, but often the cry of the vultures, fighting with each other over the bodies of the slain; and the ravens scream as they fly to the spoil." in spite of the stubborn resistance of the nomads the wave of colonisation moved steadily onwards until the first years of the thirteenth century, when it was suddenly checked and thrown back. a great mongolian horde from eastern asia, far more numerous and better organized than the local nomadic tribes, overran the whole country, and for more than two centuries russia was in a certain sense ruled by mongol khans. as i wish to speak at some length of this mongol domination, i shall devote to it a separate chapter. chapter xiv the mongol domination the conquest--genghis khan and his people--creation and rapid disintegration of the mongol empire--the golden horde--the real character of the mongol domination--religious toleration--mongol system of government--grand princes--the princes of moscow--influence of the mongol domination--practical importance of the subject. the tartar invasion, with its direct and indirect consequences, is a subject which has more than a mere antiquarian interest. to the influence of the mongols are commonly attributed many peculiarities in the actual condition and national character of the russians of the present day, and some writers would even have us believe that the men whom we call russians are simply tartars half disguised by a thin varnish of european civilisation. it may be well, therefore, to inquire what the tartar or mongol domination really was, and how far it affected the historical development and national character of the russian people. the story of the conquest may be briefly told. in the chieftains of the poloftsi--one of those pastoral tribes which roamed on the steppe and habitually carried on a predatory warfare with the russians of the south--sent deputies to mistislaf the brave, prince of galicia, to inform him that their country had been invaded from the southeast by strong, cruel enemies called tartars*--strange-looking men with brown faces, eyes small and wide apart, thick lips, broad shoulders, and black hair. "today," said the deputies, "they have seized our country, and tomorrow they will seize yours if you do not help us." * the word is properly "tatar," and the russians write and pronounce it in this way, but i have preferred to retain the better known form. mistislaf had probably no objection to the poloftsi being annihilated by some tribe stronger and fiercer than themselves, for they gave him a great deal of trouble by their frequent raids; but he perceived the force of the argument about his own turn coming next, and thought it wise to assist his usually hostile neighbours. for the purpose of warding off the danger he called together the neighbouring princes, and urged them to join him in an expedition against the new enemy. the expedition was undertaken, and ended in disaster. on the kalka, a small river falling into the sea of azof, the russian host met the invaders, and was completely routed. the country was thereby opened to the victors, but they did not follow up their advantage. after advancing for some distance they suddenly wheeled round and disappeared. thus ended unexpectedly the first visit of these unwelcome strangers. thirteen years afterwards they returned, and were not so easily got rid of. an enormous horde crossed the river ural and advanced into the heart of the country, pillaging, burning, devastating, and murdering. nowhere did they meet with serious resistance. the princes made no attempt to combine against the common enemy. nearly all the principal towns were laid in ashes, and the inhabitants were killed or carried off as slaves. having conquered russia, they advanced westward, and threw all europe into alarm. the panic reached even england, and interrupted, it is said, for a time the herring fishing on the coast. western europe, however, escaped their ravages. after visiting poland, hungary, bulgaria, servia, and dalmatia, they retreated to the lower volga, and the russian princes were summoned thither to do homage to the victorious khan. at first the russians had only very vague notions as to who this terrible enemy was. the old chronicler remarks briefly: "for our sins unknown peoples have appeared. no one knows who they are or whence they have come, or to what race and faith they belong. they are commonly called tartars, but some call them tauermen, and others petchenegs. who they really are is known only to god, and perhaps to wise men deeply read in books." some of these "wise men deeply read in books" supposed them to be the idolatrous moabites who had in old testament times harassed god's chosen people, whilst others thought that they must be the descendants of the men whom gideon had driven out, of whom a revered saint had prophesied that they would come in the latter days and conquer the whole earth, from the east even unto the euphrates, and from the tigris even unto the black sea. we are now happily in a position to dispense with such vague ethnographical speculations. from the accounts of several european travellers who visited tartary about that time, and from the writings of various oriental historians, we know a great deal about these barbarians who conquered russia and frightened the western nations. the vast region lying to the east of russia, from the basin of the volga to the shores of the pacific ocean, was inhabited then, as it is still, by numerous tartar and mongol tribes. these two terms are often regarded as identical and interchangeable, but they ought, i think, to be distinguished. from the ethnographic, the linguistic, and the religious point of view they differ widely from each other. the kazan tartars, the bashkirs, the kirghiz, in a word, all the tribes in the country stretching latitudinally from the volga to kashgar, and longitudinally from the persian frontier, the hindu kush and the northern himalaya, to a line drawn east and west through the middle of siberia, belong to the tartar group; whereas those further eastward, occupying mongolia and manchuria, are mongol in the stricter sense of the term. a very little experience enables the traveller to distinguish between the two. both of them have the well-known characteristics of the northern asiatic--the broad flat face, yellow skin, small, obliquely set eyes, high cheekbones, thin, straggling beard; but these traits are more strongly marked, more exaggerated, if we may use such an expression, in the mongol than in the tartar. thus the mongol is, according to our conceptions, by far the uglier of the two, and the man of tartar race, when seen beside him, appears almost european by comparison. the distinction is confirmed by a study of their languages. all the tartar languages are closely allied, so that a person of average linguistic talent who has mastered one of them, whether it be the rude turki of central asia or the highly polished turkish of stambul, can easily acquire any of the others; whereas even an extensive acquaintance with the tartar dialects will be of no practical use to him in learning a language of the mongol group. in their religions likewise the two races differ. the mongols are as a rule shamanists or buddhists, while the tartars are mahometans. some of the mongol invaders, it is true, adopted mahometanism from the conquered tartar tribes, and by this change of religion, which led naturally to intermarriage, their descendants became gradually blended with the older population; but the broad line of distinction was not permanently effaced. it is often supposed, even by people who profess to be acquainted with russian history, that mongols and tartars alike first came westward to the frontiers of europe with genghis khan. this is true of the mongols, but so far as the tartars are concerned it is an entire mistake. from time immemorial the tartar tribes roamed over these territories. like the russians, they were conquered by the mongol invaders and had long to pay tribute, and when the mongol empire crumbled to pieces by internal dissensions and finally disappeared before the victorious advance of the russians, the tartars reappeared from the confusion without having lost, notwithstanding an intermixture doubtless of mongol blood, their old racial characteristics, their old dialects, and their old tribal organisation. the germ of the vast horde which swept over asia and advanced into the centre of europe was a small pastoral tribe of mongols living in the hilly country to the north of china, near the sources of the amur. this tribe was neither more warlike nor more formidable than its neighbours till near the close of the twelfth century, when there appeared in it a man who is described as "a mighty hunter before the lord." of him and his people we have a brief description by a chinese author of the time: "a man of gigantic stature, with broad forehead and long beard, and remarkable for his bravery. as to his people, their faces are broad, flat, and four-cornered, with prominent cheek-bones; their eyes have no upper eyelashes; they have very little hair in their beards and moustaches; their exterior is very repulsive." this man of gigantic stature was no other than genghis khan. he began by subduing and incorporating into his army the surrounding tribes, conquered with their assistance a great part of northern china, and then, leaving one of his generals to complete the conquest of the celestial empire, he led his army westward with the ambitious design of conquering the whole world. "as there is but one god in heaven," he was wont to say, "so there should be but one ruler on earth"; and this one universal ruler he himself aspired to be. a european army necessarily diminishes in force and its existence becomes more and more imperilled as it advances from its base of operations into a foreign and hostile country. not so a horde like that of genghis khan in a country such as that which it had to traverse. it needed no base of operations, for it took with it its flocks, its tents, and all its worldly goods. properly speaking, it was not an army at all, but rather a people in movement. the grassy steppes fed the flocks, and the flocks fed the warriors; and with such a simple commissariat system there was no necessity for keeping up communications with the point of departure. instead of diminishing in numbers, the horde constantly increased as it moved forwards. the nomadic tribes which it encountered on its way, composed of men who found a home wherever they found pasture and drinking-water, required little persuasion to make them join the onward movement. by means of this terrible instrument of conquest genghis succeeded in creating a colossal empire, stretching from the carpathians to the eastern shores of asia, and from the arctic ocean to the himalayas. genghis was no mere ruthless destroyer; he was at the same time one of the greatest administrators the world has ever seen. but his administrative genius could not work miracles. his vast empire, founded on conquest and composed of the most heterogeneous elements, had no principle of organic life in it, and could not possibly be long-lived. it had been created by him, and it perished with him. for some time after his death the dignity of grand khan was held by some one of his descendants, and the centralised administration was nominally preserved; but the local rulers rapidly emancipated themselves from the central authority, and within half a century after the death of its founder the great mongol empire was little more than "a geographical expression." with the dismemberment of the short-lived empire the danger for eastern europe was by no means at an end. the independent hordes were scarcely less formidable than the empire itself. a grandson of genghis formed on the russian frontier a new state, commonly known as kiptchak, or the golden horde, and built a capital called serai, on one of the arms of the lower volga. this capital, which has since so completely disappeared that there is some doubt as to its site, is described by ibn batuta, who visited it in the fifteenth century, as a very great, populous, and beautiful city, possessing many mosques, fine market-places, and broad streets, in which were to be seen merchants from babylon, egypt, syria, and other countries. here lived the khans of the golden horde, who kept russia in subjection for two centuries. in conquering russia the mongols had no wish to possess themselves of the soil, or to take into their own hands the local administration. what they wanted was not land, of which they had enough and to spare, but movable property which they might enjoy without giving up their pastoral, nomadic life. they applied, therefore, to russia the same method of extracting supplies as they had used in other countries. as soon as their authority had been formally acknowledged they sent officials into the country to number the inhabitants and to collect an amount of tribute proportionate to the population. this was a severe burden for the people, not only on account of the sum demanded, but also on account of the manner in which it was raised. the exactions and cruelty of the tax-gatherers led to local insurrections, and the insurrections were of course always severely punished. but there was never any general military occupation of the country or any wholesale confiscations of land, and the existing political organisation was left undisturbed. the modern method of dealing with annexed provinces was totally unknown to the mongols. the khans never thought of attempting to denationalise their russian subjects. they demanded simply an oath of allegiance from the princes* and a certain sum of tribute from the people. the vanquished were allowed to retain their land, their religion, their language, their courts of justice, and all their other institutions. * during the mongol domination russia was composed of a large number of independent principalities. the nature of the mongol domination is well illustrated by the policy which the conquerors adopted towards the russian church. for more than half a century after the conquest the religion of the tartars was a mixture of buddhism and paganism, with traces of sabaeism or fire-worship. during this period christianity was more than simply tolerated. the grand khan kuyuk caused a christian chapel to be erected near his domicile, and one of his successors, khubilai, was in the habit of publicly taking part in the easter festivals. in the khan of the golden horde allowed the russians to found a bishopric in his capital, and several members of his family adopted christianity. one of them even founded a monastery, and became a saint of the russian church! the orthodox clergy were exempted from the poll-tax, and in the charters granted to them it was expressly declared that if any one committed blasphemy against the faith of the russians he should be put to death. some time afterwards the golden horde was converted to islam, but the khans did not on that account change their policy. they continued to favour the clergy, and their protection was long remembered. many generations later, when the property of the church was threatened by the autocratic power, refractory ecclesiastics contrasted the policy of the orthodox sovereign with that of the "godless tartars," much to the advantage of the latter. at first there was and could be very little mutual confidence between the conquerors and the conquered. the princes anxiously looked for an opportunity of throwing off the galling yoke, and the people chafed under the exactions and cruelty of the tribute-collectors, whilst the khans took precautions to prevent insurrection, and threatened to devastate the country if their authority was not respected. but in the course of time this mutual distrust and hostility greatly lessened. when the princes found by experience that all attempts at resistance were fruitless, they became reconciled to their new position, and instead of seeking to throw off the khan's authority, they tried to gain his favour, in the hope of forwarding their personal interests. for this purpose they paid frequent visits to the tartar suzerain, made rich presents to his wives and courtiers, received from him charters confirming their authority, and sometimes even married members of his family. some of them used the favour thus acquired for extending their possessions at the expense of neighbouring princes of their own race, and did not hesitate to call in tartar hordes to their assistance. the khans, in their turn, placed greater confidence in their vassals, entrusted them with the task of collecting the tribute, recalled their own officials who were a constant eyesore to the people, and abstained from all interference in the internal affairs of the principalities so long as the tribute was regularly paid. the princes acted, in short, as the khan's lieutenants, and became to a certain extent tartarised. some of them carried this policy so far that they were reproached by the people with "loving beyond measure the tartars and their language, and with giving them too freely land, and gold, and goods of every kind." had the khans of the golden horde been prudent, far-seeing statesmen, they might have long retained their supremacy over russia. in reality they showed themselves miserably deficient in political talent. seeking merely to extract from the country as much tribute as possible, they overlooked all higher considerations, and by this culpable shortsightedness prepared their own political ruin. instead of keeping all the russian princes on the same level and thereby rendering them all equally feeble, they were constantly bribed or cajoled into giving to one or more of their vassals a pre-eminence over the others. at first this pre-eminence consisted in little more than the empty title of grand prince; but the vassals thus favoured soon transformed the barren distinction into a genuine power by arrogating to themselves the exclusive right of holding direct communications with the horde, and compelling the minor princes to deliver to them the mongol tribute. if any of the lesser princes refused to acknowledge this intermediate authority, the grand prince could easily crush them by representing them at the horde as rebels. such an accusation would cause the accused to be summoned before the supreme tribunal, where the procedure was extremely summary and the grand prince had always the means of obtaining a decision in his own favour. of the princes who strove in this way to increase their influence, the most successful were the grand princes of moscow. they were not a chivalrous race, or one with which the severe moralist can sympathise, but they were largely endowed with cunning, tact, and perseverance, and were little hampered by conscientious scruples. having early discovered that the liberal distribution of money at the tartar court was the surest means of gaining favour, they lived parsimoniously at home and spent their savings at the horde. to secure the continuance of the favour thus acquired, they were ready to form matrimonial alliances with the khan's family, and to act zealously as his lieutenants. when novgorod, the haughty, turbulent republic, refused to pay the yearly tribute, they quelled the insurrection and punished the leaders; and when the inhabitants of tver rose against the tartars and compelled their prince to make common cause with them, the wily muscovite hastened to the tartar court and received from the khan the revolted principality, with , tartars to support his authority. thus those cunning moscow princes "loved the tartars beyond measure" so long as the khan was irresistibly powerful, but as his power waned they stood forth as his rivals. when the golden horde, like the great empire of which it had once formed a part, fell to pieces in the fifteenth century, these ambitious princes read the signs of the times, and put themselves at the head of the liberation movement, which was at first unsuccessful, but ultimately freed the country from the hated yoke. from this brief sketch of the mongol domination the reader will readily understand that it did not leave any deep, lasting impression on the people. the invaders never settled in russia proper, and never amalgamated with the native population. so long as they retained their semi-pagan, semi-buddhistic religion, a certain number of their notables became christians and were absorbed by the russian noblesse; but as soon as the horde adopted islam this movement was arrested. there was no blending of the two races such as has taken place--and is still taking place--between the russian peasantry and the finnish tribes of the north. the russians remained christians, and the tartars remained mahometans; and this difference of religion raised an impassable barrier between the two nationalities. it must, however, be admitted that the tartar domination, though it had little influence on the life and habits of the people, had a considerable influence on the political development of the nation. at the time of the conquest russia was composed of a large number of independent principalities, all governed by descendants of rurik. as these principalities were not geographical or ethnographical units, but mere artificial, arbitrarily defined districts, which were regularly subdivided or combined according to the hereditary rights of the princes, it is highly probable that they would in any case have been sooner or later united under one sceptre; but it is quite certain that the policy of the khans helped to accelerate this unification and to create the autocratic power which has since been wielded by the tsars. if the principalities had been united without foreign interference we should probably have found in the united state some form of political organisation corresponding to that which existed in the component parts--some mixed form of government, in which the political power would have been more or less equally divided between the tsar and the people. the tartar rule interrupted this normal development by extinguishing all free political life. the first tsars of muscovy were the political descendants, not of the old independent princes, but of the mongol khans. it may be said, therefore, that the autocratic power, which has been during the last four centuries out of all comparison the most important factor in russian history, was in a certain sense created by the mongol domination. chapter xv the cossacks lawlessness on the steppe--slave-markets of the crimea--the military cordon and the free cossacks--the zaporovian commonwealth compared with sparta and with the mediaeval military orders--the cossacks of the don, of the volga, and of the ural--border warfare--the modern cossacks--land tenure among the cossacks of the don--the transition from pastoral to agriculture life--"universal law" of social development--communal versus private property--flogging as a means of land-registration. no sooner had the grand princes of moscow thrown off the mongol yoke and become independent tsars of muscovy than they began that eastward territorial expansion which has been going on steadily ever since, and which culminated in the occupation of talienwan and port arthur. ivan the terrible conquered the khanates of kazan and astrakhan ( - ) and reduced to nominal subjection the bashkir and kirghiz tribes in the vicinity of the volga, but he did not thereby establish law and order on the steppe. the lawless tribes retained their old pastoral mode of life and predatory habits, and harassed the russian agricultural population of the outlying provinces in the same way as the red indians in america used to harass the white colonists of the far west. a large section of the horde, inhabiting the crimea and the steppe to the north of the black sea, escaped annexation by submitting to the ottoman turks and becoming tributaries of the sultan. the turks were at that time a formidable power, with which the tsars of muscovy were too weak to cope successfully, and the khan of the crimea could always, when hard pressed by his northern neighbours, obtain assistance from constantinople. this potentate exercised a nominal authority over the pastoral tribes which roamed on the steppe between the crimea and the russian frontier, but he had neither the power nor the desire to control their aggressive tendencies. their raids in russian and polish territory ensured, among other advantages, a regular and plentiful supply of slaves, which formed the chief article of export from kaffa--the modern theodosia--and from the other seaports of the coast. of this slave trade, which flourished down to , when the crimea was finally conquered and annexed by russia, we have a graphic account by an eye-witness, a lithuanian traveller of the sixteenth century. "ships from asia," he says, "bring arms, clothes, and horses to the crimean tartars, and start on the homeward voyage laden with slaves. it is for this kind of merchandise alone that the crimean markets are remarkable. slaves may be always had for sale as a pledge or as a present, and every one rich enough to have a horse deals in them. if a man wishes to buy clothes, arms, or horses, and does not happen to have at the moment any slaves, he takes on credit the articles required, and makes a formal promise to deliver at a certain time a certain number of people of our blood--being convinced that he can get by that time the requisite number. and these promises are always accurately fulfilled, as if those who made them had always a supply of our people in their courtyards. a jewish money-changer, sitting at the gate of tauris and seeing constantly the countless multitude of our countrymen led in as captives, asked us whether there still remained any people in our land, and whence came such a multitude of them. the stronger of these captives, branded on the forehead and cheeks and manacled or fettered, are tortured by severe labour all day, and are shut up in dark cells at night. they are kept alive by small quantities of food, composed chiefly of the flesh of animals that have died--putrid, covered with maggots, disgusting even to dogs. women, who are more tender, are treated in a different fashion; some of them who can sing and play are employed to amuse the guests at festivals. "when the slaves are led out for sale they walk to the marketplace in single file, like storks on the wing, in whole dozens, chained together by the neck, and are there sold by auction. the auctioneer shouts loudly that they are 'the newest arrivals, simple, and not cunning, lately captured from the people of the kingdom (poland), and not from muscovy'; for the muscovite race, being crafty and deceitful, does not bring a good price. this kind of merchandise is appraised with great accuracy in the crimea, and is bought by foreign merchants at a high price, in order to be sold at a still higher rate to blacker nations, such as saracens, persians, indians, arabs, syrians, and assyrians. when a purchase is made the teeth are examined, to see that they are neither few nor discoloured. at the same time the more hidden parts of the body are carefully inspected, and if a mole, excrescence, wound, or other latent defect is discovered, the bargain is rescinded. but notwithstanding these investigations the cunning slave-dealers and brokers succeed in cheating the buyers; for when they have valuable boys and girls, they do not at once produce them, but first fatten them, clothe them in silk, and put powder and rouge on their cheeks, so as to sell them at a better price. sometimes beautiful and perfect maidens of our nation bring their weight in gold. this takes place in all the towns of the peninsula, but especially in kaffa."* * michalonis litvani, "de moribus tartarorum fragmina," x., basilliae, . to protect the agricultural population of the steppe against the raids of these thieving, cattle-lifting, kidnapping neighbours, the tsars of muscovy and the kings of poland built forts, constructed palisades, dug trenches, and kept up a regular military cordon. the troops composing this cordon were called cossacks; but these were not the "free cossacks" best known to history and romance. these latter lived beyond the frontier on the debatable land which lay between the two hostile races, and there they formed self-governing military communities. each one of the rivers flowing southwards--the dnieper, the don, the volga, and the yaik or ural--was held by a community of these free cossacks, and no one, whether christian or tartar, was allowed to pass through their territory without their permission. officially the free cossacks were russians, for they professed to be champions of orthodox christianity, and--with the exception of those of the dnieper--loyal subjects of the tsar; but in reality they were something different. though they were russian by origin, language, and sympathy, the habit of kidnapping tartar women introduced among them a certain admixture of tartar blood. though self-constituted champions of christianity and haters of islam, they troubled themselves very little with religion, and did not submit to the ecclesiastical authorities. as to their religious status, it cannot be easily defined. whilst professing allegiance and devotion to the tsar, they did not think it necessary to obey him, except in so far as his orders suited their own convenience. and the tsar, it must be confessed, acted towards them in a similar fashion. when he found it convenient he called them his faithful subjects; and when complaints were made to him about their raids in turkish territory, he declared that they were not his subjects, but runaways and brigands, and that the sultan might punish them as he saw fit. at the same time, the so-called runaways and brigands regularly received supplies and ammunition from moscow, as is amply proved by recently-published documents. down to the middle of the seventeenth century the cossacks of the dnieper stood in a similar relation to the polish kings; but at that time they threw off their allegiance to poland, and became subjects of the tsars of muscovy. of these semi-independent military communities, which formed a continuous barrier along the southern and southeastern frontier, the most celebrated were the zaporovians* of the dnieper, and the cossacks of the don. * the name "zaporovians," by which they are known in the west, is a corruption of the russian word zaporozhtsi, which means "those who live beyond the rapids." the zaporovian commonwealth has been compared sometimes to ancient sparta, and sometimes to the mediaeval military orders, but it had in reality quite a different character. in sparta the nobles kept in subjection a large population of slaves, and were themselves constantly under the severe discipline of the magistrates. these cossacks of the dnieper, on the contrary, lived by fishing, hunting, and marauding, and knew nothing of discipline, except in time of war. amongst all the inhabitants of the setch--so the fortified camp was called--there reigned the most perfect equality. the common saying, "bear patiently, cossack; you will one day be ataman!" was often realised; for every year the office-bearers laid down the insignia of office in presence of the general assembly, and after thanking the brotherhood for the honour they had enjoyed, retired to their former position of common cossack. at the election which followed this ceremony any member could be chosen chief of his kuren, or company, and any chief of a kuren could be chosen ataman. the comparison of these bold borderers with the mediaeval military orders is scarcely less forced. they call themselves, indeed, lytsars--a corruption of the russian word ritsar, which is in its turn a corruption of the german ritter--talked of knightly honour (lytsarskaya tchest'), and sometimes proclaimed themselves the champions of greek orthodoxy against the roman catholicism of the poles and the mahometanism of the tartars; but religion occupied in their minds a very secondary place. their great object in life was the acquisition of booty. to attain this object they lived in intermittent warfare with the tartars, lifted their cattle, pillaged their aouls, swept the black sea in flotillas of small boats, and occasionally sacked important coast towns, such as varna and sinope. when tartar booty could not be easily obtained, they turned their attention to the slavonic populations; and when hard pressed by christian potentates, they did not hesitate to put themselves under the protection of the sultan. the cossacks of the don, of the volga, and of the ural had a somewhat different organisation. they had no fortified camp like the setch, but lived in villages, and assembled as necessity demanded. as they were completely beyond the sphere of polish influence, they knew nothing about "knightly honour" and similar conceptions of western chivalry; they even adopted many tartar customs, and loved in time of peace to strut about in gorgeous tartar costumes. besides this, they were nearly all emigrants from great russia, and mostly old ritualists or sectarians, whilst the zaporovians were little russians and orthodox. these military communities rendered valuable service to russia. the best means of protecting the southern frontier was to have as allies a large body of men leading the same kind of life and capable of carrying on the same kind of warfare as the nomadic marauders; and such a body of men were the free cossacks. the sentiment of self-preservation and the desire of booty kept them constantly on the alert. by sending out small parties in all directions, by "procuring tongues"--that is to say, by kidnapping and torturing straggling tartars with a view to extracting information from them--and by keeping spies in the enemy's territory, they were generally apprised beforehand of any intended incursion. when danger threatened, the ordinary precautions were redoubled. day and night patrols kept watch at the points where the enemy was expected, and as soon as sure signs of his approach were discovered a pile of tarred barrels prepared for the purpose was fired to give the alarm. rapidly the signal was repeated at one point of observation after another, and by this primitive system of telegraphy in the course of a few hours the whole district was up in arms. if the invaders were not too numerous, they were at once attacked and driven back. if they could not be successfully resisted, they were allowed to pass; but a troop of cossacks was sent to pillage their aouls in their absence, whilst another and larger force was collected, in order to intercept them when they were returning home laden with booty. thus many a nameless battle was fought on the trackless steppe, and many brave men fell unhonoured and unsung: "illacrymabiles urgentur ignotique longa nocte, carent quia vate sacro." notwithstanding these valuable services, the cossack communities were a constant source of diplomatic difficulties and political dangers. as they paid very little attention to the orders of the government, they supplied the sultan with any number of casi belli, and were often ready to turn their arms against the power to which they professed allegiance. during "the troublous times," for example, when the national existence was endangered by civil strife and foreign invasion, they overran the country, robbing, pillaging, and burning as they were wont to do in the tartar aouls. at a later period the don cossacks twice raised formidable insurrections--first under stenka razin ( ), and secondly under pugatchef ( )--and during the war between peter the great and charles xii. of sweden the zaporovians took the side of the swedish king. the government naturally strove to put an end to this danger, and ultimately succeeded. all the cossacks were deprived of their independence, but the fate of the various communities was different. those of the volga were transfered to the terek, where they had abundant occupation in guarding the frontier against the incursions of the eastern caucasian tribes. the zaporovians held tenaciously to their "dnieper liberties," and resisted all interference, till they were forcibly disbanded in the time of catherine ii. the majority of them fled to turkey, where some of their descendants are still to be found, and the remainder were settled on the kuban, where they could lead their old life by carrying on an irregular warfare with the tribes of the western caucasus. since the capture of shamyl and the pacification of the caucasus, this cossack population of the kuban and the terek, extending in an unbroken line from the sea of azof to the caspian, have been able to turn their attention to peaceful pursuits, and now raise large quantities of wheat for exportation; but they still retain their martial bearing, and some of them regret the good old times when a brush with the circassians was an ordinary occurrence and the work of tilling the soil was often diversified with a more exciting kind of occupation. the cossacks of the ural and the don have been allowed to remain in their old homes, but they have been deprived of their independence and self-government, and their social organisation has been completely changed. the boisterous popular assemblies which formerly decided all public affairs have been abolished, and the custom of choosing the ataman and other office-bearers by popular election has been replaced by a system of regular promotion, according to rules elaborated in st. petersburg. the officers and their families now compose a kind of hereditary aristocracy which has succeeded in appropriating, by means of imperial grants, a large portion of the land which was formerly common property. as the empire expanded in asia the system of protecting the parties by cossack colonists was extended eastwards, so now there is a belt of cossack territory stretching almost without interruption from the banks of the don to the coast of the pacific. it is divided into eleven sections, in each of which is settled a cossack corps with a separate administration. when universal military service was introduced, in , the cossacks were brought under the new law, but in order to preserve their military traditions and habits they were allowed to retain, with certain modifications, their old organisation, rights, and privileges. in return for a large amount of fertile land and exemption from direct taxation, they have to equip themselves at their own expense, and serve for twenty years, of which three are spent in preparatory training, twelve in the active army, and five in the reserve. this system gives to the army a contingent of about , men--divided into squadrons and infantry companies--with guns. the cossacks in active service are to be met with in all parts of the empire, from the prussian to the chinese frontier. in the asiatic provinces their services are invaluable. capable of enduring an incredible amount of fatigue and all manner of privations, they can live and thrive in conditions which would soon disable regular troops. the capacity of self-adaptation, which is characteristic of the russian people generally, is possessed by them in the highest degree. when placed on some distant asiatic frontier they can at once transform themselves into squatters--building their own houses, raising crops of grain, and living as colonists without neglecting their military duties. i have sometimes heard it asserted by military men that the cossack organisation is an antiquated institution, and that the soldiers which it produces, however useful they may be in central asia, would be of little service in regular european warfare. whether this view, which received some confirmation in the russo-turkish war of - , is true or false i cannot pretend to say, for it is a subject on which a civilian has no right to speak; but i may remark that the cossacks themselves are not by any means of that opinion. they regard themselves as the most valuable troops which the tsar possesses, believing themselves capable of performing anything within the bounds of human possibility, and a good deal that lies beyond that limit. more than once don cossacks have assured me that if the tsar had allowed them to fit out a flotilla of small boats during the crimean war they would have captured the british fleet, as their ancestors used to capture turkish galleys on the black sea! in old times, throughout the whole territory of the don cossacks, agriculture was prohibited on pain of death. it is generally supposed that this measure was adopted with a view to preserve the martial spirit of the inhabitants, but it may be explained otherwise. the great majority of the cossacks, averse to all regular, laborious occupations, wished to live by fishing, hunting, cattle-breeding, and marauding, but there was always amongst them a considerable number of immigrants--runaway serfs from the interior--who had been accustomed to live by agriculture. these latter wished to raise crops on the fertile virgin soil, and if they had been allowed to do so they would to some extent have spoiled the pastures. we have here, i believe, the true reason for the above-mentioned prohibition, and this view is strongly confirmed by analogous facts which i have observed in another locality. in the kirghiz territory the poorer inhabitants of the aouls near the frontier, having few or no cattle, wish to let part of the common land to the neighbouring russian peasantry for agricultural purposes; but the richer inhabitants, who possess flocks and herds, strenuously oppose this movement, and would doubtless prohibit it under pain of death if they had the power, because all agricultural encroachments diminish the pasture-land. whatever was the real reason of the prohibition, practical necessity proved in the long run too strong for the anti-agriculturists. as the population augmented and the opportunities for marauding decreased, the majority had to overcome their repugnance to husbandry; and soon large patches of ploughed land or waving grain were to be seen in the vicinity of the stanitsas, as the cossack villages are termed. at first there was no attempt to regulate this new use of the ager publicus. each cossack who wished to raise a crop ploughed and sowed wherever he thought fit, and retained as long as he chose the land thus appropriated; and when the soil began to show signs of exhaustion he abandoned his plot and ploughed elsewhere. but this unregulated use of the communal property could not long continue. as the number of agriculturists increased, quarrels frequently arose, and sometimes terminated in bloodshed. still worse evils appeared when markets were created in the vicinity, and it became possible to sell the grain for exportation. in some stanitsas the richer families appropriated enormous quantities of the common land by using several teams of oxen, or by hiring peasants in the nearest villages to come and plough for them; and instead of abandoning the land after raising two or three crops they retained possession of it, and came to regard it as their private property. thus the whole of the arable land, or at least the best part of it, became actually, if not legally, the private property of a few families, whilst the less energetic or less fortunate inhabitants of the stanitsa had only parcels of comparatively barren soil, or had no land whatever, and became mere agricultural labourers. after a time this injustice was remedied. the landless members justly complained that they had to bear the same burdens as those who possessed the land, and that therefore they ought to enjoy the same privileges. the old spirit of equality was still strong amongst them, and they ultimately succeeded in asserting their rights. in accordance with their demands the appropriated land was confiscated by the commune, and the system of periodical redistributions was introduced. by this system each adult male possesses a share of the land. these facts tend to throw light on some of the dark questions of social development in its early stages. so long as a village community leads a purely pastoral life, and possesses an abundance of land, there is no reason why the individuals or the families of which it is composed should divide the land into private lots, and there are very potent reasons why they should not adopt such a course. to give the division of the land any practical significance, it would be necessary to raise fences of some kind, and these fences, requiring for their construction a certain amount of labour, would prove merely a useless encumbrance, for it is much more convenient that all the sheep and cattle should graze together. if there is a scarcity of pasture, and consequently a conflict of interest among the families, the enjoyment of the common land will be regulated not by raising fences, but by simply limiting the number of sheep and cattle which each family is entitled to put upon the pasturage, as is done in many russian villages at the present day. when any one desires to keep more sheep and cattle than the maximum to which he is entitled, he pays to the others a certain compensation. thus, we see, in pastoral life the dividing of the common land is unnecessary and inexpedient, and consequently private property in land is not likely to come into existence. with the introduction of agriculture appears a tendency to divide the land among the families composing the community, for each family living by husbandry requires a definite portion of the soil. if the land suitable for agricultural purposes be plentiful, each head of a family may be allowed to take possession of as much of it as he requires, as was formerly done in the cossack stanitsas; if, on the contrary, the area of arable land is small, as is the case in some bashkir aouls, there will probably be a regular allotment of it among the families. with the tendency to divide the land into definite portions arises a conflict between the principle of communal and the principle of private property. those who obtain definite portions of the soil are in general likely to keep them and transmit them to their descendants. in a country, however, like the steppe--and it is only of such countries that i am at present speaking--the nature of the soil and the system of agriculture militate against this conversion of simple possession into a right of property. a plot of land is commonly cultivated for only three or four years in succession. it is then abandoned for at least double that period, and the cultivators remove to some other portion of the communal territory. after a time, it is true, they return to the old portion, which has been in the meantime lying fallow; but as the soil is tolerably equal in quality, the families or individuals have no reason to desire the precise plots which they formerly possessed. under such circumstances the principle of private property in the land is not likely to strike root; each family insists on possessing a certain quantity rather than a certain plot of land, and contents itself with a right of usufruct, whilst the right of property remains in the hands of the commune; and it must not be forgotten that the difference between usufruct and property here is of great practical importance, for so long as the commune retains the right of property it may re-allot the land in any way it thinks fit. as the population increases and land becomes less plentiful, the primitive method of agriculture above alluded to gives place to a less primitive method, commonly known as "the three-field system," according to which the cultivators do not migrate periodically from one part of the communal territory to another, but till always the same fields, and are obliged to manure the plots which they occupy. the principle of communal property rarely survives this change, for by long possession the families acquire a prescriptive right to the portions which they cultivate, and those who manure their land well naturally object to exchange it for land which has been held by indolent, improvident neighbours. in russia, however, this change has not destroyed the principle of communal property. though the three-field system has been in use for many generations in the central provinces, the communal principle, with its periodical re-allotment of the land, still remains intact. for the student of sociology the past history and actual condition of the don cossacks present many other features equally interesting and instructive. he may there see, for instance, how an aristocracy can be created by military promotion, and how serfage may originate and become a recognised institution without any legislative enactment. if he takes an interest in peculiar manifestations of religious thought and feeling, he will find a rich field of investigation in the countless religious sects; and if he is a collector of quaint old customs, he will not lack occupation. one curious custom, which has very recently died out, i may here mention by way of illustration. as the cossacks knew very little about land-surveying, and still less about land-registration, the precise boundary between two contiguous yurts--as the communal land of a stanitsa was called--was often a matter of uncertainty and a fruitful source of disputes. when the boundary was once determined, the following method of registering it was employed. all the boys of the two stanitsas were collected and driven in a body like sheep to the intervening frontier. the whole population then walked along the frontier that had been agreed upon, and at each landmark a number of boys were soundly whipped and allowed to run home! this was done in the hope that the victims would remember, as long as they lived, the spot where they had received their unmerited castigation.* the device, i have been assured, was generally very effective, but it was not always quite successful. whether from the castigation not being sufficiently severe, or from some other defect in the method, it sometimes happened that disputes afterwards arose, and the whipped boys, now grown up to manhood, gave conflicting testimony. when such a case occurred the following expedient was adopted. one of the oldest inhabitants was chosen as arbiter, and made to swear on the scriptures that he would act honestly to the best of his knowledge; then taking an icon in his hand, he walked along what he believed to be the old frontier. whether he made mistakes or not, his decision was accepted by both parties and regarded as final. this custom existed in some stanitsas down to the year , when the boundaries were clearly determined by government officials. * a custom of this kind, i am told, existed not very long ago in england and is still spoken of as "the beating of the bounds." chapter xvi foreign colonists on the steppe the steppe--variety of races, languages, and religions--the german colonists--in what sense the russians are an imitative people--the mennonites--climate and arboriculture--bulgarian colonists--tartar-speaking greeks--jewish agriculturists--russification--a circassian scotchman--numerical strength of the foreign element. in european russia the struggle between agriculture and nomadic barbarism is now a thing of the past, and the fertile steppe, which was for centuries a battle-ground of the aryan and turanian races, has been incorporated into the dominions of the tsar. the nomadic tribes have been partly driven out and partly pacified and parked in "reserves," and the territory which they so long and so stubbornly defended is now studded with peaceful villages and tilled by laborious agriculturists. in traversing this region the ordinary tourist will find little to interest him. he will see nothing which he can possibly dignify by the name of scenery, and he may journey on for many days without having any occasion to make an entry in his note-book. if he should happen, however, to be an ethnologist and linguist, he may find occupation, for he will here meet with fragments of many different races and a variety of foreign tongues. this ethnological variety is the result of a policy inaugurated by catherine ii. so long as the southern frontier was pushed forward slowly, the acquired territory was regularly filled up by russian peasants from the central provinces who were anxious to obtain more land and more liberty than they enjoyed in their native villages; but during "the glorious age of catherine" the frontier was pushed forward so rapidly that the old method of spontaneous emigration no longer sufficed to people the annexed territory. the empress had recourse, therefore, to organised emigration from foreign countries. her diplomatic representatives in western europe tried to induce artisans and peasants to emigrate to russia, and special agents were sent to various countries to supplement the efforts of the diplomatists. thousands accepted the invitation, and were for the most part settled on the land which had been recently the pasture-ground of the nomadic hordes. this policy was adopted by succeeding sovereigns, and the consequence of it has been that southern russia now contains a variety of races such as is to be found, perhaps, nowhere else in europe. the official statistics of new russia alone--that is to say, the provinces of ekaterinoslaf, tauride, kherson, and bessarabia--enumerate the following nationalities: great russians, little russians, poles, servians, montenegrins, bulgarians, moldavians, germans, english, swedes, swiss, french, italians, greeks, armenians, tartars, mordwa, jews, and gypsies. the religions are almost equally numerous. the statistics speak of greek orthodox, roman catholics, gregorians, lutherans, calvinists, anglicans, mennonites, separatists, pietists, karaim jews, talmudists, mahometans, and numerous russian sects, such as the molokanye and the skoptsi or eunuchs. america herself could scarcely show a more motley list in her statistics of population. it is but fair to state that the above list, though literally correct, does not give a true idea of the actual population. the great body of the inhabitants are russian and orthodox, whilst several of the nationalities named are represented by a small number of souls--some of them, such as the french, being found exclusively in the towns. still, the variety even in the rural population is very great. once, in the space of three days, and using only the most primitive means of conveyance, i visited colonies of greeks, germans, servians, bulgarians, montenegrins, and jews. of all the foreign colonists the germans are by far the most numerous. the object of the government in inviting them to settle in the country was that they should till the unoccupied land and thereby increase the national wealth, and that they should at the same time exercise a civilising influence on the russian peasantry in their vicinity. in this latter respect they have totally failed to fulfil their mission. a russian village, situated in the midst of german colonies, shows generally, so far as i could observe, no signs of german influence. each nationality lives more majorum, and holds as little communication as possible with the other. the muzhik observes carefully--for he is very curious--the mode of life of his more advanced neighbours, but he never thinks of adopting it. he looks upon germans almost as beings of a different world--as a wonderfully cunning and ingenious people, who have been endowed by providence with peculiar qualities not possessed by ordinary orthodox humanity. to him it seems in the nature of things that germans should live in large, clean, well-built houses, in the same way as it is in the nature of things that birds should build nests; and as it has probably never occurred to a human being to build a nest for himself and his family, so it never occurs to a russian peasant to build a house on the german model. germans are germans, and russians are russians--and there is nothing more to be said on the subject. this stubbornly conservative spirit of the peasantry who live in the neighbourhood of germans seems to give the lie direct to the oft-repeated and universally believed assertion that russians are an imitative people strongly disposed to adopt the manners and customs of any foreigners with whom they may come in contact. the russian, it is said, changes his nationality as easily as he changes his coat, and derives great satisfaction from wearing some nationality that does not belong to him; but here we have an important fact which appears to prove the contrary. the truth is that in this matter we must distinguish between the noblesse and the peasantry. the nobles are singularly prone to adopt foreign manners, customs, and institutions; the peasants, on the contrary, are as a rule decidedly conservative. it must not, however, be supposed that this proceeds from a difference of race; the difference is to be explained by the past history of the two classes. like all other peoples, the russians are strongly conservative so long as they remain in what may be termed their primitive moral habitat--that is to say, so long as external circumstances do not force them out of their accustomed traditional groove. the noblesse were long ago violently forced out of their old groove by the reforming tsars, and since that time they have been so constantly driven hither and thither by foreign influences that they have never been able to form a new one. thus they easily enter upon any new path which seems to them profitable or attractive. the great mass of the people, on the contrary, too heavy to be thus lifted out of the guiding influence of custom and tradition, are still animated with a strongly conservative spirit. in confirmation of this view i may mention two facts which have often attracted my attention. the first is that the molokanye--a primitive evangelical sect of which i shall speak at length in the next chapter--succumb gradually to german influence; by becoming heretics in religion they free themselves from one of the strongest bonds attaching them to the past, and soon become heretics in things secular. the second fact is that even the orthodox peasant, when placed by circumstances in some new sphere of activity, readily adopts whatever seems profitable. take, for example, the peasants who abandon agriculture and embark in industrial enterprises; finding themselves, as it were, in a new world, in which their old traditional notions are totally inapplicable, they have no hesitation in adopting foreign ideas and foreign inventions. and when once they have chosen this new path, they are much more "go-ahead" than the germans. freed alike from the trammels of hereditary conceptions and from the prudence which experience generates, they often give a loose rein to their impulsive character, and enter freely on the wildest speculations. the marked contrast presented by a german colony and a russian village in close proximity with each other is often used to illustrate the superiority of the teutonic over the slavonic race, and in order to make the contrast more striking, the mennonite colonies are generally taken as the representatives of the germans. without entering here on the general question, i must say that this method of argumentation is scarcely fair. the mennonites, who formerly lived in the neighbourhood of danzig and emigrated from prussia in order to escape the military conscription, brought with them to their new home a large store of useful technical knowledge and a considerable amount of capital, and they received a quantity of land very much greater than the russian peasants possess. besides this, they enjoyed until very recently several valuable privileges. they were entirely exempted from military service and almost entirely exempted from taxation. altogether their lines fell in very pleasant places. in material and moral well-being they stand as far above the majority of the ordinary german colonists as these latter do above their russian neighbours. even in the richest districts of germany their prosperity would attract attention. to compare these rich, privileged, well-educated farmers with the poor, heavily taxed, uneducated peasantry, and to draw from the comparison conclusions concerning the capabilities of the two races, is a proceeding so absurd that it requires no further comment. to the wearied traveller who has been living for some time in russian villages, one of these mennonite colonies seems an earthly paradise. in a little hollow, perhaps by the side of a watercourse, he suddenly comes on a long row of high-roofed houses half concealed in trees. the trees may be found on closer inspection to be little better than mere saplings; but after a long journey on the bare steppe, where there is neither tree nor bush of any kind, the foliage, scant as it is, appears singularly inviting. the houses are large, well arranged, and kept in such thoroughly good repair that they always appear to be newly built. the rooms are plainly furnished, without any pretensions to elegance, but scrupulously clean. adjoining the house are the stable and byre, which would not disgrace a model farm in germany or england. in front is a spacious courtyard, which has the appearance of being swept several times a day, and behind there is a garden well stocked with vegetables. fruit trees and flowers are not very plentiful, for the climate is not favourable to them. the inhabitants are honest, frugal folk, somewhat sluggish of intellect and indifferent to things lying beyond the narrow limits of their own little world, but shrewd enough in all matters which they deem worthy of their attention. if you arrive amongst them as a stranger you may be a little chilled by the welcome you receive, for they are exclusive, reserved, and distrustful, and do not much like to associate with those who do not belong to their own sect; but if you can converse with them in their mother tongue and talk about religious matters in an evangelical tone, you may easily overcome their stiffness and exclusiveness. altogether such a village cannot be recommended for a lengthened sojourn, for the severe order and symmetry which everywhere prevail would soon prove irksome to any one having no dutch blood in his veins;* but as a temporary resting-place during a pilgrimage on the steppe, when the pilgrim is longing for a little cleanliness and comfort, it is very agreeable. * the mennonites were originally dutchmen. persecuted for their religious views in the sixteenth century, a large number of them accepted an invitation to settle in west prussia, where they helped to drain the great marshes between danzig, elbing, and marienburg. here in the course of time they forgot their native language. their emigration to russia began in . the fact that these mennonites and some other german colonies have succeeded in rearing a few sickly trees has suggested to some fertile minds the idea that the prevailing dryness of the climate, which is the chief difficulty with which the agriculturist of that region has to contend, might be to some extent counteracted by arboriculture on a large scale. this scheme, though it has been seriously entertained by one of his majesty's ministers, must seem hardly practicable to any one who knows how much labour and money the colonists have expended in creating that agreeable shade which they love to enjoy in their leisure hours. if climate is affected at all by the existence or non-existence of forests--a point on which scientific men do not seem to be entirely agreed--any palpable increase of the rainfall can be produced only by forests of enormous extent, and it is hardly conceivable that these could be artificially produced in southern russia. it is quite possible, however, that local ameliorations may be effected. during a visit to the province of voronezh in i found that comparatively small plantations diminished the effects of drought in their immediate vicinity by retaining the moisture for a time in the soil and the surrounding atmosphere. after the mennonites and other germans, the bulgarian colonists deserve a passing notice. they settled in this region much more recently, on the land that was left vacant by the exodus of the nogai tartars after the crimean war. if i may judge of their condition by a mere flying visit, i should say that in agriculture and domestic civilisation they are not very far behind the majority of german colonists. their houses are indeed small--so small that one of them might almost be put into a single room of a mennonite's house; but there is an air of cleanliness and comfort about them that would do credit to a german housewife. in spite of all this, these bulgarians were, i could easily perceive, by no means delighted with their new home. the cause of their discontent, so far as i could gather from the few laconic remarks which i extracted from them, seemed to be this: trusting to the highly coloured descriptions furnished by the emigration agents who had induced them to change the rule of the sultan for the authority of the tsar, they came to russia with the expectation of finding a fertile and beautiful promised land. instead of a land flowing with milk and honey, they received a tract of bare steppe on which even water could be obtained only with great difficulty--with no shade to protect them from the heat of summer and nothing to shelter them from the keen northern blasts that often sweep over those open plains. as no adequate arrangements had been made for their reception, they were quartered during the first winter on the german colonists, who, being quite innocent of any slavophil sympathies, were probably not very hospitable to their uninvited guests. to complete their disappointment, they found that they could not cultivate the vine, and that their mild, fragrant tobacco, which is for them a necessary of life, could be obtained only at a very high price. so disconsolate were they under this cruel disenchantment that, at the time of my visit, they talked of returning to their old homes in turkey. as an example of the less prosperous colonists, i may mention the tartar-speaking greeks in the neighbourhood of mariupol, on the northern shore of the sea of azof. their ancestors lived in the crimea, under the rule of the tartar khans, and emigrated to russia in the time of catherine ii., before crim tartary was annexed to the russian empire. they have almost entirely forgotten their old language, but have preserved their old faith. in adopting the tartar language they have adopted something of tartar indolence and apathy, and the natural consequence is that they are poor and ignorant. but of all the colonists of this region the least prosperous are the jews. the chosen people are certainly a most intelligent, industrious, frugal race, and in all matters of buying, selling, and bartering they are unrivalled among the nations of the earth, but they have been too long accustomed to town life to be good tillers of the soil. these jewish colonies were founded as an experiment to see whether the israelite could be weaned from his traditionary pursuits and transferred to what some economists call the productive section of society. the experiment has failed, and the cause of the failure is not difficult to find. one has merely to look at these men of gaunt visage and shambling gait, with their loop-holed slippers, and black, threadbare coats reaching down to their ankles, to understand that they are not in their proper sphere. their houses are in a most dilapidated condition, and their villages remind one of the abomination of desolation spoken of by daniel the prophet. a great part of their land is left uncultivated or let to colonists of a different race. what little revenue they have is derived chiefly from trade of a more or less clandestine nature.* * mr. arnold white, who subsequently visited some of these jewish colonies in connection with baron hirsch's colonisation scheme, assured me that he found them in a much more prosperous condition. as scandinavia was formerly called officina gentium--a workshop in which new nations were made--so we may regard southern russia as a workshop in which fragments of old nations are being melted down to form a new, composite whole. it must be confessed, however, that the melting process has as yet scarcely begun. national peculiarities are not obliterated so rapidly in russia as in america or in british colonies. among the german colonists in russia the process of assimilation is hardly perceptible. though their fathers and grandfathers may have been born in the new country, they would consider it an insult to be called russians. they look down upon the russian peasantry as poor, ignorant, lazy, and dishonest, fear the officials on account of their tyranny and extortion, preserve jealously their own language and customs, rarely speak russian well--sometimes not at all--and never intermarry with those from whom they are separated by nationality and religion. the russian influence acts, however, more rapidly on the slavonic colonists--servians, bulgarians, montenegrins--who profess the greek orthodox faith, learn more easily the russian language, which is closely allied to their own, have no consciousness of belonging to a culturvolk, and in general possess a nature much more pliable than the teutonic. the government has recently attempted to accelerate the fusing process by retracting the privileges granted to the colonists and abolishing the peculiar administration under which they were placed. these measures--especially the universal military service--may eventually diminish the extreme exclusiveness of the germans; the youths, whilst serving in the army, will at least learn the russian language, and may possibly imbibe something of the russian spirit. but for the present this new policy has aroused a strong feeling of hostility and greatly intensified the spirit of exclusiveness. in the german colonies i have often overheard complaints about russian tyranny and uncomplimentary remarks about the russian national character. the mennonites consider themselves specially aggrieved by the so-called reforms. they came to russia in order to escape military service and with the distinct understanding that they should be exempted from it, and now they are forced to act contrary to the religious tenets of their sect. this is the ground of complaint which they put forward in the petitions addressed to the government, but they have at the same time another, and perhaps more important, objection to the proposed changes. they feel, as several of them admitted to me, that if the barrier which separates them from the rest of the population were in any way broken down, they could no longer preserve that stern puritanical discipline which at present constitutes their force. hence, though the government was disposed to make important concessions, hundreds of families sold their property and emigrated to america. the movement, however, did not become general. at present the russian mennonites number, male and female, about , , divided into colonies and possessing over , acres of land. it is quite possible that under the new system of administration the colonists who profess in common with the russians the greek orthodox faith may be rapidly russianised; but i am convinced that the others will long resist assimilation. greek orthodoxy and protestant sectarianism are so radically different in spirit that their respective votaries are not likely to intermarry; and without intermarriage it is impossible that the two nationalities should blend. as an instance of the ethnological curiosities which the traveller may stumble upon unawares in this curious region, i may mention a strange acquaintance i made when travelling on the great plain which stretches from the sea of azof to the caspian. one day i accidentally noticed on my travelling-map the name "shotlandskaya koldniya" (scottish colony) near the celebrated baths of piatigorsk. i was at that moment in stavropol, a town about eighty miles to the north, and could not gain any satisfactory information as to what this colony was. some well-informed people assured me that it really was what its name implied, whilst others asserted as confidently that it was simply a small german settlement. to decide the matter i determined to visit the place myself, though it did not lie near my intended route, and i accordingly found myself one morning in the village in question. the first inhabitants whom i encountered were unmistakably german, and they professed to know nothing about the existence of scotsmen in the locality either at the present or in former times. this was disappointing, and i was about to turn away and drive off, when a young man, who proved to be the schoolmaster, came up, and on hearing what i desired, advised me to consult an old circassian who lived at the end of the village and was well acquainted with local antiquities. on proceeding to the house indicated, i found a venerable old man, with fine, regular features of the circassian type, coal-black sparkling eyes, and a long grey beard that would have done honour to a patriarch. to him i explained briefly, in russian, the object of my visit, and asked whether he knew of any scotsmen in the district. "and why do you wish to know?" he replied, in the same language, fixing me with his keen, sparkling eyes. "because i am myself a scotsman, and hoped to find fellow-countrymen here." let the reader imagine my astonishment when, in reply to this, he answered, in genuine broad scotch, "od, man, i'm a scotsman tae! my name is john abercrombie. did ye never hear tell o' john abercrombie, the famous edinburgh doctor?" i was fairly puzzled by this extraordinary declaration. dr. abercrombie's name was familiar to me as that of a medical practitioner and writer on psychology, but i knew that he was long since dead. when i had recovered a little from my surprise, i ventured to remark to the enigmatical personage before me that, though his tongue was certainly scotch, his face was as certainly circassian. "weel, weel," he replied, evidently enjoying my look of mystification, "you're no' far wrang. i'm a circassian scotsman!" this extraordinary admission did not diminish my perplexity, so i begged my new acquaintance to be a little more explicit, and he at once complied with my request. his long story may be told in a few words: in the first years of the present century a band of scotch missionaries came to russia for the purpose of converting the circassian tribes, and received from the emperor alexander i. a large grant of land in this place, which was then on the frontier of the empire. here they founded a mission, and began the work; but they soon discovered that the surrounding population were not idolaters, but mussulmans, and consequently impervious to christianity. in this difficulty they fell on the happy idea of buying circassian children from their parents and bringing them up as christians. one of these children, purchased about the year , was a little boy called teoona. as he had been purchased with money subscribed by dr. abercrombie, he had received in baptism that gentleman's name, and he considered himself the foster-son of his benefactor. here was the explanation of the mystery. teoona, alias mr. abercrombie, was a man of more than average intelligence. besides his native tongue, he spoke english, german, and russian perfectly; and he assured me that he knew several other languages equally well. his life had been devoted to missionary work, and especially to translating and printing the scriptures. he had laboured first in astrakhan, then for four years and a half in persia--in the service of the bale mission--and afterwards for six years in siberia. the scottish mission was suppressed by the emperor nicholas about the year , and all the missionaries except two returned home. the son of one of these two (galloway) was the only genuine scotsman remaining at the time of my visit. of the "circassian scotsmen" there were several, most of whom had married germans. the other inhabitants were german colonists from the province of saratof, and german was the language commonly spoken in the village. after hearing so much about foreign colonists, tartar invaders, and finnish aborigines, the reader may naturally desire to know the numerical strength of this foreign element. unfortunately we have no accurate data on this subject, but from a careful examination of the available statistics i am inclined to conclude that it constitutes about one-sixth of the population of european russia, including poland, finland, and the caucasus, and nearly a third of the population of the empire as a whole. chapter xvii among the heretics the molokanye--my method of investigation--alexandrof-hai--an unexpected theological discussion--doctrines and ecclesiastical organisation of the molokanye--moral supervision and mutual assistance--history of the sect--a false prophet--utilitarian christianity--classification of the fantastic sects--the "khlysti"--policy of the government towards sectarianism--two kinds of heresy--probable future of the heretical sects--political disaffection. whilst travelling on the steppe i heard a great deal about a peculiar religious sect called the molokanye, and i felt interested in them because their religious belief, whatever it was, seemed to have a beneficial influence on their material welfare. of the same race and placed in the same conditions as the orthodox peasantry around them, they were undoubtedly better housed, better clad, more punctual in the payment of their taxes, and, in a word, more prosperous. all my informants agreed in describing them as quiet, decent, sober people; but regarding their religious doctrines the evidence was vague and contradictory. some described them as protestants or lutherans, whilst others believed them to be the last remnants of a curious heretical sect which existed in the early christian church. desirous of obtaining clear notions on the subject, i determined to investigate the matter for myself. at first i found this to be no easy task. in the villages through which i passed i found numerous members of the sect, but they all showed a decided repugnance to speak about their religious beliefs. long accustomed to extortion and persecution at the hands of the administration, and suspecting me to be a secret agent of the government, they carefully avoided speaking on any subject beyond the state of the weather and the prospects of the harvest, and replied to my questions on other topics as if they had been standing before a grand inquisitor. a few unsuccessful attempts convinced me that it would be impossible to extract from them their religious beliefs by direct questioning. i adopted, therefore, a different system of tactics. from meagre replies already received i had discovered that their doctrine had at least a superficial resemblance to presbyterianism, and from former experience i was aware that the curiosity of intelligent russian peasants is easily excited by descriptions of foreign countries. on these two facts i based my plan of campaign. when i found a molokan, or some one whom i suspected to be such, i talked for some time about the weather and the crops, as if i had no ulterior object in view. having fully discussed this matter, i led the conversation gradually from the weather and crops in russia to the weather and crops in scotland, and then passed slowly from scotch agriculture to the scotch presbyterian church. on nearly every occasion this policy succeeded. when the peasant heard that there was a country where the people interpreted the scriptures for themselves, had no bishops, and considered the veneration of icons as idolatry, he invariably listened with profound attention; and when he learned further that in that wonderful country the parishes annually sent deputies to an assembly in which all matters pertaining to the church were freely and publicly discussed, he almost always gave free expression to his astonishment, and i had to answer a whole volley of questions. "where is that country?" "is it to the east, or the west?" "is it very far away?" "if our presbyter could only hear all that!" this last expression was precisely what i wanted, because it gave me an opportunity of making the acquaintance of the presbyter, or pastor, without seeming to desire it; and i knew that a conversation with that personage, who is always an uneducated peasant like the others, but is generally more intelligent and better acquainted with religious doctrine, would certainly be of use to me. on more than one occasion i spent a great part of the night with a presbyter, and thereby learned much concerning the religious beliefs and practices of the sect. after these interviews i was sure to be treated with confidence and respect by all the molokanye in the village, and recommended to the brethren of the faith in the neighbouring villages through which i intended to pass. several of the more intelligent peasants with whom i spoke advised me strongly to visit alexandrof-hai, a village situated on the borders of the kirghiz steppe. "we are dark [i.e., ignorant] people here," they were wont to say, "and do not know anything, but in alexandrof-hai you will find those who know the faith, and they will discuss with you." this prediction was fulfilled in a somewhat unexpected way. when returning some weeks later from a visit to the kirghiz of the inner horde, i arrived one evening at this centre of the molokan faith, and was hospitably received by one of the brotherhood. in conversing casually with my host on religious subjects i expressed to him a desire to find some one well read in holy writ and well grounded in the faith, and he promised to do what he could for me in this respect. next morning he kept his promise with a vengeance. immediately after the tea-urn had been removed the door of the room was opened and twelve peasants were ushered in! after the customary salutations with these unexpected visitors, my host informed me to my astonishment that his friends had come to have a talk with me about the faith; and without further ceremony he placed before me a folio bible in the old slavonic tongue, in order that i might read passages in support of my arguments. as i was not at all prepared to open a formal theological discussion, i felt not a little embarrassed, and i could see that my travelling companions, two russian friends who cared for none of these things, were thoroughly enjoying my discomfiture. there was, however, no possibility of drawing back. i had asked for an opportunity of having a talk with some of the brethren, and now i had got it in a way that i certainly did not expect. my friends withdrew--"leaving me to my fate," as they whispered to me--and the "talk" began. my fate was by no means so terrible as had been anticipated, but at first the situation was a little awkward. neither party had any clear ideas as to what the other desired, and my visitors expected that i was to begin the proceedings. this expectation was quite natural and justifiable, for i had inadvertently invited them to meet me, but i could not make a speech to them, for the best of all reasons--that i did not know what to say. if i told them my real aims, their suspicions would probably be aroused. my usual stratagem of the weather and the crops was wholly inapplicable. for a moment i thought of proposing that a psalm should be sung as a means of breaking the ice, but i felt that this would give to the meeting a solemnity which i wished to avoid. on the whole it seemed best to begin at once a formal discussion. i told them, therefore, that i had spoken with many of their brethren in various villages, and that i had found what i considered grave errors of doctrine. i could not, for instance, agree with them in their belief that it was unlawful to eat pork. this was perhaps an abrupt way of entering on the subject, but it furnished at least a locus standi--something to talk about--and an animated discussion immediately ensued. my opponents first endeavoured to prove their thesis from the new testament, and when this argument broke down they had recourse to the pentateuch. from a particular article of the ceremonial law we passed to the broader question as to how far the ceremonial law is still binding, and from this to other points equally important. if the logic of the peasants was not always unimpeachable, their knowledge of the scriptures left nothing to be desired. in support of their views they quoted long passages from memory, and whenever i indicated vaguely any text which i needed, they at once supplied it verbatim, so that the big folio bible served merely as an ornament. three or four of them seemed to know the whole of the new testament by heart. the course of our informal debate need not here be described; suffice it to say that, after four hours of uninterrupted conversation, we agreed to differ on questions of detail, and parted from each other without a trace of that ill-feeling which religious discussion commonly engenders. never have i met men more honest and courteous in debate, more earnest in the search after truth, more careless of dialectical triumphs, than these simple, uneducated muzhiks. if at one or two points in the discussion a little undue warmth was displayed, i must do my opponents the justice to say that they were not the offending party. this long discussion, as well as numerous discussions which i had had before and since have had with molokanye in various parts of the country, confirmed my first impression that their doctrines have a strong resemblance to presbyterianism. there is, however, an important difference. presbyterianism has an ecclesiastical organisation and a written creed, and its doctrines have long since become clearly defined by means of public discussion, polemical literature, and general assemblies. the molokanye, on the contrary, have had no means of developing their fundamental principles and forming their vague religious beliefs into a clearly defined logical system. their theology is therefore still in a half-fluid state, so that it is impossible to predict what form it will ultimately assume. "we have not yet thought about that," i have frequently been told when i inquired about some abstruse doctrine; "we must talk about it at the meeting next sunday. what is your opinion?" besides this, their fundamental principles allow great latitude for individual and local differences of opinion. they hold that holy writ is the only rule of faith and conduct, but that it must be taken in the spiritual, and not in the literal, sense. as there is no terrestrial authority to which doubtful points can be referred, each individual is free to adopt the interpretation which commends itself to his own judgment. this will no doubt ultimately lead to a variety of sects, and already there is a considerable diversity of opinion between different communities; but this diversity has not yet been recognised, and i may say that i nowhere found that fanatically dogmatic, quibbling spirit which is usually the soul of sectarianism. for their ecclesiastical organisation the molokanye take as their model the early apostolic church, as depicted in the new testament, and uncompromisingly reject all later authorities. in accordance with this model they have no hierarchy and no paid clergy, but choose from among themselves a presbyter and two assistants--men well known among the brethren for their exemplary life and their knowledge of the scriptures--whose duty it is to watch over the religious and moral welfare of the flock. on sundays they hold meetings in private houses--they are not allowed to build churches--and spend two or three hours in psalm singing, prayer, reading the scriptures, and friendly conversation on religious subjects. if any one has a doctrinal difficulty which he desires to have cleared up, he states it to the congregation, and some of the others give their opinions, with the texts on which the opinions are founded. if the question seems clearly solved by the texts, it is decided; if not, it is left open. as in many young sects, there exists among the molokanye a system of severe moral supervision. if a member has been guilty of drunkenness or any act unbecoming a christian, he is first admonished by the presbyter in private or before the congregation; and if this does not produce the desired effect, he is excluded for a longer or shorter period from the meetings and from all intercourse with the members. in extreme cases expulsion is resorted to. on the other hand, if any one of the members happens to be, from no fault of his own, in pecuniary difficulties, the others will assist him. this system of mutual control and mutual assistance has no doubt something to do with the fact that the molokanye are distinguished from the surrounding population by their sobriety, uprightness, and material prosperity. of the history of the sect my friends in alexandrof-hai could tell me very little, but i have obtained from other quarters some interesting information. the founder was a peasant of the province of tambof called uklein, who lived in the reign of catherine ii., and gained his living as an itinerant tailor. for some time he belonged to the sect of the dukhobortsi--who are sometimes called the russian quakers, and who have recently become known in western europe through the efforts of count tolstoy on their behalf--but he soon seceded from them, because he could not admit their doctrine that god dwells in the human soul, and that consequently the chief source of religious truth is internal enlightenment. to him it seemed that religious truth was to be found only in the scriptures. with this doctrine he soon made many converts, and one day he unexpectedly entered the town of tambof, surrounded by seventy "apostles" chanting psalms. they were all quickly arrested and imprisoned, and when the affair was reported to st. petersburg the empress catherine ordered that they should be handed over to the ecclesiastical authorities, and that in the event of their proving obdurate to exhortation they should be tried by the criminal courts. uklein professed to recant, and was liberated; but he continued his teaching secretly in the villages, and at the time of his death he was believed to have no less than five thousand followers. as to the actual strength of the sect it is difficult to form even a conjecture. certainly it has many thousand members--probably several hundred thousand. formerly the government transported them from the central provinces to the thinly populated outlying districts, where they had less opportunity of contaminating orthodox neighbours; and accordingly we find them in the southeastern districts of samara, on the north coast of the sea of azof, in the crimea, in the caucasus, and in siberia. there are still, however, very many of them in the central region, especially in the province of tambof. the readiness with which the molokanye modify their opinions and beliefs in accordance with what seems to them new light saves them effectually from bigotry and fanaticism, but it at the same time exposes them to evils of a different kind, from which they might be preserved by a few stubborn prejudices. "false prophets arise among us," said an old, sober-minded member to me on one occasion, "and lead many away from the faith." in , for example, great excitement was produced among them by rumours that the second advent of christ was at hand, and that the son of man, coming to judge the world, was about to appear in the new jerusalem, somewhere near mount ararat. as elijah and enoch were to appear before the opening of the millennium, they were anxiously awaited by the faithful, and at last elijah appeared, in the person of a melitopol peasant called belozvorof, who announced that on a given day he would ascend into heaven. on the day appointed a great crowd collected, but he failed to keep his promise, and was handed over to the police as an impostor by the molokanye themselves. unfortunately they were not always so sensible as on that occasion. in the very next year many of them were persuaded by a certain lukian petrof to put on their best garments and start for the promised land in the caucasus, where the millennium was about to begin. of these false prophets the most remarkable in recent times was a man who called himself ivan grigorief, a mysterious personage who had at one time a turkish and at another an american passport, but who seemed in all other respects a genuine russian. some years previously to my visit he appeared at alexandrof-hai. though he professed himself to be a good molokan and was received as such, he enounced at the weekly meetings many new and startling ideas. at first he simply urged his hearers to live like the early christians, and have all things in common. this seemed sound doctrine to the molokanye, who profess to take the early christians as their model, and some of them thought of at once abolishing personal property; but when the teacher intimated pretty plainly that this communism should include free love, a decided opposition arose, and it was objected that the early church did not recommend wholesale adultery and cognate sins. this was a formidable objection, but "the prophet" was equal to the occasion. he reminded his friends that in accordance with their own doctrine the scriptures should be understood, not in the literal, but in the spiritual, sense--that christianity had made men free, and every true christian ought to use his freedom. this account of the new doctrine was given to me by an intelligent molokan, who had formerly been a peasant and was now a trader, as i sat one evening in his house in novo-usensk, the chief town of the district in which alexandrof-hai is situated. it seemed to me that the author of this ingenious attempt to conciliate christianity with extreme utilitarianism must be an educated man in disguise. this conviction i communicated to my host, but he did not agree with me. "no, i think not," he replied; "in fact, i am sure he is a peasant, and i strongly suspect he was at some time a soldier. he has not much learning, but he has a wonderful gift of talking; never have i heard any one speak like him. he would have talked over the whole village, had it not been for an old man who was more than a match for him. and then he went to orloff-hai and there he did talk the people over." what he really did in this latter place i never could clearly ascertain. report said that he founded a communistic association, of which he was himself president and treasurer, and converted the members to an extraordinary theory of prophetic succession, invented apparently for his own sensual gratification. for further information my host advised me to apply either to the prophet himself, who was at that time confined in the gaol on a charge of using a forged passport, or to one of his friends, a certain mr. i----, who lived in the town. as it was a difficult matter to gain admittance to the prisoner, and i had little time at my disposal, i adopted the latter alternative. mr. i---- was himself a somewhat curious character. he had been a student in moscow, and in consequence of some youthful indiscretions during the university disturbances had been exiled to this place. after waiting in vain some years for a release, he gave up the idea of entering one of the learned professions, married a peasant girl, rented a piece of land, bought a pair of camels, and settled down as a small farmer.* he had a great deal to tell about the prophet. * here for the first time i saw camels used for agricultural purposes. when yoked to a small four-wheeled cart, the "ships of the desert" seemed decidedly out of place. grigorief, it seemed, was really simply a russian peasant, but he had been from his youth upwards one of those restless people who can never long work in harness. where his native place was, and why he left it, he never divulged, for reasons best known to himself. he had travelled much, and had been an attentive observer. whether he had ever been in america was doubtful, but he had certainly been in turkey, and had fraternised with various russian sectarians, who are to be found in considerable numbers near the danube. here, probably, he acquired many of his peculiar religious ideas, and conceived his grand scheme of founding a new religion--of rivalling the founder of christianity! he aimed at nothing less than this, as he on one occasion confessed, and he did not see why he should not be successful. he believed that the founder of christianity had been simply a man like himself, who understood better than others the people around him and the circumstances of the time, and he was convinced that he himself had these qualifications. one qualification, however, for becoming a prophet he certainly did not possess: he had no genuine religious enthusiasm in him--nothing of the martyr spirit about him. much of his own preaching he did not himself believe, and he had a secret contempt for those who naively accepted it all. not only was he cunning, but he knew he was cunning, and he was conscious that he was playing an assumed part. and yet perhaps it would be unjust to say that he was merely an impostor exclusively occupied with his own personal advantage. though he was naturally a man of sensual tastes, and could not resist convenient opportunities of gratifying them, he seemed to believe that his communistic schemes would, if realised, be beneficial not only to himself, but also to the people. altogether a curious mixture of the prophet, the social reformer, and the cunning impostor! besides the molokanye, there are in russia many other heretical sects. some of them are simply evangelical protestants, like the stundisti, who have adopted the religious conceptions of their neighbours, the german colonists; whilst others are composed of wild enthusiasts, who give a loose rein to their excited imagination, and revel in what the germans aptly term "der hohere blodsinn." i cannot here attempt to convey even a general idea of these fantastic sects with their doctrinal and ceremonial absurdities, but i may offer the following classification of them for the benefit of those who may desire to study the subject: . sects which take the scriptures as the basis of their belief, but interpret and complete the doctrines therein contained by means of the occasional inspiration or internal enlightenment of their leading members. . sects which reject interpretation and insist on certain passages of scripture being taken in the literal sense. in one of the best known of these sects--the skoptsi, or eunuchs--fanaticism has led to physical mutilation. . sects which pay little or no attention to scripture, and derive their doctrine from the supposed inspiration of their living teachers. . sects which believe in the re-incarnation of christ. . sects which confound religion with nervous excitement, and are more or less erotic in their character. the excitement necessary for prophesying is commonly produced by dancing, jumping, pirouetting, or self-castigation; and the absurdities spoken at such times are regarded as the direct expression of divine wisdom. the religious exercises resemble more or less closely those of the "dancing dervishes" and "howling dervishes's" with which all who have visited constantinople are familiar. there is, however, one important difference: the dervishes practice their religious exercises in public, and consequently observe a certain decorum, whilst these russian sects assemble in secret, and give free scope to their excitement, so that most disgusting orgies sometimes take place at their meetings. to illustrate the general character of the sects belonging to this last category, i may quote here a short extract from a description of the "khlysti" by one who was initiated into their mysteries: "among them men and women alike take upon themselves the calling of teachers and prophets, and in this character they lead a strict, ascetic life, refrain from the most ordinary and innocent pleasures, exhaust themselves by long fasting and wild, ecstatic religious exercises, and abhor marriage. under the excitement caused by their supposed holiness and inspiration, they call themselves not only teachers and prophets, but also 'saviours,' 'redeemers,' 'christs,' 'mothers of god.' generally speaking, they call themselves simply gods, and pray to each other as to real gods and living christs or madonnas. when several of these teachers come together at a meeting, they dispute with each other in a vain boasting way as to which of them possesses most grace and power. in this rivalry they sometimes give each other lusty blows on the ear, and he who bears the blows most patiently, turning the other cheek to the smiter, acquires the reputation of having most holiness." another sect belonging to this category is the jumpers, among whom the erotic element is disagreeably prominent. here is a description of their religious meetings, which are held during summer in the forest, and during winter in some out-house or barn: "after due preparation prayers are read by the chief teacher, dressed in a white robe and standing in the midst of the congregation. at first he reads in an ordinary tone of voice, and then passes gradually into a merry chant. when he remarks that the chanting has sufficiently acted on the hearers, he begins to jump. the hearers, singing likewise, follow his example. their ever-increasing excitement finds expression in the highest possible jumps. this they continue as long as they can--men and women alike yelling like enraged savages. when all are thoroughly exhausted, the leader declares that he hears the angels singing"--and then begins a scene which cannot be here described. it is but fair to add that we know very little of these peculiar sects, and what we do know is furnished by avowed enemies. it is very possible, therefore, that some of them are not nearly so absurd as they are commonly represented, and that many of the stories told are mere calumnies. the government is very hostile to sectarianism, and occasionally endeavours to suppress it. this is natural enough as regards these fantastic sects, but it seems strange that the peaceful, industrious, honest molokanye and stundisti should be put under the ban. why is it that a russian peasant should be punished for holding doctrines which are openly professed, with the sanction of the authorities, by his neighbours, the german colonists? to understand this the reader must know that according to russian conceptions there are two distinct kinds of heresy, distinguished from each other, not by the doctrines held, but by the nationality of the holder, it seems to a russian in the nature of things that tartars should be mahometans, that poles should be roman catholics, and that germans should be protestants; and the mere act of becoming a russian subject is not supposed to lay the tartar, the pole, or the german under any obligation to change his faith. these nationalities are therefore allowed the most perfect freedom in the exercise of their respective religions, so long as they refrain from disturbing by propagandism the divinely established order of things. this is the received theory, and we must do the russians the justice to say that they habitually act up to it. if the government has sometimes attempted to convert alien races, the motive has always been political, and the efforts have never awakened much sympathy among the people at large, or even among the clergy. in like manner the missionary societies which have sometimes been formed in imitation of the western nations have never received much popular support. thus with regard to aliens this peculiar theory has led to very extensive religious toleration. with regard to the russians themselves the theory has had a very different effect. if in the nature of things the tartar is a mahometan, the pole a roman catholic, and the german a protestant, it is equally in the nature of things that the russian should be a member of the orthodox church. on this point the written law and public opinion are in perfect accord. if an orthodox russian becomes a roman catholic or a protestant, he is amenable to the criminal law, and is at the same time condemned by public opinion as an apostate and renegade--almost as a traitor. as to the future of these heretical sects it is impossible to speak with confidence. the more gross and fantastic will probably disappear as primary education spreads among the people; but the protestant sects seem to possess much more vitality. for the present, at least, they are rapidly spreading. i have seen large villages where, according to the testimony of the inhabitants, there was not a single heretic fifteen years before, and where one-half of the population had already become molokanye; and this change, be it remarked, had taken place without any propagandist organisation. the civil and ecclesiastical authorities were well aware of the existence of the movement, but they were powerless to prevent it. the few efforts which they made were without effect, or worse than useless. among the stundisti corporal punishment was tried as an antidote--without the concurrence, it is to be hoped, of the central authorities--and to the molokanye of the province of samara a learned monk was sent in the hope of converting them from their errors by reason and eloquence. what effect the birch-twigs had on the religious convictions of the stundisti i have not been able to ascertain, but i assume that they were not very efficacious, for according to the latest accounts the numbers of the sect are increasing. of the mission in the province of samara i happen to know more, and can state on the evidence of many peasants--some of them orthodox--that the only immediate effect was to stir up religious fanaticism, and to induce a certain number of orthodox to go over to the heretical camp. in their public discussions the disputants could find no common ground on which to argue, for the simple reason that their fundamental conceptions were different. the monk spoke of the church as the terrestrial representative of christ and the sole possessor of truth, whilst his opponents knew nothing of a church in this sense, and held simply that all men should live in accordance with the dictates of scripture. once the monk consented to argue with them on their own ground, and on that occasion he sustained a signal defeat, for he could not produce a single passage recommending the veneration of icons--a practice which the russian peasants consider an essential part of orthodoxy. after this he always insisted on the authority of the early ecumenical councils and the fathers of the church--an authority which his antagonists did not recognise. altogether the mission was a complete failure, and all parties regretted that it had been undertaken. "it was a great mistake," remarked to me confidentially an orthodox peasant; "a very great mistake. the molokanye are a cunning people. the monk was no match for them; they knew the scriptures a great deal better than he did. the church should not condescend to discuss with heretics." it is often said that these heretical sects are politically disaffected, and the molokanye are thought to be specially dangerous in this respect. perhaps there is a certain foundation for this opinion, for men are naturally disposed to doubt the legitimacy of a power that systematically persecutes them. with regard to the molokanye, i believe the accusation to be a groundless calumny. political ideas seemed entirely foreign to their modes of thought. during my intercourse with them i often heard them refer to the police as "wolves which have to be fed," but i never heard them speak of the emperor otherwise than in terms of filial affection and veneration. chapter xviii the dissenters dissenters not to be confounded with heretics--extreme importance attached to ritual observances--the raskol, or great schism in the seventeenth century--antichrist appears!--policy of peter the great and catherine ii.--present ingenious method of securing religious toleration--internal development of the raskol--schism among the schismatics--the old ritualists--the priestless people--cooling of the fanatical enthusiasm and formation of new sects--recent policy of the government towards the sectarians--numerical force and political significance of sectarianism. we must be careful not to confound those heretical sects, protestant and fantastical, of which i have spoken in the preceding chapter, with the more numerous dissenters or schismatics, the descendants of those who seceded from the russian church--or more correctly from whom the russian church seceded--in the seventeenth century. so far from regarding themselves as heretics, these latter consider themselves more orthodox than the official orthodox church. they are conservatives, too, in the social as well as the religious sense of the term. among them are to be found the last remnants of old russian life, untinged by foreign influences. the russian church, as i have already had occasion to remark, has always paid inordinate attention to ceremonial observances and somewhat neglected the doctrinal and moral elements of the faith which it professes. this peculiarity greatly facilitated the spread of its influence among a people accustomed to pagan rites and magical incantations, but it had the pernicious effect of confirming in the new converts their superstitious belief in the virtue of mere ceremonies. thus the russians became zealous christians in all matters of external observance, without knowing much about the spiritual meaning of the rites which they practised. they looked upon the rites and sacraments as mysterious charms which preserved them from evil influences in the present life and secured them eternal felicity in the life to come, and they believed that these charms would inevitably lose their efficacy if modified in the slightest degree. extreme importance was therefore attached to the ritual minutiae, and the slightest modification of these minutiae assumed the importance of an historical event. in the year , for instance, the novgorodian chronicler gravely relates: "this winter some philosophers (!) began to sing, 'o lord, have mercy,' and others merely, 'lord, have mercy.'" and this attaching of enormous importance to trifles was not confined to the ignorant multitude. an archbishop of novgorod declared solemnly that those who repeat the word "alleluia" only twice at certain points in the liturgy "sing to their own damnation," and a celebrated ecclesiastical council, held in , put such matters as the position of the fingers when making the sign of the cross on the same level as heresies--formally anathematising those who acted in such trifles contrary to its decisions. this conservative spirit in religious concerns had a considerable influence on social life. as there was no clear line of demarcation between religious observances and simple traditional customs, the most ordinary act might receive a religious significance, and the slightest departure from a traditional custom might be looked upon as a deadly sin. a russian of the olden time would have resisted the attempt to deprive him of his beard as strenuously as a calvinist of the present day would resist the attempt to make him abjure the doctrine of predestination--and both for the same reason. as the doctrine of predestination is for the calvinist, so the wearing of a beard was for the old russian--an essential of salvation. "where," asked one of the patriarchs of moscow, "will those who shave their chins stand at the last day?--among the righteous adorned with beards, or among the beardless heretics?" the question required no answer. in the seventeenth century this superstitious, conservative spirit reached its climax. the civil wars and foreign invasions, accompanied by pillage, famine, and plagues with which that century opened, produced a wide-spread conviction that the end of all things was at hand. the mysterious number of the beast was found to indicate the year , and timid souls began to discover signs of that falling away from the faith which is spoken of in the apocalypse. the majority of the people did not perhaps share this notion, but they believed that the sufferings with which they had been visited were a divine punishment for having forsaken the ancient customs. and it could not be denied that considerable changes had taken place. orthodox russia was now tainted with the presence of heretics. foreigners who shaved their chins and smoked the accursed weed had been allowed to settle in moscow, and the tsars not only held converse with them, but had even adopted some of their "pagan" practises. besides this, the government had introduced innovations and reforms, many of which were displeasing to the people. in short, the country was polluted with "heresy"--a subtle, evil influence lurking in everything foreign, and very dangerous to the spiritual and temporal welfare of the faithful--something of the nature of an epidemic, but infinitely more dangerous; for disease kills merely the body, whereas "heresy" kills the soul, and causes both soul and body to be cast into hell-fire. had the government introduced the innovations slowly and cautiously, respecting as far as possible all outward forms, it might have effected much without producing a religious panic; but, instead of acting circumspectly as the occasion demanded, it ran full-tilt against the ancient prejudices and superstitious fears, and drove the people into open resistance. when the art of printing was introduced, it became necessary to choose the best texts of the liturgy, psalter, and other religious books, and on examination it was found that, through the ignorance and carelessness of copyists, numerous errors had crept into the manuscripts in use. this discovery led to further investigation, which showed that certain irregularities had likewise crept into the ceremonial. the chief of the clerical errors lay in the orthography of the word "jesus," and the chief irregularity in the ceremonial regarded the position of the fingers when making the sign of the cross. to correct these errors the celebrated nikon, who was patriarch in the time of tsar alexis, father of peter the great, ordered all the old liturgical books and the old icons to be called in, and new ones to be distributed; but the clergy and the people resisted. believing these "nikonian novelties" to be heretical, they clung to their old icons, their old missals and their old religious customs as the sole anchors of safety which could save the faithful from drifting to perdition. in vain the patriarch assured the people that the change was a return to the ancient forms still preserved in greece and constantinople. "the greek church," it was replied, "is no longer free from heresy. orthodoxy has become many-coloured from the violence of the turkish mahomet; and the greeks, under the sons of hagar, have fallen away from the ancient traditions." an anathema, formally pronounced by an ecclesiastical council against these nonconformists, had no more effect than the admonitions of the patriarch. they persevered in their obstinacy, and refused to believe that the blessed saints and holy martyrs who had used the ancient forms had not prayed and crossed themselves aright. "not those holy men of old, but the present patriarch and his counsellors must be heretics." "woe to us! woe to us!" cried the monks of solovetsk when they received the new liturgies. "what have you done with the son of god? give him back to us! you have changed isus [the old russian form of jesus] into iisus! it is fearful not only to commit such a sin, but even to think of it!" and the sturdy monks shut their gates, and defied patriarch, council, and tsar for seven long years, till the monastery was taken by an armed force. the decree of excommunication pronounced by the ecclesiastical council placed the nonconformists beyond the pale of the church, and the civil power undertook the task of persecuting them. persecution had of course merely the effect of confirming the victims in their belief that the church and the tsar had become heretical. thousands fled across the frontier and settled in the neighbouring countries--poland, russia, sweden, austria, turkey, the caucasus, and siberia. others concealed themselves in the northern forests and the densely wooded region near the polish frontier, where they lived by agriculture or fishing, and prayed, crossed themselves and buried their dead according to the customs of their forefathers. the northern forests were their favourite place of refuge. hither flocked many of those who wished to keep themselves pure and undefiled. here the more learned men among the nonconformists--well acquainted with holy writ, with fragmentary translations from the greek fathers, and with the more important decisions of the early ecumenical councils--wrote polemical and edifying works for the confounding of heretics and the confirming of true believers. hence were sent out in all directions zealous missionaries, in the guise of traders, peddlers, and labourers, to sow what they called the living seed, and what the official church termed "satan's tares." when the government agents discovered these retreats, the inmates generally fled from the "ravenous wolves"; but on more than one occasion a large number of fanatical men and women, shutting themselves up, set fire to their houses, and voluntarily perished in the flames. in paleostrofski monastery, for instance, in the year , no less than , fanatics gained the crown of martyrdom in this way; and many similar instances are on record.* as in all periods of religious panic, the apocalypse was carefully studied, and the millennial ideas rapidly spread. the signs of the time were plain: satan was being let loose for a little season. men anxiously looked for the reappearance of antichrist--and antichrist appeared! * a list of well-authenticated cases is given by nilski, "semeinaya zhizn v russkom raskole," st. petersburg, ; part i., pp. - . the number of these self-immolators certainly amounted to many thousands. the man in whom the people recognised the incarnate spirit of evil was no other than peter the great. from the nonconformist point of view, peter had very strong claims to be considered antichrist. he had none of the staid, pious demeanour of the old tsars, and showed no respect for many things which were venerated by the people. he ate, drank, and habitually associated with heretics, spoke their language, wore their costume, chose from among them his most intimate friends, and favoured them more than his own people. imagine the horror and commotion which would be produced among pious catholics if the pope should some day appear in the costume of the grand turk, and should choose pashas as his chief counsellors! the horror which peter's conduct produced among a large section of his subjects was not less great. they could not explain it otherwise than by supposing him to be the devil in disguise, and they saw in all his important measures convincing proofs of his satanic origin. the newly invented census, or "revision," was a profane "numbering of the people," and an attempt to enrol in the service of beëlzebub those whose names were written in the lamb's book of life. the new title of imperator was explained to mean something very diabolical. the passport bearing the imperial arms was the seal of antichrist. the order to shave the beard was an attempt to disfigure "the image of god," after which man had been created, and by which christ would recognise his own at the last day. the change in the calendar, by which new year's day was transferred from september to january, was the destruction of "the years of our lord," and the introduction of the years of satan in their place. of the ingenious arguments by which these theses were supported, i may quote one by way of illustration. the world, it was explained, could not have been created in january as the new calendar seemed to indicate, because apples are not ripe at that season, and consequently eve could not have been tempted in the way described!* * i found this ingenious argument in one of the polemical treatises of the old believers. these ideas regarding peter and his reforms were strongly confirmed by the vigorous persecutions which took place during the earlier years of his reign. the nonconformists were constantly convicted of political disaffection--especially of "insulting the imperial majesty"--and were accordingly flogged, tortured, and beheaded without mercy. but when peter had succeeded in putting down all armed opposition, and found that the movement was no longer dangerous for the throne, he adopted a policy more in accordance with his personal character. whether he had himself any religious belief whatever may be doubted; certainly he had not a spark of religious fanaticism in his nature. exclusively occupied with secular concerns, he took no interest in subtle questions of religious ceremonial, and was profoundly indifferent as to how his subjects prayed and crossed themselves, provided they obeyed his orders in worldly matters and paid their taxes regularly. as soon, therefore, as political considerations admitted of clemency, he stopped the persecutions, and at last, in , issued ukazes to the effect that all dissenters might live unmolested, provided they inscribed themselves in the official registers and paid a double poll-tax. somewhat later they were allowed to practise freely all their old rites and customs, on condition of paying certain fines. with the accession of catherine ii., "the friend of philosophers," the raskol,* as the schism had come to be called, entered on a new phase. penetrated with the ideas of religious toleration then in fashion in western europe, catherine abolished the disabilities to which the raskolniks were subjected, and invited those of them who had fled across the frontier to return to their homes. thousands accepted the invitation, and many who had hitherto sought to conceal themselves from the eyes of the authorities became rich and respected merchants. the peculiar semi-monastic religious communities, which had up till that time existed only in the forests of the northern and western provinces, began to appear in moscow, and were officially recognised by the administration. at first they took the form of hospitals for the sick, or asylums for the aged and infirm, but soon they became regular monasteries, the superiors of which exercised an undefined spiritual authority not only over the inmates, but also over the members of the sect throughout the length and breadth of the empire. * the term is derived from two russian words--ras, asunder; and kolot, to split. those who belong to the raskol are called raskolniki. they call themselves staro-obriadtsi (old ritualists) or staroveri (old believers). from that time down to the present the government has followed a wavering policy, oscillating between complete tolerance and active persecution. it must, however, be said that the persecution has never been of a very searching kind. in persecution, as in all other manifestations, the russian church directs its attention chiefly to external forms. it does not seek to ferret out heresy in a man's opinions, but complacently accepts as orthodox all who annually appear at confession and communion, and who refrain from acts of open hostility. those who can make these concessions to convenience are practically free from molestation, and those who cannot so trifle with their conscience have an equally convenient method of escaping persecution. the parish clergy, with their customary indifference to things spiritual and their traditional habit of regarding their functions from the financial point of view, are hostile to sectarianism chiefly because it diminishes their revenues by diminishing the number of parishioners requiring their ministrations. this cause of hostility can easily be removed by a certain pecuniary sacrifice on the part of the sectarians, and accordingly there generally exists between them and their parish priest a tacit contract, by which both parties are perfectly satisfied. the priest receives his income as if all his parishioners belonged to the state church, and the parishioners are left in peace to believe and practise what they please. by this rude, convenient method a very large amount of toleration is effectually secured. whether the practise has a beneficial moral influence on the parish clergy is, of course, an entirely different question. when the priest has been satisfied, there still remains the police, which likewise levies an irregular tax on heterodoxy; but the negotiations are generally not difficult, for it is in the interest of both parties that they should come to terms and live in good-fellowship. thus practically the raskolniki live in the same condition as in the time of peter: they pay a tax and are not molested--only the money paid does not now find its way into the imperial exchequer. these external changes in the history of the raskol have exercised a powerful influence on its internal development. when formally anathematised and excluded from the dominant church the nonconformists had neither a definite organisation nor a positive creed. the only tie that bound them together was hostility to the "nikonian novelties," and all they desired was to preserve intact the beliefs and customs of their forefathers. at first they never thought of creating any permanent organisation. the more moderate believed that the tsar would soon re-establish orthodoxy, and the more fanatical imagined that the end of all things was at hand.* in either case they had only to suffer for a little season, keeping themselves free from the taint of heresy and from all contact with the kingdom of antichrist. * some had coffins made, and lay down in them at night, in the expectation that the second advent might take place before the morning. but years passed, and neither of these expectations was fulfilled. the fanatics awaited in vain the sound of the last trump and the appearance of christ, coming with his angels to judge the world. the sun continued to rise, and the seasons followed each other in their accustomed course, but the end was not yet. nor did the civil power return to the old faith. nikon fell a victim to court intrigues and his own overweening pride, and was formally deposed. tsar alexis in the fulness of time was gathered unto his fathers. but there was no sign of a re-establishment of the old orthodoxy. gradually the leading raskolniki perceived that they must make preparations, not for the day of judgment, but for a terrestrial future--that they must create some permanent form of ecclesiastical organisation. in this work they encountered at the very outset not only practical, but also theoretical difficulties. so long as they confined themselves simply to resisting the official innovations, they seemed to be unanimous; but when they were forced to abandon this negative policy and to determine theoretically their new position, radical differences of opinion became apparent. all were convinced that the official russian church had become heretical, and that it had now antichrist instead of christ as its head; but it was not easy to determine what should be done by those who refused to bow the knee to the son of destruction. according to protestant conceptions there was a very simple solution of the difficulty: the nonconformists had simply to create a new church for themselves, and worship god in the way that seemed good to them. but to the russians of that time such notions were still more repulsive than the innovations of nikon. these men were orthodox to the backbone--"plus royalistes que le roi"--and according to orthodox conceptions the founding of a new church is an absurdity. they believed that if the chain of historic continuity were once broken, the church must necessarily cease to exist, in the same way as an ancient family becomes extinct when its sole representative dies without issue. if, therefore, the church had already ceased to exist, there was no longer any means of communication between christ and his people, the sacraments were no longer efficacious, and mankind was forever deprived of the ordinary means of grace. now, on this important point there was a difference of opinion among the dissenters. some of them believed that, though the ecclesiastical authorities had become heretical, the church still existed in the communion of those who had refused to accept the innovations. others declared boldly that the orthodox church had ceased to exist, that the ancient means of grace had been withdrawn, and that those who had remained faithful must thenceforth seek salvation, not in the sacraments, but in prayer and such other religious exercises as did not require the co-operation of duly consecrated priests. thus took place a schism among the schismatics. the one party retained all the sacraments and ceremonial observances in the older form; the other refrained from the sacraments and from many of the ordinary rites, on the ground that there was no longer a real priesthood, and that consequently the sacraments could not be efficacious. the former party are termed staro-obriadsti, or old ritualists; the latter are called bezpopoftsi--that is to say, people "without priests" (bez popov). the succeeding history of these two sections of the nonconformists has been widely different. the old ritualists, being simply ecclesiastical conservatives desirous of resisting all innovations, have remained a compact body little troubled by differences of opinion. the priestless people, on the contrary, ever seeking to discover some new effectual means of salvation, have fallen into an endless number of independent sects. the old ritualists had still, however, one important theoretical difficulty. at first they had amongst themselves plenty of consecrated priests for the celebration of the ordinances, but they had no means of renewing the supply. they had no bishops, and according to orthodox belief the lower degrees of the clergy cannot be created without episcopal consecration. at the time of the schism one bishop had thrown in his lot with the schismatics, but he had died shortly afterwards without leaving a successor, and thereafter no bishop had joined their ranks. as time wore on, the necessity of episcopal consecration came to be more and more felt, and it is not a little interesting to observe how these rigorists, who held to the letter of the law and declared themselves ready to die for a jot or a tittle, modified their theory in accordance with the changing exigencies of their position. when the priests who had kept themselves "pure and undefiled"--free from all contact with antichrist--became scarce, it was discovered that certain priests of the dominant church might be accepted if they formally abjured the nikonian novelties. at first, however, only those who had been consecrated previous to the supposed apostasy of the church were accepted, for the very good reason that consecration by bishops who had become heretical could not be efficacious. when these could no longer be obtained it was discovered that those who had been baptised previous to the apostasy might be accepted; and when even these could no longer be found, a still further concession was made to necessity, and all consecrated priests were received on condition of their solemnly abjuring their errors. of such priests there was always an abundant supply. if a regular priest could not find a parish, or if he was deposed by the authorities for some crime or misdemeanour, he had merely to pass over to the old ritualists, and was sure to find among them a hearty welcome and a tolerable salary. by these concessions the indefinite prolongation of old ritualism was secured, but many of the old ritualists could not but feel that their position was, to say the least, extremely anomalous. they had no bishops of their own, and their priests were all consecrated by bishops whom they believed to be heretical! for many years they hoped to escape from this dilemma by discovering "orthodox"--that is to say, old ritualist--bishops somewhere in the east; but when the east had been searched in vain, and all their efforts to obtain native bishops proved fruitless, they conceived the design of creating a bishopric somewhere beyond the frontier, among the old ritualists who had in times of persecution fled to prussia, austria, and turkey. there were, however, immense difficulties in the way. in the first place it was necessary to obtain the formal permission of some foreign government; and in the second place an orthodox bishop must be found, willing to consecrate an old ritualist or to become an old ritualist himself. again and again the attempt was made, and failed; but at last, after years of effort and intrigue, the design was realised. in the austrian government gave permission to found a bishopric at belaya krinitsa, in galicia, a few miles from the russian frontier; and two years later the deposed metropolitan of bosnia consented, after much hesitation, to pass over to the old ritualist confession and accept the diocese.* from that time the old ritualists have had their own bishops, and have not been obliged to accept the runaway priests of the official church. * an interesting account of these negotiations, and a most curious picture of the orthodox ecclesiastical world in constantinople, is given by subbotiny, "istoria belokrinitskoi ierarkhii," moscow, . the old ritualists were naturally much grieved by the schism, and were often sorely tried by persecution, but they have always enjoyed a certain spiritual tranquillity, proceeding from the conviction that they have preserved for themselves the means of salvation. the position of the more extreme section of the schismatics was much more tragical. they believed that the sacraments had irretrievably lost their efficacy, that the ordinary means of salvation were forever withdrawn, that the powers of darkness had been let loose for a little season, that the authorities were the agents of satan, and that the personage who filled the place of the old god-fearing tsars was no other than antichrist. under the influence of these horrible ideas they fled to the woods and the caves to escape from the rage of the beast, and to await the second coming of our lord. this state of things could not continue permanently. extreme religious fanaticism, like all other abnormal states, cannot long exist in a mass of human beings without some constant exciting cause. the vulgar necessities of everyday life, especially among people who have to live by the labour of their hands, have a wonderfully sobering influence on the excited brain, and must always, sooner or later, prove fatal to inordinate excitement. a few peculiarly constituted individuals may show themselves capable of a lifelong enthusiasm, but the multitude is ever spasmodic in its fervour, and begins to slide back to its former apathy as soon as the exciting cause ceases to act. all this we find exemplified in the history of the priestless people. when it was found that the world did not come to an end, and that the rigorous system of persecution was relaxed, the less excitable natures returned to their homes, and resumed their old mode of life; and when peter the great made his politic concessions, many who had declared him to be antichrist came to suspect that he was really not so black as he was painted. this idea struck deep root in a religious community near lake onega (vuigovski skit) which had received special privileges on condition of supplying labourers for the neighbouring mines; and here was developed a new theory which opened up a way of reconciliation with the government. by a more attentive study of holy writ and ancient books it was discovered that the reign of antichrist would consist of two periods. in the former, the son of destruction would reign merely in the spiritual sense, and the faithful would not be much molested; in the latter, he would reign visibly in the flesh, and true believers would be subjected to the most frightful persecution. the second period, it was held, had evidently not yet arrived, for the faithful now enjoyed "a time of freedom, and not of compulsion or oppression." whether this theory is strictly in accordance with apocalyptic prophecy and patristic theology may be doubted, but it fully satisfied those who had already arrived at the conclusion by a different road, and who sought merely a means of justifying their position. certain it is that very many accepted it, and determined to render unto caesar the things that were caesar's, or, in secular language, to pray for the tsar and to pay their taxes. this ingenious compromise was not accepted by all the priestless people. on the contrary, many of them regarded it as a woeful backsliding--a new device of the evil one; and among these irreconcilables was a certain peasant called theodosi, a man of little education, but of remarkable intellectual power and unusual strength of character. he raised anew the old fanaticism by his preaching and writings--widely circulated in manuscript--and succeeded in founding a new sect in the forest region near the polish frontier. the priestless nonconformists thus fell into two sections; the one, called pomortsi,* accepted at least a partial reconciliation with the civil power; the other, called theodosians, after their founder, held to the old opinions, and refused to regard the tsar otherwise than as antichrist. *the word pomortsi means "those who live near the seashore." it is commonly applied to the inhabitants of the northern provinces--that is, those who live near the shore of the white sea, the only maritime frontier that russia possessed previous to the conquests of peter the great. these latter were at first very wild in their fanaticism, but ere long they gave way to the influences which had softened the fanaticism of the pomortsi. under the liberal, conciliatory rule of catherine they lived in contentment, and many of them enriched themselves by trade. their fanatical zeal and exclusiveness evaporated under the influence of material well-being and constant contact with the outer world, especially after they were allowed to build a monastery in moscow. the superior of this monastery, a man of much shrewdness and enormous wealth, succeeded in gaining the favour not only of the lower officials, who could be easily bought, but even of high-placed dignitaries, and for many years he exercised a very real, if undefined, authority over all sections of the priestless people. "his fame," it is said, "sounded throughout moscow, and the echoes were heard in petropol (st. petersburg), riga, astrakhan, nizhni-novgorod, and other lands of piety"; and when deputies came to consult him, they prostrated themselves in his presence, as before the great ones of the earth. living thus not only in peace and plenty, but even in honour and luxury, "the proud patriarch of the theodosian church" could not consistently fulminate against "the ravenous wolves" with whom he was on friendly terms, or excite the fanaticism of his followers by highly coloured descriptions of "the awful sufferings and persecution of god's people in these latter days," as the founder of the sect had been wont to do. though he could not openly abandon any fundamental doctrines, he allowed the ideas about the reign of antichrist to fall into the background, and taught by example, if not by precept, that the faithful might, by prudent concessions, live very comfortably in this present evil world. this seed fell upon soil already prepared for its reception. the faithful gradually forgot their old savage fanaticism, and they have since contrived, while holding many of their old ideas in theory, to accommodate themselves in practice to the existing order of things. the gradual softening and toning down of the original fanaticism in these two sects are strikingly exemplified in their ideas of marriage. according to orthodox doctrine, marriage is a sacrament which can only be performed by a consecrated priest, and consequently for the priestless people the celebration of marriage was an impossibility. in the first ages of sectarianism a state of celibacy was quite in accordance with their surroundings. living in constant fear of their persecutors, and wandering from one place of refuge to another, the sufferers for the faith had little time or inclination to think of family ties, and readily listened to the monks, who exhorted them to mortify the lusts of the flesh. the result, however, proved that celibacy in the creed by no means ensures chastity in practice. not only in the villages of the dissenters, but even in those religious communities which professed a more ascetic mode of life, a numerous class of "orphans" began to appear, who knew not who their parents were; and this ignorance of blood-relationship naturally led to incestuous connections. besides this, the doctrine of celibacy had grave practical inconveniences, for the peasant requires a housewife to attend to domestic concerns and to help him in his agricultural occupations. thus the necessity of re-establishing family life came to be felt, and the feeling soon found expression in a doctrinal form both among the pomortsi and among the theodsians. learned dissertations were written and disseminated in manuscript copies, violent discussions took place, and at last a great council was held in moscow to discuss the question.* the point at issue was never unanimously decided, but many accepted the ingenious arguments in favour of matrimony, and contracted marriages which were, of course, null and void in the eye of the law and of the church, but valid in all other respects. * i cannot here enter into the details of this remarkable controversy, but i may say that in studying it i have been frequently astonished by the dialectical power and logical subtlety displayed by the disputants, some of them simple peasants. this new backsliding of the unstable multitude produced a new outburst of fanaticism among the stubborn few. some of those who had hitherto sought to conceal the origin of the "orphan" class above referred to now boldly asserted that the existence of this class was a religious necessity, because in order to be saved men must repent, and in order to repent men must sin! at the same time the old ideas about antichrist were revived and preached with fervour by a peasant called philip, who founded a new sect called the philipists. this sect still exists. they hold fast to the old belief that the tsar is antichrist, and that the civil and ecclesiastical authorities are the servants of satan--an idea that was kept alive by the corruption and extortion for which the administration was notorious. they do not venture on open resistance to the authorities, but the bolder members take little pains to conceal their opinions and sentiments, and may be easily recognised by their severe aspect, their puritanical manner, and their pharisaical horror of everything which they suppose heretical and unclean. some of them, it is said, carry this fastidiousness to such an extent that they throw away the handle of a door if it has been touched by a heretic! it may seem that we have here reached the extreme limits of fanaticism, but in reality there were men whom even the pharisaical puritanism of the philipists did not satisfy. these new zealots, who appeared in the time of catherine ii., but first became known to the official world in the reign of nicholas i., rebuked the lukewarmness of their brethren, and founded a new sect in order to preserve intact the asceticism practised immediately after the schism. this sect still exists. they call themselves "christ's people" (christoviye lyudi), but are better known under the popular name of "wanderers" (stranniki), or "fugitives" (beguny). of all the sects they are the most hostile to the existing political and social organisation. not content with condemning the military conscription, the payment of taxes, the acceptance of passports, and everything connected with the civil and ecclesiastical authorities, they consider it sinful to live peaceably among an orthodox--that is, according to their belief, a heretical--population, and to have dealings with any who do not share their extreme views. holding the antichrist doctrine in the extreme form, they declare that tsars are the vessels of satan, that the established church is the dwelling-place of the father of lies, and that all who submit to the authorities are children of the devil. according to this creed, those who wish to escape from the wrath to come must have neither houses nor fixed places of abode, must sever all ties that bind them to the world, and must wander about continually from place to place. true christians are but strangers and pilgrims in the present life, and whoso binds himself to the world will perish with the world. such is the theory of these wanderers, but among them, as among the less fanatical sects, practical necessities have produced concessions and compromises. as it is impossible to lead a nomadic life in russian forests, the wanderers have been compelled to admit into their ranks what may be called lay-brethren--men who nominally belong to the sect, but who live like ordinary mortals and have some rational way of gaining a livelihood. these latter live in the villages or towns, support themselves by agriculture or trade, accept passports from the authorities, pay their taxes regularly, and conduct themselves in all outward respects like loyal subjects. their chief religious duty consists in giving food and shelter to their more zealous brethren, who have adopted a vagabond life in practise as well as in theory. it is only when they feel death approaching that they consider it necessary to separate themselves from the heretical world, and they effect this by having themselves carried out to some neighbouring wood--or into a garden if there is no wood at hand--where they may die in the open air. thus, we see, there is among the russian nonconformist sects what may be called a gradation of fanaticism, in which is reflected the history of the great schism. in the wanderers we have the representatives of those who adopted and preserved the antichrist doctrine in its extreme form--the successors of those who fled to the forests to escape from the rage of the beast and to await the second coming of christ. in the philipists we have the representatives of those who adopted these ideas in a somewhat softer form, and who came to recognise the necessity of having some regular means of subsistence until the last trump should be heard. the theodosians represent those who were in theory at one with the preceding category, but who, having less religious fanaticism, considered it necessary to yield to force and make peace with the government without sacrificing their convictions. in the pomortsi we see those who preserved only the religious ideas of the schism, and became reconciled with the civil power. lastly we have the old ritualists, who differed from all the other sects in retaining the old ordinances, and who simply rejected the spiritual authority of the dominant church. besides these chief sections of the nonconformists there are a great many minor denominations (tolki), differing from each other on minor points of doctrine. in certain districts, it is said, nearly every village has one or two independent sects. this is especially the case among the don cossacks and the cossacks of the ural, who are in part descendants of the men who fled from the early persecutions. of all the sects the old ritualists stand nearest to the official church. they hold the same dogmas, practise the same rites, and differ only in trifling ceremonial matters, which few people consider essential. in the hope of inducing them to return to the official fold the government created at the beginning of last century special churches, in which they were allowed to retain their ceremonial peculiarities on condition of accepting regularly consecrated priests and submitting to ecclesiastical jurisdiction. as yet the design has not met with much success. the great majority of the old ritualists regard it as a trap, and assert that the church in making this concession has been guilty of self-contradiction. "the ecclesiastical council of moscow," they say, "anathematised our forefathers for holding to the old ritual, and declared that the whole course of nature would be changed sooner than the curse be withdrawn. the course of nature has not been changed, but the anathema has been cancelled." this argument ought to have a certain weight with those who believe in the infallibility of ecclesiastical councils. towards the priestless people the government has always acted in a much less conciliatory spirit. its severity has been sometimes justified on the ground that sectarianism has had a political as well as a religious significance. a state like russia cannot overlook the existence of sects which preach the duty of systematic resistance to the civil and ecclesiastical authorities and hold doctrines which lead to the grossest immorality. this argument, it must be admitted, is not without a certain force, but it seems to me that the policy adopted tended to increase rather than diminish the evils which it sought to cure. instead of dispelling the absurd idea that the tsar was antichrist by a system of strict and evenhanded justice, punishing merely actual crimes and delinquencies, the government confirmed the notion in the minds of thousands by persecuting those who had committed no crime and who desired merely to worship god according to their conscience. above all it erred in opposing and punishing those marriages which, though legally irregular, were the best possible means of diminishing fanaticism, by leading back the fanatics to healthy social life. fortunately these errors have now been abandoned. a policy of greater clemency and conciliation has been adopted, and has proved much more efficacious than persecution. the dissenters have not returned to the official fold, but they have lost much of their old fanaticism and exclusiveness. in respect of numbers the sectarians compose a very formidable body. of old ritualists and priestless people there are, it is said, no less than eleven millions; and the protestant and fantastical sects comprise probably about five millions more. if these numbers be correct, the sectarians constitute about an eighth of the whole population of the empire. they count in their ranks none of the nobles--none of the so-called enlightened class--but they include in their number a respectable proportion of the peasants, a third of the rich merchant class, the majority of the don cossacks, and nearly all the cossacks of the ural. under these circumstances it is important to know how far the sectarians are politically disaffected. some people imagine that in the event of an insurrection or a foreign invasion they might rise against the government, whilst others believe that this supposed danger is purely imaginary. for my own part i agree with the latter opinion, which is strongly supported by the history of many important events, such as the french invasion in , the crimean war, and the last polish insurrection. the great majority of the schismatics and heretics are, i believe, loyal subjects of the tsar. the more violent sects, which are alone capable of active hostility against the authorities, are weak in numbers, and regard all outsiders with such profound mistrust that they are wholly impervious to inflammatory influences from without. even if all the sects were capable of active hostility, they would not be nearly so formidable as their numbers seem to indicate, for they are hostile to each other, and are wholly incapable of combining for a common purpose. though sectarianism is thus by no means a serious political danger, it has nevertheless a considerable political significance. it proves satisfactorily that the russian people is by no means so docile and pliable as is commonly supposed, and that it is capable of showing a stubborn, passive resistance to authority when it believes great interests to be at stake. the dogged energy which it has displayed in asserting for centuries its religious liberty may perhaps some day be employed in the arena of secular politics. chapter xix church and state the russian orthodox church--russia outside of the mediaeval papal commonwealth--influence of the greek church--ecclesiastical history of russia--relations between church and state--eastern orthodoxy and the russian national church--the synod--ecclesiastical grumbling--local ecclesiastical administration--the black clergy and the monasteries--the character of the eastern church reflected in the history of religious art--practical consequences--the union scheme. from the curious world of heretics and dissenters let us pass now to the russian orthodox church, to which the great majority of the russian people belong. it has played an important part in the national history, and has exercised a powerful influence in the formation of the national character. russians are in the habit of patriotically and proudly congratulating themselves on the fact that their forefathers always resisted successfully the aggressive tendencies of the papacy, but it may be doubted whether, from a worldly point of view, the freedom from papal authority has been an unmixed blessing for the country. if the popes failed to realise their grand design of creating a vast european empire based on theocratic principles, they succeeded at least in inspiring with a feeling of brotherhood and a vague consciousness of common interest all the nations which acknowledged their spiritual supremacy. these nations, whilst remaining politically independent and frequently coming into hostile contact with each other, all looked to rome as the capital of the christian world, and to the pope as the highest terrestrial authority. though the church did not annihilate nationality, it made a wide breach in the political barriers, and formed a channel for international communication by which the social and intellectual progress of each nation became known to all the other members of the great christian confederacy. throughout the length and breadth of the papal commonwealth educated men had a common language, a common literature, a common scientific method, and to a certain extent a common jurisprudence. western christendom was thus all through the middle ages not merely an abstract conception or a geographical expression: if not a political, it was at least a religious and intellectual unit, and all the countries of which it was composed benefited more or less by the connection. for centuries russia stood outside of this religious and intellectual confederation, for her church connected her not with rome, but with constantinople, and papal europe looked upon her as belonging to the barbarous east. when the mongol hosts swept over her plains, burnt her towns and villages, and finally incorporated her into the great empire of genghis khan, the so-called christian world took no interest in the struggle except in so far as its own safety was threatened. and as time wore on, the barriers which separated the two great sections of christendom became more and more formidable. the aggressive pretensions and ambitious schemes of the vatican produced in the greek orthodox world a profound antipathy to the roman catholic church and to western influence of every kind. so strong was this aversion that when the nations of the west awakened in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries from their intellectual lethargy and began to move forward on the path of intellectual and material progress, russia not only remained unmoved, but looked on the new civilisation with suspicion and fear as a thing heretical and accursed. we have here one of the chief reasons why russia, at the present day, is in many respects less civilised than the nations of western europe. but it is not merely in this negative way that the acceptance of christianity from constantinople has affected the fate of russia. the greek church, whilst excluding roman catholic civilisation, exerted at the same time a powerful positive influence on the historical development of the nation. the church of the west inherited from old rome something of that logical, juridical, administrative spirit which had created the roman law, and something of that ambition and dogged, energetic perseverance that had formed nearly the whole known world into a great centralised empire. the bishops of rome early conceived the design of reconstructing that old empire on a new basis, and long strove to create a universal christian theocratic state, in which kings and other civil authorities should be the subordinates of christ's vicar upon earth. the eastern church, on the contrary, has remained true to her byzantine traditions, and has never dreamed of such lofty pretensions. accustomed to lean on the civil power, she has always been content to play a secondary part, and has never strenuously resisted the formation of national churches. for about two centuries after the introduction of christianity--from to --russia formed, ecclesiastically speaking, part of the patriarchate of constantinople. the metropolitans and the bishops were greek by birth and education, and the ecclesiastical administration was guided and controlled by the byzantine patriarchs. but from the time of the mongol invasion, when communication with constantinople became more difficult and educated native priests had become more numerous, this complete dependence on the patriarch of constantinople ceased. the princes gradually arrogated to themselves the right of choosing the metropolitan of kief--who was at that time the chief ecclesiastical dignitary in russia--and merely sent their nominees to constantinople for consecration. about this formality came to be dispensed with, and the metropolitan was commonly consecrated by a council of russian bishops. a further step in the direction of ecclesiastical autonomy was taken in , when the tsar succeeded in procuring the consecration of a russian patriarch, equal in dignity and authority to the patriarchs of constantinople, jerusalem, antioch, and alexandria. in all matters of external form the patriarch of moscow was a very important personage. he exercised a certain influence in civil as well as ecclesiastical affairs, bore the official title of "great lord" (veliki gosudar), which had previously been reserved for the civil head of the state, and habitually received from the people scarcely less veneration than the tsar himself. but in reality he possessed very little independent power. the tsar was the real ruler in ecclesiastical as well as in civil affairs.* * as this is frequently denied by russians, it may be well to quote one authority out of many that might be cited. bishop makarii, whose erudition and good faith are alike above suspicion, says of dmitri of the don: "he arrogated to himself full, unconditional power over the head of the russian church, and through him over the whole russian church itself." ("istoriya russkoi tserkvi," v., p. .) this is said of a grand prince who had strong rivals and had to treat the church as an ally. when the grand princes became tsars and had no longer any rivals, their power was certainly not diminished. any further confirmation that may be required will be found in the life of the famous patriarch nikon. the russian patriarchate came to an end in the time of peter the great. peter wished, among other things, to reform the ecclesiastical administration, and to introduce into his country many novelties which the majority of the clergy and of the people regarded as heretical; and he clearly perceived that a bigoted, energetic patriarch might throw considerable obstacles in his way, and cause him infinite annoyance. though such a patriarch might be deposed without any flagrant violation of the canonical formalities, the operation would necessarily be attended with great trouble and loss of time. peter was no friend of roundabout, tortuous methods, and preferred to remove the difficulty in his usual thorough, violent fashion. when the patriarch adrian died, the customary short interregnum was prolonged for twenty years, and when the people had thus become accustomed to having no patriarch, it was announced that no more patriarchs would be elected. their place was supplied by an ecclesiastical council, or synod, in which, as a contemporary explained, "the mainspring was peter's power, and the pendulum his understanding." the great autocrat justly considered that such a council could be much more easily managed than a stubborn patriarch, and the wisdom of the measure has been duly appreciated by succeeding sovereigns. though the idea of re-establishing the patriarchate has more than once been raised, it has never been carried into execution. the holy synod remains the highest ecclesiastical authority. but the emperor? what is his relation to the synod and to the church in general? this is a question about which zealous orthodox russians are extremely sensitive. if a foreigner ventures to hint in their presence that the emperor seems to have a considerable influence in the church, he may inadvertently produce a little outburst of patriotic warmth and virtuous indignation. the truth is that many russians have a pet theory on this subject, and have at the same time a dim consciousness that the theory is not quite in accordance with reality. they hold theoretically that the orthodox church has no "head" but christ, and is in some peculiar undefined sense entirely independent of all terrestrial authority. in this respect it is often contrasted with the anglican church, much to the disadvantage of the latter; and the supposed differences between the two are made a theme for semi-religious, semi-patriotic exultation. khomiakof, for instance, in one of his most vigorous poems, predicts that god will one day take the destiny of the world out of the hands of england in order to give it to russia, and he adduces as one of the reasons for this transfer the fact that england "has chained, with sacrilegious hand, the church of god to the pedestal of the vain earthly power." so far the theory. as to the facts, it is unquestionable that the tsar exercises a much greater influence in ecclesiastical affairs than the king and parliament in england. all who know the internal history of russia are aware that the government does not draw a clear line of distinction between the temporal and the spiritual, and that it occasionally uses the ecclesiastical organisation for political purposes. what, then, are the relations between church and state? to avoid confusion, we must carefully distinguish between the eastern orthodox church as a whole and that section of it which is known as the russian church. the eastern orthodox church* is, properly speaking, a confederation of independent churches without any central authority--a unity founded on the possession of a common dogma and on the theoretical but now unrealisable possibility of holding ecumenical councils. the russian national church is one of the members of this ecclesiastical confederation. in matters of faith it is bound by the decisions of the ancient ecumenical councils, but in all other respects it enjoys complete independence and autonomy. * or greek orthodox church, as it is sometimes called. in relation to the orthodox church as a whole the emperor of russia is nothing more than a simple member, and can no more interfere with its dogmas or ceremonial than a king of italy or an emperor of the french could modify roman catholic theology; but in relation to the russian national church his position is peculiar. he is described in one of the fundamental laws as "the supreme defender and preserver of the dogmas of the dominant faith," and immediately afterwards it is said that "the autocratic power acts in the ecclesiastical administration by means of the most holy governing synod, created by it."* this describes very fairly the relations between the emperor and the church. he is merely the defender of the dogmas, and cannot in the least modify them; but he is at the same time the chief administrator, and uses the synod as an instrument. * svod zakonov i., , . some ingenious people who wish to prove that the creation of the synod was not an innovation represent the institution as a resuscitation of the ancient local councils; but this view is utterly untenable. the synod is not a council of deputies from various sections of the church, but a permanent college, or ecclesiastical senate, the members of which are appointed and dismissed by the emperor as he thinks fit. it has no independent legislative authority, for its legislative projects do not become law till they have received the imperial sanction; and they are always published, not in the name of the church, but in the name of the supreme power. even in matters of simple administration it is not independent, for all its resolutions require the consent of the procureur, a layman nominated by his majesty. in theory this functionary protests only against those resolutions which are not in accordance with the civil law of the country; but as he alone has the right to address the emperor directly on ecclesiastical concerns, and as all communications between the emperor and the synod pass through his hands, he possesses in reality considerable power. besides this, he can always influence the individual members by holding out prospects of advancement and decorations, and if this device fails, he can make refractory members retire, and fill up their places with men of more pliant disposition. a council constituted in this way cannot, of course, display much independence of thought or action, especially in a country like russia, where no one ventures to oppose openly the imperial will. it must not, however, be supposed that the russian ecclesiastics regard the imperial authority with jealousy or dislike. they are all most loyal subjects, and warm adherents of autocracy. those ideas of ecclesiastical independence which are so common in western europe, and that spirit of opposition to the civil power which animates the roman catholic clergy, are entirely foreign to their minds. if a bishop sometimes complains to an intimate friend that he has been brought to st. petersburg and made a member of the synod merely to append his signature to official papers and to give his consent to foregone conclusions, his displeasure is directed, not against the emperor, but against the procureur. he is full of loyalty and devotion to the tsar, and has no desire to see his majesty excluded from all influence in ecclesiastical affairs; but he feels saddened and humiliated when he finds that the whole government of the church is in the hands of a lay functionary, who may be a military man, and who looks at all matters from a layman's point of view. this close connection between church and state and the thoroughly national character of the russian church is well illustrated by the history of the local ecclesiastical administration. the civil and the ecclesiastical administration have always had the same character and have always been modified by the same influences. the terrorism which was largely used by the muscovite tsars and brought to a climax by peter the great appeared equally in both. in the episcopal circulars, as in the imperial ukazes, we find frequent mention of "most cruel corporal punishment," "cruel punishment with whips, so that the delinquent and others may not acquire the habit of practising such insolence," and much more of the same kind. and these terribly severe measures were sometimes directed against very venial offences. the bishop of vologda, for instance, in decrees "cruel corporal punishment" against priests who wear coarse and ragged clothes,* and the records of the consistorial courts contain abundant proof that such decrees were rigorously executed. when catherine ii. introduced a more humane spirit into the civil administration, corporal punishment was at once abolished in the consistorial courts, and the procedure was modified according to the accepted maxims of civil jurisprudence. but i must not weary the reader with tiresome historical details. suffice it to say that, from the time of peter the great downwards, the character of all the more energetic sovereigns is reflected in the history of the ecclesiastical administration. * znamenski, "prikhodskoe dukhovenstvo v rossii so vremeni reformy petra," kazan, . each province, or "government," forms a diocese, and the bishop, like the civil governor, has a council which theoretically controls his power, but practically has no controlling influence whatever. the consistorial council, which has in the theory of ecclesiastical procedure a very imposing appearance, is in reality the bishop's chancellerie, and its members are little more than secretaries, whose chief object is to make themselves agreeable to their superior. and it must be confessed that, so long as they remain what they are, the less power they possess the better it will be for those who have the misfortune to be under their jurisdiction. the higher dignitaries have at least larger aims and a certain consciousness of the dignity of their position; but the lower officials, who have no such healthy restraints and receive ridiculously small salaries, grossly misuse the little authority which they possess, and habitually pilfer and extort in the most shameless manner. the consistories are, in fact, what the public offices were in the time of nicholas i. the higher ecclesiastical administration has always been in the hands of the monks, or "black clergy," as they are commonly termed, who form a large and influential class. the monks who first settled in russia were, like those who first visited north-western europe, men of the earnest, ascetic, missionary type. filled with zeal for the glory of god and the salvation of souls, they took little or no thought for the morrow, and devoutly believed that their heavenly father, without whose knowledge no sparrow falls to the ground, would provide for their humble wants. poor, clad in rags, eating the most simple fare, and ever ready to share what they had with any one poorer than themselves, they performed faithfully and earnestly the work which their master had given them to do. but this ideal of monastic life soon gave way in russia, as in the west, to practices less simple and austere. by the liberal donations and bequests of the faithful the monasteries became rich in gold, in silver, in precious stones, and above all in land and serfs. troitsa, for instance, possessed at one time , serfs and a proportionate amount of land, and it is said that at the beginning of the eighteenth century more than a fourth of the entire population had fallen under the jurisdiction of the church. many of the monasteries engaged in commerce, and the monks were, if we may credit fletcher, who visited russia in , the most intelligent merchants of the country. during the eighteenth century the church lands were secularised, and the serfs of the church became serfs of the state. this was a severe blow for the monasteries, but it did not prove fatal, as many people predicted. some monasteries were abolished and others were reduced to extreme poverty, but many survived and prospered. these could no longer possess serfs, but they had still three sources of revenue: a limited amount of real property, government subsidies, and the voluntary offerings of the faithful. at present there are about monastic establishments, and the great majority of them, though not wealthy, have revenues more than sufficient to satisfy all the requirements of an ascetic life. thus in russia, as in western europe, the history of monastic institutions is composed of three chapters, which may be briefly entitled: asceticism and missionary enterprise; wealth, luxury, and corruption; secularisation of property and decline. but between eastern and western monasticism there is at least one marked difference. the monasticism of the west made at various epochs of its history a vigorous, spontaneous effort at self-regeneration, which found expression in the foundation of separate orders, each of which proposed to itself some special aim--some special sphere of usefulness. in russia we find no similar phenomenon. here the monasteries never deviated from the rules of st. basil, which restrict the members to religious ceremonies, prayer, and contemplation. from time to time a solitary individual raised his voice against the prevailing abuses, or retired from his monastery to spend the remainder of his days in ascetic solitude; but neither in the monastic population as a whole, nor in any particular monastery, do we find at any time a spontaneous, vigorous movement towards reform. during the last two hundred years reforms have certainly been effected, but they have all been the work of the civil power, and in the realisation of them the monks have shown little more than the virtue of resignation. here, as elsewhere, we have evidence of that inertness, apathy, and want of spontaneous vigour which form one of the most characteristic traits of russian national life. in this, as in other departments of national activity, the spring of action has lain not in the people, but in the government. it is only fair to the monks to state that in their dislike to progress and change of every kind they merely reflect the traditional spirit of the church to which they belong. the russian church, like the eastern orthodox church generally, is essentially conservative. anything in the nature of a religious revival is foreign to her traditions and character. quieta non movere is her fundamental principle of conduct. she prides herself as being above terrestrial influences. the modifications that have been made in her administrative organisation have not affected her inner nature. in spirit and character she is now what she was under the patriarchs in the time of the muscovite tsars, holding fast to the promise that no jot or tittle shall pass from the law till all be fulfilled. to those who talk about the requirements of modern life and modern science she turns a deaf ear. partly from the predominance which she gives to the ceremonial element, partly from the fact that her chief aim is to preserve unmodified the doctrine and ceremonial as determined by the early ecumenical councils, and partly from the low state of general culture among the clergy, she has ever remained outside of the intellectual movements. the attempts of the roman catholic church to develop the traditional dogmas by definition and deduction, and the efforts of protestants to reconcile their creeds with progressive science and the ever-varying intellectual currents of the time, are alike foreign to her nature. hence she has produced no profound theological treatises conceived in a philosophical spirit, and has made no attempt to combat the spirit of infidelity in its modern forms. profoundly convinced that her position is impregnable, she has "let the nations rave," and scarcely deigned to cast a glance at their intellectual and religious struggles. in a word, she is "in the world, but not of it." if we wish to see represented in a visible form the peculiar characteristics of the russian church, we have only to glance at russian religious art, and compare it with that of western europe. in the west, from the time of the renaissance downwards, religious art has kept pace with artistic progress. gradually it emancipated itself from archaic forms and childish symbolism, converted the lifeless typical figures into living individuals, lit up their dull eyes and expressionless faces with human intelligence and human feeling, and finally aimed at archaeological accuracy in costume and other details. thus in the west the icon grew slowly into the naturalistic portrait, and the rude symbolical groups developed gradually into highly-finished historical pictures. in russia the history of religious art has been entirely different. instead of distinctive schools of painting and great religious artists, there has been merely an anonymous traditional craft, destitute of any artistic individuality. in all the productions of this craft the old byzantine forms have been faithfully and rigorously preserved, and we can see reflected in the modern icons--stiff, archaic, expressionless--the immobility of the eastern church in general, and of the russian church in particular. to the roman catholic, who struggles against science as soon as it contradicts traditional conceptions, and to the protestant, who strives to bring his religious beliefs into accordance with his scientific knowledge, the russian church may seem to resemble an antediluvian petrifaction, or a cumbrous line-of-battle ship that has been long stranded. it must be confessed, however, that the serene inactivity for which she is distinguished has had very valuable practical consequences. the russian clergy have neither that haughty, aggressive intolerance which characterises their roman catholic brethren, nor that bitter, uncharitable, sectarian spirit which is too often to be found among protestants. they allow not only to heretics, but also to members of their own communion, the most complete intellectual freedom, and never think of anathematising any one for his scientific or unscientific opinions. all that they demand is that those who have been born within the pale of orthodoxy should show the church a certain nominal allegiance; and in this matter of allegiance they are by no mean very exacting. so long as a member refrains from openly attacking the church and from going over to another confession, he may entirely neglect all religious ordinances and publicly profess scientific theories logically inconsistent with any kind of dogmatic religious belief without the slightest danger of incurring ecclesiastical censure. this apathetic tolerance may be partly explained by the national character, but it is also to some extent due to the peculiar relations between church and state. the government vigilantly protects the church from attack, and at the same time prevents her from attacking her enemies. hence religious questions are never discussed in the press, and the ecclesiastical literature is all historical, homiletic, or devotional. the authorities allow public oral discussions to be held during lent in the kremlin of moscow between members of the state church and old ritualists; but these debates are not theological in our sense of the term. they turn exclusively on details of church history, and on the minutiae of ceremonial observance. a few years ago there was a good deal of vague talk about a possible union of the russian and anglican churches. if by "union" is meant simply union in the bonds of brotherly love, there can be, of course, no objection to any amount of such pia desideria; but if anything more real and practical is intended, the project is an absurdity. a real union of the russian and anglican churches would be as difficult of realisation, and is as undesirable, as a union of the russian council of state and the british house of commons.* * i suppose that the more serious partisans of the union scheme mean union with the eastern orthodox, and not with the russian, church. to them the above remarks are not addressed. their scheme is, in my opinion, unrealisable and undesirable, but it contains nothing absurd. chapter xx the noblesse the nobles in early times--the mongol domination--the tsardom of muscovy--family dignity--reforms of peter the great--the nobles adopt west-european conceptions--abolition of obligatory service--influence of catherine ii.--the russian dvoryanstvo compared with the french noblesse and the english aristocracy--russian titles--probable future of the russian noblesse. hitherto i have been compelling the reader to move about among what we should call the lower classes--peasants, burghers, traders, parish priests, dissenters, heretics, cossacks, and the like--and he feels perhaps inclined to complain that he has had no opportunity of mixing with what old-fashioned people call gentle-folk and persons of quality. by way of making amends to him for this reprehensible conduct on my part, i propose now to present him to the whole noblesse* in a body, not only those at present living, but also their near and distant ancestors, right back to the foundation of the russian empire a thousand years ago. thereafter i shall introduce him to some of the country families and invite him to make with me a few country-house visits. * i use here a foreign, in preference to an english, term, because the word "nobility" would convey a false impression. etymologically the russian word "dvoryanin" means a courtier (from dvor=court); but this term is equally objectionable, because the great majority of the dvoryanstvo have nothing to do with the court. in the old times, when russia was merely a collection of some seventy independent principalities, each reigning prince was surrounded by a group of armed men, composed partly of boyars, or large landed proprietors, and partly of knights, or soldiers of fortune. these men, who formed the noblesse of the time, were to a certain extent under the authority of the prince, but they were by no means mere obedient, silent executors of his will. the boyars might refuse to take part in his military expeditions, and the "free-lances" might leave his service and seek employment elsewhere. if he wished to go to war without their consent, they could say to him, as they did on one occasion, "you have planned this yourself, prince, so we will not go with you, for we knew nothing of it." nor was this resistance to the princely will always merely passive. once, in the principality of galitch, the armed men seized their prince, killed his favourites, burned his mistress, and made him swear that he would in future live with his lawful wife. to his successor, who had married the wife of a priest, they spoke thus: "we have not risen against you, prince, but we will not do reverence to a priest's wife: we will put her to death, and then you may marry whom you please." even the energetic bogolubski, one of the most remarkable of the old princes, did not succeed in having his own way. when he attempted to force the boyars he met with stubborn opposition, and was finally assassinated. from these incidents, which might be indefinitely multiplied from the old chronicles, we see that in the early period of russian history the boyars and knights were a body of free men, possessing a considerable amount of political power. under the mongol domination this political equilibrium was destroyed. when the country had been conquered, the princes became servile vassals of the khan and arbitrary rulers towards their own subjects. the political significance of the nobles was thereby greatly diminished. it was not, however, by any means annihilated. though the prince no longer depended entirely on their support, he had an interest in retaining their services, to protect his territory in case of sudden attack, or to increase his possessions at the expense of his neighbours when a convenient opportunity presented itself. theoretically, such conquests were impossible, for all removing of the ancient landmarks depended on the decision of the khan; but in reality the khan paid little attention to the affairs of his vassals so long as the tribute was regularly paid; and much took place in russia without his permission. we find, therefore, in some of the principalities the old relations still subsisting under mongol rule. the famous dmitri of the don, for instance, when on his death-bed, speaks thus to his boyars: "you know my habits and my character; i was born among you, grew up among you, governed with you--fighting by your side, showing you honour and love, and placing you over towns and districts. i loved your children, and did evil to no one. i rejoiced with you in your joy, mourned with you in your grief, and called you the princes of my land." then, turning to his children, he adds, as a parting advice: "love your boyars, my children; show them the honour which their services merit, and undertake nothing without their consent." when the grand princes of moscow brought the other principalities under their power, and formed them into the tsardom of muscovy, the nobles descended another step in the political scale. so long as there were many principalities they could quit the service of a prince as soon as he gave them reason to be discontented, knowing that they would be well received by one of his rivals; but now they had no longer any choice. the only rival of moscow was lithuania, and precautions were taken to prevent the discontented from crossing the lithuanian frontier. the nobles were no longer voluntary adherents of a prince, but had become subjects of a tsar; and the tsars were not as the old princes had been. by a violent legal fiction they conceived themselves to be the successors of the byzantine emperors, and created a new court ceremonial, borrowed partly from constantinople and partly from the mongol horde. they no longer associated familiarly with the boyars, and no longer asked their advice, but treated them rather as menials. when the nobles entered their august master's presence they prostrated themselves in oriental fashion--occasionally as many as thirty times--and when they incurred his displeasure they were summarily flogged or executed, according to the tsar's good pleasure. in succeeding to the power of the khans, the tsars had adopted, we see, a good deal of the mongol system of government. it may seem strange that a class of men which had formerly shown a proud spirit of independence should have submitted quietly to such humiliation and oppression without making a serious effort to curb the new power, which had no longer a tartar horde at its back to quell opposition. but we must remember that the nobles, as well as the princes, had passed in the meantime through the school of the mongol domination. in the course of two centuries they had gradually become accustomed to despotic rule in the oriental sense. if they felt their position humiliating and irksome, they must have felt, too, how difficult it was to better it. their only resource lay in combining against the common oppressor; and we have only to glance at the motley, disorganised group, as they cluster round the tsar, to perceive that combination was extremely difficult. we can distinguish there the mediatised princes, still harbouring designs for the recovery of their independence; the moscow boyars, jealous of their family honour and proud of muscovite supremacy; tartar murzi, who have submitted to be baptised and have received land like the other nobles; the novgorodian magnate, who cannot forget the ancient glory of his native city; lithuanian nobles, who find it more profitable to serve the tsar than their own sovereign; petty chiefs who have fled from the opposition of the teutonic order; and soldiers of fortune from every part of russia. strong, permanent political factors are not easily formed out of such heterogeneous material. at the end of the sixteenth century the old dynasty became extinct, and after a short period of political anarchy, commonly called "the troublous times" (smutnoe vremya), the romanof family were raised to the throne by the will of the people, or at least by those who were assumed to be its representatives. by this change the noblesse acquired a somewhat better position. they were no longer exposed to capricious tyranny and barbarous cruelty, such as they had experienced at the hands of ivan the terrible, but they did not, as a class, gain any political influence. there were still rival families and rival factions, but there were no political parties in the proper sense of the term, and the highest aim of families and factions was to gain the favour of the tsar. the frequent quarrels about precedence which took place among the rival families at this period form one of the most curious episodes of russian history. the old patriarchal conception of the family as a unit, one and indivisible, was still so strong among these men that the elevation or degradation of one member of a family was considered to affect deeply the honour of all the other members. each noble family had its rank in a recognised scale of dignity, according to the rank which it held, or had previously held, in the tsar's service; and a whole family would have considered itself dishonoured if one of its members accepted a post lower than that to which he was entitled. whenever a vacant place in the service was filled up, the subordinates of the successful candidate examined the official records and the genealogical trees of their families, in order to discover whether some ancestor of their new superior had not served under one of their own ancestors. if the subordinate found such a case, he complained to the tsar that it was not becoming for him to serve under a man who had less family honour than himself. unfounded complaints of this kind often entailed imprisonment or corporal punishment, but in spite of this the quarrels for precedence were very frequent. at the commencement of a campaign many such disputes were sure to arise, and the tsar's decision was not always accepted by the party who considered himself aggrieved. i have met at least with one example of a great dignitary voluntarily mutilating his hand in order to escape the necessity of serving under a man whom he considered his inferior in family dignity. even at the tsar's table these rivalries sometimes produced unseemly incidents, for it was almost impossible to arrange the places so as to satisfy all the guests. in one recorded instance a noble who received a place lower than that to which he considered himself entitled openly declared to the tsar that he would rather be condemned to death than submit to such an indignity. in another instance of a similar kind the refractory guest was put on his chair by force, but saved his family honour by slipping under the table! the next transformation of the noblesse was effected by peter the great. peter was by nature and position an autocrat, and could brook no opposition. having set before himself a great aim, he sought everywhere obedient, intelligent, energetic instruments to carry out his designs. he himself served the state zealously--as a common artisan, when he considered it necessary--and he insisted on all his subjects doing likewise, under pain of merciless punishment. to noble birth and long pedigrees he habitually showed a most democratic, or rather autocratic, indifference. intent on obtaining the service of living men, he paid no attention to the claims of dead ancestors, and gave to his servants the pay and honour which their services merited, irrespectively of birth or social position. hence many of his chief coadjutors had no connection with the old russian families. count yaguzhinski, who long held one of the most important posts in the state, was the son of a poor sacristan; count devier was a portuguese by birth, and had been a cabin-boy; baron shafirof was a jew; hannibal, who died with the rank of commander in chief, was a negro who had been bought in constantinople; and his serene highness prince menshikof had begun life, it was said, as a baker's apprentice! for the future, noble birth was to count for nothing. the service of the state was thrown open to men of all ranks, and personal merit was to be the only claim to promotion. this must have seemed to the conservatives of the time a most revolutionary and reprehensible proceeding, but it did not satisfy the reforming tendencies of the great autocrat. he went a step further, and entirely changed the legal status of the noblesse. down to his time the nobles were free to serve or not as they chose, and those who chose to serve enjoyed land on what we should call a feudal tenure. some served permanently in the military or civil administration, but by far the greater number lived on their estates, and entered the active service merely when the militia was called out in view of war. this system was completely changed when peter created a large standing army and a great centralised bureaucracy. by one of those "fell swoops" which periodically occur in russian history, he changed the feudal into freehold tenures, and laid down the principle that all nobles, whatever their landed possessions might be, should serve the state in the army, the fleet, or the civil administration, from boyhood to old age. in accordance with this principle, any noble who refused to serve was not only deprived of his estate, as in the old times, but was declared to be a traitor and might be condemned to capital punishment. the nobles were thus transformed into servants of the state, and the state in the time of peter was a hard taskmaster. they complained bitterly, and with reason, that they had been deprived of their ancient rights, and were compelled to accept quietly and uncomplainingly whatever burdens their master chose to place upon them. "though our country," they said, "is in no danger of invasion, no sooner is peace concluded than plans are laid for a new war, which has generally no other foundation than the ambition of the sovereign, or perhaps merely the ambition of one of his ministers. to please him our peasants are utterly exhausted, and we ourselves are forced to leave our homes and families, not as formerly for a single campaign, but for long years. we are compelled to contract debts and to entrust our estates to thieving overseers, who commonly reduce them to such a condition that when we are allowed to retire from the service, in consequence of old age or illness, we cannot to the end of our lives retrieve our prosperity. in a word, we are so exhausted and ruined by the keeping up of a standing army, and by the consequences flowing therefrom, that the most cruel enemy, though he should devastate the whole empire, could not cause us one-half of the injury."* * these complaints have been preserved by vockerodt, a prussian diplomatic agent of the time. this spartan regime, which ruthlessly sacrificed private interests to considerations of state policy, could not long be maintained in its pristine severity. it undermined its own foundations by demanding too much. draconian laws threatening confiscation and capital punishment were of little avail. nobles became monks, inscribed themselves as merchants, or engaged themselves as domestic servants, in order to escape their obligations. "some," says a contemporary, "grow old in disobedience and have never once appeared in active service. . . . there is, for instance, theodore mokeyef. . . . in spite of the strict orders sent regarding him no one could ever catch him. some of those sent to take him he belaboured with blows, and when he could not beat the messengers, he pretended to be dangerously ill, or feigned idiocy, and, running into the pond, stood in the water up to his neck; but as soon as the messengers were out of sight he returned home and roared like a lion." * * pososhkof, "o skudosti i bogatstve." after peter's death the system was gradually relaxed, but the noblesse could not be satisfied by partial concessions. russia had in the meantime moved, as it were, out of asia into europe, and had become one of the great european powers. the upper classes had been gradually learning something of the fashions, the literature, the institutions, and the moral conceptions of western europe, and the nobles naturally compared the class to which they belonged with the aristocracies of germany and france. for those who were influenced by the new foreign ideas the comparison was humiliating. in the west the noblesse was a free and privileged class, proud of its liberty, its rights, and its culture; whereas in russia the nobles were servants of the state, without privileges, without dignity, subject to corporal punishment, and burdened with onerous duties from which there was no escape. thus arose in that section of the noblesse which had some acquaintance with western civilisation a feeling of discontent, and a desire to gain a social position similar to that of the nobles in france and germany. these aspirations were in part realised by peter iii., who in abolished the principle of obligatory service. his consort, catherine ii., went much farther in the same direction, and inaugurated a new epoch in the history of the dvoryanstvo, a period in which its duties and obligations fell into the background, and its rights and privileges came to the front. catherine had good reason to favour the noblesse. as a foreigner and a usurper, raised to the throne by a court conspiracy, she could not awaken in the masses that semi-religious veneration which the legitimate tsars have always enjoyed, and consequently she had to seek support in the upper classes, who were less rigid and uncompromising in their conceptions of legitimacy. she confirmed, therefore, the ukaz which abolished obligatory service of the nobles, and sought to gain their voluntary service by honours and rewards. in her manifestoes she always spoke of them in the most flattering terms; and tried to convince them that the welfare of the country depended on their loyalty and devotion. though she had no intention of ceding any of her political power, she formed the nobles of each province into a corporation, with periodical assemblies, which were supposed to resemble the french provincial parliaments, and entrusted to each of these corporations a large part of the local administration. by these and similar means, aided by her masculine energy and feminine tact, she made herself very popular, and completely changed the old conceptions about the public service. formerly service had been looked on as a burden; now it came to be looked on as a privilege. thousands who had retired to their estates after the publication of the liberation edict now flocked back and sought appointments, and this tendency was greatly increased by the brilliant campaigns against the turks, which excited the patriotic feelings and gave plentiful opportunities of promotion. "not only landed proprietors," it is said in a comedy of the time,* "but all men, even shopkeepers and cobblers, aim at becoming officers, and the man who has passed his whole life without official rank seems to be not a human being." * knyazhnina, "khvastun." and catherine did more than this. she shared the idea--generally accepted throughout europe since the brilliant reign of louis xiv.--that a refined, pomp-loving, pleasure-seeking court noblesse was not only the best bulwark of monarchy, but also a necessary ornament of every highly civilised state; and as she ardently desired that her country should have the reputation of being highly civilised, she strove to create this national ornament. the love of french civilisation, which already existed among the upper classes of her subjects, here came to her aid, and her efforts in this direction were singularly successful. the court of st. petersburg became almost as brilliant, as galant, and as frivolous as the court of versailles. all who aimed at high honours adopted french fashions, spoke the french language, and affected an unqualified admiration for french classical literature. the courtiers talked of the point d'honneur, discussed the question as to what was consistent with the dignity of a noble, sought to display "that chivalrous spirit which constitutes the pride and ornament of france"; and looked back with horror on the humiliating position of their fathers and grandfathers. "peter the great," writes one of them, "beat all who surrounded him, without distinction of family or rank; but now, many of us would certainly prefer capital punishment to being beaten or flogged, even though the castigation were applied by the sacred hands of the lord's anointed." the tone which reigned in the court circle of st. petersburg spread gradually towards the lower ranks of the dvoryanstvo, and it seemed to superficial observers that a very fair imitation of the french noblesse had been produced; but in reality the copy was very unlike the model. the russian dvoryanin easily learned the language and assumed the manners of the french gentilhomme, and succeeded in changing his physical and intellectual exterior; but all those deeper and more delicate parts of human nature which are formed by the accumulated experience of past generations could not be so easily and rapidly changed. the french gentilhomme of the eighteenth century was the direct descendant of the feudal baron, with the fundamental conceptions of his ancestors deeply embedded in his nature. he had not, indeed, the old haughty bearing towards the sovereign, and his language was tinged with the fashionable democratic philosophy of the time; but he possessed a large intellectual and moral inheritance that had come down to him directly from the palmy days of feudalism--an inheritance which even the great revolution, which was then preparing, could not annihilate. the russian noble, on the contrary, had received from his ancestors entirely different traditions. his father and grandfather had been conscious of the burdens rather than the privileges of the class to which they belonged. they had considered it no disgrace to receive corporal punishment, and had been jealous of their honour, not as gentlemen or descendants of boyars, but as brigadiers, college assessors, or privy counsellors. their dignity had rested not on the grace of god, but on the will of the tsar. under these circumstances even the proudest magnate of catherine's court, though he might speak french as fluently as his mother tongue, could not be very deeply penetrated with the conception of noble blood, the sacred character of nobility, and the numerous feudal ideas interwoven with these conceptions. and in adopting the outward forms of a foreign culture the nobles did not, it seems, gain much in true dignity. "the old pride of the nobles has fallen!" exclaims one who had more genuine aristocratic feeling than his fellows.* "there are no longer any honourable families; but merely official rank and personal merits. all seek official rank, and as all cannot render direct services, distinctions are sought by every possible means--by flattering the monarch and toadying the important personages." there was considerable truth in this complaint, but the voice of this solitary aristocrat was as of one crying in the wilderness. the whole of the educated classes--men of old family and parvenus alike--were, with few exceptions, too much engrossed with place-hunting to attend to such sentimental wailing. * prince shtcherbatof. if the russian noblesse was thus in its new form but a very imperfect imitation of its french model, it was still more unlike the english aristocracy. notwithstanding the liberal phrases in which catherine habitually indulged, she never had the least intention of ceding one jot or tittle of her autocratic power, and the noblesse as a class never obtained even a shadow of political influence. there was no real independence under the new airs of dignity and hauteur. in all their acts and openly expressed opinions the courtiers were guided by the real or supposed wishes of the sovereign, and much of their political sagacity was employed in endeavouring to discover what would please her. "people never talk politics in the salons," says a contemporary witness,* "not even to praise the government. fear has produced habits of prudence, and the frondeurs of the capital express their opinions only in the confidence of intimate friendship or in a relationship still more confidential. those who cannot bear this constraint retire to moscow, which cannot be called the centre of opposition, for there is no such thing as opposition in a country with an autocratic government, but which is the capital of the discontented." and even there the discontent did not venture to show itself in the imperial presence. "in moscow," says another witness, accustomed to the obsequiousness of versailles, "you might believe yourself to be among republicans who have just thrown off the yoke of a tyrant, but as soon as the court arrives you see nothing but abject slaves."** * segur, long ambassador of france at the court of catherine. ** sabathier de cabres, "catherine ii. et la cour de russie en ." though thus excluded from direct influence in political affairs the noblesse might still have acquired a certain political significance in the state, by means of the provincial assemblies, and by the part they took in local administration; but in reality they had neither the requisite political experience nor the requisite patience, nor even the desire to pursue such a policy. the majority of the proprietors preferred the chances of promotion in the imperial service to the tranquil life of a country gentleman; and those who resided permanently on their estates showed indifference or positive antipathy to everything connected with the local administration. what was officially described as "a privilege conferred on the nobles for their fidelity, and for the generous sacrifice of their lives in their country's cause," was regarded by those who enjoyed it as a new kind of obligatory service--an obligation to supply judges and officers of rural police. if we require any additional proof that the nobles amidst all these changes were still as dependent as ever on the arbitrary will or caprice of the monarch, we have only to glance at their position in the time of paul i., the capricious, eccentric, violent son and successor of catherine. the autobiographical memoirs of the time depict in vivid colours the humiliating position of even the leading men in the state, in constant fear of exciting by act, word, or look the wrath of the sovereign. as we read these contemporary records we seem to have before us a picture of ancient rome under the most despotic and capricious of her emperors. irritated and embittered before his accession to the throne by the haughty demeanour of his mother's favourites, paul lost no opportunity of showing his contempt for aristocratic pretensions, and of humiliating those who were supposed to harbour them. "apprenez, monsieur," he said angrily on one occasion to dumouriez, who had accidentally referred to one of the "considerable" personages of the court, "apprenez qu'il n'y a pas de considerable ici, que la personne a laquelle je parle et pendant le temps que je lui parle!"* * this saying is often falsely attributed to nicholas. the anecdote is related by segur. from the time of catherine down to the accession of alexander ii. in no important change was made in the legal status of the noblesse, but a gradual change took place in its social character by the continual influx of western ideas and western culture. the exclusively french culture in vogue at the court of catherine assumed a more cosmopolitan colouring, and permeated downwards till all who had any pretensions to being civilises spoke french with tolerable fluency and possessed at least a superficial acquaintance with the literature of western europe. what chiefly distinguished them in the eye of the law from the other classes was the privilege of possessing "inhabited estates"--that is to say, estates with serfs. by the emancipation of the serfs in this valuable privilege was abolished, and about one-half of their landed property passed into the hands of the peasantry. by the administrative reforms which have since taken place, any little significance which the provincial corporations may have possessed has been annihilated. thus at the present day the nobles are on a level with the other classes with regard to the right of possessing landed property and the administration of local affairs. from this rapid sketch the reader will easily perceive that the russian noblesse has had a peculiar historical development. in germany, france, and england the nobles were early formed into a homogeneous organised body by the political conditions in which they were placed. they had to repel the encroaching tendencies of the monarchy on the one hand, and of the bourgeoisie on the other; and in this long struggle with powerful rivals they instinctively held together and developed a vigorous esprit de corps. new members penetrated into their ranks, but these intruders were so few in number that they were rapidly assimilated without modifying the general character or recognised ideals of the class, and without rudely disturbing the fiction of purity of blood. the class thus assumed more and more the nature of a caste with a peculiar intellectual and moral culture, and stoutly defended its position and privileges till the ever-increasing power of the middle classes undermined its influence. its fate in different countries has been different. in germany it clung to its feudal traditions, and still preserves its social exclusiveness. in france it was deprived of its political influence by the monarchy and crushed by the revolution. in england it moderated its pretensions, allied itself with the middle classes, created under the disguise of constitutional monarchy an aristocratic republic, and conceded inch by inch, as necessity demanded, a share of its political influence to the ally that had helped it to curb the royal power. thus the german baron, the french gentilhomme, and the english nobleman represent three distinct, well-marked types; but amidst all their diversities they have much in common. they have all preserved to a greater or less extent a haughty consciousness of innate inextinguishable superiority over the lower orders, together with a more or less carefully disguised dislike for the class which has been, and still is, an aggressive rival. the russian noblesse has not these characteristics. it was formed out of more heterogeneous materials, and these materials did not spontaneously combine to form an organic whole, but were crushed into a conglomerate mass by the weight of the autocratic power. it never became a semi-independent factor in the state. what rights and privileges it possesses it received from the monarchy, and consequently it has no deep-rooted jealousy or hatred of the imperial prerogative. on the other hand, it has never had to struggle with the other social classes, and therefore it harbours towards them no feelings of rivalry or hostility. if we hear a russian noble speak with indignation of autocracy or with acrimony of the bourgeoisie, we may be sure that these feelings have their source, not in traditional conceptions, but in principles learned from the modern schools of social and political philosophy. the class to which he belongs has undergone so many transformations that it has no hoary traditions or deep-rooted prejudices, and always willingly adapts itself to existing conditions. indeed, it may be said in general that it looks more to the future than the past, and is ever ready to accept any new ideas that wear the badge of progress. its freedom from traditions and prejudices makes it singularly susceptible of generous enthusiasm and capable of vigorous spasmodic action, but calm moral courage and tenacity of purpose are not among its prominent attributes. in a word, we find in it neither the peculiar virtues nor the peculiar vices which are engendered and fostered by an atmosphere of political liberty. however we may explain the fact, there is no doubt that the russian noblesse has little or nothing of what we call aristocratic feeling--little or nothing of that haughty, domineering, exclusive spirit which we are accustomed to associate with the word aristocracy. we find plenty of russians who are proud of their wealth, of their culture, or of their official position, but we rarely find a russian who is proud of his birth or imagines that the fact of his having a long pedigree gives him any right to political privileges or social consideration. hence there is a certain amount of truth in the oft-repeated saying that there is in reality no aristocracy in russia. certainly the noblesse as a whole cannot be called an aristocracy. if the term is to be used at all, it must be applied to a group of families which cluster around the court and form the highest ranks of the noblesse. this social aristocracy contains many old families, but its real basis is official rank and general culture rather than pedigree or blood. the feudal conceptions of noble birth, good family, and the like have been adopted by some of its members, but do not form one of its conspicuous features. though habitually practising a certain exclusiveness, it has none of those characteristics of a caste which we find in the german adel, and is utterly unable to understand such institutions as tafelfähigkeit, by which a man who has not a pedigree of a certain length is considered unworthy to sit down at a royal table. it takes rather the english aristocracy as its model, and harbours the secret hope of one day obtaining a social and political position similar to that of the nobility and gentry of england. though it has no peculiar legal privileges, its actual position in the administration and at court gives its members great facilities for advancement in the public service. on the other hand, its semi-bureaucratic character, together with the law and custom of dividing landed property among the children at the death of their parents, deprives it of stability. new men force their way into it by official distinction, whilst many of the old families are compelled by poverty to retire from its ranks. the son of a small proprietor, or even of a parish priest, may rise to the highest offices of state, whilst the descendants of the half-mythical rurik may descend to the position of peasants. it is said that not very long ago a certain prince krapotkin gained his living as a cabman in st. petersburg! it is evident, then, that this social aristocracy must not be confounded with the titled families. titles do not possess the same value in russia as in western europe. they are very common--because the titled families are numerous, and all the children bear the titles of the parents even while the parents are still alive--and they are by no means always associated with official rank, wealth, social position, or distinction of any kind. there are hundreds of princes and princesses who have not the right to appear at court, and who would not be admitted into what is called in st. petersburg la societe, or indeed into refined society in any country. the only genuine russian title is knyaz, commonly translated "prince." it is borne by the descendants of rurik, of the lithuanian prince ghedimin, and of the tartar khans and murzi officially recognised by the tsars. besides these, there are fourteen families who have adopted it by imperial command during the last two centuries. the titles of count and baron are modern importations, beginning with the time of peter the great. from peter and his successors about seventy families have received the title of count and ten that of baron. the latter are all, with two exceptions, of foreign extraction, and are mostly descended from court bankers.* * besides these, there are of course the german counts and barons of the baltic provinces, who are russian subjects. there is a very common idea that russian nobles are as a rule enormously rich. this is a mistake. the majority of them are poor. at the time of the emancipation, in , there were , landed proprietors, and of these, more than , were possessors of less than twenty-one male serfs--that is to say, were in a condition of poverty. a proprietor who was owner of serfs was not considered as by any means very rich, and yet there were only , proprietors belonging in that category. there were a few, indeed, whose possessions were enormous. count sheremetief, for instance, possessed more than , male serfs, or in other words more than , souls; and thirty years ago count orloff-davydof owned considerably more than half a million of acres. the demidof family derive colossal revenues from their mines, and the strogonofs have estates which, if put together, would be sufficient in extent to form a good-sized independent state in western europe. the very rich families, however, are not numerous. the lavish expenditure in which russian nobles often indulge indicates too frequently not large fortune, but simply foolish ostentation and reckless improvidence. perhaps, after having spoken so much about the past history of the noblesse, i ought to endeavour to cast its horoscope, or at least to say something of its probable future. though predictions are always hazardous, it is sometimes possible, by tracing the great lines of history in the past, to follow them for a little distance into the future. if it be allowable to apply this method of prediction in the present matter, i should say that the russian dvoryanstvo will assimilate with the other classes, rather than form itself into an exclusive corporation. hereditary aristocracies may be preserved--or at least their decomposition may be retarded--where they happen to exist, but it seems that they can no longer be created. in western europe there is a large amount of aristocratic sentiment, both in the nobles and in the people; but it exists in spite of, rather than in consequence of, actual social conditions. it is not a product of modern society, but an heirloom that has come down to us from feudal times, when power, wealth, and culture were in the hands of a privileged few. if there ever was in russia a period corresponding to the feudal times in western europe, it has long since been forgotten. there is very little aristocratic sentiment either in the people or in the nobles, and it is difficult to imagine any source from which it could now be derived. more than this, the nobles do not desire to make such an acquisition. in so far as they have any political aspirations, they aim at securing the political liberty of the people as a whole, and not at acquiring exclusive rights and privileges for their own class. in that section which i have called a social aristocracy there are a few individuals who desire to gain exclusive political influence for the class to which they belong, but there is very little chance of their succeeding. if their desires were ever by chance realised, we should probably have a repetition of the scene which occurred in . when in that year some of the great families raised the duchess of courland to the throne on condition of her ceding part of her power to a supreme council, the lower ranks of the noblesse compelled her to tear up the constitution which she had signed! those who dislike the autocratic power dislike the idea of an aristocratic oligarchy infinitely more. nobles and people alike seem to hold instinctively the creed of the french philosopher, who thought it better to be governed by a lion of good family than by a hundred rats of his own species. of the present condition of the noblesse i shall again have occasion to speak when i come to consider the consequences of the emancipation. chapter xxi landed proprietors of the old school russian hospitality--a country-house--its owner described--his life, past and present--winter evenings--books---connection with the outer world--the crimean war and the emancipation--a drunken, dissolute proprietor--an old general and his wife--"name days"--a legendary monster--a retired judge--a clever scribe--social leniency--cause of demoralisation. of all the foreign countries in which i have travelled, russia certainly bears off the palm in the matter of hospitality. every spring i found myself in possession of a large number of invitations from landed proprietors in different parts of the country--far more than i could possibly accept--and a great part of the summer was generally spent in wandering about from one country-house to another. i have no intention of asking the reader to accompany me in all these expeditions--for though pleasant in reality, they might be tedious in description--but i wish to introduce him to some typical examples of the landed proprietors. among them are to be found nearly all ranks and conditions of men, from the rich magnate, surrounded with the refined luxury of west-european civilisation, to the poor, ill-clad, ignorant owner of a few acres which barely supply him with the necessaries of life. let us take, first of all, a few specimens from the middle ranks. in one of the central provinces, near the bank of a sluggish, meandering stream, stands an irregular group of wooden constructions--old, unpainted, blackened by time, and surmounted by high, sloping roofs of moss-covered planks. the principal building is a long, one-storied dwelling-house, constructed at right angles to the road. at the front of the house is a spacious, ill-kept yard, and at the back an equally spacious shady garden, in which art carries on a feeble conflict with encroaching nature. at the other side of the yard, and facing the front door--or rather the front doors, for there are two--stand the stables, hay-shed, and granary, and near to that end of the house which is farthest from the road are two smaller houses, one of which is the kitchen, and the other the lyudskaya, or servants' apartments. beyond these we can perceive, through a single row of lime-trees, another group of time-blackened wooden constructions in a still more dilapidated condition. that is the farmyard. there is certainly not much symmetry in the disposition of these buildings, but there is nevertheless a certain order and meaning in the apparent chaos. all the buildings which do not require stoves are built at a considerable distance from the dwelling-house and kitchen, which are more liable to take fire; and the kitchen stands by itself, because the odour of cookery where oil is used is by no means agreeable, even for those whose olfactory nerves are not very sensitive. the plan of the house is likewise not without a certain meaning. the rigorous separation of the sexes, which formed a characteristic trait of old russian society, has long since disappeared, but its influence may still be traced in houses built on the old model. the house in question is one of these, and consequently it is composed of three sections--at the one end the male apartments, at the other the female apartments, and in the middle the neutral territory, comprising the dining-room and the salon. this arrangement has its conveniences, and explains the fact that the house has two front doors. at the back is a third door, which opens from the neutral territory into a spacious verandah overlooking the garden. here lives, and has lived for many years, ivan ivanovitch k----, a gentleman of the old school, and a very worthy man of his kind. if we look at him as he sits in his comfortable armchair, with his capacious dressing-gown hanging loosely about him, we shall be able to read at a glance something of his character. nature endowed him with large bones and broad shoulders, and evidently intended him to be a man of great muscular power, but he has contrived to frustrate this benevolent intention, and has now more fat than muscle. his close-cropped head is round as a bullet, and his features are massive and heavy, but the heaviness is relieved by an expression of calm contentment and imperturbable good-nature, which occasionally blossoms into a broad grin. his face is one of those on which no amount of histrionic talent could produce a look of care and anxiety, and for this it is not to blame, for such an expression has never been demanded of it. like other mortals, he sometimes experiences little annoyances, and on such occasions his small grey eyes sparkle and his face becomes suffused with a crimson glow that suggests apoplexy; but ill-fortune has never been able to get sufficiently firm hold of him to make him understand what such words as care and anxiety mean. of struggle, disappointment, hope, and all the other feelings which give to human life a dramatic interest, he knows little by hearsay and nothing by experience. he has, in fact, always lived outside of that struggle for existence which modern philosophers declare to be the law of nature. somewhere about seventy years ago ivan ivan'itch was born in the house where he still lives. his first lessons he received from the parish priest, and afterwards he was taught by a deacon's son, who had studied in the ecclesiastical seminary to so little purpose that he was unable to pass the final examination. by both of these teachers he was treated with extreme leniency, and was allowed to learn as little as he chose. his father wished him to study hard, but his mother was afraid that study might injure his health, and accordingly gave him several holidays every week. under these circumstances his progress was naturally not very rapid, and he was still very slightly acquainted with the elementary rules of arithmetic, when his father one day declared that he was already eighteen years of age, and must at once enter the service. but what kind of service? ivan had no natural inclination for any kind of activity. the project of entering him as a junker in a cavalry regiment, the colonel of which was an old friend of the family, did not at all please him. he had no love for military service, and positively disliked the prospect of an examination. whilst seeming, therefore, to bow implicitly to the paternal authority, he induced his mother to oppose the scheme. the dilemma in which ivan found himself was this: in deference to his father he wished to be in the service and gain that official rank which every russian noble desires to possess, and at the same time, in deference to his mother and his own tastes, he wished to remain at home and continue his indolent mode of life. the marshal of the noblesse, who happened to call one day, helped him out of the difficulty by offering to inscribe him as secretary in the dvoryanskaya opeka, a bureau which acts as curator for the estates of minors. all the duties of this office could be fulfilled by a paid secretary, and the nominal occupant would be periodically promoted as if he were an active official. this was precisely what ivan required. he accepted eagerly the proposal, and obtained, in the course of seven years, without any effort on his part, the rank of "collegiate secretary," corresponding to the "capitaine-en-second" of the military hierarchy. to mount higher he would have had to seek some place where he could not have fulfilled his duty by proxy, so he determined to rest on his laurels, and sent in his resignation. immediately after the termination of his official life his married life began. before his resignation had been accepted he suddenly found himself one morning on the high road to matrimony. here again there was no effort on his part. the course of true love, which is said never to run smooth for ordinary mortals, ran smooth for him. he never had even the trouble of proposing. the whole affair was arranged by his parents, who chose as bride for their son the only daughter of their nearest neighbour. the young lady was only about sixteen years of age, and was not remarkable for beauty, talent, or any other peculiarity, but she had one very important qualification--she was the daughter of a man who had an estate contiguous to their own, and who might give as a dowry a certain bit of land which they had long desired to add to their own property. the negotiations, being of a delicate nature, were entrusted to an old lady who had a great reputation for diplomatic skill in such matters, and she accomplished her mission with such success that in the course of a few weeks the preliminaries were arranged and the day fixed for the wedding. thus ivan ivan'itch won his bride as easily as he had won his tchin of "collegiate secretary." though the bridegroom had received rather than taken to himself a wife, and did not imagine for a moment that he was in love, he had no reason to regret the choice that was made for him. maria petrovna was exactly suited by character and education to be the wife of a man like ivan ivan'itch. she had grown up at home in the society of nurses and servant-maids, and had never learned anything more than could be obtained from the parish priest and from "ma'mselle," a personage occupying a position midway between a servant-maid and a governess. the first events of her life were the announcement that she was to be married and the preparations for the wedding. she still remembers the delight which the purchase of her trousseau afforded her, and keeps in her memory a full catalogue of the articles bought. the first years of her married life were not very happy, for she was treated by her mother-in-law as a naughty child who required to be frequently snubbed and lectured; but she bore the discipline with exemplary patience, and in due time became her own mistress and autocratic ruler in all domestic affairs. from that time she has lived an active, uneventful life. between her and her husband there is as much mutual attachment as can reasonably be expected in phlegmatic natures after half a century of matrimony. she has always devoted her energies to satisfying his simple material wants--of intellectual wants he has none--and securing his comfort in every possible way. under this fostering care he "effeminated himself" (obabilsya), as he is wont to say. his love of shooting died out, he cared less and less to visit his neighbours, and each successive year he spent more and more time in his comfortable arm-chair. the daily life of this worthy couple is singularly regular and monotonous, varying only with the changing seasons. in summer ivan ivan'itch gets up about seven o'clock, and puts on, with the assistance of his valet de chambre, a simple costume, consisting chiefly of a faded, plentifully stained dressing-gown. having nothing particular to do, he sits down at the open window and looks into the yard. as the servants pass he stops and questions them, and then gives them orders, or scolds them, as circumstances demand. towards nine o'clock tea is announced, and he goes into the dining-room--a long, narrow apartment with bare wooden floor and no furniture but a table and chairs, all in a more or less rickety condition. here he finds his wife with the tea-urn before her. in a few minutes the grandchildren come in, kiss their grandpapa's hand, and take their places round the table. as this morning meal consists merely of bread and tea, it does not last long; and all disperse to their several occupations. the head of the house begins the labours of the day by resuming his seat at the open window. when he has smoked some cigarettes and indulged in a proportionate amount of silent contemplation, he goes out with the intention of visiting the stables and farmyard, but generally before he has crossed the court he finds the heat unbearable, and returns to his former position by the open window. here he sits tranquilly till the sun has so far moved round that the verandah at the back of the house is completely in the shade, when he has his arm-chair removed thither, and sits there till dinner-time. maria petrovna spends her morning in a more active way. as soon as the breakfast table has been cleared she goes to the larder, takes stock of the provisions, arranges the menu du jour, and gives to the cook the necessary materials, with detailed instructions as to how they are to be prepared. the rest of the morning she devotes to her other household duties. towards one o'clock dinner is announced, and ivan ivan'itch prepares his appetite by swallowing at a gulp a wineglassful of home-made bitters. dinner is the great event of the day. the food is abundant and of good quality, but mushrooms, onions, and fat play a rather too important part in the repast, and the whole is prepared with very little attention to the recognised principles of culinary hygiene. many of the dishes, indeed, would make a british valetudinarian stand aghast, but they seem to produce no bad effect on those russian organisms which have never been weakened by town life, nervous excitement, or intellectual exertion. no sooner has the last dish been removed than a deathlike stillness falls upon the house: it is the time of the after-dinner siesta. the young folks go into the garden, and all the other members of the household give way to the drowsiness naturally engendered by a heavy meal on a hot summer day. ivan ivan'itch retires to his own room, from which the flies have been carefully expelled. maria petrovna dozes in an arm-chair in the sitting-room, with a pocket-handkerchief spread over her face. the servants snore in the corridors, the garret, or the hay-shed; and even the old watch-dog in the corner of the yard stretches himself out at full length on the shady side of his kennel. in about two hours the house gradually re-awakens. doors begin to creak; the names of various servants are bawled out in all tones, from bass to falsetto; and footsteps are heard in the yard. soon a man-servant issues from the kitchen bearing an enormous tea-urn, which puffs like a little steam-engine. the family assembles for tea. in russia, as elsewhere, sleep after a heavy meal produces thirst, so that the tea and other beverages are very acceptable. then some little delicacies are served--such as fruit and wild berries, or cucumbers with honey, or something else of the kind, and the family again disperses. ivan ivan'itch takes a turn in the fields on his begovuiya droshki--an extremely light vehicle composed of two pairs of wheels joined together by a single board, on which the driver sits stride-legged; and maria petrovna probably receives a visit from the popadya (the priest's wife), who is the chief gossipmonger of the neighbourhood. there is not much scandal in the district, but what little there is the popadya carefully collects, and distributes among her acquaintances with undiscriminating generosity. in the evening it often happens that a little group of peasants come into the court, and ask to see the "master." the master goes to the door, and generally finds that they have some favour to request. in reply to his question, "well, children, what do you want?" they tell their story in a confused, rambling way, several of them speaking at a time, and he has to question and cross-question them before he comes to understand clearly what they desire. if he tells them he cannot grant it, they probably do not accept a first refusal, but endeavour by means of supplication to make him reconsider his decision. stepping forward a little, and bowing low, one of the group begins in a half-respectful, half-familiar, caressing tone: "little father, ivan ivan'itch, be gracious; you are our father, and we are your children"--and so on. ivan ivan'itch good-naturedly listens, and again explains that he cannot grant what they ask; but they have still hopes of gaining their point by entreaty, and continue their supplications till at last his patience is exhausted and he says to them in a paternal tone, "now, enough! enough! you are blockheads--blockheads all round! there's no use talking; it can't be done." and with these words he enters the house, so as to prevent all further discussion. a regular part of the evening's occupation is the interview with the steward. the work that has just been done, and the programme for the morrow, are always discussed at great length; and much time is spent in speculating as to the weather during the next few days. on this latter point the calendar is always carefully consulted, and great confidence is placed in its predictions, though past experience has often shown that they are not to be implicitly trusted. the conversation drags on till supper is announced, and immediately after that meal, which is an abridged repetition of dinner, all retire for the night. thus pass the days and weeks and months in the house of ivan ivan'itch, and rarely is there any deviation from the ordinary programme. the climate necessitates, of course, some slight modifications. when it is cold, the doors and windows have to be kept shut, and after heavy rains those who do not like to wade in mud have to remain in the house or garden. in the long winter evenings the family assembles in the sitting-room, and all kill time as best they can. ivan ivan'itch smokes and meditates or listens to the barrel-organ played by one of the children. maria petrovna knits a stocking. the old aunt, who commonly spends the winter with them, plays patience, and sometimes draws from the game conclusions as to the future. her favourite predictions are that a stranger will arrive, or that a marriage will take place, and she can determine the sex of the stranger and the colour of the bridegroom's hair; but beyond this her art does not go, and she cannot satisfy the young ladies' curiosity as to further details. books and newspapers are rarely seen in the sitting-room, but for those who wish to read there is a book-case full of miscellaneous literature, which gives some idea of the literary tastes of the family during several generations. the oldest volumes were bought by ivan ivan'itch's grandfather--a man who, according to the family traditions, enjoyed the confidence of the great catherine. though wholly overlooked by recent historians, he was evidently a man who had some pretensions to culture. he had his portrait painted by a foreign artist of considerable talent--it still hangs in the sitting-room--and he bought several pieces of sevres ware, the last of which stands on a commode in the corner and contrasts strangely with the rude home-made furniture and squalid appearance of the apartment. among the books which bear his name are the tragedies of sumarokof, who imagined himself to be "the russian voltaire"; the amusing comedies of von-wisin, some of which still keep the stage; the loud-sounding odes of the courtly derzhavin; two or three books containing the mystic wisdom of freemasonry as interpreted by schwarz and novikoff; russian translations of richardson's "pamela," "sir charles grandison," and "clarissa harlowe"; rousseau's "nouvelle heloise," in russian garb; and three or four volumes of voltaire in the original. among the works collected at a somewhat later period are translations of ann radcliffe, of scott's early novels, and of ducray dumenil, whose stories, "lolotte et fanfan" and "victor," once enjoyed a great reputation. at this point the literary tastes of the family appear to have died out, for the succeeding literature is represented exclusively by kryloff's fables, a farmer's manual, a handbook of family medicine, and a series of calendars. there are, however, some signs of a revival, for on the lowest shelf stand recent editions of pushkin, lermontof, and gogol, and a few works by living authors. sometimes the monotony of the winter is broken by visiting neighbours and receiving visitors in return, or in a more decided way by a visit of a few days to the capital of the province. in the latter case maria petrovna spends nearly all her time in shopping, and brings home a large collection of miscellaneous articles. the inspection of these by the assembled family forms an important domestic event, which completely throws into the shade the occasional visits of peddlers and colporteurs. then there are the festivities at christmas and easter, and occasionally little incidents of less agreeable kind. it may be that there is a heavy fall of snow, so that it is necessary to cut roads to the kitchen and stables; or wolves enter the courtyard at night and have a fight with the watch-dogs; or the news is brought that a peasant who had been drinking in a neighbouring village has been found frozen to death on the road. altogether the family live a very isolated life, but they have one bond of connection with the great outer world. two of the sons are officers in the army and both of them write home occasionally to their mother and sisters. to these two youths is devoted all the little stock of sentimentality which maria petrovna possesses. she can talk of them by the hour to any one who will listen to her, and has related to the popadya a hundred times every trivial incident of their lives. though they have never given her much cause for anxiety, and they are now men of middle age, she lives in constant fear that some evil may befall them. what she most fears is that they may be sent on a campaign or may fall in love with actresses. war and actresses are, in fact, the two bug-bears of her existence, and whenever she has a disquieting dream she asks the priest to offer up a moleben for the safety of her absent ones. sometimes she ventures to express her anxiety to her husband, and recommends him to write to them; but he considers writing a letter a very serious bit of work, and always replies evasively, "well, well, we must think about it." during the crimean war ivan ivan'itch half awoke from his habitual lethargy, and read occasionally the meagre official reports published by the government. he was a little surprised that no great victories were reported, and that the army did not at once advance on constantinople. as to causes he never speculated. some of his neighbours told him that the army was disorganised, and the whole system of nicholas had been proved to be utterly worthless. that might all be very true, but he did not understand military and political matters. no doubt it would all come right in the end. all did come right, after a fashion, and he again gave up reading newspapers; but ere long he was startled by reports much more alarming than any rumours of war. people began to talk about the peasant question, and to say openly that the serfs must soon be emancipated. for once in his life ivan ivan'itch asked explanations. finding one of his neighbours, who had always been a respectable, sensible man, and a severe disciplinarian, talking in this way, he took him aside and asked what it all meant. the neighbour explained that the old order of things had shown itself bankrupt and was doomed, that a new epoch was opening, that everything was to be reformed, and that the emperor, in accordance with a secret clause of the treaty with the allies, was about to grant a constitution! ivan ivan'itch listened for a little in silence, and then, with a gesture of impatience, interrupted the speaker: "polno duratchitsya! enough of fun and tomfoolery. vassili petrovitch, tell me seriously what you mean." when vassili petrovitch vowed that he spoke in all seriousness, his friend gazed at him with a look of intense compassion, and remarked, as he turned away, "so you, too, have gone out of your mind!" the utterances of vassili petrovitch, which his lethargic, sober-minded friend regarded as indicating temporary insanity in the speaker, represented fairly the mental condition of very many russian nobles at that time, and were not without a certain foundation. the idea about a secret clause in the treaty of paris was purely imaginary, but it was quite true that the country was entering on an epoch of great reforms, among which the emancipation question occupied the chief place. of this even the sceptical ivan ivan'itch was soon convinced. the emperor formally declared to the noblesse of the province of moscow that the actual state of things could not continue forever, and called on the landed proprietors to consider by what means the condition of their serfs might be ameliorated. provincial committees were formed for the purpose of preparing definite projects, and gradually it became apparent that the emancipation of the serfs was really at hand. ivan ivan'itch was alarmed at the prospect of losing his authority over his serfs. though he had never been a cruel taskmaster, he had not spared the rod when he considered it necessary, and he believed birch twigs to be a necessary instrument in the russian system of agriculture. for some time he drew consolation from the thought that peasants were not birds of the air, that they must under all circumstances require food and clothing, and that they would be ready to serve him as agricultural labourers; but when he learned that they were to receive a large part of the estate for their own use, his hopes fell, and he greatly feared that he would be inevitably ruined. these dark forebodings have not been by any means realised. his serfs were emancipated and received about a half of the estate, but in return for the land ceded they paid him annually a considerable sum, and they were always ready to cultivate his fields for a fair remuneration. the yearly outlay was considerably greater, but the price of grain rose, and this counterbalanced the additional yearly expenditure. the administration of the estate has become much less patriarchal; much that was formerly left to custom and tacit understanding is now regulated by express agreement on purely commercial principles; a great deal more money is paid out and a great deal more received; there is much less authority in the hands of the master, and his responsibilities are proportionately diminished; but in spite of all these changes, ivan ivan'itch would have great difficulty in deciding whether he is a richer or a poorer man. he has fewer horses and fewer servants, but he has still more than he requires, and his mode of life has undergone no perceptible alteration. maria petrovna complains that she is no longer supplied with eggs, chickens, and homespun linen by the peasants, and that everything is three times as dear as it used to be; but somehow the larder is still full, and abundance reigns in the house as of old. ivan ivan'itch certainly does not possess transcendent qualities of any kind. it would be impossible to make a hero out of him, even though his own son should be his biographer. muscular christians may reasonably despise him, an active, energetic man may fairly condemn him for his indolence and apathy. but, on the other hand, he has no very bad qualities. his vices are of the passive, negative kind. he is a respectable if not a distinguished member of society, and appears a very worthy man when compared with many of his neighbours who have been brought up in similar conditions. take, for instance, his younger brother dimitri, who lives a short way off. dimitri ivanovitch, like his brother ivan, had been endowed by nature with a very decided repugnance to prolonged intellectual exertion, but as he was a man of good parts he did not fear a junker's examination--especially when he could count on the colonel's protection--and accordingly entered the army. in his regiment were a number of jovial young officers like himself, always ready to relieve the monotony of garrison life by boisterous dissipation, and among these he easily acquired the reputation of being a thoroughly good fellow. in drinking bouts he could hold his own with the best of them, and in all mad pranks invariably played the chief part. by this means he endeared himself to his comrades, and for a time all went well. the colonel had himself sown wild oats plentifully in his youth, and was quite disposed to overlook, as far as possible, the bacchanalian peccadilloes of his subordinates. but before many years had passed, the regiment suddenly changed its character. certain rumours had reached headquarters, and the emperor nicholas appointed as colonel a stern disciplinarian of german origin, who aimed at making the regiment a kind of machine that should work with the accuracy of a chronometer. this change did not at all suit the tastes of dimitri ivan'itch. he chafed under the new restraints, and as soon as he had gained the rank of lieutenant retired from the service to enjoy the freedom of country life. shortly afterwards his father died, and he thereby became owner of an estate, with two hundred serfs. he did not, like his elder brother, marry, and "effeminate himself," but he did worse. in his little independent kingdom--for such was practically a russian estate in the good old times--he was lord of all he surveyed, and gave full scope to his boisterous humour, his passion for sport, and his love of drinking and dissipation. many of the mad pranks in which he indulged will long be preserved by popular tradition, but they cannot well be related here. dimitri ivan'itch is now a man long past middle age, and still continues his wild, dissipated life. his house resembles an ill-kept, disreputable tavern. the floor is filthy, the furniture chipped and broken, the servants indolent, slovenly, and in rags. dogs of all breeds and sizes roam about the rooms and corridors. the master, when not asleep, is always in a more or less complete state of intoxication. generally he has one or two guests staying with him--men of the same type as himself--and days and nights are spent in drinking and card-playing. when he cannot have his usual boon-companions he sends for one or two small proprietors who live near--men who are legally nobles, but who are so poor that they differ little from peasants. formerly, when ordinary resources failed, he occasionally had recourse to the violent expedient of ordering his servants to stop the first passing travellers, whoever they might be, and bring them in by persuasion or force, as circumstances might demand. if the travellers refused to accept such rough, undesired hospitality, a wheel would be taken off their tarantass, or some indispensable part of the harness would be secreted, and they might consider themselves fortunate if they succeeded in getting away next morning.* * this custom has fortunately gone out of fashion even in outlying districts, but an incident of the kind happened to a friend of mine as late as . he was detained against his will for two whole days by a man whom he had never seen before, and at last effected his escape by bribing the servants of his tyrannical host. in the time of serfage the domestic serfs had much to bear from their capricious, violent master. they lived in an atmosphere of abusive language, and were subjected not unfrequently to corporal punishment. worse than this, their master was constantly threatening to "shave their forehead"--that is to say, to give them as recruits--and occasionally he put his threat into execution, in spite of the wailings and entreaties of the culprit and his relations. and yet, strange to say, nearly all of them remained with him as free servants after the emancipation. in justice to the russian landed proprietors, i must say that the class represented by dimitri ivan'itch has now almost disappeared. it was the natural result of serfage and social stagnation--of a state of society in which there were few legal and moral restraints, and few inducements to honourable activity. among the other landed proprietors of the district, one of the best known is nicolai petrovitch b----, an old military man with the rank of general. like ivan ivan'itch, he belongs to the old school; but the two men must be contrasted rather than compared. the difference in their lives and characters is reflected in their outward appearance. ivan ivan'itch, as we know, is portly in form and heavy in all his movements, and loves to loll in his arm-chair or to loaf about the house in a capacious dressing-gown. the general, on the contrary, is thin, wiry, and muscular, wears habitually a close-buttoned military tunic, and always has a stern expression, the force of which is considerably augmented by a bristly moustache resembling a shoe-brush. as he paces up and down the room, knitting his brows and gazing at the floor, he looks as if he were forming combinations of the first magnitude; but those who know him well are aware that this is an optical delusion, of which he is himself to some extent a victim. he is quite innocent of deep thought and concentrated intellectual effort. though he frowns so fiercely he is by no means of a naturally ferocious temperament. had he passed all his life in the country he would probably have been as good-natured and phlegmatic as ivan ivan'itch himself, but, unlike that worshipper of tranquillity, he had aspired to rise in the service, and had adopted the stern, formal bearing which the emperor nicholas considered indispensable in an officer. the manner which he had at first put on as part of his uniform became by the force of habit almost a part of his nature, and at the age of thirty he was a stern disciplinarian and uncompromising formalist, who confined his attention exclusively to drill and other military duties. thus he rose steadily by his own merit, and reached the goal of his early ambition--the rank of general. as soon as this point was reached he determined to leave the service and retire to his property. many considerations urged him to take this step. he enjoyed the title of excellency which he had long coveted, and when he put on his full uniform his breast was bespangled with medals and decorations. since the death of his father the revenues of his estate had been steadily decreasing, and report said that the best wood in his forest was rapidly disappearing. his wife had no love for the country, and would have preferred to settle in moscow or st. petersburg, but they found that with their small income they could not live in a large town in a style suitable to their rank. the general determined to introduce order into his estate, and become a practical farmer; but a little experience convinced him that his new functions were much more difficult than the commanding of a regiment. he has long since given over the practical management of the property to a steward, and he contents himself with exercising what he imagines to be an efficient control. though he wishes to do much, he finds small scope for his activity, and spends his days in pretty much the same way as ivan ivan'itch, with this difference, that he plays cards whenever he gets an opportunity, and reads regularly the moscow gazette and russki invalid, the official military paper. what specially interests him is the list of promotions, retirements, and imperial rewards for merit and seniority. when he sees the announcement that some old comrade has been made an officer of his majesty's suite or has received a grand cordon, he frowns a little more than usual, and is tempted to regret that he retired from the service. had he waited patiently, perhaps a bit of good fortune might have fallen likewise to his lot. this idea takes possession of him, and during the remainder of the day he is taciturn and morose. his wife notices the change, and knows the reason of it, but has too much good sense and tact to make any allusion to the subject. anna alexandrovna--as the good lady is called--is an elderly dame who does not at all resemble the wife of ivan ivan'itch. she was long accustomed to a numerous military society, with dinner-parties, dancing, promenades, card-playing, and all the other amusements of garrison life, and she never contracted a taste for domestic concerns. her knowledge of culinary affairs is extremely vague, and she has no idea of how to make preserves, nalivka, and other home-made delicacies, though maria petrovna, who is universally acknowledged to be a great adept in such matters, has proposed a hundred times to give her some choice recipes. in short, domestic affairs are a burden to her, and she entrusts them as far as possible to the housekeeper. altogether she finds country life very tiresome, but, possessing that placid, philosophical temperament which seems to have some casual connection with corpulence, she submits without murmuring, and tries to lighten a little the unavoidable monotony by paying visits and receiving visitors. the neighbours within a radius of twenty miles are, with few exceptions, more or less of the ivan ivan'itch and maria petrovna type--decidedly rustic in their manners and conceptions; but their company is better than absolute solitude, and they have at least the good quality of being always able and willing to play cards for any number of hours. besides this, anna alexandrovna has the satisfaction of feeling that amongst them she is almost a great personage, and unquestionably an authority in all matters of taste and fashion; and she feels specially well disposed towards those of them who frequently address her as "your excellency." the chief festivities take place on the "name-days" of the general and his spouse--that is to say, the days sacred to st. nicholas and st. anna. on these occasions all the neighbours come to offer their congratulations, and remain to dinner as a matter of course. after dinner the older visitors sit down to cards, and the young people extemporise a dance. the fete is specially successful when the eldest son comes home to take part in it, and brings a brother officer with him. he is now a general like his father.* in days gone by one of his comrades was expected to offer his hand to olga nekola'vna, the second daughter, a delicate young lady who had been educated in one of the great instituts--gigantic boarding-schools, founded and kept up by the government, for the daughters of those who are supposed to have deserved well of their country. unfortunately the expected offer was never made, and she and her sister live at home as old maids, bewailing the absence of "civilised" society, and killing time in a harmless, elegant way by means of music, needlework, and light literature. * generals are much more common in russia than in other countries. a few years ago there was an old lady in moscow who had a family of ten sons, all of whom were generals! the rank may be obtained in the civil as well as the military service. at these "name-day" gatherings one used to meet still more interesting specimens of the old school. one of them i remember particularly. he was a tall, corpulent old man, in a threadbare frock-coat, which wrinkled up about his waist. his shaggy eyebrows almost covered his small, dull eyes, his heavy moustache partially concealed a large mouth strongly indicating sensuous tendencies. his hair was cut so short that it was difficult to say what its colour would be if it were allowed to grow. he always arrived in his tarantass just in time for the zakuska--the appetising collation that is served shortly before dinner--grunted out a few congratulations to the host and hostess and monosyllabic greetings to his acquaintances, ate a copious meal, and immediately afterwards placed himself at a card-table, where he sat in silence as long as he could get any one to play with him. people did not like, however, to play with andrei vassil'itch, for his society was not agreeable, and he always contrived to go home with a well-filled purse. andrei vassil'itch was a noted man in the neighbourhood. he was the centre of a whole cycle of legends, and i have often heard that his name was used with effect by nurses to frighten naughty children. i never missed an opportunity of meeting him, for i was curious to see and study a legendary monster in the flesh. how far the numerous stories told about him were true i cannot pretend to say, but they were certainly not without foundation. in his youth he had served for some time in the army, and was celebrated, even in an age when martinets had always a good chance of promotion, for his brutality to his subordinates. his career was cut short, however, when he had only the rank of captain. having compromised himself in some way, he found it advisable to send in his resignation and retire to his estate. here he organised his house on mahometan rather than christian principles, and ruled his servants and peasants as he had been accustomed to rule his soldiers--using corporal punishment in merciless fashion. his wife did not venture to protest against the mahometan arrangements, and any peasant who stood in the way of their realisation was at once given as a recruit, or transported to siberia, in accordance with his master's demand.* at last his tyranny and extortion drove his serfs to revolt. one night his house was surrounded and set on fire, but he contrived to escape the fate that was prepared for him, and caused all who had taken part in the revolt to be mercilessly punished. this was a severe lesson, but it had no effect upon him. taking precautions against a similar surprise, he continued to tyrannise and extort as before, until in the serfs were emancipated, and his authority came to an end. * when a proprietor considered any of his serfs unruly he could, according to law, have them transported to siberia without trial, on condition of paying the expenses of transport. arrived at their destination, they received land, and lived as free colonists, with the single restriction that they were not allowed to leave the locality where they settled. a very different sort of man was pavel trophim'itch, who likewise came regularly to pay his respects and present his congratulations to the general and "gheneralsha."* it was pleasant to turn from the hard, wrinkled, morose features of the legendary monster to the soft, smooth, jovial face of this man, who had been accustomed to look at the bright side of things, till his face had caught something of their brightness. "a good, jovial, honest face!" a stranger might exclaim as he looked at him. knowing something of his character and history, i could not endorse such an opinion. jovial he certainly was, for few men were more capable of making and enjoying mirth. good he might be also called, if the word were taken in the sense of good-natured, for he never took offence, and was always ready to do a kindly action if it did not cost him any trouble. but as to his honesty, that required some qualification. wholly untarnished his reputation certainly could not be, for he had been a judge in the district court before the time of the judicial reforms; and, not being a cato, he had succumbed to the usual temptations. he had never studied law, and made no pretensions to the possession of great legal knowledge. to all who would listen to him he declared openly that he knew much more about pointers and setters than about legal formalities. but his estate was very small, and he could not afford to give up his appointment. * the female form of the word general. of these unreformed courts, which are happily among the things of the past, i shall have occasion to speak in the sequel. for the present i wish merely to say that they were thoroughly corrupt, and i hasten to add that pavel trophim'itch was by no means a judge of the worst kind. he had been known to protect widows and orphans against those who wished to despoil them, and no amount of money would induce him to give an unjust decision against a friend who had privately explained the case to him; but when he knew nothing of the case or of the parties he readily signed the decision prepared by the secretary, and quietly pocketed the proceeds, without feeling any very disagreeable twinges of conscience. all judges, he knew, did likewise, and he had no pretension to being better than his fellows. when pavel trophim'itch played cards at the general's house or elsewhere, a small, awkward, clean-shaven man, with dark eyes and a tartar cast of countenance, might generally be seen sitting at the same table. his name was alexei petrovitch t----. whether he really had any tartar blood in him it is impossible to say, but certainly his ancestors for one or two generations were all good orthodox christians. his father had been a poor military surgeon in a marching regiment, and he himself had become at an early age a scribe in one of the bureaux of the district town. he was then very poor, and had great difficulty in supporting life on the miserable pittance which he received as a salary; but he was a sharp, clever youth, and soon discovered that even a scribe had a great many opportunities of extorting money from the ignorant public. these opportunities alexei petrovitch used with great ability, and became known as one of the most accomplished bribe-takers (vzyatotchniki) in the district. his position, however, was so very subordinate that he would never have become rich had he not fallen upon a very ingenious expedient which completely succeeded. hearing that a small proprietor, who had an only daughter, had come to live in the town for a few weeks, he took a room in the inn where the newcomers lived, and when he had made their acquaintance he fell dangerously ill. feeling his last hours approaching, he sent for a priest, confided to him that he had amassed a large fortune, and requested that a will should be drawn up. in the will he bequeathed large sums to all his relations, and a considerable sum to the parish church. the whole affair was to be kept a secret till after his death, but his neighbour--the old gentleman with the daughter--was called in to act as a witness. when all this had been done he did not die, but rapidly recovered, and now induced the old gentleman to whom he had confided his secret to grant him his daughter's hand. the daughter had no objections to marry a man possessed of such wealth, and the marriage was duly celebrated. shortly after this the father died--without discovering, it is to be hoped, the hoax that had been perpetrated--and alexei petrovitch became virtual possessor of a very comfortable little estate. with the change in his fortunes he completely changed his principles, or at least his practice. in all his dealings he was strictly honest. he lent money, it is true, at from ten to fifteen per cent., but that was considered in these parts not a very exorbitant rate of interest, nor was he unnecessarily hard upon his debtors. it may seem strange that an honourable man like the general should receive in his house such a motley company, comprising men of decidedly tarnished reputation; but in this respect he was not at all peculiar. one constantly meets in russian society persons who are known to have been guilty of flagrant dishonesty, and we find that men who are themselves honourable enough associate with them on friendly terms. this social leniency, moral laxity, or whatever else it may be called, is the result of various causes. several concurrent influences have tended to lower the moral standard of the noblesse. formerly, when the noble lived on his estate, he could play with impunity the petty tyrant, and could freely indulge his legitimate and illegitimate caprices without any legal or moral restraint. i do not at all mean to assert that all proprietors abused their authority, but i venture to say that no class of men can long possess such enormous arbitrary power over those around them without being thereby more or less demoralised. when the noble entered the service he had not the same immunity from restraint--on the contrary, his position resembled rather that of the serf--but he breathed an atmosphere of peculation and jobbery, little conducive to moral purity and uprightness. if an official had refused to associate with those who were tainted with the prevailing vices, he would have found himself completely isolated, and would have been ridiculed as a modern don quixote. add to this that all classes of the russian people have a certain kindly, apathetic good-nature which makes them very charitable towards their neighbours, and that they do not always distinguish between forgiving private injury and excusing public delinquencies. if we bear all this in mind, we may readily understand that in the time of serfage and maladministration a man could be guilty of very reprehensible practises without incurring social excommunication. during the period of moral awakening, after the crimean war and the death of nicholas i., society revelled in virtuous indignation against the prevailing abuses, and placed on the pillory the most prominent delinquents; but the intensity of the moral feeling has declined, and something of the old apathy has returned. this might have been predicted by any one well acquainted with the character and past history of the russian people. russia advances on the road of progress, not in that smooth, gradual, prosaic way to which we are accustomed, but by a series of unconnected, frantic efforts, each of which is naturally followed by a period of temporary exhaustion. chapter xxii proprietors of the modern school a russian petit maitre--his house and surroundings--abortive attempts to improve agriculture and the condition of the serfs--a comparison--a "liberal" tchinovnik--his idea of progress--a justice of the peace--his opinion of russian literature, tchinovniks, and petits maitres--his supposed and real character--an extreme radical--disorders in the universities--administrative procedure--russia's capacity for accomplishing political and social evolutions--a court dignitary in his country house. hitherto i have presented to the reader old-fashioned types which were common enough thirty years ago, when i first resided in russia, but which are rapidly disappearing. let me now present a few of the modern school. in the same district as ivan ivan'itch and the general lives victor alexandr'itch l----. as we approach his house we can at once perceive that he differs from the majority of his neighbours. the gate is painted and moves easily on its hinges, the fence is in good repair, the short avenue leading up to the front door is well kept, and in the garden we can perceive at a glance that more attention is paid to flowers than to vegetables. the house is of wood, and not large, but it has some architectural pretensions in the form of a great, pseudo-doric wooden portico that covers three-fourths of the façade. in the interior we remark everywhere the influence of western civilisation. victor alexandr'itch is by no means richer than ivan ivan'itch, but his rooms are much more luxuriously furnished. the furniture is of a lighter model, more comfortable, and in a much better state of preservation. instead of the bare, scantily furnished sitting-room, with the old-fashioned barrel-organ which played only six airs, we find an elegant drawing-room, with a piano by one of the most approved makers, and numerous articles of foreign manufacture, comprising a small buhl table and two bits of genuine old wedgwood. the servants are clean, and dressed in european costume. the master, too, is very different in appearance. he pays great attention to his toilette, wearing a dressing-gown only in the early morning, and a fashionable lounging coat during the rest of the day. the turkish pipes which his grandfather loved he holds in abhorrence, and habitually smokes cigarettes. with his wife and daughters he always speaks french, and calls them by french or english names. but the part of the house which most strikingly illustrates the difference between old and new is "le cabinet de monsieur." in the cabinet of ivan ivan'itch the furniture consists of a broad sofa which serves as a bed, a few deal chairs, and a clumsy deal table, on which are generally to be found a bundle of greasy papers, an old chipped ink-bottle, a pen, and a calendar. the cabinet of victor alexandr'itch has an entirely different appearance. it is small, but at once comfortable and elegant. the principal objects which it contains are a library-table, with ink-stand, presse-papier, paper-knives, and other articles in keeping, and in the opposite corner a large bookcase. the collection of books is remarkable, not from the number of volumes or the presence of rare editions, but from the variety of the subjects. history, art, fiction, the drama, political economy, and agriculture are represented in about equal proportions. some of the works are in russian, others in german, a large number in french, and a few in italian. the collection illustrates the former life and present occupations of the owner. the father of victor alexandr'itch was a landed proprietor who had made a successful career in the civil service, and desired that his son should follow the same profession. for this purpose victor was first carefully trained at home, and then sent to the university of moscow, where he spent four years as a student of law. from the university he passed to the ministry of the interior in st. petersburg, but he found the monotonous routine of official life not at all suited to his taste, and very soon sent in his resignation. the death of his father had made him proprietor of an estate, and thither he retired, hoping to find there plenty of occupation more congenial than the writing of official papers. at the university of moscow he had attended lectures on history and philosophy, and had got through a large amount of desultory reading. the chief result of his studies was the acquisition of many ill-digested general principles, and certain vague, generous, humanitarian aspirations. with this intellectual capital he hoped to lead a useful life in the country. when he had repaired and furnished the house he set himself to improve the estate. in the course of his promiscuous reading he had stumbled on some descriptions of english and tuscan agriculture, and had there learned what wonders might be effected by a rational system of farming. why should not russia follow the example of england and tuscany? by proper drainage, plentiful manure, good ploughs, and the cultivation of artificial grasses, the production might be multiplied tenfold; and by the introduction of agricultural machines the manual labour might be greatly diminished. all this seemed as simple as a sum in arithmetic, and victor alexandr'itch, more scholarum rei familiaris ignarus, without a moment's hesitation expended his ready money in procuring from england a threshing-machine, ploughs, harrows, and other implements of the newest model. the arrival of these was an event that was long remembered. the peasants examined them with attention, not unmixed with wonder, but said nothing. when the master explained to them the advantages of the new instruments, they still remained silent. only one old man, gazing at the threshing-machine, remarked, in an audible "aside," "a cunning people, these germans!"* on being asked for their opinion, they replied vaguely, "how should we know? it ought to be so." but when their master had retired, and was explaining to his wife and the french governess that the chief obstacle to progress in russia was the apathetic indolence and conservative spirit of the peasantry, they expressed their opinions more freely. "these may be all very well for the germans, but they won't do for us. how are our little horses to drag these big ploughs? and as for that [the threshing-machine], it's of no use." further examination and reflection confirmed this first impression, and it was unanimously decided that no good would come of the new-fangled inventions. * the russian peasant comprehends all the inhabitants of western europe under the term nyemtsi, which in the language of the educated designates only germans. the rest of humanity is composed of pravoslavniye (greek orthodox), busurmanye (mahometans), and poliacki (poles). these apprehensions proved to be only too well founded. the ploughs were much too heavy for the peasants' small horses, and the threshing-machine broke down at the first attempt to use it. for the purchase of lighter implements or stronger horses there was no ready money, and for the repairing of the threshing-machine there was not an engineer within a radius of a hundred and fifty miles. the experiment was, in short, a complete failure, and the new purchases were put away out of sight. for some weeks after this incident victor alexandr'itch felt very despondent, and spoke more than usual about the apathy and stupidity of the peasantry. his faith in infallible science was somewhat shaken, and his benevolent aspirations were for a time laid aside. but this eclipse of faith was not of long duration. gradually he recovered his normal condition, and began to form new schemes. from the study of certain works on political economy he learned that the system of communal property was ruinous to the fertility of the soil, and that free labour was always more productive than serfage. by the light of these principles he discovered why the peasantry in russia were so poor, and by what means their condition could he ameliorated. the communal land should be divided into family lots, and the serfs, instead of being forced to work for the proprietor, should pay a yearly sum as rent. the advantages of this change he perceived clearly--as clearly as he had formerly perceived the advantages of english agricultural implements--and he determined to make the experiment on his own estate. his first step was to call together the more intelligent and influential of his serfs, and to explain to them his project; but his efforts at explanation were eminently unsuccessful. even with regard to ordinary current affairs he could not express himself in that simple, homely language with which alone the peasants are familiar, and when he spoke on abstract subjects he naturally became quite unintelligible to his uneducated audience. the serfs listened attentively, but understood nothing. he might as well have spoken to them, as he often did in another kind of society, about the comparative excellence of italian and german music. at a second attempt he had rather more success. the peasants came to understand that what he wished was to break up the mir, or rural commune, and to put them all on obrok--that is to say, make them pay a yearly sum instead of giving him a certain amount of agricultural labour. much to his astonishment, his scheme did not meet with any sympathy. as to being put on obrok, the serfs did not much object, though they preferred to remain as they were; but his proposal to break up the mir astonished and bewildered them. they regarded it as a sea-captain might regard the proposal of a scientific wiseacre to knock a hole in the ship's bottom in order to make her sail faster. though they did not say much, he was intelligent enough to see that they would offer a strenuous passive resistance, and as he did not wish to act tyrannically, he let the matter drop. thus a second benevolent scheme was shipwrecked. many other schemes had a similar fate, and victor alexandr'itch began to perceive that it was very difficult to do good in this world, especially when the persons to be benefited were russian peasants. in reality the fault lay less with the serfs than with their master. victor alexandr'itch was by no means a stupid man. on the contrary, he had more than average talents. few men were more capable of grasping a new idea and forming a scheme for its realisation, and few men could play more dexterously with abstract principles. what he wanted was the power of dealing with concrete facts. the principles which he had acquired from university lectures and desultory reading were far too vague and abstract for practical use. he had studied abstract science without gaining any technical knowledge of details, and consequently when he stood face to face with real life he was like a student who, having studied mechanics in text-books, is suddenly placed in a workshop and ordered to construct a machine. only there was one difference: victor alexandr'itch was not ordered to do anything. voluntarily, without any apparent necessity, he set himself to work with tools which he could not handle. it was this that chiefly puzzled the peasants. why should he trouble himself with these new schemes, when he might live comfortably as he was? in some of his projects they could detect a desire to increase the revenue, but in others they could discover no such motive. in these latter they attributed his conduct to pure caprice, and put it into the same category as those mad pranks in which proprietors of jovial humour sometimes indulged. in the last years of serfage there were a good many landed proprietors like victor alexandr'itch--men who wished to do something beneficent, and did not know how to do it. when serfage was being abolished the majority of these men took an active part in the great work and rendered valuable service to their country. victor alexandr'itch acted otherwise. at first he sympathised warmly with the proposed emancipation and wrote several articles on the advantages of free labour, but when the government took the matter into its own hands he declared that the officials had deceived and slighted the noblesse, and he went over to the opposition. before the imperial edict was signed he went abroad, and travelled for three years in germany, france, and italy. shortly after his return he married a pretty, accomplished young lady, the daughter of an eminent official in st. petersburg, and since that time he has lived in his country-house. though a man of education and culture, victor alexandr'itch spends his time in almost as indolent a way as the men of the old school. he rises somewhat later, and instead of sitting by the open window and gazing into the courtyard, he turns over the pages of a book or periodical. instead of dining at midday and supping at nine o'clock, he takes dejeuner at twelve and dines at five. he spends less time in sitting in the verandah and pacing up and down with his hands behind his back, for he can vary the operation of time-killing by occasionally writing a letter, or by standing behind his wife at the piano while she plays selections from mozart and beethoven. but these peculiarities are merely variations in detail. if there is any essential difference between the lives of victor alexandr'itch and of ivan ivan'itch, it is in the fact that the former never goes out into the fields to see how the work is done, and never troubles himself with the state of the weather, the condition of the crops, and cognate subjects. he leaves the management of his estate entirely to his steward, and refers to that personage all peasants who come to him with complaints or petitions. though he takes a deep interest in the peasant as an impersonal, abstract entity, and loves to contemplate concrete examples of the genus in the works of certain popular authors, he does not like to have any direct relations with peasants in the flesh. if he has to speak with them he always feels awkward, and suffers from the odour of their sheepskins. ivan ivan'itch is ever ready to talk with the peasants, and give them sound, practical advice or severe admonitions; and in the old times he was apt, in moments of irritation, to supplement his admonitions by a free use of his fists. victor alexandr'itch, on the contrary, never could give any advice except vague commonplace, and as to using his fist, he would have shrunk from that, not only from respect to humanitarian principles, but also from motives which belong to the region of aesthetic sensitiveness. this difference between the two men has an important influence on their pecuniary affairs. the stewards of both steal from their masters; but that of ivan ivan'itch steals with difficulty, and to a very limited extent, whereas that of victor alexandr'itch steals regularly and methodically, and counts his gains, not by kopecks, but by roubles. though the two estates are of about the same size and value, they give a very different revenue. the rough, practical man has a much larger income than his elegant, well-educated neighbour, and at the same time spends very much less. the consequences of this, if not at present visible, must some day become painfully apparent. ivan ivan'itch will doubtless leave to his children an unencumbered estate and a certain amount of capital. the children of victor alexandr'itch have a different prospect. he has already begun to mortgage his property and to cut down the timber, and he always finds a deficit at the end of the year. what will become of his wife and children when the estate comes to be sold for payment of the mortgage, it is difficult to predict. he thinks very little of that eventuality, and when his thoughts happen to wander in that direction he consoles himself with the thought that before the crash comes he will have inherited a fortune from a rich uncle who has no children. the proprietors of the old school lead the same uniform, monotonous life year after year, with very little variation. victor alexandr'itch, on the contrary, feels the need of a periodical return to "civilised society," and accordingly spends a few weeks every winter in st. petersburg. during the summer months he has the society of his brother--un homme tout a fait civilise--who possesses an estate a few miles off. this brother, vladimir alexandr'itch, was educated in the school of law in st. petersburg, and has since risen rapidly in the service. he holds now a prominent position in one of the ministries, and has the honourary court title of "chambellan de sa majeste." he is a marked man in the higher circles of the administration, and will, it is thought, some day become minister. though an adherent of enlightened views, and a professed "liberal," he contrives to keep on very good terms with those who imagine themselves to be "conservatives." in this he is assisted by his soft, oily manner. if you express an opinion to him he will always begin by telling you that you are quite right; and if he ends by showing you that you are quite wrong, he will at least make you feel that your error is not only excusable, but in some way highly creditable to your intellectual acuteness or goodness of heart. in spite of his liberalism he is a staunch monarchist, and considers that the time has not yet come for the emperor to grant a constitution. he recognises that the present order of things has its defects, but thinks that, on the whole, it acts very well, and would act much better if certain high officials were removed, and more energetic men put in their places. like all genuine st. petersburg tchinovniks (officials), he has great faith in the miraculous power of imperial ukazes and ministerial circulars, and believes that national progress consists in multiplying these documents, and centralising the administration, so as to give them more effect. as a supplementary means of progress he highly approves of aesthetic culture, and he can speak with some eloquence of the humanising influence of the fine arts. for his own part he is well acquainted with french and english classics, and particularly admires macaulay, whom he declares to have been not only a great writer, but also a great statesman. among writers of fiction he gives the palm to george eliot, and speaks of the novelists of his own country, and, indeed, of russian literature as a whole, in the most disparaging terms. a very different estimate of russian literature is held by alexander ivan'itch n----, formerly arbiter in peasant affairs, and afterwards justice of the peace. discussions on this subject often take place between the two. the admirer of macaulay declares that russia has, properly speaking, no literature whatever, and that the works which bear the names of russian authors are nothing but a feeble echo of the literature of western europe. "imitators," he is wont to say, "skilful imitators, we have produced in abundance. but where is there a man of original genius? what is our famous poet zhukofski? a translator. what is pushkin? a clever pupil of the romantic school. what is lermontoff? a feeble imitator of byron. what is gogol?" at this point alexander ivan'itch invariable intervenes. he is ready to sacrifice all the pseudo-classic and romantic poetry, and, in fact, the whole of russian literature anterior to about the year , but he will not allow anything disrespectful to be said of gogol, who about that time founded the russian realistic school. "gogol," he holds, "was a great and original genius. gogol not only created a new kind of literature; he at the same time transformed the reading public, and inaugurated a new era in the intellectual development of the nation. by his humorous, satirical sketches he swept away the metaphysical dreaming and foolish romantic affectation then in fashion, and taught men to see their country as it was, in all its hideous ugliness. with his help the young generation perceived the rottenness of the administration, and the meanness, stupidity, dishonesty, and worthlessness of the landed proprietors, whom he made the special butt of his ridicule. the recognition of defects produced a desire for reform. from laughing at the proprietors there was but one step to despising them, and when we learned to despise the proprietors we naturally came to sympathise with the serfs. thus the emancipation was prepared by the literature; and when the great question had to be solved, it was the literature that discovered a satisfactory solution." this is a subject on which alexander ivan'itch feels very strongly, and on which he always speaks with warmth. he knows a good deal regarding the intellectual movement which began about , and culminated in the great reforms of the sixties. as a university student he troubled himself very little with serious academic work, but he read with intense interest all the leading periodicals, and adopted the doctrine of belinski that art should not be cultivated for its own sake, but should be made subservient to social progress. this belief was confirmed by a perusal of some of george sand's earlier works, which were for him a kind of revelation. social questions engrossed his thoughts, and all other subjects seemed puny by comparison. when the emancipation question was raised he saw an opportunity of applying some of his theories, and threw himself enthusiastically into the new movement as an ardent abolitionist. when the law was passed he helped to put it into execution by serving for three years as an arbiter of the peace. now he is an old man, but he has preserved some of his youthful enthusiasm, attends regularly the annual assemblies of the zemstvo, and takes a lively interest in all public affairs. as an ardent partisan of local self-government he habitually scoffs at the centralised bureaucracy, which he proclaims to be the great bane of his unhappy country. "these tchinovniks," he is wont to say in moments of excitement, "who live in st. petersburg and govern the empire, know about as much of russia as they do of china. they live in a world of official documents, and are hopelessly ignorant of the real wants and interests of the people. so long as all the required formalities are duly observed they are perfectly satisfied. the people may be allowed to die of starvation if only the fact do not appear in the official reports. powerless to do any good themselves, they are powerful enough to prevent others from working for the public good, and are extremely jealous of all private initiative. how have they acted, for instance, towards the zemstvo? the zemstvo is really a good institution, and might have done great things if it had been left alone, but as soon as it began to show a little independent energy the officials at once clipped its wings and then strangled it. towards the press they have acted in the same way. they are afraid of the press, because they fear above all things a healthy public opinion, which the press alone can create. everything that disturbs the habitual routine alarms them. russia cannot make any real progress so long as she is ruled by these cursed tchinovniks." scarcely less pernicious than the tchinovnik, in the eyes of our would-be reformer, is the baritch--that is to say, the pampered, capricious, spoiled child of mature years, whose life is spent in elegant indolence and fine talking. our friend victor alexandr'itch is commonly selected as a representative of this type. "look at him!" exclaims alexander ivan'itch. "what a useless, contemptible member of society! in spite of his generous aspirations he never succeeds in doing anything useful to himself or to others. when the peasant question was raised and there was work to be done, he went abroad and talked liberalism in paris and baden-baden. though he reads, or at least professes to read, books on agriculture, and is always ready to discourse on the best means of preventing the exhaustion of the soil, he knows less of farming than a peasant-boy of twelve, and when he goes into the fields he can hardly distinguish rye from oats. instead of babbling about german and italian music, he would do well to learn a little about practical farming, and look after his estate." whilst alexander ivan'itch thus censures his neighbours, he is himself not without detractors. some staid old proprietors regard him as a dangerous man, and quote expressions of his which seem to indicate that his notions of property are somewhat loose. many consider that his liberalism is of a very violent kind, and that he has strong republican sympathies. in his decisions as justice he often leaned, it is said, to the side of the peasants against the proprietors. then he was always trying to induce the peasants of the neighbouring villages to found schools, and he had wonderful ideas about the best method of teaching children. these and similar facts make many people believe that he has very advanced ideas, and one old gentleman habitually calls him--half in joke and half in earnest--"our friend the communist." in reality alexander ivan'itch has nothing of the communist about him. though he loudly denounces the tchinovnik spirit--or, as we should say, red-tape in all its forms--and is an ardent partisan of local self-government, he is one of the last men in the world to take part in any revolutionary movement, he would like to see the central government enlightened and controlled by public opinion and by a national representation, but he believes that this can only be effected by voluntary concessions on the part of the autocratic power. he has, perhaps, a sentimental love of the peasantry, and is always ready to advocate its interests; but he has come too much in contact with individual peasants to accept those idealised descriptions in which some popular writers indulge, and it may safely be asserted that the accusation of his voluntarily favouring peasants at the expense of the proprietors is wholly unfounded. alexander ivan'itch is, in fact, a quiet, sensible man, who is capable of generous enthusiasm, and is not at all satisfied with the existing state of things; but he is not a dreamer and a revolutionnaire, as some of his neighbours assert. i am afraid i cannot say as much for his younger brother nikolai, who lives with him. nikolai ivan'itch is a tall, slender man, about sixty years of age, with emaciated face, bilious complexion and long black hair--evidently a person of excitable, nervous temperament. when he speaks he articulates rapidly, and uses more gesticulation than is common among his countrymen. his favourite subject of conversation, or rather of discourse, for he more frequently preaches than talks, is the lamentable state of the country and the worthlessness of the government. against the government he has a great many causes for complaint, and one or two of a personal kind. in he was a student in the university of st. petersburg. at that time there was a great deal of public excitement all over russia, and especially in the capital. the serfs had just been emancipated, and other important reforms had been undertaken. there was a general conviction among the young generation--and it must be added among many older men--that the autocratic, paternal system of government was at an end, and that russia was about to be reorganised according to the most advanced principles of political and social science. the students, sharing this conviction, wished to be freed from all academical authority, and to organise a kind of academic self-government. they desired especially the right of holding public meetings for the discussion of their common affairs. the authorities would not allow this, and issued a list of rules prohibiting meetings and raising the class-fees, so as practically to exclude many of the poorer students. this was felt to be a wanton insult to the spirit of the new era. in spite of the prohibition, indignation meetings were held, and fiery speeches made by male and female orators, first in the class-rooms, and afterwards in the courtyard of the university. on one occasion a long procession marched through the principal streets to the house of the curator. never had such a spectacle been seen before in st. petersburg. timid people feared that it was the commencement of a revolution, and dreamed about barricades. at last the authorities took energetic measures; about three hundred students were arrested, and of these, thirty-two were expelled from the university. among those who were expelled was nicolai ivan'itch. all his hopes of becoming a professor, as he had intended, were thereby shipwrecked, and he had to look out for some other profession. a literary career now seemed the most promising, and certainly the most congenial to his tastes. it would enable him to gratify his ambition of being a public man, and give him opportunities of attacking and annoying his persecutors. he had already written occasionally for one of the leading periodicals, and now he became a regular contributor. his stock of positive knowledge was not very large, but he had the power of writing fluently and of making his readers believe that he had an unlimited store of political wisdom which the press-censure prevented him from publishing. besides this, he had the talent of saying sharp, satirical things about those in authority, in such a way that even a press censor could not easily raise objections. articles written in this style were sure at that time to be popular, and his had a very great success. he became a known man in literary circles, and for a time all went well. but gradually he became less cautious, whilst the authorities became more vigilant. some copies of a violent seditious proclamation fell into the hands of the police, and it was generally believed that the document proceeded from the coterie to which he belonged. from that moment he was carefully watched, till one night he was unexpectedly roused from his sleep by a gendarme and conveyed to the fortress. when a man is arrested in this way for a real or supposed political offence, there are two modes of dealing with him. he may be tried before a regular tribunal, or he may be dealt with "by administrative procedure" (administrativnym poryadkom). in the former case he will, if convicted, be condemned to imprisonment for a certain term; or, if the offence be of a graver nature, he may be transported to siberia either for a fixed period or for life. by the administrative procedure he is simply removed without a trial to some distant town, and compelled to live there under police supervision during his majesty's pleasure. nikolai ivan'itch was treated "administratively," because the authorities, though convinced that he was a dangerous character, could not find sufficient evidence to procure his conviction before a court of justice. for five years he lived under police supervision in a small town near the white sea, and then one day he was informed, without any explanation, that he might go and live anywhere he pleased except in st. petersburg and moscow. since that time he has lived with his brother, and spends his time in brooding over his grievances and bewailing his shattered illusions. he has lost none of that fluency which gained him an ephemeral literary reputation, and can speak by the hour on political and social questions to any one who will listen to him. it is extremely difficult, however, to follow his discourses, and utterly impossible to retain them in the memory. they belong to what may be called political metaphysics--for though he professes to hold metaphysics in abhorrence, he is himself a thorough metaphysician in his modes of thought. he lives, indeed, in a world of abstract conceptions, in which he can scarcely perceive concrete facts, and his arguments are always a kind of clever juggling with such equivocal, conventional terms as aristocracy, bourgeoisie, monarchy, and the like. at concrete facts he arrives, not directly by observation, but by deductions from general principles, so that his facts can never by any possibility contradict his theories. then he has certain axioms which he tacitly assumes, and on which all his arguments are based; as, for instance, that everything to which the term "liberal" can be applied must necessarily be good at all times and under all conditions. among a mass of vague conceptions which it is impossible to reduce to any clearly defined form he has a few ideas which are perhaps not strictly true, but which are at least intelligible. among these is his conviction that russia has let slip a magnificent opportunity of distancing all europe on the road of progress. she might, he thinks, at the time of the emancipation, have boldly accepted all the most advanced principles of political and social science, and have completely reorganised the political and social structure in accordance with them. other nations could not take such a step, because they are old and decrepit, filled with stubborn, hereditary prejudices, and cursed with an aristocracy and a bourgeoisie; but russia is young, knows nothing of social castes, and has no deep-rooted prejudices to contend with. the population is like potter's clay, which can be made to assume any form that science may recommend. alexander ii. began a magnificent sociological experiment, but he stopped half-way. some day, he believes, the experiment will be completed, but not by the autocratic power. in his opinion autocracy is "played out," and must give way to parliamentary institutions. for him a constitution is a kind of omnipotent fetish. you may try to explain to him that a parliamentary regime, whatever its advantages may be, necessarily produces political parties and political conflicts, and is not nearly so suitable for grand sociological experiments as a good paternal despotism. you may try to convince him that, though it may be difficult to convert an autocrat, it is infinitely more difficult to convert a house of commons. but all your efforts will be in vain. he will assure you that a russian parliament would be something quite different from what parliaments commonly are. it would contain no parties, for russia has no social castes, and would be guided entirely by scientific considerations--as free from prejudice and personal influences as a philosopher speculating on the nature of the infinite! in short, he evidently imagines that a national parliament would be composed of himself and his friends, and that the nation would calmly submit to their ukazes, as it has hitherto submitted to the ukazes of the tsars. pending the advent of this political millennium, when unimpassioned science is to reign supreme, nikolai ivan'itch allows himself the luxury of indulging in some very decided political animosities, and he hates with the fervour of a fanatic. firstly and chiefly, he hates what he calls the bourgeoisie--he is obliged to use the french word, because his native language does not contain an equivalent term--and especially capitalists of all sorts and dimensions. next, he hates aristocracy, especially a form of aristocracy called feudalism. to these abstract terms he does not attach a very precise meaning, but he hates the entities which they are supposed to represent quite as heartily as if they were personal enemies. among the things which he hates in his own country, the autocratic power holds the first place. next, as an emanation from the autocratic power, come the tchinovniks, and especially the gendarmes. then come the landed proprietors. though he is himself a landed proprietor, he regards the class as cumberers of the ground, and thinks that all their land should be confiscated and distributed among the peasantry. all proprietors have the misfortune to come under his sweeping denunciations, because they are inconsistent with his ideal of a peasant empire, but he recognises amongst them degrees of depravity. some are simply obstructive, whilst others are actively prejudicial to the public welfare. among these latter a special object of aversion is prince s----, because he not only possesses very large estates, but at the same time has aristocratic pretensions, and calls himself conservative. prince s---- is by far the most important man in the district. his family is one of the oldest in the country, but he does not owe his influence to his pedigree, for pedigree pure and simple does not count for much in russia. he is influential and respected because he is a great land-holder with a high official position, and belongs by birth to that group of families which forms the permanent nucleus of the ever-changing court society. his father and grandfather were important personages in the administration and at court, and his sons and grandsons will probably in this respect follow in the footsteps of their ancestors. though in the eye of the law all nobles are equal, and, theoretically speaking, promotion is gained exclusively by personal merit, yet, in reality, those who have friends at court rise more easily and more rapidly. the prince has had a prosperous but not very eventful life. he was educated, first at home, under an english tutor, and afterwards in the corps des pages. on leaving this institution he entered a regiment of the guards, and rose steadily to high military rank. his activity, however, has been chiefly in the civil administration, and he now has a seat in the council of state. though he has always taken a certain interest in public affairs, he did not play an important part in any of the great reforms. when the peasant question was raised he sympathised with the idea of emancipation, but did not at all sympathise with the idea of giving land to the emancipated serfs and preserving the communal institutions. what he desired was that the proprietors should liberate their serfs without any pecuniary indemnity, and should receive in return a certain share of political power. his scheme was not adopted, but he has not relinquished the hope that the great landed proprietors may somehow obtain a social and political position similar to that of the great land-owners in england. official duties and social relations compel the prince to live for a large part of the year in the capital. he spends only a few weeks yearly on his estate. the house is large, and fitted up in the english style, with a view to combining elegance and comfort. it contains several spacious apartments, a library, and a billiard-room. there is an extensive park, an immense garden with hot houses, numerous horses and carriages, and a legion of servants. in the drawing-room is a plentiful supply of english and french books, newspapers, and periodicals, including the journal de st. petersbourg, which gives the news of the day. the family have, in short, all the conveniences and comforts which money and refinement can procure, but it cannot be said that they greatly enjoy the time spent in the country. the princess has no decided objection to it. she is devoted to a little grandchild, is fond of reading and correspondence, amuses herself with a school and hospital which she has founded for the peasantry, and occasionally drives over to see her friend, the countess n----, who lives about fifteen miles off. the prince, however, finds country life excessively dull. he does not care for riding or shooting, and he finds nothing else to do. he knows nothing about the management of his estate, and holds consultations with the steward merely pro forma--this estate and the others which he possesses in different provinces being ruled by a head-steward in st. petersburg, in whom he has the most complete confidence. in the vicinity there is no one with whom he cares to associate. naturally he is not a sociable man, and he has acquired a stiff, formal, reserved manner that is rarely met with in russia. this manner repels the neighbouring proprietors--a fact that he does not at all regret, for they do not belong to his monde, and they have in their manners and habits a free-and-easy rusticity which is positively disagreeable to him. his relations with them are therefore confined to formal calls. the greater part of the day he spends in listless loitering, frequently yawning, regretting the routine of st. petersburg life--the pleasant chats with his colleagues, the opera, the ballet, the french theatre, and the quiet rubber at the club anglais. his spirits rise as the day of his departure approaches, and when he drives off to the station he looks bright and cheerful. if he consulted merely his own tastes he would never visit his estates at all, and would spend his summer holidays in germany, france, or switzerland, as he did in his bachelor days; but as a large landowner he considers it right to sacrifice his personal inclinations to the duties of his position. there is, by the way, another princely magnate in the district, and i ought perhaps to introduce him to my readers, because he represents worthily a new type. like prince s----, of whom i have just spoken, he is a great land-owner and a descendant of the half-mythical rurik; but he has no official rank, and does not possess a single grand cordon. in that respect he has followed in the footsteps of his father and grandfather, who had something of the frondeur spirit, and preferred the position of a grand seigneur and a country gentleman to that of a tchinovnik and a courtier. in the liberal camp he is regarded as a conservative, but he has little in common with the krepostnik, who declares that the reforms of the last half-century were a mistake, that everything is going to the bad, that the emancipated serfs are all sluggards, drunkards, and thieves, that the local self-government is an ingenious machine for wasting money, and that the reformed law-courts have conferred benefits only on the lawyers. on the contrary, he recognises the necessity and beneficent results of the reforms, and with regard to the future he has none of the despairing pessimism of the incorrigible old tory. but in order that real progress should be made, he thinks that certain current and fashionable errors must be avoided, and among these errors he places, in the first rank, the views and principles of the advanced liberals, who have a blind admiration for western europe, and for what they are pleased to call the results of science. like the liberals of the west, these gentlemen assume that the best form of government is constitutionalism, monarchical or republican, on a broad democratic basis, and towards the realisation of this ideal all their efforts are directed. not so our conservative friend. while admitting that democratic parliamentary institutions may be the best form of government for the more advanced nations of the west, he maintains that the only firm foundation for the russian empire, and the only solid guarantee of its future prosperity, is the autocratic power, which is the sole genuine representative of the national spirit. looking at the past from this point of view, he perceives that the tsars have ever identified themselves with the nation, and have always understood, in part instinctively and in part by reflection, what the nation really required. whenever the infiltration of western ideas threatened to swamp the national individuality, the autocratic power intervened and averted the danger by timely precautions. something of the kind may be observed, he believes, at present, when the liberals are clamouring for a parliament and a constitution; but the autocratic power is on the alert, and is making itself acquainted with the needs of the people by means far more effectual than could be supplied by oratorical politicians. with the efforts of the zemstvo in this direction, and with the activity of the zemstvo generally, the prince has little sympathy, partly because the institution is in the hands of the liberals and is guided by their unpractical ideas, and partly because it enables some ambitious outsiders to acquire the influence in local affairs which ought to be exercised by the old-established noble families of the neighbourhood. what he would like to see is an enlightened, influential gentry working in conjunction with the autocratic power for the good of the country. if russia could produce a few hundred thousand men like himself, his ideal might perhaps be realised. for the present, such men are extremely rare--i should have difficulty in naming a dozen of them--and aristocratic ideas are extremely unpopular among the great majority of the educated classes. when a russian indulges in political speculation, he is pretty sure to show himself thoroughly democratic, with a strong leaning to socialism. the prince belongs to the highest rank of the russian noblesse. if we wish to get an idea of the lowest rank, we can find in the neighbourhood a number of poor, uneducated men, who live in small, squalid houses, and are not easily to be distinguished from peasants. they are nobles, like his highness; but, unlike him, they enjoy no social consideration, and their landed property consists of a few acres of land which barely supply them with the first necessaries of life. if we went to other parts of the country we might find men in this condition bearing the title of prince! this is the natural result of the russian law of inheritance, which does not recognise the principle of primogeniture with regard to titles and estates. all the sons of a prince are princes, and at his death his property, movable and immovable, is divided amongst them. chapter xxiii social classes do social classes or castes exist in russia?--well-marked social types--classes recognised by the legislation and the official statistics--origin and gradual formation of these classes--peculiarity in the historical development of russia--political life and political parties. in the preceding pages i have repeatedly used the expression "social classes," and probably more than once the reader has felt inclined to ask, what are social classes in the russian sense of the term? it may be well, therefore, before going farther, to answer this question. if the question were put to a russian it is not at all unlikely that he would reply somewhat in this fashion: "in russia there are no social classes, and there never have been any. that fact constitutes one of the most striking peculiarities of her historical development, and one of the surest foundations of her future greatness. we know nothing, and have never known anything, of those class distinctions and class enmities which in western europe have often rudely shaken society in past times, and imperil its existence in the future." this statement will not be readily accepted by the traveller who visits russia with no preconceived ideas and forms his opinions from his own observations. to him it seems that class distinctions form one of the most prominent characteristics of russian society. in a few days he learns to distinguish the various classes by their outward appearance. he easily recognises the french-speaking nobles in west-european costume; the burly, bearded merchant in black cloth cap and long, shiny, double-breasted coat; the priest with his uncut hair and flowing robes; the peasant with his full, fair beard and unsavoury, greasy sheepskin. meeting everywhere those well-marked types, he naturally assumes that russian society is composed of exclusive castes; and this first impression will be fully confirmed by a glance at the code. on examining that monumental work, he finds that an entire volume--and by no means the smallest--is devoted to the rights and obligations of the various classes. from this he concludes that the classes have a legal as well as an actual existence. to make assurance doubly sure he turns to official statistics, and there he finds the following table: hereditary nobles........ , personal nobles.......... , clerical classes......... , town classes........... , , rural classes......... , , military classes....... , , foreigners............... , ---------- , , * * livron: "statistitcheskoe obozrenie rossiiskoi imperii," st. petersburg, . the above figures include the whole empire. the figures according to the latest census ( ) are not yet available. armed with these materials, the traveller goes to his russian friends who have assured him that their country knows nothing of class distinctions. he is confident of being able to convince them that they have been labouring under a strange delusion, but he will be disappointed. they will tell him that these laws and statistics prove nothing, and that the categories therein mentioned are mere administrative fictions. this apparent contradiction is to be explained by the equivocal meaning of the russian terms sosloviya and sostoyaniya, which are commonly translated "social classes." if by these terms are meant "castes" in the oriental sense, then it may be confidently asserted that such do not exist in russia. between the nobles, the clergy, the burghers, and the peasants there are no distinctions of race and no impassable barriers. the peasant often becomes a merchant, and there are many cases on record of peasants and sons of parish priests becoming nobles. until very recently the parish clergy composed, as we have seen, a peculiar and exclusive class, with many of the characteristics of a caste; but this has been changed, and it may now be said that in russia there are no castes in the oriental sense. if the word sosloviya be taken to mean an organised political unit with an esprit de corps and a clearly conceived political aim, it may likewise be admitted that there are none in russia. as there has been for centuries no political life among the subjects of the tsars, there have been no political parties. on the other hand, to say that social classes have never existed in russia and that the categories which appear in the legislation and in the official statistics are mere administrative fictions, is a piece of gross exaggeration. from the very beginning of russian history we can detect unmistakably the existence of social classes, such as the princes, the boyars, the armed followers of the princes, the peasantry, the slaves, and various others; and one of the oldest legal documents which we possess--the "russian right" (russkaya pravda) of the grand prince yaroslaff ( - )--contains irrefragable proof, in the penalties attached to various crimes, that these classes were formally recognised by the legislation. since that time they have frequently changed their character, but they have never at any period ceased to exist. in ancient times, when there was very little administrative regulation, the classes had perhaps no clearly defined boundaries, and the peculiarities which distinguished them from each other were actual rather than legal--lying in the mode of life and social position rather than in peculiar obligations and privileges. but as the autocratic power developed and strove to transform the nation into a state with a highly centralised administration, the legal element in the social distinctions became more and more prominent. for financial and other purposes the people had to be divided into various categories. the actual distinctions were of course taken as the basis of the legal classification, but the classifying had more than a merely formal significance. the necessity of clearly defining the different groups entailed the necessity of elevating and strengthening the barriers which already existed between them, and the difficulty of passing from one group to another was thereby increased. in this work of classification peter the great especially distinguished himself. with his insatiable passion for regulation, he raised formidable barriers between the different categories, and defined the obligations of each with microscopic minuteness. after his death the work was carried on in the same spirit, and the tendency reached its climax in the reign of nicholas, when the number of students to be received in the universities was determined by imperial ukaz! in the reign of catherine a new element was introduced into the official conception of social classes. down to her time the government had thought merely of class obligations; under the influence of western ideas she introduced the conception of class rights. she wished, as we have seen, to have in her empire a noblesse and tiers-etat like those which existed in france, and for this purpose she granted, first to the dvoryanstvo and afterwards to the towns, an imperial charter, or bill of rights. succeeding sovereigns have acted in the same spirit, and the code now confers on each class numerous privileges as well as numerous obligations. thus, we see, the oft-repeated assertion that the russian social classes are simply artificial categories created by the legislature is to a certain extent true, but is by no means accurate. the social groups, such as peasants, landed proprietors, and the like, came into existence in russia, as in other countries, by the simple force of circumstances. the legislature merely recognised and developed the social distinctions which already existed. the legal status, obligations, and rights of each group were minutely defined and regulated, and legal barriers were added to the actual barriers which separated the groups from each other. what is peculiar in the historical development of russia is this: until lately she remained an almost exclusively agricultural empire with abundance of unoccupied land. her history presents, therefore, few of those conflicts which result from the variety of social conditions and the intensified struggle for existence. certain social groups were, indeed, formed in the course of time, but they were never allowed to fight out their own battles. the irresistible autocratic power kept them always in check and fashioned them into whatever form it thought proper, defining minutely and carefully their obligations, their rights, their mutual relations, and their respective positions in the political organisation. hence we find in the history of russia almost no trace of those class hatreds which appear so conspicuously in the history of western europe.* * this is, i believe, the true explanation of an important fact, which the slavophils endeavoured to explain by an ill-authenticated legend (vide supra p. ). the practical consequence of all this is that in russia at the present day there is very little caste spirit or caste prejudice. within half-a-dozen years after the emancipation of the serfs, proprietors and peasants, forgetting apparently their old relationship of master and serf, were working amicably together in the new local administration, and not a few similar curious facts might be cited. the confident anticipation of many russians that their country will one day enjoy political life without political parties is, if not a contradiction in terms, at least a utopian absurdity; but we may be sure that when political parties do appear they will be very different from those which exist in germany, france, and england. meanwhile, let us see how the country is governed without political parties and without political life in the west-european sense of the term. this will form the subject of our next chapter. chapter xxiv the imperial administration and the officials the officials in norgorod assist me in my studies--the modern imperial administration created by peter the great, and developed by his successors--a slavophil's view of the administration--the administration briefly described--the tchinovniks, or officials--official titles, and their real significance--what the administration has done for russia in the past--its character determined by the peculiar relation between the government and the people--its radical vices--bureaucratic remedies--complicated formal procedure--the gendarmerie: my personal relations with this branch of the administration; arrest and release--a strong, healthy public opinion the only effectual remedy for bad administration. my administrative studies were begun in novgorod. one of my reasons for spending a winter in that provincial capital was that i might study the provincial administration, and as soon as i had made the acquaintance of the leading officials i explained to them the object i had in view. with the kindly bonhomie which distinguishes the russian educated classes, they all volunteered to give me every assistance in their power, but some of them, on mature reflection, evidently saw reason to check their first generous impulse. among these was the vice-governor, a gentleman of german origin, and therefore more inclined to be pedantic than a genuine russian. when i called on him one evening and reminded him of his friendly offer, i found to my surprise that he had in the meantime changed his mind. instead of answering my first simple inquiry, he stared at me fixedly, as if for the purpose of detecting some covert, malicious design, and then, putting on an air of official dignity, informed me that as i had not been authorised by the minister to make these investigations, he could not assist me, and would certainly not allow me to examine the archives. this was not encouraging, but it did not prevent me from applying to the governor, and i found him a man of a very different stamp. delighted to meet a foreigner who seemed anxious to study seriously in an unbiassed frame of mind the institutions of his much-maligned native country, he willingly explained to me the mechanism of the administration which he directed and controlled, and kindly placed at my disposal the books and documents in which i could find the historical and practical information which i required. this friendly attitude of his excellency towards me soon became generally known in the town, and from that moment my difficulties were at an end. the minor officials no longer hesitated to initiate me into the mysteries of their respective departments, and at last even the vice-governor threw off his reserve and followed the example of his colleagues. the elementary information thus acquired i had afterwards abundant opportunities of completing by observation and study in other parts of the empire, and i now propose to communicate to the reader a few of the more general results. the gigantic administrative machine which holds together all the various parts of the vast empire has been gradually created by successive generations, but we may say roughly that it was first designed and constructed by peter the great. before his time the country was governed in a rude, primitive fashion. the grand princes of moscow, in subduing their rivals and annexing the surrounding principalities, merely cleared the ground for a great homogeneous state. wily, practical politicians, rather than statesmen of the doctrinaire type, they never dreamed of introducing uniformity and symmetry into the administration as a whole. they developed the ancient institutions so far as these were useful and consistent with the exercise of autocratic power, and made only such alterations as practical necessity demanded. and these necessary alterations were more frequently local than general. special decisions, instruction to particular officials, and charters for particular communes of proprietors were much more common than general legislative measures. in short, the old muscovite tsars practised a hand-to-mouth policy, destroying whatever caused temporary inconvenience, and giving little heed to what did not force itself upon their attention. hence, under their rule the administration presented not only territorial peculiarities, but also an ill-assorted combination of different systems in the same district--a conglomeration of institutions belonging to different epochs, like a fleet composed of triremes, three-deckers, and iron-clads. this irregular system, or rather want of system, seemed highly unsatisfactory to the logical mind of peter the great, and he conceived the grand design of sweeping it away, and putting in its place a symmetrical bureaucratic machine. it is scarcely necessary to say that this magnificent project, so foreign to the traditional ideas and customs of the people, was not easily realised. imagine a man, without technical knowledge, without skilled workmen, without good tools, and with no better material than soft, crumbling sandstone, endeavouring to build a palace on a marsh! the undertaking would seem to reasonable minds utterly absurd, and yet it must be admitted that peter's project was scarcely more feasible. he had neither technical knowledge, nor the requisite materials, nor a firm foundation to build on. with his usual titanic energy he demolished the old structure, but his attempts to construct were little more than a series of failures. in his numerous ukazes he has left us a graphic description of his efforts, and it is at once instructive and pathetic to watch the great worker toiling indefatigably at his self-imposed task. his instruments are constantly breaking in his hands. the foundations of the building are continually giving way, and the lower tiers crumbling under the superincumbent weight. now and then a whole section is found to be unsuitable, and is ruthlessly pulled down, or falls of its own accord. and yet the builder toils on, with a perseverance and an energy of purpose that compel admiration, frankly confessing his mistakes and failures, and patiently seeking the means of remedying them, never allowing a word of despondency to escape him, and never despairing of ultimate success. and at length death comes, and the mighty builder is snatched away suddenly in the midst of his unfinished labours, bequeathing to his successors the task of carrying on the great work. none of these successors possessed peter's genius and energy--with the exception perhaps of catherine ii.--but they were all compelled by the force of circumstances to adopt his plans. a return to the old rough-and-ready rule of the local voyevods was impossible. as the autocratic power became more and more imbued with western ideas, it felt more and more the need of new means for carrying them out, and accordingly it strove to systematise and centralise the administration. in this change we may perceive a certain analogy with the history of the french administration from the reign of philippe le bel to that of louis xiv. in both countries we see the central power bringing the local administrative organs more and more under its control, till at last it succeeds in creating a thoroughly centralised bureaucratic organisation. but under this superficial resemblance lie profound differences. the french kings had to struggle with provincial sovereignties and feudal rights, and when they had annihilated this opposition they easily found materials with which to build up the bureaucratic structure. the russian sovereigns, on the contrary, met with no such opposition, but they had great difficulty in finding bureaucratic material amongst their uneducated, undisciplined subjects, notwithstanding the numerous schools and colleges which were founded and maintained simply for the purpose of preparing men for the public service. the administration was thus brought much nearer to the west-european ideal, but some people have grave doubts as to whether it became thereby better adapted to the practical wants of the people for whom it was created. on this point a well-known slavophil once made to me some remarks which are worthy of being recorded. "you have observed," he said, "that till very recently there was in russia an enormous amount of official peculation, extortion, and misgovernment of every kind, that the courts of law were dens of iniquity, that the people often committed perjury, and much more of the same sort, and it must be admitted that all this has not yet entirely disappeared. but what does it prove? that the russian people are morally inferior to the german? not at all. it simply proves that the german system of administration, which was forced upon them without their consent, was utterly unsuited to their nature. if a young growing boy be compelled to wear very tight boots, he will probably burst them, and the ugly rents will doubtless produce an unfavourable impression on the passers-by; but surely it is better that the boots should burst than that the feet should be deformed. now, the russian people was compelled to put on not only tight boots, but also a tight jacket, and, being young and vigorous, it burst them. narrow-minded, pedantic germans can neither understand nor provide for the wants of the broad slavonic nature." in its present form the russian administration seems at first sight a very imposing edifice. at the top of the pyramid stands the emperor, "the autocratic monarch," as peter the great described him, "who has to give an account of his acts to no one on earth, but has power and authority to rule his states and lands as a christian sovereign according to his own will and judgment." immediately below the emperor we see the council of state, the committee of ministers, and the senate, which represent respectively the legislative, the administrative, and the judicial power. an englishman glancing over the first volume of the great code of laws might imagine that the council of state is a kind of parliament, and the committee of ministers a cabinet in our sense of the term, but in reality both institutions are simply incarnations of the autocratic power. though the council is entrusted by law with many important functions--such as discussing bills, criticising the annual budget, declaring war and concluding peace--it has merely a consultative character, and the emperor is not in any way bound by its decisions. the committee is not at all a cabinet as we understand the word. the ministers are directly and individually responsible to the emperor, and therefore the committee has no common responsibility or other cohesive force. as to the senate, it has descended from its high estate. it was originally entrusted with the supreme power during the absence or minority of the monarch, and was intended to exercise a controlling influence in all sections of the administration, but now its activity is restricted to judicial matters, and it is little more than a supreme court of appeal. immediately below these three institutions stand the ministries, ten in number. they are the central points in which converge the various kinds of territorial administration, and from which radiates the imperial will all over the empire. for the purpose of territorial administration russia proper--that is to say, european russia, exclusive of poland, the baltic provinces, finland and the caucasus--is divided into forty-nine provinces or "governments" (gubernii), and each government is subdivided into districts (uyezdi). the average area of a province is about the size of portugal, but some are as small as belgium, whilst one at least is twenty-five times as big. the population, however, does not correspond to the amount of territory. in the largest province, that of archangel, there are only about , inhabitants, whilst in two of the smaller ones there are over three millions. the districts likewise vary greatly in size. some are smaller than oxfordshire or buckingham, and others are bigger than the whole of the united kingdom. over each province is placed a governor, who is assisted in his duties by a vice-governor and a small council. according to the legislation of catherine ii., which still appears in the code and has only been partially repealed, the governor is termed "the steward of the province," and is entrusted with so many and such delicate duties, that in order to obtain qualified men for the post it would be necessary to realise the great empress's design of creating, by education, "a new race of people." down to the time of the crimean war the governors understood the term "stewards" in a very literal sense, and ruled in a most arbitrary, high-handed style, often exercising an important influence on the civil and criminal tribunals. these extensive and vaguely defined powers have now been very much curtailed, partly by positive legislation, and partly by increased publicity and improved means of communication. all judicial matters have been placed theoretically beyond the governor's control, and many of his former functions are now fulfilled by the zemstvo--the new organ of local self-government. besides this, all ordinary current affairs are regulated by an already big and ever-growing body of instructions, in the form of imperial orders and ministerial circulars, and as soon as anything not provided for by the instructions happens to occur, the minister is consulted through the post-office or by telegraph. even within the sphere of their lawful authority the governors have now a certain respect for public opinion and occasionally a very wholesome dread of casual newspaper correspondents. thus the men who were formerly described by the satirists as "little satraps" have sunk to the level of subordinate officials. i can confidently say that many (i believe the majority) of them are honest, upright men, who are perhaps not endowed with any unusual administrative capacities, but who perform their duties faithfully according to their lights. if any representatives of the old "satraps" still exist, they must be sought for in the outlying asiatic provinces. independent of the governor, who is the local representative of the ministry of the interior, are a number of resident officials, who represent the other ministries, and each of them has a bureau, with the requisite number of assistants, secretaries, and scribes. to keep this vast and complex bureaucratic machine in motion it is necessary to have a large and well-drilled army of officials. these are drawn chiefly from the ranks of the noblesse and the clergy, and form a peculiar social class called tchinovniks, or men with tchins. as the tchin plays an important part in russia, not only in the official world, but also to some extent in social life, it may be well to explain its significance. all offices, civil and military, are, according to a scheme invented by peter the great, arranged in fourteen classes or ranks, and to each class or rank a particular name is attached. as promotion is supposed to be given according to personal merit, a man who enters the public service for the first time must, whatever be his social position, begin in the lower ranks, and work his way upwards. educational certificates may exempt him from the necessity of passing through the lowest classes, and the imperial will may disregard the restrictions laid down by law; but as general rule a man must begin at or near the bottom of the official ladder, and he must remain on each step a certain specified time. the step on which he is for the moment standing, or, in other words, the official rank or tchin which he possesses determines what offices he is competent to hold. thus rank or tchin is a necessary condition for receiving an appointment, but it does not designate any actual office, and the names of the different ranks are extremely apt to mislead a foreigner. we must always bear this in mind when we meet with those imposing titles which russian tourists sometimes put on their visiting cards, such as "conseiller de cour," "conseiller d'etat," "conseiller prive de s. m. l'empereur de toutes les russies." it would be uncharitable to suppose that these titles are used with the intention of misleading, but that they do sometimes mislead there cannot be the least doubt. i shall never forget the look of intense disgust which i once saw on the face of an american who had invited to dinner a "conseiller de cour," on the assumption that he would have a court dignitary as his guest, and who casually discovered that the personage in question was simply an insignificant official in one of the public offices. no doubt other people have had similar experiences. the unwary foreigner who has heard that there is in russia a very important institution called the "conseil d'etat," naturally supposes that a "conseiller d'etat" is a member of that venerable body; and if he meets "son excellence le conseiller prive," he is pretty sure to assume--especially if the word "actuel" has been affixed--that he sees before him a real living member of the russian privy council. when to the title is added, "de s. m. l'empereur de toutes les russies," a boundless field is opened up to the non-russian imagination. in reality these titles are not nearly so important as they seem. the soi-disant "conseiller de cour" has probably nothing to do with the court. the conseiller d'etat is so far from being a member of the conseil d'etat that he cannot possibly become a member till he receives a higher tchin.* as to the privy councillor, it is sufficient to say that the privy council, which had a very odious reputation in its lifetime, died more than a century ago, and has not since been resuscitated. the explanation of these anomalies is to be found in the fact that the russian tchins, like the german honorary titles--hofrath, staatsrath, geheimrath--of which they are a literal translation, indicate not actual office, but simply official rank. formerly the appointment to an office generally depended on the tchin; now there is a tendency to reverse the old order of things and make the tchin depend upon the office actually held. * in russian the two words are quite different; the council is called gosudarstvenny sovet, and the title statski sovetnik. the reader of practical mind who is in the habit of considering results rather than forms and formalities desires probably no further description of the russian bureaucracy, but wishes to know simply how it works in practice. what has it done for russia in the past, and what is it doing in the present? at the present day, when faith in despotic civilisers and paternal government has been rudely shaken, and the advantages of a free, spontaneous national development are fully recognised, centralised bureaucracies have everywhere fallen into bad odour. in russia the dislike to them is particularly strong, because it has there something more than a purely theoretical basis. the recollection of the reign of nicholas i., with its stern military regime, and minute, pedantic formalism, makes many russians condemn in no measured terms the administration under which they live, and most englishmen will feel inclined to endorse this condemnation. before passing sentence, however, we ought to know that the system has at least an historical justification, and we must not allow our love of constitutional liberty and local self-government to blind us to the distinction between theoretical and historical possibility. what seems to political philosophers abstractly the best possible government may be utterly inapplicable in certain concrete cases. we need not attempt to decide whether it is better for humanity that russia should exist as a nation, but we may boldly assert that without a strongly centralised administration russia would never have become one of the great european powers. until comparatively recent times the part of the world which is known as the russian empire was a conglomeration of independent or semi-independent political units, animated with centrifugal as well as centripetal forces; and even at the present day it is far from being a compact homogeneous state. it was the autocratic power, with the centralised administration as its necessary complement, that first created russia, then saved her from dismemberment and political annihilation, and ultimately secured for her a place among european nations by introducing western civilisation. whilst thus recognising clearly that autocracy and a strongly centralised administration were necessary first for the creation and afterwards for the preservation of national independence, we must not shut our eyes to the evil consequences which resulted from this unfortunate necessity. it was in the nature of things that the government, aiming at the realisation of designs which its subjects neither sympathised with nor clearly understood, should have become separated from the nation; and the reckless haste and violence with which it attempted to carry out its schemes aroused a spirit of positive opposition among the masses. a considerable section of the people long looked on the reforming tsars as incarnations of the spirit of evil, and the tsars in their turn looked upon the people as raw material for the realisation of their political designs. this peculiar relation between the nation and the government has given the key-note to the whole system of administration. the government has always treated the people as minors, incapable of understanding its political aims, and only very partially competent to look after their own local affairs. the officials have naturally acted in the same spirit. looking for direction and approbation merely to their superiors, they have systematically treated those over whom they were placed as a conquered or inferior race. the state has thus come to be regarded as an abstract entity, with interests entirely different from those of the human beings composing it; and in all matters in which state interests are supposed to be involved, the rights of individuals are ruthlessly sacrificed. if we remember that the difficulties of centralised administration must be in direct proportion to the extent and territorial variety of the country to be governed, we may readily understand how slowly and imperfectly the administrative machine necessarily works in russia. the whole of the vast region stretching from the polar ocean to the caspian, and from the shores of the baltic to the confines of the celestial empire, is administered from st. petersburg. the genuine bureaucrat has a wholesome dread of formal responsibility, and generally tries to avoid it by taking all matters out of the hands of his subordinates, and passing them on to the higher authorities. as soon, therefore, as affairs are caught up by the administrative machine they begin to ascend, and probably arrive some day at the cabinet of the minister. thus the ministries are flooded with papers--many of the most trivial import--from all parts of the empire; and the higher officials, even if they had the eyes of an argus and the hands of a briareus, could not possibly fulfil conscientiously the duties imposed on them. in reality the russian administrators of the higher ranks recall neither argus nor briareus. they commonly show neither an extensive nor a profound knowledge of the country which they are supposed to govern, and seem always to have a fair amount of leisure time at their disposal. besides the unavoidable evils of excessive centralisation, russia has had to suffer much from the jobbery, venality, and extortion of the officials. when peter the great one day proposed to hang every man who should steal as much as would buy a rope, his procurator-general frankly replied that if his majesty put his project into execution there would be no officials left. "we all steal," added the worthy official; "the only difference is that some of us steal larger amounts and more openly than others." since these words were spoken nearly two centuries have passed, and during all that time russia has been steadily making progress, but until the accession of alexander ii. in little change took place in the moral character of the administration. some people still living can remember the time when they could have repeated, without much exaggeration, the confession of peter's procurator-general. to appreciate aright this ugly phenomenon we must distinguish two kinds of venality. on the one hand there was the habit of exacting what are vulgarly termed "tips" for services performed, and on the other there were the various kinds of positive dishonesty. though it might not be always easy to draw a clear line between the two categories, the distinction was fully recognised in the moral consciousness of the time, and many an official who regularly received "sinless revenues" (bezgreshniye dokhodi), as the tips were sometimes called, would have been very indignant had he been stigmatised as a dishonest man. the practice was, in fact, universal, and could be, to a certain extent, justified by the smallness of the official salaries. in some departments there was a recognised tariff. the "brandy farmers," for example, who worked the state monopoly for the manufacture and sale of alcoholic liquors, paid regularly a fixed sum to every official, from the governor to the policeman, according to his rank. i knew of one case where an official, on receiving a larger sum than was customary, conscientiously handed back the change! the other and more heinous offences were by no means so common, but were still fearfully frequent. many high officials and important dignitaries were known to receive large revenues, to which the term "sinless" could not by any means be applied, and yet they retained their position, and were received in society with respectful deference. the sovereigns were well aware of the abuses, and strove more or less to root them out, but the success which attended their efforts does not give us a very exalted idea of the practical omnipotence of autocracy. in a centralised bureaucratic administration, in which each official is to a certain extent responsible for the sins of his subordinates, it is always extremely difficult to bring an official culprit to justice, for he is sure to be protected by his superiors; and when the superiors are themselves habitually guilty of malpractices, the culprit is quite safe from exposure and punishment. the tsar, indeed, might do much towards exposing and punishing offenders if he could venture to call in public opinion to his assistance, but in reality he is very apt to become a party to the system of hushing up official delinquencies. he is himself the first official in the realm, and he knows that the abuse of power by a subordinate has a tendency to produce hostility towards the fountain of all official power. frequent punishment of officials might, it is thought, diminish public respect for the government, and undermine that social discipline which is necessary for the public tranquillity. it is therefore considered expedient to give to official delinquencies as little publicity as possible. besides this, strange as it may seem, a government which rests on the arbitrary will of a single individual is, notwithstanding occasional outbursts of severity, much less systematically severe than authority founded on free public opinion. when delinquencies occur in very high places the tsar is almost sure to display a leniency approaching to tenderness. if it be necessary to make a sacrifice to justice, the sacrificial operation is made as painless as may be, and illustrious scapegoats are not allowed to die of starvation in the wilderness--the wilderness being generally paris or the riviera. this fact may seem strange to those who are in the habit of associating autocracy with neapolitan dungeons and the mines of siberia, but it is not difficult to explain. no individual, even though he be the autocrat of all the russias, can so case himself in the armour of official dignity as to be completely proof against personal influences. the severity of autocrats is reserved for political offenders, against whom they naturally harbour a feeling of personal resentment. it is so much easier for us to be lenient and charitable towards a man who sins against public morality than towards one who sins against ourselves! in justice to the bureaucratic reformers in russia, it must be said that they have preferred prevention to cure. refraining from all draconian legislation, they have put their faith in a system of ingenious checks and a complicated formal procedure. when we examine the complicated formalities and labyrinthine procedure by which the administration is controlled, our first impression is that administrative abuses must be almost impossible. every possible act of every official seems to have been foreseen, and every possible outlet from the narrow path of honesty seems to have been carefully walled up. as the english reader has probably no conception of formal procedure in a highly centralised bureaucracy, let me give, by way of illustration, an instance which accidentally came to my knowledge. in the residence of a governor-general one of the stoves is in need of repairs. an ordinary mortal may assume that a man with the rank of governor-general may be trusted to expend a few shillings conscientiously, and that consequently his excellency will at once order the repairs to be made and the payment to be put down among the petty expenses. to the bureaucratic mind the case appears in a very different light. all possible contingencies must be carefully provided for. as a governor-general may possibly be possessed with a mania for making useless alterations, the necessity for the repairs ought to be verified; and as wisdom and honesty are more likely to reside in an assembly than in an individual, it is well to entrust the verification to a council. a council of three or four members accordingly certifies that the repairs are necessary. this is pretty strong authority, but it is not enough. councils are composed of mere human beings, liable to error and subject to be intimidated by a governor-general. it is prudent, therefore, to demand that the decision of the council be confirmed by the procureur, who is directly subordinated to the minister of justice. when this double confirmation has been obtained, an architect examines the stove, and makes an estimate. but it would be dangerous to give carte blanche to an architect, and therefore the estimate has to be confirmed, first by the aforesaid council and afterwards by the procureur. when all these formalities--which require sixteen days and ten sheets of paper--have been duly observed, his excellency is informed that the contemplated repairs will cost two roubles and forty kopecks, or about five shillings of our money. even here the formalities do not stop, for the government must have the assurance that the architect who made the estimate and superintended the repairs has not been guilty of negligence. a second architect is therefore sent to examine the work, and his report, like the estimate, requires to be confirmed by the council and the procureur. the whole correspondence lasts thirty days, and requires no less than thirty sheets of paper! had the person who desired the repairs been not a governor-general, but an ordinary mortal, it is impossible to say how long the procedure might have lasted.* * in fairness i feel constrained to add that incidents of this kind occasionally occur--or at least occurred as late as --in our indian administration. i remember an instance of a pane of glass being broken in the viceroy's bedroom in the viceregal lodge at simla, and it would have required nearly a week, if the official procedure had been scrupulously observed, to have it replaced by the public works department. it might naturally be supposed that this circuitous and complicated method, with its registers, ledgers, and minutes of proceedings, must at least prevent pilfering; but this a priori conclusion has been emphatically belied by experience. every new ingenious device had merely the effect of producing a still more ingenious means of avoiding it. the system did not restrain those who wished to pilfer, and it had a deleterious effect on honest officials by making them feel that the government reposed no confidence in them. besides this, it produced among all officials, honest and dishonest alike, the habit of systematic falsification. as it was impossible for even the most pedantic of men--and pedantry, be it remarked, is a rare quality among russians--to fulfil conscientiously all the prescribed formalities, it became customary to observe the forms merely on paper. officials certified facts which they never dreamed of examining, and secretaries gravely wrote the minutes of meetings that had never been held! thus, in the case above cited, the repairs were in reality begun and ended long before the architect was officially authorised to begin the work. the comedy was nevertheless gravely played out to the end, so that any one afterwards revising the documents would have found that everything had been done in perfect order. perhaps the most ingenious means for preventing administrative abuses was devised by the emperor nicholas i. fully aware that he was regularly and systematically deceived by the ordinary officials, he formed a body of well-paid officers, called the gendarmerie, who were scattered over the country, and ordered to report directly to his majesty whatever seemed to them worthy of attention. bureaucratic minds considered this an admirable expedient; and the tsar confidently expected that he would, by means of these official observers who had no interest in concealing the truth, be able to know everything, and to correct all official abuses. in reality the institution produced few good results, and in some respects had a very pernicious influence. though picked men and provided with good salaries, these officers were all more or less permeated with the prevailing spirit. they could not but feel that they were regarded as spies and informers--a humiliating conviction, little calculated to develop that feeling of self-respect which is the main foundation of uprightness--and that all their efforts could do but little good. they were, in fact, in pretty much the same position as peter's procurator-general, and, with true russian bonhomie, they disliked ruining individuals who were no worse than the majority of their fellows. besides this, according to the received code of official morality insubordination was a more heinous sin than dishonesty, and political offences were regarded as the blackest of all. the gendarmerie officers shut their eyes, therefore, to the prevailing abuses, which were believed to be incurable, and directed their attention to real or imaginary political delinquencies. oppression and extortion remained unnoticed, whilst an incautious word or a foolish joke at the expense of the government was too often magnified into an act of high treason. this force still exists under a slightly modified form. towards the close of the reign of alexander ii. ( ), when count loris melikof, with the sanction and approval of his august master, was preparing to introduce a system of liberal political reforms, it was intended to abolish the gendarmerie as an organ of political espionage, and accordingly the direction of it was transferred from the so-called third section of his imperial majesty's chancery to the ministry of the interior; but when the benevolent monarch was a few months afterwards assassinated by revolutionists, the project was naturally abandoned, and the corps of gendarmes, while remaining nominally under the minister of the interior, was practically reinstated in its former position. now, as then, it serves as a kind of supplement to the ordinary police, and is generally employed for matters in which secrecy is required. unfortunately it is not bound by those legal restrictions which protect the public against the arbitrary will of the ordinary authorities. in addition to its regular duties it has a vaguely defined roving commission to watch and arrest all persons who seem to it in any way dangerous or suspectes, and it may keep such in confinement for an indefinite time, or remove them to some distant and inhospitable part of the empire, without making them undergo a regular trial. it is, in short, the ordinary instrument for punishing political dreamers, suppressing secret societies, counteracting political agitations, and in general executing the extra-legal orders of the government. my relations with this anomalous branch of the administration were somewhat peculiar. after my experience with the vice-governor of novgorod i determined to place myself above suspicion, and accordingly applied to the "chef des gendarmes" for some kind of official document which would prove to all officials with whom i might come in contact that i had no illicit designs. my request was granted, and i was furnished with the necessary documents; but i soon found that in seeking to avoid scylla i had fallen into charybdis. in calming official suspicions, i inadvertently aroused suspicions of another kind. the documents proving that i enjoyed the protection of the government made many people suspect that i was an emissary of the gendarmerie, and greatly impeded me in my efforts to collect information from private sources. as the private were for me more important than the official sources of information, i refrained from asking for a renewal of the protection, and wandered about the country as an ordinary unprotected traveller. for some time i had no cause to regret this decision. i knew that i was pretty closely watched, and that my letters were occasionally opened in the post-office, but i was subjected to no further inconvenience. at last, when i had nearly forgotten all about scylla and charybdis, i one night unexpectedly ran upon the former, and, to my astonishment, found myself formally arrested! the incident happened in this wise. i had been visiting austria and servia, and after a short absence returned to russia through moldavia. on arriving at the pruth, which there forms the frontier, i found an officer of gendarmerie, whose duty it was to examine the passports of all passers-by. though my passport was completely en regle, having been duly vise by the british and russian consuls at galatz, this gentleman subjected me to a searching examination regarding my past life, actual occupation, and intentions for the future. on learning that i had been for more than two years travelling in russia at my own expense, for the simple purpose of collecting miscellaneous information, he looked incredulous, and seemed to have some doubts as to my being a genuine british subject; but when my statements were confirmed by my travelling companion, a russian friend who carried awe-inspiring credentials, he countersigned my passport, and allowed us to depart. the inspection of our luggage by the custom-house officers was soon got over; and as we drove off to the neighbouring village where we were to spend the night we congratulated ourselves on having escaped for some time from all contact with the official world. in this we were "reckoning without the host." as the clock struck twelve that night i was roused by a loud knocking at my door, and after a good deal of parley, during which some one proposed to effect an entrance by force, i drew the bolt. the officer who had signed my passport entered, and said, in a stiff, official tone, "i must request you to remain here for twenty-four hours." not a little astonished by this announcement, i ventured to inquire the reason for this strange request. "that is my business," was the laconic reply. "perhaps it is; still you must, on mature consideration, admit that i too have some interest in the matter. to my extreme regret i cannot comply with your request, and must leave at sunrise." "you shall not leave. give me your passport." "unless detained by force, i shall start at four o'clock; and as i wish to get some sleep before that time, i must request you instantly to retire. you had the right to stop me at the frontier, but you have no right to come and disturb me in this fashion, and i shall certainly report you. my passport i shall give to none but a regular officer of police." here followed a long discussion on the rights, privileges, and general character of the gendarmerie, during which my opponent gradually laid aside his dictatorial tone, and endeavoured to convince me that the honourable body to which he belonged was merely an ordinary branch of the administration. though evidently irritated, he never, i must say, overstepped the bounds of politeness, and seemed only half convinced that he was justified in interfering with my movements. when he found that he could not induce me to give up my passport, he withdrew, and i again lay down to rest; but in about half an hour i was again disturbed. this time an officer of regular police entered, and demanded my "papers." to my inquiries as to the reason of all this disturbance, he replied, in a very polite, apologetic way, that he knew nothing about the reason, but he had received orders to arrest me, and must obey. to him i delivered my passport, on condition that i should receive a written receipt, and should be allowed to telegraph to the british ambassador in st. petersburg. early next morning i telegraphed to the ambassador, and waited impatiently all day for a reply. i was allowed to walk about the village and the immediate vicinity, but of this permission i did not make much use. the village population was entirely jewish, and jews in that part of the world have a wonderful capacity for spreading intelligence. by the early morning there was probably not a man, woman, or child in the place who had not heard of my arrest, and many of them felt a not unnatural curiosity to see the malefactor who had been caught by the police. to be stared at as a malefactor is not very agreeable, so i preferred to remain in my room, where, in the company of my friend, who kindly remained with me and made small jokes about the boasted liberty of british subjects, i spent the time pleasantly enough. the most disagreeable part of the affair was the uncertainty as to how many days, weeks, or months i might be detained, and on this point the police-officer would not even hazard a conjecture. the detention came to an end sooner than i expected. on the following day--that is to say, about thirty-six hours after the nocturnal visit--the police-officer brought me my passport, and at the same time a telegram from the british embassy informed me that the central authorities had ordered my release. on my afterwards pertinaciously requesting an explanation of the unceremonious treatment to which i had been subjected, the minister for foreign affairs declared that the authorities expected a person of my name to cross the frontier about that time with a quantity of false bank-notes, and that i had been arrested by mistake. i must confess that this explanation, though official, seemed to me more ingenious than satisfactory, but i was obliged to accept it for what it was worth. at a later period i had again the misfortune to attract the attention of the secret police, but i reserve the incident till i come to speak of my relations with the revolutionists. from all i have seen and heard of the gendarmerie i am disposed to believe that the officers are for the most part polite, well-educated men, who seek to fulfil their disagreeable duties in as inoffensive a way as possible. it must, however, be admitted that they are generally regarded with suspicion and dislike, even by those people who fear the attempts at revolutionary propaganda which it is the special duty of the gendarmerie to discover and suppress. nor need this surprise us. though very many people believe in the necessity of capital punishment, there are few who do not feel a decided aversion to the public executioner. the only effectual remedy for administrative abuses lies in placing the administration under public control. this has been abundantly proved in russia. all the efforts of the tsars during many generations to check the evil by means of ingenious bureaucratic devices proved utterly fruitless. even the iron will and gigantic energy of nicholas i. were insufficient for the task. but when, after the crimean war, there was a great moral awakening, and the tsar called the people to his assistance, the stubborn, deep-rooted evils immediately disappeared. for a time venality and extortion were unknown, and since that period they have never been able to regain their old force. at the present moment it cannot be said that the administration is immaculate, but it is incomparably purer than it was in old times. though public opinion is no longer so powerful as it was in the early sixties, it is still strong enough to repress many malpractices which in the time of nicholas i. and his predecessors were too frequent to attract attention. on this subject i shall have more to say hereafter. if administrative abuses are rife in the empire of the tsars, it is not from any want of carefully prepared laws. in no country in the world, perhaps, is the legislation more voluminous, and in theory, not only the officials, but even the tsar himself, must obey the laws he has sanctioned, like the meanest of his subjects. this is one of those cases, not infrequent in russia, in which theory differs somewhat from practice. in real life the emperor may at any moment override the law by means of what is called a supreme command (vysotchaishiye povelenie), and a minister may "interpret" a law in any way he pleases by means of a circular. this is a frequent cause of complaint even among those who wish to uphold the autocratic power. in their opinion law-respecting autocracy wielded by a strong tsar is an excellent institution for russia; it is arbitrary autocracy wielded by irresponsible ministers that they object to. as englishmen may have some difficulty in imagining how laws can come into being without a parliament or legislative chamber of some sort, i shall explain briefly how they are manufactured by the russian bureaucratic machine without the assistance of representative institutions. when a minister considers that some institution in his branch of the service requires to be reformed, he begins by submitting to the emperor a formal report on the matter. if the emperor agrees with his minister as to the necessity for reform, he orders a commission to be appointed for the purpose of considering the subject and preparing a definite legislative project. the commission meets and sets to work in what seems a very thorough way. it first studies the history of the institution in russia from the earliest times downwards--or rather, it listens to an essay on the subject, especially prepared for the occasion by some official who has a taste for historical studies, and can write in a pleasant style. the next step--to use a phrase which often occurs in the minutes of such commissions--consists in "shedding the light of science on the question" (prolit' na dyelo svet nauki). this important operation is performed by preparing a memorial containing the history of similar institutions in foreign countries, and an elaborate exposition of numerous theories held by french and german philosophical jurists. in these memorials it is often considered necessary to include every european country except turkey, and sometimes the small german states and principal swiss cantons are treated separately. to illustrate the character of these wonderful productions, let me give an example. from a pile of such papers lying before me i take one almost at random. it is a memorial relating to a proposed reform of benevolent institutions. first i find a philosophical disquisition on benevolence in general; next, some remarks on the talmud and the koran; then a reference to the treatment of paupers in athens after the peloponnesian war, and in rome under the emperors: then some vague observations on the middle ages, with a quotation that was evidently intended to be latin; lastly, comes an account of the poor-laws of modern times, in which i meet with "the anglo-saxon domination," king egbert, king ethelred, "a remarkable book of icelandic laws, called hragas"; sweden and norway, france, holland, belgium, prussia, and nearly all the minor german states. the most wonderful thing is that all this mass of historical information, extending from the talmud to the most recent legislation of hesse-darmstadt, is compressed into twenty-one octavo pages! the doctrinal part of the memorandum is not less rich. many respected names from the literature of germany, france, and england are forcibly dragged in; and the general conclusion drawn from this mass of raw, undigested materials is believed to be "the latest results of science." does the reader suspect that i have here chosen an extremely exceptional case? if so, let us take the next paper in the file. it refers to a project of law regarding imprisonment for debt. on the first page i find references to "the salic laws of the fifth century," and the "assises de jerusalem, a.d ." that, i think, will suffice. let us pass, then, to the next step. when the quintessence of human wisdom and experience has thus been extracted, the commission considers how the valuable product may be applied to russia, so as to harmonise with the existing general conditions and local peculiarities. for a man of practical mind this is, of course, the most interesting and most important part of the operation, but from russian legislators it receives comparatively little attention. very often have i turned to this section of official papers in order to obtain information regarding the actual state of the country, and in every case i have been grievously disappointed. vague general phrases, founded on a priori reasoning rather than on observation, together with a few statistical tables--which the cautious investigator should avoid as he would an ambuscade--are too often all that is to be found. through the thin veil of pseudo-erudition the real facts are clear enough. these philosophical legislators, who have spent their lives in the official atmosphere of st. petersburg, know as much about russia as the genuine cockney knows about great britain, and in this part of their work they derive no assistance from the learned german treatises which supply an unlimited amount of historical facts and philosophical speculation. from the commission the project passes to the council of state, where it is certainly examined and criticised, and perhaps modified, but it is not likely to be improved from the practical point of view, because the members of the council are merely ci-devant members of similar commissions, hardened by a few additional years of official routine. the council is, in fact, an assembly of tchinovniks who know little of the practical, everyday wants of the unofficial classes. no merchant, manufacturer, or farmer ever enters its sacred precincts, so that its bureaucratic serenity is rarely disturbed by practical objections. it is not surprising, therefore, that it has been known to pass laws which were found at once to be absolutely unworkable. from the council of state the bill is taken to the emperor, and he generally begins by examining the signatures. the "ayes" are in one column and the "noes" in another. if his majesty is not specially acquainted with the matter--and he cannot possibly be acquainted with all the matters submitted to him--he usually signs with the majority, or on the side where he sees the names of officials in whose judgment he has special confidence; but if he has strong views of his own, he places his signature in whichever column he thinks fit, and it outweighs the signatures of any number of councillors. whatever side he supports, that side "has it," and in this way a small minority may be transformed into a majority. when the important question, for example, as to how far classics should be taught in the ordinary schools was considered by the council, it is said that only two members signed in favour of classical education, which was excessively unpopular at the moment, but the emperor alexander iii., disregarding public opinion and the advice of his councillors, threw his signature into the lighter scale, and the classicists were victorious. chapter xxv moscow and the slavophils two ancient cities--kief not a good point for studying old russian national life--great russians and little russians--moscow--easter eve in the kremlin--curious custom--anecdote of the emperor nicholas--domiciliary visits of the iberian madonna--the streets of moscow--recent changes in the character of the city--vulgar conception of the slavophils--opinion founded on personal acquaintance--slavophil sentiment a century ago--origin and development of the slavophil doctrine--slavophilism essentially muscovite--the panslavist element--the slavophils and the emancipation. in the last chapter, as in many of the preceding ones, the reader must have observed that at one moment there was a sudden break, almost a solution of continuity, in russian national life. the tsardom of muscovy, with its ancient oriental costumes and byzantine traditions, unexpectedly disappears, and the russian empire, clad in modern garb and animated with the spirit of modern progress, steps forward uninvited into european history. of the older civilisation, if civilisation it can be called, very little survived the political transformation, and that little is generally supposed to hover ghostlike around kief and moscow. to one or other of these towns, therefore, the student who desires to learn something of genuine old russian life, untainted by foreign influences, naturally wends his way. for my part i thought first of settling for a time in kief, the oldest and most revered of russian cities, where missionaries from byzantium first planted christianity on russian soil, and where thousands of pilgrims still assemble yearly from far and near to prostrate themselves before the holy icons in the churches and to venerate the relics of the blessed saints and martyrs in the catacombs of the great monastery. i soon discovered, however, that kief, though it represents in a certain sense the byzantine traditions so dear to the russian people, is not a good point of observation for studying the russian character. it was early exposed to the ravages of the nomadic tribes of the steppe, and when it was liberated from those incursions it was seized by the poles and lithuanians, and remained for centuries under their domination. only in comparatively recent times did it begin to recover its russian character--a university having been created there for that purpose after the polish insurrection of . even now the process of russification is far from complete, and the russian elements in the population are far from being pure in the nationalist sense. the city and the surrounding country are, in fact, little russian rather than great russian, and between these two sections of the population there are profound differences--differences of language, costume, traditions, popular songs, proverbs, folk-lore, domestic arrangements, mode of life, and communal organisation. in these and other respects the little russians, south russians, ruthenes, or khokhly, as they are variously designated, differ from the great russians of the north, who form the predominant factor in the empire, and who have given to that wonderful structure its essential characteristics. indeed, if i did not fear to ruffle unnecessarily the patriotic susceptibilities of my great russian friends who have a pet theory on this subject, i should say that we have here two distinct nationalities, further apart from each other than the english and the scotch. the differences are due, i believe, partly to ethnographical peculiarities and partly to historic conditions. as it was the energetic great russian empire-builders and not the half-dreamy, half-astute, sympathetic descendants of the free cossacks that i wanted to study, i soon abandoned my idea of settling in the holy city on the dnieper, and chose moscow as my point of observation; and here, during several years, i spent regularly some of the winter months. the first few weeks of my stay in the ancient capital of the tsars were spent in the ordinary manner of intelligent tourists. after mastering the contents of a guide-book i carefully inspected all the officially recognised objects of interest--the kremlin, with its picturesque towers and six centuries of historical associations; the cathedrals, containing the venerated tombs of martyrs, saints, and tsars; the old churches, with their quaint, archaic, richly decorated icons; the "patriarchs' treasury," rich in jewelled ecclesiastical vestments and vessels of silver and gold; the ancient and the modern palace; the ethnological museum, showing the costumes and physiognomy of all the various races in the empire; the archaeological collections, containing many objects that recall the barbaric splendour of old muscovy; the picture-gallery, with ivanof's gigantic picture, in which patriotic russian critics discover occult merits which place it above anything that western europe has yet produced! of course i climbed up to the top of the tall belfry which rejoices in the name of "ivan the great," and looked down on the "gilded domes"* of the churches, and bright green roofs of the houses, and far away, beyond these, the gently undulating country with the "sparrow hills," from which napoleon is said, in cicerone language, to have "gazed upon the doomed city." occasionally i walked about the bazaars in the hope of finding interesting specimens of genuine native art-industry, and was urgently invited to purchase every conceivable article which i did not want. at midday or in the evening i visited the most noted traktirs, and made the acquaintance of the caviar, sturgeons, sterlets, and other native delicacies for which these institutions are famous--deafened the while by the deep tones of the colossal barrel-organ, out of all proportion to the size of the room; and in order to see how the common people spent their evenings i looked in at some of the more modest traktirs, and gazed with wonder, not unmixed with fear, at the enormous quantity of weak tea which the inmates consumed. * allowance must be made here for poetical licence. in reality, very few of the domes are gilt. the great majority of them are painted green, like the roofs of the houses. since these first weeks of my sojourn in moscow more than thirty years have passed, and many of my early impressions have been blurred by time, but one scene remains deeply graven on my memory. it was easter eve, and i had gone with a friend to the kremlin to witness the customary religious ceremonies. though the rain was falling heavily, an immense number of people had assembled in and around the cathedral of the assumption. the crowd was of the most mixed kind. there stood the patient bearded muzhik in his well-worn sheepskin; the big, burly, self-satisfied merchant in his long black glossy kaftan; the noble with fashionable great-coat and umbrella; thinly clad old women shivering in the cold, and bright-eyed young damsels with their warm cloaks drawn closely round them; old men with long beard, wallet, and pilgrim's staff; and mischievous urchins with faces for the moment preternaturally demure. each right hand, of old and young alike, held a lighted taper, and these myriads of flickering little flames produced a curious illumination, giving to the surrounding buildings a weird picturesqueness which they do not possess in broad daylight. all stood patiently waiting for the announcement of the glad tidings: "he is risen!" as midnight approached, the hum of voices gradually ceased, till, as the clock struck twelve, the deep-toned bell on "ivan the great" began to toll, and in answer to this signal all the bells in moscow suddenly sent forth a merry peal. each bell--and their name is legion--seemed frantically desirous of drowning its neighbour's voice, the solemn boom of the great one overhead mingling curiously with the sharp, fussy "ting-a-ting-ting" of diminutive rivals. if demons dwell in moscow and dislike bell-ringing, as is generally supposed, then there must have been at that moment a general stampede of the powers of darkness such as is described by milton in his poem on the nativity, and as if this deafening din were not enough, big guns were fired in rapid succession from a battery of artillery close at hand! the noise seemed to stimulate the religious enthusiasm, and the general excitement had a wonderful effect on a russian friend who accompanied me. when in his normal condition that gentleman was a quiet, undemonstrative person, devoted to science, an ardent adherent of western civilisation in general and of darwinism in particular, and a thorough sceptic with regard to all forms of religious belief; but the influence of the surroundings was too much for his philosophical equanimity. for a moment his orthodox muscovite soul awoke from its sceptical, cosmopolitan lethargy. after crossing himself repeatedly--an act of devotion which i had never before seen him perform--he grasped my arm, and, pointing to the crowd, said in an exultant tone of voice, "look there! there is a sight that you can see nowhere but in the 'white-stone city.'* are not the russians a religious people?" *belokamenny, meaning "of white stone," is one of the popular names of moscow. to this unexpected question i gave a monosyllabic assent, and refrained from disturbing my friend's new-born enthusiasm by any discordant note; but i must confess that this sudden outburst of deafening noise and the dazzling light aroused in my heretical breast feelings of a warlike rather than a religious kind. for a moment i could imagine myself in ancient moscow, and could fancy the people being called out to repel a tartar horde already thundering at the gates! the service lasted two or three hours, and terminated with the curious ceremony of blessing the easter cakes, which were ranged--each one with a lighted taper stuck in it--in long rows outside of the cathedral. a not less curious custom practised at this season is that of exchanging kisses of fraternal love. theoretically one ought to embrace and be embraced by all present--indicating thereby that all are brethren in christ--but the refinements of modern life have made innovations in the practice, and most people confine their salutations to their friends and acquaintances. when two friends meet during that night or on the following day, the one says, "christos voskres!" ("christ hath risen!"); and the other replies, "vo istine voskres!" ("in truth he hath risen!"). they then kiss each other three times on the right and left cheek alternately. the custom is more or less observed in all classes of society, and the emperor himself conforms to it. this reminds me of an anecdote which is related of the emperor nicholas i., tending to show that he was not so devoid of kindly human feelings as his imperial and imperious exterior suggested. on coming out of his cabinet one easter morning he addressed to the soldier who was mounting guard at the door the ordinary words of salutation, "christ hath risen!" and received instead of the ordinary reply, a flat contradiction--"not at all, your imperial majesty!" astounded by such an unexpected answer--for no one ventured to dissent from nicholas even in the most guarded and respectful terms--he instantly demanded an explanation. the soldier, trembling at his own audacity, explained that he was a jew, and could not conscientiously admit the fact of the resurrection. this boldness for conscience' sake so pleased the tsar that he gave the man a handsome easter present. a quarter of a century after the easter eve above mentioned--or, to be quite accurate, on the th of may, --i again find myself in the kremlin on the occasion of a great religious ceremony--a ceremony which shows that "the white-stone city" on the moskva is still in some respects the capital of holy russia. this time my post of observation is inside the cathedral, which is artistically draped with purple hangings and crowded with the most distinguished personages of the empire, all arrayed in gorgeous apparel--grand dukes and grand duchesses, imperial highnesses and high excellencies, metropolitans and archbishops, senators and councillors of state, generals and court dignitaries. in the centre of the building, on a high, richly decorated platform, sits the emperor with his imperial consort, and his mother, the widowed consort of alexander iii. though nicholas ii. has not the colossal stature which has distinguished so many of the romanofs, he is well built, holds himself erect, and shows a quiet dignity in his movements; while his face, which resembles that of his cousin, the prince of wales, wears a kindly, sympathetic expression. the empress looks even more than usually beautiful, in a low dress cut in the ancient fashion, her thick brown hair, dressed most simply without jewellery or other ornaments, falling in two long ringlets over her white shoulders. for the moment, her attire is much simpler than that of the empress dowager, who wears a diamond crown and a great mantle of gold brocade, lined and edged with ermine, the long train displaying in bright-coloured embroidery the heraldic double-headed eagle of the imperial arms. each of these august personages sits on a throne of curious workmanship, consecrated by ancient historic associations. that of the emperor, the gift of the shah of persia to ivan the terrible, and commonly called the throne of tsar michael, the founder of the romanof dynasty, is covered with gold plaques, and studded with hundreds of big, roughly cut precious stones, mostly rubies, emeralds, and turquoises. of still older date is the throne of the young empress, for it was given by pope paul ii. to tsar ivan iii., grandfather of the terrible, on the occasion of his marriage with a niece of the last byzantine emperor. more recent but not less curious is that of the empress dowager. it is the throne of tsar alexis, the father of peter the great, covered with countless and priceless diamonds, rubies, and pearls, and surmounted by an imperial eagle of solid gold, together with golden statuettes of st. peter and st. nicholas, the miracle-worker. over each throne is a canopy of purple velvet fringed with gold, out of which rise stately plumes representing the national colours. their majesties have come hither, in accordance with time-honoured custom, to be crowned in this old cathedral of the assumption, the central point of the kremlin, within a stone-throw of the cathedral of the archangel michael, in which lie the remains of the old grand dukes and tsars of muscovy. already the emperor has read aloud, in a clear, unfaltering voice, from a richly bound parchment folio, held by the metropolitan of st. petersburg, the orthodox creed; and his eminence, after invoking on his majesty the blessing of the holy spirit, has performed the mystic rite of placing his hands in the form of a cross on the imperial forehead. thus all is ready for the most important part of the solemn ceremony. standing erect, the emperor doffs his small diadem and puts on with his own hands the great diamond crown, offered respectfully by the metropolitan; then he reseats himself on his throne, holding in his right hand the sceptre and in his left the orb of dominion. after sitting thus in state for a few minutes, he stands up and proceeds to crown his august spouse, kneeling before him. first he touches her forehead with his own crown, and then he places on her head a smaller one, which is immediately attached to her hair by four ladies-in-waiting, dressed in the old muscovite court-costume. at the same time her majesty is invested with a mantle of heavy gold brocade, similar to those of the emperor and empress dowager, lined and bordered with ermine. thus crowned and robed their majesties sit in state, while a proto-deacon reads, in a loud stentorian voice, the long list of sonorous hereditary titles belonging of right to the imperator and autocrat of all the russias, and the choir chants a prayer invoking long life and happiness--"many years! many years! many years!"--on the high and mighty possessor of the titles aforesaid. and now begins the mass, celebrated with a pomp and magnificence that can be witnessed only once or twice in a generation. sixty gorgeously robed ecclesiastical dignitaries of the highest orders fulfil their various functions with due solemnity and unction; but the magnificence of the vestments and the pomp of the ceremonial are soon forgotten in the exquisite solemnising music, as the deep double-bass tones of the adult singers in the background--carefully selected for the occasion in all parts of the empire--peal forth as from a great organ, and blend marvellously with the clear, soft, gentle notes of the red-robed chorister boys in front of the iconostase. listening with intense emotion, i involuntarily recall to mind fra angelico's pictures of angelic choirs, and cannot help thinking that the pious old florentine, whose soul was attuned to all that was sacred and beautiful, must have heard in imagination such music as this. so strong is the impression that the subsequent details of the long ceremony, including the anointing with the holy chrism, fail to engrave themselves on my memory. one incident, however, remains; and if it had happened in an earlier and more superstitious age it would doubtless have been chronicled as an omen full of significance. as the emperor is on the point of descending from the dais, duly crowned and anointed, a staggering ray of sunshine steals through one of the narrow upper windows and, traversing the dimly lit edifice, falls full on the imperial crown, lighting up for a moment the great mass of diamonds with a hundredfold brilliance. in a detailed account of the coronation which i wrote on leaving the kremlin, i find the following: "the magnificent ceremony is at an end, and now nicholas ii. is the crowned emperor and anointed autocrat of all the russias. may the cares of empire rest lightly on him! that must be the earnest prayer of every loyal subject and every sincere well-wisher, for of all living mortals he is perhaps the one who has been entrusted by providence with the greatest power and the greatest responsibilities." in writing those words i did not foresee how heavy his responsibilities would one day weigh upon him, when his empire would be sorely tried, by foreign war and internal discontent. one more of these old moscow reminiscences, and i have done. a day or two after the coronation i saw the khodinskoye polye, a great plain in the outskirts of moscow, strewn with hundreds of corpses! during the previous night enormous crowds from the city and the surrounding districts had collected here in order to receive at sunrise, by the tsar's command, a little memento of the coronation ceremony, in the form of a packet containing a metal cup and a few eatables; and as day dawned, in their anxiety to get near the row of booths from which the distribution was to be made, about two thousand had been crushed to death. it was a sight more horrible than a battlefield, because among the dead were a large proportion of women and children, terribly mutilated in the struggle. altogether, "a sight to shudder at, not to see!" to return to the remark of my friend in the kremlin on easter eve, the russians in general, and the muscovites in particular, as the quintessence of all that is russian, are certainly a religious people, but their piety sometimes finds modes of expression which rather shock the protestant mind. as an instance of these, i may mention the domiciliary visits of the iberian madonna. this celebrated icon, for reasons which i have never heard satisfactorily explained, is held in peculiar veneration by the muscovites, and occupies in popular estimation a position analogous to the tutelary deities of ancient pagan cities. thus when napoleon was about to enter the city in , the populace clamorously called upon the metropolitan to take the madonna, and lead them out armed with hatchets against the hosts of the infidel; and when the tsar visits moscow he generally drives straight from the railway-station to the little chapel where the icon resides--near one of the entrances to the kremlin--and there offers up a short prayer. every orthodox russian, as he passes this chapel, uncovers and crosses himself, and whenever a religious service is performed in it there is always a considerable group of worshippers. some of the richer inhabitants, however, are not content with thus performing their devotions in public before the icon. they like to have it from time to time in their houses, and the ecclesiastical authorities think fit to humour this strange fancy. accordingly every morning the iberian madonna may be seen driving about the city from one house to another in a carriage and four! the carriage may be at once recognised, not from any peculiarity in its structure, for it is an ordinary close carriage such as may be obtained at livery stables, but by the fact that the coachman sits bare-headed, and all the people in the street uncover and cross themselves as it passes. arrived at the house to which it has been invited, the icon is carried through all the rooms, and in the principal apartment a short religious service is performed before it. as it is being brought in or taken away, female servants may sometimes be seen to kneel on the floor so that it may be carried over them. during its absence from its chapel it is replaced by a copy not easily distinguishable from the original, and thus the devotions of the faithful and the flow of pecuniary contributions do not suffer interruption. these contributions, together with the sums paid for the domiciliary visits, amount to a considerable yearly sum, and go--if i am rightly informed--to swell the revenues of the metropolitan. a single drive or stroll through moscow will suffice to convince the traveller, even if he knows nothing of russian history, that the city is not, like its modern rival on the neva, the artificial creation of a far-seeing, self-willed autocrat, but rather a natural product which has grown up slowly and been modified according to the constantly changing wants of the population. a few of the streets have been europeanised--in all except the paving, which is everywhere execrably asiatic--to suit the tastes of those who have adopted european culture, but the great majority of them still retain much of their ancient character and primitive irregularity. as soon as we diverge from the principal thoroughfares, we find one-storied houses--some of them still of wood--which appear to have been transported bodily from the country, with courtyard, garden, stables, and other appurtenances. the whole is no doubt a little compressed, for land has here a certain value, but the character is in no way changed, and we have some difficulty in believing that we are not in the suburbs but near the centre of a great town. there is nothing that can by any possibility be called street architecture. though there is unmistakable evidence of the streets having been laid out according to a preconceived plan, many of them show clearly that in their infancy they had a wayward will of their own, and bent to the right or left without any topographical justification. the houses, too, display considerable individuality of character, having evidently during the course of their construction paid no attention to their neighbours. hence we find no regularly built terraces, crescents, or squares. there is, it is true, a double circle of boulevards, but the houses which flank them have none of that regularity which we commonly associate with the term. dilapidated buildings which in west-european cities would hide themselves in some narrow lane or back slum here stand composedly in the face of day by the side of a palatial residence, without having the least consciousness of the incongruity of their position, just as the unsophisticated muzhik, in his unsavoury sheepskin, can stand in the midst of a crowd of well-dressed people without feeling at all awkward or uncomfortable. all this incongruity, however, is speedily disappearing. moscow has become the centre of a great network of railways, and the commercial and industrial capital of the empire. already her rapidly increasing population has nearly reached a million.* the value of land and property is being doubled and trebled, and building speculations, with the aid of credit institutions of various kinds, are being carried on with feverish rapidity. well may the men of the old school complain that the world is turned upside down, and regret the old times of traditional somnolence and comfortable routine! those good old times are gone now, never to return. the ancient capital, which long gloried in its past historical associations, now glories in its present commercial prosperity, and looks forward with confidence to the future. even the slavophils, the obstinate champions of the ultra-muscovite spirit, have changed with the times, and descended to the level of ordinary prosaic life. these men, who formerly spent years in seeking to determine the place of moscow in the past and future history of humanity, have--to their honour be it said--become in these latter days town-counsellors, and have devoted much of their time to devising ways and means of improving the drainage and the street-paving! but i am anticipating in a most unjustifiable way. i ought first to tell the reader who these slavophils were, and why they sought to correct the commonly received conceptions of universal history. * according to the census of it was , . the reader may have heard of the slavophils as a set of fanatics who, about half a century ago, were wont to go about in what they considered the ancient russian costume, who wore beards in defiance of peter the great's celebrated ukaz and nicholas's clearly-expressed wish anent shaving, who gloried in muscovite barbarism, and had solemnly "sworn a feud" against european civilisation and enlightenment. by the tourists of the time who visited moscow they were regarded as among the most noteworthy lions of the place, and were commonly depicted in not very flattering colours. at the beginning of the crimean war they were among the extreme chauvinists who urged the necessity of planting the greek cross on the desecrated dome of st. sophia in constantinople, and hoped to see the emperor proclaimed "panslavonic tsar"; and after the termination of the war they were frequently accused of inventing turkish atrocities, stirring up discontent among the slavonic subjects of the sultan, and secretly plotting for the overthrow of the ottoman empire. all this was known to me before i went to russia, and i had consequently invested the slavophils with a halo of romance. shortly after my arrival in st. petersburg i heard something more which tended to increase my interest in them--they had caused, i was told, great trepidation among the highest official circles by petitioning the emperor to resuscitate a certain ancient institution, called zemskiye sobory, which might be made to serve the purposes of a parliament! this threw a new light upon them--under the disguise of archaeological conservatives they were evidently aiming at important liberal reforms. as a foreigner and a heretic, i expected a very cold and distant reception from these uncompromising champions of russian nationality and the orthodox faith; but in this i was agreeably disappointed. by all of them i was received in the most amiable and friendly way, and i soon discovered that my preconceived ideas of them were very far from the truth. instead of wild fanatics i found quiet, extremely intelligent, highly educated gentlemen, speaking foreign languages with ease and elegance, and deeply imbued with that western culture which they were commonly supposed to despise. and this first impression was amply confirmed by subsequent experience during several years of friendly intercourse. they always showed themselves men of earnest character and strong convictions, but they never said or did anything that could justify the appellation of fanatics. like all philosophical theorists, they often allowed their logic to blind them to facts, but their reasonings were very plausible--so plausible, indeed, that, had i been a russian they would have almost persuaded me to be a slavophil, at least during the time they were talking to me. to understand their doctrine we must know something of its origin and development. the origin of the slavophil sentiment, which must not be confounded with the slavophil doctrine, is to be sought in the latter half of the seventeenth century, when the tsars of muscovy were introducing innovations in church and state. these innovations were profoundly displeasing to the people. a large portion of the lower classes, as i have related in a previous chapter, sought refuge in old ritualism or sectarianism, and imagined that tsar peter, who called himself by the heretical title of "imperator," was an emanation of the evil principle. the nobles did not go quite so far. they remained members of the official church, and restricted themselves to hinting that peter was the son, not of satan, but of a german surgeon--a lineage which, according to the conceptions of the time, was a little less objectionable; but most of them were very hostile to the changes, and complained bitterly of the new burdens which these changes entailed. under peter's immediate successors, when not only the principles of administration but also many of the administrators were german, this hostility greatly increased. so long as the innovations appeared only in the official activity of the government, the patriotic, conservative spirit was obliged to keep silence; but when the foreign influence spread to the social life of the court aristocracy, the opposition began to find a literary expression. in the time of catherine ii., when gallomania was at its height in court circles, comedies and satirical journals ridiculed those who, "blinded by some externally brilliant gifts of foreigners, not only prefer foreign countries to their native land, but even despise their fellow-countrymen, and think that a russian ought to borrow all--even personal character. as if nature arranging all things with such wisdom, and bestowing on all regions the gifts and customs which are appropriate to the climate, had been so unjust as to refuse to the russians a character of their own! as if she condemned them to wander over all regions, and to adopt by bits the various customs of various nations, in order to compose out of the mixture a new character appropriate to no nation whatever!" numerous passages of this kind might be quoted, attacking the "monkeyism" and "parrotism" of those who indiscriminately adopted foreign manners and customs--those who "sauntered europe round, and gathered ev'ry vice in ev'ry ground." sometimes the terms and metaphors employed were more forcible than refined. one satirical journal, for instance, relates an amusing story about certain little russian pigs that went to foreign lands to enlighten their understanding, and came back to their country full-grown swine. the national pride was wounded by the thought that russians could be called "clever apes who feed on foreign intelligence," and many writers, stung by such reproaches, fell into the opposite extreme, discovering unheard-of excellences in the russian mind and character, and vociferously decrying everything foreign in order to place these imagined excellences in a stronger light by contrast. even when they recognised that their country was not quite so advanced in civilisation as certain other nations, they congratulated themselves on the fact, and invented by way of justification an ingenious theory, which was afterwards developed by the slavophils. "the nations of the west," they said, "began to live before us, and are consequently more advanced than we are; but we have on that account no reason to envy them, for we can profit by their errors, and avoid those deep-rooted evils from which they are suffering. he who has just been born is happier than he who is dying." thus, we see, a patriotic reaction against the introduction of foreign institutions and the inordinate admiration of foreign culture already existed in russia more than a century ago. it did not, however, take the form of a philosophical theory till a much later period, when a similar movement was going on in various countries of western europe. after the overthrow of the great napoleonic empire a reaction against cosmopolitanism took place and a romantic enthusiasm for nationality spread over europe like an epidemic. blind, enthusiastic patriotism became the fashionable sentiment of the time. each nation took to admiring itself complacently, to praising its own character and achievements, and to idealising its historical and mythical past. national peculiarities, "local colour," ancient customs, traditional superstitions--in short, everything that a nation believed to be specially and exclusively its own, now raised an enthusiasm similar to that which had been formerly excited by cosmopolitan conceptions founded on the law of nature. the movement produced good and evil results. in serious minds it led to a deep and conscientious study of history, national literature, popular mythology, and the like; whilst in frivolous, inflammable spirits it gave birth merely to a torrent of patriotic fervour and rhetorical exaggeration. the slavophils were the russian representatives of this nationalistic reaction, and displayed both its serious and its frivolous elements. among the most important products of this movement in germany was the hegelian theory of universal history. according to hegel's views, which were generally accepted by those who occupied themselves with philosophical questions, universal history was described as "progress in the consciousness of freedom" (fortschritt im bewusstsein der freiheit). in each period of the world's history, it was explained, some one nation or race had been intrusted with the high mission of enabling the absolute reason, or weltgeist, to express itself in objective existence, while the other nations and races had for the time no metaphysical justification for their existence, and no higher duty than to imitate slavishly the favoured rival in which the weltgeist had for the moment chosen to incorporate itself. the incarnation had taken place first in the eastern monarchies, then in greece, next in rome, and lastly in the germanic race; and it was generally assumed, if not openly asserted, that this mystical metempsychosis of the absolute was now at an end. the cycle of existence was complete. in the germanic peoples the weltgeist had found its highest and final expression. russians in general knew nothing about german philosophy, and were consequently not in any way affected by these ideas, but there was in moscow a small group of young men who ardently studied german literature and metaphysics, and they were much shocked by hegel's views. ever since the brilliant reign of catherine ii., who had defeated the turks and had dreamed of resuscitating the byzantine empire, and especially since the memorable events of - , when alexander i. appeared as the liberator of enthralled europe and the arbiter of her destinies, russians were firmly convinced that their country was destined to play a most important part in human history. already the great russian historian karamzin had declared that henceforth clio must be silent or accord to russia a prominent place in the history of the nations. now, by the hegelian theory, the whole of the slav race was left out in the cold, with no high mission, with no new truths to divulge, with nothing better to do, in fact, than to imitate the germans. the patriotic philosophers of moscow could not, of course, adopt this view. whilst accepting the fundamental principles, they declared the theory to be incomplete. the incompleteness lay in the assumption that humanity had already entered on the final stages of its development. the teutonic nations were perhaps for the moment the leaders in the march of civilisation, but there was no reason to suppose that they would always retain that privileged position. on the contrary, there were already symptoms that their ascendency was drawing to a close. "western europe," it was said, "presents a strange, saddening spectacle. opinion struggles against opinion, power against power, throne against throne. science, art, and religion, the three chief motors of social life, have lost their force. we venture to make an assertion which to many at present may seem strange, but which will be in a few years only too evident: western europe is on the highroad to ruin! we russians, on the contrary, are young and fresh, and have taken no part in the crimes of europe. we have a great mission to fulfil. our name is already inscribed on the tablets of victory, and now we have to inscribe our spirit in the history of the human mind. a higher kind of victory--the victory of science, art and faith--awaits us on the ruins of tottering europe!"* * these words were written by prince odoefski. this conclusion was supported by arguments drawn from history--or, at least, what was believed to be history. the european world was represented as being composed of two hemispheres--the eastern or graeco-slavonic on the one hand, and the western, or roman catholic and protestant, on the other. these two hemispheres, it was said, are distinguished from each other by many fundamental characteristics. in both of them christianity formed originally the basis of civilisation, but in the west it became distorted and gave a false direction to the intellectual development. by placing the logical reason of the learned above the conscience of the whole church, roman catholicism produced protestantism, which proclaimed the right of private judgment and consequently became split up into innumerable sects. the dry, logical spirit which was thus fostered created a purely intellectual, one-sided philosophy, which must end in pure scepticism, by blinding men to those great truths which lie above the sphere of reasoning and logic. the graeco-slavonic world, on the contrary, having accepted christianity not from rome, but from byzantium, received pure orthodoxy and true enlightenment, and was thus saved alike from papal tyranny and from protestant free-thinking. hence the eastern christians have preserved faithfully not only the ancient dogmas, but also the ancient spirit of christianity--that spirit of pious humility, resignation, and brotherly love which christ taught by precept and example. if they have not yet a philosophy, they will create one, and it will far surpass all previous systems; for in the writings of the greek fathers are to be found the germs of a broader, a deeper, and a truer philosophy than the dry, meagre rationalism of the west--a philosophy founded not on the logical faculty alone, but on the broader basis of human nature as a whole. the fundamental characteristics of the graeco-slavonic world--so runs the slavophil theory--have been displayed in the history of russia. throughout western christendom the principal of individual judgment and reckless individual egotism have exhausted the social forces and brought society to the verge of incurable anarchy and inevitable dissolution, whereas the social and political history of russia has been harmonious and peaceful. it presents no struggles between the different social classes, and no conflicts between church and state. all the factors have worked in unison, and the development has been guided by the spirit of pure orthodoxy. but in this harmonious picture there is one big, ugly black spot--peter, falsely styled "the great," and his so-called reforms. instead of following the wise policy of his ancestors, peter rejected the national traditions and principles, and applied to his country, which belonged to the eastern world, the principles of western civilisation. his reforms, conceived in a foreign spirit, and elaborated by men who did not possess the national instincts, were forced upon the nation against its will, and the result was precisely what might have been expected. the "broad slavonic nature" could not be controlled by institutions which had been invented by narrow-minded, pedantic german bureaucrats, and, like another samson, it pulled down the building in which foreign legislators sought to confine it. the attempt to introduce foreign culture had a still worse effect. the upper classes, charmed and dazzled by the glare and glitter of western science, threw themselves impulsively on the newly found treasures, and thereby condemned themselves to moral slavery and intellectual sterility. fortunately--and herein lay one of the fundamental principles of the slavophil doctrine--the imported civilisation had not at all infected the common people. through all the changes which the administration and the noblesse underwent the peasantry preserved religiously in their hearts "the living legacy of antiquity," the essence of russian nationality, "a clear spring welling up living waters, hidden and unknown, but powerful."* to recover this lost legacy by studying the character, customs, and institutions of the peasantry, to lead the educated classes back to the path from which they had strayed, and to re-establish that intellectual and moral unity which had been disturbed by the foreign importations--such was the task which the slavophils proposed to themselves. * this was one of the favourite themes of khomiakof, the slavophil poet and theologian. deeply imbued with that romantic spirit which distorted all the intellectual activity of the time, the slavophils often indulged in the wildest exaggerations, condemning everything foreign and praising everything russian. when in this mood they saw in the history of the west nothing but violence, slavery, and egotism, and in that of their own country free-will, liberty, and peace. the fact that russia did not possess free political institutions was adduced as a precious fruit of that spirit of christian resignation and self-sacrifice which places the russian at such an immeasurable height above the proud, selfish european; and because russia possessed few of the comforts and conveniences of common life, the west was accused of having made comfort its god! we need not, however, dwell on these puerilities, which only gained for their authors the reputation of being ignorant, narrow-minded men, imbued with a hatred of enlightenment and desirous of leading their country back to its primitive barbarism. what the slavophils really condemned, at least in their calmer moments, was not european culture, but the uncritical, indiscriminate adoption of it by their countrymen. their tirades against foreign culture must appear excusable when we remember that many russians of the upper ranks could speak and write french more correctly than their native language, and that even the great national poet pushkin was not ashamed to confess--what was not true, and a mere piece of affectation--that "the language of europe" was more familiar to him than his mother-tongue! the slavophil doctrine, though it made a great noise in the world, never found many adherents. the society of st. petersburg regarded it as one of those harmless provincial eccentricities which are always to be found in moscow. in the modern capital, with its foreign name, its streets and squares on the european model, its palaces and churches in the renaissance style, and its passionate love of everything french, any attempt to resuscitate the old boyaric times would have been eminently ridiculous. indeed, hostility to st. petersburg and to "the petersburg period of russian history" is one of the characteristic traits of genuine slavophilism. in moscow the doctrine found a more appropriate home. there the ancient churches, with the tombs of grand princes and holy martyrs, the palace in which the tsars of muscovy had lived, the kremlin which had resisted--not always successfully--the attacks of savage tartars and heretical poles, the venerable icons that had many a time protected the people from danger, the block of masonry from which, on solemn occasions, the tsar and the patriarch had addressed the assembled multitude--these, and a hundred other monuments sanctified by tradition, have kept alive in the popular memory some vague remembrance of the olden time, and are still capable of awakening antiquarian patriotism. the inhabitants, too, have preserved something of the old muscovite character. whilst successive sovereigns have been striving to make the country a progressive european empire, moscow has remained the home of passive conservatism and an asylum for the discontented, especially for the disappointed aspirants to imperial favour. abandoned by the modern emperors, she can glory in her ancient tsars. but even the muscovites were not prepared to accept the slavophil doctrine in the extreme form which it assumed, and were not a little perplexed by the eccentricities of those who professed it. plain, sensible people, though they might be proud of being citizens of the ancient capital, and might thoroughly enjoy a joke at the expense of st. petersburg, could not understand a little coterie of enthusiasts who sought neither official rank nor decorations, who slighted many of the conventionalities of the higher classes to which by birth and education they belonged, who loved to fraternise with the common people, and who occasionally dressed in the national costume which had been discarded by the nobles since the time of peter the great. the slavophils thus remained merely a small literary party, which probably did not count more than a dozen members, but their influence was out of all proportion to their numbers. they preached successfully the doctrine that the historical development of russia has been peculiar, that her present social and political organisation is radically different from that of the countries of western europe, and that consequently the social and political evils from which she suffers are not to be cured by the remedies which have proved efficacious in france and germany. these truths, which now appear commonplace, were formerly by no means generally recognised, and the slavophils deserve credit for directing attention to them. besides this, they helped to awaken in the upper classes a lively sympathy with the poor, oppressed, and despised peasantry. so long as the emperor nicholas lived they had to confine themselves to a purely literary activity; but during the great reforms initiated by his successor, alexander ii., they descended into the arena of practical politics, and played a most useful and honourable part in the emancipation of the serfs. in the new local self-government, too--the zemstvo and the new municipal institutions--they laboured energetically and to good purpose. of all this i shall have occasion to speak more fully in future chapters. but what of their panslavist aspirations? by their theory they were constrained to pay attention to the slav race as a whole, but they were more russian than slav, and more muscovite than russian. the panslavist element consequently occupied a secondary place in slavophil doctrine. though they did much to stimulate popular sympathy with the southern slavs, and always cherished the hope that the serbs, bulgarians, and cognate slav nationalities would one day throw off the bondage of the german and the turk, they never proposed any elaborate project for the solution of the eastern question. so far as i was able to gather from their conversation, they seemed to favour the idea of a grand slavonic confederation, in which the hegemony would, of course, belong to russia. in ordinary times the only steps which they took for the realisation of this idea consisted in contributing money for schools and churches among the slav population of austria and turkey, and in educating young bulgarians in russia. during the cretan insurrection they sympathised warmly with the insurgents as co-religionists, but afterwards--especially during the crisis of the eastern question which culminated in the treaty of san stefano and the congress of berlin ( )--their hellenic sympathies cooled, because the greeks showed that they had political aspirations inconsistent with the designs of russia, and that they were likely to be the rivals rather than the allies of the slavs in the struggle for the sick man's inheritance. since the time when i was living in moscow in constant intercourse with the leading slavophils more than a quarter of a century has passed, and of those with whom i spent so many pleasant evenings discussing the past history and future destinies of the slav races, not one remains alive. all the great prophets of the old slavophil doctrine--jun samarin, prince tcherkaski, ivan aksakof, kosheleff--have departed without leaving behind them any genuine disciples. the present generation of muscovite frondeurs, who continue to rail against western europe and the pedantic officialism of st. petersburg, are of a more modern and less academic type. their philippics are directed not against peter the great and his reforms, but rather against recent ministers of foreign affairs who are thought to have shown themselves too subservient to foreign powers, and against m. witte, the late minister of finance, who is accused of favouring the introduction of foreign capital and enterprise, and of sacrificing to unhealthy industrial development the interests of the agricultural classes. these laments and diatribes are allowed free expression in private conversation and in the press, but they do not influence very deeply the policy of the government or the natural course of events; for the ministry of foreign affairs continues to cultivate friendly relations with the cabinets of the west, and moscow is rapidly becoming, by the force of economic conditions, the great industrial and commercial centre of the empire. the administrative and bureaucratic centre--if anything on the frontier of a country can be called its centre--has long been, and is likely to remain, peter's stately city at the mouth of the neva, to which i now invite the reader to accompany me. chapter xxvi st. petersburg and european influence st. petersburg and berlin--big houses--the "lions"--peter the great--his aims and policy--the german regime--nationalist reaction--french influence--consequent intellectual sterility--influence of the sentimental school--hostility to foreign influences--a new period of literary importation--secret societies--the catastrophe--the age of nicholas--a terrible war on parnassus--decline of romanticism and transcendentalism--gogol--the revolutionary agitation of --new reaction--conclusion. from whatever side the traveller approaches st. petersburg, unless he goes thither by sea, he must traverse several hundred miles of forest and morass, presenting few traces of human habitation or agriculture. this fact adds powerfully to the first impression which the city makes on his mind. in the midst of a waste howling wilderness, he suddenly comes on a magnificent artificial oasis. of all the great european cities, the one that most resembles the capital of the tsars is berlin. both are built on perfectly level ground; both have wide, regularly arranged streets; in both there is a general look of stiffness and symmetry which suggests military discipline and german bureaucracy. but there is at least one profound difference. though berlin is said by geographers to be built on the spree, we might live a long time in the city without noticing the sluggish little stream on which the name of a river has been undeservedly conferred. st. petersburg, on the contrary, is built on a magnificent river, which forms the main feature of the place. by its breadth, and by the enormous volume of its clear, blue, cold water, the neva is certainly one of the noblest rivers of europe. a few miles before reaching the gulf of finland it breaks up into several streams and forms a delta. it is here that st. petersburg stands. like the river, everything in st. petersburg is on a colossal scale. the streets, the squares, the palaces, the public buildings, the churches, whatever may be their defects, have at least the attribute of greatness, and seem to have been designed for the countless generations to come, rather than for the practical wants of the present inhabitants. in this respect the city well represents the empire of which it is the capital. even the private houses are built in enormous blocks and divided into many separate apartments. those built for the working classes sometimes contain, i am assured, more than a thousand inhabitants. how many cubic feet of air is allowed to each person, i do not know; not so many, i fear, as is recommended by the most advanced sanitary authorities. for a detailed description of the city i must refer the reader to the guide books. among its numerous monuments, of which the russians are justly proud, i confess that the one which interested me most was neither st. isaac's cathedral, with its majestic gilded dome, its colossal monolithic columns of red granite, and its gaudy interior; nor the hermitage, with its magnificent collection of dutch pictures; nor the gloomy, frowning fortress of st. peter and st. paul, containing the tombs of the emperors. these and other "sights" may deserve all the praise which enthusiastic tourists have lavished upon them, but what made a far deeper impression on me was the little wooden house in which peter the great lived whilst his future capital was being built. in its style and arrangement it looks more like the hut of a navvy than the residence of a tsar, but it was quite in keeping with the character of the illustrious man who occupied it. peter could and did occasionally work like a navvy without feeling that his imperial dignity was thereby impaired. when he determined to build a new capital on a finnish marsh, inhabited chiefly by wildfowl, he did not content himself with exercising his autocratic power in a comfortable arm chair. like the greek gods, he went down from his olympus and took his place in the ranks of ordinary mortals, superintending the work with his own eyes, and taking part in it with his own hands. if he was as arbitrary and oppressive as any of the pyramid-building pharaohs, he could at least say in self-justification that he did not spare himself any more than his people, but exposed himself freely to the discomforts and dangers under which thousands of his fellow-labourers succumbed. in reading the account of peter's life, written in part by his own pen, we can easily understand how the piously conservative section of his subjects failed to recognise in him the legitimate successor of the orthodox tsars. the old tsars had been men of grave, pompous demeanour, deeply imbued with the consciousness of their semi-religious dignity. living habitually in moscow or its immediate neighbourhood, they spent their time in attending long religious services, in consulting with their boyars, in being present at ceremonious hunting-parties, in visiting the monasteries, and in holding edifying conversations with ecclesiastical dignitaries or revered ascetics. if they undertook a journey, it was probably to make a pilgrimage to some holy shrine; and, whether in moscow or elsewhere, they were always protected from contact with ordinary humanity by a formidable barricade of court ceremonial. in short, they combined the characters of a christian monk and of an oriental potentate. peter was a man of an entirely different type, and played in the calm, dignified, orthodox, ceremonious world of moscow the part of the bull in the china shop, outraging ruthlessly and wantonly all the time-honored traditional conceptions of propriety and etiquette. utterly regardless of public opinion and popular prejudices, he swept away the old formalities, avoided ceremonies of all kinds, scoffed at ancient usage, preferred foreign secular books to edifying conversations, chose profane heretics as his boon companions, travelled in foreign countries, dressed in heretical costume, defaced the image of god and put his soul in jeopardy by shaving off his beard, compelled his nobles to dress and shave like himself, rushed about the empire as if goaded on by the demon of unrest, employed his sacred hands in carpentering and other menial occupations, took part openly in the uproarious orgies of his foreign soldiery, and, in short, did everything that "the lord's anointed" might reasonably be expected not to do. no wonder the muscovites were scandalised by his conduct, and that some of them suspected he was not the tsar at all, but antichrist in disguise. and no wonder he felt the atmosphere of moscow oppressive, and preferred living in the new capital which he had himself created. his avowed object in building st. petersburg was to have "a window by which the russians might look into civilised europe"; and well has the city fulfilled its purpose. from its foundation may be dated the european period of russian history. before peter's time russia belonged to asia rather than to europe, and was doubtless regarded by englishmen and frenchmen pretty much as we nowadays regard bokhara or kashgar; since that time she has formed an integral part of the european political system, and her intellectual history has been but a reflection of the intellectual history of western europe, modified and coloured by national character and by peculiar local conditions. when we speak of the intellectual history of a nation we generally mean in reality the intellectual history of the upper classes. with regard to russia, more perhaps than with regard to any other country, this distinction must always carefully be borne in mind. peter succeeded in forcing european civilisation on the nobles, but the people remained unaffected. the nation was, as it were, cleft in two, and with each succeeding generation the cleft has widened. whilst the masses clung obstinately to their time-honoured customs and beliefs, the nobles came to look on the objects of popular veneration as the relics of a barbarous past, of which a civilised nation ought to be ashamed. the intellectual movement inaugurated by peter had a purely practical character. he was himself a thorough utilitarian, and perceived clearly that what his people needed was not theological or philosophical enlightment, but plain, practical knowledge suitable for the requirements of everyday life. he wanted neither theologians nor philosophers, but military and naval officers, administrators, artisans, miners, manufacturers, and merchants, and for this purpose he introduced secular technical education. for the young generation primary schools were founded, and for more advanced pupils the best foreign works on fortification, architecture, navigation, metallurgy, engineering and cognate subjects were translated into the native tongue. scientific men and cunning artificers were brought into the country, and young russians were sent abroad to learn foreign languages and the useful arts. in a word, everything was done that seemed likely to raise the russians to the level of material well-being already attained by the more advanced nations. we have here an important peculiarity in the intellectual development of russia. in western europe the modern scientific spirit, being the natural offspring of numerous concomitant historical causes, was born in the natural way, and society had, consequently, before giving birth to it, to endure the pains of pregnancy and the throes of prolonged labour. in russia, on the contrary, this spirit appeared suddenly as an adult foreigner, adopted by a despotic paterfamilias. thus russia made the transition from mediaeval to modern times without any violent struggle between the old and the new conceptions such as had taken place in the west. the church, effectually restrained from all active opposition by the imperial power, preserved unmodified her ancient beliefs; whilst the nobles, casting their traditional conceptions and beliefs to the winds, marched forward unfettered on that path which their fathers and grandfathers had regarded as the direct road to perdition. during the first part of peter's reign russia was not subjected to the exclusive influence of any one particular country. thoroughly cosmopolitan in his sympathies, the great reformer, like the japanese of the present day, was ready to borrow from any foreign nation--german, dutch, danish, or french--whatever seemed to him to suit his purpose. but soon the geographical proximity to germany, the annexation of the baltic provinces in which the civilisation was german, and intermarriages between the imperial family and various german dynasties, gave to german influence a decided preponderance. when the empress anne, peter's niece, who had been duchess of courland, entrusted the whole administration of the country to her favourite biron, the german influence became almost exclusive, and the court, the official world, and the schools were germanised. the harsh, cruel, tyrannical rule of biron produced a strong reaction, ending in a revolution, which raised to the throne the princess elizabeth, peter's unmarried daughter, who had lived in retirement and neglect during the german regime. she was expected to rid the country of foreigners, and she did what she could to fulfil the expectations that were entertained of her. with loud protestations of patriotic feelings, she removed the germans from all important posts, demanded that in future the members of the academy should be chosen from among born russians, and gave orders that the russian youth should be carefully prepared for all kinds of official activity. this attempt to throw off the german bondage did not lead to intellectual independence. during peter's violent reforms russia had ruthlessly thrown away her own historic past with whatever germs it contained, and now she possessed none of the elements of a genuine national culture. she was in the position of a fugitive who has escaped from slavery, and, finding himself in danger of starvation, looks about for a new master. the upper classes, who had acquired a taste for foreign civilisation, no sooner threw off everything german than they sought some other civilisation to put in its place. and they could not long hesitate in making a choice, for at that time all who thought of culture and refinement turned their eyes to paris and versailles. all that was most brilliant and refined was to be found at the court of the french kings, under whose patronage the art and literature of the renaissance had attained their highest development. even germany, which had resisted the ambitious designs of louis xiv., imitated the manners of his court. every petty german potentate strove to ape the pomp and dignity of the grand monarque; and the courtiers, affecting to look on everything german as rude and barbarous, adopted french fashions, and spoke a hybrid jargon which they considered much more elegant than the plain mother tongue. in a word, gallomania had become the prevailing social epidemic of the time, and it could not fail to attack and metamorphose such a class as the russian noblesse, which possessed few stubborn deep-rooted national convictions. at first the french influence was manifested chiefly in external forms--that is to say, in dress, manners, language, and upholstery--but gradually, and very rapidly after the accession of catherine ii., the friend of voltaire and the encyclopaedists, it sank deeper. every noble who had pretensions to being "civilised" learned to speak french fluently, and gained some superficial acquaintance with french literature. the tragedies of corneille and racine and the comedies of moliere were played regularly at the court theatre in presence of the empress, and awakened a real or affected enthusiasm among the audience. for those who preferred reading in their native language, numerous translations were published, a simple list of which would fill several pages. among them we find not only voltaire, rousseau, lesage, marmontel, and other favourite french authors, but also all the masterpieces of european literature, ancient and modern, which at that time enjoyed a high reputation in the french literary world--homer and demosthenes, cicero and virgil, ariosto and camoens, milton and locke, sterne and fielding. it is related of byron that he never wrote a description whilst the scene was actually before him; and this fact points to an important psychological principle. the human mind, so long as it is compelled to strain the receptive faculties, cannot engage in that "poetic" activity--to use the term in its greek sense--which is commonly called "original creation." and as with individuals, so with nations. by accepting in a lump a foreign culture a nation inevitably condemns itself for a time to intellectual sterility. so long as it is occupied in receiving and assimilating a flood of new ideas, unfamiliar conceptions, and foreign modes of thought, it will produce nothing original, and the result of its highest efforts will be merely successful imitation. we need not be surprised therefore to find that the russians, in becoming acquainted with foreign literature, became imitators and plagiarists. in this kind of work their natural pliancy of mind and powerful histrionic talent made them wonderfully successful. odes, pseudo-classical tragedies, satirical comedies, epic poems, elegies, and all the other recognised forms of poetical composition, appeared in great profusion, and many of the writers acquired a remarkable command over their native language, which had hitherto been regarded as uncouth and barbarous. but in all this mass of imitative literature, which has since fallen into well-merited oblivion, there are very few traces of genuine originality. to obtain the title of the russian racine, the russian lafontaine, the russian pindar, or the russian homer, was at that time the highest aim of russian literary ambition. together with the fashionable literature the russian educated classes adopted something of the fashionable philosophy. they were peculiarly unfitted to resist that hurricane of "enlightenment" which swept over europe during the latter half of the eighteenth century, first breaking or uprooting the received philosophical systems, theological conceptions, and scientific theories, and then shaking to their foundations the existing political and social institutions. the russian noblesse had neither the traditional conservative spirit, nor the firm, well-reasoned, logical beliefs which in england and germany formed a powerful barrier against the spread of french influence. they had been too recently metamorphosed, and were too eager to acquire a foreign civilisation, to have even the germs of a conservative spirit. the rapidity and violence with which peter's reforms had been effected, together with the peculiar spirit of greek orthodoxy and the low intellectual level of the clergy, had prevented theology from associating itself with the new order of things. the upper classes had become estranged from the beliefs of their forefathers without acquiring other beliefs to supply the place of those which had been lost. the old religious conceptions were inseparably interwoven with what was recognised as antiquated and barbarous, whilst the new philosophical ideas were associated with all that was modern and civilised. besides this, the sovereign, catherine ii., who enjoyed the unbounded admiration of the upper classes, openly professed allegiance to the new philosophy, and sought the advice and friendship of its high priests. if we bear in mind these facts we shall not be surprised to find among the russian nobles of that time a considerable number of so-called "voltaireans" and numerous unquestioning believers in the infallibility of the encyclopedie. what is a little more surprising is, that the new philosophy sometimes found its way into the ecclesiastical seminaries. the famous speranski relates that in the seminary of st. petersburg one of his professors, when not in a state of intoxication, was in the habit of preaching the doctrines of voltaire and diderot! the rise of the sentimental school in western europe produced an important change in russian literature, by undermining the inordinate admiration for the french pseudo-classical school. florian, richardson, sterne, rousseau, and bernardin de st. pierre found first translators, and then imitators, and soon the loud-sounding declamation and wordy ecstatic despair of the stage heroes were drowned in the deep-drawn sighs and plaintive wailings of amorous swains and peasant-maids forsaken. the mania seems to have been in russia even more severe than in the countries where it originated. full-grown, bearded men wept because they had not been born in peaceful primitive times, "when all men were shepherds and brothers." hundreds of sighing youths and maidens visited the scenes described by the sentimental writers, and wandered by the rivers and ponds in which despairing heroines had drowned themselves. people talked, wrote, and meditated about "the sympathy of hearts created for each other," "the soft communion of sympathetic souls," and much more of the same kind. sentimental journeys became a favourite amusement, and formed the subject of very popular books, containing maudlin absurdities likely to produce nowadays mirth rather than tears. one traveller, for instance, throws himself on his knees before an old oak and makes a speech to it; another weeps daily on the grave of a favourite dog, and constantly longs to marry a peasant girl; a third talks love to the moon, sends kisses to the stars, and wishes to press the heavenly orbs to his bosom! for a time the public would read nothing but absurd productions of this sort, and karamzin, the great literary authority of the time, expressly declared that the true function of art was "to disseminate agreeable impressions in the region of the sentimental." the love of french philosophy vanished as suddenly as the inordinate admiration of the french pseudo-classical literature. when the great revolution broke out in paris the fashionable philosophic literature in st. petersburg disappeared. men who talked about political freedom and the rights of man, without thinking for a moment of limiting the autocratic power or of emancipating their serfs, were naturally surprised and frightened on discovering what the liberal principles could effect when applied to real life. horrified by the awful scenes of the terror, they hastened to divest themselves of the principles which led to such results, and sank into a kind of optimistic conservatism that harmonised well with the virtuous sentimentalism in vogue. in this the empress herself gave the example. the imperial disciple and friend of the encyclopaedists became in the last years of her reign a decided reactionnaire. during the napoleonic wars, when the patriotic feelings were excited, there was a violent hostility to foreign intellectual influence; and feeble intermittent attempts were made to throw off the intellectual bondage. the invasion of the country in by the grande armee, and the burning of moscow, added abundant fuel to this patriotic fire. for some time any one who ventured to express even a moderate admiration for french culture incurred the risk of being stigmatised as a traitor to his country and a renegade to the national faith. but this patriotic fanaticism soon evaporated, and exaggerations of the ultra-national party became the object of satire and parody. when the political danger was past, and people resumed their ordinary occupations, those who loved foreign literature returned to their old favourites--or, as the ultra-patriots called it, to their "wallowing in the mire"--simply because the native literature did not supply them with what they desired. "we are quite ready," they said to their upbraiders, "to admire your great works as soon as they appear, but in the meantime please allow us to enjoy what we possess." thus in the last years of the reign of alexander i. the patriotic opposition to west european literature gradually ceased, and a new period of unrestricted intellectual importation began. the intellectual merchandise now brought into the country was very different from that which had been imported in the time of catherine. the french revolution, the napoleonic domination, the patriotic wars, the restoration of the bourbons, and the other great events of that memorable epoch, had in the interval produced profound changes in the intellectual as well as the political condition of western europe. during the napoleonic wars russia had become closely associated with germany; and now the peculiar intellectual fermentation which was going on among the german educated classes was reflected in the society of st. petersburg. it did not appear, indeed, in the printed literature, for the press-censure had been recently organised on the principles laid down by metternich, but it was none the less violent on that account. whilst the periodicals were filled with commonplace meditations on youth, spring, the love of art, and similar innocent topics, the young generation was discussing in the salons all the burning questions which metternich and his adherents were endeavouring to extinguish. these discussions, if discussions they might be called, were not of a very serious kind. in true dilettante style the fashionable young philosophers culled from the newest books the newest thoughts and theories, and retailed them in the salon or the ballroom. and they were always sure to find attentive listeners. the more astounding the idea or dogma, the more likely was it to be favourably received. no matter whether it came from the rationalists, the mystics, the freemasons, or the methodists, it was certain to find favour, provided it was novel and presented in an elegant form. the eclectic minds of that curious time could derive equal satisfaction from the brilliant discourses of the reactionary jesuitical de maistre, the revolutionary odes of pushkin, and the mysticism of frau von krudener. for the majority the vague theosophic doctrines and the projects for a spiritual union of governments and peoples had perhaps the greatest charm, being specially commended by the fact that they enjoyed the protection and sympathy of the emperor. pious souls discovered in the mystical lucubrations of jung-stilling and baader the final solution of all existing difficulties--political, social, and philosophical. men of less dreamy temperament put their faith in political economy and constitutional theories, and sought a foundation for their favourite schemes in the past history of the country and in the supposed fundamental peculiarities of the national character. like the young german democrats, who were then talking enthusiastically about teutons, cheruskers, skalds, the shade of arminius, and the heroes of the niebelungen, these young russian savants recognised in early russian history--when reconstructed according to their own fancy--lofty political ideals, and dreamed of resuscitating the ancient institutions in all their pristine imaginary splendour. each age has its peculiar social and political panaceas. one generation puts its trust in religion, another in philanthropy, a third in written constitutions, a fourth in universal suffrage, a fifth in popular education. in the epoch of the restoration, as it is called, the favourite panacea all over the continent was secret political association. very soon after the overthrow of napoleon the peoples who had risen in arms to obtain political independence discovered that they had merely changed masters. the princes reconstructed europe according to their own convenience, without paying much attention to patriotic aspirations, and forgot their promises of liberal institutions as soon as they were again firmly seated on their thrones. this was naturally for many a bitter deception. the young generation, excluded from all share in political life and gagged by the stringent police supervision, sought to realise its political aspirations by means of secret societies, resembling more or less the masonic brotherhoods. there were the burschenschaften in germany; the union, and the "aide toi et le ciel t'aidera," in france; the order of the hammer in spain; the carbonari in italy; and the hetairai in greece. in russia the young nobles followed the prevailing fashion. secret societies were formed, and in december, , an attempt was made to raise a military insurrection in st. petersburg, for the purpose of deposing the imperial family and proclaiming a republic; but the attempt failed, and the vague utopian dreams of the romantic would-be reformers were swept away by grape-shot. this "december catastrophe," still vividly remembered, was for the society of st. petersburg like the giving way of the floor in a crowded ball-room. but a moment before, all had been animated, careless, and happy; now consternation was depicted on every face. the salons, that but yesterday had been ringing with lively discussions on morals, aesthetics, politics, and theology, were now silent and deserted. many of those who had been wont to lead the causeries had been removed to the cells of the fortress, and those who had not been arrested trembled for themselves or their friends; for nearly all had of late dabbled more or less in the theory and practice of revolution. the announcement that five of the conspirators had been condemned to the gallows and the others sentenced to transportation did not tend to calm the consternation. society was like a discomfited child, who, amidst the delight and excitement of letting off fireworks, has had its fingers severely burnt. the sentimental, wavering alexander i. had been succeeded by his stern, energetic brother nicholas, and the command went forth that there should be no more fireworks, no more dilettante philosophising or political aspirations. there was, however, little need for such an order. society had been, for the moment at least, effectually cured of all tendencies to political dreaming. it had discovered, to its astonishment and dismay, that these new ideas, which were to bring temporal salvation to humanity, and to make all men happy, virtuous, refined, and poetical, led in reality to exile and the scaffold! the pleasant dream was at an end, and the fashionable world, giving up its former habits, took to harmless occupations--card-playing, dissipation, and the reading of french light literature. "the french quadrille," as a writer of the time tersely expresses it, "has taken the place of adam smith." when the storm had passed, the life of the salons began anew, but it was very different from what it had been. there was no longer any talk about political economy, theology, popular education, administrative abuses, social and political reforms. everything that had any relation to politics in the wider sense of the term was by tacit consent avoided. discussions there were as of old, but they were now confined to literary topics, theories of art, and similar innocent subjects. this indifference or positive repugnance to philosophy and political science, strengthened and prolonged by the repressive system of administration adopted by nicholas, was of course fatal to the many-sided intellectual activity which had flourished during the preceding reign, but it was by no means unfavourable to the cultivation of imaginative literature. on the contrary, by excluding those practical interests which tend to disturb artistic production and to engross the attention of the public, it fostered what was called in the phraseology of that time "the pure-hearted worship of the muses." we need not, therefore, be surprised to find that the reign of nicholas, which is commonly and not unjustly described as an epoch of social and intellectual stagnation, may be called in a certain sense the golden age of russian literature. already in the preceding reign the struggle between the classical and the romantic school--between the adherents of traditional aesthetic principles and the partisans of untrammelled poetic inspiration--which was being carried on in western europe, was reflected in russia. a group of young men belonging to the aristocratic society of st. petersburg embraced with enthusiasm the new doctrines, and declared war against "classicism," under which term they understood all that was antiquated, dry, and pedantic. discarding the stately, lumbering, unwieldy periods which had hitherto been in fashion, they wrote a light, elastic, vigorous style, and formed a literary society for the express purpose of ridiculing the most approved classical writers. the new principles found many adherents, and the new style many admirers, but this only intensified the hostility of the literary conservatives. the staid, respectable leaders of the old school, who had all their lives kept the fear of boileau before their eyes and considered his precepts as the infallible utterances of aesthetic wisdom, thundered against the impious innovations as unmistakable symptoms of literary decline and moral degeneracy--representing the boisterous young iconoclasts as dissipated don juans and dangerous freethinkers. thus for some time in russia, as in western europe, "a terrible war raged on parnassus." at first the government frowned at the innovators, on account of certain revolutionary odes which one of their number had written; but when the romantic muse, having turned away from the present as essentially prosaic, went back into the distant past and soared into the region of sublime abstractions, the most keen-eyed press censors found no reason to condemn her worship, and the authorities placed almost no restrictions on free poetic inspiration. romantic poetry acquired the protection of the government and the patronage of the court, and the names of zhukofski, pushkin, and lermontof--the three chief representatives of the russian romantic school--became household words in all ranks of the educated classes. these three great luminaries of the literary world were of course attended by a host of satellites of various magnitudes, who did all in their power to refute the romantic principles by reductiones ad absurdum. endowed for the most part with considerable facility of composition, the poetasters poured forth their feelings with torrential recklessness, demanding freedom for their inspiration, and cursing the age that fettered them with its prosaic cares, its cold reason, and its dry science. at the same time the dramatists and novelists created heroes of immaculate character and angelic purity, endowed with all the cardinal virtues in the superlative degree; and, as a contrast to these, terrible satanic personages with savage passions, gleaming daggers, deadly poisons, and all manner of aimless melodramatic villainy. these stilted productions, interspersed with light satirical essays, historical sketches, literary criticism, and amusing anecdotes, formed the contents of the periodical literature, and completely satisfied the wants of the reading public. almost no one at that time took any interest in public affairs or foreign politics. the acts of the government which were watched most attentively were the promotions in the service and the conferring of decorations. the publication of a new tale by zagoskin or marlinski--two writers now well-nigh forgotten--seemed of much greater importance than any amount of legislation, and such events as the french revolution of paled before the publication of a new poem by pushkin. the transcendental philosophy, which in germany went hand in hand with the romantic literature, found likewise a faint reflection in russia. a number of young professors and students in moscow, who had become ardent admirers of german literature, passed from the works of schiller, goethe, and hoffmann to the writing of schelling and hegel. trained in the romantic school, these young philosophers found at first a special charm in schelling's mystical system, teeming with hazy poetical metaphors, and presenting a misty grandiose picture of the universe; but gradually they felt the want of some logical basis for their speculations, and hegel became their favourite. gallantly they struggled with the uncouth terminology and epigrammatic paradoxes of the great thinker, and strove to force their way through the intricate mazes of his logical formulae. with the ardour of neophytes they looked at every phenomenon--even the most trivial incident of common life--from the philosophical point of view, talked day and night about principles, ideas, subjectivity, weltauffassung, and similar abstract entities, and habitually attacked the "hydra of unphilosophy" by analysing the phenomena presented and relegating the ingredient elements to the recognised categories. in ordinary life they were men of quiet, grave, contemplative demeanour, but their faces could flush and their blood boil when they discussed the all-important question, whether it is possible to pass logically from pure being through nonentity to the conception of development and definite existence! we know how in western europe romanticism and transcendentalism, in their various forms, sank into oblivion, and were replaced by a literature which had a closer connection with ordinary prosaic wants and plain everyday life. the educated public became weary of the romantic writers, who were always "sighing like a furnace," delighting in solitude, cold eternity, and moonshine, deluging the world with their heart-gushings, and calling on the heavens and the earth to stand aghast at their promethean agonising or their wertherean despair. healthy human nature revolted against the poetical enthusiasts who had lost the faculty of seeing things in their natural light, and who constantly indulged in that morbid self-analysis which is fatal to genuine feeling and vigorous action. and in this healthy reaction the philosophers fared no better than the poets, with whom, indeed, they had much in common. shutting their eyes to the visible world around them, they had busied themselves with burrowing in the mysterious depths of absolute being, grappling with the ego and the non-ego, constructing the great world, visible and invisible, out of their own puny internal self-consciousness, endeavouring to appropriate all departments of human thought, and imparting to every subject they touched the dryness and rigidity of an algebraical formula. gradually men with real human sympathies began to perceive that from all this philosophical turmoil little real advantage was to be derived. it became only too evident that the philosophers were perfectly reconciled with all the evil in the world, provided it did not contradict their theories; that they were men of the same type as the physician in moliere's comedy, whose chief care was that his patients should die selon les ordonnances de la medicine. in russia the reaction first appeared in the aesthetic literature. its first influential representative was gogol (b. , d. ), who may be called, in a certain sense, the russian dickens. a minute comparison of those two great humourists would perhaps show as many points of contrast as of similarity, but there is a strong superficial resemblance between them. they both possessed an inexhaustible supply of broad humour and an imagination of singular vividness. both had the power of seeing the ridiculous side of common things, and the talent of producing caricatures that had a wonderful semblance of reality. a little calm reflection would suffice to show that the characters presented are for the most part psychological impossibilities; but on first making their acquaintance we are so struck with one or two life-like characteristics and various little details dexterously introduced, and at the same time we are so carried away by the overflowing fun of the narrative, that we have neither time nor inclination to use our critical faculties. in a very short time gogol's fame spread throughout the length and breadth of the empire, and many of his characters became as familiar to his countrymen as sam weller and mrs. gamp were to englishmen. his descriptions were so graphic--so like the world which everybody knew! the characters seemed to be old acquaintances hit off to the life; and readers revelled in that peculiar pleasure which most of us derive from seeing our friends successfully mimicked. even the iron tsar could not resist the fun and humour of "the inspector" (revizor), and not only laughed heartily, but also protected the author against the tyranny of the literary censors, who considered that the piece was not written in a sufficiently "well-intentioned" tone. in a word, the reading public laughed as it had never laughed before, and this wholesome genuine merriment did much to destroy the morbid appetite for byronic heroes and romantic affectation. the romantic muse did not at once abdicate, but with the spread of gogol's popularity her reign was practically at an end. in vain some of the conservative critics decried the new favourite as talentless, prosaic, and vulgar. the public were not to be robbed of their amusement for the sake of any abstract aesthetic considerations; and young authors, taking gogol for their model, chose their subjects from real life, and endeavoured to delineate with minute truthfulness. this new intellectual movement was at first purely literary, and affected merely the manner of writing novels, tales, and poems. the critics who had previously demanded beauty of form and elegance of expression now demanded accuracy of description, condemned the aspirations towards so-called high art, and praised loudly those who produced the best literary photographs. but authors and critics did not long remain on this purely aesthetic standpoint. the authors, in describing reality, began to indicate moral approval and condemnation, and the critics began to pass from the criticism of the representations to the criticism of the realities represented. a poem or a tale was often used as a peg on which to hang a moral lecture, and the fictitious characters were soundly rated for their sins of omission and commission. much was said about the defence of the oppressed, female emancipation, honour, and humanitarianism; and ridicule was unsparingly launched against all forms of ignorance, apathy, and the spirit of routine. the ordinary refrain was that the public ought now to discard what was formerly regarded as poetical and sublime, and to occupy itself with practical concerns--with the real wants of social life. the literary movement was thus becoming a movement in favour of social and political reforms when it was suddenly arrested by political events in the west. the february revolution in paris, and the political fermentation which appeared during - in almost every country of europe, alarmed the emperor nicholas and his counsellors. a russian army was sent into austria to suppress the hungarian insurrection and save the hapsburg dynasty, and the most stringent measures were taken to prevent disorders at home. one of the first precautions for the preservation of domestic tranquillity was to muzzle the press more firmly than before, and to silence the aspirations towards reform and progress; thenceforth nothing could be printed which was not in strict accordance with the ultra-patriotic theory of russian history, as expressed by a leading official personage: "the past has been admirable, the present is more than magnificent, and the future will surpass all that the human imagination can conceive!" the alarm caused by the revolutionary disorders spread to the non-official world, and gave rise to much patriotic self-congratulation. "the nations of the west," it was said, "envy us, and if they knew us better--if they could see how happy and prosperous we are--they would envy us still more. we ought not, however, to withdraw from europe our solicitude; its hostility should not deprive us of our high mission of saving order and restoring rest to the nations; we ought to teach them to obey authority as we do. it is for us to introduce the saving principle of order into a world that has fallen a prey to anarchy. russia ought not to abandon that mission which has been entrusted to her by the heavenly and by the earthly tsar."* * these words were written by tchaadaef, who, a few years before, had vigorously attacked the slavophils for enouncing similar views. men who saw in the significant political eruption of nothing but an outburst of meaningless, aimless anarchy, and who believed that their country was destined to restore order throughout the civilised world, had of course little time or inclination to think of putting their own house in order. no one now spoke of the necessity of social reorganisation: the recently awakened aspirations and expectations seemed to be completely forgotten. the critics returned to their old theory that art and literature should be cultivated for their own sake and not used as a vehicle for the propagation of ideas foreign to their nature. it seemed, in short, as if all the prolific ideas which had for a time occupied the public attention had been merely "writ in water," and had now disappeared without leaving a trace behind them. in reality the new movement was destined to reappear very soon with tenfold force; but the account of its reappearance and development belongs to a future chapter. meanwhile i may formulate the general conclusion to be drawn from the foregoing pages. ever since the time of peter the great there has been such a close connection between russia and western europe that every intellectual movement which has appeared in france and germany has been reflected--albeit in an exaggerated, distorted form--in the educated society of st. petersburg and moscow. thus the window which peter opened in order to enable his subjects to look into europe has well served its purpose. chapter xxvii the crimean war and its consequences the emperor nicholas and his system--the men with aspirations and the apathetically contented--national humiliation--popular discontent and the manuscript literature--death of nicholas--alexander ii.--new spirit--reform enthusiasm--change in the periodical literature--the kolokol--the conservatives--the tchinovniks--first specific proposals--joint-stock companies--the serf question comes to the front. the russians frankly admit that they were beaten in the crimean war, but they regard the heroic defence of sebastopol as one of the most glorious events in the military annals of their country. nor do they altogether regret the result of the struggle. often in a half-jocular, half-serious tone they say that they had reason to be grateful to the allies. and there is much truth in this paradoxical statement. the crimean war inaugurated a new epoch in the national history. it gave the death-blow to the repressive system of the emperor nicholas, and produced an intellectual movement and a moral revival which led to gigantic results. "the affair of december," --i mean the abortive attempt at a military insurrection in st. petersburg, to which i have alluded in the foregoing chapter--gave the key-note to nicholas's reign. the armed attempt to overthrow the imperial power, ending in the execution or exile of many young members of the first families, struck terror into the noblesse, and prepared the way for a period of repressive police administration. nicholas had none of the moral limpness and vacillating character of his predecessor. his was one of those simple, vigorous, tenacious, straightforward natures--more frequently to be met with among the teutonic than among the slav races--whose conceptions are all founded on a few deep-rooted, semi-instinctive convictions, and who are utterly incapable of accommodating themselves with histrionic cleverness to the changes of external circumstances. from his early youth he had shown a strong liking for military discipline and a decided repugnance to the humanitarianism and liberal principles then in fashion. with "the rights of man," "the spirit of the age," and similar philosophical abstractions his strong, domineering nature had no sympathy; and for the vague, loud-sounding phrases of philosophic liberalism he had a most profound contempt. "attend to your military duties," he was wont to say to his officers before his accession; "don't trouble your heads with philosophy. i cannot bear philosophers!" the tragic event which formed the prelude to his reign naturally confirmed and fortified his previous convictions. the representatives of liberalism, who could talk so eloquently about duty in the abstract, had, whilst wearing the uniform of the imperial guard, openly disobeyed the repeated orders of their superior officers and attempted to shake the allegiance of the troops for the purpose of overthrowing the imperial power! a man who was at once soldier and autocrat, by nature as well as by position, could of course admit no extenuating circumstances. the incident stereotyped his character for life, and made him the sworn enemy of liberalism and the fanatical defender of autocracy, not only in his own country, but throughout europe. in european politics he saw two forces struggling for mastery--monarchy and democracy, which were in his opinion identical with order and anarchy; and he was always ready to assist his brother sovereigns in putting down democratic movements. in his own empire he endeavoured by every means in his power to prevent the introduction of the dangerous ideas. for this purpose a stringent intellectual quarantine was established on the western frontier. all foreign books and newspapers, except those of the most harmless kind, were rigorously excluded. native writers were placed under strict supervision, and peremptorily silenced as soon as they departed from what was considered a "well-intentioned" tone. the number of university students was diminished, the chairs for political science were suppressed, and the military schools multiplied. russians were prevented from travelling abroad, and foreigners who visited the country were closely watched by the police. by these and similar measures it was hoped that russia would be preserved from the dangers of revolutionary agitation. nicholas has been called the don quixote of autocracy, and the comparison which the term implies is true in many points. by character and aims he belonged to a time that had passed away; but failure and mishap could not shake his faith in his ideal, and made no change in his honest, stubborn nature, which was as loyal and chivalresque as that of the ill-fated knight of la mancha. in spite of all evidence to the contrary, he believed in the practical omnipotence of autocracy. he imagined that as his authority was theoretically unlimited, so his power could work miracles. by nature and training a soldier, he considered government a slightly modified form of military discipline, and looked on the nation as an army which might be made to perform any intellectual or economic evolutions that he might see fit to command. all social ills seemed to him the consequence of disobedience to his orders, and he knew only one remedy--more discipline. any expression of doubt as to the wisdom of his policy, or any criticism of existing regulations, he treated as an act of insubordination which a wise sovereign ought not to tolerate. if he never said, "l'etat--c'est moi!" it was because he considered the fact so self-evident that it did not need to be stated. hence any attack on the administration, even in the person of the most insignificant official, was an attack on himself and on the monarchical principle which he represented. the people must believe--and faith, as we know, comes not by sight--that they lived under the best possible government. to doubt this was political heresy. an incautious word or a foolish joke against the government was considered a serious crime, and might be punished by a long exile in some distant and inhospitable part of the empire. progress should by all means be made, but it must be made by word of command, and in the way ordered. private initiative in any form was a thing on no account to be tolerated. nicholas never suspected that a ruler, however well-intentioned, energetic, and legally autocratic he may be, can do but little without the co-operation of his people. experience constantly showed him the fruitlessness of his efforts, but he paid no attention to its teachings. he had formed once for all his theory of government, and for thirty years he acted according to it with all the blindness and obstinacy of a reckless, fanatical doctrinaire. even at the close of his reign, when the terrible logic of facts had proved his system to be a mistake--when his armies had been defeated, his best fleet destroyed, his ports blockaded, and his treasury well-nigh emptied--he could not recant. "my successor," he is reported to have said on his deathbed, "may do as he pleases, but i cannot change." had nicholas lived in the old patriarchal times, when kings were the uncontrolled "shepherds of the people," he would perhaps have been an admirable ruler; but in the nineteenth century he was a flagrant anachronism. his system of administration completely broke down. in vain he multiplied formalities and inspectors, and punished severely the few delinquents who happened by some accident to be brought to justice; the officials continued to pilfer, extort, and misgovern in every possible way. though the country was reduced to what would be called in europe "a state of siege," the inhabitants might still have said--as they are reported to have declared a thousand years before--"our land is great and fertile, but there is no order in it." in a nation accustomed to political life and to a certain amount of self-government, any approach to the system of nicholas would, of course, have produced wide-spread dissatisfaction and violent hatred against the ruling power. but in russia at that time no such feelings were awakened. the educated classes--and a fortiori the uneducated--were profoundly indifferent not only to political questions, but also to ordinary public affairs, whether local or imperial, and were quite content to leave them in the hands of those who were paid for attending to them. in common with the uneducated peasantry, the nobles had a boundless respect--one might almost say a superstitious reverence--not only for the person, but also for the will of the tsar, and were ready to show unquestioning obedience to his commands, so long as these did not interfere with their accustomed mode of life. the tsar desired them not to trouble their heads with political questions, and to leave all public matters to the care of the administration; and in this respect the imperial will coincided so well with their personal inclinations that they had no difficulty in complying with it. when the tsar ordered those of them who held office to refrain from extortion and peculation, his orders were not so punctiliously obeyed, but in this disobedience there was no open opposition--no assertion of a right to pilfer and extort. as the disobedience proceeded, not from a feeling of insubordination, but merely from the weakness that official flesh is heir to, it was not regarded as very heinous. in the aristocratic circles of st. petersburg and moscow there was the same indifference to political questions and public affairs. all strove to have the reputation of being "well-intentioned," which was the first requisite for those who desired court favour or advancement in the public service; and those whose attention was not entirely occupied with official duties, card-playing, and the ordinary routine of everyday life, cultivated belles-lettres or the fine arts. in short, the educated classes in russia at that time showed a complete indifference to political and social questions, an apathetic acquiescence in the system of administration adopted by the government, and an unreasoning contentment with the existing state of things. about the year , when the reaction against romanticism was awakening in the reading public an interest in the affairs of real life,* began to appear what may be called "the men with aspirations," a little band of generous enthusiasts, strongly resembling the youth in longfellow's poem who carries a banner with the device "excelsior," and strives ever to climb higher, without having any clear notion of where he was going or of what he is to do when he reaches the summit. at first they had little more than a sentimental enthusiasm for the true, the beautiful, and the good, and a certain platonic love for free institutions, liberty, enlightenment, progress, and everything that was generally comprehended at that period under the term "liberal." gradually, under the influence of current french literature, their ideas became a little clearer, and they began to look on reality around them with a critical eye. they could perceive, without much effort, the unrelenting tyranny of the administration, the notorious venality of the tribunals, the reckless squandering of the public money, the miserable condition of the serfs, the systematic strangulation of all independent opinion or private initiative, and, above all, the profound apathy of the upper classes, who seemed quite content with things as they were. * vide supra, p. et seq. with such ugly facts staring them in the face, and with the habit of looking at things from the moral point of view, these men could understand how hollow and false were the soothing or triumphant phrases of official optimism. they did not, indeed, dare to express their indignation publicly, for the authorities would allow no public expression of dissatisfaction with the existing state of things, but they disseminated their ideas among their friends and acquaintances by means of conversation and manuscript literature, and some of them, as university professors and writers in the periodical press, contrived to awaken in a certain section of the young generation an ardent enthusiasm for enlightenment and progress, and a vague hope that a brighter day was about to dawn. not a few sympathised with these new conceptions and aspirations, but the great majority of the nobles regarded them--especially after the french revolution of --as revolutionary and dangerous. thus the educated classes became divided into two sections, which have sometimes been called the liberals and the conservatives, but which might be more properly designated the men with aspirations and the apathetically contented. these latter doubtless felt occasionally the irksomeness of the existing system, but they had always one consolation--if they were oppressed at home they were feared abroad. the tsar was at least a thorough soldier, possessing an enormous and well-equipped army by which he might at any moment impose his will on europe. ever since the glorious days of , when napoleon was forced to make an ignominious retreat from the ruins of moscow, the belief that the russian soldiers were superior to all others, and that the russian army was invincible, had become an article of the popular creed; and the respect which the voice of nicholas commanded in western europe seemed to prove that the fact was admitted by foreign nations. in these and similar considerations the apathetically contented found a justification for their lethargy. when it became evident that russia was about to engage in a trial of strength with the western powers, this optimism became general. "the heavy burdens," it was said, "which the people have had to bear were necessary to make russia the first military power in europe, and now the nation will reap the fruits of its long-suffering and patient resignation. the west will learn that her boasted liberty and liberal institutions are of little service in the hour of danger, and the russians who admire such institutions will be constrained to admit that a strong, all-directing autocracy is the only means of preserving national greatness." as the patriotic fervour and military enthusiasm increased, nothing was heard but praises of nicholas and his system. the war was regarded by many as a kind of crusade--even the emperor spoke about the defence of "the native soil and the holy faith"--and the most exaggerated expectations were entertained of its results. the old eastern question was at last to be solved in accordance with russian aspirations, and nicholas was about to realise catherine ii.'s grand scheme of driving the turks out of europe. the date at which the troops would arrive at constantinople was actively discussed, and a slavophil poet called on the emperor to lie down in constantinople, and rise up as tsar of a panslavonic empire. some enthusiasts even expected the speedy liberation of jerusalem from the power of the infidel. to the enemy, who might possibly hinder the accomplishment of these schemes, very little attention was paid. "we have only to throw our hats at them!" (shapkami zakidaem) became a favourite expression. there were, however, a few men in whom the prospect of the coming struggle awoke very different thoughts and feelings. they could not share the sanguine expectations of those who were confident of success. "what preparations have we made," they asked, "for the struggle with civilisation, which now sends its forces against us? with all our vast territory and countless population we are incapable of coping with it. when we talk of the glorious campaign against napoleon, we forget that since that time europe has been steadily advancing on the road of progress while we have been standing still. we march not to victory, but to defeat, and the only grain of consolation which we have is that russia will learn by experience a lesson that will be of use to her in the future."* * these are the words of granovski. these prophets of evil found, of course, few disciples, and were generally regarded as unworthy sons of the fatherland--almost as traitors to their country. but their predictions were confirmed by events. the allies were victorious in the crimea, and even the despised turks made a successful stand on the line of the danube. in spite of the efforts of the government to suppress all unpleasant intelligence, it soon became known that the military organisation was little, if at all, better than the civil administration--that the individual bravery of soldiers and officers was neutralised by the incapacity of the generals, the venality of the officials, and the shameless peculation of the commissariat department. the emperor, it was said, had drilled out of the officers all energy, individuality, and moral force. almost the only men who showed judgment, decision, and energy were the officers of the black sea fleet, which had been less subjected to the prevailing system. as the struggle went on, it became evident how weak the country really was--how deficient in the resources necessary to sustain a prolonged conflict. "another year of war," writes an eye-witness in , "and the whole of southern russia will be ruined." to meet the extraordinary demands on the treasury, recourse was had to an enormous issue of paper money; but the rapid depreciation of the currency showed that this resource would soon be exhausted. militia regiments were everywhere raised throughout the country, and many proprietors spent large sums in equipping volunteer corps; but very soon this enthusiasm cooled when it was found that the patriotic efforts enriched the jobbers without inflicting any serious injury on the enemy. under the sting of the great national humiliation, the upper classes awoke from their optimistic resignation. they had borne patiently the oppression of a semi-military administration, and for this! the system of nicholas had been put to a crucial test, and found wanting. the policy which had sacrificed all to increase the military power of the empire was seen to be a fatal error, and the worthlessness of the drill-sergeant regime was proved by bitter experience. those administrative fetters which had for more than a quarter of a century cramped every spontaneous movement had failed to fulfil even the narrow purpose for which they had been forged. they had, indeed, secured a certain external tranquillity during those troublous times when europe was convulsed by revolutionary agitation; but this tranquillity was not that of healthy normal action, but of death--and underneath the surface lay secret and rapidly spreading corruption. the army still possessed that dashing gallantry which it had displayed in the campaigns of suvorof, that dogged, stoical bravery which had checked the advance of napoleon on the field of borodino, and that wondrous power of endurance which had often redeemed the negligence of generals and the defects of the commissariat; but the result was now not victory, but defeat. how could this be explained except by the radical defects of that system which had been long practised with such inflexible perseverance? the government had imagined that it could do everything by its own wisdom and energy, and in reality it had done nothing, or worse than nothing. the higher officers had learned only too well to be mere automata; the ameliorations in the military organisation, on which nicholas had always bestowed special attention, were found to exist for the most part only in the official reports; the shameful exploits of the commissariat department were such as to excite the indignation of those who had long lived in an atmosphere of official jobbery and peculation; and the finances, which people had generally supposed to be in a highly satisfactory condition, had become seriously crippled by the first great national effort. this deep and wide-spread dissatisfaction was not allowed to appear in the press, but it found very free expression in the manuscript literature and in conversation. in almost every house--i mean, of course, among the educated classes--words were spoken which a few months before would have seemed treasonable, if not blasphemous. philippics and satires in prose and verse were written by the dozen, and circulated in hundreds of copies. a pasquil on the commander in chief, or a tirade against the government, was sure to be eagerly read and warmly approved of. as a specimen of this kind of literature, and an illustration of the public opinion of the time, i may translate here one of those metrical tirades. though it was never printed, it obtained a wide circulation: "'god has placed me over russia,' said the tsar to us, 'and you must bow down before me, for my throne is his altar. trouble not yourselves with public affairs, for i think for you and watch over you every hour. my watchful eye detects internal evils and the machinations of foreign enemies; and i have no need of counsel, for god inspires me with wisdom. be proud, therefore, of being my slaves, o russians, and regard my will as your law.' "we listened to these words with deep reverence, and gave a tacit consent; and what was the result? under mountains of official papers real interests were forgotten. the letter of the law was observed, but negligence and crime were allowed to go unpunished. while grovelling in the dust before ministers and directors of departments in the hope of receiving tchins and decorations, the officials stole unblushingly; and theft became so common that he who stole the most was the most respected. the merits of officers were decided at reviews; and he who obtained the rank of general was supposed capable of becoming at once an able governor, an excellent engineer, or a most wise senator. those who were appointed governors were for the most part genuine satraps, the scourges of the provinces entrusted to their care. the other offices were filled up with as little attention to the merits of the candidates. a stable-boy became press censor! an imperial fool became admiral! kleinmichel became a count! in a word, the country was handed over to the tender mercies of a band of robbers. "and what did we russians do all this time? "we russians slept! with groans the peasant paid his yearly dues; with groans the proprietor mortgaged the second half of his estate; groaning, we all paid our heavy tribute to the officials. occasionally, with a grave shaking of the head, we remarked in a whisper that it was a shame and a disgrace--that there was no justice in the courts--that millions were squandered on imperial tours, kiosks, and pavilions--that everything was wrong; and then, with an easy conscience, we sat down to our rubber, praised the acting of rachel, criticised the singing of frezzolini, bowed low to venal magnates, and squabbled with each other for advancement in the very service which we so severely condemned. if we did not obtain the place we wished we retired to our ancestral estates, where we talked of the crops, fattened in indolence and gluttony, and lived a genuine animal life. if any one, amidst the general lethargy, suddenly called upon us to rise and fight for the truth and for russia, how ridiculous did he appear! how cleverly the pharisaical official ridiculed him, and how quickly the friends of yesterday showed him the cold shoulder! under the anathema of public opinion, in some distant siberian mine he recognised what a heinous sin it was to disturb the heavy sleep of apathetic slaves. soon he was forgotten, or remembered as an unfortunate madman; and the few who said, 'perhaps after all he was right,' hastened to add, 'but that is none of our business.' "but amidst all this we had at least one consolation, one thing to be proud of--the might of russia in the assembly of kings. 'what need we care,' we said, 'for the reproaches of foreign nations? we are stronger than those who reproach us.' and when at great reviews the stately regiments marched past with waving standards, glittering helmets, and sparkling bayonets, when we heard the loud hurrah with which the troops greeted the emperor, then our hearts swelled with patriotic pride, and we were ready to repeat the words of the poet-- "strong is our native country, and great the russian tsar." "then british statesmen, in company with the crowned conspirator of france, and with treacherous austria, raised western europe against us, but we laughed scornfully at the coming storm. 'let the nations rave,' we said; 'we have no cause to be afraid. the tsar doubtless foresaw all, and has long since made the necessary preparations.' boldly we went forth to fight, and confidently awaited the moment of the struggle. "and lo! after all our boasting we were taken by surprise, and caught unawares, as by a robber in the dark. the sleep of innate stupidity blinded our ambassadors, and our foreign minister sold us to our enemies.* where were our millions of soldiers? where was the well-considered plan of defence? one courier brought the order to advance; another brought the order to retreat; and the army wandered about without definite aim or purpose. with loss and shame we retreated from the forts of silistria, and the pride of russia was humbled before the hapsburg eagle. the soldiers fought well, but the parade-admiral (menshikof)--the amphibious hero of lost battles--did not know the geography of his own country, and sent his troops to certain destruction. * many people at that time imagined that count nesselrode, who was then minister for foreign affairs, was a traitor to his adopted country. "awake, o russia! devoured by foreign enemies, crushed by slavery, shamefully oppressed by stupid authorities and spies, awaken from your long sleep of ignorance and apathy! you have been long enough held in bondage by the successors of the tartar khan. stand forward calmly before the throne of the despot, and demand from him an account of the national disaster. say to him boldly that his throne is not the altar of god, and that god did not condemn us to be slaves. russia entrusted to you, o tsar, the supreme power, and you were as a god upon earth. and what have you done? blinded by ignorance and passion, you have lusted after power and have forgotten russia. you have spent your life in reviewing troops, in modifying uniforms, and in appending your signature to the legislative projects of ignorant charlatans. you created the despicable race of press censors, in order to sleep in peace--in order not to know the wants and not to hear the groans of the people--in order not to listen to truth. you buried truth, rolled a great stone to the door of the sepulchre, placed a strong guard over it, and said in the pride of your heart: for her there is no resurrection! but the third day has dawned, and truth has arisen from the dead. "stand forward, o tsar, before the judgment-seat of history and of god! you have mercilessly trampled truth under foot, you have denied freedom, you have been the slave of your own passions. by your pride and obstinacy you have exhausted russia and raised the world in arms against us. bow down before your brethren and humble yourself in the dust! crave pardon and ask advice! throw yourself into the arms of the people! there is now no other salvation!" the innumerable tirades of which the above is a fair specimen were not very remarkable for literary merit or political wisdom. for the most part they were simply bits of bombastic rhetoric couched in doggerel rhyme, and they have consequently been long since consigned to well-merited oblivion--so completely that it is now difficult to obtain copies of them.* they have, however, an historical interest, because they express in a more or less exaggerated form the public opinion and prevalent ideas of the educated classes at that moment. in order to comprehend their real significance, we must remember that the writers and readers were not a band of conspirators, but ordinary, respectable, well-intentioned people, who never for a moment dreamed of embarking in revolutionary designs. it was the same society that had been a few months before so indifferent to all political questions, and even now there was no clear conception as to how the loud-sounding phrases could be translated into action. we can imagine the comical discomfiture of those who read and listened to these appeals, if the "despot" had obeyed their summons, and suddenly appeared before them. * i am indebted for the copies which i possess to friends who copied and collected these pamphlets at the time. was the movement, then, merely an outburst of childish petulance? certainly not. the public were really and seriously convinced that things were all wrong, and they were seriously and enthusiastically desirous that a new and better order of things should be introduced. it must be said to their honour that they did not content themselves with accusing and lampooning the individuals who were supposed to be the chief culprits. on the contrary, they looked reality boldly in the face, made a public confession of their past sins, sought conscientiously the causes which had produced the recent disasters, and endeavoured to find means by which such calamities might be prevented in the future. the public feeling and aspirations were not strong enough to conquer the traditional respect for the imperial will and create an open opposition to the autocratic power, but they were strong enough to do great things by aiding the government, if the emperor voluntarily undertook a series of radical reforms. what nicholas would have done, had he lived, in face of this national awakening, it is difficult to say. he declared, indeed, that he could not change, and we can readily believe that his proud spirit would have scorned to make concessions to the principles which he had always condemned; but he gave decided indications in the last days of his life that his old faith in his system was somewhat shaken, and he did not exhort his son to persevere in the path along which he himself had forced his way with such obstinate consistency. it is useless, however, to speculate on possibilities. whilst the government had still to concentrate all its energies on the defence of the country, the iron tsar died, and was succeeded by his son, a man of a very different type. of a kind-hearted, humane disposition, sincerely desirous of maintaining the national honour, but singularly free from military ambition and imbued with no fanatical belief in the drill-sergeant system of government, alexander ii. was by no means insensible to the spirit of the time. he had, however, none of the sentimental enthusiasm for liberal institutions which had characterised his uncle, alexander i. on the contrary, he had inherited from his father a strong dislike to sentimentalism and rhetoric of all kinds. this dislike, joined to a goodly portion of sober common-sense, a limited confidence in his own judgment, and a consciousness of enormous responsibility, prevented him from being carried away by the prevailing excitement. with all that was generous and humane in the movement he thoroughly sympathised, and he allowed the popular ideas and aspirations to find free utterance; but he did not at once commit himself to any definite policy, and carefully refrained from all exaggerated expressions of reforming zeal. as soon, however, as peace had been concluded, there were unmistakable symptoms that the rigorously repressive system of nicholas was about to be abandoned. in the manifesto announcing the termination of hostilities the emperor expressed his conviction that by the combined efforts of the government and the people, the public administration would be improved, and that justice and mercy would reign in the courts of law. apparently as a preparation for this great work, to be undertaken by the tsar and his people in common, the ministers began to take the public into their confidence, and submitted to public criticism many official data which had hitherto been regarded as state secrets. the minister of the interior, for instance, in his annual report, spoke almost in the tone of a penitent, and confessed openly that the morality of the officials under his orders left much to be desired. he declared that the emperor now showed a paternal confidence in his people, and as a proof of this he mentioned the significant fact that , persons had been liberated from police supervision. the other branches of the administration underwent a similar transformation. the haughty, dictatorial tone which had hitherto been used by superiors to their subordinates, and by all ranks of officials to the public, was replaced by one of considerate politeness. about the same time those of the decembrists who were still alive were pardoned. the restrictions regarding the number of students in each university were abolished, the difficulty of obtaining foreign passports was removed, and the press censors became singularly indulgent. though no decided change had been made in the laws, it was universally felt that the spirit of nicholas was no more. the public, anxiously seeking after a sign, readily took these symptoms of change as a complete confirmation of their ardent hopes, and leaped at once to the conclusion that a vast, all-embracing system of radical reform was about to be undertaken--not secretly by the administration, as had been the custom in the preceding reign when any little changes had to be made, but publicly, by the government and the people in common. "the heart trembles with joy," said one of the leading organs of the press, "in expectation of the great social reforms that are about to be effected--reforms that are thoroughly in accordance with the spirit, the wishes, and the expectations of the public." "the old harmony and community of feeling," said another, "which has always existed between the government and the people, save during short exceptional periods, has been fully re-established. the absence of all sentiment of caste, and the feeling of common origin and brotherhood which binds all classes of the russian people into a homogeneous whole, will enable russia to accomplish peacefully and without effort not only those great reforms which cost europe centuries of struggle and bloodshed, but also many which the nations of the west are still unable to accomplish, in consequence of feudal traditions and caste prejudices." the past was depicted in the blackest colours, and the nation was called upon to begin a new and glorious epoch of its history. "we have to struggle," it was said, "in the name of the highest truth against egotism and the puny interests of the moment; and we ought to prepare our children from their infancy to take part in that struggle which awaits every honest man. we have to thank the war for opening our eyes to the dark sides of our political and social organisation, and it is now our duty to profit by the lesson. but it must not be supposed that the government can, single-handed, remedy the defects. the destinies of russia are, as it were, a stranded vessel which the captain and crew cannot move, and which nothing, indeed, but the rising tide of the national life can raise and float." hearts beat quicker at the sound of these calls to action. many heard this new teaching, if we may believe a contemporary authority, "with tears in their eyes"; then, "raising boldly their heads, they made a solemn vow that they would act honourably, perseveringly, fearlessly." some of those who had formerly yielded to the force of circumstances now confessed their misdemeanours with bitterness of heart. "tears of repentance," said a popular poet, "give relief, and call us to new exploits." russia was compared to a strong giant who awakes from sleep, stretches his brawny limbs, collects his thoughts, and prepares to atone for his long inactivity by feats of untold prowess. all believed, or at least assumed, that the recognition of defects would necessarily entail their removal. when an actor in one of the st. petersburg theatres shouted from the stage, "let us proclaim throughout all russia that the time has come for tearing up evil by the roots!" the audience gave way to the most frantic enthusiasm. "altogether a joyful time," says one who took part in the excitement, "as when, after the long winter, the genial breath of spring glides over the cold, petrified earth, and nature awakens from her deathlike sleep. speech, long restrained by police and censorial regulations, now flows smoothly, majestically, like a mighty river that has just been freed from ice." under these influences a multitude of newspapers and periodicals were founded, and the current literature entirely changed its character. the purely literary and historical questions which had hitherto engaged the attention of the reading public were thrown aside and forgotten, unless they could be made to illustrate some principle of political or social science. criticisms on style and diction, explanations of aesthetic principles, metaphysical discussions--all this seemed miserable trifling to men who wished to devote themselves to gigantic practical interests. "science," it was said, "has now descended from the heights of philosophic abstraction into the arena of real life." the periodicals were accordingly filled with articles on railways, banks, free-trade, education, agriculture, communal institutions, local self-government, joint-stock companies, and with crushing philippics against personal and national vanity, inordinate luxury, administrative tyranny, and the habitual peculation of the officials. this last-named subject received special attention. during the preceding reign any attempt to criticise publicly the character or acts of an official was regarded as a very heinous offence; now there was a deluge of sketches, tales, comedies, and monologues, describing the corruption of the administration, and explaining the ingenious devices by which the tchinovniks increased their scanty salaries. the public would read nothing that had not a direct or indirect bearing on the questions of the day, and whatever had such a bearing was read with interest. it did not seem at all strange that a drama should be written in defence of free-trade, or a poem in advocacy of some peculiar mode of taxation; that an author should expound his political ideas in a tale, and his antagonist reply by a comedy. a few men of the old school protested feebly against this "prostitution of art," but they received little attention, and the doctrine that art should be cultivated for its own sake was scouted as an invention of aristocratic indolence. here is an ipsa pinxit of the literature of the time: "literature has come to look at russia with her own eyes, and sees that the idyllic romantic personages which the poets formerly loved to describe have no objective existence. having taken off her french glove, she offers her hand to the rude, hard-working labourer, and observing lovingly russian village life, she feels herself in her native land. the writers of the present have analysed the past, and, having separated themselves from aristocratic litterateurs and aristocratic society, have demolished their former idols." by far the most influential periodical at the commencement of the movement was the kolokol, or bell, a fortnightly journal published in london by herzen, who was at that time an important personage among the political refugees. herzen was a man of education and culture, with ultra-radical opinions, and not averse to using revolutionary methods of reform when he considered them necessary. his intimate relations with many of the leading men in russia enabled him to obtain secret information of the most important and varied kind, and his sparkling wit, biting satire, and clear, terse, brilliant style secured him a large number of readers. he seemed to know everything that was done in the ministries and even in the cabinet of the emperor,* and he exposed most mercilessly every abuse that came to his knowledge. we who are accustomed to free political discussion can hardly form a conception of the avidity with which his articles were read, and the effect which they produced. though strictly prohibited by the press censure, the kolokol found its way across the frontier in thousands of copies, and was eagerly perused and commented on by all ranks of the educated classes. the emperor himself received it regularly, and high-priced delinquents examined it with fear and trembling. in this way herzen was for some years, though an exile, an important political personage, and did much to awaken and keep up the reform enthusiasm. * as an illustration of this, the following anecdote is told: one number of the kolokol contained a violent attack on an important personage of the court, and the accused, or some one of his friends, considered it advisable to have a copy specially printed for the emperor without the objectionable article. the emperor did not at first discover the trick, but shortly afterwards he received from london a polite note containing the article which had been omitted, and informing him how he had been deceived. but where were the conservatives all this time? how came it that for two or three years no voice was raised and no protest made even against the rhetorical exaggerations of the new-born liberalism? where were the representatives of the old regime, who had been so thoroughly imbued with the spirit of nicholas? where were those ministers who had systematically extinguished the least indication of private initiative, those "satraps" who had stamped out the least symptom of insubordination or discontent, those press censors who had diligently suppressed the mildest expression of liberal opinion, those thousands of well-intentioned proprietors who had regarded as dangerous free-thinkers and treasonable republicans all who ventured to express dissatisfaction with the existing state of things? a short time before, the conservatives composed at least nine-tenths of the upper classes, and now they had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. it is scarcely necessary to say that in a country accustomed to political life, such a sudden, unopposed revolution in public opinion could not possibly take place. the key to the mystery lies in the fact that for centuries russia had known nothing of political life or political parties. those who were sometimes called conservatives were in reality not at all conservatives in our sense of the term. if we say that they had a certain amount of conservatism, we must add that it was of the latent, passive, unreasoned kind--the fruit of indolence and apathy. their political creed had but one article: thou shalt love the tsar with all thy might, and carefully abstain from all resistance to his will--especially when it happens that the tsar is a man of the nicholas type. so long as nicholas lived they had passively acquiesced in his system--active acquiescence had been neither demanded nor desired--but when he died, the system of which he was the soul died with him. what then could they seek to defend? they were told that the system which they had been taught to regard as the sheet-anchor of the state was in reality the chief cause of the national disasters; and to this they could make no reply, because they had no better explanation of their own to offer. they were convinced that the russian soldier was the best soldier in the world, and they knew that in the recent war the army had not been victorious; the system, therefore, must be to blame. they were told that a series of gigantic reforms was necessary in order to restore russia to her proper place among the nations; and to this they could make no answer, for they had never studied such abstract questions. and one thing they did know: that those who hesitated to admit the necessity of gigantic reforms were branded by the press as ignorant, narrow-minded, prejudiced, and egotistical, and were held up to derision as men who did not know the most elementary principles of political and economic science. freely expressed public opinion was such a new phenomenon in russia that the press was able for some time to exercise a "liberal" tyranny scarcely less severe than the "conservative" tyranny of the censors in the preceding reign. men who would have stood fire gallantly on the field of battle quailed before the poisoned darts of herzen in the kolokol. under such circumstances, even the few who possessed some vague conservative convictions refrained from publicly expressing them. the men who had played a more or less active part during the preceding reign, and who might therefore be expected to have clearer and deeper convictions, were specially incapable of offering opposition to the prevailing liberal enthusiasm. their conservatism was of quite as limp a kind as that of the landed proprietors who were not in the public service, for under nicholas the higher a man was placed the less likely was he to have political convictions of any kind outside the simple political creed above referred to. besides this, they belonged to that class which was for the moment under the anathema of public opinion, and they had drawn direct personal advantage from the system which was now recognised as the chief cause of the national disasters. for a time the name of tchinovnik became a term of reproach and derision, and the position of those who bore it was comically painful. they strove to prove that, though they held a post in the public service, they were entirely free from the tchinovnik spirit--that there was nothing of the genuine tchinovnik about them. those who had formerly paraded their tchin (official rank) on all occasions, in season and out of season, became half ashamed to admit that they had the rank of general; for the title no longer commanded respect, and had become associated with all that was antiquated, formal, and stupid. among the young generation it was used most disrespectfully as equivalent to "pompous blockhead." zealous officials who had lately regarded the acquisition of stars and orders as among the chief ends of man, were fain to conceal those hard-won trophies, lest some cynical "liberal" might notice them and make them the butt of his satire. "look at the depth of humiliation to which you have brought the country"--such was the chorus of reproach that was ever ringing in their ears--"with your red tape, your chinese formalism, and your principle of lifeless, unreasoning, mechanical obedience! you asserted constantly that you were the only true patriots, and branded with the name of traitor those who warned you of the insane folly of your conduct. you see now what it has all come to. the men whom you helped to send to the mines turn out to have been the true patriots."* * it was a common saying at that time that nearly all the best men in russia had spent a part of their lives in siberia, and it was proposed to publish a biographical dictionary of remarkable men, in which every article was to end thus: "exiled to ---- in --." i am not aware how far the project was seriously entertained, but, of course, the book was never published. and to these reproaches what could they reply? like a child who has in his frolics inadvertently set the house on fire, they could only look contrite, and say they did not mean it. they had simply accepted without criticism the existing order of things, and ranged themselves among those who were officially recognised as "the well-intentioned." if they had always avoided the liberals, and perhaps helped to persecute them, it was simply because all "well-intentioned" people said that liberals were "restless" and dangerous to the state. those who were not convinced of their errors simply kept silence, but the great majority passed over to the ranks of the progressists, and many endeavoured to redeem their past by showing extreme zeal for the liberal cause. in explanation of this extraordinary outburst of reform enthusiasm, we must further remember that the russian educated classes, in spite of the severe northern climate which is supposed to make the blood circulate slowly, are extremely impulsive. they are fettered by no venerable historical prejudices, and are wonderfully sensitive to the seductive influence of grandiose projects, especially when these excite the patriotic feelings. then there was the simple force of reaction--the rebound which naturally followed the terrific compression of the preceding reign. without disrespect, the russians of that time may be compared to schoolboys who have just escaped from the rigorous discipline of a severe schoolmaster. in the first moments of freedom it was supposed that there would be no more discipline or compulsion. the utmost respect was to be shown to "human dignity," and every russian was to act spontaneously and zealously at the great work of national regeneration. all thirsted for reforming activity. the men in authority were inundated with projects of reform--some of them anonymous, and others from obscure individuals; some of them practical, and very many wildly fantastic. even the grammarians showed their sympathy with the spirit of the time by proposing to expel summarily all redundant letters from the russian alphabet! the fact that very few people had clear, precise ideas as to what was to be done did not prevent, but rather tended to increase, the reform enthusiasm. all had at least one common feeling--dislike to what had previously existed. it was only when it became necessary to forsake pure negation, and to create something, that the conceptions became clearer, and a variety of opinions appeared. at the first moment there was merely unanimity in negation, and an impulsive enthusiasm for beneficent reforms in general. the first specific proposals were direct deductions from the lessons taught by the war. the war had shown in a terrible way the disastrous consequences of having merely primitive means of communication; the press and the public began, accordingly, to speak about the necessity of constructing railways, roads and river-steamers. the war had shown that a country which has not developed its natural resources very soon becomes exhausted if it has to make a great national effort; accordingly the public and the press talked about the necessity of developing the natural resources, and about the means by which this desirable end might be attained. it had been shown by the war that a system of education which tends to make men mere apathetic automata cannot produce even a good army; accordingly the public and the press began to discuss the different systems of education and the numerous questions of pedagogical science. it had been shown by the war that the best intentions of a government will necessarily be frustrated if the majority of the officials are dishonest or incapable; accordingly the public and the press began to speak about the paramount necessity of reforming the administration in all its branches. it must not, however, be supposed that in thus laying to heart the lessons taught by the war and endeavouring to profit by them, the russians were actuated by warlike feelings, and desired to avenge themselves as soon as possible on their victorious enemies. on the contrary, the whole movement and the spirit which animated it were eminently pacific. prince gortchakof's saying, "la russie ne boude pas, elle se recueille," was more than a diplomatic repartee--it was a true and graphic statement of the case. though the russians are very inflammable, and can be very violent when their patriotic feelings are aroused, they are, individually and as a nation, singularly free from rancour and the spirit of revenge. after the termination of hostilities they really bore little malice towards the western powers, except towards austria, which was believed to have been treacherous and ungrateful to the country that had saved her in . their patriotism now took the form, not of revenge, but of a desire to raise their country to the level of the western nations. if they thought of military matters at all, they assumed that military power would be obtained as a natural and inevitable result of high civilisation and good government. as a first step towards the realisation of the vast schemes contemplated, voluntary associations began to be formed for industrial and commercial purposes, and a law was issued for the creation of limited liability companies. in the space of two years forty-seven companies of this kind were founded, with a combined capital of millions of roubles. to understand the full significance of these figures, we must know that from the founding of the first joint-stock company in down to only twenty-six companies had been formed, and their united capital amounted only to thirty-two millions of roubles. thus in the space of two years ( - ) eleven times as much capital was subscribed to joint-stock companies as had been subscribed during half a century previous to the war. the most exaggerated expectations were entertained as to the national and private advantages which must necessarily result from these undertakings, and it became a patriotic duty to subscribe liberally. the periodical literature depicted in glowing terms the marvellous results that had been obtained in other countries by the principle of co-operation, and sanguine readers believed that they had discovered a patriotic way of speedily becoming rich. these were, however, mere secondary matters, and the public were anxiously waiting for the government to begin the grand reforming campaign. when the educated classes awoke to the necessity of great reforms, there was no clear conception as to how the great work should be undertaken. there was so much to be done that it was no easy matter to decide what should be done first. administrative, judicial, social, economical, financial, and political reforms seemed all equally pressing. gradually, however, it became evident that precedence must be given to the question of serfage. it was absurd to speak about progress, humanitarianism, education, self-government, equality in the eye of the law, and similar matters, so long as one half of the population was excluded from the enjoyment of ordinary civil rights. so long as serfage existed it was mere mockery to talk about re-organising russia according to the latest results of political and social science. how could a system of even-handed justice be introduced when twenty millions of the peasantry were subject to the arbitrary will of the landed proprietors? how could agricultural or industrial progress be made without free labour? how could the government take active measures for the spread of national education when it had no direct control over one-half of the peasantry? above all, how could it be hoped that a great moral regeneration could take place, so long as the nation voluntarily retained the stigma of serfage and slavery? all this was very generally felt by the educated classes, but no one ventured to raise the question until it should be known what were the views of the emperor on the subject. how the question was gradually raised, how it was treated by the nobles, and how it was ultimately solved by the famous law of february th (march d), ,* i now propose to relate. * february th according to the old style, which is still used in russia, and march d according to our method of reckoning. chapter xxviii the serfs the rural population in ancient times--the peasantry in the eighteenth century--how was this change effected?--the common explanation inaccurate--serfage the result of permanent economic and political causes--origin of the adscriptio glebae--its consequences--serf insurrection--turning-point in the history of serfage--serfage in russia and in western europe--state peasants--numbers and geographical distribution of the serf population--serf dues--legal and actual power of the proprietors--the serfs' means of defence--fugitives--domestic serfs--strange advertisements in the moscow gazette--moral influence of serfage. before proceeding to describe the emancipation, it may be well to explain briefly how the russian peasants became serfs, and what serfage in russia really was. in the earliest period of russian history the rural population was composed of three distinct classes. at the bottom of the scale stood the slaves, who were very numerous. their numbers were continually augmented by prisoners of war, by freemen who voluntarily sold themselves as slaves, by insolvent debtors, and by certain categories of criminals. immediately above the slaves were the free agricultural labourers, who had no permanent domicile, but wandered about the country and settled temporarily where they happened to find work and satisfactory remuneration. in the third place, distinct from these two classes, and in some respects higher in the social scale, were the peasants properly so called.* * my chief authority for the early history of the peasantry has been belaef, "krestyanye na rusi," moscow, ; a most able and conscientious work. these peasants proper, who may be roughly described as small farmers or cottiers, were distinguished from the free agricultural labourers in two respects: they were possessors of land in property or usufruct, and they were members of a rural commune. the communes were free primitive corporations which elected their office-bearers from among the heads of families, and sent delegates to act as judges or assessors in the prince's court. some of the communes possessed land of their own, whilst others were settled on the estates of the landed proprietors or on the extensive domains of the monasteries. in the latter case the peasant paid a fixed yearly rent in money, in produce, or in labour, according to the terms of his contract with the proprietor or the monastery; but he did not thereby sacrifice in any way his personal liberty. as soon as he had fulfilled the engagements stipulated in the contract and had settled accounts with the owner of the land, he was free to change his domicile as he pleased. if we turn now from these early times to the eighteenth century, we find that the position of the rural population has entirely changed in the interval. the distinction between slaves, agricultural labourers, and peasants has completely disappeared. all three categories have melted together into a common class, called serfs, who are regarded as the property of the landed proprietors or of the state. "the proprietors sell their peasants and domestic servants not even in families, but one by one, like cattle, as is done nowhere else in the whole world, from which practice there is not a little wailing."* and yet the government, whilst professing to regret the existence of the practice, takes no energetic measures to prevent it. on the contrary, it deprives the serfs of all legal protection, and expressly commands that if any serf shall dare to present a petition against his master, he shall be punished with the knout and transported for life to the mines of nertchinsk. (ukaz of august d, .**) * these words are taken from an imperial ukaz of april th, . polnoye sobranye zakonov, no. , . ** this is an ukaz of the liberal and tolerant catherine! how she reconciled it with her respect and admiration for beccaria's humane views on criminal law she does not explain. how did this important change take place, and how is it to be explained? if we ask any educated russian who has never specially occupied himself with historical investigations regarding the origin of serfage in russia, he will probably reply somewhat in this fashion: "in russia slavery has never existed (!), and even serfage in the west-european sense has never been recognised by law! in ancient times the rural population was completely free, and every peasant might change his domicile on st. george's day--that is to say, at the end of the agricultural year. this right of migration was abolished by tsar boris godunof--who, by the way, was half a tartar and more than half a usurper--and herein lies the essence of serfage in the russian sense. the peasants have never been the property of the landed proprietors, but have always been personally free; and the only legal restriction on their liberty was that they were not allowed to change their domicile without the permission of the proprietor. if so-called serfs were sometimes sold, the practice was simply an abuse not justified by legislation." this simple explanation, in which may be detected a note of patriotic pride, is almost universally accepted in russia; but it contains, like most popular conceptions of the distant past, a curious mixture of fact and fiction. serious historical investigation tends to show that the power of the proprietors over the peasants came into existence, not suddenly, as the result of an ukaz, but gradually, as a consequence of permanent economic and political causes, and that boris godunof was not more to blame than many of his predecessors and successors.* * see especially pobedonostsef, in the russki vestnik, , no. , and "istoritcheskiya izsledovaniya i statyi" (st. petersburg, ), by the same author; also pogodin, in the russkaya beseda, , no. . although the peasants in ancient russia were free to wander about as they chose, there appeared at a very early period--long before the reign of boris godunof--a decided tendency in the princes, in the proprietors, and in the communes, to prevent migration. this tendency will be easily understood if we remember that land without labourers is useless, and that in russia at that time the population was small in comparison with the amount of reclaimed and easily reclaimable land. the prince desired to have as many inhabitants as possible in his principality, because the amount of his regular revenues depended on the number of the population. the landed proprietor desired to have as many peasants as possible on his estate, to till for him the land which he reserved for his own use, and to pay him for the remainder a yearly rent in money, produce, or labour. the free communes desired to have a number of members sufficient to keep the whole of the communal land under cultivation, because each commune had to pay yearly to the prince a fixed sum in money or agricultural produce, and the greater the number of able-bodied members, the less each individual had to pay. to use the language of political economy, the princes, the landed proprietors, and the free communes all appeared as buyers in the labour market; and the demand was far in excess of the supply. nowadays when young colonies or landed proprietors in an outlying corner of the world are similarly in need of labour, they seek to supply the want by organising a regular system of importing labourers--using illegal violent means, such as kidnapping expeditions, merely as an exceptional expedient. in old russia any such regularly organised system was impossible, and consequently illegal or violent measures were not the exception, but the rule. the chief practical advantage of the frequent military expeditions for those who took part in them was the acquisition of prisoners of war, who were commonly transformed into slaves by their captors. if it be true, as some assert, that only unbaptised prisoners were legally considered lawful booty, it is certain that in practice, before the unification of the principalities under the tsars of moscow, little distinction was made in this respect between unbaptised foreigners and orthodox russians.* a similar method was sometimes employed for the acquisition of free peasants: the more powerful proprietors organised kidnapping expeditions, and carried off by force the peasants settled on the land of their weaker neighbours. * on this subject see tchitcherin, "opyty po istorii russkago prava," moscow, , p. et seq.; and lokhvitski, "o plennykh po drevnemu russkomu pravu," moscow, . under these circumstances it was only natural that those who possessed this valuable commodity should do all in their power to keep it. many, if not all, of the free communes adopted the simple measure of refusing to allow a member to depart until he had found some one to take his place. the proprietors never, so far as we know, laid down formally such a principle, but in practice they did all in their power to retain the peasants actually settled on their estates. for this purpose some simply employed force, whilst others acted under cover of legal formalities. the peasant who accepted land from a proprietor rarely brought with him the necessary implements, cattle, and capital to begin at once his occupations, and to feed himself and his family till the ensuing harvest. he was obliged, therefore, to borrow from his landlord, and the debt thus contracted was easily converted into a means of preventing his departure if he wished to change his domicile. we need not enter into further details. the proprietors were the capitalists of the time. frequent bad harvests, plagues, fires, military raids, and similar misfortunes often reduced even prosperous peasants to beggary. the muzhik was probably then, as now, only too ready to accept a loan without taking the necessary precautions for repaying it. the laws relating to debt were terribly severe, and there was no powerful judicial organisation to protect the weak. if we remember all this, we shall not be surprised to learn that a considerable part of the peasantry were practically serfs before serfage was recognised by law. so long as the country was broken up into independent principalities, and each land-owner was almost an independent prince on his estate, the peasants easily found a remedy for these abuses in flight. they fled to a neighbouring proprietor who could protect them from their former landlord and his claims, or they took refuge in a neighbouring principality, where they were, of course, still safer. all this was changed when the independent principalities were transformed into the tsardom of muscovy. the tsars had new reasons for opposing the migration of the peasants and new means for preventing it. the old princes had simply given grants of land to those who served them, and left the grantee to do with his land what seemed good to him; the tsars, on the contrary, gave to those who served them merely the usufruct of a certain quantity of land, and carefully proportioned the quantity to the rank and the obligations of the receiver. in this change there was plainly a new reason for fixing the peasants to the soil. the real value of a grant depended not so much on the amount of land as on the number of peasants settled on it, and hence any migration of the population was tantamount to a removal of the ancient landmarks--that is to say, to a disturbance of the arrangements made by the tsar. suppose, for instance, that the tsar granted to a boyar or some lesser dignitary an estate on which were settled twenty peasant families, and that afterwards ten of these emigrated to neighbouring proprietors. in this case the recipient might justly complain that he had lost half of his estate--though the amount of land was in no way diminished--and that he was consequently unable to fulfil his obligations. such complaints would be rarely, if ever, made by the great dignitaries, for they had the means of attracting peasants to their estates;* but the small proprietors had good reason to complain, and the tsar was bound to remove their grievances. the attaching of the peasants to the soil was, in fact, the natural consequence of feudal tenures--an integral part of the muscovite political system. the tsar compelled the nobles to serve him, and was unable to pay them in money. he was obliged, therefore, to procure for them some other means of livelihood. evidently the simplest method of solving the difficulty was to give them land, with a certain number of labourers, and to prevent the labourers from migrating. * there are plain indications in the documents of the time that the great dignitaries were at first hostile to the adscriptio glebae. we find a similar phenomenon at a much more recent date in little russia. long after serfage had been legalised in that region by catherine ii., the great proprietors, such as rumyantsef, razumofski, bezborodko, continued to attract to their estates the peasants of the smaller proprietors. see the article of pogodin in the russkaya beseda, , no. , p. . towards the free communes the tsar had to act in the same way for similar reasons. the communes, like the nobles, had obligations to the sovereign, and could not fulfil them if the peasants were allowed to migrate from one locality to another. they were, in a certain sense, the property of the tsar, and it was only natural that the tsar should do for himself what he had done for his nobles. with these new reasons for fixing the peasants to the soil came, as has been said, new means of preventing migration. formerly it was an easy matter to flee to a neighbouring principality, but now all the principalities were combined under one ruler, and the foundations of a centralised administration were laid. severe fugitive laws were issued against those who attempted to change their domicile and against the proprietors who should harbour the runaways. unless the peasant chose to face the difficulties of "squatting" in the inhospitable northern forests, or resolved to brave the dangers of the steppe, he could nowhere escape the heavy hand of moscow.* * the above account of the origin of serfage in russia is founded on a careful examination of the evidence which we possess on the subject, but i must not conceal the fact that some of the statements are founded on inference rather than on direct, unequivocal documentary evidence. the whole question is one of great difficulty, and will in all probability not be satisfactorily solved until a large number of the old local land-registers (pistsoviya knigi) have been published and carefully studied. the indirect consequences of thus attaching the peasants to the soil did not at once become apparent. the serf retained all the civil rights he had hitherto enjoyed, except that of changing his domicile. he could still appear before the courts of law as a free man, freely engage in trade or industry, enter into all manner of contracts, and rent land for cultivation. but as time wore on, the change in the legal relation between the two classes became apparent in real life. in attaching the peasantry to the soil, the government had been so thoroughly engrossed with the direct financial aim that it entirely overlooked, or wilfully shut its eyes to, the ulterior consequences which must necessarily flow from the policy it adopted. it was evident that as soon as the relation between proprietor and peasant was removed from the region of voluntary contract by being rendered indissoluble, the weaker of the two parties legally tied together must fall completely under the power of the stronger, unless energetically protected by the law and the administration. to this inevitable consequence the government paid no attention. so far from endeavouring to protect the peasantry from the oppression of the proprietors, it did not even determine by law the mutual obligations which ought to exist between the two classes. taking advantage of this omission, the proprietors soon began to impose whatever obligations they thought fit; and as they had no legal means of enforcing fulfilment, they gradually introduced a patriarchal jurisdiction similar to that which they exercised over their slaves, with fines and corporal punishment as means of coercion. from this they ere long proceeded a step further, and began to sell their peasants without the land on which they were settled. at first this was merely a flagrant abuse unsanctioned by law, for the peasant had never been declared the private property of the landed proprietor; but the government tacitly sanctioned the practice, and even exacted dues on such sales, as on the sale of slaves. finally the right to sell peasants without land was formally recognised by various imperial ukazes.* * for instance, the ukazes of october th, , and june th, . see belaef, pp. - . the old communal organisation still existed on the estates of the proprietors, and had never been legally deprived of its authority, but it was now powerless to protect the members. the proprietor could easily overcome any active resistance by selling or converting into domestic servants the peasants who dared to oppose his will. the peasantry had thus sunk to the condition of serfs, practically deprived of legal protection and subject to the arbitrary will of the proprietors; but they were still in some respects legally and actually distinguished from the slaves on the one hand and the "free wandering people" on the other. these distinctions were obliterated by peter the great and his immediate successors. to effect his great civil and military reforms, peter required an annual revenue such as his predecessors had never dreamed of, and he was consequently always on the look-out for some new object of taxation. when looking about for this purpose, his eye naturally fell on the slaves, the domestic servants, and the free agricultural labourers. none of these classes paid taxes--a fact which stood in flagrant contradiction with his fundamental principle of polity, that every subject should in some way serve the state. he caused, therefore, a national census to be taken, in which all the various classes of the rural population--slaves, domestic servants, agricultural labourers, peasants--should be inscribed in one category; and he imposed equally on all the members of this category a poll-tax, in lieu of the former land-tax, which had lain exclusively on the peasants. to facilitate the collection of this tax the proprietors were made responsible for their serfs; and the "free wandering people" who did not wish to enter the army were ordered, under pain of being sent to the galleys, to inscribe themselves as members of a commune or as serfs to some proprietor. these measures had a considerable influence, if not on the actual position of the peasantry, at least on the legal conceptions regarding them. by making the proprietor pay the poll-tax for his serfs, as if they were slaves or cattle, the law seemed to sanction the idea that they were part of his goods and chattels. besides this, it introduced the entirely new principle that any member of the rural population not legally attached to the land or to a proprietor should be regarded as a vagrant, and treated accordingly. thus the principle that every subject should in some way serve the state had found its complete realisation. there was no longer any room in russia for free men. the change in the position of the peasantry, together with the hardships and oppression by which it was accompanied, naturally increased fugitivism and vagrancy. thousands of serfs ran away from their masters and fled to the steppe or sought enrolment in the army. to prevent this the government considered it necessary to take severe and energetic measures. the serfs were forbidden to enlist without the permission of their masters, and those who persisted in presenting themselves for enrolment were to be beaten "cruelly" (zhestoko) with the knout, and sent to the mines.* the proprietors, on the other hand, received the right to transport without trial their unruly serfs to siberia, and even to send them to the mines for life.** * ukaz of june d, . ** see ukaz of january th, , and of january th, . if these stringent measures had any effect it was not of long duration, for there soon appeared among the serfs a still stronger spirit of discontent and insubordination, which threatened to produce a general agrarian rising, and actually did create a movement resembling in many respects the jacquerie in france and the peasant war in germany. a glance at the causes of this movement will help us to understand the real nature of serfage in russia. up to this point serfage had, in spite of its flagrant abuses, a certain theoretical justification. it was, as we have seen, merely a part of a general political system in which obligatory service was imposed on all classes of the population. the serfs served the nobles in order that the nobles might serve the tsar. in this theory was entirely overturned by a manifesto of peter iii. abolishing the obligatory service of the noblesse. according to strict justice this act ought to have been followed by the liberation of the serfs, for if the nobles were no longer obliged to serve the state they had no just claim to the service of the peasants. the government had so completely forgotten the original meaning of serfage that it never thought of carrying out the measure to its logical consequences, but the peasantry held tenaciously to the ancient conceptions, and looked impatiently for a second manifesto liberating them from the power of the proprietors. reports were spread that such a manifesto really existed, and was being concealed by the nobles. a spirit of insubordination accordingly appeared among the rural population, and local insurrections broke out in several parts of the empire. at this critical moment peter iii. was dethroned and assassinated by a court conspiracy. the peasants, who, of course, knew nothing of the real motives of the conspirators, supposed that the tsar had been assassinated by those who wished to preserve serfage, and believed him to be a martyr in the cause of emancipation. at the news of the catastrophe their hopes of emancipation fell, but soon they were revived by new rumours. the tsar, it was said, had escaped from the conspirators and was in hiding. soon he would appear among his faithful peasants, and with their aid would regain his throne and punish the wicked oppressors. anxiously he was awaited, and at last the glad tidings came that he had appeared in the don country, that thousands of cossacks had joined his standard, that he was everywhere putting the proprietors to death without mercy, and that he would soon arrive in the ancient capital! peter iii. was in reality in his grave, but there was a terrible element of truth in these reports. a pretender, a cossack called pugatchef, had really appeared on the don, and had assumed the role which the peasants expected the late tsar to play. advancing through the country of the lower volga, he took several places of importance, put to death all the proprietors he could find, defeated on more than one occasion the troops sent against him, and threatened to advance into the heart of the empire. it seemed as if the old troublous times were about to be renewed--as if the country was once more to be pillaged by those wild cossacks of the southern steppe. but the pretender showed himself incapable of playing the part he had assumed. his inhuman cruelty estranged many who would otherwise have followed him, and he was too deficient in decision and energy to take advantage of favourable circumstances. if it be true that he conceived the idea of creating a peasant empire (muzhitskoe tsarstvo), he was not the man to realise such a scheme. after a series of mistakes and defeats he was taken prisoner, and the insurrection was quelled.* *whilst living among the bashkirs of the province of samara in i found some interesting traditions regarding this pretender. though nearly a century had elapsed since his death ( ), his name, his personal appearance, and his exploits were well known even to the younger generation. my informants firmly believed that he was not an impostor, but the genuine tsar, dethroned by his ambitious consort, and that he never was taken prisoner, but "went away into foreign lands." when i asked whether he was still alive, and whether he might not one day return, they replied that they did not know. meanwhile peter iii. had been succeeded by his consort, catherine ii. as she had no legal right to the throne, and was by birth a foreigner, she could not gain the affections of the people, and was obliged to court the favour of the noblesse. in such a difficult position she could not venture to apply her humane principles to the question of serfage. even during the first years of her reign, when she had no reason to fear agrarian disturbances, she increased rather than diminished the power of the proprietors over their serfs, and the pugatchef affair confirmed her in this line of policy. during her reign serfage may be said to have reached its climax. the serfs were regarded by the law as part of the master's immovable property*--as part of the working capital of the estate--and as such they were bought, sold, and given as presents** in hundreds and thousands, sometimes with the land, and sometimes without it, sometimes in families, and sometimes individually. the only legal restriction was that they should not be offered for sale at the time of the conscription, and that they should at no time be sold publicly by auction, because such a custom was considered as "unbecoming in a european state." in all other respects the serfs might be treated as private property; and this view is to be found not only in the legislation, but also in the popular conceptions. it became customary--a custom that continued down to the year --to compute a noble's fortune, not by his yearly revenue or the extent of his estate, but by the number of his serfs. instead of saying that a man had so many hundreds or thousands a year, or so many acres, it was commonly said that he had so many hundreds or thousands of "souls." and over these "souls" he exercised the most unlimited authority. the serfs had no legal means of self-defence. the government feared that the granting to them of judicial or administrative protection would inevitably awaken in them a spirit of insubordination, and hence it was ordered that those who presented complaints should be punished with the knout and sent to the mines.*** it was only in extreme cases, when some instance of atrocious cruelty happened to reach the ears of the sovereign, that the authorities interfered with the proprietor's jurisdiction, and these cases had not the slightest influence on the proprietors in general.**** * see ukaz of october th, . ** as an example of making presents of serfs, the following may be cited. count panin presented some of his subordinates for an imperial recompense, and on receiving a refusal, made them a present of serfs from his own estates.--belaef, p. . *** see the ukazes of august d, , and march th, . **** perhaps the most horrible case on record is that of a certain lady called saltykof, who was brought to justice in . according to the ukaz regarding her crimes, she had killed by inhuman tortures in the course of ten or eleven years about a hundred of her serfs, chiefly of the female sex, and among them several young girls of eleven and twelve years of age. according to popular belief her cruelty proceeded from cannibal propensities, but this was not confirmed by the judicial investigation. details in the russki arkhiv, , pp. - . the atrocities practised on the estate of count araktcheyef, the favourite of alexander i. at the commencement of last century, have been frequently described, and are scarcely less revolting. the last years of the eighteenth century may be regarded as the turning-point in the history of serfage. up till that time the power of the proprietors had steadily increased, and the area of serfage had rapidly expanded. under the emperor paul ( - ) we find the first decided symptoms of a reaction. he regarded the proprietors as his most efficient officers of police, but he desired to limit their authority, and for this purpose issued an ukaz to the effect that the serfs should not be forced to work for their masters more than three days in the week. with the accession of alexander i., in , commenced a long series of abortive projects for a general emancipation, and endless attempts to correct the more glaring abuses; and during the reign of nicholas no less than six committees were formed at different times to consider the question. but the practical result of these efforts was extremely small. the custom of giving grants of land with peasants was abolished; certain slight restrictions were placed on the authority of the proprietors; a number of the worst specimens of the class were removed from the administration of their estates; a few who were convicted of atrocious cruelty were exiled to siberia;* and some thousands of serfs were actually emancipated; but no decisive radical measures were attempted, and the serfs did not receive even the right of making formal complaints. serfage had, in fact, come to be regarded as a vital part of the state organisation, and the only sure basis for autocracy. it was therefore treated tenderly, and the rights and protection accorded by various ukazes were almost entirely illusory. *speranski, for instance, when governor of the province of penza, brought to justice, among others, a proprietor who had caused one of his serfs to be flogged to death, and a lady who had murdered a serf boy by pricking him with a pen-knife because he had neglected to take proper care of a tame rabbit committed to his charge!--korff, "zhizn speranskago," ii., p. , note. if we compare the development of serfage in russia and in western europe, we find very many points in common, but in russia the movement had certain peculiarities. one of the most important of these was caused by the rapid development of the autocratic power. in feudal europe, where there was no strong central authority to control the noblesse, the free rural communes entirely, or almost entirely, disappeared. they were either appropriated by the nobles or voluntarily submitted to powerful landed proprietors or to monasteries, and in this way the whole of the reclaimed land, with a few rare exceptions, became the property of the nobles or of the church. in russia we find the same movement, but it was arrested by the imperial power before all the land had been appropriated. the nobles could reduce to serfage the peasants settled on their estates, but they could not take possession of the free communes, because such an appropriation would have infringed the rights and diminished the revenues of the tsar. down to the commencement of the last century, it is true, large grants of land with serfs were made to favoured individuals among the noblesse, and in the reign of paul ( - ) a considerable number of estates were affected to the use of the imperial family under the name of appanages (udyelniya imteniya); but on the other hand, the extensive church lands, when secularised by catherine ii., were not distributed among the nobles, as in many other countries, but were transformed into state domains. thus, at the date of the emancipation ( ), by far the greater part of the territory belonged to the state, and one-half of the rural population were so-called state peasants (gosudarstvenniye krestyanye). regarding the condition of these state peasants, or peasants of the domains, as they are sometimes called, i may say briefly that they were, in a certain sense, serfs, being attached to the soil like the others; but their condition was, as a rule, somewhat better than the serfs in the narrower acceptation of the term. they had to suffer much from the tyranny and extortion of the special administration under which they lived, but they had more land and more liberty than was commonly enjoyed on the estates of resident proprietors, and their position was much less precarious. it is often asserted that the officials of the domains were worse than the serf-owners, because they had not the same interest in the prosperity of the peasantry; but this a priori reasoning does not stand the test of experience. it is not a little interesting to observe the numerical proportion and geographical distribution of these two rural classes. in european russia, as a whole, about three-eighths of the population were composed of serfs belonging to the nobles;* but if we take the provinces separately we find great variations from this average. in five provinces the serfs were less than three per cent., while in others they formed more than seventy per cent. of the population! this is not an accidental phenomenon. in the geographical distribution of serfage we can see reflected the origin and history of the institution. * the exact numbers, according to official data, were--entire population , , peasantry of all classes , , of these latter there were--state peasants , , peasants on the lands of proprietors , , peasants of the appanages and other departments , , ---------- , , if we were to construct a map showing the geographical distribution of the serf population, we should at once perceive that serfage radiated from moscow. starting from that city as a centre and travelling in any direction towards the confines of the empire, we find that, after making allowance for a few disturbing local influences, the proportion of serfs regularly declines in the successive provinces traversed. in the region representing the old muscovite tsardom they form considerably more than a half of the rural population. immediately to the south and east of this, in the territory that was gradually annexed during the seventeenth and first half of the eighteenth century, the proportion varies from twenty-five to fifty per cent., and in the more recently annexed provinces it steadily decreases till it almost reaches zero. we may perceive, too, that the percentage of serfs decreases towards the north much more rapidly than towards the east and south. this points to the essentially agricultural nature of serfage in its infancy. in the south and east there was abundance of rich "black earth" celebrated for its fertility, and the nobles in quest of estates naturally preferred this region to the inhospitable north, with its poor soil and severe climate. a more careful examination of the supposed map* would bring out other interesting facts. let me notice one by way of illustration. had serfage been the result of conquest we should have found the slavonic race settled on the state domains, and the finnish and tartar tribes supplying the serfs of the nobles. in reality we find quite the reverse; the finns and tartars were nearly all state peasants, and the serfs of the proprietors were nearly all of slavonic race. this is to be accounted for by the fact that the finnish and tartar tribes inhabit chiefly the outlying regions, in which serfage never attained such dimensions as in the centre of the empire. * such a map was actually constructed by troinitski ("krepostnoe naseleniye v rossii," st. petersburg, ), but it is not nearly so graphic as is might have been. the dues paid by the serfs were of three kinds: labour, money, and farm produce. the last-named is so unimportant that it may be dismissed in a few words. it consisted chiefly of eggs, chickens, lambs, mushrooms, wild berries, and linen cloth. the amount of these various products depended entirely on the will of the master. the other two kinds of dues, as more important, we must examine more closely. when a proprietor had abundance of fertile land and wished to farm on his own account, he commonly demanded from his serfs as much labour as possible. under such a master the serfs were probably free from money dues, and fulfilled their obligations to him by labouring in his fields in summer and transporting his grain to market in winter. when, on the contrary, a land-owner had more serf labour at his disposal than he required for the cultivation of his fields, he put the superfluous serfs "on obrok,"--that is to say, he allowed them to go and work where they pleased on condition of paying him a fixed yearly sum. sometimes the proprietor did not farm at all on his own account, in which case he put all the serfs "on obrok," and generally gave to the commune in usufruct the whole of the arable land and pasturage. in this way the mir played the part of a tenant. we have here the basis for a simple and important classification of estates in the time of serfage: ( ) estates on which the dues were exclusively in labour; ( ) estates on which the dues were partly in labour and partly in money; and ( ) estates on which the dues were exclusively in money. in the manner of exacting the labour dues there was considerable variety. according to the famous manifesto of paul i., the peasant could not be compelled to work more than three days in the week; but this law was by no means universally observed, and those who did observe it had various methods of applying it. a few took it literally and laid down a rule that the serfs should work for them three definite days in the week--for example, every monday, tuesday, and wednesday--but this was an extremely inconvenient method, for it prevented the field labour from being carried on regularly. a much more rational system was that according to which one-half of the serfs worked the first three days of the week, and the other half the remaining three. in this way there was, without any contravention of the law, a regular and constant supply of labour. it seems, however, that the great majority of the proprietors followed no strict method, and paid no attention whatever to paul's manifesto, which gave to the peasants no legal means of making formal complaints. they simply summoned daily as many labourers as they required. the evil consequences of this for the peasants' crops were in part counteracted by making the peasants sow their own grain a little later than that of the proprietor, so that the master's harvest work was finished, or nearly finished, before their grain was ripe. this combination did not, however, always succeed, and in cases where there was a conflict of interests, the serf was, of course, the losing party. all that remained for him to do in such cases was to work a little in his own fields before six o'clock in the morning and after nine o'clock at night, and in order to render this possible he economised his strength, and worked as little as possible in his master's fields during the day. it has frequently been remarked, and with much truth--though the indiscriminate application of the principle has often led to unjustifiable legislative inactivity--that the practical result of institutions depends less on the intrinsic abstract nature of the institutions themselves than on the character of those who work them. so it was with serfage. when a proprietor habitually acted towards his serfs in an enlightened, rational, humane way, they had little reason to complain of their position, and their life was much easier than that of many men who live in a state of complete individual freedom and unlimited, unrestricted competition. however paradoxical the statement may seem to those who are in the habit of regarding all forms of slavery from the sentimental point of view, it is unquestionable that the condition of serfs under such a proprietor as i have supposed was more enviable than that of the majority of english agricultural labourers. each family had a house of its own, with a cabbage-garden, one or more horses, one or two cows, several sheep, poultry, agricultural implements, a share of the communal land, and everything else necessary for carrying on its small farming operations; and in return for this it had to supply the proprietor with an amount of labour which was by no means oppressive. if, for instance, a serf had three adult sons--and the households, as i have said, were at that time generally numerous--two of them might work for the proprietor whilst he himself and the remaining son could attend exclusively to the family affairs. by the events which used to be called "the visitations of god" he had no fear of being permanently ruined. if his house was burnt, or his cattle died from the plague, or a series of "bad years" left him without seed for his fields, he could always count upon temporary assistance from his master. he was protected, too, against all oppression and exactions on the part of the officials; for the police, when there was any call for its interference, applied to the proprietor, who was to a certain extent responsible for his serfs. thus the serf might live a tranquil, contented life, and die at a ripe old age, without ever having been conscious that serfage was a grievous burden. if all the serfs had lived in this way we might, perhaps, regret that the emancipation was ever undertaken. in reality there was, as the french say, le revers de la medaille, and serfage generally appeared under a form very different from that which i have just depicted. the proprietors were, unfortunately, not all of the enlightened, humane type. amongst them were many who demanded from their serfs an inordinate amount of labour, and treated them in a very inhuman fashion. these oppressors of their serfs may be divided into four categories. first, there were the proprietors who managed their own estates, and oppressed simply for the purpose of increasing their revenues. secondly, there were a number of retired officers who wished to establish a certain order and discipline on their estates, and who employed for this purpose the barbarous measures which were at that time used in the army, believing that merciless corporal punishment was the only means of curing laziness, disorderliness and other vices. thirdly, there were the absentees who lived beyond their means, and demanded from their steward, under pain of giving him or his son as a recruit, a much greater yearly sum than the estate could be reasonably expected to yield. lastly, in the latter years of serfage, there were a number of men who bought estates as a mercantile speculation, and made as much money out of them as they could in the shortest possible space of time. of all hard masters, the last-named were the most terrible. utterly indifferent to the welfare of the serfs and the ultimate fate of the property, they cut down the timber, sold the cattle, exacted heavy money dues under threats of giving the serfs or their children as recruits, presented to the military authorities a number of conscripts greater than was required by law--selling the conscription receipts (zatchetniya kvitantsii) to the merchants and burghers who were liable to the conscription but did not wish to serve--compelled some of the richer serfs to buy their liberty at an enormous price, and, in a word, used every means, legal and illegal, for extracting money. by this system of management they ruined the estate completely in the course of a few years; but by that time they had realised probably the whole sum paid, with a very fair profit from the operation; and this profit could be considerably augmented by selling a number of the peasant families for transportation to another estate (na svoz), or by mortgaging the property in the opekunski sovet--a government institution which lent money on landed property without examining carefully the nature of the security. as to the means which the proprietors possessed of oppressing their peasants, we must distinguish between the legal and the actual. the legal were almost as complete as any one could desire. "the proprietor," it is said in the laws (vol. ix, p. , ed. an. ), "may impose on his serfs every kind of labour, may take from them money dues (obrok) and demand from them personal service, with this one restriction, that they should not be thereby ruined, and that the number of days fixed by law should be left to them for their own work."* besides this, he had the right to transform peasants into domestic servants, and might, instead of employing them in his own service, hire them out to others who had the rights and privileges of noblesse (pp. - ). for all offences committed against himself or against any one under his jurisdiction he could subject the guilty ones to corporal punishment not exceeding forty lashes with the birch or fifteen blows with the stick (p. ); and if he considered any of his serfs as incorrigible, he could present them to the authorities to be drafted into the army or transported to siberia as he might desire (pp. - ). in cases of insubordination, where the ordinary domestic means of discipline did not suffice, he could call in the police and the military to support his authority. * i give here the references to the code, because russians commonly believe and assert that the hiring out of serfs, the infliction of corporal punishment, and similar practices were merely abuses unauthorised by law. such were the legal means by which the proprietor might oppress his peasants, and it will be readily understood that they were very considerable and very elastic. by law he had the power to impose any dues in labour or money which he might think fit, and in all cases the serfs were ordered to be docile and obedient (p. ). corporal punishment, though restricted by law, he could in reality apply to any extent. certainly none of the serfs, and very few of the proprietors, were aware that the law placed any restriction on this right. all the proprietors were in the habit of using corporal punishment as they thought proper, and unless a proprietor became notorious for inhuman cruelty the authorities never thought of interfering. but in the eyes of the peasants corporal punishment was not the worst. what they feared infinitely more than the birch or the stick was the proprietor's power of giving them or their sons as recruits. the law assumed that this extreme means would be employed only against those serfs who showed themselves incorrigibly vicious or insubordinate; but the authorities accepted those presented without making any investigations, and consequently the proprietor might use this power as an effective means of extortion. against these means of extortion and oppression the serfs had no legal protection. the law provided them with no means of resisting any injustice to which they might be subjected, or of bringing to punishment the master who oppressed and ruined them. the government, notwithstanding its sincere desire to protect them from inordinate burdens and cruel treatment, rarely interfered between the master and his serfs, being afraid of thereby undermining the authority of the proprietors, and awakening among the peasantry a spirit of insubordination. the serfs were left, therefore, to their own resources, and had to defend themselves as best they could. the simplest way was open mutiny; but this was rarely employed, for they knew by experience that any attempt of the kind would be at once put down by the military and mercilessly punished. much more favourite and efficient methods were passive resistance, flight, and fire-raising or murder. we might naturally suppose that an unscrupulous proprietor, armed with the enormous legal and actual power which i have just described, could very easily extort from his peasants anything he desired. in reality, however, the process of extortion, when it exceeded a certain measure, was a very difficult operation. the russian peasant has a capacity of patient endurance that would do honour to a martyr, and a power of continued, dogged, passive resistance such as is possessed, i believe, by no other class of men in europe; and these qualities formed a very powerful barrier against the rapacity of unconscientious proprietors. as soon as the serfs remarked in their master a tendency to rapacity and extortion, they at once took measures to defend themselves. their first step was to sell secretly the live stock they did not actually require, and all their movable property except the few articles necessary for everyday use; then the little capital realised was carefully hidden. when this had been effected, the proprietor might threaten and punish as he liked, but he rarely succeeded in unearthing the treasure. many a peasant, under such circumstances, bore patiently the most cruel punishment, and saw his sons taken away as recruits, and yet he persisted in declaring that he had no money to ransom himself and his children. a spectator in such a case would probably have advised him to give up his little store of money, and thereby liberate himself from persecution; but the peasants reasoned otherwise. they were convinced, and not without reason, that the sacrifice of their little capital would merely put off the evil day, and that the persecution would very soon recommence. in this way they would have to suffer as before, and have the additional mortification of feeling that they had spent to no purpose the little that they possessed. their fatalistic belief in the "perhaps" (avos') came here to their aid. perhaps the proprietor might become weary of his efforts when he saw that they led to no result, or perhaps something might occur which would remove the persecutor. it always happened, however, that when a proprietor treated his serfs with extreme injustice and cruelty, some of them lost patience, and sought refuge in flight. as the estates lay perfectly open on all sides, and it was utterly impossible to exercise a strict supervision, nothing was easier than to run away, and the fugitive might be a hundred miles off before his absence was noticed. but the oppressed serf was reluctant to adopt such an extreme measure. he had almost always a wife and family, and he could not possibly take them with him; flight, therefore, was expatriation for life in its most terrible form. besides this, the life of a fugitive was by no means enviable. he was liable at any moment to fall into the hands of the police, and to be put into prison or sent back to his master. so little charm, indeed, did this life present that not infrequently after a few months or a few years the fugitive returned of his own accord to his former domicile. regarding fugitives or passportless wanderers in general, i may here remark parenthetically that there were two kinds. in the first place, there was the young, able-bodied peasant, who fled from the oppression of his master or from the conscription. such a fugitive almost always sought out for himself a new domicile--generally in the southern provinces, where there was a great scarcity of labourers, and where many proprietors habitually welcomed all peasants who presented themselves, without making any inquiries as to passports. in the second place, there were those who chose fugitivism as a permanent mode of life. these were, for the most part, men or women of a certain age--widowers or widows--who had no close family ties, and who were too infirm or too lazy to work. the majority of these assumed the character of pilgrims. as such they could always find enough to eat, and could generally even collect a few roubles with which to grease the palm of any zealous police-officer who should arrest them. for a life of this kind russia presented peculiar facilities. there was abundance of monasteries, where all comers could live for three days without questions being asked, and where those who were willing to do a little work for the patron saint might live for a much longer period. then there were the towns, where the rich merchants considered almsgiving as very profitable for salvation. and, lastly, there were the villages, where a professing pilgrim was sure to be hospitably received and entertained so long as he refrained from stealing and other acts too grossly inconsistent with his assumed character. for those who contented themselves with simple fare, and did not seek to avoid the usual privations of a wanderer's life, these ordinary means of subsistence were amply sufficient. those who were more ambitious and more cunning often employed their talents with great success in the world of the old ritualists and sectarians. the last and most desperate means of defense which the serfs possessed were fire-raising and murder. with regard to the amount of fire-raising there are no trustworthy statistics. with regard to the number of agrarian murders i once obtained some interesting statistical data, but unfortunately lost them. i may say, however, that these cases were not very numerous. this is to be explained in part by the patient, long-suffering character of the peasantry, and in part by the fact that the great majority of the proprietors were by no means such inhuman taskmasters as is sometimes supposed. when a case did occur, the administration always made a strict investigation--punishing the guilty with exemplary severity, and taking no account of the provocation to which they had been subjected. the peasantry, on the contrary--at least, when the act was not the result of mere personal vengeance--secretly sympathised with "the unfortunates," and long cherished their memory as that of men who had suffered for the mir. in speaking of the serfs i have hitherto confined my attention to the members of the mir, or rural commune--that is to say, the peasants in the narrower sense of the term; but besides these there were the dvorovuye, or domestic servants, and of these i must add a word or two. the dvorovuye were domestic slaves rather than serfs in the proper sense of the term. let us, however, avoid wounding unnecessarily russian sensibilities by the use of the ill-sounding word. we may call the class in question "domestics"--remembering, of course, that they were not quite domestic servants in the ordinary sense. they received no wages, were not at liberty to change masters, possessed almost no legal rights, and might be punished, hired out, or sold by their owners without any infraction of the written law. these "domestics" were very numerous--out of all proportion to the work to be performed--and could consequently lead a very lazy life;* but the peasant considered it a great misfortune to be transferred to their ranks, for he thereby lost his share of the communal land and the little independence which he enjoyed. it very rarely happened, however, that the proprietor took an able-bodied peasant as domestic. the class generally kept up its numbers by the legitimate and illegitimate method of natural increase; and involuntary additions were occasionally made when orphans were left without near relatives, and no other family wished to adopt them. to this class belonged the lackeys, servant-girls, cooks, coachmen, stable-boys, gardeners, and a large number of nondescript old men and women who had no very clearly defined functions. if the proprietor had a private theatre or orchestra, it was from this class that the actors and musicians were drawn. those of them who were married and had children occupied a position intermediate between the ordinary domestic servant and the peasant. on the one hand, they received from the master a monthly allowance of food and a yearly allowance of clothes, and they were obliged to live in the immediate vicinity of the mansion-house; but, on the other hand, they had each a separate house or apartment, with a little cabbage-garden, and commonly a small plot of flax. the unmarried ones lived in all respects like ordinary domestic servants. * those proprietors who kept orchestras, large packs of hounds, &c., had sometimes several hundred domestic serfs. the number of these domestic serfs being generally out of all proportion to the amount of work they had to perform, they were imbued with a hereditary spirit of indolence, and they performed lazily and carelessly what they had to do. on the other hand, they were often sincerely attached to the family they served, and occasionally proved by acts their fidelity and attachment. here is an instance out of many for which i can vouch. an old nurse, whose mistress was dangerously ill, vowed that, in the event of the patient's recovery, she would make a pilgrimage, first to kief, the holy city on the dnieper, and afterwards to solovetsk, a much revered monastery on an island in the white sea. the patient recovered, and the old woman, in fulfilment of her vow, walked more than two thousand miles! this class of serfs might well be called domestic slaves, but i must warn the reader that he ought not to use the expression when speaking with russians, because they are extremely sensitive on the point. serfage, they say, was something quite different from slavery, and slavery never existed in russia. the first part of this assertion is perfectly true, and the second part perfectly false. in old times, as i have said above, slavery was a recognised institution in russia as in other countries. one can hardly read a few pages of the old chronicles without stumbling on references to slaves; and i distinctly remember--though i cannot at this moment give chapter and verse--that one of the old russian princes was so valiant and so successful in his wars that during his reign a slave might be bought for a few coppers. as late as the beginning of last century the domestic serfs were sold very much as domestic slaves used to be sold in countries where slavery was recognised as a legal institution. here is an example of the customary advertisement; i take it almost at random from the moscow gazette of :--"to be sold: three coachmen, well trained and handsome; and two girls, the one eighteen, and the other fifteen years of age, both of them good-looking, and well acquainted with various kinds of handiwork. in the same house there are for sale two hairdressers; the one, twenty-one years of age, can read, write, play on a musical instrument, and act as huntsman; the other can dress ladies' and gentlemen's hair. in the same house are sold pianos and organs." a little farther on in the same number of the paper, a first-rate clerk, a carver, and a lackey are offered for sale, and the reason assigned is a superabundance of the articles in question (za izlishestvom). in some instances it seems as if the serfs and the cattle were intentionally put in the same category, as in the following announcement: "in this house one can buy a coachman and a dutch cow about to calve." the style of these advertisements, and the frequent recurrence of the same addresses, show that there was at this time in moscow a regular class of slave-dealers. the humane alexander i. prohibited advertisements of this kind, but he did not put down the custom which they represented, and his successor, nicholas i., took no effective measures for its repression. of the whole number of serfs belonging to the proprietors, the domestics formed, according to the census of , no less than / per cent. ( . ), and their numbers were evidently rapidly increasing, for in the preceding census they represented only . per cent. of the whole. this fact seems all the more significant when we observe that during this period the number of peasant serfs had diminished. i must now bring this long chapter to an end. my aim has been to represent serfage in its normal, ordinary forms rather than in its occasional monstrous manifestations. of these latter i have a collection containing ample materials for a whole series of sensation novels, but i refrain from quoting them, because i do not believe that the criminal annals of a country give a fair representation of its real condition. on the other hand, i do not wish to whitewash serfage or attenuate its evil consequences. no great body of men could long wield such enormous uncontrolled power without abusing it,* and no large body of men could long live under such power without suffering morally and materially from its pernicious influence. if serfage did not create that moral apathy and intellectual lethargy which formed, as it were, the atmosphere of russian provincial life, it did much at least to preserve it. in short, serfage was the chief barrier to all material and moral progress, and in a time of moral awakening such as that which i have described in the preceding chapter, the question of emancipation naturally came at once to the front. * the number of deposed proprietors--or rather the number of estates placed under curators in consequence of the abuse of authority on the part of their owners--amounted in to . so at least i found in an official ms. document shown to me by the late nicholas milutin. chapter xxix the emancipation of the serfs the question raised--chief committee--the nobles of the lithuanian provinces--the tsar's broad hint to the noblesse--enthusiasm in the press--the proprietors--political aspirations--no opposition--the government--public opinion--fear of the proletariat--the provincial committees--the elaboration commission--the question ripens--provincial deputies--discontent and demonstrations--the manifesto--fundamental principles of the law--illusions and disappointment of the serfs--arbiters of the peace--a characteristic incident--redemption--who effected the emancipation? it is a fundamental principle of russian political organisation that all initiative in public affairs proceeds from the autocratic power. the widespread desire, therefore, for the emancipation of the serfs did not find free expression so long as the emperor kept silence regarding his intentions. the educated classes watched anxiously for some sign, and soon a sign was given to them. in march, --a few days after the publication of the manifesto announcing the conclusion of peace with the western powers--his majesty said to the marshals of noblesse in moscow: "for the removal of certain unfounded reports i consider it necessary to declare to you that i have not at present the intention of annihilating serfage; but certainly, as you yourselves know, the existing manner of possessing serfs cannot remain unchanged. it is better to abolish serfage from above than to await the time when it will begin to abolish itself from below. i request you, gentlemen, to consider how this can be put into execution, and to submit my words to the noblesse for their consideration." these words were intended to sound the noblesse and induce them to make a voluntary proposal, but they had not the desired effect. abolitionist enthusiasm was rare among the great nobles, and those who really wished to see serfage abolished considered the imperial utterance too vague and oracular to justify them in taking the initiative. as no further steps were taken for some time, the excitement caused by the incident soon subsided, and many people assumed that the consideration of the problem had been indefinitely postponed. "the government," it was said, "evidently intended to raise the question, but on perceiving the indifference or hostility of the landed proprietors, it became frightened and drew back." the emperor was in reality disappointed. he had expected that his "faithful moscow noblesse," of which he was wont to say he was himself a member, would at once respond to his call, and that the ancient capital would have the honour of beginning the work. and if the example were thus given by moscow, he had no doubt that it would soon be followed by the other provinces. he now perceived that the fundamental principles on which the emancipation should be effected must be laid down by the government, and for this purpose he created a secret committee composed of several great officers of state. this "chief committee for peasant affairs," as it was afterwards called, devoted six months to studying the history of the question. emancipation schemes were by no means a new phenomenon in russia. ever since the time of catherine ii. the government had thought of improving the condition of the serfs, and on more than one occasion a general emancipation had been contemplated. in this way the question had slowly ripened, and certain fundamental principles had come to be pretty generally recognised. of these principles the most important was that the state should not consent to any project which would uproot the peasant from the soil and allow him to wander about at will; for such a measure would render the collection of the taxes impossible, and in all probability produce the most frightful agrarian disorders. and to this general principle there was an important corollary: if severe restrictions were to be placed on free migration, it would be necessary to provide the peasantry with land in the immediate vicinity of the villages; otherwise they must inevitably fall back under the power of the proprietors, and a new and worse kind of serfage would thus be created. but in order to give land to the peasantry it would be necessary to take it from the proprietors; and this expropriation seemed to many a most unjustifiable infringement of the sacred rights of property. it was this consideration that had restrained nicholas from taking any decisive measures with regard to serfage; and it had now considerable weight with the members of the committee, who were nearly all great land-owners. notwithstanding the strenuous exertions of the grand duke constantine, who had been appointed a member for the express purpose of accelerating the proceedings, the committee did not show as much zeal and energy as was desired, and orders were given to take some decided step. at that moment a convenient opportunity presented itself. in the lithuanian provinces, where the nobles were polish by origin and sympathies, the miserable condition of the peasantry had induced the government in the preceding reign to limit the arbitrary power of the serf-owners by so-called inventories, in which the mutual obligations of masters and serfs were regulated and defined. these inventories had caused great dissatisfaction, and the proprietors now proposed that they should be revised. of this the government determined to take advantage. on the somewhat violent assumption that these proprietors wished to emancipate their serfs, an imperial rescript was prepared approving of their supposed desire, and empowering them to form committees for the preparation of definite projects.* in the rescript itself the word emancipation was studiously avoided, but there could be no doubt as to the implied meaning, for it was expressly stated in the supplementary considerations that "the abolition of serfage must be effected not suddenly, but gradually." four days later the minister of the interior, in accordance with a secret order from the emperor, sent a circular to the governors and marshals of noblesse all over russia proper, informing them that the nobles of the lithuanian provinces "had recognised the necessity of liberating the peasants," and that "this noble intention" had afforded peculiar satisfaction to his majesty. a copy of the rescript and the fundamental principles to be observed accompanied the circular, "in case the nobles of other provinces should express a similar desire." * this celebrated document is known as "the rescript to nazimof." more than once in the course of conversation i did all in my power, within the limits of politeness and discretion, to extract from general nazimof a detailed account of this important episode, but my efforts were unsuccessful. this circular produced an immense sensation throughout the country. no one could for a moment misunderstand the suggestion that the nobles of other provinces might possibly express a desire to liberate their serfs. such vague words, when spoken by an autocrat, have a very definite and unmistakable meaning, which prudent loyal subjects have no difficulty in understanding. if any doubted, their doubts were soon dispelled, for the emperor, a few weeks later, publicly expressed a hope that, with the help of god and the co-operation of the nobles, the work would be successfully accomplished. the die was cast, and the government looked anxiously to see the result. the periodical press--which was at once the product and the fomenter of the liberal aspirations--hailed the raising of the question with boundless enthusiasm. the emancipation, it was said, would certainly open a new and glorious epoch in the national history. serfage was described as an ulcer that had long been poisoning the national blood; as an enormous weight under which the whole nation groaned; as an insurmountable obstacle, preventing all material and moral progress; as a cumbrous load which rendered all free, vigorous action impossible, and prevented russia from rising to the level of the western nations. if russia had succeeded in stemming the flood of adverse fortune in spite of this millstone round her neck, what might she not accomplish when free and untrammelled? all sections of the literary world had arguments to offer in support of the foregone conclusion. the moralists declared that all the prevailing vices were the product of serfage, and that moral progress was impossible in an atmosphere of slavery; the lawyers held that the arbitrary authority of the proprietors over the peasants had no legal basis; the economists explained that free labour was an indispensable condition of industrial and commercial prosperity; the philosophical historians showed that the normal historical development of the country demanded the immediate abolition of this superannuated remnant of barbarism; and the writers of the sentimental, gushing type poured forth endless effusions about brotherly love to the weak and the oppressed. in a word, the press was for the moment unanimous, and displayed a feverish excitement which demanded a liberal use of superlatives. this enthusiastic tone accorded perfectly with the feelings of a large section of the nobles. nearly the whole of the noblesse was more or less affected by the newborn enthusiasm for everything just, humanitarian, and liberal. the aspirations found, of course, their most ardent representatives among the educated youth; but they were by no means confined to the younger men, who had passed through the universities and had always regarded serfage as a stain on the national honour. many a saul was found among the prophets. many an old man, with grey hairs and grandchildren, who had all his life placidly enjoyed the fruits of serf labour, was now heard to speak of serfage as an antiquated institution which could not be reconciled with modern humanitarian ideas; and not a few of all ages, who had formerly never thought of reading books or newspapers, now perused assiduously the periodical literature, and picked up the liberal and humanitarian phrases with which it was filled. this abolitionist fervour was considerably augmented by certain political aspirations which did not appear in the newspapers, but which were at that time very generally entertained. in spite of the press-censure a large section of the educated classes had become acquainted with the political literature of france and germany, and had imbibed therefrom an unbounded admiration for constitutional government. a constitution, it was thought, would necessarily remove all political evils and create something like a political millennium. and it was not to be a constitution of the ordinary sort--the fruit of compromise between hostile political parties--but an institution designed calmly according to the latest results of political science, and so constructed that all classes would voluntarily contribute to the general welfare. the necessary prelude to this happy era of political liberty was, of course, the abolition of serfage. when the nobles had given up their power over their serfs they would receive a constitution as an indemnification and reward. there were, however, many nobles of the old school who remained impervious to all these new feelings and ideas. on them the raising of the emancipation question had a very different effect. they had no source of revenue but their estates, and they could not conceive the possibility of working their estates without serf labour. if the peasant was indolent and careless even under strict supervision, what would he become when no longer under the authority of a master? if the profits from farming were already small, what would they be when no one would work without wages? and this was not the worst, for it was quite evident from the circular that the land question was to be raised, and that a considerable portion of each estate would be transferred, at least for a time, to the emancipated peasants. to the proprietors who looked at the question in this way the prospect of emancipation was certainly not at all agreeable, but we must not imagine that they felt as english land-owners would feel if threatened by a similar danger. in england a hereditary estate has for the family a value far beyond what it would bring in the market. it is regarded as one and indivisible, and any dismemberment of it would be looked upon as a grave family misfortune. in russia, on the contrary, estates have nothing of this semi-sacred character, and may be at any time dismembered without outraging family feeling or traditional associations. indeed, it is not uncommon that when a proprietor dies, leaving only one estate and several children, the property is broken up into fractions and divided among the heirs. even the prospect of pecuniary sacrifice did not alarm the russians so much as it would alarm englishmen. men who keep no accounts and take little thought for the morrow are much less averse to making pecuniary sacrifices--whether for a wise or a foolish purpose--than those who carefully arrange their mode of life according to their income. still, after due allowance has been made for these peculiarities, it must be admitted that the feeling of dissatisfaction and alarm was very widespread. even russians do not like the prospect of losing a part of their land and income. no protest, however, was entered, and no opposition was made. those who were hostile to the measure were ashamed to show themselves selfish and unpatriotic. at the same time they knew very well that the emperor, if he wished, could effect the emancipation in spite of them, and that resistance on their part would draw down upon them the imperial displeasure, without affording any compensating advantage. they knew, too, that there was a danger from below, so that any useless show of opposition would be like playing with matches in a powder-magazine. the serfs would soon hear that the tsar desired to set them free, and they might, if they suspected that the proprietors were trying to frustrate the tsar's benevolent intentions, use violent measures to get rid of the opposition. the idea of agrarian massacres had already taken possession of many timid minds. besides this, all classes of the proprietors felt that if the work was to be done, it should be done by the noblesse and not by the bureaucracy. if it were effected by the nobles the interests of the land-owners would be duly considered, but if it were effected by the administration without their concurrence and co-operation their interests would be neglected, and there would inevitably be an enormous amount of jobbery and corruption. in accordance with this view, the noblesse corporations of the various provinces successively requested permission to form committees for the consideration of the question, and during the year a committee was opened in almost every province in which serfage existed. in this way the question was apparently handed over for solution to the nobles, but in reality the noblesse was called upon merely to advise, and not to legislate. the government had not only laid down the fundamental principles of the scheme; it continually supervised the work of construction, and it reserved to itself the right of modifying or rejecting the projects proposed by the committees. according to these fundamental principles the serfs should be emancipated gradually, so that for some time they would remain attached to the glebe and subject to the authority of the proprietors. during this transition period they should redeem by money payments or labour their houses and gardens, and enjoy in usufruct a certain quantity of land, sufficient to enable them to support themselves and to fulfil their obligations to the state as well as to the proprietor. in return for this land they should pay a yearly rent in money, produce or labour over and above the yearly sum paid for the redemption of their houses and gardens. as to what should be done after the expiry of the transition period, the government seems to have had no clearly conceived intentions. probably it hoped that by that time the proprietors and their emancipated serfs would have invented some convenient modus vivendi, and that nothing but a little legislative regulation would be necessary. but radical legislation is like the letting-out of water. these fundamental principles, adopted at first with a view to mere immediate practical necessity, soon acquired a very different significance. to understand this we must return to the periodical literature. until the serf question came to be discussed, the reform aspirations were very vague, and consequently there was a remarkable unanimity among their representatives. the great majority of the educated classes were unanimously of opinion that russia should at once adopt from the west all those liberal principles and institutions the exclusion of which had prevented the country from rising to the level of the western nations. but very soon symptoms of a schism became apparent. whilst the literature in general was still preaching the doctrine that russia should adopt everything that was "liberal," a few voices began to be heard warning the unwary that much which bore the name of liberal was in reality already antiquated and worthless--that russia ought not to follow blindly in the footsteps of other nations, but ought rather to profit by their experience, and avoid the errors into which they had fallen. the chief of these errors was, according to these new teachers, the abnormal development of individualism--the adoption of that principle of laissez faire which forms the basis of what may be called the orthodox school of political economists. individualism and unrestricted competition, it was said, have now reached in the west an abnormal and monstrous development. supported by the laissez faire principle, they have led--and must always lead--to the oppression of the weak, the tyranny of capital, the impoverishment of the masses for the benefit of the few, and the formation of a hungry, dangerous proletariat! this has already been recognised by the most advanced thinkers of france and germany. if the older countries cannot at once cure those evils, that is no reason for russia to inoculate herself with them. she is still at the commencement of her career, and it would be folly for her to wander voluntarily for ages in the desert, when a direct route to the promised land has been already discovered. in order to convey some idea of the influence which this teaching exercised, i must here recall, at the risk of repeating myself, what i said in a former chapter. the russians, as i have there pointed out, have a peculiar way of treating political and social questions. having received their political education from books, they naturally attribute to theoretical considerations an importance which seems to us exaggerated. when any important or trivial question arises, they at once launch into a sea of philosophical principles, and pay less attention to the little objects close at hand than to the big ones that appear on the distant horizon of the future. and when they set to work at any political reform they begin ab ovo. as they have no traditional prejudices to fetter them, and no traditional principles to lead them, they naturally take for their guidance the latest conclusions of political philosophy. bearing this in mind, let us see how it affected the emancipation question. the proletariat--described as a dangerous monster which was about to swallow up society in western europe, and which might at any moment cross the frontier unless kept out by vigorous measures--took possession of the popular imagination, and aroused the fears of the reading public. to many it seemed that the best means of preventing the formation of a proletariat in russia was the securing of land for the emancipated serfs and the careful preservation of the rural commune. "now is the moment," it was said, "for deciding the important question whether russia is to fall a prey, like the western nations, to this terrible evil, or whether she is to protect herself for ever against it. in the decision of this question lies the future destiny of the country. if the peasants be emancipated without land, or if those communal institutions which give to every man a share of the soil and secure this inestimable boon for the generations still unborn be now abolished, a proletariat will be rapidly formed, and the peasantry will become a disorganised mass of homeless wanderers like the english agricultural labourers. if, on the contrary, a fair share of land be granted to them, and if the commune be made proprietor of the land ceded, the danger of a proletariat is for ever removed, and russia will thereby set an example to the civilised world! never has a nation had such an opportunity of making an enormous leap forward on the road of progress, and never again will the opportunity occur. the western nations have discovered their error when it is too late--when the peasantry have been already deprived of their land, and the labouring classes of the towns have already fallen a prey to the insatiable cupidity of the capitalists. in vain their most eminent thinkers warn and exhort. ordinary remedies are no longer of any avail. but russia may avoid these dangers, if she but act wisely and prudently in this great matter. the peasants are still in actual, if not legal, possession of the land, and there is as yet no proletariat in the towns. all that is necessary, therefore, is to abolish the arbitrary authority of the proprietors without expropriating the peasants, and without disturbing the existing communal institutions, which form the best barrier against pauperism." these ideas were warmly espoused by many proprietors, and exercised a very great influence on the deliberations of the provincial committees. in these committees there were generally two groups. the majorities, whilst making large concessions to the claims of justice and expediency, endeavoured to defend, as far as possible, the interests of their class; the minorities, though by no means indifferent to the interests of the class to which they belonged, allowed the more abstract theoretical considerations to be predominant. at first the majorities did all in their power to evade the fundamental principles laid down by the government as much too favourable to the peasantry; but when they perceived that public opinion, as represented by the press, went much further than the government, they clung to these fundamental principles--which secured at least the fee simple of the estate to the landlord--as their anchor of safety. between the two parties arose naturally a strong spirit of hostility, and the government, which wished to have the support of the minorities, found it advisable that both should present their projects for consideration. as the provincial committees worked independently, there was considerable diversity in the conclusions at which they arrived. the task of codifying these conclusions, and elaborating out of them a general scheme of emancipation, was entrusted to a special imperial commission, composed partly of officials and partly of landed proprietors named by the emperor.* those who believed that the question had really been handed over to the noblesse assumed that this commission would merely arrange the materials presented by the provincial committees, and that the emancipation law would thereafter be elaborated by a national assembly of deputies elected by the nobles. in reality the commission, working in st. petersburg under the direct guidance and control of the government, fulfilled a very different and much more important function. using the combined projects merely as a storehouse from which it could draw the proposals it desired, it formed a new project of its own, which ultimately received, after undergoing modification in detail, the imperial assent. instead of being a mere chancellerie, as many expected, it became in a certain sense the author of the emancipation law. * known as the redaktsionnaya komissiya, or elaboration commission. strictly speaking, there were two, but they are commonly spoken of as one. there was, as we have seen, in nearly all the provincial committees a majority and a minority, the former of which strove to defend the interests of the proprietors, whilst the latter paid more attention to theoretical considerations, and endeavoured to secure for the peasantry a large amount of land and communal self-government. in the commission there were the same two parties, but their relative strength was very different. here the men of theory, instead of forming a minority, were more numerous than their opponents, and enjoyed the support of the government, which regulated the proceedings. in its instructions we see how much the question had ripened under the influence of the theoretical considerations. there is no longer any trace of the idea that the emancipation should be gradual; on the contrary, it is expressly declared that the immediate effect of the law should be the complete abolition of the proprietor's authority. there is even evidence of a clear intention of preventing the proprietor as far as possible from exercising any influence over his former serfs. the sharp distinction between the land occupied by the village and the arable land to be ceded in usufruct likewise disappears, and it is merely said that efforts should be made to enable the peasants to become proprietors of the land they required. the aim of the government had thus become clear and well defined. the task to be performed was to transform the serfs at once, and with the least possible disturbance of the existing economic conditions, into a class of small communal proprietors--that is to say, a class of free peasants possessing a house and garden and a share of the communal land. to effect this it was merely necessary to declare the serf personally free, to draw a clear line of demarcation between the communal land and the rest of the estate, and to determine the price or rent which should be paid for this communal property, inclusive of the land on which the village was built. the law was prepared in strict accordance with these principles. as to the amount of land to be ceded, it was decided that the existing arrangements, founded on experience, should, as a general rule, be preserved--in other words, the land actually enjoyed by the peasants should be retained by them; and in order to prevent extreme cases of injustice, a maximum and a minimum were fixed for each district. in like manner, as to the dues, it was decided that the existing arrangements should be taken as the basis of the calculation, but that the sum should be modified according to the amount of land ceded. at the same time facilities were to be given for the transforming of the labour dues into yearly money payments, and for enabling the peasants to redeem them, with the assistance of the government, in the form of credit. this idea of redemption created, at first, a feeling of alarm among the proprietors. it was bad enough to be obliged to cede a large part of the estates in usufruct, but it seemed to be much worse to have to sell it. redemption appeared to be a species of wholesale confiscation. but very soon it became evident that the redeeming of the land was profitable for both parties. cession in perpetual usufruct was felt to be in reality tantamount to alienation of the land, whilst the immediate redemption would enable the proprietors, who had generally little or no ready money to pay their debts, to clear their estates from mortgages, and to make the outlays necessary for the transition to free labour. the majority of the proprietors, therefore, said openly: "let the government give us a suitable compensation in money for the land that is taken from us, so that we may be at once freed from all further trouble and annoyance." when it became known that the commission was not merely arranging and codifying the materials, but elaborating a law of its own and regularly submitting its decisions for imperial confirmation, a feeling of dissatisfaction appeared all over the country. the nobles perceived that the question was being taken out of their hands, and was being solved by a small body composed of bureaucrats and nominees of the government. after having made a voluntary sacrifice of their rights, they were being unceremoniously pushed aside. they had still, however, the means of correcting this. the emperor had publicly promised that before the project should become law deputies from the provincial committees should be summoned to st. petersburg to make objections and propose amendments. the commission and the government would have willingly dispensed with all further advice from the nobles, but it was necessary to redeem the imperial promise. deputies were therefore summoned to the capital, but they were not allowed to form, as they hoped, a public assembly for the discussion of the question. all their efforts to hold meetings were frustrated, and they were required merely to answer in writing a list of printed questions regarding matters of detail. the fundamental principles, they were told, had already received the imperial sanction, and were consequently removed from discussion. those who desired to discuss details were invited individually to attend meetings of the commission, where they found one or two members ready to engage with them in a little dialectical fencing. this, of course, did not give much satisfaction. indeed, the ironical tone in which the fencing was too often conducted served to increase the existing irritation. it was only too evident that the commission had triumphed, and some of the members could justly boast that they had drowned the deputies in ink and buried them under reams of paper. believing, or at least professing to believe, that the emperor was being deceived in this matter by the administration, several groups of deputies presented petitions to his majesty containing a respectful protest against the manner in which they had been treated. but by this act they simply laid themselves open to "the most unkindest cut of all." those who had signed the petitions received a formal reprimand through the police. this treatment of the deputies, and, above all, this gratuitous insult, produced among the nobles a storm of indignation. they felt that they had been entrapped. the government had artfully induced them to form projects for the emancipation of their serfs, and now, after having been used as a cat's-paw in the work of their own spoliation, they were being unceremoniously pushed aside as no longer necessary. those who had indulged in the hope of gaining political rights felt the blow most keenly. a first gentle and respectful attempt at remonstrance had been answered by a dictatorial reprimand through the police! instead of being called to take an active part in home and foreign politics, they were being treated as naughty schoolboys. in view of this insult all differences of opinion were for the moment forgotten, and all parties resolved to join in a vigorous protest against the insolence and arbitrary conduct of the bureaucracy. a convenient opportunity of making this protest in a legal way was offered by the triennial provincial assemblies of the noblesse about to be held in several provinces. so at least it was thought, but here again the noblesse was checkmated by the administration. before the opening of the assemblies a circular was issued excluding the emancipation question from their deliberations. some assemblies evaded this order, and succeeded in making a little demonstration by submitting to his majesty that the time had arrived for other reforms, such as the separation of the administrative and judicial powers, and the creation of local self-government, public judicial procedure, and trial by jury. all these reforms were voluntarily effected by the emperor a few years later, but the manner in which they were suggested seemed to savour of insubordination, and was a flagrant infraction of the principle that all initiative in public affairs should proceed from the central government. new measures of repression were accordingly used. some marshals of noblesse were reprimanded and others deposed. of the conspicuous leaders, two were exiled to distant provinces and others placed under the supervision of the police. worst of all, the whole agitation strengthened the commission by convincing the emperor that the majority of the nobles were hostile to his benevolent plans.* * this was a misinterpretation of the facts. very many of those who joined in the protest sincerely sympathised with the idea of emancipation, and were ready to be even more "liberal" than the government. when the commission had finished its labours, its proposals passed to the two higher instances--the committee for peasant affairs and the council of state--and in both of these the emperor declared plainly that he could allow no fundamental changes. from all the members he demanded a complete forgetfulness of former differences and a conscientious execution of his orders; "for you must remember," he significantly added, "that in russia laws are made by the autocratic power." from an historical review of the question he drew the conclusion that "the autocratic power created serfage, and the autocratic power ought to abolish it." on march d (february th, old style), , the law was signed, and by that act more than twenty millions of serfs were liberated.* a manifesto containing the fundamental principles of the law was at once sent all over the country, and an order was given that it should be read in all the churches. * it is sometimes said that forty millions of serfs have been emancipated. the statement is true, if we regard the state peasants as serfs. they held, as i have already explained, an intermediate position between serfage and freedom. the peculiar administration under which they lived was partly abolished by imperial orders of september th, , and october d, . in they were placed, as regards administration, on a level with the emancipated serfs of the proprietors. as a general rule, they received rather more land and had to pay somewhat lighter dues than the emancipated serfs in the narrower sense of the term. the three fundamental principles laid down by the law were:-- . that the serfs should at once receive the civil rights of the free rural classes, and that the authority of the proprietor should be replaced by communal self-government. . that the rural communes should as far as possible retain the land they actually held, and should in return pay to the proprietor certain yearly dues in money or labour. . that the government should by means of credit assist the communes to redeem these dues, or, in other words, to purchase the lands ceded to them in usufruct. with regard to the domestic serfs, it was enacted that they should continue to serve their masters during two years, and that thereafter they should be completely free, but they should have no claim to a share of the land. it might be reasonably supposed that the serfs received with boundless gratitude and delight the manifesto proclaiming these principles. here at last was the realisation of their long-cherished hopes. liberty was accorded to them; and not only liberty, but a goodly portion of the soil--about half of all the arable land possessed by the proprietors. in reality the manifesto created among the peasantry a feeling of disappointment rather than delight. to understand this strange fact we must endeavour to place ourselves at the peasant's point of view. in the first place it must be remarked that all vague, rhetorical phrases about free labour, human dignity, national progress, and the like, which may readily produce among educated men a certain amount of temporary enthusiasm, fall on the ears of the russian peasant like drops of rain on a granite rock. the fashionable rhetoric of philosophical liberalism is as incomprehensible to him as the flowery circumlocutionary style of an oriental scribe would be to a keen city merchant. the idea of liberty in the abstract and the mention of rights which lie beyond the sphere of his ordinary everyday life awaken no enthusiasm in his breast. and for mere names he has a profound indifference. what matters it to him that he is officially called, not a "serf," but a "free village-inhabitant," if the change in official terminology is not accompanied by some immediate material advantage? what he wants is a house to live in, food to eat, and raiment wherewithal to be clothed, and to gain these first necessaries of life with as little labour as possible. he looked at the question exclusively from two points of view--that of historical right and that of material advantage; and from both of these the emancipation law seemed to him very unsatisfactory. on the subject of historical right the peasantry had their own traditional conceptions, which were completely at variance with the written law. according to the positive legislation the communal land formed part of the estate, and consequently belonged to the proprietor; but according to the conceptions of the peasantry it belonged to the commune, and the right of the proprietor consisted merely in that personal authority over the serfs which had been conferred on him by the tsar. the peasants could not, of course, put these conceptions into a strict legal form, but they often expressed them in their own homely laconic way by saying to their master, "mui vashi no zemlya nasha"--that is to say. "we are yours, but the land is ours." and it must be admitted that this view, though legally untenable, had a certain historical justification.* * see preceding chapter. in olden times the noblesse had held their land by feudal tenure, and were liable to be ejected as soon as they did not fulfil their obligations to the state. these obligations had been long since abolished, and the feudal tenure transformed into an unconditional right of property, but the peasants clung to the old ideas in a way that strikingly illustrates the vitality of deep-rooted popular conceptions. in their minds the proprietors were merely temporary occupants, who were allowed by the tsar to exact labour and dues from the serfs. what, then, was emancipation? certainly the abolition of all obligatory labour and money dues, and perhaps the complete ejectment of the proprietors. on this latter point there was a difference of opinion. all assumed, as a matter of course, that the communal land would remain the property of the commune, but it was not so clear what would be done with the rest of the estate. some thought that it would be retained by the proprietor, but very many believed that all the land would be given to the communes. in this way the emancipation would be in accordance with historical right and with the material advantage of the peasantry, for whose exclusive benefit, it was assumed, the reform had been undertaken. instead of this the peasants found that they were still to pay dues, even for the communal land which they regarded as unquestionably their own. so at least said the expounders of the law. but the thing was incredible. either the proprietors must be concealing or misinterpreting the law, or this was merely a preparatory measure, which would be followed by the real emancipation. thus were awakened among the peasantry a spirit of mistrust and suspicion and a widespread belief that there would be a second imperial manifesto, by which all the land would be divided and all the dues abolished. on the nobles the manifesto made a very different impression. the fact that they were to be entrusted with the putting of the law into execution, and the flattering allusions made to the spirit of generous self-sacrifice which they had exhibited, kindled amongst them enthusiasm enough to make them forget for a time their just grievances and their hostility towards the bureaucracy. they found that the conditions on which the emancipation was effected were by no means so ruinous as they had anticipated; and the emperor's appeal to their generosity and patriotism made many of them throw themselves with ardour into the important task confided to them. unfortunately they could not at once begin the work. the law had been so hurried through the last stages that the preparations for putting it into execution were by no means complete when the manifesto was published. the task of regulating the future relations between the proprietors and the peasantry was entrusted to local proprietors in each district, who were to be called arbiters of the peace (mirovuiye posredniki); but three months elapsed before these arbiters could be appointed. during that time there was no one to explain the law to the peasants and settle the disputes between them and the proprietors; and the consequence of this was that many cases of insubordination and disorder occurred. the muzhik naturally imagined that, as soon as the tsar said he was free, he was no longer obliged to work for his old master--that all obligatory labour ceased as soon as the manifesto was read. in vain the proprietor endeavoured to convince him that, in regard to labour, the old relations must continue, as the law enjoined, until a new arrangement had been made. to all explanations and exhortations he turned a deaf ear, and to the efforts of the rural police he too often opposed a dogged, passive resistance. in many cases the simple appearance of the higher authorities sufficed to restore order, for the presence of one of the tsar's servants convinced many that the order to work for the present as formerly was not a mere invention of the proprietors. but not infrequently the birch had to be applied. indeed, i am inclined to believe, from the numerous descriptions of this time which i received from eye-witnesses, that rarely, if ever, had the serfs seen and experienced so much flogging as during these first three months after their liberation. sometimes even the troops had to be called out, and on three occasions they fired on the peasants with ball cartridge. in the most serious case, where a young peasant had set up for a prophet and declared that the emancipation law was a forgery, fifty-one peasants were killed and seventy-seven were more or less seriously wounded. in spite of these lamentable incidents, there was nothing which even the most violent alarmist could dignify with the name of an insurrection. nowhere was there anything that could be called organised resistance. even in the case above alluded to, the three thousand peasants on whom the troops fired were entirely unarmed, made no attempt to resist, and dispersed in the utmost haste as soon as they discovered that they were being shot down. had the military authorities shown a little more judgment, tact, and patience, the history of the emancipation would not have been stained even with those three solitary cases of unnecessary bloodshed. this interregnum between the eras of serfage and liberty was brought to an end by the appointment of the arbiters of the peace. their first duty was to explain the law, and to organise the new peasant self-government. the lowest instance, or primary organ of this self-government, the rural commune, already existed, and at once recovered much of its ancient vitality as soon as the authority and interference of the proprietors were removed. the second instance, the volost--a territorial administrative unit comprising several contiguous communes--had to be created, for nothing of the kind had previously existed on the estates of the nobles. it had existed, however, for nearly a quarter of a century among the peasants of the domains, and it was therefore necessary merely to copy an existing model. as soon as all the volosts in his district had been thus organised the arbiter had to undertake the much more arduous task of regulating the agrarian relations between the proprietors and the communes--with the individual peasants, be it remembered, the proprietors had no direct relations whatever. it had been enacted by the law that the future agrarian relations between the two parties should be left, as far as possible, to voluntary contract; and accordingly each proprietor was invited to come to an agreement with the commune or communes on his estate. on the ground of this agreement a statute-charter (ustavnaya gramota) was prepared, specifying the number of male serfs, the quantity of land actually enjoyed by them, any proposed changes in this amount, the dues proposed to be levied, and other details. if the arbiter found that the conditions were in accordance with the law and clearly understood by the peasants, he confirmed the charter, and the arrangement was complete. when the two parties could not come to an agreement within a year, he prepared a charter according to his own judgment, and presented it for confirmation to the higher authorities. the dissolution of partnership, if it be allowable to use such a term, between the proprietor and his serfs was sometimes very easy and sometimes very difficult. on many estates the charter did little more than legalise the existing arrangements, but in many instances it was necessary to add to, or subtract from, the amount of communal land, and sometimes it was even necessary to remove the village to another part of the estate. in all cases there were, of course, conflicting interests and complicated questions, so that the arbiter had always abundance of difficult work. besides this, he had to act as mediator in those differences which naturally arose during the transition period, when the authority of the proprietor had been abolished but the separation of the two classes had not yet been effected. the unlimited patriarchal authority which had been formerly wielded by the proprietor or his steward now passed with certain restriction into the hands of the arbiter, and these peacemakers had to spend a great part of their time in driving about from one estate to another to put an end to alleged cases of insubordination--some of which, it must be admitted, existed only in the imagination of the proprietors. at first the work of amicable settlement proceeded slowly. the proprietors generally showed a conciliatory spirit, and some of them generously proposed conditions much more favourable to the peasants than the law demanded; but the peasants were filled with vague suspicions, and feared to commit themselves by "putting pen to paper." even the highly respected proprietors, who imagined that they possessed the unbounded confidence of the peasantry, were suspected like the others, and their generous offers were regarded as well-baited traps. often i have heard old men, sometimes with tears in their eyes, describe the distrust and ingratitude of the muzhik at this time. many peasants still believed that the proprietors were hiding the real emancipation law, and imaginative or ill-intentioned persons fostered this belief by professing to know what the real law contained. the most absurd rumours were afloat, and whole villages sometimes acted upon them. in the province of moscow, for instance, one commune sent a deputation to the proprietor to inform him that, as he had always been a good master, the mir would allow him to retain his house and garden during his lifetime. in another locality it was rumoured that the tsar sat daily on a golden throne in the crimea, receiving all peasants who came to him, and giving them as much land as they desired; and in order to take advantage of the imperial liberality a large body of peasants set out for the place indicated, and had to be stopped by the military. as an illustration of the illusions in which the peasantry indulged at this time, i may mention here one of the many characteristic incidents related to me by gentlemen who had served as arbiters of the peace. in the province of riazan there was one commune which had acquired a certain local notoriety for the obstinacy with which it refused all arrangements with the proprietor. my informant, who was arbiter for the locality, was at last obliged to make a statute-charter for it without its consent. he wished, however, that the peasants should voluntarily accept the arrangement he proposed, and accordingly called them together to talk with them on the subject. after explaining fully the part of the law which related to their case, he asked them what objection they had to make a fair contract with their old master. for some time he received no answer, but gradually by questioning individuals he discovered the cause of their obstinacy: they were firmly convinced that not only the communal land, but also the rest of the estate, belonged to them. to eradicate this false idea he set himself to reason with them, and the following characteristic dialogue ensued:--arbiter: "if the tsar gave all the land to the peasantry, what compensation could he give to the proprietors to whom the land belongs?" peasant: "the tsar will give them salaries according to their service." arbiter: "in order to pay these salaries he would require a great deal more money. where could he get that money? he would have to increase the taxes, and in that way you would have to pay all the same." peasant: "the tsar can make as much money as he likes." arbiter: "if the tsar can make as much money as he likes, why does he make you pay the poll-tax every year?" peasant: "it is not the tsar that receives the taxes we pay." arbiter: "who, then, receives them?" peasant (after a little hesitation, and with a knowing smite): "the officials, of course!" gradually, through the efforts of the arbiters, the peasants came to know better their real position, and the work began to advance more rapidly. but soon it was checked by another influence. by the end of the first year the "liberal," patriotic enthusiasm of the nobles had cooled. the sentimental, idyllic tendencies had melted away at the first touch of reality, and those who had imagined that liberty would have an immediately salutary effect on the moral character of the serfs confessed themselves disappointed. many complained that the peasants showed themselves greedy and obstinate, stole wood from the forest, allowed their cattle to wander on the proprietor's fields, failed to fulfil their legal obligations, and broke their voluntary engagements. at the same time the fears of an agrarian rising subsided, so that even the timid were tranquillised. from these causes the conciliatory spirit of the proprietors decreased. the work of conciliating and regulating became consequently more difficult, but the great majority of the arbiters showed themselves equal to the task, and displayed an impartiality, tact and patience beyond all praise. to them russia is in great part indebted for the peaceful character of the emancipation. had they sacrificed the general good to the interests of their class, or had they habitually acted in that stern, administrative, military spirit which caused the instances of bloodshed above referred to, the prophecies of the alarmists would, in all probability, have been realised, and the historian of the emancipation would have had a terrible list of judicial massacres to record. fortunately they played the part of mediators, as their name signified, rather than that of administrators in the bureaucratic sense of the term, and they were animated with a just and humane rather than a merely legal spirit. instead of simply laying down the law, and ordering their decisions to be immediately executed, they were ever ready to spend hours in trying to conquer, by patient and laborious reasoning, the unjust claims of proprietors or the false conceptions and ignorant obstinacy of the peasants. it was a new spectacle for russia to see a public function fulfilled by conscientious men who had their heart in their work, who sought neither promotion nor decorations, and who paid less attention to the punctilious observance of prescribed formalities than to the real objects in view. there were, it is true, a few men to whom this description does not apply. some of these were unduly under the influence of the feelings and conceptions created by serfage. some, on the contrary, erred on the other side. desirous of securing the future welfare of the peasantry and of gaining for themselves a certain kind of popularity, and at the same time animated with a violent spirit of pseudo-liberalism, these latter occasionally forgot that their duty was to be, not generous, but just, and that they had no right to practise generosity at other people's expense. all this i am quite aware of--i could even name one or two arbiters who were guilty of positive dishonesty--but i hold that these were rare exceptions. the great majority did their duty faithfully and well. the work of concluding contracts for the redemption of the dues, or, in other words, for the purchase of the land ceded in perpetual usufruct, proceeded slowly. the arrangement was as follows:--the dues were capitalised at six per cent., and the government paid at once to the proprietors four-fifths of the whole sum. the peasants were to pay to the proprietor the remaining fifth, either at once or in installments, and to the government six per cent. for forty-nine years on the sum advanced. the proprietors willingly adopted this arrangement, for it provided them with a sum of ready money, and freed them from the difficult task of collecting the dues. but the peasants did not show much desire to undertake the operation. some of them still expected a second emancipation, and those who did not take this possibility into their calculations were little disposed to make present sacrifices for distant prospective advantages which would not be realised for half a century. in most cases the proprietor was obliged to remit, in whole or in part, the fifth to be paid by the peasants. many communes refused to undertake the operation on any conditions and in consequence of this not a few proprietors demanded the so-called obligatory redemption, according to which they accepted the four-fifths from the government as full payment, and the operation was thus effected without the peasants being consulted. the total number of male serfs emancipated was about nine millions and three-quarters,* and of these, only about seven millions and a quarter had, at the beginning of , made redemption contracts. of the contracts signed at that time, about sixty-three per cent, were "obligatory." in the redemption was made obligatory for both parties, so that all communes are now proprietors of the land previously held in perpetual usufruct; and in the debt will have been extinguished by the sinking fund, and all redemption payments will have ceased. * this does not include the domestic serfs who did not receive land. the serfs were thus not only liberated, but also made possessors of land and put on the road to becoming communal proprietors, and the old communal institutions were preserved and developed. in answer to the question, who effected this gigantic reform? we may say that the chief merit undoubtedly belongs to alexander ii. had he not possessed a very great amount of courage he would neither have raised the question nor allowed it to be raised by others, and had he not shown a great deal more decision and energy than was expected, the solution would have been indefinitely postponed. among the members of his own family he found an able and energetic assistant in his brother, the grand duke constantine, and a warm sympathiser with the cause in the grand duchess helena, a german princess thoroughly devoted to the welfare of her adopted country. but we must not overlook the important part played by the nobles. their conduct was very characteristic. as soon as the question was raised a large number of them adopted the liberal ideas with enthusiasm; and as soon as it became evident that emancipation was inevitable, all made a holocaust of their ancient rights and demanded to be liberated at once from all relations with their serfs. moreover, when the law was passed it was the proprietors who faithfully put it into execution. lastly, we should remember that praise is due to the peasantry for their patience under disappointment and for their orderly conduct as soon as they understood the law and recognised it to be the will of the tsar. thus it may justly be said that the emancipation was not the work of one man, or one party, or one class, but of the nation as a whole.* * the names most commonly associated with the emancipation are general rostoftsef, lanskoi (minister of the interior), nicholas milutin, prince tchererkassky, g. samarin, koshelef. many others, such as i. a. solovief, zhukofski, domontovitch, giers--brother of m. giers, afterwards minister for foreign affairs--are less known, but did valuable work. to all of these, with the exception of the first two, who died before my arrival in russia, i have to confess my obligations. the late nicholas milutin rendered me special service by putting at my disposal not only all the official papers in his possession, but also many documents of a more private kind. by his early and lamented death russia lost one of the greatest statesmen she has yet produced. chapter xxx the landed proprietors since the emancipation two opposite opinions--difficulties of investigation--the problem simplified--direct and indirect compensation--the direct compensation inadequate--what the proprietors have done with the remainder of their estates--immediate moral effect of the abolition of serfage--the economic problem--the ideal solution and the difficulty of realising it--more primitive arrangements--the northern agricultural zone--the black-earth zone--the labour difficulty--the impoverishment of the noblesse not a new phenomenon--mortgaging of estates--gradual expropriation of the noblesse-rapid increase in the production and export of grain--how far this has benefited the landed proprietors. when the emancipation question was raised there was a considerable diversity of opinion as to the effect which the abolition of serfage would have on the material interests of the two classes directly concerned. the press and "the young generation" took an optimistic view, and endeavoured to prove that the proposed change would be beneficial alike to proprietors and to peasants. science, it was said, has long since decided that free labour is immensely more productive than slavery or serfage, and the principle has been already proved to demonstration in the countries of western europe. in all those countries modern agricultural progress began with the emancipation of the serfs, and increased productivity was everywhere the immediate result of improvements in the method of culture. thus the poor light soils of germany, france, and holland have been made to produce more than the vaunted "black earth" of russia. and from these ameliorations the land-owning class has everywhere derived the chief advantages. are not the landed proprietors of england--the country in which serfage was first abolished--the richest in the world? and is not the proprietor of a few hundred morgen in germany often richer than the russian noble who has thousands of dessyatins? by these and similar plausible arguments the press endeavoured to prove to the proprietors that they ought, even in their own interest, to undertake the emancipation of the serfs. many proprietors, however, showed little faith in the abstract principles of political economy and the vague teachings of history as interpreted by the contemporary periodical literature. they could not always refute the ingenious arguments adduced by the men of more sanguine temperament, but they felt convinced that their prospects were not nearly so bright as these men represented them to be. they believed that russia was a peculiar country, and the russians a peculiar people. the lower classes in england, france, holland, and germany were well known to be laborious and enterprising, while the russian peasant was notoriously lazy, and would certainly, if left to himself, not do more work than was absolutely necessary to keep him from starving. free labour might be more profitable than serfage in countries where the upper classes possessed traditional practical knowledge and abundance of capital, but in russia the proprietors had neither the practical knowledge nor the ready money necessary to make the proposed ameliorations in the system of agriculture. to all this it was added that a system of emancipation by which the peasants should receive land and be made completely independent of the landed proprietors had nowhere been tried on such a large scale. there were thus two diametrically opposite opinions regarding the economic results of the abolition of serfage, and we have now to examine which of these two opinions has been confirmed by experience. let us look at the question first from the point of view of the land-owners. the reader who has never attempted to make investigations of this kind may naturally imagine that the question can be easily decided by simply consulting a large number of individual proprietors, and drawing a general conclusion from their evidence. in reality i found the task much more difficult. after roaming about the country for five years ( - ), collecting information from the best available sources, i hesitated to draw any sweeping conclusions, and my state of mind at that time was naturally reflected in the early editions of this work. as a rule the proprietors could not state clearly how much they had lost or gained, and when definite information was obtained from them it was not always trustworthy. in the time of serfage very few of them had been in the habit of keeping accurate accounts, or accounts of any kind, and when they lived on their estates there were a very large number of items which could not possibly be reduced to figures. of course, each proprietor had a general idea as to whether his position was better or worse than it had been in the old times, but the vague statements made by individuals regarding their former and their actual revenues had little or no scientific value. so many considerations which had nothing to do with purely agrarian relations entered into the calculations that the conclusions did not help me much to estimate the economic results of the emancipation as a whole. nor, it must be confessed, was the testimony by any means always unbiassed. not a few spoke of the great reform in an epic or dithyrambic tone, and among these i easily distinguished two categories: the one desired to prove that the measure was a complete success in every way, and that all classes were benefited by it, not only morally, but also materially; whilst the others strove to represent the proprietors in general, and themselves in particular, as the self-sacrificing victims of a great and necessary patriotic reform--as martyrs in the cause of liberty and progress. i do not for a moment suppose that these two groups of witnesses had a clearly conceived intention of deceiving or misleading, but as a cautious investigator i had to make allowance for their idealising and sentimental tendencies. since that time the situation has become much clearer, and during recent visits to russia i have been able to arrive at much more definite conclusions. these i now proceed to communicate to the reader. the emancipation caused the proprietors of all classes to pass through a severe economic crisis. periods of transition always involve much suffering, and the amount of suffering is generally in the inverse ratio of the precautions taken beforehand. in russia the precautions had been neglected. not one proprietor in a hundred had made any serious preparations for the inevitable change. on the eve of the emancipation there were about ten millions of male serfs on private properties, and of these nearly seven millions remained under the old system of paying their dues in labour. of course, everybody knew that emancipation must come sooner or later, but fore-thought, prudence, and readiness to take time by the forelock are not among the prominent traits of the russian character. hence most of the land-owners were taken unawares. but while all suffered, there were differences of degree. some were completely shipwrecked. so long as serfage existed all the relations of life were ill-defined and extremely elastic, so that a man who was hopelessly insolvent might contrive, with very little effort, to keep his bead above water for half a lifetime. for such men the emancipation, like a crisis in the commercial world, brought a day of reckoning. it did not really ruin them, but it showed them and the world at large that they were ruined, and they could no longer continue their old mode of life. for others the crisis was merely temporary. these emerged with a larger income than they ever had before, but i am not prepared to say that their material condition has improved, because the social habits have changed, the cost of living has become much greater, and the work of administering estates is incomparably more complicated and laborious than in the old patriarchal times. we may greatly simplify the problem by reducing it to two definite questions: . how far were the proprietors directly indemnified for the loss of serf labour and for the transfer in perpetual usufruct of a large part of their estates to the peasantry? . what have the proprietors done with the remainder of their estates, and how far have they been indirectly indemnified by the economic changes which have taken place since the emancipation? with the first of these questions i shall deal very briefly, because it is a controversial subject involving very complicated calculations which only a specialist can understand. the conclusion at which i have arrived, after much patient research, is that in most provinces the compensation was inadequate, and this conclusion is confirmed by excellent native authorities. m. bekhteyev, for example, one of the most laborious and conscientious investigators in this field of research, and the author of an admirable work on the economic results of the emancipation,* told me recently, in course of conversation, that in his opinion the peasant dues fixed by the emancipation law represented, throughout the black-earth zone, only about a half of the value of the labour previously supplied by the serfs. to this i must add that the compensation was in reality not nearly so great as it seemed to be according to the terms of the law. as the proprietors found it extremely difficult to collect the dues from the emancipated serfs, and as they required a certain amount of capital to reorganise the estate on the new basis of free labour, most of them were practically compelled to demand the obligatory redemption of the land (obiazatelny vuikup), and in adopting this expedient they had to make considerable sacrifices. not only had they to accept as full payment four-fifths of the normal sum, but of this amount the greater portion was paid in treasury bonds, which fell at once to per cent. of their nominal value. * "khozaistvenniye itogi istekshago sorokoletiya." st. petersburg, . let us now pass to the second part of the problem: what have the proprietors done with the part of their estates which remained to them after ceding the required amount of land to the communes? have they been indirectly indemnified for the loss of serf labour by subsequent economic changes? how far have they succeeded in making the transition from serfage to free labour, and what revenues do they now derive from their estates? the answer to these questions will necessarily contain some account of the present economic position of the proprietors. on all proprietors the emancipation had at least one good effect: it dragged them forcibly from the old path of indolence and routine and compelled them to think and calculate regarding their affairs. the hereditary listlessness and apathy, the traditional habit of looking on the estate with its serfs as a kind of self-acting machine which must always spontaneously supply the owner with the means of living, the inveterate practice of spending all ready money and of taking little heed for the morrow--all this, with much that resulted from it, was rudely swept away and became a thing of the past. the broad, easy road on which the proprietors had hitherto let themselves be borne along by the force of circumstances suddenly split up into a number of narrow, arduous, thorny paths. each one had to use his judgement to determine which of the paths he should adopt, and, having made his choice, he had to struggle along as he best could. i remember once asking a proprietor what effect the emancipation had had on the class to which he belonged, and he gave me an answer which is worth recording. "formerly," he said, "we kept no accounts and drank champagne; now we keep accounts and content ourselves with kvass." like all epigrammatic sayings, this laconic reply is far from giving a complete description of reality, but it indicates in a graphic way a change that has unquestionably taken place. as soon as serfage was abolished it was no longer possible to live like "the flowers of the field." many a proprietor who had formerly vegetated in apathetic ease had to ask himself the question: how am i to gain a living? all had to consider what was the most profitable way of employing the land that remained to them. the ideal solution of the problem was that as soon as the peasant-land had been demarcated, the proprietor should take to farming the remainder of his estate by means of hired labour and agricultural machines in west european or american fashion. unfortunately, this solution could not be generally adopted, because the great majority of the landlords, even when they had the requisite practical knowledge of agriculture, had not the requisite capital, and could not easily obtain it. where were they to find money for buying cattle, horses, and agricultural implements, for building stables and cattle-sheds, and for defraying all the other initial expenses? and supposing they succeeded in starting the new system, where was the working capital to come from? the old government institution in which estates could be mortgaged according to the number of serfs was permanently closed, and the new land-credit associations had not yet come into existence. to borrow from private capitalists was not to be thought of, for money was so scarce than ten per cent. was considered a "friendly" rate of interest. recourse might be had, it is true, to the redemption operation, but in that case the government would deduct the unpaid portion of any outstanding mortgage, and would pay the balance in depreciated treasury bonds. in these circumstances the proprietors could not, as a rule, adopt what i have called the ideal solution, and had to content themselves with some simpler and more primitive arrangement. they could employ the peasants of the neighbouring villages to prepare the land and reap the crops either for a fixed sum per acre or on the metayage system, or they could let their land to the peasants for one, three or six years at a moderate rent. in the northern agricultural zone, where the soil is poor and primitive farming with free labour can hardly be made to pay, the proprietors had to let their land at a small rent, and those of them who could not find places in the rural administration migrated to the towns and sought employment in the public service or in the numerous commercial and industrial enterprises which were springing up at that time. there they have since remained. their country-houses, if inhabited at all, are occupied only for a few months in summer, and too often present a melancholy spectacle of neglect and dilapidation. in the black-earth zone, on the contrary, where the soil still possesses enough of its natural fertility to make farming on a large scale profitable, the estates are in a very different condition. the owners cultivate at least a part of their property, and can easily let to the peasants at a fair rent the land which they do not wish to farm themselves. some have adopted the metayage system; others get the field-work done by the peasants at so much per acre. the more energetic, who have capital enough at their disposal, organise farms with hired labourers on the european model. if they are not so well off as formerly, it is because they have adopted a less patriarchal and more expensive style of living. their land has doubled and trebled in value during the last thirty years, and their revenues have increased, if not in proportion, at least considerably. in i visited a number of estates in this region and found them in a very prosperous condition, with agricultural machines of the english or american types, an increasing variety in the rotation of crops, greatly improved breeds of cattle and horses, and all the other symptoms of a gradual transition to a more intensive and more rational system of agriculture. it must be admitted, however, that even in the black-earth zone the proprietors have formidable difficulties to contend with, the chief of which are the scarcity of good farm-labourers, the frequent droughts, the low price of cereals, and the delay in getting the grain conveyed to the seaports. on each of these difficulties and the remedies that might be applied i could write a separate chapter, but i fear to overtax the reader's patience, and shall therefore confine myself to a few remarks about the labour question. on this subject the complaints are loud and frequent all over the country. the peasants, it is said, have become lazy, careless, addicted to drunkenness, and shamelessly dishonest with regard to their obligations, so that it is difficult to farm even in the old primitive fashion and impossible to introduce radical improvements in the methods of culture. in these sweeping accusations there is a certain amount of truth. that the muzhik, when working for others, exerts himself as little as possible; that he pays little attention to the quality of the work done; that he shows a reckless carelessness with regard to his employer's property; that he is capable of taking money in advance and failing to fulfil his contract; that he occasionally gets drunk; and that he is apt to commit certain acts of petty larceny when he gets the chance--all this is undoubtedly true, whatever biassed theorists and sentimental peasant-worshippers may say to the contrary.* it would be a mistake, however, to suppose that the fault is entirely on the side of the peasants, and equally erroneous to believe that the evils might be remedied, as is often suggested, by greater severity on the part of the tribunals, or by an improved system of passports. farming with free labour, like every other department of human activity, requires a fair amount of knowledge, judgment, prudence, and tact, which cannot be replaced by ingenious legislation or judicial severity. in engaging labourers or servants it is necessary to select them carefully and make such conditions that they feel it to be to their interest to fulfil their contract loyally. this is too often overlooked by the russian land-owners. from false views of economy they are inclined to choose the cheapest labourer without examining closely his other qualifications, or they take advantage of the peasant's pecuniary embarrassments and make with him a contract which it is hardly possible for him to fulfil. in spring, for instance, when his store of provisions is exhausted and he is being hard pressed by the tax-collector, they supply him with rye-meal or advance him a small sum of money on condition of his undertaking to do a relatively large amount of summer work. he knows that the contract is unfair to him, but what is he to do? he must get food for himself and his family and a little ready money for his taxes, for the communal authorities will probably sell his cow if he does not pay his arrears.** in desperation he accepts the conditions and puts off the evil day--consoling himself with the reflection that perhaps (avos') something may turn up in the meantime--but when the time comes for fulfilling his engagements the dilemma revives. according to the contract he ought to work nearly the whole summer for the proprietor; but he has his own land to attend to, and he has to make provision for the winter. in such circumstances the temptation to evade the terms of the contract is probably too strong to be resisted. * amongst themselves the peasants are not addicted to thieving, as is proved by the fact that they habitually leave their doors unlocked when the inmates of the house are working in the fields; but if the muzhik finds in the proprietor's farmyard a piece of iron or a bit of rope, or any of those little things that he constantly requires and has difficulty in obtaining, he is very apt to pick it up and carry it home. gathering firewood in the landlord's forest he does not consider as theft, because "god planted the trees and watered them," and in the time of serfage he was allowed to supply himself with firewood in this way. ** until last year ( ) they could use also corporal punishment as a means of pressure, and i am not sure that they do not occasionally use it still, though it is no longer permitted by law. in russia, as in other countries, the principle holds true that for good labour a fair price must be paid. several large proprietors of my acquaintance who habitually act on this principle assure me that they always obtain as much good labour as they require. i must add, however, that these fortunate proprietors have the advantage of possessing a comfortable amount of working capital, and are therefore not compelled, as so many of their less fortunate neighbours are, to manage their estates on the hand-to-mouth principle. it is only, i fear, a minority of the landed proprietors that have grappled successfully with these and other difficulties of their position. as a class they are impoverished and indebted, but this state of things is not due entirely to serf-emancipation. the indebtedness of the noblesse is a hereditary peculiarity of much older date. by some authorities it is attributed to the laws of peter the great, by which all nobles were obliged to spend the best part of their lives in the military or civil service, and to leave the management of their estates to incompetent stewards. however that may be, it is certain that from the middle of the eighteenth century downwards the fact has frequently occupied the attention of the government, and repeated attempts have been made to alleviate the evil. the empress elizabeth, catherine ii., paul, alexander i., nicholas i., alexander ii., and alexander iii. tried successively, as one of the older ukazes expressed it, "to free the noblesse from debt and from greedy money-lenders, and to prevent hereditary estates from passing into the hands of strangers." the means commonly adopted was the creation of mortgage banks founded and controlled by the government for the purpose of advancing money to landed proprietors at a comparatively low rate of interest. these institutions may have been useful to the few who desired to improve their estates, but they certainly did not cure, and rather tended to foster, the inveterate improvidence of the many. on the eve of the emancipation the proprietors were indebted to the government for the sum of millions of roubles, and per cent. of their serfs were mortgaged. a portion of this debt was gradually extinguished by the redemption operation, so that in over millions had been paid off, but in the meantime new debts were being contracted. in - nine private land-mortgage banks were created, and there was such a rush to obtain money from them that their paper was a glut in the market, and became seriously depreciated. when the prices of grain rose in - the mortgage debt was diminished, but when they began to fall in it again increased, and in it stood at millions. as the rate of interest was felt to be very burdensome there was a strong feeling among the landed proprietors at that time that the government ought to help them, and in the nobles of the province of orel ventured to address the emperor on the subject. in reply to the address, alexander iii., who had strong conservative leanings, was graciously pleased to declare in an ukaz that "it was really time to do something to help the noblesse," and accordingly a new land-mortgage bank for the noblesse was created. the favourable terms offered by it were taken advantage of to such an extent that in the first four years of its activity ( - ) it advanced to the proprietors over million roubles. then came two famine years, and in the mortgage debt of the noblesse in that and other credit establishments was estimated at millions. it has since probably increased rather than diminished, for in that year the prices of grain began to fall steadily on all the corn-exchanges of the world, and they have never since recovered. by means of mortgages some proprietors succeeded in weathering the storm, but many gave up the struggle altogether, and settled in the towns. in the space of thirty years , of them sold their estates, and thus, between and , the area of land possessed by the noblesse diminished per cent.--from , , to , , dessyatins. this expropriation of the noblesse, as it is called, was evidently not the result merely of the temporary economic disturbance caused by the abolition of serfage, for as time went on it became more rapid. during the first twenty years the average annual amount of noblesse land sold was , dessyatins, and it rose steadily until - , when it reached the amount of , . as i have already stated, the townward movement of the proprietors was strongest in the barren northern provinces. in the province of olonetz, for example, they have already parted with per cent. of their land. in the black-soil region, on the contrary, there is no province in which more than per cent. of the noblesse land has been alienated, and in one province (tula) the amount is only per cent. the habit of mortgaging and selling estates does not necessarily mean the impoverishment of the landlords as a class. if the capital raised in that way is devoted to agricultural improvements, the result may be an increase of wealth. unfortunately, in russia the realised capital was usually not so employed. a very large proportion of it was spent unproductively, partly in luxuries and living abroad, and partly in unprofitable commercial and industrial speculations. the industrial and railway fever which raged at the time induced many to risk and lose their capital, and it had indirectly an injurious effect on all by making money plentiful in the towns and creating a more expensive style of living, from which the landed gentry could not hold entirely aloof. so far i have dwelt on the dark shadows of the picture, but it is not all shadow. in the last forty years the production and export of grain, which constitute the chief source of revenue for the noblesse, have increased enormously, thanks mainly to the improved means of transport. in the first decade after the emancipation ( - ) the average annual export did not exceed million puds; in the second decade ( - ) it leapt up to millions; and so it went up steadily until in the last decade of the century it had reached millions--i.e., over six million tons. at the same time the home trade had increased likewise in consequence of the rapidly growing population of the towns. all this must have enriched the land-proprietors. not to such an extent, it is true, as the figures seem to indicate, because the old prices could not be maintained. rye, for example, which in stood at kopeks per pud, fell as low as , and during the rest of the century, except during a short time in - and the famine years of - , when there was very little surplus to sell, it never rose above . still, the increase in quantity more than counterbalanced the fall in price. for example: in the average price of grain per pud was , and in it had sunk to ; but the amount exported during that time rose from to million puds, and the sum received for it had risen from to millions of roubles. surely the whole of that enormous sum was not squandered on luxuries and unprofitable speculation! the pessimists, however--and in russia their name is legion--will not admit that any permanent advantage has been derived from this enormous increase in exports. on the contrary, they maintain that it is a national misfortune, because it is leading rapidly to a state of permanent impoverishment. it quickly exhausted, they say, the large reserves of grain in the village, so that as soon as there was a very bad harvest the government had to come to the rescue and feed the starving peasantry. worse than this, it compromised the future prosperity of the country. being in pecuniary difficulties, and consequently impatient to make money, the proprietors increased inordinately the area of grain-producing land at the expense of pasturage and forests, with the result that the live stock and the manuring of the land were diminished, the fertility of the soil impaired, and the necessary quantity of moisture in the atmosphere greatly lessened. there is some truth in this contention; but it would seem that the soil and climate have not been affected so much as the pessimists suppose, because in recent years there have been some very good harvests. on the whole, then, i think it may be justly said that the efforts of the landed proprietors to work their estates without serf labour have not as yet been brilliantly successful. those who have failed are in the habit of complaining that they have not received sufficient support from the government, which is accused of having systematically sacrificed the interests of agriculture, the mainstay of the national resources, to the creation of artificial and unnecessary manufacturing industries. how far such complaints and accusations are well founded i shall not attempt to decide. it is a complicated polemical question, into which the reader would probably decline to accompany me. let us examine rather what influence the above-mentioned changes have had on the peasantry. chapter xxxi the emancipated peasantry the effects of liberty--difficulty of obtaining accurate information--pessimist testimony of the proprietors--vague replies of the peasants--my conclusions in --necessity of revising them--my investigations renewed in --recent researches by native political economists--peasant impoverishment universally recognised--various explanations suggested--demoralisation of the common people--peasant self-government--communal system of land tenure--heavy taxation--disruption of peasant families--natural increase of population--remedies proposed--migration--reclamation of waste land--land-purchase by peasantry--manufacturing industry--improvement of agricultural methods--indications of progress. at the commencement of last chapter i pointed out in general terms the difficulty of describing clearly the immediate consequences of the emancipation. in beginning now to speak of the influence which the great reform has had on the peasantry, i feel that the difficulty has reached its climax. the foreigner who desires merely to gain a general idea of the subject cannot be expected to take an interest in details, and even if he took the trouble to examine them attentively, he would derive from the labour little real information. what he wishes is a clear, concise, and dogmatic statement of general results. has the material and moral condition of the peasantry improved since the emancipation? that is the simple question which he has to put, and he naturally expects a simple, categorical answer. in beginning my researches in this interesting field of inquiry, i had no adequate conception of the difficulties awaiting me. i imagined that i had merely to question intelligent, competent men who had had abundant opportunities of observation, and to criticise and boil down the information collected; but when i put this method of investigation to the test of experience it proved unsatisfactory. very soon i came to perceive that my authorities were very far from being impartial observers. most of them were evidently suffering from shattered illusions. they had expected that the emancipation would produce instantaneously a wonderful improvement in the life and character of the rural population, and that the peasant would become at once a sober, industrious, model agriculturist. these expectations were not realised. one year passed, five years passed, ten years passed, and the expected transformation did not take place. on the contrary, there appeared certain very ugly phenomena which were not at all in the programme. the peasants began to drink more and to work less,* and the public life which the communal institutions produced was by no means of a desirable kind. the "bawlers" (gorlopany) acquired a prejudicial influence in the village assemblies, and in very many volosts the peasant judges, elected by their fellow-villagers, acquired a bad habit of selling their decisions for vodka. the natural consequence of all this was that those who had indulged in exaggerated expectations sank into a state of inordinate despondency, and imagined things to be much worse than they really were. * i am not at all sure that the peasants really drank more, but such was, and still is, a very general conviction. for different reasons, those who had not indulged in exaggerated expectations, and had not sympathised with the emancipation in the form in which it was effected, were equally inclined to take a pessimistic view of the situation. in every ugly phenomenon they found a confirmation of their opinions. the result was precisely what they had foretold. the peasants had used their liberty and their privileges to their own detriment and to the detriment of others! the extreme "liberals" were also inclined, for reasons of their own, to join in the doleful chorus. they desired that the condition of the peasantry should be further improved by legislative enactments, and accordingly they painted the evils in as dark colours as possible. thus, from various reasons, the majority of the educated classes were unduly disposed to represent to themselves and to others the actual condition of the peasantry in a very unfavourable light, and i felt that from them there was no hope of obtaining the lumen siccum which i desired. i determined, therefore, to try the method of questioning the peasants themselves. surely they must know whether their condition was better or worse than it had been before their emancipation. again i was doomed to disappointment. a few months' experience sufficed to convince me that my new method was by no means so effectual as i had imagined. uneducated people rarely make generalisations which have no practical utility, and i feel sure that very few russian peasants ever put to themselves the question: am i better off now than i was in the time of serfage? when such a question is put to them they feel taken aback. and in truth it is no easy matter to sum up the two sides of the account and draw an accurate balance, save in those exceptional cases in which the proprietor flagrantly abused his authority. the present money-dues and taxes are often more burdensome than the labour-dues in the old times. if the serfs had a great many ill-defined obligations to fulfil--such as the carting of the master's grain to market, the preparing of his firewood, the supplying him with eggs, chickens, home-made linen, and the like--they had, on the other hand, a good many ill-defined privileges. they grazed their cattle during a part of the year on the manor-land; they received firewood and occasionally logs for repairing their huts; sometimes the proprietor lent them or gave them a cow or a horse when they had been visited by the cattle-plague or the horse-stealer; and in times of famine they could look to their master for support. all this has now come to an end. their burdens and their privileges have been swept away together, and been replaced by clearly defined, unbending, unelastic legal relations. they have now to pay the market-price for every stick of firewood which they burn, for every log which they require for repairing their houses, and for every rood of land on which to graze their cattle. nothing is now to be had gratis. the demand to pay is encountered at every step. if a cow dies or a horse is stolen, the owner can no longer go to the proprietor with the hope of receiving a present, or at least a loan without interest, but must, if he has no ready money, apply to the village usurer, who probably considers twenty or thirty per cent, as a by no means exorbitant rate of interest. besides this, from the economic point of view village life has been completely revolutionised. formerly the members of a peasant family obtained from their ordinary domestic resources nearly all they required. their food came from their fields, cabbage-garden, and farmyard. materials for clothing were supplied by their plots of flax and their sheep, and were worked up into linen and cloth by the female members of the household. fuel, as i have said, and torches wherewith to light the izba--for oil was too expensive and petroleum was unknown--were obtained gratis. their sheep, cattle, and horses were bred at home, and their agricultural implements, except in so far as a little iron was required, could be made by themselves without any pecuniary expenditure. money was required only for the purchase of a few cheap domestic utensils, such as pots, pans, knives, hatchets, wooden dishes, and spoons, and for the payment of taxes, which were small in amount and often paid by the proprietor. in these circumstances the quantity of money in circulation among the peasants was infinitesimally small, the few exchanges which took place in a village being generally effected by barter. the taxes, and the vodka required for village festivals, weddings, or funerals, were the only large items of expenditure for the year, and they were generally covered by the sums brought home by the members of the family who went to work in the towns. very different is the present condition of affairs. the spinning, weaving, and other home industries have been killed by the big factories, and the flax and wool have to be sold to raise a little ready money for the numerous new items of expenditure. everything has to be bought--clothes, firewood, petroleum, improved agricultural implements, and many other articles which are now regarded as necessaries of life, whilst comparatively little is earned by working in the towns, because the big families have been broken up, and a household now consists usually of husband and wife, who must both remain at home, and children who are not yet bread-winners. recalling to mind all these things and the other drawbacks and advantages of his actual position, the old muzhik has naturally much difficulty in striking a balance, and he may well be quite sincere when, on being asked whether things now are on the whole better or worse than in the time of serfage, he scratches the back of his head and replies hesitatingly, with a mystified expression on his wrinkled face: "how shall i say to you? they are both better and worse!" ("kak vam skazat'? i lûtche i khûdzhe!") if, however, you press him further and ask whether he would himself like to return to the old state of things, he is pretty sure to answer, with a slow shake of the head and a twinkle in his eye, as if some forgotten item in the account had suddenly recurred to him: "oh, no!" what materially increases the difficulty of this general computation is that great changes have taken place in the well-being of the particular households. some have greatly prospered, while others have become impoverished. that is one of the most characteristic consequences of the emancipation. in the old times the general economic stagnation and the uncontrolled authority of the proprietor tended to keep all the households of a village on the same level. there was little opportunity for an intelligent, enterprising serf to become rich, and if he contrived to increase his revenue he had probably to give a considerable share of it to the proprietor, unless he had the good fortune to belong to a grand seigneur like count sheremetief, who was proud of having rich men among his serfs. on the other hand, the proprietor, for evident reasons of self-interest, as well as from benevolent motives, prevented the less intelligent and less enterprising members of the commune from becoming bankrupt. the communal equality thus artificially maintained has now disappeared, the restrictions on individual freedom of action have been removed, the struggle for life has become intensified, and, as always happens in such circumstances, the strong men go up in the world while the weak ones go to the wall. all over the country we find on the one hand the beginnings of a village aristocracy--or perhaps we should call it a plutocracy, for it is based on money--and on the other hand an ever-increasing pauperism. some peasants possess capital, with which they buy land outside the commune or embark in trade, while others have to sell their live stock, and have sometimes to cede to neighbours their share of the communal property. this change in rural life is so often referred to that, in order to express it a new, barbarous word, differentsiatsia (differentiation) has been invented. hoping to obtain fuller information with the aid of official protection, i attached myself to one of the travelling sections of an agricultural commission appointed by the government, and during a whole summer i helped to collect materials in the provinces bordering on the volga. the inquiry resulted in a gigantic report of nearly , folio pages, but the general conclusions were extremely vague. the peasantry, it was said, were passing, like the landed proprietors, through a period of transition, in which the main features of their future normal life had not yet become clearly defined. in some localities their condition had decidedly improved, whereas in others it had improved little or not at all. then followed a long list of recommendations in favour of government assistance, better agronomic education, competitive exhibitions, more varied rotation of crops, and greater zeal on the part of the clergy in disseminating among the people moral principles in general and love of work in particular. not greatly enlightened by this official activity, i returned to my private studies, and at the end of six years i published my impressions and conclusions in the first edition of this work. while recognising that there was much uncertainty as to the future, i was inclined, on the whole, to take a hopeful view of the situation. i was unable, however, to maintain permanently that comfortable frame of mind. after my departure from russia in , the accounts which reached me from various parts of the country became blacker and blacker, and were partly confirmed by short tours which i made in - . at last, in the summer of , i determined to return to some of my old haunts and look at things with my own eyes. at that moment some hospitable friends invited me to pay them a visit at their country-house in the province of smolensk, and i gladly accepted the invitation, because smolensk, when i knew it formerly, was one of the poorest provinces, and i thought it well to begin my new studies by examining the impoverishment, of which i had heard so much, at its maximum. from the railway station at viazma, where i arrived one morning at sunrise, i had some twenty miles to drive, and as soon as i got clear of the little town i began my observations. what i saw around me seemed to contradict the sombre accounts i had received. the villages through which i passed had not at all the look of dilapidation and misery which i expected. on the contrary, the houses were larger and better constructed than they used to be, and each of them had a chimney! that latter fact was important because formerly a large proportion of the peasants of this region had no such luxury, and allowed the smoke to find its exit by the open door. in vain i looked for a hut of the old type, and my yamstchik assured me i should have to go a long way to find one. then i noticed a good many iron ploughs of the european model, and my yamstchik informed me that their predecessor, the sokha with which i had been so familiar, had entirely disappeared from the district. next i noticed that in the neighbourhood of the villages flax was grown in large quantities. that was certainly not an indication of poverty, because flax is a valuable product which requires to be well manured, and plentiful manure implies a considerable quantity of live stock. lastly, before arriving at my destination, i noticed clover being grown in the fields. this made me open my eyes with astonishment, because the introduction of artificial grasses into the traditional rotation of crops indicates the transition to a higher and more intensive system of agriculture. as i had never seen clover in russia except on the estates of very advanced proprietors, i said to my yamstchik: "listen, little brother! that field belongs to the landlord?" "not at all, master; it is muzhik-land." on arriving at the country-house i told my friends what i had seen, and they explained it to me. smolensk is no longer one of the poorer provinces; it has become comparatively prosperous. in two or three districts large quantities of flax are produced and give the cultivators a big revenue; in other districts plenty of remunerative work is supplied by the forests. everywhere a considerable proportion of the younger men go regularly to the towns and bring home savings enough to pay the taxes and make a little surplus in the domestic budget. a few days afterwards the village secretary brought me his books, and showed me that there were practically no arrears of taxation. passing on to other provinces i found similar proofs of progress and prosperity, but at the same time not a few indications of impoverishment; and i was rapidly relapsing into my previous state of uncertainty as to whether any general conclusions could be drawn, when an old friend, himself a first-rate authority with many years of practical experience, came to my assistance.* he informed me that a number of specialists had recently made detailed investigations into the present economic conditions of the rural population, and he kindly placed at my disposal, in his charming country-house near moscow, the voluminous researches of these investigators. here, during a good many weeks, i revelled in the statistical materials collected, and to the best of my ability i tested the conclusions drawn from them. many of these conclusions i had to dismiss with the scotch verdict of "not proven," whilst others seemed to me worthy of acceptance. of these latter the most important were those drawn from the arrears of taxation. * i hope i am committing no indiscretion when i say that the old friend in question was prince alexander stcherbatof of vasilefskoe. the arrears in the payment of taxes may be regarded as a pretty safe barometer for testing the condition of the rural population, because the peasant habitually pays his rates and taxes when he has the means of doing so; when he falls seriously and permanently into arrears it may be assumed that he is becoming impoverished. if the arrears fluctuate from year to year, the causes of the impoverishment may be regarded as accidental and perhaps temporary, but if they steadily accumulate, we must conclude that there is something radically wrong. bearing these facts in mind, let us hear what the statistics say. during the first twenty years after the emancipation ( - ) things went on in their old grooves. the poor provinces remained poor, and the fertile provinces showed no signs of distress. during the next twenty years ( - ) the arrears of the whole of european russia rose, roughly speaking, from to millions of roubles, and the increase, strange to say, took place in the fertile provinces. in , for example, out of millions, nearly millions, or per cent., fell to the share of the provinces of the black-earth zone. in seven of these the average arrears per male, which had been in only kopeks, rose in to , and in to , ! and this accumulation had taken place in spite of reductions of taxation to the extent of million roubles in - , and successive famine grants from the treasury in - to the amount of millions.* on the other hand, in the provinces with a poor soil the arrears had greatly decreased. in smolensk, for example, they had sunk from per cent, to per cent. of the annual sum to be paid, and in nearly all the other provinces of the west and north a similar change for the better had taken place. these and many other figures which i might quote show that a great and very curious economic revolution has been gradually effected. the black-earth zone, which was formerly regarded as the inexhaustible granary of the empire, has become impoverished, whilst the provinces which were formerly regarded as hopelessly poor are now in a comparatively flourishing condition. this fact has been officially recognised. in a classification of the provinces according to their degree of prosperity, drawn up by a special commission of experts in , those with a poor light soil appear at the top, and those with the famous black earth are at the bottom of the list. in the deliberations of the commission many reasons for this extraordinary state of things are adduced. most of them have merely a local significance. the big fact, taken as a whole, seems to me to show that, in consequence of certain changes of which i shall speak presently, the peasantry of european russia can no longer live by the traditional modes of agriculture, even in the most fertile districts, and require for their support some subsidiary occupations such as are practised in the less fertile provinces. * in an additional famine grant of / million roubles had to be made by the government. another sign of impoverishment is the decrease in the quantity of live stock. according to the very imperfect statistics available, for every hundred inhabitants the number of horses has decreased from to , the number of cattle from to , and the number of sheep from to . this is a serious matter, because it means that the land is not so well manured and cultivated as formerly, and is consequently not so productive. several economists have attempted to fix precisely to what extent the productivity has decreased, but i confess i have little faith in the accuracy of their conclusions. m. polenof, for example, a most able and conscientious investigator, calculates that between and , all over russia, the amount of food produced, in relation to the number of the population, has decreased by seven per cent. his methods of calculation are ingenious, but the statistical data with which he operates are so far from accurate that his conclusions on this point have, in my opinion, little or no scientific value. with all due deference to russian economists, i may say parenthetically that they are very found of juggling with carelessly collected statistics, as if their data were mathematical quantities. several of the zemstvos have grappled with this question of peasant impoverishment, and the data which they have collected make a very doleful impression. in the province of moscow, for example, a careful investigation gave the following results: forty per cent. of the peasant households had no longer any horses, per cent. had given up agriculture altogether, and about per cent. had no longer any land. we must not, however, assume, as is often done, that the peasant families who have no live stock and no longer till the land are utterly ruined. in reality many of them are better off than their neighbours who appear as prosperous in the official statistics, having found profitable occupation in the home industries, in the towns, in the factories, or on the estates of the landed proprietors. it must be remembered that moscow is the centre of one of the regions in which manufacturing industry has progressed with gigantic strides during the last half-century, and it would be strange indeed if, in such a region, the peasantry who supply the labour to the towns and factories remained thriving agriculturists. that many russians are surprised and horrified at the actual state of things shows to what an extent the educated classes are still under the illusion that russia can create for herself a manufacturing industry capable of competing with that of western europe without uprooting from the soil a portion of her rural population. it is only in the purely agricultural regions that families officially classed as belonging to the peasantry may be regarded as on the brink of pauperism because they have no live stock, and even with regard to them i should hesitate to make such an assumption, because the muzhiks, as i have already had occasion to remark, have strange nomadic habits unknown to the rural population of other countries. it is a mistake, therefore, to calculate the russian peasant's budget exclusively on the basis of local resources. to the pessimists who assure me that according to their calculations the peasantry in general must be on the brink of starvation, i reply that there are many facts, even in the statistical tables on which they rely, which run counter to their deductions. let me quote one by way of illustration. the total amount of deposits in savings banks, about one-fourth of which is believed to belong to the rural population, rose in the course of six years ( - ) from to millions of roubles. besides the savings banks, there existed in the rural districts on st december, , no less than , small-credit institutions, with a total capital ( st january, ) of million roubles, of which only , , had been advanced by the state bank and the zemstvo, the remainder coming in from private sources. this is not much for a big country like russia, but it is a beginning, and it suggests that the impoverishment is not so severe and so universal as the pessimists would have us believe. there is thus room for differences of opinion as to how far the peasantry have become impoverished, but there is no doubt that their condition is far from satisfactory, and we have to face the important problem why the abolition of serfage has not produced the beneficent consequences which even moderate men so confidently predicted, and how the present unsatisfactory state of things is to be remedied. the most common explanation among those who have never seriously studied the subject is that it all comes from the demoralisation of the common people. in this view there is a modicum of truth. that the peasantry injure their material welfare by drunkenness and improvidence there can be no reasonable doubt, as is shown by the comparatively flourishing state of certain villages of old ritualists and molokanye in which there is no drunkenness, and in which the community exercises a strong moral control over the individual members. if the orthodox church could make the peasantry refrain from the inordinate use of strong drink as effectually as it makes them refrain during a great part of the year from animal food, and if it could instil into their minds a few simple moral principles as successfully as it has inspired them with a belief in the efficacy of the sacraments, it would certainly confer on them an inestimable benefit. but this is not to be expected. the great majority of the parish priests are quite unfit for such a task, and the few who have aspirations in that direction rarely acquire a perceptible moral influence over their parishioners. perhaps more is to be expected from the schoolmaster than from the priest, but it will be long before the schools can produce even a partial moral regeneration. their first influence, strange as the assertion may seem, is often in a diametrically opposite direction. when only a few peasants in a village can read and write they have such facilities for overreaching their "dark" neighbours that they are apt to employ their knowledge for dishonest purposes; and thus it occasionally happens that the man who has the most education is the greatest scoundrel in the mir. such facts are often used by the opponents of popular education, but in reality they supply a good reason for disseminating primary education as rapidly as possible. when all the peasants have learned to read and write they will present a less inviting field for swindling, and the temptations to dishonesty will be proportionately diminished. meanwhile, it is only fair to state that the common assertions about drunkenness being greatly on the increase are not borne out by the official statistics concerning the consumption of spirituous liquors. after drunkenness, the besetting sin which is supposed to explain the impoverishment of the peasantry is incorrigible laziness. on that subject i feel inclined to put in a plea of extenuating circumstances in favour of the muzhik. certainly he is very slow in his movements--slower perhaps than the english rustic--and he has a marvellous capacity for wasting valuable time without any perceptible qualms of conscience; but he is in this respect, if i may use a favourite phrase of the social scientists, "the product of environment." to the proprietors who habitually reproach him with time-wasting he might reply with a very strong tu quoque argument, and to all the other classes the argument might likewise be addressed. the st. petersburg official, for example, who writes edifying disquisitions about peasant indolence, considers that for himself attendance at his office for four hours, a large portion of which is devoted to the unproductive labour of cigarette smoking, constitutes a very fair day's work. the truth is that in russia the struggle for life is not nearly so intense as in more densely populated countries, and society is so constituted that all can live without very strenuous exertion. the russians seem, therefore, to the traveller who comes from the west an indolent, apathetic race. if the traveller happens to come from the east--especially if he has been living among pastoral races--the russians will appear to him energetic and laborious. their character in this respect corresponds to their geographical position: they stand midway between the laborious, painstaking, industrious population of western europe and the indolent, undisciplined, spasmodically energetic populations of central asia. they are capable of effecting much by vigorous, intermittent effort--witness the peasant at harvest-time, or the st. petersburg official when some big legislative project has to be submitted to the emperor within a given time--but they have not yet learned regular laborious habits. in short, the russians might move the world if it could be done by a jerk, but they are still deficient in that calm perseverance and dogged tenacity which characterise the teutonic race. without seeking further to determine how far the moral defects of the peasantry have a deleterious influence on their material welfare, i proceed to examine the external causes which are generally supposed to contribute largely to their impoverishment, and will deal first with the evils of peasant self-government. that the peasant self-government is very far from being in a satisfactory condition must be admitted by any impartial observer. the more laborious and well-to-do peasants, unless they wish to abuse their position directly or indirectly for their own advantage, try to escape election as office-bearers, and leave the administration in the hands of the less respectable members. not unfrequently a volost elder trades with the money he collects as dues or taxes; and sometimes, when he becomes insolvent, the peasants have to pay their taxes and dues a second time. the village assemblies, too, have become worse than they were in the days of serfage. at that time the heads of households--who, it must be remembered, have alone a voice in the decisions--were few in number, laborious, and well-to-do, and they kept the lazy, unruly members under strict control. now that the large families have been broken up and almost every adult peasant is head of a household, the communal affairs are sometimes decided by a noisy majority; and certain communal decisions may be obtained by "treating the mir"--that is to say, by supplying a certain amount of vodka. often i have heard old peasants speak of these things, and finish their recital by some such remark as this: "there is no order now; the people have been spoiled; it was better in the time of the masters." these evils are very real, and i have no desire to extenuate them, but i believe they are by no means so great as is commonly supposed. if the lazy, worthless members of the commune had really the direction of communal affairs we should find that in the northern agricultural zone, where it is necessary to manure the soil, the periodical redistributions of the communal land would be very frequent; for in a new distribution the lazy peasant has a good chance of getting a well-manured lot in exchange for the lot which he has exhausted. in reality, so far as my observations extend, these general distributions of the land are not more frequent than they were before. of the various functions of the peasant self-government the judicial are perhaps the most frequently and the most severely criticised. and certainly not without reason, for the volost courts are too often accessible to the influence of alcohol, and in some districts the peasants say that he who becomes a judge takes a sin on his soul. i am not at all sure, however, that it would be well to abolish these courts altogether, as some people propose. in many respects they are better suited to peasant requirements than the ordinary tribunals. their procedure is infinitely simpler, more expeditious, and incomparably less expensive, and they are guided by traditional custom and plain common-sense, whereas the ordinary tribunals have to judge according to the civil law, which is unknown to the peasantry and not always applicable to their affairs. few ordinary judges have a sufficiently intimate knowledge of the minute details of peasant life to be able to decide fairly the cases that are brought before the volost courts; and even if a justice had sufficient knowledge he could not adopt the moral and juridical notions of the peasantry. these are often very different from those of the upper classes. in cases of matrimonial separation, for instance, the educated man naturally assumes that, if there is any question of aliment, it should be paid by the husband to the wife. the peasant, on the contrary, assumes as naturally that it should be paid by the wife to the husband--or rather to the head of the household--as a compensation for the loss of labour which her desertion involves. in like manner, according to traditional peasant-law, if an unmarried son is working away from home, his earnings do not belong to himself, but to the family, and in volost court they could be claimed by the head of the household. occasionally, it is true, the peasant judges allow their respect for old traditional conceptions in general and for the authority of parents in particular, to carry them a little too far. i was told lately of one affair which took place not long ago, within a hundred miles of moscow, in which the judge decided that a respectable young peasant should be flogged because he refused to give his father the money he earned as groom in the service of a neighbouring proprietor, though it was notorious in the district that the father was a disreputable old drunkard who carried to the kabak (gin-shop) all the money he could obtain by fair means and foul. when i remarked to my informant, who was not an admirer of peasant institutions, that the incident reminded me of the respect for the patria potestas in old roman times, he stared at me with a look of surprise and indignation, and exclaimed laconically, "patria potestas? . . . vodka!" he was evidently convinced that the disreputable father had got his respectable son flogged by "treating" the judges. in such cases flogging can no longer be used, for the volost courts, as we have seen, were recently deprived of the right to inflict corporal punishment. these administrative and judicial abuses gradually reached the ears of the government, and in it attempted to remove them by creating a body of rural supervisors (zemskiye natchalniki). under their supervision and control some abuses may have been occasionally prevented or corrected, and some rascally volost secretaries may have been punished or dismissed, but the peasant self-government as a whole has not been perceptibly improved. let us glance now at the opinions of those who hold that the material progress of the peasantry is prevented chiefly, not by the mere abuses of the communal administration, but by the essential principles of the communal institutions, and especially by the practice of periodically redistributing the communal land. from the theoretical point of view this question is one of great interest, and it may acquire in the future an immense practical significance; but for the present it has not, in my opinion, the importance which is usually attributed to it. there can be no doubt that it is much more difficult to farm well on a large number of narrow strips of land, many of which are at a great distance from the farmyard, than on a compact piece of land which the farmer may divide and cultivate as he pleases; and there can be as little doubt that the husbandman is more likely to improve his land if his tenure is secure. all this and much more of the same kind must be accepted as indisputable truth, but it has little direct bearing on the practical question under consideration. we are not considering in the abstract whether it would be better that the peasant should be a farmer with abundant capital and all the modern scientific appliances, but simply the practical question, what are the obstructions which at present prevent the peasant from ameliorating his actual condition? that the commune prevents its members from adopting various systems of high farming is a supposition which scarcely requires serious consideration. the peasants do not yet think of any such radical innovations; and if they did, they have neither the knowledge nor the capital necessary to effect them. in many villages a few of the richer and more intelligent peasants have bought land outside of the commune and cultivate it as they please, free from all communal restraints; and i have always found that they cultivate this property precisely in the same way as their share of the communal land. as to minor changes, we know by experience that the mir opposes to them no serious obstacles. the cultivation of beet for the production of sugar has greatly increased in the central and southwestern provinces, and flax is now largely produced in communes in northern districts where it was formerly cultivated merely for domestic use. the communal system is, in fact, extremely elastic, and may be modified as soon as the majority of the members consider modifications profitable. when the peasants begin to think of permanent improvements, such as drainage, irrigation, and the like, they will find the communal institutions a help rather than an obstruction; for such improvements, if undertaken at all, must be undertaken on a larger scale, and the mir is an already existing association. the only permanent improvements which can be for the present profitably undertaken consist in the reclaiming of waste land; and such improvements are already sometimes attempted. i know at least of one case in which a commune in the province of yaroslavl has reclaimed a considerable tract of waste land by means of hired labourers. nor does the mir prevent in this respect individual initiative. in many communes of the northern provinces it is a received principle of customary law that if any member reclaims waste land he is allowed to retain possession of it for a number of years proportionate to the amount of labour expended. but does not the commune, as it exists, prevent good cultivation according to the mode of agriculture actually in use? except in the far north and the steppe region, where the agriculture is of a peculiar kind, adapted to the local conditions, the peasants invariably till their land according to the ordinary three-field system, in which good cultivation means, practically speaking, the plentiful use of manure. does, then, the existence of the mir prevent the peasants from manuring their fields well? many people who speak on this subject in an authoritative tone seem to imagine that the peasants in general do not manure their fields at all. this idea is an utter mistake. in those regions, it is true, where the rich black soil still retains a large part of its virgin fertility, the manure is used as fuel, or simply thrown away, because the peasants believe that it would not be profitable to put it on their fields, and their conviction is, at least to some extent, well founded;* but in the northern agricultural zone, where unmanured soil gives almost no harvest, the peasants put upon their fields all the manure they possess. if they do not put enough it is simply because they have not sufficient live stock. * as recently as two years ago ( ) i found that one of the most intelligent and energetic landlords of the province of voronezh followed in this respect the example of the peasants, and he assured me that he had proved by experience the advantage of doing so. it is only in the southern provinces, where no manure is required, that periodical re-distributions take place frequently. as we travel northward we find the term lengthens; and in the northern agricultural zone, where manure is indispensable, general re-distributions are extremely rare. in the province of yaroslavl, for example, the communal land is generally divided into two parts: the manured land lying near the village, and the unmanured land lying beyond. the latter alone is subject to frequent re-distribution. on the former the existing tenures are rarely disturbed, and when it becomes necessary to give a share to a new household, the change is effected with the least possible prejudice to vested rights. the policy of the government has always been to admit redistributions in principle, but to prevent their too frequent recurrence. for this purpose the emancipation law stipulated that they could be decreed only by a three-fourths majority of the village assembly, and in a further obstacle was created by a law providing that the minimum term between two re-distributions should be twelve years, and that they should never be undertaken without the sanction of the rural supervisor. a certain number of communes have made the experiment of transforming the communal tenure into hereditary allotments, and its only visible effect has been that the allotments accumulate in the hands of the richer and more enterprising peasants, and the poorer members of the commune become landless, while the primitive system of agriculture remains unimproved. up to this point i have dealt with the so-called causes of peasant impoverishment which are much talked of, but which are, in my opinion, only of secondary importance. i pass now to those which are more tangible and which have exerted on the condition of the peasantry a more palpable influence. and, first, inordinate taxation. this is a very big subject, on which a bulky volume might be written, but i shall cut it very short, because i know that the ordinary reader does not like to be bothered with voluminous financial statistics. briefly, then, the peasant has to pay three kinds of direct taxation: imperial to the central government, local to the zemstvo, and commune to the mir and the volost; and besides these he has to pay a yearly sum for the redemption of the land-allotment which he received at the time of the emancipation. taken together, these form a heavy burden, but for ten or twelve years the emancipated peasantry bore it patiently, without falling very deeply into arrears. then began to appear symptoms of distress, especially in the provinces with a poor soil, and in the government appointed a commission of inquiry, in which i had the privilege of taking part unofficially. the inquiry showed that something ought to be done, but at that moment the government was so busy with administrative reforms and with trying to develop industry and commerce that it had little time to devote to studying and improving the economic position of the silent, long-suffering muzhik. it was not till nearly ten years later, when the government began to feel the pinch of the ever-increasing arrears, that it recognised the necessity of relieving the rural population. for this purpose it abolished the salt-tax and the poll-tax and repeatedly lessened the burden of the redemption-payments. at a later period ( ) it afforded further relief by an important reform in the mode of collecting the direct taxes. from the police, who often ruined peasant householders by applying distraint indiscriminately, the collection of taxes was transferred to special authorities who took into consideration the temporary pecuniary embarrassments of the tax-payers. another benefit conferred on the peasantry by this reform is that an individual member of the commune is no longer responsible for the fiscal obligations of the commune as a whole. since these alleviations have been granted the annual total demanded from the peasantry for direct taxation and land-redemption payments is million roubles, and the average annual sum to be paid by each peasant household varies, according to the locality, from / to roubles ( s. d. to s.). in addition to this annuity there is a heavy burden of accumulated arrears, especially in the central and eastern provinces, which amounted in to millions. of the indirect taxes i can say nothing definite, because it is impossible to calculate, even approximately, the share of them which falls on the rural population, but they must not be left out of account. during the ten years of m. witte's term of office the revenue of the imperial treasury was nearly doubled, and though the increase was due partly to improvements in the financial administration, we can hardly believe that the peasantry did not in some measure contribute to it. in any case, it is very difficult, if not impossible, for them, under actual conditions, to improve their economic position. on that point all russian economists are agreed. one of the most competent and sober-minded of them, m. schwanebach, calculates that the head of a peasant household, after deducting the grain required to feed his family, has to pay into the imperial treasury, according to the district in which he resides, from to per cent, of his agricultural revenue. if that ingenious calculation is even approximately correct, we must conclude that further financial reforms are urgently required, especially in those provinces where the population live exclusively by agriculture. heavy as the burden of taxation undoubtedly is, it might perhaps be borne without very serious inconvenience if the peasant families could utilise productively all their time and strength. unfortunately in the existing economic organisation a great deal of their time and energy is necessarily wasted. their economic life was radically dislocated by the emancipation, and they have not yet succeeded in reorganising it according to the new conditions. in the time of serfage an estate formed, from the economic point of view, a co-operative agricultural association, under a manager who possessed unlimited authority, and sometimes abused it, but who was generally worldly-wise enough to understand that the prosperity of the whole required the prosperity of the component parts. by the abolition of serfage the association was dissolved and liquidated, and the strong, compact whole fell into a heap of independent units, with separate and often mutually hostile interests. some of the disadvantages of this change for the peasantry i have already enumerated above. the most important i have now to mention. in virtue of the emancipation law each family received an amount of land which tempted it to continue farming on its own account, but which did not enable it to earn a living and pay its rates and taxes. the peasant thus became a kind of amphibious creature--half farmer and half something else--cultivating his allotment for a portion of his daily bread, and obliged to have some other occupation wherewith to cover the inevitable deficit in his domestic budget. if he was fortunate enough to find near his home a bit of land to be let at a reasonable rent, he might cultivate it in addition to his own and thereby gain a livelihood; but if he had not the good luck to find such a piece of land in the immediate neighbourhood, he had to look for some subsidiary occupation in which to employ his leisure time; and where was such occupation to be found in an ordinary russian village? in former years he might have employed himself perhaps in carting the proprietor's grain to distant markets or still more distant seaports, but that means of making a little money has been destroyed by the extension of railways. practically, then, he is now obliged to choose between two alternatives: either to farm his allotment and spend a great part of the year in idleness, or to leave the cultivation of his allotment to his wife and children and to seek employment elsewhere--often at such a distance that his earnings hardly cover the expenses of the journey. in either case much time and energy are wasted. the evil results of this state of things were intensified by another change which was brought about by the emancipation. in the time of serfage the peasant families, as i have already remarked, were usually very large. they remained undivided, partly from the influence of patriarchal conceptions, but chiefly because the proprietors, recognising the advantage of large units, prevented them from breaking up. as soon as the proprietor's authority was removed, the process of disintegration began and spread rapidly. every one wished to be independent, and in a very short time nearly every able-bodied married peasant had a house of his own. the economic consequences were disastrous. a large amount of money had to be expended in constructing new houses and farmsteadings; and the old habit of one male member remaining at home to cultivate the land allotment with the female members of the family whilst the others went to earn wages elsewhere had to be abandoned. many large families, which had been prosperous and comfortable--rich according to peasant conceptions--dissolved into three or four small ones, all on the brink of pauperism. the last cause of peasant impoverishment that i have to mention is perhaps the most important of all: i mean the natural increase of population without a corresponding increase in the means of subsistence. since the emancipation in the population has nearly doubled, whilst the amount of communal land has remained the same. it is not surprising, therefore, that when talking with peasants about their actual condition, one constantly hears the despairing cry, "zemli malo!" ("there is not enough land"); and one notices that those who look a little ahead ask anxiously: "what is to become of our children? already the communal allotment is too small for our wants, and the land outside is doubling and trebling in price! what will it be in the future?" at the same time, not a few russian economists tell us--and their apprehensions are shared by foreign observers--that millions of peasants are in danger of starvation in the near future. must we, then, accept for russia the malthus doctrine that population increases more rapidly than the means of subsistence, and that starvation can be avoided only by plague, pestilence, war, and other destructive forces? i think not. it is quite true that, if the amount of land actually possessed by the peasantry and the present system of cultivating it remained unchanged, semi-starvation would be the inevitable result within a comparatively short space of time; but the danger can be averted, and the proper remedies are not far to seek. if russia is suffering from over-population, it must be her own fault, for she is, with the exception of norway and sweden, the most thinly populated country in europe, and she has more than her share of fertile soil and mineral resources. a glance at the map showing the density of population in the various provinces suggests an obvious remedy, and i am happy to say it is already being applied. the population of the congested districts of the centre is gradually spreading out, like a drop of oil on a sheet of soft paper, towards the more thinly populated regions of the south and east. in this way the vast region containing millions and millions of acres which lies to the north of the black sea, the caucasus, the caspian, and central asia is yearly becoming more densely peopled, and agriculture is steadily encroaching on the pastoral area. breeders of sheep and cattle, who formerly lived and throve in the western portion of that great expanse, are being pushed eastwards by the rapid increase in the value of land, and their place is being taken by enterprising tillers of the soil. further north another stream of emigration is flowing into central siberia. it does not flow so rapidly, because in that part of the empire, unlike the bare, fertile steppes of the south, the land has to be cleared before the seed can be sown, and the pioneer colonists have to work hard for a year or two before they get any return for their labour; but the government and private societies come to their assistance, and for the last twenty years their numbers have been steadily increasing. during the ten years - the annual contingent rose from , to , , and the total number amounted to nearly , . for the subsequent period i have not been able to obtain the official statistics, but a friend who has access to the official sources of information on this subject assures me that during the last twelve years about four millions of peasants from european russia have been successfully settled in siberia. even in the european portion of the empire millions of acres which are at present unproductive might be utilised. any one who has travelled by rail from berlin to st. petersburg must have noticed how the landscape suddenly changes its character as soon as he has crossed the frontier. leaving a prosperous agricultural country, he traverses for many weary hours a region in which there is hardly a sign of human habitation, though the soil and climate of that region resembles closely the soil and climate of east prussia. the difference lies in the amount of labour and capital expended. according to official statistics the area of european russia contains, roughly speaking, millions of dessyatins, of which millions, or per cent., are classified as neudobniya, unfit for cultivation; millions, or per cent., as forest; millions, or per cent., as arable land; and millions, or per cent., as pasturage. thus the arable and pasture land compose only per cent., or considerably less than half the area. of the land classed as unfit for cultivation-- per cent. of the whole--a large portion, including the perennially frozen tundri of the far north, must ever remain unproductive, but in latitudes with a milder climate this category of land is for the most part ordinary morass or swamp, which can be transformed into pasturage, or even into arable land, by drainage at a moderate cost. as a proof of this statement i may cite the draining of the great pinsk swamps, which was begun by the government in . if we may trust an official report of the progress of the works in , an area of , , dessyatins (more than seven and a half million acres) had been drained at an average cost of about three shillings an acre, and the price of land had risen from four to twenty-eight roubles per dessyatin. reclamation of marshes might be undertaken elsewhere on a much more moderate scale. the observant traveller on the highways and byways of the northern provinces must have noticed on the banks of almost every stream many acres of marshy land producing merely reeds or coarse rank grass that no well-brought-up animal would look at. with a little elementary knowledge of engineering and the expenditure of a moderate amount of manual labour these marshes might be converted into excellent pasture or even into highly productive kitchen-gardens; but the peasants have not yet learned to take advantage of such opportunities, and the reformers, who deal only in large projects and scientific panaceas for the cure of impoverishment, consider such trifles as unworthy of their attention. the scotch proverb that if the pennies be well looked after, the pounds will look after themselves, contains a bit of homely wisdom totally unknown to the russian educated classes. after the morasses, swamps, and marshes come the forests, constituting per cent. of the whole area, and the question naturally arises whether some portions of them might not be advantageously transformed into pasturage or arable land. in the south and east they have been diminished to such an extent as to affect the climate injuriously, so that the area of them should be increased rather than lessened; but in the northern provinces the vast expanses of forest, covering millions of acres, might perhaps be curtailed with advantage. the proprietors prefer, however, to keep them in their present condition because they give a modest revenue without any expenditure of capital. therein lies the great obstacle to land-reclamation in russia: it requires an outlay of capital, and capital is extremely scarce in the empire of the tsars. until it becomes more plentiful, the area of arable land and pasturage is not likely to be largely increased, and other means of checking the impoverishment of the peasantry must be adopted. a less expensive means is suggested by the statistics of foreign trade. in the preceding chapter we have seen that from to the average annual export of grain rose steadily from under / millions to over millions of tons. it is evident, therefore, that in the food supply, so far from there being a deficiency, there has been a large and constantly increasing surplus. if the peasantry have been on short rations, it is not because the quantity of food produced has fallen short of the requirements of the population, but because it has been unequally distributed. the truth is that the large landed proprietors produce more and the peasants less than they consume, and it has naturally occurred to many people that the present state of things might be improved if a portion of the arable land passed, without any socialistic, revolutionary measures, from the one class to the other. this operation began spontaneously soon after the emancipation. well-to-do peasants who had saved a little money bought from the proprietors bits of land near their villages and cultivated them in addition to their allotments. at first this extension of peasant land was confined within very narrow limits, because the peasants had very little capital at their disposal, but in the government came to their aid by creating the peasant land bank, the object of which was to advance money to purchasers of the peasant class on the security of the land purchased, at the rate of / per cent., including sinking fund.* from that moment the purchases increased rapidly. they were made by individual peasants, by rural communes, and, most of all, by small voluntary associations composed of three, four, or more members. in the course of twenty years ( - ) the bank made , advances, and in this way were purchased about eighteen million acres. this sounds a very big acquisition, but it will not do much to relieve the pressure on the peasantry as a whole, because it adds only about per cent. to the amount they already possessed in virtue of the emancipation law. * this arrangement extinguishes the debt in / years; an additional per cent, extinguishes it in / years. by recent legislation other arrangements are permitted. nearly all of this land purchased by the peasantry comes directly or indirectly from the noblesse, and much more will doubtless pass from the one class to the other if the government continues to encourage the operation; but already symptoms of a change of policy are apparent. in the higher official regions it is whispered that the existing policy is objectionable from the political point of view, and one sometimes hears the question asked: is it right and desirable that the noblesse, who have ever done their duty in serving faithfully the tsar and fatherland, and who have ever been the representatives of civilisation and culture in russian country life, should be gradually expropriated in favour of other and less cultivated social classes? not a few influential personages are of opinion that such a change is unjust and undesirable, and they argue that it is not advantageous to the peasants themselves, because the price of land has risen much more than the rents. it is not at all uncommon, for example, to find that land can be rented at five roubles per dessyatin, whereas it cannot be bought under roubles. in that case the peasant can enjoy the use of the land at the moderate rate of / per cent. of the capital value, whereas by purchasing the land with the assistance of the bank he would have to pay, without sinking fund, more than double that rate. the muzhik, however, prefers to be owner of the land, even at a considerable sacrifice. when he can be induced to give his reasons, they are usually formulated thus: "with my own land i can do as i like; if i hire land from the neighbouring proprietor, who knows whether, at the end of the term, he may not raise the rent or refuse to renew the contract at any price?" even if the government should continue to encourage the purchase of land by the peasantry, the process is too slow to meet all the requirements of the situation. some additional expedient must be found, and we naturally look for it in the experience of older countries with a denser population. in the more densely populated countries of western europe a safety-valve for the inordinate increase of the rural population has been provided by the development of manufacturing industry. high wages and the attractions of town life draw the rural population to the industrial centres, and the movement has increased to such an extent that already complaints are heard of the rural districts becoming depopulated. in russia a similar movement is taking place on a smaller scale. during the last forty years, under the fostering influence of a protective tariff, the manufacturing industry has made gigantic strides, as we shall see in a future chapter, and it has already absorbed about two millions of the redundant hands in the villages; but it cannot keep pace with the rapid increasing surplus. two millions are less than two per cent. of the population. the great mass of the people has always been, and must long continue to be, purely agricultural; and it is to their fields that they must look for the means of subsistence. if the fields do not supply enough for their support under the existing primitive methods of cultivation, better methods must be adopted. to use a favourite semi-scientific phrase, russia has now reached the point in her economic development at which she must abandon her traditional extensive system of agriculture and adopt a more intensive system. so far all competent authorities are agreed. but how is the transition, which requires technical knowledge, a spirit of enterprise, an enormous capital, and a dozen other things which the peasantry do not at present possess, to be effected? here begin the well-marked differences of opinion. hitherto the momentous problem has been dealt with chiefly by the theorists and doctrinaires who delight in radical solutions by means of panaceas, and who have little taste for detailed local investigation and gradual improvement. i do not refer to the so-called "saviours of the fatherland" (spasiteli otetchestva), well-meaning cranks and visionaries who discover ingenious devices for making their native country at once prosperous and happy. i speak of the great majority of reasonable, educated men who devote some attention to the problem. their favourite method of dealing with it is this: the intensive system of agriculture requires scientific knowledge and a higher level of intellectual culture. what has to be done, therefore, is to create agricultural colleges supplied with all the newest appliances of agronomic research and to educate the peasantry to such an extent that they may be able to use the means which science recommends. for many years this doctrine prevailed in the press, among the reading public, and even in the official world. the government was accordingly urged to improve and multiply the agronomic colleges and the schools of all grades and descriptions. learned dissertations were published on the chemical constitution of the various soils, the action of the atmosphere on the different ingredients, the necessity of making careful meteorological observations, and numerous other topics of a similar kind; and would-be reformers who had no taste for such highly technical researches could console themselves with the idea that they were advancing the vital interests of the country by discussing the relative merits of communal and personal land-tenure--deciding generally in favour of the former as more in accordance with the peculiarities of russian, as contrasted with west european, principles of economic and social development. while much valuable time and energy were thus being expended to little purpose, on the assumption that the old system might be left untouched until the preparations for a radical solution had been completed, disagreeable facts which could not be entirely overlooked gradually produced in influential quarters the conviction that the question was much more urgent than was commonly supposed. a sensitive chord in the heart of the government was struck by the steadily increasing arrears of taxation, and spasmodic attempts have since been made to cure the evil. in the local administration, too, the urgency of the question has come to be recognised, and measures are now being taken by the zemstvo to help the peasantry in making gradually the transition to that higher system of agriculture which is the only means of permanently saving them from starvation. for this purpose, in many districts well-trained specialists have been appointed to study the local conditions and to recommend to the villagers such simple improvements as are within their means. these improvements may be classified under the following heads: ( ) increase of the cereal crops by better seed and improved implements. ( ) change in the rotation of crops by the introduction of certain grasses and roots which improve the soil and supply food for live stock. ( ) improvement and increase of live stock, so as to get more labour-power, more manure, more dairy-produce, and more meat. ( ) increased cultivation of vegetables and fruit. with these objects in view the zemstvo is establishing depots in which improved implements and better seed are sold at moderate prices, and the payments are made in installments, so that even the poorer members of the community can take advantage of the facilities offered. bulls and stallions are kept at central points for the purpose of improving the breed of cattle and horses, and the good results are already visible. elementary instruction in farming and gardening is being introduced into the primary schools. in some districts the exertions of the zemstvo are supplemented by small agricultural societies, mutual credit associations, and village banks, and these are to some extent assisted by the central government. but the beneficent action in this direction is not all official. many proprietors deserve great praise for the good influence which they exercise on the peasants of their neighbourhood and the assistance they give them; and it must be admitted that their patience is often sorely tried, for the peasants have the obstinacy of ignorance, and possess other qualities which are not sympathetic. i know one excellent proprietor who began his civilising efforts by giving to the mir of the nearest village an iron plough as a model and a fine pedigree ram as a producer, and who found, on returning from a tour abroad, that during his absence the plough had been sold for vodka, and the pedigree ram had been eaten before it had time to produce any descendants! in spite of this he continues his efforts, and not altogether without success. it need hardly be said that the progress of the peasantry is not so rapid as could be wished. the muzhik is naturally conservative, and is ever inclined to regard novelties with suspicion. even when he is half convinced of the utility of some change, he has still to think about it for a long time and talk it over again and again with his friends and neighbours, and this preparatory stage of progress may last for years. unless he happens to be a man of unusual intelligence and energy, it is only when he sees with his own eyes that some humble individual of his own condition in life has actually gained by abandoning the old routine and taking to new courses, that he makes up his mind to take the plunge himself. still, he is beginning to jog on. e pur si muove! a spirit of progress is beginning to move on the face of the long-stagnant waters, and progress once begun is pretty sure to continue with increasing rapidity. with starvation hovering in the rear, even the most conservative are not likely to stop or turn back. chapter xxxii the zemstvo and the local self-government necessity of reorganising the provincial administration--zemstvo created in --my first acquaintance with the institution--district and provincial assemblies--the leading members--great expectations created by the institution--these expectations not realised--suspicions and hostility of the bureaucracy--zemstvo brought more under control of the centralised administration--what it has really done--why it has not done more---rapid increase of the rates--how far the expenditure is judicious--why the impoverishment of the peasantry was neglected--unpractical, pedantic spirit--evil consequences--chinese and russian formalism--local self-government of russia contrasted with that of england--zemstvo better than its predecessors--its future. after the emancipation of the serfs the reform most urgently required was the improvement of the provincial administration. in the time of serfage the emperor nicholas, referring to the landed proprietors, used to say in a jocular tone that he had in his empire , most zealous and efficient hereditary police-masters. by the emancipation law the authority of these hereditary police-masters was for ever abolished, and it became urgently necessary to put something else in its place. peasant self-government was accordingly organised on the basis of the rural commune; but it fell far short of meeting the requirements of the situation. its largest unit was the volost, which comprises merely a few contiguous communes, and its action is confined exclusively to the peasantry. evidently it was necessary to create a larger administrative unit, in which the interests of all classes of the population could be attended to, and for this purpose alexander ii. in november, , more than a year before the emancipation edict, instructed a special commission to prepare a project for giving to the inefficient, dislocated provincial administration greater unity and independence. the project was duly prepared, and after being discussed in the council of state it received the imperial sanction in january, . it was supposed to give, in the words of an explanatory memorandum attached to it, "as far as possible a complete and logical development to the principle of local self-government." thus was created the zemstvo,* which has recently attracted considerable attention in western europe, and which is destined, perhaps, to play a great political part in the future. * the term zemstvo is derived from the word zemlya, meaning land, and might be translated, if a barbarism were permissible, by land-dom on the analogy of kingdom, dukedom, etc. my personal acquaintance with this interesting institution dates from . very soon after my arrival at novgorod in that year, i made the acquaintance of a gentleman who was described to me as "the president of the provincial zemstvo-bureau," and finding him amiable and communicative, i suggested that he might give me some information regarding the institution of which he was the chief local representative. with the utmost readiness he proposed to be my mentor, introduced me to his colleagues, and invited me to come and see him at his office as often as i felt inclined. of this invitation i made abundant use. at first my visits were discreetly few and short, but when i found that my new friend and his colleagues really wished to instruct me in all the details of zemstvo administration, and had arranged a special table in the president's room for my convenience, i became a regular attendant, and spent daily several hours in the bureau, studying the current affairs, and noting down the interesting bits of statistical and other information which came before the members, as if i had been one of their number. when they went to inspect the hospital, the lunatic asylum, the seminary for the preparation of village schoolmasters, or any other zemstvo institution, they invariably invited me to accompany them, and made no attempt to conceal from me the defects which they happened to discover. i mention all this because it illustrates the readiness of most russians to afford every possible facility to a foreigner who wishes seriously to study their country. they believe that they have long been misunderstood and systematically calumniated by foreigners, and they are extremely desirous that the prevalent misconceptions regarding their country should be removed. it must be said to their honour that they have little or none of that false patriotism which seeks to conceal national defects; and in judging themselves and their institutions they are inclined to be over-severe rather than unduly lenient. in the time of nicholas i. those who desired to stand well with the government proclaimed loudly that they lived in the happiest and best-governed country of the world, but this shallow official optimism has long since gone out of fashion. during all the years which i spent in russia i found everywhere the utmost readiness to assist me in my investigations, and very rarely noticed that habit of "throwing dust in the eyes of foreigners," of which some writers have spoken so much. the zemstvo is a kind of local administration which supplements the action of the rural communes, and takes cognizance of those higher public wants which individual communes cannot possibly satisfy. its principal duties are to keep the roads and bridges in proper repair, to provide means of conveyance for the rural police and other officials, to look after primary education and sanitary affairs, to watch the state of the crops and take measures against approaching famine, and, in short, to undertake, within certain clearly defined limits, whatever seems likely to increase the material and moral well-being of the population. in form the institution is parliamentary--that is to say, it consists of an assembly of deputies which meets regularly once a year, and of a permanent executive bureau elected by the assembly from among its members. if the assembly be regarded as a local parliament, the bureau corresponds to the cabinet. in accordance with this analogy my friend the president was sometimes jocularly termed the prime minister. once every three years the deputies are elected in certain fixed proportions by the landed proprietors, the rural communes, and the municipal corporations. every province (guberniya) and each of the districts (uyezdi) into which the province is subdivided has such an assembly and such a bureau. not long after my arrival in novgorod i had the opportunity of being present at a district assembly. in the ball-room of the "club de la noblesse" i found thirty or forty men seated round a long table covered with green cloth. before each member lay sheets of paper for the purpose of taking notes, and before the president--the marshal of noblesse for the district--stood a small hand-bell, which he rang vigorously at the commencement of the proceedings and on all the occasions when he wished to obtain silence. to the right and left of the president sat the members of the executive bureau (uprava), armed with piles of written and printed documents, from which they read long and tedious extracts, till the majority of the audience took to yawning and one or two of the members positively went to sleep. at the close of each of these reports the president rang his bell--presumably for the purpose of awakening the sleepers--and inquired whether any one had remarks to make on what had just been read. generally some one had remarks to make, and not unfrequently a discussion ensued. when any decided difference of opinion appeared a vote was taken by handing round a sheet of paper, or by the simpler method of requesting the ayes to stand up and the noes to sit still. what surprised me most in this assembly was that it was composed partly of nobles and partly of peasants--the latter being decidedly in the majority--and that no trace of antagonism seemed to exist between the two classes. landed proprietors and their ci-devant serfs, emancipated only ten years before, evidently met for the moment on a footing of equality. the discussions were carried on chiefly by the nobles, but on more than one occasion peasant members rose to speak, and their remarks, always clear, practical, and to the point, were invariably listened to with respectful attention. instead of that violent antagonism which might have been expected, considering the constitution of the assembly, there was too much unanimity--a fact indicating plainly that the majority of the members did not take a very deep interest in the matters presented to them. this assembly was held in the month of september. at the beginning of december the assembly for the province met, and during nearly three weeks i was daily present at its deliberations. in general character and mode of procedure it resembled closely the district assembly. its chief peculiarities were that its members were chosen, not by the primary electors, but by the assemblies of the ten districts which compose the province, and that it took cognisance merely of those matters which concerned more than one district. besides this, the peasant deputies were very few in number--a fact which somewhat surprised me, because i was aware that, according to the law, the peasant members of the district assemblies were eligible, like those of the other classes. the explanation is that the district assemblies choose their most active members to represent them in the provincial assemblies, and consequently the choice generally falls on landed proprietors. to this arrangement the peasants make no objection, for attendance at the provincial assemblies demands a considerable pecuniary outlay, and payment to the deputies is expressly prohibited by law. to give the reader an idea of the elements composing this assembly, let me introduce him to a few of the members. a considerable section of them may be described in a single sentence. they are commonplace men, who have spent part of their youth in the public service as officers in the army, or officials in the civil administration, and have since retired to their estates, where they gain a modest competence by farming. some of them add to their agricultural revenue by acting as justices of the peace.* a few may be described more particularly. * that is no longer possible. the institution of justices elected and paid by the zemstvo was abolished in . you see there, for instance, that fine-looking old general in uniform, with the st. george's cross at his button-hole--an order given only for bravery in the field. that is prince suvorof, a grandson of the famous general. he has filled high posts in the administration without ever tarnishing his name by a dishonest or dishonourable action, and has spent a great part of his life at court without ceasing to be frank, generous, and truthful. though he has no intimate knowledge of current affairs, and sometimes gives way a little to drowsiness, his sympathies in disputed points are always on the right side, and when he gets to his feet he always speaks in a clear soldierlike fashion. the tall gaunt man, somewhat over middle age, who sits a little to the left is prince vassiltchikof. he too, has an historic name, but he cherishes above all things personal independence, and has consequently always kept aloof from the imperial administration and the court. the leisure thus acquired he has devoted to study, and he has produced several valuable works on political and social science. an enthusiastic but at the same time cool-headed abolitionist at the time of the emancipation, he has since constantly striven to ameliorate the condition of the peasantry by advocating the spread of primary education, the rural credit associations in the village, the preservation of the communal institutions, and numerous important reforms in the financial system. both of these gentlemen, it is said, generously gave to their peasants more land than they were obliged to give by the emancipation law. in the assembly prince vassiltchikof speaks frequently, and always commands attention; and in all important committees he is leading member. though a warm defender of the zemstvo institutions, he thinks that their activity ought to be confined to a comparatively narrow field, and he thereby differs from some of his colleagues, who are ready to embark in hazardous, not to say fanciful, schemes for developing the natural resources of the province. his neighbour, mr. p----, is one of the ablest and most energetic members of the assembly. he is president of the executive bureau in one of the districts, where he has founded many primary schools and created several rural credit associations on the model of those which bear the name of schultze delitsch in germany. mr. s----, who sits beside him, was for some years an arbiter between the proprietors and emancipated serfs, then a member of the provincial executive bureau, and is now director of a bank in st. petersburg. to the right and left of the president--who is marshal of noblesse for the province--sit the members of the bureau. the gentleman who reads the long reports is my friend "the prime minister," who began life as a cavalry officer, and after a few years of military service retired to his estate; he is an intelligent, able administrator, and a man of considerable literary culture. his colleague, who assists him in reading the reports, is a merchant, and director of the municipal bank. the next member is also a merchant, and in some respects the most remarkable man in the room. though born a serf, he is already, at middle age, an important personage in the russian commercial world. rumour says that he laid the foundation of his fortune by one day purchasing a copper cauldron in a village through which he was passing on his way to st. petersburg, where he hoped to gain a little money by the sale of some calves. in the course of a few years he amassed an enormous fortune; but cautious people think that he is too fond of hazardous speculations, and prophesy that he will end life as poor as he began it. all these men belong to what may be called the party of progress, which anxiously supports all proposals recognised as "liberal," and especially all measures likely to improve the condition of the peasantry. their chief opponent is that little man with close-cropped, bullet-shaped head and small piercing eyes, who may be called the leader of the opposition. he condemns many of the proposed schemes, on the ground that the province is already overtaxed, and that the expenditure ought to be reduced to the smallest possible figure. in the district assembly he preaches this doctrine with considerable success, for there the peasantry form the majority, and he knows how to use that terse, homely language, interspersed with proverbs, which has far more influence on the rustic mind than scientific principles and logical reasoning; but here, in provincial assembly, his following composes only a respectable minority, and he confines himself to a policy of obstruction. the zemstvo of novgorod had at that time the reputation of being one of the most enlightened and energetic, and i must say that the proceedings were conducted in a business-like, satisfactory way. the reports were carefully considered, and each article of the annual budget was submitted to minute scrutiny and criticism. in several of the provinces which i afterwards visited i found that affairs were conducted in a very different fashion: quorums were formed with extreme difficulty, and the proceedings, when they at last commenced, were treated as mere formalities and despatched as speedily as possible. the character of the assembly depends of course on the amount of interest taken in local public affairs. in some districts this interest is considerable; in others it is very near zero. the birth of this new institution was hailed with enthusiasm, and produced great expectations. at that time a large section of the russian educated classes had a simple, convenient criterion for institutions of all kinds. they assumed as a self-evident axiom that the excellence of an institution must always be in proportion to its "liberal" and democratic character. the question as to how far it might be appropriate to the existing conditions and to the character of the people, and as to whether it might not, though admirable in itself, be too expensive for the work to be performed, was little thought of. any organisation which rested on "the elective principle," and provided an arena for free public discussion, was sure to be well received, and these conditions were fulfilled by the zemstvo. the expectations excited were of various kinds. people who thought more of political than economic progress saw in the zemstvo the basis of boundless popular liberty. prince yassiltchikof, for example, though naturally of a phlegmatic temperament, became for a moment enthusiastic, and penned the following words: "with a daring unparalleled in the chronicles of the world, we have entered on the career of public life." if local self-government in england had, in spite of its aristocratic character, created and preserved political liberty, as had been proved by several learned germans, what might be expected from institutions so much more liberal and democratic? in england there had never been county parliaments, and the local administration had always been in the hands of the great land-owners; whilst in russia every district would have its elective assembly, in which the peasant would be on a level with the richest landed proprietors. people who were accustomed to think of social rather than political progress expected that they would soon see the country provided with good roads, safe bridges, numerous village schools, well-appointed hospitals, and all the other requisites of civilisation. agriculture would become more scientific, trade and industry would be rapidly developed, and the material, intellectual, and moral condition of the peasantry would be enormously improved. the listless apathy of provincial life and the hereditary indifference to local public affairs were now, it was thought, about to be dispelled; and in view of this change, patriotic mothers took their children to the annual assemblies in order to accustom them from their early years to take an interest in the public welfare. it is hardly necessary to say that these inordinate expectations were not realised. from the very beginning there had been a misunderstanding regarding the character and functions of the new institutions. during the short period of universal enthusiasm for reform the great officials had used incautiously some of the vague liberal phrases then in fashion, but they never seriously intended to confer on the child which they were bringing into the world a share in the general government of the country; and the rapid evaporation of their sentimental liberalism, which began as soon as they undertook practical reforms, made them less and less conciliatory. when the vigorous young child, therefore, showed a natural desire to go beyond the humble functions accorded to it, the stern parents proceeded to snub it and put it into its proper place. the first reprimand was administered publicly in the capital. the st. petersburg provincial assembly, having shown a desire to play a political part, was promptly closed by the minister of the interior, and some of the members were exiled for a time to their homes in the country. this warning produced merely a momentary effect. as the functions of the imperial administration and of the zemstvo had never been clearly defined, and as each was inclined to extend the sphere of its activity, friction became frequent. the zemstvo had the right, for example, to co-operate in the development of education, but as soon as it organised primary schools and seminaries it came into contact with the ministry of public instruction. in other departments similar conflicts occurred, and the tchinovniks came to suspect that the zemstvo had the ambition to play the part of a parliamentary opposition. this suspicion found formal expression in at least one secret official document, in which the writer declares that "the opposition has built itself firmly a nest in the zemstvo." now, if we mean to be just to both parties in this little family quarrel, we must admit that the zemstvo, as i shall explain in a future chapter, had ambitions of that kind, and it would have been better perhaps for the country at the present moment if it had been able to realise them. but this is a west-european idea. in russia there is, and can be, no such thing as "his majesty's opposition." to the russian official mind the three words seem to contain a logical contradiction. opposition to officials, even within the limits of the law, is equivalent to opposition to the autocratic power, of which they are the incarnate emanations; and opposition to what they consider the interests of autocracy comes within measurable distance of high treason. it was considered necessary, therefore, to curb and suppress the ambitious tendencies of the wayward child, and accordingly it was placed more and more under the tutelage of the provincial governors. to show how the change was effected, let me give an illustration. in the older arrangements the governor could suspend the action of the zemstvo only on the ground of its being illegal or ultra vires, and when there was an irreconcilable difference of opinion between the two parties the question was decided judicially by the senate; under the more recent arrangements his excellency can interpose his veto whenever he considers that a decision, though it may be perfectly legal, is not conducive to the public good, and differences of opinion are referred, not to the senate, but to the minister of the interior, who is always naturally disposed to support the views of his subordinate. in order to put an end to all this insubordination, count tolstoy, the reactionary minister of the interior, prepared a scheme of reorganisation in accordance with his anti-liberal views, but he died before he could carry it out, and a much milder reorganisation was adopted in the law of th ( th) june, . the principal changes introduced by that law were that the number of delegates in the assemblies was reduced by about a fourth, and the relative strength of the different social classes was altered. under the old law the noblesse had about per cent., and the peasantry about per cent, of the seats; by the new electoral arrangements the former have per cent, and the latter about . it does not necessarily follow, however, that the assemblies are more conservative or more subservient on that account. liberalism and insubordination are much more likely to be found among the nobles than among the peasants. in addition to all this, as there was an apprehension in the higher official spheres of st. petersburg that the opposition spirit of the zemstvo might find public expression in a printed form, the provincial governors received extensive rights of preventive censure with regard to the publication of the minutes of zemstvo assemblies and similar documents. what the bureaucracy, in its zeal to defend the integrity of the autocratic power, feared most of all was combination for a common purpose on the part of the zemstvos of different provinces. it vetoed, therefore, all such combinations, even for statistical purposes; and when it discovered, a few years ago, that leading members of the zemstvo from all parts of the country were holding private meetings in moscow for the ostensible purpose of discussing economic questions, it ordered them to return to their homes. even within its proper sphere, as defined by law, the zemstvo has not accomplished what was expected of it. the country has not been covered with a network of macadamised roads, and the bridges are by no means as safe as could be desired. village schools and infirmaries are still far below the requirements of the population. little or nothing has been done for the development of trade or manufactures; and the villages remain very much what they were under the old administration. meanwhile the local rates have been rising with alarming rapidity; and many people draw from all this the conclusion that the zemstvo is a worthless institution which has increased the taxation without conferring any corresponding benefit on the country. if we take as our criterion in judging the institution the exaggerated expectations at first entertained, we may feel inclined to agree with this conclusion, but this is merely tantamount to saying that the zemstvo has performed no miracles. russia is much poorer and much less densely populated than the more advanced nations which she takes as her model. to suppose that she could at once create for herself by means of an administrative reform all the conveniences which those more advanced nations enjoy, was as absurd as it would be to imagine that a poor man can at once construct a magnificent palace because he has received from a wealthy neighbour the necessary architectural plans. not only years but generations must pass before russia can assume the appearance of germany, france, or england. the metamorphosis may be accelerated or retarded by good government, but it could not be effected at once, even if the combined wisdom of all the philosophers and statesmen in europe were employed in legislating for the purpose. the zemstvo has, however, done much more than the majority of its critics admit. it fulfils tolerably well, without scandalous peculation and jobbery, its commonplace, every-day duties, and it has created a new and more equitable system of rating, by which landed proprietors and house-owners are made to bear their share of the public burdens. it has done a very great deal to provide medical aid and primary education for the common people, and it has improved wonderfully the condition of the hospitals, lunatic asylums, and other benevolent institutions committed to its charge. in its efforts to aid the peasantry it has helped to improve the native breeds of horses and cattle, and it has created a system of obligatory fire-insurance, together with means for preventing and extinguishing fires in the villages--a most important matter in a country where the peasants live in wooden houses and big fires are fearfully frequent. after neglecting for a good many years the essential question as to how the peasants' means of subsistence can be increased, it has latterly, as i have mentioned in a foregoing chapter, helped them to obtain improved agricultural implements and better seed, encouraged the formation of small credit associations and savings banks, and appointed agricultural inspectors to teach them how they may introduce modest improvements within their limited means.* at the same time, in many districts it has endeavoured to assist the home industries which are threatened with annihilation by the big factories, and whenever measures have been proposed for the benefit of the rural population, such as the lowering of the land-redemption payments and the creation of the peasant land bank, it has invariably given them its cordial support. * the amount expended for these objects in , the latest year for which i have statistical data, was about a million and a half of roubles, or, roughly speaking, , pounds, distributed under the following heads:-- . agricultural tuition , pounds. . experimental stations, museums, etc , . scientific agriculturists , . agricultural industries , . improving breeds of horses and cattle , ------- , pounds. if you ask a zealous member of the zemstvo why it has not done more he will probably tell you that it is because its activity has been constantly restricted and counteracted by the government. the assemblies were obliged to accept as presidents the marshals of noblesse, many of whom were men of antiquated ideas and retrograde principles. at every turn the more enlightened, more active members found themselves opposed, thwarted, and finally checkmated by the imperial officials. when a laudable attempt was made to tax trade and industry more equitably the scheme was vetoed, and consequently the mercantile class, sure of being always taxed at a ridiculously low maximum, have lost all interest in the proceedings. even with regard to the rating of landed and house property a low limit is imposed by the government, because it is afraid that if the rates were raised much it would not be able to collect the heavy imperial taxation. the uncontrolled publicity which was at first enjoyed by the assemblies was afterwards curtailed by the bureaucracy. under such restrictions all free, vigorous action became impossible, and the institutions failed to effect what was reasonably anticipated. all this is true in a certain sense, but it is not the whole truth. if we examine some of the definite charges brought against the institution we shall understand better its real character. the most common complaint made against it is that it has enormously increased the rates. on that point there is no possibility of dispute. at first its expenditure in the thirty-four provinces in which it existed was under six millions of roubles; in two years ( ) it had jumped up to fifteen millions; in it was nearly twenty-eight millions, in over forty-three millions, and at the end of the century it had attained the respectable figure of , , roubles. as each province had the right of taxing itself, the increase varied greatly in different provinces. in smolensk, for example, it was only about thirty per cent., whilst in samara it was , and in viatka, where the peasant element predominates, no less than , per cent.! in order to meet this increase, the rates on land rose from under ten millions in to over forty-seven millions in . no wonder that the landowners who find it difficult to work their estates at a profit should complain! though this increase is disagreeable to the rate-payers, it does not follow that it is excessive. in all countries rates and local taxation are on the increase, and it is in the backward countries that they increase most rapidly. in france, for example, the average yearly increase has been . per cent., while in austria it has been . . in russia it ought to have been more than in austria, whereas it has been, in the provinces with zemstvo institutions, only about per cent. in comparison with the imperial taxation the local does not seem excessive when compared with other countries. in england and prussia, for instance, the state taxation as compared with the local is as a hundred to fifty-four and fifty-one, whilst in russia it is as a hundred to sixteen.* a reduction in the taxation as a whole would certainly contribute to the material welfare of the rural population, but it is desirable that it should be made in the imperial taxes rather than in the rates, because the latter may be regarded as something akin to productive investments, whilst the proceeds of the former are expended largely on objects which have little or nothing to do with the wants of the common people. in speaking thus i am assuming that the local expenditure is made judiciously, and this is a matter on which, i am bound to confess, there is by no means unanimity of opinion. * these figures are taken from the best available authorities, chiefly schwanebach and scalon, but i am not prepared to guarantee their accuracy. hostile critics can point to facts which are, to say the least, strange and anomalous. out of the total of its revenue the zemstvo spends about twenty-eight per cent. under the heading of public health and benevolent institutions; and about fifteen per cent. for popular education, whilst it devotes only about six per cent. to roads and bridges, and until lately it neglected, as i have said above, the means for improving agriculture and directly increasing the income of the peasantry. before passing sentence with regard to these charges we must remember the circumstances in which the zemstvo was founded and has grown up. in the early times its members were well-meaning men who had had very little experience in administration or in practical life of any sort except the old routine in which they had previously vegetated. most of them had lived enough in the country to know how much the peasants were in need of medical assistance of the most elementary kind, and to this matter they at once turned their attention. they tried to organise a system of doctors, hospital assistants, and dispensaries by which the peasant would not have to go more than fifteen or twenty miles to get a wound dressed or to have a consultation or to obtain a simple remedy for ordinary ailments. they felt the necessity, too, of thoroughly reorganising the hospitals and the lunatic asylums, which were in a very unsatisfactory condition. plainly enough, there was here good work to be done. then there were the higher aims. in the absence of practical experience there were enthusiasms and theories. amongst these was the enthusiasm for education, and the theory that the want of it was the chief reason why russia had remained so far behind the nations of western europe. give us education, it was said, and all other good things will be added thereto. liberate the russian people from the bonds of ignorance as you have liberated it from the bonds of serfage, and its wonderful natural capacities will then be able to create everything that is required for its material, intellectual, and moral welfare. if there was any one among the leaders who took a more sober, prosaic view of things he was denounced as an ignoramus and a reactionary. willingly or unwillingly, everybody had to swim with the current. roads and bridges were not entirely neglected, but the efforts in that direction were confined to the absolutely indispensable. for such prosaic concerns there was no enthusiasm, and it was universally recognised that in russia the construction of good roads, as the term is understood in western europe, was far beyond the resources of any administration. of the necessity for such roads few were conscious. all that was required was to make it possible to get from one place to another in ordinary weather and ordinary circumstances. if a stream was too deep to be forded, a bridge had to be built or a ferry had to be established; and if the approach to a bridge was so marshy or muddy that vehicles often sank quite up to the axles and had to be dragged out by ropes, with the assistance of the neighbouring villagers, repairs had to be made. beyond this the efforts of the zemstvo rarely went. its road-building ambition remained within very modest bounds. as for the impoverishment of the peasantry and the necessity of improving their system of agriculture, that question had hardly appeared above the horizon. it might have to be dealt with in the future, but there was no need for hurry. once the rural population were educated, the question would solve itself. it was not till about the year that it was recognised to be more urgent than had been supposed, and some zemstvos perceived that the people might starve before its preparatory education was completed. repeated famines pushed the lesson home, and the landed proprietors found their revenues diminished by the fall in the price of grain on the european markets. thus was raised the cry: "agriculture in russia is on the decline! the country has entered on an acute economic crisis! if energetic measures be not taken promptly the people will soon find themselves confronted by starvation!" to this cry of alarm the zemstvo was neither deaf nor indifferent. recognising that the danger could be averted only by inducing the peasantry to adopt a more intensive system of agriculture, it directed more and more of its attention to agricultural improvements, and tried to get them adopted.* it did, in short, all it could, according to its lights and within the limits of its moderate resources. its available resources were small, unfortunately, for it was forbidden by the government to increase the rates, and it could not well dismiss doctors and close dispensaries and schools when the people were clamouring for more. so at least the defenders of the zemstvo maintain, and they go so far as to contend that it did well not to grapple with the impoverishment of the peasantry at an earlier period, when the real conditions of the problem and the means of solving it were only very imperfectly known: if it had begun at that time it would have made great blunders and spent much money to little purpose. * vide supra, p. . however this may be, it would certainly be unfair to condemn the zemstvo for not being greatly in advance of public opinion. if it endeavours strenuously to supply all clearly recognised wants, that is all that can reasonably be expected of it. what it may be more justly reproached with is, in my opinion, that it is, to a certain extent, imbued with that unpractical, pedantic spirit which is commonly supposed to reside exclusively in the imperial administration. but here again it simply reflects public opinion and certain intellectual peculiarities of the educated classes. when a russian begins to write on a simple everyday subject, he likes to connect it with general principles, philosophy, or history, and begins, perhaps, by expounding his views on the intellectual and social developments of humanity in general and of russia in particular. if he has sufficient space at his disposal he may even tell you something about the early period of russian history previous to the mongol invasion before he gets to the simple matter in hand. in a previous chapter i have described the process of "shedding on a subject the light of science" in imperial legislation.* in zemstvo activity we often meet with pedantry of a similar kind. * vide supra, p. . if this pedantry were confined to the writing of reports it might not do much harm. unfortunately, it often appears in the sphere of action. to illustrate this i take a recent instance from the province of nizhni-novgorod. the zemstvo of that province received from the central government in a certain amount of capital for road-improvement, with instructions from the ministry of interior that it should classify the roads according to their relative importance and improve them accordingly. any intelligent person well acquainted with the region might have made, in the course of a week or two, the required classification accurately enough for all practical purposes. instead of adopting this simple procedure, what does the zemstvo do? it chooses one of the eleven districts of which the province is composed and instructs its statistical department to describe all the villages with a view of determining the amount of traffic which each will probably contribute to the general movement, and then it verifies its a priori conclusions by means of a detachment of specially selected "registrars," posted at all the crossways during six days of each month. these registrars doubtless inscribed every peasant cart as it passed and made a rough estimate of the weight of its load. when this complicated and expensive procedure was completed for one district it was applied to another; but at the end of three years, before all the villages of this second district had been described and the traffic estimated, the energy of the statistical department seems to have flagged, and, like a young author impatient to see himself in print, it published a volume at the public expense which no one will ever read. the cost entailed by this procedure is not known, but we may form some idea of the amount of time required for the whole operation. it is a simple rule-of-three sum. if it took three years for the preparatory investigation of a district and a half, how many years will be required for eleven districts? more than twenty years! during that period it would seem that the roads are to remain as they are, and when the moment comes for improving them it will be found that, unless the province is condemned to economic stagnation, the "valuable statistical material" collected at such an expenditure of time and money is in great part antiquated and useless. the statistical department will be compelled, therefore, like another unfortunate sisyphus, to begin the work anew, and it is difficult to see how the zemstvo, unless it becomes a little more practical, is ever to get out of the vicious circle. in this case the evil result of pedantry was simply unnecessary delay, and in the meantime the capital was accumulating, unless the interest was entirely swallowed up by the statistical researches; but there are cases in which the consequences are more serious. let me take an illustration from the enlightened province of moscow. it was observed that certain villages were particularly unhealthy, and it was pointed out by a local doctor that the inhabitants were in the habit of using for domestic purposes the water of ponds which were in a filthy condition. what was evidently wanted was good wells, and a practical man would at once have taken measures to have them dug. not so the district zemstvo. it at once transformed the simple fact into a "question" requiring scientific investigation. a commission was appointed to study the problem, and after much deliberation it was decided to make a geological survey in order to ascertain the depth of good water throughout the district as a preparatory step towards preparing a project which will some day be discussed in the district assembly, and perhaps in the assembly of the province. whilst all this is being done according to the strict principles of bureaucratic procedure, the unfortunate peasants for whose benefit the investigation was undertaken continue to drink the muddy water of the dirty ponds. incidents of that kind, which i might multiply almost to any extent, remind one of the proverbial formalism of the chinese; but between chinese and russian pedantry there is an essential difference. in the middle kingdom the sacrifice of practical considerations proceeds from an exaggerated veneration of the wisdom of ancestors; in the empire of the tsars it is due to an exaggerated adoration of the goddess nauka (science) and a habit of appealing to abstract principles and scientific methods when only a little plain common-sense is required. on one occasion, i remember, in a district assembly of the province of riazan, when the subject of primary schools was being discussed, an influential member started up, and proposed that an obligatory system of education should at once be introduced throughout the whole district. strange to say, the motion was very nearly carried, though all the members present knew--or at least might have known if they had taken the trouble to inquire--that the actual number of schools would have to be multiplied twenty-fold, and all were agreed that the local rates must not be increased. to preserve his reputation for liberalism, the honourable member further proposed that, though the system should be obligatory, no fines, punishments, or other means of compulsion should be employed. how a system could be obligatory without using some means of compulsion, he did not condescend to explain. to get out of the difficulty one of his supporters suggested that the peasants who did not send their children to school should be excluded from serving as office-bearers in the communes; but this proposition merely created a laugh, for many deputies knew that the peasants would regard this supposed punishment as a valuable privilege. and whilst this discussion about the necessity of introducing an ideal system of obligatory education was being carried on, the street before the windows of the room was covered with a stratum of mud nearly two feet in depth! the other streets were in a similar condition; and a large number of the members always arrived late, because it was almost impossible to come on foot, and there was only one public conveyance in the town. many members had, fortunately, their private conveyances, but even in these locomotion was by no means easy. one day, in the principal thoroughfare, a member had his tarantass overturned, and he himself was thrown into the mud! it is hardly fair to compare the zemstvo with the older institutions of a similar kind in western europe, and especially with our own local self-government. our institutions have all grown out of real, practical wants keenly felt by a large section of the population. cautious and conservative in all that concerns the public welfare, we regard change as a necessary evil, and put off the evil day as long as possible, even when convinced that it must inevitably come. thus our administrative wants are always in advance of our means of satisfying them, and we use vigorously those means as soon as they are supplied. our method of supplying the means, too, is peculiar. instead of making a tabula rasa, and beginning from the foundations, we utilise to the utmost what we happen to possess, and add merely what is absolutely indispensable. metaphorically speaking, we repair and extend our political edifice according to the changing necessities of our mode of life, without paying much attention to abstract principles or the contingencies of the distant future. the building may be an aesthetic monstrosity, belonging to no recognised style of architecture, and built in defiance of the principles laid down by philosophical art critics, but it is well adapted to our requirements, and every hole and corner of it is sure to be utilised. very different has been the political history of russia during the last two centuries. it may be briefly described as a series of revolutions effected peaceably by the autocratic power. each young energetic sovereign has attempted to inaugurate a new epoch by thoroughly remodelling the administration according to the most approved foreign political philosophy of the time. institutions have not been allowed to grow spontaneously out of popular wants, but have been invented by bureaucratic theorists to satisfy wants of which the people were still unconscious. the administrative machine has therefore derived little or no motive force from the people, and has always been kept in motion by the unaided energy of the central government. under these circumstances it is not surprising that the repeated attempts of the government to lighten the burdens of centralised administration by creating organs of local self-government should not have been very successful. the zemstvo, it is true, offered better chances of success than any of its predecessors. a large portion of the nobles had become alive to the necessity of improving the administration, and the popular interest in public affairs was much greater than at any former period. hence there was at first a period of enthusiasm, during which great preparations were made for future activity, and not a little was actually effected. the institution had all the charm of novelty, and the members felt that the eyes of the public were upon them. for a time all went well, and the zemstvo was so well pleased with its own activity that the satirical journals compared it to narcissus admiring his image reflected in the pool. but when the charm of novelty had passed and the public turned its attention to other matters, the spasmodic energy evaporated, and many of the most active members looked about for more lucrative employment. such employment was easily found, for at that time there was an unusual demand for able, energetic, educated men. several branches of the civil service were being reorganised, and railways, banks, and joint-stock companies were being rapidly multiplied. with these the zemstvo had great difficulty in competing. it could not, like the imperial service, offer pensions, decorations, and prospects of promotion, nor could it pay such large salaries as the commercial and industrial enterprises. in consequence of all this, the quality of the executive bureaux deteriorated at the same time as the public interest in the institution diminished. to be just to the zemstvo, i must add that, with all its defects and errors, it is infinitely better than the institutions which it replaced. if we compare it with previous attempts to create local self-government, we must admit that the russians have made great progress in their political education. what its future may be i do not venture to predict. from its infancy it has had, as we have seen, the ambition to play a great political part, and at the beginning of the recent stirring times in st. petersburg its leading representatives in conclave assembled took upon themselves to express what they considered the national demand for liberal representative institutions. the desire, which had previously from time to time been expressed timidly and vaguely in loyal addresses to the tsar, that a central zemstvo assembly, bearing the ancient title of zemski sobor, should be convoked in the capital and endowed with political functions, was now put forward by the representatives in plain unvarnished form. whether this desire is destined to be realised time will show. chapter xxxiii the new law courts judicial procedure in the olden times--defects and abuses--radical reform--the new system--justices of the peace and monthly sessions--the regular tribunals--court of revision--modification of the original plan--how does the system work?--rapid acclimatisation--the bench--the jury--acquittal of criminals who confess their crimes--peasants, merchants, and nobles as jurymen--independence and political significance of the new courts. after serf-emancipation and local self-government, the subject which demanded most urgently the attention of reformers was the judicial organisation, which had sunk to a depth of inefficiency and corruption difficult to describe. in early times the dispensation of justice in russia, as in other states of a primitive type, had a thoroughly popular character. the state was still in its infancy, and the duty of defending the person, the property, and the rights of individuals lay, of necessity, chiefly on the individuals themselves. self-help formed the basis of the judicial procedure, and the state merely assisted the individual to protect his rights and to avenge himself on those who voluntarily infringed them. by the rapid development of the autocratic power all this was changed. autocracy endeavoured to drive and regulate the social machine by its own unaided force, and regarded with suspicion and jealousy all spontaneous action in the people. the dispensation of justice was accordingly appropriated by the central authority, absorbed into the administration, and withdrawn from public control. themis retired from the market-place, shut herself up in a dark room from which the contending parties and the public gaze were rigorously excluded, surrounded herself with secretaries and scribes who put the rights and claims of the litigants into whatever form they thought proper, weighed according to her own judgment the arguments presented to her by her own servants, and came forth from her seclusion merely to present a ready-made decision or to punish the accused whom she considered guilty. this change, though perhaps to some extent necessary, was attended with very bad consequences. freed from the control of the contending parties and of the public, the courts acted as uncontrolled human nature generally does. injustice, extortion, bribery, and corruption assumed gigantic proportions, and against these evils the government found no better remedy than a system of complicated formalities and ingenious checks. the judicial functionaries were hedged in by a multitude of regulations, so numerous and complicated that it seemed impossible for even the most unjust judge to swerve from the path of uprightness. explicit, minute rules were laid down for investigating facts and weighing evidence; every scrap of evidence and every legal ground on which the decision was based were committed to writing; every act in the complicated process of coming to a decision was made the subject of a formal document, and duly entered in various registers; every document and register had to be signed and countersigned by various officials who were supposed to control each other; every decision might be carried to a higher court and made to pass a second time through the bureaucratic machine. in a word, the legislature introduced a system of formal written procedure of the most complicated kind, in the belief that by this means mistakes and dishonesty would be rendered impossible. it may be reasonably doubted whether this system of judicial administration can anywhere give satisfactory results. it is everywhere found by experience that in tribunals from which the healthy atmosphere of publicity is excluded justice languishes, and a great many ugly plants shoot up with wonderful vitality. languid indifference, an indiscriminating spirit of routine, and unblushing dishonesty invariably creep in through the little chinks and crevices of the barrier raised against them, and no method of hermetically sealing these chinks and crevices has yet been invented. the attempt to close them up by increasing the formalities and multiplying the courts of appeal and revision merely adds to the tediousness of the procedure, and withdraws the whole process still more completely from public control. at the same time the absence of free discussion between the contending parties renders the task of the judge enormously difficult. if the system is to succeed at all, it must provide a body of able, intelligent, thoroughly-trained jurists, and must place them beyond the reach of bribery and other forms of corruption. in russia neither of these conditions was fulfilled. instead of endeavouring to create a body of well-trained jurists, the government went further and further in the direction of letting the judges be chosen for a short period by popular election from among men who had never received a juridical education, or a fair education of any kind; whilst the place of judge was so poorly paid, and stood so low in public estimation, that the temptations to dishonesty were difficult to resist. the practice of choosing the judges by popular election was an attempt to restore to the courts something of their old popular character; but it did not succeed, for very obvious reasons. popular election in a judicial organisation is useful only when the courts are public and the procedure simple; on the contrary, it is positively prejudicial when the procedure is in writing and extremely complicated. and so it proved in russia. the elected judges, unprepared for their work, and liable to be changed at short intervals, rarely acquired a knowledge of law or procedure. they were for the most part poor, indolent landed proprietors, who did little more than sign the decisions prepared for them by the permanent officials. even when a judge happened to have some legal knowledge he found small scope for its application, for he rarely, if ever, examined personally the materials out of which a decision was to be elaborated. the whole of the preliminary work, which was in reality the most important, was performed by minor officials under the direction of the secretary of the court. in criminal cases, for instance, the secretary examined the written evidence--all evidence was taken down in writing--extracted what he considered the essential points, arranged them as he thought proper, quoted the laws which ought in his opinion to be applied, put all this into a report, and read the report to the judges. of course the judges, if they had no personal interest in the decision, accepted the secretary's view of the case. if they did not, all the preliminary work had to be done anew by themselves--a task that few judges were able, and still fewer willing, to perform. thus the decision lay virtually in the hands of the secretary and the minor officials, and in general neither the secretary nor the minor officials were fit persons to have such power. there is no need to detail here the ingenious expedients by which they increased their meagre salaries, and how they generally contrived to extract money from both parties.* suffice it to say that in general the chancelleries of the courts were dens of pettifogging rascality, and the habitual, unblushing bribery had a negative as well as a positive effect. if a person accused of some crime had no money wherewith to grease the palm of the secretary he might remain in prison for years without being brought to trial. a well-known russian writer still living relates that when visiting a prison in the province of nizhni-novgorod he found among the inmates undergoing preliminary arrest two peasant women, who were accused of setting fire to a hayrick to revenge themselves on a landed proprietor, a crime for which the legal punishment was from four to eight months' imprisonment. one of them had a son of seven years of age, and the other a son of twelve, both of whom had been born in the prison, and had lived there ever since among the criminals. such a long preliminary arrest caused no surprise or indignation among those who heard of it, because it was quite a common occurrence. every one knew that bribes were taken not only by the secretary and his scribes, but also by the judges, who were elected by the local noblesse from its own ranks. * old book-catalogues sometimes mention a play bearing the significant title, "the unheard-of wonder; or, the honest secretary" (neslykhannoe dyelo ili tchestny sekretar). i have never seen this curious production, but i have no doubt that it referred to the peculiarities of the old judicial procedure. with regard to the scale of punishments, notwithstanding some humanitarian principles in the legislation, they were very severe, and corporal punishment played amongst them a disagreeably prominent part. capital sentences were abolished as early as - , but castigation with the knout, which often ended fatally, continued until , when it was replaced by flogging in the civil administration, though retained for the military and for insubordinate convicts. for the non-privileged classes the knout or the lash supplemented nearly all punishments of a criminal kind. when a man was condemned, for example, to penal servitude, he received publicly from thirty to one hundred lashes, and was then branded on the forehead and cheeks with the letters k. a. t.--the first three letters of katorzhnik (convict). if he appealed he received his lashes all the same, and if his appeal was rejected by the senate he received some more castigation for having troubled unnecessarily the higher judicial authorities. for the military and insubordinate convicts there was a barbarous punishment called spitsruten, to the extent of , or , blows, which often ended in the death of the unfortunate. the use of torture in criminal investigations was formally abolished in , but if we may believe the testimony of a public prosecutor, it was occasionally used in moscow as late as . the defects and abuses of the old system were so flagrant that they became known even to the emperor nicholas i., and caused him momentary indignation, but he never attempted seriously to root them out. in , for example, he heard of some gross abuses in a tribunal not far from the winter palace, and ordered an investigation. baron korff, to whom the investigation was entrusted, brought to light what he called "a yawning abyss of all possible horrors, which have been accumulating for years," and his majesty, after reading the report, wrote upon it with his own hand: "unheard-of disgrace! the carelessness of the authority immediately concerned is incredible and unpardonable. i feel ashamed and sad that such disorder could exist almost under my eyes and remain unknown to me." unfortunately the outburst of imperial indignation did not last long enough to produce any desirable consequences. the only result was that one member of the tribunal was dismissed from the service, and the governor-general of st. petersburg had to resign, but the latter subsequently received an honorary reward, and the emperor remarked that he was himself to blame for having kept the governor-general so long at his post. when his majesty's habitual optimism happened to be troubled by incidents of this sort he probably consoled himself with remembering that he had ordered some preparatory work, by which the administration of justice might be improved, and this work was being diligently carried out in the legislative section of his own chancery by count bludof, one of the ablest russian lawyers of his time. unfortunately the existing state of things was not thereby improved, because the preparatory work was not of the kind that was wanted. on the assumption that any evil which might exist could be removed by improving the laws, count bludof devoted his efforts almost entirely to codification. in reality what was required was to change radically the organisation of the courts and the procedure, and above all to let in on their proceedings the cleansing atmosphere of publicity. this the emperor nicholas could not understand, and if he had understood it he could not have brought himself to adopt the appropriate remedies, because radical reform and control of officials by public opinion were his two pet bugbears. very different was his son and successor, alexander ii., in the first years of his reign. in his accession manifesto a prominent place was given to his desire that justice and mercy should reign in the courts of law. referring to these words in a later manifesto, he explained his wishes more fully as "the desire to establish in russia expeditious, just, merciful, impartial courts of justice for all our subjects; to raise the judicial authority; to give it the proper independence, and in general to implant in the people that respect for the law which ought to be the constant guide of all and every one from the highest to the lowest." these were not mere vain words. peremptory orders had been given that the great work should be undertaken without delay, and when the emancipation question was being discussed in the provincial committees, the council of state examined the question of judicial reform "from the historical, the theoretical, and the practical point of view," and came to the conclusion that the existing organisation must be completely transformed. the commission appointed to consider this important matter filed a lengthy indictment against the existing system, and pointed out no less than twenty-five radical defects. to remove these it proposed that the judicial organisation should be completely separated from all other branches of the administration; that the most ample publicity, with trial by jury in criminal cases, should be introduced into the tribunals; that justice of peace courts should be created for petty affairs; and that the procedure in the ordinary courts should be greatly simplified. these fundamental principles were published by imperial command on september th, --a year and a half after the publication of the emancipation manifesto--and on november th, , the new legislation founded on these principles received the imperial sanction. like most institutions erected on a tabula rasa, the new system is at once simple and symmetrical. as a whole, the architecture of the edifice is decidedly french, but here and there we may detect unmistakable symptoms of english influence. it is not, however, a servile copy of any older edifice; and it may be fairly said that, though every individual part has been fashioned according to a foreign model, the whole has a certain originality. the lower part of the building in its original form was composed of two great sections, distinct from, and independent of, each other--on the one hand the justice of peace courts, and on the other the regular tribunals. both sections contained an ordinary court and a court of appeal. the upper part of the building, covering equally both sections, was the senate as supreme court of revision (cour de cassation). the distinctive character of the two independent sections may be detected at a glance. the function of the justice of peace courts is to decide petty cases that involve no abstruse legal principles, and to settle, if possible by conciliation, those petty conflicts and disputes which arise naturally in the relations of everyday life; the function of the regular tribunals is to take cognisance of those graver affairs in which the fortune or honour of individuals or families is more or less implicated, or in which the public tranquillity is seriously endangered. the two kinds of courts were organised in accordance with these intended functions. in the former the procedure is simple and conciliatory, the jurisdiction is confined to cases of little importance, and the judges were at first chosen by popular election, generally from among the local inhabitants. in the latter there is more of "the pomp and majesty of the law." the procedure is more strict and formal, the jurisdiction is unlimited with regard to the importance of the cases, and the judges are trained jurists nominated by the emperor. the justice of peace courts received jurisdiction over all obligations and civil injuries in which the sum at stake was not more than roubles--about pounds--and all criminal affairs in which the legal punishment did not exceed roubles--about pounds--or one year of punishment. when any one had a complaint to make, he might go to the justice of the peace (mirovoi sudya) and explain the affair orally, or in writing, without observing any formalities; and if the complaint seemed well founded, the justice at once fixed a day for hearing the case, and gave the other party notice to appear at the appointed time. when the time appointed arrived, the affair was discussed publicly and orally, either by the parties themselves, or by any representatives whom they might appoint. if it was a civil suit, the justice began by proposing to the parties to terminate it at once by a compromise, and indicated what he considered a fair arrangement. many affairs were terminated in this simple way. if, however, either of the parties refused to consent to a compromise, the matter was fully discussed, and the justice gave a formal written decision, containing the grounds on which it was based. in criminal cases the amount of punishment was always determined by reference to a special criminal code. if the sum at issue exceeded thirty roubles--about pounds--or if the punishment exceeded a fine of fifteen roubles--about s.--or three days of arrest, an appeal might be made to the assembly of justices (mirovoi syezd). this is a point in which english rather than french institutions were taken as a model. according to the french system, all appeals from a juge de paix are made to the "tribunal d'arrondissement," and the justice of peace courts are thereby subordinated to the regular tribunals. according to the english system, certain cases may be carried on appeal from the justice of the peace to the quarter sessions. this latter principle was adopted and greatly developed by the russian legislation. the monthly sessions, composed of all the justices of the district (uyezd), considered appeals against the decisions of the individual justices. the procedure was simple and informal, as in the lower court, but an assistant of the procureur was always present. this functionary gave his opinion in some civil and in all criminal cases immediately after the debate, and the court took his opinion into consideration in framing its judgment. in the other great section of the judicial organisation--the regular tribunals--there are likewise ordinary courts and courts of appeal, called respectively "tribunaux d'arrondissement" (okruzhniye sudy) and "palais de justice" (sudebniya palaty). each ordinary court has jurisdiction over several districts (uyezdy), and the jurisdiction of each court of appeals comprehends several provinces. all civil cases are subject to appeal, however small the sum at stake may be, but criminal cases are decided finally by the lower court with the aid of a jury. thus in criminal affairs the "palais de justice" is not at all a court of appeal, but as no regular criminal prosecution can be raised without its formal consent, it controls in some measure the action of the lower courts. as the general reader cannot be supposed to take an interest in the details of civil procedure, i shall merely say on this subject that in both sections of the regular tribunals the cases are always tried by at least three judges, the sittings are public, and oral debates by officially recognised advocates form an important part of the proceedings. i venture, however, to speak a little more at length regarding the change which has been made in the criminal procedure--a subject that is less technical and more interesting for the uninitiated. down to the time of the recent judicial reforms the procedure in criminal cases was secret and inquisitorial. the accused had little opportunity of defending himself, but, on the other hand, the state took endless formal precautions against condemning the innocent. the practical consequence of this system was that an innocent man might remain for years in prison until the authorities convinced themselves of his innocence, whilst a clever criminal might indefinitely postpone his condemnation. in studying the history of criminal procedure in foreign countries, those who were entrusted with the task of preparing projects of reform found that nearly every country of europe had experienced the evils from which russia was suffering, and that one country after another had come to the conviction that the most efficient means of removing these evils was to replace the inquisitorial by litigious procedure, to give a fair field and no favour to the prosecutor and the accused, and allow them to fight out their battle with whatever legal weapons they might think fit. further, it was discovered that, according to the most competent foreign authorities, it was well in this modern form of judicial combat to leave the decision to a jury of respectable citizens. the steps which russia had to take were thus clearly marked out by the experience of other nations, and it was decided that they should be taken at once. the organs for the prosecution of supposed criminals were carefully separated from the judges on the one hand, and from the police on the other; oral discussions between the public prosecutor and the prisoner's counsel, together with oral examination and cross-questioning of witnesses, were introduced into the procedure; and the jury was made an essential factor in criminal trials. when a case, whether civil or criminal, has been decided in the regular tribunals, there is no possibility of appeal in the strict sense of the term, but an application may be made for a revision of the case on the ground of technical informality. to use the french terms, there cannot be appel, but there may be cassation. if there has been any omission or transgression of essential legal formalities, or if the court has overstepped the bounds of its legal authority, the injured party may make an application to have the case revised and tried again.* this is not, according to french juridical conceptions, an appeal. the court of revision** (cour de cassation) does not enter into the material facts of the case, but merely decides the question as to whether the essential formalities have been duly observed, and as to whether the law has been properly interpreted and applied; and if it be found on examination that there is some ground for invalidating the decision, it does not decide the case. according to the new russian system, the sole court of revision is the senate. * this is the procedure referred to by karl karl'itch, vide supra, p . ** i am quite aware that the term "court of revision" is equivocal, but i have no better term to propose, and i hope the above explanations will prevent confusion. the senate thus forms the regulator of the whole judicial system, but its action is merely regulative. it takes cognisance only of what is presented to it, and supplies to the machine no motive power. if any of the lower courts should work slowly or cease to work altogether, the senate might remain ignorant of the fact, and certainly could take no official notice of it. it was considered necessary, therefore, to supplement the spontaneous vitality of the lower courts, and for this purpose was created a special centralised judicial administration, at the head of which was placed the minister of justice. the minister is "procureur-general," and has subordinates in all the courts. the primary function of this administration is to preserve the force of the law, to detect and repair all infractions of judicial order, to defend the interests of the state and of those persons who are officially recognised as incapable of taking charge of their own affairs, and to act in criminal matters as public prosecutor. viewed as a whole, and from a little distance, this grand judicial edifice seems perfectly symmetrical, but a closer and more minute inspection brings to light unmistakable indications of a change of plan during the process of construction. though the work lasted only about half-a-dozen years, the style of the upper differs from the style of the lower parts, precisely as in those gothic cathedrals which grew up slowly during the course of centuries. and there is nothing here that need surprise us, for a considerable change took place in the opinions of the official world during that short period. the reform was conceived at a time of uncritical enthusiasm for advanced liberal ideas, of boundless faith in the dictates of science, of unquestioning reliance on public spirit, public control, and public honesty--a time in which it was believed that the public would spontaneously do everything necessary for the common weal, if it were only freed from the administrative swaddling-clothes in which it had been hitherto bound. still smarting from the severe regime of nicholas, men thought more about protecting the rights of the individual than about preserving public order, and under the influence of the socialistic ideas in vogue malefactors were regarded as the unfortunate, involuntary victims of social inequality and injustice. towards the end of the period in question all this had begun to change. many were beginning to perceive that liberty might easily turn to license, that the spontaneous public energy was largely expended in empty words, and that a certain amount of hierarchical discipline was necessary in order to keep the public administration in motion. it was found, therefore, in , that it was impossible to carry out to their ultimate consequences the general principles laid down and published in . even in those parts of the legislation which were actually put in force, it was found necessary to make modifications in an indirect, covert way. of these, one may be cited by way of illustration. in criminal inquiries were taken out of the hands of the police and transferred to juges d'instruction (sudebniye sledovateli), who were almost entirely independent of the public prosecutor, and could not be removed unless condemned for some legal transgression by a regular tribunal. this reform created at first much rejoicing and great expectations, because it raised a barrier against the tyranny of the police and against the arbitrary power of the higher officials. but very soon the defects of the system became apparent. many juges d'instruction, feeling themselves independent, and knowing that they would not be prosecuted except for some flagrantly illegal act, gave way to indolence, and spent their time in inactivity.* in such cases it was always difficult, and sometimes impossible, to procure a condemnation--for indolence must assume gigantic proportions in order to become a crime--and the minister had to adopt the practice of appointing, without imperial confirmation, temporary juges d'instruction whom he could remove at pleasure. * a flagrant case of this kind came under my own observation. it is unnecessary, however, to enter into these theoretical defects. the important question for the general public is: how do the institutions work in the local conditions in which they are placed? this is a question which has an interest not only for russians, but for all students of social science, for it tends to throw light on the difficult subject as to how far institutions may be successfully transplanted to a foreign soil. many thinkers hold, and not without reason, that no institution can work well unless it is the natural product of previous historical development. now we have here an opportunity of testing this theory by experience; we have even what bacon terms an experimentum crucis. this new judicial system is an artificial creation constructed in accordance with principles laid down by foreign jurists. all that the elaborators of the project said about developing old institutions was mere talk. in reality they made a tabula rasa of the existing organisation. if the introduction of public oral procedure and trial by jury was a return to ancient customs, it was a return to what had been long since forgotten by all except antiquarian specialists, and no serious attempt was made to develop what actually existed. one form, indeed, of oral procedure had been preserved in the code, but it had fallen completely into disuse, and seems to have been overlooked by the elaborators of the new system.* * i refer to the so-called sud po forme established by an ukaz of peter the great, in . i was much astonished when i accidentally stumbled upon it in the code. having in general little confidence in institutions which spring ready-made from the brains of autocratic legislators, i expected to find that this new judicial organisation, which looks so well on paper, was well-nigh worthless in reality. observation, however, has not confirmed my pessimistic expectations. on the contrary, i have found that these new institutions, though they have not yet had time to strike deep root, and are very far from being perfect even in the human sense of the term, work on the whole remarkably well, and have already conferred immense benefit on the country. in the course of a few years the justice of peace courts, which may perhaps be called the newest part of the new institutions, became thoroughly acclimatised, as if they had existed for generations. as soon as they were opened they became extremely popular. in moscow the authorities had calculated that under the new system the number of cases would be more than doubled, and that on an average each justice would have nearly a thousand cases brought before him in the course of the year. the reality far exceeded their expectations: each justice had on an average , cases. in st. petersburg and the other large towns the amount of work which the justices had to get through was equally great. to understand the popularity of the justice of peace courts, we must know something of the old police courts which they supplanted. the nobles, the military, and the small officials had always looked on the police with contempt, because their position secured them against interference, and the merchants acquired a similar immunity by submitting to blackmail, which often took the form of a fixed subsidy; but the lower classes in town and country stood, in fear of the humblest policeman, and did not dare to complain of him to his superiors. if two workmen brought their differences before a police court, instead of getting their case decided on grounds of equity, they were pretty sure to get scolded in language unfit for ears polite, or to receive still worse treatment. even among the higher officers of the force many became famous for their brutality. a gorodnitchi of the town of tcherkassy, for example, made for himself in this respect a considerable reputation. if any humble individual ventured to offer an objection to him, he had at once recourse to his fists, and any reference to the law put him into a state of frenzy. "the town," he was wont to say on such occasions, "has been entrusted to me by his majesty, and you dare to talk to me of the law? there is the law for you!"--the remark being accompanied with a blow. another officer of the same type, long resident in kief, had a somewhat different method of maintaining order. he habitually drove about the town with a cossack escort, and when any one of the lower classes had the misfortune to displease him, he ordered one of his cossacks to apply a little corporal punishment on the spot without any legal formalities. in the justice of peace courts things were conducted in a very different style. the justice, always scrupulously polite without distinction of persons, listened patiently to the complaint, tried to arrange the affairs amicably, and when his efforts failed, gave his decision at once according to law and common-sense. no attention was paid to rank or social position. a general who would not attend to the police regulations was fined like an ordinary workingman, and in a dispute between a great dignitary and a man of the people the two were treated in precisely the same way. no wonder such courts became popular among the masses; and their popularity was increased when it became known that the affairs were disposed of expeditiously, without unnecessary formalities and without any bribes or blackmail. many peasants regarded the justice as they had been wont to regard kindly proprietors of the old patriarchal type, and brought their griefs and sorrows to him in the hope that he would somehow alleviate them. often they submitted most intimate domestic and matrimonial concerns of which no court could possibly take cognisance, and sometimes they demanded the fulfilment of contracts which were in flagrant contradiction not only with the written law, but also with ordinary morality.* * many curious instances of this have come to my knowledge, but they are of such a kind that they cannot be quoted in a work intended for the general public. of course, the courts were not entirely without blemishes. in the matter, for example, of making no distinction of persons some of the early justices, in seeking to avoid scylla, came dangerously near to charybdis. imagining that their mission was to eradicate the conceptions and habits which had been created and fostered by serfage, they sometimes used their authority for giving lessons in philanthropic liberalism, and took a malicious delight in wounding the susceptibilities, and occasionally even the material interests, of those whom they regarded as enemies to the good cause. in disputes between master and servant, or between employer and workmen, the justice of this type considered it his duty to resist the tyranny of capital, and was apt to forget his official character of judge in his assumed character of social reformer. happily these aberrations on the part of the justices are already things of the past, but they helped to bring about a reaction, as we shall see presently. the extreme popularity of the justice of peace courts did not last very long. their history resembled that of the zemstvo and many other new institutions in russia--at first, enthusiasm and inordinate expectations; then consciousness of defects and practical inconveniences; and, lastly, in an influential section of the public, the pessimism of shattered illusions, accompanied by the adoption of a reactionary policy on the part of the government. the discontent appeared first among the so-called privileged classes. to people who had all their lives enjoyed great social consideration it seemed monstrous that they should be treated exactly in the same way as the muzhik; and when a general who was accustomed to be addressed as "your excellency," was accused of using abusive language to his cook, and found himself seated on the same bench with the menial, he naturally supposed that the end of all things was at hand; or perhaps a great civil official, who was accustomed to regard the police as created merely for the lower classes, suddenly found himself, to his inexpressible astonishment, fined for a contravention of police regulations! naturally the justices were accused of dangerous revolutionary tendencies, and when they happened to bring to light some injustice on the part of the tchinovnik they were severely condemned for undermining the prestige of the imperial authority. for a time the accusations provoked merely a smile or a caustic remark among the liberals, but about the middle of the eighties criticisms began to appear even in the liberal press. no very grave allegations were made, but defects in the system and miscarriages of justice were put forward and severely commented upon. occasionally it happened that a justice was indolent, or that at the sessions in a small country town it was impossible to form a quorum on the appointed day. overlooking the good features of the institution and the good services rendered by it, the critics began to propose partial reorganisation in the sense of greater control by central authorities. it was suggested, for example, that the president of sessions should be appointed by the government, that the justices should be subordinated to the regular tribunals, and that the principle of election by the zemstvo should be abolished. these complaints were not at all unwelcome to the government, because it had embarked on a reactionary policy, and in it suddenly granted to the critics a great deal more than they desired. in the rural districts of central russia the justices were replaced by the rural supervisors, of whom i have spoken in a previous chapter, and the part of their functions which could not well be entrusted to those new officials was transferred to judges of the regular courts. in some of the larger towns and in the rural districts of outlying provinces the justices were preserved, but instead of being elected by the zemstvo they were nominated by the government. the regular tribunals likewise became acclimatised in an incredibly short space of time. the first judges were not by any means profound jurists, and were too often deficient in that dispassionate calmness which we are accustomed to associate with the bench; but they were at least honest, educated men, and generally possessed a fair knowledge of the law. their defects were due to the fact that the demand for trained jurists far exceeded the supply, and the government was forced to nominate men who under ordinary circumstances would never have thought of presenting themselves as candidates. at the beginning of , in the "tribunaux d'arrondissement" which then existed, there were judges, of whom had never received a juridical education. even the presidents had not all passed through a school of law. of course the courts could not become thoroughly effective until all the judges were men who had received a good special education and had a practical acquaintance with judicial matters. this has now been effected, and the present generation of judges are better prepared and more capable than their predecessors. on the score of probity i have never heard any complaints. of all the judicial innovations, perhaps the most interesting is the jury. at the time of the reforms the introduction of the jury into the judicial organisation awakened among the educated classes a great amount of sentimental enthusiasm. the institution had the reputation of being "liberal," and was known to be approved of by the latest authorities in criminal jurisprudence. this was sufficient to insure it a favourable reception, and to excite most exaggerated expectations as to its beneficent influence. ten years of experience somewhat cooled this enthusiasm, and voices might be heard declaring that the introduction of the jury was a mistake. the russian people, it was held, was not yet ripe for such an institution, and numerous anecdotes were related in support of this opinion. one jury, for instance, was said to have returned a verdict of "not guilty with extenuating circumstances"; and another, being unable to come to a decision, was reported to have cast lots before an icon, and to have given a verdict in accordance with the result! besides this, juries often gave a verdict of "not guilty" when the accused made a full and formal confession to the court. how far the comic anecdotes are true i do not undertake to decide, but i venture to assert that such incidents, if they really occur, are too few to form the basis of a serious indictment. the fact, however, that juries often acquit prisoners who openly confess their crime is beyond all possibility of doubt. to most englishmen this fact will probably seem sufficient to prove that the introduction of the institution was at least premature, but before adopting this sweeping conclusion it will be well to examine the phenomenon a little more closely in connection with russian criminal procedure as a whole. in england the bench is allowed very great latitude in fixing the amount of punishment. the jury can therefore confine themselves to the question of fact and leave to the judge the appreciation of extenuating circumstances. in russia the position of the jury is different. the russian criminal law fixes minutely the punishment for each category of crimes, and leaves almost no latitude to the judge. the jury know that if they give a verdict of guilty, the prisoner will inevitably be punished according to the code. now the code, borrowed in great part from foreign legislation, is founded on conceptions very different from those of the russian people, and in many cases it attaches heavy penalties to acts which the ordinary russian is wont to regard as mere peccadilloes, or positively justifiable. even in those matters in which the code is in harmony with the popular morality, there are many exceptional cases in which summum jus is really summa injuria. suppose, for instance--as actually happened in a case which came under my notice--that a fire breaks out in a village, and that the village elder, driven out of patience by the apathy and laziness of some of his young fellow-villagers, oversteps the limits of his authority as defined by law, and accompanies his reproaches and exhortations with a few lusty blows. surely such a man is not guilty of a very heinous crime--certainly he is not in the opinion of the peasantry--and yet if he be prosecuted and convicted he inevitably falls into the jaws of an article of the code which condemns to transportation for a long term of years. in such cases what is the jury to do? in england they might safely give a verdict of guilty, and leave the judge to take into consideration all the extenuating circumstances; but in russia they cannot act in this way, for they know that the judge must condemn the prisoner according to the criminal code. there remains, therefore, but one issue out of the difficulty--a verdict of acquittal; and russian juries--to their honour be it said--generally adopt this alternative. thus the jury, in those cases in which it is most severely condemned, provides a corrective for the injustice of the criminal legislation. occasionally, it is true, they go a little too far in this direction and arrogate to themselves a right of pardon, but cases of that kind are, i believe, very rare. i know of only one well-authenticated instance. the prisoner had been proved guilty of a serious crime, but it happened to be the eve of a great religious festival, and the jury thought that in pardoning the prisoner and giving a verdict of acquittal they would be acting as good christians! the legislation regards, of course, this practice as an abuse, and has tried to prevent it by concealing as far as possible from the jury the punishment that awaits the accused if he be condemned. for this purpose it forbids the counsel for the prisoner to inform the jury what punishment is prescribed by the code for the crime in question. this ingenious device not only fails in its object, but has sometimes a directly opposite effect. not knowing what the punishment will be, and fearing that it may be out of all proportion to the crime, the jury sometimes acquit a criminal whom they would condemn if they knew what punishment would be inflicted. and when a jury is, as it were, entrapped, and finds that the punishment is more severe than it supposed, it can take its revenge in the succeeding cases. i know at least of one instance of this kind. a jury convicted a prisoner of an offence which it regarded as very trivial, but which in reality entailed, according to the code, seven years of penal servitude! so surprised and frightened were the jurymen by this unexpected consequence of their verdict, that they obstinately acquitted, in the face of the most convincing evidence, all the other prisoners brought before them. the most famous case of acquital when there was no conceivable doubt as to the guilt of the accused was that of vera zasulitch, who shot general trepof, prefect of st. petersburg; but the circumstances were so peculiar that they will hardly support any general conclusion. i happened to be present, and watched the proceedings closely. vera zasulitch, a young woman who had for some time taken part in the revolutionary movement, heard that a young revolutionist called bogoliubof, imprisoned in st. petersburg, had been flogged by orders of general trepof,* and though she did not know the victim personally she determined to avenge the indignity to which he had been subjected. with this intention she appeared at the prefecture, ostensibly for the purpose of presenting a petition, and when she found herself in the presence of the prefect she fired a revolver at him, wounding him seriously, but not mortally. at the trial the main facts were not disputed, and yet the jury brought in a verdict of not guilty. this unexpected result was due, i believe, partly to a desire to make a little political demonstration, and partly to a strong suspicion that the prison authorities, in carrying out the prefect's orders, had acted in summary fashion without observing the tedious formalities prescribed by the law. certainly one of the prison officials, when under cross-examination, made on me, and on the public generally, the impression that he was prevaricating in order to shield his superiors. * the reason alleged by general trepof for giving these orders was that, during a visit of inspection, bogoliubof had behaved disrespectfully towards him, and had thereby committed an infraction of prison discipline, for which the law prescribes the use of corporal punishment. at the close of the proceedings, which were dexterously conducted by counsel in such a way that, as the emperor is reported to have said, it was not vera zasulitch but general trepof who was being tried, an eminent russian journalist rushed up to me in a state of intense excitement and said: "is not this a great day for the cause of political freedom in russia?" i could not agree with him and i ventured to predict that neither of us would ever again see a political case tried publicly by jury in an ordinary court. the prediction has proved true. since that time political offenders have been tried by special tribunals without a jury or dealt with "by administrative procedure," that is to say, inquisitorially, without any regular trial. the defects, real and supposed, of the present system are commonly attributed to the predominance of the peasant element in the juries; and this opinion, founded on a priori reasoning, seems to many too evident to require verification. the peasantry are in many respects the most ignorant class, and therefore, it is assumed, they are least capable of weighing conflicting evidence. plain and conclusive as this reasoning seems, it is in my opinion erroneous. the peasants have, indeed, little education, but they have a large fund of plain common-sense; and experience proves--so at least i have been informed by many judges and public prosecutors--that, as a general rule, a peasant jury is more to be relied on than a jury drawn from the educated classes. it must be admitted, however, that a peasant jury has certain peculiarities, and it is not a little interesting to observe what those peculiarities are. in the first place, a jury composed of peasants generally acts in a somewhat patriarchal fashion, and does not always confine its attention to the evidence and the arguments adduced at the trial. the members form their judgment as men do in the affairs of ordinary life, and are sure to be greatly influenced by any jurors who happen to be personally acquainted with the prisoner. if several of the jurors know him to be a bad character, he has little chance of being acquitted, even though the chain of evidence against him should not be quite perfect. peasants cannot understand why a notorious scoundrel should be allowed to escape because a little link in the evidence is wanting, or because some little judicial formality has not been duly observed. indeed, their ideas of criminal procedure in general are extremely primitive. the communal method of dealing with malefactors is best in accordance with their conceptions of well-regulated society. the mir may, by a communal decree and without a formal trial, have any of its unruly members transported to siberia! this summary, informal mode of procedure seems to the peasants very satisfactory. they are at a loss to understand how a notorious culprit is allowed to "buy" an advocate to defend him, and are very insensible to the bought advocate's eloquence. to many of them, if i may trust to conversations which i have casually overheard in and around the courts, "buying an advocate" seems to be very much the same kind of operation as bribing a judge. in the second place, the peasants, when acting as jurors, are very severe with regard to crimes against property. in this they are instigated by the simple instinct of self-defence. they are, in fact, continually at the mercy of thieves and malefactors. they live in wooden houses easily set on fire; their stables might be broken into by a child; at night the village is guarded merely by an old man, who cannot be in more than one place at a time, and in the one place he is apt to go to sleep; a police officer is rarely seen, except when a crime has actually been committed. a few clever horse-stealers may ruin many families, and a fire-raiser, in his desire to avenge himself on an enemy, may reduce a whole village to destitution. these and similar considerations tend to make the peasants very severe against theft, robbery, and arson; and a public prosecutor who desires to obtain a conviction against a man charged with one of these crimes endeavours to have a jury in which the peasant class is largely represented. with regard to fraud in its various forms, the peasants are much more lenient, probably because the line of demarcation between honest and dishonest dealing in commercial affairs is not very clearly drawn in their minds. many, for instance, are convinced that trade cannot be successfully carried on without a little clever cheating; and hence cheating is regarded as a venial offence. if the money fraudulently acquired be restored to the owner, the crime is supposed to be completely condoned. thus when a volost elder appropriates the public money, and succeeds in repaying it before the case comes on for trial, he is invariably acquitted--and sometimes even re-elected! an equal leniency is generally shown by peasants towards crimes against the person, such as assaults, cruelty, and the like. this fact is easily explained. refined sensitiveness and a keen sympathy with physical suffering are the result of a certain amount of material well-being, together with a certain degree of intellectual and moral culture, and neither of these is yet possessed by the russian peasantry. any one who has had opportunities of frequently observing the peasants must have been often astonished by their indifference to suffering, both in their own persons and in the person of others. in a drunken brawl heads may be broken and wounds inflicted without any interference on the part of the spectators. if no fatal consequences ensue, the peasant does not think it necessary that official notice should be taken of the incident, and certainly does not consider that any of the combatants should be transported to siberia. slight wounds heal of their own accord without any serious loss to the sufferer, and therefore the man who inflicts them is not to be put on the same level as the criminal who reduces a family to beggary. this reasoning may, perhaps, shock people of sensitive nerves, but it undeniably contains a certain amount of plain, homely wisdom. of all kinds of cruelty, that which is perhaps most revolting to civilised mankind is the cruelty of the husband towards his wife; but to this crime the russian peasant shows especial leniency. he is still influenced by the old conceptions of the husband's rights, and by that low estimate of the weaker sex which finds expression in many popular proverbs. the peculiar moral conceptions reflected in these facts are evidently the result of external conditions, and not of any recondite ethnographical peculiarities, for they are not found among the merchants, who are nearly all of peasant origin. on the contrary, the merchants are more severe with regard to crimes against the person than with regard to crimes against property. the explanation of this is simple. the merchant has means of protecting his property, and if he should happen to suffer by theft, his fortune is not likely to be seriously affected by it. on the other hand, he has a certain sensitiveness with regard to such crimes as assault; for though he has commonly not much more intellectual and moral culture than the peasant, he is accustomed to comfort and material well-being, which naturally develop sensitiveness regarding physical pain. towards fraud the merchants are quite as lenient as the peasantry. this may, perhaps, seem strange, for fraudulent practices are sure in the long run to undermine trade. the russian merchants, however, have not yet arrived at this conception, and can point to many of the richest members of their class as a proof that fraudulent practices often create enormous fortunes. long ago samuel butler justly remarked that we damn the sins we have no mind to. as the external conditions have little or no influence on the religious conceptions of the merchants and the peasantry, the two classes are equally severe with regard to those acts which are regarded as crimes against the deity. hence acquittals in cases of sacrilege, blasphemy, and the like never occur unless the jury is in part composed of educated men. in their decisions, as in their ordinary modes of thought, the jurors drawn from the educated classes are little, if at all, affected by theological conceptions, but they are sometimes influenced in a not less unfortunate way by conceptions of a different order. it may happen, for instance, that a juror who had passed through one of the higher educational establishments has his own peculiar theory about the value of evidence, or he is profoundly impressed with the idea that it is better that a thousand guilty men should escape than that one innocent man should be punished, or he is imbued with sentimental pseudo-philanthropy, or he is convinced that punishments are useless because they neither cure the delinquent nor deter others from crime; in a word, he may have in some way or other lost his mental balance in that moral chaos through which russia is at present passing. in england, france, or germany such an individual would have little influence on his fellow-jurymen, for in these countries there are very few people who allow new paradoxical ideas to overturn their traditional notions and obscure their common-sense; but in russia, where even the elementary moral conceptions are singularly unstable and pliable, a man of this type may succeed in leading a jury. more than once i have heard men boast of having induced their fellow-jurymen to acquit every prisoner brought before them, not because they believed the prisoners to be innocent or the evidence to be insufficient, but because all punishments are useless and barbarous. one word in conclusion regarding the independence and political significance of the new courts. when the question of judicial reform was first publicly raised many people hoped that the new courts would receive complete autonomy and real independence, and would thus form a foundation for political liberty. these hopes, like so many illusions of that strange time, have not been realised. a large measure of autonomy and independence was indeed granted in theory. the law laid down the principle that no judge could be removed unless convicted of a definite crime, and that the courts should present candidates for all the vacant places on the bench; but these and similar rights have little practical significance. if the minister cannot depose a judge, he can deprive him of all possibility of receiving promotion, and he can easily force him in an indirect way to send in his resignation; and if the courts have still the right to present candidates for vacant places, the minister has also this right, and can, of course, always secure the nomination of his own candidate. by the influence of that centripetal force which exists in all centralised bureaucracies, the procureurs have become more important personages than the presidents of the courts. from the political point of view the question of the independence of the courts has not yet acquired much practical importance, because the government can always have political offenders tried by a special tribunal or can send them to siberia for an indefinite term of years without regular trial by the "administrative procedure" to which i have above referred. chapter xxxiv revolutionary nihilism and the reaction the reform-enthusiasm becomes unpractical and culminates in nihilism--nihilism, the distorted reflection of academic western socialism--russia well prepared for reception of ultra-socialist virus--social reorganisation according to latest results of science--positivist theory--leniency of press-censure--chief representatives of new movement--government becomes alarmed--repressive measures--reaction in the public--the term nihilist invented--the nihilist and his theory--further repressive measures--attitude of landed proprietors--foundation of a liberal party--liberalism checked by polish insurrection--practical reform continued--an attempt at regicide forms a turning-point of government's policy--change in educational system--decline of nihilism. the rapidly increasing enthusiasm for reform did not confine itself to practical measures such as the emancipation of the serfs, the creation of local self-government, and the thorough reorganisation of the law-courts and legal procedure. in the younger section of the educated classes, and especially among the students of the universities and technical colleges, it produced a feverish intellectual excitement and wild aspirations which culminated in what is commonly known as nihilism. in a preceding chapter i pointed out that during the last two centuries all the important intellectual movements in western europe have been reflected in russia, and that these reflections have generally been what may fairly be termed exaggerated and distorted reproductions of the originals.* roughly speaking, the nihilist movement in russia may be described as the exaggerated, distorted reflection of the earlier socialist movements of the west; but it has local peculiarities and local colouring which deserve attention. * see chapter xxvi. the russian educated classes had been well prepared by their past history for the reception and rapid development of the socialist virus. for a century and a half the country had been subjected to a series of drastic changes, administrative and social, by the energetic action of the autocratic power, with little spontaneous co-operation on the part of the people. in a nation with such a history, socialistic ideas naturally found favour, because all socialist systems until quite recent times were founded on the assumption that political and social progress must be the result not of slow natural development, but rather of philosophic speculation, legislative wisdom, and administrative energy. this assumption lay at the bottom of the reform enthusiasm in st. petersburg at the commencement of alexander ii.'s reign. russia might be radically transformed, it was thought, politically and socially, according to abstract scientific principles, in the space of a few years, and be thereby raised to the level of west-european civilisation, or even higher. the older nations had for centuries groped in darkness, or stumbled along in the faint light of practical experience, and consequently their progress had been slow and uncertain. for russia there was no necessity to follow such devious, unexplored paths. she ought to profit by the experience of her elder sisters, and avoid the errors into which they had fallen. nor was it difficult to ascertain what these errors were, because they had been discovered, examined and explained by the most eminent thinkers of france and england, and efficient remedies had been prescribed. russian reformers had merely to study and apply the conclusions at which these eminent authorities had arrived, and their task would be greatly facilitated by the fact that they could operate on virgin soil, untrammelled by the feudal traditions, religious superstitions, metaphysical conceptions, romantic illusions, aristocratic prejudices, and similar obstacles to social and political progress which existed in western europe. such was the extraordinary intellectual atmosphere in which the russian educated classes lived during the early years of the sixties. on the "men with aspirations," who had longed in vain for more light and more public activity under the obscurantist, repressive regime of the preceding reign, it had an intoxicating effect. the more excitable and sanguine amongst them now believed seriously that they had discovered a convenient short-cut to national prosperity, and that for russia a grandiose social and political millennium was at hand.* * i was not myself in st. petersburg at that period, but on arriving a few years afterwards i became intimately acquainted with men and women who had lived through it, and who still retained much of their early enthusiasm. in these circumstances it is not surprising that one of the most prominent characteristics of the time was a boundless, child-like faith in the so-called "latest results of science." infallible science was supposed to have found the solution of all political and social problems. what a reformer had to do--and who was not a would-be reformer in those days?--was merely to study the best authorities. their works had been long rigidly excluded by the press censure, but now that it was possible to obtain them, they were read with avidity. chief among the new, infallible prophets whose works were profoundly venerated was auguste comte, the inventor of positivism. in his classification of the sciences the crowning of the edifice was sociology, which taught how to organise human society on scientific principles. russia had merely to adopt the principles laid down and expounded at great length in the cours de philosophie positive. there comte explained that humanity had to pass through three stages of intellectual development--the religious, the metaphysical, and the positive--and that the most advanced nations, after spending centuries in the two first, were entering on the third. russia must endeavour, therefore, to get into the positive stage as quickly as possible, and there was reason to believe that, in consequence of certain ethnographical and historical peculiarities, she could make the transition more quickly than other nations. after comte's works, the book which found, for a time, most favour was buckle's "history of civilisation," which seemed to reduce history and progress to a matter of statistics, and which laid down the principle that progress is always in the inverse ratio of the influence of theological conceptions. this principle was regarded as of great practical importance, and the conclusion drawn from it was that rapid national progress was certain if only the influence of religion and theology could be destroyed. very popular, too, was john stuart mill, because he was "imbued with enthusiasm for humanity and female emancipation"; and in his tract on utilitarianism he showed that morality was simply the crystallised experience of many generations as to what was most conducive to the greatest good of the greatest number. the minor prophets of the time, among whom buchner occupied a prominent place, are too numerous to mention. strange to say, the newest and most advanced doctrines appeared regularly, under a very thin and transparent veil, in the st. petersburg daily press, and especially in the thick monthly magazines, which were as big as, or bigger than, our venerable quarterlies. the art of writing and reading "between the lines," not altogether unknown under the draconian regime of nicholas i., was now developed to such a marvellous extent that almost any thing could be written clearly enough to be understood by the initiated without calling for the thunderbolts of the press censors, which was now only intermittently severe. indeed, the press censors themselves were sometimes carried away by the reform enthusiasm. one of them long afterwards related to me that during "the mad time," as he called it, in the course of a single year he had received from his superiors no less than seventeen reprimands for passing objectionable articles without remark. the movement found its warmest partisans among the students and young literary men, but not a few grey-beards were to be found among the youthful apostles. all who read the periodical literature became more or less imbued with the new spirit; but it must be presumed that many of those who discoursed most eloquently had no clear idea of what they were talking about; for even at a later date, when the novices had had time to acquaint themselves with the doctrines they professed, i often encountered the most astounding ignorance. let me give one instance by way of illustration: a young gentleman who was in the habit of talking glibly about the necessity of scientifically reorganising human society, declared to me one day that not only sociology, but also biology should be taken into consideration. confessing my complete ignorance of the latter science, i requested him to enlighten me by giving me an instance of a biological principle which could be applied to social regeneration. he looked confused, and tried to ride out of the difficulty on vague general phrases; but i persistently kept him to the point, and maliciously suggested that as an alternative he might cite to me a biological principle which could not be used for such a purpose. again he failed, and it became evident to all present that of biology, about which he talked so often, he knew absolutely nothing but the name! after this i frequently employed the same pseudo-socratic method of discussion, and very often with a similar result. not one in fifty, perhaps, ever attempted to reduce the current hazy conceptions to a concrete form. the enthusiasm was not the less intense, however, on that account. at first the partisans of the movement seemed desirous of assisting, rather than of opposing or undermining the government, and so long as they merely talked academically about scientific principles and similar vague entities, the government felt no necessity for energetic interference; but as early as symptoms of a change in the character of the movement became apparent. a secret society of officers organised a small printing-press in the building of the headquarters staff and issued clandestinely three numbers of a periodical called the velikoruss (great russian), which advocated administrative reform, the convocation of a constituent assembly, and the emancipation of poland from russian rule. a few months later (april, ) a seditious proclamation appeared, professing to emanate from a central revolutionary committee, and declaring that the romanoffs must expiate with their blood the misery of the people. these symptoms of an underground revolutionary agitation caused alarm in the official world, and repressive measures were at once adopted. sunday schools for the working classes, reading-rooms, students' clubs, and similar institutions which might be used for purposes of revolutionary propaganda were closed; several trials for political offences took place; the most popular of the monthly periodicals (sovremennik) was suspended, and its editor, tchernishevski, arrested. there was nothing to show that tchernishevski was implicated in any treasonable designs, but he was undoubtedly the leader of a group of youthful writers whose aspirations went far beyond the intentions of the government, and it was thought desirable to counteract his influence by shutting him up in prison. here he wrote and published, with the permission of the authorities and the imprimatur of the press censure, a novel called "shto delat'?" ("what is to be done?"), which was regarded at first as a most harmless production, but which is now considered one of the most influential and baneful works in the whole range of nihilist literature. as a novel it had no pretensions to artistic merit, and in ordinary times it would have attracted little or no attention, but it put into concrete shape many of the vague socialist and communist notions that were at the moment floating about in the intellectual atmosphere, and it came to be looked upon by the young enthusiasts as a sort of informal manifesto of their new-born faith. it was divided into two parts; in the first was described a group of students living according to the new ideas in open defiance of traditional conventionalities, and in the second was depicted a village organised on the communistic principles recommended by fourier. the first was supposed to represent the dawn of the new era; the second, the goal to be ultimately attained. when the authorities discovered the mistake they had committed in allowing the book to be published, it was at once confiscated and withdrawn from circulation, whilst the author, after being tried by the senate, was exiled to northeastern siberia and kept there for nearly twenty years.* * tchernishevski was a man of encyclopaedic knowledge and specially conversant with political economy. according to the testimony of those who knew him intimately, he was one of the ablest and most sympathetic men of his generation. during his exile a bold attempt was made to rescue him, and very nearly succeeded. a daring youth, disguised as an officer of gendarmes and provided with forged official papers, reached the place where he was confined and procured his release, but the officer in charge had vague suspicions, and insisted on the two travellers being escorted to the next post-station by a couple of cossacks. the rescuer tried to get rid of the escort by means of his revolver, but he failed in the attempt, and the fugitives were arrested. in tchernishevski was transferred to the milder climate of astrakhan, and in he was allowed to return to his native town, saratof, where he died a few months afterwards. with the arrest and exile of tchernishevski the young would-be reformers were constrained to recognise that they had no chance of carrying the government with them in their endeavours to realise their patriotic aspirations. police supervision over the young generation was increased, and all kinds of association, whether for mutual instruction, mutual aid, or any other purpose, were discouraged or positively forbidden. and it was not merely in the mind of the police that suspicion was aroused. in the opinion of the great majority of moderate, respectable people the young enthusiasts were becoming discredited. the violently seditious proclamations with which they were supposed to sympathise, and a series of destructive fires in st. petersburg, erroneously attributed to them, frightened timid liberals and gave the reactionaries, who had hitherto remained silent, an opportunity of preaching their doctrines with telling effect. the celebrated novelist, turgeneif, long the idol of the young generation, had inadvertently in "fathers and children" invented the term nihilist, and it at once came to be applied as an opprobrious epithet, notwithstanding the efforts of pissaref, a popular writer of remarkable talent, to prove to the public that it ought to be regarded as a term of honour. pissaref's attempt at rehabilitation made no impression outside of his own small circle. according to popular opinion the nihilists were a band of fanatical young men and women, mostly medical students, who had determined to turn the world upside down and to introduce a new kind of social order, founded on the most advanced principles of social equality and communism. as a first step towards the great transformation they had reversed the traditional order of things in the matter of coiffure: the males allowed their hair to grow long, and the female adepts cut their hair short, adding occasionally the additional badge of blue spectacles. their unkempt appearance naturally shocked the aesthetic feelings of ordinary people, but to this they were indifferent. they had raised themselves above the level of popular notions, took no account of so-called public opinion, gloried in bohemianism, despised philistine respectability, and rather liked to scandalise old-fashioned people imbued with antiquated prejudices. this was the ridiculous side of the movement, but underneath the absurdities there was something serious. these young men and women, who were themselves terribly in earnest, were systematically hostile not only to accepted conventionalities in the matter of dress, but to all manner of shams, hypocrisy, and cant in the broad carlylean sense of those terms. to the "beautiful souls" of the older generation, who had habitually, in conversation and literature, shed pathetic tears over the defects of russian social and political organisation without ever moving a finger to correct them--especially the landed proprietors who talked and wrote about civilisation, culture, and justice while living comfortably on the revenues provided for them by their unfortunate serfs--these had the strongest aversion; and this naturally led them to condemn in strong language the worship of aesthetic culture. but here again they fell into exaggeration. professing extreme utilitarianism, they explained that the humble shoemaker who practises his craft diligently is, in the true sense, a greater man than a shakespeare, or a goethe, because humanity has more need of shoes than of dramas and poetry. such silly paradoxes provoked, of course, merely a smile of compassion; what alarmed the sensible, respectable "philistine" was the method of cleansing the augean stable recommended by these enthusiasts. having discovered in the course of their desultory reading that most of the ills that flesh is heir to proceed directly or indirectly from uncontrolled sexual passion and the lust of gain, they proposed to seal hermetically these two great sources of crime and misery by abolishing the old-fashioned institutions of marriage and private property. when society, they argued, should be so organised that all the healthy instincts of human nature could find complete and untrammelled satisfaction, there would be no motive or inducement for committing crimes or misdemeanours. for thousands of years humanity had been sailing on a wrong tack. the great law-givers of the world, religious and civil, in their ignorance of physical science and positivist methods, had created institutions, commonly known as law and morality, which were utterly unfitted to human nature, and then the magistrate and the moralist had endeavoured to compel or persuade men and women to conform to them, but their efforts had failed most signally. in vain the police had threatened and punished and the priests had preached and admonished. human nature had systematically and obstinately rebelled, and still rebels, against the unnatural constraint. it is time, therefore, to try a new system. instead of continuing, as has been done for thousands of years, to force men and women, as it were, into badly fitting, unelastic clothes which cause intense discomfort and prevent all healthy muscular action, why not adapt the costume to the anatomy and physiology of the human frame? then the clothes will no longer be rent, and those who wear them will be contented and happy. unfortunately for the progress of humanity there are serious obstacles in the way of this radical change of system. the absurd, antiquated and pernicious institutions and customs are supported by abstruse metaphysical reasons and enshrined in mystical romantic sentiment, and in this way they may still be preserved for generations unless the axe be laid to the root of the tree. now is the critical moment. russia must be made to rise at once from the metaphysical to the positivist stage of intellectual development; metaphysical reasoning and romantic sentiment must be rigorously discarded; and everything must be brought to the touchstone of naked practical utility. one might naturally suppose that men holding such opinions must be materialists of the grossest type--and, indeed, many of them gloried in the name of materialist and atheist--but such an inference would be erroneous. while denouncing metaphysics, they were themselves metaphysicians in so far as they were constantly juggling with abstract conceptions, and letting themselves be guided in their walk and conversation by a priori deductions; while ridiculing romanticism, they had romantic sentiment enough to make them sacrifice their time, their property, and sometimes even their life, to the attainment of an unrealisable ideal; and while congratulating themselves on having passed from the religious to the positivist stage of intellectual development, they frequently showed themselves animated with the spirit of the early martyrs! rarely have the strange inconsistencies of human nature been so strikingly exemplified as in these unpractical, anti-religious fanatics. in dealing with them i might easily, without very great exaggeration, produce a most amusing caricature, but i prefer describing them as they really were. a few years after the period here referred to i knew some of them intimately, and i must say that, without at all sharing or sympathising with their opinions, i could not help respecting them as honourable, upright, quixotic men and women who had made great sacrifices for their convictions. one of them whom i have specially in view at this moment suffered patiently for years from the utter shipwreck of his generous illusions, and when he could no longer hope to see the dawn of a brighter day, he ended by committing suicide. yet that man believed himself to be a realist, a materialist, and a utilitarian of the purest water, and habitually professed a scathing contempt for every form of romantic sentiment! in reality he was one of the best and most sympathetic men i have ever known. to return from this digression. so long as the subversive opinions were veiled in abstract language they raised misgivings in only a comparative small circle; but when school-teachers put them into a form suited to the juvenile mind, they were apt to produce startling effects. in a satirical novel of the time a little girl is represented as coming to her mother and saying, "little mamma! maria ivan'na (our new school-mistress) says there is no god and no tsar, and that it is wrong to marry!" whether such incidents actually occurred in real life, as several friends assured me, i am not prepared to say, but certainly people believed that they might occur in their own families, and that was quite sufficient to produce alarm even in the ranks of the liberals, to say nothing of the rapidly increasing army of the reactionaries. to illustrate the general uneasiness produced in st. petersburg, i may quote here a letter written in october, , by a man who occupied one of the highest positions in the administration. as he had the reputation of being an ultra-liberal who sympathised overmuch with young russia, we may assume that he did not take an exceptionally alarmist view of the situation. "you have not been long absent--merely a few months; but if you returned now, you would be astonished by the progress which the opposition, one might say the revolutionary party, has already made. the disorders in the university do not concern merely the students. i see in the affair the beginning of serious dangers for public tranquillity and the existing order of things. young people, without distinction of costume, uniform and origin, take part in the street demonstrations. besides the students of the university, there are the students of other institutions, and a mass of people who are students only in name. among these last are certain gentlemen in long beards and a number of revolutionnaires in crinoline, who are of all the most fanatical. blue collars--the distinguishing mark of the students' uniform--have become the signe de ralliement. almost all the professors and many officers take the part of the students. the newspaper critics openly defend their colleagues. mikhailof has been convicted of writing, printing and circulating one of the most violent proclamations that ever existed, under the heading, 'to the young generation!' among the students and the men of letters there is unquestionably an organised conspiracy, which has perhaps leaders outside the literary circle. . . . the police are powerless. they arrest any one they can lay hands on. about eighty people have already been sent to the fortress and examined, but all this leads to no practical result, because the revolutionary ideas have taken possession of all classes, all ages, all professions, and are publicly expressed in the streets, in the barracks, and in the ministries. i believe the police itself is carried away by them! what this will lead to, it is difficult to predict. i am very much afraid of some bloody catastrophe. even if it should not go to such a length immediately, the position of the government will be extremely difficult. its authority is shaken, and all are convinced that it is powerless, stupid and incapable. on that point there is the most perfect unanimity among all parties of all colours, even the most opposite. the most desperate 'planter'* agrees in that respect with the most desperate socialist. meanwhile those who have the direction of affairs do almost nothing and have no plan or definite aim in view. at present the emperor is not in the capital, and now, more than at any other time, there is complete anarchy in the absence of the master of the house. there is a great deal of bustle and talk, and all blame they know not whom."** * an epithet commonly applied, at the time of the emancipation, to the partisans of serfage and the defenders of the proprietors' rights. ** i found this interesting letter (which might have been written today) thirty years ago among the private papers of nicholas milutin, who played a leading part as an official in the reforms of the time. it was first published in an article on "secret societies in russia," which i contributed to the fortnightly review of st august, . the expected revolution did not take place, but timid people had no difficulty in perceiving signs of its approach. the press continued to disseminate, under a more or less disguised form, ideas which were considered dangerous. the kolokol, a russian revolutionary paper published in london by herzen and strictly prohibited by the press-censure, found its way in large quantities into the country, and, as is recorded in an earlier chapter, was read by thousands, including the higher officials and the emperor himself, who found it regularly on his writing-table, laid there by some unknown hand. in st. petersburg the arrest of tchernishevski and the suspension of his magazine, the contemporary, made the writers a little more cautious in their mode of expression, but the spirit of the articles remained unchanged. these energetic intolerant leaders of public opinion were novi homines not personally connected with the social strata in which moderate views and retrograde tenderness had begun to prevail. mostly sons of priests or of petty officials, they belonged to a recently created literary proletariat composed of young men with boundless aspirations and meagre national resources, who earned a precarious subsistence by journalism or by giving lessons in private families. living habitually in a world of theories and unrestrained by practical acquaintance with public life, they were ready, from the purest and most disinterested motives to destroy ruthlessly the existing order of things in order to realise their crude notions of social regeneration. their heated imagination showed them in the near future a new russia, composed of independent federated communes, without any bureaucracy or any central power--a happy land in which everybody virtuously and automatically fulfilled his public and private duties, and in which the policeman and all other embodiments of material constraint were wholly superfluous. governments are not easily converted to utopian schemes of that idyllic type, and it is not surprising that even a government with liberal humanitarian aspirations like that of alexander ii. should have become alarmed and should have attempted to stem the current. what is to be regretted is that the repressive measures adopted were a little too oriental in their character. scores of young students of both sexes--for the nihilist army included a strong female contingent--were secretly arrested and confined for months in unwholesome prisons, and many of them were finally exiled, without any regular trial, to distant provinces in european russia or to siberia. their exile, it is true, was not at all so terrible as is commonly supposed, because political exiles are not usually confined in prisons or compelled to labour in the mines, but are obliged merely to reside at a given place under police supervision. still, such punishment was severe enough for educated young men and women, especially when their lot was cast among a population composed exclusively of peasants and small shop-keepers or of siberian aborigines, and when there were no means of satisfying the most elementary intellectual wants. for those who had no private resources the punishment was particularly severe, because the government granted merely a miserable monthly pittance, hardly sufficient to purchase food of the coarsest kind, and there was rarely an opportunity of adding to the meagre official allowance by intellectual or manual labour. in all cases the treatment accorded to the exiles wounded their sense of justice and increased the existing discontent among their friends and acquaintances. instead of acting as a deterrent, the system produced a feeling of profound indignation, and ultimately transformed not a few sentimental dreamers into active conspirators. at first there was no conspiracy or regularly organised secret society and nothing of which the criminal law in western europe could have taken cognisance. students met in each other's rooms to discuss prohibited books on political and social science, and occasionally short essays on the subjects discussed were written in a revolutionary spirit by members of the coterie. this was called mutual instruction. between the various coteries or groups there were private personal relations, not only in the capital, but also in the provinces, so that manuscripts and printed papers could be transmitted from one group to another. from time to time the police captured these academic disquisitions, and made raids on the meetings of students who had come together merely for conversation and discussion; and the fresh arrests caused by these incidents increased the hostility to the government. in the letter above quoted it is said that the revolutionary ideas had taken possession of all classes, all ages, and all professions. this may have been true with regard to st. petersburg, but it could not have been said of the provinces. there the landed proprietors were in a very different frame of mind. they had to struggle with a multitude of urgent practical affairs which left them little time for idyllic dreaming about an imaginary millennium. their serfs had been emancipated, and what remained to them of their estates had to be reorganised on the basis of free labour. into the semi-chaotic state of things created by such far-reaching changes, legal and economic, they did not wish to see any more confusion introduced, and they did not at all feel that they could dispense with the central government and the policeman. on the contrary, the central government was urgently needed in order to obtain a little ready money wherewith to reorganise the estates in the new conditions, and the police organisation required to be strengthened in order to compel the emancipated serfs to fulfil their legal obligations. these men and their families were, therefore, much more conservative than the class commonly designated "the young generation," and they naturally sympathised with the "philistines" in st. petersburg, who had been alarmed by the exaggerations of the nihilists. even the landed proprietors, however, were not so entirely free from discontent and troublesome political aspirations as the government would have desired. they had not forgotten the autocratic and bureaucratic way in which the emancipation had been prepared, and their indignation had been only partially appeased by their being allowed to carry out the provisions of the law without much bureaucratic interference. so much for the discontent. as for the reform aspirations, they thought that, as a compensation for having consented to the liberation of their serfs and for having been expropriated from about a half of their land, they ought to receive extensive political rights, and be admitted, like the upper classes in western europe, to a fair share in the government of the country. unlike the fiery young nihilists of st. petersburg, they did not want to abolish or paralyse the central power; what they wanted was to co-operate with it loyally and to give their advice on important questions by means of representative institutions. they formed a constitutional group which exists still at the present day, as we shall see in the sequel, but which has never been allowed to develop into an organised political party. its aims were so moderate that its programme might have been used as a convenient safety-valve for the explosive forces which were steadily accumulating under the surface of society, but it never found favour in the official world. when some of its leading members ventured to hint in the press and in loyal addresses to the emperor that the government would do well to consult the country on important questions, their respectful suggestions were coldly received or bluntly rejected by the bureaucracy and the autocratic power. the more the revolutionary and constitutional groups sought to strengthen their position, the more pronounced became the reactionary tendencies in the official world, and these received in an immense impetus from the polish insurrection, with which the nihilists and even some of the liberals sympathised.* that ill-advised attempt on the part of the poles to recover their independence had a curious effect on russian public opinion. alexander ii., with the warm approval of the more liberal section of the educated classes, was in the course of creating for poland almost complete administrative autonomy under the viceroyalty of a russian grand duke; and the emperor's brother constantine was preparing to carry out the scheme in a generous spirit. soon it became evident that what the poles wanted was not administrative autonomy, but political independence, with the frontiers which existed before the first partition! trusting to the expected assistance of the western powers and the secret connivance of austria, they raised the standard of insurrection, and some trifling successes were magnified by the pro-polish press into important victories. as the news of the rising spread over russia, there was a moment of hesitation. those who had been for some years habitually extolling liberty and self-government as the normal conditions of progress, who had been sympathising warmly with every liberal movement, whether at home or abroad, and who had put forward a voluntary federation of independent communes as the ideal state organism, could not well frown on the political aspirations of the polish patriots. the liberal sentiment of that time was so extremely philosophical and cosmopolitan that it hardly distinguished between poles and russians, and liberty was supposed to be the birthright of every man and woman to whatever nationality they might happen to belong. but underneath these beautiful artificial clouds of cosmopolitan liberal sentiment lay the volcano of national patriotism, dormant for the moment, but by no means extinct. though the russians are in some respects the most cosmopolitan of european nations, they are at the same time capable of indulging in violent outbursts of patriotic fanaticism; and events in warsaw brought into hostile contact these two contradictory elements in the national character. the struggle was only momentary. ere long the patriotic feelings gained the upper hand and crushed all cosmopolitan sympathy with political freedom. the moscow gazette, the first of the papers to recover its mental equilibrium, thundered against the pseudo-liberal sentimentalism, which would, if unchecked, necessarily lead to the dismemberment of the empire, and its editor, katkoff, became for a time the most influential private individual in the country. a few, indeed, remained true to their convictions. herzen, for instance, wrote in the kolokol a glowing panegyric on two russian officers who had refused to fire on the insurgents; and here and there a good orthodox russian might be found who confessed that he was ashamed of muravieff's extreme severity in lithuania. but such men were few, and were commonly regarded as traitors, especially after the ill-advised diplomatic intervention of the western powers. even herzen, by his publicly expressed sympathy with the insurgents, lost entirely his popularity and influence among his fellow-countrymen. the great majority of the public thoroughly approved of the severe energetic measures adopted by the government, and when the insurrection was suppressed, men who had a few months previously spoken and written in magniloquent terms about humanitarian liberalism joined in the ovations offered to muravieff! at a great dinner given in his honour, that ruthless administrator of the old muscovite type, who had systematically opposed the emancipation of the serfs and had never concealed his contempt for the liberal ideas in fashion, could ironically express his satisfaction at seeing around him so many "new friends"!** this revulsion of public feeling gave the moscow slavophils an opportunity of again preaching their doctrine that the safety and prosperity of russia were to be found, not in the liberalism and constitutionalism of western europe, but in patriarchal autocracy, eastern orthodoxy, and other peculiarities of russian nationality. thus the reactionary tendencies gained ground; but alexander ii., while causing all political agitation to be repressed, did not at once abandon his policy of introducing radical reforms by means of the autocratic power. on the contrary, he gave orders that the preparatory work for creating local self-government and reorganising the law courts should be pushed on energetically. the important laws for the establishment of the zemstvo and for the great judicial reforms, which i have described in previous chapters, both date from the year . * the students of the st. petersburg university scandalised their more patriotic fellow-countrymen by making a pro-polish demonstration. ** in fairness to count muravieff i must say that he was not quite so black as he was painted in the polish and west-european press. he left an interesting autobiographical fragment relating to the history of this time, but it is not likely to be printed for some years. as an historical document it is valuable, but must be used with caution by the future historian. a copy of it was for some time in my possession, but i was bound by a promise not to make extracts. these and other reforms of a less important kind made no impression on the young irreconcilables. a small group of them, under the leadership of a certain ishutin, formed in moscow a small secret society, and conceived the design of assassinating the emperor, in the hope that his son and successor, who was erroneously supposed to be imbued with ultra-liberal ideas, might continue the work which his father had begun and had not the courage to complete. in april, , the attempt on the life of the emperor was made by a youth called karakozof as his majesty was leaving a public garden in st. petersburg, but the bullet happily missed its mark, and the culprit was executed. this incident formed a turning-point in the policy of the government. alexander ii. began to fear that he had gone too far, or, at least, too quickly, in his policy of radical reform. an imperial rescript announced that law, property, and religion were in danger, and that the government would lean on the noblesse and other conservative elements of society. the two periodicals which advocated the most advanced views (sovremennik and russkoye slovo) were suppressed permanently, and precautions were taken to prevent the annual assemblies of the zemstvo from giving public expression to the aspirations of the moderate liberals. a secret official inquiry showed that the revolutionary agitation proceeded in all cases from young men who were studying, or had recently studied, in the universities, the seminaries, or the technical schools, such as the medical academy and the agricultural institute. plainly, therefore, the system of education was at fault. the semi-military system of the time of nicholas had been supplanted by one in which discipline was reduced to a minimum and the study of natural science formed a prominent element. here it was thought, lay the chief root of the evil. englishmen may have some difficulty in imagining a possible connection between natural science and revolutionary agitation. to them the two things must seem wide as the poles asunder. surely mathematics, chemistry, physiology, and similar subjects have nothing to do with politics. when a young englishman takes to studying any branch of natural science he gets up his subject by means of lectures, text-books, and museums or laboratories, and when he has mastered it he probably puts his knowledge to some practical use. in russia it is otherwise. few students confine themselves to their speciality. the majority of them dislike the laborious work of mastering dry details, and, with the presumption which is often found in conjunction with youth and a smattering of knowledge, they aspire to become social reformers and imagine themselves specially qualified for such activity. but what, it may be asked, has social reform to do with natural science? i have already indicated the connection in the russian mind. though very few of the students of that time had ever read the voluminous works of auguste comte, they were all more or less imbued with the spirit of the positive philosophy, in which all the sciences are subsidiary to sociology, and social reorganisation is the ultimate object of scientific research. the imaginative positivist can see with prophetic eye humanity reorganised on strictly scientific principles. cool-headed people who have had a little experience of the world, if they ever indulge in such delightful dreams, recognise clearly that this ultimate goal of human intellectual activity, if it is ever to be reached, is still a long way off in the misty distance of the future; but the would-be social reformers among the russian students of the sixties were too young, too inexperienced, and too presumptuously self-confident to recognise this plain, simple truth. they felt that too much valuable time had been already lost, and they were madly impatient to begin the great work without further delay. as soon as they had acquired a smattering of chemistry, physiology, and biology they imagined themselves capable of reorganising human society from top to bottom, and when they had acquired this conviction they were of course unfitted for the patient, plodding study of details. to remedy these evils, count dimitri tolstoy, who was regarded as a pillar of conservatism, was appointed minister of public instruction, with the mission of protecting the young generation against pernicious ideas, and eradicating from the schools, colleges, and universities all revolutionary tendencies. he determined to introduce more discipline into all the educational establishments and to supplant to a certain extent the superficial study of natural science by the thorough study of the classics--that is to say, latin and greek. this scheme, which became known before it was actually put into execution, produced a storm of discontent in the young generation. discipline at that time was regarded as an antiquated and useless remnant of patriarchal tyranny, and young men who were impatient to take part in social reorganisation resented being treated as naughty schoolboys. to them it seemed that the latin grammar was an ingenious instrument for stultifying youthful intelligence, destroying intellectual development, and checking political progress. ingenious speculations about the possible organisation of the working classes and grandiose views of the future of humanity are so much more interesting and agreeable than the rules of latin syntax and the greek irregular verbs! count tolstoy could congratulate himself on the efficacy of his administration, for from the time of his appointment there was a lull in the political excitement. during three or four years there was only one political trial, and that an insignificant one; whereas there had been twenty between and , and all more or less important. i am not at all sure, however, that the educational reform which created much momentary irritation and discontent had anything to do with the improvement in the situation. in any case, there were other and more potent causes at work. the excitement was too intense to be long-lived, and the fashionable theories too fanciful to stand the wear and tear of everyday life. they evaporated, therefore, with amazing rapidity when the leaders of the movement had disappeared--tchernishevski and others by exile, and dobrolubof and pissaref by death--and when among the less prominent representatives of the younger generation many succumbed to the sobering influences of time and experience or drifted into lucrative professions. besides this, the reactionary currents were making themselves felt, especially since the attempt on the life of the emperor. so long as these had been confined to the official world they had not much affected the literature, except externally through the press-censure, but when they permeated the reading public their influence was much stronger. whatever the cause, there is no doubt that, in the last years of the sixties, there was a subsidence of excitement and enthusiasm and the peculiar intellectual phenomenon which had been nicknamed nihilism was supposed to be a thing of the past. in reality the movement of which nihilism was a prominent manifestation had merely lost something of its academic character and was entering on a new stage of development. chapter xxxv socialist propaganda, revolutionary agitation, and terrorism closer relations with western socialism--attempts to influence the masses--bakunin and lavroff--"going in among the people"--the missionaries of revolutionary socialism--distinction between propaganda and agitation--revolutionary pamphlets for the common people--aims and motives of the propagandists--failure of propaganda--energetic repression--fruitless attempts at agitation--proposal to combine with liberals--genesis of terrorism--my personal relations with the revolutionists--shadowers and shadowed--a series of terrorist crimes--a revolutionist congress--unsuccessful attempts to assassinate the tsar--ineffectual attempt at conciliation by loris melikof--assassination of alexander ii.--the executive committee shows itself unpractical--widespread indignation and severe repression--temporary collapse of the revolutionary movement--a new revolutionary movement in sight. count tolstoy's educational reform had one effect which was not anticipated: it brought the revolutionists into closer contact with western socialism. many students, finding their position in russia uncomfortable, determined to go abroad and continue their studies in foreign universities, where they would be free from the inconveniences of police supervision and press-censure. those of the female sex had an additional motive to emigrate, because they could not complete their studies in russia, but they had more difficulty in carrying out their intention, because parents naturally disliked the idea of their daughters going abroad to lead a bohemian life, and they very often obstinately refused to give their consent. in such cases the persistent daughter found herself in a dilemma. though she might run away from her family and possibly earn her own living, she could not cross the frontier without a passport, and without the parental sanction a passport could not be obtained. of course she might marry and get the consent of her husband, but most of the young ladies objected to the trammels of matrimony. occasionally the problem was solved by means of a fictitious marriage, and when a young man could not be found to co-operate voluntarily in the arrangement, the terrorist methods, which the revolutionists adopted a few years later for other purposes, might be employed. i have heard of at least one case in which an ardent female devotee of medical science threatened to shoot a student who was going abroad if he did not submit to the matrimonial ceremony and allow her to accompany him to the frontier as his official wife! strange as this story may seem, it contains nothing inherently improbable. at that time the energetic young ladies of the nihilist school were not to be diverted from their purpose by trifling obstacles. we shall meet some of them hereafter, displaying great courage and tenacity in revolutionary activity. one of them, for example, attempted to murder the prefect of st. petersburg; and another, a young person of considerable refinement and great personal charm, gave the signal for the assassination of alexander ii. and expiated her crime on the scaffold without the least sign of repentance. most of the studious emigres of both sexes went to zurich, where female students were admitted to the medical classes. here they made the acquaintance of noted socialists from various countries who had settled in switzerland, and being in search of panaceas for social regeneration, they naturally fell under their influence, at the same time they read with avidity the works of proudhon, lassalle, buchner, marx, flerovski, pfeiffer, and other writers of "advanced opinions." among the apostles of socialism living at that time in switzerland they found a sympathetic fellow-countryman in the famous anarchist, bakunin, who had succeeded in escaping from siberia. his ideal was the immediate overthrow of all existing governments, the destruction of all administrative organisation, the abolition of all bourgeois institutions, and the establishment of an entirely new order of things on the basis of a free federation of productive communes, in which all the land should be distributed among those capable of tilling it and the instruments of production confided to co-operative associations. efforts to obtain mere political reforms, even of the most radical type, were regarded by him with contempt as miserable palliatives, which could be of no real, permanent benefit to the masses, and might be positively injurious by prolonging the present era of bourgeois domination. for the dissemination of these principles a special organ called the cause of the people (narodnoye dyelo) was founded in geneva in and was smuggled across the russian frontier in considerable quantities. it aimed at drawing away the young generation from academic nihilism to more practical revolutionary activity, but it evidently remained to some extent under the old influences, for it indulged occasionally in very abstract philosophical disquisitions. in its first number, for example, it published a programme in which the editors thought it necessary to declare that they were materialists and atheists, because the belief in god and a future life, as well as every other kind of idealism, demoralises the people, inspiring it with mutually contradictory aspirations, and thereby depriving it of the energy necessary for the conquest of its natural rights in this world, and the complete organisation of a free and happy life. at the end of two years this organ for moralising the people collapsed from want of funds, but other periodicals and pamphlets were printed, and the clandestine relations between the exiles in switzerland and their friends in st. petersburg were maintained without difficulty, notwithstanding the efforts of the police to cut the connection. in this way young russia became more and more saturated with the extreme socialist theories current in western europe. thanks partly to this foreign influence and partly to their own practical experience, the would-be reformers who remained at home came to understand that academic talking and discussing could bring about no serious results. students alone, however numerous and however devoted to the cause, could not hope to overthrow or coerce the government. it was childish to suppose that the walls of the autocratic jericho would fall by the blasts of academic trumpets. attempts at revolution could not be successful without the active support of the people, and consequently the revolutionary agitation must be extended to the masses. so far there was complete agreement among the revolutionists, but with regard to the modus operandi emphatic differences of opinion appeared. those who were carried away by the stirring accents of bakunin imagined that if the masses could only be made to feel themselves the victims of administrative and economic oppression, they would rise and free themselves by a united effort. according to this view all that was required was that popular discontent should be excited and that precautions should be taken to ensure that the explosions of discontent should take place simultaneously all over the country. the rest might safely be left, it was thought, to the operation of natural forces and the inspiration of the moment. against this dangerous illusion warning voices were raised. lavroff, for example, while agreeing with bakunin that mere political reforms were of little or no value, and that any genuine improvement in the condition of the working classes could proceed only from economic and social reorganisation, maintained stoutly that the revolution, to be permanent and beneficial, must be accomplished, not by demagogues directing the ignorant masses, but by the people as a whole, after it had been enlightened and instructed as to its true interests. the preparatory work would necessarily require a whole generation of educated propagandists, living among the labouring population rural and urban. for some time there was a conflict between these two currents of opinion, but the views of lavroff, which were simply a practical development of academic nihilism, gained far more adherents than the violent anarchical proposals of bakunin, and finally the grandiose scheme of realising gradually the socialist ideal by indoctrinating the masses was adopted with enthusiasm. in st. petersburg, moscow and other large towns the student association for mutual instruction, to which i have referred in the foregoing chapter, became centres of popular propaganda, and the academic nihilists were transformed into active missionaries. scores of male and female students, impatient to convert the masses to the gospel of freedom and terrestrial felicity, sought to get into touch with the common people by settling in the villages as school-teachers, medical practitioners, midwives, etc., or by working as common factory hands in the industrial centres. in order to obtain employment in the factories and conceal their real purpose, they procured false passports, in which they were described as belonging to the lower classes; and even those who settled in the villages lived generally under assumed names. thus was formed a class of professional revolutionists, sometimes called the illegals, who were liable to be arrested at any moment by the police. as compensation for the privations and hardships which they had to endure, they had the consolation of believing that they were advancing the good cause. the means they usually employed were formal conversations and pamphlets expressly written for the purpose. the more enthusiastic and persevering of these missionaries would continue their efforts for months and years, remaining in communication with the headquarters in the capital or some provincial town in order to report progress, obtain a fresh supply of pamphlets, and get their forged passports renewed. this extraordinary movement was called "going in among the people," and it spread among the young generation like an epidemic. in it was suddenly reinforced by a detachment of fresh recruits. over a hundred russian students were recalled by the government from switzerland, in order to save them from the baneful influence of bakunin, lavroff, and other noted socialists, and a large proportion of them joined the ranks of the propagandists.* * instances of going in among the people had happened as early as , but they did not become frequent till after . with regard to the aims and methods of the propagandists, a good deal of information was obtained in the course of a judicial inquiry instituted in . a peasant, who was at the same time a factory worker, informed the police that certain persons were distributing revolutionary pamphlets among the factory-hands, and as a proof of what he said he produced some pamphlets which he had himself received. this led to an investigation, which showed that a number of young men and women, evidently belonging to the educated classes, were disseminating revolutionary ideas by means of pamphlets and conversation. arrests followed, and it was soon discovered that these agitators belonged to a large secret association, which had its centre in moscow and local branches in ivanovo, tula, and kief. in ivanovo, for instance--a manufacturing town about a hundred miles to the northeast of moscow--the police found a small apartment inhabited by three young men and four young women, all of whom, though belonging by birth to the educated classes, had the appearance of ordinary factory workers, prepared their own food, did with their own hands all the domestic work, and sought to avoid everything which could distinguish them from the labouring population. in the apartment were found copies of revolutionary pamphlets, a considerable sum of money, a large amount of correspondence in cypher, and several forged passports. how many persons the society contained, it is impossible to say, because a large portion of them eluded the vigilance of the police; but many were arrested, and ultimately forty-seven were condemned. of these, eleven were noble, seven were sons of parish priests, and the remainder belong to the lower classes--that is to say, the small officials, burghers, and peasants. the average age of the prisoners was twenty-four, the oldest being thirty-six and the youngest under seventeen! only five or six were over twenty-five, and none of these were ringleaders. the female element was represented by no less than fifteen young persons, whose ages were on an average under twenty-two. two of these, to judge by their photographs, were of refined, prepossessing appearance, and seemingly little fitted for taking part in wholesale massacres such as the society talked of organising. the character and aims of the society were clearly depicted in the documentary and oral evidence produced at the trial. according to the fundamental principles, there should exist among the members absolute equality, complete mutual responsibility and full frankness and confidence with regard to the affairs of the association. among the conditions of admission we find that the candidate should devote himself entirely to revolutionary activity; that he should be ready to sever all ties, whether of friendship or of love, for the good cause; that he should possess great powers of self-sacrifice and the capacity for keeping secrets; and that he should consent to become, when necessary, a common labourer in a factory. the desire to maintain absolute equality is well illustrated by the article of the statutes regarding the administration: the office-bearers are not to be chosen by election, but all members are to be office-bearers in turn, and the term of office must not exceed one month! the avowed aim of the society was to destroy the existing social order, and to replace it by one in which there should be no private property and no distinctions of class or wealth; or, as it is expressed in one document, "to found on the ruins of the present social organisation the empire of the working classes." the means to be employed were indicated in a general way, but each member was to adapt himself to circumstances and was to devote all his energy to forwarding the cause of the revolution. for the guidance of the inexperienced, the following means were recommended: simple conversations, dissemination of pamphlets, the exciting of discontent, the formation of organised groups, the creation of funds and libraries. these, taken together, constitute, in the terminology of revolutionary science, "propaganda," and in addition to it there should be "agitation." the technical distinction between these two processes is that propaganda has a purely preparatory character, and aims merely at enlightening the masses regarding the true nature of the revolutionary cause, whereas agitation aims at exciting an individual or a group to acts which are considered, in the existing regime, as illegal. in time of peace "pure agitation" was to be carried on by means of organised bands which should frighten the government and the privileged classes, draw away the attention of the authorities from less overt kinds of revolutionary action, raise the spirit of the people and thereby render it more accessible to revolutionary ideas, obtain pecuniary means for further activity, and liberate political prisoners. in time of insurrection the members should give to all movements every assistance in their power, and impress on them a socialistic character. the central administration and the local branches should establish relations with publishers, and take steps to secure a regular supply of prohibited books from abroad. such are a few characteristic extracts from a document which might fairly be called a treatise on revolutionology. as a specimen of the revolutionary pamphlets circulated by the propagandists and agitators i may give here a brief account of one which is well known to the political police. it is entitled khitraya mekhanika (cunning machinery), and gives a graphic picture of the ideas and methods employed. the mise en scene is extremely simple. two peasants, stepan and andrei, are represented as meeting in a gin-shop and drinking together. stepan is described as good and kindly when he has to do with men of his own class, but very sharp-tongued when speaking with a foreman or manager. always ready with an answer, he can on occasions silence even an official! he has travelled all over the empire, has associated with all sorts and conditions of men, sees everything most clearly, and is, in short, a very remarkable man. one of his excellent qualities is that, being "enlightened" himself, he is always ready to enlighten others, and he now finds an opportunity of displaying his powers. when andrei, who is still unenlightened, proposes that they should drink another glass of vodka, he replies that the tsar, together with the nobles and traders, bars the way to the throat. as his companion does not understand this metaphorical language, he explains that if there were no tsars, nobles, or traders, he could get five glasses of vodka for the sum that he now pays for one glass. this naturally suggests wider topics, and stepan gives something like a lecture. the common people, he explains, pay by far the greater part of the taxation, and at the same time do all the work; they plough the fields, build the houses and churches, work in the mills and factories, and in return they are systematically robbed and beaten. and what is done with all the money that is taken from them? first of all, the tsar gets nine millions of roubles--enough to feed half a province--and with that sum he amuses himself, has hunting-parties, and feasts, eats, drinks, makes merry, and lives in stone houses. he gave liberty, it is true, to the peasants; but we know what the emancipation really was. the best land was taken away and the taxes were increased, lest the muzhik should get fat and lazy. the tsar is himself the richest landed proprietor and manufacturer in the country. he not only robs us as much as he pleases, but he has sold into slavery (by forming a national debt) our children and grandchildren. he takes our sons as soldiers, shuts them up in barracks so that they should not see their brother-peasants, and hardens their hearts so that they become wild beasts, ready to rend their parents. the nobles and traders likewise rob the poor peasants. in short, all the upper classes have invented a bit of cunning machinery by which the muzhik is made to pay for their pleasures and luxuries. the people will one day rise and break this machinery to pieces. when that day comes they must break every part of it, for if one bit escapes destruction all the other parts of it will immediately grow up again. all the force is on the side of the peasants, if they only knew how to use it. knowledge will come in time. they will then destroy this machine, and perceive that the only real remedy for all social evils is brotherhood. people should live like brothers, having no mine and thine, but all things in common. when we have created brotherhood, there will be no riches and no thieves, but right and righteousness without end. in conclusion, stepan addresses a word to "the torturers": "when the people rise, the tsar will send troops against us, and the nobles and capitalists will stake their last rouble on the result. if they do not succeed, they must not expect any quarter from us. they may conquer us once or twice, but we shall at last get our own, for there is no power that can withstand the whole people. then we shall cleanse the country of our persecutors, and establish a brotherhood in which there will be no mine and thine, but all will work for the common weal. we shall construct no cunning machinery, but shall pluck up evil by the roots, and establish eternal justice!" the above-mentioned distinction between propaganda and agitation, which plays a considerable part in revolutionary literature, had at that time more theoretical than practical importance. the great majority of those who took an active part in the movement confined their efforts to indoctrinating the masses with socialistic and subversive ideas, and sometimes their methods were rather childish. as an illustration i may cite an amusing incident related by one of the boldest and most tenacious of the revolutionists, who subsequently acquired a certain sense of humour. he and a friend were walking one day on a country road, when they were overtaken by a peasant in his cart. ever anxious to sow the good seed, they at once entered into conversation with the rustic, telling him that he ought not to pay his taxes, because the tchinovniks robbed the people, and trying to convince him by quotations from scripture that he ought to resist the authorities. the prudent muzhik whipped up his horse and tried to get out of hearing, but the two zealots ran after him and continued the sermon till they were completely out of breath. other propagandists were more practical, and preached a species of agrarian socialism which the rural population could understand. at the time of the emancipation the peasants were convinced as i have mentioned in a previous chapter, that the tsar meant to give them all the land, and to compensate the landed proprietors by salaries. even when the law was read and explained to them, they clung obstinately to their old convictions, and confidently expected that the real emancipation would be proclaimed shortly. taking advantage of this state of things, the propagandists to whom i refer confirmed the peasants in their error, and sought in this way to sow discontent against the proprietors and the government. their watchword was "land and liberty," and they formed for a good many years a distinct group, under that title (zemlya i volya, or more briefly zemlevoltsi). in the st. petersburg group, which aspired to direct and control this movement, there were one or two men who held different views as to the real object of propaganda and agitation. one of these, prince krapotkin, has told the world what his object was at that time. he hoped that the government would be frightened and that the autocratic power, as in france on the eve of the revolution, would seek support in the landed proprietors, and call together a national assembly. thus a constitution would be granted, and though the first assembly might be conservative in spirit, autocracy would be compelled in the long run to yield to parliamentary pressure. no such elaborate projects were entertained, i believe, by the majority of the propagandists. their reasoning was much simpler: "the government, having become reactionary, tries to prevent us from enlightening the people; we will do it in spite of the government!" the dangers to which they exposed themselves only confirmed them in their resolution. though they honestly believed themselves to be realists and materialists, they were at heart romantic idealists, panting to do something heroic. they had been taught by the apostles whom they venerated, from belinski downwards, that the man who simply talks about the good of the people, and does nothing to promote it, is among the most contemptible of human beings. no such reproach must be addressed to them. if the government opposed and threatened, that was no excuse for inactivity. they must be up and doing. "forward! forward! let us plunge into the people, identify ourselves with them, and work for their benefit! suffering is in store for us, but we must endure it with fortitude!" the type which tchernishevski had depicted in his famous novel, under the name of rakhmetof--the youth who led an ascetic life and subjected himself to privation and suffering as a preparation for future revolutionary activity--now appeared in the flesh. if we may credit bakunin, these rakhmetofs had not even the consolation of believing in the possibility of a revolution, but as they could not and would not remain passive spectators of the misfortunes of the people, they resolved to go in among the masses in order to share with them fraternally their sufferings, and at the same time to teach and prepare, not theoretically, but practically by their living example.* this is, i believe, an exaggeration. the propagandists were, for the most part of incredibly sanguine temperament. * bakunin: "gosudarstvennost' i anarkhiya" ("state organisation and anarchy"), zurich, . the success of the propaganda and agitation was not at all in proportion to the numbers and enthusiasm of those who took part in it. most of these displayed more zeal than mother-wit and discretion. their socialism was too abstract and scientific to be understood by rustics, and when they succeeded in making themselves intelligible they awakened in their hearers more suspicion than sympathy. the muzhik is a very matter-of-fact practical person, totally incapable of understanding what americans call "hifalutin" tendencies in speech and conduct, and as he listened to the preaching of the new gospel doubts and questionings spontaneously rose in his mind: "what do those young people, who betray their gentlefolk origin by their delicate white hands, their foreign phrases, their ignorance of the common things of everyday peasant life, really want? why are they bearing hardships and taking so much trouble? they tell us it is for our good, but we are not such fools and simpletons as they take us for. they are not doing it all for nothing. what do they expect from us in return? whatever it is, they are evidently evil-doers, and perhaps moshenniki (swindlers). devil take them!" and thereupon the cautious muzhik turns his back upon his disinterested self-sacrificing teachers, or goes quietly and denounces them to the police! it is not only in spain that we encounter don quixotes and sancho panzas! occasionally a worse fate befell the missionaries. if they allowed themselves, as they sometimes did, to "blaspheme" against religion or the tsar, they ran the risk of being maltreated on the spot. i have heard of one case in which the punishment for blasphemy was applied by sturdy peasant matrons. even when they escaped such mishaps they had not much reason to congratulate themselves on their success. after three years of arduous labour the hundreds of apostles could not boast of more than a score or two of converts among the genuine working classes, and even these few did not all remain faithful unto death. some of them, however, it must be admitted, laboured and suffered to the end with the courage and endurance of true martyrs. it was not merely the indifference or hostility of the masses that the propagandists had to complain of. the police soon got on their track, and did not confine themselves to persuasion and logical arguments. towards the end of they arrested some members of the central directory group in st. petersburg, and in the following may they discovered in the province of saratof an affiliated organisation with which nearly persons were connected, about one-fifth of them belonging to the female sex. a few came of well-to-do families--sons and daughters of minor officials or small landed proprietors--but the great majority were poor students of humbler origin, a large contingent being supplied by the sons of the poor parish clergy. in other provinces the authorities made similar discoveries. before the end of the year a large proportion of the propagandists were in prison, and the centralised organisation, so far as such a thing existed, was destroyed. gradually it dawned on the minds even of the don quixotes that pacific propaganda was no longer possible, and that attempts to continue it could lead only to useless sacrifices. for a time there was universal discouragement in the revolutionary ranks; and among those who had escaped arrest there were mutual recriminations and endless discussions about the causes of failure and the changes to be made in modes of action. the practical results of these recriminations and discussions was that the partisans of a slow, pacific propaganda retired to the background, and the more impatient revolutionary agitators took possession of the movement. these maintained stoutly that as pacific propaganda had become impossible, stronger methods must be adopted. the masses must be organised so as to offer successful resistance to the government. conspiracies must therefore be formed, local disorders provoked, and blood made to flow. the part of the country which seemed best adapted for experiments of this kind was the southern and southeastern region, inhabited by the descendants of the turbulent cossack population which had raised formidable insurrections under stenka razin and pugatcheff in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. here, then, the more impatient agitators began their work. a kief group called the buntari (rioters), composed of about twenty-five individuals, settled in various localities as small shopkeepers or horse dealers, or went about as workmen or peddlers. one member of the group has given us in his reminiscences an amusing account of the experiment. everywhere the agitators found the peasants suspicious and inhospitable, and consequently they had to suffer a great deal of discomfort. some of them at once gave up the task as hopeless. the others settled in a village and began operations. having made a topographic survey of the locality, they worked out an ingenious plan of campaign; but they had no recruits for the future army of insurrection, and if they had been able to get recruits, they had no arms for them, and no money wherewith to purchase arms or anything else. in these circumstances they gravely appointed a committee to collect funds, knowing very well that no money would be forthcoming. it was as if a shipwrecked crew in an open boat, having reached the brink of starvation, appointed a committee to obtain a supply of fresh water and provisions! in the hope of obtaining assistance from headquarters, a delegate was sent to st. petersburg and moscow to explain that for the arming of the population about a quarter of a million of roubles was required. the delegate brought back thirty second-hand revolvers! the revolutionist who confesses all this* recognises that the whole scheme was childishly unpractical: "we chose the path of popular insurrection because we had faith in the revolutionary spirit of the masses, in its power and its invincibility. that was the weak side of our position; and the most curious part of it was that we drew proofs in support of our theory from history--from the abortive insurrections of pazin and pugatcheff, which took place in an age when the government had only a small regular army and no railways or telegraphs! we did not even think of attempting a propaganda among the military!" in the district of tchigirin the agitators had a little momentary success, but the result was the same. there a student called stefanovitch pretended that the tsar was struggling with the officials to benefit the peasantry, and he showed the simple rustics a forged imperial manifesto in which they were ordered to form a society for the purpose of raising an insurrection against the officials, the nobles, and the priests. at one moment (april, ), the society had about members, but a few months later it was discovered by the police, and the leaders and peasants were arrested. * debogorio-mokrievitch. "vospominaniya" ("reminiscences"). paris, - . when it had thus become evident that propaganda and agitation were alike useless, and when numerous arrests were being made daily, it became necessary for the revolutionists to reconsider their position, and some of the more moderate proposed to rally to the liberals, as a temporary measure. hitherto there had been very little sympathy and a good deal of openly avowed hostility between liberals and revolutionists. the latter, convinced that they could overthrow the autocratic power by their own unaided efforts, had looked askance at liberalism because they believed that parliamentary discussions and party struggles would impede rather than facilitate the advent of the socialist millennium, and strengthen the domination of the bourgeoisie without really improving the condition of the masses. now, however, when the need of allies was felt, it seemed that constitutional government might be used as a stepping-stone for reaching the socialist ideal, because it must grant a certain liberty of the press and of association, and it would necessarily abolish the existing autocratic system of arresting, imprisoning and exiling, on mere suspicion, without any regular form of legal procedure. as usual, an appeal was made to history, and arguments were easily found in favour of this course of action. the past of other nations had shown that in the march of progress there are no sudden leaps and bounds, and it was therefore absurd to imagine, as the revolutionists had hitherto done, that russian autocracy could be swallowed by socialism at a gulp. there must always be periods of transition, and it seemed that such a transition period might now be initiated. liberalism might be allowed to destroy, or at least weaken, autocracy, and then it might be destroyed in its turn by socialism of the most advanced type. having adopted this theory of gradual historic development, some of the more practical revolutionists approached the more advanced liberals and urged them to more energetic action; but before anything could be arranged the more impatient revolutionists--notably the group called the narodovoltsi (national-will-ists)--intervened, denounced what they considered an unholy alliance, and proposed a policy of terrorism by which the government would be frightened into a more conciliatory attitude. their idea was that the officials who displayed most zeal against the revolutionary movement should be assassinated, and that every act of severity on the part of the administration should be answered by an act of "revolutionary justice." as it was evident that the choice between these two courses of action must determine in great measure the future character and ultimate fate of the movement, there was much discussion between the two groups; but the question did not long remain in suspense. soon the extreme party gained the upper hand, and the terrorist policy was adopted. i shall let the revolutionists themselves explain this momentous decision. in a long proclamation published some years later it is explained thus: "the revolutionary movement in russia began with the so-called 'going in among the people.' the first russian revolutionists thought that the freedom of the people could be obtained only by the people itself, and they imagined that the only thing necessary was that the people should absorb socialistic ideas. to this it was supposed that the peasantry were naturally inclined, because they already possess, in the rural commune, institutions which contain the seeds of socialism, and which might serve as a basis for the reconstruction of society according to socialist principles. the propagandists hoped, therefore, that in the teachings of west european socialism the people would recognise its own instinctive creations in riper and more clearly defined forms and that it would joyfully accept the new teaching. "but the people did not understand its friends, and showed itself hostile to them. it turned out that institutions born in slavery could not serve as a foundation for the new construction, and that the man who was yesterday a serf, though capable of taking part in disturbances, is not fitted for conscious revolutionary work. with pain in their heart the revolutionists had to confess that they were deceived in their hopes of the people. around them were no social revolutionary forces on which they could lean for support, and yet they could not reconcile themselves with the existing state of violence and slavery. thereupon awakened a last hope--the hope of a drowning man who clutches at a straw: a little group of heroic and self-sacrificing individuals might accomplish with their own strength the difficult task of freeing russia from the yoke of autocracy. they had to do it themselves, because there was no other means. but would they be able to accomplish it? for them that question did not exist. the struggle of that little group against autocracy was like the heroic means on which a doctor decides when there is no longer any hope of the patient's recovery. terrorism was the only means that remained, and it had the advantage of giving a natural vent to pent-up feelings, and of seeming a reaction against the cruel persecutions of the government. the party called the narodnaya volya (national will) was accordingly formed, and during several years the world witnessed a spectacle that had never been seen before in history. the narodnaya volya, insignificant in numbers but strong in spirit, engaged in single combat with the powerful russian government. neither executions, nor imprisonment with hard labour, nor ordinary imprisonment and exile, destroyed the energy of the revolutionists. under their shots fell, one after the other, the most zealous and typical representatives of arbitrary action and violence. . . ." it was at this time, in , when propaganda and agitation among the masses were being abandoned for the system of terrorism, but before any assassinations had taken place, that i accidentally came into personal relations with some prominent adherents of the revolutionary movement. one day a young man of sympathetic appearance, whom i did not know and who brought no credentials, called on me in st. petersburg and suggested to me that i might make public through the english press what he described as a revolting act of tyranny and cruelty committed by general trepof, the prefect of the city. that official, he said, in visiting recently one of the prisons, had noticed that a young political prisoner called bogolubof did not salute him as he passed, and he had ordered him to be flogged in consequence. to this i replied that i had no reason to disbelieve the story, but that i had equally no reason to accept it as accurate, as it rested solely on the evidence of a person with whom i was totally unacquainted. my informant took the objection in good part, and offered me the names and addresses of a number of persons who could supply me with any proofs that i might desire. at his next visit i told him i had seen several of the persons he had named, and that i could not help perceiving that they were closely connected with the revolutionary movement. i then went on to suggest that as the sympathisers with that movement constantly complained that they were systematically misrepresented, calumniated and caricatured, the leaders ought to give the world an accurate account of their real doctrines, and in this respect i should be glad to assist them. already i knew something of the subject, because i had many friends and acquaintances among the sympathisers, and had often had with them interminable discussions. with their ideas, so far as i knew them, i felt bound to confess that i had no manner of sympathy, but i flattered myself, and he himself had admitted, that i was capable of describing accurately and criticising impartially doctrines with which i did not agree. my new acquaintance, whom i may call dimitry ivan'itch, was pleased with the proposal, and after he had consulted with some of his friends, we came to an agreement by which i should receive all the materials necessary for writing an accurate account of the doctrinal side of the movement. with regard to any conspiracies that might be in progress, i warned him that he must be strictly reticent, because if i came accidentally to know of any terrorist designs, i should consider it my duty to warn the authorities. for this reason i declined to attend any secret conclaves, and it was agreed that i should be instructed without being initiated. the first step in my instruction was not very satisfactory or encouraging. one day dimitri ivan'itch brought me a large manuscript, which contained, he said, the real doctrines of the revolutionists and the explanation of their methods. i was surprised to find that it was written in english, and i perceived at a glance that it was not at all what i wanted. as soon as i had read the first sentence i turned to my friend and said: "i am very sorry to find, dimitri ivan'itch, that you have not kept your part of the bargain. we agreed, you may remember, that we were to act towards each other in absolutely good faith, and here i find a flagrant bit of bad faith in the very first sentence of the manuscript which you have brought me. the document opens with the statement that a large number of students have been arrested and imprisoned for distributing books among the people. that statement may be true according to the letter, but it is evidently intended to mislead. these youths have been arrested, as you must know, not for distributing ordinary books, as the memorandum suggests, but for distributing books of a certain kind. i have read some of them, and i cannot feel at all surprised that the government should object to their being put into the hands of the ignorant masses. take, for example, the one entitled khitraya mekhanika, and others of the same type. the practical teaching they contain is that the peasants should be ready to rise and cut the throats of the landed proprietors and officials. now, a wholesale massacre of the kind may or may not be desirable in the interests of society, and justifiable according to some new code of higher morality. that is a question into which i do not enter. all i maintain is that the writer of this memorandum, in speaking of 'books,' meant to mislead me." dimitri ivan'itch looked puzzled and ashamed. "forgive me," he said; "i am to blame--not for having attempted to deceive you, but for not having taken precautions. i have not read the manuscript, and i could not if i wished, for it is written in english, and i know no language but my mother tongue. my friends ought not to have done this. give me back the paper, and i shall take care that nothing of the sort occurs in future." this promise was faithfully kept, and i had no further reason to complain. dimitri ivan'itch gave me a considerable amount of information, and lent me a valuable collection of revolutionary pamphlets. unfortunately the course of tuition was suddenly interrupted by unforeseen circumstances, which i may mention as characteristic of life in st. petersburg at the time. my servant, an excellent young russian, more honest than intelligent, came to me one morning with a mysterious air, and warned me to be on my guard, because there were "bad people" going about. on being pressed a little, he explained to me what he meant. two strangers had come to him and, after offering him a few roubles, had asked him a number of questions about my habits--at what hour i went out and came home, what persons called on me, and much more of the same sort. "they even tried, sir, to get into your sitting-room; but of course i did not allow them. i believe they want to rob you!" it was not difficult to guess who these "bad people" were who took such a keen interest in my doings, and who wanted to examine my apartment in my absence. any doubts i had on the subject were soon removed. on the morrow and following days i noticed that whenever i went out, and wherever i might walk or drive, i was closely followed by two unsympathetic-looking individuals--so closely that when i turned round sharp they ran into me. the first and second times this little accident occurred they received a strong volley of unceremonious vernacular; but when we became better acquainted we simply smiled at each other knowingly, as the old roman augurs are supposed to have done when they met in public unobserved. there was no longer any attempt at concealment or mystification. i knew i was being shadowed, and the shadowers could not help perceiving that i knew it. yet, strange to say, they were never changed! the reader probably assumes that the secret police had somehow got wind of my relations with the revolutionists. such an assumption presupposes on the part of the police an amount of intelligence and perspicacity which they do not usually possess. on this occasion they were on an entirely wrong scent, and the very day when i first noticed my shadowers, a high official, who seemed to regard the whole thing as a good joke, told me confidentially what the wrong scent was. at the instigation of an ex-ambassador, from whom i had the misfortune to differ in matters of foreign policy, the moscow gazette had denounced me publicly by name as a person who was in the habit of visiting daily the ministry of foreign affairs--doubtless with the nefarious purpose of obtaining by illegal means secret political information--and the police had concluded that i was a fit and proper person to be closely watched. in reality, my relations with the russian foreign office, though inconvenient to the ex-ambassador, were perfectly regular and above-board--sanctioned, in fact, by prince gortchakoff--but the indelicate attentions of the secret police were none the less extremely unwelcome, because some intelligent police-agent might get onto the real scent, and cause me serious inconvenience. i determined, therefore, to break off all relations with dimitri ivan'itch and his friends, and postpone my studies to a more convenient season; but that decision did not entirely extricate me from my difficulties. the collection of revolutionary pamphlets was still in my possession, and i had promised to return it. for some little time i did not see how i could keep my promise without compromising myself or others, but at last--after having had my shadowers carefully shadowed in order to learn accurately their habits, and having taken certain elaborate precautions, with which i need not trouble the reader, as he is not likely ever to require them--i paid a visit secretly to dimitri ivan'itch in his small room, almost destitute of furniture, handed him the big parcel of pamphlets, warned him not to visit me again, and bade him farewell. thereupon we went our separate ways and i saw him no more. whether he subsequently played a leading part in the movement i never could ascertain, because i did not know his real name; but if the conception which i formed of his character was at all accurate, he probably ended his career in siberia, for he was not a man to look back after having put his hand to the plough. that is a peculiar trait of the russian revolutionists of the period in question. their passion for realising an impossible ideal was incurable. many of them were again and again arrested; and as soon as they escaped or were liberated they almost invariably went back to their revolutionary activity and worked energetically until they again fell into the clutches of the police. from this digression into the sphere of personal reminiscences i return now and take up again the thread of the narrative. we have seen how the propaganda and the agitation had failed, partly because the masses showed themselves indifferent or hostile, and partly because the government adopted vigorous repressive measures. we have seen, too, how the leaders found themselves in face of a formidable dilemma; either they must abandon their schemes or they must attack their persecutors. the more energetic among them, as i have already stated, chose the latter alternative, and they proceeded at once to carry out their policy. in the course of a single year (february, , to february, ) a whole series of terrorist crimes was committed; in kief an attempt was made on the life of the public prosecutor, and an officer of gendarmerie was stabbed; in st. petersburg the chief of the political police of the empire (general mezentsef) was assassinated in broad daylight in one of the central streets, and a similar attempt was made on his successor (general drenteln); at kharkof the governor (prince krapotkin) was shot dead when entering his residence. during the same period two members of the revolutionary organisation, accused of treachery, were "executed" by order of local committees. in most cases the perpetrators of the crimes contrived to escape. one of them became well known in western europe as an author under the pseudonym of stepniak. terrorism had not the desired effect. on the contrary, it stimulated the zeal and activity of the authorities, and in the course of the winter of - hundreds of arrests--some say as many as , --were made in st. petersburg alone. driven to desperation, the revolutionists still at large decided that it was useless to assassinate mere officials; the fons et origo mali must be reached; a blow must be struck at the tsar himself! the first attempt was made by a young man called solovyoff, who fired several shots at alexander ii. as he was walking near the winter palace, but none of them took effect. this policy of aggressive terrorism did not meet with universal approval among the revolutionists, and it was determined to discuss the matter at a congress of delegates from various local circles. the meetings were held in june, , two months after solovyoff's unsuccessful attempt, at two provincial towns, lipetsk and voronezh. it was there agreed in principle to confirm the decision of the terrorist narodovoltsi. as the liberals were not in a position to create liberal institutions or to give guarantees for political rights, which are the essential conditions of any socialist agitation, there remained for the revolutionary party no other course than to destroy the despotic autocracy. thereupon a programme of action was prepared, and an executive committee elected. from that moment, though there were still many who preferred milder methods, the terrorists had the upper hand, and they at once proceeded to centralise the organisation and to introduce stricter discipline, with greater precautions to ensure secrecy. the executive committee imagined that by assassinating the tsar autocracy might be destroyed, and several carefully planned attempts were made. the first plan was to wreck the train when the imperial family were returning to st. petersburg from the crimea. mines were accordingly laid at three separate points, but they all failed. at the last of the three points (near moscow) a train was blown up, but it was not the one in which the imperial family was travelling. not at all discouraged by this failure, nor by the discovery of its secret printing-press by the police, the executive committee next tried to attain its object by an explosion of dynamite in the winter palace when the imperial family were assembled at dinner. the execution was entrusted to a certain halturin, one of the few revolutionists of peasant origin. as an exceptionally clever carpenter and polisher, he easily found regular employment in the palace, and he contrived to make a rough plan of the building. this plan, on which the dining-hall was marked with an ominous red cross, fell into the hands of the police, and they made what they considered a careful investigation; but they failed to unravel the plot and did not discover the dynamite concealed in the carpenters' sleeping quarters. halturin showed wonderful coolness while the search was going on, and continued to sleep every night on the explosive, though it caused him excruciating headaches. when he was assured by the chemist of the executive committee that the quantity collected was sufficient, he exploded the mine at the usual dinner hour, and contrived to escape uninjured.* in the guardroom immediately above the spot where the dynamite was exploded ten soldiers were killed and wounded, and in the dining-hall the floor was wrecked, but the imperial family escaped in consequence of not sitting down to dinner at the usual hour. * after living some time in roumania he returned to russia under the name of stepanof, and in he was tried and executed for complicity in the assassination of general strebnekof. for this barbarous act the executive committee publicly accepted full responsibility. in a proclamation placarded in the streets of st. petersburg it declared that, while regretting the death of the soldiers, it was resolved to carry on the struggle with the autocratic power until the social reforms should be entrusted to a constituent assembly, composed of members freely elected and furnished with instructions from their constituents. finding police-repression so ineffectual, alexander ii. determined to try the effect of conciliation, and for this purpose he placed loris melikof at the head of the government, with semi-dictatorial powers (february, ). the experiment did not succeed. by the terrorists it was regarded as "a hypocritical liberalism outwardly and a veiled brutality within," while in the official world it was condemned as an act of culpable weakness on the part of the autocracy. one consequence of it was that the executive committee was encouraged to continue its efforts, and, as the police became much less active, it was enabled to improve the revolutionary organisation. in a circular sent to the affiliated provincial associations it explained that the only source of legislation must be the national will,* and as the government would never accept such a principle, its hand must be forced by a great popular insurrection, for which all available forces should be organised. the peasantry, as experience had shown, could not yet be relied on, but efforts should be made to enrol the workmen of the towns. great importance was attached to propaganda in the army; but as few conversions had been made among the rank and file, attention was to be directed chiefly to the officers, who would be able to carry their subordinates with them at the critical moment. * hence the designation narodovoltsi (which, as we have seen, means literally national-will-ists) adopted by this section. while thus recommending the scheme of destroying autocracy by means of a popular insurrection in the distant future, the committee had not abandoned more expeditious methods, and it was at that moment hatching a plot for the assassination of the tsar. during the winter months his majesty was in the habit of holding on sundays a small parade in the riding-school near the michael square in st. petersburg. on sunday, march d, , the streets by which he usually returned to the palace had been undermined at two places, and on an alternative route several conspirators were posted with hand-grenades concealed under their great coats. the emperor chose the alternative route. here, at a signal given by sophia perovski, the first grenade was thrown by a student called ryssakoff, but it merely wounded some members of the escort. the emperor stopped and got out of his sledge, and as he was making inquiries about the wounded soldiers a second grenade was thrown by a youth called grinevitski, with fatal effect. alexander ii. was conveyed hurriedly to the winter palace, and died almost immediately. by this act the members of the executive committee proved their energy and their talent as conspirators, but they at the same time showed their shortsightedness and their political incapacity; for they had made no preparations for immediately seizing the power which they so ardently coveted--with the intention of using it, of course, entirely for the public good. if the facts were not so well authenticated, we might dismiss the whole story as incredible. a group of young people, certainly not more than thirty or forty in number, without any organised material force behind them, without any influential accomplices in the army or the official world, without any prospect of support from the masses, and with no plan for immediate action after the assassination, deliberately provoked the crisis for which they were so hopelessly unprepared. it has been suggested that they expected the liberals to seize the supreme power, but this explanation is evidently an afterthought, because they knew that the liberals were as unprepared as themselves and they regarded them at that time as dangerous rivals. besides this, the explanation is quite irreconcilable with the proclamation issued by the executive committee immediately afterwards. the most charitable way of explaining the conduct of the conspirators is to suppose that they were actuated more by blind hatred of the autocracy and its agents than by political calculations of a practical kind--that they acted simply like a wounded bull in the arena, which shuts its eyes and recklessly charges its tormentors. the murder of the emperor had not at all the effect which the narodovoltsi anticipated. on the contrary, it destroyed their hopes of success. many people of liberal convictions who sympathised vaguely with the revolutionary movement without taking part in it, and who did not condemn very severely the attacks on police officials, were horrified when they found that the would-be reformers did not spare even the sacred person of the tsar. at the same time, the police officials, who had become lax and inefficient under the conciliatory regime of loris melikof, recovered their old zeal, and displayed such inordinate activity that the revolutionary organisation was paralysed and in great measure destroyed. six of the regicides were condemned to death, and five of them publicly executed, amongst the latter sophia perovski, one of the most active and personally sympathetic personages among the revolutionists. scores of those who had taken an active part in the movement were in prison or in exile. for a short time the propaganda was continued among military and naval officers, and various attempts at reorganisation, especially in the southern provinces, were made, but they all failed. a certain degaief, who had taken part in the formation of military circles, turned informer, and aided the police. by his treachery not only a considerable number of officers, but also vera filipof, a young lady of remarkable ability and courage, who was the leading spirit in the attempts at reorganisation, were arrested. there were still a number of leaders living abroad, and from time to time they sent emissaries to revive the propaganda, but these efforts were all fruitless. one of the active members of the revolutionary party, leo deutsch, who has since published his memoirs, relates how the tide of revolution ebbed rapidly at this time. "both in russia and abroad," he says, "i had seen how the earlier enthusiasm had given way to scepticism; men had lost faith, though many of them would not allow that it was so. it was clear to me that a reaction had set in for many years." of the attempts to resuscitate the movement he says: "the untried and unskilfully managed societies were run to death before they could undertake anything definite, and the unity and interdependence which characterised the original band of members had disappeared." with regard to the want of unity, another prominent revolutionist (maslof) wrote to a friend (dragomanof) at geneva in in terms of bitter complaint. he accused the executive committee of trying to play the part of chief of the whole revolutionary party, and declared that its centralising tendencies were more despotic than those of the government. distributing orders among its adherents without initiating them into its plans, it insisted on unquestioning obedience. the socialist youth, ardent adherents of federalism, were indignant at this treatment, and began to understand that the committee used them simply as chair a canon. the writer described in vivid colours the mutual hostility which reigned among various fractions of the party, and which manifested itself in accusations and even in denunciations; and he predicted that the narodnaya volya, which had organised the various acts of terrorism culminating in the assassination of the emperor, would never develop into a powerful revolutionary party. it had sunk into the slough of untruth, and it could only continue to deceive the government and the public. in the mutual recriminations several interesting admissions were made. it was recognised that neither the educated classes nor the common people were capable of bringing about a revolution: the former were not numerous enough, and the latter were devoted to the tsar and did not sympathise with the revolutionary movement, though they might perhaps be induced to rise at a moment of crisis. it was considered doubtful whether such a rising was desirable, because the masses, being insufficiently prepared, might turn against the educated minority. in no case could a popular insurrection attain the object which the socialists had in view, because the power would either remain in the hands of the tsar--thanks to the devotion of the common people--or it would fall into the hands of the liberals, who would oppress the masses worse than the autocratic government had done. further, it was recognised that acts of terrorism were worse than useless, because they were misunderstood by the ignorant, and tended to inflame the masses against the leaders. it seemed necessary, therefore, to return to a pacific propaganda. tikhomirof, who was nominally directing the movement from abroad, became utterly discouraged, and wrote in to one of his emissaries in russia (lopatin): "you now see russia, and can convince yourself that it does not possess the material for a vast work of reorganisation. . . . i advise you seriously not to make superhuman efforts and not to make a scandal in attempting the impossible. . . . if you do not want to satisfy yourself with trifles, come away and await better times." in examining the material relating to this period one sees clearly that the revolutionary movement had got into a vicious circle. as pacific propaganda had become impossible, in consequence of the opposition of the authorities and the vigilance of the police, the government could be overturned only by a general insurrection; but the general insurrection could not be prepared without pacific propaganda. as for terrorism, it had become discredited. tikhomirof himself came to the conclusion that the terrorist idea was altogether a mistake, not only morally, but also from the point of view of political expediency. a party, he explained, has either the force to overthrow the government, or it has not; in the former case it has no need of political assassination, and in the latter the assassinations have no effect, because governments are not so stupid as to let themselves be frightened by those who cannot overthrow them. plainly there was nothing to be done but to wait for better times, as he had suggested, and the better times did not seem to be within measurable distance. he himself, after publishing a brochure entitled "why i ceased to be a revolutionist," made his peace with the government, and others followed his example.* in one prison nine made formal recantations, among them emilianof, who held a reserve bomb ready when alexander ii. was assassinated. occasional acts of terrorism showed that there was still fire under the smouldering embers, but they were few and far between. the last serious incident of the kind during this period was the regicide conspiracy of sheviryoff in march, . the conspirators, carrying the bombs, were arrested in the principal street of st. petersburg, and five of them were hanged. the railway accident of borki, which happened in the following year, and in which the imperial family had a very narrow escape, ought perhaps to be added to the list, because there is reason to believe that it was the work of revolutionists. * tikhomirof subsequently worked against the social democrats in moscow in the interests of the government. by this time all the cooler heads among the revolutionists, especially those who were living abroad in personal safety, had come to understand that the socialist ideal could not be attained by popular insurrection, terrorism, or conspiracies, and consequently that further activity on the old lines was absurd. those of them who did not abandon the enterprise in despair reverted to the idea that autocratic power, impregnable against frontal attacks, might be destroyed by prolonged siege operations. this change of tactics is reflected in the revolutionary literature. in , for example, the editor of the svobodnaya rossia declared that the aim of the movement now was political freedom--not only as a stepping-stone to social reorganisation, but as a good in itself. this is, he explains, the only possible revolution at present in russia. "for the moment there can be no other immediate practical aim. ulterior aims are not abandoned, but they are not at present within reach. . . the revolutionists of the seventies and the eighties did not succeed in creating among the peasantry or the town workmen anything which had even the appearance of a force capable of struggling with the government; and the revolutionists of the future will have no greater success until they have obtained such political rights as personal inviolability. our immediate aim, therefore, is a national assembly controlled by local self-government, and this can be brought about only by a union of all the revolutionary forces." there were still indications, it is true, that the old spirit of terrorism was not yet quite extinct: captain zolotykhin, for example, an officer of the moscow secret police, was assassinated by a female revolutionist in . but such incidents were merely the last fitful sputterings of a lamp that was going out for want of oil. in stepniak declared it evident to all that the professional revolutionists could not alone overthrow autocracy, however great their energy and heroism; and he arrived at the same conclusion as the writer just quoted. of course, immediate success was not to be expected. "it is only from the evolutionist's point of view that the struggle with autocracy has a meaning. from any other standpoint it must seem a sanguinary farce--a mere exercise in the art of self-sacrifice!" such are the conclusions arrived at in by a man who had been in one of the leading terrorists, and who had with his own hand assassinated general mezentsef, chief of the political police. thus the revolutionary movement, after passing through four stages, which i may call the academic, the propagandist, the insurrectionary, and the terrorist, had failed to accomplish its object. one of those who had taken an active part in it, and who, after spending two years in siberia as a political exile, escaped and settled in western europe, could write thus: "our revolutionary movement is dead, and we who are still alive stand by the grave of our beautiful departed and discuss what is wanting to her. one of us thinks that her nose should be improved; another suggests a change in her chin or her hair. we do not notice the essential that what our beautiful departed wants is life; that it is not a matter of hair or eyebrows, but of a living soul, which formerly concealed all defects, and made her beautiful, and which now has flown away. however we may invent changes and improvements, all these things are utterly insignificant in comparison with what is really wanting, and what we cannot give; for who can breathe a living soul into a corpse?" in truth, the movement which i have endeavoured to describe was at an end; but another movement, having the same ultimate object, was coming into existence, and it constitutes one of the essential factors of the present situation. some of the exiles in switzerland and paris had become acquainted with the social-democratic and labour movements in western europe, and they believed that the strategy and tactics employed in these movements might be adopted in russia. how far they have succeeded in carrying out this policy i shall relate presently; but before entering on this subject, i must explain how the application of such a policy had been rendered possible by changes in the economic conditions. russia had begun to create rapidly a great manufacturing industry and an industrial proletariat. this will form the subject of the next chapter. chapter xxxvi industrial progress and the proletariat russia till lately a peasant empire--early efforts to introduce arts and crafts--peter the great and his successors--manufacturing industry long remains an exotic--the cotton industry--the reforms of alexander ii.--protectionists and free trade--progress under high tariffs--m. witte's policy--how capital was obtained--increase of exports--foreign firms cross the customs frontier--rapid development of iron industry--a commercial crisis--m. witte's position undermined by agrarians and doctrinaires--m. plehve a formidable opponent--his apprehensions of revolution--fall of m. witte--the industrial proletariat. fifty years ago russia was still essentially a peasant empire, living by agriculture of a primitive type, and supplying her other wants chiefly by home industries, as was the custom in western europe during the middle ages. for many generations her rulers had been trying to transplant into their wide dominions the art and crafts of the west, but they had formidable difficulties to contend with, and their success was not nearly as great as they desired. we know that as far back as the fourteenth century there were cloth-workers in moscow, for we read in the chronicles that the workshops of these artisans were sacked when the town was stormed by the tartars. workers in metal had also appeared in some of the larger towns by that time, but they do not seem to have risen much above the level of ordinary blacksmiths. they were destined, however, to make more rapid progress than other classes of artisans, because the old tsars of muscovy, like other semi-barbarous potentates, admired and envied the industries of more civilised countries mainly from the military point of view. what they wanted most was a plentiful supply of good arms wherewith to defend themselves and attack their neighbours, and it was to this object that their most strenuous efforts were directed. as early as ivan iii., the grandfather of ivan the terrible, sent a delegate to venice to seek out for him an architect who, in addition to his own craft, knew how to make guns; and in due course appeared in the kremlin a certain muroli, called aristotle by his contemporaries on account of his profound learning. he undertook "to build churches and palaces, to cast big bells and cannons, to fire off the said cannons, and to make every sort of castings very cunningly"; and for the exercise of these various arts it was solemnly stipulated in a formal document that he should receive the modest salary of ten roubles monthly. with regard to the military products, at least, the venetian faithfully fulfilled his contract, and in a short time the tsar had the satisfaction of possessing a "cannon-house," subsequently dignified with the name of "arsenal." some of the natives learned the foreign art, and exactly a century later ( ) a russian, or at least a slav, called tchekhof, produced a famous "tsar-cannon," weighing as much as , lbs. the connection thus established with the mechanical arts of the west was always afterwards maintained, and we find frequent notices of the fact in contemporary writers. in the reign of the grandfather of peter the great, for example, two paper-works were established by an italian; and velvet for the tsar and his boyars, gold brocades for ecclesiastical vestments, and rude kinds of glass for ordinary purposes were manufactured under the august patronage of the enlightened ruler. his son alexis went a good many steps further, and scandalised his god-fearing orthodox subjects by his love of foreign heretical inventions. it was in his german suburb of moscow that young peter, who was to be crowned "the great," made his first acquaintance with the useful arts of the west. when the great reformer came to the throne he found in his tsardom, besides many workshops, some ten foundries, all of which were under orders "to cast cannons, bombs, and bullets, and to make arms for the service of the state." this seemed to him only a beginning, especially for the mining and iron industry, in which he was particularly interested. by importing foreign artificers and placing at their disposal big estates, with numerous serfs, in the districts where minerals were plentiful, and by carefully stipulating that these foreigners should teach his subjects well, and conceal from them none of the secrets of the craft, he created in the ural a great iron industry, which still exists at the present day. finding by experience that state mines and state ironworks were a heavy drain on his insufficiently replenished treasury, he transferred some of them to private persons, and this policy was followed occasionally by his successors. hence the gigantic fortunes of the demidofs and other families. the shuvalovs, for example, in possessed, for the purpose of working their mines and ironworks, no less than , serfs and a corresponding amount of land. unfortunately the concessions were generally given not to enterprising business-men, but to influential court-dignitaries, who confined their attention to squandering the revenues, and not a few of the mines and works reverted to the government. the army required not only arms and ammunition, but also uniforms and blankets. great attention, therefore, was paid to the woollen industry from the reign of peter downwards. in the time of catherine there were already cloth factories, but they were on a very small scale, according to modern conceptions. ten factories in moscow, for example, had amongst them only looms, workers, and a yearly output for , roubles. while thus largely influenced in its economic policy by military considerations, the government did not entirely neglect other branches of manufacturing industry. ever since russia had pretensions to being a civilised power its rulers have always been inclined to pay more attention to the ornamental than the useful--to the varnish rather than the framework of civilisation--and we need not therefore be surprised to find that long before the native industry could supply the materials required for the ordinary wants of humble life, attempts were made to produce such things as gobelin tapestries. i mention this merely as an illustration of a characteristic trait of the national character, the influence of which may be found in many other spheres of official activity. if russia did not attain the industrial level of western europe, it was not from want of ambition and effort on the part of the rulers. they worked hard, if not always wisely, for this end. manufacturers were exempted from rates and taxes, and even from military service, and some of them, as i have said, received large estates from the crown on the understanding that the serfs should be employed as workmen. at the same time they were protected from foreign competition by prohibitive tariffs. in a word, the manufacturing industry was nursed and fostered in a way to satisfy the most thorough-going protectionist, especially those branches which worked up native raw material such as ores, flax, hemp, wool, and tallow. occasionally the official interference and anxiety to protect public interests went further than the manufacturers desired. on more than one occasion the authorities fixed the price of certain kinds of manufactured goods, and in the senate, being anxious to protect the population from fires, ordered all glass and iron works within a radius of versts around moscow to be destroyed! in spite of such obstacles, the manufacturing industry as a whole made considerable progress. between and the number of establishments officially recognised as factories rose from to . these results did not satisfy catherine ii., who ascended the throne in . under the influence of her friends, the french encyclopedistes, she imagined for a time that the official control might be relaxed, and that the system of employing serfs in the factories and foundries might be replaced by free labour, as in western europe; monopolies might be abolished, and all liege subjects, including the peasants, might be allowed to embark in industrial undertakings as they pleased, "for the benefit of the state and the nation." all this looked very well on paper, but catherine never allowed her sentimental liberalism to injure seriously the interests of her empire, and she accordingly refrained from putting the laissez-faire principle largely into practice. though a good deal has been written about her economic policy, it is hardly distinguishable from that of her predecessors. like them, she maintained high tariffs, accorded large subsidies, and even prevented the export of raw material, in the hope that it might be worked up at home; and when the prices in the woollen market rose very high, she compelled the manufacturers to supply the army with cloth at a price fixed by the authorities. in short, the old system remained practically unimpaired, and notwithstanding the steady progress made during the reign of nicholas i. ( - ), when the number of factory hands rose from , to , , the manufacturing industry as a whole continued to be, until the serfs were emancipated in , a hothouse plant which could flourish only in an officially heated atmosphere. there was one branch of it, however, to which this remark does not apply. the art of cotton-spinning and cotton-weaving struck deep root in russian soil. after remaining for generations in the condition of a cottage industry--the yarn being distributed among the peasants and worked up by them in their own homes--it began, about , to be modernised. though it still required to be protected against foreign competition, it rapidly outgrew the necessity for direct official support. big factories driven by steam-power were constructed, the number of hands employed rose to , , and the foundations of great fortunes were laid. strange to say, many of the future millionaires were uneducated serfs. sava morozof, for example, who was to become one of the industrial magnates of moscow, was a serf belonging to a proprietor called ryumin; most of the others were serfs of count sheremetyef--the owner of a large estate on which the industrial town of ivanovo had sprung up--who was proud of having millionaires among his serfs, and who never abused his authority over them. the great movement, however, was not effected without the assistance of foreigners. foreign foremen were largely employed, and in the work of organisation a leading part was played by a german called ludwig knoop. beginning life as a commercial traveller for an english firm, he soon became a large cotton importer, and when in a feverish activity was produced in the russian manufacturing world by the government's permission to import english machines, his firm supplied these machines to the factories on condition of obtaining a share in the business. it has been calculated that it obtained in this way a share in no less than factories, and hence arose among the peasantry a popular saying: "where there is a church, there you find a pope, and where there is a factory, there you find a knoop."* the biggest creation of the firm was a factory built at narva in , with nearly half a million spindles driven by water-power. * gdye tserkov--tam pop; a gdye fabrika--tam knop. in the second half of last century a revolution was brought about in the manufacturing industry generally by the emancipation of the serfs, the rapid extension of railways, the facilities for creating limited liability companies, and by certain innovations in the financial policy of the government. the emancipation put on the market an unlimited supply of cheap labour; the construction of railways in all directions increased a hundredfold the means of communication; and the new banks and other credit institutions, aided by an overwhelming influx of foreign capital, encouraged the foundation and extension of industrial and commercial enterprise of every description. for a time there was great excitement. it was commonly supposed that in all matters relating to trade and industry russia had suddenly jumped up to the level of western europe, and many people in st. petersburg, carried away by the prevailing enthusiasm for liberalism in general and the doctrines of free trade in particular, were in favour of abolishing protectionism as an antiquated restriction on liberty and an obstacle to economic progress. at one moment the government was disposed to yield to the current, but it was restrained by an influential group of conservative political economists, who appealed to patriotic sentiment, and by the moscow manufacturers, who declared that free trade would ruin the country. after a little hesitation it proceeded to raise, instead of lowering, the protectionist tariff. in - the ad valorem duties were, on an average, under thirteen per cent., but from that time onwards they rose steadily, until the last five years of the century, when they averaged thirty-three per cent., and were for some articles very much higher. in this way the moscow industrial magnates were protected against the influx of cheap foreign goods, but they were not saved from foreign competition, for many foreign manufacturers, in order to enjoy the benefit of the high duties, founded factories in russia. even the firmly established cotton industry suffered from these intruders. industrial suburbs containing not a few cotton factories sprang up around st. petersburg; and a small polish village called lodz, near the german frontier, grew rapidly into a prosperous town of , inhabitants, and became a serious rival to the ancient muscovite capital. so severely was the competition of this young upstart felt, that the moscow merchants petitioned the emperor to protect them by drawing a customs frontier round the polish provinces, but their petition was not granted. under the shelter of the high tariffs the manufacturing industry as a whole has made rapid progress, and the cotton trade has kept well to the front. in that branch, between and , the number of hands employed rose from , to , , and the estimated value of the products from to millions of roubles. in the number of spindles was considerably over six millions, and the number of automatic weaving machines , . the iron industry has likewise progressed rapidly, though it has not yet outgrown the necessity for government support, and it is not yet able to provide for all home wants. about forty years ago it received a powerful impulse from the discovery that in the provinces to the north of the crimea and the sea of azof there were enormous quantities of iron ore and beds of good coal in close proximity to each other. thanks to this discovery and to other facts of which i shall have occasion to speak presently, this district, which had previously been agricultural and pastoral, has outstripped the famous ural region, and has become the black country of russia. the vast lonely steppe, where formerly one saw merely the peasant-farmer, the shepherd, and the tchumak,* driving along somnolently with his big, long-horned, white bullocks, is now dotted over with busy industrial settlements of mushroom growth, and great ironworks--some of them unfinished; while at night the landscape is lit up with the lurid flames of gigantic blast-furnaces. in this wonderful transformation, as in the history of russian industrial progress generally, a great part was played by foreigners. the pioneer who did most in this district was an englishman, john hughes, who began life as the son and pupil of a welsh blacksmith, and whose sons are now directors of the biggest of the south russian ironworks. * the tchumak, a familiar figure in the songs and legends of little russia, was the carrier who before the construction of railways transported the grain to the great markets, and brought back merchandise to the interior. he is gradually disappearing. much as the south has progressed industrially in recent years, it still remains far behind those industrial portions of the country which were thickly settled at an earlier date. from this point of view the most important region is the group of provinces clustering round moscow; next comes the st. petersburg region, including livonia; and thirdly poland. as for the various kinds of industry, the most important category is that of textile fabrics, the second that of articles of nutrition, and the third that of ores and metals. the total production, if we may believe certain statistical authorities, places russia now among the industrial nations of the world in the fifth place, immediately after the united states, england, germany, and france, and a little before austria. the man who has in recent times carried out most energetically the policy of protecting and fostering native industries is m. witte, a name now familiar to western europe. an avowed disciple of the great german economist, friedrich list, about whose works he published a brochure in , he held firmly, from his youth upwards, the doctrine that "each nation should above all things develop harmoniously its natural resources to the highest possible degree of independence, protecting its own industries and preferring the national aim to the pecuniary advantage of individuals." as a corollary to this principle he declared that purely agricultural countries are economically backward and intellectually stagnant, being condemned to pay tribute to the nations who have learned to work up their raw products into more valuable commodities. the good old english doctrine that certain countries were intended by providence to be eternally agricultural, and that their function in the economy of the universe is to supply raw material for the industrial nations, was always in his eyes an abomination--an ingenious, nefarious invention of the manchester school, astutely invented for the purpose of keeping the younger nations permanently in a state of economic bondage for the benefit of english manufacturers. to emancipate russia from this thraldom by enabling her to create a great native industry, sufficient to supply all her own wants, was the aim of his policy and the constant object of his untiring efforts. those who have had the good fortune to know him personally must have often heard him discourse eloquently on this theme, supporting his views by quotations from the economists of his own school, and by illustrations drawn from the history of his own and other countries. a necessary condition of realising this aim was that there should be high tariffs. these already existed, and they might be raised still higher, but in themselves they were not enough. for the rapid development of the native industry an enormous capital was required, and the first problem to be solved was how this capital could be obtained. at one moment the energetic minister conceived the project of creating a fictitious capital by inflating the paper currency; but this idea proved unpopular. when broached in the council of state it encountered determined opposition. some of the members of that body, especially m. bunge, who had been himself minister of finance, and who remembered the evil effects of the inordinate inflation of the currency on foreign exchanges during the turkish war, advocated strongly the directly opposite course--a return to gold monometallism, for which m. vishnegradski, m. witte's immediate predecessor, had made considerable preparations. being a practical man without inveterate prejudices, m. witte gave up the scheme which he could not carry through, and adopted the views of his opponents. he would introduce the gold currency as recommended; but how was the requisite capital to be obtained? it must be procured from abroad, somehow, and the simplest way seemed to be to stimulate the export of native products. for this purpose the railways were extended,* the traffic rates manipulated, and the means of transport improved generally. * in , when m. witte undertook the financial administration, there were , versts of railway, and at the end of there were , versts. a certain influx of gold was thus secured, but not nearly enough for the object in view.* some more potent means, therefore, had to be employed, and the inventive minister evolved a new scheme. if he could only induce foreign capitalists to undertake manufacturing industries in russia, they would, at one and the same time, bring into the country the capital required, and they would cooperate powerfully in that development of the national industry which he so ardently wished. no sooner had he roughly sketched out his plan--for he was not a man to let the grass grow under his feet--than he set himself to put it into execution by letting it be known in the financial world that the government was ready to open a great field for lucrative investments, in the form of profitable enterprises under the control of those who subscribed the capital. * in the total value of the exports was roughly , , pounds. it then fell, in consequence of bad harvests, to millions, and did not recover the previous maximum until , when it stood at millions. thereafter there was a steady rise till , when the total was estimated at millions. foreign capitalists responded warmly to the call. crowds of concession-hunters, projectors, company promoters, et hoc genus omne, collected in st. petersburg, offering their services on the most tempting terms; and all of them who could make out a plausible case were well received at the ministry of finance. it was there explained to them that in many branches of industry, such as the manufacture of textile fabrics, there was little or no room for newcomers, but that in others the prospects were most brilliant. take, for example, the iron industries of southern russia. the boundless mineral wealth of that region was still almost intact, and the few works which had been there established were paying very large dividends. the works founded by john hughes, for example, had repeatedly divided considerably over twenty per cent., and there was little fear for the future, because the government had embarked on a great scheme of railway extension, requiring an unlimited amount of rails and rolling-stock. what better opening could be desired? certainly the opening seemed most attractive, and into it rushed the crowd of company promoters, followed by stock-jobbers and brokers, playing lively pieces of what the germans call zukunftsmusik. an unwary and confiding public, especially in belgium and france, listened to the enchanting strains of the financial syrens, and invested largely. quickly the number of completed ironworks in that region rose from nine to seventeen, and in the short space of three years the output of pig-iron was nearly doubled. in there were blast furnaces in working order, and ten more were in course of construction. and all this time the imperial revenue increased by leaps and bounds, so that the introduction of the gold currency was effected without difficulty. m. witte was declared to be the greatest minister of his time--a russian colbert or turgot, or perhaps the two rolled into one. then came a change. competition and over-production led naturally to a fall in prices, and at the same time the demand decreased, because the railway-building activity of the government slackened. alarmed at this state of things, the banks which had helped to start and foster the huge and costly enterprises contracted their credits. by the end of the disenchantment was general and widespread. some of the companies were so weighted by the preliminary financial obligations, and had conducted their affairs in such careless, reckless fashion, that they had soon to shut down their mines and close their works. even solid undertakings suffered. the shares of the briansk works, for example, which had given dividends as high as per cent., fell from to . the mamontof companies--supposed to be one of the strongest financial groups in the country--had to suspend payment, and numerous other failures occurred. nearly all the commercial banks, having directly participated in the industrial concerns, were rudely shaken. m. witte, who had been for a time the idol of a certain section of the financial world, became very unpopular, and was accused of misleading the investing public. among the accusations brought against him some at least could easily be refuted. he may have made mistakes in his policy, and may have been himself over-sanguine, but surely, as he subsequently replied to his accusers, it was no part of his duty to warn company promoters and directors that they should refrain from over-production, and that their enterprises might not be as remunerative as they expected. as to whether there is any truth in the assertion that he held out prospects of larger government orders than he actually gave, i cannot say. that he cut down prices, and showed himself a hard man to deal with, there seems no doubt. the reader may naturally be inclined to jump to the conclusion that the commercial crisis just referred to was the cause of m. witte's fall. such a conclusion would be entirely erroneous. the crisis happened in the winter of - , and m. witte remained finance minister until the autumn of . his fall was the result of causes of a totally different kind, and these i propose now to explain, because the explanation will throw light on certain very curious and characteristic conceptions at present current in the russian educated classes. of course there were certain causes of a purely personal kind, but i shall dismiss them in a very few words. i remember once asking a well-informed friend of m. witte's what he thought of him as an administrator and a statesman. the friend replied: "imagine a negro of the gold coast let loose in modern european civilisation!" this reply, like most epigrammatic remarks, is a piece of gross exaggeration, but it has a modicum of truth in it. in the eyes of well-trained russian officials m. witte was a titanic, reckless character, capable at any moment of playing the part of the bull in the china-shop. as a masterful person, brusque in manner and incapable of brooking contradiction, he had made for himself many enemies; and his restless, irrepressible energy had led him to encroach on the provinces of all his colleagues. possessing as he did the control of the purse, his interference could not easily be resisted. the ministers of interior, war, agriculture, public works, public instruction, and foreign affairs had all occasion to complain of his incursions into their departments. in contrast to his colleagues, he was not only extremely energetic, but he was ever ready to assume an astounding amount of responsibility; and as he was something of an opportunist, he was perhaps not always quixotically scrupulous in the choice of expedients for attaining his ends. altogether m. witte was an inconvenient personage in an administration in which strong personality is regarded as entirely out of place, and in which personal initiative is supposed to reside exclusively in the tsar. in addition to all this he was a man who felt keenly, and when he was irritated he did not always keep the unruly member under strict control. if i am correctly informed, it was some imprudent and not very respectful remarks, repeated by a subordinate and transmitted by a grand duke to the tsar, which were the immediate cause of his transfer from the influential post of minister of finance to the ornamental position of president of the council of ministers; but that was merely the proverbial last straw that broke the camel's back. his position was already undermined, and it is the undermining process which i wish to describe. the first to work for his overthrow were the agrarian conservatives. they could not deny that, from the purely fiscal point of view, his administration was a marvellous success; for he was rapidly doubling the revenue, and he had succeeded in replacing the fluctuating depreciated paper currency by a gold coinage; but they maintained that he was killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. evidently the tax-paying power of the rural classes was being overstrained, for they were falling more and more into arrears in the payment of their taxes, and their impoverishment was yearly increasing. all their reserves had been exhausted, as was shown by the famines of - , when the government had to spend hundreds of millions to feed them. whilst the land was losing its fertility, those who had to live by it were increasing in numbers at an alarming rate. already in some districts one-fifth of the peasant households had no longer any land of their own, and of those who still possessed land a large proportion had no longer the cattle and horses necessary to till and manure their allotments. no doubt m. witte was beginning to perceive his mistake, and had done something to palliate the evils by improving the system of collecting the taxes and abolishing the duty on passports, but such merely palliative remedies could have little effect. while a few capitalists were amassing gigantic fortunes, the masses were slowly and surely advancing to the brink of starvation. the welfare of the agriculturists, who constitute nine-tenths of the whole population, was being ruthlessly sacrificed, and for what? for the creation of a manufacturing industry which rested on an artificial, precarious basis, and which had already begun to decline. so far the agrarians, who champion the interests of the agricultural classes. their views were confirmed and their arguments strengthened by an influential group of men whom i may call, for want of a better name, the philosophers or doctrinaire interpreters of history, who have, strange to say, more influence in russia than in any other country. the russian educated classes desire that the nation should be wealthy and self-supporting, and they recognise that for this purpose a large manufacturing industry is required; but they are reluctant to make the sacrifices necessary to attain the object in view, and they imagine that, somehow or other, these sacrifices may be avoided. sympathising with this frame of mind, the doctrinaires explain that the rich and prosperous countries of europe and america obtained their wealth and prosperity by so-called "capitalism"--that is to say, by a peculiar social organisation in which the two main factors are a small body of rich capitalists and manufacturers and an enormous pauper proletariat living from hand to mouth, at the mercy of the heartless employers of labour. russia has lately followed in the footsteps of those wealthy countries, and if she continues to do so she will inevitably be saddled with the same disastrous results--plutocracy, pauperism, unrestrained competition in all spheres of activity, and a greatly intensified struggle for life, in which the weaker will necessarily go to the wall.* * free competition in all spheres of activity, leading to social inequality, plutocracy, and pauperism, is the favourite bugbear of russian theorists; and who is not a theorist in russia? the fact indicates the prevalence of socialist ideas in the educated classes. happily there is, according to these theorists, a more excellent way, and russia can adopt it if she only remains true to certain mysterious principles of her past historic development. without attempting to expound those mysterious principles, to which i have repeatedly referred in previous chapters, i may mention briefly that the traditional patriarchal institutions on which the theorists found their hopes of a happy social future for their country are the rural commune, the native home-industries, and the peculiar co-operative institutions called artels. how these remnants of a semi-patriarchal state of society are to be practically developed in such a way as to withstand the competition of manufacturing industry organised on modern "capitalist" lines, no one has hitherto been able to explain satisfactorily, but many people indulge in ingenious speculations on the subject, like children planning the means of diverting with their little toy spades a formidable inundation. in my humble opinion, the whole theory is a delusion; but it is held firmly--i might almost say fanatically--by those who, in opposition to the indiscriminate admirers of west-european and american civilisation, consider themselves genuine russians and exceptionally good patriots. m. witte has never belonged to that class. he believes that there is only one road to national prosperity--the road by which western europe has travelled--and along this road he tried to drive his country as rapidly as possible. he threw himself, therefore, heart and soul into what his opponents call "capitalism," by raising state loans, organising banks and other credit institutions, encouraging the creation and extension of big factories, which must inevitably destroy the home industry, and even--horribile dictu!--undermining the rural commune, and thereby adding to the ranks of the landless proletariat, in order to increase the amount of cheap labour for the benefit of the capitalists. with the arguments thus supplied by agrarians and doctrinaires, quite honest and well-meaning, according to their lights, it was easy to sap m. witte's position. among his opponents, the most formidable was the late m. plehve, minister of interior--a man of a totally different stamp. a few months before his tragic end i had a long and interesting conversation with him, and i came away deeply impressed. having repeatedly had conversations of a similar kind with m. witte, i could compare, or rather contrast, the two men. both of them evidently possessed an exceptional amount of mental power and energy, but in the one it was volcanic, and in the other it was concentrated and thoroughly under control. in discussion, the one reminded me of the self-taught, slashing swordsman; the other of the dexterous fencer, carefully trained in the use of the foils, who never launches out beyond the point at which he can quickly recover himself. as to whether m. plehve was anything more than a bold, energetic, clever official there may be differences of opinion, but he certainly could assume the airs of a profound and polished statesman, capable of looking at things from a much higher point of view than the ordinary tchinovnik, and he had the talent of tacitly suggesting that a great deal of genuine, enlightened statesmanship lay hidden under the smooth surface of his cautious reserve. once or twice i could perceive that when criticising the present state of things he had his volcanic colleague in his mind's eye; but the covert allusions were so vague and so carefully worded that the said colleague, if he had been present, would hardly have been justified in entering a personal protest. a statesman of the higher type, i was made to feel, should deal not with personalities, but with things, and it would be altogether unbecoming to complain of a colleague in presence of an outsider. thus his attitude towards his opponent was most correct, but it was not difficult to infer that he had little sympathy with the policy of the ministry of finance. from other sources i learned the cause of this want of sympathy. being minister of interior, and having served long in the police department, m. plehve considered that his first duty was the maintenance of public order and the protection of the person and autocracy of his august master. he was therefore the determined enemy of revolutionary tendencies, in whatever garb or disguise they might appear; and as a statesman he had to direct his attention to everything likely to increase those tendencies in the future. now it seemed that in the financial policy which had been followed for some years there were germs of future revolutionary fermentation. the peasantry were becoming impoverished, and were therefore more likely to listen to the insidious suggestions of socialist agitators; and already agrarian disturbances had occurred in the provinces of kharkof and poltava. the industrial proletariat which was being rapidly created was being secretly organised by the revolutionary social democrats, and already there had been serious labour troubles in some of the large towns. for any future revolutionary movement the proletariat would naturally supply recruits. then, at the other end of the social scale, a class of rich capitalists was being created, and everybody who has read a little history knows that a rich and powerful tiers etat cannot be permanently conciliated with autocracy. though himself neither an agrarian nor a slavophil doctrinaire, m. plehve could not but have a certain sympathy with those who were forging thunderbolts for the official annihilation of m. witte. he was too practical a man to imagine that the hands on the dial of economic progress could be set back and a return made to moribund patriarchal institutions; but he thought that at least the pace might be moderated. the minister of finance need not be in such a desperate, reckless hurry, and it was desirable to create conservative forces which might counteract the revolutionary forces which his impulsive colleague was inadvertently calling into existence. some of the forgers of thunderbolts went a great deal further, and asserted or insinuated that m. witte was himself consciously a revolutionist, with secret, malevolent intentions. in support of their insinuations they cited certain cases in which well-known socialists had been appointed professors in academies under the control of the ministry of finance, and they pointed to the peasant bank, which enjoyed m. witte's special protection. at first it had been supposed that the bank would have an anti-revolutionary influence by preventing the formation of a landless proletariat and increasing the number of small land-owners, who are always and everywhere conservative so far as the rights of private property are concerned. unfortunately its success roused the fears of the more conservative section of the landed proprietors. these gentlemen, as i have already mentioned, pointed out that the estates of the nobles were rapidly passing into the hands of the peasantry, and that if this process were allowed to continue the hereditary noblesse, which had always been the civilising element in the rural population, and the surest support of the throne, would drift into the towns and there sink into poverty or amalgamate with the commercial plutocracy, and help to form a tiers etat which would be hostile to the autocratic power. in these circumstances it was evident that the headstrong minister of finance could maintain his position only so long as he enjoyed the energetic support of the emperor, and this support, for reasons which i have indicated above, failed him at the critical moment. when his work was still unfinished he was suddenly compelled, by the emperor's command, to relinquish his post and accept a position in which, it was supposed, he would cease to have any influence in the administration. thus fell the russian colbert-turgot, or whatever else he may be called. whether financial difficulties in the future will lead to his reinstatement as minister of finance remains to be seen; but in any case his work cannot be undone. he has increased manufacturing industry to an unprecedented extent, and, as m. plehve perceived, the industrial proletariat which manufacturing industry on capitalist lines always creates has provided a new field of activity for the revolutionists. i return, therefore, to the evolution of the revolutionary movement in order to describe its present phase, the first-fruits of which have been revealed in the labour disturbances in st. petersburg and other industrial centres. chapter xxxvii the revolutionary movement in its latest phase influence of capitalism and proletariat on the revolutionary movement--what is to be done?--reply of plekhanof--a new departure--karl marx's theories applied to russia--beginnings of a social democratic movement--the labour troubles of - in st. petersburg--the social democrats' plan of campaign--schism in the party--trade-unionism and political agitation--the labour troubles of --how the revolutionary groups are differentiated from each other--social democracy and constitutionalism--terrorism--the socialist revolutionaries--the militant organisation--attitude of the government--factory legislation--government's scheme for undermining social democracy--father gapon and his labour association--the great strike in st. petersburg--father gapon goes over to the revolutionaries. the development of manufacturing industry on capitalist lines, and the consequent formation of a large industrial proletariat, produced great disappointment in all the theorising sections of the educated classes. the thousands of men and women who had, since the accession of the tsar-emancipator in , taken a keen, enthusiastic interest in the progress of their native country, all had believed firmly that in some way or other russia would escape "the festering sores of western civilisation." now experience had proved that the belief was an illusion, and those who had tried to check the natural course of industrial progress were constrained to confess that their efforts had been futile. big factories were increasing in size and numbers, while cottage industries were disappearing or falling under the power of middlemen, and the artels had not advanced a step in their expected development. the factory workers, though all of peasant origin, were losing their connection with their native villages and abandoning their allotments of the communal land. they were becoming, in short, a hereditary caste in the town population, and the pleasant slavophil dream of every factory worker having a house in the country was being rudely dispelled. nor was there any prospect of a change for the better in the future. with the increase of competition among the manufacturers, the uprooting of the muzhik from the soil must go on more and more rapidly, because employers must insist more and more on having thoroughly trained operatives ready to work steadily all the year round. this state of things had a curious effect on the course of the revolutionary movement. let me recall very briefly the successive stages through which the movement had already passed. it had been inaugurated, as we have seen, by the nihilists, the ardent young representatives of a "storm-and-stress" period, in which the venerable traditions and respected principles of the past were rejected and ridiculed, and the newest ideas of western europe were eagerly adopted and distorted. like the majority of their educated countrymen, they believed that in the race of progress russia was about to overtake and surpass the nations of the west, and that this desirable result was to be attained by making a tabula rasa of existing institutions, and reconstructing society according to the plans of proudhon, fourier, and the other writers of the early socialist school. when the nihilists had expended their energies and exhausted the patience of the public in theorising, talking, and writing, a party of action came upon the scene. like the nihilists, they desired political, social, and economic reforms of the most thorough-going kind, but they believed that such things could not be effected by the educated classes alone, and they determined to call in the co-operation of the people. for this purpose they tried to convert the masses to the gospel of socialism. hundreds of them became missionaries and "went in among the people." but the gospel of socialism proved unintelligible to the uneducated, and the more ardent, incautious missionaries fell into the hands of the police. those of them who escaped, perceiving the error of their ways, but still clinging to the hope of bringing about a political, social, and economic revolution, determined to change their tactics. the emancipated serf had shown himself incapable of "prolonged revolutionary activity," but there was reason to believe that he was, like his forefathers in the time of stenka razin and pugatcheff, capable of rising and murdering his oppressors. he must be used, therefore, for the destruction of the autocratic power and the bureaucracy, and then it would be easy to reorganise society on a basis of universal equality, and to take permanent precautions against capitalism and the creation of a proletariat. the hopes of the agitators proved as delusive as those of the propagandists. the muzhik turned a deaf ear to their instigations, and the police soon prevented their further activity. thus the would-be root-and-branch reforms found themselves in a dilemma. either they must abandon their schemes for the moment or they must strike immediately at their persecutors. they chose, as we have seen, the latter alternative, and after vain attempts to frighten the government by acts of terrorism against zealous officials, they assassinated the tsar himself; but before they had time to think of the constructive part of their task, their organisation was destroyed by the autocratic power and the bureaucracy, and those of them who escaped arrest had to seek safety in emigration to switzerland and paris. then arose, all along the line of the defeated, decimated revolutionists, the cry, "what is to be done?" some replied that the shattered organisation should be reconstructed, and a number of secret agents were sent successively from switzerland for this purpose. but their efforts, as they themselves confessed, were fruitless, and despondency seemed to be settling down permanently on all, except a few fanatics, when a voice was heard calling on the fugitives to rally round a new banner and carry on the struggle by entirely new methods. the voice came from a revolutionologist (if i may use such a term) of remarkable talent, called m. plekhanof, who had settled in geneva with a little circle of friends, calling themselves the "labour emancipation group." his views were expounded in a series of interesting publications, the first of which was a brochure entitled "socialism and the political struggle," published in . according to m. plekhanof and his group the revolutionary movement had been conducted up to that moment on altogether wrong lines. all previous revolutionary groups had acted on the assumption that the political revolution and the economic reorganisation of society must be effected simultaneously, and consequently they had rejected contemptuously all proposals for reforms, however radical, of a merely political kind. these had been considered, as i have mentioned in a previous chapter, not only as worthless, but as positively prejudicial to the interests of the working classes, because so-called political liberties and parliamentary government would be sure to consolidate the domination of the bourgeoisie. that such has generally been the immediate effect of parliamentary institutions is undeniable, but it did not follow that the creation of such institutions should be opposed. on the contrary, they ought to be welcomed, not merely because, as some revolutionists had already pointed out, propaganda and agitation could be more easily carried on under a constitutional regime, but because constitutionalism is certainly the most convenient, and perhaps the only, road by which the socialistic ideal can ultimately be attained. this is a dark saying, but it will become clearer when i have explained, according to the new apostles, a second error into which their predecessors had fallen. that second error was the assumption that all true friends of the people, whether conservatives, liberals, or revolutionaries, ought to oppose to the utmost the development of capitalism. in the light of karl marx's discoveries in economic science every one must recognise this to be an egregious mistake. that great authority, it was said, had proved that the development of capitalism was irresistible, and his conclusions had been confirmed by the recent history of russia, for all the economic progress made during the last half century had been on capitalist lines. even if it were possible to arrest the capitalist movement, it is not desirable from the revolutionary point of view. in support of this thesis karl marx is again cited. he has shown that capitalism, though an evil in itself, is a necessary stage of economic and social progress. at first it is prejudicial to the interests of the working classes, but in the long run it benefits them, because the ever-growing proletariat must, whether it desires it or not, become a political party, and as a political party it must one day break the domination of the bourgeoisie. as soon as it has obtained the predominant political power, it will confiscate, for the public good, the instruments of production--factories, foundries, machines, etc.--by expropriating the capitalist. in this way all the profits which accrue from production on a large scale, and which at present go into the pockets of the capitalists, will be distributed equally among the workmen. thus began a new phase of the revolutionary movement, and, like all previous phases, it remained for some years in the academic stage, during which there were endless discussions on theoretical and practical questions. lavroff, the prophet of the old propaganda, treated the new ideas "with grandfatherly severity," and tikhomirof, the leading representative of the moribund narodnaya volya, which had prepared the acts of terrorism, maintained stoutly that the west european methods recommended by plekhanof were inapplicable to russia. the plekhanof group replied in a long series of publications, partly original and partly translations from marx and engels, explaining the doctrines and aims of the social democrats. seven years were spent in this academic literary activity--a period of comparative repose for the russian secret police--and about the propagandists of the new school began to work cautiously in st. petersburg. at first they confined themselves to forming little secret circles for making converts, and they found that the ground had been to some extent prepared for the seed which they had to sow. the workmen were discontented, and some of the more intelligent amongst them who had formerly been in touch with the propagandists of the older generation had learned that there was an ingenious and effective means of getting their grievances redressed. how was that possible? by combination and strikes. for the uneducated workers this was an important discovery, and they soon began to put the suggested remedy to a practical test. in the autumn of labour troubles broke out in the nevski engineering works and the arsenal, and in the following year in the thornton factory and the cigarette works. in all these strikes the social democratic agents took part behind the scenes. avoiding the main errors of the old propagandists, who had offered the workmen merely abstract socialist theories which no uneducated person could reasonably be expected to understand, they adopted a more rational method. though impervious to abstract theories, the russian workman is not at all insensible to the prospect of bettering his material condition and getting his everyday grievances redressed. of these grievances the ones he felt most keenly were the long hours, the low wages, the fines arbitrarily imposed by the managers, and the brutal severity of the foreman. by helping him to have these grievances removed the social democratic agents might gain his confidence, and when they had come to be regarded by him as his real friends they might widen his sympathies and teach him to feel that his personal interests were identical with the interests of the working classes as a whole. in this way it would be possible to awaken in the industrial proletariat generally a sort of esprit de corps, which is the first condition of political organisation. on these lines the agents set to work. having formed themselves into a secret association called the "union for the emancipation of the working classes," they gradually abandoned the narrow limits of coterie-propaganda, and prepared the way for agitation on a larger scale. among the discontented workmen they distributed a large number of carefully written tracts, in which the material grievances were formulated, and the whole political system, with its police, gendarmes, cossacks, and tax-gathers, was criticised in no friendly spirit, but without violent language. in introducing into the programme this political element, great caution had to be exercised, because the workmen did not yet perceive clearly any close connection between their grievances and the existing political institutions, and those of them who belonged to the older generation regarded the tsar as the incarnation of disinterested benevolence. bearing this in mind, the union circulated a pamphlet for the enlightenment of the labouring population, in which the writer refrained from all reference to the autocratic power, and described simply the condition of the labouring classes, the heavy burdens they had to bear, the abuses of which they were the victims, and the inconsiderate way in which they were treated by their employers. this pamphlet was eagerly read, and from that moment whenever labour troubles arose the men applied to the social democratic agents to assist them in formulating their grievances. of course, the assistance had to be given secretly, because there were always police spies in the factories, and all persons suspected of aiding the labour movement were liable to be arrested and exiled. in spite of this danger the work was carried on with great energy, and in the summer of the field of operations was extended. during the coronation ceremonies of that year the factories and workshops in st. petersburg were closed, and the men considered that for these days they ought to receive wages as usual. when their demand was refused, , of them went out on strike. the social democratic union seized the opportunity and distributed tracts in large quantities. for the first time such tracts were read aloud at workmen's meetings and applauded by the audience. the union encouraged the workmen in their resistance, but advised them to refrain from violence, so as not to provoke the intervention of the police and the military, as they had imprudently done on some previous occasions. when the police did intervene and expelled some of the strike-leaders from st. petersburg, the agitators had an excellent opportunity of explaining that the authorities were the protectors of the employers and the enemies of the working classes. these explanations counteracted the effect of an official proclamation to the workmen, in which m. witte tried to convince them that the tsar was constantly striving to improve their condition. the struggle was decided, not by arguments and exhortations, but by a more potent force; having no funds for continuing the strike, the men were compelled by starvation to resume work. this is the point at which the labour movement began to be conducted on a large scale and by more systematic methods. in the earlier labour troubles the strikers had not understood that the best means of bringing pressure on employers was simply to refuse to work, and they had often proceeded to show their dissatisfaction by ruthlessly destroying their employers' property. this had brought the police, and sometimes the military, on the scene, and numerous arrests had followed. another mistake made by the inexperienced strikers was that they had neglected to create a reserve fund from which they could draw the means of subsistence when they no longer received wages and could no longer obtain credit at the factory provision store. efforts were now made to correct these two mistakes, and with regard to the former they were fairly successful, for wanton destruction of property ceased to be a prominent feature of labour troubles; but strong reserve funds have not yet been created, so that the strikes have never been of long duration. though the strikes had led, so far, to no great practical, tangible results, the new ideas and aspirations were spreading rapidly in the factories and workshops, and they had already struck such deep root that some of the genuine workmen wished to have a voice in the managing committee of the union, which was composed exclusively of educated men. when a request to that effect was rejected by the committee a lengthy discussion took place, and it soon became evident that underneath the question of organisation lay a most important question of principle. the workmen wished to concentrate their efforts on the improvement of their material condition, and to proceed on what we should call trade-unionist lines, whereas the committee wished them to aim also at the acquisition of political rights. great determination was shown on both sides. an attempt of the workmen to maintain a secret organ of their own with the view of emancipating themselves from the "politicals" ended in failure; but they received sympathy and support from some of the educated members of the party, and in this way a schism took place in the social democrat camp. after repeated ineffectual attempts to find a satisfactory compromise, the question was submitted to a congress which was held in switzerland in ; but the discussions merely accentuated the differences of opinion, and the two parties constituted themselves into separate independent groups. the one under the leadership of plekhanof, and calling itself the revolutionary social democrats, held to the marx doctrines in all their extent and purity, and maintained the necessity of constant agitation in the political sense. the other, calling itself the union of foreign social democrats, inclined to the trade-unionism programme, and proclaimed the necessity of being guided by political expediency rather than inflexible dogmas. between the two a wordy warfare was carried on for some time in pedantic, technical language; but though habitually brandishing their weapons and denouncing their antagonists in true homeric style, they were really allies, struggling towards a common end--two sections of the social democratic party differing from each other on questions of tactics. the two divergent tendencies have often reappeared in the subsequent history of the movement. during ordinary peaceful times the economic or trade-unionist tendency can generally hold its own, but as soon as disturbances occur and the authorities have to intervene, the political current quickly gains the upper hand. this was exemplified in the labour troubles which took place at rostoff-on-the-don in . during the first two days of the strike the economic demands alone were put forward, and in the speeches which were delivered at the meetings of workmen no reference was made to political grievances. on the third day one orator ventured to speak disrespectfully of the autocratic power, but he thereby provoked signs of dissatisfaction in the audiences. on the fifth and following days, however, several political speeches were made, ending with the cry of "down with tsarism!" and a crowd of , workmen agreed with the speakers. thereafter occurred similar strikes in odessa, the caucasus, kief, and central russia, and they had all a political rather than a purely economic character. i must now endeavour to explain clearly the point of view and plan of campaign of this new movement, which i may call the revolutionary renaissance. the ultimate aim of the new reformers was the same as that of all their predecessors--the thorough reorganisation of society on socialistic principles. according to their doctrines, society as at present constituted consists of two great classes, called variously the exploiters and the exploited, the shearers and the shorn, the capitalists and the workers, the employers and the employed, the tyrants and the oppressed; and this unsatisfactory state of things must go on so long as the so-called bourgeois or capitalist regime continues to exist. in the new heaven and the new earth of which the socialist dreams this unjust distinction is to disappear; all human beings are to be equally free and independent, all are to cooperate spontaneously with brains and hands to the common good, and all are to enjoy in equal shares the natural and artificial good things of this life. so far there has never been any difference of opinion among the various groups of russian thorough-going revolutionists. all of them, from the antiquated nihilist down to the social democrat of the latest type, have held these views. what has differentiated them from each other is the greater or less degree of impatience to realise the ideal. the most impatient were the anarchists, who grouped themselves around bakunin. they wished to overthrow immediately by a frontal attack all existing forms of government and social organisation, in the hope that chance, or evolution, or natural instinct, or sudden inspiration or some other mysterious force, would create something better. they themselves declined to aid this mysterious force even by suggestions, on the ground that, as one of them has said, "to construct is not the business of the generation whose duty is to destroy." notwithstanding the strong impulsive element in the national character, the reckless, ultra-impatient doctrinaires never became numerous, and never succeeded in forming an organised group, probably because the young generation in russia were too much occupied with the actual and future condition of their own country to embark on schemes of cosmopolitan anarchism such as bakunin recommended. next in the scale of impatience came the group of believers in socialist agitation among the masses, with a view to overturning the existing government and putting themselves in its place as soon as the masses were sufficiently organised to play the part destined for them. between them and the anarchists the essential points of difference were that they admitted the necessity of some years of preparation, and they intended, when the government was overturned, not to preserve indefinitely the state of anarchy, but to put in the place of autocracy, limited monarchy, or the republic, a strong, despotic government thoroughly imbued with socialistic principles. as soon as it had laid firmly the foundations of the new order of things it was to call a national assembly, from which it was to receive, i presume, a bill of indemnity for the benevolent tyranny which it had temporarily exercised. impatience a few degrees less intense produced the next group, the partisans of pacific socialist propaganda. they maintained that there was no necessity for overthrowing the old order of things till the masses had been intellectually prepared for the new, and they objected to the foundation of the new regime being laid by despots, however well-intentioned in the socialist sense. the people must be made happy and preserved in a state of happiness by the people themselves. in the last place came the least impatient of all, the social democrats, who differ widely from all the preceding categories. all previous revolutionary groups had systematically rejected the idea of a gradual transition from the bourgeois to the socialist regime. they would not listen to any suggestion about a constitutional monarchy or a democratic republic even as a mere intermediate stage of social development. all such things, as part and parcel of the bourgeois system, were anathematised. there must be no half-way houses between present misery and future happiness; for many weary travellers might be tempted to settle there in the desert, and fail to reach the promised land. "ever onward" should be the watchword, and no time should be wasted on the foolish struggles of political parties and the empty vanities of political life. not thus thought the social democrat. he was much wiser in his generation. having seen how the attempts of the impatient groups had ended in disaster, and knowing that, if they had succeeded, the old effete despotism would probably have been replaced by a young, vigorous one more objectionable than its predecessor, he determined to try a more circuitous but surer road to the goal which the impatient people had in view. in his opinion the distance from the present russian regime protected by autocracy to the future socialist paradise was far too great to be traversed in a single stage, and he knew of one or two comfortable rest-houses on the way. first there was the rest-house of constitutionalism, with parliamentary institutions. for some years the bourgeoisie would doubtless have a parliamentary majority, but gradually, by persistent effort, the fourth estate would gain the upper hand, and then the socialist millennium might be proclaimed. meanwhile, what had to be done was to gain the confidence of the masses, especially of the factory workers, who were more intelligent and less conservative than the peasantry, and to create powerful labour organisations as material for a future political party. this programme implied, of course, a certain unity of action with the constitutionalists, from whom, as i have said, the revolutionists of the old school had stood sternly aloof. there was now no question of a formal union, and certainly no idea of a "union of hearts," because the socialists knew that their ultimate aim would be strenuously opposed by the liberals, and the liberals knew that an attempt was being made to use them as a cat's-paw; but there seemed to be no reason why they of the two groups should not observe towards each other a benevolent neutrality, and march side by side as far as the half-way house, where they could consider the conditions of the further advance. when i first became acquainted with the russian social democrats i imagined that their plan of campaign was of a purely pacific character; and that they were, unlike their predecessors, an evolutionary, as distinguished from a revolutionary, party. subsequently i discovered that this conception was not quite accurate. in ordinary quiet times they use merely pacific methods, and they feel that the proletariat is not yet sufficiently prepared, intellectually and politically, to assume the great responsibilities which are reserved for it in the future. moreover, when the moment comes for getting rid of the autocratic power, they would prefer a gradual process of liquidation to a sudden cataclysm. so far they may be said to be evolutionaries rather than revolutionaries, but their plan of campaign does not entirely exclude violence. they would not consider it their duty to oppose the use of violence on the part of the more impatient sections of the revolutionists, and they would have no scruples about utilising disturbances for the attainment of their own end. public agitation, which is always likely in russia to provoke violent repression by the authorities, they regard as necessary for keeping alive and strengthening the spirit of opposition; and when force is used by the police they approve of the agitators using force in return. to acts of terrorism, however, they are opposed on principle. who, then, are the terrorists, who have assassinated so many great personages, including the grand duke serge? in reply to this question i must introduce the reader to another group of the revolutionists who have usually been in hostile, rather than friendly, relations with the social democrats, and who call themselves the socialist-revolutionaries (sotsialisty-revolutsionery). it will be remembered that the terrorist group, commonly called narodnaya volya, or narodovoltsi, which succeeded in assassinating alexander ii., were very soon broken up by the police and most of the leading members were arrested. a few escaped, of whom some remained in the country and others emigrated to switzerland or paris, and efforts at reorganisation were made, especially in the southern and western provinces, but they proved ineffectual. at last, sobered by experience and despairing of further success, some of the prisoners and a few of the exiles--notably tikhomirof, who was regarded as the leader--made their peace with the government, and for some years terrorism seemed to be a thing of the past. passing through russia on my way home from india and central asia at that time, i came to the conclusion that the young generation had recovered from its prolonged attack of brain-fever, and had entered on a more normal, tranquil, and healthy period of existence. my expectations proved too optimistic. about the narodnaya volya came to life again, with all its terrorist traditions intact; and shortly afterwards appeared the new group which i have just mentioned, the socialist-revolutionaries, with somewhat similar principles and a better organisation. for some seven or eight years the two groups existed side by side, and then the narodnaya volya disappeared, absorbed probably by its more powerful rival. during the first years of their existence neither group was strong enough to cause the government serious inconvenience, and it was not till - that they found means of issuing manifestos and programmes. in these the narodovoltsi declared that their immediate aims were the annihilation of autocracy, the convocation of a national assembly and the reorganisation of the empire on the principles of federation and local self-government, and that for the attainment of these objects the means to be employed should include popular insurrections, military conspiracies, bombs and dynamite. very similar, though ostensibly a little more eclectic, was the programme of the socialist-revolutionaries. their ultimate aim was declared to be the transfer of political authority from the autocratic power to the people, the abolition of private property in the means of production, and in general the reorganisation of national life on socialist principles. on certain points they were at one with the social democrats. they recognised, for example, that the social reorganisation must be preceded by a political revolution, that much preparatory work was necessary, and that attention should be directed first to the industrial proletariat as the most intelligent section of the masses. on the other hand they maintained that it was a mistake to confine the revolutionary activity to the working classes of the towns, who were not strong enough to overturn the autocratic power. the agitation ought, therefore, to be extended to the peasantry, who were quite "developed" enough to understand at least the idea of land-nationalisation; and for the carrying out of this part of the programme a special organisation was created. with so many opinions in common, it seemed at one moment as if the social democrats and the socialist-revolutionaries might unite their forces for a combined attack on the government; but apart from the mutual jealousy and hatred which so often characterise revolutionary as well as religious sects, they were prevented from coalescing, or even cordially co-operating, by profound differences both in doctrine and in method. the social democrats are essentially doctrinaires. thorough-going disciples of karl marx, they believed in what they consider the immutable laws of social progress, according to which the socialistic ideal can be reached only through capitalism; and the intermediate political revolution, which is to substitute the will of the people for the autocratic power, must be effected by the conversion and organisation of the industrial proletariat. with the spiritual pride of men who feel themselves to be the incarnations or avatars of immutable law, they are inclined to look down with something very like contempt on mere empirics who are ignorant of scientific principles and are guided by considerations of practical expediency. the social-revolutionaries seem to them to be empirics of this kind because they reject the tenets, or at least deny the infallibility, of the marx school, cling to the idea of partially resisting the overwhelming influence of capitalism in russia, hope that the peasantry will play at least a secondary part in bringing about the political revolution, and are profoundly convinced that the advent of political liberty may be greatly accelerated by the use of terrorism. on this last point they stated their views very frankly in a pamphlet which they published in under the title of "our task" (nasha zadatcha). it is there said: "one of the powerful means of struggle, dictated by our revolutionary past and present, is political terrorism, consisting of the annihilation of the most injurious and influential personages of russian autocracy in given conditions. systematic terrorism, in conjunction with other forms of open mass-struggle (industrial riots and agrarian risings, demonstrations, etc.), which receive from terrorism an enormous, decisive significance, will lead to the disorganisation of the enemy. terrorist activity will cease only with the victory over autocracy and the complete attainment of political liberty. besides its chief significance as a means of disorganising, terrorist activity will serve at the same time as a means of propaganda and agitation, a form of open struggle taking place before the eyes of the whole people, undermining the prestige of government authority, and calling into life new revolutionary forces, while the oral and literary propaganda is being continued without interruption. lastly, the terrorist activity serves for the whole secret revolutionary party as a means of self-defence and of protecting the organisation against the injurious elements of spies and treachery." in accordance with this theory a "militant organisation" (boevaga organisatsia) was formed and soon set to work with revolvers and bombs. first an attempt was made on the life of pobedonostsef; then the minister of the interior, sipiagin, was assassinated; next attempts were made on the lives of the governors of vilna and kharkof, and the kharkof chief of police; and since that time the governor of ufa, the vice-governor of elizabetpol, the minister of the interior, m. plehve, and the grand duke serge have fallen victims to the terrorist policy.* * in this list i have not mentioned the assassination of m. bogolyepof, minister of public instruction, in , because i do not know whether it should be attributed to the socialist-revolutionaries or to the narodovoltsi, who had not yet amalgamated with them. though the social democrats have no sentimental squeamishness about bloodshed, they objected to this policy on the ground that acts of terrorism were unnecessary and were apt to prove injurious rather than beneficial to the revolutionist cause. one of the main objects of every intelligent revolutionary party should be to awaken all classes from their habitual apathy and induce them to take an active part in the political movement; but terrorism must have a contrary effect by suggesting that political freedom is to be attained, not by the steady pressure and persevering cooperation of the people, but by startling, sensational acts of individual heroism. the efforts of these two revolutionary parties, as well as of minor groups, to get hold of the industrial proletariat did not escape the notice of the authorities; and during the labour troubles of , on the suggestion of m. witte, the government had considered the question as to what should be done to counteract the influence of the agitators. on that question it had no difficulty in coming to a decision; the condition of the working classes must be improved. an expert official was accordingly instructed to write a report on what had already been done in that direction. in his report it was shown that the government had long been thinking about the subject. not to speak of a still-born law about a ten-hour day for artisans, dating from the time of catherine ii., an imperial commission had been appointed as early as , but nothing practical came of its deliberations until , when legislative measures were taken for the protection of women and children in factories. a little later ( ) other grievances were dealt with and partly removed by regulating contracts of hire, providing that the money derived from deductions and fines should not be appropriated by the employers, and creating a staff of factory inspectors who should take care that the benevolent intentions of the government were duly carried out. having reviewed all these official efforts in , the government passed in the following year a law prohibiting night work and limiting the working day to eleven and a half hours. this did not satisfy the workmen. their wages were still low, and it was difficult to get them increased because strikes and all forms of association were still, as they had always been, criminal offences. on this point the government remained firm so far as the law was concerned, but it gradually made practical concessions by allowing the workmen to combine for certain purposes. in , for example, in kharkof, the engineers' mutual aid society was sanctioned, and gradually it became customary to allow the workmen to elect delegates for the discussion of their grievances with the employers and inspectors. finding that these concessions did not check the growing influence of the social democratic agitators among the operatives, the government resolved to go a step further; it would organise the workers on purely trade-unionist lines, and would thereby combat the social democrats, who always advised the strikers to mix up political demands with their material grievances. the project seemed to have a good prospect of success, because there were many workmen, especially of the older generation, who did not at all like the mixing up of politics, which so often led to arrest, imprisonment and exile, with the practical concerns of every day life. the first attempt of the kind was made in moscow under the direction of a certain zubatof, chief of the secret police, who had been himself a revolutionary in his youth, and afterwards an agent provocateur. aided by tikhomirof, the repentant terrorist whom i have already mentioned, zubatof organised a large workmen's association, with reading-rooms, lectures, discussions and other attractions, and sought to convince the members that they should turn a deaf ear to the social democratic agents, and look only to the government for the improvement of their condition. in order to gain their sympathy and confidence, he instructed his subordinates to take the side of the workmen in all labour disputes, while he himself brought official pressure to bear on the employers. by this means he made a considerable number of converts, and for a time the association seemed to prosper, but he did not possess the extraordinary ability and tact required to play the complicated game successfully, and he committed the fatal mistake of using the office-bearers of the association as detectives for the discovery of the "evil-intentioned." this tactical error had its natural consequences. as soon as the workmen perceived that their professed benefactors were police spies, who did not obtain for them any real improvement of their condition, the popularity of the association rapidly declined. at the same time, the factory owners complained to the minister of finance that the police, who ought to be guardians of public order, and who had accused the factory inspectors of stirring up discontent in the labouring population, were themselves creating troubles by inciting the workmen to make inordinate demands. the minister of finance at the moment was m. witte, and the minister of interior, responsible for the acts of the police, was m. plehve, and between these two official dignitaries, who were already in very strained relations, zubatof's activity formed a new base of contention. in these circumstances it is not surprising that the very risky experiment came to an untimely end. in st. petersburg a similar experiment was made, and it ended much more tragically. there the chief rôle was played by a mysterious personage called father gapon, who acquired great momentary notoriety. though a genuine priest, he did not belong by birth, as most russian priests do, to the ecclesiastical caste. the son of a peasant in little russia, where the ranks of the clergy are not hermetically sealed against the other social classes, he aspired to take orders, and after being rusticated from a seminary for supposed sympathy with revolutionary ideas, he contrived to finish his studies and obtain ordination. during a residence in moscow he took part in the zubatof experiment, and when that badly conducted scheme collapsed he was transferred to st. petersburg and appointed chaplain to a large convict prison. his new professional duties did not prevent him from continuing to take a keen interest in the welfare of the working classes, and in the summer of he became, with the approval of the police authorities, president of a large labour union called the society of russian workmen, which had eleven sections in the various industrial suburbs of the capital. under his guidance the experiment proceeded for some months very successfully. he gained the sympathy and confidence of the workmen, and so long as no serious questions arose he kept his hold on them; but a storm was brewing and he proved unequal to the occasion. in the first days of , when the economic consequences of the war had come to be keenly felt, a spirit of discontent appeared among the labouring population of st. petersburg, and on sunday, january th--exactly a week before the famous sunday when the troops were called into play--a strike began in the putilof ironworks and spread like wildfire to the other big works in the neighbourhood. the immediate cause of the disturbance was the dismissal of some workmen and a demand on the part of the labour union that they should be reinstated. a deputation, composed partly of genuine workmen and partly of social democratic agitators, and led by gapon, negotiated with the managers of the putilof works, and failed to effect an arrangement. at this moment gapon tried hard to confine the negotiations to the points in dispute, whereas the agitators put forward demands of a wider kind, such as the eight-hour working day, and they gradually obtained his concurrence on condition that no political demands should be introduced into the programme. in defending this condition he was supported by the workmen, so that when agitators tried to make political speeches at the meetings they were unceremoniously expelled. a similar struggle between the "economists" and the "politicals" was going on in the other industrial suburbs, notably in the nevski quarter, where , operatives had struck work, and the social democrats were particularly active. in this section of the labour union the most influential member was a young workman called petroff, who was a staunch gaponist in the sense that he wished the workers to confine themselves to their own grievances and to resist the introduction of political demands. at first he succeeded in preventing the agitators from speaking at the meetings, but they soon proved too much for him. at one of the meetings on tuesday, when he happened to be absent, a social democrat contrived to get himself elected chairman, and from that moment the political agitators had a free hand. they had a regular organisation composed of an organiser, three "oratorical agitators," and several assistant-organisers who attended the small meetings in the operatives' sleeping-quarters. besides these there were a certain number of workmen already converted to social democratic principles who had learned the art of making political speeches. the reports of the agitators to the central organisation, written hurriedly during this eventful week, are extremely graphic and interesting. they declared that there is a frightful amount of work to be done and very few to do it. their stock of social democratic pamphlets is exhausted and they are hoarse from speech-making. in spite of their superhuman efforts the masses remain frightfully "undeveloped." the men willingly collect to hear the orators, listen to them attentively, express approval or dissent, and even put questions; but with all this they remain obstinately on the ground of their own immediate wants, such as the increase of wages and protection against brutal foremen, and they only hint vaguely at more serious demands. the agitators, however, are equally obstinate, and they make a few converts. to illustrate how conversions are made, the following incident is related. at one meeting the cry of "stop the war!" is raised by an orator without sufficient preparation, and at once a voice is heard in the audience saying. "no, no! the little japs (yaposhki) must be beaten!" thereupon a more experienced orator comes forward and a characteristic conversation takes place: "have we much land of our own, my friends?" asks the orator. "much!" replies the crowd. "do we require manchuria?" "no!" "who pays for the war?" "we do!" "are our brothers dying, and do your wives and children remain without a bit of bread?" "so it is!" say many, with a significant shake of the head. having succeeded so far, the orator tries to turn the popular indignation against the tsar by explaining that he is to blame for all this misery and suffering, but petroff suddenly appears on the scene and maintains that for the misery and suffering the tsar is not at all to blame, for he knows nothing about it. it is all the fault of his servants, the tchinovniks. by this device petroff suppresses the seditious cry of "down with autocracy!" which the social democrats were anxious to make the watchword of the movement, but he has thereby been drawn from his strong position of "no politics," and he is standing, as we shall see presently, on a slippery incline. on thursday and friday the activity of the leaders and the excitement of the masses increase. while the gaponists speak merely of local grievances and material wants, the social democrats incite their hearers to a political struggle, advising them to demand a constituent assembly, and explaining the necessity for all workmen to draw together and form a powerful political party. the haranguing goes on from morning to night, and agitators drive about from one factory to another to keep the excitement at fever-heat. the police, usually so active on such occasions, do not put in an appearance. prince sviatopolk mirski, the honest, well-intentioned, liberal minister of the interior, cannot make up his mind to act with energy, and lets things drift. the agitators themselves are astonished at this extraordinary inactivity. one of them, writing a few days afterwards, says: "the police was paralysed. it would have been easy to arrest gapon, and discover the orators. on friday the clubs might have been surrounded and the orators arrested. . . . in a word, decided measures might have been taken, but they were not." it is not only petroff that has abandoned his strong position of "no politics"; gapon is doing likewise. the movement has spread far beyond what he expected, and he is being carried away by the prevailing excitement. with all his benevolent intentions, he is of a nervous, excitable nature, and his besetting sin is vanity. he perceives that by resisting the social democrats he is losing his hold on the masses. early in the week, as we have seen, he began to widen his programme in the social democratic sense, and every day he makes new concessions. before the week is finished a social democratic orator can write triumphantly: "in three days we have transformed the gaponist assemblies into political meetings!" like petroff, gapon seeks to defend the tsar, and he falls into petroff's strategical mistake of pretending that the tsar knows nothing of the sufferings of his people. from that admission to the resolution that the tsar must somehow be informed personally and directly, by some means outside of the regular official channel, there is but one step, and that step is quickly taken. on friday morning gapon has determined to present with his own hands a petition to his majesty, and the petition is already drafted, containing demands which go far beyond workmen's grievances. after resisting the social democratic agitators so stoutly, he is now going over, bag and baggage, to the social democratic camp. this wonderful change was consummated on friday evening at a conference which he held with some delegates of the social democrats. from an account written by one of these delegates immediately after the meeting we get an insight into the worthy priest's character and motives. in the morning he had written to them: "i have , workmen, and i am going with them to the palace to present a petition. if it is not granted, we shall make a revolution. do you agree?" they did not like the idea, because the social democratic policy is to extort concessions, not to ask favours, and to refrain from anything that might increase the prestige of the autocratic power. in their reply, therefore, they consented simply to discuss the matter. i proceed now to quote from the delegate's account of what took place at the conference: "the company consisted of gapon, with two adherents, and five social democrats. all sat round a table, and the conversation began. gapon is a good-looking man, with dark complexion and thoughtful, sympathetic face. he is evidently very tired, and, like the other orators, he is hoarse. to the questions addressed to him, he replies: 'the masses are at present so electrified that you may lead them wherever you like. we shall go on sunday to the palace, and present a petition. if we are allowed to pass without hindrance, we shall march to the palace square, and summon the tsar from tsarskoe selo. we shall wait for him till the evening. when he arrives, i shall go to him with a deputation, and in presenting to him the petition, i shall say: 'your majesty! things cannot go on like this; it is time to give the people liberty.' (tak nelzya! para dat' narodu svobodu.) if he consents, we shall insist that he take an oath before the people. only then we shall come away, and when we begin to work, it will only be for eight hours a day. if, on the other hand, we are prevented from entering the city, we shall request and beg, and if they do not let us pass, we shall force our way. in the palace square we shall find troops, and we shall entreat them to come over to our side. if they beat us, we shall strike back. there will be sacrifices, but part of the troops will come over to us, and then, being ourselves strong in numbers, we shall make a revolution. we shall construct barricades, pillage the armourers' shops, break open the prisons, and seize the telephones and telegraphs. the socialist-revolutionaries have promised us bombs, and the democrats money: and we shall be victorious!* * this confirms the information which comes to me from other quarters that gapon was already in friendly relations with other revolutionary groups. "such, in a few words, were the ideas which gapon expounded. the impression he made on us was that he did not clearly realise where he was going. acting with sincerity, he was ready to die, but he was convinced that the troops would not fire, and that the deputation would be received by the emperor. he did not distinguish between different methods. though not at all a partisan of violent means, he had become infuriated against autocracy and the tsar, as was shown by his language when he said: 'if that blockhead of a tsar comes out' (yesli etot durak tsar vuidet) . . . burning with the desire to attain his object, he looked on revolution like a child, as if it could be accomplished in a day with empty hands!" knowing that no previous preparations had been made for a revolution such as gapon talked of, the social democratic agents tried to dissuade him from carrying out his idea on sunday, but he stood firm. he had already committed himself publicly to the project. at a workmen's meeting in another quarter (vassiliostrof) earlier in the day he had explained the petition, and said: "let us go to the winter palace and summon the emperor, and let us tell him our wants; if he does not listen to us we do not require him any longer." to a social democrat who shook him warmly by the hand and expressed his astonishment that there should be such a man among the clergy, he replied: "i am no longer a priest; i am a fighter for liberty! they want to exile me, and for some nights i have not slept at home." when offered assistance to escape arrest, he answered laconically: "thanks; i have already a place of refuge." after his departure from the meeting one of his friends, to whom he had confided a copy of the petition, rose and said: "now has arrived the great historical moment! now we can and must demand rights and liberty!" after hearing the petition read the meeting decided that if the tsar did not come out at the demand of the people strong measures should be taken, and one orator indicated pretty plainly what they should be: "we don't require a tsar who is deaf to the woes of the people; we shall perish ourselves, but we shall kill him. swear that you will all come to the palace on sunday at twelve o'clock!" the audience raised their hands in token of assent. finding it impossible to dissuade gapon from his purpose, the social democrats told him that they would take advantage of the circumstances independently, and that if he was allowed to enter the city with his deputation they would organise monster meetings in the palace square. the imperious tone used by gapon at the public meetings and private consultations was adopted by him also in his letters to the minister of the interior and to the emperor. to the former he wrote: "the workmen and inhabitants of st. petersburg of various classes desire to see the tsar at two o'clock on sunday in the winter palace square, in order to lay before him personally their needs and those of the whole russian people. . . . tell the tsar that i and the workmen, many thousands in number, have peacefully, with confidence in him, but irrevocably, resolved to proceed to the winter palace. let him show his confidence by deeds, and not by manifestos." to the tsar himself his language was not more respectful: "sovereign,--i fear the ministers have not told you the truth about the situation. the whole people, trusting in you, has resolved to appear at the winter palace at two o'clock in the afternoon, in order to inform you of its needs. if you hesitate, and do not appear before the people, then you tear the moral bonds between you and them. trust in you will disappear, because innocent blood will flow. appear to-morrow before your people and receive our address of devotion in a courageous spirit! i and the labour representatives, my brave comrades, guarantee the inviolability of your person." gapon was no longer merely the president of the workmen's union: inebriated with the excitement he had done so much to create, he now imagined himself the representative of the oppressed russian people, and the heroic leader of a great political revolution. in the petition which he had prepared he said little about the grievances of the st. petersburg workmen whose interests he had a right to advocate, and preferred to soar into much higher regions: "the bureaucracy has brought the country to the verge of ruin, and, by a shameful war, is bringing it to its downfall. we have no voice in the heavy burdens imposed on us; we do not even know for whom or why this money is wrung from the impoverished people, and we do not know how it is expended. this state of things is contrary to the divine laws, and renders life unbearable. assembled before your palace, we plead for our salvation. refuse not your aid; raise your people from the tomb, and give them the means of working out their own destiny. rescue them from the intolerable yoke of officialdom; throw down the wall that separates you from them, in order that they may rule with you the country that was created for their happiness--a happiness which is being wrenched from us, leaving nothing but sorrow and humiliation." with an innate sentiment of autocratic dignity the emperor declined to obey the imperious summons, and he thereby avoided an unseemly altercation with the excited priest, as well as the boisterous public meetings which the social democrats were preparing to hold in the palace square. orders were given to the police and the troops to prevent the crowds of workmen from penetrating into the centre of the city from the industrial suburbs. the rest need not be described in detail. on sunday the crowds tried to force their way, the troops fired, and many of the demonstrators were killed or wounded. how many it is impossible to say; between the various estimates there is an enormous discrepancy. at one of the first volleys father gapon fell, but he turned out to be quite unhurt, and was spirited away to his place of refuge, whence he escaped across the frontier. as soon as he had an opportunity of giving public expression to his feelings, he indulged in very strong language. in his letters and proclamations the tsar is called a miscreant and an assassin, and is described as traitorous, bloodthirsty, and bestial. to the ministers he is equally uncomplimentary. they appear to him an accursed band of brigands, mamelukes, jackals, monsters. against the tsar, "with his reptilian brood," and the ministers alike, he vows vengeance--"death to them all!" as for the means for realising his sacred mission, he recommends bombs, dynamite, individual and wholesale terrorism, popular insurrection, and paralysing the life of the cities by destroying the water-mains, the gas-pipes, the telegraph and telephone wires, the railways and tram-ways, the government buildings and the prisons. at some moments he seems to imagine himself invested with papal powers, for he anathematises the soldiers who did their duty on the eventful day, whilst he blesses and absolves from their oath of allegiance those who help the nation to win liberty. so far i have spoken merely of the main currents in the revolutionary movement. of the minor currents--particularly those in the outlying provinces, where the socialist tendencies were mingled with nationalist feeling--i shall have occasion to speak when i come to deal with the present political situation as a whole. meanwhile, i wish to sketch in outline the foreign policy which has powerfully contributed to bring about the present crisis. chapter xxxviii territorial expansion and foreign policy rapid growth of russia--expansive tendency of agricultural peoples--the russo-slavonians--the northern forest and the steppe--colonisation--the part of the government in the process of expansion--expansion towards the west--growth of the empire represented in a tabular form--commercial motive for expansion--the expansive force in the future--possibilities of expansion in europe--persia, afghanistan, and india--trans-siberian railway and weltpolitik--a grandiose scheme--determined opposition of japan--negotiations and war--russia's imprudence explained--conclusion. the rapid growth of russia is one of the most remarkable facts of modern history. an insignificant tribe, or collection of tribes, which, a thousand years ago, occupied a small district near the sources of the dnieper and western dvina, has grown into a great nation with a territory stretching from the baltic to the northern pacific, and from the polar ocean to the frontiers of turkey, persia, afghanistan, and china. we have here a fact well deserving of investigation, and as the process is still going on and is commonly supposed to threaten our national interests, the investigation ought to have for us more than a mere scientific interest. what is the secret of this expansive power? is it a mere barbarous lust of territorial aggrandisement, or is it some more reasonable motive? and what is the nature of the process? is annexation followed by assimilation, or do the new acquisitions retain their old character? is the empire in its present extent a homogeneous whole, or merely a conglomeration of heterogenous units held together by the outward bond of centralised administration? if we could find satisfactory answers to these questions, we might determine how far russia is strengthened or weakened by her annexations of territory, and might form some plausible conjectures as to how, when, and where the process of expansion is to stop. by glancing at her history from the economic point of view we may easily detect one prominent cause of expansion. an agricultural people, employing merely the primitive methods of agriculture, has always a strong tendency to widen its borders. the natural increase of population demands a constantly increasing production of grain, whilst the primitive methods of cultivation exhaust the soil and steadily diminish its productivity. with regard to this stage of economic development, the modest assertion of malthus, that the supply of food does not increase so rapidly as the population, often falls far short of the truth. as the population increases, the supply of food may decrease not only relatively, but absolutely. when a people finds itself in this critical position, it must adopt one of two alternatives: either it must prevent the increase of population, or it must increase the production of food. in the former case it may legalise the custom of "exposing" infants, as was done in ancient greece; or it may regularly sell a large portion of the young women and children, as was done until recently in circassia; or the surplus population may emigrate to foreign lands, as the scandinavians did in the ninth century, and as we ourselves are doing in a more peaceable fashion at the present day. the other alternative may be effected either by extending the area of cultivation or by improving the system of agriculture. the russo-slavonians, being an agricultural people, experienced this difficulty, but for them it was not serious. a convenient way of escape was plainly indicated by their peculiar geographical position. they were not hemmed in by lofty mountains or stormy seas. to the south and east--at their very doors, as it were--lay a boundless expanse of thinly populated virgin soil, awaiting the labour of the husbandman, and ready to repay it most liberally. the peasantry therefore, instead of exposing their infants, selling their daughters, or sweeping the seas as vikings, simply spread out towards the east and south. this was at once the most natural and the wisest course, for of all the expedients for preserving the equilibrium between population and food-production, increasing the area of cultivation is, under the circumstances just described, the easiest and most effective. theoretically the same result might have been obtained by improving the method of agriculture, but practically this was impossible. intensive culture is not likely to be adopted so long as expansion is easy. high farming is a thing to be proud of when there is a scarcity of land, but it would be absurd to attempt it where there is abundance of virgin soil in the vicinity. the process of expansion, thus produced by purely economic causes, was accelerated by influences of another kind, especially during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. the increase in the number of officials, the augmentation of the taxes, the merciless exactions of the voyevods and their subordinates, the transformation of the peasants and "free wandering people" into serfs, the ecclesiastical reforms and consequent persecution of the schismatics, the frequent conscriptions and violent reforms of peter the great--these and other kinds of oppression made thousands flee from their homes and seek a refuge in the free territory, where there were no officials, no tax-gatherers, and no proprietors. but the state, with its army of tax-gatherers and officials, followed close on the heels of the fugitives, and those who wished to preserve their liberty had to advance still further. notwithstanding the efforts of the authorities to retain the population in the localities actually occupied, the wave of colonisation moved steadily onwards. the vast territory which lay open to the colonists consisted of two contiguous regions, separated from each other by no mountains or rivers, but widely differing from each other in many respects. the one, comprising all the northern part of eastern europe and of asia, even unto kamchatka, may be roughly described as a land of forests, intersected by many rivers, and containing numerous lakes and marshes; the other, stretching southwards to the black sea, and eastwards far away into central asia, is for the most part what russians call "the steppe," and americans would call the prairies. each of these two regions presented peculiar inducements and peculiar obstacles to colonisation. so far as the facility of raising grain was concerned, the southern region was decidedly preferable. in the north the soil had little natural fertility, and was covered with dense forests, so that much time and labour had to be expended in making a clearing before the seed could be sown.* in the south, on the contrary, the squatter had no trees to fell, and no clearing to make. nature had cleared the land for him, and supplied him with a rich black soil of marvellous fertility, which has not yet been exhausted by centuries of cultivation. why, then, did the peasant often prefer the northern forests to the fertile steppe where the land was already prepared for him? * the modus operandi has been already described; vide supra, pp. et seq. for this apparent inconsistency there was a good and valid reason. the muzhik had not, even in those good old times, any passionate love of labour for its own sake, nor was he by any means insensible to the facilities for agriculture afforded by the steppe. but he could not regard the subject exclusively from the agricultural point of view. he had to take into consideration the fauna as well as the flora of the two regions. at the head of the fauna in the northern forests stood the peace-loving, laborious finnish tribes, little disposed to molest settlers who did not make themselves obnoxiously aggressive; on the steppe lived the predatory, nomadic hordes, ever ready to attack, plunder, and carry off as slaves the peaceful agricultural population. these facts, as well as the agricultural conditions, were known to intending colonists, and influenced them in their choice of a new home. though generally fearless and fatalistic in a higher degree, they could not entirely overlook the dangers of the steppe, and many of them preferred to encounter the hard work of the forest region. these differences in the character and population of the two regions determined the character of the colonisation. though the colonisation of the northern regions was not effected entirely without bloodshed, it was, on the whole, of a peaceful kind, and consequently received little attention from the contemporary chroniclers. the colonisation of the steppe, on the contrary, required the help of the cossacks, and forms, as i have already shown, one of the bloodiest pages of european history. thus, we see, the process of expansion towards the north, east, and south may be described as a spontaneous movement of the agricultural population. it must, however, be admitted that this is an imperfect and one-sided representation of the phenomenon. though the initiative unquestionably came from the people, the government played an important part in the movement. in early times when russia was merely a conglomeration of independent principalities, the princes were under the moral and political obligation of protecting their subjects, and this obligation coincided admirably with their natural desire to extend their dominions. when the grand princes of muscovy, in the fifteenth century, united the numerous principalities and proclaimed themselves tsars, they accepted this obligation for the whole country, and conceived much grander schemes of territorial aggrandisement. towards the north and northeast no strenuous efforts were required. the republic of novgorod easily gained possession of northern russia as far as the ural mountains, and siberia was conquered by a small band of cossacks without the authorisation of muscovy, so that the tsars had merely to annex the already conquered territory. in the southern region the part played by the government was very different. the agricultural population had to be constantly protected along a frontier of enormous length, lying open at all points to the incursions of nomadic tribes. to prevent raids it was necessary to keep up a military cordon, and this means did not always ensure protection to those living near the frontier. the nomads often came in formidable hordes, which could be successfully resisted only by large armies, and sometimes the armies were not large enough to cope with them. again and again during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries tartar hordes swept over the country--burning the villages and towns, and spreading devastation wherever they appeared--and during more than two centuries russia had to pay a heavy tribute to the khans. gradually the tsars threw off this galling yoke. ivan the terrible annexed the three khanates of the lower volga--kazan, kipttchak, and astrakhan--and in that way removed the danger of a foreign domination. but permanent protection was not thereby secured to the outlying provinces. the nomadic tribes living near the frontier continued their raids, and in the slave markets of the crimea the living merchandise was supplied by russia and poland. to protect an open frontier against the incursions of nomadic tribes three methods are possible: the construction of a great wall, the establishment of a strong military cordon, and the permanent subjugation of the marauders. the first of these expedients, adopted by the romans in britain and by the chinese on their northwestern frontier, is enormously expensive, and was utterly impossible in a country like southern russia, where there is no stone for building purposes; the second was constantly tried, and constantly found wanting; the third alone proved practicable and efficient. though the government has long since recognised that the acquisition of barren, thinly populated steppes is a burden rather than an advantage, it has been induced to go on making annexations for the purpose of self-defence, as well as for other reasons. in consequence of this active part which the government took in the extension of the territory, the process of political expansion sometimes got greatly ahead of the colonisation. after the turkish wars and consequent annexations in the time of catherine ii., for example, a great part of southern russia was almost uninhabited, and the deficiency had to be corrected, as we have seen, by organised emigration. at the present day, in the asiatic provinces, there are still immense tracts of unoccupied land, some of which are being gradually colonised. if we turn now from the east to the west we shall find that the expansion in this direction was of an entirely different kind. the country lying to the westward of the early russo-slavonian settlements had a poor soil and a comparatively dense population, and consequently held out little inducement to emigration. besides this, it was inhabited by warlike agricultural races, who were not only capable of defending their own territory, but even strongly disposed to make encroachments on their eastern neighbours. russian expansion to the westward was, therefore, not a spontaneous movement of the agricultural population, but the work of the government, acting slowly and laboriously by means of diplomacy and military force; it had, however, a certain historical justification. no sooner had russia freed herself, in the fifteenth century, from the tartar domination, than her political independence, and even her national existence, were threatened from the west. her western neighbours, were like herself, animated with that tendency to national expansion which i have above described; and for a time it seemed doubtful who should ultimately possess the vast plains of eastern europe. the chief competitors were the tsars of moscow and the kings of poland, and the latter appeared to have the better chance. in close connection with western europe, they had been able to adopt many of the improvements which had recently been made in the art of war, and they already possessed the rich valley of the dnieper. once, with the help of the free cossacks, they succeeded in overrunning the whole of muscovy, and a son of the polish king was elected tsar in moscow. by attempting to accomplish their purpose in a too hasty and reckless fashion, they raised a storm of religious and patriotic fanaticism, which very soon drove them out of their newly acquired possessions. the country remained, however, in a very precarious position, and its more intelligent rulers perceived plainly that, in order to carry on the struggle successfully, they must import something of that western civilisation which gave such an advantage to their opponents. some steps had already been taken in that direction. in the year an english navigator, whilst seeking for a short route to china and india, had accidentally discovered the port of archangel on the white sea, and since that time the tsars had kept up an intermittent diplomatic and commercial intercourse with england. but this route was at all times tedious and dangerous, and during a great part of the year it was closed by the ice. in view of these difficulties the tsars tried to import "cunning foreign artificers," by way of the baltic; but their efforts were hampered by the livonian order, who at that time held the east coast, and who considered, like the europeans on the coast of africa at the present day, that the barbarous natives of the interior should not be supplied with arms and ammunition. all the other routes to the west traversed likewise the territory of rivals, who might at any time become avowed enemies. under these circumstances the tsars naturally desired to break through the barrier which hemmed them in, and the acquisition of the eastern coast of the baltic became one of the chief objects of russia's foreign policy. after poland, russia's most formidable rival was sweden. that power early acquired a large amount of territory to the east of the baltic--including the mouths of the neva, where st. petersburg now stands--and long harboured ambitious schemes of further conquest. in the troublous times when the poles overran the tsardom of muscovy, she took advantage of the occasion to annex a considerable amount of territory, and her expansion in this direction went on in intermittent fashion until it was finally stopped by peter the great. in comparison with these two rivals russia was weak in all that regarded the art of war; but she had two immense advantages: she had a very large population, and a strong, stable government that could concentrate the national forces for any definite purpose. all that she required for success in the competition was an army on the european model. peter the great created such an army, and won the prize. after this the political disintegration of poland proceeded rapidly, and when that unhappy country fell to pieces russia naturally took for herself the lion's share of the spoil. sweden, too, sank to political insignificance, and gradually lost all her trans-baltic possessions. the last of them--the grand duchy of finland, which stretches from the gulf of finland to the polar ocean--was ceded to russia by the peace of friederichshamm in . the territorial extent of all these acquisitions will be best shown in a tabular form. the following table represents the process of expansion from the time when ivan iii. united the independent principalities and threw off the tartar yoke, down to the accession of peter the great in : english sq. miles. in the tsardom of muscovy contained about , " " " " " , " " " " " , , " " " " " , , " " " " " , , " " " " " , , of these , , english square miles about , , were in europe and about , , in asia. peter the great, though famous as a conqueror, did not annex nearly so much territory as many of his predecessors and successors. at his death, in , the empire contained, in round numbers, , , square miles in europe and , , in asia. the following table shows the subsequent expansion: in europe and the caucasus in asia. eng. sq. m eng. sq. m. in the russian empire contained about , , , , " " " " " , , , , " " " " " , , , , " " " " " , , , , " " " " " , , , , " " " " " , , , , " " " " " , , , , in this table is not included the territory in the north-west of america--containing about , english square miles--which was annexed to russia in and ceded to the united states in . when once russia has annexed she does not readily relax her grasp. she has, however, since the death of peter the great, on four occasions ceded territory which had come into her possession. to persia she ceded, in , mazanderan and astrabad, and in a large portion of the caucasus; in , by the treaty of paris, she gave up the mouths of the danube and part of bessarabia; in she sold to the united states her american possessions; in she retroceded to china the greater part of kuldja, which she had occupied for ten years; and now she is releasing her hold on manchuria under the pressure of japan. the increase in the population--due in part to territorial acquisitions--since , when the first census was taken, has been as follows:-- in the empire contained about million inhabitants. " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " so much for the past. to sum up, we may say that, if we have read russian history aright, the chief motives of expansion have been spontaneous colonisation, self-defence against nomadic tribes, and high political aims, such as the desire to reach the sea-coast; and that the process has been greatly facilitated by peculiar geographical conditions and the autocratic form of government. before passing to the future, i must mention another cause of expansion which has recently come into play, and which has already acquired very great importance. russia is rapidly becoming, as i have explained in a previous chapter, a great industrial and commercial nation, and is anxious to acquire new markets for her manufactured goods. though her industries cannot yet supply her own wants, she likes to peg out claims for the future, so as not to be forestalled by more advanced nations. i am not sure that she ever makes a conquest exclusively for this purpose, but whenever it happens that she has other reasons for widening her borders, the idea of acquiring commercial advantages acts as a subsidiary incentive, and as soon as the territory is annexed she raises round it a line of commercial fortifications in the shape of custom-houses, through which foreign goods have great difficulty in forcing their way. this policy is quite intelligible from the patriotic point of view, but russians like to justify it, and condemn english competition, on higher ground. england, they say, is like a successful manufacturer who has oustripped his rivals and who seeks to prevent any new competitors from coming into the field. by her mercantile policy she has become the great blood-sucker of other nations. having no cause to fear competition, she advocates the insidious principles of free trade, and deluges foreign countries with her manufactures to such an extent that unprotected native industries are inevitably ruined. thus all nations have long paid tribute to england, but the era of emancipation had dawned. the fallacies of free trade have been detected and exposed, and russia, like other nations, has found in the beneficent power of protective tariffs a means of escape from british economic thraldom. henceforth, not only the muzhiks of european russia, but also the populations of central asia, will be saved from the heartless exploitation of manchester and birmingham--and be handed over, i presume, to the tender mercies of the manufacturers of moscow and st. petersburg, who sell their goods much dearer than their english rivals. having thus analysed the expansive tendency, let us endeavour to determine how the various factors of which it is composed are acting in the present and are likely to act in the future. in this investigation it will be well to begin with the simpler, and proceed gradually to the more complex parts of the problem. towards the north and the west the history of russian expansion may almost be regarded as closed. northwards there is nothing to be annexed but the arctic ocean and the polar regions; and, westwards, annexations at the expense of germany are not to be thought of. there remain, therefore, only sweden and norway. they may possibly, at some future time, come within the range of russia's territorial appetite, but at present the only part of the scandinavian peninsula on which she is supposed to cast longing eyes is a barren district in the extreme north, which is said to contain an excellent warm-water port. towards the south-west there are possibilities of future expansion, and already some people talk of austrian galicia being geographically and ethnographically a part of russia; but so long as the austro-hungarian empire holds together such possibilities do not come within the sphere of practical politics. farther east, towards the balkan peninsula, the expansive tendency is much more complicated and of very ancient date. the russo-slavs who held the valley of the dnieper from the ninth to the thirteenth century belonged to those numerous frontier tribes which the tottering byzantine empires attempted to ward off by diplomacy and rich gifts, and by giving to the troublesome chiefs, on condition of their accepting christianity, princesses of the imperial family as brides. vladimir, prince of kief, now recognised as a saint by the russian church, accepted christianity in this way (a. d. ), and his subjects followed his example. russia thus became ecclesiastically a part of the patriarchate of constantinople, and the people learned to regard tsargrad--that is, the city of the tsar, as the byzantine emperor was then called--with peculiar veneration. all through the long tartar domination, when the nomadic hordes held the valley of the dnieper and formed a barrier between russia and the balkan peninsula, the capital of the greek orthodox world was remembered and venerated by the russian people, and in the fifteenth century it acquired in their eyes a new significance. at that time the relative positions of constantinople and moscow were changed. constantinople fell under the power of the mahometan turks, whilst moscow threw off the yoke of the mahometan tartars, the northern representatives of the turkish race. the grand prince of moscow thereby became the protector of the faith, and in some sort the successor of the byzantine tsars. to strengthen this claim, ivan iii. married a niece of the last byzantine emperor, and his successors went further in the same direction by assuming the title of tsar, and inventing a fable about their ancestor rurik having been a descendant of caesar augustus. all this would seem to a lawyer, or even to a diplomatist, a very shadowy title, and none of the russian monarchs--except perhaps catherine ii., who conceived the project of resuscitating the byzantine empire, and caused one of her grandsons to learn modern greek, in view of possible contingencies--ever thought seriously of claiming the imaginary heritage; but the idea that the tsars ought to reign in tsargrad, and that st. sophia, polluted by moslem abominations, should be restored to the orthodox christians, struck deep root in the minds of the russian people, and is still by no means extinct. as soon as serious disturbances break out in the east the peasantry begin to think that perhaps the time has come for undertaking a crusade for the recovery of the holy city on the bosphorus, and for the liberation of their brethren in the faith who groan under turkish bondage. essentially different from this religious sentiment, but often blended with it, is a vague feeling of racial affinity, which has long existed among the various slav nationalities, and which was greatly developed during last century by writers of the panslavist school. when germans and italians were striving after political independence and unity, it naturally occurred to the slavs that they might do likewise. the idea became popular among the subject slav nationalities of austria and turkey, and it awoke a certain amount of enthusiasm in moscow, where it was hoped that "all the slav streams would unite in the great russian sea." it required no great political perspicacity to foresee that in any confederation of slav nationalities the hegemony must necessarily devolve on russia, the only slav state which has succeeded in becoming a great power. those two currents of national feeling ran parallel to, and intermingled with, the policy of the government. desirous of becoming a great naval power, russia has always striven to reach the sea-coast and obtain good harbours. in the north and north-west she succeeded in a certain degree, but neither the white sea nor the baltic satisfied her requirements, and she naturally turned her eyes to the mediterranean. with difficulty she gained possession of the northern shores of the black sea, but her designs were thereby only half realised, because the turks held the only outlet to the mediterranean, and could effectually blockade, so far as the open sea is concerned, all her black sea ports, without employing a single ship of war. thus the possession of the straits, involving necessarily the possession of constantinople, became a cardinal point of russia's foreign policy. any description of the various methods adopted by her at different times for the attainment of this end does not enter into my present programme, but i may say briefly that the action of the three factors above mentioned--the religious feeling, the panslavist sentiment, and the political aims--has never been better exemplified than in the last struggle with turkey, culminating in the treaty of san stefano and the congress of berlin. for all classes in russia the result of that struggle was a feeling of profound disappointment. the peasantry bewailed the fact that the crescent on st. sophia had not been replaced by the cross; the slavophil patriots were indignant that the "little brothers" had shown themselves unworthy of the generous efforts and sacrifices made on their behalf, and that a portion of the future slav confederation had passed under the domination of austria; and the government recognised that the acquisition of the straits must be indefinitely postponed. then history repeated itself. after the crimean war, in accordance with prince gortchakoff's famous epigram, la russie ne boude pas elle se recueille, the government had for some years abandoned an active policy in europe, and devoted itself to the work of internal reorganisation; whilst the military party had turned their attention to making new acquisitions of territory and influence in asia. in like manner, after the turkish campaign of - , alexander iii., turning his back on the slav brethren, inaugurated an era of peace in europe and of territorial expansion in the east. in this direction the expansive force was not affected by religious feeling, or panslavist sentiment, and was controlled and guided by purely political considerations. it is consequently much easier to determine in this field of action what the political aims really are. in asia, as in europe, the dominant factor in the policy of the government has been the desire to reach the sea-coast; and in both continents the ports first acquired were in northern latitudes where the coasts are free from ice during only a part of the year. in this respect, nikolaefsk and vladivostok in the far east correspond to archangel and st. petersburg in europe. such ports could not fulfil all the requirements, and consequently the expansive tendency turned southwards--in europe towards the black sea and the mediterranean, and in asia towards the persian gulf, the indian ocean and the gulf of pechili. in persia the russian government pursues the policy of pacific infiltration, and already the northern half of the shah's dominions is pretty well permeated with russian influence, commercial and political. in the southern half the infiltration is to some extent checked by physical obstacles and british influence, but it is steadily advancing, and the idea of obtaining a port on the persian gulf is coming within the range of practical politics. in afghanistan also the pressure is felt, and here too the expansive tendency meets with opposition from england. more than once the two great powers have come dangerously near to war--notably in , at the moment of the penjdeh incident, when the british parliament voted , , pounds for military preparations. fortunately on that occasion the problem was solved by diplomacy. the northern frontier of afghanistan was demarcated by a joint commission, and an agreement was come to by which this line should form the boundary of the british and russian spheres of influence. for some years russia scrupulously respected this agreement, but during our south african difficulties she showed symptoms of departing from it, and at one moment orders were issued from st. petersburg for a military demonstration on the afghan frontier. strange to say, the military authorities, who are usually very bellicose, deprecated such a movement, on the ground that a military demonstration in a country like afghanistan might easily develop into a serious campaign, and that a serious campaign ought not to be undertaken in that region until after the completion of the strategical railways from orenburg to tashkent. as this important line has now been completed, and other strategic lines are in contemplation, the question arises whether russia meditates an attack on india. it is a question which is not easily answered. no doubt there are many russians who think it would be a grand thing to annex our indian empire, with its teeming millions and its imaginary fabulous treasures, and not a few young officers imagine that it would be an easy task. further, it is certain that the problem of an invasion has been studied by the headquarters staff in st. petersburg, just as the problem of an invasion of england has been studied by the headquarters staff in berlin. it may be pretty safely asserted, however, that the idea of a conquest of india has never been seriously entertained in the russian official world. what has been seriously entertained, not only in the official world, but by the government itself, is the idea--strongly recommended by the late general skobelef--that russia should, as quickly as possible, get within striking distance of our indian possessions, so that she may always be able to bring strong diplomatic pressure on the british government, and in the event of a conflict immobilise a large part of the british army. the expansive tendency in the direction of the persian gulf and the indian ocean was considerably weakened by the completion of the trans-siberian railway and the rapid development of an aggressive policy in the far east. never, perhaps, has the construction of a single line produced such deep and lasting changes in the sphere of weltpolitik. as soon as the trans-siberian was being rapidly constructed a magnificent prospect opened up to the gaze of imaginative politicians in st. petersburg. the foreground was manchuria a region of , square miles, endowed by nature with enormous mineral resources, and presenting a splendid field for agricultural colonisation and commercial enterprise. beyond was seen korea, geographically an appendix of manchuria, possessing splendid harbours, and occupied by an effete, unwarlike population, wholly incapable of resisting a european power. that was quite enough to inflame the imagination of patriotic russians; but there was something more, dimly perceived in the background. once in possession of manchuria, supplied with a network of railways, russia would dominate peking and the whole of northern china, and she would thus be able to play a decisive part in the approaching struggle of the european powers for the far-eastern sick man's inheritance. of course there were obstacles in the way of realising this grandiose scheme, and there were some cool heads in st. petersburg who were not slow to point them out. in the first place the undertaking must be extremely costly, and the economic condition of russia proper was not such as to justify the expenditure of an enormous capital which must be for many years unproductive. any superfluous capital which the country might possess was much more urgently required for purposes of internal development, and the impoverished agricultural population ought not to be drained of their last meagre reserves for the sake of gigantic political schemes which did not directly contribute to their material welfare. to this the enthusiastic advocates of the forward policy replied that the national finances had never been in such a prosperous condition, that the revenue was increasing by leaps and bounds, that the money invested in the proposed enterprise would soon be repaid with interest; and that if russia did not at once seize the opportunity she would find herself forestalled by energetic rivals. there was still, however, one formidable objection. such an enormous increase of russia's power in the far east would inevitably arouse the jealousy and opposition of other powers, especially of japan, for whom the future of korea and manchuria was a question of life and death. here again these advocates of the forward policy had their answer ready. they declared that the danger was more apparent than real. in far-eastern diplomacy the european powers could not compete with russia, and they might easily be bought off by giving them a very modest share of the spoil; as for japan, she was not formidable, for she was just emerging from oriental barbarism, and all her boasted progress was nothing more than a thin veneer of european civilisation. as the moscow patriots on the eve of the crimean war said contemptuously of the allies, "we have only to throw our hats at them," so now the believers in russia's historic mission in the far east spoke of their future opponents as "monkeys" and "parrots." the war between china and japan in - , terminating in the treaty of shimonoseki, which ceded to japan the liaotung peninsula, showed russia that if she was not to be forestalled she must be up and doing. she accordingly formed a coalition with france and germany, and compelled japan to withdraw from the mainland, on the pretext that the integrity of china must be maintained. in this way china recovered, for a moment, a bit of lost territory, and further benefits were conferred on her by a guarantee for a foreign loan, and by the creation of the russo-chinese bank, which would assist her in her financial affairs. for these and other favours she was expected to be grateful, and it was suggested to her that her gratitude might take the form of facilitating the construction of the trans-siberian railway. if constructed wholly on russian territory the line would have to make an enormous bend to the northward, whereas if it went straight from lake baikal to vladivostok it would be very much shorter, and would confer a very great benefit on the north-eastern provinces of the celestial empire. this benefit, moreover, might be greatly increased by making a branch line to talienwan and port arthur, which would some day be united with peking. gradually li-hung-chang and other influential chinese officials were induced to sympathise with the scheme, and a concession was granted for the direct line to vladivostok through chinese territory. the retrocession of the liaotung peninsula had not been effected by russia alone. germany and france had co-operated, and they also expected from china a mark of gratitude in some tangible form. on this point the statesmen of berlin held very strong views, and they thought it advisable to obtain a material guarantee for the fulfilment of their expectations by seizing kiaochau, on the ground that german missionaries had been murdered by chinese fanatics. for russia this was a most unwelcome incident. she had earmarked kiaochau for her own purposes, and had already made an agreement with the authorities in peking that the harbour might be used freely by her fleet. and this was not the worst. the incident might inaugurate an era of partition for which she was not yet prepared, and another port which she had earmarked for her own use might be seized by a rival. already english ships of war were reported to be prowling about in the vicinity of the liaotung peninsula. she hastened to demand, therefore, as a set-off for the loss of kiaochau, a lease of port arthur and talienwan, and a railway concession to unite these ports with the trans-siberian railway. the chinese government was too weak to think of refusing the demands, and the process of gradually absorbing manchuria began, in accordance with a plan already roughly sketched out in st. petersburg. in the light of a few authentic documents and many subsequent events, the outline of this plan can be traced with tolerable accuracy. in the region through which the projected railways were to run there was a large marauding population, and consequently the labourers and the works would have to be protected; and as chinese troops can never be thoroughly relied on, the protecting force must be russian. under this rather transparent disguise a small army of occupation could be gradually introduced, and in establishing a modus vivendi between it and the chinese civil and military authorities a predominant influence in the local administration could be established. at the same time, by energetic diplomatic action at peking, which would be brought within striking-distance by the railways, all rival foreign influences might be excluded from the occupied provinces, and the rest might be left to the action of "spontaneous infiltration." thus, while professing to uphold the principle of the territorial integrity of the celestial empire, the cabinet of st. petersburg might practically annex the whole of manchuria and transform port arthur into a great naval port and arsenal, a far more effectual "dominator of the east" than vladivostok, which was intended, as its name implies, to fulfil that function. from manchuria the political influence and the spontaneous infiltration would naturally extend to korea, and on the deeply indented coast of the hermit kingdom new ports and arsenals, far more spacious and strategically more important than port arthur, might be constructed. the grandiose scheme was carefully laid, and for a time it was favoured by circumstances. in the boxer troubles justified russia in sending a large force into manchuria, and enabled her subsequently to play the part of china's protector against the inordinate demands of the western powers for compensation and guarantees. for a moment it seemed as if the slow process of gradual infiltration might be replaced by a more expeditious mode of annexation. as the dexterous diplomacy of ignatief in had induced the son of heaven to cede to russia the rich primorsk provinces between the amur and the sea, as compensation for russian protection against the english and french, who had burnt his summer palace, so his successor might now perhaps be induced to cede manchuria to the tsar for similar reasons. no such cession actually took place, but the russian diplomatists in peking could use the gratitude argument in support of their demands for an extension of the rights and privileges of the "temporary" occupation; and when china sought to resist the pressure by leaning on the rival powers she found them to be little better than broken reeds. france could not openly oppose her ally, and germany had reasons of her own for conciliating the tsar, whilst england and the united states, though avowedly opposing the scheme as dangerous to their commercial interests, were not prepared to go to war in defence of their policy. it seemed, therefore, that by patience, tenacity and diplomatic dexterity russia might ultimately attain her ends; but a surprise was in store for her. there was one power which recognised that her own vital interests were at stake, and which was ready to undertake a life-and-death struggle in defence of them. though still smarting under the humiliation of her expulsion from the liaotung peninsula in , and watching with the keenest interest every move in the political game, japan had remained for some time in the background, and had confined her efforts to resisting russian influence in korea and supporting diplomatically the powers who were upholding the policy of the open door. now, when it had become evident that the western powers would not prevent the realisation of the russian scheme, she determined to intervene energetically, and to stake her national existence on the result. ever since she had been making military and naval preparations for the day of the revanche, and now that day was at hand. against the danger of a coalition such as had checkmated her on the previous occasion she was protected by the alliance which she had concluded with england in , and she felt confident that with russia alone she was quite capable of dealing single-handed. her position is briefly and graphically described in a despatch, telegraphed at that time ( th july, ) by the japanese government to its representative at st. petersburg, instructing him to open negotiations: "the recent conduct of russia in making new demands at peking and tightening her hold upon manchuria has led the imperial government to believe that she must have abandoned her intention of retiring from that province. at the same time, her increased activity upon the korean frontier is such as to raise doubts as to the limits of her ambition. the unconditional and permanent occupation of manchuria by russia would create a state of things prejudicial to the security and interests of japan. the principle of equal opportunity (the open door) would thereby be annulled, and the territorial integrity of china impaired. there is, however, a still more serious consideration for the japanese government. if russia were established on the flank of korea she would constantly menace the separate existence of that empire, or at least exercise in it a predominant influence; and as japan considers korea an important outpost in her line of defence, she regards its independence as absolutely essential to her own repose and safety. moreover, the political as well as commercial and industrial interests and influence which japan possesses in korea are paramount over those of other powers; she cannot, having regard to her own security, consent to surrender them to, or share them with, another power." in accordance with this view of the situation the japanese government informed count lamsdorff that, as it desired to remove from the relations of the two empires every cause of future misunderstanding, it would be glad to enter with the imperial russian government upon an examination of the condition of affairs in the far east, with a view to defining the respective special interests of the two countries in those regions. though count lamsdorff accepted the proposal with apparent cordiality and professed to regard it as a means of preventing any outsider from sowing the seeds of discord between the two countries, the idea of a general discussion was not at all welcome. careful definition of respective interests was the last thing the russian government desired. its policy was to keep the whole situation in a haze until it had consolidated its position in manchuria and on the korean frontier to such an extent that it could dictate its own terms in any future arrangement. it could not, however, consistently with its oft-repeated declarations of disinterestedness and love of peace, decline to discuss the subject. it consented, therefore, to an exchange of views, but in order to ensure that the tightening of its hold on the territories in question should proceed pari passu with the diplomatic action, it made an extraordinary departure from ordinary procedure, entrusting the conduct of the affair, not to count lamsdorff and the foreign office, but to admiral alexeyef, the newly created viceroy of the far east, in whom was vested the control of all civil, military, naval, and diplomatic affairs relating to that part of the world. from the commencement of the negotiations, which lasted from august th, , to february th, , the irreconcilable differences of the two rivals became apparent, and all through the correspondence, in which a few apparent concessions were offered by japan, neither power retreated a step from the positions originally taken up. what japan suggested was, roughly speaking, a mutual engagement to uphold the independence and integrity of the chinese and korean empires, and at the same time a bilateral arrangement by which the special interests of the two contracting parties in manchuria and in korea should be formally recognised, and the means of protecting them clearly defined. the scheme did not commend itself to the russians. they systematically ignored the interests of japan in manchuria, and maintained that she had no right to interfere in any arrangements they might think fit to make with the chinese government with regard to that province. in their opinion, japan ought to recognise formally that manchuria lay outside her sphere of interest, and the negotiations should be confined to limiting her freedom of action in korea. with such a wide divergence in principle the two parties were not likely to agree in matters of detail. their conflicting aims came out most clearly in the question of the open door. the japanese insisted on obtaining the privileges of the open door, including the right of settlement in manchuria, and russia obstinately refused. having marked out manchuria as a close reserve for her own colonisation, trade, and industry, and knowing that she could not compete with the japanese if they were freely admitted, she could not adopt the principle of "equal opportunity" which her rivals recommended. a fidus achates of admiral alexeyef explained to me quite frankly, during the negotiations, why no concessions could be made on that point. in the work of establishing law and order in manchuria, constructing roads, bridges, railways, and towns, russia had expended an enormous sum--estimated by count cassini at , , pounds--and until that capital was recovered, or until a reasonable interest was derived from the investment, russia could not think of sharing with any one the fruits of the prosperity which she had created. we need not go further into the details of the negotiations. japan soon convinced herself that the onward march of the colossus was not to be stopped by paper barricades, and knowing well that her actual military and naval superiority was being rapidly diminished by russia's warlike preparations,* she suddenly broke off diplomatic relations and commenced hostilities. * according to an estimate made by the japanese authorities, between april, , and the outbreak of the war, russia increased her naval and military forces in the far east by nineteen war vessels, aggregating , tons, and , soldiers. in addition to this, one battleship, three cruisers, seven torpedo destroyers, and four torpedo boats, aggregating about , tons, were on their way to the east, and preparations had been made for increasing the land forces by , men. for further details, see asakawa, "the russo-japanese conflict" (london, ), pp. - . russia thus found herself engaged in a war of the first magnitude, of which no one can predict the ultimate consequences, and the question naturally arises as to why, with an emperor who lately aspired to play in politics the part of a great peacemaker, she provoked a conflict, for which she was very imperfectly prepared--imposing on herself the obligation of defending a naval fortress, hastily constructed on foreign territory, and united with her base by a single line of railway , miles long. the question is easily answered: she did not believe in the possibility of war. the emperor was firmly resolved that he would not attack japan, and no one would admit for a moment that japan could have the audacity to attack the great russian empire. in the late autumn of , it is true, a few well-informed officials in st. petersburg, influenced by the warnings of baron rosen, the russian minister in tokio, began to perceive that perhaps japan would provoke a conflict, but they were convinced that the military and naval preparations already made were quite sufficient to repel the attack. one of these officials--probably the best informed of all--said to me quite frankly: "if japan had attacked us in may or june, we should have been in a sorry plight, but now [november, ] we are ready." the whole past history of territoral expansion in asia tended to confirm the prevailing illusions. russia had advanced steadily from the ural and the caspian to the hindu kush and the northern pacific without once encountering serious resistance. not once had she been called on to make a great national effort, and the armed resistance of the native races had never inflicted on her anything worse than pin-pricks. from decrepit china, which possessed no army in the european sense of the term, a more energetic resistance was not to be expected. had not muravieff amurski with a few cossacks quietly occupied her amur territories without provoking anything more dangerous than a diplomatic protest; and had not ignatief annexed her rich primorsk provinces, including the site of vladivostok, by purely diplomatic means? why should not count cassini, a diplomatist of the same type as ignatief, imitate his adroit predecessor, and secure for russia, if not the formal annexation, at least the permanent occupation, of manchuria? remembering all this, we can perceive that the great mistake of the russian government is not so very difficult to explain. it certainly did not want war--far from it--but it wanted to obtain manchuria by a gradual, painless process of absorption, and it did not perceive that this could not be attained without a life-and-death struggle with a young, vigorous nationality, which has contrived to combine the passions and virtues of a primitive race with the organising powers and scientific appliances of the most advanced civilisation. russian territorial expansion has thus been checked, for some years to come, on the pacific coast; but the expansive tendency will re-appear soon in other regions, and it behooves us to be watchful, because, whatever direction it may take, it is likely to affect our interests directly or indirectly. will it confine itself for some years to a process of infiltration in mongolia and northern thibet, the line of least resistance? or will it impinge on our indian frontier, directed by those who desire to avenge themselves on japan's ally for the reverses sustained in manchuria? or will it once more take the direction of the bosphorous, where a campaign might be expected to awaken religious and warlike enthusiasm among the masses? to these questions i cannot give any answer, because so much depends on the internal consequences of the present war, and on accidental circumstances which no one can at present foresee. i have always desired, and still desire, that we should cultivate friendly relations with our great rival, and that we should learn to appreciate the many good qualities of her people; but i have at the same time always desired that we should keep a watchful eye on her irrepressible tendency to expand, and that we should take timely precautions against any unprovoked aggression, however justifiable it may seem to her from the point of view of her own national interests. chapter xxxix the present situation reform or revolution?--reigns of alexander ii. and nicholas ii. compared and contrasted--the present opposition--various groups--the constitutionalists--zemski sobors--the young tsar dispels illusions--liberal frondeurs--plehve's repressive policy--discontent increased by the war--relaxation and wavering under prince mirski--reform enthusiasm--the constitutionalists formulate their demands--the social democrats--father gapon's demonstration--the socialist-revolutionaries--the agrarian agitators--the subject-nationalities--numerical strength of the various groups--all united on one point--their different aims--possible solutions of the crisis--difficulties of introducing constitutional regime--a strong man wanted--uncertainty of the future. is history about to repeat itself, or are we on the eve of a cataclysm? is the reign of nicholas ii. to be, in its main lines, a repetition of the reign of alexander ii., or is russia about to enter on an entirely new phase of her political development? to this momentous question i do not profess to give a categorical answer. if it be true, even in ordinary times, that "of all forms of human folly, prediction is the most gratuitous," it is especially true at a moment like the present, when we are constantly reminded of the french proverb that there is nothing certain but the unforeseen. all i can hope to do is to throw a little light on the elements of the problem, and allow the reader to draw his own conclusions. between the present situation and the early part of alexander ii.'s reign there is undoubtedly a certain analogy. in both cases we find in the educated classes a passionate desire for political liberty, generated by long years of a stern, autocratic regime, and stimulated by military disasters for which autocracy is held responsible; and in both cases we find the throne occupied by a sovereign of less accentuated political convictions and less energetic character than his immediate predecessor. in the earlier case, the autocrat, showing more perspicacity and energy than were expected of him, guides and controls the popular enthusiasm, and postpones the threatened political crisis by effecting a series of far reaching and beneficent reforms. in the present case . . . the description of the result must be left to future historians. for the moment, all we can say is that between the two situations there are as many points of difference as of analogy. after the crimean war the enthusiasm was of a vague, eclectic kind, and consequently it could find satisfaction in practical administrative reforms not affecting the essence of the autocratic power, the main pivot round which the empire has revolved for centuries. now, on the contrary, it is precisely on this pivot that the reform enthusiasm is concentrated. mere bureaucratic reforms can no longer give satisfaction. all sections of the educated classes, with the exception of a small group of conservative doctrinaires, insist on obtaining a controlling influence in the government of the country, and demand that the autocratic power, if not abolished, shall be limited by parliamentary institutions of a democratic type. another difference between the present and the past, is that those who now clamour for radical changes are more numerous, more courageous, and better organised than their predecessors, and they are consequently better able to bring pressure to bear on the government. formerly the would-be reformers were of two categories; on the one hand, the constitutionalists, who remained within the bounds of legality, and confined themselves to inserting vague hints in loyal addresses to the tsar and making mild political demonstrations; and on the other hand, the so-called nihilists, who talked about organising society on socialistic principles, and who hoped to attain their object by means of secret associations. with both of these groups, as soon as they became aggressive, the government had no difficulty in dealing effectually. the leading constitutionalists were simply reprimanded or ordered to remain for a time in their country houses, while the more active revolutionaries were exiled, imprisoned, or compelled to take refuge abroad. all this gave the police a good deal of trouble, especially when the nihilists took to socialist propaganda among the common people, and to acts of terrorism against the officials; but the existence of the autocratic power was never seriously endangered. nowadays the liberals have no fear of official reprimands, and openly disregard the orders of the authorities about holding meetings and making speeches, while a large section of the socialists proclaim themselves a social democratic party, enrol large numbers of working men, organise formidable strikes, and make monster demonstrations leading to bloodshed. let us now examine this new opposition a little more closely. we can perceive at a glance that it is composed of two sections, differing widely from each other in character and aims. on the one hand, there are the liberals, who desire merely political reforms of a more or less democratic type; on the other, there are the socialists, who aim at transforming thoroughly the existing economic organisation of society, and who, if they desire parliamentary institutions at all, desire them simply as a stepping stone to the realisation of the socialist ideal. behind the socialists, and to some extent mingling with them, stand a number of men belonging to the various subject-nationalities, who have placed themselves under the socialist banner, but who hold, more or less concealed, their little national flags, ready to be unfurled at the proper moment. of these three sections of the opposition, the most numerous and the best prepared to undertake the functions and responsibilities of government is that of the liberals. the movement which they represent began immediately after the crimean war, when the upper ranks of society, smarting under defeat and looking about for the cause of the military disasters, came to the conclusion that autocracy had been put to a crucial test, and found wanting. the outburst of patriotic indignation at that time and the eager desire for a more liberal regime have been described in previous chapters. for a moment the more sanguine critics of the government imagined that the autocratic power, persuaded of its own inefficiency, would gladly accept the assistance of the educated classes, and would spontaneously transform itself into a constitutional monarchy. in reality alexander ii. had no such intentions. he was resolved to purify the administration and to reform as far as possible all existing abuses, and he seemed ready at first to listen to the advice and accept the co-operation of his faithful subjects; but he had not the slightest intention of limiting his supreme authority, which he regarded as essential to the existence of the empire. as soon as the landed proprietors began to complain that the great question of serf emancipation was being taken out of their hands by the bureaucracy, he reminded them that "in russia laws are made by the autocratic power," and when the more courageous marshals of noblesse ventured to protest against the unceremonious manner in which the nobles were being treated by the tchinovniks, some of them were officially reprimanded and others were deposed. the indignation produced by this procedure, in which the tsar identified himself with the bureaucracy, was momentarily appeased by the decision of the government to entrust to the landed proprietors the carrying out of the emancipation law, and by the confident hope that political rights would be granted them as compensation for the material sacrifices they had made for the good of the state; but when they found that this confident hope was an illusion, the indignation and discontent reappeared. there was still, however, a ray of hope. though the autocratic power was evidently determined not to transform itself at once into a limited constitutional monarchy, it might make concessions in the sphere of local self-government. at that moment it was creating the zemstvo, and the constitutionalists hoped that these new institutions, though restricted legally to the sphere of purely economic wants, might gradually acquire a considerable political influence. learned germans had proved that in england, "the mother of modern constitutionalism," it was on local self-government that the political liberties were founded, and the slavophils now suggested that by means of an ancient institution called the zemski sobor, the zemstvo might gradually and naturally acquire a political character in accordance with russian historic development. as this idea has often been referred to in recent discussions, i may explain briefly what the ancient institution in question was. in the tsardom of muscovy during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries representative assemblies were occasionally called together to deal with matters of exceptional importance, such as the election of a tsar when the throne became vacant, a declaration of war, the conclusion of a peace, or the preparation of a new code of laws. some fifteen assemblies of the kind were convoked in the space of about a century ( - ). they were composed largely of officials named by the government, but they contained also some representatives of the unofficial classes. their procedure was peculiar. when a speech from the throne had been read by the tsar or his representative, explaining the question to be decided, the assembly transformed itself into a large number of commissions, and each commission had to give in writing its opinion regarding the questions submitted to it. the opinions thus elicited were codified by the officials and submitted to the tsar, and he was free to adopt or reject them, as he thought fit. we may say, therefore, that the zemski sobor was merely consultative and had no legislative power; but we must add that it was allowed a certain initiative, because it was permitted to submit to the tsar humble petitions regarding anything which it considered worthy of attention. alexander ii. might have adopted this slavophil idea and used the zemski sobor as a means of transition from pure autocracy to a more modern system of government, but he had no sooner created the zemstvo than he thought it necessary, as we have seen, to clip its wings, and dispel its political ambition. by this repressive policy the frondeur spirit of the noblesse was revived, and it has continued to exist down to the present time. on each occasion when i revisited russia and had an opportunity of feeling the pulse of public opinion, between and , i noticed that the dissatisfaction with the traditional methods of government, and the desire of the educated classes to obtain a share of the political power, notwithstanding short periods of apparent apathy, were steadily spreading in area and increasing in intensity, and i often heard predictions that a disastrous foreign war like the crimean campaign would probably bring about the desired changes. of those who made such predictions not a few showed clearly that, though patriotic enough in a certain sense, they would not regret any military disaster which would have the effect they anticipated. progress in the direction of political emancipation, accompanied by radical improvements in the administration, was evidently regarded as much more important and desirable than military prestige or extension of territory. during the first part of the turkish campaign of - , when the russian armies were repulsed in bulgaria and asia minor, the hostility to autocracy was very strong, and the famous acquittal of vera zasulitch, who had attempted to assassinate general trepof, caused widespread satisfaction among people who were not themselves revolutionaries and who did not approve of such violent methods of political struggle. towards the end of the war, when the tide of fortune had turned both in europe and in asia, and the russian army was encamped under the walls of constantinople, within sight of st. sophia, the chauvinist feelings gained the upper hand, and they were greatly intensified by the congress of berlin, which deprived russia of some fruits of her victories. this change in public feeling and the horror excited by the assassination of alexander ii. prepared the way for alexander iii.'s reign ( - ), which was a period of political stagnation. he was a man of strong character, and a vigorous ruler who believed in autocracy as he did in the dogmas of his church; and very soon after his accession he gave it clearly to be understood that he would permit no limitations of the autocratic power. the men with liberal aspirations knew that nothing would make him change his mind on that subject, and that any liberal demonstrations would merely confirm him in his reactionary tendencies. they accordingly remained quiet and prudently waited for better times. the better times were supposed to have come when nicholas ii. ascended the throne in november, , because it was generally assumed that the young tsar, who was known to be humane and well-intentioned, would inaugurate a more liberal policy. before he had been three months on the throne he summarily destroyed these illusions. on th ( th) january, , when receiving deputies from the noblesse, the zemstvo, and the municipalities, who had come to st. petersburg to congratulate him on his marriage, he declared his confidence in the sincerity of the loyal feelings which the delegates expressed; and then, to the astonishment of all present, he added: "it is known to me that recently, in some zemstvo assemblies, were heard the voices of people who had let themselves be carried away by absurd dreams of the zemstvo representatives taking part in the affairs of internal administration; let them know that i, devoting all my efforts to the prosperity of the nation, will preserve the principles of autocracy as firmly and unswervingly as my late father of imperishable memory." these words, pronounced by the young ruler at the commencement of his reign, produced profound disappointment and dissatisfaction in all sections of the educated classes, and from that moment the frondeur spirit began to show itself more openly than at any previous period. in the case of some people of good social position it took the unusual form of speaking disrespectfully of his majesty. others supposed that the emperor had simply repeated words prepared for him by the minister of the interior, and this idea spread rapidly, till hostility to the bureaucracy became universal. this feeling reached its climax when the ministry of the interior was confided to m. plehve. his immediate predecessors, though sincere believers in autocracy and very hostile to liberalism of all kinds, considered that the liberal ideas might be rendered harmless by firm passive resistance and mild reactionary measures. he, on the contrary, took a more alarmist view of the situation. his appointment coincided with the revival of terrorism, and he believed that autocracy was in danger. to save it, the only means was, in his opinion, a vigorous, repressive police administration, and as he was a man of strong convictions and exceptional energy, he screwed up his system of police supervision to the sticking-point and applied it to the liberals as well as to the terrorists. in the year , if we may credit information which comes from an apparently trustworthy source, no less than , political affairs were initiated by the police, and , persons were condemned inquisitorially to various punishments without any regular trial. whilst this unpopular rigorism was in full force the war unexpectedly broke out, and added greatly to the existing discontent. very few people in russia had been following closely the recent developments of the far eastern question, and still fewer understood their importance. there seemed to be nothing abnormal in what was taking place. russia was expanding, and would continue to expand indefinitely, in that direction, without any strenuous effort on her part. of course the english would try to arrest her progress as usual by diplomatic notes, but their efforts would be as futile as they had been on all previous occasions. they might incite the japanese to active resistance, but japan would not commit the insane folly of challenging her giant rival to mortal combat. the whole question could be settled in accordance with russian interests, as so many similar questions had been settled in the past, by a little skilful diplomacy; and manchuria could be absorbed, as the contiguous chinese provinces had been forty years ago, without the necessity of going to war. when these comforting illusions were suddenly destroyed by the rupture of diplomatic relations and the naval attack on port arthur, there was an outburst of indignant astonishment. at first the indignation was directed against japan and england, but it soon turned against the home government, which had made no adequate preparations for the struggle, and it was intensified by current rumours that the crisis had been wantonly provoked by certain influential personages for purely personal reasons. how far the accounts of the disorders in the military organisation and the rumours about pilfering in high quarters were true, we need not inquire. true or false, they helped greatly to make the war unpopular, and to stimulate the desire for political changes. under a more liberal and enlightened regime such things were supposed to be impossible, and, as at the time of the crimean war, public opinion decided that autocracy was being tried, and found wanting. so long as the stern, uncompromising plehve was at the ministry of the interior, enjoying the emperor's confidence and directing the police administration, public opinion was prudent and reserved in its utterances, but when he was assassinated by a terrorist (july th, ), and was succeeded by prince sviatopolk mirski, a humane man of liberal views, the constitutionalists thought that the time had come for making known their grievances and demands, and for bringing pressure to bear on the emperor. first came forward the leading members of the zemstvos. after some preliminary consultation they assembled in st. petersburg, with the consent of the authorities, in the hope that they would be allowed to discuss publicly the political wants of the country, and prepare the draft of a constitution. their wishes were only partially acceded to. they were informed semi-officially that their meetings must be private, but that they might send their resolutions to the minister of the interior for transmission to his majesty. a memorandum was accordingly drawn up and signed on november st by out of the representatives present. this hesitating attitude on the part of the government encouraged other sections of the educated classes to give expression to their long pent-up political aspirations. on the heels of the zemstvo delegates appeared the barristers, who discussed the existing evils from the juridical point of view, and prescribed what they considered the necessary remedies. then came municipalities of the large towns, corporations of various kinds, academic leagues, medical faculties, learned societies, and miscellaneous gatherings, all demanding reforms. great banquets were organised, and very strong speeches, which would have led in plehve's time to the immediate arrest of the orators, were delivered and published without provoking police intervention. in the memorandum presented to the minister of the interior by the zemstvo congress, and in the resolutions passed by the other corporate bodies, we see reflected the grievances and aspirations of the great majority of the educated classes. the theory propounded in these documents is that a lawless, arbitrary bureaucracy, which seeks to exclude the people from all participation in the management of public affairs, has come between the nation and the supreme power, and that it is necessary to eliminate at once this baneful intermediary and inaugurate the so-called "reign of law." for this purpose the petitioners and orators demanded: ( ) inviolability of person and domicile, so that no one should be troubled by the police without a warrant from an independent magistrate, and no one punished without a regular trial; ( ) freedom of conscience, of speech, and of the press, together with the right of holding public meetings and forming associations; ( ) greater freedom and increased activity of the local self-government, rural and municipal; ( ) an assembly of freely elected representatives, who should participate in the legislative activity and control the administration in all its branches; ( ) the immediate convocation of a constituent assembly, which should frame a constitution on these lines. of these requirements the last two are considered by far the most important. the truth is that the educated classes have come to be possessed of an ardent desire for genuine parliamentary institutions on a broad, democratic basis, and neither improvements in the bureaucratic organisation, nor even a zemski sobor in the sense of a consultative assembly, would satisfy them. they imagine that with a full-fledged constitution they would be guaranteed, not only against administrative oppression, but even against military reverses such as they have recently experienced in the far east--an opinion in which those who know by experience how military unreadiness and inefficiency can be combined with parliamentary institutions will hardly feel inclined to concur. it may surprise english readers to learn that the corruption and venality of the civil and military administration, of which we have recently heard so much, are nowhere mentioned in the complaints and remonstrances; but the fact is easily accounted for. though corrupt practices undoubtedly exist in some branches of the public service, they are not so universal as is commonly supposed in western europe; and the russian reformers evidently consider that the purifying of the administration is less urgent than the acquisition of political liberties, or that under an enlightened democratic regime the existing abuses would spontaneously disappear. the demands put forward in st. petersburg did not meet with universal approval in moscow. there they seemed excessive and un-russian, and an attempt was made to form a more moderate party. in the ancient capital of the tsars even among the liberals there are not a few who have a sentimental tenderness for the autocratic power, and they argue that parliamentary government would be very dangerous in a country which is still far from being homogeneous or compact. to maintain the integrity of the empire, and to hold the balance equally between the various races and social classes of which the population is composed, it is necessary, they think, to have some permanent authority above the sphere of party spirit and electioneering strife. while admitting that the government in its present bureaucratic form is unsatisfactory and stands in need of being enlightened by the unofficial classes, they think that a consultative assembly on the model of the old zemski sobors would be infinitely better suited to russian wants than a parliament such as that which sits at westminster. for a whole month the government took little notice of the unprecedented excitement and demonstrations. it was not till december th that a reply was given to the public demands. on that day the emperor signed an ukaz in which he enumerated the reforms which he considered most urgent, and instructed the committee of ministers to prepare the requisite legislation. the list of reforms coincided to a certain extent with the demands formulated by the zemstvos, but the document as a whole produced profound disappointment, because it contained no mention of a national assembly. to those who could read between the lines the attitude of the emperor seemed perfectly clear. he was evidently desirous of introducing very considerable reforms, but he was resolved that they must be effected by the unimpaired autocratic power in the old bureaucratic fashion, without any participation of the unofficial world. to obviate any misconception on this point, the government published, simultaneously with the ukaz, an official communication in which it condemned the agitation and excitement, and warned the zemstvos, municipalities, and other corporate bodies that in discussing political questions they were overstepping the limits of their legally-defined functions and exposing themselves to the rigours of the law. as might have been foreseen, the ukaz and the circular had not at all the desired effect of "introducing the necessary tranquillity into public life, which has lately been diverted from its normal course." on the contrary, they increased the excitement, and evoked a new series of public demonstrations. on december th, the very day on which the two official documents were published--the provincial zemstvo of moscow, openly disregarding the ministerial warnings, expressed the conviction that the day was near when the bureaucratic regime, which had so long estranged the supreme power from the people, would be changed, and when freely-elected representatives of the people would take part in legislation. the same evening, at st. petersburg, a great liberal banquet was held, at which a resolution was voted condemning the war, and declaring that russia could be extricated from her difficulties only by the representatives of the nation, freely elected by secret ballot. as an encouragement to the organs of local administration to persevere in their disregard of ministerial instructions, the st. petersburg medical society, after adopting the programme of the zemstvo congress, sent telegrams of congratulation to the mayor of moscow and the president of the tchernigof zemstvo bureau, both of whom had incurred the displeasure of the government. a similar telegram was sent by a congress of engineers to the moscow town council, in which the burning political questions had been freely discussed. in other large towns, when the mayor prevented such discussions, a considerable number of the town councillors resigned. from the zemstvos and municipalities the spirit of opposition spread to the provincial assemblies of the noblesse. the nobles of the province of st. petersburg, for example, voted by a large majority an address to the tsar recommending the convocation of a freely-elected national assembly; and in moscow, usually regarded as the fortress of conservatism, eighty members of the assembly entered a formal protest against a patriotic conservative address which had been voted two days before. even the fair sex considered it necessary to support the opposition movement. the matrons of moscow, in a humble petition to the empress, declared that they could not continue to bring up their children properly in the existing state of unconstitutional lawlessness, and their view was endorsed in several provincial towns by the schoolboys, who marched through the streets in procession, and refused to learn their lessons until popular liberties had been granted! again, for more than a month the government remained silent on the fundamental questions which were exercising the public mind. at last, on the morning of march d, appeared an imperial manifesto of a very unexpected kind. in it the emperor deplored the outbreak of internal disturbances at a moment when the glorious sons of russia were fighting with self-sacrificing bravery and offering their lives for the faith, the tsar, and the fatherland; but he drew consolation and hope from remembering that, with the help of the prayers of the holy orthodox church, under the banner of the tsar's autocratic might, russia had frequently passed through great wars and internal troubles, and had always issued from them with fresh strength. he appealed, therefore, to all right-minded subjects, to whatever class they might belong, to join him in the great and sacred task of overcoming the stubborn foreign foe, and eradicating revolt at home. as for the manner in which he hoped this might be accomplished, he gave a pretty clear indication, at the end of the document, by praying to god, not only for the welfare of his subjects, but also for "the consolidation of autocracy." this extraordinary pronouncement, couched in semi-ecclesiastical language, produced in the liberal world feelings of surprise, disappointment, and dismay. no one was more astonished and dismayed than the ministers, who had known nothing of the manifesto until they saw it in the official gazette. in the course of the forenoon they paid their usual weekly visit to tsarskoe selo, and respectfully submitted to the emperor that such a document must have a deplorable effect on public opinion. in consequence of their representations his majesty consented to supplement the manifesto by a rescript to the minister of the interior, in which he explained that in carrying out his intentions for the welfare of his people the government was to have the co-operation of "the experienced elements of the community." then followed the memorable words: "i am resolved henceforth, with the help of god, to convene the most worthy men, possessing the confidence of the people and elected by them, in order that they may participate in the preparation and consideration of legislative measures." for the carrying out of this resolution a commission, or "special conference," was to be at once convened, under the presidency of m. bulyghin, the minister of the interior. the rescript softened the impression produced by the manifesto, but it did not give general satisfaction, because it contained significant indications that the emperor, while promising to create an assembly of some kind, was still determined to maintain the autocratic power. so at least the public interpreted a vague phase about the difficulty of introducing reforms "while preserving absolutely the immutability of the fundamental laws of the empire." and this impression seemed to be confirmed by the fact that the task of preparing the future representative institutions was confided, not to a constituent assembly, but to a small commission composed chiefly or entirely of officials. in these circumstances the liberals determined to continue the agitation. the bulyghin commission was accordingly inundated with petitions and addresses explaining the wants of the nation in general, and of various sections of it in particular; and when the minister declined to receive deputations and discuss with them the aforesaid wants, the reform question was taken up by a new series of congresses, composed of doctors, lawyers, professors, journalists, etc. even the higher ecclesiastical dignitaries woke up for a moment from their accustomed lethargy, remembered how they had lived for so many years under the rod of m. pobedonostsef, recognised as uncanonical such subordination to a layman, and petitioned for the resurrection of the patriarchate, which had been abolished by peter the great. on may th a new zemstvo congress was held in moscow, and it at once showed that since their november session in st. petersburg the delegates had made a decided movement to the left. those of them who had then led the movement were now regarded as too conservative. the idea of a zemski sobor was discarded as insufficient for the necessities of the situation, and strong speeches were made in support of a much more democratic constitution. it was thus becoming clearer every day that between the liberals and the government there was an essential difference which could not be removed by ordinary concessions. the emperor proved that he was in favour of reform by granting a very large measure of religious toleration, by removing some of the disabilities imposed on the poles, and allowing the polish language to be used in schools, and by confirming the proposals of the committee of ministers to place the press censure on a legal basis. but these concessions to public opinion did not gain for him the sympathy and support of his liberal subjects. what they insisted on was a considerable limitation of the autocratic power; and on that point the emperor has hitherto shown himself inexorable. his firmness proceeds not from any wayward desire to be able to do as he pleases, but from a hereditary respect for a principle. from his boyhood he has been taught that russia owes her greatness and her security to her autocratic form of government, and that it is the sacred duty of the tsar to hand down intact to his successors the power which he holds in trust for them. while the liberals were thus striving to attain their object without popular disorders, and without any very serious infraction of the law, revolutionaries were likewise busy, working on different but parallel lines. in the chapter on the present phase of the revolutionary movement i have sketched briefly the origin and character of the two main socialist groups, and i have now merely to convey a general idea of their attitude during recent events. and first, of the social democrats. at the end of the social democrats were in what may be called their normal condition--that is to say, they were occupied in organising and developing the labour movement. the removal of plehve, who had greatly hampered them by his energetic police administration, enabled them to work more freely, and they looked with a friendly eye on the efforts of the liberal zemstvo-ists; but they took no part in the agitation, because the zemstvo world lay outside their sphere of action. in the labour world, to which they confined their attention, they must have foreseen that a crisis would sooner or later be produced by the war, and that they would then have an excellent opportunity of preaching their doctrine that for all the sufferings of the working classes the government is responsible. what they did not foresee was that serious labour troubles were so near at hand, and that the conflict with the authorities would be accelerated by father gapon. accustomed to regard him as a persistent opponent, they did not expect him to become suddenly an energetic, self-willed ally. hence they were taken unawares, and at first the direction of the movement was by no means entirely in their hands. very soon, however, they grasped the situation, and utilised it for their own ends. it was in great measure due to their secret organisation and activity that the strike in the putilof ironworks, which might easily have been terminated amicably, spread rapidly not only to the other works and factories in st. petersburg, but also to those of moscow, riga, warsaw, lodz, and other industrial centres. though they did not approve of father gapon's idea of presenting a petition to the tsar, the loss of life which his demonstration occasioned was very useful to them in their efforts to propagate the belief that the autocratic power is the ally of the capitalists and hostile to the claims and aspirations of the working classes. the other great socialist group contributed much more largely towards bringing about the present state of things. it was their militant organisation that assassinated plehve, and thereby roused the liberals to action. to them, likewise, is due the subsequent assassination of the grand duke serge, and it is an open secret that they are preparing other acts of terrorism of a similar kind. at the same time they have been very active in creating provincial revolutionary committees, in printing and distributing revolutionary literature, and, above all, in organising agrarian disturbances, which they intend to make a very important factor in the development of events. indeed, it is chiefly by agrarian disturbances that they hope to overthrow the autocratic power and bring about the great economic and social revolution to which the political revolution would be merely the prologue. therein lies a serious danger. after the failure of the propaganda and the insurrectionary agitation in the seventies, it became customary in revolutionary circles to regard the muzhik as impervious to socialist ideas and insurrectionary excitement, but the hope of eventually employing him in the cause never quite died out, and in recent times, when his economic condition in many districts has become critical, attempts have occasionally been made to embarrass the government by agrarian disturbances. the method usually employed is to disseminate among the peasantry by oral propaganda, by printed or hectographed leaflets, and by forged imperial manifestoes, the belief that the tsar has ordered the land of the proprietors to be given to the rural communes, and that his benevolent wishes are being frustrated by the land-owners and the officials. the forged manifesto is sometimes written in letters of gold as a proof of its being genuine, and in one case which i heard of in the province of poltava, the revolutionary agent, wearing the uniform of an aide-de-camp of the emperor, induced the village priest to read the document in the parish church. the danger lies in the fact that, quite independent of revolutionary activity, there has always been, since the time of the emancipation, a widespread belief among the peasantry that they would sooner or later receive the whole of the land. successive tsars have tried personally to destroy this illusion, but their efforts have not been successful. alexander ii., when passing through a province where the idea was very prevalent, caused a number of village elders to be brought before him, and told them in a threatening tone that they must remain satisfied with their allotments and pay their taxes regularly; but the wily peasants could not be convinced that the "general" who had talked to them in this sense was really the tsar. alexander iii. made a similar attempt at the time of his accession. to the volost elders collected together from all parts of the empire, he said: "do not believe the foolish rumours and absurd reports about a redistribution of the land, and addition to your allotments, and such like things. these reports are disseminated by your enemies. every kind of property, your own included, must be inviolable." recalling these words, nicholas ii. confirmed them at his accession, and warned the peasants not to be led astray by evil-disposed persons. notwithstanding these repeated warnings, the peasants still cling to the idea that all the land belongs to them; and the socialist-revolutionaries now announce publicly that they intend to use this belief for the purpose of carrying out their revolutionary designs. in a pamphlet entitled "concerning liberty and the means of obtaining it," they explain their plan of campaign. under the guidance of the revolutionary agents the peasants of each district all over the empire are to make it impossible for the proprietors to work their estates, and then, after driving away the local authorities and rural police, they are to take possession of the estates for their own use. the government, in its vain attempts to dislodge them, will have to employ all the troops at its disposal, and this will give the working classes of the towns, led by the revolutionists, an opportunity of destroying the most essential parts of the administrative mechanism. thus a great social revolution can be successfully accomplished, and any zemski sobor or parliament which may be convoked will merely have to give a legislative sanction to accomplished facts. these three groups--the liberals, the social democrats, and the socialist revolutionaries--constitute what may be called the purely russian opposition. they found their claims and justify their action on utilitarian and philosophic grounds, and demand liberty (in various senses) for themselves and others, independently of race and creed. this distinguishes them from the fourth group, who claim to represent the subject-nationalities, and who mingle nationalist feelings and aspirations with enthusiasm for liberty and justice in the abstract. the policy of russifying these subject-nationalities, which was inaugurated by alexander iii. and maintained by his successor, has failed in its object. it has increased the use of the russian language in official procedure, modified the system of instruction in the schools and universities, and brought, nominally, a few schismatic and heretical sheep into the eastern orthodox fold, but it has entirely failed to inspire the subject-populations with russian feeling and national patriotism; on the contrary, it has aroused in them a bitter hostility to russian nationality, and to the central government. in such of them as have retained their old aspirations of political independence--notably the poles--the semi-latent disaffection has been stimulated; and in those of them which, like the finlanders and the armenians, desire merely to preserve the limited autonomy they formerly enjoyed, a sentiment of disaffection has been created. all of them know very well that in an armed struggle with the dominant russian nationality they would speedily be crushed, as the poles were in . their disaffection shows itself, therefore, merely in resistance to the obligatory military service, and in an undisguised or thinly veiled attitude of systematic hostility, which causes the government some anxiety and prevents it from sending to the far east a large number of troops which would otherwise be available. they hail, however, with delight the liberal and revolutionary movements in the hope that the russians themselves may undermine, and possibly overthrow, the tyrannical autocratic power. towards this end they would gladly co-operate, and they are endeavouring, therefore, to get into touch with each other; but they have so little in common, and so many mutually antagonistic interests, that they are not likely to succeed in forming a solid coalition. while sympathising with every form of opposition to the government, the men of the subject-nationalities reserve their special affection for the socialists, because these not only proclaim, like the liberals, the principles of extensive local self-government and universal equality before the law, but they also speak of replacing the existing system of coercive centralisation by a voluntary confederation of heterogeneous units. this explains why so many poles, armenians and georgians are to be found in the ranks of the social democrats and the socialist-revolutionaries. of the recruits from oppressed nationalities the great majority come from the jews, who, though they have never dreamed of political independence, or even of local autonomy, have most reason to complain of the existing order of things. at all times they have furnished a goodly contingent to the revolutionary movement, and many of them have belied their traditional reputation of timidity and cowardice by taking part in very dangerous terrorist enterprises--in some cases ending their career on the scaffold. in they created a social-democratic organisation of their own, commonly known as the bund, which joined, in , the russian social-democratic labour party, on the understanding that it should retain its independence on all matters affecting exclusively the jewish population.* it now possesses a very ably-conducted weekly organ, and of all sections of the social-democratic group it is unquestionably the best organised. this is not surprising, because the jews have more business capacity than the russians, and centuries of oppression have developed in the race a wonderful talent for secret illegal activity, and for eluding the vigilance of the police. * the official title of this bund is the "universal jewish labour union in russia and poland." its organ is called sovremenniya izvestiya (contemporary news). it would be very interesting to know the numerical strength of these groups, but we have no materials for forming even an approximate estimate. the liberals are certainly the most numerous. they include the great majority of the educated classes, but they are less persistently energetic than their rivals, and their methods of action make less impression on the government. the two socialist groups, though communicative enough with regard to their doctrines and aims, are very reticent with regard to the number of their adherents, and this naturally awakens a suspicion that an authoritative statement on the subject would tend to diminish rather than enhance their importance in the eyes of the public. if statistics of the social democrats could be obtained, it would be necessary to distinguish between the three categories of which the group is composed: ( ) the educated active members, who form the directing, controlling element; ( ) the fully indoctrinated recruits from the working classes; and ( ) workmen who desire merely to better their material condition, but who take part in political demonstrations in the hope of bringing pressure to bear on their employers, and inducing the government to intervene on their behalf. the two socialist groups are not only increasing the number of their adherents; they are also extending and improving their organisation, as is proved by the recent strikes, which are the work of the social democrats, and by the increasing rural disturbances and acts of terrorism, which are the work of the socialist-revolutionaries. with regard to the unorganised nationalist group, all i can do towards conveying a vague, general idea of its numerical strength is to give the numbers of the populations--men, women, and children--of which the nationalist agitators are the self-constituted representatives, without attempting to estimate the percentage of the actively disaffected. the populations in question are: poles , , jews , , finlanders , , armenians , , georgians , ---------- , , if a national assembly were created, in which all the nationalities were represented according to the numbers of the population, the poles, roughly speaking, would have members, the jews , the finlanders , the armenians , and the georgians : whereas the russians would have about . the other subject-nationalities in which symptoms of revolutionary fermentation have appeared are too insignificant to require special mention. as the representatives of the various subject-nationalities are endeavouring to combine, so likewise are the liberals and the two socialist groups trying to form a coalition, and for this purpose they have already held several conferences. how far they will succeed it is impossible to say. on one point--the necessity of limiting or abolishing the autocratic power--they are unanimous, and there seems to be a tacit understanding that for the present they shall work together amicably on parallel lines, each group reserving its freedom of action for the future, and using meanwhile its own customary means of putting pressure on the government. we may expect, therefore, that for a time the liberals will go on holding conferences and congresses in defiance of the police authorities, delivering eloquent speeches, discussing thorny political questions, drafting elaborate constitutions, and making gentle efforts to clog the wheels of the administration,* while the social democrats will continue to organise strikes and semi-pacific demonstrations,** and the socialist-revolutionaries will seek to accelerate the march of events by agrarian disturbances and acts of terrorism. * as an illustration of this i may cite the fact that several zemstvos have declared themselves unable, under present conditions, to support the indigent families of soldiers at the front. ** i call them semi-pacific, because on such occasions the demonstrators are instructed to refrain from violence only so long as the police do not attempt to stop the proceedings by force. it is certain, however, that the parting of the ways will be reached sooner or later, and already there are indications that it is not very far off. liberals and social democrats may perhaps work together for a considerable time, because the latter, though publicly committed to socialistic schemes which the liberals must regard with the strongest antipathy, are willing to accept a constitutional regime during the period of transition. it is difficult, however, to imagine that the liberals, of whom a large proportion are landed proprietors, can long go hand in hand with the socialist-revolutionaries, who propose to bring about the revolution by inciting the peasants to seize unceremoniously the estates, live stock, and agricultural implements of the landlords. already the socialist-revolutionaries have begun to speak publicly of the inevitable rupture in terms by no means flattering to their temporary allies. in a brochure recently issued by their central committee the following passage occurs: "if we consider the matter seriously and attentively, it becomes evident that all the strength of the bourgeoisie lies in its greater or less capacity for frightening and intimidating the government by the fear of a popular rising; but as the bourgeoisie itself stands in mortal terror of the thing with which it frightens the government, its position at the moment of insurrection will be rather ridiculous and pitiable." to understand the significance of this passage, the reader must know that, in the language of the socialists, bourgeoisie and liberals are convertible terms. the truth is that the liberals find themselves in an awkward strategical position. as quiet, respectable members of society they dislike violence of every kind, and occasionally in moments of excitement they believe that they may attain their ends by mere moral pressure, but when they find that academic protests and pacific demonstrations make no perceptible impression on the government, they become impatient and feel tempted to approve, at least tacitly, of stronger measures. many of them do not profess to regard with horror and indignation the acts of the terrorists, and some of them, if i am correctly informed, go so far as to subscribe to the funds of the socialist-revolutionaries without taking very stringent precautions against the danger of the money being employed for the preparation of dynamite and hand grenades. this extraordinary conduct on the part of moderate liberals may well surprise englishmen, but it is easily explained. the russians have a strong vein of recklessness in their character, and many of them are at present imbued with an unquestioning faith in the miracle-working power of constitutionalism. these seem to imagine that as soon as the autocratic power is limited by parliamentary institutions the discontented will cease from troubling and the country will be at rest. it is hardly necessary to say that such expectations are not likely to be realised. all sections of the educated classes may be agreed in desiring "liberty," but the word has many meanings, and nowhere more than in russia at the present day. for the liberals it means simply democratic parliamentary government; for the social democrat it means the undisputed predominance of the proletariat; for the socialist-revolutionary it means the opportunity of realising immediately the socialist ideal; for the representative of a subject-nationality it means the abolition of racial and religious disabilities and the attainment of local autonomy or political independence. there is no doubt, therefore, that in russia, as in other countries, a parliament would develop political parties bitterly hostile to each other, and its early history might contain some startling surprises for those who had helped to create it. if the constitution, for example, were made as democratic as the liberals and socialists demand, the elections might possibly result in an overwhelming conservative majority ready to re-establish the autocratic power! this is not at all so absurd as it sounds, for the peasants, apart from the land question, are thoroughly conservative. the ordinary muzhik can hardly conceive that the emperor's power can be limited by a law or an assembly, and if the idea were suggested to him, he would certainly not approve. in his opinion the tsar should be omnipotent. if everything is not satisfactory in russia, it is because the tsar does not know of the evil, or is prevented from curing it by the tchinovniks and the landed proprietors. "more power, therefore, to his elbow!" as an irishman might say. such is the simple political creed of the "undeveloped" muzhik, and all the efforts of the revolutionary groups to develop him have not yet been attended with much success. how, then, the reader may ask, is an issue to be found out of the present imbroglio? i cannot pretend to speak with authority, but it seems to me that there are only two methods of dealing with the situation: prompt, energetic repression, or timely, judicious concessions to popular feeling. either of these methods might, perhaps, have been successful, but the government adopted neither, and has halted between the two. by this policy of drift it has encouraged the hopes of all, has satisfied nobody, and has diminished its own prestige. in defence or extenuation of this attitude it may be said that there is considerable danger in the adoption of either course. vigorous repression means staking all on a single card, and if it were successful it could not do more than postpone the evil day, because the present antiquated form of government--suitable enough, perhaps, for a simply organised peasant-empire vegetating in an atmosphere of "eternal stillness"--cannot permanently resist the rising tide of modern ideas and aspirations, and is incapable of grappling successfully with the complicated problems of economic and social progress which are already awaiting solution. sooner or later the bureaucratic machine, driven solely by the autocratic power in the teeth of popular apathy or opposition, must inevitably break down, and the longer the collapse is postponed the more violent is it likely to be. on the other hand, it is impossible to foresee the effects of concessions. mere bureaucratic reforms will satisfy no one; they are indeed not wanted except as a result of more radical changes. what all sections of the opposition demand is that the people should at least take part in the government of the country by means of freely elected representatives in parliament assembled. it is useless to argue with them that constitutionalism will certainly not work the miracles that are expected of it, and that in the struggles of political parties which it is sure to produce the unity and integrity of the empire may be endangered. lessons of that kind can only be learned by experience. other countries, it is said, have existed and thriven under free political institutions, and why not russia? why should she be a pariah among the nations? she gave parliamentary institutions to the young nationalities of the balkan peninsula as soon as they were liberated from turkish bondage, and she has not yet been allowed such privileges herself! let us suppose now that the autocratic power has come to feel the impossibility of remaining isolated as it is at present, and that it has decided to seek solid support in some section of the population, what section should it choose? practically it has no choice. the only way of relieving the pressure is to make concessions to the constitutionalists. that course would conciliate, not merely the section of the opposition which calls itself by that name and represents the majority of the educated classes, but also, in a lesser degree, all the other sections. no doubt these latter would accept the concession only as part payment of their demands and a means of attaining ulterior aims. again and again the social democrats have proclaimed publicly that they desire parliamentary government, not as an end in itself, but as a stepping stone towards the realisation of the socialist ideal. it is evident, however, that they would have to remain on this stepping stone for a long series of years--until the representatives of the proletariat obtained an overwhelming majority in the chamber. in like manner the subject-nationalities would regard a parliamentary regime as a mere temporary expedient--a means of attaining greater local and national autonomy--and they would probably show themselves more impatient than the social democrats. any inordinate claims, however, which they might put forward would encounter resistance, as the poles found in , not merely from the autocratic power, but from the great majority of the russian people, who have no sympathy with any efforts tending to bring about the disruption of the empire. in short, as soon as the assembly set to work, the delegates would be sobered by a consciousness of responsibility, differences of opinion and aims would inevitably appear, and the various groups transformed into political parties, instead of all endeavouring as at present to pull down the autocratic power, would expend a great part of their energy in pulling against each other. in order to reach this haven of safety it is necessary to pass through a period of transition, in which there are some formidable difficulties. one of these i may mention by way of illustration. in creating parliamentary institutions of any kind the government could hardly leave intact the present system of allowing the police to arrest without a proper warrant, and send into exile without trial, any one suspected of revolutionary designs. on this point all the opposition groups are agreed, and all consequently put forward prominently the demand for the inviolability of person and domicile. to grant such a concession seems a very simple and easy matter, but any responsible minister might hesitate to accept such a restriction of his authority. we know, he would argue, that the terrorist section of the socialist-revolutionary group, the so-called militant organisation, are very busy preparing bombs, and the police, even with the extensive, ill-defined powers which they at present possess, have the greatest difficulty in preventing the use of such objectionable instruments of political warfare. would not the dynamiters and throwers of hand-grenades utilise a relaxation of police supervision, as they did in the time of louis melikof,* for carrying out their nefarious designs? * vide supra, p. . i have no desire to conceal or minimise such dangers, but i believe they are temporary and by no means so great as the dangers of the only other alternatives--energetic repression and listless inactivity. terrorism and similar objectionable methods of political warfare are symptoms of an abnormal, unhealthy state of society, and would doubtless disappear in russia, as they have disappeared in other countries, with the conditions which produced them. if the terrorists continued to exist under a more liberal regime, they would be much less formidable, because they would lose the half-concealed sympathy which they at present enjoy. political assassinations may occasionally take place under the most democratic governments, as the history of the united states proves, but terrorism as a system is to be found only in countries where the political power is concentrated in the hands of a few individuals; and it sometimes happens that irresponsible persons are exposed to terrorist attacks. we have an instance of this at present in st. petersburg. the reluctance of the emperor to adopt at once a liberal programme is commonly attributed to the influence of two members of the imperial family, the empress dowager and the grand duke vladimir. this is a mistake. neither of these personages is so reactionary as is generally supposed, and their political views, whatever they may be, have no appreciable influence on the course of affairs. if the empress dowager had possessed the influence so often ascribed to her, m. plehve would not have remained so long in power. as for the grand duke vladimir, he is not in favour, and for nearly two years he has never been consulted on political matters. the so-called grand ducal party of which he is supposed to be the leader, is a recently invented fiction. when in difficulties the emperor may consult individually some of his near relatives, but there is no coherent group to which the term party could properly be applied. as soon as the autocratic power has decided on a definite line of action, it is to be hoped that a strong man will be found to take the direction of affairs. in russia, as in other autocratically governed countries, strong men in the political sense of the term are extremely rare, and when they do appear as a lusus naturae they generally take their colour from their surroundings, and are of the authoritative, dictatorial type. during recent years only two strong men have come to the front in the russian official world. the one was m. plehve, who was nothing if not authoritative and dictatorial, and who is no longer available for experiments in repression or constitutionalism. the other is m. witte. as an administrator under an autocratic regime he has displayed immense ability and energy, but it does not follow that he is a statesman capable of piloting the ship into calm waters, and he is not likely to have an opportunity of making the attempt, for he does not--to state the case mildly--possess the full confidence of his august master. even if a strong man, enjoying fully the imperial confidence, could be found, the problem would not be thereby completely and satisfactorily solved, because an autocrat, who is the lord's anointed, cannot delegate his authority to a simple mortal without losing something of the semi-religious halo and the prestige on which his authority rests. while a roi faineant may fulfil effectively all the essential duties of sovereignty, an autocrate faineant is an absurdity. in these circumstances, it is idle to speculate as to the future. all we can do is to await patiently the development of events, and in all probability it is the unexpected that will happen. the reader doubtless feels that i am offering a very lame and impotent conclusion, and i must confess that i am conscious of this feeling myself, but i think i may fairly plead extenuating circumstances. happily for my peace of mind i am a mere observer who is not called upon to invent a means of extricating russia from her difficult position. for that arduous task there are already brave volunteers enough in the field. all i have to do is to explain as clearly as i can the complicated problem to be solved. nor do i feel it any part of my duty to make predictions. i believe i am pretty well acquainted with the situation at the present moment, but what it may be a few weeks hence, when the words i am now writing issue from the press, i do not profess to foresee. a sportsman's sketches by ivan turgenev _translated from the russian_ _by constance garnett_ volume ii contents xv. tatyana borissovna and her nephew xvi. death xvii. the singers xviii. piotr petrovitch karataev xix. the tryst xx. the hamlet of the shtchigri district xxi. tchertop-hanov and nedopyuskin xxii. the end of tchertop-hanov xxiii. a living relic xxiv. the rattling of wheels xxv. epilogue: the forest and the steppe xv tatyana borissovna and her nephew give me your hand, gentle reader, and come along with me. it is glorious weather; there is a tender blue in the may sky; the smooth young leaves of the willows glisten as though they had been polished; the wide even road is all covered with that delicate grass with the little reddish stalk that the sheep are so fond of nibbling; to right and to left, over the long sloping hillsides, the green rye is softly waving; the shadows of small clouds glide in thin long streaks over it. in the distance is the dark mass of forests, the glitter of ponds, yellow patches of village; larks in hundreds are soaring, singing, falling headlong with outstretched necks, hopping about the clods; the crows on the highroad stand still, look at you, peck at the earth, let you drive close up, and with two hops lazily move aside. on a hill beyond a ravine a peasant is ploughing; a piebald colt, with a cropped tail and ruffled mane, is running on unsteady legs after its mother; its shrill whinnying reaches us. we drive on into the birch wood, and drink in the strong, sweet, fresh fragrance. here we are at the boundaries. the coachman gets down; the horses snort; the trace-horses look round; the centre horse in the shafts switches his tail, and turns his head up towards the wooden yoke above it... the great gate opens creaking; the coachman seats himself.... drive on! the village is before us. passing five homesteads, and turning off to the right, we drop down into a hollow and drive along a dyke, the farther side of a small pond; behind the round tops of the lilacs and apple-trees a wooden roof, once red, with two chimneys, comes into sight; the coachman keeps along the hedge to the left, and to the spasmodic and drowsy baying of three pug dogs he drives through the wide open gates, whisks smartly round the broad courtyard past the stable and the barn, gallantly salutes the old housekeeper, who is stepping sideways over the high lintel in the open doorway of the storehouse, and pulls up at last before the steps of a dark house with light windows.... we are at tatyana borissovna's. and here she is herself opening the window and nodding at us.... 'good day, ma'am!' tatyana borissovna is a woman of fifty, with large, prominent grey eyes, a rather broad nose, rosy cheeks and a double chin. her face is brimming over with friendliness and kindness. she was once married, but was soon left a widow. tatyana borissovna is a very remarkable woman. she lives on her little property, never leaving it, mixes very little with her neighbours, sees and likes none but young people. she was the daughter of very poor landowners, and received no education; in other words, she does not know french; she has never been in moscow--and in spite of all these defects, she is so good and simple in her manners, so broad in her sympathies and ideas, so little infected with the ordinary prejudices of country ladies of small means, that one positively cannot help marvelling at her.... indeed, a woman who lives all the year round in the country and does not talk scandal, nor whine, nor curtsey, is never flurried, nor depressed, nor in a flutter of curiosity, is a real marvel! she usually wears a grey taffetas gown and a white cap with lilac streamers; she is fond of good cheer, but not to excess; all the preserving, pickling, and salting she leaves to her housekeeper. 'what does she do all day long?' you will ask.... 'does she read?' no, she doesn't read, and, to tell the truth, books are not written for her.... if there are no visitors with her, tatyana borissovna sits by herself at the window knitting a stocking in winter; in summer time she is in the garden, planting and watering her flowers, playing for hours together with her cats, or feeding her doves.... she does not take much part in the management of her estate. but if a visitor pays her a call--some young neighbour whom she likes--tatyana borissovna is all life directly; she makes him sit down, pours him out some tea, listens to his chat, laughs, sometimes pats his cheek, but says little herself; in trouble or sorrow she comforts and gives good advice. how many people have confided their family secrets and the griefs of their hearts to her, and have wept over her hands! at times she sits opposite her visitor, leaning lightly on her elbow, and looks with such sympathy into his face, smiles so affectionately, that he cannot help feeling: 'what a dear, good woman you are, tatyana borissovna! let me tell you what is in my heart.' one feels happy and warm in her small, snug rooms; in her house it is always, so to speak, fine weather. tatyana borissovna is a wonderful woman, but no one wonders at her; her sound good sense, her breadth and firmness, her warm sympathy in the joys and sorrows of others--in a word, all her qualities are so innate in her; they are no trouble, no effort to her.... one cannot fancy her otherwise, and so one feels no need to thank her. she is particularly fond of watching the pranks and follies of young people; she folds her hands over her bosom, throws back her head, puckers up her eyes, and sits smiling at them, then all of a sudden she heaves a sigh, and says, 'ah, my children, my children!'... sometimes one longs to go up to her, take hold of her hands and say: 'let me tell you, tatyana borissovna, you don't know your own value; for all your simplicity and lack of learning, you're an extraordinary creature!' her very name has a sweet familiar ring; one is glad to utter it; it calls up a kindly smile at once. how often, for instance, have i chanced to ask a peasant: 'tell me, my friend, how am i to get to gratchevka?' let us say. 'well, sir, you go on first to vyazovoe, and from there to tatyana borissovna's, and from tatyana borissovna's any one will show you the way.' and at the name of tatyana borissovna the peasant wags his head in quite a special way. her household is small, in accordance with her means. the house, the laundry, the stores and the kitchen, are in the charge of the housekeeper, agafya, once her nurse, a good-natured, tearful, toothless creature; she has under her two stalwart girls with stout crimson cheeks like antonovsky apples. the duties of valet, steward, and waiter are filled by policarp, an extraordinary old man of seventy, a queer fellow, full of erudition, once a violinist and worshipper of viotti, with a personal hostility to napoleon, or, as he calls him, bonaparty, and a passion for nightingales. he always keeps five or six of the latter in his room; in early spring he will sit for whole days together by the cage, waiting for the first trill, and when he hears it, he covers his face with his hands, and moans, 'oh, piteous, piteous!' and sheds tears in floods. policarp has, to help him, his grandson vasya, a curly-headed, sharp-eyed boy of twelve; policarp adores him, and grumbles at him from morning till night. he undertakes his education too. 'vasya,' he says, 'say bonaparty was a scoundrel.' 'and what'll you give me, granddad?' 'what'll i give you?... i'll give you nothing.... why, what are you? aren't you a russian?' 'i'm a mtchanin, granddad; i was born in mtchensk.' 'oh, silly dunce! but where is mtchensk?' 'how can i tell?' 'mtchensk's in russia, silly!' 'well, what then, if it is in russia?' 'what then? why, his highness the late prince mihalo ilarionovitch golenishtchev-kutuzov-smolensky, with god's aid, graciously drove bonaparty out of the russian territories. it's on that event the song was composed: "bonaparty's in no mood to dance, he's lost the garters he brought from france."... do you understand? he liberated your fatherland.' 'and what's that to do with me?' 'ah! you silly boy! why, if his highness prince mihalo ilarionovitch hadn't driven out bonaparty, some mounseer would have been beating you about the head with a stick this minute. he'd come up to you like this, and say: "koman voo porty voo?" and then a box on the ear!' 'but i'd give him one in the belly with my fist' 'but he'd go on: "bonzhur, bonzhur, veny ici," and then a cuff on the head.' 'and i'd give him one in his legs, his bandy legs.' 'you're quite right, their legs are bandy.... well, but suppose he tied your hands?' 'i wouldn't let him; i'd call mihay the coachman to help me.' 'but, vasya, suppose you weren't a match for the frenchy even with mihay?' 'not a match for him! see how strong mihay is!' 'well, and what would you do with him?' 'we'd get him on his back, we would.' 'and he'd shout, "pardon, pardon, seevooplay!"' 'we'd tell him, "none of your seevooplays, you old frenchy!"' 'bravo, vasya!... well, now then, shout, "bonaparty's a scoundrel!"' 'but you must give me some sugar!' 'you scamp!' of the neighbouring ladies tatyana borissovna sees very little; they do not care about going to see her, and she does not know how to amuse them; the sound of their chatter sends her to sleep; she starts, tries to keep her eyes open, and drops off again. tatyana borissovna is not fond of women as a rule. one of her friends, a good, harmless young man, had a sister, an old maid of thirty-eight and a half, a good-natured creature, but exaggerated, affected, and enthusiastic. her brother had often talked to her of their neighbour. one fine morning our old maid has her horse saddled, and, without a word to any one, sallies off to tatyana borissovna's. in her long habit, a hat on her head, a green veil and floating curls, she went into the hall, and passing by the panic-stricken vasya, who took her for a wood-witch, ran into the drawing-room. tatyana borissovna, scared, tried to rise, but her legs sank under her. 'tatyana borissovna,' began the visitor in a supplicating voice, 'forgive my temerity; i am the sister of your friend, alexy nikolaevitch k----, and i have heard so much about you from him that i resolved to make your acquaintance.' 'greatly honoured,' muttered the bewildered lady. the sister flung off her hat, shook her curls, seated herself near tatyana borissovna; took her by the hand... 'so this is she,' she began in a pensive voice fraught with feeling: 'this is that sweet, clear, noble, holy being! this is she! that woman at once so simple and so deep! how glad i am! how glad i am! how we shall love each other! i can breathe easily at last... i always fancied her just so,' she added in a whisper, her eyes riveted on the eyes of tatyana borissovna. 'you won't be angry with me, will you, my dear kind friend?' 'really, i'm delighted!... won't you have some tea?' the lady smiled patronisingly: _'wie wahr, wie unreflectiert'_, she murmured, as it were to herself. 'let me embrace you, my dear one!' the old maid stayed three hours at tatyana borissovna's, never ceasing talking an instant. she tried to explain to her new acquaintance all her own significance. directly after the unexpected visitor had departed, the poor lady took a bath, drank some lime-flower water, and took to her bed. but the next day the old maid came back, stayed four hours, and left, promising to come to see tatyana borissovna every day. her idea, please to observe, was to develop, to complete the education of so rich a nature, to use her own expression, and she would probably have really been the death of her, if she had not, in the first place, been utterly disillusioned as regards her brother's friend within a fortnight, and secondly, fallen in love with a young student on a visit in the neighbourhood, with whom she at once rushed into a fervid and active correspondence; in her missives she consecrated him, as the manner of such is, to a noble, holy life, offered herself wholly a sacrifice, asked only for the name of sister, launched into endless descriptions of nature, made allusions to goethe, schiller, bettina and german philosophy, and drove the luckless young man at last to the blackest desperation. but youth asserted itself: one fine morning he woke up with such a furious hatred for 'his sister and best of friends' that he almost killed his valet in his passion, and was snappish for a long while after at the slightest allusion to elevated and disinterested passion. but from that time forth tatyana borissovna began to avoid all intimacy with ladies of the neighbourhood more than ever. alas! nothing is lasting on this earth. all i have related as to the way of life of my kind-hearted neighbour is a thing of the past; the peace that used to reign in her house has been destroyed for ever. for more than a year now there has been living with her a nephew, an artist from petersburg. this is how it came about. eight years ago, there was living with tatyana borissovna a boy of twelve, an orphan, the son of her brother, andryusha. andryusha had large, clear, humid eyes, a tiny little mouth, a regular nose, and a fine lofty brow. he spoke in a low, sweet voice, was attentive and coaxing with visitors, kissed his auntie's hand with an orphan's sensibility; and one hardly had time to show oneself before he had put a chair for one. he had no mischievous tricks; he was never noisy; he would sit by himself in a corner with a book, and with such sedateness and propriety, never even leaning back in his chair. when a visitor came in, andryusha would get up, with a decorous smile and a flush; when the visitor went away he would sit down again, pull out of his pocket a brush and a looking-glass, and brush his hair. from his earliest years he had shown a taste for drawing. whenever he got hold of a piece of paper, he would ask agafya the housekeeper for a pair of scissors at once, carefully cut a square piece out of the paper, trace a border round it and set to work; he would draw an eye with an immense pupil, or a grecian nose, or a house with a chimney and smoke coming out of it in the shape of a corkscrew, a dog, _en face_, looking rather like a bench, or a tree with two pigeons on it, and would sign it: 'drawn by andrei byelovzorov, such a day in such a year, in the village of maliya-briki.' he used to toil with special industry for a fortnight before tatyana borissovna's birthday; he was the first to present his congratulations and offer her a roll of paper tied up with a pink ribbon. tatyana borissovna would kiss her nephew and undo the knot; the roll was unfolded and presented to the inquisitive gaze of the spectator, a round, boldly sketched temple in sepia, with columns and an altar in the centre; on the altar lay a burning heart and a wreath, while above, on a curling scroll, was inscribed in legible characters: 'to my aunt and benefactress, tatyana borissovna bogdanov, from her dutiful and loving nephew, as a token of his deepest affection.' tatyana borissovna would kiss him again and give him a silver rouble. she did not, though, feel any very warm affection for him; andryusha's fawning ways were not quite to her taste. meanwhile, andryusha was growing up; tatyana borissovna began to be anxious about his future. an unexpected incident solved the difficulty to her. one day eight years ago she received a visit from a certain mr. benevolensky, piotr mihalitch, a college councillor with a decoration. mr. benevolensky had at one time held an official post in the nearest district town, and had been assiduous in his visits to tatyana borissovna; then he had moved to petersburg, got into the ministry, and attained a rather important position, and on one of the numerous journeys he took in the discharge of his official duties, he remembered his old friend, and came back to see her, with the intention of taking a rest for two days from his official labours 'in the bosom of the peace of nature.' tatyana borissovna greeted him with her usual cordiality, and mr. benevolensky.... but before we proceed with the rest of the story, gentle reader, let us introduce you to this new personage. mr. benevolensky was a stoutish man, of middle height and mild appearance, with little short legs and little fat hands; he wore a roomy and excessively spruce frock-coat, a high broad cravat, snow-white linen, a gold chain on his silk waistcoat, a gem-ring on his forefinger, and a white wig on his head; he spoke softly and persuasively, trod noiselessly, and had an amiable smile, an amiable look in his eyes, and an amiable way of settling his chin in his cravat; he was, in fact, an amiable person altogether. god had given him a heart, too, of the softest; he was easily moved to tears and to transports; moreover, he was all aglow with disinterested passion for art: disinterested it certainly was, for mr. benevolensky, if the truth must be told, knew absolutely nothing about art. one is set wondering, indeed, whence, by virtue of what mysterious uncomprehended forces, this passion had come upon him. he was, to all appearance, a practical, even prosaic person... however, we have a good many people of the same sort among us in russia. their devotion to art and artists produces in these people an inexpressible mawkishness; it is distressing to have to do with them and to talk to them; they are perfect logs smeared with honey. they never, for instance, call raphael, raphael, or correggio, correggio; 'the divine sanzio, the incomparable di allegri,' they murmur, and always with the broadest vowels. every pretentious, conceited, home-bred mediocrity they hail as a genius: 'the blue sky of italy,' 'the lemons of the south,' 'the balmy breezes of the banks of the brenta,' are for ever on their lips. 'ah, vasya, vasya,' or 'oh, sasha, sasha,' they say to one another with deep feeling, 'we must away to the south... we are greeks in soul--ancient greeks.' one may observe them at exhibitions before the works of some russian painters (these gentlemen, it should be noted, are, for the most part, passionate patriots). first they step back a couple of paces, and throw back their heads; then they go up to the picture again; their eyes are suffused with an oily moisture.... 'there you have it, my god!' they say at last, in voices broken with emotion; 'there's soul, soul! ah! what feeling, what feeling! ah, what soul he has put into it! what a mass of soul!... and how he has thought it out! thought it out like a master!' and, oh! the pictures in their own drawing-rooms! oh, the artists that come to them in the evenings, drink tea, and listen to their conversation! and the views in perspective they make them of their own rooms, with a broom in the foreground, a little heap of dust on the polished floor, a yellow samovar on a table near the window, and the master of the house himself in skull-cap and dressing-gown, with a brilliant streak of sunlight falling on his cheek! oh, the long-haired nurslings of the muse, wearing spasmodic and contemptuous smiles, that cluster about them! oh, the young ladies, with faces of greenish pallor, who squeal; over their pianos! for that is the established rule with us in russia; a man cannot be devoted to one art alone--he must have them all. and so it is not to be wondered at that these gentlemen extend their powerful patronage to russian literature also, especially to dramatic literature.... the _jacob sannazars_ are written for them; the struggle of unappreciated talent against the whole world, depicted a thousand times over, still moves them profoundly.... the day after mr. benevolensky's arrival, tatyana borissovna told her nephew at tea-time to show their guest his drawings. 'why, does he draw?' said mr. benevolensky, with some surprise, and he turned with interest to andryusha. 'yes, he draws,' said tatyana borissovna; 'he's so fond of it! and he does it all alone, without a master.' 'ah! show me, show me,' cried mr. benevolensky. andryusha, blushing and smiling, brought the visitor his sketch-book. mr. benevolensky began turning it over with the air of a connoisseur. 'good, young man,' he pronounced at last; 'good, very good.' and he patted andryusha on the head. andryusha intercepted his hand and kissed it 'fancy, now, a talent like that!... i congratulate you, tatyana borissovna.' 'but what am i to do, piotr mihalitch? i can't get him a teacher here. to have one from the town is a great expense; our neighbours, the artamonovs, have a drawing-master, and they say an excellent one, but his mistress forbids his giving lessons to outsiders.' 'hm,' pronounced mr. benevolensky; he pondered and looked askance at andryusha. 'well, we will talk it over,' he added suddenly, rubbing his hands. the same day he begged tatyana borissovna's permission for an interview with her alone. they shut themselves up together. in half-an-hour they called andryusha--andryusha went in. mr. benevolensky was standing at the window with a slight flush on his face and a beaming expression. tatyana borissovna was sitting in a corner wiping her eyes. 'come, andryusha,' she said at last, 'you must thank piotr mihalitch; he will take you under his protection; he will take you to petersburg.' andryusha almost fainted on the spot. 'tell me candidly,' began mr. benevolensky, in a voice filled with dignity and patronising indulgence; 'do you want to be an artist, young man? do you feel yourself consecrated to the holy service of art?' 'i want to be an artist, piotr mihalitch,' andryusha declared in a trembling voice. 'i am delighted, if so it be. it will, of course,' continued mr. benevolensky,'be hard for you to part from your revered aunt; you must feel the liveliest gratitude to her.' 'i adore my auntie,' andryusha interrupted, blinking. 'of course, of course, that's readily understood, and does you great credit; but, on the other hand, consider the pleasure that in the future... your success....' 'kiss me, andryusha,' muttered the kind-hearted lady. andryusha flung himself on her neck. 'there, now, thank your benefactor.' andryusha embraced mr. benevolensky's stomach, and stretching on tiptoe, reached his hand and imprinted a kiss, which his benefactor, though with some show of reluctance, accepted.... he had, to be sure, to pacify the child, and, after all, might reflect that he deserved it. two days later, mr. benevolensky departed, taking with him his new _protégé_. during the first three years of andryusha's absence he wrote pretty often, sometimes enclosing drawings in his letters. from time to time mr. benevolensky added a few words, for the most part of approbation; then the letters began to be less and less frequent, and at last ceased altogether. a whole year passed without a word from her nephew; and tatyana borissovna was beginning to be uneasy when suddenly she got the following note:-- 'dearest auntie,--piotr mihalitch, my patron, died three days ago. a severe paralytic stroke has deprived me of my sole support. to be sure, i am now twenty. i have made considerable progress during the last seven years; i have the greatest confidence in my talent, and can make my living by means of it; i do not despair; but all the same send me, if you can, as soon as convenient, roubles. i kiss your hand and remain...' etc. tatyana borissovna sent her nephew roubles. two months later he asked for more; she got together every penny she had and sent it him. not six weeks after the second donation he was asking a third time for help, ostensibly to buy colours for a portrait bespoken by princess tertereshenev. tatyana borissovna refused. 'under these circumstances,' he wrote to her, 'i propose coming to you to regain my health in the country.' and in the may of the same year andryusha did, in fact, return to maliya-briki. tatyana borissovna did not recognise him for the first minute. from his letter she had expected to see a wasted invalid, and she beheld a stout, broad-shouldered fellow, with a big red face and greasy, curly hair. the pale, slender little andryusha had turned into the stalwart andrei ivanovitch byelovzorov. and it was not only his exterior that was transformed. the modest spruceness, the sedateness and tidiness of his earlier years, was replaced by a careless swagger and slovenliness quite insufferable; he rolled from side to side as he walked, lolled in easy-chairs, put his elbows on the table, stretched and yawned, and behaved rudely to his aunt and the servants. 'i'm an artist,' he would say; 'a free cossack! that's our sort!' sometimes he did not touch a brush for whole days together; then the inspiration, as he called it, would come upon him; then he would swagger about as if he were drunk, clumsy, awkward, and noisy; his cheeks were flushed with a coarse colour, his eyes dull; he would launch into discourses upon his talent, his success, his development, the advance he was making.... it turned out in actual fact that he had barely talent enough to produce passable portraits. he was a perfect ignoramus, had read nothing; why should an artist read, indeed? nature, freedom, poetry were his fitting elements; he need do nothing but shake his curls, talk, and suck away at his eternal cigarette! russian audacity is a fine thing, but it doesn't suit every one; and polezhaevs at second-hand, without the genius, are insufferable beings. andrei ivanovitch went on living at his aunt's; he did not seem to find the bread of charity bitter, notwithstanding the proverb. visitors to the house found him a mortal nuisance. he would sit at the piano (a piano, too, had been installed at tatyana borissovna's) and begin strumming 'the swift sledge' with one finger; he would strike some chords, tap on the keys, and for hours together he would howl varlamov's songs, 'the solitary pine,' or 'no, doctor, no, don't come to me,' in the most distressing manner, and his eyes seemed to disappear altogether, his cheeks were so puffed out and tense as drums.... then he would suddenly strike up: 'be still, distracting passion's tempest!'... tatyana borissovna positively shuddered. 'it's a strange thing,' she observed to me one day, 'the songs they compose nowadays; there's something desperate about them; in my day they were very different. we had mournful songs, too, but it was always a pleasure to hear them.... for instance:-- "'come, come to me in the meadow, where i am awaiting thee; come, come to me in the meadow, where i'm shedding tears for thee... alas! thou'rt coming to the meadow, but too late, dear love, for me!'" tatyana borissovna smiled slyly. 'i agon-ise, i agon-ise!' yelled her nephew in the next room. 'be quiet, andryusha!' 'my soul's consumed apart from thee!' the indefatigable singer continued. tatyana borissovna shook her head. 'ah, these artists! these artists!'.... a year has gone by since then. byelovzorov is still living at his aunt's, and still talking of going back to petersburg. he has grown as broad as he is long in the country. his aunt--who could have imagined such a thing?--idolises him, and the young girls of the neighbourhood are falling in love with him.... many of her old friends have given up going to tatyana borissovna's. xvi death i have a neighbour, a young landowner and a young sportsman. one fine july morning i rode over to him with a proposition that we should go out grouse-shooting together. he agreed. 'only let's go,' he said, 'to my underwoods at zusha; i can seize the opportunity to have a look at tchapligino; you know my oakwood; they're felling timber there.' 'by all means.' he ordered his horse to be saddled, put on a green coat with bronze buttons, stamped with a boar's head, a game-bag embroidered in crewels, and a silver flask, slung a new-fangled french gun over his shoulder, turned himself about with some satisfaction before the looking-glass, and called his dog, hope, a gift from his cousin, an old maid with an excellent heart, but no hair on her head. we started. my neighbour took with him the village constable, arhip, a stout, squat peasant with a square face and jaws of antediluvian proportions, and an overseer he had recently hired from the baltic provinces, a youth of nineteen, thin, flaxen-haired, and short-sighted, with sloping shoulders and a long neck, herr gottlieb von der kock. my neighbour had himself only recently come into the property. it had come to him by inheritance from an aunt, the widow of a councillor of state, madame kardon-kataev, an excessively stout woman, who did nothing but lie in her bed, sighing and groaning. we reached the underwoods. 'you wait for me here at the clearing,' said ardalion mihalitch (my neighbour) addressing his companions. the german bowed, got off his horse, pulled a book out of his pocket--a novel of johanna schopenhauer's, i fancy--and sat down under a bush; arhip remained in the sun without stirring a muscle for an hour. we beat about among the bushes, but did not come on a single covey. ardalion mihalitch announced his intention of going on to the wood. i myself had no faith, somehow, in our luck that day; i, too, sauntered after him. we got back to the clearing. the german noted the page, got up, put the book in his pocket, and with some difficulty mounted his bob-tailed, broken-winded mare, who neighed and kicked at the slightest touch; arhip shook himself, gave a tug at both reins at once, swung his legs, and at last succeeded in starting his torpid and dejected nag. we set off. i had been familiar with ardalion mihalitch's wood from my childhood. i had often strolled in tchapligino with my french tutor, monsieur désiré fleury, the kindest of men (who had, however, almost ruined my constitution for life by dosing me with leroux's mixture every evening). the whole wood consisted of some two or three hundred immense oaks and ash-trees. their stately, powerful trunks were magnificently black against the transparent golden green of the nut bushes and mountain-ashes; higher up, their wide knotted branches stood out in graceful lines against the clear blue sky, unfolding into a tent overhead; hawks, honey-buzzards and kestrels flew whizzing under the motionless tree-tops; variegated wood-peckers tapped loudly on the stout bark; the blackbird's bell-like trill was heard suddenly in the thick foliage, following on the ever-changing note of the gold-hammer; in the bushes below was the chirp and twitter of hedge-warblers, siskins, and peewits; finches ran swiftly along the paths; a hare would steal along the edge of the wood, halting cautiously as he ran; a squirrel would hop sporting from tree to tree, then suddenly sit still, with its tail over its head. in the grass among the high ant-hills under the delicate shade of the lovely, feathery, deep-indented bracken, were violets and lilies of the valley, and funguses, russet, yellow, brown, red and crimson; in the patches of grass among the spreading bushes red strawberries were to be found.... and oh, the shade in the wood! in the most stifling heat, at mid-day, it was like night in the wood: such peace, such fragrance, such freshness.... i had spent happy times in tchapligino, and so, i must own, it was with melancholy feelings i entered the wood i knew so well. the ruinous, snowless winter of had not spared my old friends, the oaks and the ashes; withered, naked, covered here and there with sickly foliage, they struggled mournfully up above the young growth which 'took their place, but could never replace them.' [footnote: in there were severe frosts, and no snow fell up to the very end of december; all the wintercorn was frozen, and many splendid oak-forests were destroyed by that merciless winter. it will be hard to replace them; the productive force of the land is apparently diminishing; in the 'interdicted' wastelands (visited by processions with holy images, and so not to be touched), instead of the noble trees of former days, birches and aspens grow of themselves; and, indeed, they have no idea among us of planting woods at all.--_author's note_.] some trees, still covered with leaves below, fling their lifeless, ruined branches upwards, as it were, in reproach and despair; in others, stout, dead, dry branches are thrust out of the midst of foliage still thick, though with none of the luxuriant abundance of old; others have fallen altogether, and lie rotting like corpses on the ground. and--who could have dreamed of this in former days?--there was no shade--no shade to be found anywhere in tchapligino! 'ah,' i thought, looking at the dying trees: 'isn't it shameful and bitter for you?'... koltsov's lines recurred to me: 'what has become of the mighty voices, the haughty strength, the royal pomp? where now is the wealth of green?... 'how is it, ardalion mihalitch,' i began, 'that they didn't fell these trees the very next year? you see they won't give for them now a tenth of what they would have done before.' he merely shrugged his shoulders. 'you should have asked my aunt that; the timber merchants came, offered money down, pressed the matter, in fact.' '_mein gott! mein gott!_' von der kock cried at every step. 'vat a bity, vat a bity!' 'what's a bity!' observed my neighbour with a smile. 'that is; how bitiful, i meant to say.' what particularly aroused his regrets were the oaks lying on the ground--and, indeed, many a miller would have given a good sum for them. but the constable arhip preserved an unruffled composure, and did not indulge in any lamentations; on the contrary, he seemed even to jump over them and crack his whip on them with a certain satisfaction. we were getting near the place where they were cutting down the trees, when suddenly a shout and hurried talk was heard, following on the crash of a falling tree, and a few instants after a young peasant, pale and dishevelled, dashed out of the thicket towards us. 'what is it? where are you running?' ardalion mihalitch asked him. he stopped at once. 'ah, ardalion mihalitch, sir, an accident!' 'what is it?' 'maksim, sir, crushed by a tree.' 'how did it happen?... maksim the foreman?' 'the foreman, sir. we'd started cutting an ash-tree, and he was standing looking on.... he stood there a bit, and then off he went to the well for some water--wanted a drink, seemingly--when suddenly the ash-tree began creaking and coming straight towards him. we shout to him: 'run, run, run!'.... he should have rushed to one side, but he up and ran straight before him.... he was scared, to be sure. the ash-tree covered him with its top branches. but why it fell so soon, the lord only knows!... perhaps it was rotten at the core.' 'and so it crushed maksim?' 'yes, sir.' 'to death?' 'no, sir, he's still alive--but as good as dead; his arms and legs are crushed. i was running for seliverstitch, for the doctor.' ardalion mihalitch told the constable to gallop to the village for seliverstitch, while he himself pushed on at a quick trot to the clearing.... i followed him. we found poor maksim on the ground. the peasants were standing about him. we got off our horses. he hardly moaned at all; from time to time he opened his eyes wide, looked round, as it were, in astonishment, and bit his lips, fast turning blue.... the lower part of his face was twitching; his hair was matted on his brow; his breast heaved irregularly: he was dying. the light shade of a young lime-tree glided softly over his face. we bent down to him. he recognised ardalion mihalitch. 'please sir,' he said to him, hardly articulately, 'send... for the priest... tell... the lord... has punished me... arms, legs, all smashed... to-day's... sunday... and i... i... see... didn't let the lads off... work.' he ceased, out of breath. 'and my money... for my wife... after deducting.... onesim here knows... whom i... what i owe.' 'we've sent for the doctor, maksim,' said my neighbour; 'perhaps you may not die yet.' he tried to open his eyes, and with an effort raised the lids. 'no, i'm dying. here... here it is coming... here it.... forgive me, lads, if in any way....' 'god will forgive you, maksim andreitch,' said the peasants thickly with one voice, and they took off their caps; 'do you forgive us!' he suddenly shook his head despairingly, his breast heaved with a painful effort, and he fell back again. 'we can't let him lie here and die, though,' cried ardalion mihalitch; 'lads, give us the mat from the cart, and carry him to the hospital.' two men ran to the cart. 'i bought a horse... yesterday,' faltered the dying man, 'off efim... sitchovsky... paid earnest money... so the horse is mine.... give it... to my wife....' they began to move him on to the mat.... he trembled all over, like a wounded bird, and stiffened.... 'he is dead,' muttered the peasants. we mounted our horses in silence and rode away. the death of poor maksim set me musing. how wonderfully indeed the russian peasant dies! the temper in which he meets his end cannot be called indifference or stolidity; he dies as though he were performing a solemn rite, coolly and simply. a few years ago a peasant belonging to another neighbour of mine in the country got burnt in the drying shed, where the corn is put. (he would have remained there, but a passing pedlar pulled him out half-dead; he plunged into a tub of water, and with a run broke down the door of the burning outhouse.) i went to his hut to see him. it was dark, smoky, stifling, in the hut. i asked, 'where is the sick man?' 'there, sir, on the stove,' the sorrowing peasant woman answered me in a sing-song voice. i went up; the peasant was lying covered with a sheepskin, breathing heavily. 'well, how do you feel?' the injured man stirred on the stove; all over burns, within sight of death as he was, tried to rise. 'lie still, lie still, lie still.... well, how are you?' 'in a bad way, surely,' said he. 'are you in pain?' no answer. 'is there anything you want?'--no answer. 'shouldn't i send you some tea, or anything.' 'there's no need.' i moved away from him and sat down on the bench. i sat there a quarter of an hour; i sat there half an hour--the silence of the tomb in the hut. in the corner behind the table under the holy pictures crouched a little girl of twelve years old, eating a piece of bread. her mother threatened her every now and then. in the outer room there was coming and going, noise and talk: the brother's wife was chopping cabbage. 'hey, aksinya,' said the injured man at last. 'what?' 'some kvas.'aksinya gave him some kvas. silence again. i asked in a whisper, 'have they given him the sacrament?' 'yes.' so, then, everything was in order: he was waiting for death, that was all. i could not bear it, and went away.... again, i recall how i went one day to the hospital in the village of krasnogorye to see the surgeon kapiton, a friend of mine, and an enthusiastic sportsman. this hospital consisted of what had once been the lodge of the manor-house; the lady of the manor had founded it herself; in other words, she ordered a blue board to be nailed up above the door with an inscription in white letters: 'krasnogorye hospital,' and had herself handed to kapiton a red album to record the names of the patients in. on the first page of this album one of the toadying parasites of this lady bountiful had inscribed the following lines: 'dans ces beaux lieux, où règne l'allégresse ce temple fut ouvert par la beauté; de vos seigneurs admirez la tendresse bons habitants de krasnogorié!' while another gentleman had written below: 'et moi aussi j'aime la nature! jean kobyliatnikoff.' the surgeon bought six beds at his own expense, and had set to work in a thankful spirit to heal god's people. besides him, the staff consisted of two persons; an engraver, pavel, liable to attacks of insanity, and a one-armed peasant woman, melikitrisa, who performed the duties of cook. both of them mixed the medicines and dried and infused herbs; they, too, controlled the patients when they were delirious. the insane engraver was sullen in appearance and sparing of words; at night he would sing a song about 'lovely venus,' and would besiege every one he met with a request for permission to marry a girl called malanya, who had long been dead. the one-armed peasant woman used to beat him and set him to look after the turkeys. well, one day i was at kapiton's. we had begun talking over our last day's shooting, when suddenly a cart drove into the yard, drawn by an exceptionally stout horse, such as are only found belonging to millers. in the cart sat a thick-set peasant, in a new greatcoat, with a beard streaked with grey. 'hullo, vassily dmitritch,' kapiton shouted from the window; 'please come in.... the miller of liobovshin,' he whispered to me. the peasant climbed groaning out of the cart, came into the surgeon's room, and after looking for the holy pictures, crossed himself, bowing to them. 'well, vassily dmitritch, any news?... but you must be ill; you don't look well.' 'yes, kapiton timofeitch, there's something not right.' 'what's wrong with you?' 'well, it was like this, kapiton timofeitch. not long ago i bought some mill-stones in the town, so i took them home, and as i went to lift them out of the cart, i strained myself, or something; i'd a sort of rick in the loins, as though something had been torn away, and ever since i've been out of sorts. to-day i feel worse than ever.' 'hm,' commented kapiton, and he took a pinch of snuff; 'that's a rupture, no doubt. but is it long since this happened?' 'it's ten days now.' 'ten days?' (the surgeon drew a long inward breath and shook his head.) 'let me examine you.' 'well, vassily dmitritch,' he pronounced at last, 'i am sorry for you, heartily sorry, but things aren't right with you at all; you're seriously ill; stay here with me; i will do everything i can, for my part, though i can't answer for anything.' 'so bad as that?' muttered the astounded peasant. 'yes, vassily dmitritch, it is bad; if you'd come to me a day or two sooner, it would have been nothing much; i could have cured you in a trice; but now inflammation has set in; before we know where we are, there'll be mortification.' 'but it can't be, kapiton timofeitch.' 'i tell you it is so.' 'but how comes it?' (the surgeon shrugged his shoulders.) 'and i must die for a trifle like that?' 'i don't say that... only you must stop here.' the peasant pondered and pondered, his eyes fixed on the floor, then he glanced up at us, scratched his head, and picked up his cap. 'where are you off to, vassily dmitritch?' 'where? why, home to be sure, if it's so bad. i must put things to rights, if it's like that.' 'but you'll do yourself harm, vassily dmitritch; you will, really; i'm surprised how you managed to get here; you must stop.' 'no, brother, kapiton timofeitch, if i must die, i'll die at home; why die here? i've got a home, and the lord knows how it will end.' 'no one can tell yet, vassily dmitritch, how it will end.... of course, there is danger, considerable danger; there's no disputing that... but for that reason you ought to stay here.' (the peasant shook his head.) 'no, kapiton timofeitch, i won't stay... but perhaps you will prescribe me a medicine.' 'medicine alone will be no good.' 'i won't stay, i tell you.' 'well, as you like.... mind you don't blame me for it afterwards.' the surgeon tore a page out of the album, and, writing out a prescription, gave him some advice as to what he could do besides. the peasant took the sheet of paper, gave kapiton half-a-rouble, went out of the room, and took his seat in the cart. 'well, good-bye, kapiton timofeitch, don't remember evil against me, and remember my orphans, if anything....' 'oh, do stay, vassily!' the peasant simply shook his head, struck the horse with the reins, and drove out of the yard. the road was muddy and full of holes; the miller drove cautiously, without hurry, guiding his horse skilfully, and nodding to the acquaintances he met. three days later he was dead. the russians, in general, meet death in a marvellous way. many of the dead come back now to my memory. i recall you, my old friend, who left the university with no degree, avenir sorokoumov, noblest, best of men! i see once again your sickly, consumptive face, your lank brown tresses, your gentle smile, your ecstatic glance, your long limbs; i can hear your weak, caressing voice. you lived at a great russian landowner's, called gur krupyanikov, taught his children, fofa and zyozya, russian grammar, geography, and history, patiently bore all the ponderous jokes of the said gur, the coarse familiarities of the steward, the vulgar pranks of the spiteful urchins; with a bitter smile, but without repining, you complied with the caprices of their bored and exacting mother; but to make up for it all, what bliss, what peace was yours in the evening, after supper, when, free at last of all duties, you sat at the window pensively smoking a pipe, or greedily turned the pages of a greasy and mutilated number of some solid magazine, brought you from the town by the land-surveyor--just such another poor, homeless devil as yourself! how delighted you were then with any sort of poem or novel; how readily the tears started into your eyes; with what pleasure you laughed; what genuine love for others, what generous sympathy for everything good and noble, filled your pure youthful soul! one must tell the truth: you were not distinguished by excessive sharpness of wit; nature had endowed you with neither memory nor industry; at the university you were regarded as one of the least promising students; at lectures you slumbered, at examinations you preserved a solemn silence; but who was beaming with delight and breathless with excitement at a friend's success, a friend's triumphs?... avenir!... who had a blind faith in the lofty destiny of his friends? who extolled them with pride? who championed them with angry vehemence? who was innocent of envy as of vanity? who was ready for the most disinterested self-sacrifice? who eagerly gave way to men who were not worthy to untie his latchet?... that was you, all you, our good avenir! i remember how broken-heartedly you parted from your comrades, when you were going away to be a tutor in the country; you were haunted by presentiment of evil.... and, indeed, your lot was a sad one in the country; you had no one there to listen to with veneration, no one to admire, no one to love.... the neighbours--rude sons of the steppes, and polished gentlemen alike--treated you as a tutor: some, with rudeness and neglect, others carelessly. besides, you were not pre-possessing in person; you were shy, given to blushing, getting hot and stammering.... even your health was no better for the country air: you wasted like a candle, poor fellow! it is true your room looked out into the garden; wild cherries, apple-trees, and limes strewed their delicate blossoms on your table, your ink-stand, your books; on the wall hung a blue silk watch-pocket, a parting present from a kind-hearted, sentimental german governess with flaxen curls and little blue eyes; and sometimes an old friend from moscow would come out to you and throw you into ecstasies with new poetry, often even with his own. but, oh, the loneliness, the insufferable slavery of a tutor's lot! the impossibility of escape, the endless autumns and winters, the ever-advancing disease!... poor, poor avenir! i paid sorokoumov a visit not long before his death. he was then hardly able to walk. the landowner, gur krupyanikov, had not turned him out of the house, but had given up paying him a salary, and had taken another tutor for zyozya.... fofa had been sent to a school of cadets. avenir was sitting near the window in an old easy-chair. it was exquisite weather. the clear autumn sky was a bright blue above the dark-brown line of bare limes; here and there a few last leaves of lurid gold rustled and whispered about them. the earth had been covered with frost, now melting into dewdrops in the sun, whose ruddy rays fell aslant across the pale grass; there was a faint crisp resonance in the air; the voices of the labourers in the garden reached us clearly and distinctly. avenir wore an old bokhara dressing-gown; a green neckerchief threw a deathly hue over his terribly sunken face. he was greatly delighted to see me, held out his hand, began talking and coughing at once. i made him be quiet, and sat down by him.... on avenir's knee lay a manuscript book of koltsov's poems, carefully copied out; he patted it with a smile. 'that's a poet,' he stammered, with an effort repressing his cough; and he fell to declaiming in a voice scarcely audible: 'can the eagle's wings be chained and fettered? can the pathways of heaven be closed against him?' i stopped him: the doctor had forbidden him to talk. i knew what would please him. sorokoumov never, as they say, 'kept up' with the science of the day; but he was always anxious to know what results the leading intellects had reached. sometimes he would get an old friend into a corner and begin questioning him; he would listen and wonder, take every word on trust, and even repeat it all after him. he took a special interest in german philosophy. i began discoursing to him about hegel (this all happened long ago, as you may gather). avenir nodded his head approvingly, raised his eyebrows, smiled, and whispered: 'i see! i see! ah, that's splendid! splendid!'... the childish curiosity of this poor, dying, homeless outcast, moved me, i confess, to tears. it must be noted that avenir, unlike the general run of consumptives, did not deceive himself in regard to his disease.... but what of that?--he did not sigh, nor grieve; he did not even once refer to his position.... rallying his strength, he began talking of moscow, of old friends, of pushkin, of the drama, of russian literature; he recalled our little suppers, the heated debates of our circle; with regret he uttered the names of two or three friends who were dead.... 'do you remember dasha?' he went on. 'ah, there was a heart of pure gold! what a heart! and how she loved me!... what has become of her now? wasted and fallen away, poor dear, i daresay!' i had not the courage to disillusion the sick man; and, indeed, why should he know that his dasha was now broader than she was long, and that she was living under the protection of some merchants, the brothers kondatchkov, that she used powder and paint, and was for ever swearing and scolding? 'but can't we,' i thought, looking at his wasted face, 'get him away from here? perhaps there may still be a chance of curing him.' but avenir cut short my suggestion. 'no, brother, thanks,' he said; 'it makes no difference where one dies. i shan't live till the winter, you see.... why give trouble for nothing? i'm used to this house. it's true the people...' 'they're unkind, eh?' i put in. 'no, not unkind! but wooden-headed creatures. however, i can't complain of them. there are neighbours: there's a mr. kasatkin's daughter, a cultivated, kind, charming girl... not proud...' sorokoumov began coughing again. 'i shouldn't mind anything,' he went on, after taking breath, 'if they'd only let me smoke my pipe.... but i'll have my pipe, if i die for it!' he added, with a sly wink. 'thank god, i have had life enough! i have known so many fine people. 'but you should, at least, write to your relations,' i interrupted. 'why write to them? they can't be any help; when i die they'll hear of it. but, why talk about it... i'd rather you'd tell me what you saw abroad.' i began to tell him my experiences. he seemed positively to gloat over my story. towards evening i left, and ten days later i received the following letter from mr. krupyanikov: 'i have the honour to inform you, my dear sir, that your friend, the student, living in my house, mr. avenir sorokoumov, died at two o'clock in the afternoon, three days ago, and was buried to-day, at my expense, in the parish church. he asked me to forward you the books and manuscripts enclosed herewith. he was found to have twenty-two roubles and a half, which, with the rest of his belongings, pass into the possession of his relatives. your friend died fully conscious, and, i may say, with so little sensibility that he showed no signs of regret even when the whole family of us took a last farewell of him. my wife, kleopatra aleksandrovna, sends you her regards. the death of your friend has, of course, affected her nerves; as regards myself, i am, thank god, in good health, and have the honour to remain, your humble servant,' 'g. krupyanikov.' many more examples recur to me, but one cannot relate everything. i will confine myself to one. i was present at an old lady's death-bed; the priest had begun reading the prayers for the dying over her, but, suddenly noticing that the patient seemed to be actually dying, he made haste to give her the cross to kiss. the lady turned away with an air of displeasure. 'you're in too great a hurry, father,' she said, in a voice almost inarticulate; 'in too great a hurry.'... she kissed the cross, put her hand under the pillow and expired. under the pillow was a silver rouble; she had meant to pay the priest for the service at her own death.... yes, the russians die in a wonderful way. xvii the singers the small village of kolotovka once belonged to a lady known in the neighbourhood by the nickname of skin-flint, in illusion to her keen business habits (her real name is lost in oblivion), but has of late years been the property of a german from petersburg. the village lies on the slope of a barren hill, which is cut in half from top to bottom by a tremendous ravine. it is a yawning chasm, with shelving sides hollowed out by the action of rain and snow, and it winds along the very centre of the village street; it separates the two sides of the unlucky hamlet far more than a river would do, for a river could, at least, be crossed by a bridge. a few gaunt willows creep timorously down its sandy sides; at the very bottom, which is dry and yellow as copper, lie huge slabs of argillaceous rock. a cheerless position, there's no denying, yet all the surrounding inhabitants know the road to kolotovka well; they go there often, and are always glad to go. at the very summit of the ravine, a few paces from the point where it starts as a narrow fissure in the earth, there stands a small square hut. it stands alone, apart from all the others. it is thatched, and has a chimney; one window keeps watch like a sharp eye over the ravine, and on winter evenings when it is lighted from within, it is seen far away in the dim frosty fog, and its twinkling light is the guiding star of many a peasant on his road. a blue board is nailed up above the door; this hut is a tavern, called the 'welcome resort.' spirits are sold here probably no cheaper than the usual price, but it is far more frequented than any other establishment of the same sort in the neighbourhood. the explanation of this is to be found in the tavern-keeper, nikolai ivanitch. nikolai ivanitch--once a slender, curly-headed and rosy-cheeked young fellow, now an excessively stout, grizzled man with a fat face, sly and good-natured little eyes, and a shiny forehead, with wrinkles like lines drawn all over it--has lived for more than twenty years in kolotovka. nikolai ivanitch is a shrewd, acute fellow, like the majority of tavern-keepers. though he makes no conspicuous effort to please or to talk to people, he has the art of attracting and keeping customers, who find it particularly pleasant to sit at his bar under the placid and genial, though alert eye, of the phlegmatic host. he has a great deal of common sense; he thoroughly understands the landowner's conditions of life, the peasant's, and the tradesman's. he could give sensible advice on difficult points, but, like a cautious man and an egoist, prefers to stand aloof, and at most--and that only in the case of his favourite customers--by remote hints, dropped, as it were, unintentionally, to lead them into the true way. he is an authority on everything that is of interest or importance to a russian; on horses and cattle, on timber, bricks, and crockery, on woollen stuffs and on leather, on songs and dances. when he has no customers he is usually sitting like a sack on the ground before the door of his hut, his thin legs tucked under him, exchanging a friendly greeting with every passer-by. he has seen a great deal in his time; many a score of petty landowners, who used to come to him for spirits, he has seen pass away before him; he knows everything that is done for eighty miles round, and never gossips, never gives a sign of knowing what is unsuspected by the most keen-sighted police-officer. he keeps his own counsel, laughs, and makes his glasses ring. his neighbours respect him; the civilian general shtcherpetenko, the landowner highest in rank in the district, gives him a condescending nod whenever he drives past his little house. nikolai ivanitch is a man of influence; he made a notorious horse-stealer return a horse he had taken from the stable of one of his friends; he brought the peasants of a neighbouring village to their senses when they refused to accept a new overseer, and so on. it must not be imagined, though, that he does this from love of justice, from devotion to his neighbour--no! he simply tries to prevent anything that might, in any way, interfere with his ease and comfort. nikolai ivanitch is married, and has children. his wife, a smart, sharp-nosed and keen-eyed woman of the tradesman class, has grown somewhat stout of late years, like her husband. he relies on her in everything, and she keeps the key of the cash-box. drunken brawlers are afraid of her; she does not like them; they bring little profit and make a great deal of noise: those who are taciturn and surly in their cups are more to her taste. nikolai ivanitch's children are still small; the first four all died, but those that are left take after their parents: it is a pleasure to look at their intelligent, healthy little faces. it was an insufferably hot day in july when, slowly dragging my feet along, i went up alongside the kolotovka ravine with my dog towards the welcome resort. the sun blazed, as it were, fiercely in the sky, baking the parched earth relentlessly; the air was thick with stifling dust. glossy crows and ravens with gaping beaks looked plaintively at the passers-by, as though asking for sympathy; only the sparrows did not droop, but, pluming their feathers, twittered more vigorously than ever as they quarrelled among the hedges, or flew up all together from the dusty road, and hovered in grey clouds over the green hempfields. i was tormented by thirst. there was no water near: in kolotovka, as in many other villages of the steppes, the peasants, having no spring or well, drink a sort of thin mud out of the pond.... for no one could call that repulsive beverage water. i wanted to ask for a glass of beer or kvas at nikolai ivanitch's. it must be confessed that at no time of the year does kolotovka present a very cheering spectacle; but it has a particularly depressing effect when the relentless rays of a dazzling july sun pour down full upon the brown, tumble-down roofs of the houses and the deep ravine, and the parched, dusty common over which the thin, long-legged hens are straying hopelessly, and the remains of the old manor-house, now a hollow, grey framework of aspenwood, with holes instead of windows, overgrown with nettles, wormwood, and rank grass, and the pond black, as though charred and covered with goose feathers, with its edge of half-dried mud, and its broken-down dyke, near which, on the finely trodden, ash-like earth, sheep, breathless and gasping with the heat, huddle dejectedly together, their heads drooping with weary patience, as though waiting for this insufferable heat to pass at last. with weary steps i drew near nikolai ivanitch's dwelling, arousing in the village children the usual wonder manifested in a concentrated, meaningless stare, and in the dogs an indignation expressed in such hoarse and furious barking that it seemed as if it were tearing their very entrails, and left them breathless and choking, when suddenly in the tavern doorway there appeared a tall peasant without a cap, in a frieze cloak, girt about below his waist with a blue handkerchief. he looked like a house-serf; thick grey hair stood up in disorder above his withered and wrinkled face. he was calling to some one hurriedly, waving his arms, which obviously were not quite under his control. it could be seen that he had been drinking already. 'come, come along!' he stammered, raising his shaggy eyebrows with an effort. 'come, blinkard, come along! ah, brother, how you creep along, 'pon my word! it's too bad, brother. they're waiting for you within, and here you crawl along.... come.' 'well, i'm coming, i'm coming!' called a jarring voice, and from behind a hut a little, short, fat, lame man came into sight. he wore a rather tidy cloth coat, pulled half on, and a high pointed cap right over his brows, which gave his round plump face a sly and comic expression. his little yellow eyes moved restlessly about, his thin lips wore a continual forced smile, while his sharp, long nose peered forward saucily in front like a rudder. 'i'm coming, my dear fellow.' he went hobbling towards the tavern. 'what are you calling me for?... who's waiting for me?' 'what am i calling you for?' repeated the man in the frieze coat reproachfully.' you're a queer fish, blinkard: we call you to come to the tavern, and you ask what for? here are honest folks all waiting for you: yashka the turk, and the wild master, and the booth-keeper from zhizdry. yashka's got a bet on with the booth-keeper: the stake's a pot of beer--for the one that does best, sings the best, i mean... do you see?' 'is yashka going to sing?' said the man addressed as blinkard, with lively interest. 'but isn't it your humbug, gabbler?' 'i'm not humbugging,' answered the gabbler, with dignity; 'it's you are crazy. i should think he would sing since he's got a bet on it, you precious innocent, you noodle, blinkard!' 'well, come in, simpleton!' retorted the blinkard. 'then give us a kiss at least, lovey,' stammered the gabbler, opening wide his arms. 'get out, you great softy!' responded the blinkard contemptuously, giving him a poke with his elbow, and both, stooping, entered the low doorway. the conversation i had overheard roused my curiosity exceedingly. more than once rumours had reached me of yashka the turk as the best singer in the vicinity, and here was an opportunity all at once of hearing him in competition with another master of the art. i quickened my steps and went into the house. few of my readers have probably had an opportunity of getting a good view of any village taverns, but we sportsmen go everywhere. they are constructed on an exceedingly simple plan. they usually consist of a dark outer-shed, and an inner room with a chimney, divided in two by a partition, behind which none of the customers have a right to go. in this partition there is a wide opening cut above a broad oak table. at this table or bar the spirits are served. sealed up bottles of various sizes stand on the shelves, right opposite the opening. in the front part of the room, devoted to customers, there are benches, two or three empty barrels, and a corner table. village taverns are for the most part rather dark, and you hardly ever see on their wainscotted walls any of the glaring cheap prints which few huts are without. when i went into the welcome resort, a fairly large party were already assembled there. in his usual place behind the bar, almost filling up the entire opening in the partition, stood nikolai ivanitch in a striped print shirt; with a lazy smile on his full face, he poured out with his plump white hand two glasses of spirits for the blinkard and the gabbler as they came in; behind him, in a corner near the window, could be seen his sharp-eyed wife. in the middle of the room was standing yashka the turk, a thin, graceful fellow of three-and-twenty, dressed in a long skirted coat of blue nankin. he looked a smart factory hand, and could not, to judge by his appearance, boast of very good health. his hollow cheeks, his large, restless grey eyes, his straight nose, with its delicate mobile nostrils, his pale brown curls brushed back over the sloping white brow, his full but beautiful, expressive lips, and his whole face betrayed a passionate and sensitive nature. he was in a state of great excitement; he blinked, his breathing was hurried, his hands shook, as though in fever, and he was really in a fever--that sudden fever of excitement which is so well-known to all who have to speak and sing before an audience. near him stood a man of about forty, with broad shoulders and broad jaws, with a low forehead, narrow tartar eyes, a short flat nose, a square chin, and shining black hair coarse as bristles. the expression of his face--a swarthy face, with a sort of leaden hue in it--and especially of his pale lips, might almost have been called savage, if it had not been so still and dreamy. he hardly stirred a muscle; he only looked slowly about him like a bull under the yoke. he was dressed in a sort of surtout, not over new, with smooth brass buttons; an old black silk handkerchief was twisted round his immense neck. he was called the wild master. right opposite him, on a bench under the holy pictures, was sitting yashka's rival, the booth-keeper from zhizdry; he was a short, stoutly-built man about thirty, pock-marked, and curly-headed, with a blunt, turn-up nose, lively brown eyes, and a scanty beard. he looked keenly about him, and, sitting with his hands under him, he kept carelessly swinging his legs and tapping with his feet, which were encased in stylish top-boots with a coloured edging. he wore a new thin coat of grey cloth, with a plush collar, in sharp contrast with the crimson shirt below, buttoned close across the chest. in the opposite corner, to the right of the door, a peasant sat at the table in a narrow, shabby smock-frock, with a huge rent on the shoulder. the sunlight fell in a narrow, yellowish streak through the dusty panes of the two small windows, but it seemed as if it struggled in vain with the habitual darkness of the room; all the objects in it were dimly, as it were, patchily lighted up. on the other hand, it was almost cool in the room, and the sense of stifling heat dropped off me like a weary load directly i crossed the threshold. my entrance, i could see, was at first somewhat disconcerting to nikolai ivanitch's customers; but observing that he greeted me as a friend, they were reassured, and took no more notice of me. i asked for some beer and sat down in the corner, near the peasant in the ragged smock. 'well, well,' piped the gabbler, suddenly draining a glass of spirits at one gulp, and accompanying his exclamation with the strange gesticulations, without which he seemed unable to utter a single word; 'what are we waiting for? if we're going to begin, then begin. hey, yasha?' 'begin, begin,' chimed in nikolai ivanitch approvingly. 'let's begin, by all means,' observed the booth-keeper coolly, with a self-confident smile; 'i'm ready.' 'and i'm ready,' yakov pronounced in a voice thrilled with excitement. 'well, begin, lads,' whined the blinkard. but, in spite of the unanimously expressed desire, neither began; the booth-keeper did not even get up from the bench--they all seemed to be waiting for something. 'begin!' said the wild master sharply and sullenly. yashka started. the booth-keeper pulled down his girdle and cleared his throat. 'but who's to begin?' he inquired in a slightly changed voice of the wild master, who still stood motionless in the middle of the room, his stalwart legs wide apart and his powerful arms thrust up to the elbow into his breeches pockets. 'you, you, booth-keeper,' stammered the gabbler; 'you, to be sure, brother.' the wild master looked at him from under his brows. the gabbler gave a faint squeak, in confusion looked away at the ceiling, twitched his shoulder, and said no more. 'cast lots,' the wild master pronounced emphatically; 'and the pot on the table.' nikolai ivanitch bent down, and with a gasp picked up the pot of beer from the floor and set it on the table. the wild master glanced at yakov, and said 'come!' yakov fumbled in his pockets, took out a halfpenny, and marked it with his teeth. the booth-keeper pulled from under the skirts of his long coat a new leather purse, deliberately untied the string, and shaking out a quantity of small change into his hand, picked out a new halfpenny. the gabbler held out his dirty cap, with its broken peak hanging loose; yakov dropped his halfpenny in, and the booth-keeper his. 'you must pick out one,' said the wild master, turning to the blinkard. the blinkard smiled complacently, took the cap in both hands, and began shaking it. for an instant a profound silence reigned; the halfpennies clinked faintly, jingling against each other. i looked round attentively; every face wore an expression of intense expectation; the wild master himself showed signs of uneasiness; my neighbour, even, the peasant in the tattered smock, craned his neck inquisitively. the blinkard put his hand into the cap and took out the booth-keeper's halfpenny; every one drew a long breath. yakov flushed, and the booth-keeper passed his hand over his hair. 'there, i said you'd begin,' cried the gabbler; 'didn't i say so?' 'there, there, don't cluck,' remarked the wild master contemptuously. 'begin,' he went on, with a nod to the booth-keeper. 'what song am i to sing?' asked the booth-keeper, beginning to be nervous. 'what you choose,' answered the blinkard; 'sing what you think best.' 'what you choose, to be sure,' nikolai ivanitch chimed in, slowly smoothing his hand on his breast, 'you're quite at liberty about that. sing what you like; only sing well; and we'll give a fair decision afterwards.' 'a fair decision, of course,' put in the gabbler, licking the edge of his empty glass. 'let me clear my throat a bit, mates,' said the booth-keeper, fingering the collar of his coat. 'come, come, no nonsense--begin!' protested the wild master, and he looked down. the booth-keeper thought a minute, shook his head, and stepped forward. yakov's eyes were riveted upon him. but before i enter upon a description of the contest itself, i think it will not be amiss to say a few words about each of the personages taking part in my story. the lives of some of them were known to me already when i met them in the welcome resort; i collected some facts about the others later on. let us begin with the gabbler. this man's real name was evgraf ivanovitch; but no one in the whole neighbourhood knew him as anything but the gabbler, and he himself referred to himself by that nickname; so well did it fit him. indeed, nothing could have been more appropriate to his insignificant, ever-restless features. he was a dissipated, unmarried house-serf, whose own masters had long ago got rid of him, and who, without any employment, without earning a halfpenny, found means to get drunk every day at other people's expense. he had a great number of acquaintances who treated him to drinks of spirits and tea, though they could not have said why they did so themselves; for, far from being entertaining in company, he bored every one with his meaningless chatter, his insufferable familiarity, his spasmodic gestures and incessant, unnatural laugh. he could neither sing nor dance; he had never said a clever, or even a sensible thing in his life; he chattered away, telling lies about everything--a regular gabbler! and yet not a single drinking party for thirty miles around took place without his lank figure turning up among the guests; so that they were used to him by now, and put up with his presence as a necessary evil. they all, it is true, treated him with contempt; but the wild master was the only one who knew how to keep his foolish sallies in check. the blinkard was not in the least like the gabbler. his nickname, too, suited him, though he was no more given to blinking than other people; it is a well-known fact, that the russian peasants have a talent for finding good nicknames. in spite of my endeavours to get more detailed information about this man's past, many passages in his life have remained spots of darkness to me, and probably to many other people; episodes, buried, as the bookmen say, in the darkness of oblivion. i could only find out that he was once a coachman in the service of an old childless lady; that he had run away with three horses he was in charge of; had been lost for a whole year, and no doubt, convinced by experience of the drawbacks and hardships of a wandering life, he had gone back, a cripple, and flung himself at his mistress's feet. he succeeded in a few years in smoothing over his offence by his exemplary conduct, and, gradually getting higher in her favour, at last gained her complete confidence, was made a bailiff, and on his mistress's death, turned out--in what way was never known--to have received his freedom. he got admitted into the class of tradesmen; rented patches of market garden from the neighbours; grew rich, and now was living in ease and comfort. he was a man of experience, who knew on which side his bread was buttered; was more actuated by prudence than by either good or ill-nature; had knocked about, understood men, and knew how to turn them to his own advantage. he was cautious, and at the same time enterprising, like a fox; though he was as fond of gossip as an old woman, he never let out his own affairs, while he made everyone else talk freely of theirs. he did not affect to be a simpleton, though, as so many crafty men of his sort do; indeed it would have been difficult for him to take any one in, in that way; i have never seen a sharper, keener pair of eyes than his tiny cunning little 'peepers,' as they call them in orel. they were never simply looking about; they were always looking one up and down and through and through. the blinkard would sometimes ponder for weeks together over some apparently simple undertaking, and again he would suddenly decide on a desperately bold line of action, which one would fancy would bring him to ruin.... but it would be sure to turn out all right; everything would go smoothly. he was lucky, and believed in his own luck, and believed in omens. he was exceedingly superstitious in general. he was not liked, because he would have nothing much to do with anyone, but he was respected. his whole family consisted of one little son, whom he idolised, and who, brought up by such a father, is likely to get on in the world. 'little blinkard'll be his father over again,' is said of him already, in undertones by the old men, as they sit on their mud walls gossiping on summer evenings, and every one knows what that means; there is no need to say more. as to yashka the turk and the booth-keeper, there is no need to say much about them. yakov, called the turk because he actually was descended from a turkish woman, a prisoner from the war, was by nature an artist in every sense of the word, and by calling, a ladler in a paper factory belonging to a merchant. as for the booth-keeper, his career, i must own, i know nothing of; he struck me as being a smart townsman of the tradesman class, ready to turn his hand to anything. but the wild master calls for a more detailed account. the first impression the sight of this man produced on you was a sense of coarse, heavy, irresistible power. he was clumsily built, a 'shambler,' as they say about us, but there was an air of triumphant vigour about him, and--strange to say--his bear-like figure was not without a certain grace of its own, proceeding, perhaps, from his absolutely placid confidence in his own strength. it was hard to decide at first to what class this hercules belonged: he did not look like a house-serf, nor a tradesman, nor an impoverished clerk out of work, nor a small ruined landowner, such as takes to being a huntsman or a fighting man; he was, in fact, quite individual. no one knew where he came from or what brought him into our district; it was said that he came of free peasant-proprietor stock, and had once been in the government service somewhere, but nothing positive was known about this; and indeed there was no one from whom one could learn--certainly not from him; he was the most silent and morose of men. so much so that no one knew for certain what he lived on; he followed no trade, visited no one, associated with scarcely anyone; yet he had money to spend; little enough, it is true, still he had some. in his behaviour he was not exactly retiring--retiring was not a word that could be applied to him: he lived as though he noticed no one about him, and cared for no one. the wild master (that was the nickname they had given him; his real name was perevlyesov) enjoyed an immense influence in the whole district; he was obeyed with eager promptitude, though he had no kind of right to give orders to anyone, and did not himself evince the slightest pretension to authority over the people with whom he came into casual contact he spoke--they obeyed: strength always has an influence of its own. he scarcely drank at all, had nothing to do with women, and was passionately fond of singing. there was much that was mysterious about this man; it seemed as though vast forces sullenly reposed within him, knowing, as it were, that once roused, once bursting free, they were bound to crush him and everything they came in contact with; and i am greatly mistaken if, in this man's life, there had not been some such outbreak; if it was not owing to the lessons of experience, to a narrow escape from ruin, that he now kept himself so tightly in hand. what especially struck me in him was the combination of a sort of inborn natural ferocity, with an equally inborn generosity--a combination i have never met in any other man. and so the booth-keeper stepped forward, and, half shutting his eyes, began singing in high falsetto. he had a fairly sweet and pleasant voice, though rather hoarse: he played with his voice like a woodlark, twisting and turning it in incessant roulades and trills up and down the scale, continually returning to the highest notes, which he held and prolonged with special care. then he would break off, and again suddenly take up the first motive with a sort of go-ahead daring. his modulations were at times rather bold, at times rather comical; they would have given a connoisseur great satisfaction, and have made a german furiously indignant. he was a russian _tenore di grazia, ténor léger_. he sang a song to a lively dance-tune, the words of which, all that i could catch through the endless maze of variations, ejaculations and repetitions, were as follows: 'a tiny patch of land, young lass, i'll plough for thee, and tiny crimson flowers, young lass, i'll sow for thee.' he sang; all listened to him with great attention. he seemed to feel that he had to do with really musical people, and therefore was exerting himself to do his best. and they really are musical in our part of the country; the village of sergievskoe on the orel highroad is deservedly noted throughout russia for its harmonious chorus-singing. the booth-keeper sang for a long while without evoking much enthusiasm in his audience; he lacked the support of a chorus; but at last, after one particularly bold flourish, which set even the wild master smiling, the gabbler could not refrain from a shout of delight. everyone was roused. the gabbler and the blinkard began joining in in an undertone, and exclaiming: 'bravely done!... take it, you rogue!... sing it out, you serpent! hold it! that shake again, you dog you!... may herod confound your soul!' and so on. nikolai ivanitch behind the bar was nodding his head from side to side approvingly. the gabbler at last was swinging his legs, tapping with his feet and twitching his shoulder, while yashka's eyes fairly glowed like coal, and he trembled all over like a leaf, and smiled nervously. the wild master alone did not change countenance, and stood motionless as before; but his eyes, fastened on the booth-keeper, looked somewhat softened, though the expression of his lips was still scornful. emboldened by the signs of general approbation, the booth-keeper went off in a whirl of flourishes, and began to round off such trills, to turn such shakes off his tongue, and to make such furious play with his throat, that when at last, pale, exhausted, and bathed in hot perspiration, he uttered the last dying note, his whole body flung back, a general united shout greeted him in a violent outburst. the gabbler threw himself on his neck and began strangling him in his long, bony arms; a flush came out on nikolai ivanitch's oily face, and he seemed to have grown younger; yashka shouted like mad: 'capital, capital!'--even my neighbour, the peasant in the torn smock, could not restrain himself, and with a blow of his fist on the table he cried: 'aha! well done, damn my soul, well done!' and he spat on one side with an air of decision. 'well, brother, you've given us a treat!' bawled the gabbler, not releasing the exhausted booth-keeper from his embraces; 'you've given us a treat, there's no denying! you've won, brother, you've won! i congratulate you--the quart's yours! yashka's miles behind you... i tell you: miles... take my word for it.' (and again he hugged the booth-keeper to his breast.) 'there, let him alone, let him alone; there's no being rid of you'... said the blinkard with vexation; 'let him sit down on the bench; he's tired, see... you're a ninny, brother, a perfect ninny! what are you sticking to him like a wet leaf for...' 'well, then, let him sit down, and i'll drink to his health,' said the gabbler, and he went up to the bar. 'at your expense, brother,' he added, addressing the booth-keeper. the latter nodded, sat down on the bench, pulled a piece of cloth out of his cap, and began wiping his face, while the gabbler, with greedy haste, emptied his glass, and, with a grunt, assumed, after the manner of confirmed drinkers, an expression of careworn melancholy. 'you sing beautifully, brother, beautifully,' nikolai ivanitch observed caressingly. 'and now it's your turn, yasha; mind, now, don't be afraid. we shall see who's who; we shall see. the booth-keeper sings beautifully, though; 'pon my soul, he does.' 'very beautifully,' observed nikolai ivanitch's wife, and she looked with a smile at yakov. 'beautifully, ha!' repeated my neighbour in an undertone. 'ah, a wild man of the woods!' the gabbler vociferated suddenly, and going up to the peasant with the rent on his shoulder, he pointed at him with his finger, while he pranced about and went off into an insulting guffaw. 'ha! ha! get along! wild man of the woods! here's a ragamuffin from woodland village! what brought you here?' he bawled amidst laughter. the poor peasant was abashed, and was just about to get up and make off as fast as he could, when suddenly the wild master's iron voice was heard: 'what does the insufferable brute mean?' he articulated, grinding his teeth. 'i wasn't doing nothing,' muttered the gabbler. 'i didn't... i only....' 'there, all right, shut up!' retorted the wild master. 'yakov, begin!' yakov took himself by his throat: 'well, really, brothers,... something.... hm, i don't know, on my word, what....' 'come, that's enough; don't be timid. for shame!... why go back?... sing the best you can, by god's gift.' and the wild master looked down expectant. yakov was silent for a minute; he glanced round, and covered his face with his hand. all had their eyes simply fastened upon him, especially the booth-keeper, on whose face a faint, involuntary uneasiness could be seen through his habitual expression of self-confidence and the triumph of his success. he leant back against the wall, and again put both hands under him, but did not swing his legs as before. when at last yakov uncovered his face it was pale as a dead man's; his eyes gleamed faintly under their drooping lashes. he gave a deep sigh, and began to sing.... the first sound of his voice was faint and unequal, and seemed not to come from his chest, but to be wafted from somewhere afar off, as though it had floated by chance into the room. a strange effect was produced on all of us by this trembling, resonant note; we glanced at one another, and nikolai ivanitch's wife seemed to draw herself up. this first note was followed by another, bolder and prolonged, but still obviously quivering, like a harpstring when suddenly struck by a stray finger it throbs in a last, swiftly-dying tremble; the second was followed by a third, and, gradually gaining fire and breadth, the strains swelled into a pathetic melody. 'not one little path ran into the field,' he sang, and sweet and mournful it was in our ears. i have seldom, i must confess, heard a voice like it; it was slightly hoarse, and not perfectly true; there was even something morbid about it at first; but it had genuine depth of passion, and youth and sweetness and a sort of fascinating, careless, pathetic melancholy. a spirit of truth and fire, a russian spirit, was sounding and breathing in that voice, and it seemed to go straight to your heart, to go straight to all that was russian in it. the song swelled and flowed. yakov was clearly carried away by enthusiasm; he was not timid now; he surrendered himself wholly to the rapture of his art; his voice no longer trembled; it quivered, but with the scarce perceptible inward quiver of passion, which pierces like an arrow to the very soul of the listeners; and he steadily gained strength and firmness and breadth. i remember i once saw at sunset on a flat sandy shore, when the tide was low and the sea's roar came weighty and menacing from the distance, a great white sea-gull; it sat motionless, its silky bosom facing the crimson glow of the setting sun, and only now and then opening wide its great wings to greet the well-known sea, to greet the sinking lurid sun: i recalled it, as i heard yakov. he sang, utterly forgetful of his rival and all of us; he seemed supported, as a bold swimmer by the waves, by our silent, passionate sympathy. he sang, and in every sound of his voice one seemed to feel something dear and akin to us, something of breadth and space, as though the familiar steppes were unfolding before our eyes and stretching away into endless distance. i felt the tears gathering in my bosom and rising to my eyes; suddenly i was struck by dull, smothered sobs.... i looked round--the innkeeper's wife was weeping, her bosom pressed close to the window. yakov threw a quick glance at her, and he sang more sweetly, more melodiously than ever; nikolai ivanitch looked down; the blinkard turned away; the gabbler, quite touched, stood, his gaping mouth stupidly open; the humble peasant was sobbing softly in the corner, and shaking his head with a plaintive murmur; and on the iron visage of the wild master, from under his overhanging brows there slowly rolled a heavy tear; the booth-keeper raised his clenched fist to his brow, and did not stir.... i don't know how the general emotion would have ended, if yakov had not suddenly come to a full stop on a high, exceptionally shrill note--as though his voice had broken. no one called out, or even stirred; every one seemed to be waiting to see whether he was not going to sing more; but he opened his eyes as though wondering at our silence, looked round at all of us with a face of inquiry, and saw that the victory was his.... 'yasha,' said the wild master, laying his hand on his shoulder, and he could say no more. we all stood, as it were, petrified. the booth-keeper softly rose and went up to yakov. 'you... yours... you've won,' he articulated at last with an effort, and rushed out of the room. his rapid, decided action, as it were, broke the spell; we all suddenly fell into noisy, delighted talk. the gabbler bounded up and down, stammered and brandished his arms like mill-sails; the blinkard limped up to yakov and began kissing him; nikolai ivanitch got up and solemnly announced that he would add a second pot of beer from himself. the wild master laughed a sort of kind, simple laugh, which i should never have expected to see on his face; the humble peasant as he wiped his eyes, cheeks, nose, and beard on his sleeves, kept repeating in his corner: 'ah, beautiful it was, by god! blast me for the son of a dog, but it was fine!' while nikolai ivanitch's wife, her face red with weeping, got up quickly and went away, yakov was enjoying his triumph like a child; his whole face was tranformed, his eyes especially fairly glowed with happiness. they dragged him to the bar; he beckoned the weeping peasant up to it, and sent the innkeeper's little son to look after the booth-keeper, who was not found, however; and the festivities began. 'you'll sing to us again; you're going to sing to us till evening,' the gabbler declared, flourishing his hands in the air. i took one more look at yakov and went out. i did not want to stay--i was afraid of spoiling the impression i had received. but the heat was as insupportable as before. it seemed hanging in a thick, heavy layer right over the earth; over the dark blue sky, tiny bright fires seemed whisking through the finest, almost black dust. everything was still; and there was something hopeless and oppressive in this profound hush of exhausted nature. i made my way to a hay-loft, and lay down on the fresh-cut, but already almost dry grass. for a long while i could not go to sleep; for a long while yakov's irresistible voice was ringing in my ears.... at last the heat and fatigue regained their sway, however, and i fell into a dead sleep. when i waked up, everything was in darkness; the hay scattered around smelt strong and was slightly damp; through the slender rafters of the half-open roof pale stars were faintly twinkling. i went out. the glow of sunset had long died away, and its last trace showed in a faint light on the horizon; but above the freshness of the night there was still a feeling of heat in the atmosphere, lately baked through by the sun, and the breast still craved for a draught of cool air. there was no wind, nor were there any clouds; the sky all round was clear, and transparently dark, softly glimmering with innumerable, but scarcely visible stars. there were lights twinkling about the village; from the flaring tavern close by rose a confused, discordant din, amid which i fancied i recognised the voice of yakov. violent laughter came from there in an outburst at times. i went up to the little window and pressed my face against the pane. i saw a cheerless, though varied and animated scene; all were drunk--all from yakov upwards. with breast bared, he sat on a bench, and singing in a thick voice a street song to a dance-tune, he lazily fingered and strummed on the strings of a guitar. his moist hair hung in tufts over his fearfully pale face. in the middle of the room, the gabbler, completely 'screwed' and without his coat, was hopping about in a dance before the peasant in the grey smock; the peasant, on his side, was with difficulty stamping and scraping with his feet, and grinning meaninglessly over his dishevelled beard; he waved one hand from time to time, as much as to say, 'here goes!' nothing could be more ludicrous than his face; however much he twitched up his eyebrows, his heavy lids would hardly rise, but seemed lying upon his scarcely visible, dim, and mawkish eyes. he was in that amiable frame of mind of a perfectly intoxicated man, when every passer-by, directly he looks him in the face, is sure to say, 'bless you, brother, bless you!' the blinkard, as red as a lobster, and his nostrils dilated wide, was laughing malignantly in a corner; only nikolai ivanitch, as befits a good tavern-keeper, preserved his composure unchanged. the room was thronged with many new faces; but the wild master i did not see in it. i turned away with rapid steps and began descending the hill on which kolotovka lies. at the foot of this hill stretches a wide plain; plunged in the misty waves of the evening haze, it seemed more immense, and was, as it were, merged in the darkening sky. i walked with long strides along the road by the ravine, when all at once from somewhere far away in the plain came a boy's clear voice: 'antropka! antropka-a-a!...' he shouted in obstinate and tearful desperation, with long, long drawing out of the last syllable. he was silent for a few instants, and started shouting again. his voice rang out clear in the still, lightly slumbering air. thirty times at least he had called the name, antropka. when suddenly, from the farthest end of the plain, as though from another world, there floated a scarcely audible reply: 'wha-a-t?' the boy's voice shouted back at once with gleeful exasperation: 'come here, devil! woo-od imp!' 'what fo-or?' replied the other, after a long interval. 'because dad wants to thrash you!' the first voice shouted back hurriedly. the second voice did not call back again, and the boy fell to shouting antropka once more. his cries, fainter and less and less frequent, still floated up to my ears, when it had grown completely dark, and i had turned the corner of the wood which skirts my village and lies over three miles from kolotovka.... 'antropka-a-a!' was still audible in the air, filled with the shadows of night. xviii piotr petrovitch karataev one autumn five years ago, i chanced, when on the road from moscow to tula, to spend almost a whole day at a posting station for want of horses. i was on the way back from a shooting expedition, and had been so incautious as to send my three horses on in front of me. the man in charge of the station, a surly, elderly man, with hair hanging over his brows to his very nose, with little sleepy eyes, answered all my complaints and requests with disconnected grumbling, slammed the door angrily, as though he were cursing his calling in life, and going out on the steps abused the postilions who were sauntering in a leisurely way through the mud with the weighty wooden yokes on their arms, or sat yawning and scratching themselves on a bench, and paid no special attention to the wrathful exclamations of their superior. i had already sat myself down three times to tea, had several times tried in vain to sleep, and had read all the inscriptions on the walls and windows; i was overpowered by fearful boredom. in chill and helpless despair i was staring at the upturned shafts of my carriage, when suddenly i heard the tinkling of a bell, and a small trap, drawn by three jaded horses, drew up at the steps. the new arrival leaped out of the trap, and shouting 'horses! and look sharp!' he went into the room. while he was listening with the strange wonder customary in such cases to the overseer's answer that there were no horses, i had time to scan my new companion from top to toe with all the greedy curiosity of a man bored to death. he appeared to be nearly thirty. small-pox had left indelible traces on his face, which was dry and yellowish, with an unpleasant coppery tinge; his long blue-black hair fell in ringlets on his collar behind, and was twisted into jaunty curls in front; his small swollen eyes were quite expressionless; a few hairs sprouted on his upper lip. he was dressed like a dissipated country gentleman, given to frequenting horse-fairs, in a rather greasy striped caucasian jacket, a faded lilac silk-tie, a waistcoat with copper buttons, and grey trousers shaped like huge funnels, from under which the toes of unbrushed shoes could just be discerned. he smelt strongly of tobacco and spirits; on his fat, red hands, almost hidden in his sleeves, could be seen silver and tula rings. such figures are met in russia not by dozens, but by hundreds; an acquaintance with them is not, to tell the truth, productive of any particular pleasure; but in spite of the prejudice with which i looked at the new-comer, i could not fail to notice the recklessly good-natured and passionate expression of his face. 'this gentleman's been waiting more than an hour here too,' observed the overseer indicating me. more than an hour! the rascal was making fun of me. 'but perhaps he doesn't need them as i do,' answered the new comer. 'i know nothing about that,' said the overseer sulkily. 'then is it really impossible? are there positively no horses?' 'impossible. there's not a single horse.' 'well, tell them to bring me a samovar. i'll wait a little; there's nothing else to be done.' the new comer sat down on the bench, flung his cap on the table, and passed his hand over his hair. 'have you had tea already?' he inquired of me. 'yes.' 'but won't you have a little more for company.' i consented. the stout red samovar made its appearance for the fourth time on the table. i brought out a bottle of rum. i was not wrong in taking my new acquaintance for a country gentleman of small property. his name was piotr petrovitch karataev. we got into conversation. in less than half-an-hour after his arrival, he was telling me his whole life with the most simple-hearted openness. 'i'm on my way to moscow now,' he told me as he sipped his fourth glass; 'there's nothing for me to do now in the country.' 'how so?' 'well, it's come to that. my property's in disorder; i've ruined my peasants, i must confess; there have been bad years: bad harvests, and all sorts of ill-luck, you know.... though, indeed,' he added, looking away dejectedly; 'how could i manage an estate!' 'why's that?' 'but, no,' he interrupted me? 'there are people like me who make good managers! you see,' he went on, screwing his head on one side and sucking his pipe assiduously, 'looking at me, i dare say you think i'm not much... but you, see, i must confess, i've had a very middling education; i wasn't well off. i beg your pardon; i'm an open man, and if you come to that....' he did not complete his sentence, but broke off with a wave of the hand. i began to assure him that he was mistaken, that i was highly delighted to meet him, and so on, and then observed that i should have thought a very thorough education was not indispensable for the good management of property. 'agreed,' he responded; 'i agree with you. but still, a special sort of disposition's essential! there are some may do anything they like, and it's all right! but i.... allow me to ask, are you from petersburg or from moscow?' 'i'm from petersburg.' he blew a long coil of smoke from his nostrils. 'and i'm going in to moscow to be an official.' 'what department do you mean to enter?' 'i don't know; that's as it happens. i'll own to you, i'm afraid of official life; one's under responsibility at once. i've always lived in the country; i'm used to it, you know... but now, there's no help for it... it's through poverty! oh, poverty, how i hate it!' 'but then you will be living in the capital.' 'in the capital.... well, i don't know what there is that's pleasant in the capital. we shall see; may be, it's pleasant too.... though nothing, i fancy, could be better than the country.' 'then is it really impossible for you to live at your country place?' he gave a sigh. 'quite impossible. it's, so to say, not my own now.' 'why, how so?' 'well, a good fellow there--a neighbour--is in possession... a bill of exchange.' poor piotr petrovitch passed his hand over his face, thought a minute, and shook his head. 'well?'... i must own, though,' he added after a brief silence, 'i can't blame anybody; it's my own fault. i was fond of cutting a dash, i am fond of cutting a dash, damn my soul!' 'you had a jolly life in the country?' i asked him. 'i had, sir,' he responded emphatically, looking me straight in the face, 'twelve harriers--harriers, i can tell you, such as you don't very often see.' (the last words he uttered in a drawl with great significance.) 'a grey hare they'd double upon in no time. after the red fox--they were devils, regular serpents. and i could boast of my greyhounds too. it's all a thing of the past now, i've no reason to lie. i used to go out shooting too. i had a dog called the countess, a wonderful setter, with a first-rate scent--she took everything. sometimes i'd go to a marsh and call "seek." if she refused, you might go with a dozen dogs, and you'd find nothing. but when she was after anything, it was a sight to see her. and in the house so well-bred. if you gave her bread with your left hand and said, "a jew's tasted it," she wouldn't touch it; but give it with your right and say, "the young lady's had some," and she'd take it and eat it at once. i had a pup of hers--capital pup he was, and i meant to bring him with me to moscow, but a friend asked me for him, together with a gun; he said, "in moscow you'll have other things to think of." i gave him the pup and the gun; and so, you know, it stayed there.' 'but you might go shooting in moscow.' 'no, what would be the use? i didn't know when to pull myself up, so now i must grin and bear it. but there, kindly tell me rather about the living in moscow--is it dear?' 'no, not very.' 'not very.... and tell me, please, are there any gypsies in moscow?' 'what sort of gypsies?' 'why, such as hang about fairs?' 'yes, there are in moscow....' 'well, that's good news. i like gypsies, damn my soul! i like 'em....' and there was a gleam of reckless merriment in piotr petrovitch's eyes. but suddenly he turned round on the bench, then seemed to ponder, dropped his eyes, and held out his empty glass to me. 'give me some of your rum,' he said.' 'but the tea's all finished.' 'never mind, as it is, without tea... ah--h!' karataev laid his head in his hands and leaned his elbows on the table. i looked at him without speaking, and although i was expecting the sentimental exclamations, possibly even the tears of which the inebriate are so lavish, yet when he raised his head, i was, i must own, impressed by the profoundly mournful expression of his face. 'what's wrong with you?' 'nothing.... i was thinking of old times. an anecdote that... i would tell it you, but i am ashamed to trouble you....' 'what nonsense!' 'yes,' he went on with a sigh:--'there are cases... like mine, for instance. well, if you like, i will tell you. though really i don't know....' 'do tell me, dear piotr petrovitch.' 'very well, though it's a... well, do you see,' he began; 'but, upon my word, i don't know.' 'come, that's enough, dear piotr petrovitch.' 'all right. this, then, was what befel me, so to say. i used to live in the country... all of a sudden, i took a fancy to a girl. ah, what a girl she was!... handsome, clever, and so good and sweet! her name was matrona. but she wasn't a lady--that is, you understand, she was a serf, simply a serf-girl. and not my girl; she belonged to someone else--that was the trouble. well, so i loved her--it's really an incident that one can hardly... well, and she loved me, too. and so matrona began begging me to buy her off from her mistress; and, indeed, the thought had crossed my mind too.... but her mistress was a rich, dreadful old body; she lived about twelve miles from me. well, so one fine day, as the saying is, i ordered my team of three horses to be harnessed abreast to the droshky--in the centre i'd a first-rate goer, an extraordinary asiatic horse, for that reason called lampurdos--i dressed myself in my best, and went off to matrona's mistress. i arrived; it was a big house with wings and a garden.... matrona was waiting for me at the bend of the road; she tried to say a word to me, but she could only kiss her hand and turn away. well, so i went into the hall and asked if the mistress were at home?... and a tall footman says to me: "what name shall i say?" i answered, "say, brother, squire karataev has called on a matter of business." the footman walked away; i waited by myself and thought, "i wonder how it'll be? i daresay the old beast'll screw out a fearful price, for all she's so rich. five hundred roubles she'll ask, i shouldn't be surprised." well, at last the footman returned, saying, "if you please, walk up." i followed him into the drawing-room. a little yellowish old woman sat in an armchair blinking. "what do you want?" to begin with, you know, i thought it necessary to say how glad i was to make her acquaintance.... "you are making a mistake; i am not the mistress here; i'm a relation of hers.... what do you want?" i remarked upon that, "i had to speak to the mistress herself." "marya ilyinishna is not receiving to-day; she is unwell.... what do you want?" there's nothing for it, i thought to myself; so i explained my position to her. the old lady heard me out. "matrona! what matrona?" '"matrona fedorovna, kulik's daughter." '"fedor kulik's daughter.... but how did you come to know her?" "by chance." "and is she aware of your intention?" "yes." the old lady was silent for a minute. then, "ah, i'll let her know it, the worthless hussy!" she said. i was astounded, i must confess. "what ever for? upon my word!... i'm ready to pay a good sum, if you will be so good as to name it."' 'the old hag positively hissed at me. "a surprising idea you've concocted there; as though we needed your money!... i'll teach her, i'll show her!... i'll beat the folly out of her!" the old lady choked with spitefulness. "wasn't she well off with us, pray?... ah, she's a little devil! god forgive my transgressions!" i fired up, i'll confess. "what are you threatening the poor girl for? how is she to blame?" the old lady crossed herself. "ah, lord have mercy on me, do you suppose i'd..." "but she's not yours, you know!" "well, marya ilyinishna knows best about that; it's not your business, my good sir; but i'll show that chit of a matrona whose serf she is." i'll confess, i almost fell on the damned old woman, but i thought of matrona, and my hands dropped. i was more frightened than i can tell you; i began entreating the old lady. "take what you like," i said. "but what use is she to you?" "i like her, good ma'am; put yourself in my position.... allow me to kiss your little hand." and i positively kissed the wretch's hand! "well," mumbled the old witch, "i'll tell marya ilyinishna--it's for her to decide; you come back in a couple of days." i went home in great uneasiness. i began to suspect that i'd managed the thing badly; that i'd been wrong in letting her notice my state of mind, but i thought of that too late. two days after, i went to see the mistress. i was shown into a boudoir. there were heaps of flowers and splendid furniture; the lady herself was sitting in a wonderful easy-chair, with her head lolling back on a cushion; and the same relation was sitting there too, and some young lady, with white eyebrows and a mouth all awry, in a green gown--a companion, most likely. the old lady said through her nose, "please be seated." i sat down. she began questioning me as to how old i was, and where i'd been in the service, and what i meant to do, and all that very condescendingly and solemnly. i answered minutely. the old lady took a handkerchief off the table, flourished it, fanning herself.... "katerina karpovna informed me," says she, "of your scheme; she informed me of it; but i make it my rule," says she, "not to allow my people to leave my service. it is improper, and quite unsuitable in a well-ordered house; it is not good order. i have already given my orders," says she. "there will be no need for you to trouble yourself further," says she. "oh, no trouble, really.... but can it be, matrona fedorovna is so necessary to you?" "no," says she, "she is not necessary." "then why won't you part with her to me?" "because i don't choose to; i don't choose--and that's all about it. i've already," says she, "given my orders: she is being sent to a village in the steppes." i was thunderstruck. the old lady said a couple of words in french to the young lady in green; she went out. "i am," says she, "a woman of strict principles, and my health is delicate; i can't stand being worried. you are still young, and i'm an old woman, and entitled to give you advice. wouldn't it be better for you to settle down, get married; to look out a good match; wealthy brides are few, but a poor girl, of the highest moral character, could be found." i stared, do you know, at the old lady, and didn't understand what she was driving at; i could hear she was talking about marriage, but the village in the steppes was ringing in my ears all the while. get married!... what the devil!...' here he suddenly stopped in his story and looked at me. 'you're not married, i suppose?' 'no.' 'there, of course, i could see it. i couldn't stand it. "but, upon my word, ma'am, what on earth are you talking about? how does marriage come in? i simply want to know from you whether you will part with your serf-girl matrona or not?" the old lady began sighing and groaning. "ah, he's worrying me! ah, send him away! ah!" the relation flew to her, and began scolding me, while the lady kept on moaning: "what have i done to deserve it?... i suppose i'm not mistress in my own house? ah! ah!" i snatched my hat, and ran out of the house like a madman. 'perhaps,' he continued, 'you will blame me for being so warmly attached to a girl of low position; i don't mean to justify myself exactly, either... but so it came to pass!... would you believe it, i had no rest by day or by night.... i was in torment! besides, i thought, "i have ruined the poor girl!" at times i thought that she was herding geese in a smock, and being ill-treated by her mistress's orders, and the bailiff, a peasant in tarred boots, reviling her with foul abuse. i positively fell into a cold sweat. well, i could not stand it. i found out what village she had been sent to, mounted my horse, and set off. i only got there the evening of the next day. evidently they hadn't expected such a proceeding on my part, and had given no order in regard to me. i went straight to the bailiff as though i were a neighbour; i go into the yard and look around; there was matrona sitting on the steps leaning on her elbow. she was on the point of crying out, but i held up my finger and pointed outside, towards the open country. i went into the hut; i chatted away a bit to the bailiff, told him ten thousand lies, seized the right moment, and went out to matrona. she, poor girl, fairly hung round my neck. she was pale and thin, my poor darling! i kept saying to her, do you know: "there, it's all right, matrona; it's all right, don't cry," and my own tears simply flowed and flowed.... well, at last though, i was ashamed, i said to her: "matrona, tears are no help in trouble, but we must act, as they say, resolutely; you must run away with me; that's how we must act." matrona fairly swooned away.... "how can it be! i shall be ruined; they will be the death of me altogether." "you silly! who will find you?" "they will find me; they will be sure to find me. thank you, piotr petrovitch--i shall never forget your kindness; but now you must leave me; such is my fate, it seems." "ah, matrona, matrona, i thought you were a girl of character!" and, indeed, she had a great deal of character.... she had a heart, a heart of gold! "why should you be left here? it makes no difference; things can't be worse. come, tell me--you've felt the bailiff's fists, eh?" matrona fairly crimsoned, and her lips trembled. "but there'll be no living for my family on my account." "why, your family now--will they send them for soldiers?" "yes; they'll send my brother for a soldier." "and your father?" "oh, they won't send father; he's the only good tailor among us." '"there, you see; and it won't kill your brother." would you believe it, i'd hard work to persuade her; she even brought forward a notion that i might have to answer for it. "but that's not your affair," said i.... however, i did carry her off... not that time, but another; one night i came with a light cart, and carried her off.' 'you carried her off?' 'yes... well, so she lived in my house. it was a little house, and i'd few servants. my people, i will tell you frankly, respected me; they wouldn't have betrayed me for any reward. i began to be as happy as a prince. matrona rested and recovered, and i grew devoted to her.... and what a girl she was! it seemed to come by nature! she could sing, and dance, and play the guitar!... i didn't show her to my neighbours; i was afraid they'd gossip! but there was one fellow, my bosom friend, gornostaev, panteley--you don't know him? he was simply crazy about her; he'd kiss her hand as though she were a lady; he would, really. and i must tell you, gornostaev was not like me; he was a cultivated man, had read all pushkin; sometimes, he'd talk to matrona and me so that we pricked up our ears to listen. he taught her to write; such a queer chap he was! and how i dressed her--better than the governor's wife, really; i had a pelisse made her of crimson velvet, edged with fur... ah! how that pelisse suited her! it was made by a moscow madame in a new fashion, with a waist. and what a wonderful creature matrona was! sometimes she'd fall to musing, and sit for hours together looking at the ground, without stirring a muscle; and i'd sit too, and look at her, and could never gaze enough, just as if i were seeing her for the first time.... then she would smile, and my heart would give a jump as though someone were tickling me. or else she'd suddenly fall to laughing, joking, dancing; she would embrace me so warmly, so passionately, that my head went round. from morning to evening i thought of nothing but how i could please her. and would you believe it? i gave her presents simply to see how pleased she would be, the darling! all blushing with delight! how she would try on my present; how she would come back with her new possession on, and kiss me! her father, kulik, got wind of it, somehow; the old man came to see us, and how he wept.... in that way we lived for five months, and i should have been glad to live with her for ever, but for my cursed ill-luck!' piotr petrovitch stopped. 'what was it happened?' i asked him sympathetically. he waved his hand. 'everything went to the devil. i was the ruin of her too. my little matrona was passionately fond of driving in sledges, and she used to drive herself; she used to put on her pelisse and her embroidered torzhok gloves, and cry out with delight all the way. we used to go out sledging always in the evening, so as not to meet any one, you know. so, once it was such a splendid day, you know, frosty and clear, and no wind... we drove out. matrona had the reins. i looked where she was driving. could it be to kukuyevka, her mistress's village? yes, it was to kukuyevka. i said to her, "you mad girl, where are you going?" she gave me a look over her shoulder and laughed. "let me," she said, "for a lark." "well," thought i, "come what may!..." to drive past her mistress's house was nice, wasn't it? tell me yourself--wasn't it nice? so we drove on. the shaft-horse seemed to float through the air, and the trace-horses went, i can tell you, like a regular whirlwind. we were already in sight of kukuyevka; when suddenly i see an old green coach crawling along with a groom on the footboard up behind.... it was the mistress--the mistress driving towards us! my heart failed me; but matrona--how she lashed the horses with the reins, and flew straight towards the coach! the coachman, he, you understand, sees us flying to meet him, meant, you know, to move on one side, turned too sharp, and upset the coach in a snowdrift. the window was broken; the mistress shrieked, "ai! ai! ai! ai! ai! ai!" the companion wailed, "help! help!" while we flew by at the best speed we might. we galloped on, but i thought, "evil will come of it. i did wrong to let her drive to kukuyevka." and what do you think? why, the mistress had recognised matrona, and me too, the old wretch, and made a complaint against me. "my runaway serf-girl," said she, "is living at mr. karataev's"; and thereupon she made a suitable present. lo and behold! the captain of police comes to me; and he was a man i knew, stepan sergyeitch kuzovkin, a good fellow; that's to say, really a regular bad lot. so he came up and said this and that, and "how could you do so, piotr petrovitch?... the liability is serious, and the laws very distinct on the subject." i tell him, "well, we'll have a talk about that, of course; but come, you'll take a little something after your drive." he agreed to take something, but he said, "justice has claims, piotr petrovitch; think for yourself." "justice, to be sure," said i, "of course... but, i have heard say you've a little black horse. would you be willing to exchange it for my lampurdos?... but there's no girl called matrona fedorovna in my keeping." "come," says he, "piotr petrovitch, the girl's with you, we're not living in switzerland, you know... though my little horse might be exchanged for lampurdos; i might, to be sure, accept it in that way." however, i managed to get rid of him somehow that time. but the old lady made a greater fuss than ever; ten thousand roubles, she said, she wouldn't grudge over the business. you see, when she saw me, she suddenly took an idea into her head to marry me to her young lady companion in green; that i found out later; that was why she was so spiteful. what ideas won't these great ladies take into their heads!... it comes through being dull, i suppose. things went badly with me: i didn't spare money, and i kept matrona in hiding. no, they harassed me, and turned me this way and that: i got into debt; i lost my health.... so one night, as i lay in my bed, thinking, "my god, why should i suffer so? what am i to do, since i can't get over loving her?... there, i can't, and that's all about it!" into the room walked matrona. i had hidden her for the time at a farmhouse a mile and a half from my house. i was frightened. "what? have they discovered you even there?" "no, piotr petrovitch," said she, "no one disturbs me at bubnova; but will that last long? my heart," she said, "is torn, piotr petrovitch; i am sorry for you, my dear one; never shall i forget your goodness, piotr petrovitch, but now i've come to say good-bye to you." "what do you mean, what do you mean, you mad girl?... good-bye, how good-bye?"... "yes... i am going to give myself up." "but i'll lock you up in a garret, mad girl!... do you mean to destroy me? do you want to kill me, or what?" the girl was silent; she looked on the floor. "come, speak, speak!" "i can't bear to cause you any more trouble, piotr petrovitch." well, one might talk to her as one pleased... "but do you know, little fool, do you know, mad..." and piotr petrovitch sobbed bitterly. 'well, what do you think?' he went on, striking the table with his fist and trying to frown, while the tears still coursed down his flushed cheeks; 'the girl gave herself up.... she went and gave herself up...' 'the horses are ready,' the overseer cried triumphantly, entering the room. we both stood up. 'what became of matrona?' i asked. karataev waved his hand. * * * * * a year after my meeting with karataev, i happened to go to moscow. one day, before dinner, for some reason or other i went into a _café_ in the ohotny row--an original moscow _café_. in the billiard-room, across clouds of smoke, i caught glimpses of flushed faces, whiskers, old-fashioned hungarian coats, and new-fangled slavonic costumes. thin little old men in sober surtouts were reading the russian papers. the waiters flitted airily about with trays, treading softly on the green carpets. merchants, with painful concentration, were drinking tea. suddenly a man came out of the billiard-room, rather dishevelled, and not quite steady on his legs. he put his hands in his pockets, bent his head, and looked aimlessly about. 'ba, ba, ba! piotr petrovitch!... how are you?' piotr petrovitch almost fell on my neck, and, slightly staggering, drew me into a small private room. 'come here,' he said, carefully seating me in an easy-chair; 'here you will be comfortable. waiter, beer! no, i mean champagne! there, i'll confess, i didn't expect; i didn't expect... have you been here long? are you staying much longer? well, god has brought us, as they say, together.' 'yes, do you remember...' 'to be sure, i remember; to be sure, i remember!' he interrupted me hurriedly; 'it's a thing of the past...' 'well, what are you doing here, my dear piotr petrovitch?' 'i'm living, as you can see. life's first-rate here; they're a merry lot here. here i've found peace.' and he sighed, and raised his eyes towards heaven. 'are you in the service?' 'no, i'm not in the service yet, but i think i shall enter. but what's the service?... people are the chief thing. what people i have got to know here!...' a boy came in with a bottle of champagne on a black tray. 'there, and this is a good fellow.... isn't that true, vasya, that you're a good fellow? to your health!' the boy stood a minute, shook his head, decorously smiled, and went out. 'yes, there are capital people here,' pursued piotr petrovitch; 'people of soul, of feeling.... would you like me to introduce you?--such jolly chaps.... they'll all be glad to know you. i say... bobrov is dead; that's a sad thing.' 'what bobrov?' 'sergay bobrov; he was a capital fellow; he took me under his wing as an ignoramus from the wilds. and panteley gornostaev is dead. all dead, all!' 'have you been living all the time in moscow? you haven't been away to the country?' 'to the country!... my country place is sold.' 'sold?' 'by auction.... there! what a pity you didn't buy it.' 'what are you going to live on, piotr petrovitch?' 'i shan't die of hunger; god will provide when i've no money. i shall have friends. and what is money.... dust and ashes! gold is dust!' he shut his eyes, felt in his pocket, and held out to me in the palm of his hand two sixpences and a penny. 'what's that? isn't it dust and ashes' (and the money flew on the floor). 'but you had better tell me, have you read polezhaev?' 'yes.' 'have you seen motchalov in hamlet?' 'no, i haven't.' 'you've not seen him, not seen him!...' (and karataev's face turned pale; his eyes strayed uneasily; he turned away; a faint spasm passed over his lips.) 'ah, motchalov, motchalov! "to die--to sleep!"' he said in a thick voice: 'no more; and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to; 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. to die--to sleep!' 'to sleep--to sleep,' he muttered several times. 'tell me, please,' i began; but he went on with fire: 'who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the insolence of office and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? nymph in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.' and he dropped his head on the table. he began stammering and talking at random. 'within a month'! he delivered with fresh fire: 'a little month, or ere those shoes were old, with which she followed my poor father's body, like niobe--all tears; why she, even she-- o god! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, would have mourned longer!' he raised a glass of champagne to his lips, but did not drink off the wine, and went on: 'for hecuba! what's hecuba to him, or he to hecuba, that he should weep for her?... but i'm a dull and muddy mettled-rascal, who calls me coward? gives me the lie i' the throat? ... why i should take it; for it cannot be, but i am pigeon-livered and lack gall to make oppression bitter.' karataev put down the glass and grabbed at his head. i fancied i understood him. 'well, well,' he said at last, 'one must not rake up the past. isn't that so?' (and he laughed). 'to your health!' 'shall you stay in moscow?' i asked him. 'i shall die in moscow!' 'karataev!' called a voice in the next room; 'karataev, where are you? come here, my dear fellow!' 'they're calling me,' he said, getting up heavily from his seat. 'good-bye; come and see me if you can; i live in....' but next day, through unforeseen circumstances, i was obliged to leave moscow, and i never saw piotr petrovitch karataev again. xix the tryst i was sitting in a birchwood in autumn, about the middle of september. from early morning a fine rain had been falling, with intervals from time to time of warm sunshine; the weather was unsettled. the sky was at one time overcast with soft white clouds, at another it suddenly cleared in parts for an instant, and then behind the parting clouds could be seen a blue, bright and tender as a beautiful eye. i sat looking about and listening. the leaves faintly rustled over my head; from the sound of them alone one could tell what time of year it was. it was not the gay laughing tremor of the spring, nor the subdued whispering, the prolonged gossip of the summer, nor the chill and timid faltering of late autumn, but a scarcely audible, drowsy chatter. a slight breeze was faintly humming in the tree-tops. wet with the rain, the copse in its inmost recesses was for ever changing as the sun shone or hid behind a cloud; at one moment it was all a radiance, as though suddenly everything were smiling in it; the slender stems of the thinly-growing birch-trees took all at once the soft lustre of white silk, the tiny leaves lying on the earth were on a sudden flecked and flaring with purplish gold, and the graceful stalks of the high, curly bracken, decked already in their autumn colour, the hue of an over-ripe grape, seemed interlacing in endless tangling crisscross before one's eyes; then suddenly again everything around was faintly bluish; the glaring tints died away instantaneously, the birch-trees stood all white and lustreless, white as fresh-fallen snow, before the cold rays of the winter sun have caressed it; and slily, stealthily there began drizzling and whispering through the wood the finest rain. the leaves on the birches were still almost all green, though perceptibly paler; only here and there stood one young leaf, all red or golden, and it was a sight to see how it flamed in the sunshine when the sunbeams suddenly pierced with tangled flecks of light through the thick network of delicate twigs, freshly washed by the sparkling rain. not one bird could be heard; all were in hiding and silent, except that at times there rang out the metallic, bell-like sound of the jeering tomtit. before halting in this birch copse i had been through a wood of tall aspen-trees with my dog. i confess i have no great liking for that tree, the aspen, with its pale-lilac trunk and the greyish-green metallic leaves which it flings high as it can, and unfolds in a quivering fan in the air; i do not care for the eternal shaking of its round, slovenly leaves, awkwardly hooked on to long stalks. it is only fine on some summer evenings when, rising singly above low undergrowth, it faces the reddening beams of the setting sun, and shines and quivers, bathed from root to top in one unbroken yellow glow, or when, on a clear windy day, it is all rippling, rustling, and whispering to the blue sky, and every leaf is, as it were, taken by a longing to break away, to fly off and soar into the distance. but, as a rule, i don't care for the tree, and so, not stopping to rest in the aspen wood, i made my way to the birch-copse, nestled down under one tree whose branches started low down near the ground, and were consequently capable of shielding me from the rain, and after admiring the surrounding view a little, i fell into that sweet untroubled sleep only known to sportsmen. i cannot say how long i was asleep, but when i opened my eyes, all the depths of the wood were filled with sunlight, and in all directions across the joyously rustling leaves there were glimpses and, as it were, flashes of intense blue sky; the clouds had vanished, driven away by the blustering wind; the weather had changed to fair, and there was that feeling of peculiar dry freshness in the air which fills the heart with a sense of boldness, and is almost always a sure sign of a still bright evening after a rainy day. i was just about to get up and try my luck again when suddenly my eyes fell on a motionless human figure. i looked attentively; it was a young peasant girl. she was sitting twenty paces off, her head bent in thought, and her hands lying in her lap; one of them, half-open, held a big nosegay of wild flowers, which softly stirred on her checked petticoat with every breath. her clean white smock, buttoned up at the throat and wrists, lay in short soft folds about her figure; two rows of big yellow beads fell from her neck to her bosom. she was very pretty. her thick fair hair of a lovely, almost ashen hue, was parted into two carefully combed semicircles, under the narrow crimson fillet, which was brought down almost on to her forehead, white as ivory; the rest of her face was faintly tanned that golden hue which is only taken by a delicate skin. i could not see her eyes--she did not raise them; but i saw her delicate high eye-brows, her long lashes; they were wet, and on one of her cheeks there shone in the sun the traces of quickly drying tears, reaching right down to her rather pale lips. her little head was very charming altogether; even her rather thick and snub nose did not spoil her. i was especially taken with the expression of her face; it was so simple and gentle, so sad and so full of childish wonder at its own sadness. she was obviously waiting for some one; something made a faint crackling in the wood; she raised her head at once, and looked round; in the transparent shade i caught a rapid glimpse of her eyes, large, clear, and timorous, like a fawn's. for a few instants she listened, not moving her wide open eyes from the spot whence the faint sound had come; she sighed, turned her head slowly, bent still lower, and began sorting her flowers. her eyelids turned red, her lips twitched faintly, and a fresh tear rolled from under her thick eyelashes, and stood brightly shining on her cheek. rather a long while passed thus; the poor girl did not stir, except for a despairing movement of her hands now and then--and she kept listening, listening.... again there was a crackling sound in the wood: she started. the sound did not cease, grew more distinct, and came closer; at last one could hear quick resolute footsteps. she drew herself up and seemed frightened; her intent gaze was all aquiver, all aglow with expectation. through the thicket quickly appeared the figure of a man. she gazed at it, suddenly flushed, gave a radiant, blissful smile, tried to rise, and sank back again at once, turned white and confused, and only raised her quivering, almost supplicating eyes to the man approaching, when the latter stood still beside her. i looked at him with curiosity from my ambush. i confess he did not make an agreeable impression on me. he was, to judge by external signs, the pampered valet of some rich young gentleman. his attire betrayed pretensions to style and fashionable carelessness; he wore a shortish coat of a bronze colour, doubtless from his master's wardrobe, buttoned up to the top, a pink cravat with lilac ends, and a black velvet cap with a gold ribbon, pulled forward right on to his eyebrows. the round collar of his white shirt mercilessly propped up his ears and cut his cheeks, and his starched cuffs hid his whole hand to the red crooked fingers, adorned by gold and silver rings, with turquoise forget-me-nots. his red, fresh, impudent-looking face belonged to the order of faces which, as far as i have observed, are almost always repulsive to men, and unfortunately are very often attractive to women. he was obviously trying to give a scornful and bored expression to his coarse features; he was incessantly screwing up his milky grey eyes--small enough at all times; he scowled, dropped the corners of his mouth, affected to yawn, and with careless, though not perfectly natural nonchalance, pushed back his modishly curled red locks, or pinched the yellow hairs sprouting on his thick upper lip--in fact, he gave himself insufferable airs. he began his antics directly he caught sight of the young peasant girl waiting for him; slowly, with a swaggering step, he went up to her, stood a moment shrugging his shoulders, stuffed both hands in his coat pockets, and barely vouchsafing the poor girl a cursory and indifferent glance, he dropped on to the ground. 'well,' he began, still gazing away, swinging his leg and yawning, 'have you been here long?' the girl could not at once answer. 'yes, a long while, viktor alexandritch,' she said at last, in a voice hardly audible. 'ah!' (he took off his cap, majestically passed his hand over his thick, stiffly curled hair, which grew almost down to his eyebrows, and looking round him with dignity, he carelessly covered his precious head again.) 'and i quite forgot all about it. besides, it rained!' (he yawned again.) 'lots to do; there's no looking after everything; and he's always scolding. we set off to-morrow....' 'to-morrow?' uttered the young girl. and she fastened her startled eyes upon him. 'yes, to-morrow.... come, come, come, please!' he added, in a tone of vexation, seeing she was shaking all over and softly bending her head; 'please, akulina, don't cry. you know, i can't stand that.' (and he wrinkled up his snub nose.) 'else i'll go away at once.... what silliness--snivelling!' 'there, i won't, i won't!' cried akulina, hurriedly gulping down her tears with an effort. 'you are starting to-morrow?' she added, after a brief silence: 'when will god grant that we see each other again, viktor alexandritch?' 'we shall see each other, we shall see each other. if not next year--then later. the master wants to enter the service in petersburg, i fancy,' he went on, pronouncing his words with careless condescension through his nose; 'and perhaps we shall go abroad too.' 'you will forget me, viktor alexandritch,' said akulina mournfully. 'no, why so? i won't forget you; only you be sensible, don't be a fool; obey your father.... and i won't forget you--no-o.' (and he placidly stretched and yawned again.) 'don't forget me, viktor alexandritch,' she went on in a supplicating voice. 'i think none could, love you as i do. i have given you everything.... you tell me to obey my father, viktor alexandritch.... but how can i obey my father?...' 'why not?' (he uttered these words, as it were, from his stomach, lying on his back with his hands behind his head.) 'but how can i, viktor alexandritch?--you know yourself...' she broke off. viktor played with his steel watch-chain. 'you're not a fool, akulina,' he said at last, 'so don't talk nonsense. i desire your good--do you understand me? to be sure, you're not a fool--not altogether a mere rustic, so to say; and your mother, too, wasn't always a peasant. still you've no education--so you ought to do what you're told.' 'but it's fearful, viktor alexandritch.' 'o-oh! that's nonsense, my dear; a queer thing to be afraid of! what have you got there?' he added, moving closer to her; 'flowers?' 'yes,' akulina responded dejectedly. 'that's some wild tansy i picked,' she went on, brightening up a little; 'it's good for calves. and this is bud-marigold--against the king's evil. look, what an exquisite flower! i've never seen such a lovely flower before. these are forget-me-nots, and that's mother-darling.... and these i picked for you,' she added, taking from under a yellow tansy a small bunch of blue corn-flowers, tied up with a thin blade of grass.' do you like them?' viktor languidly held out his hand, took the flowers, carelessly sniffed at them, and began twirling them in his fingers, looking upwards. akulina watched him.... in her mournful eyes there was such tender devotion, adoring submission and love. she was afraid of him, and did not dare to cry, and was saying good-bye to him and admiring him for the last time; while he lay, lolling like a sultan, and with magnanimous patience and condescension put up with her adoration. i must own, i glared indignantly at his red face, on which, under the affectation of scornful indifference, one could discern vanity soothed and satisfied. akulina was so sweet at that instant; her whole soul was confidingly and passionately laid bare before him, full of longing and caressing tenderness, while he... he dropped the corn-flowers on the grass, pulled out of the side pocket of his coat a round eye-glass set in a brass rim, and began sticking it in his eye; but however much he tried to hold it with his frowning eyebrow, his pursed-up cheek and nose, the eye-glass kept tumbling out and falling into his hand. 'what is it?' akulina asked at last in wonder. 'an eye-glass,' he answered with dignity. 'what for?' 'why, to see better.' 'show me.' viktor scowled, but gave her the glass. 'don't break it; look out.' 'no fear, i won't break it.' (she put it to her eye.) 'i see nothing,' she said innocently. 'but you must shut your eye,' he retorted in the tones of a displeased teacher. (she shut the eye before which she held the glass.) 'not that one, not that one, you fool! the other!' cried viktor, and he took away his eye-glass, without allowing her to correct her mistake. akulina flushed a little, gave a faint laugh, and turned away. 'it's clear it's not for the likes of us,' she said. 'i should think not, indeed!' the poor girl was silent and gave a deep sigh. 'ah, viktor alexandritch, what it will be like for me to be without you!' she said suddenly. victor rubbed the glass on the lappet of his coat and put it back in his pocket. 'yes, yes,'he said at last, 'at first it will be hard for you, certainly.' (he patted her condescendingly on the shoulder; she softly took his hand from her shoulder and timidly kissed it.) 'there, there, you're a good girl, certainly,' he went on, with a complacent smile; 'but what's to be done? you can see for yourself! me and the master could never stay on here; it will soon be winter now, and winter in the country--you know yourself--is simply disgusting. it's quite another thing in petersburg! there there are simply such wonders as a silly girl like you could never fancy in your dreams! such horses and streets, and society, and civilisation--simply marvellous!...' (akulina listened with devouring attention, her lips slightly parted, like a child.) 'but what's the use,' he added, turning over on the ground, 'of my telling you all this? of course, you can't understand it!' 'why so, viktor alexandritch! i understand; i understood everything.' 'my eye, what a girl it is!' akulina looked down. 'you used not to talk to me like that once, viktor alexandritch,' she said, not lifting her eyes. 'once?... once!... my goodness!' he remarked, as though in indignation. they both were silent. 'it's time i was going,' said viktor, and he was already rising on to his elbow. 'wait a little longer,' akulina besought him in a supplicating voice. 'what for?... why, i've said good-bye to you.' 'wait a little,' repeated akulina. viktor lay down again and began whistling. akulina never took her eyes off him. i could see that she was gradually being overcome by emotion; her lips twitched, her pale cheeks faintly glowed. 'viktor alexandritch,' she began at last in a broken voice, 'it's too bad of you... it is too bad of you, viktor alexandritch, indeed it is!' 'what's too bad?' he asked frowning, and he slightly raised his head and turned it towards her. 'it's too bad, viktor alexandritch. you might at least say one kind word to me at parting; you might have said one little word to me, a poor luckless forlorn.'... 'but what am i to say to you?' 'i don't know; you know that best, viktor alexandritch. here you are going away, and one little word.... what have i done to deserve it?' 'you're such a queer creature! what can i do?' 'one word at least.' 'there, she keeps on at the same thing,' he commented with annoyance, and he got up. 'don't be angry, viktor alexandritch,' she added hurriedly, with difficulty suppressing her tears. i'm not angry, only you're silly.... what do you want? you know i can't marry you, can i? i can't, can i? what is it you want then, eh?' (he thrust his face forward as though expecting an answer, and spread his fingers out.) 'i want nothing... nothing,' she answered falteringly, and she ventured to hold out her trembling hands to him; 'but only a word at parting.' and her tears fell in a torrent. 'there, that means she's gone off into crying,' said viktor coolly, pushing down his cap on to his eyes. 'i want nothing,' she went on, sobbing and covering her face with her hands; 'but what is there before me in my family? what is there before me? what will happen to me? what will become of me, poor wretch? they will marry me to a hateful... poor forsaken... poor me!' 'sing away, sing away,' muttered viktor in an undertone, fidgeting with impatience as he stood. 'and he might say one word, one word.... he might say, "akulina... i..."' sudden heart-breaking sobs prevented her from finishing; she lay with her face in the grass and bitterly, bitterly she wept.... her whole body shook convulsively, her neck fairly heaved.... her long-suppressed grief broke out in a torrent at last. viktor stood over her, stood a moment, shrugged his shoulders, turned away and strode off. a few instants passed... she grew calmer, raised her head, jumped up, looked round and wrung her hands; she tried to run after him, but her legs gave way under her--she fell on her knees.... i could not refrain from rushing up to her; but, almost before she had time to look at me, making a superhuman effort she got up with a faint shriek and vanished behind the trees, leaving her flowers scattered on the ground. i stood a minute, picked up the bunch of cornflowers, and went out of the wood into the open country. the sun had sunk low in the pale clear sky; its rays too seemed to have grown pale and chill; they did not shine; they were diffused in an unbroken, watery light. it was within half-an-hour of sunset, but there was scarcely any of the glow of evening. a gusty wind scurried to meet me across the yellow parched stubble; little curled-up leaves, scudding hurriedly before it, flew by across the road, along the edge of the copse; the side of the copse facing the fields like a wall, was all shaking and lighted up by tiny gleams, distinct, but not glowing; on the reddish plants, the blades of grass, the straws on all sides, were sparkling and stirring innumerable threads of autumn spider-webs. i stopped... i felt sad at heart: under the bright but chill smile of fading nature, the dismal dread of coming winter seemed to steal upon me. high overhead flew a cautious crow, heavily and sharply cleaving the air with his wings; he turned his head, looked sideways at me, flapped his wings and, cawing abruptly, vanished behind the wood; a great flock of pigeons flew up playfully from a threshing floor, and suddenly eddying round in a column, scattered busily about the country. sure sign of autumn! some one came driving over the bare hillside, his empty cart rattling loudly.... i turned homewards; but it was long before the figure of poor akulina faded out of my mind, and her cornflowers, long since withered, are still in my keeping. xx the hamlet of the shtchigri district on one of my excursions i received an invitation to dine at the house of a rich landowner and sportsman, alexandr mihalitch g----. his property was four miles from the small village where i was staying at the time. i put on a frock-coat, an article without which i advise no one to travel, even on a hunting expedition, and betook myself to alexandr mihalitch's. the dinner was fixed for six o'clock; i arrived at five, and found already a great number of gentlemen in uniforms, in civilian dress, and other nondescript garments. my host met me cordially, but soon hurried away to the butler's pantry. he was expecting a great dignitary, and was in a state of agitation not quite in keeping with his independent position in society and his wealth. alexandr mihalitch had never married, and did not care for women; his house was the centre of a bachelor society. he lived in grand style; he had enlarged and sumptuously redecorated his ancestral mansion, spent fifteen thousand roubles on wine from moscow every year, and enjoyed the highest public consideration. alexandr mihalitch had retired from the service ages ago, and had no ambition to gain official honours of any kind. what could have induced him to go out of his way to procure a guest of high official position, and to be in a state of excitement from early morning on the day of the grand dinner? that remains buried in the obscurity of the unknown, as a friend of mine, an attorney, is in the habit of saying when he is asked whether he takes bribes when kindly-disposed persons offer them. on parting from my host, i began walking through the rooms. almost all the guests were utterly unknown to me: about twenty persons were already seated at the card-tables. among these devotees of preference were two warriors, with aristocratic but rather battered countenances, a few civilian officials, with tight high cravats and drooping dyed moustaches, such as are only to be found in persons of resolute character and strict conservative opinions: these conservative persons picked up their cards with dignity, and, without turning their heads, glared sideways at everyone who approached; and five or six local petty officials, with fair round bellies, fat, moist little hands, and staid, immovable little legs. these worthies spoke in a subdued voice, smiled benignly in all directions, held their cards close up to their very shirt-fronts, and when they trumped did not flap their cards on the table, but, on the contrary, shed them with an undulatory motion on the green cloth, and packed their tricks together with a slight, unassuming, and decorous swish. the rest of the company were sitting on sofas, or hanging in groups about the doors or at the windows; one gentleman, no longer young, though of feminine appearance, stood in a corner, fidgeting, blushing, and twisting the seal of his watch over his stomach in his embarrassment, though no one was paying any attention to him; some others in swallow-tail coats and checked trousers, the handiwork of the tailor and perpetual master of the tailors corporation, firs klyuhin, were talking together with extraordinary ease and liveliness, turning their bald, greasy heads from side to side unconstrainedly as they talked; a young man of twenty, short-sighted and fair-haired, dressed from head to foot in black, obviously shy, smiled sarcastically.... i was beginning, however, to feel bored, when suddenly i was joined by a young man, one voinitsin by name, a student without a degree, who resided in the house of alexandr mihalitch in the capacity of...it would be hard to say precisely, of what. he was a first-rate shot, and could train dogs. i had known him before in moscow. he was one of those young men who at every examination 'played at dumb-show,' that is to say, did not answer a single word to the professor's questions. such persons were also designated 'the bearded students.' (you will gather that this was in long past days.) this was how it used to be: they would call voinitsin, for example. voinitsin, who had sat upright and motionless in his place, bathed in a hot perspiration from head to foot, slowly and aimlessly looked about him, got up, hurriedly buttoned up his undergraduate's uniform, and edged up to the examiner's table. 'take a paper, please,' the professor would say to him pleasantly. voinitsin would stretch out his hand, and with trembling fingers fumble at the pile of papers. 'no selecting, if you please,' observed, in a jarring voice, an assistant-examiner, an irritable old gentleman, a professor in some other faculty, conceiving a sudden hatred for the unlucky bearded one. voinitsin resigned himself to his fate, took a paper, showed the number on it, and went and sat down by the window, while his predecessor was answering his question. at the window voinitsin never took his eyes off his paper, except that at times he looked slowly round as before, though he did not move a muscle. but his predecessor would finish at last, and would be dismissed with, 'good! you can go,' or even 'good indeed, very good!' according to his abilities. then they call voinitsin: voinitsin gets up, and with resolute step approaches the table. 'read your question,' they tell him. voinitsin raises the paper in both hands up to his very nose, slowly reads it, and slowly drops his hands. 'well, now, your answer, please,' the same professor remarks languidly, throwing himself backwards, and crossing his arms over his breast. there reigns the silence of the tomb. 'why are you silent?' voinitsin is mute. the assistant-examiner begins to be restive. 'well, say something!' voinitsin is as still as if he were dead. all his companions gaze inquisitively at the back of his thick, close-cropped, motionless head. the assistant-examiner's eyes are almost starting out of his head; he positively hates voinitsin. 'well, this is strange, really,' observes the other examiner. 'why do you stand as if you were dumb? come, don't you know it? if so, say so.' 'let me take another question,' the luckless youth articulates thickly. the professors look at one another.' well, take one,' the head-examiner answers, with a wave of the hand. voinitsin again takes a paper, again goes to the window, again returns to the table, and again is silent as the grave. the assistant-examiner is capable of devouring him alive. at last they send him away and mark him a nought. you would think, 'now, at least, he will go.' not a bit of it! he goes back to his place, sits just as immovably to the end of the examination, and, as he goes out, exclaims: 'i've been on the rack! what ill-luck!' and the whole of that day he wanders about moscow, clutching every now and then at his head, and bitterly cursing his luckless fate. he never, of course, touched a book, and the next day the same story was repeated. so this was the voinitsin who joined me. we talked about moscow, about sport. 'would you like me,' he whispered to me suddenly, 'to introduce you to the first wit of these parts?' 'if you will be so kind.' voinitsin led me up to a little man, with a high tuft of hair on his forehead and moustaches, in a cinnamon-coloured frock-coat and striped cravat. his yellow, mobile features were certainly full of cleverness and sarcasm. his lips were perpetually curved in a flitting ironical smile; little black eyes, screwed up with an impudent expression, looked out from under uneven lashes. beside him stood a country gentleman, broad, soft, and sweet--a veritable sugar-and-honey mixture--with one eye. he laughed in anticipation at the witticisms of the little man, and seemed positively melting with delight. voinitsin presented me to the wit, whose name was piotr petrovitch lupihin. we were introduced and exchanged the preliminary civilities. 'allow me to present to you my best friend,' said lupihin suddenly in a strident voice, seizing the sugary gentleman by the arm. 'come, don't resist, kirila selifanitch,' he added; 'we're not going to bite you. i commend him to you,' he went on, while the embarrassed kirila selifanitch bowed with about as much grace as if he were undergoing a surgical operation; 'he's a most superior gentleman. he enjoyed excellent health up to the age of fifty, then suddenly conceived the idea of doctoring his eyes, in consequence of which he has lost one. since then he doctors his peasants with similar success.... they, to be sure, repay with similar devotion...' 'what a fellow it is!' muttered kirila selifanitch. and he laughed. 'speak out, my friend; eh, speak out!' lupihin rejoined. 'why, they may elect you a judge; i shouldn't wonder, and they will, too, you see. well, to be sure, the secretaries will do the thinking for you, we may assume; but you know you'll have to be able to speak, anyhow, even if only to express the ideas of others. suppose the governor comes and asks, "why is it the judge stammers?" and they'd say, let's assume, "it's a paralytic stroke." "then bleed him," he'd say. and it would be highly indecorous, in your position, you'll admit.' the sugary gentleman was positively rolling with mirth. 'you see he laughs,' lupihin pursued with a malignant glance at kirila selifanitch's heaving stomach. 'and why shouldn't he laugh?' he added, turning to me: 'he has enough to eat, good health, and no children; his peasants aren't mortgaged--to be sure, he doctors them--and his wife is cracked.' (kirila selifanitch turned a little away as though he were not listening, but he still continued to chuckle.) 'i laugh too, while my wife has eloped with a land-surveyor.' (he grinned.) 'didn't you know that? what! why, one fine day she ran away with him and left me a letter. "dear piotr petrovitch," she said, "forgive me: carried away by passion, i am leaving with the friend of my heart."... and the land-surveyor only took her fancy through not cutting his nails and wearing tight trousers. you're surprised at that? "why, this," she said, "is a man with no dissimulation about him."... but mercy on us! rustic fellows like us speak the truth too plainly. but let us move away a bit.... it's not for us to stand beside a future judge.'... he took me by the arm, and we moved away to a window. 'i've the reputation of a wit here,' he said to me, in the course of conversation. 'you need not believe that. i'm simply an embittered man, and i do my railing aloud: that's how it is i'm so free and easy in my speech. and why should i mince matters, if you come to that; i don't care a straw for anyone's opinion, and i've nothing to gain; i'm spiteful--what of that? a spiteful man, at least, needs no wit. and, however enlightening it may be, you won't believe it.... i say, now, i say, look at our host! there! what is he running to and fro like that for? upon my word, he keeps looking at his watch, smiling, perspiring, putting on a solemn face, keeping us all starving for our dinner! such a prodigy! a real court grandee! look, look, he's running again--bounding, positively, look!' and lupihin laughed shrilly. 'the only pity is, there are no ladies,' he resumed with a deep sigh; 'it's a bachelor party, else that's when your humble servant gets on. look, look,' he cried suddenly: 'prince kozelsky's come--that tall man there, with a beard, in yellow gloves. you can see at once he's been abroad... and he always arrives as late. he's as heavy, i tell you, by himself, as a pair of merchant's horses, and you should see how condescendingly he talks with your humble servant, how graciously he deigns to smile at the civilities of our starving mothers and daughters!... and he sometimes sets up for a wit, but he is only here for a little time; and oh, his witticisms! it's for all the world like hacking at a ship's cable with a blunt knife. he can't bear me.... i'm going to bow to him.' and lupihin ran off to meet the prince. 'and here comes my special enemy,' he observed, turning all at once to me. 'do you see that fat man with the brown face and the bristles on his head, over there, that's got his cap clutched in his hand, and is creeping along by the wall and glaring in all directions like a wolf? i sold him for roubles a horse worth , and that stupid animal has a perfect right now to despise me; though all the while he is so destitute of all faculty of imagination, especially in the morning before his tea, or after dinner, that if you say "good morning!" to him, he'll answer, "is it?" 'and here comes the general,' pursued lupihin, 'the civilian general, a retired, destitute general. he has a daughter of beetroot-sugar, and a manufactory with scrofula.... beg pardon, i've got it wrong... but there, you understand. ah! and the architect's turned up here! a german, and wears moustaches, and does not understand his business--a natural phenomenon!... though what need for him to understand his business so long as he takes bribes and sticks in pillars everywhere to suit the tastes of our pillars of society!' lupihin chuckled again.... but suddenly a wave of excitement passed over the whole house. the grandee had arrived. the host positively rushed into the hall. after him ran a few devoted members of the household and eager guests.... the noisy talk was transformed into a subdued pleasant chat, like the buzzing of bees in spring within their hives. only the turbulent wasp, lupihin, and the splendid drone, kozelsky, did not subdue their voices.... and behold, at last, the queen!--the great dignitary entered. hearts bounded to meet him, sitting bodies rose; even the gentleman who had bought a horse from lupihin poked his chin into his chest. the great personage kept up his dignity in an inimitable manner; throwing his head back, as though he were bowing, he uttered a few words of approbation, of which each was prefaced by the syllable _er_, drawled through his nose; with a sort of devouring indignation he looked at prince kozelsky's democratic beard, and gave the destitute general with the factory and the daughter the forefinger of his right hand. after a few minutes, in the course of which the dignitary had had time to observe twice that he was very glad he was not late for dinner, the whole company trooped into the dining-room, the swells first. there is no need to describe to the reader how they put the great man in the most important place, between the civilian general and the marshal of the province, a man of an independent and dignified expression of face, in perfect keeping with his starched shirt-front, his expanse of waistcoat, and his round snuff-box full of french snuff; how our host bustled about, and ran up and down, fussing and pressing the guests to eat, smiling at the great man's back in passing, and hurriedly snatching a plate of soup or a bit of bread in a corner like a schoolboy; how the butler brought in a fish more than a yard long, with a nosegay in its mouth; how the surly-looking foot-men in livery sullenly plied every gentleman, now with malaga, now dry madeira; and how almost all the gentlemen, particularly the more elderly ones, drank off glass after glass with an air of reluctantly resigning themselves to a sense of duty; and finally, how they began popping champagne bottles and proposing toasts: all that is probably only too well known to the reader. but what struck me as especially noteworthy was the anecdote told us by the great man himself amid a general delighted silence. someone--i fancy it was the destitute general, a man familiar with modern literature--referred to the influence of women in general, and especially on young men. 'yes, yes,' chimed in the great man, 'that's true; but young men ought to be kept in strict subjection, or else, very likely, they'll go out of their senses over every petticoat.' (a smile of child-like delight flitted over the faces of all the guests; positive gratitude could be seen in one gentleman's eyes.) 'for young men are idiots.' (the great man, i suppose for the sake of greater impressiveness, sometimes changed the accepted accentuation of words.) 'my son, ivan, for instance,' he went on; 'the fool's only just twenty--and all at once he comes to me and says: "let me be married, father." i told him he was a fool; told him he must go into the service first.... well, there was despair--tears... but with me... no nonsense.' (the words 'no nonsense' the great man seemed to enunciate more with his stomach than his lips; he paused and glanced majestically at his neighbour, the general, while he raised his eyebrows higher than any one could have expected. the civilian general nodded agreeably a little on one side, and with extraordinary rapidity winked with the eye turned to the great man.) 'and what do you think?' the great man began again: 'now he writes to me himself, and thanks me for looking after him when he was a fool.... so that's the way to act.' all the guests, of course, were in complete agreement with the speaker, and seemed quite cheered up by the pleasure and instruction they derived from him.... after dinner, the whole party rose and moved into the drawing-room with a great deal of noise--decorous, however; and, as it were, licensed for the occasion.... they sat down to cards. i got through the evening somehow, and charging my coachman to have my carriage ready at five o'clock next morning, i went to my room. but i was destined, in the course of that same day, to make the acquaintance of a remarkable man. in consequence of the great number of guests staying in the house, no one had a bedroom to himself. in the small, greenish, damp room to which i was conducted by alexandr mihalitch's butler, there was already another guest, quite undressed. on seeing me, he quickly ducked under the bed-clothes, covered himself up to the nose, turned a little on the soft feather-bed, and lay quiet, keeping a sharp look-out from under the round frill of his cotton night-cap. i went up to the other bed (there were only two in the room), undressed, and lay down in the damp sheets. my neighbour turned over in bed.... i wished him good-night. half-an-hour went by. in spite of all my efforts, i could not get to sleep: aimless and vague thoughts kept persistently and monotonously dragging one after another on an endless chain, like the buckets of a hydraulic machine. 'you're not asleep, i fancy?' observed my neighbour. 'no, as you see,' i answered. 'and you're not sleepy either, are you?' 'i'm never sleepy.' 'how's that?' 'oh! i go to sleep--i don't know what for. i lie in bed, and lie in bed, and so get to sleep.' 'why do you go to bed before you feel sleepy?' 'why, what would you have me do?' i made no answer to my neighbour's question. 'i wonder,' he went on, after a brief silence, 'how it is there are no fleas here? where should there be fleas if not here, one wonders?' 'you seem to regret them,' i remarked. 'no, i don't regret them; but i like everything to be consecutive.' 'o-ho!' thought i; 'what words he uses.' my neighbour was silent again. 'would you like to make a bet with me?' he said again, rather loudly. 'what about?' i began to be amused by him. 'hm... what about? why, about this: i'm certain you take me for a fool.' 'really,' i muttered, astounded. 'for an ignoramus, for a rustic of the steppes.... confess....' 'i haven't the pleasure of knowing you,' i responded. 'what can make you infer?...' 'why, the sound of your voice is enough; you answer me so carelessly.... but i'm not at all what you suppose....' 'allow me....' 'no, you allow me. in the first place, i speak french as well as you, and german even better; secondly, i have spent three years abroad--in berlin alone i lived eight months. i've studied hegel, honoured sir; i know goethe by heart: add to that, i was a long while in love with a german professor's daughter, and was married at home to a consumptive lady, who was bald, but a remarkable personality. so i'm a bird of your feather; i'm not a barbarian of the steppes, as you imagine.... i too have been bitten by reflection, and there's nothing obvious about me.' i raised my head and looked with redoubled attention at the queer fellow. by the dim light of the night-lamp i could hardly distinguish his features. 'there, you're looking at me now,' he went on, setting his night-cap straight, 'and probably you're asking yourself, "how is it i didn't notice him to-day?" i'll tell you why you didn't notice me: because i didn't raise my voice; because i get behind other people, hang about doorways, and talk to no one; because, when the butler passes me with a tray, he raises his elbow to the level of my shoulder.... and how is it all that comes about? from two causes: first, i'm poor; and secondly, i've grown humble.... tell the truth, you didn't notice me, did you?' 'certainly, i've not had the pleasure....' 'there, there,' he interrupted me, 'i knew that.' he raised himself and folded his arms; the long shadow of his cap was bent from the wall to the ceiling. 'and confess, now,' he added, with a sudden sideway glance at me; 'i must strike you as a queer fellow, an original, as they say, or possibly as something worse: perhaps you think i affect to be original!' 'i must repeat again that i don't know you....' he looked down an instant. 'why have i begun talking so unexpectedly to you, a man utterly a stranger?--the lord, the lord only knows!' (he sighed.) 'not through the natural affinity of our souls! both you and i are respectable people, that's to say, egoists: neither of us has the least concern with the other; isn't it so? but we are neither of us sleepy... so why not chat? i'm in the mood, and that's rare with me. i'm shy, do you see? and not shy because i'm a provincial, of no rank and poor, but because i'm a fearfully vain person. but at times, under favourable circumstances, occasions which i could not, however, particularise nor foresee, my shyness vanishes completely, as at this moment, for instance. at this moment you might set me face to face with the grand lama, and i'd ask him for a pinch of snuff. but perhaps you want to go to sleep?' 'quite the contrary,' i hastened to respond; 'it is a pleasure for me to talk to you.' 'that is, i amuse you, you mean to say.... all the better.... and so, i tell you, they call me here an original; that's what they call me when my name is casually mentioned, among other gossip. no one is much concerned about my fate.... they think it wounds me.... oh, good lord! if they only knew... it's just what's my ruin, that there is absolutely nothing original in me--nothing, except such freaks as, for instance, my conversation at this moment with you; but such freaks are not worth a brass farthing. that's the cheapest and lowest sort of originality.' he turned facing me, and waved his hands. 'honoured sir!' he cried, 'i am of the opinion that life on earth's only worth living, as a rule, for original people; it's only they who have a right to live. _man verre n'est pas grand, maisje bois dans mon verre,_ said someone. do you see,' he added in an undertone, 'how well i pronounce french? what is it to one if one's a capacious brain, and understands everything, and knows a lot, and keeps pace with the age, if one's nothing of one's own, of oneself! one more storehouse for hackneyed commonplaces in the world; and what good does that do to anyone? no, better be stupid even, but in one's own way! one should have a flavour of one's own, one's individual flavour; that's the thing! and don't suppose that i am very exacting as to that flavour.... god forbid! there are no end of original people of the sort i mean: look where you will--there's an original: every live man is an original; but i am not to be reckoned among them!' 'and yet,' he went on, after a brief silence, 'in my youth what expectations i aroused! what a high opinion i cherished of my own individuality before i went abroad, and even, at first, after my return! well, abroad i kept my ears open, held aloof from everyone, as befits a man like me, who is always seeing through things by himself, and at the end has not understood the a b c!' 'an original, an original!' he hurried on, shaking his head reproachfully....' they call me an original.... in reality, it turns out that there's not a man in the world less original than your humble servant. i must have been born even in imitation of someone else.... oh, dear! it seems i am living, too, in imitation of the various authors studied by me; in the sweat of my brow i live: and i've studied, and fallen in love, and married, in fact, as it were, not through my own will--as it were, fulfilling some sort of duty, or sort of fate--who's to make it out?' he tore the nightcap off his head and flung it on the bed. 'would you like me to tell you the story of my life?' he asked me in an abrupt voice; 'or, rather, a few incidents of my life?' 'please do me the favour.' 'or, no, i'd better tell you how i got married. you see marriage is an important thing, the touchstone that tests the whole man: in it, as in a glass, is reflected.... but that sounds too hackneyed.... if you'll allow me, i'll take a pinch of snuff.' he pulled a snuff-box from under his pillow, opened it, and began again, waving the open snuff-box about. 'put yourself, honoured sir, in my place.... judge for yourself, what, now what, tell me as a favour: what benefit could i derive from the encyclopaedia of hegel? what is there in common, tell me, between that encyclopaedia and russian life? and how would you advise me to apply it to our life, and not it, the encyclopaedia only, but german philosophy in general.... i will say more--science itself?' he gave a bound on the bed and muttered to himself, gnashing his teeth angrily. 'ah, that's it, that's it!... then why did you go trailing off abroad? why didn't you stay at home and study the life surrounding you on the spot? you might have found out its needs and its future, and have come to a clear comprehension of your vocation, so to say.... but, upon my word,' he went on, changing his tone again as though timidly justifying himself, 'where is one to study what no sage has yet inscribed in any book? i should have been glad indeed to take lessons of her--of russian life, i mean--but she's dumb, the poor dear. you must take her as she is; but that's beyond my power: you must give me the inference; you must present me with a conclusion. here you have a conclusion too: listen to our wise men of moscow--they're a set of nightingales worth listening to, aren't they? yes, that's the pity of it, that they pipe away like kursk nightingales, instead of talking as the people talk.... well, i thought, and thought--"science, to be sure," i thought, "is everywhere the same, and truth is the same"--so i was up and off, in god's name, to foreign parts, to the heathen.... what would you have? i was infatuated with youth and conceit; i didn't want, you know, to get fat before my time, though they say it's healthy. though, indeed, if nature doesn't put the flesh on your bones, you won't see much fat on your body!' 'but i fancy,' he added, after a moment's thought, 'i promised to tell you how i got married--listen. first, i must tell you that my wife is no longer living; secondly... secondly, i see i must give you some account of my youth, or else you won't be able to make anything out of it.... but don't you want to go to sleep?' 'no, i'm not sleepy.' 'that's good news. hark!... how vulgarly mr. kantagryuhin is snoring in the next room! i was the son of parents of small property--i say parents, because, according to tradition, i had once had a father as well as a mother, i don't remember him: he was a narrow-minded man, i've been told, with a big nose, freckles, and red hair; he used to take snuff on one side of his nose only; his portrait used to hang in my mother's bedroom, and very hideous he was in a red uniform with a black collar up to his ears. they used to take me to be whipped before him, and my mother used always on such occasions to point to him, saying, "he would give it to you much more if he were here." you can imagine what an encouraging effect that had on me. i had no brother nor sister--that's to say, speaking accurately, i had once had a brother knocking about, with the english disease in his neck, but he soon died.... and why ever, one wonders, should the english disease make its way to the shtchigri district of the province of kursk? but that's neither here nor there. my mother undertook my education with all the vigorous zeal of a country lady of the steppes: she undertook it from the solemn day of my birth till the time when my sixteenth year had come.... you are following my story?' 'yes, please go on.' 'all right. well, when i was sixteen, my mother promptly dismissed my teacher of french, a german, filipóvitch, from the greek settlement of nyezhin. she conducted me to moscow, put down my name for the university, and gave up her soul to the almighty, leaving me in the hands of my uncle, the attorney koltun-babur, one of a sort well-known not only in the shtchigri district. my uncle, the attorney koltun-babur, plundered me to the last half-penny, after the custom of guardians.... but again that's neither here nor there. i entered the university--i must do so much justice to my mother--rather well grounded; but my lack of originality was even then apparent. my childhood was in no way distinguished from the childhood of other boys; i grew up just as languidly and dully--much as if i were under a feather-bed--just as early i began repeating poetry by heart and moping under the pretence of a dreamy inclination... for what?--why, for the beautiful... and so on. in the university i went on in the same way; i promptly got into a "circle." times were different then.... but you don't know, perhaps, what sort of thing a student's "circle" is? i remember schiller said somewhere: _gefährlich ist's den leu zu wecken und schrecklich ist des tigers zahn, doch das schrecklichste der schrecken das ist der mensch in seinem wahn!_ he didn't mean that, i can assure you; he meant to say: _das ist ein_ circle _in der stadt moskau_!' 'but what do you find so awful in the circle?' i asked. my neighbour snatched his cap and pulled it down on to his nose. 'what do i find so awful?' he shouted. 'why, this: the circle is the destruction of all independent development; the circle is a hideous substitute for society, woman, life; the circle... oh, wait a bit, i'll tell you what a circle is! a circle is a slothful, dull living side by side in common, to which is attached a serious significance and a show of rational activity; the circle replaces conversation by debate, trains you in fruitless discussion, draws you away from solitary, useful labour, develops in you the itch for authorship--deprives you, in fact, of all freshness and virgin vigour of soul. the circle--why, it's vulgarity and boredom under the name of brotherhood and friendship! a concatenation of misunderstandings and cavillings under the pretence of openness and sympathy: in the circle--thanks to the right of every friend, at all hours and seasons, to poke his unwashed fingers into the very inmost soul of his comrade--no one has a single spot in his soul pure and undefiled; in the circle they fall down before the shallow, vain, smart talker and the premature wise-acre, and worship the rhymester with no poetic gift, but full of "subtle" ideas; in the circle young lads of seventeen talk glibly and learnedly of women and of love, while in the presence of women they are dumb or talk to them like a book--and what do they talk about? the circle is the hot-bed of glib fluency; in the circle they spy on one another like so many police officials.... oh, circle! thou'rt not a circle, but an enchanted ring, which has been the ruin of many a decent fellow!' 'come, you're exaggerating, allow me to observe,' i broke in. my neighbour looked at me in silence. 'perhaps, god knows, perhaps. but, you see, there's only one pleasure left your humble servant, and that's exaggeration--well, that was the way i spent four years in moscow. i can't tell you, my dear sir, how quickly, how fearfully quickly, that time passed; it's positively painful and vexatious to remember. some mornings one gets up, and it's like sliding downhill on little sledges.... before one can look round, one's flown to the bottom; it's evening already, and already the sleepy servant is pulling on one's coat; one dresses, and trails off to a friend, and may be smokes a pipe, drinks weak tea in glasses, and discusses german philosophy, love, the eternal sunshine of the spirit, and other far-fetched topics. but even there i met original, independent people: however some men stultify themselves and warp themselves out of shape, still nature asserts itself; i alone, poor wretch, moulded myself like soft wax, and my pitiful little nature never made the faintest resistance! meantime i had reached my twenty-first year. i came into possession of my inheritance, or, more correctly speaking, that part of my inheritance which my guardian had thought fit to leave me, gave a freed house-serf vassily kudryashev a warranty to superintend all my patrimony, and set off abroad to berlin. i was abroad, as i have already had the pleasure of telling you, three years. well. there too, abroad too, i remained the same unoriginal creature. in the first place, i need not say that of europe, of european life, i really learnt nothing. i listened to german professors and read german books on their birthplace: that was all the difference. i led as solitary a life as any monk; i got on good terms with a retired lieutenant, weighed down, like myself, by a thirst for knowledge but always dull of comprehension, and not gifted with a flow of words; i made friends with slow-witted families from penza and other agricultural provinces, hung about _cafés_, read the papers, in the evening went to the theatre. with the natives i associated very little; i talked to them with constraint, and never had one of them to see me at my own place, except two or three intrusive fellows of jewish extraction, who were constantly running in upon me and borrowing money--thanks to _der russe's_ gullibility. a strange freak of chance brought me at last to the house of one of my professors. it was like this: i came to him to enter my name for a course of lectures, and he, all of a sudden, invited me to an evening party at his house. this professor had two daughters, of twenty-seven, such stumpy little things--god bless them!--with such majestic noses, frizzed curls and pale-blue eyes, and red hands with white nails. one was called linchen and the other minchen. i began to go to the professor's. i ought to tell you that the professor was not exactly stupid, but seemed, as it were, dazed: in his professorial desk he spoke fairly consecutively, but at home he lisped, and always had his spectacles on his forehead--he was a very learned man, though. well, suddenly it seemed to me that i was in love with linchen, and for six whole months this impression remained. i talked to her, it's true, very little--it was more that i looked at her; but i used to read various touching passages aloud to her, to press her hand on the sly, and to dream beside her in the evenings, gazing persistently at the moon, or else simply up aloft. besides, she made such delicious coffee! one asks oneself--what more could one desire? only one thing troubled me: at the very moments of ineffable bliss, as it's called, i always had a sort of sinking in the pit of the stomach, and a cold shudder ran down my back. at last i could not stand such happiness, and ran away. two whole years after that i was abroad: i went to italy, stood before the transfiguration in rome, and before the venus in florence, and suddenly fell into exaggerated raptures, as though an attack of delirium had come upon me; in the evenings i wrote verses, began a diary; in fact, there too i behaved just like everyone else. and just mark how easy it is to be original! i take no interest, for instance, in painting and sculpture.... but simply saying so aloud... no, it was impossible! i must needs take a cicerone, and run to gaze at the frescoes.'... he looked down again, and again pulled off his nightcap. 'well, i came back to my own country at last,' he went on in a weary voice. 'i went to moscow. in moscow a marvellous transformation took place in me. abroad i was mostly silent, but now suddenly i began to talk with unexpected smartness, and at the same time i began to conceive all sorts of ideas of myself. there were kindly disposed persons to be found, to whom i seemed all but a genius; ladies listened sympathetically to my diatribes; but i was not able to keep on the summit of my glory. one fine morning a slander sprang up about me (who had originated it, i don't know; it must have been some old maid of the male sex--there are any number of such old maids in moscow); it sprang up and began to throw off outshoots and tendrils like a strawberry plant. i was abashed, tried to get out of it, to break through its clinging toils--that was no good.... i went away. well, in that too i showed that i was an absurd person; i ought to have calmly waited for the storm to blow over, just as one waits for the end of nettle-rash, and the same kindly-disposed persons would have opened their arms to me again, the same ladies would have smiled approvingly again at my remarks.... but what's wrong is just that i'm not an original person. conscientious scruples, please to observe, had been stirred up in me; i was somehow ashamed of talk, talk without ceasing, nothing but talk--yesterday in arbat, to-day in truba, to-morrow in sivtsevy-vrazhky, and all about the same thing.... but if that is what people want of me? look at the really successful men in that line: they don't ask its use; on the contrary, it's all they need; some will keep their tongues wagging twenty years together, and always in one direction.... that's what comes of self-confidence and conceit! i had that too, conceit--indeed, even now it's not altogether stifled.... but what was wrong was that--i say again, i'm not an original person--i stopped midway: nature ought to have given me far more conceit or none at all. but at first i felt the change a very hard one; moreover, my stay abroad too had utterly drained my resources, while i was not disposed to marry a merchant's daughter, young, but flabby as a jelly, so i retired to my country place. i fancy,' added my neighbour, with another glance sideways at me, 'i may pass over in silence the first impressions of country life, references to the beauty of nature, the gentle charm of solitude, etc.' 'you can, indeed,' i put in. 'all the more,' he continued, 'as all that's nonsense; at least, as far as i'm concerned. i was as bored in the country as a puppy locked up, though i will own that on my journey home, when i passed through the familiar birchwood in spring for the first time, my head was in a whirl and my heart beat with a vague, sweet expectation. but these vague expectations, as you're well aware, never come to pass; on the other hand, very different things do come to pass, which you don't at all expect, such as cattle disease, arrears, sales by auction, and so on, and so on. i managed to make a shift from day to day with the aid of my agent, yakov, who replaced the former superintendent, and turned out in the course of time to be as great, if not a greater robber, and over and above that poisoned my existence by the smell of his tarred boots; suddenly one day i remembered a family i knew in the neighbourhood, consisting of the widow of a retired colonel and her two daughters, ordered out my droshky, and set off to see them. that day must always be a memorable one for me; six months later i was married to the retired colonel's second daughter!...' the speaker dropped his head, and lifted his hands to heaven. 'and now,' he went on warmly, 'i couldn't bear to give you an unfavourable opinion of my late wife. heaven forbid! she was the most generous, sweetest creature, a loving nature capable of any sacrifice, though i must between ourselves confess that if i had not had the misfortune to lose her, i should probably not be in a position to be talking to you to-day; since the beam is still there in my barn, to which i repeatedly made up my mind to hang myself!' 'some pears,' he began again, after a brief pause, 'need to lie in an underground cellar for a time, to come, as they say, to their real flavour; my wife, it seems, belonged to a similar order of nature's works. it's only now that i do her complete justice. it's only now, for instance, that memories of some evenings i spent with her before marriage no longer awaken the slightest bitterness, but move me almost to tears. they were not rich people; their house was very old-fashioned and built of wood, but comfortable; it stood on a hill between an overgrown courtyard and a garden run wild. at the bottom of the hill ran a river, which could just be seen through the thick leaves. a wide terrace led from the house to the garden; before the terrace flaunted a long flower-bed, covered with roses; at each end of the flower-bed grew two acacias, which had been trained to grow into the shape of a screw by its late owner. a little farther, in the very midst of a thicket of neglected and overgrown raspberries, stood an arbour, smartly painted within, but so old and tumble-down outside that it was depressing to look at it. a glass door led from the terrace into the drawing-room; in the drawing-room this was what met the eye of the inquisitive spectator: in the various corners stoves of dutch tiles, a squeaky piano to the right, piled with manuscript music, a sofa, covered with faded blue material with a whitish pattern, a round table, two what-nots of china and glass, knicknacks of the catherine period; on the wall the well-known picture of a flaxen-haired girl with a dove on her breast and eyes turned upwards; on the table a vase of fresh roses. you see how minutely i describe it. in that drawing-room, on that terrace, was rehearsed all the tragi-comedy of my love. the colonel's wife herself was an ill-natured old dame, whose voice was always hoarse with spite--a petty, snappish creature. of the daughters, one, vera, did not differ in any respect from the common run of young ladies of the provinces; the other, sofya, i fell in love with. the two sisters had another little room too, their common bedroom, with two innocent little wooden bedsteads, yellowish albums, mignonette, portraits of friends sketched in pencil rather badly (among them was one gentleman with an exceptionally vigorous expression of face and a still more vigorous signature, who had in his youth raised disproportionate expectations, but had come, like all of us, to nothing), with busts of goethe and schiller, german books, dried wreaths, and other objects, kept as souvenirs. but that room i rarely and reluctantly entered; i felt stifled there somehow. and, too, strange to say, i liked sofya best of all when i was sitting with my back to her, or still more, perhaps, when i was thinking or dreaming about her in the evening on the terrace. at such times i used to gaze at the sunset, at the trees, at the tiny leaves, already in darkness, but standing out sharply against the rosy sky; in the drawing-room sofya sat at the piano continually playing over and over again some favourite, passionately pathetic phrase from beethoven; the ill-natured old lady snored peacefully, sitting on the sofa; in the dining-room, which was flooded by a glow of lurid light, vera was bustling about getting tea; the samovar hissed merrily as though it were pleased at something; the cracknels snapped with a pleasant crispness, and the spoons tinkled against the cups; the canary, which trilled mercilessly all day, was suddenly still, and only chirruped from time to time, as though asking for something; from a light transparent cloud there fell a few passing drops of rain.... and i would sit and sit, listen, listen, and look, my heart would expand, and again it seemed to me that i was in love. well, under the influence of such an evening, i one day asked the old lady for her daughter's hand, and two months later i was married. it seemed to me that i loved her.... by now, indeed, it's time i should know, but, by god, even now i don't know whether i loved sofya. she was a sweet creature, clever, silent, and warm-hearted, but god only knows from what cause, whether from living too long in the country, or for some other reason, there was at the bottom of her heart (if only there is a bottom to the heart) a secret wound, or, to put it better, a little open sore which nothing could heal, to which neither she nor i could give a name. of the existence of this sore, of course, i only guessed after marriage. the struggles i had over it... nothing availed! when i was a child i had a little bird, which had once been caught by the cat in its claws; it was saved and tended, but the poor bird never got right; it moped, it pined, it ceased to sing.... it ended by a cat getting into its open cage one night and biting off its beak, after which it made up its mind at last to die. i don't know what cat had caught my wife in its claws, but she too moped and pined just like my unlucky bird. sometimes she obviously made an effort to shake herself, to rejoice in the open air, in the sunshine and freedom; she would try, and shrink up into herself again. and, you know she loved me; how many times has she assured me that she had nothing left to wish for?--oof! damn my soul! and the light was fading out of her eyes all the while. i wondered whether there hadn't been something in her past. i made investigations: there was nothing forthcoming. well, you may form your own judgment; an original man would have shrugged his shoulders and heaved a sigh or two, perhaps, and would have proceeded to live his own life; but i, not being an original creature, began to contemplate a beam and halter. my wife was so thoroughly permeated by all the habits of an old maid--beethoven, evening walks, mignonette, corresponding with her friends, albums, et cetera--that she never could accustom herself to any other mode of life, especially to the life of the mistress of a house; and yet it seemed absurd for a married woman to be pining in vague melancholy and singing in the evening: "waken her not at the dawn!" 'well, we were blissful after that fashion for three years; in the fourth, sofya died in her first confinement, and, strange to say, i had felt, as it were, beforehand that she would not be capable of giving me a daughter or a son--of giving the earth a new inhabitant. i remember how they buried her. it was in the spring. our parish church was small and old, the screen was blackened, the walls bare, the brick floor worn into hollows in parts; there was a big, old-fashioned holy picture in each half of the choir. they brought in the coffin, placed it in the middle before the holy gates, covered it with a faded pall, set three candlesticks about it. the service commenced. a decrepit deacon, with a little shock of hair behind, belted low down with a green kerchief, was mournfully mumbling before a reading-desk; a priest, also an old man, with a kindly, purblind face, in a lilac cassock with yellow flowers on it, served the mass for himself and the deacon. at all the open windows the fresh young leaves were stirring and whispering, and the smell of the grass rose from the churchyard outside; the red flame of the wax-candles paled in the bright light of the spring day; the sparrows were twittering all over the church, and every now and then there came the ringing cry of a swallow flying in under the cupola. in the golden motes of the sunbeams the brown heads of the few peasants kept rising and dropping down again as they prayed earnestly for the dead; in a thin bluish stream the smoke issued from the holes of the censer. i looked at the dead face of my wife.... my god! even death--death itself--had not set her free, had not healed her wound: the same sickly, timid, dumb look, as though, even in her coffin, she were ill at ease.... my heart was filled with bitterness. a sweet, sweet creature she was, and she did well for herself to die!' the speaker's cheeks flushed, and his eyes grew dim. 'when at last,' he began again, 'i emerged from the deep depression which overwhelmed me after my wife's death, i resolved to devote myself, as it is called, to work. i went into a government office in the capital of the province; but in the great apartments of the government institution my head ached, and my eyesight too began to fail: other incidental causes came in.... i retired. i had thought of going on a visit to moscow, but, in the first place, i hadn't the money, and secondly... i've told you already: i'm resigned. this resignation came upon me both suddenly and not suddenly. in spirit i had long ago resigned myself, but my brain was still unwilling to accept the yoke. i ascribed my humble temper and ideas to the influence of country life and happiness!... on the other side, i had long observed that all my neighbours, young and old alike, who had been frightened at first by my learning, my residence abroad, and my other advantages of education, had not only had time to get completely used to me, but had even begun to treat me half-rudely, half-contemptuously, did not listen to my observations, and, in talking to me, no longer made use of superfluous signs of respect. i forgot to tell you, too, that during the first year after my marriage, i had tried to launch into literature, and even sent a thing to a journal--a story, if i'm not mistaken; but in a little time i received a polite letter from the editor, in which, among other things, i was told that he could not deny i had intelligence, but he was obliged to say i had no talent, and talent alone was what was needed in literature. to add to this, it came to my knowledge that a young man, on a visit from moscow--a most good-natured youth too--had referred to me at an evening party at the governor's as a shallow person, antiquated and behind the times. but my half-wilful blindness still persisted: i was unwilling to give myself a slap in the face, you know; at last, one fine morning, my eyes were opened. this was how it happened. the district captain of police came to see me, with the object of calling my attention to a tumble-down bridge on my property, which i had absolutely no money to repair. after consuming a glass of vodka and a snack of dried fish, this condescending guardian of order reproached me in a paternal way for my heedlessness, sympathising, however, with my position, and only advising me to order my peasants to patch up the bridge with some rubbish; he lighted a pipe, and began talking of the coming elections. a candidate for the honourable post of marshal of the province was at that time one orbassanov, a noisy, shallow fellow, who took bribes into the bargain. besides, he was not distinguished either for wealth or for family. i expressed my opinion with regard to him, and rather casually too: i regarded mr. orbassanov, i must own, as beneath my level. the police-captain looked at me, patted me amicably on the shoulder, and said good-naturedly: "come, come, vassily vassilyevitch, it's not for you and me to criticise men like that--how are we qualified to? let the shoemaker stick to his last." "but, upon my word," i retorted with annoyance, "whatever difference is there between me and mr. orbassanov?" the police-captain took his pipe out of his mouth, opened his eyes wide, and fairly roared. "well, you're an amusing chap," he observed at last, while the tears ran down his cheeks: "what a joke to make!... ah! you are a funny fellow!" and till his departure he never ceased jeering at me, now and then giving me a poke in the ribs with his elbow, and addressing me by my christian name. he went away at last. this was enough: it was the last drop, and my cup was overflowing. i paced several times up and down the room, stood still before the looking-glass and gazed a long, long while at my embarrassed countenance, and deliberately putting out my tongue, i shook my head with a bitter smile. the scales fell from my eyes: i saw clearly, more clearly than i saw my face in the glass, what a shallow, insignificant, worthless, unoriginal person i was!' he paused. 'in one of voltaire's tragedies,' he went on wearily, 'there is some worthy who rejoices that he has reached the furthest limit of unhappiness. though there is nothing tragic in my fate, i will admit i have experienced something of that sort. i have known the bitter transports of cold despair; i have felt how sweet it is, lying in bed, to curse deliberately for a whole morning together the hour and day of my birth. i could not resign myself all at once. and indeed, think of it yourself: i was kept by impecuniosity in the country, which i hated; i was not fitted for managing my land, nor for the public service, nor for literature, nor anything; my neighbours i didn't care for, and books i loathed; as for the mawkish and morbidly sentimental young ladies who shake their curls and feverishly harp on the word "life," i had ceased to have any attraction for them ever since i gave up ranting and gushing; complete solitude i could not face.... i began--what do you suppose?--i began hanging about, visiting my neighbours. as though drunk with self-contempt, i purposely exposed myself to all sorts of petty slights. i was missed over in serving at table; i was met with supercilious coldness, and at last was not noticed at all; i was not even allowed to take part in general conversation, and from my corner i myself used purposely to back up some stupid talker who in those days at moscow would have ecstatically licked the dust off my feet, and kissed the hem of my cloak.... i did not even allow myself to believe that i was enjoying the bitter satisfaction of irony.... what sort of irony, indeed, can a man enjoy in solitude? well, so i have behaved for some years on end, and so i behave now.' 'really, this is beyond everything,' grumbled the sleepy voice of mr. kantagryuhin from the next room: 'what fool is it that has taken a fancy to talk all night?' the speaker promptly ducked under the clothes and peeping out timidly, held up his finger to me warningly, 'sh--sh--!' he whispered; and, as it were, bowing apologetically in the direction of kantagryuhin's voice, he said respectfully: 'i obey, sir, i obey; i beg your pardon.... it's permissible for him to sleep; he ought to sleep,' he went on again in a whisper: 'he must recruit his energies--well, if only to eat his dinner with the same relish to-morrow. we have no right to disturb him. besides, i think i've told you all i wanted to; probably you're sleepy too. i wish you good-night.' he turned away with feverish rapidity and buried his head in the pillow. 'let me at least know,' i asked, 'with whom i have had the pleasure....' he raised his head quickly. 'no, for mercy's sake!' he cut me short, 'don't inquire my name either of me or of others. let me remain to you an unknown being, crushed by fate, vassily vassilyevitch. besides, as an unoriginal person, i don't deserve an individual name.... but if you really want to give me some title, call me... call me the hamlet of the shtchigri district. there are many such hamlets in every district, but perhaps you haven't come across others.... after which, good-bye.' he buried himself again in his feather-bed, and the next morning, when they came to wake me, he was no longer in the room. he had left before daylight. xxi tchertop-hanov and nedopyuskin one hot summer day i was coming home from hunting in a light cart; yermolaï sat beside me dozing and scratching his nose. the sleeping dogs were jolted up and down like lifeless bodies under our feet. the coachman kept flicking gadflies off the horses with his whip. the white dust rose in a light cloud behind the cart. we drove in between bushes. the road here was full of ruts, and the wheels began catching in the twigs. yermolaï started up and looked round.... 'hullo!' he said; 'there ought to be grouse here. let's get out.' we stopped and went into the thicket. my dog hit upon a covey. i took a shot and was beginning to reload, when suddenly there was a loud crackling behind me, and a man on horseback came towards me, pushing the bushes apart with his hands. 'sir... pe-ermit me to ask,' he began in a haughty voice, 'by what right you are--er--shooting here, sir?' the stranger spoke extraordinarily quickly, jerkily and condescendingly. i looked at his face; never in my life have i seen anything like it. picture to yourselves, gentle readers, a little flaxen-haired man, with a little turn-up red nose and long red moustaches. a pointed persian cap with a crimson cloth crown covered his forehead right down to his eyebrows. he was dressed in a shabby yellow caucasian overcoat, with black velveteen cartridge pockets on the breast, and tarnish silver braid on all the seams; over his shoulder was slung a horn; in his sash was sticking a dagger. a raw-boned, hook-nosed chestnut horse shambled unsteadily under his weight; two lean, crook-pawed greyhounds kept turning round just under the horse's legs. the face, the glance, the voice, every action, the whole being of the stranger, was expressive of a wild daring and an unbounded, incredible pride; his pale-blue glassy eyes strayed about with a sideway squint like a drunkard's; he flung back his head, puffed out his cheeks, snorted and quivered all over, as though bursting with dignity--for all the world like a turkey-cock. he repeated his question. 'i didn't know it was forbidden to shoot here,' i replied. 'you are here, sir,' he continued, 'on my land.' 'with your permission, i will go off it.' 'but pe-ermit me to ask,' he rejoined, 'is it a nobleman i have the honour of addressing?' i mentioned my name. 'in that case, oblige me by hunting here. i am a nobleman myself, and am very pleased to do any service to a nobleman.... and my name is panteley tchertop-hanov.' he bowed, hallooed, gave his horse a lash on the neck; the horse shook its head, reared, shied, and trampled on a dog's paws. the dog gave a piercing squeal. tchertop-hanov boiled over with rage; foaming at the mouth, he struck the horse with his fist on the head between the ears, leaped to the ground quicker than lightning, looked at the dog's paw, spat on the wound, gave it a kick in the ribs to stop its whining, caught on to the horse's forelock, and put his foot in the stirrup. the horse flung up its head, and with its tail in the air edged away into the bushes; he followed it, hopping on one leg; he got into the saddle at last, however, flourished his whip in a sort of frenzy, blew his horn, and galloped off. i had not time to recover from the unexpected appearance of tchertop-hanov, when suddenly, almost without any noise, there came out of the bushes a stoutish man of forty on a little black nag. he stopped, took off his green leather cap, and in a thin, subdued voice he asked me whether i hadn't seen a horseman riding a chestnut? i answered that i had. 'which way did the gentleman go?' he went on in the same tone, without putting on his cap. 'over there.' 'i humbly thank you, sir.' he made a kissing sound with his lips, swung his legs against his horse's sides, and fell into a jog-trot in the direction indicated. i looked after him till his peaked cap was hidden behind the branches. this second stranger was not in the least like his predecessor in exterior. his face, plump and round as a ball, expressed bashfulness, good-nature, and humble meekness; his nose, also plump and round and streaked with blue veins, betokened a sensualist. on the front of his head there was not a single hair left, some thin brown tufts stuck out behind; there was an ingratiating twinkle in his little eyes, set in long slits, and a sweet smile on his red, juicy lips. he had on a coat with a stand-up collar and brass buttons, very worn but clean; his cloth trousers were hitched up high, his fat calves were visible above the yellow tops of his boots. 'who's that?' i inquired of yermolaï. 'that? nedopyuskin, tihon ivanitch. he lives at tchertop-hanov's.' 'what is he, a poor man?' 'he's not rich; but, to be sure, tchertop-hanov's not got a brass farthing either.' 'then why does he live with him?' 'oh, they made friends. one's never seen without the other.... it's a fact, indeed--where the horse puts its hoof, there the crab sticks its claw.' we got out of the bushes; suddenly two hounds 'gave tongue' close to us, and a big hare bounded through the oats, which were fairly high by now. the dogs, hounds and harriers, leaped out of the thicket after him, and after the dogs flew out tchertop-hanov himself. he did not shout, nor urge the dogs on, nor halloo; he was breathless and gasping; broken, senseless sounds were jerked out of his gaping mouth now and then; he dashed on, his eyes starting out of his head, and furiously lashed at his luckless horse with the whip. the harriers were gaining on the hare... it squatted for a moment, doubled sharply back, and darted past yermolaï into the bushes.... the harriers rushed in pursuit. 'lo-ok out! lo-ok out!' the exhausted horseman articulated with effort, in a sort of stutter: 'lo-ok out, friend!' yermolaï shot... the wounded hare rolled head over heels on the smooth dry grass, leaped into the air, and squealed piteously in the teeth of a worrying dog. the hounds crowded about her. like an arrow, tchertop-hanov flew off his horse, clutched his dagger, ran straddling among the dogs with furious imprecations, snatched the mangled hare from them, and, creasing up his whole face, he buried the dagger in its throat up to the very hilt... buried it, and began hallooing. tihon ivanitch made his appearance on the edge of the thicket 'ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!' vociferated tchertop-hanov a second time. 'ho-ho-ho-ho,' his companion repeated placidly. 'but really, you know, one ought not to hunt in summer, 'i observed to tchertop-hanov, pointing to the trampled-down oats. 'it's my field,' answered tchertop-hanov, gasping. he pulled the hare into shape, hung it on to his saddle, and flung the paws among the dogs. 'i owe you a charge, my friend, by the rules of hunting,' he said, addressing yermolaï. 'and you, dear sir,' he added in the same jerky, abrupt voice, 'my thanks.' he mounted his horse. 'pe-ermit me to ask... i've forgotten your name and your father's.' again i told him my name. 'delighted to make your acquaintance. when you have an opportunity, hope you'll come and see me.... but where is that fomka, tihon ivanitch?' he went on with heat; 'the hare was run down without him.' 'his horse fell down under him,' replied tihon ivanitch with a smile. 'fell down! orbassan fell down? pugh! tut!... where is he?' 'over there, behind the copse.' tchertop-hanov struck his horse on the muzzle with his whip, and galloped off at a breakneck pace. tihon ivanitch bowed to me twice, once for himself and once for his companion, and again set off at a trot into the bushes. these two gentlemen aroused my curiosity keenly. what could unite two creatures so different in the bonds of an inseparable friendship? i began to make inquiries. this was what i learned. panteley eremyitch tchertop-hanov had the reputation in the whole surrounding vicinity of a dangerous, crack-brained fellow, haughty and quarrelsome in the extreme. he had served a very short time in the army, and had retired from the service through 'difficulties' with his superiors, with that rank which is generally regarded as equivalent to no rank at all. he came of an old family, once rich; his forefathers lived sumptuously, after the manner of the steppes--that is, they welcomed all, invited or uninvited, fed them to exhaustion, gave out oats by the quarter to their guests' coachmen for their teams, kept musicians, singers, jesters, and dogs; on festive days regaled their people with spirits and beer, drove to moscow in the winter with their own horses, in heavy old coaches, and sometimes were for whole months without a farthing, living on home-grown produce. the estate came into panteley eremyitch's father's hands in a crippled condition; he, in his turn, 'played ducks and drakes' with it, and when he died, left his sole heir, panteley, the small mortgaged village of bezsonovo, with thirty-five souls of the male, and seventy-six of the female sex, and twenty-eight acres and a half of useless land on the waste of kolobrodova, no record of serfs for which could be found among the deceased's deeds. the deceased had, it must be confessed, ruined himself in a very strange way: 'provident management' had been his destruction. according to his notions, a nobleman ought not to depend on merchants, townsmen, and 'brigands' of that sort, as he called them; he set up all possible trades and crafts on his estate; 'it's both seemlier and cheaper,' he used to say: 'it's provident management'! he never relinquished this fatal idea to the end of his days; indeed, it was his ruin. but, then, what entertainment it gave him! he never denied himself the satisfaction of a single whim. among other freaks, he once began building, after his own fancy, so immense a family coach that, in spite of the united efforts of the peasants' horses, drawn together from the whole village, as well as their owners, it came to grief and fell to pieces on the first hillside. eremey lukitch (the name of panteley's father was eremey lukitch), ordered a memorial to be put up on the hillside, but was not, however, at all abashed over the affair. he conceived the happy thought, too, of building a church--by himself, of course--without the assistance of an architect. he burnt a whole forest in making the bricks, laid an immense foundation, as though for a provincial hall, raised the walls, and began putting on the cupola; the cupola fell down. he tried again--the cupola again broke down; he tried the third time---the cupola fell to pieces a third time. good eremey lukitch grew thoughtful; there was something uncanny about it, he reflected... some accursed witchcraft must have a hand in it... and at once he gave orders to flog all the old women in the village. they flogged the old women; but they didn't get the cupola on, for all that. he began reconstructing the peasants' huts on a new plan, and all on a system of 'provident management'; he set them three homesteads together in a triangle, and in the middle stuck up a post with a painted bird-cage and flag. every day he invented some new freak; at one time he was making soup of burdocks, at another cutting his horses' tails off to make caps for his servants; at another, proposing to substitute nettles for flax, to feed pigs on mushrooms.... he had once read in the _moscow gazette_ an article by a harkov landowner, hryak-hrupyorsky, on the importance of morality to the well-being of the peasant, and the next day he gave forth a decree to all his peasants to learn off the harkov landowner's article by heart at once. the peasants learnt the article; the master asked them whether they understood what was said in it? the bailiff replied--that to be sure they understood it! about the same time he ordered all his subjects, with a view to the maintenance of order and provident management, to be numbered, and each to have his number sewn on his collar. on meeting the master, each was to shout, 'number so-and-so is here!' and the master would answer affably: 'go on, in god's name!' in spite, however, of order and provident management, eremey lukitch got by degrees into a very difficult position; he began at first by mortgaging his villages, and then was brought to the sale of them; the last ancestral home, the village with the unfinished church, was sold at last for arrears to the crown, luckily not in the lifetime of eremey lukitch--he could never have supported such a blow--but a fortnight after his death. he succeeded in dying at home in his own bed, surrounded by his own people, and under the care of his own doctor; but nothing was left to poor panteley but bezsonovo. panteley heard of his father's illness while he was still in the service, in the very heat of the 'difficulties' mentioned above. he was only just nineteen. from his earliest childhood he had not left his father's house, and under the guidance of his mother, a very good-natured but perfectly stupid woman, vassilissa vassilyevna, he grew up spoilt and conceited. she undertook his education alone; eremey lukitch, buried in his economical fancies, had no thoughts to spare for it. it is true, he once punished his son with his own hand for mispronouncing a letter of the alphabet; but eremey lukitch had received a cruel and secret blow that day: his best dog had been crushed by a tree. vassilissa vassilyevna's efforts in regard panteley's education did not, however, get beyond one terrific exertion; in the sweat of her brow she engaged him a tutor, one birkopf, a retired alsatian soldier, and to the day of her death she trembled like a leaf before him. 'oh,' she thought, 'if he throws us up--i'm lost! where could i turn? where could i find another teacher? why, with what pains, what pains i enticed this one away from our neighbours!' and birkopf, like a shrewd man, promptly took advantage of his unique position; he drank like a fish, and slept from morning till night. on the completion of his 'course of science,' panteley entered the army. vassilissa vassilyevna was no more; she had died six months before that important event, of fright. she had had a dream of a white figure riding on a bear. eremey lukitch soon followed his better half. at the first news of his illness, panteley galloped home at breakneck speed, but he did not find his father alive. what was the amazement of the dutiful son when he found himself, utterly unexpectedly, transformed from a rich heir to a poor man! few men are capable of bearing so sharp a reverse well. panteley was embittered, made misanthropical by it. from an honest, generous, good-natured fellow, though spoilt and hot-tempered, he became haughty and quarrelsome; he gave up associating with the neighbours--he was too proud to visit the rich, and he disdained the poor--and behaved with unheard of arrogance to everyone, even to the established authorities. 'i am of the ancient hereditary nobility,' he would say. once he had been on the point of shooting the police-commissioner for coming into the room with his cap on his head. of course the authorities, on their side, had their revenge, and took every opportunity to make him feel their power; but still, they were rather afraid of him, because he had a desperate temper, and would propose a duel with knives at the second word. at the slightest retort tchertop-hanov's eyes blazed, his voice broke.... ah, er--er--er,' he stammered, 'damn my soul!'... and nothing could stop him. and, moreover, he was a man of stainless character, who had never had a hand in anything the least shady. no one, of course, visited him... and with all this he was a good-hearted, even a great-hearted man in his own way; acts of injustice, of oppression, he would not brook even against strangers; he stood up for his own peasants like a rock. 'what?' he would say, with a violent blow on his own head: 'touch my people, mine? my name's not tchertop-hanov, if i...' tihon ivanitch nedopyuskin could not, like panteley eremyitch, pride himself on his origin. his father came of the peasant proprietor class, and only after forty years of service attained the rank of a noble. mr. nedopyuskin, the father, belonged to the number of those people who are pursued by misfortune with an obduracy akin to personal hatred. for sixty whole years, from his very birth to his very death, the poor man was struggling with all the hardships, calamities, and privations, incidental to people of small means; he struggled like a fish under the ice, never having enough food and sleep--cringing, worrying, wearing himself to exhaustion, fretting over every farthing, with genuine 'innocence' suffering in the service, and dying at last in either a garret or a cellar, in the unsuccessful struggle to gain for himself or his children a crust of dry bread. fate had hunted him down like a hare. he was a good-natured and honest man, though he did take bribes--from a threepenny bit up to a crown piece inclusive. nedopyuskin had a wife, thin and consumptive; he had children too; luckily they all died young except tihon and a daughter, mitrodora, nicknamed 'the merchants' belle,' who, after many painful and ludicrous adventures, was married to a retired attorney. mr. nedopyuskin had succeeded before his death in getting tihon a place as supernumerary clerk in some office; but directly after his father's death tihon resigned his situation. their perpetual anxieties, their heartrending struggle with cold and hunger, his mother's careworn depression, his father's toiling despair, the coarse aggressiveness of landladies and shopkeepers--all the unending daily suffering of their life had developed an exaggerated timidity in tihon: at the mere sight of his chief he was faint and trembling like a captured bird. he threw up his office. nature, in her indifference, or perhaps her irony, implants in people all sorts of faculties and tendencies utterly inconsistent with their means and their position in society; with her characteristic care and love she had moulded of tihon, the son of a poor clerk, a sensuous, indolent, soft, impressionable creature--a creature fitted exclusively for enjoyment, gifted with an excessively delicate sense of smell and of taste...she had moulded him, finished him off most carefully, and set her creation to struggle up on sour cabbage and putrid fish! and, behold! the creation did struggle up somehow, and began what is called 'life.' then the fun began. fate, which had so ruthlessly tormented nedopyuskin the father, took to the son too; she had a taste for them, one must suppose. but she treated tihon on a different plan: she did not torture him; she played with him. she did not once drive him to desperation, she did not set him to suffer the degrading agonies of hunger, but she led him a dance through the whole of russia from one end to the other, from one degrading and ludicrous position to another; at one time fate made him 'majordomo' to a snappish, choleric lady bountiful, at another a humble parasite on a wealthy skinflint merchant, then a private secretary to a goggle-eyed gentleman, with his hair cut in the english style, then she promoted him to the post of something between butler and buffoon to a dog-fancier.... in short, fate drove poor tihon to drink drop by drop to the dregs the bitter poisoned cup of a dependent existence. he had been, in his time, the sport of the dull malignity and the boorish pranks of slothful masters. how often, alone in his room, released at last 'to go in peace,' after a mob of visitors had glutted their taste for horseplay at his expense, he had vowed, blushing with shame, chill tears of despair in his eyes, that he would run away in secret, would try his luck in the town, would find himself some little place as clerk, or die once for all of hunger in the street! but, in the first place, god had not given him strength of character; secondly, his timidity unhinged him; and thirdly, how could he get himself a place? whom could he ask? 'they'll never give it me,' the luckless wretch would murmur, tossing wearily in his bed, 'they'll never give it me!' and the next day he would take up the same degrading life again. his position was the more painful that, with all her care, nature had not troubled to give him the smallest share of the gifts and qualifications without which the trade of a buffoon is almost impossible. he was not equal, for instance, to dancing till he dropped, in a bearskin coat turned inside out, nor making jokes and cutting capers in the immediate vicinity of cracking whips; if he was turned out in a state of nature into a temperature of twenty degrees below freezing, as often as not, he caught cold; his stomach could not digest brandy mixed with ink and other filth, nor minced funguses and toadstools in vinegar. there is no knowing what would have become of tihon if the last of his patrons, a contractor who had made his fortune, had not taken it into his head in a merry hour to inscribe in his will: 'and to zyozo (tihon, to wit) nedopyuskin, i leave in perpetual possession, to him and his heirs, the village of bezselendyevka, lawfully acquired by me, with all its appurtenances.' a few days later this patron was taken with a fit of apoplexy after gorging on sturgeon soup. a great commotion followed; the officials came and put seals on the property. the relations arrived; the will was opened and read; and they called for nedopyuskin: nedopyuskin made his appearance. the greater number of the party knew the nature of tihon ivanitch's duties in his patron's household; he was greeted with deafening shouts and ironical congratulations. 'the landowner; here is the new owner!' shouted the other heirs. 'well, really this,' put in one, a noted wit and humourist; 'well, really this, one may say... this positively is... really what one may call... an heir-apparent!' and they all went off into shrieks. for a long while nedopyuskin could not believe in his good fortune. they showed him the will: he flushed, shut his eyes, and with a despairing gesture he burst into tears. the chuckles of the party passed into a deep unanimous roar. the village of bezselendyevka consisted of only twenty-two serfs, no one regretted its loss keenly; so why not get some fun out of it? one of the heirs from petersburg, an important man, with a greek nose and a majestic expression of face, rostislav adamitch shtoppel, went so far as to go up to nedopyuskin and look haughtily at him over his shoulder. 'so far as i can gather, honoured sir,' he observed with contemptuous carelessness, 'you enjoyed your position in the household of our respected fedor fedoritch, owing to your obliging readiness to wait on his diversions?' the gentleman from petersburg expressed himself in a style insufferably refined, smart, and correct. nedopyuskin, in his agitation and confusion, had not taken in the unknown gentleman's words, but the others were all quiet at once; the wit smiled condescendingly. mr. shtoppel rubbed his hands and repeated his question. nedopyuskin raised his eyes in bewilderment and opened his mouth. rostislav adamitch puckered his face up sarcastically. 'i congratulate you, my dear sir, i congratulate you,' he went on: 'it's true, one may say, not everyone would have consented to gain his daily bread in such a fashion; but _de guslibus non est disputandum_, that is, everyone to his taste.... eh?' someone at the back uttered a rapid, decorous shriek of admiration and delight. 'tell us,' pursued mr. shtoppel, much encouraged by the smiles of the whole party, 'to what special talent are you indebted for your good-fortune? no, don't be bashful, tell us; we're all here, so to speak, _en famille_. aren't we, gentlemen, all here _en famille_?' the relation to whom rostislav adamitch chanced to turn with this question did not, unfortunately, know french, and so he confined himself to a faint grunt of approbation. but another relation, a young man, with patches of a yellow colour on his forehead, hastened to chime in, 'wee, wee, to be sure.' 'perhaps,' mr. shtoppel began again, 'you can walk on your hands, your legs raised, so to say, in the air?' nedopyuskin looked round in agony: every face wore a taunting smile, every eye was moist with delight. 'or perhaps you can crow like a cock?' a loud guffaw broke out on all sides, and was hushed at once, stifled by expectation. 'or perhaps on your nose you can....' 'stop that!' a loud harsh voice suddenly interrupted rostislav adamitch; 'i wonder you're not ashamed to torment the poor man!' everyone looked round. in the doorway stood tchertop-hanov. as a cousin four times removed of the deceased contractor, he too had received a note of invitation to the meeting of the relations. during the whole time of reading the will he had kept, as he always did, haughtily apart from the others. 'stop that!' he repeated, throwing his head back proudly. mr. shtoppel turned round quickly, and seeing a poorly dressed, unattractive-looking man, he inquired of his neighbour in an undertone (caution's always a good thing): 'who's that?' 'tchertop-hanov--he's no great shakes,' the latter whispered in his ear. rostislav adamitch assumed a haughty air. 'and who are you to give orders?' he said through his nose, drooping his eyelids scornfully; 'who may you be, allow me to inquire?--a queer fish, upon my word!' tchertop-hanov exploded like gunpowder at a spark. he was choked with fury. 'ss--ss--ss!' he hissed like one possessed, and all at once he thundered: 'who am i? who am i? i'm panteley tchertop-hanov, of the ancient hereditary nobility; my forefathers served the tsar: and who may you be?' rostislav adamitch turned pale and stepped back. he had not expected such resistance. 'i--i--a fish indeed!' tchertop-hanov darted forward; shtoppel bounded away in great perturbation, the others rushed to meet the exasperated nobleman. 'a duel, a duel, a duel, at once, across a handkerchief!' shouted the enraged panteley, 'or beg my pardon--yes, and his too....' 'pray beg his pardon!' the agitated relations muttered all round shtoppel; 'he's such a madman, he'd cut your throat in a minute!' 'i beg your pardon, i beg your pardon, i didn't know,' stammered shtoppel; 'i didn't know....' 'and beg his too!' vociferated the implacable panteley. 'i beg your pardon too,' added rostislav adamitch, addressing nedopyuskin, who was shaking as if he were in an ague. tchertop-hanov calmed down; he went up to tihon ivanitch, took him by the hand, looked fiercely round, and, as not one pair of eyes ventured to meet his, he walked triumphantly amid profound silence out of the room, with the new owner of the lawfully acquired village of bezselendyevka. from that day they never parted again. (the village of bezselendyevka was only seven miles from bezsonovo.) the boundless gratitude of nedopyuskin soon passed into the most adoring veneration. the weak, soft, and not perfectly stainless tihon bowed down in the dust before the fearless and irreproachable panteley. 'it's no slight thing,' he thought to himself sometimes, 'to talk to the governor, look him straight in the face.... christ have mercy on us, doesn't he look at him!' he marvelled at him, he exhausted all the force of his soul in his admiration of him, he regarded him as an extraordinary man, as clever, as learned. and there's no denying that, bad as tchertop-hanov's education might be, still, in comparison with tihon's education, it might pass for brilliant. tchertop-hanov, it is true, had read little russian, and knew french very badly--so badly that once, in reply to the question of a swiss tutor: '_vous parlez français, monsieur?_' he answered: '_je ne comprehend_' and after a moment's thought, he added _pa_; but any way he was aware that voltaire had once existed, and was a very witty writer, and that frederick the great, king of prussia, had been distinguished as a great military commander. of russian writers he respected derzhavin, but liked marlinsky, and called ammalat-bek the best of the pack.... a few days after my first meeting with the two friends, i set off for the village of bezsonovo to see panteley eremyitch. his little house could be seen a long way off; it stood out on a bare place, half a mile from the village, on the 'bluff,' as it is called, like a hawk on a ploughed field. tchertop-hanov's homestead consisted of nothing more than four old tumble-down buildings of different sizes--that is, a lodge, a stable, a barn, and a bath-house. each building stood apart by itself; there was neither a fence round nor a gate to be seen. my coachman stopped in perplexity at a well which was choked up and had almost disappeared. near the barn some thin and unkempt puppies were mangling a dead horse, probably orbassan; one of them lifted up the bleeding nose, barked hurriedly, and again fell to devouring the bare ribs. near the horse stood a boy of seventeen, with a puffy, yellow face, dressed like a cossack, and barelegged; he looked with a responsible air at the dogs committed to his charge, and now and then gave the greediest a lash with his whip. 'is your master at home?' i inquired. 'the lord knows!' answered the lad; 'you'd better knock.' i jumped out of the droshky, and went up to the steps of the lodge. mr. tchertop-hanov's dwelling presented a very cheerless aspect; the beams were blackened and bulging forward, the chimney had fallen off, the corners of the house were stained with damp, and sunk out of the perpendicular, the small, dusty, bluish windows peeped out from under the shaggy overhanging roof with an indescribably morose expression: some old vagrants have eyes that look like that. i knocked; no one responded. i could hear, however, through the door some sharply uttered words: 'a, b, c; there now, idiot!' a hoarse voice was saying: 'a, b, c, d... no! d, e, e, e!... now then, idiot!' i knocked a second time. the same voice shouted: 'come in; who's there?'... i went into the small empty hall, and through the open door i saw tchertop-hanov himself. in a greasy oriental dressing-gown, loose trousers, and a red skull-cap, he was sitting on a chair; in one hand he gripped the face of a young poodle, while in the other he was holding a piece of bread just above his nose. 'ah!' he pronounced with dignity, not stirring from his seat: 'delighted to see you. please sit down. i am busy here with venzor.... tihon ivanitch,' he added, raising his voice, 'come here, will you? here's a visitor.' 'i'm coming, i'm coming,' tihon ivanitch responded from the other room. 'masha, give me my cravat.' tchertop-hanov turned to venzor again and laid the piece of bread on his nose. i looked round. except an extending table much warped with thirteen legs of unequal length, and four rush chairs worn into hollows, there was no furniture of any kind in the room; the walls, which had been washed white, ages ago, with blue, star-shaped spots, were peeling off in many places; between the windows hung a broken tarnished looking-glass in a huge frame of red wood. in the corners stood pipestands and guns; from the ceiling hung fat black cobwebs. 'a, b, c, d,' tchertop-hanov repeated slowly, and suddenly he cried furiously: '_e! e! e! e!_... what a stupid brute!...' but the luckless poodle only shivered, and could not make up his mind to open his mouth; he still sat wagging his tail uneasily and wrinkling up his face, blinked dejectedly, and frowned as though saying to himself: 'of course, it's just as you please!' 'there, eat! come! take it!' repeated the indefatigable master. 'you've frightened him,' i remarked. 'well, he can get along, then!' he gave him a kick. the poor dog got up softly, dropped the bread off his nose, and walked, as it were, on tiptoe to the hall, deeply wounded. and with good reason: a stranger calling for the first time, and to treat him like that! the door from the next room gave a subdued creak, and mr. nedopyuskin came in, affably bowing and smiling. i got up and bowed. 'don't disturb yourself, don't disturb yourself,' he lisped. we sat down. tchertop-hanov went into the next room. 'you have been for some time in our neighbourhood,' began nedopyuskin in a subdued voice, coughing discreetly into his hand, and holding his fingers before his lips from a feeling of propriety. 'i came last month.' 'indeed.' we were silent for a little. 'lovely weather we are having just now,' resumed nedopyuskin, and he looked gratefully at me as though i were in some way responsible for the weather: 'the corn, one may say, is doing wonderfully.' i nodded in token of assent. we were silent again. 'panteley eremyitch was pleased to hunt two hares yesterday,' nedopyuskin began again with an effort, obviously wishing to enliven the conversation; 'yes, indeed, very big hares they were, sir.' 'has mr. tchertop-hanov good hounds?' 'the most wonderful hounds, sir!' nedopyuskin replied, delighted; 'one may say, the best in the province, indeed.' (he drew nearer to me.) 'but, then, panteley eremyitch is such a wonderful man! he has only to wish for anything--he has only to take an idea into his head--and before you can look round, it's done; everything, you may say, goes like clockwork. panteley eremyitch, i assure you....' tchertop-hanov came into the room. nedopyuskin smiled, ceased speaking, and indicated him to me with a glance which seemed to say, 'there, you will see for yourself.' we fell to talking about hunting. 'would you like me to show you my leash?' tchertop-hanov asked me; and, not waiting for a reply, he called karp. a sturdy lad came in, in a green nankin long coat, with a blue collar and livery buttons. 'tell fomka,' said tchertop-hanov abruptly, 'to bring in ammalat and saiga, and in good order, do you understand?' karp gave a broad grin, uttered an indefinite sound, and went away. fomka made his appearance, well combed and tightly buttoned up, in boots, and with the hounds. from politeness, i admired the stupid beasts (harriers are all exceedingly stupid). tchertop-hanov spat right into ammalat's nostrils, which did not, however, apparently afford that dog the slightest satisfaction. nedopyuskin, too, stroked ammalat from behind. we began chatting again. by degrees tchertop-hanov unbent completely, and no longer stood on his dignity nor snorted defiantly; the expression of his face changed. he glanced at me and at nedopyuskin.... 'hey!' he cried suddenly; 'why should she sit in there alone? masha! hi, masha! come in here!' some one stirred in the next room, but there was no answer. 'ma-a-sha!' tchertop-hanov repeated caressingly; 'come in here. it's all right, don't be afraid.' the door was softly opened, and i caught sight of a tall and slender girl of twenty, with a dark gypsy face, golden-brown eyes, and hair black as pitch; her large white teeth gleamed between full red lips. she had on a white dress; a blue shawl, pinned close round her throat with a gold brooch, half hid her slender, beautiful arms, in which one could see the fineness of her race. she took two steps with the bashful awkwardness of some wild creature, stood still, and looked down. 'come, let me introduce,' said panteley eremyitch; 'wife she is not, but she's to be respected as a wife.' masha flushed slightly, and smiled in confusion. i made her a low bow. i thought her very charming. the delicate falcon nose, with distended, half-transparent nostrils; the bold sweep of her high eyebrows, the pale, almost sunken cheeks--every feature of her face denoted wilful passion and reckless devilry. from under the coil of her hair two rows of little shining hairs ran down her broad neck--a sign of race and vigour. she went to the window and sat down. i did not want to increase her embarrassment, and began talking with tchertop-hanov. masha turned her head slyly, and began peeping from under her eyelids at me stealthily, shyly, and swiftly. her glance seemed to flash out like a snake's sting. nedopyuskin sat beside her, and whispered something in her ear. she smiled again. when she smiled, her nose slightly puckered up, and her upper lip was raised, which gave her face something of the expression of a cat or a lion.... 'oh, but you're one of the "hands off!" sort,' i thought, in my turn stealing a look at her supple frame, her hollow breast, and her quick, angular movements. 'masha,' tchertop-hanov asked, 'don't you think we ought to give our visitor some entertainment, eh?' 'we've got some jam,' she replied. 'well, bring the jam here, and some vodka, too, while you're about it. and, i say, masha,' he shouted after her, 'bring the guitar in too.' 'what's the guitar for? i'm not going to sing.' 'why?' 'i don't want to.' 'oh, nonsense; you'll want to when....' 'what?' asked masha, rapidly knitting her brows. 'when you're asked,' tchertop-hanov went on, with some embarrassment. 'oh!' she went out, soon came back with jam and vodka, and again sat by the window. there was still a line to be seen on her forehead; the two eyebrows rose and drooped like a wasp's antennae.... have you ever noticed, reader, what a wicked face the wasp has? 'well,' i thought, 'i'm in for a storm.' the conversation flagged. nedopyuskin shut up completely, and wore a forced smile; tchertop-hanov panted, turned red, and opened his eyes wide; i was on the point of taking leave.... suddenly masha got up, flung open the window, thrust out her head, and shouted lustily to a passing peasant woman, 'aksinya!' the woman started, and tried to turn round, but slipped down and flopped heavily on to a dung-heap. masha threw herself back and laughed merrily; tchertop-hanov laughed too; nedopyuskin shrieked with delight. we all revived. the storm had passed off in one flash of lightning... the air was clear again. half-an-hour later, no one would have recognised us; we were chatting and frolicking like children. masha was the merriest of all; tchertop-hanov simply could not take his eyes off her. her face grew paler, her nostrils dilated, her eyes glowed and darkened at the same time. it was a wild creature at play. nedopyuskin limped after her on his short, fat little legs, like a drake after a duck. even venzor crawled out of his hiding-place in the hall, stood a moment in the doorway, glanced at us, and suddenly fell to jumping up into the air and barking. masha flitted into the other room, fetched the guitar, flung off the shawl from her shoulders, seated herself quickly, and, raising her head, began singing a gypsy song. her voice rang out, vibrating like a glass bell when it is struck; it flamed up and died away.... it filled the heart with sweetness and pain.... tchertop-hanov fell to dancing. nedopyuskin stamped and swung his legs in tune. masha was all a-quiver, like birch-bark in the fire; her delicate fingers flew playfully over the guitar, her dark-skinned throat slowly heaved under the two rows of amber. all at once she would cease singing, sink into exhaustion, and twang the guitar, as it were involuntarily, and tchertop-hanov stood still, merely working his shoulders and turning round in one place, while nedopyuskin nodded his head like a chinese figure; then she would break out into song like a mad thing, drawing herself up and holding up her head, and tchertop-hanov again curtsied down to the ground, leaped up to the ceiling, spun round like a top, crying 'quicker!...' 'quicker, quicker, quicker!' nedopyuskin chimed in, speaking very fast. it was late in the evening when i left bezsonovo.... xxii the end of tchertop-hanov i it was two years after my visit that panteley eremyitch's troubles began--his real troubles. disappointments, disasters, even misfortunes he had had before that time, but he had paid no attention to them, and had risen superior to them in former days. the first blow that fell upon him was the most heartrending for him. masha left him. what induced her to forsake his roof, where she seemed to be so thoroughly at home, it is hard to say. tchertop-hanov to the end of his days clung to the conviction that a certain young neighbour, a retired captain of uhlans, named yaff, was at the root of masha's desertion. he had taken her fancy, according to panteley eremyitch, simply by constantly curling his moustaches, pomading himself to excess, and sniggering significantly; but one must suppose that the vagrant gypsy blood in masha's veins had more to do with it. however that may have been, one fine summer evening masha tied up a few odds and ends in a small bundle, and walked out of tchertop-hanov's house. for three days before this she had sat crouched up in a corner, huddled against the wall, like a wounded fox, and had not spoken a word to any one; she had only turned her eyes about, and twitched her eyebrows, and faintly gnashed her teeth, and moved her arms as though she were wrapping herself up. this mood had come upon her before, but had never lasted long: tchertop-hanov knew that, and so he neither worried himself nor worried her. but when, on coming in from the kennels, where, in his huntsman's words, the last two hounds 'had departed,' he met a servant girl who, in a trembling voice, informed him that marya akinfyevna sent him her greetings, and left word that she wished him every happiness, but she was not coming back to him any more; tchertop-hanov, after reeling round where he stood and uttering a hoarse yell, rushed at once after the runaway, snatching up his pistol as he went. he overtook her a mile and a half from his house, near a birch wood, on the high-road to the district town. the sun was sinking on the horizon, and everything was suddenly suffused with purple glow--trees, plants, and earth alike. 'to yaff! to yaff!' groaned tchertop-hanov directly he caught sight of masha. 'going to yaff!' he repeated, running up to her, and almost stumbling at every step. masha stood still, and turned round facing him. she stood with her back to the light, and looked all black, as though she had been carved out of dark wood; only the whites of her eyes stood out like silvery almonds, but the eyes themselves--the pupils--were darker than ever. she flung her bundle aside, and folded her arms. 'you are going to yaff, wretched girl!' repeated tchertop-hanov, and he was on the point of seizing her by the shoulder, but, meeting her eyes, he was abashed, and stood uneasily where he was. 'i am not going to mr. yaff, panteley eremyitch,' replied masha in soft, even tones; 'it's only i can't live with you any longer.' 'can't live with me? why not? have i offended you in some way?' masha shook her head. 'you've not offended me in any way, panteley eremyitch, only my heart is heavy in your house.... thanks for the past, but i can't stay--no!' tchertop-hanov was amazed; he positively slapped his thighs, and bounced up and down in his astonishment. 'how is that? here she's gone on living with me, and known nothing but peace and happiness, and all of a sudden--her heart's heavy! and she flings me over! she goes and puts a kerchief on her head, and is gone. she received every respect, like any lady.' 'i don't care for that in the least,' masha interrupted. 'don't care for it? from a wandering gypsy to turn into a lady, and she doesn't care for it! how don't you care for it, you low-born slave? do you expect me to believe that? there's treachery hidden in it--treachery!' he began frowning again. 'there's no treachery in my thoughts, and never has been,' said masha in her distinct, resonant voice; 'i've told you already, my heart was heavy.' 'masha!' cried tchertop-hanov, striking himself a blow on the chest with his fist; 'there, stop it; hush, you have tortured me... now, it's enough! o my god! think only what tisha will say; you might have pity on him, at least!' 'remember me to tihon ivanitch, and tell him...' tchertop-hanov wrung his hands. 'no, you are talking nonsense--you are not going! your yaff may wait for you in vain!' 'mr. yaff,' masha was beginning.... 'a fine _mister_ yaff!' tchertop-hanov mimicked her. 'he's an underhand rascal, a low cur--that's what he is--and a phiz like an ape's!' for fully half-an-hour tchertop-hanov was struggling with masha. he came close to her, he fell back, he shook his fists at her, he bowed down before her, he wept, he scolded. ...'i can't,' repeated masha; 'i am so sad at heart... devoured by weariness.' little by little her face assumed such an indifferent, almost drowsy expression, that tchertop-hanov asked her if they had not drugged her with laudanum. 'it's weariness,' she said for the tenth time. 'then what if i kill you?' he cried suddenly, and he pulled the pistol out of his pocket. masha smiled; her face brightened. 'well, kill me, panteley eremyitch; as you will; but go back, i won't.' 'you won't come back?' tchertop-hanov cocked the pistol. 'i won't go back, my dearie. never in my life will i go back. my word is steadfast.' tchertop-hanov suddenly thrust the pistol into her hand, and sat down on the ground. 'then, you kill me! without you i don't care to live. i have grown loathsome to you--and everything's loathsome for me!' masha bent down, took up her bundle, laid the pistol on the grass, its mouth away from tchertop-hanov, and went up to him. 'ah, my dearie, why torture yourself? don't you know what we gypsy girls are? it's our nature; you must make up your mind to it. when there comes weariness the divider, and calls the soul away to strange, distant parts, how is one to stay here? don't forget your masha; you won't find such another sweetheart, and i won't forget you, my dearie; but our life together's over!' 'i loved you, masha,' tchertop-hanov muttered into the fingers in which he had buried his face.... 'and i loved you, little friend panteley eremyitch.' 'i love you, i love you madly, senselessly--and when i think now that you, in your right senses, without rhyme or reason, are leaving me like this, and going to wander over the face of the earth--well, it strikes me that if i weren't a poor penniless devil, you wouldn't be throwing me over!' at these words masha only laughed. 'and he used to say i didn't care for money,' she commented, and she gave tchertop-hanov a vigorous thump on the shoulder. he jumped up on to his feet. 'come, at least you must let me give you some money--how can you go like this without a halfpenny? but best of all: kill me! i tell you plainly: kill me once for all!' masha shook her head again. 'kill you? why get sent to siberia, my dearie?' tchertop-hanov shuddered. 'then it's only from that--from fear of penal servitude.' he rolled on the grass again. masha stood over him in silence. 'i'm sorry for you, dear,' she said with a sigh: 'you're a good fellow... but there's no help for it: good-bye!' she turned away and took two steps. the night had come on by now, and dim shadows were closing in on all sides. tchertop-hanov jumped up swiftly and seized masha from behind by her two elbows. 'you are going away like this, serpent, to yaff!' 'good-bye!' masha repeated sharply and significantly; she tore herself away and walked off. tchertop-hanov looked after her, ran to the place where the pistol was lying, snatched it up, took aim, fired.... but before he touched the trigger, his arm twitched upwards; the ball whistled over masha's head. she looked at him over her shoulder without stopping, and went on, swinging as she walked, as though in defiance of him. he hid his face--and fell to running. but before he had run fifty paces he suddenly stood still as though turned to stone. a well-known, too well-known voice came floating to him. masha was singing. 'it was in the sweet days of youth,' she sang: every note seemed to linger plaintive and ardent in the evening air. tchertop-hanov listened intently. the voice retreated and retreated; at one moment it died away, at the next it floated across, hardly audible, but still with the same passionate glow. 'she does it to spite me,' thought tchertop-hanov; but at once he moaned, 'oh, no! it's her last farewell to me for ever,'--and he burst into floods of tears. * * * * * the next day he appeared at the lodgings of mr. yaff, who, as a true man of the world, not liking the solitude of the country, resided in the district town, 'to be nearer the young ladies,' as he expressed it. tchertop-hanov did not find yaff; he had, in the words of his valet, set off for moscow the evening before. 'then it is so!' cried tchertop-hanov furiously; 'there was an arrangement between them; she has run away with him... but wait a bit!' he broke into the young cavalry captain's room in spite of the resistance of the valet. in the room there was hanging over the sofa a portrait in oils of the master, in the uhlan uniform. 'ah, here you are, you tailless ape!' thundered tchertop-hanov; he jumped on to the sofa, and with a blow of his fist burst a big hole in the taut canvas. 'tell your worthless master,' he turned to the valet, 'that, in the absence of his own filthy phiz, the nobleman tchertop-hanov put a hole through the painted one; and if he cares for satisfaction from me, he knows where to find the nobleman tchertop-hanov! or else i'll find him out myself! i'll fetch the rascally ape from the bottom of the sea!' saying these words, tchertop-hanov jumped off the sofa and majestically withdrew. but the cavalry captain yaff did not demand satisfaction from him--indeed, he never met him anywhere--and tchertop-hanov did not think of seeking his enemy out, and no scandal followed. masha herself soon after this disappeared beyond all trace. tchertop-hanov took to drink; however, he 'reformed' later. but then a second blow fell upon him. ii this was the death of his bosom friend tihon ivanovitch nedopyuskin. his health had begun to fail two years before his death: he began to suffer from asthma, and was constantly dropping asleep, and on waking up could not at once come to himself; the district doctor maintained that this was the result of 'something rather like fits.' during the three days which preceded masha's departure, those three days when 'her heart was heavy,' nedopyuskin had been away at his own place at bezselendyevka: he had been laid up with a severe cold. masha's conduct was consequently even more unexpected for him; it made almost a deeper impression on him than on tchertop-hanov himself. with his natural sweetness and diffidence, he gave utterance to nothing but the tenderest sympathy with his friend, and the most painful perplexity... but it crushed and made havoc of everything in him. 'she has torn the heart out of me,' he would murmur to himself, as he sat on his favourite checked sofa and twisted his fingers. even when tchertop-hanov had got over it, he, nedopyuskin, did not recover, and still felt that 'there was a void within him.' 'here,' he would say, pointing to the middle of his breast above his stomach. in that way he lingered on till the winter. when the frosts came, his asthma got better, but he was visited by, not 'something rather like a fit' this time, but a real unmistakable fit. he did not lose his memory at once; he still knew tchertop-hanov and his friend's cry of despair, 'how can you desert me, tisha, without my consent, just as masha did?' he even responded with faltering, uncertain tongue, 'o--p--a--ey--e--e--yitch, i will o--bey you.' this did not, however, prevent him from dying the same day, without waiting for the district doctor, who (on seeing the hardly cold body) found nothing left for him to do, but with a melancholy recognition of the instability of all things mortal, to ask for 'a drop of vodka and a snack of fish.' as might have been anticipated, tihon ivanitch had bequeathed his property to his revered patron and generous protector, panteley eremyitch tchertop-hanov; but it was of no great benefit to the revered patron, as it was shortly after sold by public auction, partly in order to cover the expense of a sepulchral monument, a statue, which tchertop-hanov (and one can see his father's craze coming out in him here) had thought fit to put up over the ashes of his friend. this statue, which was to have represented an angel praying, was ordered by him from moscow; but the agent recommended to him, conceiving that connoisseurs in sculpture were not often to be met with in the provinces, sent him, instead of an angel, a goddess flora, which had for many years adorned one of those neglected gardens near moscow, laid out in the days of catherine. he had an excellent reason for doing so, since this statue, though highly artistic, in the rococo style, with plump little arms, tossing curls, a wreath of roses round the bare bosom, and a serpentine figure, was obtained by him, the agent, for nothing. and so to this day the mythological goddess stands, with one foot elegantly lifted, above the tomb of tihon ivanovitch, and with a genuinely pompadour simper, gazes at the calves and sheep, those invariable visitors of our village graveyards, as they stray about her. iii on the loss of his faithful friend, tchertop-hanov again took to drink, and this time far more seriously. everything went utterly to the bad with him. he had no money left for sport; the last of his meagre fortune was spent; the last of his few servants ran away. panteley eremyitch's isolation became complete: he had no one to speak a word to even, far less to open his heart to. his pride alone had suffered no diminution. on the contrary, the worse his surroundings became, the more haughty and lofty and inaccessible he was himself. he became a complete misanthrope in the end. one distraction, one delight, was left him: a superb grey horse, of the don breed, named by him malek-adel, a really wonderful animal. this horse came into his possession in this fashion. as he was riding one day through a neighbouring village, tchertop-hanov heard a crowd of peasants shouting and hooting before a tavern. in the middle of the crowd stalwart arms were continually rising and falling in exactly the same place. 'what is happening there?' he asked, in the peremptory tone peculiar to him, of an old peasant woman who was standing on the threshold of her hut. leaning against the doorpost as though dozing, the old woman stared in the direction of the tavern. a white-headed urchin in a print smock, with a cypress-wood cross on his little bare breast, was sitting with little outstretched legs, and little clenched fists between her bast slippers; a chicken close by was chipping at a stale crust of rye-bread. 'the lord knows, your honour,' answered the old woman. bending forward, she laid her wrinkled brown hand on the child's head. 'they say our lads are beating a jew.' 'a jew? what jew?' 'the lord knows, your honour. a jew came among us; and where he's come from--who knows? vassya, come to your mammy, sir; sh, sh, nasty brute!' the old woman drove away the chicken, while vassya clung to her petticoat. 'so, you see, they're beating him, sir.' 'why beating him? what for?' 'i don't know, your honour. no doubt, he deserves it. and, indeed, why not beat him? you know, your honour, he crucified christ!' tchertop-hanov uttered a whoop, gave his horse a lash on the neck with the riding-whip, flew straight towards the crowd, and plunging into it, began with the same riding-whip thrashing the peasants to left and to right indiscriminately, shouting in broken tones: 'lawless brutes! lawless brutes! it's for the law to punish, and not pri-vate per-sons! the law! the law! the law!' before two minutes had passed the crowd had beaten a retreat in various directions; and on the ground before the tavern door could be seen a small, thin, swarthy creature, in a nankin long coat, dishevelled and mangled... a pale face, rolling eyes, open mouth.... what was it?... deadly terror, or death itself? 'why have you killed this jew?' tchertop-hanov shouted at the top of his voice, brandishing his riding-whip menacingly. the crowd faintly roared in response. one peasant was rubbing his shoulder, another his side, a third his nose. 'you're pretty free with your whip!' was heard in the back rows. 'why have you killed the jew, you christened pagans?' repeated tchertop-hanov. but, at this point, the creature lying on the ground hurriedly jumped on to its feet, and, running up to tchertop-hanov, convulsively seized hold of the edge of the saddle. 'alive!' was heard in the background. 'he's a regular cat!' 'your ex-shelency, defend me, save me!' the unhappy jew was faltering meanwhile, his whole body squeezed up against tchertop-hanov's foot; 'or they will murder me, they will murder me, your ex-shelency!' 'what have they against you?' asked tchertop-hanov. 'i can't tell, so help me god! some cow hereabouts died... so they suspect me... but i...' 'well, that we'll go into later!' tchertop-hanov interrupted; 'but now, you hold on to the saddle and follow me. and you!' he added, turning to the crowd,' do you know me?--i'm the landowner panteley tchertop-hanov. i live at bezsonovo,--and so you can take proceedings against me, when you think fit--and against the jew too, while you're about it!' 'why take proceedings?' said a grey-bearded, decent-looking peasant, bowing low, the very picture of an ancient patriarch. (he had been no whit behind the others in belabouring the jew, however). 'we know your honour, panteley eremyitch, well; we thank your honour humbly for teaching us better!' 'why take proceedings?' chimed in the others. 'as to the jew, we'll take it out of him another day! he won't escape us! we shall be on the look-out for him.' tchertop-hanov pulled his moustaches, snorted, and went home at a walking pace, accompanied by the jew, whom he had delivered from his persecutors just as he had once delivered tihon nedopyuskin. iv a few days later the one groom who was left to tchertop-hanov announced that someone had come on horseback and wanted to speak to him. tchertop-hanov went out on to the steps and recognised the jew, riding a splendid horse of the don breed, which stood proud and motionless in the middle of the courtyard. the jew was bareheaded; he held his cap under his arm, and had thrust his feet into the stirrup-straps, not into the stirrups themselves; the ragged skirts of his long coat hung down on both sides of the saddle. on seeing tchertop-hanov, he gave a smack with his lips, and ducked down with a twitch of the elbows and a bend of the legs. tchertop-hanov, however, not only failed to respond to his greeting, but was even enraged by it; he was all on fire in a minute: a scurvy jew dare to ride a magnificent horse like that!... it was positively indecent! 'hi, you ethiopian fright!' he shouted; 'get off at once, if you don't want to be flung off into the mud!' the jew promptly obeyed, rolled off the horse like a sack, and keeping hold of the rein with one hand, he approached tchertop-hanov, smiling and bowing. 'what do you want?' panteley eremyitch inquired with dignity. 'your ex-shelency, deign to look what a horse!' said the jew, never ceasing to bow for an instant. 'er... well... the horse is all right. where did you get it from? stole it, i suppose?' 'how can you say that, your ex-shelency! i'm an honest jew. i didn't steal it, but i obtained it for your ex-shelency--really! and the trouble, the trouble i had to get it? but, then, see what a horse it is! there's not another horse like it to be found in all the don country! look, your ex-shelency, what a horse it is! here, kindly step this way! wo!... wo!... turn round, stand sideways! and we'll take off the saddle. what do you think of him, your ex-shelency?' 'the horse is all right,' repeated tchertop-hanov with affected indifference, though his heart was beating like a sledge-hammer in his breast. he was a passionate lover of 'horse-flesh,' and knew a good thing when he saw it. 'only take a look at him, your ex-shelency! pat him on the neck! yes, yes, he-he-he-he! like this, like this!' tchertop-hanov, with apparent reluctance, laid his hand on the horse's neck, gave it a pat or two, then passed his fingers from the forelock along the spine, and when he had reached a certain spot above the kidneys, like a connoisseur, he lightly pressed that spot. the horse instantly arched its spine, and looking round suspiciously at tchertop-hanov with its haughty black eye, snorted and moved its hind legs. the jew laughed and faintly clapped his hands. 'he knows his master, your ex-shelency, his master!' 'don't talk nonsense,' tchertop-hanov interrupted with vexation. 'to buy this horse from you... i haven't the means, and as for presents, i not only wouldn't take them from a jew; i wouldn't take a present from almighty god himself!' 'as though i would presume to offer you a present, mercy upon me!' cried the jew: 'you buy it, your ex-shelency... and as to the little sum--i can wait for it.' tchertop-hanov sank into thought. 'what will you take for it?' he muttered at last between his teeth. the jew shrugged his shoulders. 'what i paid for it myself. two hundred roubles.' the horse was well worth twice---perhaps even three times that sum. tchertop-hanov turned away and yawned feverishly. 'and the money... when?' he asked, scowling furiously and not looking at the jew. 'when your ex-shelency thinks fit.' tchertop-hanov flung his head back, but did not raise his eyes. 'that's no answer. speak plainly, son of herod! am i to be under an obligation to you, hey?' 'well, let's say, then,' the jew hastened to add, 'in six months' time... do you agree?' tchertop-hanov made no reply. the jew tried to get a look at his face. 'do you agree? you permit him to be led to your stable?' 'the saddle i don't want,' tchertop-hanov blurted out abruptly. 'take the saddle--do you hear?' 'to be sure, to be sure, i will take it,' faltered the delighted jew, shouldering the saddle. 'and the money,' tchertop-hanov pursued... 'in six months. and not two hundred, but two hundred and fifty. not a word! two hundred and fifty, i tell you! to my account.' tchertop-hanov still could not bring himself to raise his eyes. never had his pride been so cruelly wounded. 'it's plain, it's a present,' was the thought in his mind; 'he's brought it out of gratitude, the devil!' and he would have liked to kiss the jew, and he would have liked to beat him. 'your ex-shelency,' began the jew, gaining a little courage, and grinning all over his face, 'should, after the russian fashion, take from hand to hand....' 'what next? what an idea! a hebrew... and russian customs! hey! you there! take the horse; lead him to the stable. and give him some oats. i'll come myself and look after him. and his name is to be--malek-adel!' tchertop-hanov turned to go up the steps, but turning sharply back, and running up to the jew, he pressed his hand warmly. the latter was bending down to kiss his hand, but tchertop-hanov bounded back again, and murmuring, 'tell no one!' he vanished through the door. v from that very day the chief interest, the chief occupation, the chief pleasure in the life of tchertop-hanov, was malek-adel. he loved him as he had not loved even masha; he became more attached to him than even to nedopyuskin. and what a horse it was! all fire--simply explosive as gunpowder--and stately as a boyar! untiring, enduring, obedient, whatever you might put him to; and costing nothing for his keep; he'd be ready to nibble at the ground under his feet if there was nothing else. when he stepped at a walking pace, it was like being lulled to sleep in a nurse's arms; when he trotted, it was like rocking at sea; when he galloped, he outstripped the wind! never out of breath, perfectly sound in his wind. sinews of steel: for him to stumble was a thing never recorded! to take a ditch or a fence was nothing to him--and what a clever beast! at his master's voice he would run with his head in the air; if you told him to stand still and walked away from him, he would not stir; directly you turned back, a faint neigh to say, 'here i am.' and afraid of nothing: in the pitch-dark, in a snow-storm he would find his way; and he would not let a stranger come near him for anything; he would have had his teeth in him! and a dog dare never approach him; he would have his fore-leg on his head in a minute! and that was the end of the beast. a horse of proper pride, you might flourish a switch over him as an ornament--but god forbid you touched him! but why say more?--a perfect treasure, not a horse! if tchertop-hanov set to describing his malek-adel, he could not find words to express himself. and how he petted and pampered him! his coat shone like silver--not old, but new silver--with a dark polish on it; if one passed one's hand over it, it was like velvet! his saddle, his cloth, his bridle--all his trappings, in fact, were so well-fitted, in such good order, so bright--a perfect picture! tchertop-hanov himself--what more can we say?--with his own hands plaited his favourite's forelocks and mane, and washed his tail with beer, and even, more than once, rubbed his hoofs with polish. sometimes he would mount malek-adel and ride out, not to see his neighbours--he avoided them, as of old--but across their lands, past their homesteads... for them, poor fools, to admire him from a distance! or he would hear that there was to be a hunt somewhere, that a rich landowner had arranged a meet in some outlying part of his land: he would be off there at once, and would canter in the distance, on the horizon, astounding all spectators by the swiftness and beauty of his horse, and not letting any one come close to him. once some hunting landowner even gave chase to him with all his suite; he saw tchertop-hanov was getting away, and he began shouting after him with all his might, as he galloped at full speed: 'hey, you! here! take what you like for your horse! i wouldn't grudge a thousand! i'd give my wife, my children! take my last farthing!' tchertop-hanov suddenly reined in malek-adel. the hunting gentleman flew up to him. 'my dear sir!' he shouted, 'tell me what you want? my dear friend!' 'if you were the tsar,' said tchertop-hanov emphatically (and he had never heard of shakespeare), 'you might give me all your kingdom for my horse; i wouldn't take it!' he uttered these words, chuckled, drew malek-adel up on to his haunches, turned him in the air on his hind legs like a top or teetotum, and off! he went like a flash over the stubble. and the hunting man (a rich prince, they said he was) flung his cap on the ground, threw himself down with his face in his cap, and lay so for half an hour. and how could tchertop-hanov fail to prize his horse? was it not thanks to him, he had again an unmistakable superiority, a last superiority over all his neighbours? vi meanwhile time went by, the day fixed for payment was approaching; while, far from having two hundred and fifty roubles, tchertop-hanov had not even fifty. what was to be done? how could it be met? 'well,' he decided at last, 'if the jew is relentless, if he won't wait any longer, i'll give him my house and my land, and i'll set off on my horse, no matter where! i'll starve before i'll give up malek-adel!' he was greatly perturbed and even downcast; but at this juncture fate, for the first and last time, was pitiful and smiled upon him; some distant kinswoman, whose very name was unknown to tchertop-hanov, left him in her will a sum immense in his eyes--no less than two thousand roubles! and he received this sum in the very nick, as they say, of time; the day before the jew was to come. tchertop-hanov almost went out of his mind with joy, but he never even thought of vodka; from the very day malek-adel came into his hands he had not touched a drop. he ran into the stable and kissed his favourite on both sides of his face above the nostrils, where the horse's skin is always so soft. 'now we shall not be parted!' he cried, patting malek-adel on the neck, under his well-combed mane. when he went back into the house, he counted out and sealed up in a packet two hundred and fifty roubles. then, as he lay on his back and smoked a pipe, he mused on how he would lay out the rest of the money--what dogs he would procure, real kostroma hounds, spot and tan, and no mistake! he even had a little talk with perfishka, to whom he promised a new cossack coat, with yellow braid on all the seams, and went to bed in a blissful frame of mind. he had a bad dream: he dreamt he was riding out, hunting, not on malek-adel, but on some strange beast of the nature of a unicorn; a white fox, white as snow, ran to meet him.... he tried to crack his whip, tried to set the dogs on her--but instead of his riding-whip, he found he had a wisp of bast in his hand, and the fox ran in front of him, putting her tongue out at him. he jumped off, his unicorn stumbled, he fell... and fell straight into the arms of a police-constable, who was taking him before the governor-general, and whom he recognised as yaff.... tchertop-hanov waked up. the room was dark; the cocks were just crowing for the second time.... somewhere in the far, far distance a horse neighed. tchertop-hanov lifted up his head.... once more a faint, faint neigh was heard. 'that's malek-adel neighing!' was his thought.... 'it's his neigh. but why so far away? bless us and save us!... it can't be...' tchertop-hanov suddenly turned chill all over; he instantly leaped out of bed, fumbled after his boots and his clothes, dressed himself, and, snatching up the stable-door key from under his pillow, he dashed out into the courtyard. vii the stable was at the very end of the courtyard; one wall faced the open country. tchertop-hanov could not at once fit the key into the lock--his hands were shaking--and he did not immediately turn the key.... he stood motionless, holding his breath; if only something would stir inside! 'malek! malek!' he cried, in a low voice: the silence of death! tchertop-hanov unconsciously jogged the key; the door creaked and opened.... so, it was not locked. he stepped over the threshold, and again called his horse; this time by his full name, malek-adel! but no response came from his faithful companion; only a mouse rustled in the straw. then tchertop-hanov rushed into one of the three horse-boxes in the stable in which malek-adel was put. he went straight to the horse-box, though it was pitch-dark around.... empty! tchertop-hanov's head went round; it seemed as though a bell was booming in his brain. he tried to say something, but only brought out a sort of hiss; and fumbling with his hands above, below, on all sides, breathless, with shaking knees, he made his way from one horse-box to another... to a third, full almost to the top with hay; stumbled against one wall, and then the other; fell down, rolled over on his head, got up, and suddenly ran headlong through the half-open door into the courtyard.... 'stolen! perfishka! perfishka! stolen!' he yelled at the top of his voice. the groom perfishka flew head-over-heels out of the loft where he slept, with only his shirt on.... like drunk men they ran against one another, the master and his solitary servant, in the middle of the courtyard; like madmen they turned round each other. the master could not explain what was the matter; nor could the servant make out what was wanted of him. 'woe! woe!' wailed tchertop-hanov. 'woe! woe!' the groom repeated after him. 'a lantern! here! light a lantern! light! light!' broke at last from tchertop-hanov's fainting lips. perfishka rushed into the house. but to light the lantern, to get fire, was not easy; lucifer matches were regarded as a rarity in those days in russia; the last embers had long ago gone out in the kitchen; flint and steel were not quickly found, and they did not work well. gnashing his teeth, tchertop-hanov snatched them out of the hands of the flustered perfishka, and began striking a light himself; the sparks fell in abundance, in still greater abundance fell curses, and even groans; but the tinder either did not catch or went out again, in spite of the united efforts of four swollen cheeks and lips to blow it into a flame! at last, in five minutes, not sooner, a bit of tallow candle was alight at the bottom of a battered lantern; and tchertop-hanov, accompanied by perfishka, dashed into the stable, lifted the lantern above his head, looked round.... all empty! he bounded out into the courtyard, ran up and down it in all directions--no horse anywhere! the hurdle-fence, enclosing panteley eremyitch's yard, had long been dilapidated, and in many places was bent and lying on the ground.... beside the stable, it had been completely levelled for a good yard's width. perfishka pointed this spot out to tchertop-hanov. 'master! look here; this wasn't like this to-day. and see the ends of the uprights sticking out of the ground; that means someone has pulled them out.' tchertop-hanov ran up with the lantern, moved it about over the ground.... 'hoofs, hoofs, prints of horse-shoes, fresh prints!' he muttered, speaking hurriedly.' they took him through here, through here!' he instantly leaped over the fence, and with a shout, 'malek-adel! malek-adel!' he ran straight into the open country. perfishka remained standing bewildered at the fence. the ring of light from the lantern was soon lost to his eyes, swallowed up in the dense darkness of a starless, moonless night. fainter and fainter came the sound of the despairing cries of tchertop-hanov.... viii it was daylight when he came home again. he hardly looked like a human being. his clothes were covered with mud, his face had a wild and ferocious expression, his eyes looked dull and sullen. in a hoarse whisper he drove perfishka away, and locked himself in his room. he could hardly stand with fatigue, but he did not lie on his bed, but sat down on a chair by the door and clutched at his head. 'stolen!... stolen!...' but in what way had the thief contrived by night, when the stable was locked, to steal malek-adel? malek-adel, who would never let a stranger come near him even by day--steal him, too, without noise, without a sound? and how explain that not a yard-dog had barked? it was true there were only two left--two young puppies--and those two probably burrowing in rubbish from cold and hunger--but still! 'and what am i to do now without malek-adel?' tchertop-hanov brooded. 'i've lost my last pleasure now; it's time to die. buy another horse, seeing the money has come? but where find another horse like that?' 'panteley eremyitch! panteley eremyitch!' he heard a timid call at the door. tchertop-hanov jumped on to his feet. 'who is it?' he shouted in a voice not his own. 'it's i, your groom, perfishka.' 'what do you want? is he found? has he run home?' 'no, panteley eremyitch; but that jew chap who sold him.'... 'well?' 'he's come.' 'ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!' yelled tchertop-hanov, and he at once flung open the door. 'drag him here! drag him along!' on seeing the sudden apparition of his 'benefactor's' dishevelled, wild-looking figure, the jew, who was standing behind perfishka's back, tried to give them the slip; but tchertop-hanov, in two bounds, was upon him, and like a tiger flew at his throat. 'ah! he's come for the money! for the money!' he cried as hoarsely as though he were being strangled himself instead of strangling the jew; 'you stole him by night, and are come by day for the money, eh? eh? eh?' 'mercy on us, your ex-shelency,' the jew tried to groan out. 'tell me, where's my horse? what have you done with him? whom have you sold him to? tell me, tell me, tell me!' the jew by now could not even groan; his face was rapidly turning livid, and even the expression of fear had vanished from it. his hands dropped and hung lifeless, his whole body, furiously shaken by tchertop-hanov, waved backwards and forwards like a reed. 'i'll pay you your money, i'll pay it you in full to the last farthing,' roared tchertop-hanov, 'but i'll strangle you like any chicken if you don't tell me at once!'... 'but you have strangled him already, master,' observed the groom perfishka humbly. then only tchertop-hanov came to his senses. he let go of the jew's neck; the latter fell heavily to the ground. tchertop-hanov picked him up, sat him on a bench, poured a glass of vodka down his throat, and restored him to consciousness. and having restored him to consciousness, he began to talk to him. it turned out that the jew had not the slightest idea that malek-adel had been stolen. and, indeed, what motive could he have to steal the horse which he had himself procured for his 'revered panteley eremyitch.' then tchertop-hanov led him into the stable. together they scrutinised the horse-boxes, the manger, and the lock on the door, turned over the hay and the straw, and then went into the courtyard. tchertop-hanov showed the jew the hoofprints at the fence, and all at once he slapped his thighs. 'stay!' he cried. 'where did you buy the horse?' 'in the district of maloarchangel, at verhosensky fair,' answered the jew. 'of whom?' 'a cossack.' stay! this cossack; was he a young man or old?' 'middle-aged--a steady man.' 'and what was he like? what did he look like? a cunning rascal, i expect?' 'sure to have been a rascal, your ex-shelency.' 'and, i say, what did he say, this rascal?--had he had the horse long?' 'i recollect he said he'd had it a long while.' 'well, then, no one could have stolen him but he! consider it yourself, listen, stand here!... what's your name?' the jew started and turned his little black eyes upon tchertop-hanov. 'what's my name?' 'yes, yes; what are you called?' 'moshel leyba.' 'well, judge then, moshel leyba, my friend--you're a man of sense--whom would malek-adel have allowed to touch him except his old master? you see he must have saddled him and bridled him and taken off his cloth--there it is lying on the hay!... and made all his arrangements simply as if he were at home! why, anyone except his master, malek-adel would have trampled under foot! he'd have raised such a din, he'd have roused the whole village? do you agree with me?' 'i agree, i agree, your ex-shelency.'... 'well, then, it follows that first of all we must find this cossack!' 'but how are we to find him, your ex-shelency? i have only seen him one little time in my life, and where is he now, and what's his name? alack, alack!' added the jew, shaking the long curls over his ears sorrowfully. 'leyba!' shouted tchertop-hanov suddenly; 'leyba, look at me! you see i've lost my senses; i'm not myself!... i shall lay hands on myself if you don't come to my aid!' 'but how can i?'... 'come with me, and let us find the thief.' 'but where shall we go?' 'we'll go to the fairs, the highways and by-ways, to the horse-stealers, to towns and villages and hamlets--everywhere, everywhere! and don't trouble about money; i've come into a fortune, brother! i'll spend my last farthing, but i'll get my darling back! and he shan't escape us, our enemy, the cossack! where he goes we'll go! if he's hidden in the earth we'll follow him! if he's gone to the devil, we'll follow him to satan himself!' 'oh, why to satan?' observed the jew; 'we can do without him.' 'leyba!' tchertop-hanov went on; 'leyba, though you're a jew, and your creed's an accursed one, you've a soul better than many a christian soul! have pity on me! i can't go alone; alone i can never carry the thing through. i'm a hot-headed fellow, but you've a brain--a brain worth its weight in gold! your race are like that; you succeed in everything without being taught! you're wondering, perhaps, where i could have got the money? come into my room--i'll show you all the money. you may take it, you may take the cross off my neck, only give me back malek-adel; give him me back again!' tchertop-hanov was shivering as if he were in a fever; the sweat rolled down his face in drops, and, mingling with his tears, was lost in his moustaches. he pressed leyba's hands, he besought him, he almost kissed him.... he was in a sort of delirium. the jew tried to object, to declare that it was utterly impossible for him to get away; that he had business.... it was useless! tchertop-hanov would not even hear anything. there was no help for it; the poor jew consented. the next day tchertop-hanov set out from bezsonovo in a peasant cart, with leyba. the jew wore a somewhat troubled aspect; he held on to the rail with one hand, while all his withered figure bounded up and down on the jolting seat; the other hand he held pressed to his bosom, where lay a packet of notes wrapped up in newspaper. tchertop-hanov sat like a statue, only moving his eyes about him, and drawing in deep breaths; in his sash there was stuck a dagger. 'there, the miscreant who has parted us must look out for himself now!' he muttered, as they drove out on the high-road. his house he left in the charge of perfishka and an old cook, a deaf old peasant woman, whom he took care of out of compassion. 'i shall come back to you on malek-adel,' he shouted to them at parting, 'or never come back at all!' 'you might as well be married to me at once!' jested perfishka, giving the cook a dig in the ribs with his elbow. 'no fear! the master'll never come back to us; and here i shall be bored to death all alone!' ix a year passed... a whole year: no news had come of panteley eremyitch. the cook was dead, perfishka himself made up his mind to abandon the house and go off to town, where he was constantly being persuaded to come by his cousin, apprenticed to a barber; when suddenly a rumour was set afloat that his master was coming back. the parish deacon got a letter from panteley eremyitch himself, in which he informed him of his intention of arriving at bezsonovo, and asked him to prepare his servant to be ready for his immediate return. these words perfishka understood to mean that he was to sweep up the place a bit. he did not, however, put much confidence in the news; he was convinced, though, that the deacon had spoken the truth, when a few days later panteley eremyitch in person appeared in the courtyard, riding on malek-adel. perfishka rushed up to his master, and, holding the stirrup, would have helped him to dismount, but the latter got off alone, and with a triumphant glance about him, cried in a loud voice: 'i said i would find malek-adel, and i have found him in spite of my enemies, and of fate itself!' perfishka went up to kiss his hand, but tchertop-hanov paid no attention to his servant's devotion. leading malek-adel after him by the rein, he went with long strides towards the stable. perfishka looked more intently at his master, and his heart sank. 'oh, how thin and old he's grown in a year; and what a stern, grim face!' one would have thought panteley eremyitch would have been rejoicing, that he had gained his end; and he was rejoicing, certainly... and yet perfishka's heart sank: he even felt a sort of dread. tchertop-hanov put the horse in its old place, gave him a light pat on the back, and said, 'there! now you're at home again; and mind what you're about.' the same day he hired a freedman out of work as watchman, established himself again in his rooms, and began living as before.... not altogether as before, however... but of that later... the day after his return, panteley eremyitch called perfishka in to him, and for want of anyone else to talk to, began telling him--keeping up, of course, his sense of his own dignity and his bass voice--how he had succeeded in finding malek-adel. tchertop-hanov sat facing the window while he told his story, and smoked a pipe with a long tube while perfishka stood in the doorway, his hands behind his back, and, respectfully contemplating the back of his master's head, heard him relate how, after many fruitless efforts and idle expeditions, panteley eremyitch had at last come to the fair at romyon by himself, without the jew leyba, who, through weakness of character, had not persevered, but had deserted him; how, on the fifth day, when he was on the point of leaving, he walked for the last time along the rows of carts, and all at once he saw between three other horses fastened to the railings--he saw malek-adel! how he knew him at once, and how malek-adel knew him too, and began neighing, and dragging at his tether, and scraping the earth with his hoof. 'and he was not with the cossack,' tchertop-hanov went on, still not turning his head, and in the same bass voice, 'but with a gypsy horse-dealer; i, of course, at once took hold of my horse and tried to get him away by force, but the brute of a gypsy started yelling as if he'd been scalded, all over the market, and began swearing he'd bought the horse off another gypsy--and wanted to bring witnesses to prove it.... i spat, and paid him the money: damn the fellow! all i cared for was that i had found my favourite, and had got back my peace of mind. moreover, in the karatchevsky district, i took a man for the cossack--i took the jew leyba's word for it that he was my thief--and smashed his face for him; but the cossack turned out to be a priest's son, and got damages out of me--a hundred and twenty roubles. well, money's a thing one may get again, but the great thing is, i've malek-adel back again! i'm happy now--i'm going to enjoy myself in peace. and i've one instruction to give you, perfishka: if ever you, which god forbid, catch sight of the cossack in this neighbourhood, run the very minute without saying a word, and bring me my gun, and i shall know what to do!' this was what panteley eremyitch said to perfishka: this was how his tongue spoke; but at heart he was not so completely at peace as he declared. alas! in his heart of hearts he was not perfectly convinced that the horse he had brought back was really malek-adel! x troubled times followed for panteley eremyitch. peace was just the last thing he enjoyed. he had some happy days, it is true; the doubt stirring within him would seem to him all nonsense; he would drive away the ridiculous idea, like a persistent fly, and even laugh at himself; but he had bad days too: the importunate thought began again stealthily gnawing and tearing at his heart, like a mouse under the floor, and he existed in secret torture. on the memorable day when he found malek-adel, tchertop-hanov had felt nothing but rapturous bliss... but the next morning, when, in a low-pitched shed of the inn, he began saddling his recovered joy, beside whom he had spent the whole night, he felt for the first time a certain secret pang.... he only shook his head, but the seed was sown. during the homeward journey (it lasted a whole week) doubts seldom arose in him; they grew stronger and more distinct directly he was back at bezsonovo, directly he was home again in the place where the old authentic malek-adel had lived.... on the road home he had ridden at a quiet, swinging pace, looking in all directions, smoking a short pipe, and not reflecting at all, except at times the thought struck him: 'when the tchertop-hanovs want a thing, they get it, you bet!' and he smiled to himself; but on his return home it was a very different state of things. all this, however, he kept to himself; vanity alone would have prevented him from giving utterance to his inner dread. he would have torn anyone to pieces who had dropped the most distant hint that the new malek-adel was possibly not the old one; he accepted congratulations on his 'successful recovery of his horse,' from the few persons whom he happened to meet; but he did not seek such congratulations; he avoided all contact with people more than ever--a bad sign! he was almost always putting malek-adel through examinations, if one may use the expression; he would ride him out to some point at a little distance in the open country, and put him to the proof, or would go stealthily into the stable, lock the door after him, and standing right before the horse's head, look into his eyes, and ask him in a whisper, 'is it you? is it you? you?'... or else stare at him silently and intently for hours together, and then mutter, brightening up: 'yes! it's he! of course it's he!' or else go out with a puzzled, even confused look on his face. tchertop-hanov was not so much confused by the physical differences between _this_ malek-adel and _that_ one... though there were a few such differences: _that_ one's tail and mane were a little thinner, and his ears more pointed, and his pasterns shorter, and his eyes brighter--but all that might be only fancy; what confounded tchertop-hanov most were, so to say, the moral differences. the habits of _that_ one had been different: all his ways were not the same. for instance, _that_ malek-adel had looked round and given a faint neigh every time tchertop-hanov went into the stable; while _this_ one went on munching hay as though nothing had happened, or dozed with his head bent. both of them stood still when their master leaped out of the saddle; but _that_ one came at once at his voice when he was called, while _this_ one stood stock still. _that_ one galloped as fast, but with higher and longer bounds; _this_ one went with a freer step and at a more jolting trot, and at times 'wriggled' with his shoes--that is, knocked the back one against the front one; _that_ one had never done anything so disgraceful--god forbid! _this_ one, it struck tchertop-hanov, kept twitching his ears in such a stupid way, while with _that_ one it was quite the contrary; he used to lay one ear back, and hold it so, as though on the alert for his master! _that_ one, directly he saw that it was dirty about him, would at once knock on the partition of his box with his hind-leg, but _this_ one did not care if the dung was heaped up to his belly. _that_ one if, for instance, he were set facing the wind, would take deep breaths and shake himself, _this_ one simply snorted; _that_ one was put out by the rain, _this_ one cared nothing for it.... this was a coarser beast--coarser! and there wasn't the gentleness in it, and hard in the mouth it was--no denying it! that horse was a darling, but this.... this was what tchertop-hanov sometimes thought, and very bitter were such thoughts to him. at other times he would set his horse at full gallop over some newly ploughed field, or would make him leap down to the very bottom of a hollow ravine, and leap out again at the very steepest point, and his heart would throb with rapture, a loud whoop would break from his lips, and he would know, would know for certain, that it was the real, authentic malek-adel he had under him; for what other horse could do what this one was doing? however, there were sometimes shortcomings and misfortunes even here. the prolonged search for malek-adel had cost tchertop-hanov a great deal of money; he did not even dream of kostroma hounds now, and rode about the neighbourhood in solitude as before. so one morning, four miles from bezsonovo, tchertop-hanov chanced to come upon the same prince's hunting party before whom he had cut such a triumphant figure a year and a half before. and, as fate would have it, just as on that day a hare must go leaping out from the hedge before the dogs, down the hillside! tally-ho! tally-ho! all the hunt fairly flew after it, and tchertop-hanov flew along too, but not with the rest of the party, but two hundred paces to one side of it, just as he had done the time before. a huge watercourse ran zigzagging across the hillside, and as it rose higher and higher got gradually narrower, cutting off tchertop-hanov's path. at the point where he had to jump it, and where, eighteen months before, he actually had jumped it, it was eight feet wide and fourteen feet deep. in anticipation of a triumph--a triumph repeated in such a delightful way--tchertop-hanov chuckled exultantly, cracked his riding-whip; the hunting party were galloping too, their eyes fixed on the daring rider; his horse whizzed along like a bullet, and now the watercourse was just under his nose--now, now, at one leap, as then!... but malek-adel pulled up sharply, wheeled to the left, and in spite of tchertop-hanov's tugging him to the edge, to the watercourse, he galloped along beside the ravine. he was afraid, then; did not trust himself! then tchertop-hanov, burning with shame and wrath, almost in tears, dropped the reins, and set the horse going straight forward, down the hill, away, away from the hunting party, if only not to hear them jeering at him, to escape as soon as might be from their damnable eyes! covered with foam, his sides lashed unmercifully, malek-adel galloped home, and tchertop-hanov at once locked himself into his room. 'no, it's not he; it's not my darling! he would have broken his neck before he would have betrayed me!' xi what finally 'did for,' as they say, tchertop-hanov was the following circumstance. one day he sauntered, riding on malek-adel, about the back-yards of the priest's quarters round about the church of the parish in which is bezsonovo. huddled up, with his cossack fur cap pulled down over his eyes, and his hands hanging loose on the saddle-bow, he jogged slowly on, a vague discontent in his heart. suddenly someone called him. he stopped his horse, raised his head, and saw his correspondent, the deacon. with a brown, three-cornered hat on his brown hair, which was plaited in a pig-tail, attired in a yellowish nankin long coat, girt much below the waist by a strip of blue stuff, the servant of the altar had come out into his back-garden, and, catching sight of panteley eremyitch, he thought it his duty to pay his respects to him, and to take the opportunity of doing so to ask him a question about something. without some such hidden motive, as we know, ecclesiastical persons do not venture to address temporal ones. but tchertop-hanov was in no mood for the deacon; he barely responded to his bow, and, muttering something between his teeth, he was already cracking his whip, when.... 'what a magnificent horse you have!' the deacon made haste to add: 'and really you can take credit to yourself for it. truly you're a man of amazing cleverness, simply a lion indeed!' his reverence the deacon prided himself on his fluency, which was a great source of vexation to his reverence the priest, to whom the gift of words had not been vouchsafed; even vodka did not loosen his tongue. 'after losing one animal by the cunning of evil men,' continued the deacon, 'you did not lose courage in repining; but, on the other hand, trusting the more confidently in divine providence, procured yourself another, in no wise inferior, but even, one may say, superior, since....' 'what nonsense are you talking?' tchertop-hanov interrupted gloomily; 'what other horse do you mean? this is the same one; this is malek-adel.... i found him. the fellow's raving!'.... 'ay! ay! ay!' responded the deacon emphatically with a sort of drawl, drumming with his fingers in his beard, and eyeing tchertop-hanov with his bright eager eyes: 'how's that, sir? your horse, god help my memory, was stolen a fortnight before intercession last year, and now we're near the end of november.' 'well, what of that?' the deacon still fingered his beard. 'why, it follows that more than a year's gone by since then, and your horse was a dapple grey then, just as it is now; in fact, it seems even darker. how's that? grey horses get a great deal lighter in colour in a year.' tchertop-hanov started... as though someone had driven a dagger into his heart. it was true: the grey colour did change! how was it such a simple reflection had never occurred to him? 'you damned pigtail! get out!' he yelled suddenly, his eyes flashing with fury, and instantaneously he disappeared out of the sight of the amazed deacon. well, everything was over! now, at last, everything was really over, everything was shattered, the last card trumped. everything crumbled away at once before that word 'lighter'! grey horses get lighter in colour! 'gallop, gallop on, accursed brute! you can never gallop away from that word!' tchertop-hanov flew home, and again locked himself up. xii that this worthless jade was not malek-adel; that between him and malek-adel there was not the smallest resemblance; that any man of the slightest sense would have seen this from the first minute; that he, tchertop-hanov, had been taken in in the vulgarest way--no! that he purposely, of set intent, tricked himself, blinded his own eyes--of all this he had not now the faintest doubt! tchertop-hanov walked up and down in his room, turning monotonously on his heels at each wall, like a beast in a cage. his vanity suffered intolerably; but he was not only tortured by the sting of wounded vanity; he was overwhelmed by despair, stifled by rage, and burning with the thirst for revenge. but rage against whom? on whom was he to be revenged? on the jew, yaff, masha, the deacon, the cossack-thief, all his neighbours, the whole world, himself? his brain was giving way. the last card was trumped! (that simile gratified him.) and he was again the most worthless, the most contemptible of men, a common laughing-stock, a motley fool, a damned idiot, an object for jibes--to a deacon!... he fancied, he pictured vividly how that loathsome pig-tailed priest would tell the story of the grey horse and the foolish gentleman.... o damn!! in vain tchertop-hanov tried to check his rising passion, in vain he tried to assure himself that this... horse, though not malek-adel, was still... a good horse, and might be of service to him for many years to come; he put this thought away from him on the spot with fury, as though there were contained in it a new insult to _that_ malek-adel whom he considered he had wronged so already.... yes, indeed! this jade, this carrion he, like a blind idiot, had put on a level with him, malek-adel! and as to the service the jade could be to him!... as though he would ever deign to get astride of him? never! on no consideration!!... he would sell him to a tartar for dog's meat--it deserved no better end.... yes, that would be best!' for more than two hours tchertop-hanov wandered up and down his room. 'perfishka!' he called peremptorily all of a sudden, 'run this minute to the tavern; fetch a gallon of vodka! do you hear? a gallon, and look sharp! i want the vodka here this very second on the table!' the vodka was not long in making its appearance on panteley eremyitch's table, and he began drinking. xiii if anyone had looked at tchertop-hanov then; if anyone could have been a witness of the sullen exasperation with which he drained glass after glass--he would inevitably have felt an involuntary shudder of fear. the night came on, the tallow candle burnt dimly on the table. tchertop-hanov ceased wandering from corner to corner; he sat all flushed, with dull eyes, which he dropped at one time on the floor, at another fixed obstinately on the dark window; he got up, poured out some vodka, drank it off, sat down again, again fixed his eyes on one point, and did not stir--only his breathing grew quicker and his face still more flushed. it seemed as though some resolution were ripening within him, which he was himself ashamed of, but which he was gradually getting used to; one single thought kept obstinately and undeviatingly moving up closer and closer, one single image stood out more and more distinctly, and under the burning weight of heavy drunkenness the angry irritation was replaced by a feeling of ferocity in his heart, and a vindictive smile appeared on his lips. 'yes, the time has come!' he declared in a matter-of-fact, almost weary tone. 'i must get to work.' he drank off the last glass of vodka, took from over his bed the pistol--the very pistol from which he had shot at masha--loaded it, put some cartridges in his pocket--to be ready for anything--and went round to the stables. the watchman ran up to him when he began to open the door, but he shouted to him: 'it's i! are you blind? get out!' the watchman moved a little aside. 'get out and go to bed!' tchertop-hanov shouted at him again: 'there's nothing for you to guard here! a mighty wonder, a treasure indeed to watch over!' he went into the stable. malek-adel... the spurious malek-adel, was lying on his litter. tchertop-hanov gave him a kick, saying, 'get up, you brute!' then he unhooked a halter from a nail, took off the horsecloth and flung it on the ground, and roughly turning the submissive horse round in the box, led it out into the courtyard, and from the yard into the open country, to the great amazement of the watchman, who could not make out at all where the master was going off to by night, leading an unharnessed horse. he was, of course, afraid to question him, and only followed him with his eyes till he disappeared at the bend in the road leading to a neighbouring wood. xiv tchertop-hanov walked with long strides, not stopping nor looking round. malek-adel--we will call him by that name to the end--followed him meekly. it was a rather clear night; tchertop-hanov could make out the jagged outline of the forest, which formed a black mass in front of him. when he got into the chill night air, he would certainly have thrown off the intoxication of the vodka he had drunk, if it had not been for another, stronger intoxication, which completely over-mastered him. his head was heavy, his blood pulsed in thuds in his throat and ears, but he went on steadily, and knew where he was going. he had made up his mind to kill malek-adel; he had thought of nothing else the whole day.... now he had made up his mind! he went out to do this thing not only calmly, but confidently, unhesitatingly, as a man going about something from a sense of duty. this 'job' seemed a very 'simple' thing to him; in making an end of the impostor, he was quits with 'everyone' at once--he punished himself for his stupidity, and made expiation to his real darling, and showed the whole world (tchertop-hanov worried himself a great deal about the 'whole world') that he was not to be trifled with.... and, above all, he was making an end of himself too with the impostor--for what had he to live for now? how all this took shape in his brain, and why, it seemed to him so simple--it is not easy to explain, though not altogether impossible; stung to the quick, solitary, without a human soul near to him, without a halfpenny, and with his blood on fire with vodka, he was in a state bordering on madness, and there is no doubt that even in the absurdest freaks of mad people there is, to their eyes, a sort of logic, and even justice. of his justice tchertop-hanov was, at any rate, fully persuaded; he did not hesitate, he made haste to carry out sentence on the guilty without giving himself any clear definition of whom he meant by that term.... to tell the truth, he reflected very little on what he was about to do. 'i must, i must make an end,' was what he kept stupidly and severely repeating to himself; 'i must make an end!' and the guiltless guilty one followed in a submissive trot behind his back.... but there was no pity for him in tchertop-hanov's heart. xv not far from the forest to which he was leading his horse there stretched a small ravine, half overgrown with young oak bushes. tchertop-hanov went down into it.... malek-adel stumbled and almost fell on him. 'so you would crush me, would you, you damned brute!' shouted tchertop-hanov, and, as though in self-defence, he pulled the pistol out of his pocket. he no longer felt furious exasperation, but that special numbness of the senses which they say comes over a man before the perpetration of a crime. but his own voice terrified him--it sounded so wild and strange under the cover of dark branches in the close, decaying dampness of the forest ravine! moreover, in response to his exclamation, some great bird suddenly fluttered in a tree-top above his head... tchertop-hanov shuddered. he had, as it were, roused a witness to his act--and where? in that silent place where he should not have met a living creature.... 'away with you, devil, to the four winds of heaven!' he muttered, and letting go malek-adel's rein, he gave him a violent blow on the shoulder with the butt end of the pistol. malek-adel promptly turned back, clambered out of the ravine... and ran away. but the thud of his hoofs was not long audible. the rising wind confused and blended all sounds together. tchertop-hanov too slowly clambered out of the ravine, reached the forest, and made his way along the road homewards. he was ill at ease with himself; the weight he had felt in his head and his heart had spread over all his limbs; he walked angry, gloomy, dissatisfied, hungry, as though some one had insulted him, snatched his prey, his food from him.... the suicide, baffled in his intent, must know such sensations. suddenly something poked him behind between his shoulder blades. he looked round.... malek-adel was standing in the middle of the road. he had walked after his master; he touched him with his nose to announce himself. 'ah!' shouted tchertop-hanov,' of yourself, of yourself you have come to your death! so, there!' in the twinkling of an eye he had snatched out his pistol, drawn the trigger, turned the muzzle on malek-adel's brow, fired.... the poor horse sprung aside, rose on its haunches, bounded ten paces away, and suddenly fell heavily, and gasped as it writhed upon the ground.... tchertop-hanov put his two hands over his ears and ran away. his knees were shaking under him. his drunkenness and revenge and blind self-confidence--all had flown at once. there was left nothing but a sense of shame and loathing--and the consciousness, unmistakeable, that this time he had put an end to himself too. xvi six weeks later, the groom perfishka thought it his duty to stop the commissioner of police as he happened to be passing bezsonovo. 'what do you want?' inquired the guardian of order. 'if you please, your excellency, come into our house,' answered the groom with a low bow. 'panteley eremyitch, i fancy, is about to die; so that i'm afraid of getting into trouble.' 'what? die?' queried the commissioner. 'yes, sir. first, his honour drank vodka every day, and now he's taken to his bed and got very thin. i fancy his honour does not understand anything now. he's lost his tongue completely.' the commissioner got out of his trap. 'have you sent for the priest, at least? has your master been confessed? taken the sacrament?' 'no, sir!' the commissioner frowned. 'how is that, my boy? how can that be--hey? don't you know that for that... you're liable to have to answer heavily--hey?' 'indeed, and i did ask him the day before yesterday, and yesterday again,' protested the intimidated groom. "wouldn't you, panteley eremyitch," says i, "let me run for the priest, sir?" "you hold your tongue, idiot," says he; "mind your own business." but to-day, when i began to address him, his honour only looked at me, and twitched his moustache.' 'and has he been drinking a great deal of vodka?' inquired the commissioner. 'rather! but if you would be so good, your honour, come into his room.' 'well, lead the way!' grumbled the commissioner, and he followed perfishka. an astounding sight was in store for him. in a damp, dark back-room, on a wretched bedstead covered with a horsecloth, with a rough felt cloak for a pillow, lay tchertop-hanov. he was not pale now, but yellowish green, like a corpse, with sunken eyes under leaden lids and a sharp, pinched nose--still reddish--above his dishevelled whiskers. he lay dressed in his invariable caucasian coat, with the cartridge pockets on the breast, and blue circassian trousers. a cossack cap with a crimson crown covered his forehead to his very eyebrows. in one hand tchertop-hanov held his hunting whip, in the other an embroidered tobacco pouch--masha's last gift to him. on a table near the bed stood an empty spirit bottle, and at the head of the bed were two water-colour sketches pinned to the wall; one represented, as far as could be made out, a fat man with a guitar in his hand--probably nedopyuskin; the other portrayed a horseman galloping at full speed.... the horse was like those fabulous animals which are sketched by children on walls and fences; but the carefully washed-in dappling of the horse's grey coat, and the cartridge pocket on the rider's breast, the pointed toes of his boots, and the immense moustaches, left no room for doubt--this sketch was meant to represent panteley eremyitch riding on malek-adel. the astonished commissioner of police did not know how to proceed. the silence of death reigned in the room. 'why, he's dead already!' he thought, and raising his voice, he said, 'panteley eremyitch! eh, panteley eremyitch!' then something extraordinary occurred. tchertop-hanov's eyelids slowly opened, the eyes, fast growing dim, moved first from right to left, then from left to right, rested on the commissioner--saw him.... something gleamed in their dull whites, the semblance of a flash came back to them, the blue lips were gradually unglued, and a hoarse, almost sepulchral, voice was heard. 'panteley eremyitch of the ancient hereditary nobility is dying: who can hinder him? he owes no man anything, asks nothing from any one.... leave him, people! go!' the hand holding the whip tried to lift it... in vain! the lips cleaved together again, the eyes closed, and as before tchertop-hanov lay on his comfortless bed, flat as an empty sack, and his feet close together. 'let me know when he dies,' the commissioner whispered to perfishka as he went out of the room; 'and i suppose you can send for the priest now. you must observe due order; give him extreme unction.' perfishka went that same day for the priest, and the following morning he had to let the commissioner know: panteley eremyitch had died in the night. when they buried him, two men followed his coffin; the groom perfishka and moshel leyba. the news of tchertop-hanov's death had somehow reached the jew, and he did not fail to pay this last act of respect to his benefactor. xxiii a living relic 'o native land of long suffering, land of the russian people.' f. tyutchev. a french proverb says that 'a dry fisherman and a wet hunter are a sorry sight.' never having had any taste for fishing, i cannot decide what are the fisherman's feelings in fine bright weather, and how far in bad weather the pleasure derived from the abundance of fish compensates for the unpleasantness of being wet. but for the sportsman rain is a real calamity. it was to just this calamity that yermolaï and i were exposed on one of our expeditions after grouse in the byelevsky district. the rain never ceased from early morning. what didn't we do to escape it? we put macintosh capes almost right over our heads, and stood under the trees to avoid the raindrops.... the waterproof capes, to say nothing of their hindering our shooting, let the water through in the most shameless fashion; and under the trees, though at first, certainly, the rain did not reach us, afterwards the water collected on the leaves suddenly rushed through, every branch dripped on us like a waterspout, a chill stream made its way under our neck-ties, and trickled down our spines.... this was 'quite unpleasant,' as yermolaï expressed it. 'no, piotr petrovitch,' he cried at last; 'we can't go on like this....there's no shooting to-day. the dogs' scent is drowned. the guns miss fire....pugh! what a mess!' 'what's to be done?' i queried. 'well, let's go to aleksyevka. you don't know it, perhaps--there's a settlement of that name belonging to your mother; it's seven miles from here. we'll stay the night there, and to-morrow....' 'come back here?' 'no, not here....i know of some places beyond aleksyevka...ever so much better than here for grouse!' i did not proceed to question my faithful companion why he had not taken me to those parts before, and the same day we made our way to my mother's peasant settlement, the existence of which, i must confess, i had not even suspected up till then. at this settlement, it turned out, there was a little lodge. it was very old, but, as it had not been inhabited, it was clean; i passed a fairly tranquil night in it. the next day i woke up very early. the sun had only just risen; there was not a single cloud in the sky; everything around shone with a double brilliance--the brightness of the fresh morning rays and of yesterday's downpour. while they were harnessing me a cart, i went for a stroll about a small orchard, now neglected and run wild, which enclosed the little lodge on all sides with its fragrant, sappy growth. ah, how sweet it was in the open air, under the bright sky, where the larks were trilling, whence their bell-like notes rained down like silvery beads! on their wings, doubtless, they had carried off drops of dew, and their songs seemed steeped in dew. i took my cap off my head and drew a glad deep breath.... on the slope of a shallow ravine, close to the hedge, could be seen a beehive; a narrow path led to it, winding like a snake between dense walls of high grass and nettles, above which struggled up, god knows whence brought, the pointed stalks of dark-green hemp. i turned along this path; i reached the beehive. beside it stood a little wattled shanty, where they put the beehives for the winter. i peeped into the half-open door; it was dark, still, dry within; there was a scent of mint and balm. in the corner were some trestles fitted together, and on them, covered with a quilt, a little figure of some sort.... i was walking away.... 'master, master! piotr petrovitch!' i heard a voice, faint, slow, and hoarse, like the whispering of marsh rushes. i stopped. 'piotr petrovitch! come in, please!' the voice repeated. it came from the corner where were the trestles i had noticed. i drew near, and was struck dumb with amazement. before me lay a living human being; but what sort of a creature was it? a head utterly withered, of a uniform coppery hue--like some very ancient holy picture, yellow with age; a sharp nose like a keen-edged knife; the lips could barely be seen--only the teeth flashed white and the eyes; and from under the kerchief some thin wisps of yellow hair straggled on to the forehead. at the chin, where the quilt was folded, two tiny hands of the same coppery hue were moving, the fingers slowly twitching like little sticks. i looked more intently; the face, far from being ugly, was positively beautiful, but strange and dreadful; and the face seemed the more dreadful to me that on it--on its metallic cheeks--i saw, struggling...struggling, and unable to form itself--a smile. 'you don't recognise me, master?' whispered the voice again: it seemed to be breathed from the almost unmoving lips. 'and, indeed, how should you? i'm lukerya....do you remember, who used to lead the dance at your mother's, at spasskoye?... do you remember, i used to be leader of the choir too?' 'lukerya!' i cried. 'is it you? can it be?' 'yes, it's i, master--i, lukerya.' i did not know what to say, and gazed in stupefaction at the dark motionless face with the clear, death-like eyes fastened upon me. was it possible? this mummy lukerya--the greatest beauty in all our household--that tall, plump, pink-and-white, singing, laughing, dancing creature! lukerya, our smart lukerya, whom all our lads were courting, for whom i heaved some secret sighs--i, a boy of sixteen! 'mercy, lukerya!' i said at last; 'what is it has happened to you?' 'oh, such a misfortune befel me! but don't mind me, sir; don't let my trouble revolt you; sit there on that little tub--a little nearer, or you won't be able to hear me....i've not much of a voice now-a-days!... well, i am glad to see you! what brought you to aleksyevka?' lukerya spoke very softly and feebly, but without pausing. 'yermolaï, the huntsman, brought me here. but you tell me...' 'tell you about my trouble? certainly, sir. it happened to me a long while ago now--six or seven years. i had only just been betrothed then to vassily polyakov--do you remember, such a fine-looking fellow he was, with curly hair?--he waited at table at your mother's. but you weren't in the country then; you had gone away to moscow to your studies. we were very much in love, vassily and me; i could never get him out of my head; and it was in the spring it all happened. well, one night...not long before sunrise, it was...i couldn't sleep; a nightingale in the garden was singing so wonderfully sweet!... i could not help getting up and going out on to the steps to listen. it trilled and trilled... and all at once i fancied some one called me; it seemed like vassya's voice, so softly, "lusha!"... i looked round, and being half asleep, i suppose, i missed my footing and fell straight down from the top-step, and flop on to the ground! and i thought i wasn't much hurt, for i got up directly and went back to my room. only it seems something inside me--in my body--was broken.... let me get my breath...half a minute... sir.' lukerya ceased, and i looked at her with surprise. what surprised me particularly was that she told her story almost cheerfully, without sighs and groans, not complaining nor asking for sympathy. 'ever since that happened,' lukerya went on, 'i began to pine away and get thin; my skin got dark; walking was difficult for me; and then--i lost the use of my legs altogether; i couldn't stand or sit; i had to lie down all the time. and i didn't care to eat or drink; i got worse and worse. your mamma, in the kindness of her heart, made me see doctors, and sent me to a hospital. but there was no curing me. and not one doctor could even say what my illness was. what didn't they do to me?--they burnt my spine with hot irons, they put me in lumps of ice, and it was all no good. i got quite numb in the end.... so the gentlemen decided it was no use doctoring me any more, and there was no sense in keeping cripples up at the great house... well, and so they sent me here--because i've relations here. so here i live, as you see.' lukerya was silent again, and again she tried to smile. 'but this is awful--your position!' i cried... and not knowing how to go on, i asked: 'and what of vassily polyakov?' a most stupid question it was. lukerya turned her eyes a little away. 'what of polyakov? he grieved--he grieved for a bit--and he is married to another, a girl from glinnoe. do you know glinnoe? it's not far from us. her name's agrafena. he loved me dearly--but, you see, he's a young man; he couldn't stay a bachelor. and what sort of a helpmeet could i be? the wife he found for himself is a good, sweet woman--and they have children. he lives here; he's a clerk at a neighbour's; your mamma let him go off with a passport, and he's doing very well, praise god.' 'and so you go on lying here all the time?' i asked again. 'yes, sir, i've been lying here seven years. in the summer-time i lie here in this shanty, and when it gets cold they move me out into the bath-house: i lie there.' 'who waits on you? does any one look after you?' 'oh, there are kind folks here as everywhere; they don't desert me. yes, they see to me a little. as to food, i eat nothing to speak of; but water is here, in the pitcher; it's always kept full of pure spring water. i can reach to the pitcher myself: i've one arm still of use. there's a little girl here, an orphan; now and then she comes to see me, the kind child. she was here just now.... you didn't meet her? such a pretty, fair little thing. she brings me flowers. we've some in the garden--there were some--but they've all disappeared. but, you know, wild flowers too are nice; they smell even sweeter than garden flowers. lilies of the valley, now... what could be sweeter?' 'and aren't you dull and miserable, my poor lukerya?' 'why, what is one to do? i wouldn't tell a lie about it. at first it was very wearisome; but later on i got used to it, i got more patient--it was nothing; there are others worse off still.' 'how do you mean?' 'why, some haven't a roof to shelter them, and there are some blind or deaf; while i, thank god, have splendid sight, and hear everything--everything. if a mole burrows in the ground--i hear even that. and i can smell every scent, even the faintest! when the buckwheat comes into flower in the meadow, or the lime-tree in the garden--i don't need to be told of it, even; i'm the first to know directly. anyway, if there's the least bit of a wind blowing from that quarter. no, he who stirs god's wrath is far worse off than me. look at this, again: anyone in health may easily fall into sin; but i'm cut off even from sin. the other day, father aleksy, the priest, came to give me the sacrament, and he says: "there's no need," says he, "to confess you; you can't fall into sin in your condition, can you?" but i said to him; "how about sinning in thought, father?" "ah, well," says he, and he laughed himself, "that's no great sin." 'but i fancy i'm no great sinner even in that way, in thought,' lukerya went on, 'for i've trained myself not to think, and above all, not to remember. the time goes faster.' i must own i was astonished. 'you're always alone, lukerya: how can you prevent the thoughts from coming into your head? or are you constantly asleep?' 'oh, no, sir! i can't always sleep. though i've no great pain, still i've an ache, there, right inside, and in my bones too; it won't let me sleep as i ought. no... but there, i lie by myself; i lie here and lie here, and don't think: i feel that i'm alive, i breathe; and i put myself all into that. i look and listen. the bees buzz and hum in the hive; a dove sits on the roof and coos; a hen comes along with her chickens to peck up crumbs; or a sparrow flies in, or a butterfly--that's a great treat for me. last year some swallows even built a nest over there in the corner, and brought up their little ones. oh, how interesting it was! one would fly to the nest, press close, feed a young one, and off again. look again: the other would be in her place already. sometimes it wouldn't fly in, but only fly past the open door; and the little ones would begin to squeak, and open their beaks directly....i was hoping for them back again the next year, but they say a sportsman here shot them with his gun. and what could he gain by it? it's hardly bigger, the swallow, than a beetle....what wicked men you are, you sportsmen!' 'i don't shoot swallows,' i hastened to remark. 'and once, lukerya began again, 'it was comical, really. a hare ran in, it did really! the hounds, i suppose, were after it; anyway, it seemed to tumble straight in at the door!... it squatted quite near me, and sat so a long while; it kept sniffing with its nose, and twitching its whiskers--like a regular officer! and it looked at me. it understood, to be sure, that i was no danger to it. at last it got up, went hop-hop to the door, looked round in the doorway; and what did it look like? such a funny fellow it was!' lukerya glanced at me, as much as to say, 'wasn't it funny?' to satisfy her, i laughed. she moistened her parched lips. 'well, in the winter, of course, i'm worse off, because it's dark: to burn a candle would be a pity, and what would be the use? i can read, to be sure, and was always fond of reading, but what could i read? there are no books of any kind, and even if there were, how could i hold a book? father aleksy brought me a calendar to entertain me, but he saw it was no good, so he took and carried it away again. but even though it's dark, there's always something to listen to: a cricket chirps, or a mouse begins scratching somewhere. that's when it's a good thing--not to think!' 'and i repeat the prayers too,' lukerya went on, after taking breath a little; 'only i don't know many of them---the prayers, i mean. and besides, why should i weary the lord god? what can i ask him for? he knows better than i what i need. he has laid a cross upon me: that means that he loves me. so we are commanded to understand. i repeat the lord's prayer, the hymn to the virgin, the supplication of all the afflicted, and i lie still again, without any thought at all, and am all right!' two minutes passed by. i did not break the silence, and did not stir on the narrow tub which served me as a seat. the cruel stony stillness of the living, unlucky creature lying before me communicated itself to me; i too turned, as it were, numb. 'listen, lukerya,' i began at last; 'listen to the suggestion i'm going to make to you. would you like me to arrange for them to take you to a hospital--a good hospital in the town? who knows, perhaps you might yet be cured; anyway, you would not be alone'... lukerya's eyebrows fluttered faintly. 'oh, no, sir,' she answered in a troubled whisper; 'don't move me into a hospital; don't touch me. i shall only have more agony to bear there! how could they cure me now?... why, there was a doctor came here once; he wanted to examine me. i begged him, for christ's sake, not to disturb me. it was no use. he began turning me over, pounding my hands and legs, and pulling me about. he said, "i'm doing this for science; i'm a servant of science--a scientific man! and you," he said, "really oughtn't to oppose me, because i've a medal given me for my labours, and it's for you simpletons i'm toiling." he mauled me about, told me the name of my disease--some wonderful long name--and with that he went away; and all my poor bones ached for a week after. you say "i'm all alone; always alone." oh, no, i'm not always; they come to see me--i'm quiet--i don't bother them. the peasant girls come in and chat a bit; a pilgrim woman will wander in, and tell me tales of jerusalem, of kiev, of the holy towns. and i'm not afraid of being alone. indeed, it's better--ay, ay! master, don't touch me, don't take me to the hospital.... thank you, you are kind; only don't touch me, there's a dear!' 'well, as you like, as you like, lukerya. you know, i only suggested it for your good.' 'i know, master, that it was for my good. but, master dear, who can help another? who can enter into his soul? every man must help himself! you won't believe me, perhaps. i lie here sometimes so alone...and it's as though there were no one else in the world but me. as if i alone were living! and it seems to me as though something were blessing me....i'm carried away by dreams that are really marvellous!' 'what do you dream of, then, lukerya?' 'that, too, master, i couldn't say; one can't explain. besides, one forgets afterwards. it's like a cloud coming over and bursting, then it grows so fresh and sweet; but just what it was, there's no knowing! only my idea is, if folks were near me, i should have nothing of that, and should feel nothing except my misfortune.' lukerya heaved a painful sigh. her breathing, like her limbs, was not under her control. 'when i come to think, master, of you,' she began again, 'you are very sorry for me. but you mustn't be too sorry, really! i'll tell you one thing; for instance, i sometimes, even now.... do you remember how merry i used to be in my time? a regular madcap!... so do you know what? i sing songs even now.' 'sing?... you?' 'yes; i sing the old songs, songs for choruses, for feasts, christmas songs, all sorts! i know such a lot of them, you see, and i've not forgotten them. only dance songs i don't sing. in my state now, it wouldn't suit me.' 'how do you sing them?...to yourself?' 'to myself, yes; and aloud too. i can't sing loud, but still one can understand it. i told you a little girl waits on me. a clever little orphan she is. so i have taught her; four songs she has learnt from me already. don't you believe me? wait a minute, i'll show you directly....' lukerya took breath.... the thought that this half-dead creature was making ready to begin singing raised an involuntary feeling of dread in me. but before i could utter a word, a long-drawn-out, hardly audible, but pure and true note, was quivering in my ears... it was followed by a second and a third. 'in the meadows,' sang lukerya. she sang, the expression of her stony face unchanged, even her eyes riveted on one spot. but how touchingly tinkled out that poor struggling little voice, that wavered like a thread of smoke: how she longed to pour out all her soul in it!... i felt no dread now; my heart throbbed with unutterable pity. 'ah, i can't!' she said suddenly. 'i've not the strength. i'm so upset with joy at seeing you.' she closed her eyes. i laid my hand on her tiny, chill fingers.... she glanced at me, and her dark lids, fringed with golden eyelashes, closed again, and were still as an ancient statue's. an instant later they glistened in the half-darkness.... they were moistened by a tear. as before, i did not stir. 'how silly i am!' said lukerya suddenly, with unexpected force, and opened her eyes wide: she tried to wink the tears out of them. 'i ought to be ashamed! what am i doing? it's a long time since i have been like this... not since that day when vassya-polyakov was here last spring. while he sat with me and talked, i was all right; but when he had gone away, how i did cry in my loneliness! where did i get the tears from? but, there! we girls get our tears for nothing. master,' added lukerya, 'perhaps you have a handkerchief.... if you won't mind, wipe my eyes.' i made haste to carry out her desire, and left her the handkerchief. she refused it at first.... 'what good's such a gift to me?' she said. the handkerchief was plain enough, but clean and white. afterwards she clutched it in her weak fingers, and did not loosen them again. as i got used to the darkness in which we both were, i could clearly make out her features, could even perceive the delicate flush that peeped out under the coppery hue of her face, could discover in the face, so at least it seemed to me, traces of its former beauty. 'you asked me, master,' lukerya began again, 'whether i sleep. i sleep very little, but every time i fall asleep i've dreams--such splendid dreams! i'm never ill in my dreams; i'm always so well, and young.... there's one thing's sad: i wake up and long for a good stretch, and i'm all as if i were in chains. i once had such an exquisite dream! shall i tell it you? well, listen. i dreamt i was standing in a meadow, and all round me was rye, so tall, and ripe as gold!... and i had a reddish dog with me--such a wicked dog; it kept trying to bite me. and i had a sickle in my hands; not a simple sickle; it seemed to be the moon itself--the moon as it is when it's the shape of a sickle. and with this same moon i had to cut the rye clean. only i was very weary with the heat, and the moon blinded me, and i felt lazy; and cornflowers were growing all about, and such big ones! and they all turned their heads to me. and i thought in my dream i would pick them; vassya had promised to come, so i'd pick myself a wreath first; i'd still time to plait it. i began picking cornflowers, but they kept melting away from between my fingers, do what i would. and i couldn't make myself a wreath. and meanwhile i heard someone coming up to me, so close, and calling, "lusha! lusha!"... "ah," i thought, "what a pity i hadn't time!" no matter, i put that moon on my head instead of cornflowers. i put it on like a tiara, and i was all brightness directly; i made the whole field light around me. and, behold! over the very top of the ears there came gliding very quickly towards me, not vassya, but christ himself! and how i knew it was christ i can't say; they don't paint him like that--only it was he! no beard, tall, young, all in white, only his belt was golden; and he held out his hand to me. "fear not," said he; "my bride adorned, follow me; you shall lead the choral dance in the heavenly kingdom, and sing the songs of paradise." and how i clung to his hand! my dog at once followed at my heels... but then we began to float upwards! he in front.... his wings spread wide over all the sky, long like a sea-gull's--and i after him! and my dog had to stay behind. then only i understood that that dog was my illness, and that in the heavenly kingdom there was no place for it.' lukerya paused a minute. 'and i had another dream, too,' she began again; 'but may be it was a vision. i really don't know. it seemed to me i was lying in this very shanty, and my dead parents, father and mother, come to me and bow low to me, but say nothing. and i asked them, "why do you bow down to me, father and mother?" "because," they said, "you suffer much in this world, so that you have not only set free your own soul, but have taken a great burden from off us too. and for us in the other world it is much easier. you have made an end of your own sins; now you are expiating our sins." and having said this, my parents bowed down to me again, and i could not see them; there was nothing but the walls to be seen. i was in great doubt afterwards what had happened with me. i even told the priest of it in confession. only he thinks it was not a vision, because visions come only to the clerical gentry.' 'and i'll tell you another dream,' lukerya went on. 'i dreamt i was sitting on the high-road, under a willow; i had a stick, had a wallet on my shoulders, and my head tied up in a kerchief, just like a pilgrim woman! and i had to go somewhere, a long, long way off, on a pilgrimage. and pilgrims kept coming past me; they came along slowly, all going one way; their faces were weary, and all very much like one another. and i dreamt that moving about among them was a woman, a head taller than the rest, and wearing a peculiar dress, not like ours--not russian. and her face too was peculiar--a worn face and severe. and all the others moved away from her; but she suddenly turns, and comes straight to me. she stood still, and looked at me; and her eyes were yellow, large, and clear as a falcon's. and i ask her, "who are you?" and she says to me, "i'm your death." instead of being frightened, it was quite the other way. i was as pleased as could be; i crossed myself! and the woman, my death, says to me: "i'm sorry for you, lukerya, but i can't take you with me. farewell!" good god! how sad i was then!... "take me," said i, "good mother, take me, darling!" and my death turned to me, and began speaking to me.... i knew that she was appointing me my hour, but indistinctly, incomprehensibly. "after st. peter's day," said she.... with that i awoke.... yes, i have such wonderful dreams!' lukerya turned her eyes upwards... and sank into thought.... 'only the sad thing is, sometimes a whole week will go by without my getting to sleep once. last year a lady came to see me, and she gave me a little bottle of medicine against sleeplessness; she told me to take ten drops at a time. it did me so much good, and i used to sleep; only the bottle was all finished long ago. do you know what medicine that was, and how to get it?' the lady had obviously given lukerya opium. i promised to get her another bottle like it, and could not refrain from again wondering aloud at her patience. 'ah, master!' she answered, 'why do you say so? what do you mean by patience? there, simeon stylites now had patience certainly, great patience; for thirty years he stood on a pillar! and another saint had himself buried in the earth, right up to his breast, and the ants ate his face.... and i'll tell you what i was told by a good scholar: there was once a country, and the ishmaelites made war on it, and they tortured and killed all the inhabitants; and do what they would, the people could not get rid of them. and there appeared among these people a holy virgin; she took a great sword, put on armour weighing eighty pounds, went out against the ishmaelites and drove them all beyond the sea. only when she had driven them out, she said to them: "now burn me, for that was my vow, that i would die a death by fire for my people." and the ishmaelites took her and burnt her, and the people have been free ever since then! that was a noble deed, now! but what am i!' i wondered to myself whence and in what shape the legend of joan of arc had reached her, and after a brief silence, i asked lukerya how old she was. 'twenty-eight... or nine.... it won't be thirty. but why count the years! i've something else to tell you....' lukerya suddenly gave a sort of choked cough, and groaned.... 'you are talking a great deal,' i observed to her; 'it may be bad for you.' 'it's true,' she whispered, hardly audibly; 'it's time to end our talk; but what does it matter! now, when you leave me, i can be silent as long as i like. any way, i've opened my heart....' i began bidding her good-bye. i repeated my promise to send her the medicine, and asked her once more to think well and tell me--if there wasn't anything she wanted?' 'i want nothing; i am content with all, thank god!' she articulated with very great effort, but with emotion; 'god give good health to all! but there, master, you might speak a word to your mamma--the peasants here are poor--if she could take the least bit off their rent! they've not land enough, and no advantages.... they would pray to god for you.... but i want nothing; i'm quite contented with all.' i gave lukerya my word that i would carry out her request, and had already walked to the door.... she called me back again. 'do you remember, master,' she said, and there was a gleam of something wonderful in her eyes and on her lips, 'what hair i used to have? do you remember, right down to my knees! it was long before i could make up my mind to it.... such hair as it was! but how could it be kept combed? in my state!... so i had it cut off.... yes.... well, good-bye, master! i can't talk any more.'... that day, before setting off to shoot, i had a conversation with the village constable about lukerya. i learnt from him that in the village they called lukerya the 'living relic'; that she gave them no trouble, however; they never heard complaint or repining from her. 'she asks nothing, but, on the contrary, she's grateful for everything; a gentle soul, one must say, if any there be. stricken of god,' so the constable concluded, 'for her sins, one must suppose; but we do not go into that. and as for judging her, no--no, we do not judge her. let her be!' * * * * * a few weeks later i heard that lukerya was dead. so her death had come for her... and 'after st. peter's day.' they told me that on the day of her death she kept hearing the sound of bells, though it was reckoned over five miles from aleksyevka to the church, and it was a week-day. lukerya, however, had said that the sounds came not from the church, but from above! probably she did not dare to say--from heaven. xxiv the rattling of wheels 'i've something to tell you,' observed yermolaï, coming into the hut to see me. i had just had dinner, and was lying down on a travelling bed to rest a little after a fairly successful but fatiguing day of grouse-shooting--it was somewhere about the th of july, and the heat was terrific.... 'i've something to tell you: all our shot's gone.' i jumped off the bed. 'all gone? how's that? why, we took pretty nearly thirty pounds with us from the village--a whole bag!' 'that's so; and a big bag it was: enough for a fortnight. but there's no knowing! there must have been a hole come in it, or something; anyway, there's no shot... that's to say, there's enough for ten charges left.' 'what are we to do now? the very best places are before us--we're promised six coveys for to-morrow....' 'well, send me to tula. it's not so far from here; only forty miles. i'll fly like the wind, and bring forty pounds of shot if you say the word.' 'but when would you go?' 'why, directly. why put it off? only, i say, we shall have to hire horses.' 'why hire horses? why not our own?' 'we can't drive there with our own. the shaft horse has gone lame... terribly!' 'since when's that?' 'well, the other day, the coachman took him to be shod. so he was shod, and the blacksmith, i suppose, was clumsy. now, he can't even step on the hoof. it's a front leg. he lifts it up... like a dog.' 'well? they've taken the shoe off, i suppose, at least?' 'no, they've not; but, of course, they ought to take it off. a nail's been driven right into the flesh, i should say.' i ordered the coachman to be summoned. it turned out that yermolaï had spoken the truth: the shaft-horse really could not put its hoof to the ground. i promptly gave orders for it to have the shoe taken off, and to be stood on damp clay. 'then do you wish me to hire horses to go to tula?' yermolaï persisted. 'do you suppose we can get horses in this wilderness?' i exclaimed with involuntary irritation. the village in which we found ourselves was a desolate, god-forsaken place; all its inhabitants seemed to be poverty-stricken; we had difficulty in discovering one hut, moderately roomy, and even that one had no chimney. 'yes,' replied yermolaï with his habitual equanimity; 'what you said about this village is true enough; but there used to be living in this very place one peasant--a very clever fellow! rich too! he had nine horses. he's dead, and his eldest son manages it all now. the man's a perfect fool, but still he's not had time to waste his father's wealth yet. we can get horses from him. if you say the word, i will fetch him. his brothers, i've heard say, are smart chaps...but still, he's their head.' 'why so?' 'because--he's the eldest! of course, the younger ones must obey!' here yermolaï, in reference to younger brothers as a class, expressed himself with a vigour quite unsuitable for print. 'i'll fetch him. he's a simple fellow. with him you can't fail to come to terms.' while yermolaï went after his 'simple fellow' the idea occurred to me that it might be better for me to drive into tula myself. in the first place, taught by experience, i had no very great confidence in yermolaï: i had once sent him to the town for purchases; he had promised to get through all my commissions in one day, and was gone a whole week, drank up all the money, and came back on foot, though he had set off in my racing droshky. and, secondly, i had an acquaintance in tula, a horsedealer; i might buy a horse off him to take the place of the disabled shaft-horse. 'the thing's decided!' i thought; 'i'll drive over myself; i can sleep just as well on the road--luckily, the coach is comfortable.' 'i've brought him!' cried yermolaï, rushing into the hut a quarter of an hour later. he was followed by a tall peasant in a white shirt, blue breeches, and bast shoes, with white eyebrows and short-sighted eyes, a wedge-shaped red beard, a long swollen nose, and a gaping mouth. he certainly did look 'simple.' 'here, your honour,' observed yermolaï, 'he has horses--and he's willing.' 'so be, surely, i'... the peasant began hesitatingly in a rather hoarse voice, shaking his thin wisps of hair, and drumming with his fingers on the band of the cap he held in his hands.... 'surely, i....' 'what's your name?' i inquired. the peasant looked down and seemed to think deeply. 'my name?' 'yes; what are you called?' 'why my name 'ull be--filofey.' 'well, then, friend filofey; i hear you have horses. bring a team of three here--we'll put them in my coach--it's a light one--and you drive me in to tula. there's a moon now at night; it's light, and it's cool for driving. what sort of a road have you here?' 'the road? there's naught amiss with the road. to the main road it will be sixteen miles--not more.... there's one little place... a bit awkward; but naught amiss else.' 'what sort of little place is it that's awkward?' 'well, we'll have to cross the river by the ford.' 'but are you thinking of going to tula yourself?' inquired yermolaï. 'yes.' 'oh!' commented my faithful servant with a shake of his head. 'oh-oh!' he repeated; then he spat on the floor and walked out of the room. the expedition to tula obviously no longer presented any features of interest to him; it had become for him a dull and unattractive business. 'do you know the road well?' i said, addressing filofey. 'surely, we know the road! only, so to say, please your honour, can't... so on the sudden, so to say...' it appeared that yermolaï, on engaging filofey, had stated that he could be sure that, fool as he was, he'd be paid... and nothing more! filofey, fool as he was--in yermolaï's words--was not satisfied with this statement alone. he demanded, of me fifty roubles--an exorbitant price; i offered him ten--a low price. we fell to haggling; filofey at first was stubborn; then he began to come down, but slowly. yermolaï entering for an instant began assuring me, 'that fool--('he's fond of the word, seemingly!' filofey remarked in a low voice)--'that fool can't reckon money at all,' and reminded me how twenty years ago a posting tavern established by my mother at the crossing of two high-roads came to complete grief from the fact that the old house-serf who was put there to manage it positively did not understand reckoning money, but valued sums simply by the number of coins--in fact, gave silver coins in change for copper, though he would swear furiously all the time. 'ugh, you filofey! you're a regular filofey!' yermolaï jeered at last--and he went out, slamming the door angrily. filofey made him no reply, as though admitting that to be called filofey was--as a fact--not very clever of him, and that a man might fairly be reproached for such a name, though really it was the village priest was to blame in the matter for not having done better by him at his christening. at last we agreed, however, on the sum of twenty roubles. he went off for the horses, and an hour later brought five for me to choose from. the horses turned out to be fairly good, though their manes and tails were tangled, and their bellies round and taut as drums. with filofey came two of his brothers, not in the least like him. little, black-eyed, sharp-nosed fellows, they certainly produced the impression of 'smart chaps'; they talked a great deal, very fast--'clacked away,' as yermolaï expressed it--but obeyed the elder brother. they dragged the coach out of the shed and were busy about it and the horses for an hour and a half; first they let out the traces, which were of cord, then pulled them too tight again! both brothers were very much set on harnessing the 'roan' in the shafts, because 'him can do best going down-hill'; but filofey decided for 'the shaggy one.' so the shaggy one was put in the shafts accordingly. they heaped the coach up with hay, put the collar off the lame shaft-horse under the seat, in case we might want to fit it on to the horse to be bought at tula.... filofey, who had managed to run home and come back in a long, white, loose, ancestral overcoat, a high sugar-loaf cap, and tarred boots, clambered triumphantly up on to the box. i took my seat, looking at my watch: it was a quarter past ten. yermolaï did not even say good-bye to me--he was engaged in beating his valetka--filofey tugged at the reins, and shouted in a thin, thin voice: 'hey! you little ones!' his brothers skipped away on both sides, lashed the trace-horses under the belly, and the coach started, turned out of the gates into the street, the shaggy one tried to turn off towards his own home, but filofey brought him to reason with a few strokes of the whip, and behold! we were already out of the village, and rolling along a fairly even road, between close-growing bushes of thick hazels. it was a still, glorious night, the very nicest for driving. a breeze rustled now and then in the bushes, set the twigs swinging and died away again; in the sky could be seen motionless, silvery clouds; the moon stood high and threw a bright light on all around. i stretched myself on the hay, and was just beginning to doze... but i remembered the 'awkward place,' and started up. 'i say, filofey, is it far to the ford?' 'to the ford? it'll be near upon seven miles.' 'seven miles!' i mused. 'we shan't get there for another hour. i can have a nap meanwhile. filofey, do you know the road well?' i asked again. 'surely; how could i fail to know it? it's not the first time i've driven.' he said something more, but i had ceased to listen.... i was asleep. i was awakened not, as often happens, by my own intention of waking in exactly an hour, but by a sort of strange, though faint, lapping, gurgling sound at my very ear. i raised my head.... wonderful to relate! i was lying in the coach as before, but all round the coach, half a foot, not more, from its edge, a sheet of water lay shining in the moonlight, broken up into tiny, distinct, quivering eddies. i looked in front. on the box, with back bowed and head bent, filofey was sitting like a statue, and a little further on, above the rippling water, i saw the curved arch of the yoke, and the horses' heads and backs. and everything as motionless, as noiseless, as though in some enchanted realm, in a dream--a dream of fairyland.... 'what does it mean?' i looked back from under the hood of the coach.... 'why, we are in the middle of the river!'... the bank was thirty paces from us. 'filofey!' i cried. 'what?' he answered. 'what, indeed! upon my word! where are we?' 'in the river.' 'i see we're in the river. but, like this, we shall be drowned directly. is this how you cross the ford? eh? why, you're asleep, filofey! answer, do!' 'i've made a little mistake,' observed my guide; 'i've gone to one side, a bit wrong, but now we've got to wait a bit.' 'got to wait a bit? what ever are we going to wait for?' 'well, we must let the shaggy one look about him; which way he turns his head, that way we've got to go.' i raised myself on the hay. the shaft-horse's head stood quite motionless. above the head one could only see in the bright moonlight one ear slightly twitching backwards and forwards. 'why, he's asleep too, your shaggy one!' 'no,' responded filofey,' 'he's sniffing the water now.' and everything was still again; there was only the faint gurgle of the water as before. i sank into a state of torpor. moonlight, and night, and the river, and we in it.... 'what is that croaking noise?' i asked filofey. 'that? ducks in the reeds... or else snakes.' all of a sudden the head of the shaft-horse shook, his ears pricked up; he gave a snort, began to move. 'ho-ho, ho-ho-o!' filofey began suddenly bawling at the top of his voice; he sat up and brandished the whip. the coach was at once tugged away from where it had stuck, it plunged forward, cleaving the waters of the river, and moved along, swaying and lurching from side to side.... at first it seemed to me we were sinking, getting deeper; however, after two or three tugs and jolts, the expanse of water seemed suddenly lower.... it got lower and lower, the coach seemed to grow up out of it, and now the wheels and the horses' tails could be seen, and now stirring with a mighty splashing of big drops, scattering showers of diamonds--no, not diamonds--sapphires in the dull brilliance of the moon, the horses with a spirited pull all together drew us on to the sandy bank and trotted along the road to the hill-side, their shining white legs flashing in rivalry. 'what will filofey say now?' was the thought that glanced through my mind; 'you see i was right!' or something of that sort. but he said nothing. so i too did not think it necessary to reproach him for carelessness, and lying down in the hay, i tried again to go to sleep. but i could not go to sleep, not because i was not tired from hunting, and not because the exciting experience i had just been through had dispelled my sleepiness: it was that we were driving through such very beautiful country. there were liberal, wide-stretching, grassy riverside meadows, with a multitude of small pools, little lakes, rivulets, creeks overgrown at the ends with branches and osiers--a regular russian scene, such as russians love, like the scenes amid which the heroes of our old legends rode out to shoot white swans and grey ducks. the road we were driven along wound in a yellowish ribbon, the horses ran lightly--and i could not close my eyes. i was admiring! and it all floated by, softened into harmony under the kindly light of the moon. filofey--he too was touched by it. 'those meadows are called st. yegor's,' he said, turning to me. 'and beyond them come the grand duke's; there are no other meadows like them in all russia.... ah, it's lovely!' the shaft-horse snorted and shook itself.... 'god bless you,' commented filofey gravely in an undertone. 'how lovely!' he repeated with a sigh; then he gave a long sort of grunt. 'there, mowing time's just upon us, and think what hay they'll rake up there!--regular mountains!--and there are lots of fish in the creeks. such bream!' he added in a sing-song voice. 'in one word, life's sweet--one doesn't want to die.' he suddenly raised his hand. 'hullo! look-ee! over the lake... is it a crane standing there? can it be fishing at night? bless me! it's a branch, not a crane. well, that was a mistake! but the moon is always so deceptive.' so we drove on and on.... but now the end of the meadows had been reached, little copses and ploughed fields came into view; a little village flashed with two or three lights on one side--it was only four miles now to the main road. i fell asleep. again i did not wake up of my own accord. this time i was roused by the voice of filofey. 'master!... hey, master!' i sat up. the coach was standing still on level ground in the very middle of the high-road. filofey, who had turned round on the box, so as to face me, with wide-open eyes (i was positively surprised at them; i couldn't have imagined he had such large eyes), was whispering with mysterious significance: 'a rattle!... a rattle of wheels!' 'what do you say?' 'i say, there's a rattling! bend down and listen. do you hear it?' i put my head out of the coach, held my breath, and did catch, somewhere in the distance, far behind us, a faint broken sound, as of wheels rolling. 'do you hear it?' repeated filofey. 'well, yes,' i answered. 'some vehicle is coming.' 'oh, you don't hear... shoo! the tambourines... and whistling too....do you hear? take off your cap... you will hear better.' i didn't take off my cap, but i listened. 'well, yes... perhaps. but what of it?' filofey turned round facing the horses. 'it's a cart coming... lightly; iron-rimmed wheels,' he observed, and he took up the reins. 'it's wicked folks coming, master; hereabouts, you know, near tula, they play a good many tricks.' 'what nonsense! what makes you suppose it's sure to be wicked people?' 'i speak the truth... with tambourines... and in an empty cart.... who should it be?' 'well... is it much further to tula?' 'there's twelve miles further to go, and not a habitation here.' 'well, then, get on quicker; it's no good lingering.' filofey brandished the whip, and the coach rolled on again. though i did not put much faith in filofey, i could not go to sleep. 'what if it really is so?' a disagreeable sensation began to stir in me. i sat up in the coach--till then i had lain down--and began looking in all directions. while i had been asleep, a slight fog had come over, not the earth, but the sky; it stood high, the moon hung a whitish patch in it, as though in smoke. everything had grown dim and blended together, though it was clearer near the ground. around us flat, dreary country; fields, nothing but fields--here and there bushes and ravines--and again fields, mostly fallow, with scanty, dusty grass. a wilderness... deathlike! if only a quail had called! we drove on for half an hour. filofey kept constantly cracking his whip and clicking with his lips, but neither he nor i uttered a word. so we mounted the hillside.... filofey pulled up the horses, and promptly said again: 'it is a rattle of wheels, master; yes, it is!' i poked my head out of the coach again, but i might have stayed under the cover of the hood, so distinctly, though still from a distance, the sound reached me of cart-wheels, men whistling, the jingling of tambourines, and even the thud of horses' hoofs; i even fancied i could hear singing and laughter. the wind, it is true, was blowing from there, but there was no doubt that the unknown travellers were a good mile, perhaps two, nearer us. filofey and i looked at one another; he only gave his hat a tweak forward from behind, and at once, bending over the reins, fell to whipping up the horses. they set off at a gallop, but they could not gallop for long, and fell back into a trot again. filofey continued to whip them. we must get away! i can't account for the fact that, though i had not at first shared filofey's apprehensions, about this time i suddenly gained the conviction that we really were being followed by highwaymen.... i had heard nothing new: the same tambourines, the same rattle of a cart without a load, the same intermittent whistling, the same confused uproar.... but now i had no doubt. filofey could not have made a mistake! and now twenty minutes more had gone by.... during the last of these twenty minutes, even through the clatter and rumble of our own carriage, we could hear another clatter and another rumbling.... 'stop, filofey,' i said; 'it's no use--the end's the same!' filofey uttered a faint-hearted 'wo'! the horses instantaneously stopped, as though delighted at the chance of resting! mercy upon us! the tambourines were simply booming away just behind our backs, the cart was rattling and creaking, the men were whistling, shouting, and singing, the horses were snorting and thumping on the ground with their hoofs.... they had overtaken us! 'bad luck,' filofey commented, in an emphatic undertone; and, clicking to the horses irresolutely, he began to urge them on again. but at that very instant there was a sort of sudden rush and whizz, and a very big, wide cart, harnessed with three lean horses, cut sharply at a rush up to us, galloped in front, and at once fell into a walking pace, blocking up the road. 'a regular brigand's trick!' murmured filofey. i must own i felt a cold chill at my heart.... i fell to staring before me with strained attention in the half-darkness of the misty moonlight. in the cart in front of us were--half-lying, half-sitting--six men in shirts, and in unbuttoned rough overcoats; two of them had no caps on; huge feet in boots were swinging and hanging over the cart-rail, arms were rising and falling helter-skelter... bodies were jolting backwards and forwards.... it was quite clear--a drunken party. some were bawling at random; one was whistling very correctly and shrilly, another was swearing; on the driver's seat sat a sort of giant in a cape, driving. they went at a walking pace, as' though paying no attention to us. what was to be done? we followed them also at a walking pace... we could do nothing else. for a quarter of a mile we moved along in this manner. the suspense was torturing.... to protect, to defend ourselves, was out of the question! there were six of them; and i hadn't even a stick! should we turn back? but they would catch us up directly. i remembered the line of zhukovsky (in the passage where he speaks of the murder of field-marshal kamensky): 'the scoundrel highwayman's vile axe!...' or else--strangling with filthy cord... flung into a ditch...there to choke and struggle like a hare in a trap.... ugh, it was horrid! and they, as before, went on at a walking pace, taking no notice of us. 'filofey!' i whispered,'just try, keep more to the right; see if you can get by.' filofey tried--kept to the right... but they promptly kept to the right too... it was impossible to get by. filofey made another effort; he kept to the left.... but there, again, they did not let him pass the cart. they even laughed aloud. that meant that they wouldn't let us pass. 'then they are a bad lot,' filofey whispered to me over his shoulder. 'but what are they waiting for?' i inquired, also in a whisper. 'to reach the bridge--over there in front--in the hollow--above the stream.... they'll do for us there! that's always their way... by bridges. it's a clear case for us, master.' he added with a sigh: 'they'll hardly let us go alive; for the great thing for them is to keep it all dark. i'm sorry for one thing, master; my horses are lost, and my brothers won't get them!' i should have been surprised at the time that filofey could still trouble about his horses at such a moment; but, i must confess, i had no thoughts for him.... 'will they really kill me?' i kept repeating mentally. 'why should they? i'll give them everything i have....' and the bridge was getting nearer and nearer; it could be more and more clearly seen. suddenly a sharp whoop was heard; the cart before us, as it were, flew ahead, dashed along, and reaching the bridge, at once stopped stock-still a little on one side of the road. my heart fairly sank like lead. 'ah, brother filofey,' i said, 'we are going to our death. forgive me for bringing you to ruin.' 'as though it were your fault, master! there's no escaping one's fate! come, shaggy, my trusty little horse,' filofey addressed the shaft-horse; 'step on, brother! do your last bit of service! it's all the same...' and he urged his horses into a trot we began to get near the bridge--near that motionless, menacing cart.... in it everything was silent, as though on purpose. not a single halloo! it was the stillness of the pike or the hawk, of every beast of prey, as its victim approaches. and now we were level with the cart.... suddenly the giant in the cape sprang out of the cart, and came straight towards us! he said nothing to filofey, but the latter, of his own accord, tugged at the reins.... the coach stopped. the giant laid both arms on the carriage door, and bending forward his shaggy head with a grin, he uttered the following speech in a soft, even voice, with the accent of a factory hand: 'honoured sir, we are coming from an honest feast--from a wedding; we've been marrying one of our fine fellows--that is, we've put him to bed; we're all young lads, reckless chaps--there's been a good deal of drinking, and nothing to sober us; so wouldn't your honour be so good as to favour us, the least little, just for a dram of brandy for our mate? we'd drink to your health, and remember your worship; but if you won't be gracious to us--well, we beg you not to be angry!' 'what's the meaning of this?' i thought.... 'a joke?... a jeer?' the giant continued to stand with bent head. at that very instant the moon emerged from the fog and lighted up his face. there was a grin on the face, in the eyes, and on the lips. but there was nothing threatening to be seen in it... only it seemed, as it were, all on the alert... and the teeth were so white and large.... 'i shall be pleased... take this...' i said hurriedly, and pulling my purse out of my pocket, i took out two silver roubles--at that time silver was still circulating in russia--'here, if that's enough?' 'much obliged!' bawled the giant, in military fashion; and his fat fingers in a flash snatched from me--not the whole purse--but only the two roubles: 'much obliged!' he shook his hair back, and ran up to the cart. 'lads!' he shouted, 'the gentleman makes us a present of two silver roubles!' they all began, as it were, gabbling at once.... the giant rolled up on to the driver's seat.... 'good luck to you, master!' and that was the last we saw of them. the horses dashed on, the cart rumbled up the hill; once more it stood out on the dark line separating the earth from the sky, went down, and vanished. and now the rattle of the wheels, the shouts and tambourines, could not be heard.... there was a death-like silence. * * * * * filofey and i could not recover ourselves all at once. 'ah, you're a merry fellow!' he commented at last, and taking off his hat he began crossing himself. 'fond of a joke, on my word,' he added, and he turned to me, beaming all over. 'but he must be a capital fellow--on my word! now, now, now, little ones, look alive! you're safe! we are all safe! it was he who wouldn't let us get by; it was he who drove the horses. what a chap for a joke! now, now! get on, in god's name!' i did not speak, but i felt happy too. 'we are safe!' i repeated to myself, and lay down on the hay. 'we've got off cheap!' i even felt rather ashamed that i had remembered that line of zhukovsky's. suddenly an idea occurred to me. 'filofey!' 'what is it?' 'are you married?' 'yes.' 'and have you children?' 'yes.' 'how was it you didn't think of them? you were sorry for your horses: weren't you sorry for your wife and children?' 'why be sorry for them? they weren't going to fall into the hands of thieves, you know. but i kept them in my mind all the while, and i do now... surely.' filofey paused.... 'may be... it was for their sake almighty god had mercy on us.' 'but if they weren't highwaymen?' 'how can we tell? can one creep into the soul of another? another's soul, we know, is a dark place. but, with the thought of god in the heart, things are always better.... no, no!... i'd my family all the time.... gee... gee-up! little ones, in god's name!' it was already almost daylight; we began to drive into tula. i was lying, dreamy and half-asleep. 'master,' filofey said to me suddenly, 'look: there they're stopping at the tavern... their cart.' i raised my head... there they were, and their cart and horses. in the doorway of the drinking-house there suddenly appeared our friend, the giant in the cape. 'sir!' he shouted, waving his cap, 'we're drinking your health!--hey, coachman,' he added, wagging his head at filofey; 'you were a bit scared, i shouldn't wonder, hey?' 'a merry fellow!' observed filofey when we had driven nearly fifty yards from the tavern. we got into tula at last: i bought shot, and while i was about it, tea and spirits, and even got a horse from the horse-dealer. at mid-day we set off home again. as we drove by the place where we first heard the rattle of the cart behind us, filofey, who, having had something to drink at tula, turned out to be very talkative--he even began telling me fairy-tales--as he passed the place, suddenly burst out laughing. 'do you remember, master, how i kept saying to you, "a rattle... a rattle of wheels," i said!' he waved his hand several times. this expression struck him as most amusing. the same evening we got back to his village. i related the adventure that had befallen us to yermolaï. being sober, he expressed no sympathy; he only gave a grunt--whether of approval or reproach, i imagine he did not know himself. but two days later he informed me, with great satisfaction, that the very night filofey and i had been driving to tula, and on the very road, a merchant had been robbed and murdered. i did not at first put much faith in this, but later on i was obliged to believe it: it was confirmed by the police captain, who came galloping over in consequence. was not that perhaps the 'wedding' our brave spirits were returning from?--wasn't that the 'fine fellow' they had 'put to bed,' in the words of the jocose giant? i stayed five days longer in filofey's village. whenever i meet him i always say to him: 'a rattle of wheels? eh?' 'a merry fellow!' he always answers, and bursts out laughing. epilogue the forest and the steppe 'and slowly something began to draw him, back to the country, to the garden dark, where lime-trees are so huge, so full of shade, and lilies of the valley, sweet as maids, where rounded willows o'er the water's edge lean from the dyke in rows, and where the oak sturdily grows above the sturdy field, amid the smell of hemp and nettles rank... there, there, in meadows stretching wide, where rich and black as velvet is the earth, where the sweet rye, far as the eye can see, moves noiselessly in tender, billowing waves, and where the heavy golden light is shed from out of rounded, white, transparent clouds: there it is good....' _(from a poem, devoted to the flames.)_ the reader is, very likely, already weary of my sketches; i hasten to reassure him by promising to confine myself to the fragments already printed; but i cannot refrain from saying a few words at parting about a sportman's life. hunting with a dog and a gun is delightful in itself, _für sich_, as they used to say in old days; but let us suppose you were not born a sportsman, but are fond of nature all the same; you cannot then help envying us sportsmen.... listen. do you know, for instance, the delight of setting off before daybreak in spring? you come out on to the steps.... in the dark grey sky stars are twinkling here and there; a damp breeze in faint gusts flies to meet you now and then; there is heard the secret, vague whispering of the night; the trees faintly rustle, wrapt in darkness. and now they pull the hood over the cart, and lay a box with the samovar at your feet. the trace-horses move restlessly, snort, and daintily paw the ground; a couple of white geese, only just awake, waddle slowly and silently across the road. on the other side of the hedge, in the garden, the watchman is snoring peacefully; every sound seems to stand still in the frozen air--suspended, not moving. you take your seat; the horses start at once; the cart rolls off with a loud rumble.... you drive--drive past the church, downhill to the right, across the dyke.... the pond is just beginning to be covered with mist. you are rather chilly; you cover your face with the collar of your fur cloak; you doze. the horse's hoofs splash sonorously through the puddles; the coachman begins to whistle. but by now you have driven over three miles... the rim of the sky flushes crimson; the jackdaws are heard, fluttering clumsily in the birch-trees; sparrows are twittering about the dark hayricks. the air is clearer, the road more distinct, the sky brightens, the clouds look whiter, and the fields look greener. in the huts there is the red light of flaming chips; from behind gates comes the sound of sleepy voices. and meanwhile the glow of dawn is beginning; already streaks of gold are stretching across the sky; mists are gathering in clouds over the ravines; the larks are singing musically; the breeze that ushers in the dawn is blowing; and slowly the purple sun floats upward. there is a perfect flood of light; your heart is fluttering like a bird. everything is fresh, gay, delightful! one can see a long way all round. that way, beyond the copse, a village; there, further, another, with a white church, and there a birch-wood on the hill; behind it the marsh, for which you are bound.... quicker, horses, quicker! forward at a good trot!... there are three miles to go--not more. the sun mounts swiftly higher; the sky is clear.... it will be a glorious day. a herd of cattle comes straggling from the village to meet us. you go up the hill.... what a view! the river winds for ten miles, dimly blue through the mist; beyond it meadows of watery green; beyond the meadows sloping hills; in the distance the plovers are wheeling with loud cries above the marsh; through the moist brilliance suffused in the air the distance stands out clearly... not as in the summer. how freely one drinks in the air, how quickly the limbs move, how strong is the whole man, clasped in the fresh breath of spring!... and a summer morning--a morning in july! who but the sportsman knows how soothing it is to wander at daybreak among the underwoods? the print of your feet lies in a green line on the grass, white with dew. you part the drenched bushes; you are met by a rush of the warm fragrance stored up in the night; the air is saturated with the fresh bitterness of wormwood, the honey sweetness of buckwheat and clover; in the distance an oak wood stands like a wall, and glows and glistens in the sun; it is still fresh, but already the approach of heat is felt. the head is faint and dizzy from the excess of sweet scents. the copse stretches on endlessly.... only in places there are yellow glimpses in the distance of ripening rye, and narrow streaks of red buckwheat. then there is the creak of cart-wheels; a peasant makes his way among the bushes at a walking-pace, and sets his horse in the shade before the heat of the day.... you greet him, and turn away; the musical swish of the scythe is heard behind you. the sun rises higher and higher. the grass is speedily dry. and now it is quite sultry. one hour passes another.... the sky grows dark over the horizon; the still air is baked with piercing heat.... 'where can one get a drink here, brother?' you inquire of the mower. 'yonder, in the ravine's a well.' through the thick hazel-bushes, tangled by the clinging grass, you drop down to the bottom of the ravine. right under the cliff a little spring is hidden; an oak bush greedily spreads out its twigs like great fingers over the water; great silvery bubbles rise trembling from the bottom, covered with fine velvety moss. you fling yourself on the ground, you drink, but you are too lazy to stir. you are in the shade, you drink in the damp fragrance, you take your ease, while the bushes face you, glowing, and, as it were, turning yellow in the sun. but what is that? there is a sudden flying gust of wind; the air is astir all about you: was not that thunder? is it the heat thickening? is a storm coming on?... and now there is a faint flash of lightning.... ah, this is a storm! the sun is still blazing; you can still go on hunting. but the storm-cloud grows; its front edge, drawn out like a long sleeve, bends over into an arch. the grass, the bushes, everything around grows dark.... make haste! over there you think you catch sight of a hay barn... make haste!... you run there, go in.... what rain! what flashes of lightning! the water drips in through some hole in the thatch-roof on to the sweet-smelling hay.... but now the sun is shining bright again. the storm is over; you come out. my god, the joyous sparkle of everything! the fresh, limpid air, the scent of raspberries and mushrooms! and then the evening comes on. there is the blaze of fire glowing and covering half the sky. the sun sets: the air near has a peculiar transparency as of crystal; over the distance lies a soft, warm-looking haze; with the dew a crimson light is shed on the fields, lately plunged in floods of limpid gold; from trees and bushes and high stacks of hay run long shadows.... the sun has set: a star gleams and quivers in the fiery sea of the sunset... and now it pales; the sky grows blue; the separate shadows vanish; the air is plunged in darkness. it is time to turn homewards to the village, to the hut, where you will stay the night. shouldering your gun, you move briskly, in spite of fatigue.... meanwhile, the night comes on: now you cannot see twenty paces from you; the dogs show faintly white in the dark. over there, above the black bushes, there is a vague brightness on the horizon.... what is it?--a fire?... no, it is the moon rising. and away below, to the right, the village lights are twinkling already.... and here at last is your hut. through the tiny window you see a table, with a white cloth, a candle burning, supper.... another time you order the racing droshky to be got out, and set off to the forest to shoot woodcock. it is pleasant making your way along the narrow path between two high walls of rye. the ears softly strike you in the face; the cornflowers cling round your legs; the quails call around; the horse moves along at a lazy trot. and here is the forest, all shade and silence. graceful aspens rustle high above you; the long-hanging branches of the birches scarcely stir; a mighty oak stands like a champion beside a lovely lime-tree. you go along the green path, streaked with shade; great yellow flies stay suspended, motionless, in the sunny air, and suddenly dart away; midges hover in a cloud, bright in the shade, dark in the sun; the birds are singing peacefully; the golden little voice of the warbler sings of innocent, babbling joyousness, in sweet accord with the scent of the lilies of the valley. further, further, deeper into the forest... the forest grows more dense.... an unutterable stillness falls upon the soul within; without, too, all is still and dreamy. but now a wind has sprung up, and the tree-tops are booming like falling waves. here and there, through last year's brown leaves, grow tall grasses; funguses stand apart under their wide-brimmed hats. all at once a hare skips out; the dog scurries after it with a resounding bark.... and how fair is this same forest in late autumn, when the snipe are on the wing! they do not keep in the heart of the forest; one must look for them along the outskirts. there is no wind, and no sun; no light, no shade, no movement, no sound: the autumn perfume, like the perfume of wine, is diffused in the soft air; a delicate haze hangs over the yellow fields in the distance. the still sky is a peacefully untroubled white through the bare brown branches; in parts, on the limes, hang the last golden leaves. the damp earth is elastic under your feet; the high dry blades of grass do not stir; long threads lie shining on the blanched turf, white with dew. you breathe tranquilly; but there is a strange tremor in the soul. you walk along the forest's edge, look after your dog, and meanwhile loved forms, loved faces dead and living, come to your mind; long, long slumbering impressions unexpectedly awaken; the fancy darts off and soars like a bird; and all moves so clearly and stands out before your eyes. the heart at one time throbs and beats, plunging passionately forward; at another it is drowned beyond recall in memories. your whole life, as it were, unrolls lightly and rapidly before you: a man at such times possesses all his past, all his feelings and his powers--all his soul; and there is nothing around to hinder him--no sun, no wind, no sound.... and a clear, rather cold autumn day, with a frost in the morning, when the birch, all golden like some tree in a fairy tale, stands out picturesquely against the pale blue sky; when the sun, standing low in the sky, does not warm, but shines more brightly than in summer; the small aspen copse is all a-sparkle through and through, as though it were glad and at ease in its nakedness; the hoar-frost is still white at the bottom of the hollows; while a fresh wind softly stirs up and drives before it the falling, crumpled leaves; when blue ripples whisk gladly along the river, lifting rhythmically the heedless geese and ducks; in the distance the mill creaks, half-hidden by the willows; and with changing colours in the clear air the pigeons wheel in swift circles above it.... sweet, too, are dull days in summer, though the sportsmen do not like them. on such days one can't shoot the bird that flutters up from under your very feet, and vanishes at once in the whitish dark of the hanging fog. but how peaceful, how unutterably peaceful it is everywhere! everything is awake, and everything is hushed. you pass by a tree: it does not stir a leaf; it is musing in repose. through the thin steamy mist, evenly diffused in the air, there is a long streak of black before you. you take it for a neighbouring copse close at hand; you go up--the copse is transformed into a high row of wormwood in the boundary-ditch. above you, around you, on all sides--mist.... but now a breeze is faintly astir; a patch of pale-blue sky peeps dimly out; through the thinning, as it were, smoky mist, a ray of golden yellow sunshine breaks out suddenly, flows in a long stream, strikes on the fields and in the copse--and now everything is overcast again. for long this struggle is drawn out, but how unutterably brilliant and magnificent the day becomes when at last light triumphs and the last waves of the warmed mist here unroll and are drawn out over the plains, there wind away and vanish into the deep, tenderly shining heights.... again you set off into outlying country, to the steppe. for some ten miles you make your way over cross-roads, and here at last is the high-road. past endless trains of waggons, past wayside taverns, with the hissing samovar under a shed, wide-open gates and a well, from one hamlet to another; across endless fields, alongside green hempfields, a long, long time you drive. the magpies flutter from willow to willow; peasant women with long rakes in their hands wander in the fields; a man in a threadbare nankin overcoat, with a wicker pannier over his shoulder, trudges along with weary step; a heavy country coach, harnessed with six tall, broken-winded horses, rolls to meet you. the corner of a cushion is sticking out of a window, and on a sack up behind, hanging on to a string, perches a groom in a fur-cloak, splashed with mud to his very eyebrows. and here is the little district town with its crooked little wooden houses, its endless fences, its empty stone shops, its old-fashioned bridge over a deep ravine.... on, on!... the steppe country is reached at last. you look from a hill-top: what a view! round low hills, tilled and sown to their very tops, are seen in broad undulations; ravines, overgrown with bushes, wind coiling among them; small copses are scattered like oblong islands; from village to village run narrow paths; churches stand out white; between willow-bushes glimmers a little river, in four places dammed up by dykes; far off, in a field, in a line, an old manor-house, with its outhouses, fruit-garden, and threshing-floor, huddles close up to a small lake. but on, on you go. the hills are smaller and ever smaller; there is scarcely a tree to be seen. here it is at last--the boundless, untrodden steppe! and on a winter day to walk over the high snowdrifts after hares; to breathe the keen frosty air, while half-closing the eyes involuntarily at the fine blinding sparkle of the soft snow; to admire the emerald sky above the reddish forest!... and the first spring day when everything is shining, and breaking up, when across the heavy streams, from the melting snow, there is already the scent of the thawing earth; when on the bare thawed places, under the slanting sunshine, the larks are singing confidingly, and, with glad splash and roar, the torrents roll from ravine to ravine.... but it is time to end. by the way, i have spoken of spring: in spring it is easy to part; in spring even the happy are drawn away to the distance.... farewell, reader! i wish you unbroken prosperity. a sportsman's sketches by ivan turgenev _translated from the russian by constance garnett_ volume i contents i. hor and kalinitch ii. yermolaÏ and the miller's wife iii. raspberry spring iv. the district doctor v. my neighbour radilov vi. the peasant proprietor ovsyanikov vii. lgov viii. byezhin prairie ix. kassyan of fair springs x. the agent xi. the counting-house xii. biryuk xiii. two country gentlemen xiv. lebedyan i hor and kalinitch anyone who has chanced to pass from the bolhovsky district into the zhizdrinsky district, must have been impressed by the striking difference between the race of people in the province of orel and the population of the province of kaluga. the peasant of orel is not tall, is bent in figure, sullen and suspicious in his looks; he lives in wretched little hovels of aspen-wood, labours as a serf in the fields, and engages in no kind of trading, is miserably fed, and wears slippers of bast: the rent-paying peasant of kaluga lives in roomy cottages of pine-wood; he is tall, bold, and cheerful in his looks, neat and clean of countenance; he carries on a trade in butter and tar, and on holidays he wears boots. the village of the orel province (we are speaking now of the eastern part of the province) is usually situated in the midst of ploughed fields, near a water-course which has been converted into a filthy pool. except for a few of the ever-accommodating willows, and two or three gaunt birch-trees, you do not see a tree for a mile round; hut is huddled up against hut, their roofs covered with rotting thatch.... the villages of kaluga, on the contrary, are generally surrounded by forest; the huts stand more freely, are more upright, and have boarded roofs; the gates fasten closely, the hedge is not broken down nor trailing about; there are no gaps to invite the visits of the passing pig.... and things are much better in the kaluga province for the sportsman. in the orel province the last of the woods and copses will have disappeared five years hence, and there is no trace of moorland left; in kaluga, on the contrary, the moors extend over tens, the forest over hundreds of miles, and a splendid bird, the grouse, is still extant there; there are abundance of the friendly larger snipe, and the loud-clapping partridge cheers and startles the sportsman and his dog by its abrupt upward flight. on a visit to the zhizdrinsky district in search of sport, i met in the fields a petty proprietor of the kaluga province called polutikin, and made his acquaintance. he was an enthusiastic sportsman; it follows, therefore, that he was an excellent fellow. he was liable, indeed, to a few weaknesses; he used, for instance, to pay his addresses to every unmarried heiress in the province, and when he had been refused her hand and house, broken-hearted he confided his sorrows to all his friends and acquaintances, and continued to shower offerings of sour peaches and other raw produce from his garden upon the young lady's relatives; he was fond of repeating one and the same anecdote, which, in spite of mr. polutikin's appreciation of its merits, had certainly never amused anyone; he admired the works of akim nahimov and the novel _pinna_; he stammered; he called his dog astronomer; instead of 'however' said 'howsomever'; and had established in his household a french system of cookery, the secret of which consisted, according to his cook's interpretation, in a complete transformation of the natural taste of each dish; in this _artiste's_ hands meat assumed the flavour of fish, fish of mushrooms, macaroni of gunpowder; to make up for this, not a single carrot went into the soup without taking the shape of a rhombus or a trapeze. but, with the exception of these few and insignificant failings, mr. polutikin was, as has been said already, an excellent fellow. on the first day of my acquaintance with mr. polutikin, he invited me to stay the night at his house. 'it will be five miles farther to my house,' he added; 'it's a long way to walk; let us first go to hor's.' (the reader must excuse my omitting his stammer.) 'who is hor?' 'a peasant of mine. he is quite close by here.' we went in that direction. in a well-cultivated clearing in the middle of the forest rose hor's solitary homestead. it consisted of several pine-wood buildings, enclosed by plank fences; a porch ran along the front of the principal building, supported on slender posts. we went in. we were met by a young lad of twenty, tall and good-looking. 'ah, fedya! is hor at home?' mr. polutikin asked him. 'no. hor has gone into town,' answered the lad, smiling and showing a row of snow-white teeth. 'you would like the little cart brought out?' 'yes, my boy, the little cart. and bring us some kvas.' we went into the cottage. not a single cheap glaring print was pasted up on the clean boards of the walls; in the corner, before the heavy, holy picture in its silver setting, a lamp was burning; the table of linden-wood had been lately planed and scrubbed; between the joists and in the cracks of the window-frames there were no lively prussian beetles running about, nor gloomy cockroaches in hiding. the young lad soon reappeared with a great white pitcher filled with excellent kvas, a huge hunch of wheaten bread, and a dozen salted cucumbers in a wooden bowl. he put all these provisions on the table, and then, leaning with his back against the door, began to gaze with a smiling face at us. we had not had time to finish eating our lunch when the cart was already rattling before the doorstep. we went out. a curly-headed, rosy-cheeked boy of fifteen was sitting in the cart as driver, and with difficulty holding in the well-fed piebald horse. round the cart stood six young giants, very like one another, and fedya. 'all of these hor's sons!' said polutikin. 'these are all horkies' (_i.e._ wild cats), put in fedya, who had come after us on to the step; 'but that's not all of them: potap is in the wood, and sidor has gone with old hor to the town. look out, vasya,' he went on, turning to the coachman; 'drive like the wind; you are driving the master. only mind what you're about over the ruts, and easy a little; don't tip the cart over, and upset the master's stomach!' the other horkies smiled at fedya's sally. 'lift astronomer in!' mr. polutikin called majestically. fedya, not without amusement, lifted the dog, who wore a forced smile, into the air, and laid her at the bottom of the cart. vasya let the horse go. we rolled away. 'and here is my counting-house,' said mr. polutikin suddenly to me, pointing to a little low-pitched house. 'shall we go in?' 'by all means.' 'it is no longer used,' he observed, going in; 'still, it is worth looking at.' the counting-house consisted of two empty rooms. the caretaker, a one-eyed old man, ran out of the yard. 'good day, minyaitch,' said mr. polutikin; 'bring us some water.' the one-eyed old man disappeared, and at once returned with a bottle of water and two glasses. 'taste it,' polutikin said to me; 'it is splendid spring water.' we drank off a glass each, while the old man bowed low. 'come, now, i think we can go on,' said my new friend. 'in that counting-house i sold the merchant alliluev four acres of forest-land for a good price.' we took our seats in the cart, and in half-an-hour we had reached the court of the manor-house. 'tell me, please,' i asked polutikin at supper; 'why does hor live apart from your other peasants?' 'well, this is why; he is a clever peasant. twenty-five years ago his cottage was burnt down; so he came up to my late father and said: "allow me, nikolai kouzmitch," says he, "to settle in your forest, on the bog. i will pay you a good rent." "but what do you want to settle on the bog for?" "oh, i want to; only, your honour, nikolai kouzmitch, be so good as not to claim any labour from me, but fix a rent as you think best." "fifty roubles a year!" "very well." "but i'll have no arrears, mind!" "of course, no arrears"; and so he settled on the bog. since then they have called him hor' (_i.e._ wild cat). 'well, and has he grown rich?' i inquired. 'yes, he has grown rich. now he pays me a round hundred for rent, and i shall raise it again, i dare say. i have said to him more than once, "buy your freedom, hor; come, buy your freedom." ... but he declares, the rogue, that he can't; has no money, he says.... as though that were likely....' the next day, directly after our morning tea, we started out hunting again. as we were driving through the village, mr. polutikin ordered the coachman to stop at a low-pitched cottage and called loudly, 'kalinitch!' 'coming, your honour, coming' sounded a voice from the yard; 'i am tying on my shoes.' we went on at a walk; outside the village a man of about forty over-took us. he was tall and thin, with a small and erect head. it was kalinitch. his good-humoured; swarthy face, somewhat pitted with small-pox, pleased me from the first glance. kalinitch (as i learnt afterwards) went hunting every day with his master, carried his bag, and sometimes also his gun, noted where game was to be found, fetched water, built shanties, and gathered strawberries, and ran behind the droshky; mr. polutikin could not stir a step without him. kalinitch was a man of the merriest and gentlest disposition; he was constantly singing to himself in a low voice, and looking carelessly about him. he spoke a little through his nose, with a laughing twinkle in his light blue eyes, and he had a habit of plucking at his scanty, wedge-shaped beard with his hand. he walked not rapidly, but with long strides, leaning lightly on a long thin staff. he addressed me more than once during the day, and he waited on me without, obsequiousness, but he looked after his master as if he were a child. when the unbearable heat drove us at mid-day to seek shelter, he took us to his beehouse in the very heart of the forest. there kalinitch opened the little hut for us, which was hung round with bunches of dry scented herbs. he made us comfortable on some dry hay, and then put a kind of bag of network over his head, took a knife, a little pot, and a smouldering stick, and went to the hive to cut us out some honey-comb. we had a draught of spring water after the warm transparent honey, and then dropped asleep to the sound of the monotonous humming of the bees and the rustling chatter of the leaves. a slight gust of wind awakened me.... i opened my eyes and saw kalinitch: he was sitting on the threshold of the half-opened door, carving a spoon with his knife. i gazed a long time admiring his face, as sweet and clear as an evening sky. mr. polutikin too woke up. we did not get up at once. after our long walk and our deep sleep it was pleasant to lie without moving in the hay; we felt weary and languid in body, our faces were in a slight glow of warmth, our eyes were closed in delicious laziness. at last we got up, and set off on our wanderings again till evening. at supper i began again to talk of hor and kalinitch. 'kalinitch is a good peasant,' mr. polutikin told me; 'he is a willing and useful peasant; he can't farm his land properly; i am always taking him away from it. he goes out hunting every day with me.... you can judge for yourself how his farming must fare.' i agreed with him, and we went to bed. the next day mr. polutikin was obliged to go to town about some business with his neighbour pitchukoff. this neighbour pitchukoff had ploughed over some land of polutikin's, and had flogged a peasant woman of his on this same piece of land. i went out hunting alone, and before evening i turned into hor's house. on the threshold of the cottage i was met by an old man--bald, short, broad-shouldered, and stout--hor himself. i looked with curiosity at the man. the cut of his face recalled socrates; there was the same high, knobby forehead, the same little eyes, the same snub nose. we went into the cottage together. the same fedya brought me some milk and black bread. hor sat down on a bench, and, quietly stroking his curly beard, entered into conversation with me. he seemed to know his own value; he spoke and moved slowly; from time to time a chuckle came from between his long moustaches. we discussed the sowing, the crops, the peasant's life.... he always seemed to agree with me; only afterwards i had a sense of awkwardness and felt i was talking foolishly.... in this way our conversation was rather curious. hor, doubtless through caution, expressed himself very obscurely at times.... here is a specimen of our talk. "tell me, hor," i said to him, "why don't you buy your freedom from your master?" "and what would i buy my freedom for? now i know my master, and i know my rent.... we have a good master." 'it's always better to be free,' i remarked. hor gave me a dubious look. 'surely,' he said. 'well, then, why don't you buy your freedom?' hor shook his head. 'what would you have me buy it with, your honour?' 'oh, come, now, old man!' 'if hor were thrown among free men,' he continued in an undertone, as though to himself, 'everyone without a beard would be a better man than hor.' 'then shave your beard.' 'what is a beard? a beard is grass: one can cut it.' 'well, then?' 'but hor will be a merchant straight away; and merchants have a fine life, and they have beards.' 'why, do you do a little trading too?' i asked him. 'we trade a little in a little butter and a little tar.... would your honour like the cart put to?' 'you're a close man and keep a tight rein on your tongue,' i thought to myself. 'no,' i said aloud, 'i don't want the cart; i shall want to be near your homestead to-morrow, and if you will let me, i will stay the night in your hay-barn.' 'you are very welcome. but will you be comfortable in the barn? i will tell the women to lay a sheet and put you a pillow.... hey, girls!' he cried, getting up from his place; 'here, girls!... and you, fedya, go with them. women, you know, are foolish folk.' a quarter of an hour later fedya conducted me with a lantern to the barn. i threw myself down on the fragrant hay; my dog curled himself up at my feet; fedya wished me good-night; the door creaked and slammed to. for rather a long time i could not get to sleep. a cow came up to the door, and breathed heavily twice; the dog growled at her with dignity; a pig passed by, grunting pensively; a horse somewhere near began to munch the hay and snort.... at last i fell asleep. at sunrise fedya awakened me. this brisk, lively young man pleased me; and, from what i could see, he was old hor's favourite too. they used to banter one another in a very friendly way. the old man came to meet me. whether because i had spent the night under his roof, or for some other reason, hor certainly treated me far more cordially than the day before. 'the samovar is ready,' he told me with a smile; 'let us come and have tea.' we took our seats at the table. a robust-looking peasant woman, one of his daughters-in-law, brought in a jug of milk. all his sons came one after another into the cottage. 'what a fine set of fellows you have!' i remarked to the old man. 'yes,' he said, breaking off a tiny piece of sugar with his teeth; 'me and my old woman have nothing to complain of, seemingly.' 'and do they all live with you?' 'yes; they choose to, themselves, and so they live here.' 'and are they all married?' 'here's one not married, the scamp!' he answered, pointing to fedya, who was leaning as before against the door. 'vaska, he's still too young; he can wait.' 'and why should i get married?' retorted fedya; 'i'm very well off as i am. what do i want a wife for? to squabble with, eh?' 'now then, you ... ah, i know you! you wear a silver ring.... you'd always be after the girls up at the manor house.... "have done, do, for shame!"' the old man went on, mimicking the servant girls. 'ah, i know you, you white-handed rascal!' 'but what's the good of a peasant woman?' 'a peasant woman--is a labourer,' said hor seriously; 'she is the peasant's servant.' 'and what do i want with a labourer?' 'i dare say; you'd like to play with the fire and let others burn their fingers: we know the sort of chap you are.' 'well, marry me, then. well, why don't you answer?' 'there, that's enough, that's enough, giddy pate! you see we're disturbing the gentleman. i'll marry you, depend on it.... and you, your honour, don't be vexed with him; you see, he's only a baby; he's not had time to get much sense.' fedya shook his head. 'is hor at home?' sounded a well-known voice; and kalinitch came into the cottage with a bunch of wild strawberries in his hands, which he had gathered for his friend hor. the old man gave him a warm welcome. i looked with surprise at kalinitch. i confess i had not expected such a delicate attention on the part of a peasant. that day i started out to hunt four hours later than usual, and the following three days i spent at hor's. my new friends interested me. i don't know how i had gained their confidence, but they began to talk to me without constraint. the two friends were not at all alike. hor was a positive, practical man, with a head for management, a rationalist; kalinitch, on the other hand, belonged to the order of idealists and dreamers, of romantic and enthusiastic spirits. hor had a grasp of actuality--that is to say, he looked ahead, was saving a little money, kept on good terms with his master and the other authorities; kalinitch wore shoes of bast, and lived from hand to mouth. hor had reared a large family, who were obedient and united; kalinitch had once had a wife, whom he had been afraid of, and he had had no children. hor took a very critical view of mr. polutikin; kalinitch revered his master. hor loved kalinitch, and took protecting care of him; kalinitch loved and respected hor. hor spoke little, chuckled, and thought for himself; kalinitch expressed himself with warmth, though he had not the flow of fine language of a smart factory hand. but kalinitch was endowed with powers which even hor recognised; he could charm away haemorrhages, fits, madness, and worms; his bees always did well; he had a light hand. hor asked him before me to introduce a newly bought horse to his stable, and with scrupulous gravity kalinitch carried out the old sceptic's request. kalinitch was in closer contact with nature; hor with men and society. kalinitch had no liking for argument, and believed in everything blindly; hor had reached even an ironical point of view of life. he had seen and experienced much, and i learnt a good deal from him. for instance, from his account i learnt that every year before mowing-time a small, peculiar-looking cart makes its appearance in the villages. in this cart sits a man in a long coat, who sells scythes. he charges one rouble twenty-five copecks--a rouble and a half in notes--for ready money; four roubles if he gives credit. all the peasants, of course, take the scythes from him on credit. in two or three weeks he reappears and asks for the money. as the peasant has only just cut his oats, he is able to pay him; he goes with the merchant to the tavern, and there the debt is settled. some landowners conceived the idea of buying the scythes themselves for ready money and letting the peasants have them on credit for the same price; but the peasants seemed dissatisfied, even dejected; they had deprived them of the pleasure of tapping the scythe and listening to the ring of the metal, turning it over and over in their hands, and telling the scoundrelly city-trader twenty times over, 'eh, my friend, you won't take me in with your scythe!' the same tricks are played over the sale of sickles, only with this difference, that the women have a hand in the business then, and they sometimes drive the trader himself to the necessity--for their good, of course--of beating them. but the women suffer most ill-treatment through the following circumstances. contractors for the supply of stuff for paper factories employ for the purchase of rags a special class of men, who in some districts are called eagles. such an 'eagle' receives two hundred roubles in bank-notes from the merchant, and starts off in search of his prey. but, unlike the noble bird from whom he has derived his name, he does not swoop down openly and boldly upon it; quite the contrary; the 'eagle' has recourse to deceit and cunning. he leaves his cart somewhere in a thicket near the village, and goes himself to the back-yards and back-doors, like someone casually passing, or simply a tramp. the women scent out his proximity and steal out to meet him. the bargain is hurriedly concluded. for a few copper half-pence a woman gives the 'eagle' not only every useless rag she has, but often even her husband's shirt and her own petticoat. of late the women have thought it profitable to steal even from themselves, and to sell hemp in the same way--a great extension and improvement of the business for the 'eagles'! to meet this, however, the peasants have grown more cunning in their turn, and on the slightest suspicion, on the most distant rumors of the approach of an 'eagle,' they have prompt and sharp recourse to corrective and preventive measures. and, after all, wasn't it disgraceful? to sell the hemp was the men's business--and they certainly do sell it--not in the town (they would have to drag it there themselves), but to traders who come for it, who, for want of scales, reckon forty handfuls to the pood--and you know what a russian's hand is and what it can hold, especially when he 'tries his best'! as i had had no experience and was not 'country-bred' (as they say in orel) i heard plenty of such descriptions. but hor was not always the narrator; he questioned me too about many things. he learned that i had been in foreign parts, and his curiosity was aroused.... kalinitch was not behind him in curiosity; but he was more attracted by descriptions of nature, of mountains and waterfalls, extraordinary buildings and great towns; hor was interested in questions of government and administration. he went through everything in order. 'well, is that with them as it is with us, or different?... come, tell us, your honour, how is it?' 'ah, lord, thy will be done!' kalinitch would exclaim while i told my story; hor did not speak, but frowned with his bushy eyebrows, only observing at times, 'that wouldn't do for us; still, it's a good thing--it's right.' all his inquiries, i cannot recount, and it is unnecessary; but from our conversations i carried away one conviction, which my readers will certainly not anticipate ... the conviction that peter the great was pre-eminently a russian--russian, above all, in his reforms. the russian is so convinced of his own strength and powers that he is not afraid of putting himself to severe strain; he takes little interest in his past, and looks boldly forward. what is good he likes, what is sensible he will have, and where it comes from he does not care. his vigorous sense is fond of ridiculing the thin theorising of the german; but, in hor's words, 'the germans are curious folk,' and he was ready to learn from them a little. thanks to his exceptional position, his practical independence, hor told me a great deal which you could not screw or--as the peasants say--grind with a grindstone, out of any other man. he did, in fact, understand his position. talking with hor, i for the first time listened to the simple, wise discourse of the russian peasant. his acquirements were, in his own opinion, wide enough; but he could not read, though kalinitch could. 'that ne'er-do-weel has school-learning,' observed hor, 'and his bees never die in the winter.' 'but haven't you had your children taught to read?' hor was silent a minute. 'fedya can read.' 'and the others?' 'the others can't.' 'and why?' the old man made no answer, and changed the subject. however, sensible as he was, he had many prejudices and crotchets. he despised women, for instance, from the depths of his soul, and in his merry moments he amused himself by jesting at their expense. his wife was a cross old woman who lay all day long on the stove, incessantly grumbling and scolding; her sons paid no attention to her, but she kept her daughters-in-law in the fear of god. very significantly the mother-in-law sings in the russian ballad: 'what a son art thou to me! what a head of a household! thou dost not beat thy wife; thou dost not beat thy young wife....' i once attempted to intercede for the daughters-in-law, and tried to rouse hor's sympathy; but he met me with the tranquil rejoinder, 'why did i want to trouble about such ... trifles; let the women fight it out. ... if anything separates them, it only makes it worse ... and it's not worth dirtying one's hands over.' sometimes the spiteful old woman got down from the stove and called the yard dog out of the hay, crying, 'here, here, doggie'; and then beat it on its thin back with the poker, or she would stand in the porch and 'snarl,' as hor expressed it, at everyone that passed. she stood in awe of her husband though, and would return, at his command, to her place on the stove. it was specially curious to hear hor and kalinitch dispute whenever mr. polutikin was touched upon. 'there, hor, do let him alone,' kalinitch would say. 'but why doesn't he order some boots for you?' hor retorted. 'eh? boots!... what do i want with boots? i am a peasant.' 'well, so am i a peasant, but look!' and hor lifted up his leg and showed kalinitch a boot which looked as if it had been cut out of a mammoth's hide. 'as if you were like one of us!' replied kalinitch. 'well, at least he might pay for your bast shoes; you go out hunting with him; you must use a pair a day.' 'he does give me something for bast shoes.' 'yes, he gave you two coppers last year.' kalinitch turned away in vexation, but hor went off into a chuckle, during which his little eyes completely disappeared. kalinitch sang rather sweetly and played a little on the balalaëca. hor was never weary of listening to him: all at once he would let his head drop on one side and begin to chime in, in a lugubrious voice. he was particularly fond of the song, 'ah, my fate, my fate!' fedya never lost an opportunity of making fun of his father, saying, 'what are you so mournful about, old man?' but hor leaned his cheek on his hand, covered his eyes, and continued to mourn over his fate.... yet at other times there could not be a more active man; he was always busy over something--mending the cart, patching up the fence, looking after the harness. he did not insist on a very high degree of cleanliness, however; and, in answer to some remark of mine, said once, 'a cottage ought to smell as if it were lived in.' 'look,' i answered, 'how clean it is in kalinitch's beehouse.' 'the bees would not live there else, your honour,' he said with a sigh. 'tell me,' he asked me another time, 'have you an estate of your own?' 'yes.' 'far from here?' 'a hundred miles.' 'do you live on your land, your honour?' 'yes.' 'but you like your gun best, i dare say?' 'yes, i must confess i do.' 'and you do well, your honour; shoot grouse to your heart's content, and change your bailiff pretty often.' on the fourth day mr. polutikin sent for me in the evening. i was sorry to part from the old man. i took my seat with kalinitch in the trap. 'well, good-bye, hor--good luck to you,' i said; 'good-bye, fedya.' 'good-bye, your honour, good-bye; don't forget us.' we started; there was the first red glow of sunset. 'it will be a fine day to-morrow,' i remarked looking at the clear sky. 'no, it will rain,' kalinitch replied; 'the ducks yonder are splashing, and the scent of the grass is strong.' we drove into the copse. kalinitch began singing in an undertone as he was jolted up and down on the driver's seat, and he kept gazing and gazing at the sunset. the next day i left the hospitable roof of mr. polutikin. ii yermolaÏ and the miller's wife one evening i went with the huntsman yermolaï 'stand-shooting.' ... but perhaps all my readers may not know what 'stand-shooting' is. i will tell you. a quarter of an hour before sunset in spring-time you go out into the woods with your gun, but without your dog. you seek out a spot for yourself on the outskirts of the forest, take a look round, examine your caps, and glance at your companion. a quarter of an hour passes; the sun has set, but it is still light in the forest; the sky is clear and transparent; the birds are chattering and twittering; the young grass shines with the brilliance of emerald.... you wait. gradually the recesses of the forest grow dark; the blood-red glow of the evening sky creeps slowly on to the roots and the trunks of the trees, and keeps rising higher and higher, passes from the lower, still almost leafless branches, to the motionless, slumbering tree-tops.... and now even the topmost branches are darkened; the purple sky fades to dark-blue. the forest fragrance grows stronger; there is a scent of warmth and damp earth; the fluttering breeze dies away at your side. the birds go to sleep--not all at once--but after their kinds; first the finches are hushed, a few minutes later the warblers, and after them the yellow buntings. in the forest it grows darker and darker. the trees melt together into great masses of blackness; in the dark-blue sky the first stars come timidly out. all the birds are asleep. only the redstarts and the nuthatches are still chirping drowsily.... and now they too are still. the last echoing call of the pee-wit rings over our heads; the oriole's melancholy cry sounds somewhere in the distance; then the nightingale's first note. your heart is weary with suspense, when suddenly--but only sportsmen can understand me--suddenly in the deep hush there is a peculiar croaking and whirring sound, the measured sweep of swift wings is heard, and the snipe, gracefully bending its long beak, sails smoothly down behind a dark bush to meet your shot. that is the meaning of 'stand-shooting.' and so i had gone out stand-shooting with yermolaï; but excuse me, reader: i must first introduce you to yermolaï. picture to yourself a tall gaunt man of forty-five, with a long thin nose, a narrow forehead, little grey eyes, a bristling head of hair, and thick sarcastic lips. this man wore, winter and summer alike, a yellow nankin coat of german cut, but with a sash round the waist; he wore blue pantaloons and a cap of astrakhan, presented to him in a merry hour by a spendthrift landowner. two bags were fastened on to his sash, one in front, skilfully tied into two halves, for powder and for shot; the other behind for game: wadding yermolaï used to produce out of his peculiar, seemingly inexhaustible cap. with the money he gained by the game he sold, he might easily have bought himself a cartridge-box and powder-flask; but he never once even contemplated such a purchase, and continued to load his gun after his old fashion, exciting the admiration of all beholders by the skill with which he avoided the risks of spilling or mixing his powder and shot. his gun was a single-barrelled flint-lock, endowed, moreover, with a villainous habit of 'kicking.' it was due to this that yermolaï's right cheek was permanently swollen to a larger size than the left. how he ever succeeded in hitting anything with this gun, it would take a shrewd man to discover--but he did. he had too a setter-dog, by name valetka, a most extraordinary creature. yermolaï never fed him. 'me feed a dog!' he reasoned; 'why, a dog's a clever beast; he finds a living for himself.' and certainly, though valetka's extreme thinness was a shock even to an indifferent observer, he still lived and had a long life; and in spite of his pitiable position he was not even once lost, and never showed an inclination to desert his master. once indeed, in his youth, he had absented himself for two days, on courting bent, but this folly was soon over with him. valetka's most noticeable peculiarity was his impenetrable indifference to everything in the world.... if it were not a dog i was speaking of, i should have called him 'disillusioned.' he usually sat with his cropped tail curled up under him, scowling and twitching at times, and he never smiled. (it is well known that dogs can smile, and smile very sweetly.) he was exceedingly ugly; and the idle house-serfs never lost an opportunity of jeering cruelly at his appearance; but all these jeers, and even blows, valetka bore with astonishing indifference. he was a source of special delight to the cooks, who would all leave their work at once and give him chase with shouts and abuse, whenever, through a weakness not confined to dogs, he thrust his hungry nose through the half-open door of the kitchen, tempting with its warmth and appetising smells. he distinguished himself by untiring energy in the chase, and had a good scent; but if he chanced to overtake a slightly wounded hare, he devoured it with relish to the last bone, somewhere in the cool shade under the green bushes, at a respectful distance from yermolaï, who was abusing him in every known and unknown dialect. yermolaï belonged to one of my neighbours, a landowner of the old style. landowners of the old style don't care for game, and prefer the domestic fowl. only on extraordinary occasions, such as birthdays, namedays, and elections, the cooks of the old-fashioned landowners set to work to prepare some long-beaked birds, and, falling into the state of frenzy peculiar to russians when they don't quite know what to do, they concoct such marvellous sauces for them that the guests examine the proffered dishes curiously and attentively, but rarely make up their minds to try them. yermolaï was under orders to provide his master's kitchen with two brace of grouse and partridges once a month. but he might live where and how he pleased. they had given him up as a man of no use for work of any kind--'bone lazy,' as the expression is among us in orel. powder and shot, of course, they did not provide him, following precisely the same principle in virtue of which he did not feed his dog. yermolaï was a very strange kind of man; heedless as a bird, rather fond of talking, awkward and vacant-looking; he was excessively fond of drink, and never could sit still long; in walking he shambled along, and rolled from side to side; and yet he got over fifty miles in the day with his rolling, shambling gait. he exposed himself to the most varied adventures: spent the night in the marshes, in trees, on roofs, or under bridges; more than once he had got shut up in lofts, cellars, or barns; he sometimes lost his gun, his dog, his most indispensable garments; got long and severe thrashings; but he always returned home, after a little while, in his clothes, and with his gun and his dog. one could not call him a cheerful man, though one almost always found him in an even frame of mind; he was looked on generally as an eccentric. yermolaï liked a little chat with a good companion, especially over a glass, but he would not stop long; he would get up and go. 'but where the devil are you going? it's dark out of doors.' 'to tchaplino.' 'but what's taking you to tchaplino, ten miles away?' 'i am going to stay the night at sophron's there.' 'but stay the night here.' 'no, i can't.' and yermolaï, with his valetka, would go off into the dark night, through woods and water-courses, and the peasant sophron very likely did not let him into his place, and even, i am afraid, gave him a blow to teach him 'not to disturb honest folks.' but none could compare with yermolaï in skill in deep-water fishing in spring-time, in catching crayfish with his hands, in tracking game by scent, in snaring quails, in training hawks, in capturing the nightingales who had the greatest variety of notes. ... one thing he could not do, train a dog; he had not patience enough. he had a wife too. he went to see her once a week. she lived in a wretched, tumble-down little hut, and led a hand-to-mouth existence, never knowing overnight whether she would have food to eat on the morrow; and in every way her lot was a pitiful one. yermolaï, who seemed such a careless and easy-going fellow, treated his wife with cruel harshness; in his own house he assumed a stern, and menacing manner; and his poor wife did everything she could to please him, trembled when he looked at her, and spent her last farthing to buy him vodka; and when he stretched himself majestically on the stove and fell into an heroic sleep, she obsequiously covered him with a sheepskin. i happened myself more than once to catch an involuntary look in him of a kind of savage ferocity; i did not like the expression of his face when he finished off a wounded bird with his teeth. but yermolaï never remained more than a day at home, and away from home he was once more the same 'yermolka' (i.e. the shooting-cap), as he was called for a hundred miles round, and as he sometimes called himself. the lowest house-serf was conscious of being superior to this vagabond--and perhaps this was precisely why they treated him with friendliness; the peasants at first amused themselves by chasing him and driving him like a hare over the open country, but afterwards they left him in god's hands, and when once they recognised him as 'queer,' they no longer tormented him, and even gave him bread and entered into talk with him.... this was the man i took as my huntsman, and with him i went stand-shooting to a great birch-wood on the banks of the ista. many russian rivers, like the volga, have one bank rugged and precipitous, the other bounded by level meadows; and so it is with the ista. this small river winds extremely capriciously, coils like a snake, and does not keep a straight course for half-a-mile together; in some places, from the top of a sharp declivity, one can see the river for ten miles, with its dykes, its pools and mills, and the gardens on its banks, shut in with willows and thick flower-gardens. there are fish in the ista in endless numbers, especially roaches (the peasants take them in hot weather from under the bushes with their hands); little sand-pipers flutter whistling along the stony banks, which are streaked with cold clear streams; wild ducks dive in the middle of the pools, and look round warily; in the coves under the overhanging cliffs herons stand out in the shade.... we stood in ambush nearly an hour, killed two brace of wood snipe, and, as we wanted to try our luck again at sunrise (stand-shooting can be done as well in the early morning), we resolved to spend the night at the nearest mill. we came out of the wood, and went down the slope. the dark-blue waters of the river ran below; the air was thick with the mists of night. we knocked at the gate. the dogs began barking in the yard. 'who is there?' asked a hoarse and sleepy voice. 'we are sportsmen; let us stay the night.' there was no reply. 'we will pay.' 'i will go and tell the master--sh! curse the dogs! go to the devil with you!' we listened as the workman went into the cottage; he soon came back to the gate. 'no,' he said; 'the master tells me not to let you in.' 'why not?' 'he is afraid; you are sportsmen; you might set the mill on fire; you've firearms with you, to be sure.' 'but what nonsense!' 'we had our mill on fire like that last year; some fish-dealers stayed the night, and they managed to set it on fire somehow.' 'but, my good friend, we can't sleep in the open air!' 'that's your business.' he went away, his boots clacking as he walked. yermolaï promised him various unpleasant things in the future. 'let us go to the village,' he brought out at last, with a sigh. but it was two miles to the village. 'let us stay the night here,' i said, 'in the open air--the night is warm; the miller will let us have some straw if we pay for it.' yermolaï agreed without discussion. we began again to knock. 'well, what do you want?' the workman's voice was heard again; 'i've told you we can't.' we explained to him what we wanted. he went to consult the master of the house, and returned with him. the little side gate creaked. the miller appeared, a tall, fat-faced man with a bull-neck, round-bellied and corpulent. he agreed to my proposal. a hundred paces from the mill there was a little outhouse open to the air on all sides. they carried straw and hay there for us; the workman set a samovar down on the grass near the river, and, squatting on his heels, began to blow vigorously into the pipe of it. the embers glowed, and threw a bright light on his young face. the miller ran to wake his wife, and suggested at last that i myself should sleep in the cottage; but i preferred to remain in the open air. the miller's wife brought us milk, eggs, potatoes and bread. soon the samovar boiled, and we began drinking tea. a mist had risen from the river; there was no wind; from all round came the cry of the corn-crake, and faint sounds from the mill-wheels of drops that dripped from the paddles and of water gurgling through the bars of the lock. we built a small fire on the ground. while yermolaï was baking the potatoes in the embers, i had time to fall into a doze. i was waked by a discreetly-subdued whispering near me. i lifted my head; before the fire, on a tub turned upside down, the miller's wife sat talking to my huntsman. by her dress, her movements, and her manner of speaking, i had already recognised that she had been in domestic service, and was neither peasant nor city-bred; but now for the first time i got a clear view of her features. she looked about thirty; her thin, pale face still showed the traces of remarkable beauty; what particularly charmed me was her eyes, large and mournful in expression. she was leaning her elbows on her knees, and had her face in her hands. yermolaï was sitting with his back to me, and thrusting sticks into the fire. 'they've the cattle-plague again at zheltonhiny,' the miller's wife was saying; 'father ivan's two cows are dead--lord have mercy on them!' 'and how are your pigs doing?' asked yermolaï, after a brief pause. 'they're alive.' 'you ought to make me a present of a sucking pig.' the miller's wife was silent for a while, then she sighed. 'who is it you're with?' she asked. 'a gentleman from kostomarovo.' yermolaï threw a few pine twigs on the fire; they all caught fire at once, and a thick white smoke came puffing into his face. 'why didn't your husband let us into the cottage?' 'he's afraid.' 'afraid! the fat old tub! arina timofyevna, my darling, bring me a little glass of spirits.' the miller's wife rose and vanished into the darkness. yermolaï began to sing in an undertone-- 'when i went to see my sweetheart, i wore out all my shoes.' arina returned with a small flask and a glass. yermolaï got up, crossed himself, and drank it off at a draught. 'good!' was his comment. the miller's wife sat down again on the tub. 'well, arina timofyevna, are you still ill?' 'yes.' 'what is it?' 'my cough troubles me at night.' 'the gentleman's asleep, it seems,' observed yermolaï after a short silence. 'don't go to a doctor, arina; it will be worse if you do.' 'well, i am not going.' 'but come and pay me a visit.' arina hung down her head dejectedly. 'i will drive my wife out for the occasion,' continued yermolaï 'upon my word, i will.' 'you had better wake the gentleman, yermolaï petrovitch; you see, the potatoes are done.' 'oh, let him snore,' observed my faithful servant indifferently; 'he's tired with walking, so he sleeps sound.' i turned over in the hay. yermolaï got up and came to me. 'the potatoes are ready; will you come and eat them?' i came out of the outhouse; the miller's wife got up from the tub and was going away. i addressed her. 'have you kept this mill long?' 'it's two years since i came on trinity day.' 'and where does your husband come from?' arina had not caught my question. 'where's your husband from?' repeated yermolaï, raising his voice. 'from byelev. he's a byelev townsman.' 'and are you too from byelev?' 'no, i'm a serf; i was a serf.' 'whose?' 'zvyerkoff was my master. now i am free.' 'what zvyerkoff?' 'alexandr selitch.' 'weren't you his wife's lady's maid?' 'how did you know? yes.' i looked at arina with redoubled curiosity and sympathy. 'i know your master,' i continued. 'do you?' she replied in a low voice, and her head drooped. i must tell the reader why i looked with such sympathy at arina. during my stay at petersburg i had become by chance acquainted with mr. zvyerkoff. he had a rather influential position, and was reputed a man of sense and education. he had a wife, fat, sentimental, lachrymose and spiteful--a vulgar and disagreeable creature; he had too a son, the very type of the young swell of to-day, pampered and stupid. the exterior of mr. zvyerkoff himself did not prepossess one in his favour; his little mouse-like eyes peeped slyly out of a broad, almost square, face; he had a large, prominent nose, with distended nostrils; his close-cropped grey hair stood up like a brush above his scowling brow; his thin lips were for ever twitching and smiling mawkishly. mr. zvyerkoff's favourite position was standing with his legs wide apart and his fat hands in his trouser pockets. once i happened somehow to be driving alone with mr. zvyerkoff in a coach out of town. we fell into conversation. as a man of experience and of judgment, mr. zvyerkoff began to try to set me in 'the path of truth.' 'allow me to observe to you,' he drawled at last; 'all you young people criticise and form judgments on everything at random; you have little knowledge of your own country; russia, young gentlemen, is an unknown land to you; that's where it is!... you are for ever reading german. for instance, now you say this and that and the other about anything; for instance, about the house-serfs.... very fine; i don't dispute it's all very fine; but you don't know them; you don't know the kind of people they are.' (mr. zvyerkoff blew his nose loudly and took a pinch of snuff.) 'allow me to tell you as an illustration one little anecdote; it may perhaps interest you.' (mr. zvyerkoff cleared his throat.) 'you know, doubtless, what my wife is; it would be difficult, i should imagine, to find a more kind-hearted woman, you will agree. for her waiting-maids, existence is simply a perfect paradise, and no mistake about it.... but my wife has made it a rule never to keep married lady's maids. certainly it would not do; children come--and one thing and the other--and how is a lady's maid to look after her mistress as she ought, to fit in with her ways; she is no longer able to do it; her mind is in other things. one must look at things through human nature. well, we were driving once through our village, it must be--let me be correct--yes, fifteen years ago. we saw, at the bailiff's, a young girl, his daughter, very pretty indeed; something even--you know--something attractive in her manners. and my wife said to me: "kokó"--you understand, of course, that is her pet name for me--"let us take this girl to petersburg; i like her, kokó...." i said, "let us take her, by all means." the bailiff, of course, was at our feet; he could not have expected such good fortune, you can imagine.... well, the girl of course cried violently. of course, it was hard for her at first; the parental home ... in fact ... there was nothing surprising in that. however, she soon got used to us: at first we put her in the maidservants' room; they trained her, of course. and what do you think? the girl made wonderful progress; my wife became simply devoted to her, promoted her at last above the rest to wait on herself ... observe.... and one must do her the justice to say, my wife had never such a maid, absolutely never; attentive, modest, and obedient--simply all that could be desired. but my wife, i must confess, spoilt her too much; she dressed her well, fed her from our own table, gave her tea to drink, and so on, as you can imagine! so she waited on my wife like this for ten years. suddenly, one fine morning, picture to yourself, arina--her name was arina--rushes unannounced into my study, and flops down at my feet. that's a thing, i tell you plainly, i can't endure. no human being ought ever to lose sight of their personal dignity. am i not right? what do you say? "your honour, alexandr selitch, i beseech a favour of you." "what favour?" "let me be married." i must confess i was taken aback. "but you know, you stupid, your mistress has no other lady's maid?" "i will wait on mistress as before." "nonsense! nonsense! your mistress can't endure married lady's maids," "malanya could take my place." "pray don't argue." "i obey your will." i must confess it was quite a shock, i assure you, i am like that; nothing wounds me so--nothing, i venture to say, wounds me so deeply as ingratitude. i need not tell you--you know what my wife is; an angel upon earth, goodness inexhaustible. one would fancy even the worst of men would be ashamed to hurt her. well, i got rid of arina. i thought, perhaps, she would come to her senses; i was unwilling, do you know, to believe in wicked, black ingratitude in anyone. what do you think? within six months she thought fit to come to me again with the same request. i felt revolted. but imagine my amazement when, some time later, my wife comes to me in tears, so agitated that i felt positively alarmed. "what has happened?" "arina.... you understand ... i am ashamed to tell it." ... "impossible! ... who is the man?" "petrushka, the footman." my indignation broke out then. i am like that. i don't like half measures! petrushka was not to blame. we might flog him, but in my opinion he was not to blame. arina.... well, well, well! what more's to be said? i gave orders, of course, that her hair should be cut off, she should be dressed in sackcloth, and sent into the country. my wife was deprived of an excellent lady's maid; but there was no help for it: immorality cannot be tolerated in a household in any case. better to cut off the infected member at once. there, there! now you can judge the thing for yourself--you know that my wife is ... yes, yes, yes! indeed!... an angel! she had grown attached to arina, and arina knew it, and had the face to ... eh? no, tell me ... eh? and what's the use of talking about it. any way, there was no help for it. i, indeed--i, in particular, felt hurt, felt wounded for a long time by the ingratitude of this girl. whatever you say--it's no good to look for feeling, for heart, in these people! you may feed the wolf as you will; he has always a hankering for the woods. education, by all means! but i only wanted to give you an example....' and mr. zvyerkoff, without finishing his sentence, turned away his head, and, wrapping himself more closely into his cloak, manfully repressed his involuntary emotion. the reader now probably understands why i looked with sympathetic interest at arina. 'have you long been married to the miller?' i asked her at last. 'two years.' 'how was it? did your master allow it?' 'they bought my freedom.' 'who?' 'savely alexyevitch.' 'who is that?' 'my husband.' (yermolaï smiled to himself.) 'has my master perhaps spoken to you of me?' added arina, after a brief silence. i did not know what reply to make to her question. 'arina!' cried the miller from a distance. she got up and walked away. 'is her husband a good fellow?' i asked yermolaï. 'so-so.' 'have they any children?' 'there was one, but it died.' 'how was it? did the miller take a liking to her? did he give much to buy her freedom?' 'i don't know. she can read and write; in their business it's of use. i suppose he liked her.' 'and have you known her long?' 'yes. i used to go to her master's. their house isn't far from here.' 'and do you know the footman petrushka?' 'piotr vassilyevitch? of course, i knew him.' 'where is he now?' 'he was sent for a soldier.' we were silent for a while. 'she doesn't seem well?' i asked yermolaï at last. 'i should think not! to-morrow, i say, we shall have good sport. a little sleep now would do us no harm.' a flock of wild ducks swept whizzing over our heads, and we heard them drop down into the river not far from us. it was now quite dark, and it began to be cold; in the thicket sounded the melodious notes of a nightingale. we buried ourselves in the hay and fell asleep. iii raspberry spring at the beginning of august the heat often becomes insupportable. at that season, from twelve to three o'clock, the most determined and ardent sportsman is not able to hunt, and the most devoted dog begins to 'clean his master's spurs,' that is, to follow at his heels, his eyes painfully blinking, and his tongue hanging out to an exaggerated length; and in response to his master's reproaches he humbly wags his tail and shows his confusion in his face; but he does not run forward. i happened to be out hunting on exactly such a day. i had long been fighting against the temptation to lie down somewhere in the shade, at least for a moment; for a long time my indefatigable dog went on running about in the bushes, though he clearly did not himself expect much good from his feverish activity. the stifling heat compelled me at last to begin to think of husbanding our energies and strength. i managed to reach the little river ista, which is already known to my indulgent readers, descended the steep bank, and walked along the damp, yellow sand in the direction of the spring, known to the whole neighbourhood as raspberry spring. this spring gushes out of a cleft in the bank, which widens out by degrees into a small but deep creek, and, twenty paces beyond it, falls with a merry babbling sound into the river; the short velvety grass is green about the source: the sun's rays scarcely ever reach its cold, silvery water. i came as far as the spring; a cup of birch-wood lay on the grass, left by a passing peasant for the public benefit. i quenched my thirst, lay down in the shade, and looked round. in the cave, which had been formed by the flowing of the stream into the river, and hence marked for ever with the trace of ripples, two old men were sitting with their backs to me. one, a rather stout and tall man in a neat dark-green coat and lined cap, was fishing; the other was thin and little; he wore a patched fustian coat and no cap; he held a little pot full of worms on his knees, and sometimes lifted his hand up to his grizzled little head, as though he wanted to protect it from the sun. i looked at him more attentively, and recognised in him styopushka of shumihino. i must ask the reader's leave to present this man to him. a few miles from my place there is a large village called shumihino, with a stone church, erected in the name of st. kosmo and st. damian. facing this church there had once stood a large and stately manor-house, surrounded by various outhouses, offices, workshops, stables and coach-houses, baths and temporary kitchens, wings for visitors and for bailiffs, conservatories, swings for the people, and other more or less useful edifices. a family of rich landowners lived in this manor-house, and all went well with them, till suddenly one morning all this prosperity was burnt to ashes. the owners removed to another home; the place was deserted. the blackened site of the immense house was transformed into a kitchen-garden, cumbered up in parts by piles of bricks, the remains of the old foundations. a little hut had been hurriedly put together out of the beams that had escaped the fire; it was roofed with timber bought ten years before for the construction of a pavilion in the gothic style; and the gardener, mitrofan, with his wife axinya and their seven children, was installed in it. mitrofan received orders to send greens and garden-stuff for the master's table, a hundred and fifty miles away; axinya was put in charge of a tyrolese cow, which had been bought for a high price in moscow, but had not given a drop of milk since its acquisition; a crested smoke-coloured drake too had been left in her hands, the solitary 'seignorial' bird; for the children, in consideration of their tender age, no special duties had been provided, a fact, however, which had not hindered them from growing up utterly lazy. it happened to me on two occasions to stay the night at this gardener's, and when i passed by i used to get cucumbers from him, which, for some unknown reason, were even in summer peculiar for their size, their poor, watery flavour, and their thick yellow skin. it was there i first saw styopushka. except mitrofan and his family, and the old deaf churchwarden gerasim, kept out of charity in a little room at the one-eyed soldier's widow's, not one man among the house-serfs had remained at shumihino; for styopushka, whom i intend to introduce to the reader, could not be classified under the special order of house-serfs, and hardly under the genus 'man' at all. every man has some kind of position in society, and at least some ties of some sort; every house-serf receives, if not wages, at least some so-called 'ration.' styopushka had absolutely no means of subsistence of any kind; had no relationship to anyone; no one knew of his existence. this man had not even a past; there was no story told of him; he had probably never been enrolled on a census-revision. there were vague rumours that he had once belonged to someone as a valet; but who he was, where he came from, who was his father, and how he had come to be one of the shumihino people; in what way he had come by the fustian coat he had worn from immemorial times; where he lived and what he lived on--on all these questions no one had the least idea; and, to tell the truth, no one took any interest in the subject. grandfather trofimitch, who knew all the pedigrees of all the house-serfs in the direct line to the fourth generation, had once indeed been known to say that he remembered that styopushka was related to a turkish woman whom the late master, the brigadier alexy romanitch had been pleased to bring home from a campaign in the baggage waggon. even on holidays, days of general money-giving and of feasting on buckwheat dumplings and vodka, after the old russian fashion--even on such days styopushka did not put in an appearance at the trestle-tables nor at the barrels; he did not make his bow nor kiss the master's hand, nor toss off to the master's health and under the master's eye a glass filled by the fat hands of the bailiff. some kind soul who passed by him might share an unfinished bit of dumpling with the poor beggar, perhaps. at easter they said 'christ is risen!' to him; but he did not pull up his greasy sleeve, and bring out of the depths of his pocket a coloured egg, to offer it, panting and blinking, to his young masters or to the mistress herself. he lived in summer in a little shed behind the chicken-house, and in winter in the ante-room of the bathhouse; in the bitter frosts he spent the night in the hayloft. the house-serfs had grown used to seeing him; sometimes they gave him a kick, but no one ever addressed a remark to him; as for him, he seems never to have opened his lips from the time of his birth. after the conflagration, this forsaken creature sought a refuge at the gardener mitrofan's. the gardener left him alone; he did not say 'live with me,' but he did not drive him away. and styopushka did not live at the gardener's; his abode was the garden. he moved and walked about quite noiselessly; he sneezed and coughed behind his hand, not without apprehension; he was for ever busy and going stealthily to and fro like an ant; and all to get food--simply food to eat. and indeed, if he had not toiled from morning till night for his living, our poor friend would certainly have died of hunger. it's a sad lot not to know in the morning what you will find to eat before night! sometimes styopushka sits under the hedge and gnaws a radish or sucks a carrot, or shreds up some dirty cabbage-stalks; or he drags a bucket of water along, for some object or other, groaning as he goes; or he lights a fire under a small pot, and throws in some little black scraps which he takes from out of the bosom of his coat; or he is hammering in his little wooden den--driving in a nail, putting up a shelf for bread. and all this he does silently, as though on the sly: before you can look round, he's in hiding again. sometimes he suddenly disappears for a couple of days; but of course no one notices his absence.... then, lo and behold! he is there again, somewhere under the hedge, stealthily kindling a fire of sticks under a kettle. he had a small face, yellowish eyes, hair coming down to his eyebrows, a sharp nose, large transparent ears, like a bat's, and a beard that looked as if it were a fortnight's growth, and never grew more nor less. this, then, was styopushka, whom i met on the bank of the ista in company with another old man. i went up to him, wished him good-day, and sat down beside him. styopushka's companion too i recognised as an acquaintance; he was a freed serf of count piotr ilitch's, one mihal savelitch, nicknamed tuman (_i.e._ fog). he lived with a consumptive bolhovsky man, who kept an inn, where i had several times stayed. young officials and other persons of leisure travelling on the orel highroad (merchants, buried in their striped rugs, have other things to do) may still see at no great distance from the large village of troitska, and almost on the highroad, an immense two-storied wooden house, completely deserted, with its roof falling in and its windows closely stuffed up. at mid-day in bright, sunny weather nothing can be imagined more melancholy than this ruin. here there once lived count piotr ilitch, a rich grandee of the olden time, renowned for his hospitality. at one time the whole province used to meet at his house, to dance and make merry to their heart's content to the deafening sound of a home-trained orchestra, and the popping of rockets and roman candles; and doubtless more than one aged lady sighs as she drives by the deserted palace of the boyar and recalls the old days and her vanished youth. the count long continued to give balls, and to walk about with an affable smile among the crowd of fawning guests; but his property, unluckily, was not enough to last his whole life. when he was entirely ruined, he set off to petersburg to try for a post for himself, and died in a room at a hotel, without having gained anything by his efforts. tuman had been a steward of his, and had received his freedom already in the count's lifetime. he was a man of about seventy, with a regular and pleasant face. he was almost continually smiling, as only men of the time of catherine ever do smile--a smile at once stately and indulgent; in speaking, he slowly opened and closed his lips, winked genially with his eyes, and spoke slightly through his nose. he blew his nose and took snuff too in a leisurely fashion, as though he were doing something serious. 'well, mihal savelitch,' i began, 'have you caught any fish?' 'here, if you will deign to look in the basket: i have caught two perch and five roaches.... show them, styopka.' styopushka stretched out the basket to me. 'how are you, styopka?' i asked him. 'oh--oh--not--not--not so badly, your honour,' answered stepan, stammering as though he had a heavy weight on his tongue. 'and is mitrofan well?' 'well--yes, yes--your honour.' the poor fellow turned away. 'but there are not many bites,' remarked tuman; 'it's so fearfully hot; the fish are all tired out under the bushes; they're asleep. put on a worm, styopka.' (styopushka took out a worm, laid it on his open hand, struck it two or three times, put it on the hook, spat on it, and gave it to tuman.) 'thanks, styopka.... and you, your honour,' he continued, turning to me, 'are pleased to be out hunting?' 'as you see.' 'ah--and is your dog there english or german?' the old man liked to show off on occasion, as though he would say, 'i, too, have lived in the world!' 'i don't know what breed it is, but it's a good dog.' 'ah! and do you go out with the hounds too?' 'yes, i have two leashes of hounds.' tuman smiled and shook his head. 'that's just it; one man is devoted to dogs, and another doesn't want them for anything. according to my simple notions, i fancy dogs should be kept rather for appearance' sake ... and all should be in style too; horses too should be in style, and huntsmen in style, as they ought to be, and all. the late count--god's grace be with him!--was never, i must own, much of a hunter; but he kept dogs, and twice a year he was pleased to go out with them. the huntsmen assembled in the courtyard, in red caftans trimmed with galloon, and blew their horns; his excellency would be pleased to come out, and his excellency's horse would be led up; his excellency would mount, and the chief huntsman puts his feet in the stirrups, takes his hat off, and puts the reins in his hat to offer them to his excellency. his excellency is pleased to click his whip like this, and the huntsmen give a shout, and off they go out of the gate away. a huntsman rides behind the count, and holds in a silken leash two of the master's favourite dogs, and looks after them well, you may fancy.... and he, too, this huntsman, sits up high, on a cossack saddle: such a red-cheeked fellow he was, and rolled his eyes like this.... and there were guests too, you may be sure, on such occasions, and entertainment, and ceremonies observed.... ah, he's got away, the asiatic!' he interrupted himself suddenly, drawing in his line. 'they say the count used to live pretty freely in his day?' i asked. the old man spat on the worm and lowered the line in again. 'he was a great gentleman, as is well-known. at times the persons of the first rank, one may say, at petersburg, used to visit him. with coloured ribbons on their breasts they used to sit down to table and eat. well, he knew how to entertain them. he called me sometimes. "tuman," says he, "i want by to-morrow some live sturgeon; see there are some, do you hear?" "yes, your excellency." embroidered coats, wigs, canes, perfumes, _eau de cologne_ of the best sort, snuff-boxes, huge pictures: he would order them all from paris itself! when he gave a banquet, god almighty, lord of my being! there were fireworks, and carriages driving up! they even fired off the cannon. the orchestra alone consisted of forty men. he kept a german as conductor of the band, but the german gave himself dreadful airs; he wanted to eat at the same table as the masters; so his excellency gave orders to get rid of him! "my musicians," says he, "can do their work even without a conductor." of course he was master. then they would fall to dancing, and dance till morning, especially at the écossaise-matrador. ... ah--ah--there's one caught!' (the old man drew a small perch out of the water.) 'here you are, styopka! the master was all a master should be,' continued the old man, dropping his line in again, 'and he had a kind heart too. he would give you a blow at times, and before you could look round, he'd forgotten it already. there was only one thing: he kept mistresses. ugh, those mistresses! god forgive them! they were the ruin of him too; and yet, you know, he took them most generally from a low station. you would fancy they would not want much? not a bit--they must have everything of the most expensive in all europe! one may say, "why shouldn't he live as he likes; it's the master's business" ... but there was no need to ruin himself. there was one especially; akulina was her name. she is dead now; god rest her soul! the daughter of the watchman at sitoia; and such a vixen! she would slap the count's face sometimes. she simply bewitched him. my nephew she sent for a soldier; he spilt some chocolate on a new dress of hers ... and he wasn't the only one she served so. ah, well, those were good times, though!' added the old man with a deep sigh. his head drooped forward and he was silent. 'your master, i see, was severe, then?' i began after a brief silence. 'that was the fashion then, your honour,' he replied, shaking his head. 'that sort of thing is not done now?' i observed, not taking my eyes off him. he gave me a look askance. 'now, surely it's better,' he muttered, and let out his line further. we were sitting in the shade; but even in the shade it was stifling. the sultry atmosphere was faint and heavy; one lifted one's burning face uneasily, seeking a breath of wind; but there was no wind. the sun beat down from blue and darkening skies; right opposite us, on the other bank, was a yellow field of oats, overgrown here and there with wormwood; not one ear of the oats quivered. a little lower down a peasant's horse stood in the river up to its knees, and slowly shook its wet tail; from time to time, under an overhanging bush, a large fish shot up, bringing bubbles to the surface, and gently sank down to the bottom, leaving a slight ripple behind it. the grasshoppers chirped in the scorched grass; the quail's cry sounded languid and reluctant; hawks sailed smoothly over the meadows, often resting in the same spot, rapidly fluttering their wings and opening their tails into a fan. we sat motionless, overpowered with the heat. suddenly there was a sound behind us in the creek; someone came down to the spring. i looked round, and saw a peasant of about fifty, covered with dust, in a smock, and wearing bast slippers; he carried a wickerwork pannier and a cloak on his shoulders. he went down to the spring, drank thirstily, and got up. 'ah, vlass!' cried tuman, staring at him; 'good health to you, friend! where has god sent you from?' 'good health to you, mihal savelitch!' said the peasant, coming nearer to us; 'from a long way off.' 'where have you been?' tuman asked him. 'i have been to moscow, to my master.' 'what for?' 'i went to ask him a favour.' 'what about?' 'oh, to lessen my rent, or to let me work it out in labour, or to put me on another piece of land, or something.... my son is dead--so i can't manage it now alone.' 'your son is dead?' 'he is dead. my son,' added the peasant, after a pause, 'lived in moscow as a cabman; he paid, i must confess, rent for me.' 'then are you now paying rent?' 'yes, we pay rent.' 'what did your master say?' 'what did the master say! he drove me away! says he, "how dare you come straight to me; there is a bailiff for such things. you ought first," says he, "to apply to the bailiff ... and where am i to put you on other land? you first," says he, "bring the debt you owe." he was angry altogether.' 'what then--did you come back?' 'i came back. i wanted to find out if my son had not left any goods of his own, but i couldn't get a straight answer. i say to his employer, "i am philip's father"; and he says, "what do i know about that? and your son," says he, "left nothing; he was even in debt to me." so i came away.' the peasant related all this with a smile, as though he were speaking of someone else; but tears were starting into his small, screwed-up eyes, and his lips were quivering. 'well, are you going home then now?' 'where can i go? of course i'm going home. my wife, i suppose, is pretty well starved by now.' 'you should--then,' styopushka said suddenly. he grew confused, was silent, and began to rummage in the worm-pot. 'and shall you go to the bailiff?' continued tuman, looking with some amazement at styopka. 'what should i go to him for?--i'm in arrears as it is. my son was ill for a year before his death; he could not pay even his own rent. but it can't hurt me; they can get nothing from me.... yes, my friend, you can be as cunning as you please--i'm cleaned out!' (the peasant began to laugh.) 'kintlyan semenitch'll have to be clever if--' vlass laughed again. 'oh! things are in a sad way, brother vlass,' tuman ejaculated deliberately. 'sad! no!' (vlass's voice broke.) 'how hot it is!' he went on, wiping his face with his sleeve. 'who is your master?' i asked him. 'count valerian petrovitch.' 'the son of piotr ilitch?' 'the son of piotr ilitch,' replied tuman. 'piotr hitch gave him vlass's village in his lifetime.' 'is he well?' 'he is well, thank god!' replied vlass. 'he has grown so red, and his face looks as though it were padded.' 'you see, your honour,' continued tuman, turning to me, 'it would be very well near moscow, but it's a different matter to pay rent here.' 'and what is the rent for you altogether?' 'ninety-five roubles,' muttered vlass. 'there, you see; and it's the least bit of land; all there is is the master's forest.' 'and that, they say, they have sold,' observed the peasant. 'there, you see. styopka, give me a worm. why, styopka, are you asleep--eh?' styopushka started. the peasant sat down by us. we sank into silence again. on the other bank someone was singing a song--but such a mournful one. our poor vlass grew deeply dejected. half-an-hour later we parted. iv the district doctor one day in autumn on my way back from a remote part of the country i caught cold and fell ill. fortunately the fever attacked me in the district town at the inn; i sent for the doctor. in half-an-hour the district doctor appeared, a thin, dark-haired man of middle height. he prescribed me the usual sudorific, ordered a mustard-plaster to be put on, very deftly slid a five-rouble note up his sleeve, coughing drily and looking away as he did so, and then was getting up to go home, but somehow fell into talk and remained. i was exhausted with feverishness; i foresaw a sleepless night, and was glad of a little chat with a pleasant companion. tea was served. my doctor began to converse freely. he was a sensible fellow, and expressed himself with vigour and some humour. queer things happen in the world: you may live a long while with some people, and be on friendly terms with them, and never once speak openly with them from your soul; with others you have scarcely time to get acquainted, and all at once you are pouring out to him--or he to you--all your secrets, as though you were at confession. i don't know how i gained the confidence of my new friend--any way, with nothing to lead up to it, he told me a rather curious incident; and here i will report his tale for the information of the indulgent reader. i will try to tell it in the doctor's own words. 'you don't happen to know,' he began in a weak and quavering voice (the common result of the use of unmixed berezov snuff); 'you don't happen to know the judge here, mylov, pavel lukitch?... you don't know him?... well, it's all the same.' (he cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes.) 'well, you see, the thing happened, to tell you exactly without mistake, in lent, at the very time of the thaws. i was sitting at his house--our judge's, you know--playing preference. our judge is a good fellow, and fond of playing preference. suddenly' (the doctor made frequent use of this word, suddenly) 'they tell me, "there's a servant asking for you." i say, "what does he want?" they say, "he has brought a note--it must be from a patient." "give me the note," i say. so it is from a patient--well and good--you understand--it's our bread and butter. ... but this is how it was: a lady, a widow, writes to me; she says, "my daughter is dying. come, for god's sake!" she says; "and the horses have been sent for you." ... well, that's all right. but she was twenty miles from the town, and it was midnight out of doors, and the roads in such a state, my word! and as she was poor herself, one could not expect more than two silver roubles, and even that problematic; and perhaps it might only be a matter of a roll of linen and a sack of oatmeal in payment. however, duty, you know, before everything: a fellow-creature may be dying. i hand over my cards at once to kalliopin, the member of the provincial commission, and return home. i look; a wretched little trap was standing at the steps, with peasant's horses, fat--too fat--and their coat as shaggy as felt; and the coachman sitting with his cap off out of respect. well, i think to myself, "it's clear, my friend, these patients aren't rolling in riches." ... you smile; but i tell you, a poor man like me has to take everything into consideration.... if the coachman sits like a prince, and doesn't touch his cap, and even sneers at you behind his beard, and flicks his whip--then you may bet on six roubles. but this case, i saw, had a very different air. however, i think there's no help for it; duty before everything. i snatch up the most necessary drugs, and set off. will you believe it? i only just managed to get there at all. the road was infernal: streams, snow, watercourses, and the dyke had suddenly burst there--that was the worst of it! however, i arrived at last. it was a little thatched house. there was a light in the windows; that meant they expected me. i was met by an old lady, very venerable, in a cap. "save her!" she says; "she is dying." i say, "pray don't distress yourself--where is the invalid?" "come this way." i see a clean little room, a lamp in the corner; on the bed a girl of twenty, unconscious. she was in a burning heat, and breathing heavily--it was fever. there were two other girls, her sisters, scared and in tears. "yesterday," they tell me, "she was perfectly well and had a good appetite; this morning she complained of her head, and this evening, suddenly, you see, like this." i say again: "pray don't be uneasy." it's a doctor's duty, you know--and i went up to her and bled her, told them to put on a mustard-plaster, and prescribed a mixture. meantime i looked at her; i looked at her, you know--there, by god! i had never seen such a face!--she was a beauty, in a word! i felt quite shaken with pity. such lovely features; such eyes!... but, thank god! she became easier; she fell into a perspiration, seemed to come to her senses, looked round, smiled, and passed her hand over her face.... her sisters bent over her. they ask, "how are you?" "all right," she says, and turns away. i looked at her; she had fallen asleep. "well," i say, "now the patient should be left alone." so we all went out on tiptoe; only a maid remained, in case she was wanted. in the parlour there was a samovar standing on the table, and a bottle of rum; in our profession one can't get on without it. they gave me tea; asked me to stop the night. ... i consented: where could i go, indeed, at that time of night? the old lady kept groaning. "what is it?" i say; "she will live; don't worry yourself; you had better take a little rest yourself; it is about two o'clock." "but will you send to wake me if anything happens?" "yes, yes." the old lady went away, and the girls too went to their own room; they made up a bed for me in the parlour. well, i went to bed--but i could not get to sleep, for a wonder! for in reality i was very tired. i could not get my patient out of my head. at last i could not put up with it any longer; i got up suddenly; i think to myself, "i will go and see how the patient is getting on." her bedroom was next to the parlour. well, i got up, and gently opened the door--how my heart beat! i looked in: the servant was asleep, her mouth wide open, and even snoring, the wretch! but the patient lay with her face towards me, and her arms flung wide apart, poor girl! i went up to her ... when suddenly she opened her eyes and stared at me! "who is it? who is it?" i was in confusion. "don't be alarmed, madam," i say; "i am the doctor; i have come to see how you feel." "you the doctor?" "yes, the doctor; your mother sent for me from the town; we have bled you, madam; now pray go to sleep, and in a day or two, please god! we will set you on your feet again." "ah, yes, yes, doctor, don't let me die.... please, please." "why do you talk like that? god bless you!" she is in a fever again, i think to myself; i felt her pulse; yes, she was feverish. she looked at me, and then took me by the hand. "i will tell you why i don't want to die; i will tell you.... now we are alone; and only, please don't you ... not to anyone ... listen...." i bent down; she moved her lips quite to my ear; she touched my cheek with her hair--i confess my head went round--and began to whisper.... i could make out nothing of it.... ah, she was delirious!... she whispered and whispered, but so quickly, and as if it were not in russian; at last she finished, and shivering dropped her head on the pillow, and threatened me with her finger: "remember, doctor, to no one." i calmed her somehow, gave her something to drink, waked the servant, and went away.' at this point the doctor again took snuff with exasperated energy, and for a moment seemed stupefied by its effects. 'however,' he continued, 'the next day, contrary to my expectations, the patient was no better. i thought and thought, and suddenly decided to remain there, even though my other patients were expecting me.... and you know one can't afford to disregard that; one's practice suffers if one does. but, in the first place, the patient was really in danger; and secondly, to tell the truth, i felt strongly drawn to her. besides, i liked the whole family. though they were really badly off, they were singularly, i may say, cultivated people.... their father had been a learned man, an author; he died, of course, in poverty, but he had managed before he died to give his children an excellent education; he left a lot of books too. either because i looked after the invalid very carefully, or for some other reason; any way, i can venture to say all the household loved me as if i were one of the family.... meantime the roads were in a worse state than ever; all communications, so to say, were cut off completely; even medicine could with difficulty be got from the town.... the sick girl was not getting better. ... day after day, and day after day ... but ... here....' (the doctor made a brief pause.) 'i declare i don't know how to tell you.' ... (he again took snuff, coughed, and swallowed a little tea.) 'i will tell you without beating about the bush. my patient ... how should i say?... well, she had fallen in love with me ... or, no, it was not that she was in love ... however ... really, how should one say?' (the doctor looked down and grew red.) 'no,' he went on quickly, 'in love, indeed! a man should not over-estimate himself. she was an educated girl, clever and well-read, and i had even forgotten my latin, one may say, completely. as to appearance' (the doctor looked himself over with a smile) 'i am nothing to boast of there either. but god almighty did not make me a fool; i don't take black for white; i know a thing or two; i could see very clearly, for instance, that alexandra andreevna--that was her name--did not feel love for me, but had a friendly, so to say, inclination--a respect or something for me. though she herself perhaps mistook this sentiment, any way this was her attitude; you may form your own judgment of it. but,' added the doctor, who had brought out all these disconnected sentences without taking breath, and with obvious embarrassment, 'i seem to be wandering rather--you won't understand anything like this.... there, with your leave, i will relate it all in order.' he drank off a glass of tea, and began in a calmer voice. 'well, then. my patient kept getting worse and worse. you are not a doctor, my good sir; you cannot understand what passes in a poor fellow's heart, especially at first, when he begins to suspect that the disease is getting the upper hand of him. what becomes of his belief in himself? you suddenly grow so timid; it's indescribable. you fancy then that you have forgotten everything you knew, and that the patient has no faith in you, and that other people begin to notice how distracted you are, and tell you the symptoms with reluctance; that they are looking at you suspiciously, whispering.... ah! it's horrid! there must be a remedy, you think, for this disease, if one could find it. isn't this it? you try--no, that's not it! you don't allow the medicine the necessary time to do good.... you clutch at one thing, then at another. sometimes you take up a book of medical prescriptions--here it is, you think! sometimes, by jove, you pick one out by chance, thinking to leave it to fate.... but meantime a fellow-creature's dying, and another doctor would have saved him. "we must have a consultation," you say; "i will not take the responsibility on myself." and what a fool you look at such times! well, in time you learn to bear it; it's nothing to you. a man has died--but it's not your fault; you treated him by the rules. but what's still more torture to you is to see blind faith in you, and to feel yourself that you are not able to be of use. well, it was just this blind faith that the whole of alexandra andreevna's family had in me; they had forgotten to think that their daughter was in danger. i, too, on my side assure them that it's nothing, but meantime my heart sinks into my boots. to add to our troubles, the roads were in such a state that the coachman was gone for whole days together to get medicine. and i never left the patient's room; i could not tear myself away; i tell her amusing stories, you know, and play cards with her. i watch by her side at night. the old mother thanks me with tears in her eyes; but i think to myself, "i don't deserve your gratitude." i frankly confess to you--there is no object in concealing it now--i was in love with my patient. and alexandra andreevna had grown fond of me; she would not sometimes let anyone be in her room but me. she began to talk to me, to ask me questions; where i had studied, how i lived, who are my people, whom i go to see. i feel that she ought not to talk; but to forbid her to--to forbid her resolutely, you know--i could not. sometimes i held my head in my hands, and asked myself, "what are you doing, villain?" ... and she would take my hand and hold it, give me a long, long look, and turn away, sigh, and say, "how good you are!" her hands were so feverish, her eyes so large and languid.... "yes," she says, "you are a good, kind man; you are not like our neighbours.... no, you are not like that. ... why did i not know you till now!" "alexandra andreevna, calm yourself," i say.... "i feel, believe me, i don't know how i have gained ... but there, calm yourself.... all will be right; you will be well again." and meanwhile i must tell you,' continued the doctor, bending forward and raising his eyebrows, 'that they associated very little with the neighbours, because the smaller people were not on their level, and pride hindered them from being friendly with the rich. i tell you, they were an exceptionally cultivated family; so you know it was gratifying for me. she would only take her medicine from my hands ... she would lift herself up, poor girl, with my aid, take it, and gaze at me.... my heart felt as if it were bursting. and meanwhile she was growing worse and worse, worse and worse, all the time; she will die, i think to myself; she must die. believe me, i would sooner have gone to the grave myself; and here were her mother and sisters watching me, looking into my eyes ... and their faith in me was wearing away. "well? how is she?" "oh, all right, all right!" all right, indeed! my mind was failing me. well, i was sitting one night alone again by my patient. the maid was sitting there too, and snoring away in full swing; i can't find fault with the poor girl, though; she was worn out too. alexandra andreevna had felt very unwell all the evening; she was very feverish. until midnight she kept tossing about; at last she seemed to fall asleep; at least, she lay still without stirring. the lamp was burning in the corner before the holy image. i sat there, you know, with my head bent; i even dozed a little. suddenly it seemed as though someone touched me in the side; i turned round.... good god! alexandra andreevna was gazing with intent eyes at me ... her lips parted, her cheeks seemed burning. "what is it?" "doctor, shall i die?" "merciful heavens!" "no, doctor, no; please don't tell me i shall live ... don't say so.... if you knew.... listen! for god's sake don't conceal my real position," and her breath came so fast. "if i can know for certain that i must die ... then i will tell you all--all!" "alexandra andreevna, i beg!" "listen; i have not been asleep at all ... i have been looking at you a long while.... for god's sake! ... i believe in you; you are a good man, an honest man; i entreat you by all that is sacred in the world--tell me the truth! if you knew how important it is for me.... doctor, for god's sake tell me.... am i in danger?" "what can i tell you, alexandra andreevna, pray?" "for god's sake, i beseech you!" "i can't disguise from you," i say, "alexandra andreevna; you are certainly in danger; but god is merciful." "i shall die, i shall die." and it seemed as though she were pleased; her face grew so bright; i was alarmed. "don't be afraid, don't be afraid! i am not frightened of death at all." she suddenly sat up and leaned on her elbow. "now ... yes, now i can tell you that i thank you with my whole heart ... that you are kind and good--that i love you!" i stare at her, like one possessed; it was terrible for me, you know. "do you hear, i love you!" "alexandra andreevna, how have i deserved--" "no, no, you don't--you don't understand me." ... and suddenly she stretched out her arms, and taking my head in her hands, she kissed it.... believe me, i almost screamed aloud.... i threw myself on my knees, and buried my head in the pillow. she did not speak; her fingers trembled in my hair; i listen; she is weeping. i began to soothe her, to assure her.... i really don't know what i did say to her. "you will wake up the girl," i say to her; "alexandra andreevna, i thank you ... believe me ... calm yourself." "enough, enough!" she persisted; "never mind all of them; let them wake, then; let them come in--it does not matter; i am dying, you see.... and what do you fear? why are you afraid? lift up your head.... or, perhaps, you don't love me; perhaps i am wrong.... in that case, forgive me." "alexandra andreevna, what are you saying!... i love you, alexandra andreevna." she looked straight into my eyes, and opened her arms wide. "then take me in your arms." i tell you frankly, i don't know how it was i did not go mad that night. i feel that my patient is killing herself; i see that she is not fully herself; i understand, too, that if she did not consider herself on the point of death, she would never have thought of me; and, indeed, say what you will, it's hard to die at twenty without having known love; this was what was torturing her; this was why, in despair, she caught at me--do you understand now? but she held me in her arms, and would not let me go. "have pity on me, alexandra andreevna, and have pity on yourself," i say. "why," she says; "what is there to think of? you know i must die." ... this she repeated incessantly.... "if i knew that i should return to life, and be a proper young lady again, i should be ashamed ... of course, ashamed ... but why now?" "but who has said you will die?" "oh, no, leave off! you will not deceive me; you don't know how to lie--look at your face." ... "you shall live, alexandra andreevna; i will cure you; we will ask your mother's blessing ... we will be united--we will be happy." "no, no, i have your word; i must die ... you have promised me ... you have told me." ... it was cruel for me--cruel for many reasons. and see what trifling things can do sometimes; it seems nothing at all, but it's painful. it occurred to her to ask me, what is my name; not my surname, but my first name. i must needs be so unlucky as to be called trifon. yes, indeed; trifon ivanitch. every one in the house called me doctor. however, there's no help for it. i say, "trifon, madam." she frowned, shook her head, and muttered something in french--ah, something unpleasant, of course!--and then she laughed--disagreeably too. well, i spent the whole night with her in this way. before morning i went away, feeling as though i were mad. when i went again into her room it was daytime, after morning tea. good god! i could scarcely recognise her; people are laid in their grave looking better than that. i swear to you, on my honour, i don't understand--i absolutely don't understand--now, how i lived through that experience. three days and nights my patient still lingered on. and what nights! what things she said to me! and on the last night--only imagine to yourself--i was sitting near her, and kept praying to god for one thing only: "take her," i said, "quickly, and me with her." suddenly the old mother comes unexpectedly into the room. i had already the evening before told her--the mother--there was little hope, and it would be well to send for a priest. when the sick girl saw her mother she said: "it's very well you have come; look at us, we love one another--we have given each other our word." "what does she say, doctor? what does she say?" i turned livid. "she is wandering," i say; "the fever." but she: "hush, hush; you told me something quite different just now, and have taken my ring. why do you pretend? my mother is good--she will forgive--she will understand--and i am dying.... i have no need to tell lies; give me your hand." i jumped up and ran out of the room. the old lady, of course, guessed how it was. 'i will not, however, weary you any longer, and to me too, of course, it's painful to recall all this. my patient passed away the next day. god rest her soul!' the doctor added, speaking quickly and with a sigh. 'before her death she asked her family to go out and leave me alone with her.' '"forgive me," she said; "i am perhaps to blame towards you ... my illness ... but believe me, i have loved no one more than you ... do not forget me ... keep my ring."' the doctor turned away; i took his hand. 'ah!' he said, 'let us talk of something else, or would you care to play preference for a small stake? it is not for people like me to give way to exalted emotions. there's only one thing for me to think of; how to keep the children from crying and the wife from scolding. since then, you know, i have had time to enter into lawful wed-lock, as they say.... oh ... i took a merchant's daughter--seven thousand for her dowry. her name's akulina; it goes well with trifon. she is an ill-tempered woman, i must tell you, but luckily she's asleep all day.... well, shall it be preference?' we sat down to preference for halfpenny points. trifon ivanitch won two roubles and a half from me, and went home late, well pleased with his success. v my neighbour radilov for the autumn, woodcocks often take refuge in old gardens of lime-trees. there are a good many such gardens among us, in the province of orel. our forefathers, when they selected a place for habitation, invariably marked out two acres of good ground for a fruit-garden, with avenues of lime-trees. within the last fifty, or seventy years at most, these mansions--'noblemen's nests,' as they call them--have gradually disappeared off the face of the earth; the houses are falling to pieces, or have been sold for the building materials; the stone outhouses have become piles of rubbish; the apple-trees are dead and turned into firewood, the hedges and fences are pulled up. only the lime-trees grow in all their glory as before, and with ploughed fields all round them, tell a tale to this light-hearted generation of 'our fathers and brothers who have lived before us.' a magnificent tree is such an old lime-tree.... even the merciless axe of the russian peasant spares it. its leaves are small, its powerful limbs spread wide in all directions; there is perpetual shade under them. once, as i was wandering about the fields after partridges with yermolaï, i saw some way off a deserted garden, and turned into it. i had hardly crossed its borders when a snipe rose up out of a bush with a clatter. i fired my gun, and at the same instant, a few paces from me, i heard a shriek; the frightened face of a young girl peeped out for a second from behind the trees, and instantly disappeared. yermolaï ran up to me: 'why are you shooting here? there is a landowner living here.' before i had time to answer him, before my dog had had time to bring me, with dignified importance, the bird i had shot, swift footsteps were heard, and a tall man with moustaches came out of the thicket and stopped, with an air of displeasure, before me. i made my apologies as best i could, gave him my name, and offered him the bird that had been killed on his domains. 'very well,' he said to me with a smile; 'i will take your game, but only on one condition: that you will stay and dine with us.' i must confess i was not greatly delighted at his proposition, but it was impossible to refuse. 'i am a landowner here, and your neighbour, radilov; perhaps you have heard of me?' continued my new acquaintance; 'to-day is sunday, and we shall be sure to have a decent dinner, otherwise i would not have invited you.' i made such a reply as one does make in such circumstances, and turned to follow him. a little path that had lately been cleared soon led us out of the grove of lime-trees; we came into the kitchen-garden. between the old apple-trees and gooseberry bushes were rows of curly whitish-green cabbages; the hop twined its tendrils round high poles; there were thick ranks of brown twigs tangled over with dried peas; large flat pumpkins seemed rolling on the ground; cucumbers showed yellow under their dusty angular leaves; tall nettles were waving along the hedge; in two or three places grew clumps of tartar honeysuckle, elder, and wild rose--the remnants of former flower-beds. near a small fish-pond, full of reddish and slimy water, we saw the well, surrounded by puddles. ducks were busily splashing and waddling about these puddles; a dog blinking and twitching in every limb was gnawing a bone in the meadow, where a piebald cow was lazily chewing the grass, from time to time flicking its tail over its lean back. the little path turned to one side; from behind thick willows and birches we caught sight of a little grey old house, with a boarded roof and a winding flight of steps. radilov stopped short. 'but,' he said, with a good-humoured and direct look in my face,' on second thoughts ... perhaps you don't care to come and see me, after all.... in that case--' i did not allow him to finish, but assured him that, on the contrary, it would be a great pleasure to me to dine with him. 'well, you know best.' we went into the house. a young man in a long coat of stout blue cloth met us on the steps. radilov at once told him to bring yermolaï some vodka; my huntsman made a respectful bow to the back of the munificent host. from the hall, which was decorated with various parti-coloured pictures and check curtains, we went into a small room--radilov's study. i took off my hunting accoutrements, and put my gun in a corner; the young man in the long-skirted coat busily brushed me down. 'well, now, let us go into the drawing-room.' said radilov cordially. 'i will make you acquainted with my mother.' i walked after him. in the drawing-room, in the sofa in the centre of the room, was sitting an old lady of medium height, in a cinnamon-coloured dress and a white cap, with a thinnish, kind old face, and a timid, mournful expression. 'here, mother, let me introduce to you our neighbour....' the old lady got up and made me a bow, not letting go out of her withered hands a fat worsted reticule that looked like a sack. 'have you been long in our neighbourhood?' she asked, in a weak and gentle voice, blinking her eyes. 'no, not long.' 'do you intend to remain here long?' 'till the winter, i think.' the old lady said no more. 'and here,' interposed radilov, indicating to me a tall and thin man, whom i had not noticed on entering the drawing-room, 'is fyodor miheitch. ... come, fedya, give the visitor a specimen of your art. why have you hidden yourself away in that corner?' fyodor miheitch got up at once from his chair, fetched a wretched little fiddle from the window, took the bow--not by the end, as is usual, but by the middle--put the fiddle to his chest, shut his eyes, and fell to dancing, singing a song, and scraping on the strings. he looked about seventy; a thin nankin overcoat flapped pathetically about his dry and bony limbs. he danced, at times skipping boldly, and then dropping his little bald head with his scraggy neck stretched out as if he were dying, stamping his feet on the ground, and sometimes bending his knees with obvious difficulty. a voice cracked with age came from his toothless mouth. radilov must have guessed from the expression of my face that fedya's 'art' did not give me much pleasure. 'very good, old man, that's enough,' he said. 'you can go and refresh yourself.' fyodor miheitch at once laid down the fiddle on the window-sill, bowed first to me as the guest, then to the old lady, then to radilov, and went away. 'he too was a landowner,' my new friend continued, 'and a rich one too, but he ruined himself--so he lives now with me.... but in his day he was considered the most dashing fellow in the province; he eloped with two married ladies; he used to keep singers, and sang himself, and danced like a master.... but won't you take some vodka? dinner is just ready.' a young girl, the same that i had caught a glimpse of in the garden, came into the room. 'and here is olga!' observed radilov, slightly turning his head; 'let me present you.... well, let us go into dinner.' we went in and sat down to the table. while we were coming out of the drawing-room and taking our seats, fyodor miheitch, whose eyes were bright and his nose rather red after his 'refreshment,' sang 'raise the cry of victory.' they laid a separate cover for him in a corner on a little table without a table-napkin. the poor old man could not boast of very nice habits, and so they always kept him at some distance from society. he crossed himself, sighed, and began to eat like a shark. the dinner was in reality not bad, and in honour of sunday was accompanied, of course, with shaking jelly and spanish puffs of pastry. at the table radilov, who had served ten years in an infantry regiment and had been in turkey, fell to telling anecdotes; i listened to him with attention, and secretly watched olga. she was not very pretty; but the tranquil and resolute expression of her face, her broad, white brow, her thick hair, and especially her brown eyes--not large, but clear, sensible and lively--would have made an impression on anyone in my place. she seemed to be following every word radilov uttered--not so much sympathy as passionate attention was expressed on her face. radilov in years might have been her father; he called her by her christian name, but i guessed at once that she was not his daughter. in the course of conversation he referred to his deceased wife--'her sister,' he added, indicating olga. she blushed quickly and dropped her eyes. radilov paused a moment and then changed the subject. the old lady did not utter a word during the whole of dinner; she ate scarcely anything herself, and did not press me to partake. her features had an air of timorous and hopeless expectation, that melancholy of old age which it pierces one's heart to look upon. at the end of dinner fyodor miheitch was beginning to 'celebrate' the hosts and guests, but radilov looked at me and asked him to be quiet; the old man passed his hand over his lips, began to blink, bowed, and sat down again, but only on the very edge of his chair. after dinner i returned with radilov to his study. in people who are constantly and intensely preoccupied with one idea, or one emotion, there is something in common, a kind of external resemblance in manner, however different may be their qualities, their abilities, their position in society, and their education. the more i watched radilov, the more i felt that he belonged to the class of such people. he talked of husbandry, of the crops, of the war, of the gossip of the district and the approaching elections; he talked without constraint, and even with interest; but suddenly he would sigh and drop into a chair, and pass his hand over his face, like a man wearied out by a tedious task. his whole nature--a good and warm-hearted one too--seemed saturated through, steeped in some one feeling. i was amazed by the fact that i could not discover in him either a passion for eating, nor for wine, nor for sport, nor for kursk nightingales, nor for epileptic pigeons, nor for russian literature, nor for trotting-hacks, nor for hungarian coats, nor for cards, nor billiards, nor for dances, nor trips to the provincial town or the capital, nor for paper-factories and beet-sugar refineries, nor for painted pavilions, nor for tea, nor for trace-horses trained to hold their heads askew, nor even for fat coachmen belted under their very armpits--those magnificent coachmen whose eyes, for some mysterious reason, seem rolling and starting out of their heads at every movement.... 'what sort of landowner is this, then?' i thought. at the same time he did not in the least pose as a gloomy man discontented with his destiny; on the contrary, he seemed full of indiscrimating good-will, cordial and even offensive readiness to become intimate with every one he came across. in reality you felt at the same time that he could not be friends, nor be really intimate with anyone, and that he could not be so, not because in general he was independent of other people, but because his whole being was for a time turned inwards upon himself. looking at radilov, i could never imagine him happy either now or at any time. he, too, was not handsome; but in his eyes, his smile, his whole being, there was a something, mysterious and extremely attractive--yes, mysterious is just what it was. so that you felt you would like to know him better, to get to love him. of course, at times the landowner and the man of the steppes peeped out in him; but all the same he was a capital fellow. we were beginning to talk about the new marshal of the district, when suddenly we heard olga's voice at the door: 'tea is ready.' we went into the drawing-room. fyodor miheitch was sitting as before in his corner between the little window and the door, his legs curled up under him. radilov's mother was knitting a stocking. from the opened windows came a breath of autumn freshness and the scent of apples. olga was busy pouring out tea. i looked at her now with more attention than at dinner. like provincial girls as a rule, she spoke very little, but at any rate i did not notice in her any of their anxiety to say something fine, together with their painful consciousness of stupidity and helplessness; she did not sigh as though from the burden of unutterable emotions, nor cast up her eyes, nor smile vaguely and dreamily. her look expressed tranquil self-possession, like a man who is taking breath after great happiness or great excitement. her carriage and her movements were resolute and free. i liked her very much. i fell again into conversation with radilov. i don't recollect what brought us to the familiar observation that often the most insignificant things produce more effect on people than the most important. 'yes,' radilov agreed, 'i have experienced that in my own case. i, as you know, have been married. it was not for long--three years; my wife died in child-birth. i thought that i should not survive her; i was fearfully miserable, broken down, but i could not weep--i wandered about like one possessed. they decked her out, as they always do, and laid her on a table--in this very room. the priest came, the deacons came, began to sing, to pray, and to burn incense; i bowed to the ground, and hardly shed a tear. my heart seemed turned to stone--and my head too--i was heavy all over. so passed my first day. would you believe it? i even slept in the night. the next morning i went in to look at my wife: it was summer-time, the sunshine fell upon her from head to foot, and it was so bright. suddenly i saw ...' (here radilov gave an involuntary shudder) 'what do you think? one of her eyes was not quite shut, and on this eye a fly was moving.... i fell down in a heap, and when i came to myself, i began to weep and weep ... i could not stop myself....' radilov was silent. i looked at him, then at olga.... i can never forget the expression of her face. the old lady had laid the stocking down on her knees, and taken a handkerchief out of her reticule; she was stealthily wiping away her tears. fyodor miheitch suddenly got up, seized his fiddle, and in a wild and hoarse voice began to sing a song. he wanted doubtless to restore our spirits; but we all shuddered at his first note, and radilov asked him to be quiet. 'still what is past, is past,' he continued; 'we cannot recall the past, and in the end ... all is for the best in this world below, as i think voltaire said,' he added hurriedly. 'yes,' i replied, 'of course. besides, every trouble can be endured, and there is no position so terrible that there is no escape from it.' 'do you think so?' said radilov. 'well, perhaps you are right. i recollect i lay once in the hospital in turkey half dead; i had typhus fever. well, our quarters were nothing to boast of--of course, in time of war--and we had to thank god for what we had! suddenly they bring in more sick--where are they to put them? the doctor goes here and there--there is no room left. so he comes up to me and asks the attendant, "is he alive?" he answers, "he was alive this morning." the doctor bends down, listens; i am breathing. the good man could not help saying, "well, what an absurd constitution; the man's dying; he's certain to die, and he keeps hanging on, lingering, taking up space for nothing, and keeping out others." well, i thought to myself, "so you are in a bad way, mihal mihalitch...." and, after all, i got well, and am alive till now, as you may see for yourself. you are right, to be sure.' 'in any case i am right,' i replied; 'even if you had died, you would just the same have escaped from your horrible position.' 'of course, of course,' he added, with a violent blow of his fist on the table. 'one has only to come to a decision.... what is the use of being in a horrible position?... what is the good of delaying, lingering.' olga rose quickly and went out into the garden. 'well, fedya, a dance!' cried radilov. fedya jumped up and walked about the room with that artificial and peculiar motion which is affected by the man who plays the part of a goat with a tame bear. he sang meanwhile, 'while at our gates....' the rattle of a racing droshky sounded in the drive, and in a few minutes a tall, broad-shouldered and stoutly made man, the peasant proprietor, ovsyanikov, came into the room. but ovsyanikov is such a remarkable and original personage that, with the reader's permission, we will put off speaking about him till the next sketch. and now i will only add for myself that the next day i started off hunting at earliest dawn with yermolaï, and returned home after the day's sport was over ... that a week later i went again to radilov's, but did not find him or olga at home, and within a fortnight i learned that he had suddenly disappeared, left his mother, and gone away somewhere with his sister-in-law. the whole province was excited, and talked about this event, and i only then completely understood the expression of olga's face while radilov was telling us his story. it was breathing, not with sympathetic suffering only: it was burning with jealousy. before leaving the country i called on old madame radilov. i found her in the drawing-room; she was playing cards with fyodor miheitch. 'have you news of your son?' i asked her at last. the old lady began to weep. i made no more inquiries about radilov. vi the peasant proprietor ovsyanikov picture to yourselves, gentle readers, a stout, tall man of seventy, with a face reminding one somewhat of the face of kriloff, clear and intelligent eyes under overhanging brows, dignified in bearing, slow in speech, and deliberate in movement: there you have ovsyanikov. he wore an ample blue overcoat with long sleeves, buttoned all the way up, a lilac silk-handkerchief round his neck, brightly polished boots with tassels, and altogether resembled in appearance a well-to-do merchant. his hands were handsome, soft, and white; he often fumbled with the buttons of his coat as he talked. with his dignity and his composure, his good sense and his indolence, his uprightness and his obstinacy, ovsyanikov reminded me of the russian boyars of the times before peter the great.... the national holiday dress would have suited him well. he was one of the last men left of the old time. all his neighbours had a great respect for him, and considered it an honour to be acquainted with him. his fellow peasant-proprietors almost worshipped him, and took off their hats to him from a distance: they were proud of him. generally speaking, in these days, it is difficult to tell a peasant-proprietor from a peasant; his husbandry is almost worse than the peasant's; his calves are wretchedly small; his horses are only half alive; his harness is made of rope. ovsyanikov was an exception to the general rule, though he did not pass for a wealthy man. he lived alone with his wife in a clean and comfortable little house, kept a few servants, whom he dressed in the russian style and called his 'workmen.' they were employed also in ploughing his land. he did not attempt to pass for a nobleman, did not affect to be a landowner; never, as they say, forgot himself; he did not take a seat at the first invitation to do so, and he never failed to rise from his seat on the entrance of a new guest, but with such dignity, with such stately courtesy, that the guest involuntarily made him a more deferential bow. ovsyanikov adhered to the antique usages, not from superstition (he was naturally rather independent in mind), but from habit. he did not, for instance, like carriages with springs, because he did not find them comfortable, and preferred to drive in a racing droshky, or in a pretty little trap with leather cushions, and he always drove his good bay himself (he kept none but bay horses). his coachman, a young, rosy-cheeked fellow, his hair cut round like a basin, in a dark blue coat with a strap round the waist, sat respectfully beside him. ovsyanikov always had a nap after dinner and visited the bath-house on saturdays; he read none but religious books and used gravely to fix his round silver spectacles on his nose when he did so; he got up, and went to bed early. he shaved his beard, however, and wore his hair in the german style. he always received visitors cordially and affably, but he did not bow down to the ground, nor fuss over them and press them to partake of every kind of dried and salted delicacy. 'wife!' he would say deliberately, not getting up from his seat, but only turning his head a little in her direction, 'bring the gentleman a little of something to eat.' he regarded it as a sin to sell wheat: it was the gift of god. in the year ' , at the time of the general famine and terrible scarcity, he shared all his store with the surrounding landowners and peasants; the following year they gratefully repaid their debt to him in kind. the neighbours often had recourse to ovsyanikov as arbitrator and mediator between them, and they almost always acquiesced in his decision, and listened to his advice. thanks to his intervention, many had conclusively settled their boundaries.... but after two or three tussles with lady-landowners, he announced that he declined all mediation between persons of the feminine gender. he could not bear the flurry and excitement, the chatter of women and the 'fuss.' once his house had somehow got on fire. a workman ran to him in headlong haste shrieking, 'fire, fire!' 'well, what are you screaming about?' said ovsyanikov tranquilly, 'give me my cap and my stick.' he liked to break in his horses himself. once a spirited horse he was training bolted with him down a hillside and over a precipice. 'come, there, there, you young colt, you'll kill yourself!' said ovsyanikov soothingly to him, and an instant later he flew over the precipice together with the racing droshky, the boy who was sitting behind, and the horse. fortunately, the bottom of the ravine was covered with heaps of sand. no one was injured; only the horse sprained a leg. 'well, you see,' continued ovsyanikov in a calm voice as he got up from the ground, 'i told you so.' he had found a wife to match him. tatyana ilyinitchna ovsyanikov was a tall woman, dignified and taciturn, always dressed in a cinnamon-coloured silk dress. she had a cold air, though none complained of her severity, but, on the contrary, many poor creatures called her their little mother and benefactress. her regular features, her large dark eyes, and her delicately cut lips, bore witness even now to her once celebrated beauty. ovsyanikov had no children. i made his acquaintance, as the reader is already aware, at radilov's, and two days later i went to see him. i found him at home. he was reading the lives of the saints. a grey cat was purring on his shoulder. he received me, according to his habit, with stately cordiality. we fell into conversation. 'but tell me the truth, luka petrovitch,' i said to him, among other things; 'weren't things better of old, in your time?' 'in some ways, certainly, things were better, i should say,' replied ovsyanikov; 'we lived more easily; there was a greater abundance of everything. ... all the same, things are better now, and they will be better still for your children, please god.' 'i had expected you, luka petrovitch, to praise the old times.' 'no, i have no special reason to praise old times. here, for instance, though you are a landowner now, and just as much a landowner as your grandfather was, you have not the same power--and, indeed, you are not yourself the same kind of man. even now, some noblemen oppress us; but, of course, it is impossible to help that altogether. where there are mills grinding there will be flour. no; i don't see now what i have experienced myself in my youth.' 'what, for instance?' 'well, for instance, i will tell you about your grandfather. he was an overbearing man; he oppressed us poorer folks. you know, perhaps--indeed, you surely know your own estates--that bit of land that runs from tchepligin to malinina--you have it under oats now.... well, you know, it is ours--it is all ours. your grandfather took it away from us; he rode by on his horse, pointed to it with his hand, and said, "it's my property," and took possession of it. my father (god rest his soul!) was a just man; he was a hot-tempered man, too; he would not put up with it--indeed, who does like to lose his property?--and he laid a petition before the court. but he was alone: the others did not appear--they were afraid. so they reported to your grandfather that "piotr ovsyanikov is making a complaint against you that you were pleased to take away his land." your grandfather at once sent his huntsman baush with a detachment of men.... well, they seized my father, and carried him to your estate. i was a little boy at that time; i ran after him barefoot. what happened? they brought him to your house, and flogged him right under your windows. and your grandfather stands on the balcony and looks on; and your grandmother sits at the window and looks on too. my father cries out, "gracious lady, marya vasilyevna, intercede for me! have mercy on me!" but her only answer was to keep getting up to have a look at him. so they exacted a promise from my father to give up the land, and bade him be thankful they let him go alive. so it has remained with you. go and ask your peasants--what do they call the land, indeed? it's called "the cudgelled land," because it was gained by the cudgel. so you see from that, we poor folks can't bewail the old order very much.' i did not know what answer to make ovsyanikov, and i had not the courage to look him in the face. 'we had another neighbour who settled amongst us in those days, komov, stepan niktopolionitch. he used to worry my father out of his life; when it wasn't one thing, it was another. he was a drunken fellow, and fond of treating others; and when he was drunk he would say in french, "_say bon_," and "take away the holy images!" he would go to all the neighbours to ask them to come to him. his horses stood always in readiness, and if you wouldn't go he would come after you himself at once!... and he was such a strange fellow! in his sober times he was not a liar; but when he was drunk he would begin to relate how he had three houses in petersburg--one red, with one chimney; another yellow, with two chimneys; and a third blue, with no chimneys; and three sons (though he had never even been married), one in the infantry, another in the cavalry, and the third was his own master.... and he would say that in each house lived one of his sons; that admirals visited the eldest, and generals the second, and the third only englishmen! then he would get up and say, "to the health of my eldest son; he is the most dutiful!" and he would begin to weep. woe to anyone who refused to drink the toast! "i will shoot him!" he would say; "and i won't let him be buried!" ... then he would jump up and scream, "dance, god's people, for your pleasure and my diversion!" well, then, you must dance; if you had to die for it, you must dance. he thoroughly worried his serf-girls to death. sometimes all night long till morning they would be singing in chorus, and the one who made the most noise would have a prize. if they began to be tired, he would lay his head down in his hands, and begins moaning: "ah, poor forsaken orphan that i am! they abandon me, poor little dove!" and the stable-boys would wake the girls up at once. he took a liking to my father; what was he to do? he almost drove my father into his grave, and would actually have driven him into it, but (thank heaven!) he died himself; in one of his drunken fits he fell off the pigeon-house. ... there, that's what our sweet little neighbours were like!' 'how the times have changed!' i observed. 'yes, yes,' ovsyanikov assented. 'and there is this to be said--in the old days the nobility lived more sumptuously. i'm not speaking of the real grandees now. i used to see them in moscow. they say such people are scarce nowadays.' 'have you been in moscow?' 'i used to stay there long, very long ago. i am now in my seventy-third year; and i went to moscow when i was sixteen.' ovsyanikov sighed. 'whom did you see there?' 'i saw a great many grandees--and every one saw them; they kept open house for the wonder and admiration of all! only no one came up to count alexey grigoryevitch orlov-tchesmensky. i often saw alexey grigoryevitch; my uncle was a steward in his service. the count was pleased to live in shabolovka, near the kaluga gate. he was a grand gentleman! such stateliness, such gracious condescension you can't imagine! and it's impossible to describe it. his figure alone was worth something, and his strength, and the look in his eyes! till you knew him, you did not dare come near him--you were afraid, overawed indeed; but directly you came near him he was like sunshine warming you up and making you quite cheerful. he allowed every man access to him in person, and he was devoted to every kind of sport. he drove himself in races and out-stripped every one, and he would never get in front at the start, so as not to offend his adversary; he would not cut it short, but would pass him at the finish; and he was so pleasant--he would soothe his adversary, praising his horse. he kept tumbler-pigeons of a first-rate kind. he would come out into the court, sit down in an arm-chair, and order them to let loose the pigeons; and his men would stand all round on the roofs with guns to keep off the hawks. a large silver basin of water used to be placed at the count's feet, and he looked at the pigeons reflected in the water. beggars and poor people were fed in hundreds at his expense; and what a lot of money he used to give away!... when he got angry, it was like a clap of thunder. everyone was in a great fright, but there was nothing to weep over; look round a minute after, and he was all smiles again! when he gave a banquet he made all moscow drunk!--and see what a clever man he was! you know he beat the turk. he was fond of wrestling too; strong men used to come from tula, from harkoff, from tamboff, and from everywhere to him. if he threw any one he would pay him a reward; but if any one threw him, he perfectly loaded him with presents, and kissed him on the lips.... and once, during my stay at moscow, he arranged a hunting party such as had never been in russia before; he sent invitations to all the sportsmen in the whole empire, and fixed a day for it, and gave them three months' notice. they brought with them dogs and grooms: well, it was an army of people--a regular army! 'first they had a banquet in the usual way, and then they set off into the open country. the people flocked there in thousands! and what do you think?... your father's dog outran them all.' 'wasn't that milovidka?' i inquired. 'milovidka, milovidka!... so the count began to ask him, "give me your dog," says he; "take what you like for her." "no, count," he said, "i am not a tradesman; i don't sell anything for filthy lucre; for your sake i am ready to part with my wife even, but not with milovidka.... i would give myself into bondage first." and alexey grigoryevitch praised him for it. "i like you for it," he said. your grandfather took her back in the coach with him, and when milovidka died, he buried her in the garden with music at the burial--yes, a funeral for a dog--and put a stone with an inscription on it over the dog.' 'then alexey grigoryevitch did not oppress anyone,' i observed. 'yes, it is always like that; those who can only just keep themselves afloat are the ones to drag others under.' 'and what sort of a man was this baush?' i asked after a short silence. 'why, how comes it you have heard about milovidka, and not about baush? he was your grandfather's chief huntsman and whipper-in. your grandfather was as fond of him as of milovidka. he was a desperate fellow, and whatever order your grandfather gave him, he would carry it out in a minute--he'd have run on to a sword at his bidding.... and when he hallooed ... it was something like a tally-ho in the forest. and then he would suddenly turn nasty, get off his horse, and lie down on the ground ... and directly the dogs ceased to hear his voice, it was all over! they would give up the hottest scent, and wouldn't go on for anything. ay, ay, your grandfather did get angry! "damn me, if i don't hang the scoundrel! i'll turn him inside out, the antichrist! i'll stuff his heels down his gullet, the cut-throat!" and it ended by his going up to find out what he wanted; why he wouldn't halloo to the hounds? usually, on such occasions, baush asked for some vodka, drank it up, got on his horse, and began to halloo as lustily as ever again.' 'you seem to be fond of hunting too, luka petrovitch?' 'i should have been--certainly, not now; now my time is over--but in my young days.... but you know it was not an easy matter in my position. it's not suitable for people like us to go trailing after noblemen. certainly you may find in our class some drinking, good-for-nothing fellow who associates with the gentry--but it's a queer sort of enjoyment.... he only brings shame on himself. they mount him on a wretched stumbling nag, keep knocking his hat off on to the ground and cut at him with a whip, pretending to whip the horse, and he must laugh at everything, and be a laughing-stock for the others. no, i tell you, the lower your station, the more reserved must be your behaviour, or else you disgrace yourself directly.' 'yes,' continued ovsyanikov with a sigh, 'there's many a gallon of water has flowed down to the sea since i have been living in the world; times are different now. especially i see a great change in the nobility. the smaller landowners have all either become officials, or at any rate do not stop here; as for the larger owners, there's no making them out. i have had experience of them--the larger landowners--in cases of settling boundaries. and i must tell you; it does my heart good to see them: they are courteous and affable. only this is what astonishes me; they have studied all the sciences, they speak so fluently that your heart is melted, but they don't understand the actual business in hand; they don't even perceive what's their own interest; some bailiff, a bondservant, drives them just where he pleases, as though they were in a yoke. there's korolyov--alexandr vladimirovitch--for instance; you know him, perhaps--isn't he every inch a nobleman? he is handsome, rich, has studied at the 'versities, and travelled, i think, abroad; he speaks simply and easily, and shakes hands with us all. you know him?... well, listen then. last week we assembled at beryozovka at the summons of the mediator, nikifor ilitch. and the mediator, nikifor ilitch, says to us: "gentlemen, we must settle the boundaries; it's disgraceful; our district is behind all the others; we must get to work." well, so we got to work. there followed discussions, disputes, as usual; our attorney began to make objections. but the first to make an uproar was porfiry ovtchinnikov.... and what had the fellow to make an uproar about?... he hasn't an acre of ground; he is acting as representative of his brother. he bawls: "no, you shall not impose on me! no, you shan't drive me to that! give the plans here! give me the surveyor's plans, the judas's plans here!" "but what is your claim, then?" "oh, you think i'm a fool! indeed! do you suppose i am going to lay bare my claim to you offhand? no, let me have the plans here--that's what i want!" and he himself is banging his fist on the plans all the time. then he mortally offended marfa dmitrievna. she shrieks out, "how dare you asperse my reputation?" "your reputation," says he; "i shouldn't like my chestnut mare to have your reputation." they poured him out some madeira at last, and so quieted him; then others begin to make a row. alexandr vladimirovitch korolyov, the dear fellow, sat in a corner sucking the knob of his cane, and only shook his head. i felt ashamed; i could hardly sit it out. "what must he be thinking of us?" i said to myself. when, behold! alexandr vladimirovitch has got up, and shows signs of wanting to speak. the mediator exerts himself, says, "gentlemen, gentlemen, alexandr vladimirovitch wishes to speak." and i must do them this credit; they were all silent at once. and so alexandr vladimirovitch began and said "that we seemed to have forgotten what we had come together for; that, indeed, the fixing of boundaries was indisputably advantageous for owners of land, but actually what was its object? to make things easier for the peasant, so that he could work and pay his dues more conveniently; that now the peasant hardly knows his own land, and often goes to work five miles away; and one can't expect too much of him." then alexandr vladimirovitch said "that it was disgraceful in a landowner not to interest himself in the well-being of his peasants; that in the end, if you look at it rightly, their interests and our interests are inseparable; if they are well-off we are well-off, and if they do badly we do badly, and that, consequently, it was injudicious and wrong to disagree over trifles" ... and so on--and so on.... there, how he did speak! he seemed to go right to your heart.... all the gentry hung their heads; i myself, faith, it nearly brought me to tears. to tell the truth, you would not find sayings like that in the old books even.... but what was the end of it? he himself would not give up four acres of peat marsh, and wasn't willing to sell it. he said, "i am going to drain that marsh for my people, and set up a cloth-factory on it, with all the latest improvements. i have already," he said, "fixed on that place; i have thought out my plans on the subject." and if only that had been the truth, it would be all very well; but the simple fact is, alexandr vladimirovitch's neighbour, anton karasikov, had refused to buy over korolyov's bailiff for a hundred roubles. and so we separated without having done anything. but alexandr vladimirovitch considers to this day that he is right, and still talks of the cloth-factory; but he does not start draining the marsh.' 'and how does he manage in his estate?' 'he is always introducing new ways. the peasants don't speak well of him--but it's useless to listen to them. alexandr vladimirovitch is doing right.' 'how's that, luka petrovitch? i thought you kept to the old ways.' 'i--that's another thing. you see i am not a nobleman or a landowner. what sort of management is mine?... besides, i don't know how to do things differently. i try to act according to justice and the law, and leave the rest in god's hands! young gentlemen don't like the old method; i think they are right.... it's the time to take in ideas. only this is the pity of it; the young are too theoretical. they treat the peasant like a doll; they turn him this way and that way; twist him about and throw him away. and their bailiff, a serf, or some overseer from the german natives, gets the peasant under his thumb again. now, if any one of the young gentlemen would set us an example, would show us, "see, this is how you ought to manage!" ... what will be the end of it? can it be that i shall die without seeing the new methods?... what is the proverb?--the old is dead, but the young is not born!' i did not know what reply to make to ovsyanikov. he looked round, drew himself nearer to me, and went on in an undertone: 'have you heard talk of vassily nikolaitch lubozvonov?' 'no, i haven't.' 'explain to me, please, what sort of strange creature he is. i can't make anything of it. his peasants have described him, but i can't make any sense of their tales. he is a young man, you know; it's not long since he received his heritage from his mother. well, he arrived at his estate. the peasants were all collected to stare at their master. vassily nikolaitch came out to them. the peasants looked at him--strange to relate! the master wore plush pantaloons like a coachman, and he had on boots with trimming at the top; he wore a red shirt and a coachman's long coat too; he had let his beard grow, and had such a strange hat and such a strange face--could he be drunk? no, he wasn't drunk, and yet he didn't seem quite right. "good health to you, lads!" he says; "god keep you!" the peasants bow to the ground, but without speaking; they began to feel frightened, you know. and he too seemed timid. he began to make a speech to them: "i am a russian," he says, "and you are russians; i like everything russian.... russia," says he, "is my heart, and my blood too is russian".... then he suddenly gives the order: "come, lads, sing a russian national song!" the peasants' legs shook under them with fright; they were utterly stupefied. one bold spirit did begin to sing, but he sat down at once on the ground and hid himself behind the others.... and what is so surprising is this: we have had landowners like that, dare-devil gentlemen, regular rakes, of course: they dressed pretty much like coachmen, and danced themselves and played on the guitar, and sang and drank with their house-serfs and feasted with the peasants; but this vassily nikolaitch is like a girl; he is always reading books or writing, or else declaiming poetry aloud--he never addresses any one; he is shy, walks by himself in his garden; seems either bored or sad. the old bailiff at first was in a thorough scare; before vassily nikolaitch's arrival he was afraid to go near the peasants' houses; he bowed to all of them--one could see the cat knew whose butter he had eaten! and the peasants were full of hope; they thought, 'fiddlesticks, my friend!--now they'll make you answer for it, my dear; they'll lead you a dance now, you robber!' ... but instead of this it has turned out--how shall i explain it to you?--god almighty could not account for how things have turned out! vassily nikolaitch summoned him to his presence and says, blushing himself and breathing quick, you know: "be upright in my service; don't oppress any one--do you hear?" and since that day he has never asked to see him in person again! he lives on his own property like a stranger. well, the bailiff's been enjoying himself, and the peasants don't dare to go to vassily nikolaitch; they are afraid. and do you see what's a matter for wonder again; the master even bows to them and looks graciously at them; but he seems to turn their stomachs with fright! 'what do you say to such a strange state of things, your honour? either i have grown stupid in my old age, or something.... i can't understand it.' i said to ovsyanikov that mr. lubozvonov must certainly be ill. 'ill, indeed! he's as broad as he's long, and a face like this--god bless him!--and bearded, though he is so young.... well, god knows!' and ovsyanikov gave a deep sigh. 'come, putting the nobles aside,' i began, 'what have you to tell me about the peasant proprietors, luka petrovitch?' 'no, you must let me off that,' he said hurriedly. 'truly.... i could tell you ... but what's the use!' (with a wave of his hand). 'we had better have some tea.... we are common peasants and nothing more; but when we come to think of it, what else could we be?' he ceased talking. tea was served. tatyana ilyinitchna rose from her place and sat down rather nearer to us. in the course of the evening she several times went noiselessly out and as quietly returned. silence reigned in the room. ovsyanikov drank cup after cup with gravity and deliberation. 'mitya has been to see us to-day,' said tatyana ilyinitchna in a low voice. ovsyanikov frowned. 'what does he want?' 'he came to ask forgiveness.' ovsyanikov shook his head. 'come, tell me,' he went on, turning to me, 'what is one to do with relations? and to abandon them altogether is impossible.... here god has bestowed on me a nephew. he's a fellow with brains--a smart fellow--i don't dispute that; he has had a good education, but i don't expect much good to come of him. he went into a government office; threw up his position--didn't get on fast enough, if you please.... does he suppose he's a noble? and even noblemen don't come to be generals all at once. so now he is living without an occupation.... and that, even, would not be such a great matter--except that he has taken to litigation! he gets up petitions for the peasants, writes memorials; he instructs the village delegates, drags the surveyors over the coals, frequents drinking houses, is seen in taverns with city tradesmen and inn-keepers. he's bound to come to ruin before long. the constables and police-captains have threatened him more than once already. but he luckily knows how to turn it off--he makes them laugh; but they will boil his kettle for him some day.... but, there, isn't he sitting in your little room?' he added, turning to his wife; 'i know you, you see; you're so soft-hearted--you will always take his part.' tatyana ilyinitchna dropped her eyes, smiled, and blushed. 'well, i see it is so,' continued ovsyanikov. 'fie! you spoil the boy! well, tell him to come in.... so be it, then; for the sake of our good guest i will forgive the silly fellow.... come, tell him, tell him.' tatyana ilyinitchna went to the door, and cried 'mitya!' mitya, a young man of twenty-eight, tall, well-made, and curly-headed, came into the room, and seeing me, stopped short in the doorway. his costume was in the german style, but the unnatural size of the puffs on his shoulders was enough alone to prove convincingly that the tailor who had cut it was a russian of the russians. 'well, come in, come in,' began the old man; 'why are you bashful? you must thank your aunt--you're forgiven.... here, your honour, i commend him to you,' he continued, pointing to mitya; 'he's my own nephew, but i don't get on with him at all. the end of the world is coming!' (we bowed to one another.) 'well, tell me what is this you have got mixed up in? what is the complaint they are making against you? explain it to us.' mitya obviously did not care to explain matters and justify himself before me. 'later on, uncle,' he muttered. 'no, not later--now,' pursued the old man.... 'you are ashamed, i see, before this gentleman; all the better--it's only what you deserve. speak, speak; we are listening.' 'i have nothing to be ashamed of,' began mitya spiritedly, with a toss of his head. 'be so good as to judge for yourself, uncle. some peasant proprietors of reshetilovo came to me, and said, "defend us, brother." "what is the matter?"' "this is it: our grain stores were in perfect order--in fact, they could not be better; all at once a government inspector came to us with orders to inspect the granaries. he inspected them, and said, 'your granaries are in disorder--serious neglect; it's my duty to report it to the authorities.' 'but what does the neglect consist in?' 'that's my business,' he says.... we met together, and decided to tip the official in the usual way; but old prohoritch prevented us. he said, 'no; that's only giving him a taste for more. come; after all, haven't we the courts of justice?' we obeyed the old man, and the official got in a rage, and made a complaint, and wrote a report. so now we are called up to answer to his charges." "but are your granaries actually in order?" i asked. "god knows they are in order; and the legal quantity of corn is in them." "well, then," say i, "you have nothing to fear"; and i drew up a document for them.... and it is not yet known in whose favour it is decided.... and as to the complaints they have made to you about me over that affair--it's very easy to understand that--every man's shirt is nearest to his own skin. 'everyone's, indeed--but not yours seemingly,' said the old man in an undertone. 'but what plots have you been hatching with the shutolomovsky peasants?' 'how do you know anything of it?' 'never mind; i do know of it.' 'and there, too, i am right--judge for yourself again. a neighbouring landowner, bezpandin, has ploughed over four acres of the shutolomovsky peasants' land. "the land's mine," he says. the shutolomovsky people are on the rent-system; their landowner has gone abroad--who is to stand up for them? tell me yourself? but the land is theirs beyond dispute; they've been bound to it for ages and ages. so they came to me, and said, "write us a petition." so i wrote one. and bezpandin heard of it, and began to threaten me. "i'll break every bone in that mitya's body, and knock his head off his shoulders...." we shall see how he will knock it off; it's still on, so far.' 'come, don't boast; it's in a bad way, your head,' said the old man. 'you are a mad fellow altogether!' 'why, uncle, what did you tell me yourself?' 'i know, i know what you will say,' ovsyanikov interrupted him; 'of course a man ought to live uprightly, and he is bound to succour his neighbour. sometimes one must not spare oneself.... but do you always behave in that way? don't they take you to the tavern, eh? don't they treat you; bow to you, eh? "dmitri alexyitch," they say, "help us, and we will prove our gratitude to you." and they slip a silver rouble or note into your hand. eh? doesn't that happen? tell me, doesn't that happen?' 'i am certainly to blame in that,' answered mitya, rather confused; 'but i take nothing from the poor, and i don't act against my conscience.' 'you don't take from them now; but when you are badly off yourself, then you will. you don't act against your conscience--fie on you! of course, they are all saints whom you defend!... have you forgotten borka perohodov? who was it looked after him? who took him under his protection--eh?' 'perohodov suffered through his own fault, certainly.' 'he appropriated the public moneys.... that was all!' 'but, consider, uncle: his poverty, his family.' 'poverty, poverty.... he's a drunkard, a quarrelsome fellow; that's what it is!' 'he took to drink through trouble,' said mitya, dropping his voice. 'through trouble, indeed! well, you might have helped him, if your heart was so warm to him, but there was no need for you to sit in taverns with the drunken fellow yourself. though he did speak so finely ... a prodigy, to be sure!' 'he was a very good fellow.' 'every one is good with you.... but did you send him?' ... pursued ovsyanikov, turning to his wife; 'come; you know?' tatyana ilyinitchna nodded. 'where have you been lately?' the old man began again. 'i have been in the town.' 'you have been doing nothing but playing billiards, i wager, and drinking tea, and running to and fro about the government offices, drawing up petitions in little back rooms, flaunting about with merchants' sons? that's it, of course?... tell us!' 'perhaps that is about it,' said mitya with a smile.... 'ah! i had almost forgotten--funtikov, anton parfenitch asks you to dine with him next sunday.' 'i shan't go to see that old tub. he gives you costly fish and puts rancid butter on it. god bless him!' 'and i met fedosya mihalovna.' 'what fedosya is that?' 'she belongs to garpentchenko, the landowner, who bought mikulino by auction. fedosya is from mikulino. she lived in moscow as a dress-maker, paying her service in money, and she paid her service-money accurately--a hundred and eighty two-roubles and a half a year.... and she knows her business; she got good orders in moscow. but now garpentchenko has written for her back, and he retains her here, but does not provide any duties for her. she would be prepared to buy her freedom, and has spoken to the master, but he will not give any decisive answer. you, uncle, are acquainted with garpentchenko ... so couldn't you just say a word to him?... and fedosya would give a good price for her freedom.' 'not with your money i hope? hey? well, well, all right; i will speak to him, i will speak to him. but i don't know,' continued the old man with a troubled face; 'this garpentchenko, god forgive him! is a shark; he buys up debts, lends money at interest, purchases estates at auctions.... and who brought him into our parts? ugh, i can't bear these new-comers! one won't get an answer out of him very quickly.... however, we shall see.' 'try to manage it, uncle.' 'very well, i will see to it. only you take care; take care of yourself! there, there, don't defend yourself.... god bless you! god bless you!... only take care for the future, or else, mitya, upon my word, it will go ill with you.... upon my word, you will come to grief.... i can't always screen you ... and i myself am not a man of influence. there, go now, and god be with you!' mitya went away. tatyana ilyinitchna went out after him. 'give him some tea, you soft-hearted creature,' cried ovsyanikov after her. 'he's not a stupid fellow,' he continued, 'and he's a good heart, but i feel afraid for him.... but pardon me for having so long kept you occupied with such details.' the door from the hall opened. a short grizzled little man came in, in a velvet coat. 'ah, frantz ivanitch!' cried ovsyanikov, 'good day to you. is god merciful to you?' allow me, gentle reader, to introduce to you this gentleman. frantz ivanitch lejeune, my neighbour, and a landowner of orel, had arrived at the respectable position of a russian nobleman in a not quite ordinary way. he was born in orleans of french parents, and had gone with napoleon, on the invasion of russia, in the capacity of a drummer. at first all went smoothly, and our frenchman arrived in moscow with his head held high. but on the return journey poor monsieur lejeune, half-frozen and without his drum, fell into the hands of some peasants of smolensk. the peasants shut him up for the night in an empty cloth factory, and the next morning brought him to an ice-hole near the dyke, and began to beg the drummer '_de la grrrrande armée_' to oblige them; in other words, to swim under the ice. monsieur lejeune could not agree to their proposition, and in his turn began to try to persuade the smolensk peasants, in the dialect of france, to let him go to orleans. 'there, messieurs,' he said, '_my mother is living, une tendre mère_' but the peasants, doubtless through their ignorance of the geographical position of orleans, continued to offer him a journey under water along the course of the meandering river gniloterka, and had already begun to encourage him with slight blows on the vertebrae of the neck and back, when suddenly, to the indescribable delight of lejeune, the sound of bells was heard, and there came along the dyke a huge sledge with a striped rug over its excessively high dickey, harnessed with three roan horses. in the sledge sat a stout and red-faced landowner in a wolfskin pelisse. 'what is it you are doing there?' he asked the peasants. 'we are drowning a frenchman, your honour.' 'ah!' replied the landowner indifferently, and he turned away. 'monsieur! monsieur!' shrieked the poor fellow. 'ah, ah!' observed the wolfskin pelisse reproachfully, 'you came with twenty nations into russia, burnt moscow, tore down, you damned heathen! the cross from ivan the great, and now--mossoo, mossoo, indeed! now you turn tail! you are paying the penalty of your sins!... go on, filka!' the horses were starting. 'stop, though!' added the landowner. 'eh? you mossoo, do you know anything of music?' '_sauvez-moi, sauvez-moi, mon bon monsieur!_' repeated lejeune. 'there, see what a wretched people they are! not one of them knows russian! muzeek, muzeek, savey muzeek voo? savey? well, speak, do! compreny? savey muzeek voo? on the piano, savey zhooey?' lejeune comprehended at last what the landowner meant, and persistently nodded his head. '_oui, monsieur, oui, oui, je suis musicien; je joue tous les instruments possibles! oui, monsieur.... sauvez-moi, monsieur!_' 'well, thank your lucky star!' replied the landowner. 'lads, let him go: here's a twenty-copeck piece for vodka.' 'thank you, your honour, thank you. take him, your honour.' they sat lejeune in the sledge. he was gasping with delight, weeping, shivering, bowing, thanking the landowner, the coachman, the peasants. he had nothing on but a green jacket with pink ribbons, and it was freezing very hard. the landowner looked at his blue and benumbed shoulders in silence, wrapped the unlucky fellow in his own pelisse, and took him home. the household ran out. they soon thawed the frenchman, fed him, and clothed him. the landowner conducted him to his daughters. 'here, children!' he said to them, 'a teacher is found for you. you were always entreating me to have you taught music and the french jargon; here you have a frenchman, and he plays on the piano.... come, mossoo,' he went on, pointing to a wretched little instrument he had bought five years before of a jew, whose special line was eau de cologne, 'give us an example of your art; zhooey!' lejeune, with a sinking heart, sat down on the music-stool; he had never touched a piano in his life. 'zhooey, zhooey!' repeated the landowner. in desperation, the unhappy man beat on the keys as though on a drum, and played at hazard. 'i quite expected,' he used to tell afterwards, 'that my deliverer would seize me by the collar, and throw me out of the house.' but, to the utmost amazement of the unwilling improvisor, the landowner, after waiting a little, patted him good-humouredly on the shoulder. 'good, good,' he said; 'i see your attainments; go now, and rest yourself.' within a fortnight lejeune had gone from this landowner's to stay with another, a rich and cultivated man. he gained his friendship by his bright and gentle disposition, was married to a ward of his, went into a government office, rose to the nobility, married his daughter to lobizanyev, a landowner of orel, and a retired dragoon and poet, and settled himself on an estate in orel. it was this same lejeune, or rather, as he is called now, frantz ivanitch, who, when i was there, came in to see ovsyanikov, with whom he was on friendly terms.... but perhaps the reader is already weary of sitting with me at the ovsyanikovs', and so i will become eloquently silent. vii lgov 'let us go to lgov,' yermolaï, whom the reader knows already, said to me one day; 'there we can shoot ducks to our heart's content.' although wild duck offers no special attraction for a genuine sportsman, still, through lack of other game at the time (it was the beginning of september; snipe were not on the wing yet, and i was tired of running across the fields after partridges), i listened to my huntsman's suggestion, and we went to lgov. lgov is a large village of the steppes, with a very old stone church with a single cupola, and two mills on the swampy little river rossota. five miles from lgov, this river becomes a wide swampy pond, overgrown at the edges, and in places also in the centre, with thick reeds. here, in the creeks or rather pools between the reeds, live and breed a countless multitude of ducks of all possible kinds--quackers, half-quackers, pintails, teals, divers, etc. small flocks are for ever flitting about and swimming on the water, and at a gunshot, they rise in such clouds that the sportsman involuntarily clutches his hat with one hand and utters a prolonged pshaw! i walked with yermolaï along beside the pond; but, in the first place, the duck is a wary bird, and is not to be met quite close to the bank; and secondly, even when some straggling and inexperienced teal exposed itself to our shots and lost its life, our dogs were not able to get it out of the thick reeds; in spite of their most devoted efforts they could neither swim nor tread on the bottom, and only cut their precious noses on the sharp reeds for nothing. 'no,' was yermolaï's comment at last, 'it won't do; we must get a boat.... let us go back to lgov.' we went back. we had only gone a few paces when a rather wretched-looking setter-dog ran out from behind a bushy willow to meet us, and behind him appeared a man of middle height, in a blue and much-worn greatcoat, a yellow waistcoat, and pantaloons of a nondescript grey colour, hastily tucked into high boots full of holes, with a red handkerchief round his neck, and a single-barrelled gun on his shoulder. while our dogs, with the ordinary chinese ceremonies peculiar to their species, were sniffing at their new acquaintance, who was obviously ill at ease, held his tail between his legs, dropped his ears back, and kept turning round and round showing his teeth--the stranger approached us, and bowed with extreme civility. he appeared to be about twenty-five; his long dark hair, perfectly saturated with kvas, stood up in stiff tufts, his small brown eyes twinkled genially; his face was bound up in a black handkerchief, as though for toothache; his countenance was all smiles and amiability. 'allow me to introduce myself,' he began in a soft and insinuating voice; 'i am a sportsman of these parts--vladimir.... having heard of your presence, and having learnt that you proposed to visit the shores of our pond, i resolved, if it were not displeasing to you, to offer you my services.' the sportsman, vladimir, uttered those words for all the world like a young provincial actor in the _rôle_ of leading lover. i agreed to his proposition, and before we had reached lgov i had succeeded in learning his whole history. he was a freed house-serf; in his tender youth had been taught music, then served as valet, could read and write, had read--so much i could discover--some few trashy books, and existed now, as many do exist in russia, without a farthing of ready money; without any regular occupation; fed by manna from heaven, or something hardly less precarious. he expressed himself with extraordinary elegance, and obviously plumed himself on his manners; he must have been devoted to the fair sex too, and in all probability popular with them: russian girls love fine talking. among other things, he gave me to understand that he sometimes visited the neighbouring landowners, and went to stay with friends in the town, where he played preference, and that he was acquainted with people in the metropolis. his smile was masterly and exceedingly varied; what specially suited him was a modest, contained smile which played on his lips as he listened to any other man's conversation. he was attentive to you; he agreed with you completely, but still he did not lose sight of his own dignity, and seemed to wish to give you to understand that he could, if occasion arose, express convictions of his own. yermolaï, not being very refined, and quite devoid of 'subtlety,' began to address him with coarse familiarity. the fine irony with which vladimir used 'sir' in his reply was worth seeing. 'why is your face tied up? 'i inquired; 'have you toothache?' 'no,' he answered; 'it was a most disastrous consequence of carelessness. i had a friend, a good fellow, but not a bit of a sportsman, as sometimes occurs. well, one day he said to me, "my dear friend, take me out shooting; i am curious to learn what this diversion consists in." i did not like, of course, to refuse a comrade; i got him a gun and took him out shooting. well, we shot a little in the ordinary way; at last we thought we would rest i sat down under a tree; but he began instead to play with his gun, pointing it at me meantime. i asked him to leave off, but in his inexperience he did not attend to my words, the gun went off, and i lost half my chin, and the first finger of my right hand.' we reached lgov. vladimir and yermolaï had both decided that we could not shoot without a boat. 'sutchok (_i.e._ the twig) has a punt,' observed vladimir, 'but i don't know where he has hidden it. we must go to him.' 'to whom?' i asked. 'the man lives here; sutchok is his nickname.' vladimir went with yermolaï to sutchok's. i told them i would wait for them at the church. while i was looking at the tombstones in the churchyard, i stumbled upon a blackened, four-cornered urn with the following inscription, on one side in french: 'ci-git théophile-henri, vicomte de blangy'; on the next; 'under this stone is laid the body of a french subject, count blangy; born , died , in the nd year of his age': on the third, 'peace to his ashes': and on the fourth:-- 'under this stone there lies from france an emigrant. of high descent was he, and also of talent. a wife and kindred murdered he bewailed, and left his land by tyrants cruel assailed; the friendly shores of russia he attained, and hospitable shelter here he gained; children he taught; their parents' cares allayed: here, by god's will, in peace he has been laid.' the approach of yermolaï with vladimir and the man with the strange nickname, sutchok, broke in on my meditations. barelegged, ragged and dishevelled, sutchok looked like a discharged stray house-serf of sixty years old. 'have you a boat?' i asked him. 'i have a boat,' he answered in a hoarse, cracked voice; 'but it's a very poor one.' 'how so?' 'its boards are split apart, and the rivets have come off the cracks.' 'that's no great disaster!' interposed yermolaï; 'we can stuff them up with tow.' 'of course you can,' sutchok assented. 'and who are you?' 'i am the fisherman of the manor.' 'how is it, when you're a fisherman, your boat is in such bad condition?' 'there are no fish in our river.' 'fish don't like slimy marshes,' observed my huntsman, with the air of an authority. 'come,' i said to yermolaï, 'go and get some tow, and make the boat right for us as soon as you can.' yermolaï went off. 'well, in this way we may very likely go to the bottom,' i said to vladimir. 'god is merciful,' he answered. 'anyway, we must suppose that the pond is not deep.' 'no, it is not deep,' observed sutchok, who spoke in a strange, far-away voice, as though he were in a dream, 'and there's sedge and mud at the bottom, and it's all overgrown with sedge. but there are deep holes too.' 'but if the sedge is so thick,' said vladimir, 'it will be impossible to row.' 'who thinks of rowing in a punt? one has to punt it. i will go with you; my pole is there--or else one can use a wooden spade.' 'with a spade it won't be easy; you won't touch the bottom perhaps in some places,' said vladimir. 'it's true; it won't be easy.' i sat down on a tomb-stone to wait for yermolaï. vladimir moved a little to one side out of respect to me, and also sat down. sutchok remained standing in the same place, his head bent and his hands clasped behind his back, according to the old habit of house-serfs. 'tell me, please,' i began, 'have you been the fisherman here long?' 'it is seven years now,' he replied, rousing himself with a start. 'and what was your occupation before?' 'i was coachman before.' 'who dismissed you from being coachman?' 'the new mistress.' 'what mistress?' 'oh, that bought us. your honour does not know her; alyona timofyevna; she is so fat ... not young.' 'why did she decide to make you a fisherman?' 'god knows. she came to us from her estate in tamboff, gave orders for all the household to come together, and came out to us. we first kissed her hand, and she said nothing; she was not angry.... then she began to question us in order; "how are you employed? what duties have you?" she came to me in my turn; so she asked: "what have you been?" i say, "coachman." "coachman? well, a fine coachman you are; only look at you! you're not fit for a coachman, but be my fisherman, and shave your beard. on the occasions of my visits provide fish for the table; do you hear?" ... so since then i have been enrolled as a fisherman. "and mind you keep my pond in order." but how is one to keep it in order?' 'whom did you belong to before?' 'to sergaï sergiitch pehterev. we came to him by inheritance. but he did not own us long; only six years altogether. i was his coachman ... but not in town, he had others there--only in the country.' 'and were you always a coachman from your youth up?' 'always a coachman? oh, no! i became a coachman in sergaï sergiitch's time, but before that i was a cook--but not town-cook; only a cook in the country.' 'whose cook were you, then?' 'oh, my former master's, afanasy nefeditch, sergaï sergiitch's uncle. lgov was bought by him, by afanasy nefeditch, but it came to sergaï sergiitch by inheritance from him.' 'whom did he buy it from?' 'from tatyana vassilyevna.' 'what tatyana vassilyevna was that?' 'why, that died last year in bolhov ... that is, at karatchev, an old maid.... she had never married. don't you know her? we came to her from her father, vassily semenitch. she owned us a goodish while ... twenty years.' 'then were you cook to her?' 'at first, to be sure, i was cook, and then i was coffee-bearer.' 'what were you?' 'coffee-bearer.' 'what sort of duty is that?' 'i don't know, your honour. i stood at the sideboard, and was called anton instead of kuzma. the mistress ordered that i should be called so.' 'your real name, then, is kuzma?' 'yes.' 'and were you coffee-bearer all the time?' 'no, not all the time; i was an actor too.' 'really?' 'yes, i was.... i played in the theatre. our mistress set up a theatre of her own.' 'what kind of parts did you take?' 'what did you please to say?' 'what did you do in the theatre?' 'don't you know? why, they take me and dress me up; and i walk about dressed up, or stand or sit down there as it happens, and they say, "see, this is what you must say," and i say it. once i represented a blind man.... they laid little peas under each eyelid.... yes, indeed.' 'and what were you afterwards?' 'afterwards i became a cook again.' 'why did they degrade you to being a cook again?' 'my brother ran away.' 'well, and what were you under the father of your first mistress?' 'i had different duties; at first i found myself a page; i have been a postilion, a gardener, and a whipper-in.' 'a whipper-in?... and did you ride out with the hounds?' 'yes, i rode with the hounds, and was nearly killed; i fell off my horse, and the horse was injured. our old master was very severe; he ordered them to flog me, and to send me to learn a trade to moscow, to a shoemaker.' 'to learn a trade? but you weren't a child, i suppose, when you were a whipper-in?' 'i was twenty and over then.' 'but could you learn a trade at twenty?' 'i suppose one could, some way, since the master ordered it. but he luckily died soon after, and they sent me back to the country.' 'and when were you taught to cook?' sutchok lifted his thin yellowish little old face and grinned. 'is that a thing to be taught?... old women can cook.' 'well,' i commented, 'you have seen many things, kuzma, in your time! what do you do now as a fisherman, seeing there are no fish?' 'oh, your honour, i don't complain. and, thank god, they made me a fisherman. why another old man like me--andrey pupir--the mistress ordered to be put into the paper factory, as a ladler. "it's a sin," she said, "to eat bread in idleness." and pupir had even hoped for favour; his cousin's son was clerk in the mistress's counting-house: he had promised to send his name up to the mistress, to remember him: a fine way he remembered him!... and pupir fell at his cousin's knees before my eyes.' 'have you a family? have you married?' 'no, your honour, i have never been married. tatyana vassilyevna--god rest her soul!--did not allow anyone to marry. "god forbid!" she said sometimes, "here am i living single: what indulgence! what are they thinking of!"' 'what do you live on now? do you get wages?' 'wages, your honour!... victuals are given me, and thanks be to thee, lord! i am very contented. may god give our lady long life!' yermolaï returned. 'the boat is repaired,' he announced churlishly. 'go after your pole--you there!' sutchok ran to get his pole. during the whole time of my conversation with the poor old man, the sportsman vladimir had been staring at him with a contemptuous smile. 'a stupid fellow,' was his comment, when the latter had gone off; 'an absolutely uneducated fellow; a peasant, nothing more. one cannot even call him a house-serf, and he was boasting all the time. how could he be an actor, be pleased to judge for yourself! you were pleased to trouble yourself for no good in talking to him.' a quarter of an hour later we were sitting in sutchok's punt. the dogs we left in a hut in charge of my coachman. we were not very comfortable, but sportsmen are not a fastidious race. at the rear end, which was flattened and straight, stood sutchok, punting; i sat with vladimir on the planks laid across the boat, and yermolaï ensconced himself in front, in the very beak. in spite of the tow, the water soon made its appearance under our feet. fortunately, the weather was calm and the pond seemed slumbering. we floated along rather slowly. the old man had difficulty in drawing his long pole out of the sticky mud; it came up all tangled in green threads of water-sedge; the flat round leaves of the water-lily also hindered the progress of our boat last we got up to the reeds, and then the fun began. ducks flew up noisily from the pond, scared by our unexpected appearance in their domains, shots sounded at once after them; it was a pleasant sight to see these short-tailed game turning somersaults in the air, splashing heavily into the water. we could not, of course, get at all the ducks that were shot; those who were slightly wounded swam away; some which had been quite killed fell into such thick reeds that even yermolaï's little lynx eyes could not discover them, yet our boat was nevertheless filled to the brim with game for dinner. vladimir, to yermolaï's great satisfaction, did not shoot at all well; he seemed surprised after each unsuccessful shot, looked at his gun and blew down it, seemed puzzled, and at last explained to us the reason why he had missed his aim. yermolaï, as always, shot triumphantly; i--rather badly, after my custom. sutchok looked on at us with the eyes of a man who has been the servant of others from his youth up; now and then he cried out: 'there, there, there's another little duck'; and he constantly rubbed his back, not with his hands, but by a peculiar movement of the shoulder-blades. the weather kept magnificent; curly white clouds moved calmly high above our heads, and were reflected clearly in the water; the reeds were whispering around us; here and there the pond sparkled in the sunshine like steel. we were preparing to return to the village, when suddenly a rather unpleasant adventure befel us. for a long time we had been aware that the water was gradually filling our punt. vladimir was entrusted with the task of baling it out by means of a ladle, which my thoughtful huntsman had stolen to be ready for any emergency from a peasant woman who was staring away in another direction. all went well so long as vladimir did not neglect his duty. but just at the end the ducks, as if to take leave of us, rose in such flocks that we scarcely had time to load our guns. in the heat of the sport we did not pay attention to the state of our punt--when suddenly, yermolaï, in trying to reach a wounded duck, leaned his whole weight on the boat's-edge; at his over-eager movement our old tub veered on one side, began to fill, and majestically sank to the bottom, fortunately not in a deep place. we cried out, but it was too late; in an instant we were standing in the water up to our necks, surrounded by the floating bodies of the slaughtered ducks. i cannot help laughing now when i recollect the scared white faces of my companions (probably my own face was not particularly rosy at that moment), but i must confess at the time it did not enter my head to feel amused. each of us kept his gun above his head, and sutchok, no doubt from the habit of imitating his masters, lifted his pole above him. the first to break the silence was yermolaï. 'tfoo! curse it!' he muttered, spitting into the water; 'here's a go. it's all you, you old devil!' he added, turning wrathfully to sutchok; 'you've such a boat!' 'it's my fault,' stammered the old man. 'yes; and you're a nice one,' continued my huntsman, turning his head in vladimir's direction; 'what were you thinking of? why weren't you baling out?--you, you?' but vladimir was not equal to a reply; he was shaking like a leaf, his teeth were chattering, and his smile was utterly meaningless. what had become of his fine language, his feeling of fine distinctions, and of his own dignity! the cursed punt rocked feebly under our feet... at the instant of our ducking the water seemed terribly cold to us, but we soon got hardened to it, when the first shock had passed off. i looked round me; the reeds rose up in a circle ten paces from us; in the distance above their tops the bank could be seen. 'it looks bad,' i thought. 'what are we to do?' i asked yermolaï. 'well, we'll take a look round; we can't spend the night here,' he answered. 'here, you, take my gun,' he said to vladimir. vladimir obeyed submissively. 'i will go and find the ford,' continued yermolaï, as though there must infallibly be a ford in every pond: he took the pole from sutchok, and went off in the direction of the bank, warily sounding the depth as he walked. 'can you swim?' i asked him. 'no, i can't,' his voice sounded from behind the reeds. 'then he'll be drowned,' remarked sutchok indifferently. he had been terrified at first, not by the danger, but through fear of our anger, and now, completely reassured, he drew a long breath from time to time, and seemed not to be aware of any necessity for moving from his present position. 'and he will perish without doing any good,' added vladimir piteously. yermolaï did not return for more than an hour. that hour seemed an eternity to us. at first we kept calling to him very energetically; then his answering shouts grew less frequent; at last he was completely silent. the bells in the village began ringing for evening service. there was not much conversation between us; indeed, we tried not to look at one another. the ducks hovered over our heads; some seemed disposed to settle near us, but suddenly rose up into the air and flew away quacking. we began to grow numb. sutchok shut his eyes as though he were disposing himself to sleep. at last, to our indescribable delight, yermolaï returned. 'well?' 'i have been to the bank; i have found the ford.... let us go.' we wanted to set off at once; but he first brought some string out of his pocket out of the water, tied the slaughtered ducks together by their legs, took both ends in his teeth, and moved slowly forward; vladimir came behind him, and i behind vladimir, and sutchok brought up the rear. it was about two hundred paces to the bank. yermolaï walked boldly and without stopping (so well had he noted the track), only occasionally crying out: 'more to the left--there's a hole here to the right!' or 'keep to the right--you'll sink in there to the left....' sometimes the water was up to our necks, and twice poor sutchok, who was shorter than all the rest of us, got a mouthful and spluttered. 'come, come, come!' yermolaï shouted roughly to him--and sutchok, scrambling, hopping and skipping, managed to reach a shallower place, but even in his greatest extremity was never so bold as to clutch at the skirt of my coat. worn out, muddy and wet, we at last reached the bank. two hours later we were all sitting, as dry as circumstances would allow, in a large hay barn, preparing for supper. the coachman yehudiil, an exceedingly deliberate man, heavy in gait, cautious and sleepy, stood at the entrance, zealously plying sutchok with snuff (i have noticed that coachmen in russia very quickly make friends); sutchok was taking snuff with frenzied energy, in quantities to make him ill; he was spitting, sneezing, and apparently enjoying himself greatly. vladimir had assumed an air of languor; he leaned his head on one side, and spoke little. yermolaï was cleaning our guns. the dogs were wagging their tails at a great rate in the expectation of porridge; the horses were stamping and neighing in the out-house.... the sun had set; its last rays were broken up into broad tracts of purple; golden clouds were drawn out over the heavens into finer and ever finer threads, like a fleece washed and combed out. ... there was the sound of singing in the village. viii byezhin prairie it was a glorious july day, one of those days which only come after many days of fine weather. from earliest morning the sky is clear; the sunrise does not glow with fire; it is suffused with a soft roseate flush. the sun, not fiery, not red-hot as in time of stifling drought, not dull purple as before a storm, but with a bright and genial radiance, rises peacefully behind a long and narrow cloud, shines out freshly, and plunges again into its lilac mist. the delicate upper edge of the strip of cloud flashes in little gleaming snakes; their brilliance is like polished silver. but, lo! the dancing rays flash forth again, and in solemn joy, as though flying upward, rises the mighty orb. about mid-day there is wont to be, high up in the sky, a multitude of rounded clouds, golden-grey, with soft white edges. like islands scattered over an overflowing river, that bathes them in its unbroken reaches of deep transparent blue, they scarcely stir; farther down the heavens they are in movement, packing closer; now there is no blue to be seen between them, but they are themselves almost as blue as the sky, filled full with light and heat. the colour of the horizon, a faint pale lilac, does not change all day, and is the same all round; nowhere is there storm gathering and darkening; only somewhere rays of bluish colour stretch down from the sky; it is a sprinkling of scarce-perceptible rain. in the evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and undefined as smoke, lie streaked with pink, facing the setting sun; in the place where it has gone down, as calmly as it rose, a crimson glow lingers long over the darkening earth, and, softly flashing like a candle carried carelessly, the evening star flickers in the sky. on such days all the colours are softened, bright but not glaring; everything is suffused with a kind of touching tenderness. on such days the heat is sometimes very great; often it is even 'steaming' on the slopes of the fields, but a wind dispels this growing sultriness, and whirling eddies of dust--sure sign of settled, fine weather--move along the roads and across the fields in high white columns. in the pure dry air there is a scent of wormwood, rye in blossom, and buckwheat; even an hour before nightfall there is no moisture in the air. it is for such weather that the farmer longs, for harvesting his wheat.... on just such a day i was once out grouse-shooting in the tchern district of the province of tula. i started and shot a fair amount of game; my full game-bag cut my shoulder mercilessly; but already the evening glow had faded, and the cool shades of twilight were beginning to grow thicker, and to spread across the sky, which was still bright, though no longer lighted up by the rays of the setting sun, when i at last decided to turn back homewards. with swift steps i passed through the long 'square' of underwoods, clambered up a hill, and instead of the familiar plain i expected to see, with the oakwood on the right and the little white church in the distance, i saw before me a scene completely different, and quite new to me. a narrow valley lay at my feet, and directly facing me a dense wood of aspen-trees rose up like a thick wall. i stood still in perplexity, looked round me.... 'aha!' i thought, 'i have somehow come wrong; i kept too much to the right,' and surprised at my own mistake, i rapidly descended the hill. i was at once plunged into a disagreeable clinging mist, exactly as though i had gone down into a cellar; the thick high grass at the bottom of the valley, all drenched with dew, was white like a smooth tablecloth; one felt afraid somehow to walk on it. i made haste to get on the other side, and walked along beside the aspenwood, bearing to the left. bats were already hovering over its slumbering tree-tops, mysteriously flitting and quivering across the clear obscure of the sky; a young belated hawk flew in swift, straight course upwards, hastening to its nest. 'here, directly i get to this corner,' i thought to myself, 'i shall find the road at once; but i have come a mile out of my way!' i did at last reach the end of the wood, but there was no road of any sort there; some kind of low bushes overgrown with long grass extended far and wide before me; behind them in the far, far distance could be discerned a tract of waste land. i stopped again. 'well? where am i?' i began ransacking my brain to recall how and where i had been walking during the day.... 'ah! but these are the bushes at parahin,' i cried at last; 'of course! then this must be sindyev wood. but how did i get here? so far?... strange! now i must bear to the right again.' i went to the right through the bushes. meantime the night had crept close and grown up like a storm-cloud; it seemed as though, with the mists of evening, darkness was rising up on all sides and flowing down from overhead. i had come upon some sort of little, untrodden, overgrown path; i walked along it, gazing intently before me. soon all was blackness and silence around--only the quail's cry was heard from time to time. some small night-bird, flitting noiselessly near the ground on its soft wings, almost flapped against me and skurried away in alarm. i came out on the further side of the bushes, and made my way along a field by the hedge. by now i could hardly make out distant objects; the field showed dimly white around; beyond it rose up a sullen darkness, which seemed moving up closer in huge masses every instant. my steps gave a muffled sound in the air, that grew colder and colder. the pale sky began again to grow blue--but it was the blue of night. the tiny stars glimmered and twinkled in it. what i had been taking for a wood turned out to be a dark round hillock. 'but where am i, then?' i repeated again aloud, standing still for the third time and looking inquiringly at my spot and tan english dog, dianka by name, certainly the most intelligent of four-footed creatures. but the most intelligent of four-footed creatures only wagged her tail, blinked her weary eyes dejectedly, and gave me no sensible advice. i felt myself disgraced in her eyes and pushed desperately forward, as though i had suddenly guessed which way i ought to go; i scaled the hill, and found myself in a hollow of no great depth, ploughed round. a strange sensation came over me at once. this hollow had the form of an almost perfect cauldron, with sloping sides; at the bottom of it were some great white stones standing upright--it seemed as though they had crept there for some secret council--and it was so still and dark in it, so dreary and weird seemed the sky, overhanging it, that my heart sank. some little animal was whining feebly and piteously among the stones. i made haste to get out again on to the hillock. till then i had not quite given up all hope of finding the way home; but at this point i finally decided that i was utterly lost, and without any further attempt to make out the surrounding objects, which were almost completely plunged in darkness, i walked straight forward, by the aid of the stars, at random.... for about half-an-hour i walked on in this way, though i could hardly move one leg before the other. it seemed as if i had never been in such a deserted country in my life; nowhere was there the glimmer of a fire, nowhere a sound to be heard. one sloping hillside followed another; fields stretched endlessly upon fields; bushes seemed to spring up out of the earth under my very nose. i kept walking and was just making up my mind to lie down somewhere till morning, when suddenly i found myself on the edge of a horrible precipice. i quickly drew back my lifted foot, and through the almost opaque darkness i saw far below me a vast plain. a long river skirted it in a semi-circle, turned away from me; its course was marked by the steely reflection of the water still faintly glimmering here and there. the hill on which i found myself terminated abruptly in an almost overhanging precipice, whose gigantic profile stood out black against the dark-blue waste of sky, and directly below me, in the corner formed by this precipice and the plain near the river, which was there a dark, motionless mirror, under the lee of the hill, two fires side by side were smoking and throwing up red flames. people were stirring round them, shadows hovered, and sometimes the front of a little curly head was lighted up by the glow. i found out at last where i had got to. this plain was well known in our parts under the name of byezhin prairie.... but there was no possibility of returning home, especially at night; my legs were sinking under me from weariness. i decided to get down to the fires and to wait for the dawn in the company of these men, whom i took for drovers. i got down successfully, but i had hardly let go of the last branch i had grasped, when suddenly two large shaggy white dogs rushed angrily barking upon me. the sound of ringing boyish voices came from round the fires; two or three boys quickly got up from the ground. i called back in response to their shouts of inquiry. they ran up to me, and at once called off the dogs, who were specially struck by the appearance of my dianka. i came down to them. i had been mistaken in taking the figures sitting round the fires for drovers. they were simply peasant boys from a neighbouring village, who were in charge of a drove of horses. in hot summer weather with us they drive the horses out at night to graze in the open country: the flies and gnats would give them no peace in the daytime; they drive out the drove towards evening, and drive them back in the early morning: it's a great treat for the peasant boys. bare-headed, in old fur-capes, they bestride the most spirited nags, and scurry along with merry cries and hooting and ringing laughter, swinging their arms and legs, and leaping into the air. the fine dust is stirred up in yellow clouds and moves along the road; the tramp of hoofs in unison resounds afar; the horses race along, pricking up their ears; in front of all, with his tail in the air and thistles in his tangled mane, prances some shaggy chestnut, constantly shifting his paces as he goes. i told the boys i had lost my way, and sat down with them. they asked me where i came from, and then were silent for a little and turned away. then we talked a little again. i lay down under a bush, whose shoots had been nibbled off, and began to look round. it was a marvellous picture; about the fire a red ring of light quivered and seemed to swoon away in the embrace of a background of darkness; the flame flaring up from time to time cast swift flashes of light beyond the boundary of this circle; a fine tongue of light licked the dry twigs and died away at once; long thin shadows, in their turn breaking in for an instant, danced right up to the very fires; darkness was struggling with light. sometimes, when the fire burnt low and the circle of light shrank together, suddenly out of the encroaching darkness a horse's head was thrust in, bay, with striped markings or all white, stared with intent blank eyes upon us, nipped hastily the long grass, and drawing back again, vanished instantly. one could only hear it still munching and snorting. from the circle of light it was hard to make out what was going on in the darkness; everything close at hand seemed shut off by an almost black curtain; but farther away hills and forests were dimly visible in long blurs upon the horizon. the dark unclouded sky stood, inconceivably immense, triumphant, above us in all its mysterious majesty. one felt a sweet oppression at one's heart, breathing in that peculiar, overpowering, yet fresh fragrance--the fragrance of a summer night in russia. scarcely a sound was to be heard around.... only at times, in the river near, the sudden splash of a big fish leaping, and the faint rustle of a reed on the bank, swaying lightly as the ripples reached it ... the fires alone kept up a subdued crackling. the boys sat round them: there too sat the two dogs, who had been so eager to devour me. they could not for long after reconcile themselves to my presence, and, drowsily blinking and staring into the fire, they growled now and then with an unwonted sense of their own dignity; first they growled, and then whined a little, as though deploring the impossibility of carrying out their desires. there were altogether five boys: fedya, pavlusha, ilyusha, kostya and vanya. (from their talk i learnt their names, and i intend now to introduce them to the reader.) the first and eldest of all, fedya, one would take to be about fourteen. he was a well-made boy, with good-looking, delicate, rather small features, curly fair hair, bright eyes, and a perpetual half-merry, half-careless smile. he belonged, by all appearances, to a well-to-do family, and had ridden out to the prairie, not through necessity, but for amusement. he wore a gay print shirt, with a yellow border; a short new overcoat slung round his neck was almost slipping off his narrow shoulders; a comb hung from his blue belt. his boots, coming a little way up the leg, were certainly his own--not his father's. the second boy, pavlusha, had tangled black hair, grey eyes, broad cheek-bones, a pale face pitted with small-pox, a large but well-cut mouth; his head altogether was large--'a beer-barrel head,' as they say--and his figure was square and clumsy. he was not a good-looking boy--there's no denying it!--and yet i liked him; he looked very sensible and straightforward, and there was a vigorous ring in his voice. he had nothing to boast of in his attire; it consisted simply of a homespun shirt and patched trousers. the face of the third, ilyusha, was rather uninteresting; it was a long face, with short-sighted eyes and a hook nose; it expressed a kind of dull, fretful uneasiness; his tightly-drawn lips seemed rigid; his contracted brow never relaxed; he seemed continually blinking from the firelight. his flaxen--almost white--hair hung out in thin wisps under his low felt hat, which he kept pulling down with both hands over his ears. he had on new bast-shoes and leggings; a thick string, wound three times round his figure, carefully held together his neat black smock. neither he nor pavlusha looked more than twelve years old. the fourth, kostya, a boy of ten, aroused my curiosity by his thoughtful and sorrowful look. his whole face was small, thin, freckled, pointed at the chin like a squirrel's; his lips were barely perceptible; but his great black eyes, that shone with liquid brilliance, produced a strange impression; they seemed trying to express something for which the tongue--his tongue, at least--had no words. he was undersized and weakly, and dressed rather poorly. the remaining boy, vanya, i had not noticed at first; he was lying on the ground, peacefully curled up under a square rug, and only occasionally thrust his curly brown head out from under it: this boy was seven years old at the most. so i lay under the bush at one side and looked at the boys. a small pot was hanging over one of the fires; in it potatoes were cooking. pavlusha was looking after them, and on his knees he was trying them by poking a splinter of wood into the boiling water. fedya was lying leaning on his elbow, and smoothing out the skirts of his coat. ilyusha was sitting beside kostya, and still kept blinking constrainedly. kostya's head drooped despondently, and he looked away into the distance. vanya did not stir under his rug. i pretended to be asleep. little by little, the boys began talking again. at first they gossiped of one thing and another, the work of to-morrow, the horses; but suddenly fedya turned to ilyusha, and, as though taking up again an interrupted conversation, asked him: 'come then, so you've seen the domovoy?' 'no, i didn't see him, and no one ever can see him,' answered ilyusha, in a weak hoarse voice, the sound of which was wonderfully in keeping with the expression of his face; 'i heard him.... yes, and not i alone.' 'where does he live--in your place?' asked pavlusha. 'in the old paper-mill.' 'why, do you go to the factory?' 'of course we do. my brother avdushka and i, we are paper-glazers.' 'i say--factory-hands!' 'well, how did you hear it, then?' asked fedya. 'it was like this. it happened that i and my brother avdushka, with fyodor of mihyevska, and ivashka the squint-eyed, and the other ivashka who comes from the red hills, and ivashka of suhorukov too--and there were some other boys there as well--there were ten of us boys there altogether--the whole shift, that is--it happened that we spent the night at the paper-mill; that's to say, it didn't happen, but nazarov, the overseer, kept us. 'why,' said he, "should you waste time going home, boys; there's a lot of work to-morrow, so don't go home, boys." so we stopped, and were all lying down together, and avdushka had just begun to say, "i say, boys, suppose the domovoy were to come?" and before he'd finished saying so, some one suddenly began walking over our heads; we were lying down below, and he began walking upstairs overhead, where the wheel is. we listened: he walked; the boards seemed to be bending under him, they creaked so; then he crossed over, above our heads; all of a sudden the water began to drip and drip over the wheel; the wheel rattled and rattled and again began to turn, though the sluices of the conduit above had been let down. we wondered who could have lifted them up so that the water could run; any way, the wheel turned and turned a little, and then stopped. then he went to the door overhead and began coming down-stairs, and came down like this, not hurrying himself; the stairs seemed to groan under him too.... well, he came right down to our door, and waited and waited ... and all of a sudden the door simply flew open. we were in a fright; we looked--there was nothing.... suddenly what if the net on one of the vats didn't begin moving; it got up, and went rising and ducking and moving in the air as though some one were stirring with it, and then it was in its place again. then, at another vat, a hook came off its nail, and then was on its nail again; and then it seemed as if some one came to the door, and suddenly coughed and choked like a sheep, but so loudly!... we all fell down in a heap and huddled against one another.... just weren't we in a fright that night!' 'i say!' murmured pavel, 'what did he cough for?' 'i don't know; perhaps it was the damp.' all were silent for a little. 'well,' inquired fedya, 'are the potatoes done?' pavlusha tried them. 'no, they are raw.... my, what a splash!' he added, turning his face in the direction of the river; 'that must be a pike.... and there's a star falling.' 'i say, i can tell you something, brothers,' began kostya, in a shrill little voice; 'listen what my dad told me the other day.' 'well, we are listening,' said fedya with a patronising air. 'you know gavrila, i suppose, the carpenter up in the big village?' 'yes, we know him.' 'and do you know why he is so sorrowful always, never speaks? do you know? i'll tell you why he's so sorrowful; he went one day, daddy said, he went, brothers, into the forest nutting. so he went nutting into the forest and lost his way; he went on--god only can tell where he got to. so he went on and on, brothers--but 'twas no good!--he could not find the way; and so night came on out of doors. so he sat down under a tree. "i'll wait till morning," thought he. he sat down and began to drop asleep. so as he was falling asleep, suddenly he heard some one call him. he looked up; there was no one. he fell asleep again; again he was called. he looked and looked again; and in front of him there sat a russalka on a branch, swinging herself and calling him to her, and simply dying with laughing; she laughed so.... and the moon was shining bright, so bright, the moon shone so clear--everything could be seen plain, brothers. so she called him, and she herself was as bright and as white sitting on the branch as some dace or a roach, or like some little carp so white and silvery.... gavrila the carpenter almost fainted, brothers, but she laughed without stopping, and kept beckoning him to her like this. then gavrila was just getting up; he was just going to yield to the russalka, brothers, but--the lord put it into his heart, doubtless--he crossed himself like this.... and it was so hard for him to make that cross, brothers; he said, "my hand was simply like a stone; it would not move." ... ugh! the horrid witch.... so when he made the cross, brothers, the russalka, she left off laughing, and all at once how she did cry.... she cried, brothers, and wiped her eyes with her hair, and her hair was green as any hemp. so gavrila looked and looked at her, and at last he fell to questioning her. "why are you weeping, wild thing of the woods?" and the russalka began to speak to him like this: "if you had not crossed yourself, man," she says, "you should have lived with me in gladness of heart to the end of your days; and i weep, i am grieved at heart because you crossed yourself; but i will not grieve alone; you too shall grieve at heart to the end of your days." then she vanished, brothers, and at once it was plain to gavrila how to get out of the forest.... only since then he goes always sorrowful, as you see.' 'ugh!' said fedya after a brief silence; 'but how can such an evil thing of the woods ruin a christian soul--he did not listen to her?' 'and i say!' said kostya. 'gavrila said that her voice was as shrill and plaintive as a toad's.' 'did your father tell you that himself?' fedya went on. 'yes. i was lying in the loft; i heard it all.' 'it's a strange thing. why should he be sorrowful?... but i suppose she liked him, since she called him.' 'ay, she liked him!' put in ilyusha. 'yes, indeed! she wanted to tickle him to death, that's what she wanted. that's what they do, those russalkas.' 'there ought to be russalkas here too, i suppose,' observed fedya. 'no,' answered kostya, 'this is a holy open place. there's one thing, though: the river's near.' all were silent. suddenly from out of the distance came a prolonged, resonant, almost wailing sound, one of those inexplicable sounds of the night, which break upon a profound stillness, rise upon the air, linger, and slowly die away at last. you listen: it is as though there were nothing, yet it echoes still. it is as though some one had uttered a long, long cry upon the very horizon, as though some other had answered him with shrill harsh laughter in the forest, and a faint, hoarse hissing hovers over the river. the boys looked round about shivering.... 'christ's aid be with us!' whispered ilyusha. 'ah, you craven crows!' cried pavel, 'what are you frightened of? look, the potatoes are done.' (they all came up to the pot and began to eat the smoking potatoes; only vanya did not stir.) 'well, aren't you coming?' said pavel. but he did not creep out from under his rug. the pot was soon completely emptied. 'have you heard, boys,' began ilyusha, 'what happened with us at varnavitsi?' 'near the dam?' asked fedya. 'yes, yes, near the dam, the broken-down dam. that is a haunted place, such a haunted place, and so lonely. all round there are pits and quarries, and there are always snakes in pits.' 'well, what did happen? tell us.' 'well, this is what happened. you don't know, perhaps, fedya, but there a drowned man was buried; he was drowned long, long ago, when the water was still deep; only his grave can still be seen, though it can only just be seen ... like this--a little mound.... so one day the bailiff called the huntsman yermil, and says to him, "go to the post, yermil." yermil always goes to the post for us; he has let all his dogs die; they never will live with him, for some reason, and they have never lived with him, though he's a good huntsman, and everyone liked him. so yermil went to the post, and he stayed a bit in the town, and when he rode back, he was a little tipsy. it was night, a fine night; the moon was shining.... so yermil rode across the dam; his way lay there. so, as he rode along, he saw, on the drowned man's grave, a little lamb, so white and curly and pretty, running about. so yermil thought, "i will take him," and he got down and took him in his arms. but the little lamb didn't take any notice. so yermil goes back to his horse, and the horse stares at him, and snorts and shakes his head; however, he said "wo" to him and sat on him with the lamb, and rode on again; he held the lamb in front of him. he looks at him, and the lamb looks him straight in the face, like this. yermil the huntsman felt upset. "i don't remember," he said, "that lambs ever look at any one like that"; however, he began to stroke it like this on its wool, and to say, "chucky! chucky!" and the lamb suddenly showed its teeth and said too, "chucky! chucky!"' the boy who was telling the story had hardly uttered this last word, when suddenly both dogs got up at once, and, barking convulsively, rushed away from the fire and disappeared in the darkness. all the boys were alarmed. vanya jumped up from under his rug. pavlusha ran shouting after the dogs. their barking quickly grew fainter in the distance.... there was the noise of the uneasy tramp of the frightened drove of horses. pavlusha shouted aloud: 'hey grey! beetle!' ... in a few minutes the barking ceased; pavel's voice sounded still in the distance.... a little time more passed; the boys kept looking about in perplexity, as though expecting something to happen.... suddenly the tramp of a galloping horse was heard; it stopped short at the pile of wood, and, hanging on to the mane, pavel sprang nimbly off it. both the dogs also leaped into the circle of light and at once sat down, their red tongues hanging out. 'what was it? what was it?' asked the boys. 'nothing,' answered pavel, waving his hand to his horse; 'i suppose the dogs scented something. i thought it was a wolf,' he added, calmly drawing deep breaths into his chest. i could not help admiring pavel. he was very fine at that moment. his ugly face, animated by his swift ride, glowed with hardihood and determination. without even a switch in his hand, he had, without the slightest hesitation, rushed out into the night alone to face a wolf.... 'what a splendid fellow!' i thought, looking at him. 'have you seen any wolves, then?' asked the trembling kostya. 'there are always a good many of them here,' answered pavel; 'but they are only troublesome in the winter.' he crouched down again before the fire. as he sat down on the ground, he laid his hand on the shaggy head of one of the dogs. for a long while the flattered brute did not turn his head, gazing sidewise with grateful pride at pavlusha. vanya lay down under his rug again. 'what dreadful things you were telling us, ilyusha!' began fedya, whose part it was, as the son of a well-to-do peasant, to lead the conversation. (he spoke little himself, apparently afraid of lowering his dignity.) 'and then some evil spirit set the dogs barking.... certainly i have heard that place was haunted.' 'varnavitsi?... i should think it was haunted! more than once, they say, they have seen the old master there--the late master. he wears, they say, a long skirted coat, and keeps groaning like this, and looking for something on the ground. once grandfather trofimitch met him. "what," says he, "your honour, ivan ivanitch, are you pleased to look for on the ground?"' 'he asked him?' put in fedya in amazement. 'yes, he asked him.' 'well, i call trofimitch a brave fellow after that.... well, what did he say?' '"i am looking for the herb that cleaves all things," says he. but he speaks so thickly, so thickly. "and what, your honour, ivan ivanitch, do you want with the herb that cleaves all things?" "the tomb weighs on me; it weighs on me, trofimitch: i want to get away--away."' 'my word!' observed fedya, 'he didn't enjoy his life enough, i suppose.' 'what a marvel!' said kosyta. 'i thought one could only see the departed on all hallows' day.' 'one can see the departed any time,' ilyusha interposed with conviction. from what i could observe, i judged he knew the village superstitions better than the others.... 'but on all hallows' day you can see the living too; those, that is, whose turn it is to die that year. you need only sit in the church porch, and keep looking at the road. they will come by you along the road; those, that is, who will die that year. last year old ulyana went to the porch.' 'well, did she see anyone?' asked kostya inquisitively. 'to be sure she did. at first she sat a long, long while, and saw no one and heard nothing ... only it seemed as if some dog kept whining and whining like this somewhere.... suddenly she looks up: a boy comes along the road with only a shirt on. she looked at him. it was ivashka fedosyev.' 'he who died in the spring?' put in fedya. 'yes, he. he came along and never lifted up his head. but ulyana knew him. and then she looks again: a woman came along. she stared and stared at her.... ah, god almighty! ... it was herself coming along the road; ulyana herself.' 'could it be herself?' asked fedya. 'yes, by god, herself.' 'well, but she is not dead yet, you know?' 'but the year is not over yet. and only look at her; her life hangs on a thread.' all were still again. pavel threw a handful of dry twigs on to the fire. they were soon charred by the suddenly leaping flame; they cracked and smoked, and began to contract, curling up their burning ends. gleams of light in broken flashes glanced in all directions, especially upwards. suddenly a white dove flew straight into the bright light, fluttered round and round in terror, bathed in the red glow, and disappeared with a whirr of its wings. 'it's lost its home, i suppose,' remarked pavel. 'now it will fly till it gets somewhere, where it can rest till dawn.' 'why, pavlusha,' said kostya, 'might it not be a just soul flying to heaven?' pavel threw another handful of twigs on to the fire. 'perhaps,' he said at last. 'but tell us, please, pavlusha,' began fedya, 'what was seen in your parts at shalamovy at the heavenly portent?' [footnote: this is what the peasants call an eclipse.--_author's note_.] 'when the sun could not be seen? yes, indeed.' 'were you frightened then?' 'yes; and we weren't the only ones. our master, though he talked to us beforehand, and said there would be a heavenly portent, yet when it got dark, they say he himself was frightened out of his wits. and in the house-serfs' cottage the old woman, directly it grew dark, broke all the dishes in the oven with the poker. 'who will eat now?' she said; 'the last day has come.' so the soup was all running about the place. and in the village there were such tales about among us: that white wolves would run over the earth, and would eat men, that a bird of prey would pounce down on us, and that they would even see trishka.' [footnote: the popular belief in trishka is probably derived from some tradition of antichrist.--_author's note_.] 'what is trishka?' asked kostya. 'why, don't you know?' interrupted ilyusha warmly. 'why, brother, where have you been brought up, not to know trishka? you're a stay-at-home, one-eyed lot in your village, really! trishka will be a marvellous man, who will come one day, and he will be such a marvellous man that they will never be able to catch him, and never be able to do anything with him; he will be such a marvellous man. the people will try to take him; for example, they will come after him with sticks, they will surround him, but he will blind their eyes so that they fall upon one another. they will put him in prison, for example; he will ask for a little water to drink in a bowl; they will bring him the bowl, and he will plunge into it and vanish from their sight. they will put chains on him, but he will only clap his hands--they will fall off him. so this trishka will go through villages and towns; and this trishka will be a wily man; he will lead astray christ's people ... and they will be able to do nothing to him.... he will be such a marvellous, wily man.' 'well, then,' continued pavel, in his deliberate voice, 'that's what he 's like. and so they expected him in our parts. the old men declared that directly the heavenly portent began, trishka would come. so the heavenly portent began. all the people were scattered over the street, in the fields, waiting to see what would happen. our place, you know, is open country. they look; and suddenly down the mountain-side from the big village comes a man of some sort; such a strange man, with such a wonderful head ... that all scream: "oy, trishka is coming! oy, trishka is coming!" and all run in all directions! our elder crawled into a ditch; his wife stumbled on the door-board and screamed with all her might; she terrified her yard-dog, so that he broke away from his chain and over the hedge and into the forest; and kuzka's father, dorofyitch, ran into the oats, lay down there, and began to cry like a quail. 'perhaps' says he, 'the enemy, the destroyer of souls, will spare the birds, at least.' so they were all in such a scare! but he that was coming was our cooper vavila; he had bought himself a new pitcher, and had put the empty pitcher over his head.' all the boys laughed; and again there was a silence for a while, as often happens when people are talking in the open air. i looked out into the solemn, majestic stillness of the night; the dewy freshness of late evening had been succeeded by the dry heat of midnight; the darkness still had long to lie in a soft curtain over the slumbering fields; there was still a long while left before the first whisperings, the first dewdrops of dawn. there was no moon in the heavens; it rose late at that time. countless golden stars, twinkling in rivalry, seemed all running softly towards the milky way, and truly, looking at them, you were almost conscious of the whirling, never--resting motion of the earth.... a strange, harsh, painful cry, sounded twice together over the river, and a few moments later, was repeated farther down.... kostya shuddered. 'what was that?' 'that was a heron's cry,' replied pavel tranquilly. 'a heron,' repeated kostya.... 'and what was it, pavlusha, i heard yesterday evening,' he added, after a short pause; 'you perhaps will know.' 'what did you hear?' 'i will tell you what i heard. i was going from stony ridge to shashkino; i went first through our walnut wood, and then passed by a little pool--you know where there's a sharp turn down to the ravine--there is a water-pit there, you know; it is quite overgrown with reeds; so i went near this pit, brothers, and suddenly from this came a sound of some one groaning, and piteously, so piteously; oo-oo, oo-oo! i was in such a fright, my brothers; it was late, and the voice was so miserable. i felt as if i should cry myself.... what could that have been, eh?' 'it was in that pit the thieves drowned akim the forester, last summer,' observed pavel; 'so perhaps it was his soul lamenting.' 'oh, dear, really, brothers,' replied kostya, opening wide his eyes, which were round enough before, 'i did not know they had drowned akim in that pit. shouldn't i have been frightened if i'd known!' 'but they say there are little, tiny frogs,' continued pavel, 'who cry piteously like that.' 'frogs? oh, no, it was not frogs, certainly not. (a heron again uttered a cry above the river.) ugh, there it is!' kostya cried involuntarily; 'it is just like a wood-spirit shrieking.' 'the wood-spirit does not shriek; it is dumb,' put in ilyusha; 'it only claps its hands and rattles.' 'and have you seen it then, the wood-spirit?' fedya asked him ironically. 'no, i have not seen it, and god preserve me from seeing it; but others have seen it. why, one day it misled a peasant in our parts, and led him through the woods and all in a circle in one field.... he scarcely got home till daylight.' 'well, and did he see it?' 'yes. he says it was a big, big creature, dark, wrapped up, just like a tree; you could not make it out well; it seemed to hide away from the moon, and kept staring and staring with its great eyes, and winking and winking with them....' 'ugh!' exclaimed fedya with a slight shiver, and a shrug of the shoulders; 'pfoo.' 'and how does such an unclean brood come to exist in the world?' said pavel; 'it's a wonder.' 'don't speak ill of it; take care, it will hear you,' said ilyusha. again there was a silence. 'look, look, brothers,' suddenly came vanya's childish voice; 'look at god's little stars; they are swarming like bees!' he put his fresh little face out from under his rug, leaned on his little fist, and slowly lifted up his large soft eyes. the eyes of all the boys were raised to the sky, and they were not lowered quickly. 'well, vanya,' began fedya caressingly, 'is your sister anyutka well?' 'yes, she is very well,' replied vanya with a slight lisp. 'you ask her, why doesn't she come to see us?' 'i don't know.' 'you tell her to come.' 'very well.' 'tell her i have a present for her.' 'and a present for me too?' 'yes, you too.' vanya sighed. 'no; i don't want one. better give it to her; she is so kind to us at home.' and vanya laid his head down again on the ground. pavel got up and took the empty pot in his hand. 'where are you going?' fedya asked him. 'to the river, to get water; i want some water to drink.' the dogs got up and followed him. 'take care you don't fall into the river!' ilyusha cried after him. 'why should he fall in?' said fedya. 'he will be careful.' 'yes, he will be careful. but all kinds of things happen; he will stoop over, perhaps, to draw the water, and the water-spirit will clutch him by the hand, and drag him to him. then they will say, "the boy fell into the water." ... fell in, indeed! ... "there, he has crept in among the reeds," he added, listening. the reeds certainly 'shished,' as they call it among us, as they were parted. 'but is it true,' asked kostya, 'that crazy akulina has been mad ever since she fell into the water?' 'yes, ever since.... how dreadful she is now! but they say she was a beauty before then. the water-spirit bewitched her. i suppose he did not expect they would get her out so soon. so down there at the bottom he bewitched her.' (i had met this akulina more than once. covered with rags, fearfully thin, with face as black as a coal, blear-eyed and for ever grinning, she would stay whole hours in one place in the road, stamping with her feet, pressing her fleshless hands to her breast, and slowly shifting from one leg to the other, like a wild beast in a cage. she understood nothing that was said to her, and only chuckled spasmodically from time to time.) 'but they say,' continued kostya, 'that akulina threw herself into the river because her lover had deceived her.' 'yes, that was it.' 'and do you remember vasya? added kostya, mournfully. 'what vasya?' asked fedya. 'why, the one who was drowned,' replied kostya,' in this very river. ah, what a boy he was! what a boy he was! his mother, feklista, how she loved him, her vasya! and she seemed to have a foreboding, feklista did, that harm would come to him from the water. sometimes, when vasya went with us boys in the summer to bathe in the river, she used to be trembling all over. the other women did not mind; they passed by with the pails, and went on, but feklista put her pail down on the ground, and set to calling him, 'come back, come back, my little joy; come back, my darling!' and no one knows how he was drowned. he was playing on the bank, and his mother was there haymaking; suddenly she hears, as though some one was blowing bubbles through the water, and behold! there was only vasya's little cap to be seen swimming on the water. you know since then feklista has not been right in her mind: she goes and lies down at the place where he was drowned; she lies down, brothers, and sings a song--you remember vasya was always singing a song like that--so she sings it too, and weeps and weeps, and bitterly rails against god.' 'here is pavlusha coming,' said fedya. pavel came up to the fire with a full pot in his hand. 'boys,' he began, after a short silence, 'something bad happened.' 'oh, what?' asked kostya hurriedly. 'i heard vasya's voice.' they all seemed to shudder. 'what do you mean? what do you mean?' stammered kostya. 'i don't know. only i went to stoop down to the water; suddenly i hear my name called in vasya's voice, as though it came from below water: "pavlusha, pavlusha, come here." i came away. but i fetched the water, though.' 'ah, god have mercy upon us!' said the boys, crossing themselves. 'it was the water-spirit calling you, pavel,' said fedya; 'we were just talking of vasya.' 'ah, it's a bad omen,' said ilyusha, deliberately. 'well, never mind, don't bother about it,' pavel declared stoutly, and he sat down again; 'no one can escape his fate.' the boys were still. it was clear that pavel's words had produced a strong impression on them. they began to lie down before the fire as though preparing to go to sleep. 'what is that?' asked kostya, suddenly lifting his head. pavel listened. 'it's the curlews flying and whistling.' 'where are they flying to?' 'to a land where, they say, there is no winter.' 'but is there such a land?' 'yes.' 'is it far away?' 'far, far away, beyond the warm seas.' kostya sighed and shut his eyes. more than three hours had passed since i first came across the boys. the moon at last had risen; i did not notice it at first; it was such a tiny crescent. this moonless night was as solemn and hushed as it had been at first.... but already many stars, that not long before had been high up in the heavens, were setting over the earth's dark rim; everything around was perfectly still, as it is only still towards morning; all was sleeping the deep unbroken sleep that comes before daybreak. already the fragrance in the air was fainter; once more a dew seemed falling.... how short are nights in summer!... the boys' talk died down when the fires did. the dogs even were dozing; the horses, so far as i could make out, in the hardly-perceptible, faintly shining light of the stars, were asleep with downcast heads.... i fell into a state of weary unconsciousness, which passed into sleep. a fresh breeze passed over my face. i opened my eyes; the morning was beginning. the dawn had not yet flushed the sky, but already it was growing light in the east. everything had become visible, though dimly visible, around. the pale grey sky was growing light and cold and bluish; the stars twinkled with a dimmer light, or disappeared; the earth was wet, the leaves covered with dew, and from the distance came sounds of life and voices, and a light morning breeze went fluttering over the earth. my body responded to it with a faint shudder of delight. i got up quickly and went to the boys. they were all sleeping as though they were tired out round the smouldering fire; only pavel half rose and gazed intently at me. i nodded to him, and walked homewards beside the misty river. before i had walked two miles, already all around me, over the wide dew-drenched prairie, and in front from forest to forest, where the hills were growing green again, and behind, over the long dusty road and the sparkling bushes, flushed with the red glow, and the river faintly blue now under the lifting mist, flowed fresh streams of burning light, first pink, then red and golden.... all things began to stir, to awaken, to sing, to flutter, to speak. on all sides thick drops of dew sparkled in glittering diamonds; to welcome me, pure and clear as though bathed in the freshness of morning, came the notes of a bell, and suddenly there rushed by me, driven by the boys i had parted from, the drove of horses, refreshed and rested.... sad to say, i must add that in that year pavel met his end. he was not drowned; he was killed by a fall from his horse. pity! he was a splendid fellow! ix kassyan of fair springs i was returning from hunting in a jolting little trap, and overcome by the stifling heat of a cloudy summer day (it is well known that the heat is often more insupportable on such days than in bright days, especially when there is no wind), i dozed and was shaken about, resigning myself with sullen fortitude to being persecuted by the fine white dust which was incessantly raised from the beaten road by the warped and creaking wheels, when suddenly my attention was aroused by the extraordinary uneasiness and agitated movements of my coachman, who had till that instant been more soundly dozing than i. he began tugging at the reins, moved uneasily on the box, and started shouting to the horses, staring all the while in one direction. i looked round. we were driving through a wide ploughed plain; low hills, also ploughed over, ran in gently sloping, swelling waves over it; the eye took in some five miles of deserted country; in the distance the round-scolloped tree-tops of some small birch-copses were the only objects to break the almost straight line of the horizon. narrow paths ran over the fields, disappeared into the hollows, and wound round the hillocks. on one of these paths, which happened to run into our road five hundred paces ahead of us, i made out a kind of procession. at this my coachman was looking. it was a funeral. in front, in a little cart harnessed with one horse, and advancing at a walking pace, came the priest; beside him sat the deacon driving; behind the cart four peasants, bareheaded, carried the coffin, covered with a white cloth; two women followed the coffin. the shrill wailing voice of one of them suddenly reached my ears; i listened; she was intoning a dirge. very dismal sounded this chanted, monotonous, hopelessly-sorrowful lament among the empty fields. the coachman whipped up the horses; he wanted to get in front of this procession. to meet a corpse on the road is a bad omen. and he did succeed in galloping ahead beyond this path before the funeral had had time to turn out of it into the high-road; but we had hardly got a hundred paces beyond this point, when suddenly our trap jolted violently, heeled on one side, and all but overturned. the coachman pulled up the galloping horses, and spat with a gesture of his hand. 'what is it?' i asked. my coachman got down without speaking or hurrying himself. 'but what is it?' 'the axle is broken ... it caught fire,' he replied gloomily, and he suddenly arranged the collar on the off-side horse with such indignation that it was almost pushed over, but it stood its ground, snorted, shook itself, and tranquilly began to scratch its foreleg below the knee with its teeth. i got out and stood for some time on the road, a prey to a vague and unpleasant feeling of helplessness. the right wheel was almost completely bent in under the trap, and it seemed to turn its centre-piece upwards in dumb despair. 'what are we to do now?' i said at last. 'that's what's the cause of it!' said my coachman, pointing with his whip to the funeral procession, which had just turned into the highroad and was approaching us. 'i have always noticed that,' he went on; 'it's a true saying--"meet a corpse"--yes, indeed.' and again he began worrying the off-side horse, who, seeing his ill-humour, resolved to remain perfectly quiet, and contented itself with discreetly switching its tail now and then. i walked up and down a little while, and then stopped again before the wheel. meanwhile the funeral had come up to us. quietly turning off the road on to the grass, the mournful procession moved slowly past us. my coachman and i took off our caps, saluted the priest, and exchanged glances with the bearers. they moved with difficulty under their burden, their broad chests standing out under the strain. of the two women who followed the coffin, one was very old and pale; her set face, terribly distorted as it was by grief, still kept an expression of grave and severe dignity. she walked in silence, from time to time lifting her wasted hand to her thin drawn lips. the other, a young woman of five-and-twenty, had her eyes red and moist and her whole face swollen with weeping; as she passed us she ceased wailing, and hid her face in her sleeve.... but when the funeral had got round us and turned again into the road, her piteous, heart-piercing lament began again. my coachman followed the measured swaying of the coffin with his eyes in silence. then he turned to me. 'it's martin, the carpenter, they're burying,' he said; 'martin of ryaby.' 'how do you know?' 'i know by the women. the old one is his mother, and the young one's his wife.' 'has he been ill, then?' 'yes ... fever. the day before yesterday the overseer sent for the doctor, but they did not find the doctor at home. he was a good carpenter; he drank a bit, but he was a good carpenter. see how upset his good woman is.... but, there; women's tears don't cost much, we know. women's tears are only water ... yes, indeed.' and he bent down, crept under the side-horse's trace, and seized the wooden yoke that passes over the horses' heads with both hands. 'any way,' i observed, 'what are we going to do?' my coachman just supported himself with his knees on the shaft-horse's shoulder, twice gave the back-strap a shake, and straightened the pad; then he crept out of the side-horse's trace again, and giving it a blow on the nose as he passed, went up to the wheel. he went up to it, and, never taking his eyes off it, slowly took out of the skirts of his coat a box, slowly pulled open its lid by a strap, slowly thrust into it his two fat fingers (which pretty well filled it up), rolled and rolled up some snuff, and creasing up his nose in anticipation, helped himself to it several times in succession, accompanying the snuff-taking every time by a prolonged sneezing. then, his streaming eyes blinking faintly, he relapsed into profound meditation. 'well?' i said at last. my coachman thrust his box carefully into his pocket, brought his hat forward on to his brows without the aid of his hand by a movement of his head, and gloomily got up on the box. 'what are you doing?' i asked him, somewhat bewildered. 'pray be seated,' he replied calmly, picking up the reins. 'but how can we go on?' 'we will go on now.' 'but the axle.' 'pray be seated.' 'but the axle is broken.' 'it is broken; but we will get to the settlement ... at a walking pace, of course. over here, beyond the copse, on the right, is a settlement; they call it yudino.' 'and do you think we can get there?' my coachman did not vouchsafe me a reply. 'i had better walk,' i said. 'as you like....' and he nourished his whip. the horses started. we did succeed in getting to the settlement, though the right front wheel was almost off, and turned in a very strange way. on one hillock it almost flew off, but my coachman shouted in a voice of exasperation, and we descended it in safety. yudino settlement consisted of six little low-pitched huts, the walls of which had already begun to warp out of the perpendicular, though they had certainly not been long built; the back-yards of some of the huts were not even fenced in with a hedge. as we drove into this settlement we did not meet a single living soul; there were no hens even to be seen in the street, and no dogs, but one black crop-tailed cur, which at our approach leaped hurriedly out of a perfectly dry and empty trough, to which it must have been driven by thirst, and at once, without barking, rushed headlong under a gate. i went up to the first hut, opened the door into the outer room, and called for the master of the house. no one answered me. i called once more; the hungry mewing of a cat sounded behind the other door. i pushed it open with my foot; a thin cat ran up and down near me, her green eyes glittering in the dark. i put my head into the room and looked round; it was empty, dark, and smoky. i returned to the yard, and there was no one there either.... a calf lowed behind the paling; a lame grey goose waddled a little away. i passed on to the second hut. not a soul in the second hut either. i went into the yard.... in the very middle of the yard, in the glaring sunlight, there lay, with his face on the ground and a cloak thrown over his head, a boy, as it seemed to me. in a thatched shed a few paces from him a thin little nag with broken harness was standing near a wretched little cart. the sunshine falling in streaks through the narrow cracks in the dilapidated roof, striped his shaggy, reddish-brown coat in small bands of light. above, in the high bird-house, starlings were chattering and looking down inquisitively from their airy home. i went up to the sleeping figure and began to awaken him. he lifted his head, saw me, and at once jumped up on to his feet.... 'what? what do you want? what is it?' he muttered, half asleep. i did not answer him at once; i was so much impressed by his appearance. picture to yourself a little creature of fifty years old, with a little round wrinkled face, a sharp nose, little, scarcely visible, brown eyes, and thick curly black hair, which stood out on his tiny head like the cap on the top of a mushroom. his whole person was excessively thin and weakly, and it is absolutely impossible to translate into words the extraordinary strangeness of his expression. 'what do you want?' he asked me again. i explained to him what was the matter; he listened, slowly blinking, without taking his eyes off me. 'so cannot we get a new axle?' i said finally; 'i will gladly pay for it.' 'but who are you? hunters, eh?' he asked, scanning me from head to foot. 'hunters.' 'you shoot the fowls of heaven, i suppose?... the wild things of the woods?... and is it not a sin to kill god's birds, to shed the innocent blood?' the strange old man spoke in a very drawling tone. the sound of his voice also astonished me. there was none of the weakness of age to be heard in it; it was marvellously sweet, young and almost feminine in its softness. 'i have no axle,' he added after a brief silence. 'that thing will not suit you.' he pointed to his cart. 'you have, i expect, a large trap.' 'but can i get one in the village?' 'not much of a village here!... no one has an axle here.... and there is no one at home either; they are all at work. you must go on,' he announced suddenly; and he lay down again on the ground. i had not at all expected this conclusion. 'listen, old man,' i said, touching him on the shoulder; 'do me a kindness, help me.' 'go on, in god's name! i am tired; i have driven into the town,' he said, and drew his cloak over his head. 'but pray do me a kindness,' i said. 'i ... i will pay for it.' 'i don't want your money.' 'but please, old man.' he half raised himself and sat up, crossing his little legs. 'i could take you perhaps to the clearing. some merchants have bought the forest here--god be their judge! they are cutting down the forest, and they have built a counting-house there--god be their judge! you might order an axle of them there, or buy one ready made.' 'splendid!' i cried delighted; 'splendid! let us go.' 'an oak axle, a good one,' he continued, not getting up from his place. 'and is it far to this clearing?' 'three miles.' 'come, then! we can drive there in your trap.' 'oh, no....' 'come, let us go,' i said; 'let us go, old man! the coachman is waiting for us in the road.' the old man rose unwillingly and followed me into the street. we found my coachman in an irritable frame of mind; he had tried to water his horses, but the water in the well, it appeared, was scanty in quantity and bad in taste, and water is the first consideration with coachmen.... however, he grinned at the sight of the old man, nodded his head and cried: 'hallo! kassyanushka! good health to you!' 'good health to you, erofay, upright man!' replied kassyan in a dejected voice. i at once made known his suggestion to the coachman; erofay expressed his approval of it and drove into the yard. while he was busy deliberately unharnessing the horses, the old man stood leaning with his shoulders against the gate, and looking disconsolately first at him and then at me. he seemed in some uncertainty of mind; he was not very pleased, as it seemed to me, at our sudden visit. 'so they have transported you too?' erofay asked him suddenly, lifting the wooden arch of the harness. 'yes.' 'ugh!' said my coachman between his teeth. 'you know martin the carpenter.... of course, you know martin of ryaby?' 'yes.' 'well, he is dead. we have just met his coffin.' kassyan shuddered. 'dead?' he said, and his head sank dejectedly. 'yes, he is dead. why didn't you cure him, eh? you know they say you cure folks; you're a doctor.' my coachman was apparently laughing and jeering at the old man. 'and is this your trap, pray?' he added, with a shrug of his shoulders in its direction. 'yes.' 'well, a trap ... a fine trap!' he repeated, and taking it by the shafts almost turned it completely upside down. 'a trap!... but what will you drive in it to the clearing?... you can't harness our horses in these shafts; our horses are all too big.' 'i don't know,' replied kassyan, 'what you are going to drive; that beast perhaps,' he added with a sigh. 'that?' broke in erofay, and going up to kassyan's nag, he tapped it disparagingly on the back with the third finger of his right hand. 'see,' he added contemptuously, 'it's asleep, the scare-crow!' i asked erofay to harness it as quickly as he could. i wanted to drive myself with kassyan to the clearing; grouse are fond of such places. when the little cart was quite ready, and i, together with my dog, had been installed in the warped wicker body of it, and kassyan huddled up into a little ball, with still the same dejected expression on his face, had taken his seat in front, erofay came up to me and whispered with an air of mystery: 'you did well, your honour, to drive with him. he is such a queer fellow; he's cracked, you know, and his nickname is the flea. i don't know how you managed to make him out....' i tried to say to erofay that so far kassyan had seemed to me a very sensible man; but my coachman continued at once in the same voice: 'but you keep a look-out where he is driving you to. and, your honour, be pleased to choose the axle yourself; be pleased to choose a sound one.... well, flea,' he added aloud, 'could i get a bit of bread in your house?' 'look about; you may find some,' answered kassyan. he pulled the reins and we rolled away. his little horse, to my genuine astonishment, did not go badly. kassyan preserved an obstinate silence the whole way, and made abrupt and unwilling answers to my questions. we quickly reached the clearing, and then made our way to the counting-house, a lofty cottage, standing by itself over a small gully, which had been dammed up and converted into a pool. in this counting-house i found two young merchants' clerks, with snow-white teeth, sweet and soft eyes, sweet and subtle words, and sweet and wily smiles. i bought an axle of them and returned to the clearing. i thought that kassyan would stay with the horse and await my return; but he suddenly came up to me. 'are you going to shoot birds, eh?' he said. 'yes, if i come across any.' 'i will come with you.... can i?' 'certainly, certainly.' so we went together. the land cleared was about a mile in length. i must confess i watched kassyan more than my dogs. he had been aptly called 'flea.' his little black uncovered head (though his hair, indeed, was as good a covering as any cap) seemed to flash hither and thither among the bushes. he walked extraordinarily swiftly, and seemed always hopping up and down as he moved; he was for ever stooping down to pick herbs of some kind, thrusting them into his bosom, muttering to himself, and constantly looking at me and my dog with such a strange searching gaze. among low bushes and in clearings there are often little grey birds which constantly flit from tree to tree, and which whistle as they dart away. kassyan mimicked them, answered their calls; a young quail flew from between his feet, chirruping, and he chirruped in imitation of him; a lark began to fly down above him, moving his wings and singing melodiously: kassyan joined in his song. he did not speak to me at all.... the weather was glorious, even more so than before; but the heat was no less. over the clear sky the high thin clouds were hardly stirred, yellowish-white, like snow lying late in spring, flat and drawn out like rolled-up sails. slowly but perceptibly their fringed edges, soft and fluffy as cotton-wool, changed at every moment; they were melting away, even these clouds, and no shadow fell from them. i strolled about the clearing for a long while with kassyan. young shoots, which had not yet had time to grow more than a yard high, surrounded the low blackened stumps with their smooth slender stems; and spongy funguses with grey edges--the same of which they make tinder--clung to these; strawberry plants flung their rosy tendrils over them; mushrooms squatted close in groups. the feet were constantly caught and entangled in the long grass, that was parched in the scorching sun; the eyes were dazzled on all sides by the glaring metallic glitter on the young reddish leaves of the trees; on all sides were the variegated blue clusters of vetch, the golden cups of bloodwort, and the half-lilac, half-yellow blossoms of the heart's-ease. in some places near the disused paths, on which the tracks of wheels were marked by streaks on the fine bright grass, rose piles of wood, blackened by wind and rain, laid in yard-lengths; there was a faint shadow cast from them in slanting oblongs; there was no other shade anywhere. a light breeze rose, then sank again; suddenly it would blow straight in the face and seem to be rising; everything would begin to rustle merrily, to nod, to shake around one; the supple tops of the ferns bow down gracefully, and one rejoices in it, but at once it dies away again, and all is at rest once more. only the grasshoppers chirrup in chorus with frenzied energy, and wearisome is this unceasing, sharp dry sound. it is in keeping with the persistent heat of mid-day; it seems akin to it, as though evoked by it out of the glowing earth. without having started one single covey we at last reached another clearing. there the aspen-trees had only lately been felled, and lay stretched mournfully on the ground, crushing the grass and small undergrowth below them: on some the leaves were still green, though they were already dead, and hung limply from the motionless branches; on others they were crumpled and dried up. fresh golden-white chips lay in heaps round the stumps that were covered with bright drops; a peculiar, very pleasant, pungent odour rose from them. farther away, nearer the wood, sounded the dull blows of the axe, and from time to time, bowing and spreading wide its arms, a bushy tree fell slowly and majestically to the ground. for a long time i did not come upon a single bird; at last a corncrake flew out of a thick clump of young oak across the wormwood springing up round it. i fired; it turned over in the air and fell. at the sound of the shot, kassyan quickly covered his eyes with his hand, and he did not stir till i had reloaded the gun and picked up the bird. when i had moved farther on, he went up to the place where the wounded bird had fallen, bent down to the grass, on which some drops of blood were sprinkled, shook his head, and looked in dismay at me.... i heard him afterwards whispering: 'a sin!... ah, yes, it's a sin!' the heat forced us at last to go into the wood. i flung myself down under a high nut-bush, over which a slender young maple gracefully stretched its light branches. kassyan sat down on the thick trunk of a felled birch-tree. i looked at him. the leaves faintly stirred overhead, and their thin greenish shadows crept softly to and fro over his feeble body, muffled in a dark coat, and over his little face. he did not lift his head. bored by his silence, i lay on my back and began to admire the tranquil play of the tangled foliage on the background of the bright, far away sky. a marvellously sweet occupation it is to lie on one's back in a wood and gaze upwards! you may fancy you are looking into a bottomless sea; that it stretches wide below you; that the trees are not rising out of the earth, but, like the roots of gigantic weeds, are dropping--falling straight down into those glassy, limpid depths; the leaves on the trees are at one moment transparent as emeralds, the next, they condense into golden, almost black green. somewhere, afar off, at the end of a slender twig, a single leaf hangs motionless against the blue patch of transparent sky, and beside it another trembles with the motion of a fish on the line, as though moving of its own will, not shaken by the wind. round white clouds float calmly across, and calmly pass away like submarine islands; and suddenly, all this ocean, this shining ether, these branches and leaves steeped in sunlight--all is rippling, quivering in fleeting brilliance, and a fresh trembling whisper awakens like the tiny, incessant plash of suddenly stirred eddies. one does not move--one looks, and no word can tell what peace, what joy, what sweetness reigns in the heart. one looks: the deep, pure blue stirs on one's lips a smile, innocent as itself; like the clouds over the sky, and, as it were, with them, happy memories pass in slow procession over the soul, and still one fancies one's gaze goes deeper and deeper, and draws one with it up into that peaceful, shining immensity, and that one cannot be brought back from that height, that depth.... 'master, master!' cried kassyan suddenly in his musical voice. i raised myself in surprise: up till then he had scarcely replied to my questions, and now he suddenly addressed me of himself. 'what is it?' i asked. 'what did you kill the bird for?' he began, looking me straight in the face. 'what for? corncrake is game; one can eat it.' 'that was not what you killed it for, master, as though you were going to eat it! you killed it for amusement.' 'well, you yourself, i suppose, eat geese or chickens?' 'those birds are provided by god for man, but the corncrake is a wild bird of the woods: and not he alone; many they are, the wild things of the woods and the fields, and the wild things of the rivers and marshes and moors, flying on high or creeping below; and a sin it is to slay them: let them live their allotted life upon the earth. but for man another food has been provided; his food is other, and other his sustenance: bread, the good gift of god, and the water of heaven, and the tame beasts that have come down to us from our fathers of old.' i looked in astonishment at kassyan. his words flowed freely; he did not hesitate for a word; he spoke with quiet inspiration and gentle dignity, sometimes closing his eyes. 'so is it sinful, then, to kill fish, according to you?' i asked. 'fishes have cold blood,' he replied with conviction. 'the fish is a dumb creature; it knows neither fear nor rejoicing. the fish is a voiceless creature. the fish does not feel; the blood in it is not living.... blood,' he continued, after a pause, 'blood is a holy thing! god's sun does not look upon blood; it is hidden away from the light ... it is a great sin to bring blood into the light of day; a great sin and horror.... ah, a great sin!' he sighed, and his head drooped forward. i looked, i confess, in absolute amazement at the strange old man. his language did not sound like the language of a peasant; the common people do not speak like that, nor those who aim at fine speaking. his speech was meditative, grave, and curious.... i had never heard anything like it. 'tell me, please, kassyan,' i began, without taking my eyes off his slightly flushed face, 'what is your occupation?' he did not answer my question at once. his eyes strayed uneasily for an instant. 'i live as the lord commands,' he brought out at last; 'and as for occupation--no, i have no occupation. i've never been very clever from a child: i work when i can: i'm not much of a workman--how should i be? i have no health; my hands are awkward. in the spring i catch nightingales.' 'you catch nightingales?... but didn't you tell me that we must not touch any of the wild things of the woods and the fields, and so on?' 'we must not kill them, of a certainty; death will take its own without that. look at martin the carpenter; martin lived, and his life was not long, but he died; his wife now grieves for her husband, for her little children.... neither for man nor beast is there any charm against death. death does not hasten, nor is there any escaping it; but we must not aid death.... and i do not kill nightingales--god forbid! i do not catch them to harm them, to spoil their lives, but for the pleasure of men, for their comfort and delight.' 'do you go to kursk to catch them?' 'yes, i go to kursk, and farther too, at times. i pass nights in the marshes, or at the edge of the forests; i am alone at night in the fields, in the thickets; there the curlews call and the hares squeak and the wild ducks lift up their voices.... i note them at evening; at morning i give ear to them; at daybreak i cast my net over the bushes.... there are nightingales that sing so pitifully sweet ... yea, pitifully.' 'and do you sell them?' 'i give them to good people.' 'and what are you doing now?' 'what am i doing?' 'yes, how are you employed?' the old man was silent for a little. 'i am not employed at all.... i am a poor workman. but i can read and write.' 'you can read?' 'yes, i can read and write. i learnt, by the help of god and good people.' 'have you a family?' 'no, not a family.' 'how so?... are they dead, then?' 'no, but ... i have never been lucky in life. but all that is in god's hands; we are all in god's hands; and a man should be righteous--that is all! upright before god, that is it.' 'and you have no kindred?' 'yes ... well....' the old man was confused. 'tell me, please,' i began: 'i heard my coachman ask you why you did not cure martin? you cure disease?' 'your coachman is a righteous man,' kassyan answered thoughtfully. 'i too am not without sin. they call me a doctor.... me a doctor, indeed! and who can heal the sick? that is all a gift from god. but there are ... yes, there are herbs, and there are flowers; they are of use, of a certainty. there is plantain, for instance, a herb good for man; there is bud-marigold too; it is not sinful to speak of them: they are holy herbs of god. then there are others not so; and they may be of use, but it's a sin; and to speak of them is a sin. still, with prayer, may be.... and doubtless there are such words.... but who has faith, shall be saved,' he added, dropping his voice. 'you did not give martin anything?' i asked. 'i heard of it too late,' replied the old man. 'but what of it! each man's destiny is written from his birth. the carpenter martin was not to live; he was not to live upon the earth: that was what it was. no, when a man is not to live on the earth, him the sunshine does not warm like another, and him the bread does not nourish and make strong; it is as though something is drawing him away.... yes: god rest his soul!' 'have you been settled long amongst us?' i asked him after a short pause. kassyan started. 'no, not long; four years. in the old master's time we always lived in our old houses, but the trustees transported us. our old master was a kind heart, a man of peace--the kingdom of heaven be his! the trustees doubtless judged righteously.' 'and where did you live before?' 'at fair springs.' 'is it far from here?' 'a hundred miles.' 'well, were you better off there?' 'yes ... yes, there there was open country, with rivers; it was our home: here we are cramped and parched up.... here we are strangers. there at home, at fair springs, you could get up on to a hill--and ah, my god, what a sight you could see! streams and plains and forests, and there was a church, and then came plains beyond. you could see far, very far. yes, how far you could look--you could look and look, ah, yes! here, doubtless, the soil is better; it is clay--good fat clay, as the peasants say; for me the corn grows well enough everywhere.' 'confess then, old man; you would like to visit your birth-place again?' 'yes, i should like to see it. still, all places are good. i am a man without kin, without neighbours. and, after all, do you gain much, pray, by staying at home? but, behold! as you walk, and as you walk,' he went on, raising his voice, 'the heart grows lighter, of a truth. and the sun shines upon you, and you are in the sight of god, and the singing comes more tunefully. here, you look--what herb is growing; you look on it--you pick it. here water runs, perhaps--spring water, a source of pure holy water; so you drink of it--you look on it too. the birds of heaven sing.... and beyond kursk come the steppes, that steppes-country: ah, what a marvel, what a delight for man! what freedom, what a blessing of god! and they go on, folks tell, even to the warm seas where dwells the sweet-voiced bird, the hamayune, and from the trees the leaves fall not, neither in autumn nor in winter, and apples grow of gold, on silver branches, and every man lives in uprightness and content. and i would go even there.... have i journeyed so little already! i have been to romyon and to simbirsk the fair city, and even to moscow of the golden domes; i have been to oka the good nurse, and to tsna the dove, and to our mother volga, and many folks, good christians have i seen, and noble cities i have visited.... well, i would go thither ... yes ... and more too ... and i am not the only one, i a poor sinner ... many other christians go in bast-shoes, roaming over the world, seeking truth, yea!... for what is there at home? no righteousness in man--it's that.' these last words kassyan uttered quickly, almost unintelligibly; then he said something more which i could not catch at all, and such a strange expression passed over his face that i involuntarily recalled the epithet 'cracked.' he looked down, cleared his throat, and seemed to come to himself again. 'what sunshine!' he murmured in a low voice. 'it is a blessing, oh, lord! what warmth in the woods!' he gave a movement of the shoulders and fell into silence. with a vague look round him he began softly to sing. i could not catch all the words of his slow chant; i heard the following: 'they call me kassyan, but my nickname's the flea.' 'oh!' i thought, 'so he improvises.' suddenly he started and ceased singing, looking intently at a thick part of the wood. i turned and saw a little peasant girl, about seven years old, in a blue frock, with a checked handkerchief over her head, and a woven bark-basket in her little bare sunburnt hand. she had certainly not expected to meet us; she had, as they say, 'stumbled upon' us, and she stood motionless in a shady recess among the thick foliage of the nut-trees, looking dismayed at me with her black eyes. i had scarcely time to catch a glimpse of her; she dived behind a tree. 'annushka! annushka! come here, don't be afraid!' cried the old man caressingly. 'i'm afraid,' came her shrill voice. 'don't be afraid, don't be afraid; come to me.' annushka left her hiding place in silence, walked softly round--her little childish feet scarcely sounded on the thick grass--and came out of the bushes near the old man. she was not a child of seven, as i had fancied at first, from her diminutive stature, but a girl of thirteen or fourteen. her whole person was small and thin, but very neat and graceful, and her pretty little face was strikingly like kassyan's own, though he was certainly not handsome. there were the same thin features, and the same strange expression, shy and confiding, melancholy and shrewd, and her gestures were the same.... kassyan kept his eyes fixed on her; she took her stand at his side. 'well, have you picked any mushrooms?' he asked. 'yes,' she answered with a shy smile. 'did you find many?' 'yes.' (she stole a swift look at him and smiled again.) 'are they white ones?' 'yes.' 'show me, show me.... (she slipped the basket off her arm and half-lifted the big burdock leaf which covered up the mushrooms.) 'ah!' said kassyan, bending down over the basket; 'what splendid ones! well done, annushka!' 'she's your daughter, kassyan, isn't she?' i asked. (annushka's face flushed faintly.) 'no, well, a relative,' replied kassyan with affected indifference. 'come, annushka, run along,' he added at once, 'run along, and god be with you! and take care.' 'but why should she go on foot?' i interrupted. 'we could take her with us.' annushka blushed like a poppy, grasped the handle of her basket with both hands, and looked in trepidation at the old man. 'no, she will get there all right,' he answered in the same languid and indifferent voice. 'why not?... she will get there.... run along.' annushka went rapidly away into the forest. kassyan looked after her, then looked down and smiled to himself. in this prolonged smile, in the few words he had spoken to annushka, and in the very sound of his voice when he spoke to her, there was an intense, indescribable love and tenderness. he looked again in the direction she had gone, again smiled to himself, and, passing his hand across his face, he nodded his head several times. 'why did you send her away so soon?' i asked him. 'i would have bought her mushrooms.' 'well, you can buy them there at home just the same, sir, if you like,' he answered, for the first time using the formal 'sir' in addressing me. 'she's very pretty, your girl.' 'no ... only so-so,' he answered, with seeming reluctance, and from that instant he relapsed into the same uncommunicative mood as at first. seeing that all my efforts to make him talk again were fruitless, i went off into the clearing. meantime the heat had somewhat abated; but my ill-success, or, as they say among us, my 'ill-luck,' continued, and i returned to the settlement with nothing but one corncrake and the new axle. just as we were driving into the yard, kassyan suddenly turned to me. 'master, master,' he began, 'do you know i have done you a wrong; it was i cast a spell to keep all the game off.' 'how so?' 'oh, i can do that. here you have a well-trained dog and a good one, but he could do nothing. when you think of it, what are men? what are they? here's a beast; what have they made of him?' it would have been useless for me to try to convince kassyan of the impossibility of 'casting a spell' on game, and so i made him no reply. meantime we had turned into the yard. annushka was not in the hut: she had had time to get there before us, and to leave her basket of mushrooms. erofay fitted in the new axle, first exposing it to a severe and most unjust criticism; and an hour later i set off, leaving a small sum of money with kassyan, which at first he was unwilling to accept, but afterwards, after a moment's thought, holding it in his hand, he put it in his bosom. in the course of this hour he had scarcely uttered a single word; he stood as before, leaning against the gate. he made no reply to the reproaches of my coachman, and took leave very coldly of me. directly i turned round, i could see that my worthy erofay was in a gloomy frame of mind.... to be sure, he had found nothing to eat in the country; the only water for his horses was bad. we drove off. with dissatisfaction expressed even in the back of his head, he sat on the box, burning to begin to talk to me. while waiting for me to begin by some question, he confined himself to a low muttering in an undertone, and some rather caustic instructions to the horses. 'a village,' he muttered; 'call that a village? you ask for a drop of kvas--not a drop of kvas even.... ah, lord!... and the water--simply filth!' (he spat loudly.) 'not a cucumber, nor kvas, nor nothing.... now, then!' he added aloud, turning to the right trace-horse; 'i know you, you humbug.' (and he gave him a cut with the whip.) 'that horse has learnt to shirk his work entirely, and yet he was a willing beast once. now, then--look alive!' 'tell me, please, erofay,' i began, 'what sort of a man is kassyan?' erofay did not answer me at once: he was, in general, a reflective and deliberate fellow; but i could see directly that my question was soothing and cheering to him. 'the flea?' he said at last, gathering up the reins; 'he's a queer fellow; yes, a crazy chap; such a queer fellow, you wouldn't find another like him in a hurry. you know, for example, he's for all the world like our roan horse here; he gets out of everything--out of work, that's to say. but, then, what sort of workman could he be?... he's hardly body enough to keep his soul in ... but still, of course.... he's been like that from a child up, you know. at first he followed his uncle's business as a carrier--there were three of them in the business; but then he got tired of it, you know--he threw it up. he began to live at home, but he could not keep at home long; he's so restless--a regular flea, in fact. he happened, by good luck, to have a good master--he didn't worry him. well, so ever since he has been wandering about like a lost sheep. and then, he's so strange; there's no understanding him. sometimes he'll be as silent as a post, and then he'll begin talking, and god knows what he'll say! is that good manners, pray? he's an absurd fellow, that he is. but he sings well, for all that.' 'and does he cure people, really?' 'cure people!... well, how should he? a fine sort of doctor! though he did cure me of the king's evil, i must own.... but how can he? he's a stupid fellow, that's what he is,' he added, after a moment's pause. 'have you known him long?' 'a long while. i was his neighbour at sitchovka up at fair springs.' 'and what of that girl--who met us in the wood, annushka--what relation is she to him?' erofay looked at me over his shoulder, and grinned all over his face. 'he, he!... yes, they are relations. she is an orphan; she has no mother, and it's not even known who her mother was. but she must be a relation; she's too much like him.... anyway, she lives with him. she's a smart girl, there's no denying; a good girl; and as for the old man, she's simply the apple of his eye; she's a good girl. and, do you know, you wouldn't believe it, but do you know, he's managed to teach annushka to read? well, well! that's quite like him; he's such an extraordinary fellow, such a changeable fellow; there's no reckoning on him, really.... eh! eh! eh!' my coachman suddenly interrupted himself, and stopping the horses, he bent over on one side and began sniffing. 'isn't there a smell of burning? yes! why, that new axle, i do declare!... i thought i'd greased it.... we must get on to some water; why, here is a puddle, just right.' and erofay slowly got off his seat, untied the pail, went to the pool, and coming back, listened with a certain satisfaction to the hissing of the box of the wheel as the water suddenly touched it.... six times during some eight miles he had to pour water on the smouldering axle, and it was quite evening when we got home at last. x the agent twelve miles from my place lives an acquaintance of mine, a landowner and a retired officer in the guards--arkady pavlitch pyenotchkin. he has a great deal of game on his estate, a house built after the design of a french architect, and servants dressed after the english fashion; he gives capital dinners, and a cordial reception to visitors, and, with all that, one goes to see him reluctantly. he is a sensible and practical man, has received the excellent education now usual, has been in the service, mixed in the highest society, and is now devoting himself to his estate with great success. arkady pavlitch is, to judge by his own words, severe but just; he looks after the good of the peasants under his control and punishes them--for their good. 'one has to treat them like children,' he says on such occasions; 'their ignorance, _mon cher; il faut prendre cela en considération_.' when this so-called painful necessity arises, he eschews all sharp or violent gestures, and prefers not to raise his voice, but with a straight blow in the culprit's face, says calmly, 'i believe i asked you to do something, my friend?' or 'what is the matter, my boy? what are you thinking about?' while he sets his teeth a little, and the corners of his mouth are drawn. he is not tall, but has an elegant figure, and is very good-looking; his hands and nails are kept perfectly exquisite; his rosy cheeks and lips are simply the picture of health. he has a ringing, light-hearted laugh, and there is sometimes a very genial twinkle in his clear brown eyes. he dresses in excellent taste; he orders french books, prints, and papers, though he's no great lover of reading himself: he has hardly as much as waded through the _wandering jew_. he plays cards in masterly style. altogether, arkady pavlitch is reckoned one of the most cultivated gentlemen and most eligible matches in our province; the ladies are perfectly wild over him, and especially admire his manners. he is wonderfully well conducted, wary as a cat, and has never from his cradle been mixed up in any scandal, though he is fond of making his power felt, intimidating or snubbing a nervous man, when he gets a chance. he has a positive distaste for doubtful society--he is afraid of compromising himself; in his lighter moments, however, he will avow himself a follower of epicurus, though as a rule he speaks slightingly of philosophy, calling it the foggy food fit for german brains, or at times, simply, rot. he is fond of music too; at the card-table he is given to humming through his teeth, but with feeling; he knows by heart some snatches from _lucia_ and _somnambula_, but he is always apt to sing everything a little sharp. the winters he spends in petersburg. his house is kept in extraordinarily good order; the very grooms feel his influence, and every day not only rub the harness and brush their coats, but even wash their faces. arkady pavlitch's house-serfs have, it is true, something of a hang-dog look; but among us russians there's no knowing what is sullenness and what is sleepiness. arkady pavlitch speaks in a soft, agreeable voice, with emphasis and, as it were, with satisfaction; he brings out each word through his handsome perfumed moustaches; he uses a good many french expressions too, such as: _mais c'est impayable! mais comment donc_? and so so. for all that, i, for one, am never over-eager to visit him, and if it were not for the grouse and the partridges, i should probably have dropped his acquaintance altogether. one is possessed by a strange sort of uneasiness in his house; the very comfort is distasteful to one, and every evening when a befrizzed valet makes his appearance in a blue livery with heraldic buttons, and begins, with cringing servility, drawing off one's boots, one feels that if his pale, lean figure could suddenly be replaced by the amazingly broad cheeks and incredibly thick nose of a stalwart young labourer fresh from the plough, who has yet had time in his ten months of service to tear his new nankin coat open at every seam, one would be unutterably overjoyed, and would gladly run the risk of having one's whole leg pulled off with the boot.... in spite of my aversion for arkady pavlitch, i once happened to pass a night in his house. the next day i ordered my carriage to be ready early in the morning, but he would not let me start without a regular breakfast in the english style, and conducted me into his study. with our tea they served us cutlets, boiled eggs, butter, honey, cheese, and so on. two footmen in clean white gloves swiftly and silently anticipated our faintest desires. we sat on a persian divan. arkady pavlitch was arrayed in loose silk trousers, a black velvet smoking jacket, a red fez with a blue tassel, and yellow chinese slippers without heels. he drank his tea, laughed, scrutinised his finger-nails, propped himself up with cushions, and was altogether in an excellent humour. after making a hearty breakfast with obvious satisfaction, arkady pavlitch poured himself out a glass of red wine, lifted it to his lips, and suddenly frowned. 'why was not the wine warmed?' he asked rather sharply of one of the footmen. the footman stood stock-still in confusion, and turned white. 'didn't i ask you a question, my friend?' arkady pavlitch resumed tranquilly, never taking his eyes off the man. the luckless footman fidgeted in his place, twisted the napkin, and uttered not a word. arkady pavlitch dropped his head and looked up at him thoughtfully from under his eyelids. '_pardon, mon cher_', he observed, patting my knee amicably, and again he stared at the footman. 'you can go,' he added, after a short silence, raising his eyebrows, and he rang the bell. a stout, swarthy, black-haired man, with a low forehead, and eyes positively lost in fat, came into the room. 'about fyodor ... make the necessary arrangements,' said arkady pavlitch in an undertone, and with complete composure. 'yes, sir,' answered the fat man, and he went out. '_voilà, mon cher, les désagréments de la campagne_,' arkady pavlitch remarked gaily. 'but where are you off to? stop, you must stay a little.' 'no,' i answered; 'it's time i was off.' 'nothing but sport! oh, you sportsmen! and where are you going to shoot just now?' 'thirty-five miles from here, at ryabovo.' 'ryabovo? by jove! now in that case i will come with you. ryabovo's only four miles from my village shipilovka, and it's a long while since i've been over to shipilovka; i've never been able to get the time. well, this is a piece of luck; you can spend the day shooting in ryabovo and come on in the evening to me. we'll have supper together--we'll take the cook with us, and you'll stay the night with me. capital! capital!' he added without waiting for my answer. '_c'est arrangé_.... hey, you there! have the carriage brought out, and look sharp. you have never been in shipilovka? i should be ashamed to suggest your putting up for the night in my agent's cottage, but you're not particular, i know, and at ryabovo you'd have slept in some hayloft.... we will go, we will go!' and arkady pavlitch hummed some french song. 'you don't know, i dare say,' he pursued, swaying from side to side; 'i've some peasants there who pay rent. it's the custom of the place--what was i to do? they pay their rent very punctually, though. i should, i'll own, have put them back to payment in labour, but there's so little land. i really wonder how they manage to make both ends meet. however, _c'est leur affaire_. my agent there's a fine fellow, _une forte tête_, a man of real administrative power! you shall see.... really, how luckily things have turned out!' there was no help for it. instead of nine o'clock in the morning, we started at two in the afternoon. sportsmen will sympathise with my impatience. arkady pavlitch liked, as he expressed it, to be comfortable when he had the chance, and he took with him such a supply of linen, dainties, wearing apparel, perfumes, pillows, and dressing-cases of all sorts, that a careful and self-denying german would have found enough to last him for a year. every time we went down a steep hill, arkady pavlitch addressed some brief but powerful remarks to the coachman, from which i was able to deduce that my worthy friend was a thorough coward. the journey was, however, performed in safety, except that, in crossing a lately-repaired bridge, the trap with the cook in it broke down, and he got squeezed in the stomach against the hind-wheel. arkady pavlitch was alarmed in earnest at the sight of the fall of karem, his home-made professor of the culinary art, and he sent at once to inquire whether his hands were injured. on receiving a reassuring reply to this query, his mind was set at rest immediately. with all this, we were rather a long time on the road; i was in the same carriage as arkady pavlitch, and towards the end of the journey i was a prey to deadly boredom, especially as in a few hours my companion ran perfectly dry of subjects of conversation, and even fell to expressing his liberal views on politics. at last we did arrive--not at ryabovo, but at shipilovka; it happened so somehow. i could have got no shooting now that day in any case, and so, raging inwardly, i submitted to my fate. the cook had arrived a few minutes before us, and apparently had had time to arrange things and prepare those whom it concerned, for on our very entrance within the village boundaries we were met by the village bailiff (the agent's son), a stalwart, red-haired peasant of seven feet; he was on horseback, bareheaded, and wearing a new overcoat, not buttoned up. 'and where's sofron?' arkady pavlitch asked him. the bailiff first jumped nimbly off his horse, bowed to his master till he was bent double, and said: 'good health to you, arkady pavlitch, sir!' then raised his head, shook himself, and announced that sofron had gone to perov, but they had sent after him. 'well, come along after us,' said arkady pavlitch. the bailiff deferentially led his horse to one side, clambered on to it, and followed the carriage at a trot, his cap in his hand. we drove through the village. a few peasants in empty carts happened to meet us; they were driving from the threshing-floor and singing songs, swaying backwards and forwards, and swinging their legs in the air; but at the sight of our carriage and the bailiff they were suddenly silent, took off their winter caps (it was summer-time) and got up as though waiting for orders. arkady pavlitch nodded to them graciously. a flutter of excitement had obviously spread through the hamlet. peasant women in check petticoats flung splinters of wood at indiscreet or over-zealous dogs; an old lame man with a beard that began just under his eyes pulled a horse away from the well before it had drunk, gave it, for some obscure reason, a blow on the side, and fell to bowing low. boys in long smocks ran with a howl to the huts, flung themselves on their bellies on the high door-sills, with their heads down and legs in the air, rolled over with the utmost haste into the dark outer rooms, from which they did not reappear again. even the hens sped in a hurried scuttle to the turning; one bold cock with a black throat like a satin waistcoat and a red tail, rumpled up to his very comb, stood his ground in the road, and even prepared for a crow, then suddenly took fright and scuttled off too. the agent's cottage stood apart from the rest in the middle of a thick green patch of hemp. we stopped at the gates. mr. pyenotchkin got up, flung off his cloak with a picturesque motion, and got out of the carriage, looking affably about him. the agent's wife met us with low curtseys, and came up to kiss the master's hand. arkady pavlitch let her kiss it to her heart's content, and mounted the steps. in the outer room, in a dark corner, stood the bailiff's wife, and she too curtsied, but did not venture to approach his hand. in the cold hut, as it is called--to the right of the outer room--two other women were still busily at work; they were carrying out all the rubbish, empty tubs, sheepskins stiff as boards, greasy pots, a cradle with a heap of dish-clouts and a baby covered with spots, and sweeping out the dirt with bathbrooms. arkady pavlitch sent them away, and installed himself on a bench under the holy pictures. the coachmen began bringing in the trunks, bags, and other conveniences, trying each time to subdue the noise of their heavy boots. meantime arkady pavlitch began questioning the bailiff about the crops, the sowing, and other agricultural subjects. the bailiff gave satisfactory answers, but spoke with a sort of heavy awkwardness, as though he were buttoning up his coat with benumbed fingers. he stood at the door and kept looking round on the watch to make way for the nimble footman. behind his powerful shoulders i managed to get a glimpse of the agent's wife in the outer room surreptitiously belabouring some other peasant woman. suddenly a cart rumbled up and stopped at the steps; the agent came in. this man, as arkady pavlitch said, of real administrative power, was short, broad-shouldered, grey, and thick-set, with a red nose, little blue eyes, and a beard of the shape of a fan. we may observe, by the way, that ever since russia has existed, there has never yet been an instance of a man who has grown rich and prosperous without a big, bushy beard; sometimes a man may have had a thin, wedge-shape beard all his life; but then he begins to get one all at once, it is all round his face like a halo--one wonders where the hair has come from! the agent must have been making merry at perov: his face was unmistakably flushed, and there was a smell of spirits about him. 'ah, our father, our gracious benefactor!' he began in a sing-song voice, and with a face of such deep feeling that it seemed every minute as if he would burst into tears; 'at last you have graciously deigned to come to us ... your hand, your honour's hand,' he added, his lips protruded in anticipation. arkady pavlitch gratified his desire. 'well, brother sofron, how are things going with you?' he asked in a friendly voice. 'ah, you, our father!' cried sofron; 'how should they go ill? how should things go ill, now that you, our father, our benefactor, graciously deign to lighten our poor village with your presence, to make us happy till the day of our death? thank the lord for thee, arkady pavlitch! thank the lord for thee! all is right by your gracious favour.' at this point sofron paused, gazed upon his master, and, as though carried away by a rush of feeling (tipsiness had its share in it too), begged once more for his hand, and whined more than before. 'ah, you, our father, benefactor ... and ... there, god bless me! i'm a regular fool with delight.... god bless me! i look and can't believe my eyes! ah, our father!' arkady pavlitch glanced at me, smiled, and asked: '_n'est-ce pas que c'est touchant?_' 'but, arkady pavlitch, your honour,' resumed the indefatigable agent; 'what are you going to do? you'll break my heart, your honour; your honour didn't graciously let me know of your visit. where are you to put up for the night? you see here it's dirty, nasty.' 'nonsense, sofron, nonsense!' arkady pavlitch responded, with a smile; 'it's all right here.' 'but, our father, all right--for whom? for peasants like us it's all right; but for you ... oh, our father, our gracious protector! oh, you ... our father!... pardon an old fool like me; i'm off my head, bless me! i'm gone clean crazy.' meanwhile supper was served; arkady pavlitch began to eat. the old man packed his son off, saying he smelt too strong. 'well, settled the division of land, old chap, hey?' enquired mr. pyenotchkin, obviously trying to imitate the peasant speech, with a wink to me. 'we've settled the land shares, your honour; all by your gracious favour. day before yesterday the list was made out. the hlinovsky folks made themselves disagreeable about it at first ... they were disagreeable about it, certainly. they wanted this ... and they wanted that ... and god knows what they didn't want! but they're a set of fools, your honour!--an ignorant lot. but we, your honour, graciously please you, gave an earnest of our gratitude, and satisfied nikolai nikolaitch, the mediator; we acted in everything according to your orders, your honour; as you graciously ordered, so we did, and nothing did we do unbeknown to yegor dmitritch.' 'yegor reported to me,' arkady pavlitch remarked with dignity. 'to be sure, your honour, yegor dmitritch, to be sure.' 'well, then, now i suppose you 're satisfied.' sofron had only been waiting for this. 'ah, you are our father, our benefactor!' he began, in the same sing-song as before. 'indeed, now, your honour ... why, for you, our father, we pray day and night to god almighty.... there's too little land, of course....' pyenotchkin cut him short. 'there, that'll do, that'll do, sofron; i know you're eager in my service.... well, and how goes the threshing?' sofron sighed. 'well, our father, the threshing's none too good. but there, your honour, arkady pavlitch, let me tell you about a little matter that came to pass.' (here he came closer to mr. pyenotchkin, with his arms apart, bent down, and screwed up one eye.) 'there was a dead body found on our land.' 'how was that?' 'i can't think myself, your honour; it seems like the doing of the evil one. but, luckily, it was found near the boundary; on our side of it, to tell the truth. i ordered them to drag it on to the neighbour's strip of land at once, while it was still possible, and set a watch there, and sent word round to our folks. "mum's the word," says i. but i explained how it was to the police officer in case of the worst. "you see how it was," says i; and of course i had to treat him and slip some notes into his hand.... well, what do you say, your honour? we shifted the burden on to other shoulders; you see a dead body's a matter of two hundred roubles, as sure as ninepence.' mr. pyenotchkin laughed heartily at his agent's cunning, and said several times to me, indicating him with a nod, '_quel gaillard_, eh!' meantime it was quite dark out of doors; arkady pavlitch ordered the table to be cleared, and hay to be brought in. the valet spread out sheets for us, and arranged pillows; we lay down. sofron retired after receiving his instructions for the next day. arkady pavlitch, before falling asleep, talked a little more about the first-rate qualities of the russian peasant, and at that point made the observation that since sofron had had the management of the place, the shipilovka peasants had never been one farthing in arrears.... the watchman struck his board; a baby, who apparently had not yet had time to be imbued with a sentiment of dutiful self-abnegation, began crying somewhere in the cottage ... we fell asleep. the next morning we got up rather early; i was getting ready to start for ryabovo, but arkady pavlitch was anxious to show me his estate, and begged me to remain. i was not averse myself to seeing more of the first-rate qualities of that man of administrative power--sofron--in their practical working. the agent made his appearance. he wore a blue loose coat, tied round the waist with a red handkerchief. he talked much less than on the previous evening, kept an alert, intent eye on his master's face, and gave connected and sensible answers. we set off with him to the threshing-floor. sofron's son, the seven-foot bailiff, by every external sign a very slow-witted fellow, walked after us also, and we were joined farther on by the village constable, fedosyitch, a retired soldier, with immense moustaches, and an extraordinary expression of face; he looked as though he had had some startling shock of astonishment a very long while ago, and had never quite got over it. we took a look at the threshing-floor, the barn, the corn-stacks, the outhouses, the windmill, the cattle-shed, the vegetables, and the hempfields; everything was, as a fact, in excellent order; only the dejected faces of the peasants rather puzzled me. sofron had had an eye to the ornamental as well as the useful; he had planted all the ditches with willows, between the stacks he had made little paths to the threshing-floor and strewn them with fine sand; on the windmill he had constructed a weathercock of the shape of a bear with his jaws open and a red tongue sticking out; he had attached to the brick cattle-shed something of the nature of a greek facade, and on it inscribed in white letters: 'construt in the village shipilovky thousand eight hunderd farthieth year. this cattle-shed.' arkady pavlitch was quite touched, and fell to expatiating in french to me upon the advantages of the system of rent-payment, adding, however, that labour-dues came more profitable to the owner--'but, after all, that wasn't everything.' he began giving the agent advice how to plant his potatoes, how to prepare cattle-food, and so on. sofron heard his master's remarks out with attention, sometimes replied, but did not now address arkady pavlitch as his father, or his benefactor, and kept insisting that there was too little land; that it would be a good thing to buy more. 'well, buy some then,' said arkady pavlitch; 'i've no objection; in my name, of course.' to this sofron made no reply; he merely stroked his beard. 'and now it would be as well to ride down to the copse,' observed mr. pyenotchkin. saddle-horses were led out to us at once; we went off to the copse, or, as they call it about us, the 'enclosure.' in this 'enclosure' we found thick undergrowth and abundance of wild game, for which arkady pavlitch applauded sofron and clapped him on the shoulder. in regard to forestry, arkady pavlitch clung to the russian ideas, and told me on that subject an amusing--in his words--anecdote, of how a jocose landowner had given his forester a good lesson by pulling out nearly half his beard, by way of a proof that growth is none the thicker for being cut back. in other matters, however, neither sofron nor arkady pavlitch objected to innovations. on our return to the village, the agent took us to look at a winnowing machine he had recently ordered from moscow. the winnowing machine did certainly work beautifully, but if sofron had known what a disagreeable incident was in store for him and his master on this last excursion, he would doubtless have stopped at home with us. this was what happened. as we came out of the barn the following spectacle confronted us. a few paces from the door, near a filthy pool, in which three ducks were splashing unconcernedly, there stood two peasants--one an old man of sixty, the other, a lad of twenty--both in patched homespun shirts, barefoot, and with cord tied round their waists for belts. the village constable fedosyitch was busily engaged with them, and would probably have succeeded in inducing them to retire if we had lingered a little longer in the barn, but catching sight of us, he grew stiff all over, and seemed bereft of all sensation on the spot. close by stood the bailiff gaping, his fists hanging irresolute. arkady pavlitch frowned, bit his lip, and went up to the suppliants. they both prostrated themselves at his feet in silence. 'what do you want? what are you asking about?' he inquired in a stern voice, a little through his nose. (the peasants glanced at one another, and did not utter a syllable, only blinked a little as if the sun were in their faces, and their breathing came quicker.) 'well, what is it?' arkady pavlitch said again; and turning at once to sofron, 'of what family?' 'the tobolyev family,' the agent answered slowly. 'well, what do you want?' mr. pyenotchkin said again; 'have you lost your tongues, or what? tell me, you, what is it you want?' he added, with a nod at the old man. 'and don't be afraid, stupid.' the old man craned forward his dark brown, wrinkled neck, opened his bluish twitching lips, and in a hoarse voice uttered the words, 'protect us, lord!' and again he bent his forehead to the earth. the young peasant prostrated himself too. arkady pavlitch looked at their bent necks with an air of dignity, threw back his head, and stood with his legs rather wide apart. 'what is it? whom do you complain of?' 'have mercy, lord! let us breathe.... we are crushed, worried, tormented to death quite. (the old man spoke with difficulty.) 'who worries you?' 'sofron yakovlitch, your honour.' arkady pavlitch was silent a minute. 'what's your name?' 'antip, your honour.' 'and who's this?' 'my boy, your honour.' arkady pavlitch was silent again; he pulled his moustaches. 'well! and how has he tormented you?' he began again, looking over his moustaches at the old man. 'your honour, he has ruined us utterly. two sons, your honour, he's sent for recruits out of turn, and now he is taking the third also. yesterday, your honour, our last cow was taken from the yard, and my old wife was beaten by his worship here: that is all the pity he has for us!' (he pointed to the bailiff.) 'hm!' commented arkady pavlitch. 'let him not destroy us to the end, gracious protector!' mr. pyenotchkin scowled, 'what's the meaning of this?' he asked the agent, in a low voice, with an air of displeasure. 'he's a drunken fellow, sir,' answered the agent, for the first time using this deferential address, 'and lazy too. he's never been out of arrears this five years back, sir.' 'sofron yakovlitch paid the arrears for me, your honour,' the old man went on; 'it's the fifth year's come that he's paid it, he's paid it--and he's brought me into slavery to him, your honour, and here--' 'and why did you get into arrears?' mr. pyenotchkin asked threateningly. (the old man's head sank.) 'you're fond of drinking, hanging about the taverns, i dare say.' (the old man opened his mouth to speak.) 'i know you,' arkady pavlitch went on emphatically; 'you think you've nothing to do but drink, and lie on the stove, and let steady peasants answer for you.' 'and he's an impudent fellow, too,' the agent threw in. 'that's sure to be so; it's always the way; i've noticed it more than once. the whole year round, he's drinking and abusive, and then he falls at one's feet.' 'your honour, arkady pavlitch,' the old man began despairingly, 'have pity, protect us; when have i been impudent? before god almighty, i swear it was beyond my strength. sofron yakovlitch has taken a dislike to me; for some reason he dislikes me--god be his judge! he will ruin me utterly, your honour.... the last ... here ... the last boy ... and him he....' (a tear glistened in the old man's wrinkled yellow eyes). 'have pity, gracious lord, defend us!' 'and it's not us only,' the young peasant began.... arkady pavlitch flew into a rage at once. 'and who asked your opinion, hey? till you're spoken to, hold your tongue.... what's the meaning of it? silence, i tell you, silence!... why, upon my word, this is simply mutiny! no, my friend, i don't advise you to mutiny on my domain ... on my ... (arkady pavlitch stepped forward, but probably recollected my presence, turned round, and put his hands in his pockets ...) '_je vous demande bien pardon, mon cher_,' he said, with a forced smile, dropping his voice significantly. '_c'est le mauvais côté de la médaille_ ... there, that'll do, that'll do,' he went on, not looking at the peasants: 'i say ... that'll do, you can go.' (the peasants did not rise.) 'well, haven't i told you ... that'll do. you can go, i tell you.' arkady pavlitch turned his back on them. 'nothing but vexation,' he muttered between his teeth, and strode with long steps homewards. sofron followed him. the village constable opened his eyes wide, looking as if he were just about to take a tremendous leap into space. the bailiff drove a duck away from the puddle. the suppliants remained as they were a little, then looked at each other, and, without turning their heads, went on their way. two hours later i was at ryabovo, and making ready to begin shooting, accompanied by anpadist, a peasant i knew well. pyenotchkin had been out of humour with sofron up to the time i left. i began talking to anpadist about the shipilovka peasants, and mr. pyenotchkin, and asked him whether he knew the agent there. 'sofron yakovlitch? ... ugh!' 'what sort of man is he?' 'he's not a man; he's a dog; you couldn't find another brute like him between here and kursk.' 'really?' 'why, shipilovka's hardly reckoned as--what's his name?--mr. pyenotchkin's at all; he's not the master there; sofron's the master.' 'you don't say so!' 'he's master, just as if it were his own. the peasants all about are in debt to him; they work for him like slaves; he'll send one off with the waggons; another, another way.... he harries them out of their lives.' 'they haven't much land, i suppose?' 'not much land! he rents two hundred acres from the hlinovsky peasants alone, and two hundred and eighty from our folks; there's more than three hundred and seventy-five acres he's got. and he doesn't only traffic in land; he does a trade in horses and stock, and pitch, and butter, and hemp, and one thing and the other.... he's sharp, awfully sharp, and rich too, the beast! but what's bad--he beats them. he's a brute, not a man; a dog, i tell you; a cur, a regular cur; that's what he is!' 'how is it they don't make complaints of him?' 'i dare say, the master'd be pleased! there's no arrears; so what does he care? yes, you'd better,' he added, after a brief pause; 'i should advise you to complain! no, he'd let you know ... yes, you'd better try it on.... no, he'd let you know....' i thought of antip, and told him what i had seen. 'there,' commented anpadist, 'he will eat him up now; he'll simply eat the man up. the bailiff will beat him now. such a poor, unlucky chap, come to think of it! and what's his offence?... he had some wrangle in meeting with him, the agent, and he lost all patience, i suppose, and of course he wouldn't stand it.... a great matter, truly, to make so much of! so he began pecking at him, antip. now he'll eat him up altogether. you see, he's such a dog. such a cur--god forgive my transgressions!--he knows whom to fall upon. the old men that are a bit richer, or've more children, he doesn't touch, the red-headed devil! but there's all the difference here! why he's sent antip's sons for recruits out of turn, the heartless ruffian, the cur! god forgive my transgressions!' we went on our way. xi the counting-house it was autumn. for some hours i had been strolling across country with my gun, and should probably not have returned till evening to the tavern on the kursk high-road where my three-horse trap was awaiting me, had not an exceedingly fine and persistent rain, which had worried me all day with the obstinacy and ruthlessness of some old maiden lady, driven me at last to seek at least a temporary shelter somewhere in the neighbourhood. while i was still deliberating in which direction to go, my eye suddenly fell on a low shanty near a field sown with peas. i went up to the shanty, glanced under the thatched roof, and saw an old man so infirm that he reminded me at once of the dying goat robinson crusoe found in some cave on his island. the old man was squatting on his heels, his little dim eyes half-closed, while hurriedly, but carefully, like a hare (the poor fellow had not a single tooth), he munched a dry, hard pea, incessantly rolling it from side to side. he was so absorbed in this occupation that he did not notice my entrance. 'grandfather! hey, grandfather!' said i. he ceased munching, lifted his eyebrows high, and with an effort opened his eyes. 'what?' he mumbled in a broken voice. 'where is there a village near?' i asked. the old man fell to munching again. he had not heard me. i repeated my question louder than before. 'a village?... but what do you want?' 'why, shelter from the rain.' 'what?' 'shelter from the rain.' 'ah!' (he scratched his sunburnt neck.) 'well, now, you go,' he said suddenly, waving his hands indefinitely, 'so ... as you go by the copse--see, as you go--there'll be a road; you pass it by, and keep right on to the right; keep right on, keep right on, keep right on.... well, there will be ananyevo. or else you'd go to sitovka.' i followed the old man with difficulty. his moustaches muffled his voice, and his tongue too did not obey him readily. 'where are you from?' i asked him. 'what?' 'where are you from?' 'ananyevo.' 'what are you doing here?' 'i'm watchman.' 'why, what are you watching?' 'the peas.' i could not help smiling. 'really!--how old are you?' 'god knows.' 'your sight's failing, i expect.' 'what?' 'your sight's failing, i daresay?' 'yes, it's failing. at times i can hear nothing.' 'then how can you be a watchman, eh?' 'oh, my elders know about that.' 'elders!' i thought, and i gazed not without compassion at the poor old man. he fumbled about, pulled out of his bosom a bit of coarse bread, and began sucking it like a child, with difficulty moving his sunken cheeks. i walked in the direction of the copse, turned to the right, kept on, kept right on as the old man had advised me, and at last got to a large village with a stone church in the new style, _i.e._ with columns, and a spacious manor-house, also with columns. while still some way off i noticed through the fine network of falling rain a cottage with a deal roof, and two chimneys, higher than the others, in all probability the dwelling of the village elder; and towards it i bent my steps in the hope of finding, in this cottage, a samovar, tea, sugar, and some not absolutely sour cream. escorted by my half-frozen dog, i went up the steps into the outer room, opened the door, and instead of the usual appurtenances of a cottage, i saw several tables, heaped up with papers, two red cupboards, bespattered inkstands, pewter boxes of blotting sand weighing half a hundred-weight, long penholders, and so on. at one of the tables was sitting a young man of twenty with a swollen, sickly face, diminutive eyes, a greasy-looking forehead, and long straggling locks of hair. he was dressed, as one would expect, in a grey nankin coat, shiny with wear at the waist and the collar. 'what do you want?' he asked me, flinging his head up like a horse taken unexpectedly by the nose. 'does the bailiff live here... or--' 'this is the principal office of the manor,' he interrupted. 'i'm the clerk on duty.... didn't you see the sign-board? that's what it was put up for.' 'where could i dry my clothes here? is there a samovar anywhere in the village?' 'samovars, of course,' replied the young man in the grey coat with dignity; 'go to father timofey's, or to the servants' cottage, or else to nazar tarasitch, or to agrafena, the poultry-woman.' 'who are you talking to, you blockhead? can't you let me sleep, dummy!' shouted a voice from the next room. 'here's a gentleman's come in to ask where he can dry himself.' 'what sort of a gentleman?' 'i don't know. with a dog and a gun.' a bedstead creaked in the next room. the door opened, and there came in a stout, short man of fifty, with a bull neck, goggle-eyes, extraordinarily round cheeks, and his whole face positively shining with sleekness. 'what is it you wish?' he asked me. 'to dry my things.' 'there's no place here.' 'i didn't know this was the counting-house; i am willing, though, to pay...' 'well, perhaps it could be managed here,' rejoined the fat man; 'won't you come inside here?' (he led me into another room, but not the one he had come from.) 'would this do for you?' 'very well.... and could i have tea and milk?' 'certainly, at once. if you'll meantime take off your things and rest, the tea shall be got ready this minute.' 'whose property is this?' 'madame losnyakov's, elena nikolaevna.' he went out i looked round: against the partition separating my room from the office stood a huge leather sofa; two high-backed chairs, also covered in leather, were placed on both sides of the solitary window which looked out on the village street. on the walls, covered with a green paper with pink patterns on it, hung three immense oil paintings. one depicted a setter-dog with a blue collar, bearing the inscription: 'this is my consolation'; at the dog's feet flowed a river; on the opposite bank of the river a hare of quite disproportionate size with ears cocked up was sitting under a pine tree. in another picture two old men were eating a melon; behind the melon was visible in the distance a greek temple with the inscription: 'the temple of satisfaction.' the third picture represented the half-nude figure of a woman in a recumbent position, much fore-shortened, with red knees and very big heels. my dog had, with superhuman efforts, crouched under the sofa, and apparently found a great deal of dust there, as he kept sneezing violently. i went to the window. boards had been laid across the street in a slanting direction from the manor-house to the counting-house--a very useful precaution, as, thanks to our rich black soil and the persistent rain, the mud was terrible. in the grounds of the manor-house, which stood with its back to the street, there was the constant going and coming there always is about manor-houses: maids in faded chintz gowns flitted to and fro; house-serfs sauntered through the mud, stood still and scratched their spines meditatively; the constable's horse, tied up to a post, lashed his tail lazily, and with his nose high up, gnawed at the hedge; hens were clucking; sickly turkeys kept up an incessant gobble-gobble. on the steps of a dark crumbling out-house, probably the bath-house, sat a stalwart lad with a guitar, singing with some spirit the well-known ballad: 'i'm leaving this enchanting spot to go into the desert.' the fat man came into the room. 'they're bringing you in your tea,' he told me, with an affable smile. the young man in the grey coat, the clerk on duty, laid on the old card-table a samovar, a teapot, a tumbler on a broken saucer, a jug of cream, and a bunch of bolhovo biscuit rings. the fat man went out. 'what is he?' i asked the clerk; 'the steward?' 'no, sir; he was the chief cashier, but now he has been promoted to be head-clerk.' 'haven't you got a steward, then?' 'no, sir. there's an agent, mihal vikulov, but no steward.' 'is there a manager, then?' 'yes; a german, lindamandol, karlo karlitch; only he does not manage the estate.' 'who does manage it, then?' 'our mistress herself.' 'you don't say so. and are there many of you in the office?' the young man reflected. 'there are six of us.' 'who are they?' i inquired. 'well, first there's vassily nikolaevitch, the head cashier; then piotr, one clerk; piotr's brother, ivan, another clerk; the other ivan, a clerk; konstantin narkizer, another clerk; and me here--there's a lot of us, you can't count all of them.' 'i suppose your mistress has a great many serfs in her house?' 'no, not to say a great many.' 'how many, then?' 'i dare say it runs up to about a hundred and fifty.' we were both silent for a little. 'i suppose you write a good hand, eh?' i began again. the young man grinned from ear to ear, went into the office and brought in a sheet covered with writing. 'this is my writing,' he announced, still with the same smile on his face. i looked at it; on the square sheet of greyish paper there was written, in a good bold hand, the following document:-- order from the chief office of the manor of ananyevo to the agent, mihal vikulov. no. . 'whereas some person unknown entered the garden at ananyevo last night in an intoxicated condition, and with unseemly songs waked the french governess, madame engêne, and disturbed her; and whether the watchmen saw anything, and who were on watch in the garden and permitted such disorderliness: as regards all the above-written matters, your orders are to investigate in detail, and report immediately to the office.' '_head-clerk_, nikolai hvostov.' a huge heraldic seal was attached to the order, with the inscription: 'seal of the chief office of the manor of ananyevo'; and below stood the signature: 'to be executed exactly, elena losnyakov.' 'your lady signed it herself, eh?' i queried. 'to be sure; she always signs herself. without that the order would be of no effect.' 'well, and now shall you send this order to the agent?' 'no, sir. he'll come himself and read it. that's to say, it'll be read to him; you see, he's no scholar.' (the clerk on duty was silent again for a while.) 'but what do you say?' he added, simpering; 'is it well written?' 'very well written.' 'it wasn't composed, i must confess, by me. konstantin is the great one for that.' 'what?... do you mean the orders have first to be composed among you?' 'why, how else could we do? couldn't write them off straight without making a fair copy.' 'and what salary do you get?' i inquired. 'thirty-five roubles, and five roubles for boots.' 'and are you satisfied?' 'of course i am satisfied. it's not everyone can get into an office like ours. it was god's will, in my case, to be sure; i'd an uncle who was in service as a butler.' 'and you're well-off?' 'yes, sir. though, to tell the truth,' he went on, with a sigh, 'a place at a merchant's, for instance, is better for the likes of us. at a merchant's they're very well off. yesterday evening a merchant came to us from venev, and his man got talking to me.... yes, that's a good place, no doubt about it; a very good place.' 'why? do the merchants pay more wages?' 'lord preserve us! why, a merchant would soon give you the sack if you asked him for wages. no, at a merchant's you must live on trust and on fear. he'll give you food, and drink, and clothes, and all. if you give him satisfaction, he'll do more.... talk of wages, indeed! you don't need them.... and a merchant, too, lives in plain russian style, like ourselves; you go with him on a journey--he has tea, and you have it; what he eats, you eat. a merchant ... one can put up with; a merchant's a very different thing from what a gentleman is; a merchant's not whimsical; if he's out of temper, he'll give you a blow, and there it ends. he doesn't nag nor sneer.... but with a gentleman it's a woeful business! nothing's as he likes it--this is not right, and that he can't fancy. you hand him a glass of water or something to eat: "ugh, the water stinks! positively stinks!" you take it out, stay a minute outside the door, and bring it back: "come, now, that's good; this doesn't stink now." and as for the ladies, i tell you, the ladies are something beyond everything!... and the young ladies above all!...' 'fedyushka!' came the fat man's voice from the office. the clerk went out quickly. i drank a glass of tea, lay down on the sofa, and fell asleep. i slept for two hours. when i woke, i meant to get up, but i was overcome by laziness; i closed my eyes, but did not fall asleep again. on the other side of the partition, in the office, they were talking in subdued voices. unconsciously i began to listen. 'quite so, quite so, nikolai eremyitch,' one voice was saying; 'quite so. one can't but take that into account; yes, certainly!... hm!' (the speaker coughed.) 'you may believe me, gavrila antonitch,' replied the fat man's voice: 'don't i know how things are done here? judge for yourself.' 'who does, if you don't, nikolai eremyitch? you're, one may say, the first person here. well, then, how's it to be?' pursued the voice i did not recognise; 'what decision are we to come to, nikolai eremyitch? allow me to put the question.' 'what decision, gavrila antonitch? the thing depends, so to say, on you; you don't seem over anxious.' 'upon my word, nikolai eremyitch, what do you mean? our business is trading, buying; it's our business to buy. that's what we live by, nikolai eremyitch, one may say.' 'eight roubles a measure,' said the fat man emphatically. a sigh was audible. 'nikolai eremyitch, sir, you ask a heavy price.' 'impossible, gavrila antonitch, to do otherwise; i speak as before god almighty; impossible.' silence followed. i got up softly and looked through a crack in the partition. the fat man was sitting with his back to me. facing him sat a merchant, a man about forty, lean and pale, who looked as if he had been rubbed with oil. he was incessantly fingering his beard, and very rapidly blinking and twitching his lips. 'wonderful the young green crops this year, one may say,' he began again; 'i've been going about everywhere admiring them. all the way from voronezh they've come up wonderfully, first-class, one may say.' 'the crops are pretty fair, certainly,' answered the head-clerk; 'but you know the saying, gavrila antonitch, autumn bids fair, but spring may be foul.' 'that's so, indeed, nikolai eremyitch; all is in god's hands; it's the absolute truth what you've just remarked, sir.... but perhaps your visitor's awake now.' the fat man turned round ... listened.... 'no, he's asleep. he may, though....' he went to the door. 'no, he's asleep,' he repeated and went back to his place. 'well, so what are we to say, nikolai eremyitch?' the merchant began again; 'we must bring our little business to a conclusion.... let it be so, nikolai eremyitch, let it be so,' he went on, blinking incessantly; 'two grey notes and a white for your favour, and there' (he nodded in the direction of the house), 'six and a half. done, eh?' 'four grey notes,' answered the clerk. 'come, three, then.' 'four greys, and no white.' 'three, nikolai eremyitch.' 'three and a half, and not a farthing less.' 'three, nikolai eremyitch.' 'you're not talking sense, gavrila antonitch.' 'my, what a pig-headed fellow!' muttered the merchant. 'then i'd better arrange it with the lady herself.' 'that's as you like,' answered the fat man; 'far better, i should say. why should you worry yourself, after all?... much better, indeed!' 'well, well! nikolai eremyitch. i lost my temper for a minute! that was nothing but talk.' 'no, really, why?...' 'nonsense, i tell you.... i tell you i was joking. well, take your three and a half; there's no doing anything with you.' 'i ought to have got four, but i was in too great a hurry--like an ass!' muttered the fat man. 'then up there at the house, six and a half, nikolai eremyitch; the corn will be sold for six and a half?' 'six and a half, as we said already.' 'well, your hand on that then, nikolai eremyitch' (the merchant clapped his outstretched fingers into the clerk's palm). 'and good-bye, in god's name!' (the merchant got up.) 'so then, nikolai eremyitch, sir, i'll go now to your lady, and bid them send up my name, and so i'll say to her, "nikolai eremyitch," i'll say, "has made a bargain with me for six and a half."' 'that's what you must say, gavrila antonitch.' 'and now, allow me.' the merchant handed the manager a small roll of notes, bowed, shook his head, picked up his hat with two fingers, shrugged his shoulders, and, with a sort of undulating motion, went out, his boots creaking after the approved fashion. nikolai eremyitch went to the wall, and, as far as i could make out, began sorting the notes handed him by the merchant. a red head, adorned with thick whiskers, was thrust in at the door. 'well?' asked the head; 'all as it should be?' 'yes.' 'how much?' the fat man made an angry gesture with his hand, and pointed to my room. 'ah, all right!' responded the head, and vanished. the fat man went up to the table, sat down, opened a book, took out a reckoning frame, and began shifting the beads to and fro as he counted, using not the forefinger but the third finger of his right hand, which has a much more showy effect. the clerk on duty came in. 'what is it?' 'sidor is here from goloplek.' 'oh! ask him in. wait a bit, wait a bit.... first go and look whether the strange gentleman's still asleep, or whether he has waked up.' the clerk on duty came cautiously into my room. i laid my head on my game-bag, which served me as a pillow, and closed my eyes. 'he's asleep,' whispered the clerk on duty, returning to the counting-house. the fat man muttered something. 'well, send sidor in,' he said at last. i got up again. a peasant of about thirty, of huge stature, came in--a red-cheeked, vigorous-looking fellow, with brown hair, and a short curly beard. he crossed himself, praying to the holy image, bowed to the head-clerk, held his hat before him in both hands, and stood erect. 'good day, sidor,' said the fat man, tapping with the reckoning beads. 'good-day to you, nikolai eremyitch.' 'well, what are the roads like?' 'pretty fair, nikolai eremyitch. a bit muddy.' (the peasant spoke slowly and not loud.) 'wife quite well?' 'she's all right!' the peasant gave a sigh and shifted one leg forward. nikolai eremyitch put his pen behind his ear, and blew his nose. 'well, what have you come about?' he proceeded to inquire, putting his check handkerchief into his pocket. 'why, they do say, nikolai eremyitch, they're asking for carpenters from us.' 'well, aren't there any among you, hey?' 'to be sure there are, nikolai eremyitch; our place is right in the woods; our earnings are all from the wood, to be sure. but it's the busy time, nikolai eremyitch. where's the time to come from?' 'the time to come from! busy time! i dare say, you're so eager to work for outsiders, and don't care to work for your mistress.... it's all the same!' 'the work's all the same, certainly, nikolai eremyitch ... but....' 'well?' 'the pay's ... very....' 'what next! you've been spoiled; that's what it is. get along with you!' 'and what's more, nikolai eremyitch, there'll be only a week's work, but they'll keep us hanging on a month. one time there's not material enough, and another time they'll send us into the garden to weed the path.' 'what of it? our lady herself is pleased to give the order, so it's useless you and me talking about it.' sidor was silent; he began shifting from one leg to the other. nikolai eremyitch put his head on one side, and began busily playing with the reckoning beads. 'our ... peasants ... nikolai eremyitch....' sidor began at last, hesitating over each word; 'sent word to your honour ... there is ... see here....' (he thrust his big hand into the bosom of his coat, and began to pull out a folded linen kerchief with a red border.) 'what are you thinking of? goodness, idiot, are you out of your senses?' the fat man interposed hurriedly. 'go on; go to my cottage,' he continued, almost shoving the bewildered peasant out; 'ask for my wife there ... she'll give you some tea; i'll be round directly; go on. for goodness' sake, i tell you, go on.' sidor went away. 'ugh!... what a bear!' the head clerk muttered after him, shaking his head, and set to work again on his reckoning frame. suddenly shouts of 'kuprya! kuprya! there's no knocking down kuprya!' were heard in the street and on the steps, and a little later there came into the counting-house a small man of sickly appearance, with an extraordinarily long nose and large staring eyes, who carried himself with a great air of superiority. he was dressed in a ragged little old surtout, with a plush collar and diminutive buttons. he carried a bundle of firewood on his shoulder. five house-serfs were crowding round him, all shouting, 'kuprya! there's no suppressing kuprya! kuprya's been turned stoker; kuprya's turned a stoker!' but the man in the coat with the plush collar did not pay the slightest attention to the uproar made by his companions, and was not in the least out of countenance. with measured steps he went up to the stove, flung down his load, straightened himself, took out of his tail-pocket a snuff-box, and with round eyes began helping himself to a pinch of dry trefoil mixed with ashes. at the entrance of this noisy party the fat man had at first knitted his brows and risen from his seat, but, seeing what it was, he smiled, and only told them not to shout. 'there's a sportsman,' said he, 'asleep in the next room.' 'what sort of sportsman?' two of them asked with one voice. 'a gentleman.' 'ah!' 'let them make a row,' said the man with the plush collar, waving his arms; 'what do i care, so long as they don't touch me? they've turned me into a stoker....' 'a stoker! a stoker!' the others put in gleefully. 'it's the mistress's orders,' he went on, with a shrug of his shoulders; 'but just you wait a bit ... they'll turn you into swineherds yet. but i've been a tailor, and a good tailor too, learnt my trade in the best house in moscow, and worked for generals ... and nobody can take that from me. and what have you to boast of?... what? you're a pack of idlers, not worth your salt; that's what you are! turn me off! i shan't die of hunger; i shall be all right; give me a passport. i'd send a good rent home, and satisfy the masters. but what would you do? you'd die off like flies, that's what you'd do!' 'that's a nice lie!' interposed a pock-marked lad with white eyelashes, a red cravat, and ragged elbows. 'you went off with a passport sharp enough, but never a halfpenny of rent did the masters see from you, and you never earned a farthing for yourself, you just managed to crawl home again and you've never had a new rag on you since.' 'ah, well, what could one do! konstantin narkizitch,' responded kuprya; 'a man falls in love--a man's ruined and done for! you go through what i have, konstantin narkizitch, before you blame me!' 'and you picked out a nice one to fall in love with!--a regular fright.' 'no, you must not say that, konstantin narkizitch.' 'who's going to believe that? i've seen her, you know; i saw her with my own eyes last year in moscow.' 'last year she had gone off a little certainly,' observed kuprya. 'no, gentlemen, i tell you what,' a tall, thin man, with a face spotted with pimples, a valet probably, from his frizzed and pomatumed head, remarked in a careless and disdainful voice; 'let kuprya afanasyitch sing us his song. come on, now; begin, kuprya afanasyitch. 'yes! yes!' put in the others. 'hoorah for alexandra! that's one for kuprya; 'pon my soul ... sing away, kuprya!... you're a regular brick, alexandra!' (serfs often use feminine terminations in referring to a man as an expression of endearment.) 'sing away!' 'this is not the place to sing,' kuprya replied firmly; 'this is the manor counting-house.' 'and what's that to do with you? you've got your eye on a place as clerk, eh?' answered konstantin with a coarse laugh. 'that's what it is!' 'everything rests with the mistress,' observed the poor wretch. 'there, that's what he's got his eye on! a fellow like him! oo! oo! a!' and they all roared; some rolled about with merriment. louder than all laughed a lad of fifteen, probably the son of an aristocrat among the house-serfs; he wore a waistcoat with bronze buttons, and a cravat of lilac colour, and had already had time to fill out his waistcoat. 'come tell us, confess now, kuprya,' nikolai eremyitch began complacently, obviously tickled and diverted himself; 'is it bad being stoker? is it an easy job, eh?' 'nikolai eremyitch,' began kuprya, 'you're head-clerk among us now, certainly; there's no disputing that, no; but you know you have been in disgrace yourself, and you too have lived in a peasant's hut.' 'you'd better look out and not forget yourself in my place,' the fat man interrupted emphatically; 'people joke with a fool like you; you ought, you fool, to have sense, and be grateful to them for taking notice of a fool like you.' 'it was a slip of the tongue, nikolai eremyitch; i beg your pardon....' 'yes, indeed, a slip of the tongue.' the door opened and a little page ran in. 'nikolai eremyitch, mistress wants you.' 'who's with the mistress?' he asked the page. 'aksinya nikitishna, and a merchant from venev.' 'i'll be there this minute. and you, mates,' he continued in a persuasive voice, 'better move off out of here with the newly-appointed stoker; if the german pops in, he'll make a complaint for certain.' the fat man smoothed his hair, coughed into his hand, which was almost completely hidden in his coat-sleeve, buttoned himself, and set off with rapid strides to see the lady of the manor. in a little while the whole party trailed out after him, together with kuprya. my old friend, the clerk-on duty, was left alone. he set to work mending the pens, and dropped asleep in his chair. a few flies promptly seized the opportunity and settled on his mouth. a mosquito alighted on his forehead, and, stretching its legs out with a regular motion, slowly buried its sting into his flabby flesh. the same red head with whiskers showed itself again at the door, looked in, looked again, and then came into the office, together with the rather ugly body belonging to it. 'fedyushka! eh, fedyushka! always asleep,' said the head. the clerk on duty opened his eyes and got up from his seat. 'nikolai eremyitch has gone to the mistress?' 'yes, vassily nikolaevitch.' 'ah! ah!' thought i; 'this is he, the head cashier.' the head cashier began walking about the room. he really slunk rather than walked, and altogether resembled a cat. an old black frock-coat with very narrow skirts hung about his shoulders; he kept one hand in his bosom, while the other was for ever fumbling about his high, narrow horse-hair collar, and he turned his head with a certain effort. he wore noiseless kid boots, and trod very softly. 'the landowner, yagushkin, was asking for you to-day,' added the clerk on duty. 'hm, asking for me? what did he say?' 'said he'd go to tyutyurov this evening and would wait for you. "i want to discuss some business with vassily nikolaevitch," said he, but what the business was he didn't say; "vassily nikolaevitch will know," says he.' 'hm!' replied the head cashier, and he went up to the window. 'is nikolai eremyitch in the counting-house?' a loud voice was heard asking in the outer room, and a tall man, apparently angry, with an irregular but bold and expressive face, and rather clean in his dress, stepped over the threshold. 'isn't he here?' he inquired, looking rapidly round. 'nikolai eremyitch is with the mistress,' responded the cashier. 'tell me what you want, pavel andreitch; you can tell me.... what is it you want?' 'what do i want? you want to know what i want?' (the cashier gave a sickly nod.) 'i want to give him a lesson, the fat, greasy villain, the scoundrelly tell-tale!... i'll give him a tale to tell!' pavel flung himself into a chair. 'what are you saying, pavel andreitch! calm yourself.... aren't you ashamed? don't forget whom you're talking about, pavel andreitch!' lisped the cashier. 'forget whom i'm talking about? what do i care for his being made head-clerk? a fine person they've found to promote, there's no denying that! they've let the goat loose in the kitchen garden, you may say!' 'hush, hush, pavel andreitch, hush! drop that ... what rubbish are you talking?' 'so master fox is beginning to fawn? i will wait for him,' pavel said with passion, and he struck a blow on the table. 'ah, here he's coming!' he added with a look at the window; 'speak of the devil. with your kind permission!' (he, got up.) nikolai eremyitch came into the counting-house. his face was shining with satisfaction, but he was rather taken aback at seeing pavel andreitch. 'good day to you, nikolai eremyitch,' said pavel in a significant tone, advancing deliberately to meet him. the head-clerk made no reply. the face of the merchant showed itself in the doorway. 'what, won't you deign to answer me?' pursued pavel. 'but no ... no,' he added; 'that's not it; there's no getting anything by shouting and abuse. no, you'd better tell me in a friendly way, nikolai eremyitch; what do you persecute me for? what do you want to ruin me for? come, speak, speak.' 'this is no fit place to come to an understanding with you,' the head-clerk answered in some agitation, 'and no fit time. but i must say i wonder at one thing: what makes you suppose i want to ruin you, or that i'm persecuting you? and if you come to that, how can i persecute you? you're not in my counting-house.' 'i should hope not,' answered pavel; 'that would be the last straw! but why are you hum-bugging, nikolai eremyitch?... you understand me, you know.' 'no, i don't understand.' 'no, you do understand.' 'no, by god, i don't understand!' 'swearing too! well, tell us, since it's come to that: have you no fear of god? why can't you let the poor girl live in peace? what do you want of her?' 'whom are you talking of?' the fat man asked with feigned amazement. 'ugh! doesn't know; what next? i'm talking of tatyana. have some fear of god--what do you want to revenge yourself for? you ought to be ashamed: a married man like you, with children as big as i am; it's a very different thing with me.... i mean marriage: i'm acting straight-forwardly.' 'how am i to blame in that, pavel andreitch? the mistress won't permit you to marry; it's her seignorial will! what have i to do with it?' 'why, haven't you been plotting with that old hag, the housekeeper, eh? haven't you been telling tales, eh? tell me, aren't you bringing all sorts of stories up against the defenceless girl? i suppose it's not your doing that she's been degraded from laundrymaid to washing dishes in the scullery? and it's not your doing that she's beaten and dressed in sackcloth?... you ought to be ashamed, you ought to be ashamed--an old man like you! you know there's a paralytic stroke always hanging over you.... you will have to answer to god.' 'you're abusive, pavel andreitch, you're abusive.... you shan't have a chance to be insolent much longer.' pavel fired up. 'what? you dare to threaten me?' he said passionately. 'you think i'm afraid of you. no, my man, i'm not come to that! what have i to be afraid of?... i can make my bread everywhere. for you, now, it's another thing! it's only here you can live and tell tales, and filch....' 'fancy the conceit of the fellow!' interrupted the clerk, who was also beginning to lose patience; 'an apothecary's assistant, simply an apothecary's assistant, a wretched leech; and listen to him--fie upon you! you're a high and mighty personage!' 'yes, an apothecary's assistant, and except for this apothecary's assistant you'd have been rotting in the graveyard by now.... it was some devil drove me to cure him,' he added between his teeth. 'you cured me?... no, you tried to poison me; you dosed me with aloes,' the clerk put in. 'what was i to do if nothing but aloes had any effect on you?' 'the use of aloes is forbidden by the board of health,' pursued nikolai. 'i'll lodge a complaint against you yet.... you tried to compass my death--that was what you did! but the lord suffered it not.' 'hush, now, that's enough, gentlemen,' the cashier was beginning.... 'stand off!' bawled the clerk. 'he tried to poison me! do you understand that?' 'that's very likely.... listen, nikolai eremyitch,' pavel began in despairing accents. 'for the last time, i beg you.... you force me to it--can't stand it any longer. let us alone, do you hear? or else, by god, it'll go ill with one or other of us--i mean with you!' the fat man flew into a rage. 'i'm not afraid of you!' he shouted; 'do you hear, milksop? i got the better of your father; i broke his horns--a warning to you; take care!' 'don't talk of my father, nikolai eremyitch.' 'get away! who are you to give me orders?' 'i tell you, don't talk of him!' 'and i tell you, don't forget yourself.... however necessary you think yourself, if our lady has a choice between us, it's not you'll be kept, my dear! none's allowed to mutiny, mind!' (pavel was shaking with fury.) 'as for the wench, tatyana, she deserves ... wait a bit, she'll get something worse!' pavel dashed forward with uplifted fists, and the clerk rolled heavily on the floor. 'handcuff him, handcuff him,' groaned nikolai eremyitch.... i won't take upon myself to describe the end of this scene; i fear i have wounded the reader's delicate susceptibilities as it is. the same day i returned home. a week later i heard that madame losnyakov had kept both pavel and nikolai in her service, but had sent away the girl tatyana; it appeared she was not wanted. xii biryuk i was coming back from hunting one evening alone in a racing droshky. i was six miles from home; my good trotting mare galloped bravely along the dusty road, pricking up her ears with an occasional snort; my weary dog stuck close to the hind-wheels, as though he were fastened there. a tempest was coming on. in front, a huge, purplish storm-cloud slowly rose from behind the forest; long grey rain-clouds flew over my head and to meet me; the willows stirred and whispered restlessly. the suffocating heat changed suddenly to a damp chilliness; the darkness rapidly thickened. i gave the horse a lash with the reins, descended a steep slope, pushed across a dry water-course overgrown with brushwood, mounted the hill, and drove into the forest. the road ran before me, bending between thick hazel bushes, now enveloped in darkness; i advanced with difficulty. the droshky jumped up and down over the hard roots of the ancient oaks and limes, which were continually intersected by deep ruts--the tracks of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. a violent wind suddenly began to roar overhead; the trees blustered; big drops of rain fell with slow tap and splash on the leaves; there came a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder. the rain fell in torrents. i went on a step or so, and soon was forced to stop; my horse foundered; i could not see an inch before me. i managed to take refuge somehow in a spreading bush. crouching down and covering my face, i waited patiently for the storm to blow over, when suddenly, in a flash of lightning, i saw a tall figure on the road. i began to stare intently in that direction--the figure seemed to have sprung out of the ground near my droshky. 'who's that?' inquired a ringing voice. 'why, who are you?' 'i'm the forester here.' i mentioned my name. 'oh, i know! are you on your way home?' 'yes. but, you see, in such a storm....' 'yes, there is a storm,' replied the voice. a pale flash of lightning lit up the forester from head to foot; a brief crashing clap of thunder followed at once upon it. the rain lashed with redoubled force. 'it won't be over just directly,' the forester went on. 'what's to be done?' 'i'll take you to my hut, if you like,' he said abruptly. 'that would be a service.' 'please to take your seat' he went up to the mare's head, took her by the bit, and pulled her up. we set off. i held on to the cushion of the droshky, which rocked 'like a boat on the sea,' and called my dog. my poor mare splashed with difficulty through the mud, slipped and stumbled; the forester hovered before the shafts to right and to left like a ghost. we drove rather a long while; at last my guide stopped. 'here we are home, sir,' he observed in a quiet voice. the gate creaked; some puppies barked a welcome. i raised my head, and in a flash of lightning i made out a small hut in the middle of a large yard, fenced in with hurdles. from the one little window there was a dim light. the forester led his horse up to the steps and knocked at the door. 'coming, coming!' we heard in a little shrill voice; there was the patter of bare feet, the bolt creaked, and a girl of twelve, in a little old smock tied round the waist with list, appeared in the doorway with a lantern in her hand. 'show the gentleman a light,' he said to her 'and i will put your droshky in the shed.' the little girl glanced at me, and went into the hut. i followed her. the forester's hut consisted of one room, smoky, low-pitched, and empty, without curtains or partition. a tattered sheepskin hung on the wall. on the bench lay a single-barrelled gun; in the corner lay a heap of rags; two great pots stood near the oven. a pine splinter was burning on the table flickering up and dying down mournfully. in the very middle of the hut hung a cradle, suspended from the end of a long horizontal pole. the little girl put out the lantern, sat down on a tiny stool, and with her right hand began swinging the cradle, while with her left she attended to the smouldering pine splinter. i looked round--my heart sank within me: it's not cheering to go into a peasant's hut at night. the baby in the cradle breathed hard and fast. 'are you all alone here?' i asked the little girl. 'yes,' she uttered, hardly audibly. 'you're the forester's daughter?' 'yes,' she whispered. the door creaked, and the forester, bending his head, stepped across the threshold. he lifted the lantern from the floor, went up to the table, and lighted a candle. 'i dare say you're not used to the splinter light?' said he, and he shook back his curls. i looked at him. rarely has it been my fortune to behold such a comely creature. he was tall, broad-shouldered, and in marvellous proportion. his powerful muscles stood out in strong relief under his wet homespun shirt. a curly, black beard hid half of his stern and manly face; small brown eyes looked out boldly from under broad eyebrows which met in the middle. he stood before me, his arms held lightly akimbo. i thanked him, and asked his name. 'my name's foma,' he answered, 'and my nickname's biryuk' (_i.e._ wolf). [footnote: the name biryuk is used in the orel province to denote a solitary, misanthropic man.--_author's note_.] 'oh, you're biryuk.' i looked with redoubled curiosity at him. from my yermolaï and others i had often heard stories about the forester biryuk, whom all the peasants of the surrounding districts feared as they feared fire. according to them there had never been such a master of his business in the world before. 'he won't let you carry off a handful of brushwood; he'll drop upon you like a fall of snow, whatever time it may be, even in the middle of the night, and you needn't think of resisting him--he's strong, and cunning as the devil.... and there's no getting at him anyhow; neither by brandy nor by money; there's no snare he'll walk into. more than once good folks have planned to put him out of the world, but no--it's never come off.' that was how the neighbouring peasants spoke of biryuk. 'so you're biryuk,' i repeated; 'i've heard talk of you, brother. they say you show no mercy to anyone.' 'i do my duty,' he answered grimly; 'it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing.' he took an axe from his girdle and began splitting splinters. 'have you no wife?' i asked him. 'no,' he answered, with a vigorous sweep of the axe. 'she's dead, i suppose?' 'no ... yes ... she's dead,' he added, and turned away. i was silent; he raised his eyes and looked at me. 'she ran away with a travelling pedlar,' he brought out with a bitter smile. the little girl hung her head; the baby waked up and began crying; the little girl went to the cradle. 'there, give it him,' said biryuk, thrusting a dirty feeding-bottle into her hand. 'him, too, she abandoned,' he went on in an undertone, pointing to the baby. he went up to the door, stopped, and turned round. 'a gentleman like you,' he began, 'wouldn't care for our bread, i dare say, and except bread, i've--' 'i'm not hungry.' 'well, that's for you to say. i would have heated the samovar, but i've no tea.... i'll go and see how your horse is getting on.' he went out and slammed the door. i looked round again, the hut struck me as more melancholy than ever. the bitter smell of stale smoke choked my breathing unpleasantly. the little girl did not stir from her place, and did not raise her eyes; from time to time she jogged the cradle, and timidly pulled her slipping smock up on to shoulder; her bare legs hung motionless. 'what's your name?' i asked her. 'ulita,' she said, her mournful little face drooping more than ever. the forester came in and sat down on the bench. 'the storm 's passing over,' he observed, after a brief silence; 'if you wish it, i will guide you out of the forest.' i got up; biryuk took his gun and examined the firepan. 'what's that for?' i inquired. 'there's mischief in the forest.... they're cutting a tree down on mares' ravine,' he added, in reply to my look of inquiry. 'could you hear it from here?' 'i can hear it outside.' we went out together. the rain had ceased. heavy masses of storm-cloud were still huddled in the distance; from time to time there were long flashes of lightning; but here and there overhead the dark blue sky was already visible; stars twinkled through the swiftly flying clouds. the outline of the trees, drenched with rain, and stirred by the wind, began to stand out in the darkness. we listened. the forester took off his cap and bent his head.... 'th ... there!' he said suddenly, and he stretched out his hand: 'see what a night he's pitched on.' i had heard nothing but the rustle of the leaves. biryuk led the mare out of the shed. 'but, perhaps,' he added aloud, 'this way i shall miss him.' 'i'll go with you ... if you like?' 'certainly,' he answered, and he backed the horse in again; 'we'll catch him in a trice, and then i'll take you. let's be off.' we started, biryuk in front, i following him. heaven only knows how he found out his way, but he only stopped once or twice, and then merely to listen to the strokes of the axe. 'there,' he muttered, 'do you hear? do you hear?' 'why, where?' biryuk shrugged his shoulders. we went down into the ravine; the wind was still for an instant; the rhythmical strokes reached my hearing distinctly. biryuk glanced at me and shook his head. we went farther through the wet bracken and nettles. a slow muffled crash was heard.... 'he's felled it,' muttered biryuk. meantime the sky had grown clearer and clearer; there was a faint light in the forest. we clambered at last out of the ravine. 'wait here a little,' the forester whispered to me. he bent down, and raising his gun above his head, vanished among the bushes. i began listening with strained attention. across the continual roar of the wind faint sounds from close by reached me; there was a cautious blow of an axe on the brushwood, the crash of wheels, the snort of a horse.... 'where are you off to? stop!' the iron voice of biryuk thundered suddenly. another voice was heard in a pitiful shriek, like a trapped hare.... _a struggle was beginning._ 'no, no, you've made a mistake,' biryuk declared panting; 'you're not going to get off....' i rushed in the direction of the noise, and ran up to the scene of the conflict, stumbling at every step. a felled tree lay on the ground, and near it biryuk was busily engaged holding the thief down and binding his hands behind his back with a kerchief. i came closer. biryuk got up and set him on his feet. i saw a peasant drenched with rain, in tatters, and with a long dishevelled beard. a sorry little nag, half covered with a stiff mat, was standing by, together with a rough cart. the forester did not utter a word; the peasant too was silent; his head was shaking. 'let him go,' i whispered in biryuk's ears; 'i'll pay for the tree.' without a word biryuk took the horse by the mane with his left hand; in his right he held the thief by the belt. 'now turn round, you rat!' he said grimly. 'the bit of an axe there, take it,' muttered the peasant. 'no reason to lose it, certainly,' said the forester, and he picked up the axe. we started. i walked behind.... the rain began sprinkling again, and soon fell in torrents. with difficulty we made our way to the hut. biryuk pushed the captured horse into the middle of the yard, led the peasant into the room, loosened the knot in the kerchief, and made him sit down in a corner. the little girl, who had fallen asleep near the oven, jumped up and began staring at us in silent terror. i sat down on the locker. 'ugh, what a downpour!' remarked the forester; 'you will have to wait till it's over. won't you lie down?' 'thanks.' 'i would have shut him in the store loft, on your honour's account,' he went on, indicating the peasant; 'but you see the bolt--' 'leave him here; don't touch him,' i interrupted. the peasant stole a glance at me from under his brows. i vowed inwardly to set the poor wretch free, come what might. he sat without stirring on the locker. by the light of the lantern i could make out his worn, wrinkled face, his overhanging yellow eyebrows, his restless eyes, his thin limbs.... the little girl lay down on the floor, just at his feet, and again dropped asleep. biryuk sat at the table, his head in his hands. a cricket chirped in the corner ... the rain pattered on the roof and streamed down the windows; we were all silent. 'foma kuzmitch,' said the peasant suddenly in a thick, broken voice; 'foma kuzmitch!' 'what is it?' 'let me go.' biryuk made no answer. 'let me go ... hunger drove me to it; let me go.' 'i know you,' retorted the forester severely; 'your set's all alike--all thieves.' 'let me go,' repeated the peasant. 'our manager ... we 're ruined, that's what it is--let me go!' 'ruined, indeed!... nobody need steal.' 'let me go, foma kuzmitch.... don't destroy me. your manager, you know yourself, will have no mercy on me; that's what it is.' biryuk turned away. the peasant was shivering as though he were in the throes of fever. his head was shaking, and his breathing came in broken gasps. 'let me go,' he repeated with mournful desperation. 'let me go; by god, let me go! i'll pay; see, by god, i will! by god, it was through hunger!... the little ones are crying, you know yourself. it's hard for us, see.' 'you needn't go stealing, for all that.' 'my little horse,' the peasant went on, 'my poor little horse, at least ... our only beast ... let it go.' 'i tell you i can't. i'm not a free man; i'm made responsible. you oughtn't to be spoilt, either.' 'let me go! it's through want, foma kuzmitch, want--and nothing else--let me go!' 'i know you!' 'oh, let me go!' 'ugh, what's the use of talking to you! sit quiet, or else you'll catch it. don't you see the gentleman, hey?' the poor wretch hung his head.... biryuk yawned and laid his head on the table. the rain still persisted. i was waiting to see what would happen. suddenly the peasant stood erect. his eyes were glittering, and his face flushed dark red. 'come, then, here; strike yourself, here,' he began, his eyes puckering up and the corners of his mouth dropping; 'come, cursed destroyer of men's souls! drink christian blood, drink.' the forester turned round. 'i'm speaking to you, asiatic, blood-sucker, you!' 'are you drunk or what, to set to being abusive?' began the forester, puzzled. 'are you out of your senses, hey?' 'drunk! not at your expense, cursed destroyer of souls--brute, brute, brute!' 'ah, you----i'll show you!' 'what's that to me? it's all one; i'm done for; what can i do without a home? kill me--it's the same in the end; whether it's through hunger or like this--it's all one. ruin us all--wife, children ... kill us all at once. but, wait a bit, we'll get at you!' biryuk got up. 'kill me, kill me,' the peasant went on in savage tones; 'kill me; come, come, kill me....' (the little girl jumped up hastily from the ground and stared at him.) 'kill me, kill me!' 'silence!' thundered the forester, and he took two steps forward. 'stop, foma, stop,' i shouted; 'let him go.... peace be with him.' 'i won't be silent,' the luckless wretch went on. 'it's all the same--ruin anyway--you destroyer of souls, you brute; you've not come to ruin yet.... but wait a bit; you won't have long to boast of; they'll wring your neck; wait a bit!' biryuk clutched him by the shoulder. i rushed to help the peasant.... 'don't touch him, master!' the forester shouted to me. i should not have feared his threats, and already had my fist in the air; but to my intense amazement, with one pull he tugged the kerchief off the peasant's elbows, took him by the scruff of the neck, thrust his cap over his eyes, opened the door, and shoved him out. 'go to the devil with your horse!' he shouted after him; 'but mind, next time....' he came back into the hut and began rummaging in the corner. 'well, biryuk,' i said at last, 'you've astonished me; i see you're a splendid fellow.' 'oh, stop that, master,' he cut me short with an air of vexation; 'please don't speak of it. but i'd better see you on your way now,' he added; 'i suppose you won't wait for this little rain....' in the yard there was the rattle of the wheels of the peasant's cart. 'he's off, then!' he muttered; 'but next time!' half-an-hour later he parted from me at the edge of the wood. xiii two country gentlemen i have already had the honour, kind readers, of introducing to you several of my neighbours; let me now seize a favourable opportunity (it is always a favourable opportunity with us writers) to make known to you two more gentlemen, on whose lands i often used to go shooting--very worthy, well-intentioned persons, who enjoy universal esteem in several districts. first i will describe to you the retired general-major vyatcheslav ilarionovitch hvalinsky. picture to yourselves a tall and once slender man, now inclined to corpulence, but not in the least decrepit or even elderly, a man of ripe age; in his very prime, as they say. it is true the once regular and even now rather pleasing features of his face have undergone some change; his cheeks are flabby; there are close wrinkles like rays about his eyes; a few teeth are not, as saadi, according to pushkin, used to say; his light brown hair--at least, all that is left of it--has assumed a purplish hue, thanks to a composition bought at the romyon horse-fair of a jew who gave himself out as an armenian; but vyatcheslav ilarionovitch has a smart walk and a ringing laugh, jingles his spurs and curls his moustaches, and finally speaks of himself as an old cavalry man, whereas we all know that really old men never talk of being old. he usually wears a frock-coat buttoned up to the top, a high cravat, starched collars, and grey sprigged trousers of a military cut; he wears his hat tilted over his forehead, leaving all the back of his head exposed. he is a good-natured man, but of rather curious notions and principles. for instance, he can never treat noblemen of no wealth or standing as equals. when he talks to them, he usually looks sideways at them, his cheek pressed hard against his stiff white collar, and suddenly he turns and silently fixes them with a clear stony stare, while he moves the whole skin of his head under his hair; he even has a way of his own in pronouncing many words; he never says, for instance: 'thank you, pavel vasilyitch,' or 'this way, if you please, mihalo ivanitch,' but always 'fanks, pa'l 'asilitch,' or ''is wy, please, mil' 'vanitch.' with persons of the lower grades of society, his behaviour is still more quaint; he never looks at them at all, and before making known his desires to them, or giving an order, he repeats several times in succession, with a puzzled, far-away air: 'what's your name?... what, what's your name?' with extraordinary sharp emphasis on the first word, which gives the phrase a rather close resemblance to the call of a quail. he is very fussy and terribly close-fisted, but manages his land badly; he had chosen as overseer on his estate a retired quartermaster, a little russian, and a man of really exceptional stupidity. none of us, though, in the management of land, has ever surpassed a certain great petersburg dignitary, who, having perceived from the reports of his steward that the cornkilns in which the corn was dried on his estate were often liable to catch fire, whereby he lost a great deal of grain, gave the strictest orders that for the future they should not put the sheaves in till the fire had been completely put out! this same great personage conceived the brilliant idea of sowing his fields with poppies, as the result of an apparently simple calculation; poppy being dearer than rye, he argued, it is consequently more profitable to sow poppy. he it was, too, who ordered his women serfs to wear tiaras after a pattern bespoken from moscow; and to this day the peasant women on his lands do actually wear the tiaras, only they wear them over their skull-caps.... but let us return to vyatcheslav ilarionovitch. vyatcheslav ilarionovitch is a devoted admirer of the fair sex, and directly he catches sight of a pretty woman in the promenade of his district town, he is promptly off in pursuit, but falls at once into a sort of limping gait--that is the remarkable feature of the case. he is fond of playing cards, but only with people of a lower standing; they toady him with 'your excellency' in every sentence, while he can scold them and find fault to his heart's content. when he chances to play with the governor or any official personage, a marvellous change comes over him; he is all nods and smiles; he looks them in the face; he seems positively flowing with honey.... he even loses without grumbling. vyatcheslav ilarionovitch does not read much; when he is reading he incessantly works his moustaches and eyebrows up and down, as if a wave were passing from below upwards over his face. this undulatory motion in vyatcheslav ilarionovitch's face is especially marked when (before company, of course) he happens to be reading the columns of the _journal des débats_. in the assemblies of nobility he plays a rather important part, but on grounds of economy he declines the honourable dignity of marshal. 'gentlemen,' he usually says to the noblemen who press that office upon him, and he speaks in a voice filled with condescension and self-sufficiency: 'much indebted for the honour; but i have made up my mind to consecrate my leisure to solitude.' and, as he utters these words, he turns his head several times to right and to left, and then, with a dignified air, adjusts his chin and his cheek over his cravat. in his young days he served as adjutant to some very important person, whom he never speaks of except by his christian name and patronymic; they do say he fulfilled other functions than those of an adjutant; that, for instance, in full parade get-up, buttoned up to the chin, he had to lather his chief in his bath--but one can't believe everything one hears. general hvalinsky is not, however, fond of talking himself about his career in the army, which is certainly rather curious; it seems that he had never seen active service. general hvalinsky lives in a small house alone; he has never known the joys of married life, and consequently he still regards himself as a possible match, and indeed a very eligible one. but he has a house-keeper, a dark-eyed, dark-browed, plump, fresh-looking woman of five-and-thirty with a moustache; she wears starched dresses even on week-days, and on sundays puts on muslin sleeves as well. vyatcheslav ilarionovitch is at his best at the large invitation dinners given by gentlemen of the neighbourhood in honour of the governor and other dignitaries: then he is, one may say, in his natural element. on these occasions he usually sits, if not on the governor's right hand, at least at no great distance from him; at the beginning of dinner he is more disposed to nurse his sense of personal dignity, and, sitting back in his chair, he loftily scans the necks and stand-up collars of the guests, without turning his head, but towards the end of the meal he unbends, begins smiling in all directions (he had been all smiles for the governor from the first), and sometimes even proposes the toast in honour of the fair sex, the ornament of our planet, as he says. general hvalinsky shows to advantage too at all solemn public functions, inspections, assemblies, and exhibitions; no one in church goes up for the benediction with such style. vyatcheslav ilarionovitch's servants are never noisy and clamorous on the breaking up of assemblies or in crowded thoroughfares; as they make a way for him through the crowd or call his carriage, they say in an agreeable guttural baritone: 'by your leave, by your leave allow general hvalinsky to pass,' or 'call for general hvalinsky's carriage.' ... hvalinsky's carriage is, it must be admitted, of a rather queer design, and the footmen's liveries are rather threadbare (that they are grey, with red facings, it is hardly necessary to remark); his horses too have seen a good deal of hard service in their time; but vyatcheslav ilarionovitch has no pretensions to splendour, and goes so far as to think it beneath his rank to make an ostentation of wealth. hvalinsky has no special gift of eloquence, or possibly has no opportunity of displaying his rhetorical powers, as he has a particular aversion, not only for disputing, but for discussion in general, and assiduously avoids long conversation of all sorts, especially with young people. this was certainly judicious on his part; the worst of having to do with the younger generation is that they are so ready to forget the proper respect and submission due to their superiors. in the presence of persons of high rank hvalinsky is for the most part silent, while with persons of a lower rank, whom to judge by appearances he despises, though he constantly associates with them, his remarks are sharp and abrupt, expressions such as the following occurring incessantly: 'that's a piece of folly, what you're saying now,' or 'i feel myself compelled, sir, to remind you,' or 'you ought to realise with whom you are dealing,' and so on. he is peculiarly dreaded by post-masters, officers of the local boards, and superintendents of posting stations. he never entertains any one in his house, and lives, as the rumour goes, like a screw. for all that, he's an excellent country gentleman, 'an old soldier, a disinterested fellow, a man of principle, _vieux grognard_,' his neighbours say of him. the provincial prosecutor alone permits himself to smile when general hvalinsky's excellent and solid qualities are referred to before him--but what will not envy drive men to!... however, we will pass now to another landed proprietor. mardary apollonitch stegunov has no sort of resemblance to hvalinsky; i hardly think he has ever served under government in any capacity, and he has never been reckoned handsome. mardary apollonitch is a little, fattish, bald old man of a respectable corpulence, with a double chin and little soft hands. he is very hospitable and jovial; lives, as the saying is, for his comfort; summer and winter alike, he wears a striped wadded dressing-gown. there's only one thing in which he is like general hvalinsky; he too is a bachelor. he owns five hundred souls. mardary apollonitch's interest in his estate is of a rather superficial description; not to be behind the age, he ordered a threshing-machine from butenop's in moscow, locked it up in a barn, and then felt his mind at rest on the subject. sometimes on a fine summer day he would have out his racing droshky, and drive off to his fields, to look at the crops and gather corn-flowers. mardary apollonitch's existence is carried on in quite the old style. his house is of an old-fashioned construction; in the hall there is, of course, a smell of kvas, tallow candles, and leather; close at hand, on the right, there is a sideboard with pipes and towels; in the dining-room, family portraits, flies, a great pot of geraniums, and a squeaky piano; in the drawing-room, three sofas, three tables, two looking-glasses, and a wheezy clock of tarnished enamel with engraved bronze hands; in the study, a table piled up with papers, and a bluish-coloured screen covered with pictures cut out of various works of last century; a bookcase full of musty books, spiders, and black dust; a puffy armchair; an italian window; a sealed-up door into the garden.... everything, in short, just as it always is. mardary apollonitch has a multitude of servants, all dressed in the old-fashioned style; in long blue full coats, with high collars, shortish pantaloons of a muddy hue, and yellow waistcoats. they address visitors as 'father.' his estate is under the superintendence of an agent, a peasant with a beard that covers the whole of his sheepskin; his household is managed by a stingy, wrinkled old woman, whose face is always tied up in a cinnamon-coloured handkerchief. in mardary apollonitch's stable there are thirty horses of various kinds; he drives out in a coach built on the estate, that weighs four tons. he receives visitors very cordially, and entertains them sumptuously; in other words, thanks to the stupefying powers of our national cookery, he deprives them of all capacity for doing anything but playing preference. for his part, he never does anything, and has even given up reading the _dream-book_. but there are a good many of our landed gentry in russia exactly like this. it will be asked: 'what is my object in talking about him?...' well, by way of answering that question, let me describe to you one of my visits at mardary apollonitch's. i arrived one summer evening at seven o'clock. an evening service was only just over; the priest, a young man, apparently very timid, and only lately come from the seminary, was sitting in the drawing-room near the door, on the extreme edge of a chair. mardary apollonitch received me as usual, very cordially; he was genuinely delighted to see any visitor, and indeed he was the most good-natured of men altogether. the priest got up and took his hat. 'wait a bit, wait a bit, father,' said mardary apollonitch, not yet leaving go of my hand; 'don't go ... i have sent for some vodka for you.' 'i never drink it, sir,' the priest muttered in confusion, blushing up to his ears. 'what nonsense!' answered mardary apollonitch; 'mishka! yushka! vodka for the father!' yushka, a tall, thin old man of eighty, came in with a glass of vodka on a dark-coloured tray, with a few patches of flesh-colour on it, all that was left of the original enamel. the priest began to decline. 'come, drink it up, father, no ceremony; it's too bad of you,' observed the landowner reproachfully. the poor young man had to obey. 'there, now, father, you may go.' the priest took leave. 'there, there, that'll do, get along with you....' 'a capital fellow,' pursued mardary apollonitch, looking after him, 'i like him very much; there's only one thing--he's young yet. but how are you, my dear sir?... what have you been doing? how are you? let's come out on to the balcony--such a lovely evening.' we went out on the balcony, sat down, and began to talk. mardary apollonitch glanced below, and suddenly fell into a state of tremendous excitement. 'whose hens are those? whose hens are those?' he shouted: 'whose are those hens roaming about in the garden?... whose are those hens? how many times i've forbidden it! how many times i've spoken about it!' yushka ran out. 'what disorder!' protested mardary apollonitch; 'it's horrible!' the unlucky hens, two speckled and one white with a topknot, as i still remember, went on stalking tranquilly about under the apple-trees, occasionally giving vent to their feelings in a prolonged clucking, when suddenly yushka, bareheaded and stick in hand, with three other house-serfs of mature years, flew at them simultaneously. then the fun began. the hens clucked, flapped their wings, hopped, raised a deafening cackle; the house-serfs ran, tripping up and tumbling over; their master shouted from the balcony like one possessed: 'catch 'em, catch 'em, catch 'em, catch 'em, catch 'em, catch 'em, catch 'em!' at last one servant succeeded in catching the hen with the topknot, tumbling upon her, and at the very same moment a little girl of eleven, with dishevelled hair, and a dry branch in her hand, jumped over the garden-fence from the village street. 'ah, we see now whose hens!' cried the landowner in triumph. 'they're yermil, the coachman's, hens! he's sent his natalka to chase them out.... he didn't send his parasha, no fear!' the landowner added in a low voice with a significant snigger. 'hey, yushka! let the hens alone; catch natalka for me.' but before the panting yushka had time to reach the terrified little girl the house-keeper suddenly appeared, snatched her by the arm, and slapped her several times on the back.... 'that's it! that's it!' cried the master, 'tut-tut-tut!... and carry off the hens, avdotya,' he added in a loud voice, and he turned with a beaming face to me; 'that was a fine chase, my dear sir, hey?--i'm in a regular perspiration: look.' and mardary apollonitch went off into a series of chuckles. we remained on the balcony. the evening was really exceptionally fine. tea was served us. 'tell me,' i began, 'mardary apollonitch: are those your peasants' huts, out there on the highroad, above the ravine?' 'yes ... why do you ask?' 'i wonder at you, mardary apollonitch? it's really sinful. the huts allotted to the peasants there are wretched cramped little hovels; there isn't a tree to be seen near them; there's not a pond even; there's only one well, and that's no good. could you really find no other place to settle them?... and they say you're taking away the old hemp-grounds, too?' 'and what is one to do with this new division of the lands?' mardary apollonitch made answer. 'do you know i've this re-division quite on my mind, and i foresee no sort of good from it. and as for my having taken away the hemp-ground, and their not having dug any ponds, or what not--as to that, my dear sir, i know my own business. i'm a plain man--i go on the old system. to my ideas, when a man's master--he's master; and when he's peasant--he's peasant. ... that's what i think about it.' to an argument so clear and convincing there was of course no answer. 'and besides,' he went on, 'those peasants are a wretched lot; they're in disgrace. particularly two families there; why, my late father--god rest his soul--couldn't bear them; positively couldn't bear them. and you know my precept is: where the father's a thief, the son's a thief; say what you like.... blood, blood--oh, that's the great thing!' meanwhile there was a perfect stillness in the air. only rarely there came a gust of wind, which, as it sank for the last time near the house, brought to our ears the sound of rhythmically repeated blows, seeming to come from the stable. mardary apollonitch was in the act of lifting a saucer full of tea to his lips, and was just inflating his nostrils to sniff its fragrance--no true-born russian, as we all know, can drink his tea without this preliminary--but he stopped short, listened, nodded his head, sipped his tea, and laying the saucer on the table, with the most good-natured smile imaginable, he murmured as though involuntarily accompanying the blows: 'tchuki-tchuki-tchuk! tchuki-tchuk!' 'what is it?' i asked puzzled. 'oh, by my order, they're punishing a scamp of a fellow.... do you happen to remember vasya, who waits at the sideboard?' 'which vasya?' 'why, that waited on us at dinner just now. he with the long whiskers.' the fiercest indignation could not have stood against the clear mild gaze of mardary apollonitch. 'what are you after, young man? what is it?' he said, shaking his head. 'am i a criminal or something, that you stare at me like that? "whom he loveth he chasteneth"; you know that.' a quarter of an hour later i had taken leave of mardary apollonitch. as i was driving through the village i caught sight of vasya. he was walking down the village street, cracking nuts. i told the coachman to stop the horses and called him up. 'well, my boy, so they've been punishing you to-day?' i said to him. 'how did you know?' answered vasya. 'your master told me.' 'the master himself?' 'what did he order you to be punished for?' 'oh, i deserved it, father; i deserved it. they don't punish for trifles among us; that's not the way with us--no, no. our master's not like that; our master ... you won't find another master like him in all the province.' 'drive on!' i said to the coachman.' there you have it, old russia!' i mused on my homeward way. xiv lebedyan one of the principal advantages of hunting, my dear readers, consists in its forcing you to be constantly moving from place to place, which is highly agreeable for a man of no occupation. it is true that sometimes, especially in wet weather, it's not over pleasant to roam over by-roads, to cut 'across country,' to stop every peasant you meet with the question, 'hey! my good man! how are we to get to mordovka?' and at mordovka to try to extract from a half-witted peasant woman (the working population are all in the fields) whether it is far to an inn on the high-road, and how to get to it--and then when you have gone on eight miles farther, instead of an inn, to come upon the deserted village of hudobubnova, to the great amazement of a whole herd of pigs, who have been wallowing up to their ears in the black mud in the middle of the village street, without the slightest anticipation of ever being disturbed. there is no great joy either in having to cross planks that dance under your feet; to drop down into ravines; to wade across boggy streams: it is not over-pleasant to tramp twenty-four hours on end through the sea of green that covers the highroads or (which god forbid!) stay for hours stuck in the mud before a striped milestone with the figures on one side and on the other; it is not wholly pleasant to live for weeks together on eggs, milk, and the rye-bread patriots affect to be so fond of.... but there is ample compensation for all these inconveniences and discomforts in pleasures and advantages of another sort. let us come, though, to our story. after all i have said above, there is no need to explain to the reader how i happened five years ago to be at lebedyan just in the very thick of the horse-fair. we sportsmen may often set off on a fine morning from our more or less ancestral roof, in the full intention of returning there the following evening, and little by little, still in pursuit of snipe, may get at last to the blessed banks of petchora. besides, every lover of the gun and the dog is a passionate admirer of the noblest animal in the world, the horse. and so i turned up at lebedyan, stopped at the hotel, changed my clothes, and went out to the fair. (the waiter, a thin lanky youth of twenty, had already informed me in a sweet nasal tenor that his excellency prince n----, who purchases the chargers of the--regiment, was staying at their house; that many other gentlemen had arrived; that some gypsies were to sing in the evenings, and there was to be a performance of _pan tvardovsky_ at the theatre; that the horses were fetching good prices; and that there was a fine show of them.) in the market square there were endless rows of carts drawn up, and behind the carts, horses of every possible kind: racers, stud-horses, dray horses, cart-horses, posting-hacks, and simple peasants' nags. some fat and sleek, assorted by colours, covered with striped horse-cloths, and tied up short to high racks, turned furtive glances backward at the too familiar whips of their owners, the horse-dealers; private owners' horses, sent by noblemen of the steppes a hundred or two hundred miles away, in charge of some decrepit old coachman and two or three headstrong stable-boys, shook their long necks, stamped with ennui, and gnawed at the fences; roan horses, from vyatka, huddled close to one another; race-horses, dapple-grey, raven, and sorrel, with large hindquarters, flowing tails, and shaggy legs, stood in majestic immobility like lions. connoisseurs stopped respectfully before them. the avenues formed by the rows of carts were thronged with people of every class, age, and appearance; horse-dealers in long blue coats and high caps, with sly faces, were on the look-out for purchasers; gypsies, with staring eyes and curly heads, strolled up and down, like uneasy spirits, looking into the horses' mouths, lifting up a hoof or a tail, shouting, swearing, acting as go-betweens, casting lots, or hanging about some army horse-contracter in a foraging-cap and military cloak, with beaver collar. a stalwart cossack rode up and down on a lanky gelding with the neck of a stag, offering it for sale 'in one lot,' that is, saddle, bridle, and all. peasants, in sheepskins torn at the arm-pits, were forcing their way despairingly through the crowd, or packing themselves by dozens into a cart harnessed to a horse, which was to be 'put to the test,' or somewhere on one side, with the aid of a wily gypsy, they were bargaining till they were exhausted, clasping each other's hands a hundred times over, each still sticking to his price, while the subject of their dispute, a wretched little jade covered with a shrunken mat, was blinking quite unmoved, as though it was no concern of hers.... and, after all, what difference did it make to her who was to have the beating of her? broad-browed landowners, with dyed moustaches and an expression of dignity on their faces, in polish hats and cotton overcoats pulled half-on, were talking condescendingly with fat merchants in felt hats and green gloves. officers of different regiments were crowding everywhere; an extraordinarily lanky cuirassier of german extraction was languidly inquiring of a lame horse-dealer 'what he expected to get for that chestnut.' a fair-haired young hussar, a boy of nineteen, was choosing a trace-horse to match a lean carriage-horse; a post-boy in a low-crowned hat, with a peacock's feather twisted round it, in a brown coat and long leather gloves tied round the arm with narrow, greenish bands, was looking for a shaft-horse. coachmen were plaiting the horses' tails, wetting their manes, and giving respectful advice to their masters. those who had completed a stroke of business were hurrying to hotel or to tavern, according to their class.... and all the crowd were moving, shouting, bustling, quarrelling and making it up again, swearing and laughing, all up to their knees in the mud. i wanted to buy a set of three horses for my covered trap; mine had begun to show signs of breaking down. i had found two, but had not yet succeeded in picking up a third. after a hotel dinner, which i cannot bring myself to describe (even aeneas had discovered how painful it is to dwell on sorrows past), i repaired to a _café_ so-called, which was the evening resort of the purchasers of cavalry mounts, horse-breeders, and other persons. in the billiard-room, which was plunged in grey floods of tobacco smoke, there were about twenty men. here were free-and-easy young landowners in embroidered jackets and grey trousers, with long curling hair and little waxed moustaches, staring about them with gentlemanly insolence; other noblemen in cossack dress, with extraordinarily short necks, and eyes lost in layers of fat, were snorting with distressing distinctness; merchants sat a little apart on the _qui-vive_, as it is called; officers were chatting freely among themselves. at the billiard-table was prince n---- a young man of two-and-twenty, with a lively and rather contemptuous face, in a coat hanging open, a red silk shirt, and loose velvet pantaloons; he was playing with the ex-lieutenant, viktor hlopakov. the ex-lieutenant, viktor hlopakov, a little, thinnish, dark man of thirty, with black hair, brown eyes, and a thick snub nose, is a diligent frequenter of elections and horse-fairs. he walks with a skip and a hop, waves his fat hands with a jovial swagger, cocks his cap on one side, and tucks up the sleeves of his military coat, showing the blue-black cotton lining. mr. hlopakov knows how to gain the favour of rich scapegraces from petersburg; smokes, drinks, and plays cards with them; calls them by their christian names. what they find to like in him it is rather hard to comprehend. he is not clever; he is not amusing; he is not even a buffoon. it is true they treat him with friendly casualness, as a good-natured fellow, but rather a fool; they chum with him for two or three weeks, and then all of a sudden do not recognise him in the street, and he on his side, too, does not recognise them. the chief peculiarity of lieutenant hlopakov consists in his continually for a year, sometimes two at a time, using in season and out of season one expression, which, though not in the least humorous, for some reason or other makes everyone laugh. eight years ago he used on every occasion to say, "'umble respecks and duty," and his patrons of that date used always to fall into fits of laughter and make him repeat ''umble respecks and duty'; then he began to adopt a more complicated expression: 'no, that's too, too k'essk'say,' and with the same brilliant success; two years later he had invented a fresh saying: '_ne voo_ excite _voo_self _pa_, man of sin, sewn in a sheepskin,' and so on. and strange to say! these, as you see, not overwhelmingly witty phrases, keep him in food and drink and clothes. (he has run through his property ages ago, and lives solely upon his friends.) there is, observe, absolutely no other attraction about him; he can, it is true, smoke a hundred pipes of zhukov tobacco in a day, and when he plays billiards, throws his right leg higher than his head, and while taking aim shakes his cue affectedly; but, after all, not everyone has a fancy for these accomplishments. he can drink, too ... but in russia it is hard to gain distinction as a drinker. in short, his success is a complete riddle to me.... there is one thing, perhaps; he is discreet; he has no taste for washing dirty linen away from home, never speaks a word against anyone. 'well,' i thought, on seeing hlopakov, 'i wonder what his catchword is now?' the prince hit the white. 'thirty love,' whined a consumptive marker, with a dark face and blue rings under his eyes. the prince sent the yellow with a crash into the farthest pocket. 'ah!' a stoutish merchant, sitting in the corner at a tottering little one-legged table, boomed approvingly from the depths of his chest, and immediately was overcome by confusion at his own presumption. but luckily no one noticed him. he drew a long breath, and stroked his beard. 'thirty-six love!' the marker shouted in a nasal voice. 'well, what do you say to that, old man?' the prince asked hlopakov. 'what! rrrrakaliooon, of course, simply rrrrakaliooooon!' the prince roared with laughter. 'what? what? say it again.' 'rrrrrakaliooon!' repeated the ex-lieutenant complacently. 'so that's the catchword!' thought i. the prince sent the red into the pocket. 'oh! that's not the way, prince, that's not the way,' lisped a fair-haired young officer with red eyes, a tiny nose, and a babyish, sleepy face. 'you shouldn't play like that ... you ought ... not that way!' 'eh?' the prince queried over his shoulder. 'you ought to have done it ... in a triplet.' 'oh, really?' muttered the prince. 'what do you say, prince? shall we go this evening to hear the gypsies?' the young man hurriedly went on in confusion. 'styoshka will sing ... ilyushka....' the prince vouchsafed no reply. 'rrrrrakaliooon, old boy,' said hlopakov, with a sly wink of his left eye. and the prince exploded. 'thirty-nine to love,' sang out the marker. 'love ... just look, i'll do the trick with that yellow.' ... hlopakov, fidgeting his cue in his hand, took aim, and missed. 'eh, rrrakalioon,' he cried with vexation. the prince laughed again. 'what, what, what?' 'your honour made a miss,' observed the marker. 'allow me to chalk the cue.... forty love.' 'yes, gentlemen,' said the prince, addressing the whole company, and not looking at any one in particular; 'you know, verzhembitskaya must be called before the curtain to-night.' 'to be sure, to be sure, of course,' several voices cried in rivalry, amazingly flattered at the chance of answering the prince's speech; 'verzhembitskaya, to be sure....' 'verzhembitskaya's an excellent actress, far superior to sopnyakova,' whined an ugly little man in the corner with moustaches and spectacles. luckless wretch! he was secretly sighing at sopnyakova's feet, and the prince did not even vouchsafe him a look. 'wai-ter, hey, a pipe!' a tall gentleman, with regular features and a most majestic manner--in fact, with all the external symptoms of a card-sharper--muttered into his cravat. a waiter ran for a pipe, and when he came back, announced to his excellency that the groom baklaga was asking for him. 'ah! tell him to wait a minute and take him some vodka.' 'yes, sir.' baklaga, as i was told afterwards, was the name of a youthful, handsome, and excessively depraved groom; the prince loved him, made him presents of horses, went out hunting with him, spent whole nights with him.... now you would not know this same prince, who was once a rake and a scapegrace.... in what good odour he is now; how straight-laced, how supercilious! how devoted to the government--and, above all, so prudent and judicious! however, the tobacco smoke had begun to make my eyes smart. after hearing hlopakov's exclamation and the prince's chuckle one last time more, i went off to my room, where, on a narrow, hair-stuffed sofa pressed into hollows, with a high, curved back, my man had already made me up a bed. the next day i went out to look at the horses in the stables, and began with the famous horsedealer sitnikov's. i went through a gate into a yard strewn with sand. before a wide open stable-door stood the horsedealer himself--a tall, stout man no longer young, in a hareskin coat, with a raised turnover collar. catching sight of me, he moved slowly to meet me, held his cap in both hands above his head, and in a sing-song voice brought out: 'ah, our respects to you. you'd like to have a look at the horses, may be?' 'yes; i've come to look at the horses.' 'and what sort of horses, precisely, i make bold to ask?' 'show me what you have.' 'with pleasure.' we went into the stable. some white pug-dogs got up from the hay and ran up to us, wagging their tails, and a long-bearded old goat walked away with an air of dissatisfaction; three stable-boys, in strong but greasy sheepskins, bowed to us without speaking. to right and to left, in horse-boxes raised above the ground, stood nearly thirty horses, groomed to perfection. pigeons fluttered cooing about the rafters. 'what, now, do you want a horse for? for driving or for breeding?' sitnikov inquired of me. 'oh, i'll see both sorts.' 'to be sure, to be sure,' the horsedealer commented, dwelling on each syllable. 'petya, show the gentleman ermine.' we came out into the yard. 'but won't you let them bring you a bench out of the hut?... you don't want to sit down.... as you please.' there was the thud of hoofs on the boards, the crack of a whip, and petya, a swarthy fellow of forty, marked by small-pox, popped out of the stable with a rather well-shaped grey stallion, made it rear, ran twice round the yard with it, and adroitly pulled it up at the right place. ermine stretched himself, snorted, raised his tail, shook his head, and looked sideways at me. 'a clever beast,' i thought. 'give him his head, give him his head,' said sitniker, and he stared at me. 'what may you think of him?' he inquired at last. 'the horse's not bad--the hind legs aren't quite sound.' 'his legs are first-rate!' sitnikov rejoined, with an air of conviction;' and his hind-quarters ... just look, sir ... broad as an oven--you could sleep up there.' 'his pasterns are long.' 'long! mercy on us! start him, petya, start him, but at a trot, a trot ... don't let him gallop.' again petya ran round the yard with ermine. none of us spoke for a little. 'there, lead him back,' said sitnikov,' and show us falcon.' falcon, a gaunt beast of dutch extraction with sloping hind-quarters, as black as a beetle, turned out to be little better than ermine. he was one of those beasts of whom fanciers will tell you that 'they go chopping and mincing and dancing about,' meaning thereby that they prance and throw out their fore-legs to right and to left without making much headway. middle-aged merchants have a great fancy for such horses; their action recalls the swaggering gait of a smart waiter; they do well in single harness for an after-dinner drive; with mincing paces and curved neck they zealously draw a clumsy droshky laden with an overfed coachman, a depressed, dyspeptic merchant, and his lymphatic wife, in a blue silk mantle, with a lilac handkerchief over her head. falcon too i declined. sitnikov showed me several horses.... one at last, a dapple-grey beast of voyakov breed, took my fancy. i could not restrain my satisfaction, and patted him on the withers. sitnikov at once feigned absolute indifference. "well, does he go well in harness?" i inquired. (they never speak of a trotting horse as "being driven.") "oh, yes," answered the horsedealer carelessly. "can i see him?" "if you like, certainly. hi, kuzya, put pursuer into the droshky!" kuzya, the jockey, a real master of horsemanship, drove three times past us up and down the street. the horse went well, without changing its pace, nor shambling; it had a free action, held its tail high, and covered the ground well. "and what are you asking for him?" sitnikov asked an impossible price. we began bargaining on the spot in the street, when suddenly a splendidly-matched team of three posting-horses flew noisily round the corner and drew up sharply at the gates before sitnikov's house. in the smart little sportsman's trap sat prince n----; beside him hlopakov. baklaga was driving ... and how he drove! he could have driven them through an earring, the rascal! the bay trace-horses, little, keen, black-eyed, black-legged beasts, were all impatience; they kept rearing--a whistle, and off they would have bolted! the dark-bay shaft-horse stood firmly, its neck arched like a swan's, its breast forward, its legs like arrows, shaking its head and proudly blinking.... they were splendid! no one could desire a finer turn out for an easter procession! 'your excellency, please to come in!' cried sitnikov. the prince leaped out of the trap. hlopakov slowly descended on the other side. 'good morning, friend ... any horses.' 'you may be sure we've horses for your excellency! pray walk in.... petya, bring out peacock! and let them get favourite ready too. and with you, sir,' he went on, turning to me, 'we'll settle matters another time.... fomka, a bench for his excellency.' from a special stable which i had not at first observed they led out peacock. a powerful dark sorrel horse seemed to fly across the yard with all its legs in the air. sitnikov even turned away his head and winked. 'oh, rrakalion!' piped hlopakov; 'zhaymsah (_j'aime ça_.)' the prince laughed. peacock was stopped with difficulty; he dragged the stable-boy about the yard; at last he was pushed against the wall. he snorted, started and reared, while sitnikov still teased him, brandishing a whip at him. 'what are you looking at? there! oo!' said the horsedealer with caressing menace, unable to refrain from admiring his horse himself. 'how much?' asked the prince. 'for your excellency, five thousand.' 'three.' 'impossible, your excellency, upon my word.' 'i tell you three, rrakalion,' put in hlopakov. i went away without staying to see the end of the bargaining. at the farthest corner of the street i noticed a large sheet of paper fixed on the gate of a little grey house. at the top there was a pen-and-ink sketch of a horse with a tail of the shape of a pipe and an endless neck, and below his hoofs were the following words, written in an old-fashioned hand: 'here are for sale horses of various colours, brought to the lebedyan fair from the celebrated steppes stud of anastasei ivanitch tchornobai, landowner of tambov. these horses are of excellent sort; broken in to perfection, and free from vice. purchasers will kindly ask for anastasei ivanitch himself: should anastasei ivanitch be absent, then ask for nazar kubishkin, the coachman. gentlemen about to purchase, kindly honour an old man.' i stopped. 'come,' i thought, 'let's have a look at the horses of the celebrated steppes breeder, mr. tchornobai.' i was about to go in at the gate, but found that, contrary to the common usage, it was locked. i knocked. 'who's there?... a customer?' whined a woman's voice. 'yes.' 'coming, sir, coming.' the gate was opened. i beheld a peasant-woman of fifty, bareheaded, in boots, and a sheepskin worn open. 'please to come in, kind sir, and i'll go at once, and tell anastasei ivanitch ... nazar, hey, nazar!' 'what?' mumbled an old man's voice from the stable. 'get a horse ready; here's a customer.' the old woman ran into the house. 'a customer, a customer,' nazar grumbled in response; 'i've not washed all their tails yet.' 'oh, arcadia!' thought i. 'good day, sir, pleased to see you,' i heard a rich, pleasant voice saying behind my back. i looked round; before me, in a long-skirted blue coat, stood an old man of medium height, with white hair, a friendly smile, and fine blue eyes. 'you want a little horse? by all means, my dear sir, by all means.... but won't you step in and drink just a cup of tea with me first?' i declined and thanked him. 'well, well, as you please. you must excuse me, my dear sir; you see i'm old-fashioned.' (mr. tchornobai spoke with deliberation, and in a broad doric.) 'everything with me is done in a plain way, you know.... nazar, hey, nazar!' he added, not raising his voice, but prolonging each syllable. nazar, a wrinkled old man with a little hawk nose and a wedge-shaped beard, showed himself at the stable door. 'what sort of horses is it you're wanting, my dear sir?' resumed mr. tchornobai. 'not too expensive; for driving in my covered gig.' 'to be sure ... we have got them to suit you, to be sure.... nazar, nazar, show the gentleman the grey gelding, you know, that stands at the farthest corner, and the sorrel with the star, or else the other sorrel--foal of beauty, you know.' nazar went back to the stable. 'and bring them out by their halters just as they are,' mr. tchornobai shouted after him. 'you won't find things with me, my good sir,' he went on, with a clear mild gaze into my face, 'as they are with the horse-dealers; confound their tricks! there are drugs of all sorts go in there, salt and malted grains; god forgive them! but with me, you will see, sir, everything's above-board; no underhandedness.' the horses were led in; i did not care for them. 'well, well, take them back, in god's name,' said anastasei ivanitch. 'show us the others.' others were shown. at last i picked out one, rather a cheap one. we began to haggle over the price. mr. tchornobai did not get excited; he spoke so reasonably, with such dignity, that i could not help 'honouring' the old man; i gave him the earnest-money. 'well, now,' observed anastasei ivanitch, 'allow me to give over the horse to you from hand to hand, after the old fashion.... you will thank me for him ... as sound as a nut, see ... fresh ... a true child of the steppes! goes well in any harness.' he crossed himself, laid the skirt of his coat over his hand, took the halter, and handed me the horse. 'you're his master now, with god's blessing.... and you still won't take a cup of tea?' 'no, i thank you heartily; it's time i was going home.' 'that's as you think best.... and shall my coachman lead the horse after you?' 'yes, now, if you please.' 'by all means, my dear sir, by all means.... vassily, hey, vassily! step along with the gentleman, lead the horse, and take the money for him. well, good-bye, my good sir; god bless you.' 'good-bye, anastasei ivanitch.' they led the horse home for me. the next day he turned out to be broken-winded and lame. i tried having him put in harness; the horse backed, and if one gave him a flick with the whip he jibbed, kicked, and positively lay down. i set off at once to mr. tchornobai's. i inquired: 'at home?' 'yes.' 'what's the meaning of this?' said i; 'here you've sold me a broken-winded horse.' 'broken-winded?... god forbid!' 'yes, and he's lame too, and vicious besides.' 'lame! i know nothing about it: your coachman must have ill-treated him somehow.... but before god, i--' 'look here, anastasei ivanitch, as things stand, you ought to take him back.' 'no, my good sir, don't put yourself in a passion; once gone out of the yard, is done with. you should have looked before, sir.' i understood what that meant, accepted my fate, laughed, and walked off. luckily, i had not paid very dear for the lesson. two days later i left, and in a week i was again at lebedyan on my way home again. in the _café_ i found almost the same persons, and again i came upon prince n---- at billiards. but the usual change in the fortunes of mr. hlopakov had taken place in this interval: the fair-haired young officer had supplanted him in the prince's favours. the poor ex-lieutenant once more tried letting off his catchword in my presence, on the chance it might succeed as before; but, far from smiling, the prince positively scowled and shrugged his shoulders. mr. hlopakov looked downcast, shrank into a corner, and began furtively filling himself a pipe.... end of vol. i. produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) the life of thomas wanless, peasant. manchester: john dale, & , stretford road. abel heywood & son, & , oldham street. london: simpkin, marshall, & co., stationers' hall court. index. chap. 	 page. introductory, i. a helot's nurture, ii. a philanthropic parson, iii. the "allotment" cure for hunger, iv. manufacturing criminals, v. jail life, vi. nature of a sermon, vii. men for a standing army, viii. very aristocratic company, ix. an old, old story, x. the parsonage, xi. a mere peasant maiden, xii. high and low breeding, xiii. preachers of "words", xiv. "christian" respectability, xv. too bad for description, xvi. a better quest, xvii. nothing that is new, xviii. sweet are the uses of adversity, xix. the lost one is found, xx. the last long sleep of all, xxi. the journey's end, the life of thomas wanless, peasant. introductory. some years ago it was my habit to spend the long vacation in a quiet warwickshire village, not far from the fashionable town of leamington. i chose this spot for its sweet peace and its withdrawnness; for the opportunities it gave me of wandering along the beautiful tree-shaded country lanes; for its nearness to such historical spots as warwick, kenilworth, and stratford-on-avon, to all of which i could either walk or ride in a morning. but i love a quiet village for its own sake above most things, and would rather spend my leisure amongst its simple cottage folk, take my rest on the bench at the village alehouse door, and walk amid the smock-frocked peasantry to the grey village church, than mingle with the fashionable, over-dressed, prurient, hollow-hearted, and artificial products of civilisation that constitute themselves society--yea a thousand-fold rather. to me the restfulness of a little village, with its cots nestling among the drowsy trees in a warm summer day, is a foreshadowing of the rest of heaven. so i settled myself in little ashbrook, in a room sweet and cool, of its little inn, and laughed at the foolish creatures who, with weary, purposeless steps trode daily the leamington parade with hearts full of all envy and jealousy at sight of such other descendants of our tattooed ancestors as fortune might enable to gaud their bodies more lavishly than they. these droned their idle life away flirting, reading the skim-milk, often unwholesome, literature of the fashionable library; jabbering about dress, and picking characters to pieces; shooting in the gardens at archery meetings; patronising religious shows and thinking it refinement. and i? i wander forth alone, filling my sketch-book with whatsoever takes my fancy, or, in sociable moods, drink my ale in rustic company, talking of hard winters and low wages, the difficulty of living, of rural incidents, and the joys and sorrows of those toilers by whose hard labour the few are made rich. they are not faultless, these rustics, but they are very human, and their vices are unsophisticated vices--the art of gilding iniquity, of luxuriously tricking out a frivolous existence in the most subtle conceits of dress and demeanour, has not yet reached them. when they sin they do not sublimise their sins into the little peccadilloes and amusements incident to civilisation. so i love them; marred and crooked and dull-witted though they may be, they suit my humour, and fall in with my tastes for the open air, the free expanse of landscape, the grand old trees, and the verdure-clothed banks of the sleepy streams. it was in this village that i met my peasant. he was not a man easy to pick acquaintance with, for he mingled little among the gossips of the place. never once did i see him at the village inn or in church. he lived apart in a little cottage near the warwick end of the village, with his wife and a little lass of ten or eleven summers--his granddaughter. i often met him in the early morning going to market with his baskets of vegetables, or in the cool of the evening, when he would go out with his little girl skipping and dancing by his side. and the very first time i saw him he awakened in me a strong interest. there was something striking in his aspect--a still calm was on his face, and at the same time a hardness lay about the mouth, and in the wrinkles around the eyes, which was almost repellant. his figure had been above the middle height; and although now bent and gaunt-looking, had still an aspect of calm energy and decayed strength. but what struck me most was the grand, almost majestic outline of his profile, and the keenness of his yet undimmed eye, which flashed from beneath grey shaggy eyebrows with a light that entered one's soul. the face was thoroughly english in type, with features singularly regular, the forehead broad, the nose aquiline, the chin large; and still in old age round and clean and full, though the cheeks had fallen in and the mouth had become drawn and hard. had one met this man in "society," dressed in correct evening costume, surrounded by courtly dames in half-dress, one would have been struck by the individuality of that grand, grey face. meanly clad, bent, and leaning on a common oaken staff, the face and figure of this old peasant were such as once looked at could not be easily forgotten. this also was a man with a soul in him; ay, and with a heart too; for does not his eye rest with an inexpressibly sad tenderness on the slim girl by his side when she interrupts his reverie with the eager query, "grand-dad, grand-dad! oh look at this poor dead bird in the path; who could have killed it?" my interest in this solitary man was keenly roused; and, from the inquiries i made, i learned enough of his history to make me anxious to know him. but that was not a desire easily gratified. although always courteous in returning my "good evening," he did so with an air that forbade conversation, and gave me back but monosyllables to any remarks i might make about the weather, the crops, or the child. he was not rude, only reserved and dry, and that not with me only. to nearly all the villagers his manner was the same. only two may be said to have been frequenters of his house, the old schoolmaster and the sexton. even his wife had few or no gossips. yet everyone seemed to respect him, and many spoke of him with a kind of friendly pity. whether or not the respect was partly due to the fact that the old man was supposed to have means--that is, that although no longer able to do more than cultivate his little garden and allotment patch, he was yet not on the parish--i cannot say, but it was clear that the kindliness at least was genuine. and so no one intruded on him. all saluted him respectfully and left him to himself, save perhaps when one of the village milk dealers might give him a lift on his way to market. sometimes on a warm evening i have seen him seated at his cottage door with a newspaper on his knee, smoking his evening pipe, and answering the greetings of passers by. but except his two old friends, and perhaps some village children playing with his little one, there was no gathering of neighbours; no gossips leant over his fence to discuss village scandals and local politics. he was a man apart; and thus it happened that my first holiday in the village passed away leaving me still a stranger to old thomas wanless. but for an accident we might have been strangers still, and i would not have troubled the world with this old peasant's history. i was walking home one morning from leamington, whither i had gone to buy some fresh colours and a sketch-book, when i heard in a hollow behind me a vehicle of some sort coming along the road at a great pace. almost immediately a dog-cart driven tandem overtook and passed me. it contained a stout, rather blotched-looking man, who might be any age from thirty-five to fifty, and a groom. just beyond the road took rather a sharp turn to the right, dipping into another hollow, and the dog-cart had hardly disappeared round the corner when i heard a shrill scream of pain, followed by oaths, loud and deep, uttered in a harsh, metallic, but husky voice. i ran forward and immediately came upon thomas wanless's little girl lying moaning in the road, white and unable to move, grasping a bunch of wild flowers in one hand. half-a-crown lay amongst the dust near her, and the dog-cart was dashing over the crest of the further slope, apparently on its way to the grange. without pausing to think, but cursing the while the heartlessness of those who seemed to think half-a-crown compensation enough for the injury done to this little one, i flung my parcel over the hedge, and gathering the half-fainting child as gently as i could in my arms, hurried with her to her grandfather's cottage. it was a good half-mile walk, partly through the village. the child was heavy, and i arrived hot and out of breath, followed by several matrons who had caught sight of me as i passed by, and who stood round the door with anxious faces. a milkman's cart met me on the way, and i begged its occupant to drive with all speed to warwick for a surgeon, as the child had been run over. the man answered yes, and went. when i burst into thomas's house he was dozing in his armchair, but the noise woke him and brought his wife in from the garden. "oh, my god," cried thomas, as he caught sight of the child; and he tried to rise, but sank again into his seat pale as death, and trembling all over. his wife burst into tears, but immediately swept an old couch clear of some clothes and child's playthings, and there i laid poor sally, as the old woman called her, half unconscious and still moaning. rapidly mrs. wanless loosened the child's clothes, and as she did so i told them what had occurred. when i described the man who had run over the child, i was startled by a sudden flash of angry scorn, almost of hate, that mantled over the old man's face. he clutched the arms of his chair convulsively, and half rose from his seat as he almost hissed out the words--"by heaven, the child has been killed by its own father." he seemed to regret the words as soon as uttered, and tried to hide his confusion by eagerly inquiring of his wife if she had found out where sally was hurt. the effort failed him, however, and he remained visibly embarrassed by my presence. i would have left, but i too was anxious to see where sarah was hurt, so i turned to the couch to give thomas time to recover himself. as i did so, sally screamed. her grandmother had attempted to draw down her loosened dress, and in doing so had disturbed the child's legs, causing acute pain. i judged at once that a leg was either bruised or broken, and begged mrs. wanless to feel gently for the hurt. almost immediately the child uttered a scream, crying, "oh, my right leg, my right leg;" and a brief examination proved the fact that it was broken just a little way below the knee. the sobbing of the child unnerved mrs. wanless, and she seemed about to faint, so i led her to a seat, gave her a glass of water, and returned to sarah, turning her carefully flat on her back, and kneeling down, gently removed her stocking from the broken limb, which i then laid straight out on the couch, propping it on either side with such soft articles as i could lay hands on. that done, i told sarah to lie as still as she could until the doctor came, when he would soon ease her pain. soothing the child thus, and hardly thinking of the old people, i was suddenly interrupted by thomas. he had risen from his chair, and, leaning on his staff, had approached the couch. he stood there for a little, looking at his little maiden with an expression of intense pain and sorrow on his face. then he turned to me, and, without speaking, held out his hand. i rose to my feet, grasped it, and, suddenly bethinking myself for the first time, uncovered my head. the tears gathered in my eyes in spite of myself. i knew in my heart that thomas wanless and i were friends. and great friends we became in time. at first i went to the cottage daily to enquire after little sarah, who progressed favourably under the warwick surgeon's care; and when she was past all danger and pain, i went to talk with old thomas. gradually his heart opened to me; and bit by bit i gathered up the main incidents of his history. a commonplace history enough, yet tragic too; for thomas was no commonplace man. there was a depth of passion beneath that still hard face; a wealth of feeling, a range of thought that to me was utterly astounding. what had not this village labourer known and suffered; what sorrow; what baffled hope; yea, what despair; and, through despair, what peace! as i sat by his chair on the summer evenings and listened to his talk with his old friends, or walked with him in the by-lanes, gathering from his lips the leading events of his life, my heart often burned within me. yet, refined reader, gentle reader, thomas wanless was only a peasant; a man that sold vegetables and flowers from door to door in little warwick town to eke out his means of subsistence. his was the toiler's lot; the lot without hope for this world, whose natural end is want, and a pauper's grave. can i hope to interest you in this man's history? i confess i have my doubts. there is tragedy in it; it is mostly tragedy; but then it is the tragedy of the low born. i shall not be able to introduce you to any arch plotter; to groups of refined adulteresses clad in robes of satin and blazoned with jewels and gold, at once the sign and the fruit of their shame. nor can i promise to unweave startling plots, or to deal in mysterious horrors such as cause the flesh of dainty ladies to creep with a delicious excitement. no; the incidents of thomas wanless's story are mostly those of a plain english villager, doomed to suffer and to bear his share of the load of our national greatness; one above the common level in his personal qualities to be sure, but nowise above the common lot. those who cannot bear to read of such, had better close the book. read by you or not, thomas wanless's story i must write, for it is a story that all the upper powers of these realms would do well to ponder--from the serene defenders of the faith, with their high satellite, lord bishops in lawn sleeves, downwards. the day is coming, and coming soon, when the men of thomas wanless's stamp will invite these dignitaries to give an account of themselves, and to justify the manner of their being under penalty of summary notice to quit. chapter i. wherein is set forth the blessedness of a helot's nurture. the grandfather of thomas wanless had been a small warwickshire yeoman, whom the troublous times towards the latter end of the last century, family misfortunes, and the pressure of the large landowners, had combined to reduce in circumstances. his son jacob had, therefore, found himself in the position of a day labourer on the farms around ashbrook, raised above his fellow labourers only by the fact that he could sign his name, and that, through his wife, he owned a small freehold cottage with about a quarter of an acre of garden in the village. his unusual literary accomplishments, and his small possession did little to relieve him from the common miseries which pressed more or less on all, but most, of course, on the lowest class, during the years that succeeded the "glorious" napoleonic wars. the winter of , therefore, found him wrestling with the bitter energy of a hungry despair to get bread for a family of six children. the task proved too much for him, and he was reluctantly driven to let his oldest boy thomas go to work on the whitbury farm for a shilling a week. thomas had been trying to pick up some inkling of the art of reading at a dame's school in the village, but had not made much progress--could, when thus launched on the world, do no more than spell out the sermon on the mount, or the first verses of the st chapter in john's gospel, and ere a year was well over he had forgotten even that. there were no demagogues in those days disturbing peaceful villages with clamours for education; no laws prohibiting the labour of little children at tasks beyond their strength. the squires, the parsons, and the larger farmers had the law in their own hands, and combined to keep the lower orders in ignorance, giving god thanks that they had the power so to do. the sporting parson of ashbrook of that day even thought it superfluous to teach those d----d labourers' brats the catechism. he appeared to think his duty done when he had stumbled through the prayers once a week in church. that, at least, was the range of his spiritual duties. for the rest, he considered it of the highest moment that his tithes should be promptly paid; that all poaching should be summarily punished, and that the hunting appointments of the shire should always be graced by his presence. it was also a point of duty with him always to vote true blue, and never to miss a good dinner at any aristocratic table within his reach. he would say grace with fervour, and drink the good wines till his face grew purple and his eyes bloodshot. if he had another mission in life, it was to do his best to divert in sublime disregard of merit or human wants, the charity which some reluctantly contrite sinner of former days had left for the poor of the parish, to the use of creatures who had excited his good feeling by their obsequiousness. so it came to pass that little thomas wanless was launched on the world at the early age of eight, at the age when the well-to-do begin to think of sending their children to school. clad in a sort of blue smock and heavy clog boots; patched, not over-warm breeches and stockings, thomas had to face the wintry blasts in the early morning, for it was a good mile walk to whitbury farm. there, all day long, he either trudged wearily by the sides of the horses at plough, often nearly frozen with cold, or did rough jobs about the cattle or pigs in the muck-littered farmyard. weary, heavy hearted, and hungry, the lad came home at night to his meagre supper of thin oatmeal porridge, or of black bread flavoured with coarse bacon, washed down sometimes with a little thin ale or cider. often he had for dinner only dry bread and a little watery cheese, and rarely or never any meat or milk. supper over the boy crept straight to bed. for two years this was the life the boy led, and at the end of these two years his wage was but eighteenpence a week. no food was given him save, perhaps, an occasional hunch of bread surreptitiously conveyed to him beneath the apron of a dairymaid endowed with fellow feeling. what need to fill up the picture of these years--who does not know it now? the long autumn days spent watching the corn, often, weary with watching, and hungry, falling asleep by the hedge side. the dreary winters, the hard pallet, and still harder fare, the scant clothing and chilled blood, the crowded sleeping rooms and wan stunted figures; find you not all the history of lives like this set forth in parliamentary blue books for legislators to ponder over and mend, if they can or care. thomas wanless suffered no more hardships than millions that have gone before him, or that follow after to this day, bearing on their weary, patient shoulders the burden of our magnificent civilization. he and the others suspected not that this was their allotted mission in our immaculate order of society; but the concrete sufferings of his lot he could feel. for him the harsh words and cruel blows of the farmer were real enough, and, in the misery of his present sufferings, his young life lost its joy and hope. for him the birds that sang in the sweet spring time brought no melody of heaven, the autumn with its golden grain no joy. he knew only of labour, and men's hardness, and was familiar mostly with hunger and cold and pain. the divine order of the british constitution had ordained it--why should he complain? if my lord and my lady lived in wasteful luxury, if proud squires and their henchmen trod crops under foot in their pursuit of sport, totally regardless of a people's necessities; if vermin, strictly preserved, ate the bread of the poor in order that the lordly few might indulge the wild brute passion for slaughter, deemed by them a mark of high-breeding, what was that to thomas and his kind? had not those people a right to their pleasure? was not the land theirs, by theft or fraud it might be, but still theirs by a power none dared gainsay? all that was as clear as day, and religion itself was distinctly on the side of the upper classes. the church through its tithes shared in their exclusive privileges, and the parson of the parish was a diligent guardian of property. on the rare occasions when he preached a sermon his theme was the duty of the poor to be contented and obedient. men who dared to think, he classed as rioters, who, like poachers and rick-burners, were an abomination to the lord. who so dared to question the divine order of british society, deserved, in the parson's view, everlasting death. wealth, in short, according to this beautiful gospel, was for them that had it or could steal it within the lines of the constitution, and for the poor there was degradation, hunger, rags, and, by way of hope, a chance of the pauper's heaven. it must be all right, of course; but somehow, gradually, to little thomas it did not appear so. very young and ignorant as he was, strange thoughts began to stir within him. at home he saw his father sinking more and more into the hopeless state of a man whose only earthly hope was the parish workhouse; he saw his mother beaten to the earth with the weary work of rearing a family of six children, without the means of giving them enough to eat. one by one these went out, like himself, from their little three-roomed cottage to try and earn the bread they needed. the girls worked in the fields like the rest. all were, like himself, uneducated, and, in spite of all, the wolf could hardly be kept from the door when bread was dear, as it often was in those days. his father's wages never averaged more than s. a-week the year round. but what did that matter? had not the parish provided a poorhouse, and did it not give bread of a kind to every miserable groundling whom it could not drive beyond its bounds? they ought surely to have been contented. yet thomas, who saw and often felt their hunger, and contrasted it with the coarse profusion at the farm, and the pampered condition of the squire's menials at the grange--he doubted many things. the sight of a meeting of fox-hunters, and of the rush of their horses across the cultivated land, filled him with wrath even then. the life he saw around him had no unity in it. thus it happened that, by the time he was , though still stunted in body, he had begun to assert some amount of dogged independence, and was driven away from whitbury farm because he flew at his drunken master for striking him with the waggoner's whip. with some difficulty he got work after this, at s. a week and his dinner, on a small dairy farm called the brooks, which lay a mile further from the village, on the stratford road. there he got better treatment. his master was a quiet hard-working man, who had himself a hard struggle to meet his rent, maintain his stock of nine cows, and get a living. his own troubles had tended rather to soften than harden his nature. thomas, though having to work early and late, at least always got his warm dinner, and often received a draught of milk from the motherly housewife. here, therefore, he began to grow; his stunted limbs straightened out; his chest expanded, and, by the time he was seventeen he gave the promise of becoming a more than usually stalwart labourer. while thomas was still new at this dairy farm, and while the remembrance of his defiance was still fresh in the minds of farmer pemberton, of whitbury, and his family, he was subjected to an outrage which almost killed him, and left a mark on his mind which was fresh and vivid to the day of his death. farmer pemberton's sons resolved to have a lark with the "impudent young devil." their first idea was to catch thomas as he came home at night, and, after trouncing him soundly, duck him in the stinking pond formed by the farm sewage. on consulting their friend, the eldest son of lawyer turner, of warwick, he, however, said that it would be better to frighten the little beggar into doing something they might get him clapped into jail for. led by this young knave, the farmer's three sons disguised themselves by blackening their faces and donning old clothes. then, armed with bludgeons and knives, they lay in wait for thomas as he came home from work in the gloom of an october evening. their intention was to seize him, and amid great demonstrations of knives and fearful imprecations, order him to take them to farmer pemberton's rickyard. once there they intended to force him to set fire to some straw in the yard, and then seize him for fire-raising. as young turner said, they might easily in this way swear him into jail for a twelvemonth. this diabolical plot was actually and literally carried out upon this poor, ignorant, peasant lad by four young men, supposed to be educated and civilised; and it might have had all the disastrous consequences they could have wished but for an accident. a labourer on the farm overheard part of the conversation of the plotters as they marshalled themselves on the night of the expedition, and, as soon as the coast was clear, stole off to warn the boy's father. jacob wanless and he at once roused the neighbours; and, after a delay of perhaps twenty minutes, half a dozen men started for whitbury farm, while as many took the stratford road to try to save the boy from capture. the latter party was too late; thomas was caught near a cross-road about a quarter of a mile from the farm. two disguised men rushed upon him from opposite sides of the road with savage growls, their blackened faces half hid in mufflers. brandishing clubs and knives, they demanded his name. thomas gave one piercing yell of terror and dashed forward, but was seized and held fast. gripping him by the collar of his smock till he was nearly choked, young turner again demanded his name, and, on thomas gasping it out, roared in his ear, "then you are the villain we want. you must take us to farmer pemberton's rickyard and stables. we are rick-burners, and will kill you unless you obey." whereat he flourished a knife, and drew the back of it across his own throat, with a significant gurgle. thomas trembled in every limb, tried to speak, but his tongue failing him, burst into a wail of crying instead, and sank to the ground. the scoundrels laughed hoarsely, and, amid a volley of oaths, hauled him to his feet. then forcing him on his knees, turner ordered him to swear to lead them to the place, and keep faith with them. as the boy hesitated, they stood over him crying, "swear, swear, you obstinate pig, or you die," and turner held the knife to his heart. thoroughly cowed and terror stricken, thomas gasped out, "i swear." a man on each side then laid hold of him, hauled him to his feet and led him towards the farm, the other two ruffians acting guards, muttering foul oaths, and brandishing their cudgels within an inch of his face in a way that froze his very heart's blood with terror. arrived at the barn, they produced a tinderbox, and, lighting a match, ordered thomas to set fire to a heap of loose straw that lay near the barn door. thomas refused. a dim glimmer of the fact that he was being hoaxed had risen through his fears. he thought he knew the voices of at least two of his tormentors, and he grew bolder. twice the order was repeated amid ominous handling of knives, but he sullenly bade them light the straw themselves, and thrust his hands into his pockets. after a third refusal one of the pembertons struck him in the face a blow that loosened three of his teeth, and made his nose bleed profusely. then once more he was asked to light the straw, but the only reply was a piercing cry for help. in a moment a gag was thrust into his bleeding mouth, and he was flung on the ground, where they proceeded to pinion his hands and his feet. before completing the tying, turner hissed into his ear, "hold up your hand to say you yield, you little devil, or we will beat you to death." but thomas lay still, so the whole four of them commenced to push him about with their feet, and to strike him with their sticks, amid growls and horrid oaths. then thomas lost consciousness. when he awoke again he was at home in his mother's bed. his mother was kneeling by his side weeping bitterly, and his father stood over him holding a feeble rushlight, watching for the return of life. the boy was in great pain, especially about the legs and abdomen, and could not move his left arm at all. his face was swollen, his lips and gums lacerated and sore, and he lay tossing in pain till the grey morning light, when he dropt off into a fitful sleep. a fortnight elapsed before he was able to resume work. the rescuing party had reached the farm barely in time to prevent the brutal ruffians from carrying their sport to perhaps a fatal conclusion. guided by the curses and laughter, jacob and his friends had rushed upon the savages in the midst of the kicking, and jacob himself in a frenzy of rage wrenched a cudgel from the nearest of them, felled him to the earth with it, and dragged his son from amongst the others' feet. the man he struck happened to be turner; and, seeing him down, the cowardly young pembertons took to their heels before the slower moving labourers could capture them. turner, all bleeding as he was, they attempted to take with them in order to give him into custody, but on the way to the village he tripped up one of his guards, wrenched himself free, and bolted. an outrage like this surely could not go unpunished. jacob wanless determined that it should not, and went to a warwick lawyer, a rival of old turner's, with a view to get redress. this lawyer, overend by name, was a sort of pettifogger, who laid himself out for poor men's work. in his way he was clever enough; but, unfortunately, he often got drunk; and, even when sober, was hardly a match for old turner. when thomas's case came before the justices, jacob, therefore, fared badly. overend had just enough drink to make him violent and abusive, and the result was that his witnesses were so bamboozled and browbeaten by both turner and the bench that they became confused, and gave incoherent answers; so it was not very difficult, false swearing being easy, for turner and his clients to make thomas the criminal. his attack on old pemberton's person was raked up in proof of his bad disposition, and his presence in the farmyard was attributed to motives of revenge. as a result, instead of obtaining redress, jacob's case was dismissed by the magistrates, and he and his son admonished. the chairman of the day, squire polewhele, of middlebury, told jacob he might be thankful that they did not put his son in jail for assault. there could be no doubt in his opinion that the young scamp had gone to farmer pemberton's rickyard with malicious intent, for it was clear that he was an ill-conditioned rascal, and if his father did not take better care of his upbringing he might live to see him come to a bad end. such was jacob's consolation. it took him and his son six months to pay overend's bill of s. the unlucky labourer who had brought the news of the plot fared perhaps worse than anybody, for old pemberton, at the instigation of his sons, turned him off at a moment's notice. it was nearly four months before the poor fellow could get another steady job, and he and his family were all winter chargeable on the rates. as for the boy thomas, his nervous system had received such a shock that it became a positive agony to him to have to trudge home from his work in the dark winter nights, and when his father was unable to go to meet him he always ran at the top of his speed past whitbury farm, his heart within him palpitating like to burst. all his life long, so deep was the impression that fright made on him, a certain nervous tremor seized him whenever he found himself alone on a strange road on a moonless night. the rest of the boyhood of thomas wanless was uneventful. he grew in mind and in stature, and suffered less withal from hunger than many of his order. at the age of twenty he took a wife, following in that respect the habits of those around him. 'tis the fashion nowadays to inveigh against early marriages, and especially against the poor who marry early. by such a practice it is declared miseries are heaped upon them, and our pauper roll is augmented. this is an easy way to push aside one of the most perplexing social problems that this country has ever had to face. with the growth of wealth marriage has become a luxury even to the rich, and for the comparatively poor a forbidden indulgence. as a consequence of this the youth of the present day avoid marriage with all its hampering ties. a code of morals has thus grown up which may be said to be paving the way for a coming negation of all morality. a young man may commit almost any crime against a young woman with impunity so long as he steers clear of all hints of marriage. the relations of the sexes are under this modern code utterly unnatural and fruitful of corruption. nor can it be otherwise while a man is forbidden under penalty of social ostracism to take a wife. to marry is almost as sure a way to renounce the world, with all its hopes and advantages, as of old was the taking of a monastic vow. what the next generation will be, what licenses it will give itself under the modern restrictions which outrage all that is best in humanity, i must not venture to predict. but that corruption is spreading on all hands, that flippancy, folly, and worse, dominate the relationships of the young of both sexes is even now too apparent. but i am travelling far from thomas wanless's history. he at all events felt no social restraint save that of poverty, which he did not fear, and so he married young. the lad had, indeed, little choice. his mother died when he was , and one of his sisters, the youngest of the family, was also dead. the other had married and gone to a village five miles beyond warwick. of his three brothers, one only remained at home, a boy of . william, the next in age to himself, had been kidnapped at gloucester, and carried off to sea in a government ship; and the other boy, jacob, had a place as stable-boy at melton priory, lord raven's place, near which his married sister lived. there was no woman, therefore, at home to cook food for the three that were left. his father was too broken down to dream of marrying again, there were no houses in the miserable overcrowded village where the three could be taken in to lodge together, and so, unless they separated, what could thomas do but marry? he was willing enough, of course, being, like all country lads of his years, honestly in love; and so at twenty he brought home his wife to take his mother's place in the old freehold cottage, soon to be his own. sarah leigh was a year or two older than her husband, and had been an under-housemaid at the grange, the family seat of squire wiseman, who was the greatest man of the parish, and lord of the manor. her experiences there were not, perhaps, such as best fitted her to be a labourer's wife, and at first she was inclined to commiserate herself. but at bottom sarah was a woman of sense, and by the time her second child arrived had grown into a staid, affectionate housewife, ever cheerfully busy in making her home comfortable. prudent or not, thomas thus found himself in a humble and modest way happy. he was now acting as under-waggoner at a farm called grimscote, near warwick, and had as much as s. d. a week in summer, besides beer and extra money in harvest. in winter his work was also regular, though his wages were then only s. a week. his duties often took him considerable distances away from home. he was frequently at coventry and stratford-on-avon, and he had once been as far as worcester, and as his observant faculties were keen, he took mental notes of what he saw. full of pity for the misery that he everywhere met, the feelings of his boyhood became keener, and his independence of spirit more out-spoken. already this had attracted in a passing way the attention of the authorities, and some even went so far as to shake their wiseacre heads over him, and dubiously hint that he might be dangerous. chapter ii introduces the reader to a philanthropic parson and a great squire. in the years that elapsed between the close of the napoleonic wars and the passing of the reform bill, as indeed often since, the debasement and misery of the agricultural poor rose to agony point, and soon after thomas wanless's marriage an outbreak of popular discontent, based on hunger, stirred a little the smooth surface of society. it became necessary, for very shame, to at least appear to do something for the pauperised masses on whose backs "society" was supported. accordingly, a pseudo philanthropic agitation was started in the rural districts with the object of bettering, or rather of seeming to better, the peasant's lot. mass meetings were held, parsons and even bishops threw themselves into the movement, patronised it, and sought to guide it to a consummation safe for themselves and their "dear church," itself then so great a landowner. for rustic miseries these high personages had one main panacea, and one only. this was not free land, fixity of tenure for the besotted farmers always so content to lie at the feet of their earthly lords; it was not disendowment of the church and the distribution of its lands among the people from whom they had been taken originally by chicane and greed; nor was it the dismissal, with due payment, of those inheritors of the ancient marauders and appropriators of the soil, with all that is on it and under it, for whom the people have been kept as slaves for many generations. no; none of these things did the servants of the british deity, that idealisation of the sacred rights of feudal property, advocate. far be such traitor conduct from them. their cure for the agricultural distress was the "allotment system." to these reformers the free migration of labour, the abolition of that abomination of the poor law which prevented the poor from leaving their parishes, was as nothing compared with allotments. landlords and parish authorities had but to permit the labourers to cultivate for themselves little patches of land, let to them at a good rent, and what opulence would these serfs not reach. in the agitation on this tremendous reform, thomas wanless took a keen interest, and then first felt sorely his inability to read. he tried to recall the lessons of his childhood, but could not, and was ashamed to apply for help. few, indeed, amongst his neighbours could have helped him. his wife was as uneducated as himself, so he had to be contented with gathering the purport of what was going on from those he met at market or mill. as far as his mind could comprehend the question it was very clearly made up. he was convinced that all this agitation about professed interest in the down-trodden labourers would do them no good, and he doubted whether any good was meant. "it's not a bit of charity land we want," he always said. "what i maintain is that you and me an' the likes of us ought to get acres or more at a fair honest rent if we can do wi' it, and let's take our chance. why shouldn't i be able to keep cows and grow corn as well as the farmer? he often wastes more than three labourers' families could live on, and yet pays his rent. i tell ye, lads, this talk of 'lotments and half acres, and all that, is just damned nonsense, an' that's what it be." sentiments like these did not make thomas popular with the upper powers, and had old parson field been alive he might have smarted for his freedom of speech. but the old parson had died shortly before the noise about allotments came to a head, and the new vicar was supposed to be of a different stamp. he was reputed to be a favourite of one of those strange fungoid excrescences of christianity, the "lord" bishop of the diocese, who recommended him for the vacancy, and as he was young and ignorant of the world, he began his work with some moral fervour and a tendency to religious zeal. the rev. josiah codling, m.a., of jesus college, cambridge, was in fact a young man of liberal, not to say democratic tendencies. he had been sufficiently impressed by some of the more glorious precepts of the faith he came to teach to wish in a general sort of a way to do good. left to follow his higher impulses he probably might have led a life of active philanthropy, and the democratic thoroughness of the christian faith might have enabled him to do something to lift the down-trodden people who formed the bulk of his flock. it was well, at all events, that mr. codling began with good intent. he was hardly warm in the parish before he went into the allotment agitation with the feverish enthusiasm of inexperience, and he also had the temerity to start a school. dismissing the old parish clerk who had drowsily mumbled the "amens" and "we beseech thee's" for nigh forty years, he brought a young man from birmingham who knew something of the three r's, and was rumoured to have even conned a latin primer, and constituted him parish clerk and schoolmaster. the vicarage coach-house was turned into a schoolroom till better could be provided, and the vicar and his assistant began, the one to hunt up pupils, and the other to guide their feet in the way of knowledge. the farmers for a time looked on, scarce able to realise the meaning of this innovation, but the more they looked the less they liked what they saw. so they grumbled when they met in the churchyard on sundays, and shook their heads portentously over their beer or brandy punch at market ordinaries, hinting that the "squoire" should interfere. in their bovine manner they soon began to place stumbling-blocks in the vicar's path. a sudden demand for the services of boys and girls sprang up. nearly every farmer in the district found that he needed a new ploughboy or kitchen wench, and the universal shilling rose to eighteenpence a week, from the sheer pressure of this demand. nothing daunted, parson codling determined to start a night school, and if possible get the grown lads and young men to attend. he succeeded in inducing nearly thirty youths to come to this night class, and among the first to do so was thomas wanless. here was his chance, he thought, and he seized it with avidity. soon the numbers thinned away. some left because they could see no good in learning, but most of them because their masters on hearing of the class threatened to dismiss them at once unless they promised to stop "going to play the fool with that young varsity ninny o' a parson, as knew nowt o' plain country folks' wants;" and at the end of a month the young schoolmaster had only seven pupils. to these he stuck fast, and they made great progress that winter, for the poor pale-faced birmingham lad was an enthusiast in his way. thomas and he became close friends, and the former drank in the current political ideas which william brown brought with him from birmingham as a sponge drinks up water. early and late, at every spare moment, thomas was busy with his book, and by the time spring came round again he was able to read with tolerable ease the small county newspaper that found its way a week old from the grange to the village inn. he had read the pilgrim's progress, robinson crusoe, and some other books lent him by the vicar, who looked upon him as his model scholar, and took glory to himself over the labourer's success. from that winter forth, however, the enthusiasm of the new vicar for education sensibly died away. naturally fitful in disposition, he craved for immediate results, and, if they came not, his hopes were disappointed, and his efforts at once relaxed. the pressure of the upper powers of his parish was also beginning to tell on his unsophisticated mind. he met with little overt opposition, for that might have been both troublesome and impolitic. but quiet social forces worked on him continually to bring him round to a proper sense of his position as local priest of feudalism. when he dined out, which often happened, his host would chaff him on his attempts to make scholars of those loafing rascals of labourers. squire wiseman in particular gravely assured him that he was encouraging dangerous ideas among a very dissolute and indefinitely corrupt lot of pariahs. educate them and they would altogether go to the devil. "tell you what it is, sir," shouted a half-drunk j.p. one evening as the vicar and some half dozen others sat over their wine after dinner at squire wiseman's: "tell you what it is; we must get you a wife; blest if that wouldn't give you something better to do, my boy, than trying to make gentlemen of those damn'd skulking labourers." the company ha ha'd with delight, and the parson blushed to the very root of his hair. "capital idea, 'pon my life!" said the host; "and i know just the girl for you, codling--at least my wife does, for she was remarking only last night what a pity it was--" "please, sir," said the butler suddenly, after whispering for a short time with a maid who had entered the room, "timms would like to speak wi' you. he says he's found poacher's snares in the ashwood coppice, and he wants two or three fellows to help him watch the place." "damn the fellow! can't he let a man eat his dinner in peace! tell him to go to the devil, robins, and--and i'll see him to-morrow morning." "yes, sir. but, sir, timms says--" "curse timms, and you too! do you hear what i say?" roared the squire, and robins vanished. the conversation did not get back to the subject of codling's marriage; and the host, after playing absently with his glass for a minute or two, got up hastily, and muttering, "excuse me, gentlemen, only i think i had better see timms after all," left the room. that night three poachers--a warford villager and two shoemakers from warwick--were caught in the coppice, and lodged in warwick jail. in two days it was all over ashbrook village that the vicar was going to get married. the servants at the grange had told the news to their friends in confidence. chapter iii. exhibits more philanthropy, of a mixed sort, plus a little fighting--the "allotment" cure for hunger. the village gossips were right. lady harriet wiseman did find the vicar a wife, though not just then. the vicar's young zeal, his vague ideas, had first to be moderated or abandoned. bit by bit he was brought down to the prosaic realities of parish life, which embraced obligations unheard of in holy writ. that says nothing about the necessity for upholding feudalism. a mere twelvemonths' labour at reforming the morals and refining the minds of the rustics by means of the schoolmaster was not quite enough to bring young codling to a proper sense of his position. a few more vagaries, a little further indulgence in the pleasure of sowing religious wild oats, and then the vicar would be ready to contract that highly advantageous marriage, which forms the goal of so many a parson's ambition. that accomplished, codling might be considered tamed. the one further aberration of his which we have to notice was his plunge into the allotment agitation. as the excitement over teaching the rustics their alphabet and multiplication table began to die out in his mind, this new whim came handily to take its place and prevent him from feeling like a deserter. here, he declared, was the true remedy for the miseries of the rural poor; he had become convinced that to educate them first was to begin at the wrong end. the first thing was to make them comfortable in their homes, and then they might learn to read with more advantage. the schoolmaster was by no means to be thrown over, but meanwhile codling said the most important thing was that the labourers should have patches of land to grow cabbages and potatoes. the vicar's new fad, as it was called, did not excite the same amount of hostility amongst the squirearchy of the neighbourhood as his effort at education, but the farmers liked it as ill. squire wiseman was indeed opposed to the experiment, and had there been no other landed proprietor of influence in the parish, the vicar's fuss would have left no results. but fortunately, in some respects, for the labourers, nearly all ashbrook village, and a good deal of the rolling meadow land to the south of it, and that lay between wooded knolls, belonged to an eccentric old fellow, named hawthorn. the people called him captain hawthorn, perhaps to distinguish him from the squire, but he had never known more of military life than three months' service as a subaltern in a militia regiment. this hawthorn was an oddity. a dry, withered, rather small man, of between and , slovenly in dress, and full of a sardonic humour, he was constantly to be met walking in the country lanes, and as often as not conversing with waggoners, poachers, and such country people as came in his way. he was therefore distrusted by the other big people of his neighbourhood; but the common people loved him. the new vicar had hardly been a week in the parish ere he was warned by the gentry to beware of this old man. old polewhele of middlebury roundly declared that hawthorn was an infidel; and the dowager-countess of leigholm, lady harriet wiseman's mother, felt sure that he was in league with the evil one, for he was always muttering to himself, or else talking to a one-eyed, mangy, tailless cur, that followed him everywhere, and which had more than once snarled at her in a very vicious manner. her ladyship, however, had a private grudge against him, in that he had on several occasions been wicked enough to win money from her at cards, and take it too--a crime she was never known to forgive. whatever his relationship with, or belief in, the unseen powers, hawthorn alone of the landed gentry furthered codling's latest project, and made it a success in spite of the fact that the fitful zealot was at the point of throwing the whole thing at his heels in disgust. codling felt that he had a right to be disheartened when his projects were not adopted forthwith, and moreover, he was getting under weigh as a lover, and that made other occupations irksome. he had done all he could, he said to himself, and yet nobody was converted. wiseman laughed at him good humouredly as usual, and the farmers sent old sprigg of knebesley, as their spokesman, to tell him that in their opinion "'lotments would be the ruin of all honest labour. gi'e the labourers land," he said, "and they'll skulk at home instead of doin' an honest day's work for us. they're the laziest vagabonds in creation, and the only thing you can do is to keep them dependent on the rates, and when ye want 'em to work, stop supplies. hunger's the only prod for cattle o' that kidney." the vicar was rapidly becoming convinced that he had made a mistake, but he had gone so far that he could hardly at once back out, so he resolved to make one final attempt to carry his point, in which he would obtain the aid of a brother parson. this device would, he thought, enable him to retreat gracefully from his false position. the man he summoned to his help was a leicestershire rector, whose consuming zeal had induced him to become a sort of itinerant evangelist of the allotment system. what could be better than to get such a brilliant apostle to address a mass meeting at ashbrook. with the failure of a prophet to convince landlords and farmers, codling felt that his weak-kneedness might be justified. the rev. henry slocome's services were therefore secured, and notices of the coming meeting were posted on the church doors and in the neighbourhood for a fortnight in advance. as there was no building large enough, the meeting was to be held beneath the old elm on ashbrook green. the news excited great interest amongst the labourers who, on the saturday evening in july when the meeting was held, gathered to the number of about men and women from all the villages in the neighbourhood. a strange sight they presented as they stood with upturned faces around the waggon on which the vicar, the parish clerk, and the speaker of the evening were perched. grey wizened faces, watery eyes, blueish hungry-like lips these men and women had--a weird, hopeless-looking, toil-bent congregation of the have-nots. young men were stunted and shrivelled with labour and want, and old men were gaunt and twisted with exposure, overwork, and rheumatism. verily if allotments were to do these people good, the work of the self-chosen missionary, who had come to set the country on fire, was not to be contemned. but it boded ill for the success of his efforts that never a landed proprietor in the district gave the meeting his countenance. just, however, as business began the crowd of labourers was recruited by from to young farmers and farmers' sons. these stood apart, ranging themselves on the left of the meeting near the churchyard wall, and rather behind the waggon. they were too far off to hear well, but near enough for interruptions, and they accordingly indulged frequently in groans, ironical laughter, or jeers at the labourers. two of the pembertons were there, the two who had succeeded their father at whitbury farm, and there also was hulking young turner from warwick, half drunk as usual. the labourers themselves were in high good humour, and indulged in a great deal of rough chaff at each other's expense. a noted poacher in particular came in for much attention, and amongst other things was asked if he would "haul a cove afore the justices if he caught him snaring rabbits in his 'lotment?" but all this was hushed when the vicar and his ally mounted the waggon and began proceedings. i cannot give you the speech of the rev. henry slocome, for thomas had but a dim recollection of it, his attention being too much occupied watching the ongoings of the farmers. these for a time contented themselves with making a noise, but that was far too tame a kind of fun to satisfy such bright sparks long, and they soon began to shy small pebbles among the crowd, aiming at such hats or sticks as were prominent. this raised a clamour which interrupted the meeting, and matters were brought to a crisis by one of these stones hitting thomas wanless on the cheek. it was a sharp-edged bit of flint which cut the cheek open, and made thomas furious. turning his bleeding face, now barely visible in the gathering dusk, to the crowd, and heedless of the vicar's shouts for silence, he exclaimed--"lads, are you going to stand this stone-throwing any longer; are these slave-drivers to be allowed to bully us on our own village green?" "no, no, no," shouted the labourers in a chorus. "let us thrash them, then," he replied, "and teach them that we have the right to live." he was answered with a shout and a rush. in vain the orator parson and the vicar gesticulated and roared; in vain the parish clerk, at codlings' suggestion, jumped from the waggon and tried to hold the people back. the tall figure of thomas wanless, the sight of blood on his face, his fiery looks and determined attitude, completely carried the labourers away. more stones too were thrown, and the jeers that accompanied them hurt almost more than stones. a conflict was now inevitable. seeing the younger labourers gathering round wanless for an onset, turner, ever the leader in mischief, hastily collected his forces, and drew them back against the churchyard wall. they had hardly time ere the labourers were upon them. "come on, boys," wanless shouted, without waiting to form an array, hardly, indeed, waiting to see who was following him. clenching his teeth and drawing himself together he dashed up the slope, and singling out turner, closed with him, and sent his stick flying over the churchyard wall. a moment after turner himself was rolling amongst the feet of those who had hurried after wanless. the strife now became general, and for a time all was wild confusion. gradually, however, the fight, as it were, gathered into knots round the leading men on either side. big tom pemberton had been struck at by a puny little handful of pluck, whose slender frame and pinched face indicated an absence of stamina which ill-fitted him for a struggle with that stalwart bully. he was instantly caught by the throat and bent backwards. had wanless not happened to look that way pemberton might have broken his back, for he proceeded to twist him round and double him over his knee, but wanless was passing, and swift as lightning, his stick came down on pemberton's head. the blow staggered him, and made him let go. pushing him aside, thomas seized the pale-faced lad and hurried him out of the fight. turning, he skirted along the edge of the battle to cheer his comrades and help others that might be in distress, dealing a blow here, and tripping up a foe there, and dodging many a stroke aimed at himself. comparatively scathless, but somewhat blown, he worked his way back to the thick of the struggle, and immediately found himself face to face with the other pemberton, who had just ended a tough fight with the blacksmith, and like wanless, was a little spent. he, however, made for thomas the moment he saw him, and they closed in a fierce wrestle. they tugged and tore at each other for a moment or two, and then went down together, falling on their sides, wanless, being, if anything, rather undermost. in the fight that followed for supremacy, pemberton's greater weight, for he was fuller, taller, and stouter than thomas, seemed to promise him the victory; but with a violent wrench, wanless so far freed himself as to get his knees planted against pemberton's body, when, with a final tug, he broke free and sprang to his feet. bill pemberton also scrambled up, and they then began hitting at each other wildly with their fists. a kind of ring gathered round them, each side cheering its champion, but the fight was not an equal one. the young farmer was too fat and heavy, and thomas's random blows punished him fearfully. blood trickled down his face, and he was gasping for breath before they had fought five minutes, and thomas finished the contest by rushing at pemberton and throwing him crashing amongst his followers' feet. they dragged him out of the melée, and, their fury redoubled, returned to make a combined onset on the labourers. had they been at all equally matched in numbers, the farmers would now probably have driven their foes from the field, and, overmatched as they were, they twice forced the labourers back on the old folks, and women still huddled round the waggon eagerly watching the fight through the gathering darkness. but wanless and his lieutenant, the young blacksmith, again and again rallied their forces and advanced to the attack. at last, edging round to the upper end of the churchyard, which lay aslant a considerable declivity, they bore down on the flank of the farmers' party, with a rush that carried everything before it. before they could rally themselves, the farmers were huddled together, and, amid random blows, kicks, and oaths, driven pell mell clear off the green, as far as the vicarage gate. there they tried to make a stand, but the momentum and numbers of the labourers, now swollen by many of the women, were too much for them, and they were finally chased from the village, amid the derisive shouts of the victors. they retired, cursing and vowing vengeance as they went. the fight over, the people, panting and exhausted, drew slowly together by the waggon once more, recounting their exploits and showing their wounds. one man had got his arm broken, and many had severe cuts, bruises, and sprains, but, on the whole, the damage done had been slight. it was now almost dark, and the crowd soon began to ask whether there was to be any more speechifying. the old people, who had stayed by the waggon, thought the meeting must be at an end. "the vicar," they said, "had gone off in a huff, taking t'other parson wi' him, when he found nary a one mindin' a bit what he said." so the labourers were in doubts what to do. some wanted to go home, having thrashed the farmers, "a good nights job enough;" others thought a deputation ought to go to the vicarage to try and mollify the parson, for after all allotments might be worth having. just as the dispute was waxing warm, the light of a lantern shone out from behind the tree, and, coming round to the waggon, attracted attention. thinking it was the parsons come back, the labourers ceased their talk to listen; but what they heard was the voice of captain hawthorn swearing at his servant for not lighting the way better. the servant paid no attention to the oaths, but cast his light over the waggon, and exclaimed: "here we are, sir. here's where the strange cove was a spouting. but, by the lord harry! he's hooked it!" he added in a disappointed tone. "strange cove! what's that i hear, francis? francis, you scamp, don't you know that's blasphemy? hooked it! he! he! d---- the fellow! that comes of picking up london servants." then, changing his tone, the captain almost shouted, "help me up, francis. i want to see these scoundrels. how the devil is a man to get into this waggon? find me a chair, will you, eh?" "please, sir, can't you manage to mount by the wheel, sir," answered his servant, and after some trouble the captain did get in by the wheel, swearing much, and followed by his servant with the lantern. the dog then wanted to mount also, but, being fat and heavy couldn't manage it, so sat down and began to yelp. this caused a fresh outburst of swearing, and ultimately francis had to get out again and hoist the dog in, as the brute would allow none of the people to touch him. quiet and order being restored, hawthorn stood forward, took the lantern from his servant's hand, and, raising it, proceeded very deliberately to survey the crowd before him. most of their faces, and many of their names were well known to him; and he addressed some of those he knew with some characteristic greeting. the wounded men appeared to interest him specially, and it was ludicrous to hear him rate one fellow for being unable to protect his handsome face, and condole with another on the coming interview with his wife. he discovered the countenance of his own groom disfigured by a cut on the nose and a black eye, and he held the light over it, chuckling loudly, till the fellow fairly ducked under. "ha, silas, you thief," he said, "i have always told you that you would get punished some day for your vanity, and sure enough the dairymaid will marry the blacksmith in less than a month, if you show that face to her. gad, you'll frighten my old mare out of her wits, too, with that diabolical figure-head of yours. you had better go home to your mother and get it mended." "by heavens," he exclaimed, again casting his light on another face, "there's poacher dick. were you in the fray, dick, my boy? no, no, it cannot be; he's been mauling the gamekeepers, and has taken refuge amongst you lads, eh?" "no, no; he fought with us all square," was the answer, and the crowd laughed, and the captain chuckled again and again. suddenly laying down the lantern he shouted, "three cheers for the victors of ashbrook fight," a call instantly responded to amid great good humour and much laughter. "three cheers for the captain," called a voice in the crowd, and off went the huzzas again. "drop that nonsense, will you, boys; drop it, i say," roared the captain, and added as soon as he could make himself heard above the din, "what the devil are you cheering me for? i didn't help you to win the fight, did i?" "no, but you cheered us for it," answered a dozen voices together. "and that's more than any other squire in warwickshire would 'a' done," cried young wanless. "is that you, tom wanless?" queried hawthorn. "yes, sir." "then you are a damned fool, tom, and know nothing about it. all englishmen like to see pluck, don't they, you young rascal?" the ironical tone of this query was perceptible to all, and raised an answering laugh of irony, amid which wanless shouted back-- "we ain't englishmen, we labourers, except when we list and let ourselves be shot by the thousand when some big chap with a handle to his name says, march! an' even then the big chaps get all the rewards, and such o' the common lot as escape hardly get leave to beg. no, no, sir; we ain't englishmen, we are only englishmen's slaves." "drop that, tom wanless," interrupted hawthorn; "drop it. good lord, man, do you suppose i came here to listen to a speech from you, when i kept well without earshot of the parsons. and, gad, that reminds me--where are the parsons? francis! francis!" "yes sir, yes sir," answered that staid person, hurriedly coming forward. "humph, making love to the wenches at my very elbow, you graceless dog. go and tell the vicar with my compliments, that i want to speak to him out here in this old waggon with the bottom half out. gad, i'll be through it, i do believe, before you get back. could that shouting fellow have stamped holes in it," he added to himself, as francis disappeared. "shouldn't wonder," and chuckling again at the idea, he sat down on the side of the waggon, quite oblivious of the expectant crowd around him. an impatient hum soon broke on his ear, and he lifted his head and called out, "go home to bed, you mutinous pack; you'll be defrauding your masters of an hour's work to-morrow morning." "no fear of that, sir; and we want to hear what you have got to say to us." "say to you! ah, yes, to be sure i have something to say; but we must wait for the parson, boys." "here he comes! here he comes!" shouted voices from the edge of the crowd, and after a little bustling the ruddy face of codling, and the grey head of his friend gleamed over the side of the waggon in the dim candle-light. "glad to see you, sir, i'm sure," said hawthorn to the vicar graciously; "and you, too, sir," turning to mr. slocome. "sorry i didn't hear your speech; gad, you have put new life into the boys; they've smashed the farmers. 'pon my soul, sir, i didn't think they had it in them. you must be a powerful orator, and i wish i had been here sooner." "pardon me, sir, i have not the advantage," stammered slocome. "i did not cause the fight, god forbid. i did all i could to stop it; my mission is not to stir up sedition, sir, but to preach peace." this last remark in a tone of high offence. "he, he, he!" laughed the cynical squire. "well, well, we shan't dispute the point. the boys did fight, and well, too, as you must allow. licked the farmers, by jove; and i tell you what, mr. vicar," turning again to codling, "i mean to show my appreciation of their pluck by doing something for them. what do you propose it should be?" "i'm afraid, sir," answered the vicar, pompously, "i can't abet you in your design, or lend it my countenance. i am deeply grieved that my humbler parishioners should have so far forgotten themselves as to create a disturbance in the village to-night. it has been my wish to do them good, and for that end i held this meeting, and brought my esteemed brother here to imbue their minds with the principles of forethought and thrift. but they interrupted his address with an unseemly riot, led, i am sorry to say, by a young man of whom i had hoped better things. bitterness between man and man, class and class, has been created by the conduct of which you have been guilty to-night, my friends, and you may be sure, though i wish you well, it will be long before i again make the mistake of seeking to increase your material comforts." turning again to hawthorn, he added, "i must beg you to excuse me, sir, but i cannot remain here to behold a landed proprietor of this parish, the landlord, in fact, of these villagers, acting as an inflamer of sedition," and with lofty bow, and a wave of his hand, dimly visible to his listeners, codling turned to go. "stay a moment," roared hawthorn, reaching forth his stick as if to catch the vicar by the collar of his coat. "stop, sir; don't let him go, boys, i also have something to say." the vicar stood still, looking rather foolish, and hawthorn continued--"you have made an accusation against my tenants, and i, as their representative and spokesman, must ask you to substantiate those charges. i don't care a curse what you say about myself, but i'm not going to stand by and see these men slandered. tell me, sir, who began the disturbance?" "it was--i believe--i--fancy--some people on the outskirts of the meeting--people from warwick i should imagine." "bah! can't you speak out like a man, instead of beating about the bush like a fool? who began the disturbance?" the old captain was clearly getting excited. "the--the farmers and--but--" blurted out codling. "ah! the farmers was it?" interrupted hawthorn, "and would you have had these lads stand still like asses to be thwacked? do you mean to come out here and deliberately blame my tenants for having spirit enough left to resent insult and abuse? a nice parson you are--a fine preacher of peace. suppose it had been the other way, and the farmers had been taunted and stoned by the labourers until they turned and thrashed them. what would you have said then? no doubt that these wretches deserved their fate. i hate all this snivelling cant about the obligation of the poor to submit to whatever is put upon them." hawthorn spoke fast and bitterly, and, as he ended, his audience broke into ringing cheers much prolonged. codling stood dumb, and looked so cowed and sheepish that slocome tried a diversion. "captain hawthorn--i believe--and good people," he began, but his voice was drowned amid cries of "silence--hold your tongue; we want to hear the captain." "i have a little more to say, my boys," hawthorn answered. "my chief object in coming here, and in asking the vicar to come here, was to tell you that i have decided to assign to you, the men of my own village, the twenty acre field just by on warwick road, to be made into allotment gardens. i admire"--but he got no further. shout upon shout, the men cheered, and the women wept and laughed by turns, as if the speaker had promised them all fortunes. the announcement was so unexpected, and the way it was made went so about the hearts of these poor villagers, that they could have hugged the old captain to death for joy had he let himself within their reach. as it was, they crowded round the waggon to shake hands with him, hustling the vicar and his friend out of the way, and it was fully five minutes before order could be restored. during the hubbub the vicar and mr. slocome managed to slink away. what codling may have thought about his own conduct on that evening no one can say, but he evidently resented hawthorn's freedom of speech most bitterly. he was disgusted also that the people should have got their allotments so obviously without his help, and from this time forth he may be said to have abjured philanthropy. henceforth he found it safer and much more pleasant to confine his attention to church ritual and the worship of feudalism. the labourers never missed the vicar in their delight over hawthorn's announcement. they wanted to escort him home in a body, but he would not hear of it. he peremptorily ordered them to go home to bed, and departed with his servant and his dog. a few of the younger men followed him to the end of the village, then sending a parting cheer after him quickly dispersed. thus ended the great ashbrook allotment meeting. it was a nine days' wonder in the neighbourhood, and the oddities of hawthorn were held to be dangerous by the squires, while farmers cursed him for his liberality. but these things did not prevent the labourers from obtaining their allotments, and they were thereby rendered perhaps a degree less hungry for a time. chapter iv. discloses an excellent, infallible and aristocratic plan for manufacturing criminals. nothing serious came directly of the ashbrook fight. there was a talk of bringing certain labourers before the justices, and the pembertons in particular uttered loud threats against tom wanless, young satchwell, the blacksmith, and one or two others; but old hawthorn let it be widely known that if any steps were taken to prosecute the labourers, he would not only provide means for their defence, but enable them also to raise counter actions, in support of which he would compel the vicar to enter the witness-box. that did not suit the farmers or their abettors, still less codling, so after a little noisy squabbling the matter dropped. henceforth, however, the feud, if such it may be called, between the pembertons and wanless was renewed, and became on their part a sleepless desire for petty vengeances. they never missed the smallest opportunity of making him feel their ill-will. thomas had in other ways enough to bear with in those days, helped though he was by his freehold cottage and allotment. his intelligence told against him with most of the farmers, making them regard him with hatred and suspicion. so he got no opportunity of bettering himself, was, indeed, hardly able to keep his head above water by the severest labour. many a time did he see other and less skilled workmen preferred before him, and often in harvest had he to work as one of a gang of reapers under another contractor, instead of himself taking the lead. this, by and by, caused him to try and find work at greater distances from home, and he was occasionally away for months at a time wood-cutting, ditch-cutting, toiling early and late for what pittance he could pick up, while his wife struggled at home to make ends meet in spite of her increasing family. by the time thomas was years old, she had borne him eight children, of whom seven were alive, and it was almost more than mortal could do to bring these up decently on s. or s. a-week. how his neighbours, who had rent to pay, managed, was more than thomas could divine, unless they quietly stole what was not given them; as, indeed, most of them did. many also were so demoralised as to look upon poor relief as a perquisite which they thought it no shame to accept, and even demand, on all occasions. nearly all poached game, when they had a chance, and boasted of it to each other. in regard to game there was, in fact, no consciousness of wrong-doing in the mind of any labourer, and thomas himself thought nothing of killing a rabbit or leveret when he had the chance; the only anxiety was not to be caught doing it. there was a clear distinction in his mind between slaying wild animals protected by selfish and abominable laws, and stealing vegetables, fowls, stray eggs, or fruit, which many of his comrades made a practice of doing, pleading in their defence that man must live. thomas wanless had a soul above petty thieving of this kind. not only was he naturally high-spirited and jealous of a good conscience, but his mind had become considerably expanded by diligent cultivation. he did not again forget his reading, and though his books were few, he still contrived to read enough on odd sundays in summer, and in the winter evenings, to stimulate his naturally strong thinking powers. his friends, the blacksmith and the parish clerk, were also often in his company, and the three discussed matters of church and state in the freest possible style over their jugs of thin ale. poor brown, the parish clerk and schoolmaster, had not improved his prospects by settling in ashbrook, for the vicar had long ceased to interest himself in the education of the poor, and the school emoluments had become meagre enough. but brown had married, and so was, in a measure, rooted to the spot, not knowing where to better himself. he eked out his parish clerkship with odd accountant jobs for surrounding farmers, and occasionally picked up a crown or two by acting as clerk at country auctions, and his greatest earthly blessing was a contested parliamentary election. yet life was hard for him withal, and his radicalism naturally was bitter, for adversity is the best nursery of democratic ideas. it is only the noblest natures that can enjoy prosperity, and yet be just and considerate towards all men. too often the man who when poor was a blatant radical becomes a hollow tin kettle sort of creature when he has struggled up from the earth where his radicalism took birth. i say not that brown was of this sort, but undeniably poverty and disappointment put an edge on his wit when he dealt with the inequalities of life, and under his leadership thomas wanless stood in no danger of becoming an unquestioning pauper. the three friends solved social problems in a style that would have amazed their superiors had they known; nay, that they would have even startled some of the limp and dilettante friends of the people who, in these days, haunt london clubs, and dilate with wondrous volubility on social reform. thomas's radicalism, however, never interfered with his work, for his family was more to him than the ills of the state. he viewed these wrongs, perhaps, from too narrow a standpoint for him to be a great social reformer. he felt for his little ones, and for his once blooming, patient wife--now grown brown, gaunt, and hollow-eyed from incessant care, toil, and privation--and the disjointed order of society was to him a personal wrong. his life was, indeed, cheerless; and after his father died and his brother had been killed by a fall from a rick, he often felt lonely and sullen at the heart, working against his fate as a prisoner might in chains. for him this life had no hope, no prospect of rest but the grave. struggling bravely, though bitter at the heart, thomas dragged his family through the terrible years that followed the passing of the reform bill--years during which his wife and children were almost as familiar with want as with the light of the sun. how they survived he could hardly tell. "my remembrance of that time," he one day said to me, "is but a kind of confused dream. i ceased to think or feel. i just worked where and when i could; and i swallowed my crust like a dumb beast. but now i thank god that i had health, though then to commit murder would at times to me have seemed as nothing." in that time thomas became a strong chartist, and was a leader among his fellows; and, feeling as he did, it says much for his force of character that there were no outbreaks by the ashbrook villagers such as occurred in many parts of warwickshire at that time. his opinions, however, were well known, and he was called a rogue freely enough by his enemies the farmers. more than once he might have suffered unjust imprisonment for his freedom of speech at village gatherings and elsewhere, had not old squire hawthorn stood his friend. ever since ashbrook fight, that strange old man had taken a special interest in thomas. it only extended, however, to occasional efforts to keep him out of the grip of the justices, and could hardly perhaps have gone further, for thomas was proud; and, besides, he was a labourer, and in that lowly lot he was predestined by the laws of the landed oligarchy to remain. over the great gulf fixed by that mighty trades union of the take-alls he could never pass. so passed the years of my friend's early manhood. he was familiar with care; poverty was his abiding portion. a young family gathered round his knee; which he tried to bring up in less ignorance than had been his early lot, but whom he could not always keep less hungry. thomas had many times difficulty in providing his household with a sufficiency of coarse dry bread. insufficiently nourished his children were weakly and stunted; little able to wrestle with disease. his two eldest boys were sent to work for good at the age of ten; and the younger of the two died through exposure and hunger before he was twelve. the girls were kept longer at home, hard though the fight for life was; but the third boy (thomas) was taken on at squire hawthorn's own farm, at s. per week, when he was little over nine. that same year, thomas himself had had a fine spell of harvesting; and his wife, having no new baby to provide for, had saved a few shillings by selling vegetables from the allotment garden, to people in warwick town, so that the winter was faced by the couple in better heart than they had known almost since the day they were married. a pound or two in hand after meeting the bills that the harvest money had to pay! surely greater bliss no man could know. the thought of such riches made thomas declare that he might yet escape the workhouse, as, thank god, his father had done. already, though not forty years old, the shadow of that accursed refuge of the english poor had begun to loom over thomas's future, grim and horrible as the gate of hell. as he thought, in his hours of bitterness, of whither his endless toil was carrying him, of the sole "good" that the take-alls left to him and such as him, he set his teeth and cursed his country. nor would he believe that for this he had been born. his soul was bitter within him, and, young as he yet was, hard work and harder fare were telling on his stalwart frame. but this autumn had brought him a gleam of hope; and the stirring events of the time helped to strengthen that hope. all things were changing. the great towns had been roused into political activity by the reform bill, and railways were fast revolutionising the habits of the people the land through, as well as opening up new fields of labour. at last, then, and even in sleepy, wealth worshipping, hide-bound england, democracy might be considered born. thomas was sanguine that in the coming struggles the people would win, and, like all sanguine believers in the future good, his belief expected instant fulfilment. the apostles themselves lived in the belief that the end of the world was at hand. might not the way-worn and heart-weary agricultural labourer therefore hope? thomas wanless, at least, did so. the world was changing for others; for him and his also better times might be at hand. hitherto, alas, the changes had been mostly to his hurt. railway-making itself had done his class harm rather than good, for the new iron roads linked the country more and more closely to the great centres of industry. prices of all kinds of agricultural produce went higher and higher, but without bringing a corresponding increase in the labourer's pay. the landowner grabbed all he could of the augmented gains, and what he left the farmer took. for the hind was there not still the workhouse? yet the demand for labour was increasing fast, and not all the hungry kerns of ireland seemed able to meet that demand. for once thomas and his wife had enjoyed a good year. was not leamington priors growing a big town moreover, and going to have a college of its own to outshine rugby itself? surely ashbrook would benefit from the nearness of so much wealth as this implied. the grounds for this hope were many and obvious. thomas might yet rent his own little farm, and be independent. his ambition ran no higher, yet the indulgence of it proved him to be a short-sighted fool. at this time thomas was an odd or day labourer, taking contract jobs on his own account when he could get them, and working for a daily wage when these failed. this winter found him at work grubbing up old hedges, and helping to lay out anew some land on a farm of lord duckford's beyond radbury. he had to walk about four miles each way daily to and from his work, but as the days were short he lost no time, and the company of a fellow villager engaged with him at the same job made the trudge lighter. and the hopes that lay around his heart helped him more than aught else, as they always help us poor will-o'-the-wisp-led mortals in this dark world. alas for these hopes! thomas wanless had not been a month at his new work when an epidemic of scarlet fever broke out at ashbrook, and amongst the first to catch the disease was his youngest child, a girl of two years. ere ten days had elapsed five out of his seven surviving children were down with the treacherous disease. his eldest boy and girl had had it years before, but the boy was sent home from the farm where he worked for fear of spreading contagion, and the girl was little more than nine years old, so that she could not do much to help the overworked mother. crowded together in the long low-roofed attic of the cottage, three of the five lay helpless and wailing for many days. after the first week the other two whose attack had been slight got out of bed, but were kept in the same room to avoid cold. the food of all was poor, the medical attendance miserable and infrequent. thomas's heart was nearly broken. all his hopes vanished, and the old bitterness settled down on his spirit. the rage of helplessness often swept over him as he looked at his tired and harassed wife, or thought of her left alone, day in and out, with those sick children. the little savings would mostly be needed for the doctor's bill; there was only the s. a-week that thomas happily still earned to stand between the whole family and want. can anyone wonder that thomas grew moody, and glowered at the world to which he owed so little? one evening, in the middle of the third week of their affliction, as he and neighbour robins were trudging home together through the perplexing obscurity of a grey november fog, the latter said-- "couldn't we get a rabbit or two, tummas? they'd make a nice pot for the young ones, poor things; better nor barley gruel, any way." "i don't mind," said thomas, in an indifferent tone. "but where can we come at 'em?" "oh, there's a warren up in squire greenaway's fir coppice to the left here, just off the banbury road. we can beat it in five minutes. come on," he added, seizing thomas's arm. "all right, let's have some o' the wermin," his friend answered, and presently they turned off the road, making for the coppice. "you keep up by the fence here, and you'll strike the edge of the wood in no time," said robins. "the burrows lie mostly along to the right. crouch down by the holes and be ready. i'll walk round the field and drive the bunnies in. there's sure to be lots feedin' to-night in old claypole's turmuts." thomas obeyed, and the two at once lost sight of each other. robins, it is to be feared, had often helped himself to a rabbit before now, here and elsewhere, but by some chance thomas had never yet been a regular poacher. he could not say why, for certainly he had no respect for the game laws. such, however, was the fact, and he said a queer kind of feeling came over him when he found himself alone, and realised the errand he was upon. but his mind was in tone to be tempted now, and he never thought of turning back. there was, indeed, little time to think of it, for he was among the rabbit-holes in a minute, and choosing a handy bush where the holes were thick he knelt down, grasped his stick and waited. presently he heard a low whistle from the field below, but quite near, and almost as it reached his ears rabbits by the dozen came hopping up cautiously, and with frequent pauses of watchfulness. the foremost caught sight of thomas and scudded to the left, whither the whole troop might have followed had not robins at that instant rushed up and sent a batch of the scared creatures right amongst thomas's feet. ere they could get under ground he managed to knock over three, and robins himself maimed but did not succeed in catching a fourth. two of the three knocked over were not quite dead, but robins at once finished them, and as he did so, said:-- "look here tummas, you takes the two big uns. you're more in need o' 'em than me," and as he would take no denial the spoil was so divided. thomas thanked his friend, and stowing the rabbits inside their coats as best they could, the two carefully made their way out of the coppice, and again took the road for home. by this time it was very dark, and the fog thicker than ever, so that they had never a thought of danger. yet they had not been unobserved. tom pemberton, as ill-luck would have it, had been passing the coppice while the two labourers were after the rabbits, and had either heard their voices or the whistling, made more audible by the fog. suspecting that poachers were at work, and always eager to do his fellow man an ill turn, pemberton stopped his walk, and stole along the edge of the field till he reached the gate, where he crouched for his prey. in a few minutes the voices of the approaching labourers reached his ears, and being a coward he crawled along the ground, and lay down in the frozen ditch lest he should be seen, but still kept well within earshot. to his intense satisfaction he recognised one at least of the men by his voice, as they passed him, unconscious of his presence. robins he could not be sure of, but he had only too good cause to recollect the voice of wanless. the two were talking of the pleasure their families would have in eating stewed rabbit, and doubtless pemberton chuckled to himself as he heard. but he had the prudence to keep quite still until the labourers got well beyond hearing. then he arose and went on his mission of evil. the unsuspecting labourers trudged home in peace. thomas with even a flicker of gladness at his heart, a flicker that deepened to a glow of thankfulness, when he reached his cottage and learned that the doctor had pronounced the child who had suffered most out of danger. she was the youngest but one, a little girl of four. before her illness she had been a fair-haired, delicate-looking, but healthy child, with bright, engaging ways, and a sweet merry voice, a great favourite of her father's. now she was thin and worn, and her lips had become dry and cracked with the fire that had burned and burned in her little body, till all its flesh was consumed. night after night thomas had come home, and, changing his wet clothes, had, after a hasty supper, gone up beside his little ones to watch and tend them in the early night, while the mother tried to snatch an hour or two's sleep. through these weary weeks nothing had wrung his heart so keenly as the sore battle for life made by wee sally. hour after hour her little transparent feverish hands would clutch his nervously, as she lay panting in his arms, or wander pitifully about his weather-worn face, her burning touch causing him to shiver to the very marrow of his bones. "i'se so ill, daddy; i'se so ill," she would keep moaning, and sometimes she would start screaming from an uneasy slumber that gave no rest. then she grew too ill to speak, and lay gasping and delirious in the close, ill-ventilated attic beside her two sisters, who were themselves part of the time too ill to raise their heads. thomas thought that death had come for his little girl the night before he brought the rabbits home, and the nearer death seemed to come the more agonising grew the pain at his heart. his wife and he together had watched by sally's cot till towards morning, fearing that each moment she would choke. but about half-past two the breath began to be more free; she swallowed a little weak tea, and gradually fell into the quietest sleep she had had for more than ten days. when thomas left for his day's work she was asleep still, and he had held the hope that she would yet get better to his heart all day. so mixed are the motives that sway men that this very hope made him the more ready to go after the rabbits. the savoury broth might help his little ones--and sally. so they were glad that night in the little ashbrook cottage. sally had slept till daylight, and woke quiet, cooler-skinned and hungry. the doctor said she would live yet. thomas went up as usual beside his little ones, and told them about the rabbits that robins and he had caught, making them laugh at the thought of to-morrow's treat. he had not waited for supper, and his wife brought it up stairs, spreading it out at the foot of the bed where "baby" and "bludder" jack lay, and then the whole family enjoyed the luxury of a cup of tea in honour of sally's improvement. how little the labourer suspected then that the hand of vengeance was already stretched forth to blast him and his joys, it might be, for ever. yet so it was, and thus does life ever mock us, especially if we be poor. and had not thomas sinned against the english baal. the sacred laws of property had been violated by him; he had entered its holy of holies--a game preserve--and must bear the penalty. the thought did not quite thus shape itself in tom pemberton's mind as he crept from his lair and made off as fast as the thick gloom would permit him, to squire greenaway's gamekeeper's cottage; but his heart exulted at the thought of the vengeance it was now in his power to wreak. that very night he hoped to see the hated wanless locked up. in this hope, however, he was disappointed. the gamekeeper was not at home, nor could his wife say exactly where he was. probably she knew well enough; and certain gamedealers in leamington also were likely to know, for, like most of his class, this fellow was only a licensed poacher; but pemberton had to be content with his answer. he told the keeper's wife that he wanted some poachers apprehended, and that he would return to-morrow. sure enough he came, and came early, but the keeper was again out, setting his gins probably, and had left word that he would not be back till dinner-time. ultimately, pemberton met his man, and the two decided to go and seize wanless at night in his own cottage. accordingly, that same evening as thomas and his family were enjoying their supper together in the attic, they were disturbed by a rude thumping at the door and before thomas himself could get down to see who was there, the latch was lifted, and in walked tom pemberton with the gamekeeper at his heels. the latter was a squat, ill-favoured, heavy man, with small piercing eyes that were never at rest. he sniffed noisily as he entered, and gave vent to a gleeful chuckle as he caught sight of wanless. dull pemberton had grown fat and bloated-looking since the days of the allotment agitation, but his usually stolid, sodden-looking features, were to-night almost animated by the leer of triumph which had displaced the customary sullen vacuity. yet he was not at his ease; and when thomas, divining the men's purpose, drew himself up, and holding up his rushlight the better to see the faces of his visitors, flashed a look of scornful defiance at the farmer, that worthy drew back involuntarily. but the keeper had no feelings, and at once struck in with-- "sorry to hinterrup' yer feast, my man; but we want ye, d'ye see. god! what a prime smell! kerruberatin' evidence, eh, farmer? ye've been poachin', wanless, that's evident; an' the squire'll be glad to speak wi' ye about it. ha! ha!" for a moment thomas felt disposed to fight. a thrill of fury swept through him, and he wished he could tear keeper and farmer in pieces with his hands. but that soon passed, and he stood dumbfounded. hearing the strange voices, his wife stole down the stair, followed by the three children who were able to be about the house, and two of these latter, catching a vague fear of danger, began to cry. young tom did not weep, but stole softly up to his father's side. but a minute before all had been happiness, such happiness as a family of miserable groundlings might dare to feel, and now---- bah! why give a thought to such wretches. they can have no feelings like my lord and the squire, or his scented and sanctified parsonship. and yet the cold night wind made these sick children shiver as you or i might; and the stricken wife, who had caught the purport of the keeper's speech, was just as ready to faint with grief and terror, as if she had had your feelings or mine. her first act was to protect the children from harm by trying to shut the door; but pemberton, with a growl, pushed her back, and she then gathered them in her arms, and sat down on an old box by the fire, weeping silently. still thomas stood, silent but not cowed, and the keeper's wrath began to blaze up. "come along, man," he growled, "none of yer hobstinincy, now. we don't want no scenes here; none o' yer blubberin' wife and family kick-ups. come along." then pemberton plucked up heart to laugh. with a mocking hee! hee! hee! he said-- "we've got you now, wanless, and no mistake, you d----d old blackguard, an' we'll tame that devilish spirit of yours afore we're done wi' ye. roast me if we don't." his voice roused the spirit of wanless once more. clenching his hands he stepped forward, moving the keeper aside, and putting his fist in pemberton's face, said, in a voice that quivered with concentrated passion-- "hold your tongue, you black-hearted scoundrel, and leave my house this instant, or i'll throw you out at the door. what right have you to enter my door? be off!" pemberton shrank back and looked as if he thought it might be best for him to obey; but the keeper grasped thomas by the collar from behind and swung him round, at the same time saying-- "come, come, none o' this nonsense now, wanless. i'll have no fightin' here, or, by god, if you do i'll transport you, sure's my name's crabb. you must go with us quietly." at the threat of transporting him, thomas's wife uttered a shrill cry of horror, and thomas himself grew pale, but he was now too much stirred to yield at once. instead, he shook off the keeper's hand; and demanded fiercely what right he had to arrest him. the keeper laughed mockingly. "well now, that is a good un'. why, damme, you've been poaching." "how do you know that? and what is it to you if i have?" "how do i know? why, bless my life, i can smell it, you fool. but i beant here to hargify the p'int. i harrest ye on a criminal charge, wanless, that's all; and i've brought the bracelets, my boy. just the correct horneyments for chaps like you, he, he," croaked the keeper, with malign glee. "but where's your warrant?" urged thomas. "you have no right to enter a man's own house in this way, and haul him wherever you like when it suits you to put out your spites on him. poachers, faith; who's a poacher, i'd like to know, if you ain't? leave my house, both of you, or, by god, i'll rouse the village. tom, tom," he added, turning to his son, who had again crept to his side, "go and find sutchwell, and pease, and----" "hold hard there, you ---- fool," roared the keeper. "curse you, d'ye suppose we came here to stand your insolence." pemberton closed the door and put his back to it. "look ye here, my fine haristocrat," continued the keeper in the boundless wrath of fear, "look ye here, if you don't go quietly, devil take me if i don't get ye a trip to botany bay for this job. i'm a sworn constable, and i've got the justices' warrant, surely that's 'nuff for thieves like you. come, farmer pemberton," he added more quietly, "help me to hornament this gent," and in a very brief space the two mastered and handcuffed the labourer. he, indeed, made little resistance, for he began to see that he was at the mercy of these scoundrels. his wife clung to him, but they tore her roughly away. the children wailed in chorus, and "bludder jack" crept downstairs in his thin nightgown to see what was causing the hubbub, howling like the rest without knowing why. but it was soon all over. thomas barely got time to kiss his wife, and to whisper to her to tell hawthorn, ere he was out of the cottage and away with his captors. all down the little village street the shrieks of his family rung in his ears, and his heart within him was like to burst with grief, humiliation, and impotent wrath. that night he was formally committed by squire greenaway himself to be tried for poaching, before the justices at leamington priors, on tuesday next. this was friday. in due course thomas wanless appeared before the "justices"--god save them! and, after a very brief trial, was "let off," as one phrased it, with six months' hard labour in warwick jail. the only evidence against him was that of tom pemberton, but he made no attempt to deny the charge, and as the squires already considered him a "dangerous" fellow, they thought their sentence a model of clemency. so did pemberton and keeper crabb. his judges were wiseman, greenaway, the man whose vermin he had helped to thin by just three rabbits, parson codling, of ashbrook, and a bibulous old creature who lived in leamington priors, a retired birmingham merchant, who had been made j.p. for his subservience to the tories. greenaway was violent, and rather disposed to give an "exemplary" sentence; wiseman was contemptuously indifferent, as became a big acred man and the husband of a woman with a handle to her name; and parson codling was unctuously severe. an attempt was made to get wanless to tell the name of his co-offender, but that he refused, so he was told that his obstinacy had prevented a more lenient sentence, which was false. but something is due to appearances at times, and even from such divine personages as justices of the peace. so careful was the "bench" of proprieties on this occasion, that codling, on a hint from the chairman, gave wanless the benefit of a short exhortation before consigning him to the salutary and eminently christian discipline of the jailer. in the course of this homily, codling took occasion to observe that he had once hoped better things of the prisoner, but had long ago been forced to give him up. "with grief and sorrow," said the parson, "i have again and again watched his obduracy, and his tendency to consort with agitators, or worse. his fate will, i trust, be a warning to others." this parson codling you will perceive had become tame. once on a time he had been almost given over to agitation himself; but that danger soon passed, and he was now a proper ornament to and supporter of the british hierarchy. its morals were his morals. he knew no god but the god of the landed gentry. in his youth the functions of the priestly office had been misunderstood by him; but he had married soon after we last met him a gentlewoman of worcestershire with £ , a year, and that cured him of many weaknesses--amongst others of the foolish craze he once had that the religion of christ was a religion to be practised. he now knew that it was nothing of the kind. certain tenets of it had been made up into a creed "to be said or sung," and a singularly complex institution called the church had been elaborated for the good of public morals, and the support of the english aristocracy--that was all. therefore could he now wag his head pompously at poor tom wanless standing dumb before him; therefore could he now raise his fat soft hands, and thrust from his sight with sanctimonious horror that criminal guilty of rabbit murder. a stranger, unfamiliar with the usages of rural england--that country whose liberties, we are told, all nations admire and envy--might have supposed that wanless was some foul manslayer, some midnight assassin meeting his just doom. unhappy stranger, woe on thy ignorance. know thou that in england no crime is so heinous as the least approach to rebellion against the sacred rights of the have-alls? "touch not the land nor anything that is thereon," is to the english landholder all the law and the prophets. so codling cursed wanless for his crime, and the doom-stricken labourer passed from his sight. chapter v. makes known the excellent qualities of jail life. captain hawthorn had been duly apprised of thomas's misfortune, but was unable to do anything directly to help him. because of his obnoxious opinions hawthorn was not a justice of the peace; and he felt that any attempt on his part to appear as the labourer's champion might only end in making the poor fellow's sentence all the heavier. since the reform bill and the chartist agitations had alarmed the landholders, they had shown less disposition than ever to admit such a nondescript radical as hawthorn into their society; and his interference in local affairs was so prominently resented on several occasions that he had almost ceased to attempt any. he had even some difficulty in obtaining access to wanless in jail; but ultimately succeeded, by the help of a little judicious bribery, and the friendly assistance of a mountebank drunken parson, who was in jail for debt during six days of the week, but got bailed out on sundays, so that he might edify his flock and keep down expenses. the old man's first greeting to wanless was in his customary rough form. "well, tom, a nice ass you have made of yourself. why the devil hadn't you more sense, man? eh? d--n it, you might have taken some of my rabbits, my boy, and never a keeper would have said you nay." this was true enough, for hawthorn had now no keeper, and, for that matter, little game. he allowed his tenants to do as they pleased, and one of the deepest grievances his neighbours had against him, was that these tenants thinned their game wherever their lands marched with his. to this sally thomas, however, made no answer beyond a smothered groan. the man's spirit was too much broken to bear rough comfort of this kind, as his visitor instantly perceived. changing his tone at once, the captain bent over the bench where the prisoner sat hanging his head, and laying his hand on thomas's shoulder, added-- "come, come, tom, my boy; bless my life! don't lose heart because you've been a fool. i'll see that the chicks don't starve, and you'll soon be out of this, and a man again." the kind tones of hawthorn's voice affected tom more even than the promise. he tried to speak, but his voice broke in sobs. "tut, tut. 'pon my life, don't, tom, d--n it, man, don't," spluttered the captain; but, as tom did not stop, he grasped his hand suddenly and gave it a hearty grip. then he turned and fled, afraid probably of himself betraying his feelings. his visit did thomas much good, and he bore his trials more patiently henceforth, though the bitterness of his heart at times nearly maddened him. i can never forget the description which he gave me in after days of the agonies suffered by him during those horrible six months. we were seated together in his little garden one september evening, the sun was far down in the west, the ruddy glow of a calm, bright autumn evening fell athwart wanless's grey, worn face, lighting it with a sober brilliance that fitted well the fixed look of sadness that sat on it as he then told me of that dark time. his voice was calm for the most part, although full of subdued passion; and the impression his narrative made on me was so deep that i can almost give you his very words. "at first," said he, "i felt like a caged wild beast, and could do nothing but chafe. the night in the keeper's out-house, where the villain kept me to save himself trouble, with both hands and feet cruelly tied, had been bad enough; and the nights and days in leamington lock-up were hard to bear, but a kind of hope sustained me, and i did not fully comprehend what loss of liberty was till i lay in warwick jail. for three nights after i entered that hell upon earth i did not sleep a wink. the very air i breathed seemed to choke me. sometimes i felt so mad that i could hardly keep from dashing my head against the walls of the cell. had i been alone perhaps i might have done it, but there were five beside myself cooped up in a den not much bigger than my kitchen, and in the darkness i was for a time horribly afraid lest one or other of these men should do me an injury. though in one sense eager for death, i did not like being killed; and when not raging i was trembling with fear. it was nervousness, no doubt, but you can hardly wonder when i tell you what my neighbours were. one was a burglar from birmingham, sentenced to transportation for stealing a coat from somebody's hall; two were miners from dudley way, "doing" sixty days for kicking a chum and breaking his leg, another was a wild, brutish-like day labourer, who had got six months at last assizes for cutting his wife's throat, not quite to the death, and the last was a poor, hungry youth of a tailor's apprentice, who had got the same sentence for stealing some cloth. we were a strange lot, and i feared these men in the darkness. if one moved, my heart leapt to my mouth; and the horrible language in which some of them indulged, made my flesh creep. that wild labourer especially terrified me. what if the murderous frenzy was to come upon him, and he should try to throttle me in the dark. "after a few nights, exhausted nature asserted herself, and i slept. then other thoughts arose in my heart that were still worse to bear--thoughts about my wife and family. sarah had been allowed to speak to me for a minute or two before i was removed from the leamington courthouse to jail, and she then told me that jack and fanny caught cold _that_ night, and threatened dropsy. lucy, also, had had a relapse of the fever. poor woman, she looked so broken-hearted and worn-out like, and i could say nothing, still less do anything now. 'oh, tummas, tummas, that it should a' coom to this' she cried, and wept bitterly behind her thin old shawl. it was the shawl i married her in, sir; and i thought on the past and the future till i, too, broke down and cried like a child. but what good was that to her; to either of us? well; i couldn't help it. "then she picked up a bit, and tried to cheer me, as women will when the worst comes. she told me that mrs. robins was very kind, and had come to look after the children for her that day, having none of her own, and no fear of the infection, and she was sure that the neighbours would never see her want. that was some comfort at the time; but once i came to myself in jail the thought that i was now helpless, that my family might be dying and i unable to reach them, raised anew the agony in my mind. i saw them gathered round our sally's bed weeping for their absent father. my wife's weary looks and thin white face haunted me in the night seasons far worse than the wife mutilator. what could neighbours do for her in such a strait; what could i do now? the thought of my helplessness came over me with waves of agonising self-abasement and disgust, till my nerves seemed to crack and my brain spin round. often did i stuff my sleeve into my mouth to stop myself from crying out as i lay tossing on the floor of the den. i would beat my head with my clenched hands till the sparks danced in my eyes, and groan till my neighbours muttered curses through their sleep. oh, i thought, if i could but get an hour with my little ones, to see wee sally and the baby in their bed, to watch poor jack and fan, and help the worn out mother. an hour! nay, half an hour, only five minutes! god, it was unbearable; it was hell to be caged like this! "and what had i done to be thus torn from my wife and children, and made to consort with brutal criminals? what had i done? killed three rabbits, vermin that curse god's earth and devour the bread of the poor. they belonged to nobody any more'n rats or mice or weasels, and did nobody good in this world. why, the man that had nearly killed his wife was not harder treated than me. what then was my crime? was i indeed a criminal? i asked myself again and again, and the answer came--'no, tom wanless, but you were worse; you were a fool. you knew the power of the landlords; you knew that to them the rabbit was a sacred animal, and that they could punish you if they caught you. you were a fool ever to put yourself in their clutches.' ah yes, there was the sting of it. how could i hope to escape doom when all the world except the labourers were on one side. "but though i saw i had been a fool; that made me no better in my mind; rather worse; for, as i tossed and raved in my heart, i took to cursing squire and parson: i cursed, too, the land of my birth, and ended by cursing the god who made me. ay, that did i. in the darkness i mocked at him, i swore at him, and told him that i wouldn't believe there was a god at all. why, if he lived, did he suffer scoundrels to call themselves his chosen people, and mock him by their chattering prayers and mumblings all the time that they lived only to oppress the poor. life was a curse if that was right. "well," thomas continued, after a short pause, during which he leant back and watched the changing tints of gold flitting across the western sky, "well, that mood also passed, and after the old captain had been to see me i got a little quieter. but the jailers did not make life easy for me, i can tell you. because i was silent, speaking little, eating little, and hardly fit for the task they set me upon that weary treadmill, they gave me a taste of the whip many a time, and abused me for a sullen gallows bird, but i paid no heed. "within a fortnight after my punishment began, little tom brought me word that two of my children, jack and lucy, were dead, and that fanny was not expected to live. when i heard this news i laughed a bitter laugh, and said, 'thank god, some good has been done. the squires won't imprison them, anyway!' my boy looked terrified for a moment, and then fell a-weeping bitterly. the sight of him crouching at my feet, and quivering in passionate grief, brought me a bit to. a vision of my dear little ones, of my dying wee fan, swept over me; my heart yearned for them, and i mingled my tears with my son's. i charged him to be kind to mother, and tried to comfort him. poor lad, poor lad! he is in australia now, and has a farm of his own. the sorrow of that time is past for him long ago." here my old friend paused, wiping the tears from his eyes furtively, and sighing softly to himself. the dying glow of the sunset was now on his face, gleaming in his silvery hair, and making his sad but animated features shine with a soft glory. i sat still and gazed at him with feelings too strong for speech. after a little he turned to me with a smile, and said:-- "yes, my friend, that's all passed, and many sorrows beside, nor do i now curse god as i look back upon them. but i cannot tell you more to-night. i didn't think that i should have been moved so much by recalling that old story. let us go indoors, the night is growing chilly." future conversations gave me most of the particulars of that time, but i cannot harrow the reader's feelings with a full recital of all that thomas wanless felt and suffered in these six months of misery. three of his children died while he chafed and toiled in warwick jail. the heart-stricken mother alone received their dying words, heard their last farewell. kind neighbours tried to comfort her. the parson's wife even called, and said, "poor woman, i'm afraid you've had too many children to bring up. i'll see if the vicar can spare you a few shillings from the poor box;" but the shillings never came, much to thomas's satisfaction in after days. perhaps codling thought the family altogether too reprobate for his charity. it would have gone hard indeed with mrs. wanless and the little ones spared to her but for old captain hawthorn. though verging on seventy, and by no means strong, no single week elapsed all that winter when his cheery voice was not heard in the cottage. often he came twice a week, but never with any ostentation of charity. on the contrary, he went so far the other way as to pretend to take a bond over the cottage for money, professedly lent to the family, and without which they must have gone into the workhouse. he never, perhaps, felt so like a hypocrite in his life as he did when he took this bond to the jail for thomas to sign. young tom was put back to his work on the home farm, and his wages raised on some pretence or other to six shillings a week. the dry, old man, so hard and repellant, had, after all, a human heart in him that my lord bishop of worcester might have envied had he ever experienced any desire for such an organ. more true sympathy with distress was shown by this hardened old voltarian since this family had attracted his notice than by all the squires of the district and the parsons to boot. it had not yet become fashionable for the latter to rehearse deeds of philanthropy in pedantic garments. hawthorn's fault was not want of heart or of sympathy, but a self-centredness which prevented him from seeing his duty, except when, as in this instance, it was forced upon him. yet, after all, what could he have done to help the poor around him that would not in some way have redounded to their hurt? charity doles would have demoralised them more than their hard lot did; and any opening of the door for them to help themselves would have brought hatred, contumely, and perhaps real injury to them and him. he could not raise wages by his fiat, nor could he break up his land and distribute it to the people. all the laws of the country, as well as the prejudices of "society," were against him, if he had ever thought of so wild a project; which i do not suppose he ever did. he sat apart and mocked at a world with which he had no sympathy; whose hollowness, self-seeking, and cruelty, hid beneath infinite hypocrisies, he thoroughly understood. and this good, at least, has to be recorded of him, that he saved the family of thomas wanless from want, by consequence, also, in all probability, saving thomas himself from becoming an abandoned ishmaelite. the sight of his family beggared, homeless, and in the workhouse, either would have driven him reckless or broken his heart. from that sight, at least, he was saved; and thomas has often told me that the conduct of the old squire during these six months did more to revive hope in his heart and keep him from losing all faith in god or man, than any other single event of his life. yet had his heart bitterness enough. "i remember," he said, one night as we conversed together; "i remember the morning i left jail. it was a warm, may morning, and the air was so fresh and sweet that the first breath of it made me feel quite giddy with joy. 'free! free! i am free!' i whispered softly to myself, and with difficulty refrained from capering about the road like a madman, as the joyous thought surged through my heart. it lasted only for a few moments. pain took hold of the heels of my joy as usual. i was a man disgraced. why should i be glad to get out of jail? were not its forbidding, gloomy walls the best shelter left for one like me? why should i be glad? the law of the land had branded me a criminal; let the law makers enjoy paying for their work. "ah, no; disgraced as i was, filled with bitter passionate hate of those above me as my heart might be, i was not yet ready to stoop to deliberate crime as a mode of revenge. the memory of my lost children and my lonely, heart-broken wife stole into my heart and brought the tears to my eyes. the four that were left to me would be waiting on this may morning for my home coming. i would go home. "so i started; but when i reached the castle bridge my heart again failed me. i was weak through long confinement, ill-usage, and want of food, for the messes served to us in that jail were often worse than i would have given to my pig. the very thought of meeting a village neighbour terrified me. my limbs shook, and i crept through a gap in the fence, resolved to hide till night and steal home in the darkness. for a little while i sat behind a bush at the water's edge, feeling a coward, but wholly unable to scold myself for it. then i crept along the bank of the avon towards grimscote, till i reached a clump of osiers, into which i plunged. the ground was very damp, and here and there almost swampy; but presently i found a dry mound, and there i lay down, buried from all eyes. how long i lay i cannot tell, for i paid no heed to time, though i gradually became calmer. once again i was in contact with nature. the air was full of the music of birds, and the chirp of insects among the grass sounded almost like the movement of life in the very ground itself. a sweet smell of hawthorn blossom came to me from some old trees close by, and now and then i heard the plash of oars on the river, and voices came to me sweet and clear off the water. gradually i became more hopeful. life was all around me; the bushes themselves seemed moved by it as i lay beneath their shade. behind me the traffic of the high road made a constant rattle, and beyond the river i heard the bleating of lambs. and life somehow came back to me also. i arose with new hopes in my breast. all could not yet be lost to me, i somehow felt; and, at any rate, i would go home, for i began to be very hungry. "i often stopped on the way with weariness and faint-heartedness, but did not again turn back, and by two o'clock in the afternoon i reached my own cottage. my wife welcomed me with a burst of crying. i learnt from her that she had begun to dread that i had done something rash. she and the little ones had gone to meet me in the morning as far as the castle bridge, which they must have reached soon after i lay down among the willows. there they sat for a while hoping that i would come, but seeing nothing of me they crept back again with hearts sad enough, you may be sure. i was not long behind them, and my wife soon brightened enough to be able to eat some dinner with me; but my heart smote me for being so selfish and unkind as to go and hide as if no one had to be considered but myself." such in faint outline was thomas's account of his release from prison. his meeting with his family was sad beyond description. in the short six months of his absence three of his little ones had been put under the sod. out of a family of eight in all he had now but four left. a great mercy that it was so, some will say; and possibly they may be right. the world's goods are so ill distributed that death is for many the only blessing left. nevertheless, i question if the sorrow of the labourer at the loss of his children was not keener than that of many who need not fear a want of bread for their offspring. he had toiled and suffered for all the eight, and the love that grows up in the heart through such discipline as his is akin to the deepest and holiest passion known to man. thomas and his wife mourned for their dead to their own life's end, because the little ones had been part of their life. is it so with you, pert censor of the miserable poor? though sorrowing, thomas had yet no time to nurse his sorrow. the world had to be faced again, and work to be found. for sentimental griefs and morbid wailings in the world's ear the wanlesses had no time. at first thomas got some jobs from mr. hawthorn, but he soon saw that they were jobs mostly created on purpose for him, and he could not bear the thought of living on charity, no matter how disguised. therefore, he began to hunt about for odd work in the neighbourhood, and found much difficulty in getting it. his recent imprisonment told against him everywhere, if not in keeping work from his hands, at all events in low pay for the work. the farmers had now got their feet on his neck, and took it out of him, as they alone knew how; for the brutalised slave is always the cruellest of slave-drivers. but thomas fought on, and for the best part of a year contrived to exist with the help that young tom's wages gave. he did no more; nay, not always so much; for he and his wife sometimes wanted their own dinners that their children might have enough. still he existed; lived through the year somehow and was thankful, notwithstanding the fact that he had made no progress in paying off his debt to the old captain. "he can take the cottage, thomas," said his wife. "someone will pay him rent enough for it, though we can't; but we can get a hovel somewhere." he was spared this last sacrifice, for about this time old hawthorn died, and a sealed packet addressed to thomas wanless was found among his papers. when the labourer came to open this, he found that it contained his bond with the signature torn off, a receipt in full for the money advanced, and a £ note. on a slip of paper was written in the captain's scraggy, trembling hand, "don't mention this to a living soul, tom wanless, or by god i'll haunt you.--e.h." thus the scorned infidel was soft-hearted and characteristic to the last. his estate passed to a cousin, who soon gave the tenants cause to remember how good the old captain had been. and once more he had kept the labourer's heart from breaking. the deliverance from debt which this packet brought, and the prodigious wealth a £ note appeared to be to thomas, renewed his courage and made him resolve to strike further afield in search of better paid labour. railway making was at its height all over the country, and he had often thought of becoming a navvy. now he decided to be one if he could get work on the line down worcester way. a bit of that line came within fifteen miles of ashbrook, and he might therefore see his family now and then at least young tom was to stay at home, and the s. a-week, to which his wages was reduced after old hawthorn's death, would help to keep house till work was found by his father. the £ was not to be touched till the very last extremity, and in the meantime thomas put it in as a deposit in a savings bank at stratford-on-avon. he would not deposit it in warwick lest questions might be asked, and the captain's dying command be in consequence disobeyed. the new plans succeeded better almost than thomas had hoped. he got work on the railway; it was very hard work, but the wages were good; at first he only got s. per week, and he began by stinting himself in order to send s. of this home; but he soon found that to be a mistake. his work demanded full vigour of body, and to be in full vigour he must be well fed. the other men had meat of some kind three times a day, and thomas followed their example, with the best results. not only did he stand by his work with the rest, but he displayed such energy and intelligence that within a few weeks he obtained charge of the work in a deep cutting at s. per week. of this he saved from s. to s. a-week, after paying for clothes, lodgings, and food. it seemed very little, and he grudged much the cost of his own living; but there was no help for it. besides, what he saved now was more than all he earned in ashbrook, except for a few weeks during harvest. much reason had he to thank the dairyman's wife for feeding him in his youth so as to fit him now for a navvy's toil. truly the life was rough, and little to wanless' liking, yet he worked with a heart and hope rarely his before. altogether this job lasted for two years, and regularly all that time thomas went home once a month with his savings. sometimes he had more than miles to walk each way, but he had health, and never failed. starting on saturday evenings, in wet weather and dry, summer and winter, he would reach home early on sunday morning, when after a good sleep, he passed a few happy hours, and then started on the sunday afternoon for his work again. chapter vi. is of the nature of a sermon. during these two years the attitude of thomas's mind changed much towards society and its institutions. he may be said for the first time to have become a religious man, and his religion was of the simpler and more unsophisticated type which comes to a man who knows little of dogma, but much of the contents of the bible. that book was studied by him as something fresh and altogether new on the lonely sundays he passed amongst the navvies. he took to it at first more because he had no other book to read, but it laid hold of his imagination after a time, and he began to test the world around him by the lofty morality of the new testament. in due course the thoughts that burned within him found utterance and infected some of his fellow workmen. almost before he was aware a certain following gathered round him. they drew together in the parlour of the inn, which most of the navvies frequented, and discussed things political and religious on the saturday and sunday nights. the wilder spirits soon nicknamed thomas and his friends the saints, and he himself went by the sobriquet of methody tom; but, though jeered at and sometimes cursed by the wilder sort, their influence spread, and radical views of society were canvassed among these navvies with a freedom that would have made parson and squire alike shiver with horror had they known. but they did not know. how could they? such creatures as navvies were not, strictly speaking, human at all. they lived beyond the pale, like the irish ancestors of many among them, and were essentially of the nature of wild beasts, for whom the policeman's baton or the soldier's musket was the only available moral force. no parson ever looked near that community of busy workers, whose strong backed labour was swiftly altering the physical conditions of modern civilisation, and calling a new world into being for squire and trader alike. nay, i am wrong. thomas informed me that a parson did go astray among the workmen in the cutting of which he had charge. a poor, deluded young curate came round once distributing tracts. the fervour of a yesterday's ordination was upon him, and shone in the rigorous cut of his garments. he thought he might do the navvies good by the sight of him, and bless them with his tracts. but his visit was a failure, and his reception rough. thomas declared that he felt sorry for the poor fellow, and yet could not refrain from joining in the laugh at his expense. one sturdy northerner, to whom he handed a tract, protested loudly that he "hadn't done nothing to be summonsed for," and when the curate blandly explained that it was a tract, he blessed his stars, and swore that he "took the chap for one of the new peelers." another was of an opinion that "the parson had a mighty easy job of it," and suggested his taking a turn at the pick; while one more blasphemous than the rest, declared that he didn't know who the lord jesus might be, and didn't care; but, in his opinion, it was d----d impudent of him to send any of his flunkeys down their way "a spyin' and a pryin'." they chaffed the poor man about his clothes; begged a yard or two of the tail of his coat to mend their sunday breeches with; explained how much better he could walk in a short jacket; wanted to know why he wore a white choker--and altogether made such a fool of the poor wretch that he soon turned and fled, amid their jeers and laughter. that was the only time they ever saw a parson of the church during these two years; and no doubt this poor curate felt that they were a reprobate crew whom the church did quite right to abandon to their fate. it is so much pleasanter and easier to play at pietism amongst well-bred, comfortable people "of good society" than to save souls. the sweet order of a gorgeous ritual, the vanities of richly-embroidered garments, squabbles about archaic rites as worthless as an egyptian mummy--these things are more valuable to the modern parson, and more pleasing in the sight of his god, than the lives of such men as wanless and his fellow-labourers. for the parson's god is the god of the rich, to whom gorgeous ritual and sensuous music are necessary as foretastes of the blessedness of an æsthetic paradise. so be it: far be it from me to question the taste of parson or parson's following. they can go their own way, only it may be permitted to one to point out that outside their charmed circle there are forces at work, before the power of which their fair fabric may yet crumble and disappear like sand heaps before the rushing tide. thomas wanless and his friends were rude and unlettered, but they had definite ideas enough, and a wild sense of justice. in their dim way they tried to fit together the various parts of the human life that lay around them, and failing to do so, as better than they have failed, they came to the conclusion that they and their class were cheated by the rest. democracy, communism, subversive ideas of all kinds, therefore, found currency among them, as in ever-growing volume they find currency now. imagine if you can these men trying to evolve the prototype of a modern lord bishop, in lawn sleeves and pompous state, from the simple records of the new testament. can you wonder at their failure in that instance, or in many such like? where could they find church or chapel that was no respecter of persons? in which the possession of money and power was not the ultimate test of true godliness? is it astonishing that in placing the ideal and actual side by side, these men should have come to the conclusion that the actual was a fraud: that the whole basis of modern society was corrupt? do not, i beseech you, pass lightly by the doings of these men, most sublime lord bishops, most serene peers of the realm, smug buyers of county votes. these ideas are spreading all around you. few possessed them fifty years ago among the agricultural poor; but there, as elsewhere, democracy is getting educated, is awaking to the reality of things, and will make its feelings known to you in a manner you little dream of one of these days. your olympus will prove but a molehill when the earth shakes with the onset of the millions on whose necks you have sat all these ages. titles are a mockery, hereditary dignities a contempt, in the eyes of men who live face to face with the hard realities of existence. a new life is abroad in the world. the image-breaker is exalted above my lord bishop in all his glory of lawn sleeves and piety in uniform by men like wanless and his friends. they want to know, not what part "my lord" professes to act, what creed this or that snug church dignitary chants or drones; but what his life is worth? what are you? in short, is the question, not what you give yourself out to be; and, depend upon it, if the answer is unsatisfactory, you and your hypocrisies will disappear together. nothing struck me so forcibly in my intercourse with wanless as the extraordinary bitterness with which he spoke of the english church. to it he seemed in his later life to have transferred the greater part of his hatred of the landed gentry. he viewed it as an organised blasphemy, and worse than that, as the jailor, so to say, by whom the chains of a miserable captivity had been rivetted for ages on the limbs of the toiling poor. the ground for this attitude of mind on the part of the labourer was easily discovered. he read his bible much, and endeavoured to fit its precepts and the example of its greatest characters to the life around him, and of course he failed. the more he tried to bring together the presentment of christianity afforded by the modern church and teaching of the new testament, the more he saw their divergencies. this set him pondering, and he soon came to the conclusion that this modern institution was not christian at all, but pagan. it was a department of state, paid by the state, and employed by it for the purpose of deluding the people into the belief that the existing order of life was divinely appointed. how effectively it had done this work, he said, let history show. the clergy had aided and abetted the gentry in all their robberies of the people; it had been the instrument of many flagrant thefts of endowments left for the education of the poor; there never had been a reform proposed calculated to benefit the people that had not been ardently opposed by this organised band of hypocrites, and no class of the community was so habitually, so flagrantly selfish as preachers. take them all in all, thomas wanless declared, the people who preached for a trade, be they dissenters or anglican, gave him a lower idea of human nature than any navvy he ever met. "their trade makes them bad," he often declared; "and i suppose i ought to pity the miserable wretches, but they do so much mischief that i really cannot." once i recollect urging the commonplace argument that there were many good men among them, but he caught me up short with-- "yes, yes, i admit all that; but that proves nothing in favour of either the church or the parson's trade. these men would have been good anywhere, as papists, mohamedans, or hindus, just as certainly as in church or chapel. it is their nature to, and they cannot help it. but their very goodness is a curse to people, sir--yes, a curse, for they prop up fabrics and institutions that but for them would long ago have been too rotten to stand." thus it will be seen that wanless, though in his way a profoundly religious man, was in no sense a sectary. he was in fact ranged among the iconoclasts. he sighed for a living faith, not a dead creed; and were he living to-day he would certainly give his hearty support to that band of men who wage war on the shams of modern creeds, who mock unceasingly at the disgusting spectacle of men who call themselves disciples of christ wrangling over the cut and embroidery of garments, and trying to make themselves martyrs for the sake of a candle or two. the tractarian movement attracted thomas's attention in a dim way, and he was amused at the frightful din made by the conversions to romanism which accompanied that curious upheaval of mediævalism. not that he understood much of the meaning of what was going on. it was not worth discovering, he said; but he was amused over it, and roundly declared that for this and all other ills of the church there was but one cure--to take away its money. "let these parsons try living by faith," he would often exclaim. "if they believe in god as they say, why do they not trust him for a living? their proud stomachs would come down a bit if they are just turned adrift in a body and let shift for themselves. but lord, what a howl they'll make if the people get up and say we'll have no more of your mummeries, we want our money for a better purpose. they won't think much about god then, i can tell you. it will be every man for himself, and who can grab the most. i never have any patience with parsons, never. they are bad from the beginning, bad all through, self-deluders and misleaders of others at the best, and at the worst--well, not much more except in degree." "these are the mere ravings of an ignorant peasant," most readers will exclaim. i do not deny that in a certain sense they may seem only that. yet look around and consider the signs of the times before you dismiss these things as of no significance. what means the spread of secularism amongst the working classes of the present day, the contempt for religion and parsons which most of them display? is it not a most ominous indication of future trouble for serene lord bishops and their brood when events bring them face to face with the people? i do not admire charles bradlaugh's teaching on many points; but i cannot deny the power that he and such as he wield on the common people. it is a power that increases with the spread of education; and what does it betoken? only this; that in time, for one man among the peasantry who now thinks like thomas wanless there will be tens of thousands. the churches and chapels themselves, with their exceedingly worldly respectability, produce these men more certainly than all the teachings of the bradlaughs; nay, bradlaugh himself is directly the product of a corrupt, time-serving and utterly blasphemous church organisation. therefore be not too contemptuous of sentiments like those of this peasant. they are significant of many things--of a coming democracy that will at least try to burn up the rottenness of our modern ultra pagan-civilization. on other questions than those of church and state the opinions of thomas wanless were equally uncompromising, and, perhaps, equally impracticable. his intelligence was far deeper than his reading, and much of his political economy, as well as of his code of social morals, was taken from the bible. to my thinking he could have gone to no better book, but i am also free to admit that his too exclusive study of it gave a quaint and sometimes impracticable turn to his conceptions that may lead many to have a poor opinion of his wisdom. on the land question, for example, he grew to be a kind of disciple of moses. he would have had the whole country parcelled out amongst the people--each family enjoying the inalienable right to a certain bit of the soil. the year of jubilee was also, in his eyes, a most merciful and just provision for freeing the unfortunate, or the children of the spendthrift, from the grasp of the usurer--always the most relentless of men--and he often exclaimed--"how much better my lot would have been to-day had a jubilee year brought back to me and mine the land my grandfathers sacrificed in the stress of hard times." and not to land only would he have applied this principle, but to all kinds of indebtedness. "a limit of time should be fixed," he said, "beyond which the debtor should be free from his debt, unless he had committed a crime." the national debt itself he would have treated on this principle; and few things excited his wrath more quickly than any mention of the heavy burden which the consolidated debt continued to be to the english people. in national matters he would have had no debt remaining beyond years, on the principle that it was a crime to cast the burdens of the present on posterity. freedom to borrow indefinitely was in his eyes, moreover, the cause of much abominable robbery and crime. next to the church, however, the object of his deepest hatred and strongest contempt was modern kingship; and here again his inspiration was drawn from the bible. he told me that he often read samuel's description of the curse of kingship to his children on sunday evenings, with a view to make them proper republicans; and his greatest interest in modern history consisted in tracing the working of this curse in england for the last years. to this evil principle he declared that we owed most of our social miseries, all our wars of aggression, our national debt, our social corruptions, our bad land laws, our standing army, and perhaps even our established church, with all its crop of spiritual, moral, and social perversions. it is easy to understand how a man holding opinions like these should exercise a tremendous influence on the better class of his fellow-workmen. to those who gathered about him in the evenings he was never weary of enlarging on topics like these; and had the nature of the work in hand kept the men permanently together, thomas must in time have appeared as the leader of a formidable school of democrats. but the navvy is here to-day and gone to-morrow, and the seed which thomas sowed was scattered far and wide ere two years were over. the good he did is therefore untraceable, yet doubtless his work bore fruit in ways and places unseen, and in after days may have increased the receptivity of the labouring poor after a fashion that the modern agitator thought due wholly to his own exertions. over the wild irishmen who formed the majority of the gangs on the line thomas never obtained any influence; and, in his opinion, they were either a race of men bad from its very beginning, or whose nature had been warped and debased by a long course of shameful tyranny and deep-rooted habits of submission to degrading superstitions. however produced, the irish, in his esteem, were wretched creatures. they lacked honesty and independence, and would beg like pariahs one hour from a man whom they would treacherously murder the next in their drunken furies. more than once he had the greatest difficulty in keeping clear of the devastating fights with which these wild men of the west were in the habit of finishing up their drunken revels, and once he, and the more respectable men who followed him, had to arm themselves and help to protect some villages in the neighbourhood of the line from being stormed and sacked by a squad of irishmen out for a spree. life surrounded by such elements was dreary at the best, and, good though the wages might be, thomas was not sorry when the job was finished, and the way open for him to return once more to his own little cottage in ashbrook. chapter vii. may indicate to the reader, amongst other things, some of the admirable arrangements whereby england obtains men for a standing army. had thomas wanless known what was in store for him in the future he might have elected to leave ashbrook for ever, and continue the life of a railway navvy. as such his pay was good, and by thrift he might save enough money either to venture on small contracts for himself, or start some kind of business in one of the growing midland towns. but thomas did not consider these possibilities. the life he led grew more and more repulsive to him as time went on; and he yearned unceasingly for the quietude of his native village, and for his own fireside peace. besides, he hungered to get back to work on the land. if he could not get fields of his own to till, at least he might hope to again help to till the fields of others, and to watch the corn bloom and ripen as of yore. so when the local bit of railway was made, thomas came home to ashbrook, and once more went abroad among his neighbours; once more he accepted the labourer's lot, with its hard fare and starvation pay. he returned late in autumn when work was scarce; but his wife and he had saved money in the past two years, and he managed to live with the help of what odd jobs he could get, and without much trenching on his store till spring came round. fortunately his son thomas had been able to cultivate the allotment patch in his father's absence, and in spite of the fact that the new owner of the soil had doubled their rent, it had paid for its cultivation very well. the growing importance of leamington provided all surrounding villages with an improving vegetable and fruit market, of which thomas's wife and family had taken full advantage in his absence. so well indeed had they done, that he himself indulged for a short time in dreams of becoming a market gardener; but he soon found that there was no chance for him in that direction. he might get work from the farmers around, but no landlord would rent him the few necessary acres. a broken man when he left ashbrook to become a navvy; his absence had not improved his position. on the contrary, the parish magnates rather looked upon him as a greater black sheep than ever. the old ideas about the rights of landowners to the labour of the hind, as well as to the lion's share of the products of that labour, had by no means died out, and it was still a moral crime in the eyes of the landlord for a labourer to have enough daring and independence of spirit, to enable him to seek work in another part of the country. in some respects wanless was therefore a greater pariah when he came home than when he went away, and the summit of offence was reached when the report got abroad that he had actually made some money, and wanted to rent a little farm. squire wiseman had condescended to mention this report to parson codling, and they both agreed that this kind of thing must be discountenanced, else the country would not be fit for respectable persons to live in. "the idea," wiseman had exclaimed, "of this d----d poacher-thief wanting to become a farmer! why bless my life, we shall have our butlers wanting to be members of parliament next." and this seemed to be the general opinion, so that the only practical outcome of thomas's ambition was a greater difficulty in procuring work, and a further advance in the rent of his allotment. the successor of old captain hawthorn took this mode of expressing his concurrence in the general opinion, rather than that of a summary ejectment, he being a practical man, and wise in his generation. it was better policy to take the profits of thomas's labours than to turn him adrift, and have to pay rates for the maintenance of him and his family. against the odds and prejudices thus at work, wanless fought manfully for more than two years. when he could get work he laboured at it early and late, and when, as often happened, work was denied him, he tended his little garden and his allotment patch with the closeness of a chinese farmer. his flowers were the pride of the village, and his care coaxed the old trees in his garden into a degree of fruit-bearing that almost put to shame the vigour of their youth. yet he could not always make ends meet; and when he began to see his little hoard melting away, his heart once more failed him. if the farmers would not have him he must once more try elsewhere, and again a local railway afforded him a refuge. he became a "ganger" on the stratford line at s. a-week, and for more than four years made his daily journey backwards and forwards on his "beat," winter and summer, in cold and heat, well or ill. in one sense, this work was not so hard as a farm labourer's or a navvy's is, but it told on the health as much. exposure, thin clothing, and poor food did their work rapidly enough, and thomas's limbs began to stiffen, and his back to grow bent before his time. like his fellows, he promised to become an old man at , but he would have stuck to his work had not a sharp attack of pleurisy laid him up in the winter of , and once more compelled him to seek to live by farm labour. he could not face the bleak unsheltered railway track again, and even if he could, there was no room for him. his place had been filled up. with a weary heart and a spirit well-nigh crushed, thomas once more looked for work on the farms around ashbrook. "is there no hope for us, sally, lass?" he would often cry. "must we go to the workhouse at last?" "ay, the workhouse, the workhouse!" he would exclaim. "the parsons promise us a deal in the other world, but that's the best they think we deserve here. well, perhaps they mean to give us a better relish for the other world when it comes." thomas had one thing to cheer him, though, and no doubt that gave him more courage to face the world again than he otherwise would have had. his precious son, young tom, had emigrated to australia about a year before this terrible illness had enfeebled his father. he had gone as an assisted emigrant, but the old man had given him £ of old hawthorn's £ to begin the new world upon. the parting had cost the family much, and the father most of all; but they felt it to be for the best. there was no room to grow in the old land; in the new there was a great freedom. the lad dreamt of gold nuggets; but the wiser father bade him stick to the land as soon as he could get a bit to stick to. this departure was a loss to the family purse, for the youth had obtained pretty steady work, and generously gave all into the keeping of his mother. but jane and jacob were now also out into the world, winning such bread as they could get, and the family burden was therefore lighter. jane was general servant to a dissenting draper in leamington, and jacob enjoyed the proud distinction of being waggoner's boy at whitbury farm, now tenanted by a go-ahead scotch ex-bailiff, who had succeeded the pembertons when they went to the dogs with drink and horse-dealing. this hard-fisted, ferret-eyed agriculturist worked his men and boys as they had never been worked before, but he did not make the hours of labour so long, and he paid them a trifle better than his neighbours, whose jealousy and dislike he thereby increased. probably he rather liked to be contemned by his fellows. it increased the self-sufficiency of his righteousness, and made him the more proud of being a strict calvinistic presbyterian, endowed with a conscience as inelastic as his creed. be that as it may, this man gave jacob wanless s. a week and made the lad work for it. jacob was not then , and at his previous place had only obtained half that sum with a grudge. but then his work had been a long day's drawl too often, while now his duty as under waggoner was practically a good to hours' toil as stable assistant, feeder of stalled cattle, and general labourer about the farm. from these causes wanless had some ground for hope, although work was difficult for him to get, and his power to do it when got less than it had been. and when he looked round him his causes for thankfulness multiplied. was not his neighbour hewens, the under gardener at the grange, worse off than he, with a younger family of seven, one of whom was an object, and a weekly income averaging about s. a week all the year round. thomas's old and tried friend satchwell, the blacksmith, too, with his three children living and a wife dying in decline, had surely a harder lot than he, for all the coldness of farmers and contumely of parish deities. as spring warmed into summer, indeed, wanless's strength and heart came back to him in a measure. his hopes were chastened, but they were there still, and asserted their life. good news came from his far-away son, too. young tom had taken his father's advice, and, avoiding the charms of gold digging, had gone to work at high pay on a sheep run. already he spoke of buying a farm of his own, and getting father and mother and all the rest to join him in the colony. surely any man's heart would warm at prospects like these, and thomas so far entertained the project as to talk it over with his friends, brown, satchwell, and robins, who agreed in thinking it "mighty fine," and in wishing that they could mount and go along. "a vain wish, friends," brown would say, "vain so far as i am concerned, for i cannot herd sheep or hold a plough, and they want neither parish clerks nor schoolmasters in the bush." robins felt that he was too old and too poor to think of the change, and satchwell sighed often as he thought on what a sea voyage might yet do for his wife. but as for thomas, of course he could go when his son sent him the money, they said; and he, remembering that he had still a few pounds of his hoard unspent, almost thought that he could. his family should have the first chance, though. jane and jacob might both be able in another year to get away to the new country so full of hope; and it was best that the old hulk should stay at home, perhaps. so ran his thoughts for these two, but he always stopped when he reached sally, his youngest living child, and precious to him as the apple of his eye. she was the fairest of the family, and her father's darling above all the others. her, at all events, he felt he could not part with. if she went away at all her mother and he must go too. as yet "wee sal," as she was called, though by this time nigh fourteen years old, had not been suffered to go out to service. she had got more schooling than the others, thanks to the better means that her father had during part of her childish years; thanks likewise to his partiality for her. in this you will say he was weak; but let him who is strong on such a point fling stones. i cannot blame thomas much for committing so common a sin as to love most yearningly his youngest child; but i admit that his fondness was perhaps to her hurt. not that she was taught to love idleness or things above her station. far from that. kept at home though she was, she had to work. in the summer season she helped her mother to tend the garden, and to carry flowers, vegetables, and fruit to leamington for sale. under her mother's eye she at other times learned something of laundry work. but her schooling; what could she do with that? did it not tend to give her vain thoughts above her lot; for her lot was fixed more even than that of her brothers. the peasant maid could never hope to advance to aught beyond some kind of upper service in a rich man's family; a service often increasingly degrading in proportion as it is nominally high. she might become a ladies' maid, perhaps, and marry a butler in time, or she might fill her head with vanities, and in apeing those above her sink to the gutter. the love of thomas for his child exposed her to many risks, when it took the form of getting old brown to teach her all he knew. if she could only get to the new country at the other end of the world all that might be changed. she might be happy and prosperous as an australian farmer's wife. yes, that would be best; but they must all go. neither thomas nor his wife, who shared his partiality, could think of parting with sally. jacob might go first to help tom to gather means to take out the rest; and jane might even go with him could a way be found; but not sally: that sacrifice would be too much. in all probability the emigration plan might have been carried out in this sense that very winter, if an emigration agent could have been got to take jacob and jane, had not misfortune once more found the labourer and smitten his hopes. jacob enlisted. he was by no means a bad boy, but like all youths, enjoyed what is called a bit of fun; and, in fun, he had betaken himself to a kind of hiring fair held in warwick, in november, and called the "mop." there was no need for him to go, as he was not out of work, but the day was a kind of prescriptive holiday, and others were going, so why not jacob? idle, careless, and brisk as a lark, the lad followed where others led; drank for the sake of good companionship more than his unaccustomed head could carry; and when in a wild, devil-may-care mood was picked up by a recruiting sergeant, who soon joked and argued him into taking the shilling. a neighbour saw the boy, half-tipsy, following the sergeant and his party through the fair with recruit's ribbons fluttering round his head, and rushed home to tell thomas as fast as his legs could carry him. the old man was horror-struck; and the boy's mother broke into bitter wailing. thomas, however, wasted no time in useless grief, but took the road for warwick, within three minutes of hearing the news, in the hope of being in time to buy his boy off. he had an idea that if he managed to pay the smart-money before jacob was sworn in, the lad might escape with little difficulty. but he was too late. the sergeant was too well up to his work to wait in warwick all night, in order that parents might come in the morning and beleaguer him for their betrayed children. long before thomas reached the town and began his search for his son the sergeant had gone off with his entire netful to birmingham. as soon as thomas found this to be the case he made for the railway station, intending to follow his boy without asking himself whether it would do any good. but there again he was baulked. the cheap train to birmingham had passed long before, a porter told him, and there was nothing that night but the late and dear express. for this thomas had not enough money in addition to what would be required to buy off jacob, so he had no help for it but to go home. this he did with a heart heavy enough. well did he know that ere he could reach birmingham to-morrow he would be too late. recruiting sergeants do not linger at their work, especially after the army had been reduced by war and disease as it then had been in the crimea. before ten o'clock next morning jacob, still dazed with yesterday's unwonted debauch, was sworn in before a birmingham j.p., and not all the money his father possessed could then release him. henceforth, till his years of service were out, he must go and kill or be killed at the bidding of these "sovereigns and statesmen," whose business it still, alas, is to make strife in the world. this untoward event was in many ways a knock-down blow to the old labourer and his wife. she, however, sorrowed mostly on personal grounds, and dwelt on gloomy prospects of wounds and violent deaths as the only lot now open for her son--bone of her bone, and flesh of her flesh--whom she had nursed and tended from the womb only for this. like a good housewife, she mourned also the loss of jacob's wages, which not only helped to keep the wolf from the door, but also served to nourish the hope that one day all might yet see the new land of promise. if any savings could be pointed to they were always in the mother's eyes due to those wonderful earnings of her boy's. thomas shared these feelings with his wife, but he had others into which she did not enter. the emigration scheme had, perforce, to be given up, and that was to him a far more bitter thought than to his wife, who declared that she did not mind if they all went, but hung back at the thought of "putting one after another of her children into a living tomb," as she phrased it. but the deepest pain of all to thomas probably lay in the humiliation he felt in having a son a soldier. the trade of murder, as he called it, was to his mind the most degrading to which a man's hands could be set. he firmly believed that standing armies were a mockery of the almighty, and that the nations which fostered them would sooner or later sink to perdition beneath the blows of divine vengeance. armies led to wars, and wars were the curse of the world, he averred, and when contradicted was ready to prove to his antagonist that all the wars in which england had been engaged since the revolution of , were dictated by the worst passions of mankind. either, he said, they were undertaken to consolidate the power of a rapacious faction over the lives, liberties, and means of the people at large, or they were actuated by mere bestial greed, by inordinate vanity and love of power, or by mulish obstinacy and hatred or fear of liberty, and it was amazing to hear what arrays of facts he brought forth in support of his thesis. as a general conclusion he, of course, urged that, but for kings and priests, most of the wars of the modern world would never have come about. he did not know which cause was most effective, but inclined to think it was the priests. certainly the sight of ministers of christ so-called, unctuously blessing red-handed and red-coated murderers by wholesale, and training their children to go and do likewise, was in his opinion one of the most revolting things under god's sky. you can, therefore, well understand with what bitterness of heart he thought of the fate of his boy. he brooded over it; it became more terrible in his sight than an actual crime. if jacob had stolen and been transported for breaking the law, thomas could not have felt more shame and humiliation than now haunted him. he almost cursed his son, and he did unstintedly curse the system under which the lad had been caught up by the agent of the state and spirited away from his labour. how it was done he knew but too well; and when afterwards jacob himself told the story, it only confirmed what he had all along felt to be true. the boy had never intended to enlist; but the drink, imprudently taken, had gone to his head. the sergeant first cajoled him, and then, when he had taken the fatal shilling, terrified him with threats of what would befall if he broke faith with the queen. so he took the oaths and went away to practice the goose step, and moralise on the oddness of things in the world. an officer, he now learnt, could sell out at a high price and retire; but the common soldier belonged to the state, and had to be bought back therefrom if he wished to be free. for jacob there came no such redress. gloom settled on the heart of his father, and on the little home in ashbrook after this great blow, and, but for the spur of hard necessity, thomas thought he should have laid down his burden altogether. happily, duty called him to work for others, if not for himself; and work brought its usual blessing--a healing of the wounds and a revival of life in the heart. all was not yet lost, though the buffets of adversity were frequent and sore. indeed, in one sense jacob's enlistment brought good to the family, for it gave thomas work at whitbury farm. once more, after so many vicissitudes, he came back to the old place. a changed place it proved to be, but, on the whole, the change was for the better. the work was hard, but the farmer was not brutal like the pembertons, who had ruined themselves by wild living, been sold up, and had disappeared none knew whither. jacob himself had plenty of time to rue his folly, and he did rue it bitterly. at first in chatham, and afterwards in various irish barracks, he spent seven dreary years, wishing many a time he were dead, and regretting that his fate did not lead him to india, where a mutineer's bullet might have ended his career. possessing much of his father's energy of nature and many of his father's habits of thought, the idle and seemingly purposeless life of a barrack became at times almost more than the young man could endure. had he fallen into the loose ways of many among his comrades, it is probable that he would have capped the folly of enlisting by the military crime of desertion. fortunately he kept his soul clean, and managed to utilise some portion of his time in improving his mind. the mental wants of the soldier were not cared for in his time, as they have begun to be since; but there were a few books available in most barracks, and in ireland a kindly old adjutant, who had himself risen from the ranks, discovered jacob's thirst in time to afford him some assistance. save for "providences" like these, and for the stout heart that grew within him as he developed into full manhood, jacob's life as a soldier would have represented only wasted years. three more years in this way passed over thomas wanless and his family--years marked by no incident of great importance. the dull uniformity of their struggles with the ills of life has no dramatic interest. under it characters may be shaped and twisted like trees by the east wind; but the graduations of change are mostly imperceptible to those that endure the daily buffetings, and are beyond the scope of the chronicler. some day in the lapse of years, a man wakes up suddenly to find himself changed, and looks back upon a former self with wonder and astonishment, with thankfulness, it may be, for the drastic cleansing he has endured, or with that flash of horror at the sudden vision of the pit into which he has all the time been slowly sinking. in these years, while a father labours for his children's bread, and thanks god that the bread comes to him for his labour, his children grow up, develop characters, assume attitudes in the world he never suspects, bringing him joy or sorrow as the fruit is bitter or sweet. all is changing ever; life moves onward, and the one generation perceives not the path that the next shall follow. ah! the mystery of life. what does it all mean? the wrong triumphs often; the high hopes are dashed; weariness and pain haunt us wherever we go; the fruit of the sweet blossom is ashes and exceeding great bitterness; yet we hope on, plod on, battle till the end comes--and the judgment: then perhaps we shall know. as yet, however, the unkindly blows of a hard fate had not broken thomas wanless's spirit: far otherwise. his heart might fail him beneath the greater of his misfortunes, but when the storm had overpassed, his head rose again, his eye yet brightened, and the laughter of hope broke forth once more: so was it now. steady work soothed the pain of jacob's disgrace, and in time the boy's own cheerfulness and manifest improvement made his father begin to think good might be brought forth out of evil in this case also. his daughter jane continued to do well, and was looking towards promotion in her sphere--such promotion as consists in being one among many fellows, instead of the solitary drudge in the family of a small retail merchant. with the higher wages that followed elevation, jane hoped also to be able to help her parents more. that was jane's ambition, so far as confessed, and it did her credit. there might be something behind that, which was her own; but for the present her father and mother stood first. then the news from tom was ever good. he prospered with the colony of victoria, where he had settled, and might in time be a rich man, though as yet his means were, for the most part, hid in the land he had bought. life, therefore, was not at all dark in those years of quiet toil, either for thomas or his family; and yet a cloud was gathering on the horizon; a little cloud that might grow till all the life became wrapped in its darkness. the enlistment of jacob had compelled sally to go to service like her sister. thomas yielded to this necessity most reluctantly, and his friends, even his wife, said he was foolishly fond of the girl. he would not admit that it was over-fondness; it was solicitude, he said. an undefined feeling of dread haunted him about the last and best loved that was left. she was fairer than any girl of the village, and without being exactly giddy, she was thoughtless and merry-hearted; too easily led away; too guilelessly trustful of others. how could he let this tender, unprotected maiden go out into the world, and fight her life-battle alone among strangers? many a prayer had he prayed in secret that this sacrifice might be spared; but in this also the heavens were as brass. the time had come when she must either go or starve, and with a heavy heart he gave his consent. it was hardly given when his wife in her turn woke up to the danger of the step. she then sought to bring thomas to revoke the decision, and try one more year; but it was too late. sally herself was now eager to go. her pride was touched. she would no longer be a burden to her parents, and must take a place like her sister. "but in another year, sally, we may all be able to go to australia," the mother pleaded. "well, i can work for money to help us to go there," was the answer; and the mother had to yield. sally found a place as drudge to a newly-married couple in warwick--a young surgeon and his wife. they had imprudently married on his "prospects," and had to use many shifts to hide their poverty, lest the world, which can only measure men's worth by the length of their purses, should pass him by. it was thus a poor place, especially for one like sally, who had been better educated than probably any one else of her class in the whole shire; and the wages were poor. at first they gave her s. d. a-week with her food, but after six months they gave her s., partly to prevent neighbours from gossiping about their want of means. here the girl remained for two years, not because she liked the place, but because her parents told her that it was good to be able to say that she had been so long in one family. then she removed to the household of a lawyer as housemaid, where two servants were kept, and had been in that place over a year when her father met with an accident which laid him up for many weeks. it seems that in building a rick he had somehow been knocked off by a sheaf flung up at him thoughtlessly before he had adjusted the previous one. he raised his one hand mechanically to catch it, and his other slipped from under him. being near the edge, he rolled off heavily, striking the wheel of the waggon as he fell. the rick was high, and the fall so severe, that, when picked up and examined, thomas was found to have badly bruised his shoulder and fractured two of his ribs. a long and tedious illness followed, during which thomas was unable to earn anything. until young tom could know and send money the old folks were therefore likely again to feel the pinch of want, and it would take many months to bring help from australia. some of the old hoard was still left, but doctors' bills and necessary dainties soon made a hole in that. in nursing her husband, too, mrs. wanless was prevented from earning anything herself. there was no one to go to market with the little garden produce that might be to spare. neighbours were helpful, but they could do little where all alike lived in daily converse with want. thomas's master was kindly, and declared that he would not see them starve, but thomas liked to be independent, and took umbrage at the tone in which the charity was offered. talking of these things, and of the difficulties of the future, one sunday evening, when sally was down from warwick, the girl suddenly asked why she could not go to a better place where her wages might be of more use. she had only s. a week where she was, and felt sure she could earn more. her parents were for letting well alone. "all the extra money you can get, sally, won't amount to much," her mother said, and her father urged her to wait for tom's letter. who knew that tom might not be sending money to take them all away to the new country? but sally was positive, according to her impulsive nature. she was now nearly , she said, and was sure she could earn more. "besides, mother," she added, "i want to better myself. i am learning nothing where i am, and never will, and i hate messing about with so many children. they ought to keep a nurse, but they can't afford it, missis says; and i'm sure i'm nothing but a slave. why should you object?" why, indeed. there were no good grounds for it in her eyes, and none tangible to her parents. the result, therefore, was that sally sought and found a new place. chapter viii. introduces the reader to very aristocratic company. it so happened that what servants call "a good place" was not so difficult to find when sally went to seek it, as it had been some years before. the growing wealth of a portion of the nation was telling every year with increased force on the demand for domestic servants; and at the same time manufacturers were everywhere drawing more and more of the female population into employments in the great industrial centres of the midlands. in any case, therefore, sally wanless would probably soon have found a place of some kind in a gentleman's family; but, unknown to herself, her good looks had already been working in her behalf. she had attracted the attention of the housekeeper at the grange one day that the two had chanced to meet in a grocer's shop in warwick. when sally went out the housekeeper asked after her, and told the grocer that she was just in want of "a still-room maid," whatever that may be. the grocer gave sally a good character as far as he knew her, and said further that he believed the girl wanted a new place. what the housekeeper heard elsewhere also pleased her; and in due time sally was engaged at the, to her, fabulous wages of £ per annum. perhaps, had lady harriet wiseman known that the pretty girl who thus entered her house in the humble capacity of still-room maid, was the daughter of "that seditious old poaching scamp, wanless," as the squires called sally's father, she might have vetoed her housekeeper's action. but that finely-distilled aristocrat did not condescend to notice such trivial matters as the coming and going of menials. she barely knew the names of some of the oldest servants about the place, and when she had occasion to speak to any of them--a thing she avoided as much as possible--gave all alike the name of jane. she viewed her domestic world from afar. she was of the gods, and her menials were of the sons and daughters of men. to her their lives were unknown; of their hopes and feelings she knew less than she did of the varied dispositions of her dogs. they were there to minister to her every want and whim, to bend the knee, bate the breath, and lower the eye before her when she crossed their path, and if they did these things silently as machinery, it was well. her sole duty was to find them food and wages, and she kept her contract. but if they failed in one iota they were dismissed. it would be unfair to suppose that lady harriet was an exceptionally hard woman, because this was her relationship with her household. she was indeed nothing of the kind. on the contrary, in some respects she was a kind-hearted person enough, and would for example have turned away her housekeeper on the spot, had she been made aware that the servants were badly fed or uncomfortable in their bedrooms, or anything of that sort. sins of that kind affected the reputation of her mansion, and jarred, moreover, on her sense of comfortableness. to have life flow easily, to see and feel none of the roughnesses of existence--this was lady harriet's ideal. for the rest--how could she help it if menials were low creatures? they were born so, and it was for her comfort probably that providence thus ordered the gradations of society. she had been heard, moreover, to plume herself upon the exceptionally good treatment her servants got, and to declare that she knew it to be much better than that of her sister, who was the wife of a lord bishop of a neighbouring diocese, and a woman of fashion. lady harriet was, in short, an average sample of the modern english aristocrat. nay, in some respects she was better than the average woman of her class, for she was gifted with some touch of the shrewd brains that had lifted her grandfather, the london clothier, to great wealth and an irish peerage. in another sphere, as the parsons say, she might have distinguished herself as a woman of affairs, but she loved ease, disliked trouble, and wrapped her mind up in the refinements proper to high birth and breeding. first amongst these she placed exemption from all the cares and duties of maternity, and from the worries of household management. her aim was not lofty, and even her ladyship had begun to fear that somehow her life had been a failure. a weary look was often seen on her face--visible to the meanest domestic--telling all who saw it that luxury could not insure any poor mortal from care any more than from disease and death. but cannot one trace the hideous grinning skull beneath the skin of the fairest and loftiest in the land? care comes to all, and sorrow, and pain, and for years before sally went to the grange, the mistress thereof had felt the worm gnawing at her heart. for one thing, her husband, now a man beyond sixty, was rapidly losing the little wits he had possessed. his life was to all appearance most prosperous. to the envy of many, he had made much money through the railway speculations of the preceding decade; and by material standard of the time should have been supremely happy. but he drank and over-ate himself, and his self-indulgences in these and other ways made him gouty and diseasedly fat. his life had thus become a misery to himself and to all around him, even before he had become really old; and now his memory was failing him, a sottish stupidity was stealing over his brain, so that it was with much difficulty that his wife could rouse him to attend to the most necessary affairs of his estates. peevish and ill-conditioned when in pain, stupified with wine when well, and at all times of a dreary vacuity of mind, this pillar of the state, wielder of men's votes, arbiter of parish fates and men's fortunes, was not a lovable man to live with. to outsiders he might be an object of pity or scorn; but to his wife! ah, well, the servants said she looked worried. let it pass. and yet had this been all she might have been in a fashion happy, for she could turn off much of the ill-humour of her husband on his servants by simply avoiding him. other troubles, however, were coming thick upon her, and making her look as old as the squire, although she was nigh ten years younger. three children of the five she had borne were alive--two daughters and a son. of course the son, being also the heir, was made much of, fawned on by mother and menial alike, and equally, of course, he grew up a remarkable creature. who has not known such without longing for a whip of scorpions, and a strong arm to wield it? one daughter had married a soldier--a showy man of good family but small fortune, who sold out, became stock-gambler, and bankrupt in the brief space of eighteen months; and then bolted to australia to try sheep-farming with a few hundreds given him by his friends to get rid of him. he had left his wife and three children to the care of his mother-in-law. the eldest daughter--eldest also of the family--was slightly deformed, and had never left home, though some poor curates had cast longing looks at her, hoping perhaps, that the money and influence she would have might be the means of bringing them preferment. but they were not men of family, and lady harriet would have none of them. the deformed daughter was left otherwise to her own devices; and was probably the happiest in the house, as she certainly was the gentlest. these were small troubles too, and lady harriet could not afford to make herself long unhappy over them; but it was otherwise with those of her son. this pampered darling of his mother, this remarkable youth whose leading idea was that the world and all that was therein had been created expressly for him--if, indeed, he had ever stopped in his career of selfish lust to form an idea so definite--this youth of many privileges, before whom the path of life was rolled smooth and carpeted, on whom the sun dare not shine too freely nor any wintry storm beat untempered, was now causing his mother more agony than she ever imagined she could bear and live. she felt she was wronged somehow in having so much sorrow by one she so deeply loved. had she not done everything for him all his life, given him all he asked, made the whole household his slaves, forbidden his masters to task his brain with too many studies, poured handfuls of pocket-money into his lap, and in all ways treated him like a demi-god? yes, yes; she knew that no mother could have done more, felt it in her heart as she reviewed the past, and yet had not this precious boy been stabbing her to the heart every day of his life? lady harriet felt that the world was out of joint. others, less blind, will say that this nurture would have destroyed the noblest of natures. on a commonplace mind like cecil wiseman's its effect was disastrous. the young man was, about the time of sally wanless's entry on service at the grange, some twenty-four years of age, and handsome enough to look upon. when he liked his manners were engaging, and his conversation not without shrewdness. but its range was limited to matters of the stable. he had no acquaintance with literature outside the sporting papers and some filthy english novels. french he had never learned to read. he shone more in the stable than in drawing-rooms, and understood the philosophy of horse jockeys, or racing touts, better than the difference between right and wrong. if he had a pet ambition it was to "make a pot of money" on a horse, and if he had not been the heir to a great estate he might have distinguished himself as a horse-dealer, that is, had he not come to the treadmill before he got the chance. the social position to which he was born saved him the trouble of choosing a profession, and from the grasp of the law, but it did not prevent him from being a criminal worse than many a poor wretch in the dock. a commission had been bought for him some years before in a regiment of dragoons, and by means of money he was now a captain, but there was little about him of the soldier. when not bawling on a race course he was lounging about the clubs of pall mall, playing billiard matches for high stakes, or losing money at cards with the freehandedness of a gentleman of fashion. what leisure these high occupations left him was devoted to the society of loose women, by whom his purse was just as freely emptied. naturally a career of this kind cost much, and soon lady harriet was driven to her wits' end to find her son the means he demanded, and at the same time to hide his extravagance from his father. the old man was growing stupid, but not on the side of lavishness. on the contrary, he clung to his money the more tenaciously, the more he felt that, and all other earthly goods slipping from him, and woke to snappish inquisitiveness when his name was wanted at the bottom of a cheque. for a time cecil's mother smuggled considerable sums for her boy through the household accounts, and by pinching herself in the matter of new clothes and jewels, managed to keep him afloat. but soon his wastefulness went far beyond the range of such petty expedients. from hundreds his losses grew to thousands, and she was in despair. again and again did she beseech her darling to be careful, to restrain himself, to have pity on her grey hairs. she might as well have prayed to the church steeple. cecil abused her, and told her that he would have money, get it how he might; if she did not give it him the jews would, and it would be the worse for her. sometimes she thought she must tell his father, but the courage and truth of heart were alike wanting for a course so open. once she threatened cecil with this dreaded alternative, and he wrote back that he did not see why she could not put his father's name to a cheque, and be done with it. and he spoke of the old man's grasping tendencies in terms unfit for transcription. verily, nemesis was overtaking this poor woman, and bitter care had become her familiar friend, though she knew hardly the fringe of her son's iniquity. he weltered in a pool of corruption, caring for nobody, loving no one but himself, despising natural affection, trampling it under his feet with the unconsciousness of a demon, and crying for money, money, as a horse leech seeks for blood. such are some of the characteristics of the family under whose roof the daughter of thomas wanless now found herself, a stranger, bewildered with the splendour around her, and the signs of a wealth greater than her imagination had ever conceived. chapter ix. tells an old, old story. sarah wanless did not quite suit the housekeeper, mrs. weaver, as still-room maid. she was not sufficiently acquainted with the work, and got flurried when the deputy tyrant of the household scolded her, which, after the first few days, was many times a-day. so, after a month of this purgatory, she was transferred to the nursery as under-nurse to the children of lady harriet's daughter, mrs. morgan. there her position was in some respects improved, though the head nurse was a woman of vulgar instincts, and given to nagging, as women verging on forty, face to face with old maidhood, often are. doubtless she had had her sorrows and disappointments, and felt that the world had been unkind to her--a feeling which justifies much unloveliness here below in other folks than old maids. however, sally endured her lot in hope, and soon began to find a certain pleasure in her work, for she liked children. there were two boys and a girl, the girl being youngest, and at this time two years old. the drudgery was, therefore, less severe than if there had been babies in arms, and, as the children were not naturally ill disposed, though imperious as became their birth, they and the new nurse soon got on very well together. part of every fine day was spent out of doors, and that also helped to make petty troubles bearable. it is only bitter care and sorrow that seem heavier under god's sky than within four walls. at first the upper nurse always formed one of the party, and was rather a nuisance in her persistent endeavours to check what she called "ungenteel beayvour." her voice was a chorus ever intruding with "master morgan, you mustn't do this," or, "miss ethel, you shocking girl, don't beayve so," and the key did not conduce to harmony, but, like every other discord in the world, it deafened the ears that heard, and the young ones enjoyed themselves in spite of it. nor did this drawback last long, for, some three months after sarah entered the nursery, fate, or the spirit of mischief, ordered things so that the head nurse once more fell in love. the object of her mature affection was the new farm bailiff, a gigantic welshman some few years her junior, and the prosecution of their courtship made the presence of sarah inconvenient. as a stroke of policy, therefore, she was often sent off with the two elder children to wander through the park and gardens, or into the woods, as the whims of the children or her own might dictate, while the "baby," as the youngster was still called, went with the other nurse in quest of mr. peacock. then sarah was in bliss. she danced along with the little ones, singing as she went, romped around the old park trees or through thickets, and often brought her charges home splashed and dirty, with their clothes all torn, but in a state of delight not to be described. and the scoldings that ensued did not somehow hurt sarah's feelings much. life was strong within her, and her heart was light. all this time, in fact, sally wanless was developing into a lovely woman. her slim, rather lanky figure grew rounder and increased in gracefulness. her face, ah! how many a lordly dame would have envied her, would have thanked heaven for a daughter with such a face! it was impossible to look on it and not be struck with its beauty. her complexion was fair like her mother's, but her features resembled her father's. the face was a fine soft oval, the nose aquiline, the brow perhaps narrower than strong intellect demanded, but high and open, and the eyes of greyish blue were large and full of dancing mirth. a certain sensuousness lay hid in the lines of the mouth, but it betokened rather an unformed character than a bent of disposition. under the right guidance, sally's mouth might yet grow as firm in its lines as her father's. poor lass, would she get that guidance? well, well, think not of evil now. try rather to picture this fair peasant maiden in your mind. behold her all innocent as she is, romping through the park with the children, dressed in her clean, neat, print gown, with her rich brown hair perhaps broken loose and tossing about her shoulders as she runs hither and thither, chased by the shouting little ones. and as you look, remember that this fair lass was but a peasant's child, born to serfdom at the best. between her and those children there was hardly a human bond. think not of evil, i have said; and yet at this very time much evil was at hand for poor sally. just as i have set her before you, all rosy and bright with exercise, she ran full tilt one day almost into the arms of captain cecil wiseman. the captain was lounging along with his gun under his arm, smoking a pipe of wonderful device, and with a couple of setters at his heels, who barked half in surprise at the sudden apparition. sarah came rushing from behind a clump of rhododendrons, and almost fell at the captain's feet, through the violent wrench she gave herself to avoid a collision. cecil wiseman opened his heavy eyes, stared in impudent wonder for a moment, and then, as if moved to involuntary respect by what he saw, doffed his hat, and mumbled something or other, sally did not wait to hear what. blushing all over her already flushed face, she darted off to hide her confusion, followed by the shouting children, from whom she had been fleeing. after that meeting the captain suddenly found his nephews and niece interesting. he condescended to play with them so often, that his mother began to take heart. her son was going to turn out a fine fellow, after all, and, poor boy, she had perhaps been too hard on him for his wild oat sowing. it was part of the education of gentlemen in his position, and, no doubt, contributed to endow them with that contempt for the feelings of the common people proper to aristocrats. so lady harriet was happier. her son found means to come home oftener, and stayed longer when he did come. he even took some interest in the affairs of the estate, went to church occasionally, and asked some of the farmers' names. never for a moment did cecil's mother imagine that he was merely engaged in stalking down the under nurse of his sister's children, and that the greater the difficulty he experienced in doing so, the more his passion incited him to acts of apparent self-denial. he grew an adept in hypocrisy in order to put the girl, his mother, everyone, off the scent, and it became positively astonishing to see how his habits changed, and his wits sharpened, under the stimulus of this now exciting hunt. he displayed cunning and ingenuity of device worthy of a better cause. in early summer, for example, he spent whole mornings teaching the two elder children to ride, walking or trotting with them all round the park, and to all appearance heedless of the nurse girl, who was left alone with the youngest, when her superior chose to be elsewhere. at other times, if he met her with the children, which was often enough,--it seemed to be always by chance,--he would be busy discussing horticulture with the gardener, fishing, or going for a row on the pond, off to the warren to shoot, always occupied, and always ready to express noisy surprise at finding the "pups" there, as he called the little ones. when he went on wet days to play in the children's room, it was always in company with his sister, who, however, was usually driven off within a few minutes of her entrance, by the row that "uncle" systematically started. all this and much more, captain cecil wiseman, the nobly born aristocrat, put himself to the trouble to do, and suffer, in order that he might work the ruin of an innocent, unsuspecting, country maiden. for long, he had no apparent success, for sally wanless was shielded by her very innocence, and she was also very shy, so that it was most difficult to get near her. by degrees, however, she became familiar with the captain's face and figure, and his presence ceased to be either repulsive to her or to frighten her. not very tall, heavy in make, and, with fluffy, sodden features, and a skin already over red from dissipation, captain cecil was by no means an attractive person. his voice, too, was harsh, and his eye evil. for all that, patience and cunning carried the day. labouring incessantly to throw the girl off her guard, he succeeded, and as soon as he had done so, he knew the game to be in his own hands. it is a terrible mystery this power which evil-minded men gain over women. they fascinate them, as snakes are said to fascinate birds, till they become powerless, and fall helpless and abandoned into the jaws of destruction. by slow degrees then the captain drew sally into his power, and seduced her. he had stalked his game, with more than a hunter's patience, but he triumphed. bewildered, surprised, horrified, the poor girl scarcely knew what had befallen her, felt only a vague dread and consciousness that somehow, for her, the world was all altered, that where joy and hope had been, there was now the ashes of a burnt-out fire. ah, poor young lass, this squire's son, this noble captain of her majesty's dragoon guards, had done his best to destroy you, body and soul, and boasted of the deed. in proportion, as the task was hard, he exulted at his success. to destroy the life of a virtuous girl was almost a greater triumph to him than to be first in at the death of a fox. to win this triumph he had stooped to lies black as hell, and cared not. his end gained, his interest in his victim at once sank, and soon he hated the sight of her sad, tear-swollen face. ah, god! that these things should be, and men have no shame for the shameless seducer, no horror of his blasting career. but had this maiden no guilt, then? yes, she had guilt of a kind. she was inclined to be vain of her beauty, and her betrayer fastened on that weakness. his flattery pleased her, till she grew, half unconsciously, proud that so fine a gentleman as this captain creature should notice her. this pride begat conceit and a foolish confidence in herself that made her betrayal easy. after what her parents had taught her, she ought to have known better. true pride, a jealous care for her womanhood, should have possessed her. instead of that she grew giddy, and so was allured to her destruction, like the moth to the candle. thus far she was guilty; but wilt thou condemn her, o censor? and if so, what of the man? is it not strange that he, so much more guilty, should go scatheless; that to "society," as the froth at the top insolently calls itself, this base creature, this loathsome seducer, should be as good as ever? for him the lofty mothers of the aristocracy would have no censure, in him their daughters, should whispers of his deeds reach their ears, would have a livelier interest. amongst most people he would bear repute as a "man of gallantry," a "dreadful lady-killer;" at worst, a "rake" of the dirt-heroic kind that heightened rather than otherwise his eligibility as a match for the fairest of the daughters exhibited for sale in the markets of belgravia and mayfair. a man that could ruin a country maiden and then fling her from him, all heedless of her broken heart, with no more thought of her than if she had been a dead dog, must, in the view of society, be a man of spirit. as for the ruined one--faugh! speak not of a thing so repulsive. let her die in the street. chapter x. brings the reader back to the respectabilities of the parsonage. after the high-born captain cecil wiseman had accomplished his purpose, sarah wanless lost her attraction for him. with a fiendish guile he had tracked her down, and now that the chase was over, the victory won, why should he bother himself further? sarah's beauty was not less; nay, was rather enhanced by the new sadness that shaded her face; but the captain hardly looked at her again. these confounded wenches were so given to whimpering, and this serene aristocrat hated "scenes." had sally been bold and of brazen iniquity, like many of the stained ones he knew in the greenrooms of london theatres, she might possibly have held this lust-consumed reptile a little longer in her power, but being only a simple village maiden slowly awakening to the horror of the fate that had befallen her, the sight of her tearful face made him avoid her. what had he to do with the consequences of sin and folly? was not the world bound to make his vices pleasant to him? this thoroughbred captain in her majesty's dragoon guards left sally then, and sought other attractions, his appetite whetted by his success. even as he snared sarah wanless his roving eye had sighted other game. the vicar's wife, mrs. codling, had several daughters whom, like a judicious mother, she was anxious to marry well. these the captain had deigned to notice somewhat in the course of his long visits at the grange while sally's destruction was in progress. at church more than once his greedy eye had rested on the vicar's pew with a hard gaze of admiration, and on week days his footsteps had begun to stray towards the vicarage often enough to set mrs. codling's brain a-scheming. it would be indeed a triumph, she felt, if the heir of squire wiseman could be got to marry one of her daughters. but that was a job which needed the most delicate handling, for if lady harriet got wind of her designs, the consequences would be more than mrs. codling felt able to face. at the best the parson's daughter would have been considered no fit match for so great a personage as this ill-doing guardsman, but, as things were, the very idea of such a marriage would have been received at the grange with unutterable scorn. times were in many ways changed with the vicar since that day now long past, when his soft, fat hands were uplifted in holy repulsion of the horrible rabbit-slaying criminal who stood before him doomed. for one thing he had gathered a family around him, and for another he had been overtaken by poverty--a poverty that came of greed. the living of ashbrook was worth in money about £ a year, and there was a good vicarage with a large garden and paddock, so that altogether mr. codling was as well off in the country as he would have been with £ a year in town. to this income, itself above starvation point many degrees, mrs. codling had added an income of nearly £ , , which made the home more than comfortable. a contented man would have been very happy with such a provision, judged even by the standard of the _spectator_, which admires christianity with a well filled purse, but mr. codling wanted more, like most parsons. one would think from the eagerness shown by such to possess themselves either of rich wives or of large incomes made out of nothing, that somehow christianity and poverty are things that cannot exist together. luxury is certainly essential to the true faith of the majority of modern parsons. without it they shrivel up, grow morose, full of evil thoughts, such as envy and malice, and instead of an example are a warning. parson codling, then, took the common clerical fever. during the railway mania he saw men spring suddenly from poverty to great wealth, and very soon came to the conclusion that nothing would be easier than for him to do as they did. entirely ignorant of the game of speculation, codling took to speculating with the fearlessness of a master in the art, and following a common rut of fortune, he for a time succeeded. one land speculation in which he joined, and where the shareholders of a new line of railway were fleeced of fabulous thousands, cleared him, it was said, about £ , and he did well with sundry purchases of shares. naturally, success made him bolder. he bought anything and everything, became an expert user of stock exchange slang, and deeply versed in the "rigs" and dodges of the share market. some of the squires around began to envy him, others cursed him for a nuisance, but still he made money, and no doubt would have gone on making it indefinitely had somebody always been found ready to buy when he wanted to sell. unluckily for him, the day came when he could not sell at any price, and as he had been lifted clean off his feet by the elation of his early speculative successes, he only came back to the hard earth to find himself ruined. the crisis of did not break out without much foreshadowing to prudent men, but to the rev. josiah codling it came like the trumpet of doom. till the very last he clung to the hope that a rise in the share markets would set him free. that fatal october therefore passed like a whirlwind, leaving codling stripped of all he had previously made and some £ , in debt. to save him from public exposure and disgrace, his wife had to part with nearly all her property in worcester, and they were glad, ultimately, to escape with as much as yielded about £ a-year beyond the value of the living. had all the creditors been fairly paid they would not have retained a penny, but codling struggled and wheedled, and, it is said, shed copious floods of tears over his hard fate, until pitying people let him go. such an untoward end of the glorious visions in which the vicar had indulged naturally embittered his home circle. mrs. codling could not forgive her lord for ruining her, and took to reviling the poor wretch early and late. the miserable fellow would have borne his misfortunes ill enough even if sympathised with. being reviled, he bore them not at all. he drowned them in drink. at first he stupified himself with brandy; but that proving too dear for his means, he relapsed to gin, and led a sodden existence. all too late his wife saw the blunder she had made, and tried to wean him back to sobriety. failing in that, her pride and cunning came to the rescue. she smothered her tears and veiled her sorrows before the world, hiding at the same time her husband's infirmity as much as possible from the public eye. the lot was hard, her punishment severe, but she braced herself to it with a woman's patient courage, and straightway opened her heart to new hopes and dreams of better days to come. henceforth the aim of her life must be to get her four daughters settled in life. alas! the settlements would need to be humbler now than those she had once dreamed of. the tables of the great ones of the parish were not now open to them as they had been before her money had gone, and before codling took to drink. there was not even a barrack in the neighbourhood, with its successive bevies of foolish young officers to prey upon--only leamington with its dawdling crowds of nobodies. ah, well, the most had to be made of the opportunities that offered. these being the circumstances of the family at the vicarage, this the mental attitude of mrs. codling, who could wonder that her soured spirit rose once more within her with a feeling akin to gratitude towards a merciful providence, when captain wiseman came in her way? despair had sometimes nearly marked her down for his prey, and lo! here was the prince of the fairy tale. dresses were forthwith obtained for the girls such as they had not worn for years, for happily their mother had still a few jewels left which she could pawn or sell. and being handsome girls--two of them particularly so--they soon attracted a good deal of the roving guardsman's attention. at first a little flirtation with them gave a pleasant variety to his existence, rendered just a little monotonous by the labour of stalking down sally wanless. the shrewd mother contrived that his opportunities should be frequent. the old pony chaise was furbished up anew and the girls took to driving the fat, wheezy, old pony about the country in a manner new and far from agreeable to it. in this way they managed to cross the captain's trail much after his own style with sally. during that winter he hunted a good deal, and the codling girls developed an enthusiasm for the sport which made them haunt meets far and near. months before the captain flung sarah from him he had thus become familiar with the sight of these girls, and no sooner was she well destroyed than he began to develop a preference for the youngest but one--adelaide or adela codling. miss adela was a buxom, roystering, kind of girl, of handsome features, light brains, and abundant animal spirits. already, though but nineteen, she had a reputation amongst her acquaintances of being what the pump-room gossip of leamington styled "fastish." she affected _outré_ fashion in dress, and was always ready to lead a revolt against established proprieties. to play the boisterous hoyden at a harvest home or farmer's christmas dance, where she could scandalise all the sober domestic virtue of the parish and make every buxom farmer's lass wild with jealousy by her extravagant flirtations with the young men, delighted miss adelaide beyond measure. this free young lady was most to the captain's taste of all the four, but her mother felt disappointed at the preference. it not only left the eldest girl out in the cold, but made mrs. codling's task more dangerous. adela had no prudence, and unripe plans might become known to lady harriet through her folly. besides, her ladyship would probably be harder to persuade into accepting adela as a daughter-in-law than any of the other three. so thought the prudent, anxious mother; but she was too wise to interfere. a risk must be taken in any case, and she resolved to let the captain have his way, bracing herself to greater vigilance and higher flights of matrimonial diplomacy than ever. and she found a much more efficient ally in the captain than she had expected. men, in her opinion, were never prudent in love matters, but this man was as cautious as a diplomat on a secret mission. it did not suit him any more than mrs. codling that his mother should scent danger in his visits to the vicarage. in such a place as ashbrook and in ordinary circumstances all their care would have gone for nothing; but, happily for their plans, her ladyship did not go out much now, and called seldom on any of her neighbours. her husband, the estate, her miserable son, any one of them would have given her grief or work enough to keep her well at home. when she went abroad, therefore, it was generally for an hour's drive out and home, or to leamington or warwick on business. just now she was struggling hard not to lose the dream of hope that had for a short time gladdened her heart about her boy, and was failing in the effort. notwithstanding his long visits to the grange, his demands for money continued to be insatiable. he always put his necessities down to the bad conduct of the jews. they had got him fast, he said, and would give him no peace. but as bill after bill got paid, only to be succeeded by a new crop, lady harriet began to doubt the truth of this tale, and in her unhappiness shut herself up more than ever. the captain had only to spend a little of the money wrung from his mother in bribing her maid, and he was free to destroy all the women of the parish if he chose. chapter xi. reveals the sorrows of a mere peasant maiden. lady harriet did not even hear of her son's ongoings with sally wanless, though to the menials of her household and the gossips of the village they had furnished for months back one of the most delightful and engrossing topics of conversation that the oldest among them had ever been permitted to share in. it was better than the most sensational romance of the _london journal_; for was not this drama being acted out before their very eyes? they took the same delight in it, though keener and deeper, that they would have taken in any sport involving the death of the weaker creature, and few among them cared in the least for the girl whose danger they failed not to see. among the young her beauty excited envy, and they virtuously rejoiced that her pride would yet bring her sorrow. all, young and old, loved an intrigue for itself; and would not have spoiled their sport for the world. the servants at the grange carried their tales to the village, and the village gossips drew together in the fields, on the road, by the pump, at cottage doors, to roll the sweet morsel of scandal under their tongues. all this time sarah's parents were kept in ignorance of what was afoot. neither dreamt of danger to their daughter, because neither was aware of the fiend who pursued her. as for sarah herself, she behaved better after she had begun to feel the spell of the captain's fascination upon her than before; was more demure and obedient. this she was half unconsciously, half from a wish to propitiate her father and mother in view of she knew not what. pausing not to think, heedless of the smiles and whispers, the nods and winks that greeted her wherever she went, all of them signs full of warning to one disposed to alarm, free, happy-hearted sally wanless plunged into the abyss. ruined and forsaken, she came to herself only to find that she had entered a new world. sorrow and darkness dwelt within where light had been; and around her all was changed. the silent hints of her fellow servants gave place to open taunts and scorn. none pity a fallen woman so little as her fellow women, and sally's fellow servants were not long in making her life an unrelieved agony. the bloom forsook her cheek, her step became listless, her eyes dull and sunken. she literally withered before her tormentors, and they pitied her not. a change so great soon attracted the attention of her parents, especially as for a little time her manner in her visits to them became suddenly dashed with recklessness. the wretched girl, in trying to be her old self, was, like a bad actor, overdoing her part. her parents grew uneasy, and the uneasiness gave place to alarm when sally grew pale and silent. afraid to speak, hoping it might be some cross in love matters, which most young lasses experience, both her father and mother yearned after their daughter. at length the accidental discovery of some trumpery trinket of the captain's, which sally wore round her neck, led to the revelation of all their daughter's peril and loss, although the knowledge came too late. the ribbon by which the trinket hung had become loose, and it fell on the floor. before sally could pick it up, her mother's hand was on it. holding it to the light, she found that it was a gaudy looking locket, and instantly demanded where sally had got this. taken by surprise sally answered at once, "from captain wiseman." "from captain wiseman! oh, sally!" that was all she said; but the tone and the look went to the girl's heart and tore it with a new misery. her father turned in his chair and looked at her for a minute or two without speaking. she took his gaze to mean rebuke, and mechanically tried to escape from the house. then her father spoke. "stay, sarah," he said. "go with your mother to the boys' room. we must know what this means." equally mechanically she obeyed, suffering her mother to lead her away. left alone, thomas said that he did not think of anything particular for some time. he just sat still as if animation was suspended, a dull feeling of pain, a sense of stunnedness possessing his whole being. the fate of his pretty daughter was before his inward eye all the time. he gazed at it and realized it, but it did not move him. his emotions were frozen up. it was some time before the mother and daughter came back, and the girl would not face her father. he rose to bid her good night. she hesitated a moment and then muttering, "i shall be late," turned and fled from the house. mrs. wanless told her husband that she could make nothing of the girl. "i plead with her," she said; "i scolded her and tried to work on her feelings, but she just hid her face in her hands, and rolled and moaned like to break her heart." poor, lone lass, her tale needed no words to make it plain. already it was known to all the village, and this sunday night the hideous reality entered the minds of her parents, breeding there a sorrow the keenest they had ever known. at the grange, too, who was there knew not? that sunday night sally was actually late as she had said, and the scolding, seasoned with brutal taunts, which she had to endure from her superior, might have stung the girl to retaliation had not a deeper pain laid hold of her spirit. she paid no heed to the taunts and broad allusions of her neighbour, whose heart was perhaps the bitterer from the recent failure of her own last effort at husband-catching. a fire raged in sally's heart that seemed to be consuming her very life. her one hope now was to die. that would be best. as soon as possible she crept silently away to bed. how blessed is the darkness to the soul that is ashamed! sally's grief, deep and bitter though it might be, was little to the sorrow and pain she had left that night in the home of her childhood. the deathly calm in her father's mind was succeeded by a storm before which sally's sobs were as the wailings of an infant. his spirit had been stirred to its depths by many storms in the past, and needed much to rouse it now, but what he had learned to-night was surely enough. in the darkness of the night the full horror of what had befallen his daughter and himself was pressed in upon his thoughts till his heart rose in bitterness unspeakable. was it true, then, he asked himself again and again, that his child, the darling of his old age, had been ruined by this cub of the oppressor? had this blackest of all wrongs been added to all the rest? there was but one answer, and as he brooded over the shame and misery that would fall upon his daughter and on all the family, as he thought of this heartless seducer going through the world scathless, passion swelled within him. an impulse to vengeance swept over him. had the captain been within reach of thomas's hands then, the old man might have slain him. yes, he felt he could die cheerfully for his daughter's sake, were her wrongs fully avenged. ah, if he could thus bring back her good name! but would not mere vengeance be sweet? to take the scoundrel's life-blood! he set his teeth, his frame shook under the gust of his terrible agony of grief, hatred, and shame, and he longed for the daylight that he might go and find the seducer of his precious one. the desire for revenge was strong upon him with the strength of a great temptation. then his mood changed. the fierce fires burnt themselves low. weary and exhausted he lay still, and for the first time became aware that his wife was silently weeping by his side. he had thought she slept. a softer mood stole into his heart, but he could not speak of the grief that consumed them both. in the morning he rose, weary and sad, to go about his day's work. days passed before he made up his mind what to do, and during these days, his wife waited with anxious patience, too wise to worry her husband. at last, he resolved to bring her home. anger and revenge were conquered thus far, and love and pity for his child were victorious. "we must take sally's shame to ourselves, mother," he said to his wife, when his mind was made up. "i know it will be hard for you, harder than you think; but she is our flesh and blood, and we must stand by her. what say ye, wife?" "an' what can i say, thomas? i've been wishin' her home ever since sunday, for i'm sure she'll die where she is. oh! my poor darling; god pity her. the sin is surely not hers;" and mrs. wanless wept, but her heart was glad that the father was ready to shield and forgive. sometimes, as she watched the hard stern lines of his face, or his fixed gaze of wrath, she had dreaded a sterner decision. but now again thomas's better nature had triumphed, and his faith in the everlasting justice inclined him to mercy. as this talk took place on the thursday evening, it was thought best to wait for sally's return on sunday, rather than to excite comment by going at once in quest of her. her mother had stolen to the grange on the previous monday morning, to find out whether sally had gone back, and had then seen and heard enough to make her dread another visit. but they waited in vain for sally that sunday. she never came near her father's house, but spent her hours of liberty alone in the woods, afraid to face her father, and vaguely wishing she were dead. her mother must go and tell her what had been decided on, after all. so on the monday morning, mrs. wanless again set out for the grange. with sickening heart and trembling steps, she crept along the sweeping avenue like a thief in dread of being seen. the day was grey and cold, as the latter days of april often are, and the leaden clouds threatened rain. it was one of those days when spring has, as it were, turned back to give a farewell hand-shake to winter. a chilly blast swept along the ground in gusts, and made one shiver; the world looked dreary and forbidding; birds were silent; and as one looked abroad on the cheerless world, and mournful sky, one grew unconsciously to have a shut-in kind of feeling. if only a rift would appear in that grey canopy, then one might breathe and have hope. who has not come under the spell of such days? to whom have they not seemed to increase the bitterness of sorrow, to add weight to the burden of disappointment? mrs. wanless was probably all the sadder this morning that the day was sad, though her thoughts were too fixed on sally to be overborne by any idle impressions from the leaden aspect of the landscape. or perhaps she felt that the day and her feelings were in wonderful unison. a beautiful spring morning might have jarred on her spirit. spring sunshine is so gladsome, so full of hope, and mrs. wanless had no hope, only a longing to bring her daughter home and hide her away out of the world's sight. intent on her errand, she approached the house--a large, square building, with innumerable staring windows and a bare lawn in front, where a poor woman could find no hiding place--but as she neared the servants' door round in the east end of the mansion she paused irresolute. she remembered the reception of a week ago, the whispers and nods and innuendos of the wenches who came and went with a wonderful bustle of extemporized activity as she stood speaking to her daughter just by the door. if sally would but come out, she thought, as once and again she turned back unable to muster courage, and cowered by the garden wall, which approached that end of the house, wherein lay the servants' quarters, with her old shepherd's plaid shawl gathered tightly round her. but no one came save menials, out of whose sight the poor bruised mother would fain have kept herself. the children of the gentlefolks would not be out of doors that day. it was too cold. at last mrs. wanless nerved herself to a desperate effort, left the shelter of the garden wall, and walked as firmly as she could up to the kitchen door, and feebly knocked. she waited a long time as it seemed to her palpitating heart, but no answer came. her knock had not been heard, so she tried again, this time a little less feebly. it was no use--nobody minded her. would she go away? nay, she dared not do that. she would wait, somebody was sure to turn up presently. the resolution was hardly formed when the door opened, and her daughter and she stood face to face. a scared look came into the girl's eyes as she exclaimed, "you here again, mother;" the blood mantled to her forehead, and she half stepped back. but her mother caught her by the arm feverishly, and led her away from the house, saying-- "oh, sally, i do so want to see you, but i didn't like to come in again. why didn't you coom home last night?" sally tried to frame some excuse, but her voice failed her; she turned pale as death, and hung her head. "why didn't you, dear;" her mother repeated, in a dull, mechanical sort of way. sally's feelings overcame her. she burst into tears, and through her sobs gasped out-- "i thought you--father--wouldn't let me come back." her mother did not at once reply, she was too pained, and also too keenly alive to the eyes that were at many a window gloating over her daughter's misery. almost roughly she tightened her grasp on the girl's arm, and hurried her round the corner of the garden wall, never halting till safely behind a clump of evergreens. then she released her daughter, turned, and clasped her to her breast. both wept now, and, as she wept, the poor, stricken mother cried-- "ah, sally, sally, my pet, my pet, you mustn't think on us like that," in tones that expressed reproach and love and pity and misery all in one. but no word of reproach did she utter. it was some time before the two were composed enough to say much about anything. sally roused herself first, for she suddenly recollected that she had orders to be quick back. she had been sent out for milk for the nursery. "i must run, mother," she said hurriedly, "or mary crane will nag at me;" and she made as if to go. "wait a moment, sally dear," her mother answered. "i had nearly forgotten what i came for; a-dear! a-dear! you mustn't stand no more of mary crane's naggings, sally; an' if she begins to-day, you're to give up the place and coom home. now, mind, sally," she added, eagerly, "that will be best, give up your place;" for sally seemed to shrink from the idea of coming home. "but father----he"---- "it was father as said it, sally dear. father says you must coom home. he can't a-bear to see you suffering and abused in this big house as you've been so wronged in; an' ye'll do what father wishes, won't you, my pet?" "is it really true, mother. are you sure that father will let me coom home?" "my dear, he sent me to tell ye. oh, say ye'll coom home, sally?" "but father'll be angry with me and scold me, mother, and i can't abide that--oh, i can't, i can't," and sally shook her head despairingly, the gleam of hope vanishing from her eyes. "no, sally, your father wonnot scold ye. surely you know him better nor that. he is too heart-broke about ye a' ready to have any scoldings left, an' he was never hard to ye. coom, now; say you'll give up the place, and it will be all right." this and much more the mother said, pleading as for her daughter's life, and she won her point. once sally's dread of her father was somewhat removed, she caught eagerly at the prospect of escape from the grange. any change would be like going from hell to heaven that would take her away from that place of torment. so anxious was she to get away, once her mind became fixed, that she never once thought of the burden she would be to her parents. but for the inexorable month's warning, she would have taken flight that night. chapter xii. wherein we see breeding--high and low. mother and daughter parted almost the moment that the former was assured of sally's readiness to come home, and sally, nearly half-an-hour late, sped on her errand. it was with a glow on her face and a light in her eye that had been absent for many a day, that she ultimately reappeared in the nursery. her bright looks seemed to add fuel to the wrath of the upper nurse, who burst out on sally before she was well in at the door. "i shan't stand this no longer, miss, depend on't," the soured, elderly maiden wound up. "i'm a decent woman, i ham, and don't mean to be disgraced by the likes o' you, not if i knows it. i've stood a lot too much from you a'ready, shameless gipsy that ye are. your hongoin's is just past bearin', and i mean to tell mrs. morgan this very day as 'ow she must get another nurse an she means to keep you." nearly if not quite as much as this had been said to sarah wanless before now, and she had borne it silently with a bitter heart, because she found herself alone in the world. but to-day she was bolder from the consciousness within her that she was not yet wholly forsaken. driven to bay by this woman's tongue, she turned upon her, and with flashing eyes, a voice trembling with passion, cried-- "and i have stood too much from you, mary crane. you have behaved to me worse than if i had been a dog, and you're a hard-hearted, selfish woman. what right have you to trample upon me, as if you was a saint and more? you've a black enough mind any way, and mebbe you've done worse nor me before now, for all your spiteful pride and down-looking on a poor, heart-stricken girl, as never did you no harm. shame on you, mary crane, i would not exchange my lot for yours yet, if it was to give me a heart like yours. and you need not trouble mrs. morgan with your tales. i've made up my mind to stand your insolence no longer. i'll go to mrs. morgan myself and give up my place, and tell her how you've used me." this unexpected outburst fairly took the nurse's breath away. she stuttered with inarticulate passion, and danced again in the agony of rage. a torrent of abuse was on her tongue, but she only managed to hiss out an opprobrious epithet at the girl, at the sound of which sally faced her like one transformed. drawing her form up to its full height, and holding her clenched hands close by her sides, she marched straight at nurse crane, and fairly stood over her with her face a-flame and lips set, every feature rigid with scorn and wrath. crane's heart died within her. she cowered and hid her face in her hands. "say that word again, mary crane," sally demanded in a low, passion-thrilled voice, but mary crane uttered never a sound. "say it again, will you!" sally repeated in low tones. "dare to call me that name again, and i'll----" but sarah had no threat big enough for her wrath. she caught her breath sharp, and came closer to her enemy, suddenly bent down and laid hold of mary crane's head with both her hands, forcing her to turn up her face. but crane would not look at her. with a half wail, half shriek, her knees gave way under her, and she sank on the floor wriggling as if about to take a fit. sarah looked at her for a moment contemptuously, and then turned away, while the heroic mood was upon her, to seek an interview with mrs. morgan. that lady received the announcement of her under-nurse with her usual high-bred indifference, merely saying, "oh, very well, you can go." but, as the girl turned away, something in her manner made mrs. morgan scrutinise her keenly. the girl seemed changed even to the eyes of the aristocratic lady, and, perhaps, she, too, began to suspect her, for sally thought that she saw an expression of mingled contempt and annoyance on mrs. morgan's face, of which she caught a last glimpse on turning to shut the door behind her. it might have been only her own heated fancy, but, all the same, sally's brief spell of courage was over from that moment. happily mary crane vexed her no more openly, but she took her revenge in secret. mrs. morgan's suspicions had been in reality so far excited as to cause her to make further inquiries. she called mary crane into her room one day and questioned her about "this girl, sarah--what's her name?" mary crane for a little time would tell nothing. she now both hated and feared sally wanless, and until she could discover exactly where the girl stood with her mistress, she was not going to commit herself. her remarks were therefore cautiously shaped at first, with a view to draw her mistress out. she prevaricated, dropped hints, and tried to measure the extent of mrs. morgan's knowledge before revealing her own. there was not only the girl to consider, but also the captain. it might be more than her own place was worth to "blab on the capting." either mrs. morgan was obtuse or ignorant, for she gave no response for some time to mary's stream of words. "you see, 'm, as sarah's a light sort of girl, 'm, as is allus a-runnin' after the men, 'm. she mayn't be bad, 'm, but she don't beayve proper for one in her station. i'm sure, 'm, i've told her times enough as no good id come of her upsittin' ways, and her ongoin' with the gentlemens--_a_ gentleman in particler--'as hoften shocked me, 'm." thus she ran on, till mrs. morgan, quite bewildered, exclaimed-- "but what has the girl done, then, mary?" "laws, 'm, 'ow should i know, 'm. hax herself, 'm, hax the--_a_ gentleman as you knows, 'm, knows hintimate, 'm." "a gentleman i know intimately--what do you mean? i know no gentleman. surely you don't mean captain wiseman?" "well, 'm, i don't know, 'm. you see, 'm, i thought the family mightn't like it----" "that will do, mary, that will do. i want no more beating about the bush. tell me, yea or nay, has captain wiseman been noticing this girl?" "yes, 'm, he 'as, 'm; but i don't think----" "never mind what you think, you are sure of that fact?" "oh, yes, 'm, quite." "ah, thank you; then that'll do for the present," and she motioned to crane to leave the room. that worthy departed not quite satisfied. she had doubts as to whether her mistress liked to know the truth, doubted also if she had done sarah as much harm as she wished to. but she showed none of these mental clouds in the servants' hall. there, in sally's absence, she was triumphant, and the "said she's" and "said i's" with which the tale was embellished, served to emphasise the triumph which she indicated that the interview had been to her diplomatic skill. she only confessed to one regret. mrs. morgan had somehow cut the interview short, "just when i was a-goin' to tell her all about it." mrs. morgan, however, did not need to be told all about it. she knew the habits of her brother, and, her interest once aroused, managed to put this and that together so well as to arrive before many minutes at a tolerably shrewd conclusion. "this, then," she said to herself, "is the secret of captain cecil's wonderful reform." that reflection at once brought her face to face with the question--shall i or shall i not tell my mother? it was not a question so easily answered as it seemed. mrs. morgan was inclined to do it from her dislike of the captain, who had always absorbed too much of his mother's attention--ought i to have said love?--for the good feelings of the rest of the family. but, then, this very preference made it difficult to decide. she might enrage her mother, and there were family money matters yet to settle, in the disposition of which a mother's displeasure might cause permanent changes. for these and other reasons, "too numerous to mention," mrs. morgan hesitated. she would wait on events, on her mother's moods and her own; so avoiding a decision. that seemed easiest, and yet it proved the hardest course to mrs. morgan, who had quite a vulgar woman's delight in retailing scandal. before a week was out she found it expedient to tell all. her mother and she held a long conference in secret on the friday after sally had given up her place. what they said to each other will never be known; but one decision came of it that was at once acted upon. sarah wanless was dismissed that night by the orders of lady harriet, who sent her own maid with the message. "jane," as she was called, delivered it with curt insolence, and at the same time flung a month's wages, which lady harriet had likewise sent, on the table, with a significant gesture, as if to say, "you are too unclean, sally wanless, to be touched by a superior person like me." when sarah went home, which she did as soon as her small box was packed up, and told her parents that she was dismissed, her father was so indignant that he wanted to send the extra weeks' wages back. his wife, however, persuaded him that it was better to let things alone. "the money," she said, "is her right, and can do us no harm; and sally is well out of _that_ den anyway." and mrs. wanless was right. chapter xiii. throws a little light on a subject sometimes unctuously condescended upon by preachers of "words." i wonder where christians find authority for our modern treatment of illegitimacy? preachers of all sects are never tired of telling us that they preach peace and goodwill among men. their religion is to redeem all wrongs, to make mankind better, to lift the fallen, and cheer the broken-hearted. so at least they say, but when we look for deeds, we do not find many in this lower world. the fulfilment of the christian ideal is prudently (?) adjourned to the next, above or below. wherever one turns in contemplation of modern christianity, one finds a ghastly divergence between its professions and its practice, and at no point is this more visible than in the behaviour of the churches towards women who have sinned. taking their tone from a corrupt society, which desires to enjoy its vices, and to prey upon its women without taking upon itself responsibilities which the poor besotted turk even never dreams of shirking, the dispensers of the gospel of peace lead the chorus of reprobation which is heaped upon the woman, who, like the virgin mother so many of them profess to worship, bears the burden of maternity in shame and loneliness. no distinction is drawn between woman and woman--rarely or ever is the guilt of the man considered; the duties of fatherhood can be neglected by the seducer with tacit, nay, often with the full approbation of society and the churches. but on the woman a penalty falls that is worse than death. she has yielded to the seducer, and henceforth she must be pressed down and cast out, unless--and the distinction is important--she be a sinner of the highest caste in society, when the sin may be covered with lies as with an embroidered garment; or, unless she belong to the lowest, where the difference between morality and immorality is too often nearly indistinguishable--thirteen centuries of more or less well-paid-for priestly instruction notwithstanding. speaking broadly, however, the law of social life condemns the "unattached" woman and her offspring to obloquy and degradation, and it does this not merely without the protest of the churches, but by their full sanction. for ages priests of all hues have arrogated to themselves the power of regulating the union of the sexes; without their rites and blessings no two human beings could become man and wife. when two were thus united the universal cry was "what god hath joined together let no man put asunder." the priest, in fact, arrogated to himself the power of the deity. his "joining" was god's, and none but his held on earth or in heaven. greater blasphemy has hardly ever been committed even by priests. by this abominable fraud--this false assumption of authority--deeper social wrongs have come upon the world than from any other priestly assumption whatsoever. the priest has habituated society to disregard all ties formed in what is called an illegitimate manner. it has sanctioned the desertion of women by their seducers, and what is even worse, the desertion of children by their fathers and mothers, for, of course, if the parents were not priest-joined, the offspring must be of the devil. a man may, according to this dogma, have lived the life of a fiend, ruining women, bringing children into the world to live or die as the poor law or hunger should order; but this is no hindrance to his obtaining the blessing of "the church" should he one day take it into his head to submit to be married to one woman--for gain, for any reason, or none. scoundrel and saint are alike welcome to the priest's services and blessings if the marriage fees be paid; and with the full concurrence and blessing of any sectary in the world, a man may disjoin himself from a woman or women he has lived with for years in order to take another, if there was no marriage uniting him to these he deserted. god, of course, could not be expected to "join" those who never sought a priest's help. the whole basis of this treatment of the sexes is grossly and blasphemously immoral, and the fruits of it are visible on every side. to it we owe the highly nourishing character of the "social evil" quite as much as to man's inherent depravity, and we shall never really begin to overcome that evil until the whole of the teachings and assumptions of the sects, as applied to marriage and divorce, are swept clean out of the public mind. who is there to whom the history of some poor woman betrayed and deserted is not known--a woman, it may be, tender-hearted and true, as worthy of wifehood as any of her sex? did society pity that woman? have you pitied her? perhaps, but would you not also gather up your garments and pass by on the other side, if you met her in public? habit is so strong, you will say in excuse; yes, yes, habit is strong, and the woman is weak. why should one heed her? she brought her fate on herself. leave her to perish. the man she loved has left her, and the world treats her no worse than he. if her own sex spits upon her and hisses at her, what can man do? these be the thoughts of most men over broken lives, and most readers may therefore feel impatient that i should linger over the ruin and fall of a poor peasant lass. yet what can i do? my task is to write the history of this family; its sorrows and failings, its burdens and tears, are all that it has wherewith to claim the world's attention. and to my thinking, they mean much. their lives were real to them, as yours, reader, is to you, and they had a part in making up the pitiful social life of this decrepit old england possibly just as high as yours. therefore must i ask you to turn aside with me for a moment to look again on sally wanless, when she reappears from her seclusion--a shame mother, with a babe born to sorrow and shame in her arms. i have said reappears, but she has not yet ventured to meet the, to her, scathing gaze of the people in the village street. she steals into the little garden behind her father's cottage, and there, in the soft september afternoons, you would find her seated beneath the shade of an old apple tree, face to face with her doom, and looking at it as one who has no hope. in some people the soul wakes late; some, indeed, appear to pass through the world without its ever awakening. they may be bright-hearted people, full of animal life and spirits, capable of much work and a few sacrifices, yet they have never risen up to full consciousness of the meaning of life, to its higher impulses, and its terrible risks and obligations. no great inward commotion has ever visited them; they vegetate tamely on till they reach the grave. others, like thomas wanless, awake early to consciousness of the mystery and burden of existence, and battle with hopes and fears their lives long. would that his daughter had also found the realities of living ere the curse of life had come upon her! but she did not. her awakening came too late. while it was possible she hid from herself the meaning of her fall, and refused to look at the awful questions which for the first time surged in upon her soul. it was not possible for long. when the wail of her infant first broke on her ear she awoke and was stricken with the full consciousness of what she had lost. her past life stood out before her as something apart; its hopes belonged to another state of existence, to a life in which her future could have no part. all lonely at the heart she had borne the pains of motherhood, and a feeble infant lay by her side bearing witness against her now and evermore. no father welcomed it. the sound of its feeble cry brought a forsakenness about the mother's heart nothing could remove. in vain her mother soothed her. in vain her true-hearted father, bravely hiding away his shame and grief, took the little one in his arms and fondled it with a fatherhood that assumed all the sin and all the responsibilities of his child. sarah could not be comforted. blank despair took possession of her. why was she not dead? why did the child live? surely they would be both better dead and buried out of sight for ever? this was the under tone of her thoughts now, save when at times, and as she grew strong again, gusts of passion like her father's would sweep over her soul. then she felt for moments as if she could compel the world to stop and witness her revenge. should a fit like this master her, what might one so desperate not do? hers was a soul awake and in prison, but if it burst its bonds? let the gay and frivolous, the light talkers, the young and giddy, the tempter and the tempted, stop to look upon this ruin. is it a small thing, do you think, for a man to have the undoing of this woman and child laid to his charge. he passes in the world unharmed, nay, admired, probably, the very women in secret whispering admiringly of his prowess. but does that make his guilt the less? is there no retributive justice dogging his heels, from which all the glories and adulations of earth cannot shield him? look at the history of such men, and be they kings or carters, you will find that they become degraded wretches, moral abortions, repulsive ruins of humanity, as the result of their crimes against woman. yea, the woman is avenged, though only after death comes the judgment. but sally wanless thought not of revenge, that calm september evening, on which my memory pictures her through the mirror of other eyes, seated, half in shadow, half in sunlight, beneath the old apple tree. her baby lies asleep on her lap, the sunlight glints through the leaves on her hair, and flickers now and then across the infant's face--but she heeds neither child nor light. a far-away look is in her eyes--a look that tells of longing, for what will never be hers again on earth. the evening sun-glow throws into relief the pale, pinched face with its unresigned hungry look, for in that face there is no welcome to the sober autumn warmth. the dull fire of sally's eyes is the fire of an unquenchable pain. where is there room in her life for joy any more? her eye does not trace heaven's battlemented walls, in those grand masses of white clouds--the blue expanse beyond is not eloquent of the near world unseen. no; her thoughts are self-centred; she never looks upward. day after day she sits here, still and silent, as one stunned. her spirit seems at such times as if beaten to the earth, never to rise again. the child sometimes fails to interest or rouse her. when its wails demand attention, she will fondle and kiss it much, as if it were made of wood. alas; poor sally, winsome lass. how many such as you go aching through the world, broken-hearted, and forsaken,--waiting for the judgment to come, when, as they still, perhaps, lingeringly hope, the wrong shall be righted for evermore. her parents yearned after their daughter, and yet feared to break in rudely upon her brooding spirit. neighbours came too, full of kindly promises and curiosity, ready to speak volumes of comforting words; but sally shrank from contact with them,--preferred the garden seat, or her own garret window. thomas became broken-hearted about his child. he could not get her to so much as look at him. often times he laid his hands softly on her bent head, and whispered--"sally, my lass, cheer up a bit. don't break mother's heart and mine, by taking on so." but sally merely wept, and bent still lower over her babe. they could not get her to go out during the day--only at night would she creep along by the hedge-rows, in the most unfrequented paths, accompanied by her mother, and hiding the child as much as possible, beneath her shawl, when it was not asleep at home. her morbid fancy made her think that everyone knew her shame. she could not see people talking together without a rush of blood to her face, as if she felt the talk must be of her. and how fared it all this time with her seducer? as the world elects, it shall always fare. from it he had neither frown nor word of rebuke. those that knew his sin thought as little about it as he did, and that was apparently never at all. he took no more notice of sarah wanless and the infant girl she had borne to him, than if they had been dogs. nay, far less, for they were hateful to his selfish, ease-loving nature, and therefore he rigorously banished them from his sight and thoughts. just as before, he took his "pleasure" coming and going to town, and living the life of sottish ease, as became a man of fashion and a court soldier. at the vicarage his welcome was just as warm as ever, although every soul within its walls was quite aware of the ruin he had brought on the poor peasant's daughter. mrs. codling's verdict naturally was, that it served the gipsy right, and and her father too. he was always an insolent fellow, who never showed proper respect for the olympians, and this would perhaps take down his pride a bit. this was the view of the matter insinuated to adelaide, who had become "skittish" when the news first reached her ears, thereby, however, increasing the ardour with which the captain followed her. mrs. codling had quite made up her mind, that through adelaide she would succeed in catching the captain as a son-in-law, and therefore took occasion to put "matters in their proper light." "of course, my dear," she would say, "we shall have to get rid of the girl and her brat, for it might be unpleasant to have them in the parish; but the captain can manage all that, never fear, and if the whole nest of them remove to another part of the country, the parish will have a good riddance. i daresay a few pounds will do it, for all that old rascal's pride." adelaide was soon satisfied, and soon, also, her flippant tongue had disseminated this view of the case all over the parish; for adelaide would talk to the housemaid when no better listener was to be had. chapter xiv. brings the doubtless reluctant reader once more into contact with a "gallant" wooer, and gives further proof of the difficulty which besets all attempts to harmonise truth and fashionable "christian" respectability. thus was the captain's way made smooth to him, and the country side soon became as full of his ongoings with "the parson's girl" as ever it had been about his intrigue with sally wanless. thomas wanless himself saw and heard much, for his cottage was not very far from the vicarage road, and the captain sometimes forgot himself, and passed his very door, instead of taking up the back street. doubtless it never entered the captain's head that any peasant would accost him about such a trifle as the ruin of his daughter. he ought rather to feel honoured thereat. what he did fear was the girl herself--he having a fine gentlemanly dread of "scenes." nevertheless, thomas's wrath was awakened anew at the sight of this "cool blackguard," as he most irreverently styled the captain, and soon the feeling extended to them that "harboured him." it was borne in upon his spirit, as the methodists say, that he must denounce the "ruffian." yes, yes, he thought, this must be done; till it was done there would be no relief in his mind. he had borne too much in silence, but that this harbouring of criminals should go on before his face was more than he could stand. "it will do no good," his wife said, as he declared his purpose to her. "good!" he answered, "who wants or expects good to come to them or us? i expect none, but i must and shall tell the blackguard what i think of him." yet this was easier said than done. he could not well stop the captain in the street, for he nearly always drove or rode, and never once passed thomas's cottage door on foot. it was utterly useless to call at the grange, for no one would see him. obsequious menials might even set the dogs at him, or trump up a charge against him and put him in jail. besides, thomas had no time except on sundays to go in quest of his enemy, and on sundays the captain was usually at the vicarage. in the bitterness of spirit which these thoughts brought him to, thomas might have, perhaps, done something rash, but happily necessity prevented him. he had now to work, if possible, harder than ever--early and late at the farm, on his allotment, in the little garden at his cottage, he laboured for the means of life--and did but poorly, though the work kept him up and helped him to control the fire that burned within him. at last the chance he longed for came suddenly, and without his seeking it. he was passing the vicarage garden one beautiful sunday afternoon in october, and heard voices on the little lawn which lay between the hedge and the house. laughter and the chatter of merry tongues fell on his ear, and one hard man's voice he instantly guessed must be that of captain wiseman. to reach that conclusion and the resolve to face his daughter's seducer then and there may be said to have constituted one mental effort. a rush of strong emotion swept over him and made him feel, as he opened the vicarage gate and slipped within, as if god had laid a mission upon him to lay bare the iniquity of this man and of those who countenanced him. under the influence of this feeling he straightened himself and strode across the grass direct to the place where he heard the voices. the scene that burst upon his view if possible heightened his courage, and i can well imagine that the rough, toil-gnarled, weather-buffeted old man looked like an avenging fate to those whose privacy he had thus invaded. always dignified and noble in aspect, the anger at his heart now doubtless made him heroic. mrs. codling and her four daughters were seated in a group on chairs in front of a sort of arbour that stood at the further end of the lawn, and a little behind the western end of the house, not far from the churchyard, from which it was hidden by a clump of evergreens and a wall. behind adelaide codling, leaning over her chair, and apparently teasing her in a familiar _nonchalant_ way, stood captain wiseman. as he faced the gate he was the first to catch sight of thomas wanless, and although he hardly knew sally's father by sight, he appeared to guess intuitively that a "scene" was at hand. his red face grew redder still, his talk suddenly ceased, and an ugly scowl gathered on his fleshly brow. mrs. codling's back was towards the approaching peasant, but the captain's sudden silence and the look he gave made her turn round just as thomas came up. she also divined that trouble was at hand, and, bridling up at the idea of that "disgusting creature" parading his girl's shameless conduct before her pure-minded daughters, prepared at once for action. "see if the vicar can come out, my dear," she said to the girl nearest to her, and then addressing thomas, cried in tones meant to be frigidly severe, but which only succeeded in being savagely spiteful-- "if you want the vicar, my good man, go to the house. you have no right to enter this garden." she might just as well have addressed the nearest tree. thomas paid no attention to her, but stalking up to the captain, glared at him till that wretched being shivered with fear in spite of himself. perhaps this "gallant" soldier thought wanless would knock him down, and that may have been the peasant's first impulse. however, he did not, but instead turned after a minute or so to mrs. codling, and asked, with stern abruptness-- "madam, do you know who this man is?" for a brief space the woman seemed scared and cowed by the tones and at the face she saw looming above her. "good gracious me!" she exclaimed, half to herself. "what does the man mean?" then, recovering courage, added, "i do believe the creature is crazy. i'm very sorry, captain wiseman, but really i fear you will have to come to the rescue of us weak women. do speak to him and order him off." at this two of the girls began to scream, but adelaide giggled. "since you give me no answer, madam," thomas struck in, "i shall tell you who this man is," and he stepped round and backed a little, so as to be able to look at both the captain and the vicar's wife. "this man is the seducer of my daughter," he continued. "he has committed a crime against her and against me which is worse than murder in the sight of god. he is the father of a helpless child that, for all he cares, might be flung into a roadside ditch to die. for his cold-blooded villainy that child and my child must suffer all their days. this man, i tell you," and here his voice rang all over the place, "this man has broken an innocent girl's heart, and you know it, madam, and you harbour him. shame on you!" mrs. codling grew pale with rage, and tried to speak; but before she got a word out thomas had turned to the captain, who took a step forward as if to collar him. "captain wiseman," he said; and at the sudden, sharp address that wretch paused, grew mottled in the face, and dropped the raised hand by his side. "what!" cried the labourer, "would you dare to touch me, you low, libertine scoundrel? stand back, lest i have to sully my hands by choking the life out of you, reptile that you are!" how much further thomas might have gone i know not, but by this time mrs. codling had got her voice and charged in turn. she ordered thomas to leave the place, and in shrill tones threatened him with the police, with the captain's vengeance, with the vicar's wrath, called him a hoary old sinner, and well-nigh swore at him for polluting the ears of her precious daughters with the story of his own girl's immorality. it was a fearful torrent, thomas afterwards confessed. until then he had never known the length of a woman's tongue. but it came to an end at last, for mrs. codling lost her breath. with a parting shot to the effect that thomas had only got what he deserved, and it was like father like child--low wretches all--the ruffled woman relapsed into a fuming silence. somehow the tirade brought relief to thomas's overcharged heart. it had an amusing and grotesque side that struck him forcibly in spite of himself, and it was therefore with a certain sense as of laughter welling up through his heart of sorrow--a feeling for which he would fain have reproached himself--that he answered in a voice that bore down all attempts at interruption-- "poor lady, i did not come here to quarrel with you, far from it. god forgive you for having such ill feelings, and you a parson's wife too. but what could one expect when you harbour scamps like this fine military seducer here? that's enough to make your heart the abode of all that is wicked. i bear you no malice though, far from it. i would warn you to mend your steps in time. you call me names, and accuse me of bringing my corrupt affairs before the pure ears of your daughters. take care, woman, take care. the serpent that destroyed my precious lass has not lost his fangs, and your turn to mourn as i mourn may be nearer than you think. because you have fine clothes and luxuries, and live in a grand house, you think that the ills of the poor cannot reach you. take care, i say, or the day may come when i can return your taunt, and tell you that if you had set a better example to your children, if you had guarded them against evil company, you might have been spared much sorrow and humiliation." with this, thomas turned to go, but the cries of mrs. codling arrested him. "the wretch," she shrieked. "josiah, do, for heaven's sake, speak to this low fellow. his foul abuse is positively sickening." and as the vicar shuffled up in obedience to the summons, his wife, turning to the gallant rake, added, "i'm so sorry, captain, that you should have been insulted here. this must be very disagreeable to you." the captain found voice to assure her that it did not matter. he didn't "care a hang, you know," and gave it as his opinion that a strategic movement towards the house might be the best end of the affair. "yes, yes," cried adelaide, "let us go indoors and leave that fellow to speak to the trees. he'll soon tire of that;" and she proceeded to gather up the stray wraps. but before this noble plan of out-manoeuvring an enemy could be carried out, the vicar and thomas had encountered each other, and mrs. codling had to rush to the defence of her husband. "my good man," the vicar had begun. "eh, thomas wanless is it? dear me! you forget yourself, sir. you mustn't behave in this way in my garden, and before ladies, too. go away, go away, and come to me to-morrow if you have anything to complain of. i'll see you in my study." "come to you!" answered the peasant in tones of amazement and scorn. "come to you! what could you do, you whited sepulchre? you god-forsaken, poor, tippling creature. mind your own affairs," and he laughed a bitter laugh, as once more he turned to go. the vicar also turned and slunk away with a scared guilty look, but his wife's wrath found outlet anew. "this is too bad," she screamed after wanless, "the low scoundrel. oh, captain wiseman, i do wish you would thrash the fellow to within an inch of his life. oh dear! oh dear! will nobody pity me," and she fairly wept with rage. the last that thomas heard of them was the captain explaining in his most persuasive words that "by jove, you know, it would hardly be the thing for me to take to fisticuffs with a low labourer-ruffian, else, by gad, nothing would have delighted me more than to beat him to a pulp, you know." thomas turned and gazed in the direction of the speaker as if to invite him to come and try, but the captain was busy hurrying the ladies into the house, and though near enough to see well the look on thomas's face, he showed no sign of accepting the implied challenge. it was mrs. codling who, brave to the last, and woman-like, gave the parting shot. "be off, you low blackguard," she screamed, and then disappeared within the house. it afterwards transpired that she caught sight of some of the servants watching the encounter with wanless from a window, and had much comfort from the blowing up she gave them. her superfluous temper was thereby wholesomely expended. thomas wanless went home that afternoon struggling with a feeling of disappointment in which there mingled a certain degree of shame. he had never entered the vicar's grounds with the intention of either wrangling with the vicar or his wife. a desire to expose a scoundrel was his sole motive, and he had felt a sense of the heroic as he proceeded to seek his daughter's betrayer. had that man abused him, or struck him, or in any way given him the opportunity of letting loose his wrath, he would have, perhaps, felt that a duty had been discharged. instead of that, thomas had merely fallen out with a sharp-tongued, not over-sensitive woman, and abused a poor parson who, whatever his failings, had not at the moment the least intention to act otherwise than as a peace-maker. the heroics had all vanished, and in their place was something grotesque and ludicrous. the more thomas thought of it the more he felt that he had that day vindicated neither his own honour nor his daughter's, and he resolved that henceforth he should bear his sorrows in silence. perhaps this self-condemnation was not quite reasonable, for mrs. codling provoked wanless most unjustifiably. she, at all events, got no more than she deserved. but the labourer was sensitive and proud, and these feelings made him prefer silent endurance to the loss of self-respect. could he have foreseen the consequences which seemed at least to flow from his one effort at bringing home to the sinner his sin, he might have had still greater doubts about the wisdom of the course he pursued on that calm october sunday afternoon. for one thing, the noise of the row between the captain and thomas was soon heard all over ashbrook. the vicarage servants retailed it with many embellishments to their friends--as a secret, of course--and adelaide codling herself let out some episodes to her then bosom friend. presently, and in due course, the tale reached the grange, where it took the circumstantial and easily comprehended form of an account of a great fight between the captain and the labourer, in which the latter had got two black eyes, a broken nose, cut lips, a thumb out of joint, and some said three, some five teeth knocked down his throat by the scientific handling of the gallant guardsman. it was nothing to the purpose to say that the labourer had been seen going about his work as usual, for people of his sort thought nothing of maulings that would have nearly been the death of superior persons--like flunkeys and valets. in some such guise, the story ultimately reached the ears of mrs. morgan, who was so much shocked at the idea of a fight between her brother and a low labouring fellow that she felt constrained to tell her mother, especially as the fight was alleged to have taken place on the vicarage lawn, in presence of the vicar's family. mrs. morgan, keener sighted than her mother now was, had for some time been aware of the ambitions of mrs. codling, so far at any rate as to disapprove of the constant intercourse which the captain had with the vicarage. in telling her story, therefore, it was possible for her also to lay emphasis upon the captain's relationship with the codlings, which she took care to do, and as she flattered herself much that she succeeded admirably. at first it seemed as if she had done nothing of the kind. the juno of the parish, lady harriet wiseman, forgot everything for a time in her wrath at the abominable presumption of a labourer in fighting with her blue-blooded son, and was eager to have him arrested and punished. in vain mrs. morgan pleaded the scandal such a step would cause; her wrathful ladyship would hear never a word. nothing pacified her till she had spoken to her son on the subject, and she had so set her heart upon making an example of that vagabond fellow, who had troubled the parish ever since she could remember, that she was positively more angry than before when her son told her that what she wished could not be done for the best of all reasons--there had been no fight. then her wrath fell partly on her son, and they quarrelled. she asked him what he was doing at the vicarage. he replied that it was none of her business, and left her with the seeds of jealous suspicion in her heart. next time the captain met his sister, he rounded upon her, and, according to common report, called her "a damned meddlesome fool" for interfering in his affairs. thus matters were likely to become ravelled at the grange. perhaps it was to lull suspicion and allow the heated atmosphere to cool that the captain soon after this betook himself to newmarket, and thence to london. before he went he gave a private hint to the head gamekeeper that he would not be inconsolable if that questionable functionary could manage to make out a case of night-poaching against thomas wanless. an underling heard of the plot and warned thomas to take care, and though thomas never poached, the warning was probably needful enough. the row at the grange was the least significant of the consequences that flowed from thomas wanless's visit to the vicarage gardens. mrs. morgan had apparently indicated to her mother the suspicions she entertained as to the aims of mrs. codling, and lady harriet, afraid to tackle her son about his amours, attacked mrs. codling instead. it was plainly enough intimated to that scheming woman that lady harriet disapproved of the constant visits of the captain to the vicarage, and mrs. codling was asked to discourage them. a sensible person would have deferred to the wishes of the greatest lady in the parish on a point so delicate, but mrs. codling proved to be anything but sensible. afraid of exciting the wrath of lady harriet by open hostility, she took refuge in underhand plots. the intercourse between the captain and her daughter, which had hitherto been carried on, in a manner, openly, was now changed, with the mother's connivance, into a secret intrigue. by this change the whole moral attitude of the family became debased. captain wiseman was astute enough to see through the would-be mother-in-law's motives, and cunning enough to egg her on in a course of duplicity and folly. his mother need know nothing, he represented, till all was over. no doubt she would at first resent a secret marriage, but when she saw she could no longer help it, her wrath would soon cool down. with talks like these it may be supposed that adelaide codling, apt pupil as she was, soon came to look upon a secret marriage as just the one thing desirable and necessary to secure her happiness; and, from this conclusion, it was but a step to destruction. probably enough captain wiseman had never any intention of marrying the girl, but whether or not, he certainly had abandoned it, when, after a few weeks of secret meetings and clandestine letter writing, he succeeded in persuading her to join him in london. she left home just after christmas, in secret to all appearance, though the village gossips would have it that her mother knew of her flight beforehand, and nobody doubted that she had run away after the captain. in vain did mrs. codling give out that her daughter had been called away suddenly to visit a sick aunt. nobody believed her. secret intrigues cannot be successfully carried out in a quiet country village, and what was declared to be the true version of the flight was current in all the country side within a week of adelaide's departure. chapter xv. is too bad for description. unthinkingly, mrs. robins repeated this story to mrs. wanless one day in sally's hearing, and immediately repented of her folly, for sally uttered a low moan and fainted. from that day the gloom of her life seemed deeper. with unceasing tenderness and watchfulness her parents had sought to bring back hope to their lost one's heart, and until this ugly bit of gossip reached her they had hopes of succeeding. sally had began to talk a little more freely, and, recognising the burden she was to her parents, was becoming anxious to get a situation of some kind--provided always that it might be far away, where no one would know her. but from the time she came back to consciousness on this unhappy day, darkness again settled down on her spirit. she sat apart brooding, as when first her babe lay on her lap. that babe itself appeared to grow almost hateful in her sight, and was left to the care of her mother, weary though the old woman was with work and sorrow. with mouth hard set and eyes looking wistfully sometimes, as if in terror, into a world far away from the home nest, sally heeded no one. her father again grew deeply concerned about her, and tried casually to draw her out of the trance that seemed to chain her soul. it was useless. she answered him in monosyllables or never at all. at times too, and when he spoke to her, a strange, resolute look would gather on her face. it was not exactly obstinacy, though she certainly was unyielding. rather was it a look as of one who had made up her mind to a great sacrifice, and feared that she might be betrayed into abandoning a duty. at that look her father always somehow grew afraid. it was evident to him that his daughter in some way connected adelaide codling's flight with her own life, but how he could not guess. but his fears were only too well grounded, for one day, sally, too, disappeared. watching her opportunity when the babe was asleep, her mother busy washing, and her father away at the farm, she dressed herself as if for a walk, went out, and did not return. all day her mother had endured the keenest anxiety in the hope that sally would come back. she was unwilling to send for her husband, and could only make one or two cautious inquiries through her nearest neighbours. they knew nothing; sally had been seen, of course, but she looked and walked as usual, with hasty steps and eyes bent on the ground. though startled at the news, thomas was not surprised. the flight only fulfilled his own forebodings. swallowing a morsel of food he started for warwick, and soon learnt there that a girl answering to sally's description had left by the slow london train at eleven o'clock. on his way home he bitterly reproached himself that he had not taken means to make such a step impossible. the two or three pounds that sally had brought home with her he had scrupulously left untouched, and these she had taken with her, as also the few trinkets given to her by the captain. thomas had no doubt whatever that sally had fled to london. for a time this blow positively dazed thomas and his wife. once more their nights were nights of sorrow and tears, and for them the mornings brought no joy. only the little one that lay sleeping in its wee cot was all unconscious of trouble, or that its presence added poignancy to the bitterness with which the labourer and his wife mourned for their lost one. thomas wanless, however, was not a man to abandon himself long to useless grief. the more keen the pain the more certain was his nature to rise and fight for deliverance, and before long he had made up his mind that, while he had life, his child should not be abandoned. cost what it would, he must follow her to that dreadful city whose horrors darkened his imagination. the lost one should be found, and, if god would but help him, saved. so he resolved, although as yet he knew not how his resolution could be carried out. for a day or two he brooded over it, afraid almost to tell his wife. the fear was weak. no sooner did mrs. wanless know what her husband meant to do than she became almost cheerful, and brought her ready wit to bear on all possible plans for enabling him to go. full of a true woman's self-sacrificing spirit, she at first proposed to go out charring, and so make a living, but the child made that impossible. the utmost she could do was to continue to take in washing, and even that would be a severe strain upon her, with a babe to tend. at best, too, it would afford her only a precarious living, and nothing possible could be left to help her husband in london. unable to decide on ways and means, but yet determined to carry out their one great plan, they ended by casting their trust on providence, leaving the future to take care of itself. as a first step, thomas went to stratford, and withdrew the few pounds left in the bank there,--some £ or £ . that done, he next went to consult his daughter jane, as to what help she could give. jane had little, and was saving that little to get married and to emigrate; but when the whole matter was laid before her, she, too, fell in with her father's plans, and offered him her money. "no, no, i cannot take that," he answered. "i hope to get work in london, and cash enough to keep soul and body together. i only ask you to help your mother with it, should she be in need--to help her all you can, in fact." jane promised all the more cheerfully, perhaps, that her little all was not immediately to be taken from her to help in this hunt after sarah. mrs. wanless also wanted her husband to write to tom, telling him the circumstances, and asking for help, but to this he would in nowise consent. "tom," he said, "needs all his money just now, and what he sends must come of his own goodwill. besides we shall get sally back again, and then the best thing will be to send her out to tom. she wouldn't go if she thought tom knew what had befallen her. jacob does not yet know, jane will keep silence, and there is no need for tom to be enlightened." this reasoning was unanswerable, and mrs. wanless had to acquiesce with what heart she could. nay, more than that, sore against her will, she had to submit to see her husband start for london with only £ in his pocket. the rest he insisted leaving with her, on the same grounds as he had refused jane's savings. "i shall get work, my dear," he said; "never mind me," and she had to yield. possibly thomas would have been less confident had he known what going to london, and work in london, meant; but in spite of his dread of the great city, his conceptions were so hazy, that in his heart, as he afterwards confessed, he never contemplated needing to work there at all. he hoped to find sarah in a day or two, or at most within a week, and once found, was sure that she would come home. his wife, it turned out, formed a truer conception of the task before him, although she had never seen a bigger town than leamington or warwick. but her fears did not abate her husband's confidence. without fixing dates, he told his master and all whom it concerned, that he expected to be back soon. struck, perhaps, by the generous purpose of the man, thomas's master thrust a couple of sovereigns into his hand as they parted, but thomas would not accept them. in spite of all the farmer could say, thomas stoutly maintained that he had enough. "my own means are sufficient," he said. "your own means sufficient," laughed the shrewd scot. "well, i like that! man, how much hae ye got?" "five pounds," said thomas. "five pounds! five pounds to go to london, and look for a runaway girl with! good heavens, man, that'll no keep ye a week. ye'll starve, wanless, lang afore you find the lassie, if ye ever find her. god, man, if that's a' you can scrape for the job, you'd better bide where ye are?" "that i cannot do," thomas answered. "starve or not, i must go and seek my child." the farmer looked at him for a moment, gave a grunt of amazement, and turned on his heel, with the remark-- "well, well, wanless, a wilful man must hae his way, they say, and you must have yours, i suppose, but, faith, i doubt you'll rue your folly." and with that consolatory observation, thomas parted from a master whom he had learnt to respect, for the rough outside hid a not unkindly nature. the liking was mutual, and was not on robson's part lessened by the refusal of his man to take the two sovereigns. the sturdy independence of his hind was a thing so uncommon, that it excited his admiration, and stirred his somewhat dulled natural feelings of generosity. many a time during the absence of her husband, mrs. wanless had cause to bless the "missus o' whitbury farm" for acts of unostentatious kindness which that motherly scotchwoman needed, it must be said, little prompting to perform. on her husband's suggestion, she called one day at the cottage, and at once took an interest in the pale, sad woman, and the little child. thereafter, many little presents of milk, and of butter and cheese, found their way to the cottage from whitbury farm. and what mrs. wanless felt most grateful of all for, was that these things were never sent to her by servants, but were brought either by mrs. robson herself, or by one of her daughters. the farmer's wife did not try to make mrs. wanless feel that she was a miserable dependent upon her bounty. she had not in that respect, as yet, acquired english manners. in the lowlands of scotland, i am told, there is no abject class like the english agricultural labourer, and these hard scotch farmer folks had still to learn that their hinds were not human beings of like passions and feelings with themselves. chapter xvi. tells of a better quest than that of the holy grail. thomas wanless set out for london, within a week after his daughter's disappearance, on a dull, cold, january morning. his farewells were cheerful, but his heart was downcast enough, and the further the slow, crawling train took him from home the heavier his heart became. it was dark long before he reached paddington, to be there turned out upon the murky bewilderment of london streets, knowing not where to turn his footsteps. mechanically he followed the string of people and cabs flowing out of the station into praed street, the lamps of which showed faintly through damp, smoke-charged air. then he paused irresolute. a sense of loneliness and hopelessness stole over him, intensified probably by hunger, for he had eaten nothing save a crust of bread and cheese since early morning. he was as one lost, as helpless in the crush of whirling humanity as a wind-driven clot of foam on a storm-tossed sea. amid all this hurry and bustle of human life, where could he go? how find lodgings? fairly overwhelmed by the sense of desolation, he leant against a wall to try and collect his thoughts, and mentally prayed for courage and guidance. for some minutes he stood thus self-absorbed, when a rather kindly voice, speaking almost in his ear, roused him with a "good evening, mate. be you a stranger?" "yes," thomas answered, looking up. "yes, i came up from warwick to-day, and never was in london before." "be ye in want o' work then, or not?" the voice demanded. "why, yes, if i can get work i'll be glad of it; but it wasn't that exactly as brought me here. you see----." but thomas checked himself, and turned a scrutinising gaze on his interlocutor. he saw a rather grimy, ill-clad, thick-set man, whose face seemed as kindly as his voice, though its expression was barely discernible, except by the eyes, which shone brightly in the dull, yellow light of the neighbouring lamp. by the sack-like covering which the man wore on his back, and by his be-smudged appearance generally, thomas judged that he must be a labourer among coals. he was poor at any rate, and he looked kindly; so after a brief inspection, to which the stranger submitted in silence, and as a matter of course, thomas resumed-- "you see, i'm come up to look for a lass of mine as has runned away." "ah!" ejaculated the stranger. "ah!" and then he stopt with his mouth open, as if embarrassed by this sudden confidence. but he soon recovered himself, and after relieving his feelings with a "well, i never! who'd a thowt it?" came back to practical business, by asking thomas if he knew of a bed anywhere. thomas said "no." "well, then," answered the man, "you just come along with me. you ain't likely to find the gal to-night, and you can't stand there till mornin'! perhaps my missus can give you a shake-down in the corner somewhere." thomas was only too glad to accept the stranger's offer, and, hoisting his bundle of clothes over his shoulder, with his stick through the knot, he at once assented, and followed wheresoever the other led. they trudged along for a good half-hour, mostly in silence, for thomas was in no mood for talking, and his companion appeared to have no gifts in that direction. at length they reached the door of a dingy, tumble-down house in that now happily abolished slum, agar town, and into this the coal-heaver turned, saying-- "mind the steps, friend. the stairs is rather out of repair." in this rickety, filthy, old tenement the coal-heaver rented two rooms on the third floor. he had a wife and three poor sallow-looking children, who were frightened when they saw a strange man enter with their father. the man introduced his wife as mrs. godbehere, and said his own name was william. they invited thomas, who in turn had given his name, to share their supper, and he contributed to the feast the remainder of his bread and cheese. consulted about a bed, mrs. godbehere declared that it was impossible for her to give thomas one, and he agreed with her. she knew, however, a neighbour who had a lodging to let; s. d. a-week she charged for a small room with a bed in it--the lodger to find and cook his own food. in this room thomas was ultimately installed, and right thankful he was to find a roof above his head in that appalling city. the walk along marylebone and euston roads had impressed him more profoundly than ever with a sense of the vastness of london. it was like a first lesson in the meaning of infinity, and it struck him with a feeling of dread. oft times did he ask himself that night whether he was not, indeed, mad in attempting to trace sarah in such a sea of human beings. but mad or not, he resolved that his task should not be lightly abandoned. thus occupied he passed a restless night, and got up weary next morning. his bed, he found to his cost, was not over clean, and it was with a depressing sense of comfortlessness that he went to seek the godbeheres. the coal-heaver had already gone to his work, but mrs. godbehere directed him to an eating-house near by, where he went and had some breakfast. refreshed a little, he forthwith started on his quest. he would wander the myriad streets of london till he found his lost one, he had said to himself. and day after day, night after night, he did wander hither and thither through the most frequented thoroughfares of london, returning late and worn-out to his miserable lodging. a growing hopelessness lay at his heart, and made him sometimes almost unable to drag his limbs past each other, but he held on with a dogged persistence that was almost sullen. through godbehere's friendliness, and the pressure of his own heart agony, he had scraped acquaintance with sundry policemen, but they could give him no effective help. one would suggest that he ought to keep a close watch about the strand, another mentioned oxford street and the circus, or the haymarket. all agreed, in their callous sort of way, that "if she had followed a man to london, she was a'most sure to find her way to the streets before long." thomas did not doubt it. he knew the pride of his daughter too well to doubt it. rather than bear among her kindred the brand which her unfallen sisterhood would put upon her, she would face a life of open shame, where none could cast stones at her. so thomas held on his way, but never got a glimpse of his lost one. his means were nearly exhausted, for, pinch as he might, it costs money to live in london. yet he would not surrender. no, he would work. but how could he get work--he, a mere street loafer, and as lonely in london as if it had been a desert. london with its hurrying crowds, its rush of vehicles, its roar and bustle, and flowing lights, fairly broke down his imagination. he felt himself a helpless atom amid a mass of atoms that knew nothing of his misery, and grew too weak-hearted almost to seek for work. but for his quest, he felt--sometimes even said to himself--that he could lie down in the gutter and die. possibly his wretched lodging and the sleepless nights he had passed in his pain had much to do with this utter collapse of mind. i cannot decide, but he has told me that never till that time did he realise the sustaining power of a fixed idea. "i came to find sally," he said, "and i held to that." for that he braved not only hunger and cold, but the horrors of the night in the most abandoned thoroughfares of london. for that he mingled in the crowds of educated and other roughs that frequented theatre doors, and the doors of the coffee-houses and prostitute dens in the haymarket and gardens. for that he endured cursing and foul language inconceivable, stood to see men and women hurrying themselves into worse than a fiend's condition by their self-indulgence and sin. into low dancing rooms he penetrated, often to be bundled out neck and crop as a spy, or at best to be horrified by filthy jokes or still more filthy exhibitions of obscenity. that very agar town, in which he lived, he again and again explored, facing its stenches and miseries, its wantonness and riot, and worst of all, its terrible crowds of weary, sin-rotting, broken-hearted, down-beaten, and unfortunate humanity. often did he see women there peering out of their dingy, rag-stuffed windows, that bore traces of having once been as fair as rash sally. nay, the very rag-pickers who lodged in its garrets, godbehere assured him, had many of them once been "flaunting women of the town." women of the town, indeed, and was not the town doomed? thomas thought that it was. to him london was already hell. the fumes of abominations choked his mental senses, and made him long to escape. nevertheless, his mind was fixed. he could not go without his child, and in order to carry out his purpose he must work. by the friendly help of godbehere he ultimately obtained employment in the coal yard at paddington-wages s. d. per day. he felt rich and strong for his task henceforth, and as soon as he could he removed to a rather better lodging near his work. at a waste, as he considered it, of several evenings' lodging-seeking, he found a small clean room in the neighbourhood of lindengrove, for which, including a plain breakfast, he paid s. d. a-week. his landlady was an elderly widow who kept three lodgers, and she rather demurred to thomas's demand for a latch-key, so that he might go in and out at nights as he pleased, but his sad, earnest face, and his remark that he was looking for a lost daughter, conquered her fears. thomas had his key, and felt a kind of thankfulness that if he did find sally he could now bring her to a better refuge than the vermin-filled hole in agar town. five weeks had well-nigh passed, and thomas was no nearer his object, to all appearance, than the day he arrived in london. but now that he had work he felt more assured of his purpose, and therefore less sad. so he sent home cheery letters to his wife, bidding her hope yet for sally, telling her he felt that god would not forsake her or them. all his letters his wife got read to her by the schoolmaster, and then passed them on to jane. money he would have sent, but could not. all that was left after paying his food and the clothes he needed for his work he spent in his quest. for work did not cause him to abate his vigilance, nor did it much reduce his wanderings. as soon as the yard closed he hurried home, changed his clothes, swallowed a cup of tea, and, sometimes on foot, sometimes on the top of an omnibus, he made his way to the usual haunts of vice. there he would wander, haunting theatre doors, peering into refreshment bars, and sometimes spending sixpence to get inside a low music hall. the sights he saw froze his very heart's blood with horror, and he often asked himself--is all this vice, then, the product of our civilisation? where is the christianity in the habits of a people who permit tens of thousands of their fellow beings to rot and perish as a matter of course, and prate about the social evil in their sleek respectable way as if it was a dispensation of heaven? how many of these poor girls, whose lives had been blasted, who now brazenly mocked "society," and laid snares for the destruction of its darlings, had mothers, perhaps, even now weeping for them in secret? as he thought of these things he felt as if he could wander, like jonah, through the streets, preaching the doom of this city of sodom, whose streets already savoured of the bottomless pit. thoughts of this kind were brought home to him with terrible force one night that he saw adelaide codling. he was standing watching the play-goers leaving drury lane, when his eye suddenly caught the face of that girl amid a group of women and "swells," amongst the latter of whom was captain wiseman. she was showily dressed, and had a profusion of glaring jewellery scattered about her person, and she was talking fast, and laughing in a loud, defiant sort of way. but wanless could see that she was not happy. as she drew near where he stood he could mark the restlessness of her eye, and the nervous boldness of her manner, and he pitied her. is this what she has come to already? he thought to himself, and involuntarily shivered. ah! if his own sweet lass was now like this, could he reclaim her? would it not be too late? adelaide codling passed on, unconscious of the presence of her fellow-villager, saw not the pleading look that crossed his face, the eager step forward he took as if to speak with her. she entered a cab with wiseman and two others, and disappeared from sight. the eagerness of thomas to find his lost one was intensified after that night. hardly a night-watchman in all the district escaped his importunities, and from most of them the old man met with a rough kindness that soothed him even in his absorbing grief. one old sergeant he met in the strand, and who had more than once listened to his descriptions and his queries, advised him to alter his beat. "there are a great many haunts of streetwalkers," he said, "besides the strand and the haymarket. why not try the south side of the river, or up islington way? there is the east-end, too, and oxford street and holborn. yes, none knew where a girl may get to, once she cuts adrift in london. such heaps of them takes to the streets nowadays, that you can find some in every thoroughfare in london." wanless felt the observation true, alas! too true, but what could he do? his means would not allow him to search the whole city. he took a wider range, however, going by turns to one part of the town, now another, sometimes as far as the angel and upper street, islington, sometimes south to the elephant and castle, and the vice haunts of walworth and the borough. occasionally, too, he searched the bridges across the river, but always with a sort of dread that his doing so was a confession that he believed his girl capable of drowning herself. chapter xvii. has in it, alas! nothing that is new. the winter was moving away thus, and thomas wanless was rapidly losing his vigour. hard work and constant vigils, coupled with a sore heart, and a weak appetite, pulled the man down, and by february he had to confess that the long walks were too much for his strength. mercifully, the weather often made it impossible for him to go out at night, and when it did clear up, he contented himself with going somewhere to watch the stream of people passing by. "i will wait," he said to himself, "for my darling to come to me." he could not even stand very long, but usually sought the rest of a friendly doorstep, and at times a recess on a bridge, watching, with tender wistfulness, the stream of life hurrying on around him. strange to say, he had more than once seen adelaide codling since that night at the theatre, and somehow that always gave him hope. her face seemed to say to him, "your daughter cannot be far away." often the "unfortunates" came and talked to him, not rudely in their wantonness--alas! poor, forsaken waifs--forsaken by all save god--but soberly, as if moved to speak to this still, sad-eyed, grey-faced old man, who looked out on the world so keenly, and withal, with such tenderness in his look. they would tell him fragments of their stories--sad enough all, and wonderfully alike--tales of seduction, and heartless desertion, varied only by the degree of turpitude usually exhibited in the man. at one time it would be the tale of a light-headed girl, seduced by her master--a married man--who huddled her out of sight, to hide his shame. many came from garrison towns, the seduced of the officers there; quiet country parsonages gave their quota of girls educated to feel, and therefore hurrying the faster to their doom, when once cut off from their families by the devices of their betrayers. one woman excited thomas's pity deeply. though wasted and fast dying, she still had traces of great beauty when he first met her, leaning wearily on the parapet of waterloo bridge, looking out on the water below. she flashed defiance--the defiance of a hunted being--at him when he first spoke to her, but he soon won her heart, and got her story. a fair blonde, oval-faced english girl, she had been comely to look upon, and was wholesome at the heart even yet, for all her misery. she was the victim of a parson, now high in the counsels of the church. the villain was but a curate when he seduced her--the only child of her mother, and she a widow. he promised to marry her, of course, and wiled his way to her heart. then when he had got all he wanted, and found that she was with child, he cast her off, daring her to lay the babe to his paternity, and spreading a story to the effect that he had found other lovers at her heels. broken hearted, she buried her head and obeyed, but the shame killed her mother. "i could not die," the daughter said to wanless; "i have often tried to kill myself, but fear keeps me back now, after all that's past, and it kept me back then. my child died, thank heaven! i was alone in the world. i drifted to london seeking work, and found it hard to get. when i offered myself for a servant's place, people said i was too well educated, and suspected that something must be wrong. i could have taught in a school, perhaps, but had no one to recommend me. i was hungry; i hated mankind, and cursed them. i said i would betray and destroy men for revenge! and the way was easy! oh, so easy. it has led me here; and now if i could but jump over and be done with it all!" involuntarily thomas put forth his hand to hold her back; but he needed not to do so. the poor woman sank fainting at his feet. he tried to rouse her, but could not; and finally put her in a cab and took her to the hospital. within a week she died there of brain fever. the doctors said her strength had been too much reduced by privation before the disease seized her for her to be able to survive it. and she was only one among tens of thousands all pressed down the same loathsome course by our "christian civilisation." nay, forgive the epithet, there is nothing christian about it. it is only the civilisation of a priest-born respectableness. the droning hypocrites that we are! at times wanless stood by the doors of low music halls and of theatres, but the door-keepers usually ordered him off. he looked too like a detective for their taste. then he would watch the doors of confectioners' shops, too--those shops which cloak brothels of the vilest type--staring there in the face of day, unheeded by the authorities, who must wink at some kind of outlet for the suppressed brutal passions of polished society. more than once adelaide codling had crossed his path at such times, and still in the company of wiseman; but each succeeding time he saw her, wanless thought the boldness of her manner had an increased dash of despair in it. the fate that she had come after was eating into even her light, giddy heart. the last time he spied her was one night when he stood close by the door of a café near regent street. the light fell full on her face as the captain and she passed in from their cab, and her face was painted. already, then, the bloom of youth has vanished, thomas thought. her hard but not unmusical laugh had given place to a grating cackle, and a leer of affected gaiety had replaced the merry eye. poor, erring wanderer, and had a few months brought you to this? already was the shadow of society's ruthless judgment upon you; could you even now see the blight of your life, the dreary street, the hard world's scorn, the early grave? ah! yes, and who shall describe the devouring agony that gnawed at that girl's heart? did she not see day by day the ebbing away of wiseman's love? love? god forgive me for defiling that sacred word. it was only his brutish passion that was dying. he was becoming tired of this toy his handling had smudged, and she saw it all--prepared herself for the hour when he would turn his back upon her and go to hunt down other prey. and only six months ago! ah, parson, parson, has the iron not entered your soul? what is this that your christian civilisation has done to your daughter? has it made you ashamed even to look for her? poor, hide-bound, "respectable" sinner that you are, you shall behold her again, though you sought her not--though her mother bade you close your heart and home against her for ever, because she had with that mother's help allowed herself to be betrayed. one cold march night thomas wanless had strayed on to waterloo bridge in his coal-begrimed dress. something, he could not have said what, had impelled him to go there that night. he had taken a hasty supper at a coffee-house near the coal yard to save time. he felt he was "superstitious," yet he went, whispering to his heart "who knows but i may see my child to-night," and trying to be cheerful. paying the toll at the north side, he wandered backwards and forwards till the chill from the river began to enter his bones. the one he looked for came not to him--still he could not drag himself away. he sat down in a recess and cowered below the parapet for shelter, waiting for he knew not what. it might have been ten o'clock. he had sat quite an hour, and was nearly going to sleep with weariness, inaction, and cold, when a rustle of a woman's dress near him spurred his faculties into active watchfulness. peering into the darkness, made visible by the feeble shimmer of the lamp on the parapet, he discovered a woman approach him, crouching down in the recess on the other side of the bridge, weeping bitterly, though almost in silence. raising himself on his elbow, he was about to speak to her when she started up with a wild despairing gesture, and, jumping on the seat, flung away her shawl. "yes," he heard her say to herself, with a wailing resoluteness, "i'll do it; i'll die," and with one look of farewell to the world, where no hope was left for her, a look of despair and horror that gleamed through the darkness, she clutched the parapet and drew herself on to it. it was all the work of a moment, a flash of time, but wanless had sprung to his feet at the sound of her voice, and was half across the bridge by the time the woman got upon the parapet. then he saw her last look, and the gleam of a neighbouring lamp revealed her features. she was adelaide codling, and the recognition so startled wanless that he staggered and for a moment stopped short. in that moment she was lost. even as the cry burst from his lips, "adelaide codling, adelaide, adelaide," she threw herself over, as if the sight of a man approaching her had given the last spur to her despair. he reached the parapet but in time to hear the dull splash of her body in the dark tide rolling beneath. as she felt the water close round her, a cry--weird, unearthly, terrible,--broke from the girl's lips, and then all was silent, till the waves threw her up again on the other side of the bridge, when a hollow, dying wail wandered over the river--the last farewell of this poor waif of humanity, sacrificed to the pleasures of the scoundrels who "bear rule" among us, and call themselves refined. wanless was already at the toll-house, panting and hardly able to speak. but his look was enough, and presently there arose a shouting to lightermen and bargemen. boats were put off by those who had heard the splash and the cry. a crowd gathered to see. in little more than a quarter of an hour a shout rose from the water far down towards blackfriars, for the tide was running out, and the girl had gone rapidly down stream. "saved! saved!" was the cry, and they had, indeed, found the body of adelaide codling. she herself had gone. the cold had killed her rather than the length of time she had been in the water--the cold and the shock. thomas waited to hear the result of the doctor's efforts at the police office, and then saw the body deposited in a neighbouring deadhouse. no clue to her identification was found upon the body, the poor girl had taken care of that, more mindful of her friends in death than they of her living. but thomas felt bound to tell the police sergeant what he knew. he gave his own address and that of the rev. josiah codling, but could not tell where the girl lived, or what had been the immediate cause of her suicide. the police, seeing that the upper classes were in question, decided to keep names quiet for the present--but communicated with the girl's father, and arranged that the inquest should be delayed for two days to permit him to attend. thomas himself was told that he would be summoned as a witness, and then went his way. he hardly knew how he got home to his lodgings that night. the inquest on the body of adelaide codling was held in the upper room of a low-class public house in upper thames street. thomas wanless obtained liberty to absent himself from work that day, at his own charges, of course, and punctually at three in the afternoon--the appointed hour--he entered the parlour of the inn. he was carefully dressed in the now threadbare and shiny suit of black, which had been his sunday costume for many years. a small knot of men had gathered in the room, and a desultory kind of chat was going on when thomas entered. two or three were grumbling at the nuisance of these "coroner's 'quests," which took men away from their business, the majority were "having something to drink," and all were utterly indifferent to the business that had brought them there. presently the coroner bustled into the room with his clerk. the latter hurriedly called over some names, which were answered, and then produced a greasy-looking volume in leather which he called "the book." this talisman he put into the hands of the man nearest him, to whom he mumbled some cabalistic words, at the end of which the book was passed along and kissed in a foolish sort of way by the chosen twelve. having in this manner "constituted the jury," proceedings commenced with a procession to "view the body," led by the coroner. it lay in a rough wooden shell coffin, in a dark hole attached to an old city church, and used as a mortuary. wanless followed the little crowd in a stunned sort of way. to his simple, rustic mind it was a dreadful thing that men should be able to go so carelessly about such a solemn duty. at the mortuary he was surprised to see the vicar. the old man stood by his child's head, gazing at it in a helpless, dazed way, as if hardly conscious of what it all meant. no emotion was visible on his face, no tears broke from his eyes when a policeman, softened by the sight, led him gently away to the inn parlour out of the way of coroner and jury. the "viewing" over, the court returned to the inn to take evidence. of that there was very little, beyond the personal testimony of the police, until thomas wanless was called. when his name was mentioned, thomas saw the old vicar start, and for the first time look up with something like intelligence in his glance, then a scared, shrinking sort of expression stole across his features, as if he had suddenly thought of home and cruel village tongues. but he listened quietly to all the old labourer had to say. it was not much, for a proper-minded coroner would not have suffered "family secrets" to be too freely exposed, nor had wanless himself any desire to tell more than was absolutely needful. "i saw the deceased," he said, "climb upon the parapet of waterloo bridge opposite where i sat, and i ran towards her, but before i could reach her she had gone over. as she prepared to spring she gave one last look behind her, and i knew her to be our vicar's daughter. i called her by name, but it was too late." the sad cadence of thomas's voice, and his obvious superiority of mien, did not prevent one of the jury from asking him in a brutal tone-- "and what were _you_ doing there, my man?" "i was looking for my own child," answered the old labourer. "at first i thought i had found her, till i saw the face." "ah!" ejaculated the coroner. "had you then----?" but his better impulse stopped him, and he did not finish the question. thomas, however, understood it, and replied at once, almost under his breath-- "yes, your honour, i have lost a daughter, and captain wiseman, the same ruffian destroyed her that enticed away the vicar's poor lass now lying yonder." his words sent a shudder through the room, and thomas was vexed he had spoken them ere they were well out of his mouth, for they seemed to goad the vicar into a state of active terror which gave him energetic utterance. the more vulgar of the jury pricked up their ears at the sound of scandal, and one of them said--"can you give us a clue then as to how this poor girl came to drown herself?" "oh, for god's sake don't," the vicar interposed, starting to his feet, and stretching forth his hand beseechingly towards the labourer; "for god's sake don't expose it, wanless." then he collapsed again, and began to weep violently, so that wanless felt sorry for him, and was relieved when the loud voice of the coroner was heard again ruling that "it was quite unnecessary to rake up disagreeables." he saw the "aristocracy in the business," in short, and it pleased him to be strict. thomas, therefore, was asked a number of venture questions, whether he knew where the deceased lived, or whether he was aware of her circumstances, &c., questions to which he had mostly to answer "no." his examination was, therefore, soon ended, and the coroner was beginning to tell the jury that it was a common case, requiring the usual verdict, "suicide while in a state," merely, when, to everybody's surprise, the vicar intimated that he had a statement to make. he rose, trembling visibly, and looked round with a vacant eye till he caught sight of wanless, who had fallen back, and was standing near the door. then his look changed, and, with something like energy, he exclaimed--"i wish to ask you, gentlemen, not to believe what that man says. he has a spite against my family, and against the family at----" here he stopped suddenly, afraid to mention the name of his child's destroyer, and the solemn voice of the peasant was heard saying--"god forgive you, josiah codling," softly, as if to himself. but the vicar heard, and his trembling increased so much that when a blunt juryman interposed with--"how do you account for your daughter's suicide then?" he could only stammer a feeble--"i'm sure i cannot say." "but surely you knew her whereabouts--what she was doing?" "n-n-no, i cannot say i did quite. my wife--that is her mother--told me that she was visiting an aunt in kent, and i believed it was so." "but were there no letters, then? didn't your daughter write to you at times?" persisted the juryman, though the coroner began to fidget and look black. "letters!" repeated the vicar, as if struck with a new idea; "no, i believe not. yes, i think she did write to her mother--to my wife that is to say. at least i saw the envelope of one letter. i picked it out of the coal scuttle in the breakfast room, but adelaide--that is my daughter--did not write to me--not that i recollect." "humph! i see, 'grey mare the better horse,'" muttered the juryman--a bluff, not unkindly-looking man, and then there fell a moment of deep silence on the court. the vicar stood, bearing himself up with his hands on the table before him, and seemed to have more to say. but when after a brief pause, the impatient coroner ejaculated--"well, sir! have you done?" the vicar answered--"y-yes, i think so. i only wished you not to judge my child hastily," and sat down. a few moments more and the jury had given their verdict--"the usual one" as the coroner described it--a verdict permitting the corpse to have christian burial, and all was over. the majority of the jury adjourned to the bar to refresh themselves, and interchange opinions on, what one of them called, "this jolly queer case." the bar-keeper himself joined in the conversation, and wanless heard him enlarging upon the corruptions of the "hupper classes," as he followed the vicar down stairs. but there was no danger that comments of this kind would get into the newspapers. a paragraph about the suicide did, indeed, appear in several morning journals, but there was no mention of the seducer's name. such a thing as an adjournment to obtain wiseman's evidence was not even hinted. the coroner, jury, press, and all might have been bought up by the wiseman family, so discreet was the silence--and, perhaps, some of them were. the press, at all events, was well gagged by an infamous law of libel; and as there had been no sensational or melodramatic incidents connected with the girl's end, it was easy to bury all the story in oblivion--for _time_. the "gallant" captain might roll serenely on his way. nothing could disturb him here except disease and the moral leprosy bred of his crimes. "after death comes the judgment." when the little gathering had dispersed, the vicar and thomas wanless found themselves alone together. both had waited to let the unfamiliar faces disappear. neither had thought at the moment that this shyness would bring them face to face. the peasant was the first to realise the situation, and as he looked at the broken-down old man before him, he was stirred with pity. on the impulse of the moment he went to where codling stood, and laying his hand on his arm, said-- "can i be of any use to you, sir?" the vicar started and turned hastily away, shaking thomas's hand from his arm, at the same time answering--"no, no, thomas wanless, i have nothing to say to you. you have done me enough mischief for one day!" "i have done you no mischief, sir. god forbid that i should harm you. had it been possible i would have saved you this pain,--i would have rescued your daughter." "rescued my daughter, would you?" and codling laughed a low, bitter laugh. "rescued my daughter! why cannot you look after your own, thomas wanless? i do not want your help." "i watch for my child night and day," said the peasant solemnly. "it was in seeking her that i met yours--too late. there is ever a prayer in my heart that when i find my sally i may not be too late for her also. ah! poor sally!" he sighed, and the vicar, taking no more notice of him, he presently added--"come out of this place, sir. it is not wise for you to stop here when there is so much yet to be done." the vicar took wanless's words as insinuating that he wanted to drink, which was far enough from what thomas intended. but the guilty are ever prone to think themselves in danger, and it was with more heat and energy of manner than he had yet shown that the vicar turned and faced his fellow-villager. "go away, you loafing, good-for-nothing fellow," he almost shouted, "surely you have gratified your revenge sufficiently for one day, without standing there to mock at my sorrow, as you have already done your best to make my name a by-word." with that he moved towards the door. but thomas stood dumbfounded between him and it, and the vicar, too impatient now to wait for the peasant's slow motions, actually gave him a shove on one side, and hurried outside, muttering to himself as he went. chapter xviii. points once more to the moral of the poet's saying,--"sweet are the uses of adversity." when wanless crept out a minute or two later, still feeling heart-sore at the vicar's treatment, he caught sight of that poor wretch through the adjoining door of the private bar, which opened to let some one out as he passed by. codling was standing, and with trembling hand stirring a large tumbler of hot brandy and water. wanless stopped involuntarily, and then turning back to the bar he had just left, asked for a glass of ale. it would give him a pretext for waiting to see what became of the poor parson. in a very short time he heard codling's voice beyond the partition ordering another double glass, and the sound shocked him so much that he put down his glass of ale half consumed, and, acting on the impulse of the moment, burst in upon the vicar through the swing door of the compartment, crying, as he did so-- "for god's sake, don't, mr. codling. leave that, and come away with me. it's a shame to see a minister of the gospel drowning his grief in liquor. come away at once." and he again laid hold of codling's arm. the drink he had already swallowed had raised the vicar's courage, and he turned on wanless with a look of scornful bitterness that boded a storm. but wanless was also wrought to a high pitch, and there was a commanding sternness in his eye that served to cow the drunkard, whose wrath seemed to die within him. he looked hesitatingly around, and at sight of some bystanders grinning, a flush of shame spread over his face. "for shame, i say," wanless continued in a low tone, paying as little heed to the angry looks as he had done to the former taunts. "will you stand here besotting yourself, and allow your child to be flung into a pauper's grave?" "what business is that of yours?" the vicar replied sullenly, but in a low voice. "mind your own paupers, and let me and my affairs alone." "that i will not--cannot do--mr. codling," wanless answered. "consider, sir, she was your child. you fondled her on your knee but the other day, and were proud to hear her lisp the name of father. come away, sir, for god's sake, the body may be gone if we waste more time here;" and giving the vicar no further chance to remonstrate, thomas seized his arm, and dragged him out of the place away to the deadhouse. they were indeed barely in time. some men were about to nail up the remains of adelaide in the rough shell where it lay, whether preparatory to burial, or in order to convey it to some hospital dissecting room, i would not venture to say. at any rate, a small bribe made them desist, and one of them even directed the vicar to find an undertaker if he wished to give his child christian burial in other than a pauper's trench. the sight of his daughter's body, when the lid of the case was removed, and the vicar saw it again, moved him more than it had done at first. the men withdrew, and thomas and he were left alone with it. adelaide's features had settled down to the calm stillness of death, and wore a faint semblance of a smile. sweet and pure she looked, in spite of the soiled garments and tangled hair; but the figure indicated only too clearly what had sent her to a watery grave. she had been about to become a mother. as he looked old memories rose in the vicar's imagination, and tears gathered in his dull, sodden eyes. he stooped tremulously and kissed the cold brow. "poor addy, poor addy," he murmured, "to think that you should have come to this," and he sobbed outright--weeping like a child. like a child too, when the passion was over, he surrendered himself to the guidance of wanless, without further resistance, who hurried him off to the undertaker. he would like, he said, to have _her_ buried that evening; but that the people said they could not manage; so it was at last arranged to take her to highgate cemetery next morning. thomas had then to find a place where the vicar could pass the night, for the old man had intended to go home that evening, and ultimately he deposited him at the tavistock hotel. "will you have something to drink before you go?" said the vicar, when he had arranged for his bedroom, evidently wanting a pretext for drinking himself, but thomas said "no," and went away to eat a frugal supper in a humble coffee-shop in drury lane. they buried adelaide next morning, thomas again, though with difficulty, obtaining leave of absence. as soon as he saw codling, thomas knew that he had been drinking hard the previous night. the poor man's hands shook as with the palsy, his step was unsteady, his eye dull and bloodshot. a low fever seemed to consume him; yet he obviously felt keenly that morning the errand he and the labourer were upon, and though he hardly spoke a word all the way to the grave, he no longer looked at his companion with sullen anger. rather he seemed to cling to thomas as a woman clings to her natural protector. and when the earth fell on the coffin lid as the last words of the solemn burial service of the church of england were uttered--solemn even when gabbled over by the unhappy creatures who have to repeat it every day, and all day long--he broke down again, sobbing and weeping like a child. they waited till the last sod had been placed over the lost adelaide, and ere he went away the vicar knelt on the damp earth, praying and weeping bitterly. then he rose and stretched out his hand to wanless, whose cheeks were also wet with tears, as if seeking one to lead him. thomas grasped it, and pressed it, with "god bless and have mercy on you, sir, and on her as lies here." "ah! thomas"--it was the first time the vicar had called him kindly as of old by his christian name--"ah! thomas, my friend, and may god bless you for what you have done this day. but for you i would have deserted my child in death, as i did in life. god forgive me for it." these words seemed to open his heart, so that he talked to wanless, all the way back to town, in an eager way, like one who had a confession to make, and could taste no peace till it was done. a sad history enough it was of domestic bitterness, of an enfeebled will, knowing what was right, and doing it not. his impulse was to seek his daughter, just as thomas's had been, but mrs. codling would not hear of it. her pride did not even allow her to admit that the girl had gone away after her betrayer. she talked of a visit to a relative at a distance, who was her own step-sister, and of adelaide herself being ill in kent, poor thing--not in any danger, but not strong enough to return yet--with many lies of a like kind, which the vicar was weak enough to endorse by his silence. wanless also spoke of his quest and his sorrow, and the vicar listened with sympathy; but when the peasant ventured to urge that it was his duty to denounce, and expose the ravenous wolf, who had destroyed the peace of so many families, codling shook his head and answered--"no, no, thomas, i cannot; i dare not. it is too late." "why too late, sir? are you not a minister of christ, and bound by the office you hold to denounce the sinner and his sin?" the vicar shuddered, and sat still for more than a minute without answering. then he bent forward and took thomas's hand--they sat on opposite sides of the cab. "thomas," he said sadly, "you remember that day of the row in my garden, between you and--and that fiend in human shape. you called me a poor tippling creature that day, and it was true." "no, no, and i was very sorry," wanless began-- "yes, but it was," the vicar interrupted, "i hated you for exposing me thus; but i felt and knew it was true. i am not a drunkard, thomas, as the world measures drunkenness, but i tipple. i keep myself alive by stimulants, and bury thus my hopes and aspirations of other days. and i feel that i can do nothing. who would listen to me or heed my words? men would say i spoke from spite, and perhaps some even might aver that i was myself the cause of my daughter's ruin. which also," he added, in a reflective kind of way, "which also might be true. no, no, thomas, i must bear my burden. my--oh, my daughter, my child, my pet, when i think of you and the past, i have no hope--i can do nothing but tipple." "heaven forbid!" exclaimed wanless; but the vicar relapsed into silence. all the rest of the way to paddington, to which he had ordered himself to be driven, he lay back in the corner of the cab, silent, with his eyes closed; but thomas could see him ever and anon furtively wipe away the tears from his cheeks. at paddington, the two men, now friends again, after so many years of divergent ways and worldly fortunes, bade each other a sad farewell. thomas went back to his coals, and the vicar went home to his wife and his gin and water. yet he was not quite as he had been before. more than he himself thought the death of his once loved child stirred the human soul in him, and he was not able again to fall back into sottishness. though he bore his domestic woes silently, and still drank to dull the gnawing at his heart, he became more tender towards the poor among his flock, more attentive to their wants, more accessible, and softer in manner towards all men. he even preached with sad pathos that woke responsive sympathy in the hearts of his flock, though he did not denounce the ravisher. but the best proof of all that he had changed much for the better, is found in his conduct to mrs. wanless. the memory of the help and sympathy he had received from the old, despised labourer in london, lay warm in his heart, and found frequent expression in visits to the labourer's wife while she was alone, or to both husband and wife, when wanless came back. the very day after he returned from london, he called and told mrs. wanless that he had seen her husband, and that he was well. he made no allusion to other matters, but he patted the head of sally's child, and sighed as he went away. perhaps the kindly warmth with which these simple people always greeted him, helped to soothe his later years. in giving he received more than he gave. in the village the end of his daughter was never rightly known. wiseman naturally never breathed a word. rarely was his face seen in ashbrook, and never in the church while the old vicar lived. mrs. codling gave out that the poor child had been suddenly cut off by fever, and went the length of donning mourning, bemoaning the loss to her friends, braving the scorn of all true hearts, and vainly imagining she was believed, but the people guessed that adelaide had not died so, and they suspected that wiseman was at the bottom of her disappearance, though the story of her having committed suicide never got general credence in the village--was only a faint rumour there. so all pitied the poor vicar, despised his uppish, false-hearted wife, and most hated the young squire. riches and high station cannot shut men out from the moral results of their deeds, any more than they can ward off death. nay, mrs. codling herself, high as she held her head, well as she acted the part of a sorrowing mother who had been heart-broken by the unexpected news of her dear daughter's sudden death, so prostrated as to be unable to go and see her laid in her grave--even mrs. codling felt in some sense that this was true. she grew harder in her ways, and more and more haggard in her looks, like one even at war with herself, and ever losing in the fight--till within three years god took her, and she knew her folly. chapter xix. opens to the inward eye the chastened joy that glows, when the lost one is found, in the soul of him "whose grief was calm, whose hope was dead." a great additional strain had been put upon the spirit of thomas wanless, by the death of adelaide codling, and he was becoming too weak in body to hold to his purpose. there were nights when he returned to his lonely lodging wishing that he might die, so great was his physical and mental exhaustion. at other times he felt an impulse strong upon him to go home--to "abandon his search for a time," as his inward tempter whispered. but his will was strong, if strength of body or hope might be weak, and he only prayed the more and clung the more to his purpose, the more he felt tempted to turn aside. "how could i face her mother again," he would answer himself, "if i had not found her." in this conflict of mind, though not of purpose, another month rolled by, and thomas was threatened with want of work. fewer men were required in the coal yards as summer came on, and already several had been discharged. it was a dreary prospect enough, but what made it more so to thomas, were the unbidden flashes of almost gladness that rose in his breast now and then, as the voice of the tempter then said--"thomas, you will be forced to go home." he felt himself a traitor, and inexpressibly wicked at such moments, and would clench his hand and mutter--"not yet anyhow, not yet," as he strode mechanically through the streets. at last he found her. "when hope was calm, and grief was dead" almost, he lighted on his lost child unexpectedly, in a place where he would never have dreamed of looking for her, had it not been for the friendly advice of the police. all over london there are coffee-houses, tobacco-shops, and confectioner-looking shops, whose real use is to be haunts of vice. thomas had learned to know this, and his eye was always upon such as he wandered through the streets. perchance he might see his sally in one of them some night. he was crawling rather than walking along one of the dingy lanes behind leicester square one evening, about eleven o'clock, when, through the open door of a low eating-house, he heard the voice of a woman singing. his heart gave a leap within him. surely that was sally's voice. she had been a great singer in her girlhood, and the song he heard the notes of had once been a great favourite with her. what was it, think you? none other than that sweet sentimental ditty, "be kind to the loved ones at home." strange melody to be heard in such a place. the leap of hope in thomas's heart was followed by a thrill of anguish as he drew near to listen, more assured each moment that here, indeed, he had found his daughter. and was she thinking of home then--here, at the gate of hell. he would go and see. no one was in the outer shop, and the door of the back room stood ajar, so that thomas walked straight through unchallenged. pushing open the half-closed inner door, he paused in amazement at the scene disclosed to him. there might have been a score of people in that low-roofed, dingy, smoke-filled room--men and women seated at small tables, and on one or two dilapidated benches against the wall, some were busy eating, all had drink before them--ale, spirits, and even wine--stuff labelled "champagne." through the haze of tobacco smoke, he saw several of the women with cigarettes in their mouths. all had a reckless, more or less debauched air, and the women in particular struck thomas--a transitory flash though his glance was--as wearing a look of defiance towards all that the world deemed propriety. men had women on their knees, or sat on the knees of women, and none seemed to heed the song. one poor outcast woman lay huddled up on the floor by the fire, too drunk to sit, but not too drunk to blaspheme. no one heeded her either. all these things thomas saw in the first moment of vision, but he hardly noted them then. his thoughts and his eyes were for his lost child alone. the song did not stop at his entrance, for the singer's face was not towards the door. so the voice guided his eye and--yes, it was she. there she sat in the middle of the room, nearer the fire than a youthful debauchee who sat by her with his arm round her waist. thomas gazed a moment, and then his whole soul went out in a cry-- "sally, sally, oh my pet, my child, i've found you at last," and he advanced towards her, holding out his hands. the song died instantly, but in its place rose a babel of tongues. thomas's cry drew all eyes upon him. involuntarily some of the less hardened assumed airs of propriety, but the majority of the men started in anger, and a few of the women began to laugh and jeer. "damn your impudence, what do you want here?" shouted a copper-faced little wretch, who had been lying half asleep in a woman's lap near the door. "get out of this," roared another, and as thomas made no sign the abuse grew general. the wits of the party cracked jokes over the "heavy father doing the pathetic business," and so on, but amid the din the peasant got close to the table, where his child sat. the instant his call reached her ears, sally turned a terror-struck gaze upon him, and then buried her face in her hands. he could see she wept, for the sobs shook her, but to his further entreaty to come away she made no response, and he was trying to pull the table aside so as to reach her, when he was roughly seized by the brothel keeper, who had rushed up from the kitchen to see what the noise was about. with an oath he pulled thomas back. "what the devil do you want here?" he screeched. "clear out, or d--n you, i'll give you in custody." the peasant's garb and appearance had enabled the experienced scoundrel to guess at once what was up. thomas turned sharp on his assailant, who was a fat, flabby-looking wretch, whose face indicated a vicious career in every line and pimple. at the moment it was lit up by an expression of elfish rage. but when in his turn the peasant seized him with a grip of iron and flung him away as if he had been a street cur barking at his heels, the man's face grew nearly pale with an expression of mingled wrath and fear. the fear kept him near the door, where he stood yelling for help, calling on "jim" to come and turn this intruder out, volleying oaths and blasphemies, and finally beseeching the intruder not to ruin him, but taking good care all the while not to summon the police. "jim" came at last--the "waiter" or bully of the place. he was of stronger build than his master, and at once grabbed thomas by the collar, purposing to turn him out. but thomas was endowed with heroic strength in that hour, and three such men would not have driven him from the place. wrenching himself round, he took his new assailant by the throat, and dashed him back against his master with such force that they both rolled over in the narrow doorway. this feat tickled the company immensely, and they fell to clattering with pewter pots and glasses, and to shouting in derision as encouragement. probably thomas in the end might have been badly beaten by the fiends among whom he had fallen, but from that his daughter saved him. roused, perhaps, at the sight of the unholy hands laid upon her father, and sickened by the foul jibes of men and women around her, she sprang to her feet, and, pushing round the end of the table where she sat, rushed between the combatants, and flung herself on her father's bosom, in a passion of weeping. "do not get yourself hurt for me," she sobbed, "go away and leave me. i'm not worth caring for any more." thomas answered by clasping her closer to his bosom, and then putting his arm in hers, he led her from the house, none daring to say him nay. oaths, shrieks of hysterical laughter, and obscenities followed them as they went, but the look on the peasant's face, and the remembrance of his strength of arm, were enough to protect his daughter and him from further ill-usage. "thanks be to god i've found ye, my lass; found ye, never to let ye out o' my sight again in this world," thomas murmured when he found himself alone in the street with his long-lost one, and there welled up in him a holy joy which was unutterable. his daughter hung her head, and answered not, but she suffered him to lead her to his lodging. a 'bus took them to the head of portland road, and thence they walked. it was past midnight before they got home, and all the house was silent; but thomas gave his daughter his bedroom, and groped his way to the parlour, where he hoped to get a sleep in an easy chair--first prudently turning the key in sarah's door, to give her no room for untimely repentance. there was no sleep for his eyelids that night. the cold alone might have kept him awake in any case; but he was too excited to feel it as other than a stimulus to his thoughts. past and future rolled before him--his daughter lost, joy at her discovery, pain at the life she had led. the grey dawn found him fevered with his thoughts, shivering in body, burning at the heart. nevertheless, he had resolved to go home that day by the early train; and with that view he roused the landlady to beg an early breakfast for himself and his child. "i have found my lass," was all he ventured to explain, and the woman answered she was glad to hear it. in his eagerness to go home he forgot to tell the coal agent for whom he worked, and forgot also to draw four days' wages due to him--did not remember till the day after he and his daughter reached ashbrook. when sarah, in answer to her father's summons, came down to breakfast in the front kitchen, it was easy to see that she also had slept little. her eyes were swollen and red, and she could not eat anything. a cup of hot tea she swallowed, and that was all. her father spoke to her in the old familiar warwickshire dialect, and urged her to "eat summat, as she had a long day's journey afoore her," but sally could not, and to all he spoke answered only in monosyllables. not until he began to talk directly of going "home" did she wake to anything like animation. the very sound of the word made her weep, and her father led her away to his own room to reason with her. "oh, don't ask me to go back," she cried; "i cannot, i cannot; i'm fit only to die." but her father soothed her, talked to her of her lonely mother watching for her coming, praying to see her child's face again before she died; and when that did not move her, he bade her think of her little babe she had left last year. "how could ye like her to grow up a-lookin' for a mother, sally, lass, an' not findin' one?" that seemed to touch her more than all his assurances that no one would ever reproach her or cry shame upon her in her own father's house. still she yielded not, but cried out that she was lost to them all, to every good in this world. "you might not blame me openly," she said, "but i would have the feelin' in my heart all the time that i was a shame an' disgrace to you, and that pity alone kept you from telling me so. no, no, no, i will not go back to ashbrook." "look here, then, sally," said her father at last, "if you wonnot go back, i'll stay by you. my mind's made up. i'll never lose sight of ye again, not while i'm alive; and if you wonnot go home wi' me, i must bide wi' you. there is no other way. it will kill your mother, and it will kill me, an' leave your child an outcast orphan, but ye are determined, an' it must e'en be so." this staggered her, but still she yielded not, thinking, doubtless, that her father meant not what he said, till at last, in despair, he told her the story of adelaide codling. he spoke of her despairing looks, her rapid descent from wild gaiety to death, of her last farewell to this world, of her lonely grave, and her poor, old, broken-hearted father, and wound up by asking--"will you face an end like that, sally? dare you do it, my child? when i saw her jump on the bridge i thought it was you," he added, with a look that went straight to his daughter's heart. the story had at first been listened to in dogged silence. then the girl's tears began to flow, at first silently, at last with convulsive sobs. her father held out his hand as he ceased speaking, and she, moved so deeply as to be lifted out of herself, laid both her hands in his, and said-- "father, i'll do as ye wish. i'll go home wi' ye." he drew her down on her knees beside him, and prayed fervently for mercy and forgiveness for them both. "but my heart was too full to beg," he afterwards said to me. "i could only give god thanks for his infinite mercy in restoring my lost child." they missed the morning train, and had to wait till the evening. in the interval sarah had stripped off the tawdry ornaments she wore, and plucked a gaudy feather from her hat--pleasant incidents which her father noted. in the middle of the night almost they reached the old cottage in ashbrook, and both were glad that the darkness hid them from every eye save god's. chapter xx. maintains that for the wrong sin-burdened mortal no sleep is so sweet as the last long sleep of all. there was deep joy in mrs. thomas wanless's cottage that night--joy all the deeper for the pain that lay beneath it. mrs. wanless was not a demonstrative woman at any time, but that night she embraced her daughter again and again, and held her to her heart with passionate eagerness. sarah was sad, and after the first momentary flash of delight, shrank back within herself. she went and looked at her child sleeping quietly in its grandmother's bed, but did not kiss or caress it. the joy of the parents was dimmed at sight of this indifference, but when sarah had retired to rest, thomas did his best to encourage his wife to hope. "it will soon be all right between mother and child," he prophesied, and this no doubt was their hope. it was long, however, ere they saw any fulfilment of it. in truth, shame took so deep a hold on sarah's mind that she became a sort of terror to herself. she was so crushed by the past, so utterly incapable of rising out of the darkness that shrouded her mind, that it is probable she would again have fled from her father's roof had she not been prevented by illness. the life of false excitement she had led in london had sapped her constitution, and she had not long returned when her health began to give way. fits of shivering seized her, then a hacking, dry cough, which could not be dislodged. her complexion grew transparent, her eye preternaturally bright. she was, in a word, falling into consumption, and in all probability would not live long to endure her misery. this was doubtless the kindest fate that could now befall her, but it was a new grief to her parents when they awoke to consciousness of the fact that this lost one, so lately found again, was slowly vanishing from their sight for ever. she herself grew happier in the prospect of early death, and from being silent and cold became gentle, opener in her manner, and more kindly to all around her, as if striving by her tender care of her child and her grateful affection for her parents to make the last days of her life on earth a sweet memory. after a time, too, as she became weaker, her heart moved her to talk of the past, and she bit by bit told her mother the story of her flight and her life in the great city. the sum of it all was misery, an agony of soul unspeakable, from which she ultimately found no escape save in drink. her own motive in running away after adelaide codling was not very clear even to herself. some vague idea of finding that other victim, and of rescuing her from the doom that she herself was stricken by, she had, but the governing motives were shame and pride. once in the gate of hell, which london is to tens of thousands every year, she tried to get access to captain wiseman, and haunted the entrance of his barracks for a week, but he came not. she did see him at a distance two or three times afterwards, but women such as she was now dared not approach so great a person in the open streets by day. with more persistence she sought for adelaide codling, but with no better success. the only occasion when she got near enough to speak to that poor girl was one day that they met by a shop door in regent street. adelaide came forth gorgeously dressed, and carrying her head high just as sarah passed. they recognised each other, and sarah stopped to speak, but the other turned away her head with a toss like her mother's, and hurried off. soon the peasant's daughter had to abandon all thoughts of others, and face hunger for herself. her money and trinkets found her in food and lodgings but for a few short days, and then she, having obtained no situation, had to leave the servants' home where she had at first found refuge, and--either starve or take to the streets. her sin had branded her; she had no "references," and no hope. had courage only been given her she would have died, but she dared not. it seemed easier to go forth to the streets. the raging "social evil" that mocks in every thoroughfare christianity and the serene, tithe-sustained worshipping machinery of the state, offered her a refuge. there she could welter and rot if she pleased, fulfilling the excellent economy of life provided for us in these islands. the army composing this evil only musters some , in london, and is something altogether outside the pale of established and other christian institutions. that summer and winter when the lost sarah faded away and died was a hard time for thomas wanless and his wife. work was precarious, and thus, added to the pain of seeing their child fade away, was the bitter sense of inability to do all that was possible to prolong her life. nearly all the labourer's savings had disappeared during thomas's long quest. but they struggled on, complaining to none but god, nor did their trials break their trust in his help. they felt that the kindness with which all friends and neighbours treated them in their sorrow was a proof that the divine father of all had not forgotten them. and their daughter herself became a consolation to their grief-worn spirits. a sweet resignation took possession of her mind as she neared the end. the passions of life died away, and the clouds that had hidden her soul for the most part disappeared. her parents might dream for moments, when her cheeks looked brighter than usual, that she would recover, but she herself knew that death was near, and thanked god. during this time the vicar--poor old man--came oftener than ever to the labourer's cottage. he could not be said to assert himself against his wife in doing so, for he came as if by a power stronger than his own wrecked will. when he was seated by the labourer's fireside, he seemed to be at peace. often for an hour at a time he hardly spoke, but just sat still and looked with a sad kindliness, pathetic to behold, on the wasting form before him, and either stroked her hand held in his own, or gently patting the golden head of the little lass that now began to toddle to his knee. and when the visit was over, the cloud settled down upon him again. he went forth dejected, a hopeless-looking being, and crawled helplessly back to the vicarage. he called on the morning of sarah's death. she sank gently to rest on a raw february morning nearly eight months after her return, and within a week of her twenty-first birthday. when mr. codling was told, he stood for a moment as if dazed, and then asked to be led to sarah's bedside. there he stood, gazing long, with bent head, till the tears rose and blinded him. with them the higher emotions of his soul welled up within him, and he turned and took the hand of wanless, who stood by his side. "thomas, my friend," he said, "i envy your daughter that rest. i, too, long to be as she is. life has become all a waste desert to me; oh, so dreary, dreary." then, after a pause, he went on--"and i envy you, thomas, for have you not cause to rejoice that sarah has died in her father's house forgiven? had it been but so with my adelaide; oh, had it been but so, i think--i--hope would not have been lost to me. but i wish i were dead--yes, dead and forgotten," and, letting go the hand he had held, he knelt down by the bedside, buried his face, and wept as he had wept only by his daughter's grave. unhappy old man. who shall judge him; who say that the all-pitying had not forgiven? calming himself presently, the aged vicar rose to his feet, and looked again on the dead face, so different in its white purity and smile of peace from the one he had looked on in london. he bent and kissed it, and then suffered the grief-worn but calm old labourer to lead him quietly away. "god bless you and comfort you, sir, and give you his peace," was all that thomas trusted himself to utter; but sorrow had made these men brothers indeed. although thomas and his wife knew in their hearts that heaven had been merciful to their child and to themselves in taking her away, their sorrow was nevertheless keen. nay, in some senses it was keener, because the "might have been" rose before the mind. here was in truth a waif--a lost one--mercifully removed from further sorrow, but had there been no wreck, how short would her life have seemed, how sad its early close. in wanless's life, therefore, few days were darker than the day on which he laid sarah to rest beside the long-lost little ones in the old churchyard. it was little consolation to him that half the village gathered reverently to the funeral, and yet as he thought of the other grave by which he had stood not many months before, his spirit was somehow soothed. the contrast must have struck the vicar likewise, but he made no sign. he insisted, however, on reading the burial service himself, in spite of the remonstrances of his young curate, who usually did this work. bareheaded and trembling, pale, and feeble looking, with his white thin hair fluttering in the icy breeze, the sight of their old pastor that day drew tears to many eyes. his tremulous voice seemed more solemn to the listeners that day than ever before, and they loved and pitied the frail old man. more than one villager remarked to his neighbour as they left the grave that he "did not think mr. codling would be long in following sally wanless." it was in truth to be so. the vicar did not live long after, but his was not the next burial. before he went--months before--old squire wiseman died and was buried in the family vault, with the pomp and circumstance that became his station. no one sorrowed at his death, but the lack of grief was hidden by the abundance of display. all the army of underlings were put in mourning at the new squire's expense. cecil was now lord of the grange, and one of his first steps was to make it too hot a place for his mother, by filling it with debased men and women--titled fledglings and their harpies, horsey men, and sharpers. the wealthy marriage his mother had sought for him never came off. an irish peer, needy as wiseman, but with a more marketable commodity in the shape of his title, had swooped down and carried off the prize. the carpet or "turf" soldier consequently came to his inheritance buried in debt, but that seemed to make him only the more extravagant. his true place was the gutter, but the land was entailed, tenants were squeezable, and though hard up, the new squire floundered on, cursing and a curse. his debts should have ruined him, but they merely ruined his tenants, impoverished the land, and made those driven to depend on him as beggarly as their master. the weight of this rottenness lay heaviest of all on the labouring poor, who stood undermost in the social scale. poor farmers meant less labour, badly tilled soil, reduced wages, and the hinds became a picture of misery. all ashbrook parish suffered for the sins of this sprig of the aristocracy. what of that! are the sacred, priest-sanctioned, bishop-blessed rights of property to be interfered with because the people want bread? that would be contrary to all law and order, as established by these delicate perverters of the hebrew scriptures. no; better far let the people starve; let the mortgages squeeze those who do not own; make the fair earth bestowed on man--to be cultivated, tended, and rendered fruitful--a waste howling desert, peopled by wild animals, for whose shooting, wealthy pelf-rakers from the centres of trade are ready to pay high rents. next to our heaven-bestowed poor law, the law of entail, which binds the land to a name or a family, has been the greatest factor for evil in the national life of england. it has preserved our "institutions;" gives continuity to our history, men assert. perish the people then, but hold fast to this sheet anchor. "it preserves scoundrels from justice, and the fate they have earned," by reformers. what of that? these men have the right to be abominable--you and i, the workers and the sweaters, the privilege only to bear their abominations. it has always struck me, though, that the fetish machinery of the english establishment is imperfect in one particular. while in actual fact all "lord" bishops, and most preachers therein, determinedly oppose whatsoever would emancipate the people from their bondage, the best of them never daring to strike boldly at the root of the evils that threaten england with extinction, that fill the land with misery, that huddle the bulk of our population into the fever dens of her cities--it has struck me, i say, that their liturgy is incomplete, almost hypocritical. a prayer like this should be inserted among the collects of the day, instead, say, of the collect for peace, which comes so ill from the lips of men whose ambition is usually to train some of their children as licensed men-slayers. let the lawn-sleeved "lord" bishops look to it, then, and take this hint:-- "sanctify might, o lord, against right, and make it stronger and stronger. bless iniquities in high places, and cause the hypocrisy of princes to be exalted in the eyes of the people. protect the nobility and gentry in their harlotry, and let holiness be measured by the fineness of the garments. grind the poor in their poverty, and cause them to pay that they owe not. and o lord, we beseech thee, suffer not the oppressed to have justice, lest they rise up against us and refuse to give us the tithes we have filched from the indignant. these things do, o lord, and our lips shall praise thee." if you will honestly pray thus, serene "lord" bishops, much-wrangling, gorgeously-embroidered deans, vicars, and incumbents, you will earn the respect of honest men. whatever you do, i beseech you go not on as you do now, lest the people should one day _act_. they think not a little even now. fare ye well, then, cecil wiseman, sham soldier, horse racer, blasphemer, drunkard, seducer, sot, farewell! the upper world "society" protects you, the church shields you, nay, the priest must e'en bow when you abduct his daughter, and the very jews themselves, wholesome scourge of your class though they be, cannot utterly ruin you--here. go your ways--i leave you to god. what witness, think you, will that diseased body, that bloated face and hang-dog look of yours, bear against you in the judgment? in that day your very victims may pity you. and has not the judgment already come on your mother--cast out, despised, lonely, poor as she is? alone, she lives in her little jointure house at kenilworth, white-haired, feeble, full of bitterness of spirit. all the glory of her life has gone. the meanest servant in warwickshire may look down on her with commiseration. your sins have torn what heart she had, and she begins to awake to the fact that the law of compensation, the dim foretaste of divine justice, can reach even such as she. to her likewise let us bid adieu. chapter xxi. brings us all to the journey's end. the closing years of thomas wanless's life were years of peace. his strength never came back to him after his daughter's death. indeed, all the summer that followed it he was beaten down by his old complaint rheumatism, but there was no dread of the workhouse and the pauper's grave upon him now. his boy, thomas the younger, was prospering in the new world, where landlordism had not yet grown a curse, and insisted on sharing his modest wealth with his parents. had the old man been well he would probably have sturdily refused this help, but as things were he bowed his head and took what god had given, thankful to his son, thankful to heaven, and rejoicing above all things that his boy--his three children that remained--were delivered from the life that he himself had led. but what would his end have been save for this assistance? assuredly a pauper's. nothing could have saved him from that fate. the doom of the labourer is written. it is part of the recognised glory of the english constitution that he shall die in misery as he lives; that if he becomes disabled, his shall be the pauper's dole. the prosperity of young thomas rendered thomas and his wife less reluctant to let their other children go to australia. they clung to them, of course, and would have fain kept them, as it were, within sight. old mrs. wanless was heart-broken at the thought of losing jane, but she bore her sorrow and made no complaint, when her husband, his own heart torn with grief, said--"let the lass go. there is hope for her and her husband yonder. here there is none." jane therefore married her young gardener in the autumn of the year of sarah's death, and went away to join young thomas in victoria. and the soldier-boy, jacob, went with them. his time of soldiering was not ended, but his brother thomas bought him off, and assisted them all to go to the new country. jacob was the labourer's prodigal son, and was loved accordingly. while he soldiered his parents hardly ever saw him, but he spent a couple of weeks at home before setting sail for australia; and then the strength of his nature, its likeness to that of his father, and the trials he had endured, brought the old man and him very near to each other. thus the wrench of parting was keenest for old thomas in his case, because the joy had been but a flash of light in a dark existence. "i will never see your face again," the old man said to his children the last sunday evening they passed together. "to your mother and me this parting will be bitterer than death, because you will live, and we will never hear your voices nor see you more in this world." "oh, father, do not say that," sobbed jane; "you and mother will come out to australia to us, and we'll all live together and be so happy." "no, my dear, that will never be. mother and me are too old to move now. we will stay behind and pray for you. the time will not be long, and we have hope. be brave, my children, and be god-fearing, and, i doubt not, we shall meet in a better world than this." in this spirit they parted, and henceforth old thomas wanless and his wife were left alone with only the little child that sarah had bequeathed to them--alone, but not miserable. as the keen edge of sorrow blunted, the old people went about the daily avocations as before, serene in appearance, if often sad in spirit. thomas never worked again as he had been doing before he went to london, but he became strong enough to tend his garden and his allotment carefully, and to do frequent light jobs for the scotch tenant of whitbury farm, whose friend he became. he was thus living almost up to the time when i first made his acquaintance. then, as his strength of body failed, his mind, as it seemed to me, grew keener, broader, and more penetrating. he read much, and watched with close interest the ebb and flow of home politics, looking ever for the dawn of a better day for the tillers of the soil. when the warwickshire labourers broke out in assertion of their right to live, he hailed the event as an omen of better times. too wise a man to be carried away by the notion that single-handed the unlettered, miserable poor could turn the world upside down, he nevertheless viewed these stirrings among the dry bones as the beginning of great changes. "i shall not live to see the land in the hands of those who till it," he would say, "but i can die in hope now. england will after all be free, and the people will have their own again. thank god." this belief cheered his last years, and added to the joy of his death. he died in peace with all men, long indeed, ere his hopes for his fellow-men had seen fruition, but to the last he declared that it was coming, that blessed revolution when state churches should be no more, and squires, and fox-hunters, and game preservers, and all the social abominations that ground the poor to the dust would be shaken off and left far behind in the progress of the nation. three years have come and gone since i stood by the side of thomas wanless's eldest son at his death-bed, and by his grave. he almost died of the joy he felt at seeing that son once more, when he had given him to god as one gives the dead. a paralytic stroke seized him within a few hours of young thomas's arrival, and he never fully recovered his faculties. within a fortnight a second stroke carried him off, and all the village mourned. his son and i, surrounded by many mourners, laid him to rest in the old churchyard beside his children, among his forgotten forefathers. there now, to be equally forgotten, lay squire, and parson, and parson's wife, all peacefully sleeping, life's fever over, its jealousies and petty dignities laid aside for evermore. and mrs. wanless waits still, attended by her grandchild, young sarah, now a bright, intelligent, well-educated young woman. when her grandmother joins thomas in the last rest of all, she will be taken across the ocean to these warm-hearted friends far away, and then the old land will never more see aught of this sturdy peasant stock. but our statesmen think it a blessing they should go. the end. transcriber's notes obvious punctuation errors repaired. hyphen added: "ditch[-]cutting" (p. ), "broken[-]hearted" (p. ), "well[-]nigh" (p. ). hyphen removed: "house[-]wife" (p. ), "ear[-]shot" (p. ), "dumb[-]founded" (p. ), "common[-]place" (p. ), "now[-]a[-]days" (p. ), "man[-]kind" (p. ), "dead[-]house" (p. ), "out[-]cast" (p. ). p. : "tatooed" changed to "tattooed" (our tattooed ancestors)> p. : "enthusiam" changed to "enthusiasm" (the feverish enthusiasm of inexperience). p. : "portentiously" changed to "portentously" (shook their heads portentously). p. : "meeeting" changed to "meeting" (the meeting was to be held). p. : "wizzened" changed to "wizened" (grey wizened faces). p. : "diarymaid" changed to "dairymaid" (the dairymaid will marry). p. : "famalies" changed to "families" (the pleasure their families would have). p. : "of of" changed to "of" (sobriquet of methody tom). p. : "upheavel" changed to "upheaval" (that curious upheaval). p. : "possibilites" changed to "possibilities" (did not consider these possibilities). p. : "calvanistic" changed to "calvinistic". p. : "opportunites" changed to "opportunities" (contrived that his opportunities). p. : "exited" changed to "excited" (her beauty excited envy). p. : "mrs. wanlass" changed to "mrs. wanless". p. : "thought" changed to "though" (weary though the old woman was). p. : "charing" changed to "charring" (to go out charring). p. : "ricketty" changed to "rickety" (rickety, filthy, old tenement). p. : "dury lane" changed to "drury lane". p. : "waterleo bridge" changed to "waterloo bridge". p. : "mein" changed to "mien" (his obvious superiority of mien). p. : "deil" changed to "devil" and "screached" changed to "screeched" ("what the devil do you want here?" he screeched). p. : "desparing" changed to "despairing" (her despairing looks). p. : "jone" changed to "jane". note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) transcriber's note: obvious typographical errors have been corrected. text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). autumn glory * * * * * jarrold & sons' new six-shilling fiction. by maurus jokai. _halil the pedlar._ (the white rose.) by count leo tolstoi. _tales from tolstoi._ translated from the russian by r. nisbet bain, and with biography of the author. by the author of "anima vilis." _distaff._ by marya rodziewicz. translated from the polish by count stanislaus c. de soissons. by renÉ bazin. _autumn glory._ translated by mrs. ellen waugh. by the author of "duke rodney's secret." _ivy cardew._ by perrington primm. by hulbert fuller. _god's rebel._ by martha baker dunn. _memory street._ london: jarrold & sons, publishers, & , warwick lane, e.c. at the libraries. and of all booksellers. * * * * * [illustration: rené bazin] autumn glory or the toilers of the field by renÉ bazin author of "a blot of ink," etc. translated by mrs. ellen waugh with photogravure portrait of the author sans peur et sans reproche [illustration] authorised edition london jarrold & sons all rights reserved & , warwick lane, e.c. translated from the french, "la terre qui meurt," by mrs. ellen waugh. copyright london: jarrold & sons contents. chapter page i. la fromentiÈre ii. the family lumineau iii. the dwarf orchard iv. the michelonnes v. ploughing in september vi. the appeal to the master vii. driot's return viii. in the place de l'eglise ix. the conscripts of sallertaine x. the uprooted vineyard xi. the dance at la seuliÈre xii. rousille's love dream xiii. the auction xiv. dwellers in towns xv. the emigrant xvi. her father's bidding xvii. a february night xviii. springtide autumn glory. chapter i. la fromentiÈre. "quiet! bas-rouge, down! don't you know folk born and bred here?" the dog thus addressed, a mongrel in which some twenty breeds were mixed, with grey long-haired coat changing to auburn silky fleece about the paws, at once left off barking at the gate, trotted along the grassy path bordering the field, and, content at having done his duty, sat down at the extreme edge of the line of cabbages which the farmer was trimming. along the same path a man was approaching, clad in gaiters and a suit of well-worn corduroys. his pace was the even steady gait of a man accustomed to tramp the country. the face in its setting of black beard was drawn and pale, the eyes, accustomed to roam the hedges and rest nowhere, bore an expression of weariness and mistrust, the contested authority of an agent. he was the head-keeper and steward to the marquis de la fromentière. he came to a halt behind bas-rouge, whose eyelids gave a furtive quiver, though his ears made not the slightest movement. "good day, lumineau." "good day." "i have a word to say to you. m. le marquis has written." probably he expected the farmer to leave his cabbages and come towards him. not a bit of it. the yeoman of the marais bending double, a huge bundle of green leaves in his arms, stood some thirty feet off, looking askance at the keeper waiting motionless in the path. what did he want of him? his well-fed cheeks broadened into a smile, his clear, deep-set eyes lengthened. in order to show his independence, he bent down and resumed his labours for a moment without reply. he felt himself upon the ground that he looked upon as his own, which his race had cultivated by virtue of a contract indefinitely renewed. around him, his cabbages formed an immense square, a billowy mass of superb growth, firm and heavy, their colour comprising every imaginable shade of green, blue, and violet, tinting in harmony with the hues of the setting sun. of huge stature though he was, the farmer plunged to his middle, like a ship, in this compact sea of vegetation. all that was to be seen above it was the short coat and round felt hat, set well back on his head, from which hung velvet streamers, the headgear of la vendée. when by this period of silence and labour he had sufficiently marked the superiority of a tenant farmer over a hired labourer, lumineau straightening himself, said: "you can talk on; there's no one here but me and my dog." nettled, the man replied, "m. le marquis is displeased that you did not pay your rent at midsummer. it will soon be three months in arrears." "but he knows that i have lost two oxen this year; that the wheat is poor; and that one must live, i and my sons, and the 'creatures.'" by "creatures" the farmer meant, as is customary in the marais, his two daughters, eléonore and marie-rose. "tut, tut," replied the keeper, "it is not reasons he wants from you, my good man, it's the money." the farmer shrugged his shoulders. "were he here at the château the marquis would not require it; i would soon explain how things stand. he and i were friends, i may say, as his father and mine were before us. i could show him what changes time has brought about with me. he would understand. but now one only has to do with paid agents, no longer the master; he is no more to be seen, and some folks say we shall never see him at la fromentière any more. it is a bad thing for us." "very likely," returned the keeper, "but it is not my place to discuss orders. when will you pay?" "it's easy to ask when will you pay, but it's another thing to find the money." "well then, i am to answer, no." "you will answer, yes, as it must be. i will pay at michaelmas, which is not far off now." the farmer was about to stoop to resume his work when the keeper added: "you will do well, too, lumineau, to look after your man. i found some snares the other day in the preserves of la cailleterie, which could only have been laid by him." "had he written his name upon them?" "no. but he is known to be the most desperate poacher in the country round. you beware! the marquis has written to me that you were to go out, bag and baggage, if i caught any one of you poaching again." the farmer let fall his armful of cabbage leaves, and extending his two fists, cried: "you liar! he cannot have said that. i know him better than you do, and he knows me. and it's not to a fellow of your sort that he would give any such instructions. m. le marquis to turn me off his land, me, his old lumineau! it is false." "those were his written instructions." "liar!" repeated the farmer. "all very well; we shall see," quoth the agent, turning to resume his way. "you have been warned. that jean nesmy will pay you a bad turn one of these days; without taking into account, that for a penniless lad from the bocage, he is rather too sweet on your daughter. people are talking, you know." ramming his hat down on his head, with crimsoned face and inflated chest, the farmer advanced a few steps, as though to fall upon the man who had insulted him; but he, leaning on his stout thorn stick, had already walked on, and his discontented face was seen outlined against the hedge as he rapidly receded. he had a certain dread of the colossal farmer whose strength was still formidable despite his years, and, moreover, an uneasy sense of the past ill success of his threats, a recollection of having been, more than once, disavowed by the marquis de la fromentière, their joint master, whose leniency towards the lumineau family he never could understand. the farmer stopped short, following with his eyes the head-keeper's receding figure. he watched as it passed along the fence in the opposite corner to the gate, scaled it, and disappeared to the left of the farm buildings along the green path leading to the château. when he had watched the man finally out of sight: "no," the farmer exclaimed aloud. "no, the marquis did not say it! turn us out!" for the moment the agent's evil insinuations against marie-rose, his youngest daughter, were completely forgotten, his mind wholly absorbed in the threat of being turned out. slowly, with a harder look in them than was their wont, he suffered his eyes to wander around, as if to call all the familiar objects to witness that the man had lied; then, stooping down, he resumed his labours. the sun, already low in the heavens, had nearly reached the row of young elms which bordered the field to the west, their lopped branches that ended in tufts of leaves resembling huge marguerites were bending to the strong sea breeze. it was the beginning of september, the time of evening when a glow of heat seems to traverse the descending chills of night. the farmer worked on as quickly and unremittingly as any younger man; his outstretched hand snapped off the crisp leaves close down to the stem of the cabbages with a noise as of breaking glass, where they lay in heaps along the furrows beneath the over-arching rows of plants. hidden in the gloom, whence was emitted the warm, moist smell of earth, he was lost amid the huge velvety leaves intersected with their purple veins of colour. in truth he made one with the vegetation, and it would have been difficult to discern which was corduroy and which cabbage in the billowy expanse of the blue-green field. withal, close to earth as was his bent body, his soul was agitated and deep in thought; and as he worked, the farmer continued to ponder many things. the irritation caused by the keeper's threats had subsided; it only needed reflection to dismiss all fear of hard treatment from the marquis. did they not both come of a good stock; and did they not acknowledge it, one of the other? for the yeoman's ancestor was a lumineau who had fought in the great war; and although now in these changed times he never mentioned past glories, neither the nobles nor the peasants were ignorant that his ancestor, a giant, surnamed brin d'amour, in the war of la vendée, had taken the generals of the insurrection across the marshes in his own punt, had fought brilliantly, and had received a sword of honour, which now hung, eaten with rust, behind one of the farm presses. the family was one of the most widely connected in the country side. he claimed cousinship with thirty farmers, spread over that district which formed the marais, extending from saint gilles to the ile de bouin. no one, himself included, could tell at what period his forefathers had begun to till the fields of la fromentière. they had been there of right for generations, the marquis in his castle, the lumineaus in their farm, united through long custom, each knowing the land and alike loving it; drinking the vintage of the soil together when they met; never dreaming that one or the other could ever forsake château or farm bearing one and the same name. and, in truth, eight years ago, great had been the astonishment when one christmas morning, amid falling sleet, m. henri, the present marquis, a man of forty, a greater hunter, harder drinker, and more boorish mannered than any of his predecessors, had said to toussaint lumineau, "my toussaint, i am going to live in paris. my wife cannot accustom herself to this place; it is too dull and too cold for her. but do not worry; i shall come back." he had never come back, save on rare occasions for a day or two. but, of course, he had not forgotten the past. he still remained the same uncouth, kindly master known of old, and the keeper had lied when he talked of their being turned out. no, the more toussaint lumineau thought of it the less did he believe that a master so rich, so liberal, so good at heart, could have written such words. only the rent must be paid. well, so it should. the farmer himself did not possess two hundred francs ready-money in the walnut wood chest beside his bed; but his children were rich, having inherited over two thousand francs apiece from their mother, la luminette, dead now these three years past. so he would ask françois, his second son, to lend him the sum due to the master. françois was not a lad without heart, he would not let his old father be in difficulties. once again anxiety for the morrow would be dispelled, good harvests would come, prosperous years which should make all hearts light again. weary of his stooping posture, the farmer straightened himself, passed his flannel shirt sleeve over his perspiring face, then turned his eyes to the roof of la fromentière with the expression of one gazing on some well beloved object. to wipe his brow he had taken off his hat; now, in the oblique ray of sunshine which no longer reached the grass or the cabbages, in the soft declining light like that of a happy old age, he raised his firm, square-cut face. his complexion, unlike the cadaverous hue of peasants accustomed to scant living, was clear and healthy; the full cheeks with their narrow line of black whisker, straight nose, broad at the base, square jaw, in fact the whole face and clear grey eyes--eyes that always looked a man full in the face, betokened health, vigour, and the habit of command, while the long lips, refined-looking despite the weather-beaten skin, drooping at the corners, bespoke the ready fluency and somewhat haughty spirit of a son of the marshes, who looks down upon everyone not belonging to that favoured spot. the perfectly white hair, dishevelled and fine, formed a fitting setting to the head, and shone with a silvery sheen. standing thus motionless with head uncovered in the waning light, the farmer of la fromentière presented an imposing appearance, making it easy to understand the distinction of _la seigneurie_ commonly given him in the neighbourhood. he was called lumineau l'evêque, to single him out from others of the name, lumineau le pauvre; lumineau barbefine; lumineau tournevire. he was looking at his beloved la fromentière. some hundred yards away to the south, among the stems of elms, the pale red tiles stood out like rough enamels. borne on the evening wind there came the sound of the lowing of cattle going home to their sheds, the smell of the stables, the pungent aroma of camomile and fennel stored up in the barn. nor was that all that presented itself to the farmer's mind as he gazed on his roof illuminated by the last rays of the declining sun; he called to his mental vision the two sons and two daughters living under that roof, mathurin, françois, eléonore, and marie-rose, the heavy burdens, yet mixed with how much sweetness of his life. the eldest, his splendid eldest, doomed by a terrible misfortune to be a cripple, only to see others work, never to share it himself; eléonore, who took the place of her dead mother; françois, weak of nature, in whom could be seen but the incomplete, uncertain future master of the farm; rousille, the youngest girl, just twenty.... had the keeper lied again when speaking of the farm-servant's love-making? not unlikely. how could a servant, the son of a poor widow in the bocage, that heavy, unproductive land, how could he dare to pay court to the daughter of a farmer of the marais? he might feel friendship and respect for the pretty girl, whose smiling face attracted many a remark on the way back from mass on sundays at sallertaine; but anything more?... well, one must watch.... it was but for a moment that toussaint lumineau pondered the man's insinuations; then with a sense of tenderness and comfort his thoughts flew to the absent one, the son next in age to rousille, andré, the chasseur d'afrique, now in algiers as orderly to his colonel, a brother of the marquis de la fromentière. but one month more and that youngest son would be home, his time of service expired. they would see him again, the fair, handsome young fellow, so tall, the living portrait of his father grown young again, full of noble vigour and love for sallertaine and the farmstead. and all anxieties would be forgotten and merged in the joy of having the son home again, who used to make the ladies of chalons turn as he passed, to say to each other: "that is a handsome lad, lumineau's youngest son!" the farmer often remained thus, the day's work done, sunk in thought before his farmstead. this time he remained longer than usual in the midst of the swaying masses of leaves, now grown grey, indistinct looking in the gathering darkness like some unfamiliar ground. the trees themselves had become but vague outlines bordering the fields. the large expanse of clear sky overhead, still bright with golden glory, suffered but faint rays to fall to earth, making objects visible but only dimly. lumineau, putting both hands to his mouth to carry the sound, turned towards the farm, and called out lustily: "ohé! rousille?" the first to respond to the call was the dog, bas-rouge, who, at the sound of his master's voice, flew like an arrow from the far end of the field. then a young, clear voice was heard in the distance: "yes, father, i am coming." the farmer stooped, took a cord, and bound a huge mass of leaves together, loaded it on his shoulder, and staggering under its weight, with arms raised to steady it, his head buried in the soft burden, followed the furrow, turned, and proceeded down the trodden path. as he reached the corner of the field a girl's slender form rose up before a break in the hedge. with agile movement rousille cleared the fence; as she alighted her short petticoats revealed a pair of black stockings and sabots turned up at the toes. "good evening, father." he could not refrain from thinking of what the keeper had said, and made no reply. marie-rose, her two hands on her hips, nodding her little head as if meditating something grave, watched him go. then entering in among the furrows she gathered together the remainder of the fallen leaves, knotted them with the cord she had brought, and, as her father had done, raised the green mass, and though bending beneath the weight, proceeded with light step down the grassy path. to go into the field, collect, and bind together the leaves must have taken some ten minutes; her father should have reached the farm by now. she neared the fence, when suddenly from the top of the slope, the foot of which she was skirting, came a whistle like that of a plover. she was not frightened. now a man jumped over the brambles into the field. rousille threw down her burden. he approached no nearer, and they began to talk in brief sentences. "oh, rousille, what a heavy load you are carrying." "i am strong enough. have you seen my father?" "no, i have only just come. has he said anything against me?" "he did not say a word. but he looked at me.... believe me, jean, he mistrusts us. you ought not to stay out to-night, for he dislikes poaching and you will be scolded." "what can it matter to him if i shoot at night, so long as i am as early next morning at my work as anyone else? do i grumble over my work? rousille, i was told at la seulière, and the miller of moque-souris told me too, that plovers have been seen on the marais. it will be full moon to-night, i mean to go out, and you shall have some to-morrow morning." "jean," she returned, "you ought not.... i assure you." the young man was carrying a gun slung across his shoulder; over his brown coat he wore a short blouse scarcely reaching to his waist-belt. he was slim, about the same height as rousille, dark, sinewy, pale, with regular features, and a small moustache, slightly curled at the corners of the mouth. the complexion alone served to show that he was not a native of the marais, where the mists soften and tint the skin, but of a district where the soil is poor and chalky, and where small holdings and penury abound. withal, from his lean, self-possessed countenance, straight-pencilled eyebrows, the fire and vivacity of the eyes, one could discern a fund of indomitable energy, a tenacity of purpose that would yield to no opposition. not for an instant did rousille's fears move him. a little for love of her, but far more for the pleasure of sport and of nocturnal marauding so dear to the heart of primitive man, he had made up his mind to go shooting that night on the marais. that being the case, nothing would have made him desist, not even the thought of displeasing marie-rose. she looked but a child. her girlish figure, her fresh young complexion, the full oval of her face, the pure brow with its bands of hair smoothly parted on either side, straight lips, which one never knew were they about to part in a smile or to droop for tears, gave her the appearance of a virgin in some sacred procession wearing a broad band across the shoulders. her eyes alone were those of a woman, dark chestnut eyes the colour of the hair, wherein lay and shone a tenderness youthful yet grave, noble and enduring. without having known it, she had been loved for a long time by her father's farm-servant. for a year now they had been secretly engaged. on sundays, as she returned from mass, wearing the flowered muslin coif in the form of a pyramid, the coif of sallertaine, many a farmer's, or horse and cattle breeder's son, tried to attract her gaze. but she paid no attention to them; had she not betrothed herself to jean nesmy, the taciturn stranger, poor and friendless, who had no place, no authority, no friendship save in her young heart? already she obeyed him. in her home they never spoke to each other. out-of-doors when they could meet their talk was always hurried on account of her brothers' watchfulness, that of mathurin especially, the cripple, who was ever jealously prowling about. this time, too, they must avoid being surprised. jean nesmy, therefore, without stopping to consider rousille's cause for uneasiness, asked abruptly: "have you brought everything?" without further insistence she gave in. "yes," she answered; and producing from her pocket a bottle of wine and slice of coarse bread, she held them out to him with a smile that irradiated her whole face, despite the darkness. "here, my jean," she said, "it was not easy; lionore is always on the watch, and mathurin follows me about everywhere;" there was melody in her voice, as though she was saying, "i love you." "when will you be back?" she added. "at dawn. i shall come by the dwarf orchard." as he spoke, the youth raising his blouse had opened a linen ration bag, brought back from his military service, and which he wore hung round his neck. in it he stored the wine and bread. absorbed in the action, intent on the thing of the moment, he did not notice that rousille was bending forward listening to a sound from the farm. when he had finished fastening the two buttons of the ration bag, the girl was still listening. "what am i to answer," she gravely said, "if father asks for you presently? he is now shutting the door of the barn." with a smile that displayed two rows of teeth white as milk, jean nesmy, touching his hat, unadorned and wider than those worn in the marais, said: "good night, rousille. tell your father that i am going to be out all night, and hope to bring back some plovers for my little sweetheart!" he turned, sprang up the slope, jumped down into the neighbouring field, and the next second the barrel of his gun caught the light as it disappeared among the branches. rousille still stood before the break in the hedge, her heart had gone forth with the wanderer. then, for the second time, a noise broke the stillness of evening. now it was the sound of frightened fowls, the flapping of wings, the noise of a key turning in the lock--the sign that eléonore, as always before supper, was locking the door of the fowl-house; marie-rose would be late. hurriedly she caught up her load of leaves, cleared the fence, and hastened back to the farm. soon she had reached the uneven grassy path, which, coming from the high lands, makes a bend ere, a little further on, it reaches the edge of the marais. crossing it, she pushed open the side entrance of a large gate, followed a half-fallen wall covered with creepers, and passing through a ruined archway, whose gaping interstices had once formed the imposing centre of the ancient walls, she entered a courtyard, surrounded with farm buildings. the barn wherein was piled the green forage stood to the left beside the stables. the girl threw in the bundle of leaves she had brought, and shaking her damp dress, went towards the long, low, tiled dwelling-house forming the end of the courtyard. arrived at the last door on the right, where light shone through chinks and keyhole, she paused a little. a feeling of dread, often experienced, had come over her. from inside could be heard the sound of spoons clinking against the sides of plates; men's voices, a dragging step along the floor. softly as she could she opened the door and slipped in. chapter ii. the family lumineau. the family was assembled in the large living-room, or "house-place" of the farm. as the girl entered all eyes were turned upon her, but not a word was spoken. feeling isolated, she crept along beside the wall, trying by lessening the noise of her sabots the sooner to escape observation, and having reached the chimney-corner, stooped down and held out her hands to the fire, as if she were cold. her sister eléonore, a tall young woman with horse-like profile, lifeless blue eyes, and heavy apathetic face, drew back either to make way for her or to mark the ill-feeling existing between them, and continued to eat her slice of bread and few scraps of meat standing, the time-honoured custom among the women of la vendée. the chimney-corner, blackened with smoke, hid them from the rest of the family as they stood one on either side; the dancing flames between them lit up, from time to time, the inmates and contents of the big house-place, built at a period when wood was plentiful, and houses and furniture were intended to last; while overhead numberless rafters discoloured with smoke and dust, joined the huge centre beam. the fitful flames anon rested on the woodwork of two four-post beds that stood against the wall, each with a walnut wood chest beside it, by aid of which the occupants mounted to the heavy structures, two wardrobes, some photographs, and a rosary hung round a copper crucifix over the nearest bed. the three men at the table in the centre of the room were seated on the same bench in order of precedence; first, at the farthest end from the door, the father, then mathurin, then françois. a small petroleum lamp shed its light upon their bent heads, upon the soup-tureen, a dish of cold bacon, and another of uncooked apples. they were not eating from the tureen as do many peasant farmers, but each had his plate, and beside it his metal spoon, fork, and knife, not a pocket-knife but a proper table one, a luxury introduced by françois on his return from military service; from which the old farmer had drawn his conclusion that the outside world was full of changes. toussaint lumineau looked worried and kept silence. his calm, strong face, though that of an old man, contrasted strangely with the deformed features of his eldest son, mathurin. formerly they had been alike; but since the misfortune of which they never spoke and which yet haunted the memories of all at la fromentière, the son was only the grotesque suffering caricature of his father. the enormous head, covered with a bush of tawny hair, was sunk between his high, thickened shoulders. the width of chest, length of arms, and size of hands denoted a man of gigantic stature; but when this giant, supported by his crutches, stood up, one saw a poor twisted, thickened torso, with contorted powerless legs dragging after it; a prize-fighter's body terminating in two wasted limbs, capable at most of supporting it for a few seconds, and from which even, powerless as they now were, the life was gradually ebbing. scarce thirty years of age, the beard which grew almost to his cheek-bones was grey in places. above the muddy-veined cheek-bones, from out the tangled mass of hair and beard which gave him the appearance of a wild animal, shone a pair of deep blue eyes, small, sad-looking, whence would flash all suddenly the wild exasperation of one condemned to a living death, who counted each stage of his torture. it was as though one half of him were assisting with impotent rage at the slow agony of the other. his forehead was lined with wrinkles which made deep furrows between the eyebrows. "our poor eldest son, the handsomest of them all, what a wreck he is!" their mother used sorrowfully to say. she had reason to pity him. six years ago he had come home from his military service as handsome a fellow as when he went. the three years of barrack life had passed over his simple peasant nature, over his dreams of ploughing the land and harvesting, over the tenets of faith he held in common with his race, with scarce a trace of harm. innate contempt of the life led in towns had been his protection. "lumineau's eldest son is not like other lads; he is not a bit changed," was the verdict of the neighbours. one evening when he had taken a waggon-load of corn to the flour-miller of chalons, he came back with empty sacks, but beside him, sitting upon a pile of them, was a laughing girl from sallertaine, félicité gauvrit, of la seulière, whom he wished to take for wife. the dusk of evening was over the roads, it was hard to distinguish ruts from tufts of grass; but he, all absorbed in his sweetheart, confident that his horse knew the way, was not even holding the reins that had fallen and were dragging on the ground. and suddenly, as they were descending a hill close to la fromentière, the horse, struck by a branch from a tree, started into a gallop. the waggon jerked from side to side, was in danger of being upset; the wheels were on the bank, the girl wanted to jump out. "don't be frightened, félicité, i will manage him!" cried her lover. and standing up he leant forward to seize the horse by the bit and stop him. but whether the darkness, a jolt, or ill-luck deceived him, he overbalanced and fell along the harness. there were two simultaneous cries, one from the waggon, one from beneath it. the wheel had gone over his limbs. when félicité gauvrit could get to her lover's assistance, she found him trying in vain to struggle up from the ground. for eight months mathurin was groaning in agony; then his groans ceased, his sufferings grew less acute; but first the feet became paralyzed, then the knees, and gradually the slow death mounted.... at the present time he could only drag his lower limbs after him, crawling on his knees and wrists, grown to an enormous size. he could still guide a punt upon the canals of the marais, but his strength was soon exhausted. in a hand-cart, such as farm children use for a plaything, the father or brother would draw him to the more distant fields whither the plough had preceded them; and thus, utterly useless, the young man would look on at the work to which he was born, and which he still loved so passionately. "our poor eldest lumineau, the handsomest of them all!" his gay spirits had flown; his character had become as changed and warped as his body. he had grown hard, suspicious, cruel. his brothers and sisters hid all their little concerns from the man who looked upon the happiness of others as a personal wrong to himself; they feared his skill at ferreting out any love-making; the treachery which would prompt him to try and mar it. he, who never could hope now to inspire love, could not brook that others should possess it. above all, could not brook that another should take the place which came to him by right of birth, that of future master, of the father's successor to the farm. on that account he was jealous of françois, and still more of andré, the handsome young chasseur d'afrique, their father's favourite. he even was jealous of the farm-servant, who might become dangerous, did he marry rousille. sometimes mathurin lumineau said to himself: "if only i could get well again! i believe i do feel better!" at other times a kind of rage would take possession of him, and he would not speak for days, would hide away in corners or in the stables, until a flood of tears would melt his passion. at those times one man only could go near him: his father. one thing alone softened the cripple's churlishness, and that was to look on the home fields, to see the oxen at work, the seed sown which should yield abundantly in its season, and to gaze out on to the horizon where he had tasted of the fulness of life. for the whole six years in which the girl he had loved had deserted him, he had never once been into the town of sallertaine, even to easter communion, which he no longer attended. nor had he ever met félicité gauvrit, of la seulière, along the lanes. he sometimes asked eléonore: "do you ever hear any talk of her marrying? is she still as handsome as when she loved me?" when marie-rose went into the supper-room that night, it was mathurin only whom she furtively glanced at, and his face seemed to her to wear a malicious smile, as though he had seen, or guessed jean's absence. near mathurin sat françois, a very different looking man from the other, of middle height, stout, red faced, easy going. of him, rousille had no fear. he was more pleasure-loving than the rest of the family. no great worker, extravagant, running off to all the fairs and markets, easy to get on with because he needed the indulgence of others. physically and morally the counterpart of eléonore, two years his senior, like her he had a broad face, dull blue eyes, and the same apathetic nature which so often called forth lectures from their father. but while the girl in the protection of her home remained pure under the influence of her good mother, now dead, who, like so many of the simple peasant women of those parts, had lived a humble saint-like life, françois had been ruined by barrack life. he had submitted to military discipline, but without understanding the necessity for it; therefore without deriving the corresponding benefit. he had been subject to his superiors, had received punishment, had been sent hither and thither for three years; but he had never made a friend, never felt himself encouraged in the few halting intentions for good that he had taken with him from the home life, never been treated as a man, who has a soul, and whom sacrifice, however humble, can ennoble. on the other hand, he fell an easy prey to all the evils of a soldier's life; the loose talk at mess, the drinking habits of his companions, the constant endeavour to shirk duty, the prejudices, in a word the hundred and one corruptions into which young men can sink who are taken from their homes and sent out into the world, new to the temptations of great cities, without a guide at the very period when most they stand in need of one. neither better nor worse than the average of men home from military training, he had brought back with him to la fromentière a remembrance of illicit pleasures that followed him everywhere; defiance of all authority, a disgust for the hard, uncertain, often unproductive work of farming, which he contrasted with vague notions about civil employment of which the leisure and privileges had been vaunted to him. how far off was he now from the simple son of the marshes, with fearless eyes, the inseparable companion, model and protector of andré, who, twirling his tamarind stick, would make the round of the canals to see if the cows had strayed from the meadows, or to search for any ducks which might have wandered into the ditches! with unwilling spirit, and because he had nothing better to do, he had returned to the care of the animals and to follow the plough. the proximity of chalons, its wine shops and taverns was a temptation to him; urged on by his companions, weak and passive, he suffered himself to be led away. on tuesdays, particularly, market day, the poor old father too often saw his son of seven-and-twenty start off from the farm under various pretexts before it was dawn, to come back late at night, stupefied, insensible to reproaches. it was an ever abiding grief to the father. françois had made la fromentière no longer the sacred abode beloved by, defended by all, which no one had dreamed of deserting. in that room where they were now assembled what a long line of mothers and children, of grandsires and grandames, united or resigned, had lived and died! in those high beds ranged against the walls how many children had been born, fed, and at last had slept their last sleep! there had been sorrow and weeping there, but never ingratitude. a whole forest might have been re-planted if all the wood burned in that chimney, by those bearing the same name, could have re-taken root. what was in store for his descendants hereafter? the old farmer had noticed for months past that françois and eléonore were plotting something; they received letters, one and the other, of which they never spoke; they talked together in corners; sometimes of a sunday, eléonore would write a letter on plain paper, not such as she would use when writing to a friend. and the thought had come to him that his two children, weary of rule and scoldings, were on the look-out for a farm in some neighbouring parish, where they would be their own masters--it was a thought he dared not dwell upon; he cast it from him as unjust. still it haunted his mind, for the future of la fromentière was his one chief care, and, since his eldest son's misfortune, françois was the heir. when work went well, the father would think joyfully, "after all, the lad is buckling to again." in truth, of the four young people assembled that september evening in the farm house-place, one only personified intact all the characteristics, all the energy of the race, and this was little rousille, who was eating the crust of bread given her by eléonore; one face alone expressed the joy of living, the health of body and soul, the brave spirit of one who has not yet had to do battle but who bides her time, and this was the face of the girl to whom no one, as yet, had spoken a word, and who was standing erect in the chimney-corner. "now the soup is finished," said the farmer. "come, mathurin, try a slice of bacon with me." "no. it is always the same thing with us." "well, and so much the better," replied the father, "bacon is very good fare; i like it." but the cripple, shrugging his shoulders, pushed away the dish, muttering: "i suppose other meat is too dear for us now, eh?" toussaint lumineau's brows contracted at the mention of former prosperity, but he replied, gently: "you are right, my poor boy, it is a bad year, and expenses are heavy," then, wishing to change the subject--"has jean not come in yet?" three voices, in succession, replied: "i have not seen him!" "nor i." "nor i." after a silence, during which all eyes were turned towards the chimney-corner. "it would be best to ask rousille," exclaimed eléonore, "she must know." the girl half turning towards the table, her profile standing out in the firelight, answered: "of course i do. i met him at the turn of the road by our swing gate; he was going shooting." "again!" exclaimed the farmer. "once for all this must be put a stop to. to-night, when i was tying up my cabbages, the keeper of m. le marquis reprimanded me for that lad's poaching." "but is he not free to shoot plovers?" asked rousille. "everyone does." a simultaneous snort proceeding from eléonore and françois marked their hostility to the _boquin_, the alien, rousille's friend. the farmer, reassured by the reflection that the keeper would not trouble himself about nesmy's shooting in the neutral ground of the marais, where anyone was free to go after wild-fowl as much as he pleased, resumed his supper. françois was already nodding, and ate no more. the cripple drank slowly, his eyes fixed on space, perhaps he was thinking of the time when he, too, loved shooting. there was an interval of apparent peace. the summer breeze came through the chinks of the door with a gentle murmur, regular as the waves on a seashore. the two girls sitting on either side of the chimney-corner, were each giving all their attention to the peeling of an apple, the conclusion of their supper. but the farmer's mind was unsettled by the keeper's words, and by mathurin's "meat is too dear for us, now." the old man was looking back to the long ago, when the four children before him had been busied with their own childish experiences, and could only take their little part in the parents' interests according to their age. first he looked at mathurin, then at françois, as though to appeal to their memory about the old days when as tiny boys they drove the cattle, or fished for eels. too moved longer to keep silence, he ended by saying: "ah, the country side has changed greatly since m. le marquis' time! do you remember him, mathurin?" "yes," returned mathurin's thick voice. "i remember him. a big fellow, very red in the face, who used to call out when he came in, 'good evening, my lads! has father another bottle of old wine in the cellar? go and ask him, mathurin, or you, françois.'" "yes, that was just him all over," said the good farmer, with an affectionate smile. "he knew how to drink; and you would never find noblemen so affable as ours; they would tell you stories that made you die with laughing. and rich, children! they never used to mind waiting for the rent if there had been a bad harvest. they have even made me a loan, more than once, to buy oxen or seed. they were hot-tempered, but not to those who knew how to manage them; while these agents...." he made a violent gesture as if to knock someone down. "yes," replied mathurin, "they are a bad lot." "and mademoiselle ambroisine! she used to come to play with you, eléonore, but particularly with rousille, for she was between eléonore and rousille for age. i should say she must be about twenty-five by now. how pretty she used to look, with her lace frocks, her hair dressed like one of the saints in a church, her pretty laughing nods to everyone she met when she went into sallertaine. ah, what a pity that they have gone away. there are people who do not regret them; but i am not one of those!" mathurin shook his tawny head, and in a voice that rose at the slightest contradiction, exclaimed: "what else could they do? they are ruined." "oh, ruined! not so bad as that." "you only need to look at the château, shut up these eight years like a prison; only need to hear what people say. all their property is mortgaged; the notary makes no secret about it. you will see before long that la fromentière is sold, and we with it!" "no, mathurin, that i shall not see, thank god, i shall be dead before that. besides, our nobles are not like us, my boy; they always have property to come into when their own money runs a little short. i hope better things than you. it is my idea that m. henri will one day come back to the château, that he will stand just where you now are, and with outstretched hand, say: 'good day, father lumineau!' and mademoiselle ambroisine too, who will be so delighted to kiss my two girls on both cheeks, as we do in the marais, and cry, 'how do you do, eléonore? how do you do, marie-rose?' ah, it may all come about sooner than you suppose." with eyes raised to the mantel-piece, the old man seemed to be seeing his master's daughter standing between his own two girls, while something like a tear moistened his eyelids. but mathurin, striking the table with his fist, said, as he turned his peevish face towards his father: "do you believe they are thinking of us? i tell you, no, unless it is about midsummer. i'll wager that the keeper just now asked you again for the rent? the beggar only has that one word in his mouth." toussaint lumineau leant back on the bench, thought for a moment, then said in a low voice: "you are right. only one never can tell if the master really did order him to speak as he did, mathurin. he often invents words!" "yes, yes. and what did you answer?" "that i would pay at michaelmas." "with what?" a few minutes before the two girls had gone into the kitchen, to the left of the house-place, and thence came in the sound of running water and the washing of dishes. every evening, at this hour, the men were left to themselves; it was the time when they discussed matters of interest. already, in the previous year, the farmer had borrowed from his eldest son the larger portion of the money that he had inherited from his mother. he could therefore only hope for help from the younger; but of that he had so little doubt that, speaking in a low voice to avoid being overheard by his daughters, he said: "i was thinking that françois would help." françois, roused from his sleepiness by the foregoing talk, answered hastily: "no, no. do not count on me. it cannot be done...." he had not the courage to look his father in the face as he spoke, but fixed his gaze on the ground like a schoolboy. his father was not angry, he only replied gently: "i would have repaid you, françois, as i shall repay your brother. one year is not like another. good times will come back to us." and he waited, looking at the thick tawny hair and bull neck of his eldest son that scarcely rose above the table. but françois must have already made up his mind, and that very decidedly, for in a half-smothered voice he made answer: "father, i cannot; nor can eléonore. our money is our own, is it not? and each of us is free to use it as he or she pleases? ours is already invested. what does it matter to us if the marquis does have to wait a year for his money? you say he is so rich." "what matter to us, françois?" then, and not till then, the father's voice rose and became authoritative. he did not put himself into a passion, he rather felt hurt as though not recognising his own flesh and blood; it was as if, all suddenly, there had dawned upon him without his understanding it the wide gulf that existed between the feelings of the present generation and the past, and he said: "what you say is not to my taste, françois lumineau. for my part, i consider it a duty to pay what i owe--the family at the château have never done me a wrong. i and your mother, and mathurin, who have known them better than you, have always respected them; do you understand? they are perfectly justified in spending their wealth as it seems them best; that is a matter that does not concern us.... not pay? and do you know that they could turn us out of la fromentière?" "bah!" returned françois. "and what does it matter whether we are here or elsewhere? as far as farming goes, it does not pay so mighty well anywhere." treacherously, without seeing the old man's pallor, struck to the heart, he thus seceded from la fromentière. the sound of washing of dishes was heard no more in the adjacent kitchen, the girls were listening. the farmer made no reply; but, rising, he drew himself up to his full height, passed before his son, his intimidated son, who watched him from the corner of his eye, and flung open the door that led into the courtyard. a rush of air, the scent of leaves, the breath of green fields, came into the heated room redolent of food. françois, hastening to make off, sidled along the wall, passed through the kitchen, exchanging a few words with eléonore as he went, and going through the girls' bedchamber went out into the night. it was the farmer's custom every night to cross his threshold and breathe the fresh air before going to rest; to-night as usual he walked out to the middle of the courtyard to judge of the weather for the morrow. some light clouds were gliding away towards the west, rear-guard of a bank of more extended clouds deep down in the horizon. swept on by the wind to the neighbouring coast they formed themselves into transparent islands, separating abysses of deep-blue sky studded with stars. with the leisurely movement of a laden vessel the wind bore on towards the ever-changing sea the kiss of earth, the scent and thrill of vegetation, the scattered seeds, the germs entangled in the dust failing hither and thither in mysterious rain-showers, the voice of innumerable insects that sing in the grasses, and have no other witness than the winds. there was a sense of content, a series of waves, as it were, of calm and fecundity following one upon the other, which should spread abroad in many a sea-solitude the scent of the harvests of france. and the farmer, drinking in the air wherein floated the essence of his beloved vendée, felt that love-thrill within him which, unable to express, he experienced for it to the very marrow of his bones. "how is it with these young people," he thought, "that they can he indifferent to the farmstead? i have been young in my day, but it would have taken a good deal to make me leave la fromentière. perhaps they find it dull; the house is not like it was in my dear wife's time; i do not know how to keep them together as she did." and he thought of la mère lumineau, the good, saving housewife, haughty towards strangers, loving to her own, who, with a word in the right place, could always so quietly influence and control her boys, and check the rivalry of her girls. around him the stables, the barns, the huge hayrick glistened in the moonlight. a distant shot resounded from the marais. toussaint heard it, and his thoughts turned at once to the man shooting. at the same instant a voice behind him exclaimed: "there's another plover down for rousille!" "that's enough, mathurin!" said his father, who, without looking back, had recognised the speaker. "do not be telling tales, which you know irritate me, against your sister. i am troubled to-night, my boy, troubled enough about françois." the crutches striking on the gravel came nearer, and the farmer felt the shaggy head touch his shoulder as the cripple straightened himself. "i am only speaking the truth, father," he said in a low voice, "these are no tales. it makes my blood boil to see this _boquin_ making love to my sister in order to get hold of our money, and play the master here. a fellow who has not a halfpenny to bless himself with! there is no time to be lost, if he is to be brought to his senses." "do you really believe," asked the father, bending down a little to him, "that a girl like rousille would listen to my hired labourer? does she care anything for him, mathurin?" it was a weakness of toussaint lumineau to lend too ready ear to the judgment and strictures of his eldest son. even now that all hope had been abandoned of seeing him his successor; after all the many proofs experienced of the violence and malevolence of the cripple, he still retained predominant influence over the father. "father, they are lovers!" as a whispered breath the words came to the father's ear. rage at the happiness of others had distorted the younger man's features. toussaint lumineau looked down at the face raised to his, so white in the moonlight, and was struck by the air of suffering it wore. "if you watched them as i do," continued his son, "you would see that though they never speak to each other indoors, outside they always contrive to meet. i have often caught them talking and laughing together like acknowledged lovers. you do not know that jean nesmy; he is audacity itself. he lets you think that he likes shooting, and i do not say but what he may, but he does not carry his love for it to that extent, i'll be bound. is it only for his own pleasure that he is off to the far end of the marais to shoot plovers; only for his own pleasure that he risks malarial fever fishing for eels; that he spends whole nights out after being hard at work all day? no, i tell you, it is for rousille, for rousille, for rousille!" his voice had risen, it could be heard from within the house. "i will be on the watch, my boy," returned his father soothingly, "do not you worry yourself." "ah, if i were you, i would go at dawn to-morrow along the road to the marais, and if i caught them together...." "enough!" exclaimed his father, "you do yourself no good by so much talking, mathurin. here is eléonore coming to help you in." eléonore had come, as usual, to help mathurin up the steps, and unlace his boots. no sooner did she touch his arm than turning, he went in with her. the sound of crutches and of footsteps died away; the father was alone again. "come," he thought aloud, "if this be true, i will not suffer the laugh to last long against me in the marais!" he drew in a deep breath of pure air, as though it were a bumper of wine, then to make sure that rousille had not gone out again, he entered the house by the door in the middle, which was that of his daughter's bedchamber. all was dark within; a ray of moonlight fell across the well-waxed wardrobes furnishing the sides of the room--wardrobes always kept in perfect order by eléonore and rousille. the farmer felt his way round the huge walnut wood one which had formed his mother's dowry, had crossed the room, and was making his way out into the kitchen communicating with the large living-room where he and mathurin slept, when behind him, in the angle of a bed, a shadowy form arose: "father!" he stopped. "is it you, rousille? are you not in bed?" "no, i was waiting for you. i wanted to say something to you." they were separated by the length of the room; the darkness was too great for them to see each other. "as françois cannot give you his money, i have been thinking that i will give you mine." "you are not afraid then that i shall not repay you?" the farmer asked harshly. the girlish voice, as if discouraged by this reception, and checked in its enthusiasm, replied timidly: "i will go to-morrow to fetch it ... the michelonne's nephew has it.... i will, indeed, and you shall have it the day after to-morrow." if a tear rolled down his cheeks, the farmer was unaware of it; he passed on into his own room. some minutes later, when eléonore came into the room, a lighted candle in her hand, marie-rose was no longer beside her bed, but was standing before the open windows looking out on to the courtyard. the farmhouse stood upon an eminence, and from this window there was a view over the low wall, and through the arched gateway to the slopes beyond, and even across the sedge-covered marais. the sisters often undressed without exchanging a word. rousille was gazing straight before her into the clear moonlight; her accustomed eye could distinguish objects by it almost as accurately as by the light of day. immediately beyond the wall came a group of elms, under shelter of which stood carts and ploughs, then a stretch of land lying fallow, and beyond that again the broad flat expanse of marshland, across which on most nights would come now faintly, now loudly, the sound of the roll of the ocean, as of some far-off chariot that never stopped. the immense grassy plain looked blue in the darkness; here and there the water of a dyke shone in the moonlight. a few distant lights, a window lit up, pierced the veil of mist that spread over the meadows. unerringly rousille could name each farmstead to herself by its beacon light, similar to that on the mast-head of a ship riding at anchor; la pinçonnière, la parée du mont, both near; further away, les levrelles; then so distant that their lights were only visible at intervals, like tiny stars, la terre-aymont, la seulière, malabrit, and the flour-mill of moque-souris. by a group of starry points on the right, she could discern the town of sallertaine standing out on an invisible mound in the middle of the marais. somewhere about there jean nesmy was wading among the reeds, for love of rousille. so she continued to think of him; she seemed to see him so far, so very far away, amid the dreamy shadows, and her lips pressed together, then parted in a long, silent kiss. there was a sudden swish of wings over the tiles of la fromentière. "do shut the window, rousille," said eléonore, waking up. "it is the turn of the night, and blows in cold." the sky was clear, the clouds had dispersed. the lights of moque-souris were extinguished; those of sallertaine had gradually diminished like a bunch of currants pecked by birds. "until to-morrow, my jean, in the dwarf orchard," murmured rousille. and slowly, musingly, the girl began unfastening her dress by the light reflected from her white sheet, her young heart filled with dreams of youth. chapter iii. the dwarf orchard. towards four o'clock the stars began to fade in the sky, the first signs of daybreak to appear. a cock crowed. it was the same golden-feathered cock, with fiery eyes under his red crest, that crowed every morning. marie-rose had reared him. now hearing it she thought, "thank you, little cock!" then began to dress quietly, for fear of rousing eléonore, who still slept soundly. she was quickly ready, and crossing the courtyard, turned to the left past the ruined wall by a grassy path on the farm property, strewn with fallen branches, which led down to the marais. about some hundred yards from la fromentière all vegetation abruptly ceased, and one came upon a low wall grown with lichen and moss, surrounding an orchard of about an acre in extent. rousille, pushing open a gate in the middle of the wall, entered. it was a curious sight, this dwarf orchard. the cider apple and pear trees with which it was planted had never been able to grow higher than the top of the wall on account of the strong winds that blew from the sea. their stems were thick and gnarled, their branches all bent and driven towards the east; leafless above, they met and over-arched beneath. looking at it from outside one simply saw a billowy mass of bare branches; but on making one's way down the central path, one found oneself in a leafy shade some four feet high, safe from inquisitive eyes, from rain and heat, and from the gales which sweep over the marais. it was a sailor's folly, such as might be found in far-off isles. as a child, it had been rousille's playground; now grown up, it was here she had come to meet her betrothed. entering, she stooped and made a path for herself towards the western wall, then sitting upon the forked branch of an apple-tree, hidden among them like a partridge in a corn-field, she gazed out upon the vast plain along which jean nesmy must come. at this early hour the marais was covered with mists which did not rise, but parted ever and anon, undulating in the breeze. the solitude was unbroken, the atmosphere light, sensitive, nervous, carrying the faintest sound without diminution. the bark of a dog at sallertaine came to her ears as if it were beside her. great square corn-fields that looked like patches of grey fur stitched together faded away into nothing in the distance. here and there canals, cutting each other at right angles, looked like tarnished mirrors, the mist curling in smoke above them. then vaguely from out the fog darker outlines began to appear, like oases in the desert; they were farmhouses built on the low-lying ground of the marshland, with their outbuildings and groups of poplars to lend shade. now the undulating veil of mist began to rise, rays of light touched the grasses, sheets of water sparkled like windows in a setting sun. for many a league, from the bay of bourgneuf to saint gilles, the marais of la vendée had awakened to the light of a fresh day. rousille rejoiced in it. she loved her native soil, faithful, true, generous soil, ever yielding its increase whether in rain or sunshine; where one would sleep one's last sleep to the sighing of the wind, under the shelter of the cross. she loved nothing better than that horizon where every tiniest road was familiar to her, from the fence that ran along the first meadow of la fromentière close at hand, to the paths on the embankment which must be traversed pole in hand to jump the dykes. "four o'clock," she said to herself, "and he has not come back yet! what will father say?" she was beginning to grow uneasy, when, as she was gazing into the distance towards the pointed clock tower of sallertaine, a voice startled her with: "rousille!" on the rising path, the marshland behind him, standing looking at her in the light of the early morning, was jean nesmy. "i did not see you come," she said. he laughed, and with a proud air raised above his head a bundle of feathers, four plovers and a teal tied together. the next moment, resting the gun he carried against the inside of the wall, and flinging over the birds, he dropped down beside rousille. "rousille," he said, taking her hand under the arching apple-trees, "i have had luck! four plovers and such fine ones! i had a couple of hours' sleep in the barn at la pinçonnière, and if the farmer had not dragged me out this morning, i should have been late, i was so sound asleep. and you?" "i," replied marie-rose, as he sat opposite to her, "i am afraid. father spoke to me so angrily last night--he had been talking to mathurin in the courtyard--they must know." "well, and if they do? i am doing nothing to anger them. i mean to win you by my work, to ask your father for your hand, and take you home as my wife." she looked at him, happy, despite her fears, at the determination she read in the lad's face. and reserving her thought which answered yes, she said without direct reply: "what is it like in your home?" "in my home," replied jean nesmy, contracting his eyes as if to fix the picture thus evoked, and looking over rousille's head--"in my home is my mother, who is old and poor. the house she lives in is called the château, as i have told you before, in the parish of châtelliers; but it is not by any means a castle, rousille, only two rooms, in which live six little nesmys besides myself, who am the eldest ... it was, as you know, on account of our poverty and the number of children that i could only serve one year in the army." "oh, yes, i remember," she answered, laughing, "that year seemed to me longer than any other." "i am the eldest; then come two girls, who are growing up. they are not dressed altogether like you, for instance...." an idea seized him, and with his hand quite near yet without touching rousille, he sketched about the young girl's shoulders and waist, the little shawl and the long velvet ribbons encircling the bust. "all round there two rows of velvet; rich girls have even three. you would be charming, rousille, in the costume of the châtelliers and la flocellière, for they dress in the same manner, the villages are quite close." she laughed, as if caressed by the hand which never touched her, following its action with half-closed eyes. "as you may suppose," he continued, "they only dress like that on sundays! there would not be bread in the house every day if i did not send home the wages that your father gives me. then i have two brothers who have finished their schooling, and look after cows and begin to do little odd jobs. the farmer who hires them gives them each one row of potatoes to dig up for their own. it is a great help!" "so i should think!" returned rousille, with an air of conviction "but above all," continued the lad, "our air is superb. we have plenty of rain, indeed it rains without ceasing when the wind blows from saint michael, a place about one league from us. but immediately after we are in full sunshine; and as we have plenty of trees and moss and ferns about us, the air is a very joy to breathe, quite different from here; for our country is not at all like that of the marais; it is all hills, here, there, and everywhere, big and little; there is no getting away from them. from any height it looks a perfect paradise. ah, rousille, if you only knew le bocage, and the moors of nouzillac, you would never want to leave them!" "and is the land tilled like this?" "very nearly, but much deeper. it takes strong oxen, sometimes six or eight to plough." "father uses as many, when it pleases him." "yes, for the honour of it, rousille, because your father is a rich man. but down there, believe me, the soil has more granite and is harder to turn." she hesitated a little, the smile left her face as she asked: "do the women work in the fields?" "oh, no, of course not," answered the lad warmly. "we respect and care for them as much as men do here in your marais. even my mother, who goes gleaning at harvest-time and when the chestnuts are gathered, is never seen working in the fields like a man. no, you may depend on it, our women are more indoors spinning, than doing out-of-door work." recalled to the stern conditions of his daily life, the young man grew grave, and added slowly: "rest assured, i will never slacken in my work. i am known for more than two leagues round châtelliers as a lad who has no fear of hard work. we will have our own little house to ourselves, and if only i have your love, rousille, like my father and mother, i will never complain of any hardships." he had scarcely ended his speech of humble love-making when a voice from the road called: "rousille!" "we are betrayed!" she said, turning pale. "it is father." they both remained motionless, with beating hearts, thinking only of the voice that would call again. and, in truth, it was now heard nearer. "rousille!" she did not resist. signing to jean nesmy to remain under cover of the trees, and bending half double, she made her way out to the path that divided the orchard. there straightening herself, she saw her father standing before her in the road. he looked at his daughter for a moment, as she presented herself, pale, breathless, dishevelled by the branches, then said: "what were you doing there?" she would not lie; she felt herself lost. in her trouble involuntarily she turned her head as if to invoke the protection of him in hiding, and there just behind, erect, quite close to her, rousille saw her lover, who had come to her aid in the moment of danger. with an air of defiance he drew himself up, and strode in front of her. then the girl ventured to look again at her father. he was no longer occupied with her, nor had he the angry aspect she expected to see; his expression was grave and sad, and he looked steadily at jean nesmy, who, pressing forward on the grassy walk, had stopped at the opening, within three feet of him: "you here, my farm-servant!" he said. jean nesmy made answer: "yes, i am here." "you have been with rousille, then?" "and what is the harm?" inquired the lad, with a slight tremor, which he could not control, not of fear, but of the hot blood of youth. there was no anger in the farmer's voice. with head bent on his breast, as of a master whose kindness has been abused, and who is sorrowing, he said with a sigh: "come you here, at once, with me." not a word to marie-rose, not one look. it was a matter to be settled among men first; the daughter did not count at present. the farmer was already retracing his steps, walking with leisurely stride towards la fromentière; jean nesmy followed at a short distance, his gun slung on his back, swinging the birds he had shot in one hand. far behind them came rousille in sore distress, sometimes looking at jean nesmy, sometimes at the master who was to decide his fate. when the two men had gone into the courtyard, she did not dare to follow them in, but leaning against a pillar of the ruined gateway, half hidden behind it, her head on her arm, she waited to see what would happen. her father and his man, crossing the yard, proceeded to jean nesmy's room, which was to the left beyond the stables. there was no sound but the noise of wooden shoes on the gravel; but rousille had seen the cripple crouching down in the first rays of the sun, beyond the stables; he was nodding his head with an air of satisfaction, his malicious eyes never leaving the stranger he had denounced, who, yesterday so happy, was now the culprit. not far off, françois, on a ladder, was cutting out a wedge of hay from a rick, firm and compact as a wall; he, too, was watching slyly from under the brim of his hat, but there was no malice upon his phlegmatic countenance, nothing more than a mild curiosity broadening his lips into a half smile under the heavy yellow moustache. he did his work as slowly as possible so as to be able to remain there and see the end of it. toussaint lumineau and his man had soon reached the shed piled with empty casks, baskets, spades, and pickaxes, that had for many a year served as sleeping-place for the farm-servants. the master sat down on the foot of the bed. the look on his face had not changed; it was still the dignified paternal look of one who regrets parting from a good servant, and yet is resolutely determined to suffer no encroachment upon his authority, no disrespect to his position. leaning his elbow upon an old cask showing marks of tallow, on which jean nesmy used to rest his candle at night, he slowly raised his head, and in the daylight that streamed in at the open door, he at length addressed the young man, who was standing bare-headed in the middle of the shed. "i hired you for forty pistoles," he said. "you received your wages at midsummer; how much is now owing to you?" the lad, absorbed, began counting and recounting with his fingers on his blouse, the veins of his forehead swelling with the effort; his eyes were fixed on the ground, and not another thought disturbed the complicated operation of the countryman calculating the price of his labour. during this time, the farmer mentally went over the brief history of his connection with the lad, who, come by chance to the marais in search of burnt cow-dung, used by the vendéens for manure, had been then and there hired by him, and had quickly fallen into the ways of his new master. the farmer thought of the three years that the stranger lad had lived under the roof of la fromentière, one before his military training, two since; years of hard, thorough work, of good conduct, without having once given cause for serious reproof, of astonishing gentleness and submission despite his sons' hostility, which, manifested on the very first day, had never lessened. "it should make ninety-five francs," said jean nesmy. "that is what i make it," said the farmer. "here is the money. count and see if it is right." from his coat pocket where he had already placed them, toussaint lumineau drew out a number of silver pieces which he threw on the top of the cask. "take it, lad." without touching the money jean nesmy had drawn back. "you will not have me any longer at la fromentière?" "no, my lad, you are going." the old man's voice faltered, and he continued: "i am not sending you away because you are idle, nor even, though it did annoy me, because you are too fond of shooting wild-fowl. you have served me well. but my daughter is my own, jean nesmy, and i have not given my consent to your courting her." "if she likes me, and i like her, maître lumineau?" "you are not one of us, my poor boy. that a _boquin_ should marry a girl like rousille is an impossibility, as you know. you should have thought of it before." for the first time jean nesmy's face grew a shade paler, he half closed his eyes, the corners of his mouth drooped as though he were about to burst into tears. in a low voice he said: "i will wait for her as long as you think fit. she is young, and so am i. only say how long it must be, and i will submit." but the farmer answered: "no, it cannot be. you must go." the young man quivered from head to foot. he hesitated for a moment, with knitted brows, his eyes fixed on the ground, then decided not to speak his thought: i will not give her up. i will come back. she shall be mine. true to the taciturn race from which he sprang, he said nothing, took up the money, counted it, dropping the pieces one by one into his pocket as he did so. then without another word, as though the farmer were not in existence, he began to collect his clothes and belongings. the blue blouse that he knotted by the sleeves to the barrel of his gun held them all, save a pair of boots that he slung on to a piece of string. when he had finished, he raised his hat, and went out. it was broad sunshine. jean nesmy walked slowly; the strong will that dominated the slight youth made him hold his head high, and his eyes scanned the windows of the house seeking rousille. she was nowhere to be seen. then in the middle of the great courtyard, he, the hired servant, who had been dismissed, who had but another moment to tread the ground of la fromentière, called: "rousille!" a pointed coif appeared at the angle of the gateway; rousille came forth from her shelter and ran to him, tears streaming down her face. but almost at the same moment she stopped, intimidated by the sight of her father on the threshold of the shed, and stricken with terror at a cry which, rising from that side of the courtyard, some fifty paces off, had caused nesmy to turn his head: "_dannion!_" a monstrous apparition came out from the stables. the cripple, bare-headed, with eyes bloodshot, inspired by impotent rage, had rushed out, with arms rigid on his crutches, his huge body shaking with the effort. roaring like some wild beast with wide-open mouth he hurled the old cry of hatred at the stranger, the cry with which the children of the marais greet the despised dwellers of the bocage. "_dannion! dannion sarraillon_--look to yourself!" rushing with a speed that betokened the violence and strength of the man, he neared nesmy. the rage in his heart, the jealousy that tortured him, the agony caused by the effort he was making, rendered the convulsed face terrible to behold, as it was projected forward by jerks; while onlookers could not but think, with a shudder, what a powerful man this deformed, unearthly looking creature had once been. seeing him come close up to the farm-servant, rousille was terrified for the man she loved. she ran to jean nesmy, put her two hands on his arms, and drew him backward towards the road. and, on her account, jean nesmy began to draw back, slowly, step by step, while the cripple, growing still more furious, shouted insultingly: "let go of my sister, _dannion_!" the farmer's loud voice interposed from the depths of the courtyard: "stop where you are, mathurin; and you, nesmy, loose your hold of my daughter!" and he advanced to them, without haste, as a man not desiring to compromise his dignity. the cripple stopped short, let go of his crutches, and sank exhausted to the ground. but jean nesmy continued to retreat. he had placed his hand in rousille's; and soon they were within the portal of the gateway, framed in sunshine. there lay the road. the young man bent towards rousille and kissed her cheek. "farewell, my rousille," he said. and she, running across the courtyard without looking back, her hands to her face, wept bitterly. having watched her disappear round the corner of the house by the barn, nesmy called out: "mathurin lumineau, i shall come back!" "only try!" retorted the cripple. the whilom farm-servant of la fromentière began to mount the hill beside the farm; clad in his russet work-day clothes he walked with difficulty as if worn out with fatigue. his whole wardrobe, slung on to his gun, consisted of but one coat, a blouse, three shirts, a couple of boxwood bird calls for quails that clapped together as he walked, and yet the load seemed heavy. a feeling of dismay at having to go back to the daily seeking of employment had come over him while making up the modest bundle. he was already thinking of his mother's alarm at this sudden return. every step was a wrench from some loved object, for he had lived three years in this fromentière. his heart was heavy with memories; he walked on slowly, looking at nothing yet seeing every stick and stone. the trees he brushed past had all been pruned by him, or flicked by his whip; every inch of ground had been ploughed and reaped by him; he knew how every furrow was to be sown on the morrow. having reached the back of the farm, at the rise of the road where formerly four mills had been busily grinding corn and now only two were at work, he turned to look back that he might increase the pain of parting. below him, bathed in sunlight, lay the plain of the marais, where rushes, taking on their autumn array, formed golden circles round the meadows; there were farms distinguishable by their groups of poplars, inhabited islands in the desert of marshland, where he was leaving good friends, and the recollection of happy hours that come back in sorrow; his eyes scanned the crowded houses of sallertaine and its church dominating them all, recalling bygone sundays. then, with his soul in his eyes, he bent them upon la fromentière, as a bird would hover with wide extended wings. from the height on which he stood the lad could discern the whole of the farm, even to its slightest details. one by one he counted the windows, the doors and gates, the paths round the fields along which every evening, for the last two years especially, he had never failed to sing as he drove the cattle homewards. when his eyes lighted on the dwarf orchard, so distant that it looked no larger than a pea-pod, he quickly turned away; as he did so, his foot struck against something in the path, it was a dog lying down, quite still. "what, you, bas-rouge?" said jean. "my poor doggie, you cannot follow me where i am going;" and, walking on, he stroked the dog's head between his ears, in the place where rousille loved to fondle him. after some twenty paces, he said again: "you must go back, bas-rouge. i do not belong to you any more." bas-rouge trotted on a little further with his friend; but when they had reached the last hedge of la fromentière, he stopped, and turned slowly homewards. chapter iv. the michelonnes. "rousille," said her father, as shortly before noon she went into the house to help her sister prepare dinner, "you will not take your meals with us either to-day, or for some days to come. a girl like eléonore, who respects herself, would be ashamed to eat her food beside a young woman who could allow a penniless _boquin_ to make love to her. a pretty kind of lover! a fellow from i don't know where, who would not even have a wardrobe to furnish his house with! all very well for a serving-maid, such as they are in those parts; but the whole kit of them are not worth their salt in the marais, those _dannions_! i am cured of taking them into my service. there must have been some fine tales going the round at my expense. and now, rousille, mind that you conduct yourself properly; and take yourself out of my sight!" so the farmer spoke, far more harshly than he felt, because mathurin had been talking to him a long time after nesmy had gone, and had inspired him with some of his resentment. marie-rose made no reply, shed no tear, but withdrew to her room. she had no thought of dinner, either with or without them; but began to dress herself in her best, as for sunday, taking by turns from the wardrobe a black skirt, raised from the ground by a broad tuck, showing the pretty feet beneath; her most dainty coif and embroidered pyramid of muslin kept in shape by silver paper that rested on her hair; open-work stockings; sabots, like the prow of a ship, so much did they turn up. a blue silk kerchief filled in the low bodice, as was the custom in the marais; there only remained to smooth the bands of chestnut hair with a little water, to bathe her red eyes, then going out into the courtyard she turned off on the road to sallertaine. for the first time in her life she had a feeling of standing alone in the world. mathurin did not love her; françois did not understand her. andré himself, the soldier brother so soon coming home, who had always been kind, only treated her as a child to be teased and petted. and she felt herself a woman--a woman who was learning to know sorrow, and one who needed to pour out her trouble to sympathetic ears. hitherto, if they were unkind, if they neglected her, she had never felt the need of telling her troubles to anyone; the thought of jean nesmy had been enough to make her forget them all. but now that he whom she loved had had to go, and that his going was the sorrow, her soul cried out for aid--sought some safe place wherein to rest. in her distress she thought of the sisters michelonne. rousille passed close beside the dwarf orchard; rousille skirted the edge of the marais whence can be seen sallertaine upon its eminence. no, she had no other hope save in those two dear old friends; no other regret than that she had not before been to that little house in the town. the old sisters' warmth of heart seemed to her just now a thing of priceless worth, which, hitherto, had not been valued half enough. the mere thought of their round faces, withered and smiling, was a goal to her. it seemed as if only to see the michelonnes, even if she might not speak one word of her trouble, would be a consolation, because of their kind hearts, and because, old maids though they were, they were not the people to gossip about a young girl's red eyes. what excuse could she make for going to them? oh, it was very simple. she had promised to draw out her money and lend it to her father to pay the rent. she had only to say, "i have come for my money; father needs it." then if they guessed the slightest thing, she would tell all, all her trouble, all the grief she could not endure alone. it was close upon one o'clock. a mist of heat quivered over the meadows. rousille walked fast. now she had reached the grand canal, smooth as a mirror; there was the bridge across it, the winding road flanked on either side by the white-washed houses of the outskirts of sallertaine, their orchards at the back looking towards the marais. rousille walks faster. she is afraid of being hailed and stopped, for the lumineaus are known to everyone in the district. but the good folks are either taking their noonday sleep, or else without quitting their shady corners they call to her, "good day, little one! how fast you are walking!" "yes, i am in a hurry. sometimes one is." "yes, indeed," they reply, and on she goes. she has reached the long open place that narrows as it reaches the church. now she has only eyes for the humble dwelling which stands at the extreme end where the street is narrowest, facing the side door of the church by which the faithful enter on sundays. it is a very little house, one window looks on to the place, the other on to a steep lane, the three steps to the entrance are at the corner; it is also very old, and built under the shadow of the clock tower, beneath the peal of bells, thus nearer to heaven. the sisters michelonne have lived there all their lives. rousille can picture them within the walls; a half smile, a ray of hope crosses her sad face. she ascends the three steps, and pauses to regain breath. when rousille presses down the iron latch, the door opens to the tinkle of so tiny a bell that it would need the ears of a cat to hear it. but they were true cats, ever on the watch, these two old sisters, cloak-makers to the whole of sallertaine. scarcely did they divine a visitor from the shadow cast through the glass door, than with simultaneous movement their chairs, always close together, were pushed back, their heads turned towards the door, and their busy hands sunk on their laps. the two sisters were very much alike; the same deep, arched wrinkles in the rosy faces, round the toothless mouths, round the short noses, round the blue, childlike eyes that had a light in them as of a perpetual laugh, and was the reflection of their sixty years of work, of sisterly affection, and their good consciences. there was also a twinkle in their eyes of fun without malice; a something as of the flame of youth economised in the course of their lives, and leaving a fund for their old age. poverty had not been wanting, but it had always been borne by them together. from childhood's day they had worked side by side in the light of the same window, day rising and setting on their busy needles never at rest. there was no one in all sallertaine, nor in perrier, nor saint gervais who could cut and make cloaks as skilfully as they could; and they were general favourites. as soon as the weather was mild enough for them to stand a pot of ivy geranium on the sill and to sit by the open window, there was not a person coming down the lane, whether fisherman, sportsman, drover, or horse-breeder, who did not call in as he passed "good day and good luck, _les michelonnes_." to which they would make some kind reply in soft voices, so alike that it was impossible to distinguish one from the other. they were asked to st. sylvester gatherings because they had an inexhaustible store of songs, when young folks had long come to the end of all they knew. the curé said of them: "the flower of my flock; it is a pity they have no successors." when rose-marie entered, they did not get up, but said both together, adelaide at the window, véronique a little away: "it is you, little lumineau! good day, pretty one!" "sit down, child," said adelaide, "you are quite out of breath." "but not ill?" asked véronique. "your eyes are as bright as if you had fever?" "thank you, aunts," answered marie-rose. she called them aunts on account of a distant relationship difficult to establish, but principally on account of the old ladies' kindness. "i have been walking quickly, and i do feel a little tired. i have come for some of my money." the sisters exchanged a side-look, laughing already at the thought of the coming marriage, and the eldest, adelaide, drawing her needle across her lips as if to smooth out the wrinkles, asked: "you are about to marry, then?" "oh, indeed no!" returned marie-rose, "i shall be married like you, my aunts, to my seat in church and my rosary. it is for father, who has not money to pay the rent of the farm; he is in arrears." and as, while speaking, she did not look into her old friends' faces, but into the shade of the room, somewhere towards the two beds ranged along the side of the wall, the sisters michelonne shook their heads as though to communicate the impression that, all the same, some disturbing element had entered into rousille's life. but the sisters were more instinctively polite than curious. they reserved their thought for the long hours of chat together, and adelaide, throwing down her half-finished work, clasping her white bony hands, and bending forward her thin body, said gaily: "well, my pretty one, you have come just at the right time! i had lent your money on interest to my nephew, who, you know, breeds foals, and very good ones, on the marais. he is a sharp fellow, that françois. would you believe it, yesterday he actually sold his dappled grey filly--that flies like a plover, and was the envy of all the breeders and dannions that went by the meadow--and for such a big price that he would not even tell us the amount. so, you see, it will be quite easy for him to pay back a good part of the loan. how much will you want?" "a hundred and twenty pistoles." "you shall have them. are they wanted at once?" "yes, aunt adelaide. i promised them by to-morrow." "then, véronique, my girl, suppose you were to go to our nephew? the cloak can well wait an hour." the younger sister rose at once; she was so short standing, that she did not reach above the head of marie-rose sitting. rapidly shaking off the threads of cotton from her black apron, she kissed the girl on both cheeks: "good-bye, rousille. to-morrow the money will be here, and you will only have to come and fetch it." in the quiet of the sleepy town, véronique's gliding steps could be heard as they went down the lane. no sooner had she gone than adelaide went up to marie-rose and fixing upon the girl her clear kind eyes, her eyelids quivering with uneasiness: "child," she said hurriedly, "you are in trouble; you have been crying. why, you are crying now!" the wrinkled hand seized the girl's pink palm. "what is it, my rousille? tell me, as you would tell your own mother. i love you as she would do." marie-rose repressed her tears. she would not cry when she could speak. trembling at the contact of the hand which touched her own, her eyes like diamonds, her face set, as though she were addressing those enemies before whom her tongue had been tied: "they have sent away jean nesmy," she said rising. "he, my dear? such a good worker? and why?" "because i love him, aunt michelonne. they turned him out this morning. and they think that all is over between us because i shall not see him again. they little know the girls of these parts." "well said, _maraîchine_," exclaimed the old aunt. "i will give them all my money, yes, readily; but my love--where i have placed it there i will leave it. it is as sacred as my baptismal vows. i have no fear of poverty; no fear that he will forget me. the day he comes back, for he has promised to come back, i will go to meet him, and no one shall prevent me--had i to cross the marais, were there snow and ice, and all the girls of the town to mock at me, did my father and my brothers forbid me to go, still i would do it!" erect, passionate, she made the walls of the little room unused to loud voices ring with the voice of love and bitterness. it was to herself, herself only, that she spoke, because she suffered. she was looking straight before her, vaguely, apparently unaware of the michelonne's presence. adelaide, however, had risen, and was listening, agitated and excited, so struck by rousille's words, so carried out of the restricted circle of everyday thought, that all the calm had vanished from her face, and the quiet old maid, oppressed by the small cares of life, seemed transformed into a woman--a woman who remembered and had regained her youth to suffer with the other. "you are right, dear child. i thoroughly approve. love him truly!" at these words rousille, looking down at the old lady, had the revelation of a being hitherto unknown to her. there was a light in her face; the poor arms, helpless from rheumatism, were held out towards rousille trembling with emotion. "yes, love him truly. your happiness is with him. leave it to time, but do not yield, my rousille, for i know others who in their youth refused to marry to please their fathers, and who had such difficulty afterwards to kill their hearts! do not live alone, it is worse than death! your nesmy, i know him--your nesmy and you are true lovers of the soil, such as the land can boast but few nowadays, and if old aunt adelaide can help you, defend you, give you what is wanted to enable you to marry, come to me, my child, at any time, come!" she was holding rousille now in close embrace, the girl bending over the little black-robed figure and suffering her tears to flow on the friendly shoulder, now that she had unburdened her heart. for a moment the room was as silent as was the town slumbering in the mid-day sun. then the michelonne, gently disengaging herself from the girl's arms, went towards the window, standing where she could not be seen from outside. between the roofs of two adjoining houses, looking westwards, was set, as in a frame, a corner of the marais, its reddish-brown rushes finally fading away on the horizon. "it was mathurin, was it not, who denounced you?" she asked in a low voice. "yes, he was always watching me." "he is jealous, you see. he has a grudge against you." "for what, poor creature!" "your youth, my poor child. he is jealous of all who take the place that should have been his; jealous of françois, of andré, of you. he is like a lost soul when he hears that anyone but himself is to manage your father's farm. shall i tell you all?" her frail hand uplifted, she pointed to the distant marais, where the poplars, tiny as grains of oats, were standing out against the sky. "well, he still thinks of félicité." "poor brother!" exclaimed rousille, nodding her head. "if he is still thinking of her, she is only making fun of him." "innocent," returned the old woman in a whisper, "i know what i know. beware of mathurin, he has drunk too deeply of love to forget. beware of félicité gauvrit, because she is furious that being an heiress, no suitors come to her." rousille was about to reply. adelaide made her a sign to keep silence; she had heard a footstep in the lane. hastily drying her eyes, the old lady re-seated herself and picked up her work, like a child surprised in some fault by her mother. a pair of sabots was heard at the foot of the wall, they passed the doorsteps, and went on down the place. it was not véronique. marie-rose had drawn back; she was looking at her one friend, so old, so worn, so timid, yet whose heart was so young. and she thought no more of what she had been about to reply; she only said simply: "good-bye, aunt michelonne. if i need help i shall know where to come." "good-bye, dear child. beware of mathurin. beware of the girl out there!" they said no more in words, only their eyes were fixed on each other's, rousille looking back until she had reached the door; then the latch was lifted, fell back into its socket, and there only remained in the silent chamber a little old woman stooping down over her black work, but who could not see her needle for the mist of tears in her eyes. chapter v. ploughing in september. it was monday, the third day after rousille had seen the michelonnes. on the previous day, from morn till eve, storm clouds, rising out of the sea, had discharged their contents on the arid earth, as pockets full of corn are scattered by the sower. showers of leaves, mostly from the topmost branches, had fallen; others, heavy with moisture, hung pendant. an aroma of damp earth rose up to the calm, milky sky; there was not a breath stirring, the birds were silenced, the land seemed intent upon the last drops of rain formed during the night, that came crashing down at the foot of the trees with a ring as of falling glass. something in nature seemed to have died with the last breath of summer, and the whole earth to be conscious of its loss. and in truth, on the hills of chalons, the most distant area of la fromentière, the far-off grinding of a plough, and the calls of the man to his oxen, proclaimed that autumn labour had begun. in the farm bakery, left of the building, and dividing their room from that of françois, eléonore and marie-rose were engaged heating the oven. from the semicircular opening flames were shooting up, now in heavy wreaths, now in groups of red petals set on upright stems. eléonore standing before it, in a print gown, was feeding the oven with faggots of bramble, thrusting them with an iron fork into the furnace. marie-rose was busily going backwards and forwards bringing in the baskets of dough. they did not speak; for a long time there had been a coolness between the sisters. but as for the tenth time eléonore looked towards the door, as if expecting to see some person or thing in the courtyard, rousille asked: "what are you expecting, eléonore?" "nothing," was the cross reply. "i am hot. my eyes smart." and she busied herself with separating the burning embers, arranging them in layers at the sides of the oven; this finished: "help me to fill the oven," she said. one by one the loaves of leavened dough were placed by rousille upon a large flat shovel, which eléonore slid over the burning bricks, and drew out again with a sharp jerk. twenty loaves there were of twelve pound each; enough wherewith to feed all at la fromentière, and to give to the poor of monday for a fortnight. the last having been placed, eléonore closed the mouth of the oven with an iron plate; the sisters had wiped their hot cheeks with their sleeves, the smell of new bread was beginning to be perceptible through the chinks of the oven, when a loud laughing voice called in from the yard: "m françois lumineau. is he at home?" and the postman, a visitor who had been seen fairly often at la fromentière for some months past, held out a letter with printed heading on it. he added jocosely, for something to say: "another letter from the state railways, mam'selle eléonore. any of you got friends there?" "thank you," returned eléonore, hastily taking the letter and putting it into the pocket of her apron, "i will give it to my brother. fine weather to-day for your round?" "aye, that it is. better than for heating the oven i should say by the look of you." the man made a half-turn on his well-worn shoes, and went his way in the steady jog-trot of seven leagues a day at thirty sous. eléonore, leaning against the doorpost, paid no further attention to him; she was gazing, as if hypnotized, on the corner of white paper that protruded from her pocket. she seemed strangely agitated, her eyelids swelled, her breast heaved beneath the calico bodice all streaked with flour and soot. "there is some secret, i am sure," exclaimed marie-rose from behind her. "i do not ask what it is, i am accustomed at home to be left to myself. but still i cannot help seeing what is going on; only yesterday, after mass, you and françois went off by yourselves to read some paper in the lane by the michelonnes, i was there to fetch my money, and saw you gesticulating.... and now you are crying. it is hard, eléonore, to see one's sister cry and not to know the reason--not to be able to say one word to comfort her." to rousille's intense surprise, eléonore, without turning, held out a trembling hand towards her, and drew her younger sister tumultuously to her beating heart; and for the first time for many years, overcome with emotion, she leant her cheek on rousille's, then suddenly broke out into sobs. "yes," she sobbed, "there is a secret, my poor rousille, such a secret that i can never have the like again in all my life. i cannot tell it to you ... it is there in the letter ... but françois must read it first, and then father--heavens! what an unhappy girl i am!" tenderly rousille pressed her face against her sister's all bathed in tears. "but the secret, eléonore, it only concerns françois, does it?" "no, me too; me too! oh, when you hear it, rousille.... it was françois who persuaded me, he talked until i yielded ... and then i signed ... and now it is all done. still, were it not for him, i feel that even now i could not do it; i would break the agreement--i would refuse." "you are going, eléonore?" cried the girl, drawing back. her sister's white face was the only answer. "you are going?" she repeated. "oh, where? oh, do not leave us." eléonore, stupefied for the moment, now gave way to a feeling of anger, and repulsed the girl whom the instant before she had drawn to her. "hold your tongue!" she said roughly. "do not talk like that. are you going to tell tales of us?" "i have no wish to do so." "they are coming. you heard them. you said it aloud for them to hear, you sneak!" "indeed, i did not." "they are coming. hark!" the distant footsteps of the men, one following the other, were audible. they were returning for the mid-day meal. eléonore, in terror, almost suppliant, her voice shaken with emotion, ejaculated: "mathurin is coming first--if only he did not hear what you were saying, rousille. if he catches sight of me, he will guess everything.... i dare not go back into the house with such red eyes. you take my place. go and pour out the soup, i will be with you in a moment." the men went into the house, walking in their usual leisurely manner; françois alone had a presentiment of the news awaiting them. the hot sun had dried the moisture on grass and leaves, a soft haze lay all around, the air was mild and balmy; linnets, innumerable, had settled on the waggon-ruts, where lay thistles trodden down by the oxen. an aroma of hot bread pervaded the farmyard, and cheered by the wholesome smell the fine old farmer entered the house-place, whither mathurin had preceded him. as soon as they had disappeared within the house, eléonore, who had been watching at the door of the bakery, crossed the yard to the stable where françois, having deposited his load of maize, was coiling up the rope by which he had carried it. "françois," she exclaimed, "they want you. your letter has been burning me like fire." and still quite pale, eléonore held out the letter, watching it pass from her hands to those of her brother with a nervous dread of the unknown future. "when is it?" she asked. "be quick!" without showing any emotion françois tried to smile, as though to mark masculine superiority over the weaker sex, as he proceeded deliberately to open the envelope with his thick, moist fingers. he read, reflected for a moment, then answered: "humph! to-morrow." "to-morrow?" "yes, i have to be at la roche at noon, to begin work on the railway." eléonore covered her face with both hands. "oh, i say, don't you go and leave me now," he continued. "do you want to?" "no, françois, but to go to-morrow--to-morrow!" "not to-morrow, to-night--at once. you ought to have expected it. why, you engaged with the owner of the coffee shop in rue neuve two months ago. did you sign the lease or not?" "yes." "did you promise to keep house for me?" "yes, françois." "when you bothered me to find you a good place at la roche, did i not trouble myself about you on the condition that you would keep house for me? yes or no? of course, i want someone, and now you are not willing to go?" "i do not say...." "oh, well. i shall tell father presently what you promised. stay behind, if you like; but i warn you they will lead you a pretty life at la fromentière when i am gone; without mentioning the action the landlord at la roche will bring against you at once, do you understand? at once, if you refuse to take the shop you have rented. stay, if you like. i am going!" she raised her arms above her head and always under the impression of the moment, said: "i will go; whatever time you like, i will be ready. only i cannot hear you tell father. do not speak to him when i am there." she hurriedly left the stable and went into the house to serve the dinner, whilst françois proceeded to give the oxen their forage, taking as much time over it as he could. toussaint lumineau was quietly talking with mathurin. sitting side by side at the table, they watched their steaming plates of soup cool as they discussed the new farm-servant whom it was necessary to engage shortly. "i will hire him at chalons fair," said the father. "that will be too late." "we must do our best till then, my boy. i will look out for a strong fellow, a lad from these parts." "yes, no _boquin_, above all things! we know what they are!" toussaint lumineau shook his head as he replied gently: "do not wrong the lad, mathurin. i sent jean nesmy away, and for a reason. but as regards work, i have nothing but good to say of him; he worked well, and he loved farming, whilst others...." little rousille was listening with eyes lowered, standing like a statue by the window. françois entered. "whilst others," continued the farmer, slightly raising his voice, "do not show as much energy as they might. eh, my françois?" the fair, ruddy-cheeked youth shrugged his shoulders as he took his seat. "the work is too hard," he said. "since i came back i have felt that i cannot accustom myself to that kind of thing." "oh, you half of a man," cried mathurin. "are you not ashamed of yourself? if i could but walk, our father would have no need to hire anyone. look at these arms," and he held them out, the muscles showing under his coat sleeves like knots of an oak-tree imprisoned within the bark, while his face was suffused with crimson, the veins of his forehead swelled, and his eyes were bloodshot. "my poor boy!" said his father, touching his hand to calm him. "my poor boy, i well know your misfortune has cost la fromentière dear." then after a short silence, he added: "still we will get through some good work, children, with françois and driot, who will soon be home, and the man i am about to hire. i have a mind to start to-day on the field of la cailleterie, that has lain fallow there two years. the rain we have had must have softened the ground, the plough will bite." eléonore, who had just then pushed open the inner door, stopped tremblingly, seeing françois in the act of moving his lips as if to speak and tell their secret. but no word escaped the young man's lips during the remainder of the meal. towards the end, as they were rising from table, mathurin, looking at the sky through the smoke-begrimed windows, said: "father, will you take me up there in the cart?" "of course i will. go fetch the cart, eléonore, and you, françois, yoke the oxen." the farmer was well-nigh gay; the young people thought his mind was dwelling upon driot, whose name was now so constantly upon his lips. but it was nothing but the first tillage of the season that made him so content. a quarter of an hour later the farmer passed round his body the strap fixed to the box on wheels in which the cripple was seated and began dragging it as one tows a boat; the oxen, led by françois, going on in front. they took the same road which jean nesmy had taken the morning of his dismissal; his footprints were still visible in the dust. there were four superb oxen, preceded by a grey mare, noblet, cavalier, paladin, and matelot, all with tawny coats, widespread horns, high backs, and slow supple gait. with perfect ease they drew the plough, the share raised, up the steep ascent; and when a trail of bramble across their path tempted them, they would simultaneously slacken speed, and the iron chain that linked the foremost couple to the beam would clank on the ground. françois walked gloomily beside them, deep in thought on matters not connected with the day's work. those following him, the farmer and his crippled son, were equally silent, but their thoughts were centred on the soil over which they were passing; and with the like sense of peaceful content their eyes roamed over gates, ditches, fields, their minds filled with the same simple interests. with them meditation was a sign of their calling, the mark of the noble vocation of those by whose labours the world is fed. arrived at the top of the knoll in the field of la cailleterie, his father helped mathurin out of the little cart to the foot of an ash-tree, whose branches threw a light shadow over the slope. before them the fallow land, covered with weeds and ferns, fell away in an even descent, surrounded by hedges on the four sides. looking down the slope and over the lower hedge could be seen the marais fading away in the distance like a blue plain. and now the farmer, having loosened the pin that held the share, himself guided the plough to the extreme left of the field, and put it in place. "you stay there in the sun," he said to mathurin. "and you, françois, lead your oxen straight. this is a grand day for ploughing. ohé! noblet, cavalier, paladin, matelot!" a cut of the whip sent the mare off, the four oxen lowered their horns and extended their hocks, the ploughshare cut into the earth with the noise of a scythe being whetted; the earth parted in brown clods that formed high ridges on either side, falling back in powdery masses upon themselves like water divided by the bow of a ship. the well-trained oxen went straight and steadily. their muscles under the supple skin moved regularly and without more apparent effort than if they had been drawing an empty cart upon an even road. weeds lay uprooted in the ruts; trefoil, wild oats, plantains, pimpernels, broom, its yellow blossoms already mixed with brown pods, brakes folded back on their long stems like young oaks cut down. a haze ascended from the upturned earth exposed to the heat of the sun; in front the dust raised by the feet of the oxen caused the team to proceed in a ruddy aureole, through which numberless gnats and flies were darting. mathurin, in the shade of the mountain ash, looked on with envy as the team descended the slope of the hill, and the forms of his father and brother, the oxen and mare, grew smaller in the distance. "françois," exclaimed his father, enjoying the feeling of the shaft under his hand, "françois, see to noblet, he is slackening. touch up matelot! the mare is drawing to the left. brisk up, my boy, you look half asleep!" and, in truth, françois was taking no interest in guiding the plough. he was feeling that the time had come for him to speak, and the difficulty of beginning made him walk with head downcast. at the far end of the field they turned and began the ascent, the plough marking a second line of furrows beside the first. from where mathurin sat he had lost sight of them on the low ground; now the horns of the oxen and his brother's goad came into view, and, to greet the return of the plough, he began with stentorian voice to chant the slow refrain which can be varied or ended at pleasure. the notes were flung far and wide from his powerful chest, embellished with _fioriture_ ancient as the art of ploughing itself. the oxen knew the rhythm, and stepped in time to it; the cadence accompanied the groan of the wheels on their axes; borne on the air, it was wafted afar o'er the hedges, telling other labourers in fields that the plough was at work on the fallow land of la cailleterie. the cadence rejoiced the farmer's heart. but françois remained gloomy. as the plough neared the shade of the ash-tree, mathurin, whose thoughts were always busied with the future of la fromentière, said: "father, it would be a good thing to re-plant our vineyard that is dying off. as soon as driot is home we should do it; what think you?" the farmer stayed his oxen, lifted his hat to cool his hot head, and smiled, well pleased. "you are always thinking of something to the point, mathurin. if the wheat comes up well in la cailleterie, faith of a lumineau! i will lay in a stock of vines. i am hopeful of our work to-day. come on, youngster, straighten the harness. look to your mare, she is hot; coax her a bit, walk beside her, that she may see you and go more quietly." the team moved off again; a mist of heat enveloped men and beasts; the air was thick with flies; turtle-doves, gorged with seed, took shelter in the ash-trees from the burning heat of the stubble fields. the cripple had ceased his song, and the farmer, as they got to the middle of the field, said: "it is your turn to tune up now, françois. sing, boy, it will gladden your heart!" the young man went on a few paces, then began: "oh! oh! my men, oh! oh! oh!" his voice, of higher register than mathurin's, made the oxen prick up their ears as it faltered past them; then, all suddenly, it came to a dead stop, rendered mute by the fear that mastered the singer. he pulled himself together, raised his head, and, looking towards the marais, made a fresh effort; a few more notes faltered out, then a sob choked them, and, crimson with shame, the young man resumed his way in silence, his face turned towards the fallow land, walking in front of his father, who looked at him across the croup of the oxen. no word was said by either until the farmer had finished the furrow; then, at the end of the field, toussaint lumineau, troubled to the very depths of his soul, said: "you have news for me, françois, what is it?" they were some three feet apart, the father standing level with the hedge, his son on the far side of the plough at the head of the oxen. "that i am going away, father." "what, françois? the heat has turned your head, my boy. are you feeling ill?" but from the expression of his son's eyes he quickly saw that this was a very different thing from some passing illness; that misfortune was coming. françois had made up his mind to speak. with one hand resting on noblet's back, as if to support himself, trembling and nervous, yet with hard, insolent look, he cried: "i have had enough of this. i shall cut it." "enough of what, my lad?" "enough of digging the ground, enough of looking after the cattle, enough of drudgery at seven-and-twenty to make money that all goes to pay the rent of the farm. i mean to be my own master, and make money for myself. i have got a situation on the railway, and i begin to-morrow--to-morrow, do you hear?" his voice rose in a kind of frenzy. "i am accepted; there is nothing more to be said. the thing is done. i am taking eléonore to la roche to keep house for me. she, too, has had enough of this. she has found a good place, a shop where she will make more than with you; at any rate, she will have a chance of marrying.... and i don't see that we have acted badly towards you in what we have done. don't say that we have! and don't make that rueful face about it! we have served our time with you, father, have waited patiently for andré's return. now that he is coming home, let him help you. it is his turn." the unexpected blow had stupefied the farmer; he had grown very white. with set teeth, one arm resting on the plough, he remained speechless, his eyes fixed upon françois as if demented. slowly the full force of the situation, with all its pain, filtered into his soul. "but, françois, what you tell me cannot be true; eléonore never complained of her work." "oh yes, she has; not to you." "as for you, you have always had plenty of help. if i have sometimes reproached you for idleness, it has been because times are hard for everyone. but now that i am going to take on a farm-servant, now that another fortnight will see driot home, we shall be four of us, counting myself, who am still of some use. you will not go, françois?" "yes." "where will you do better than at home? have you been short of food?" "no." "have i ever refused you clothes, or even money for your tobacco?" "no." "françois, it must be that military service has changed your heart towards us." "that may be." "but say that you will not leave us?" the young man put his hand into his coat pocket, and held out the letter. "i have to be there at noon to-morrow," he said. "if you don't believe me, read for yourself." the father stretched out his hand across the team for the letter, trembling so much that he could scarcely take it. once in his hands, without opening it, in a sudden access of indignation he crumpled and tore it into atoms, then crushed the pieces under his sabots into the soft earth. "there," he cried, "is an end to the letter. now are you going?" "that alters nothing," returned françois. he would have passed his father, but a powerful hand was laid upon his shoulders, a voice commanded: "stay here!" and the son was constrained to stay. "who engaged you, françois?" "the head of the office." "no; who advised you? you did not do this thing by yourself, you had the help of some gentleman. who was it?" the young man hesitated for a moment, then, feeling himself a prisoner, stammered out: "m. meffray." with one thrust the farmer sent him flying. "run; harness la rousse to the dog-cart. quick! i am going myself to m. meffray." so he shouted in his rage. but when he saw his son obey him and take the path towards the farm--when he found himself alone in the far end of his field, he was seized with anguish. so far he had ever found help in the difficulties of his life; this time, taken unawares by danger in the full swing of work, he turned him slowly round as if moved by habit, and searched the landscape as far as his eyes would carry, for a helper, a support, someone who should defend his cause and advise with him. his oxen standing still, looked at him out of their large soft eyes. the first object he saw, in among the trees, was the belfry of sallertaine. he shook his head. no, the curé, the good old friend he consulted so willingly, could do nothing. toussaint lumineau knew him to be powerless against town officials and authorities, all the great unknown outside the parish. his gaze left the church, passed over the farm without stopping, but rested awhile on the pointed roofs of la fromentière. ah! were the marquis but there! he feared nothing: neither uniforms, nor titles, nor long words that poor uncultured people could not understand. and expense was nothing to him. he would have made the journey from paris to prevent a _maraîchin_ from leaving the soil. alas! the château was empty. no longer the master to appeal to.... the old farmer's eyes fell upon the two newly made furrows rising before him to the ash-tree on the hill; then it struck him that mathurin was waiting and wondering, and that he must say something to prevent his growing uneasy. "ohé!" cried he, "lumineau!" over the curve of the hill, through the still air, a voice replied: "here i am. you are not coming up again?" "no; the chain has snapped. i must take back the team." "all right." "do not mind waiting a bit; rousille will come to fetch you. i am going round by the slope of the meadow." at the foot of the field, filled in with bundles of thorn, was a gap in the hedge leading on to a narrow slip of meadow, and thence to the farm. to avoid having to answer mathurin's questions, the farmer touched up his oxen and took this way back. in the middle of the courtyard he perceived the dog-cart already harnessed, françois standing beside it in his sunday clothes. "fasten up the oxen," he said roughly. then, passing in front of him, he opened the house door and called: "eléonore!" there was no answer. going through the house-place he passed into the kitchen, where he met rousille. "where is your sister?" "she was talking to françois in the courtyard just now. shall i look for her?" "no, that will do. i will see her later on. rousille, we have some business at chalons, françois and i. we shall be back before supper. go to mathurin, who will be tired of waiting so long at la cailleterie, and bring him back." without another word, the farmer returned to the yard, where françois awaited him. getting into the cart, he signed to his son to take the place beside him, and with a cut of the whip sent the mare, unaccustomed to such harsh usage, off at a gallop. "where are they going at such speed?" thought the few spectators whom they passed on their way--spectators whom nothing escapes: innkeepers standing at their doors, tramps on the highway, peasants lopping the trees. "what has come to them? old lumineau is lashing la rousse, and jerking the reins like a groom afraid of his master, and not a word does he say to his lad." in fact the farmer's wrath was growing as he meditated his wrongs; he muttered between his teeth what he would say to that meffray, while his stalwart arms, eager for strife and vengeance, lashed into the mare. françois, on the contrary, exhausted by the effort he had made, had relapsed into his usual apathy, and suffered himself to be carried on towards his fate, looking at the hedges with vacant stare. it was he, who on arrival at the place by the halles-neuves of chalons, jumped down and tied the mare to a ring attached to one of the pillars; then followed his father who turned up one of the streets on the left, and stopped before a modern, narrow, red-brick building. an iron plate, under the door bell, was inscribed, "jules meffray, ex-sheriff's officer, town councillor." the farmer pulled the bell vigorously. "is your master in?" he asked the servant who opened the door. the girl examined the peasant who inquired for her master in a tone and look not of the pleasantest, and who presented himself in work-day clothes soiled with mud, and replied: "i think he is. what may be your business?" "tell him that toussaint lumineau, of la fromentière, wants to speak to him; and let him be quick, i am in a hurry." astonished, not daring to show lumineau into the dining-room where m. meffray was wont to receive his clients, the maid left the farmer and his son standing in the shabby passage at the foot of the stairs. so taken aback was she, that she did not see the shamefaced françois hidden in the background, but only the stalwart old peasant, whose broad shoulders almost blocked the way as he stood erect, hat on head, under the ill-kept hall lamp that was never lighted. a few seconds later the garden door opened, and a tall, stout man came in, dressed in a white flannel suit, a cap of the same material on his head; his face was clean-shaven, his small eyes blinking, probably with the sudden change from the outer glare. this was m. meffray, member for chalons, an ambitious small tradesman, who, originally one of them, was possessed by a secret animosity towards the peasant class; and who, living amongst them, had only learnt to know their defects of which he made use. informed of the manner in which lumineau had presented himself, dreading some violence, he stopped short at the foot of the staircase, rested his elbow on the banisters, and touching the brim of his cap with three fingers, said carelessly: "they should have shown you in, farmer. but as it seems that you are in haste, we can talk just as well here. i have done your son a service, is that your reason for coming?" "just so," returned lumineau. "can i do anything more for you?" "i want to keep my boy, m. meffray." "keep him? what do you mean?" "yes; that you should undo what you have done." "but that depends upon him. have you had your summons, françois?" "yes, sir." "well, my friend, if you do not want to take the post, there is no lack of candidates to fill your place, as you know. i have now ten other applications which i have far more reason to support than i had yours. for after all, you lumineaus, you do not vote with us in the elections. so do you wish to give up the place?" "no, sir." "it is i who will not have him go," broke in toussaint lumineau, "i want him at la fromentière." "but he is of age, farmer!" "he is my son, m. meffray. it is his part to work for me. put yourself in my place, i who am an old man. i had counted on leaving my farm to him, as my father left it to me. he goes away, and takes my daughter with him. so i lose two children, and through your fault." "excuse me; i did not seek him; he came to me." "but without you he would not be going, nor eléonore either! they had to have recommendations. you call that doing a service, m. meffray? did you even know what would be best for françois--had you ever seen him in his home to know if he was unhappy there? monsieur meffray, you must give him back to me." "settle it with your son. it does not concern me." "you will not speak to those who have entrapped my son, and annul the agreement?" advancing a step, and pointing at him with extended arm, toussaint lumineau said in a loud voice: "then you have done my son more harm in one single day than i in all my life." m. meffray's heavy face crimsoned. "be off, old hound!" he shouted. "be off, take your son! manage your own affairs. ah! these peasants! such are the thanks one gets for troubling about them!" the farmer seemed not to have heard; he remained motionless. but there was a strange fire in his eyes; from the depths of his tortured heart, from the depths of the faith taught to his race for generations past, the words came to his lips: "you shall answer for them," he said. "how so?" "there where they are going they will both be lost, m. meffray. you shall answer for their eternal perdition." as though stupefied by a speech so unlike any he had ever heard, the town councillor made no reply; it needed time for him to take in an idea so different from those usually filling his mind; then throwing a contemptuous glance at the huge peasant standing erect before him, he turned on his heel, and moved to the garden door, with a muttered: "boor--go!" toussaint lumineau and his son went out into the street, walking silently side by side until they reached the place. there the father, unfastening the mare, said as he was about to put his foot on the step of the cart: "get up, françois. we will go home." but the young man drew back. "no," he said, "the thing is done; you will not make me alter it. besides, i arranged with eléonore, who must have left la fromentière by now. you will not find her there when you go back." he had taken off his hat in farewell, and was looking uneasily at his old father, who, leaning against the shaft with half-closed eyes, seemed about to swoon. under the colonnade of the halles there was not a soul; a few women in their shops round the place were carelessly looking at the two men. after a moment, françois drew a little nearer and held out his hand, doubtless to clasp that of his father for the last time; but seeing him approach the old man revived, motioned his son away, sprang into the cart, and lashing up la rousse, drove off at a gallop. chapter vi. the appeal to the master. eléonore had suffered herself to be persuaded. she had left her home. weak, and easily led, she had for months past listened too readily to the promptings of vanity and laziness, which, censured by her father at la fromentière, could be yielded to at will in the town. to have no more baking to do, no more cows to milk, to be in some sort a lady, to wear a hat trimmed with ribbons--such were the reasons for which she went out into the unknown, with only her brother, who would be away all day, for protector. eléonore had yielded from force of example, and in complete ignorance of the step she was taking. thus she cast herself adrift, and exposed herself to life in a suburb, to the familiarities of frequenters of the café, without dreaming of its dangers, with the utter ignorance of the peasant who knows nothing beyond the troubles incidental to life in the country. the separation was accomplished. at the moment that the farmer drove away, intent upon the hope of still recovering his children, eléonore had hurriedly left the shelter of the barn where she had been hiding, and, despite the entreaties of marie-rose and even of mathurin, going from room to room she had hurriedly collected the little store of personal clothing and trinkets belonging to her. to all rousille's pleading, as to the calmer adjurations of mathurin, she had replied: "it is françois' wish, my dears! i cannot tell if i shall be happy; but it is too late now. my promise is given." she was so greatly in fear of seeing her father come back that she was almost frenzied with haste. quickly she made up her bundle, went out from la fromentière, and reached the hollow road, where, crouching beneath the hedge, she waited for the steam tram that runs between fromentière and chalons. there some hours later françois was to rejoin her. meanwhile the farmer, driving la rousse at her greatest speed, had returned home. "eléonore!" he had cried. "gone," mathurin had answered. then, half-mad with grief, the old man had flung the reins across the steaming beast, and without a word of explanation had stridden away in the direction of sallertaine. had he been actuated by a last hope and idea? or did his deserted house inspire him with dread? night was falling. he had not yet returned. a damp, encircling mist, silent as death, enveloped all around. in the living-room of la fromentière, beside the fire that no one tended, beside the simmering pot that murmured as if in low plaint, the two remaining inmates of the farm sat watching, but how differently! rousille, nervous, burning with fever, could not keep still; she was for ever rising from her chair, clasping her hands, and murmuring: "my god, my god!" then going to the open door to look out, shivering, into the dark, thick night. "listen!" she said. the cripple listened, then said: "it is the goatherd of malabrit taking home his flock." "listen again!" a distant sound of barking, borne on the silent air, died away in the stillness. "that is not bas-rouge's bark," returned mathurin. so from hour to hour, and minute to minute, a step, a cry, the rolling of a vehicle, would keep their senses on the alert. what were they expecting? their father, who came not. but rousille, younger, more credulous, was expecting the others too, or if not both, at least one, either françois or eléonore, who, repentant--was it too much to hope--had come back. oh, what joy it would be, what rapture to see one of them! it seemed as if the other would have the right to go if one came back to take his place in the home. the young girl felt raised out of herself as a vague sense of duty came over her; she, the only woman, the only one to act in her deserted home. mathurin sat in a stooping posture by the hearth, his feet wrapped in a rug, the glow of the fire reddening the beard crushed beneath his chin. for hours he had sat so, never moving, speaking as little as possible; from time to time tears rolled down his cheeks; at other times rousille, looking at him, was astonished to see the shadow of a smile cross his face--a smile she could in nowise understand. nine o'clock struck. "mathurin," exclaimed the girl, "i am afraid that some misfortune has befallen father." "he may be talking over his trouble with the curé, or the mayor." "so i tell myself; yet, all the same, i am frightened." "that's because you are not accustomed to wait as i am. what do you want to do?" "to go towards sallertaine to meet him." "go, if you like." rousille ran to her room to get her black cloak. when she came back, looking like a little nun, she found that mathurin had thrown off the rug, and was standing up. his crutches were lying on the ground, and by an effort of will he stood nearly upright, resting one hand on the table, the other on the back of his chair. he looked at his sister with an air of pride and of suppressed pain, perspiration standing on his forehead. "rousille," he said, "what should you do if father did not come back?" "oh, don't say such things," she exclaimed, covering her eyes with her hand. "and do not exert yourself to stand like that; you make me feel quite ill!" "well, i," continued mathurin gravely, "should take the management here. i feel strong enough. i feel that i am recovering." "sit down; sit down, i beg of you. you will fall." but he remained standing until she reached the door. scarce had she crossed the threshold before she heard the human mass sink together with a groan. she turned back, saw that he was in a sitting posture on the chair, pressing both hands to his side, doubtless to still his fast-beating heart; then noiselessly, timid as a fawn rising out of the bracken, she ran into the courtyard, and out on to the road. the rising moon had lessened the mist, already one could see a considerable distance; in another hour it would be clear moonlight. avoiding the shade of the hedges, marie-rose followed the middle of the path that, leading past the dwarf orchard, skirted the meadows; she was frightened, almost running, nor did she slacken speed until she reached the edge of the marais, where the road suddenly widening like a river that falls into the sea, mingled its grasses with those of the marshland. then, reassured by the moonlight, she stood still and listened. where could her father be? she hoped to hear footsteps on the road, or even bas-rouge's bark. but no; in the dream-like mist that incessantly formed and dispersed about her, amid the dim moving lights and shadows around, there was but one sound, that of the distant roll of the sea against the shores of la vendée. she was about to turn, follow the dyke to reach the bridge of sallertaine and its familiar houses, when a well-known whistle, like that of a plover, met her ear. could it be possible? the young girl's blood rushed to her heart; she stopped short in rapture and astonishment, without strength to look behind her. motionless she stood, listening to the coming of one her heart had recognised. he came by the road she had come, from the thickets of la fromentière. erect, trembling, she stood on the grass-grown road, felt two hands placed on her shoulders, then a rush of air that moved the right side of her cloak, and a man had lightly sprung in front of her, with the words: "it is i, rousille. i have not frightened you?" there he was in his brown coat, stick in hand, looking well pleased at his piece of audacity. notwithstanding her distress, rousille could not repress a cry of joy. a smile rose to her face like an air bubble on troubled waters that none can hinder, and that widens as it goes. "oh how happy i am!" she said. but then quickly resumed: "no, i am wrong to speak like that. you do not know of our trouble at home. françois has gone, eléonore has gone; i am all alone there, and i have come out to find father, who has not come home. i have no time to spare for you, jean nesmy. it would be wrong!" he watched the smile fade from her face in the moonlight; and as she drew her cloak about her to resume her way, he said hurriedly: "i know all, rousille. for the last three days i have been at chalons trying to find a situation as near here as possible. i have not found one. but this evening i heard of françois' going; it is the talk of the town in one way and another. i ran at once to la fromentière, keeping out of sight. i watched you in the garden, in the barn. since sundown i have heard you crying; but the farmer was the only one i saw go out." "where is he--at sallertaine?" "no; he went, but came back. i was in hiding about here. he passed just where we are now standing, and he was gesticulating and talking to himself as if he were demented." terrified, she asked: "was that long ago?" "a quarter of an hour." "which way did he go?" jean nesmy pointed in the direction of the mainland, and to the wooden heights further away. "to the grounds of the château, i believe. he jumped the fence some hundred yards from here." "thanks and good-bye, jean. i must go." but he, taking her hand, grew very grave in his turn. "yes," he replied, "i know quite well--but myself--soon you will have me no longer. to-morrow i am going home to the bocage; and i came back to ask you one thing, rousille. what shall i say to my mother to-morrow when she asks me, 'is it really true that she loves you? what word of plighted troth did she give you when you parted? my poor jean, when true-hearted girls see their sweethearts going away from them they say some word that is as binding as a betrothal ring, something to comfort him in absence. what did she of la fromentière say to you?' if you have said no word, she will not believe me!" the dim solitude enveloping them threw their shadows faintly on the grey grass. rousille, her sweetheart's glowing eyes fixed upon her, answered sadly: "do not come back until driot is well settled at home. some months hence, in mid-winter, if our neighbours who frequent your markets tell you that he is working like a true farmer, that he is to be seen at fairs and gatherings, above all, that he is courting a girl at sallertaine, then come back and speak to father. my father will not hear of a _boquin_ for son-in-law; but if i will have no other husband than you--if andré speaks for me, who can tell? father spoke well of you after you went." "really, rousille? what did he say?" "no, not now. i must be going. good-bye." he raised his hat with a natural courtesy that sat well upon him; nor did he seek to detain her longer. already rousille, turning her back upon sallertaine, was running across the meadow; she had reached the last bushes that border the marais, her cloak fluttering in the mist. for more than a minute after she had disappeared beyond the fence jean nesmy remained motionless, on the same spot, where the words she had spoken were still ringing in his ears. then slowly, as one learning by heart who looks not about him, he took his way towards sallertaine and on from thence to chalons. his heart sang with joy as he repeated to himself: "in mid-winter, if our neighbours who frequent your markets tell you that he is working like a true farmer, come back...." the one thing he saw on the road to chalons was that the topmost leaves of the willows were already turning yellow, and that the branches were growing leafless. rousille, through a gap in the fence, had made her way into a stubble field, thence through a narrow belt of wood. then finding that she was in the gravel walk of an avenue, she paused, terrified by the solitude, and seized by the instinctive respect for the seigniorial domain, where even then her people ventured but rarely, from fear of displeasing the marquis. she was in the outskirts of the park. on all sides, lit by the peaceful light of the moon, were sloping lawns, broken now by groups of forest-trees forming islands of black shade, now disappearing in the blue mist of distance. sometimes in light, sometimes in shadow, rousille followed the path, her eyes on the watch, her heart beating wildly. she was seeking marks of footsteps on the gravel; straining to see objects amid the dense thickets. was that her father over there, that dark form through the wood? no, it was but the pile of a fence overgrown with brambles. everywhere thorn-bushes, roots, dead branches impeded the moss-grown paths. how neglect had grown with years! the master absent, all was deserted, gone to waste. as she pursued her way, rousille began to realise more keenly her sorrow at her brother's and sister's flight. they too, perhaps, would never come back to their home; fear in her gave place to grief. suddenly, the path winding round a clump of cedars, she found herself in front of the château, with its huge main building flanked by towers and pointed roofs, on which the weather-cocks that once told the direction of the wind were now motionless with rust. night owls were silently chasing each other round the gables; the windows were shut, the ground-floor secured with shutters strongly battened. anxious as she was, the young girl could not but stop for a moment to look at the melancholy pile, stained by winter rains, already as grey as any ruin; and as she stood there on the broad carriage-drive, her ear detected a distant murmur of words. "it is father," she thought without a moment's hesitation. he was sitting some hundred yards away from the château, on a bench that rousille knew well, placed in the half-bend of a group of birches, and called by the country people the bench of the marquise. bent double, his head resting on his hands, the old man was looking at the château and down the avenues that sloped towards the marais. under the shadow of the birches rousille drew nearer to him, and as she came closer, she began to distinguish the words he was saying, like a refrain: "monsieur le marquis! monsieur le marquis!" and as she hastened over the soft turf which deadened her footsteps, rousille had the horrible dread that her father was mad. no, it was not that, but grief, fatigue, and hunger, of which he was unconscious, had excited his brain. finding neither help nor support anywhere, in his despair instinct and habit had brought him to the door of the château, where so often before he had come in sure hope of relief. he had lost all knowledge of time, and only continued to address his lament, "monsieur le marquis! monsieur le marquis!" to the ears of the master too distant to pay heed. the girl, throwing back the hood of her cloak, said softly so as not to startle him: "father, it is rousille. i have been looking for you for an hour. father, it is late--come!" the old farmer shuddered, looking at her with absent eyes that saw not present objects. "only think," he said, "the marquis is not here, rousille. my house is going to ruin, and he is not here to defend me. he should come back when i am in trouble, should he not?" "of course, father, but he does not know of it; he is far away, in paris." "the others, the people of sallertaine, they can do nothing for us because they are humble folks like ourselves, who have no authority beyond their farms. i have been to the mayor, to guerineau, to de la pinçonnière, le glorieux, de la terre-aymont. they sent me away with empty words. but the marquis, rousille, when he comes back--when he knows all! perhaps to-morrow?" "perhaps." "then he will not leave me alone in my grief. he will help me; he will give me back françois--eh, child? will he not give me back françois?" his voice was raised; the shrill words struck against the walls of the château, that sent them echoing back in softened accents to the avenues, the lawns, until they were lost in the forest. the still, pure night listened as they died away, as it listened to the rustle of insects in the thickets. rousille, seeing her father in so great distress, sat down beside him, and talked to him for a while, trying to inspire a hope which she did not feel. and, possibly, a calming influence, a consoling power emanated from her, for when she said: "there is mathurin at home, father, waiting for you," of his own accord he rose, and took his daughter's arm. for a long while he looked into the face of his pretty little rousille, so pale with emotion and fatigue. "true," he replied, "there is mathurin. we must go." and together they passed in front of the château, turned into the avenue leading towards the servants' offices, and thence into the fields belonging to the farm. as they neared la fromentière, rousille felt that the farmer was gradually recovering his self-control, and when they were in the courtyard, with a rush of pity for the cripple, rousille said: "father, mathurin is very unhappy too. do not talk much to him of your distress." hereupon the farmer, whose courage and clear reasoning had revived, passed his hand over his eyes, and preceding rousille, pushed open the door of the house-place, where his crippled son lay stretched deep in thought, beside the nearly burnt-out candle. "mathurin, my son," he said, "do not worry overmuch ... they have gone, but our driot will soon be home again!" chapter vii. driot's return. "our driot is coming." for a fortnight la fromentière lived on these words. work had been resumed the day after the trouble. a farm-labourer, hired by lumineau at saint jean-de-mont, a tall, lean man, with thighs as flat as his cheeks, replaced jean nesmy, and slept in the room beyond the stable. marie-rose did, single-handed, the work before shared by both sisters: housekeeping, cooking, dairy-work, and bread-making. she rose earlier and went to bed later. under her coif she ever had some wise idea in her little head which prevented her from thinking of the past; and in all her movements was displayed that silent activity that the farmer had loved in his old luminette. mathurin had of himself offered to look after the "birds," that is to say, the stock of half-wild turkeys and geese bred at la fromentière. carrying a sack fastened across his shoulders, he would drag himself down every morning to the edge of the first canal of the marais, where, at a part that widened out, were fastened the two boats belonging to la fromentière. in the shallow water he would scatter his supply of corn or buck-wheat, and from across the meadows drakes with blue-tinted wings, ducks, grey, with a double notch cut on the right side of their beaks to mark them as belonging to lumineau, would hurry and dive for their food. for hours mathurin would find amusement in watching them, then, lowering himself gently into one of the boats, seated or kneeling, would try to recover the sure and rapid stroke which at one time had made him famous among the puntsmen of the marais. toussaint lumineau delighted to see him managing his boat near the farm, thus distracting his mind, as he thought, from the ever present regret. he would say: "the lad is regaining his old pleasure in punting. it can but be good for him and for us all." but to mathurin, to rousille, to his man, to the passers-by, sometimes even to his oxen, often when alone to himself, he would talk of the son so soon to be home again among them. help was coming; youth and joy were returning to sorrow-stricken la fromentière. at table nothing else was talked about: "only twelve days; only ten; only seven. i will drive to chalons to meet him," said lumineau. "and i will make him some porridge," said rousille, "he used to be so fond of it before he joined his regiment." "and i" said mathurin, "will go in the punt with him the first time he looks up his friends." "how much there will be to hear!" exclaimed rousille. "when he was home on furlough he had an endless store of tales to tell. as for me, i shall have no time to listen to them. i shall have to send him to you, mathurin. and what a change it will make in the house to have a chatterbox among us." then she added, with the grave air of one entrusted with the household purse: "one change we must make, father, and that will be to buy a paper on sunday. he will not like to go without one; our andré is sure to want to know the news." "he is young," said the father, as if to excuse him. and all andré's predilections, every recollection connected with him, all the hopes that centred in his return were incessantly recapitulated by one and the other in the living-room of la fromentière, where the caress of such discourses must have ascended more than once to the smoke-stained rafters. meanwhile the son thus occupying all their thoughts had not been told by any of them of the going of françois and eléonore. partly from dislike to letter-writing, but principally to spare him pain, and to avoid giving him bad news on the eve of his homecoming, the blow which had so diminished the number of those he was to rejoin had been withheld from him. for they could not tell how he would take the absence of his favourite brother, his childhood's companion; it would be better to break the news to him gently, when he should have come back to france, back to his home. soon a letter came, bearing the algiers postmark, giving from day to day the itinerary of the journey; and under the elms of la fromentière would be heard, every successive four-and-twenty hours, announced by one of the family lovingly, meditated over by the others, "now driot must be leaving algiers." "now driot is on the sea." "now driot is in the train for marseilles." "children, he has reached the soil of france." so one morning, which chanced to be the last saturday in september, toussaint lumineau gave la rousse a double feed of oats, and drew out from the coach-house a tilbury, the body and wheels of which were painted red. this tilbury was a relic of former prosperity, and as well known in all the country side as were the round head, white hair, and clear eyes of toussaint lumineau himself. he, harnessing the mare, looked so joyous and happy, that rousille, who had not heard him laugh for many a day, as she watched him from the doorway, felt her eyes fill with tears, she knew not wherefore, as though it were the return of spring. the last strap buckled, the old farmer put on his best coat with upright collar, fastened the broad blue sunday belt round his waist, and slipped two cigars at a halfpenny each into his coat pocket, a luxury he never indulged in nowadays. then swinging himself up into the tilbury with a cheery, "ohé, la rousse!" he was off. the mare started at such a pace that an instant later her headstall, ornamented with a rosette, looked like a poppy swept along the hedges by the wind. bas-rouge tore along after them. his master had called out on starting, "driot is coming, bas-rouge! come to meet him!" and the dog, all excitement, had dashed after la rousse in ungainly gallop. soon they had reached chalons. without slackening speed, the farmer drove through the streets, responding to the greeting of the landlord of the hotel des voyageurs, and nicely marking by the angle at which he raised his hat his sense of a tenant farmer's superiority over shopkeepers as he returned their salutations, then proudly erect upon the box-seat, tightening the reins, he turned in the direction of the railway station, some two miles beyond the town. people looking after him, said: "he has gone to meet his lad, that's certain. well, poor fellow, he has had plenty of trouble, now he is having his share of good luck!" la rousse being restive, lumineau alighted in the railway yard, and stood at the head of the mare. thence could be seen the perspective of lines going towards la roche--the lines by which one son had left, and the other was so soon to return to la fromentière. he had not long to wait. the train dashed into the station with a whistle; the farmer was still quieting the mare, terrified by the noise, when the passengers came thronging out: townspeople, men-of-war's men on leave, fishmongers from saint gilles or sables, and lastly a smart chasseur d'afrique, slight and tall, his képi well balanced, fair moustaches waxed to a point, his knapsack full to bursting, who, after looking eagerly round the yard, smiled and ran out with widespread arms: "father! ah! what luck, it's father!" the bystanders, indifferently looking on, saw the two men embrace each other with a strong, almost suffocating pressure. "my driot!" exclaimed the old man. "how happy i am!" "and i too, father!" "no, not so happy as i am! if you only knew!" "what, then?" "i will tell you. oh, my driot, the joy of seeing you again!" they disengaged themselves from each other's arms. the young soldier adjusted his collar, and restored the equilibrium of his képi on the point of falling. "ah, i expect you will have no end of things to tell me, after all this long time? important, perhaps? you will tell me by degrees at la fromentière, while we are at work. ever so much better than letters, eh?" and he threw back his fair head with a merry laugh. his father could only respond with a faint smile; then, going towards the tilbury, one on either side, they swung themselves up with the elasticity of two men of the same age. "shall i drive?" asked andré, and taking up the reins he gave a click with his tongue. la rousse pricked up her ears, reared playfully to show that she recognised her young master, and with arched neck and eyes aflame, she soon left far behind the two empty hotel omnibuses, which were in the habit of racing each other on their way back from the station. those who had exchanged greetings with the farmer on his way to the train, and many others, watched to see the two men pass by; clear-starchers looking out as they ironed; the little dressmaker from nantes who came at the beginning of each season to take orders from her ladies at chalons; shopkeepers standing at their doors; peasants at their dinners in inn parlours; all attracted by the sight of a soldier, or gratified to have a sign of recognition from the two lumineaus. la rousse trotted at such speed that the old man had not time to resume his hat between his salutations. remarks followed the tilbury in the vacuum of air made by its rapid course. "that's the son from africa. a handsome lad! how well his blue tunic suits him. and the old man, how happy he looks!" the farmer sat close to his recovered son. halfway down the last street, bordered by an elm hedge shedding its leaves on the road, the old man plunged his big hand into his pocket and nudged driot's elbow to call attention to the two choice cigars he held between finger and thumb. "with pleasure," responded the young man, and taking one he lit it, somewhat slackening the mare's pace as he did so, then, after a few puffs, as the gorse-covered slopes, golden with blossom, the stony fields, the crown-topped elms, came in sight, bringing with them the sweetness of old familiar scenes, driot, hitherto somewhat silent and abashed by the attention they had excited, began: "and all the home-folks, father, how are they?" a deep furrow lined the farmer's brow. toussaint lumineau turned a little in his seat and looked away towards the landscape, distressed at having to tell the trouble, and still more by the fear of what his handsome driot would think about it. "my poor boy," he said, "we have only mathurin and rousille at home now." "and françois, where is he?" "only fancy! ah! you little think what i am going to tell you. a fortnight ago yesterday he left la fromentière to work on the railway at la roche. eléonore went with him. it seems that she was to keep a coffee shop. can you believe it?" "you sent them away from home?" asked the young man, removing the cigar from his mouth and looking straight at his father. "they are not such fools as to have left you for any other reason!" the words gave the old father a thrill of joy. his driot understood him; his driot was at one with him. returning the frank gaze, he answered: "no; they are a couple of idlers, who want to make money without doing anything for it ... ungrateful, both of them, leaving their old father ... and then you know that françois loves pleasure. since he served his time he has always had a hankering after town life." "i know; and i know that town has its attractions," returned andré, touching up la rousse with the point of the whip; "but to grease the wheels of a railway carriage, or serve out drink! well, everyone goes his own way in this world. all the better for them if they succeed. but i cannot tell you what the fact of françois' going is to me. i was so looking forward to our farm-life together." he remained bending forward awhile as if only intent on the twitching of the mare's delicate ears, then asked in his caressing voice: "things are going badly with us then, father?" "they have been somewhat, my boy. but they won't now that you are home." andré made no direct reply, nor did he say anything at all just then. he was scanning the horizon for a slate-covered clock tower and certain tree-tops not yet distinguishable in the distance; his heart was already in the old home. "at any rate," said he, "rousille is left to us. she had grown a pretty girl when i was last home on leave, very taking, and with a will of her own! you cannot imagine how often i used to think of her when i was out in africa, and try to sketch her portrait from memory. is she as jolly as ever?" "she is not bad," replied the farmer. "and a good girl, i hope? she is not the sort to turn herself into a barmaid." "no, certainly not." the good-looking young soldier slackened the mare's pace, partly because they had reached a turn in the road where there was a steep descent, partly that he might the better see, at the foot of the sloping ground, the marais of la vendée opening out like a gulf. he had only been home once before in his three years of service; with growing emotion he gazed upon the groups of poplars and tiny red roofs standing out from the waste of marshland; his eyes roved from one to the other; his lips trembled as he named the farms one by one; all other emotion was silenced in that of coming home again. "parée-du-mont!" he exclaimed. "what has become of the eldest ertus?" "nothing much; he is in the customs." "and guerineau of la pinçonnière, who was in the nd line regiment?" "oh, he went off like françois; is conductor on the tramway to nantes." "and dominique perrocheau of levrelles?" the farmer shrugged his shoulders with annoyance, for, in truth, it was aggravating to be obliged constantly to answer "gone--left--deserted the marais." however he had to say: "you heard, doubtless, that he gained his gold stripes at the end of his first leave; then he obtained further promotion, and was given some post, i don't know where, as government clerk. a set of stupid fellows, all of them--not worth much, my driot!" "ah, now i see terre d'aymont," cried driot. "it seems nearer than it used to be; i can distinguish their wind-mill. tell me, father, there were two of my playfellows there, sons of massonneau le glorieux, one older, the other younger than me. what are they doing?" radiant, toussaint lumineau made reply: "both on the farm. the eldest exempted his brother. they are fine fellows who do not mind hard work; you will see them to-morrow at mass in sallertaine." with a light, happy laugh the young soldier said: "ah, by-the-bye, one must get into the way of attending mass again, i suppose. in the army devotion did not trouble us much. sundays were rather a favourite day for our chiefs to hold reviews ... they don't look at things as you do. but you see, father, i will soon accustom myself to going to mass again--even to high mass--it is not that that will be the difficulty." "what then, my lad?" they were both silent for a moment. another turn in the road had revealed la fromentière on their left. with a simultaneous movement father and son had risen and were standing almost upright, one hand on the front of the carriage, contemplating the property, la rousse trotting along, unheeded by the driver. a great, tender rush of feeling, cruel withal, paled andré's face. the land was welcoming a son of its soil; all the scattered recollections of his childhood awoke and called aloud to him; there was not a hillock that did not greet him, not a furze-bush, not a lopped elm but had a friendly look for him. but one and all, too, recalled the brother and sister he would find there no more. without turning his eyes from la fromentière driot replied, after a silence, and without naming those of whom he was thinking: "i will go and see them at la roche ... of course i will ... but brotherhood is not altogether the same when one has broken from the old place...." an instant later he was holding rousille, who had run out into the courtyard to meet him, high in his arms, looking her full in the face, into the very depth of her eyes, with the gaze of a brother whose military experience has made him somewhat suspicious of maidenly virtue; but seeing that her eyes met his in all frankness, but with something of a sad expression, he kissed her, and set her down on terra firma again. "always the same, little sister! that's good; but a little sorry at having lost lionore, eh?" "you can see that?" "ah well! but i have come now. we will try to get on without them, won't we?" "and i?" put in a thick voice. the soldier left rousille, and hastened to mathurin who was coming towards them; dragging his limbs after him. "do not hurry, old man! i must do the running for both; i have sound legs." stooping over his crutches, and stroking his elder brother's tawny head, andré could find no words of comfort. coming fresh from a military centre where all was young, active, alert, he could not hide the distress and a certain feeling of horror with which mathurin's infirmity inspired him. however, compelled by the other's anxious look, which seemed to ask, "what do you think of me?--you who come back, judge--can i live?" he hastened to say: "my poor old man, i am so glad to find you like this. so you have not got any worse?" with a shrug of the shoulders, the cripple angrily pushed him away. "i am much better," he returned. "you will see. i walk more easily. i can stand as firmly as i did three years ago, when i thought i was getting well ... and, for a beginning, i am going with you to mass at sallertaine to-morrow." to avoid answering, the young soldier turned to meet his father, who, having unharnessed la rousse, was coming towards them, with happy, smiling face, having eyes only for his driot come home to him again. the men, one following the other, turned towards the house, and went in; but on this happy day it was the farmer who held back, and the returned son who went first. alert, interested as on a first visit, rejoiced to be made the object of the eyes and ears of the others, he did not sit down but wandered from room to room, the blue and red uniform an unfamiliar sight in this home of the toilers of the field. to amuse his auditors he made the old walls ring again with words of command; knocked up against corners to feel the strength of the massive stones; opened the cupboard, cut himself a slice of bread, and tasted it, with a, "better than the bread of algiers, my friends. this is rousille's baking, eh? it is excellent; we shall have a good farmer's wife in her." followed everywhere by his father, mathurin, and marie-rose, he went from the house into the stables and barns. "i do not know these oxen," said he. "no, my boy, i bought them last winter at beauvoir fair." "well, i'll bet that i can tell their names from their faces. this dun-coloured one, that does not look great shakes, is noblet, and his companion, the little tawny one, is matelot?" "right," answered his father. "as for the others, our old ones, they have not changed much, save to put on more horn and muscle. the plough ought to work well drawn by them. good day, paladin; good day, cavalier!" the good creatures lying in the straw, hearing the young voice that called to them, thrust out their heads, and with their thoughtful eyes followed the young master. a little further, stooping down, he took up a handful of green forage. "fine maize for the time of year," he said. "this must have come from our high land; from la cailleterie?" "no." "from jobinière then, where not a grain is lost. here's a good specimen!" the father was ready to join in praise of his oxen, his fields, everything, so happy was he that the last of his sons, after three years' absence, still loved the ground. but the handsome young soldier laughed more than he felt inclined to do, to hide the sad thoughts that would come during his round, and when in the shed affected not to see the traps for blackbirds, made by françois the preceding winter. in the threshing floor, seeing a bundle of faded grass lying on the neatly made hayrick, he bent towards rousille, and murmured: "did françois gather that? ah, it pains me more than i could have believed, rousille, not to find françois here. it quite changes la fromentière for me." but the father heard nothing of this. he only saw that his son was home again, and the future of la fromentière assured. when they had re-entered the general sitting-room, lumineau passed his hand over the blue tunic of the chasseur d'afrique, saying: "i like you in this, but i bet anything that you will not be sorry to lay aside your soldier's toggery." "all right, father," returned andré, laughing at the unwitting affront to his uniform, and his father's indirect mode of inviting him to change to civilian dress. "i am not got up in sallertaine guise; i'll go and change." from the bottom of the chest in the end room, beside the bed where he was to sleep, andré took the carefully folded work-day suit, laid there by him the day he left. he took great pains with the waxing of his moustache, and adjusting the brim of his hat, adorned his button-hole with a sprig of jasmine; then going the length of the house, opened the kitchen door, and there, framed against the old walls, his slim figure clad in cloth suit, was seen the handsomest young vendéen of the marais. bronzed and fair-haired, his joyous face reflected the happiness of the others. "ah, driot," exclaimed the farmer merrily, "now you are quite yourself again! you were my son before, but not so completely my very own as now," then added: "now come, and we will drink to your health, and that you may stay at la fromentière; for i am ageing fast, and you shall take my place." mathurin, sitting at table beside his father, became very gloomy. when the glasses were filled, he raised his with the others, but did not clink it against that of andré. chapter viii. in the place de l'eglise. the bells rang out the close of high mass; choir boys chanted the _deo gratias_. as in its early days, when in the last years of the twelfth century it was erected on the summit of the isle of sallertaine, the little church, now yellow with age and growth of lichen and wild-flower, witnessed the crowd of worshippers, dressed in the same fashions as then, pour out from the same doors in the same order and collect in the same groups in the same place. the first to be seen were the farm-labourers and farmers' sons, who came out by the east door from the transept where they had heard mass, and who, passing round the choir, grouped themselves on the other side, where the young girls would presently emerge. two by two they appeared between the pillars of the west porch with eyes lowered to the tips of their sabots. they were well aware that their rosy cheeks, smoothly braided hair beneath the pyramid of muslin, the embroidered stockings peeping under the short petticoat, the manner in which they walked with hands demurely crossed over the moiré aprons, made them the cynosure of all eyes. this retired bearing only lasted for some twenty paces; soon the girls had formed themselves into a group close by the michelonnes' house, at a short distance from that of the younger men. and now in their turn they waited. eyes grey, blue, brown, very much on the alert; eyes sparkling with life; eyes in which lived a remembrance. laughing lips, telling of the mere joy of living; the chirping as of a flock of birds greeting one another. following them came the farmers and their wives; widows, distinguishable by the band of velvet in front of their coifs; older men, men of position; these all issuing from the nave, among them many a grave face still under the influence of devotion, in which like walking saints they seemed wholly absorbed. many tall, finely set up men there were, with calm, fresh complexioned faces closely shaven, save for a thin line of whisker. all wore the same costume of black cloth coat with straight collar, trousers with flaps, raised on the ankle by a fold in the cloth, blue or green belt extending half way up the waistcoat, round felt hat bound with velvet. they joined the younger men, swelling the groups that shouldered each other, forming by this time a dark swaying mass reaching to the last buttress of the choir. the matrons, on the contrary, making a passage for themselves through the crowd, went their way, looking in their plaited skirts like ornamental round towers. from their calm eyes, and the brief smile with which they exchanged greetings with a town acquaintance, it was plain to see that, having outgrown the follies and illusions of youth, each had settled down to her store of domestic happiness, joy, or sorrow that a green patch in the marais had reserved for her. they talked with other farmers' wives, were joined by one or other for the homeward way, and thus accompanied, dignified and worthy, they directed their steps towards the plain, or to the various boating stages. despite their departure, the gathering in the place grew denser and denser. it was the place of sunday meeting where for centuries past the dwellers of the marshes, prisoners of the canal-bound land, had been wont to assemble. to them attendance at mass was alike a religious duty and an occasion of social gathering. before wending their way back to their farms, not a man, even the gravest and most considered among them, would have failed to pass an hour in a wine shop chatting with his friends over a bottle of muscadet and a game of cards, _luette_ particularly, a game imported from spain in ancient times. already innkeepers were standing at their doors at the foot of the place, sounds of merriment and laughter were to be heard from within, and the stock-phrases of _luette_ players, "your turn." "my turn." "i play a horse." "i take merienne." meanwhile there was more than ordinary animation among the girls stationed behind the groups of men. they were scanning all the church doors, whence were now issuing good women, tellers of rosaries, who had lingered long over their devotions. "he is coming out," exclaimed tall aimée massonneau, the daughter of farmer glorieux, of terre-aymont. "did you see him, that poor mathurin lumineau? he insisted upon coming to mass. i am sure he might have got dispensation!" "yes," returned the little auburn-haired daughter of malabrit, "it is six years since he came to sallertaine." "six years--really?" "yes, i remember. it was the year my sister was married." "and why do you think he came?" asked victoire guerineau, of la pinçonnière, a sharp-tongued pretty girl, with a complexion like a wild rose. "for he must have shown some spirit to manage it." "to stand by his father," said a voice; "the old man had been so saddened by the going of eléonore and françois." "to show himself with his brother andré," put in another. "he's a good-looking fellow is andré lumineau! i should not mind----" victoire guerineau and the others broke into a peal of laughter. "you are quite out of it. it's for félicité gauvrit he came!" "oh, oh!" exclaimed those in front. "how ill-natured you are! if she were to hear you." and several turned towards the michelonnes' doorstep, near to which, amid a little throng, stood mathurin's former fiancée. suddenly a murmur ran through the crowd. "there he is. poor fellow! how difficult it is for him to walk." and under the pointed arch of a low doorway, one half of which only was open, a deformed figure was seen struggling to force a passage through the narrow aperture, one hand holding a crutch clutched hold of a pillar outside, by which the poor man strove to drag himself through, but he had only succeeded in freeing one shoulder. with head thrown back, there was an expression of agony upon the face which attested the violence of the effort, and the strength of will that would not give in. mathurin lumineau seemed on the point of suffocation; he looked at no one in the throng of people whose gaze was riveted upon him; his eyes on a higher level than those of the spectators were fixed upon the blue vault of heaven with an expression of anguish that re-acted upon them. conversation was interrupted; voices began to murmur, "oh, help him! he is suffocating!" some of the men made a movement to go to his assistance; at that moment, from the gloom of the interior, his father asked: "shall i help you out, mathurin? you cannot squeeze through there. let me help you." in a low voice, inaudible to those without, but with terrible energy, mathurin answered: "don't touch me. confound it! don't touch me. i will get out by myself." at length the man forced his huge bust through the door, and with a tremendous effort steadied himself, stroked his tawny beard and settled his hat on his head. then with the aid of his crutches, standing as upright as he could, mathurin looked straight before him, and advanced towards the group of men, which opened out silently at his approach. no one ventured to address him, it was so long since he had been among them, the old habit of familiarity seemed lost; but the attention of all was concentrated upon their former comrade, and no one noticed that his old father with andré and marie-rose were following close behind him. the cripple had soon reached the spot where the girls were standing. they fell apart even more quickly than the men had done, for they guessed his intention; a lane opened between them reaching up to the houses. at the far end of this living avenue, clad in black dresses and white coifs, standing erect, quite alone, was seen félicité gauvrit. she was the one he sought. she knew it; she had foreseen her triumph. no sooner had she observed mathurin lumineau sitting on the family bench in church, then she had said to herself: "he has come for me. i will hide away by the michelonnes' house, and he will follow me." for she was gratified to have it seen that he still loved her, the girl to whom, handsome though she was, no suitors came. the women with whom she had been talking had prudently moved away; she stood alone, under the michelonnes' window, looking like a lay figure from some museum in her costume of heavy stiff material, the braids of her lustrous brown hair shining under the small coif, her dazzlingly white complexion and uncovered throat. erect, with arms pendant on either side of the moiré apron, she watched her former lover coming towards her between the double row of inquisitive lookers-on. the many faces bent upon the girl in nowise intimidated her. perhaps in the suit and cravat mathurin was wearing she recognised the very ones he had worn at the time of the accident; any way, she remained calm and unabashed, her face even wore a slight smile. he drew nearer, leaning on his crutches, his eyes fixed, not on the path, but on félicité gauvrit. what the poor fellow wanted was to see her once again; to make her understand that health was returning, that hope was awakening out of his misery, that the heart of mathurin lumineau had never wavered. all this his sad eyes told her as he drew near, offering in piteous pleading the bodily and mental suffering he had endured to her who had been their cause. but his strength was unequal to the effort, he grew deadly white; and when the insolent beauty, the first to speak, said calmly before all the throng: "good day, mathurin," he could not answer. to have seen the smile on those rosy lips, to be so near to her, and to hear her address him in the same easy tones as if they had but parted the day before, was more than he could bear. he grew faint, leant heavily on his crutches, and slightly turned his tawny head to driot, who was behind him, as if to say: "take me away," and the younger brother understanding the appeal, passed the suffering man's arm under his and led him away, saying as he did so, to divert the attention of the crowd: "good day to yourself, félicité. it is an age since i have seen you. you are not a bit altered." "nor are you," she retorted. a few laughed; but among those assembled there were many who were deeply touched, even disposed to tears. some of the girls of sallertaine pitied the poor fellow so exhausted and confused, led away on his brother's arm; they sorrowed that he could never enjoy that love which each, in the recesses of her heart, hoped some day to share with the yet unknown swain. one of them murmured: "it is not only in body that he is afflicted, his mind, too, seems gone, poor fellow!" many women, mothers going home with their children, walked more sedately as they saw the group on the way to chalons: old farmer toussaint, andré and mathurin, with marie-rose bringing up the rear. they recalled with a shudder what a magnificent youth the poor cripple once had been, and thought: heaven send that no such calamity befall our boys when they grow up! félicité gauvrit began to be affected in her turn, but in a different manner. the departure of the lumineaus had turned attention away from her. some of the men surrounded the district crier, who was calling out the list of lost articles and farms to be let; others repaired to the inns. the girls collected in little companies to seek the homeward way. every minute five or six white coifs were to be seen bowing and bending in farewell salute, separating from the others, and going off to the right hand or the left. félicité, left alone for some minutes, joined one of the groups going west of sallertaine, towards the high marais; she was received with some embarrassment, as one whom they did not want to fall out with, yet who was somewhat compromising, and whose company their mothers did not desire for them. young men drinking together in the inns called after her the slighting remarks men make on girls for whom they have little respect. she did not answer them back, but with her companions descended the hilly road bordered with houses, and thence on to the open marais in the direction of perrier. at that time of the year, before autumn rains had set in, many of the farms could be reached on foot without the aid of boats. a raised path, rough and ill-kept, flanked by dykes on either side, led across the meadows; grey-green grass covered the level plain until the uniform tint dissolved in brownish hue in the distant horizon. horses grazing, stretched out their necks, and looked at the little group clad in black and white, breaking the continuity of grey-green plain. ducks, at the sound of their footsteps, ran in among the rushes that trembled on the edge. from time to time a shelving embankment branched off the path, and one of the girls, separating from the group, would make her way by it to some distant house, only marked by the customary cluster of poplar-trees; and félicité gauvrit, roused for a moment from her abstraction, would say "good-bye," and then walk on silently as before. soon she was left alone on the path that stretches to the sea. then slackening her pace, she gave herself up without restraint to her thoughts. she was not happy at home. at sixty-five her father had married again a woman of thirty of loose character, whom he had met at barre-de-mont, and to whom in virtue of her youth he had made over the most realisable part of his property. the young stepmother was not kind to félicité. one reproached the other with extravagance and ruining the home. the eldest brother, in the customs at sables d'olonne, a gambler and hard drinker, was perpetually threatening the old man with a summons for falsified accounts, and by thus intimidating him drained still further the diminished capital of the gauvrits. the old family, once so respected in the marais, was rapidly declining, and this félicité knew too well. the young men of sallertaine and the neighbouring parishes came readily enough to dances at la seulière; they danced, drank, joked with her, but not one of them offered to marry her. the impending ruin, the family divisions, kept suitors away. yet another reason, more real, and one that appealed more strongly to sentiment than any other, held back the sons of farmers, and even farm-labourers from asking the hand of félicité gauvrit in marriage; and this was the tie, binding only in honour, the debt of fidelity, rendered even more sacred by misfortune, which public opinion obstinately maintained as still existing between la seulière and la fromentière. in everybody's opinion félicité gauvrit remained one of the lumineau household; a girl who had not the right to withdraw her betrothal promise, and who was not to be sought in marriage by any other while mathurin was living. some men even had a superstitious dread of her; they would have been afraid to set up housekeeping with a girl whose first love had met so unhappy a fate. all the advances she had made had come to nought. soured and embittered, in her rage she had gone so far as to regret that the cripple had not been killed on the spot. had the poor wretch, who was scarcely to be called living, died then and there, she would have recovered her liberty, the past would have been quickly forgotten; while now, it was kept in everyone's memory by the sight of the maimed man on crutches, hanging about the farmstead of which he should have been master. she had found that death is sometimes long in claiming its victims. then courage had returned; in her astuteness félicité had recognised that public opinion holding her as belonging to the lumineau family, by them only could she realise her ambition: to go away from la seulière, escape the domination of her stepmother, and become the mistress of a large farm, with more means and freedom than ever she had possessed at home. never having loved her former betrothed, actuated only by vanity, as is sometimes the case in country surroundings, she had said to herself: "i will bide my time. i will make them long the more for me by not going to la fromentière. one day mathurin will come to me, or will call me to him. i am positive that he has not forgotten me. stupid of him; but it will help my ends. thanks to him, i shall see them all again; the old man who mistrusts me, the young men who will admire me for my beauty. and i shall marry either françois or andré, and shall be the mistress of a farm as i ought to be, and of the richest farm in the whole parish." now françois, whom she had tried to captivate, had gone away. but, on the other hand, mathurin had come to her; at the cost of terrible fatigue and suffering he had dragged himself to sallertaine to greet her publicly; while andré, before all the girls, had said: "it is an age since i saw you. you are not a bit altered." félicité had gathered one of the yellow irises that grew so profusely on the marais. half laughing she thought over her recent triumph, the iris lightly held between her lips; her arms swinging as she walked caused the full sleeves to rustle against the moiré of her apron; her smiling gaze was directed to the distant meadows. she was thinking that andré would make a handsome husband, better looking than ever mathurin had been; that, after all, he was one year younger than herself, that he had engaging manners, and had not been wanting in audacity either to have said: "you have not altered." and she went on to think: "the first opportunity that offers, i will invite them to a dance at home. i am sure that andré will come." slowly she walked along the raised path in the burning rays of the mid-day sun. grasshoppers were chirping; every now and again the acrid scent of fading rushes was in the air. wholly absorbed in her daydream, félicité gauvrit did not perceive that she had nearly reached home. the white buildings of la seulière, standing out in the meadow, came as an unwelcome surprise. at the same moment a doubt crossed her mind, disturbing, unbidden ending to her dream. suppose andré too were to go away? or that mathurin, elated as he was sure to be by the least sign of remembrance, and made thereby more eager, more jealous, were to guess what was in the wind? félicité had stopped in the middle of the bridge that led from the path to the farm. the tall, supple young woman raised her arms above her head, scowled impatiently, and snapped the stem of the yellow iris, which fell prone into the dyke, then following it with her eyes for a second, she looked at her own reflection in the water, and smiled again. "i shall succeed," she said. and descending the slope of the bridge she reached la seulière by the cross road. chapter ix. the conscripts of sallertaine. the afternoon of that autumn sunday was marked by a deeper peacefulness than usual. the air was warm, the light veiled, the wind, which, rising with the tide, had outstripped it, sweeping over the vast grassy plain, brought no sound of work in its train, no creak of plough, no ring of hammer, spade, or axe. the bells alone were heard answering each other from sallertaine, perrier, saint gervais, chalons with its new church, vast as a cathedral, and seullans hidden among the trees on the hill. chimes for high mass, ringing for angelus, the three strokes for vespers left the bells but little rest; far and near they told out the familiar tones, understood for centuries past. adoration of the holy one; forgetfulness of earth; pardon for sin; union in prayer; equality of all men in the light of eternal promises. the tones rang out into space and interlocked with a vibration, and were as garlands flung from one belfry to another. among the toilers of the fields, cattle drivers, sowers, there were but few who did not obey the summons. along roads deserted all the week were to be seen families hastening, passing and repassing one another, of those who lived at the remotest portions of the parish; while those who lived nearer took it more leisurely. on the canal, which, broadening at the foot of the church, forms the quay of sallertaine, boats were constantly moving hither and thither. towards evening the bells had ceased; the frequenters of inn parlours too had betaken themselves to their farms, lying peacefully in the light of the setting sun. universal silence reigned over the land. quiet as it was on working-days, at the close of the week it seemed sunk in meditation and silence; dominical truce that had its great significance, when weary souls refresh themselves, and whole families unite in calm and meditation to review their living and their dead. but to-day the quiet was to be of short duration. mathurin and andré were lying under the shade of the elms that afforded provisional shelter to the harrows and ploughs close by the old stonework gateway. the cripple, leaning against the cross-bars of a harrow, was resting after the fatigue and excitement of the morning. andré, from concern for him, had not gone into town again with his father, but lying at full-length on the grass was reading the paper aloud, pausing every now and then to make his comments on the news, and, as a travelled man, to explain the whereabouts of places and countries--clermont ferrand, india, japan, the while twirling his little fair moustache, a very youthful and ingenuous self-sufficiency showing itself in his frank, merry face. at about four o'clock, to the left of sallertaine, was heard the sound of a bugle, coming apparently from the open marsh between the parishes of lumineau and seullans. mathurin roused from the torpor into which he had sunk, looked at andré, who at the first sound of the bugle had let fall the paper, and with uplifted face and straining ears was listening to the call. "it is the cadets," said his brother, "they are out this afternoon. soon they will be leaving." "they are playing the call of the 'chasseurs d'afrique,'" returned andré, a light in his eyes. "i recognise it. is there anyone of our old regiment in the marais?" "yes, the son of a gooseherd in fief; he served his time with the zouaves." they were silent, both men listening to the bugling of the ex-zouave, their thoughts very different. andré with eyes fixed on the distant marshland was seeing in imagination a white town, with narrow streets, and a troop of horsemen emerging from a crenulated gateway, its arches echoing with the ring of their horses' hoofs. mathurin, watching the expression on his brother's face, thought: "his heart is still with the regiment." for an instant his features distended, his eyes dilated as those of a wild beast detecting its prey, then he returned to his one idea. "driot," he exclaimed after a while, "you like that music?" "i should think so." "do you regret the regiment?" "no, that i don't. no one does." "then what was the attraction out there?" the young man looked inquiringly into his brother's face as though to say, why should he want to know, then answered: "the country----hark! that's the reveille now." the sounds of the bugle, sharp, incisive, stopped. now five or six strong untrained voices struck up "le chant du départ." occasional words reached the listeners where they lay. "mourir pour la patrie ... le plus beau ... d'envie." the rest was lost in space. meanwhile the sounds were approaching; the two brothers motionless under the elms, each pursuing the train of thought evoked by the first notes of the bugle, could hear the conscripts of sallertaine coming up the hill towards them. toussaint lumineau, on his way home from vespers with his friend massonneau, heard them also. massonneau, an old tenant farmer, tall and thin, with skin as dark as a ripe ear of corn, the cartilages of his neck standing out like the breast-bone of a fowl, had acquired his name of "le glorieux" from a nervous twitch he had, which caused his chin to jerk upwards at every instant; lumineau and he were discussing the latest events of la fromentière. the two men represented the age and wisdom of the marais; moreover, they could tell the names and nicknames of every living soul at sallertaine, their history and parentage. as they reached the last houses of the town, both simultaneously stopped and turned their faces windward. "do you hear, glorieux?" exclaimed lumineau. "they are bugling and singing, poor boys! but the parents of those who are going may well weep." "yes," returned massonneau, with a twitch of the chin, "the parents are to be pitied." "i could name them, everyone, from only hearing their lad's voices," continued lumineau. "you, good people of la bounellerie, and you, of grand paiement; you, of juch-pie; you, of linotteries; and you, of belle-blanche, i recognise your boys' voices. may it not do the same work for them that it did for my françois! they are going to the place that changed my boy's heart--to the town that robbed me of him." "as it robbed la pinçonnière," said his companion. "and leverells." "and parée-du-mont." the litany might have been prolonged; massonneau hearing the voices at the edge of the marais broke in with: "they are singing again," he said, "they are going up the hill to you, lumineau." and in truth the young conscripts had begun the ascent towards la fromentière; soon the bugle call, soon their voices, resounded over the silent marais, carried afar by the wind, like grains of seed falling everywhere. and everywhere, without apparent reason, emotions were stirred, old sorrows awoke, and the humble occupants of isolated farms or remote villages listened with a tightening of the heart to the tramp of the conscripts of sallertaine. as they reached the meadow-land of la fromentière, mathurin, who had been following the sounds, and with his marvellous sense of observation had marked every step of their way, said to andré: "they have already halted at three farms. i think they must be collecting for their class. you did not do that? for the last two years they have started calling at all the houses where there is a young girl of their own age, to ask her for a fowl as compensation for having to serve. rousille is drawn among the other girls. you should catch a fowl to give them when they come." "so i will," returned andré, laughing and springing up with a bound. "i'm off. what do they do with all the fowls?" "eat them. they get three or four farewell dinners out of them. be quick! they are coming!" andré disappeared within the courtyard. soon could be heard his merry laugh, and a rush in the direction of the barn, then the terrified cries of the fowl he had evidently caught; and soon he reappeared holding his prize by the legs, its round spotted wings, grey and white, rising and falling on the grass as he walked. at the same moment a blast on the bugle was heard at the foot of the dwarf orchard; mathurin half-raised himself upon the harrow, his hands clasping the cross-bars, his arms extended, his shaggy head bent forward, awaited the arrival of the troop, andré standing beside him. opposite them, just at the opening of the road leading down to the marais, the setting sun, an enormous ball tinted orange by the mist, filled the entire space between the two treeless banks. in this sun-bathed glory three girls advanced, arm-in-arm, up the ascent, the tallest in the middle; all were dressed in black with lace coifs; the jet on their velvet kerchiefs sparkling in the light. as they walked they rhythmically swayed their heads; they were girls from sallertaine, but the light was behind them, and only mathurin could recognise in the centre one félicité gauvrit. a few paces in the rear came the bugler, a standard-bearer, and five young men walking abreast, carrying either in their arms or suspended from a hempen cord the fowls collected from the farmhouses. the procession advanced some hundred yards along the road, then pulled up between the elms and the ruined wall of la fromentière. "good day, brothers lumineau!" said a voice. there was a burst of laughter from the band, excited by their march and the muscadet they had drunk on the way. the cripple's hands gave way, he glanced up at andré. félicité gauvrit, without leaving hold of her companions, had advanced slightly in front of them, and was gazing with a pleased expression at the youngest lumineau, who held out the grey fowl to her. "you guessed then, andré?" she said. "ah, that's what it is to have to do with intelligent boys. here, sosthene pageot, come and take rousille's fowl." a sturdy lad with ruddy face, and the stupefied air of one beginning to feel the effects of drink, stepped out from among the others and took the fowl. but from the mocking attitude of andré, and his studied silence, félicité guessed that he was surprised to see a girl of her position in such company, therefore she added carelessly: "you may be satisfied that i do not range the marais every day with conscripts. my doing it to-day is out of kindness. my two friends here, who belong to the class, were called upon to go the round to collect; they are shy and dared not go alone, and so it must have been given up, had i not come to the rescue." she expressed herself well, with a certain refinement that came with the habit of reading. "that would have been a pity!" said the young man coldly. "yes, would it not? the more so, that i am not often seen in your part of the world." she turned her head towards the windows of la fromentière, the stables, the hayricks, sighed, then immediately remarked in a playful tone: "you will come to one of our dances, will you not, andré? the maraîchines hope so." at this there were signs of approval to the right and left of her. "perhaps," replied andré. "it is so long since i was at a dance in sallertaine; inclination may return." she thanked him with a knowing wink; then for the first time seemed to be aware of the presence of mathurin, who was looking at her with an air of mingled passion and grief. a look of pity and embarrassment, not altogether feigned, came into her face as she said: "you understand, mathurin, what i say to one i say to all in your house.... if it were not too fatiguing for you?... i was glad to see you at mass again this morning ... it shows that you are feeling better...." the cripple, only able to express himself clearly when he had time to think over his words, stammered out: "thank you, félicité ... you are very kind, félicité," and he uttered her name with a kind of adoration that seemed to touch two or three of the conscripts, stupefied as they were. "what was your regiment, mathurin?" asked the standard-bearer. "the third cuirassiers." "bugler, a _fanfare_ of the cuirassiers in honour of mathurin lumineau! forward, march!" the three girls, the bugler, the standard-bearer, and the five young men bringing up the rear, left the shade of the elms, and went on their way towards quatre-moulins, raising clouds of dust crossed by the slanting rays of the sun. the _fanfare_ shook the walls of the old farmhouse. when the last lace coif had disappeared among the furze-bushes and willows that bordered the road, mathurin said to his brother, who had taken up the paper again and was absently reading: "would you believe it, driot, this is the first time for six years that she has been here!" andré replied, too abruptly: "she did for you once, old man. better take care that she does not do it a second time." with muttered words of anger mathurin lumineau picked up his crutches, and moving away to a little distance, leant up against a tree. the two brothers spoke no more to each other; both were absently gazing out over the marshland, where the daylight was dying away. the sun was rapidly sinking in the lowland, only a red crescent broken by shadows remained of the fiery globe, against which some dark object in the horizon, a willow, or a group of rushes, stood out like a crown of thorns. it faded away; a fresh breeze rose on the hills; the sounds of the bugle and of voices were no longer heard. profound silence was over the country, here and there in the grey distance was the glimmer of a fire. peace had returned; sorrows, one by one, were ending in sleep or in prayer. old lumineau coming back from the town saw his two sons standing motionless among the trees wrapt in contemplation of the quiet scene, and not knowing their thoughts, said brightly: "a fine sight, our marais, eh, boys? now let us go in together; supper will be waiting." then as, in the darkness, andré came first, he added: "how glad i am to have you home again from the regiment, my driot!" chapter x. the uprooted vineyard. winter had come. la fromentière seemed peaceful and happy. anyone going over the fields and watching the men at work, would have had no fear for the future of the farmstead. the new farm-hand did not excite himself, as toussaint lumineau said, that is to say, he worked his fourteen hours a day regularly, without uttering fourteen words. as for andré, he was the joy and pride of his father, who, on his part, did not spare himself. good labourer, good sower, an early riser, careful of the animals and of everything else that came to his hand, the young man seemed to prove that he had found his vocation, and was determined to remain a farmer all his life. and yet at the bottom of his affectionate, restless heart, there was a growing sore. andré could not accustom himself to françois' absence. he missed the friend of his young life, the companion without whom la fromentière had never presented itself to his mind. the week after his return home, andré had gone to see françois and eléonore at la roche-sur-yon. he had found them settled in a house in the outskirts, already somewhat discontented: one inveighing against the hardness of his employers; the other that customers did not come; without any regrets, however, for what they had done, and quite decided as to the advantages of living in a town, and being their own masters. he had gone back without the least wish to follow their example--more severe even than before against the renegades from the old home life; but possessed of a fixed idea, he sought françois in everything. la fromentière that knew françois no longer was to him empty and void. it became a thing of which he could not shake himself free; a suffering of which he never spoke, but that everyone unwittingly renewed. the farmer, whose anger had abated, more particularly since he knew that the position of his two absent children at la roche was none too brilliant, began voluntarily to speak of françois as if to secretly encourage the others to remember him, and to do their best to bring him home again. it would be: "to-day we will sow la cailleterie, where françois ploughed the first two furrows," or, "let us have some chestnuts roasted in the embers to-night, rousille, françois used to like them." he thought to do well by so speaking, to re-unite, as it were, in some degree those whom misfortune had parted. and rousille did the same. still oftener did everyday objects speak of, and recall the absent one. now it was a fork he had been wont to use; a basket woven by him; the rope twisted round a rafter of the stables by a hand no longer there; or even a nook or corner of a road or field to which some memory clung; the stump of a tree; a furze-bush; in fact, the whole marais, where for years two boys of almost the same age, brothers inseparable, had driven the cows, jumped dykes, and gone birds'-nesting together. poor françois, lazy, spendthrift, pleasure-loving as he was in reality, legendary virtues were already gathering round him at la fromentière. his place in the diminished family was reserved to him with tender, affectionate regret, a regret that even magnified what had been his place there. andré, disheartened, and disappointed in the joy of home coming, had not the same love for the new la fromentière that he had had for the old one. it was all so changed! he had known it bright with the noise and bustle of a large, united family under the control of a man who, despite his years, was cheery and vigorous, and with more willing hands than were needed to get through the day's work--a home as passionately loved and defended as any nest from which the fledgelings have not yet flown. he found it unrecognisable. two had gone, leaving the house desolate, the old father inconsolable, the work too heavy for those left behind. rousille was wearing herself out. andré saw clearly that he alone would not suffice to keep la fromentière in a state of good cultivation, certainly not to improve it, as he had so often meditated through the hot, sleepless nights in africa, thinking of the elm-trees at home. for this two strong young pair of arms were needed, without counting the help of a farm-servant: françois should have been there with andré! he struggled against the discouragement that oppressed him, for he was a brave lad. every morning he went out into the fields with the determination to work so hard that there should be no room for thought; and he worked and ploughed, sowed seed or dug ditches, planted apple-trees with all zest and energy, not taking a moment's rest. but the recollection of françois followed him everywhere; in everything he saw the decline of the farmstead. working alone made the days long; longer still were they in the company of the new farm-hand, who went about his work stolidly, interested neither in the projects nor regrets of the farmer's son. in the evening when andré returned from work in whom should he confide, or who was there to comfort him? his mother was dead; his father had need of all his own hope and buoyancy of spirit that he might not break down himself; mathurin was so uncertain and so soured that pity might well go out to him, but not real brotherly love. there remained rousille, possibly. but rousille was seventeen when andré had left home, and he continued to treat her as a child, and told her nothing. besides she was scarcely ever to be seen, poor girl, always on the run and hurried. the house was dull, and the young man felt it the more that regimental life, hard enough in all conscience, was yet full of go and movement. weeks went by, and there was no break in the sadness. weary of being thus thrown upon himself, little by little andré suffered his thoughts to go out from the mournful surroundings amid which he, in vain, tried to recognise the home of his youth. like all peasants of the coast, he was one of those taciturn labourers who look over the sand-hills towards the sea, and who dream dreams when the wind blows. sad and dejected he fell back upon the fatal knowledge he had acquired in absence: that life was possible in other places than at la fromentière on the borders of the marais of la vendée. the temptation grew stronger. two months after having re-taken possession of the room that the two brothers had formerly shared together, one night, when the other inmates of the farm were sound asleep, andré began a letter to a comrade in the foreign legion, whom he had known in africa. "i find it too dull here. my brother and sister have left home. if you happen to know of any good investment in land in algiers, or elsewhere, let me know. i have not come to any decision, but i am thinking of going away. i am, as it were, alone here." and answers soon came. to the great astonishment of toussaint lumineau the postman began bringing pamphlets, papers, and prospectuses to la fromentière, over which andré did not make merry as did rousille and mathurin. laughingly his father, who had no suspicion of andré, said: "there has never been such a supply of paper at la fromentière, driot, as in the few weeks since you have been home. i don't grudge it you, reading is such a hobby of yours! as for me, i should be tired to death with all the printed stuff." only on sundays the old father suffered a little from his son's passion for reading and writing. on that day after vespers it was his habit to bring back some old friend, either le glorieux de la terre-aymont, or pipet de la pinçonnière to pay a visit of inspection round the farm fields. up hill and down dale they would go in single file, examining everything, expressing approval or disapproval by uplifted eye or shrug of the shoulder, exchanging an occasional word that had always the same object: the harvest, present or future, good or indifferent, threatened or gathered in. in this winter season it was the fields, the young wheat, and patches of lucerne that were under consideration; and toussaint lumineau, who had not succeeded in getting andré to accompany them, would confide to his neighbour of la terre-aymont, or la pinçonnière as they stopped where the slanting rays of the sun fell on the corner of a field: "my son andré is quite different from anyone i have ever known, and not a bit like we used to be. not that he despises the land, on the contrary, he loves it, and i have no fault to find with his work all the week. but since he came home from the regiment, his one idea on sunday is reading." rousille, too, was sometimes surprised. she had too much to do indoors to occupy herself with the work or amusements of the others. busy with housekeeping, and the thousand and one duties of the farmyard, she never saw andré save at meal-times, and in presence of the others. at those times, whether by an effort of will, or that youth obtained the mastery over depression, andré was usually in gay and careless spirits, bantering rousille and trying to make her laugh. but as a woman and one who had suffered, rousille had learned to discern the sorrows of others; and from many a little sign, eyes fixed on the upper window, words dropped that might bear some other meaning, her loving heart had divined that andré was not altogether happy; without knowing more, she felt sorry for him. but even she was far from guessing the crisis through which her brother was passing, or the project he was meditating. one solitary member of the family had penetrated the designs of andré, and that was mathurin. he had observed his brother's increasing sadness; the useless efforts he was making to regain his former equability of temper; his calm fortitude in daily labour. sometimes he would follow him into the fields, then watch for the arrival of the postman and take charge of the letters and papers addressed to andré. the smallest details remained engraven on his brooding memory; and one day, under the guise of indifference, with a skilfully put question his brooding took shape. he was aware that the greater number of the letters received by andré bore the stamp either of algiers or antwerp, and the latter place conveying nothing to mathurin, andré had explained: "it is a large port in belgium, larger than nantes that you once passed through." "how do you come to know anyone living so far from here and far from algiers?" "it's very simple," replied his brother. "my best friend in algiers is a belgian in the foreign legion, whose family live in antwerp. sometimes i hear from demolder, sometimes from his people, who write to give me the information i want." "news of old comrades, then?" "no, things that interest me in the matter of voyages, other countries.... one of the sons has settled across the sea, in america. he has a farm as large as this whole parish." "was he rich?" "no. he is now." mathurin did not further press the subject, but he continued to observe, to add indication on indication. if andré chanced to leave a pamphlet on emigration lying about, or an advertisement of land to be let or sold, taking it up mathurin would seek to discover the places over which his brother's brows had met in a frown, or where something like a smile, a wish, a desire had lighted up his eyes. by proof on proof he had arrived at the conviction that driot was thinking of leaving la fromentière. when? for what remote land where money was easily made? those were the problems. thus in the month of december, when opportunities for confidential chat are more frequent by reason of days of snow and rain and squall, when alone with andré in the stables or the house, he would say treacherously: "tell me about africa, driot. tell me some yarns of men who have made money out there. i like to hear such things." or at other times he would say: "la fromentière must seem small and insignificant to a fellow like you who read so much. it certainly is not as productive as it used to be." mathurin had settled coming events in his mind, while driot was still in doubt. so the year drew to a close, and the new year began. it was a wet winter, with hard frost at nights; every morning spiders' webs covered with frozen mist would wave in the breeze like white wings, the damp earth would steam in the mid-day sun, and the white wings turn grey. the main work of the fields was suspended; the owners of land on high ground felled trees, or re-made fences; those on the marais were perforce reduced to idleness; it was holiday-time with them; dykes and ditches were overflowing. the greater number of the farms surrounded by water, and, as it were, floating above it, were cut off from all communication with the neighbouring towns or each other save by boats steered over the inundated meadows. it was the time for dancing and shooting. the ground, however, was not too hard to work upon, and, following mathurin's advice, toussaint lumineau resolved to dig up his vineyard attacked by phylloxera. so one morning the farmer and andré made their way up to the little field lying well exposed to the south on the high ground which cuts the road between chalons and la fromentière. before them they saw nothing but seven rows of vine enclosed by furze hedges, stony ground, and the revolving sails of two wind-mills. "you begin on one row," said the farmer, "i will take the next," and pulling off their coats, despite the cold, for it meant hard work, they began on their task. coming up the hill they had talked cheerily to each other; but no sooner did they begin to dig than their spirits sank, and they grew silent, not wanting to impart the thoughts that the work of destruction engendered. if a root, perchance, made very tough resistance, the father once or twice attempted to joke, saying playfully: "it felt quite comfortable there, and did not want to be turned out," or something else to that effect. but he soon gave up the attempt. he could not succeed in banishing from his mind, nor from that of the son working beside him, sad thoughts of the time when the vine prospered, and yielded abundantly the white foaming wine they had drunk so merrily in the old happy days of fêtes and gatherings. the contrast of his former prosperity with present hard times fretted him; and as far as he could see, it weighed still more upon the spirits of his driot. thus, in silence, they plied their huge, old-fashioned pickaxes, made to be wielded by giants. the earth flew in showers; the trunks trembled; some few shrivelled leaves left upon the branches fell, and were blown about in the wind with a noise as of broken glass; now the stem was disclosed, vigorous but warped, covered with green moss, the effects of many a summer dew and rain, and tapering off to the size of a tendril. the marks of pruning made by successive vinedressers were not to be numbered; no one could tell the age of the vineyard. every year since he could remember anything, driot had pruned it, dressed it, gathered its grapes, drunk of its juice. and now it was dying. each time that he gave the final blow to a root he felt a pang; each time that, seizing a portion of the lifeless fibres he threw it on the heap of dead uprooted stems, he shrugged his shoulders with mingled sorrow and rage. dead those veins through which the red, joyous sap was wont to rise. dead the fertile branches once bending under the weight of bunches of grapes, until they rested a golden glory on the ground! never again would the flowerets, pale stars with drops of honey in each centre, attract the summer gnats, nor diffuse their mignonette-like perfume far over the fields, even to la fromentière. never again would the children of the farmstead push eager hands through the gaps in the hedge to clutch the bunches within reach! never again would the women carry away basketfuls at vintage time. for many a long day wine would be scarce at the farm, and would be no more of "our own growing." something belonging to the family, an hereditary and sacred possession seemed to perish with the vineyard, old and faithful servant of the lumineaus. father and son were both so intensely penetrated by the sense of their loss, that, as night descended, and the father raised his pickaxe for a final stroke, he could not help exclaiming: "it's a hateful work, driot, we have done to-day." all the same, there was a difference between the sadness of father and son. toussaint lumineau, as he rooted up the vines, was already thinking of the day when he would plant fresh ones, and in his silent musings had seen his successor gathering in the vintage and drinking the muscadet of the new vineyard. he possessed that love, strong and tried, which rises hopefully after every stroke of misfortune. with andré hope did not speak, because with him love had waxed feeble. the two men, their figures indistinct in the darkening day, turned to skirt the grassy edge of the vineyard, then descended the sloping fields that led towards the farm. with weary, stooping frame, shouldering their heavy implements, they looked across the marais to the crimson horizon, and at the clouds driven by the wind towards the setting sun. it was a melancholy evening; all around them were furze-bushes, ground uncultivated, hedges devastated, leafless trees, the gloom and chill of autumn. thus they had gone some two hundred yards before the son could make up his mind to speak, as though feeling that his reply would be too hard for the father, who lived on in the same old groove. "yes," he said, "the day of the vine is at an end in our land, but it flourishes elsewhere." "where, my driot?" in the half dark the son extended his disengaged hand above la fromentière, sunk below in the shadows; and the action extended so far, away over the marais and over la vendée, that through his stout woollen garments toussaint lumineau felt the keen blast of the wind. "what do other countries matter to us, my driot," said he, "seeing that we are living in our own?" did the son understand the anxious tenderness of the words? he answered: "because in ours it becomes more and more difficult to live." toussaint lumineau remembered words, almost similar, spoken by françois and was silent, trying to explain to himself how it was that andré, who was neither lazy nor a frequenter of town pleasures, could have fallen upon the very same way of thought. as the men, skirting the brown fields, came nearer home, la fromentière with its masses of trees rose like a dome of denser darkness, above which the winter night was lighting its first stars. the farmer never entered the beloved precincts of his home without emotion; to-night, more than ever, he experienced its sweetness, dear to him as any bridal promise. rousille, hearing their approaching footsteps, opened the door, and raised the lamp high in air, like a signal. "you are late to-night," she said. before they could make reply, the long-drawn sound of a horn was heard coming from the depths of the marais, beyond sallertaine. "it is the horn of la seulière," cried the voice of mathurin from within. the two men, followed by rousille, entered the warm room with its blazing hearth. mathurin resumed: "there's a dance at la seulière to-night. will you come, driot?" the cripple, half-rising, supporting himself by his arms against the table with a nervous movement, his eyes glaring with long-suppressed desire, was alike painful to see, and fear-inspiring, as one whose reason was tottering. "i am not much in the mood for dancing," returned andré carelessly, "but it may do me good to-night." silently the farmer pressed his hand on the shoulder of his afflicted eldest son, and the fevered eyes relaxed their stare, the body obeyed, and fell back upon the bench like a sack of wheat that expands as it touches the ground. the men ate their supper hurriedly; towards the end of the meal toussaint lumineau, whose mind had reverted to andré's words, wishing to take those of his children to witness whose hearts had never swerved in their loyal love to la fromentière, said: "would you believe, mathurin, what foolish stuff this driot was talking to-night? he declares that vines have had their day with us; that they flourish better elsewhere. but when one plants a vine, one expects it to die some day, does one not?" "many enough have died before ours," responded the cripple roughly. "we are not more unlucky than our neighbours." "that is just what i say," put in andré, and he raised his head. his eyes were lit by a spirit of contradiction, and his silky moustache quivered as he spoke. "it is not our vineyard alone that is played out, it is the soil; ours, our neighbours', that of the whole country, as far and further than you have ever been. one must have new land to produce good results." "new land?" returned his father. "i know none about here. it is all cultivated." "ah, but there is in many a country." he hesitated an instant, then enumerated hurriedly: "in america, the cape, australia, british possessions--everything flourishes in those countries. there the earth is prolific; while here----" "don't speak ill of it, driot; it is worth the very best!" "used up; too dear!" "too dear, yes, somewhat. but feed it well, and you will see!" "feed it then. you have nothing to buy the stuff with." "only come a good year, not too dry, not too wet, and we shall have money enough!" the farmer had drawn himself up, as if under a personal insult, and now awaited driot's answer. he, carried away by passion, rose. everyone looked at him, even the farm-servant, who, with chin sunk in his horny hand, was trying to understand the situation. and there was something in the fluency of words, ease of gesture that made all vaguely feel that andré was no longer like one of themselves. "yes," said the youth, proud of an audience, "there might still be some work to be done here, in the old country; but we are taught nothing of such things in our schools; that would be too practical. then taxes are too heavy, and rents too high; and all the time that we are leading a miserable existence, they out yonder are having magnificent harvests. that i hear every day. our vineyards are ruined, and they have wine. wheat grows without their having to dress the land, and they export it to us in shiploads as full as, from what you say, the granaries of the old château used to be----" "cock and bull stories! you have read them in books." "some of them; but i have seen ships in port, and sacks of wheat being unloaded like the water of a dyke overflowing its banks. if you were to read the papers, you would know that everything now comes to us from abroad far cheaper than we can produce it ourselves: corn, oats, horses, oxen; and that we have competing with us americans, australians, and soon we shall have japanese, chinese----" he was intoxicated with words; he was but the echo of the few pamphlets he had read, or of what he had heard from others. la fromentière heard him with stupor. china, japan, america, the names circled round the room like some unknown variety of bird, brought by the tempest from far-off regions. the farmhouse walls had heard many uncouth peasant sounds, but never had they resounded under the shock of these foreign words. astonishment was marked upon the faces that, in the light of the lamp, were turned upon driot, who continued: "i have learnt things, i can assure you! i learn more every day. and, look you, when one comes home as i have done to-night, from rooting up a vineyard, it makes one savage to think that there are parts of america, and i could give you the names, where one can settle without opening one's purse----" "you be off!" quoth the ploughman. "yes! government gives the agriculturist his passage free; keeps him when he first lands; and gives him a ranch of seventy-four acres of land." this time the farmer shook his head, scandalised at the enormity of his son's statement, and said in a tone of disapprobation: "you are telling up a parcel of lies, my boy. seventy-four acres, that makes two hundred and ninety-six roods. i am not much of a reader, it is true, but i do not let myself be crammed with all the stuff you believe in like the gospel. two hundred and ninety-six roods. governments would soon be ruined if they made a present like that to everyone who wanted it.... hold your tongue.... it vexes me to hear our native land talked ill of. since you want to cultivate it with me, driot, do as we do, and don't talk ill of it.... it has always supported us." there ensued an embarrassed silence, of which the farm-servant took advantage to get up, and betake himself to bed. the call from la seulière sounded out again in the still night. mathurin said no word, but looked at his brother; he, ill at ease, excited by the recent discussion, understood the mute question, and answered promptly, in a manner that should show that he was free to do as he chose: "very well. yes, i am going." "i will go with you as far as the boat," responded the cripple. toussaint lumineau foresaw danger. "it is bad enough that your brother should be going to la seulière," said he. "but for you, my poor boy, on no account would it do to go to their dance. it is cold out of doors. do not go further than the duck meadow, and come back quickly." he followed with his eyes the cripple, who, in great haste, with the unnatural energy given him by emotion, raised himself on his crutches, hobbled the length of the table, down the steps, and following andré, was lost in the night. his sons had gone; an icy wind blew in at the wide open door. alas! how difficult it had become to govern the household! sitting on the bench, his head on his arm, looking out into the dark farmyard, the old man pondered the things he had heard that night, and his powerlessness, despite his great love and long experience, to make himself obeyed, now that interest was lessening in the work of the old farmstead. but it was not long before he called to his daughter, busy at her work of washing up; the least word was such a relief in the empty rooms! "rousille!" the girl opened the connecting door, and came, drying the plate in her hands without looking at him. "i am afraid that mathurin may go back to see her----" "oh, father, he would not do that. besides, he cannot have his shoes, and he dare not appear at la seulière" ... stooping, she searched under mathurin's bed, then in the chest, then said as she rose: "yes. he has taken them ... he must have put them on beforehand ... the first sound of the horn came at six o'clock." the old father began pacing the room with great strides, stopping uneasily from minute to minute to listen for the sound of crutches on the gravel that should announce mathurin's return. chapter xi. the dance at la seuliÈre. toussaint lumineau's uneasiness was well founded. his two sons had gone down to the meadow, where the dyke, widening, served as a drinking place for the animals on the farm, and as a harbour for the two punts belonging to it. there andré had offered no resistance when mathurin had said: "take me. i want to see félicité." venturesome, imprudent in things concerning himself, soldier of but yesterday, still impregnated with barrack maxims, he had merely said: "there's not a shadow of sense in it; but if it amuses you!" and he had chosen the best of the boats, and helped the cripple to stretch himself in the prow; then, standing on the raised part in the stern, and taking up the pole, had begun to punt, now pressing the iron point into the bed of the dyke, now into the bank on either side. soon they were far out in the middle of the marais, the night intensely cold with no moon. clouds were chasing each other towards the sea; and yet it was not one unbroken darkness; up above in the grey firmament were lighter trails, clear patches constantly broken and effaced by shifting clouds reflected in their passage on the surface of the waters, not only of the dykes, but of the submerged meadows which had been changed into a series of lakes by winter rains, and above which the sloping embankments were scarcely perceptible. every light was multiplied. the darkness had eddies of light, which enabled andré to keep a right course. the punt followed the canals, cut at right angles; progress was slow, impeded by ice needles, that formed by the cold clustered on the sedges of the bank. did the wind not rise, the whole marais would be one sheet of ice before morning; andré knew this, and tried to reach la seulière as quickly as possible. he began to realise the imprudence he had committed in taking mathurin with him on such a night and so far. the cripple neither moved nor spoke, anxious not to attract his brother's attention to himself, lest he should straightway turn back. but when he saw that they were more than two thousand yards from la fromentière, sure of reaching their destination, he broke the silence. lying on his back, his face hidden by the side of the boat, he asked: "driot, when you were speaking to-night of land being given to agricultural emigrants, you were not joking?" "of course not." "have they proposed to give you some?" noiselessly, he had raised his head, and was watching with eyes and ears for andré's answer. no reply came. in the vast extent of inundated meadows there was heard no sound but the swish of the water parted by the punt and washing up as the tide rose against the hard mud of the shore with little sharp gurgles. mathurin resumed: "you miss françois, do you not? the house seems different to you with only me there?" the young man standing so erect in the stern, his profile scarcely defined in the darkness, stooped precipitately: "look out!" he cried, "lie back, mathurin!" perfect darkness was around them; they were passing under one of the single-arched stone bridges that intersect the marais here and there. when they had passed through mathurin noticed that the boat was going more slowly, as though the propeller were absorbed in thought. encouraged by this, resolved to be put in possession of the secret that concerned the future of la fromentière, the cripple resumed persuasively: "we are quite by ourselves here, andré; why not tell me all you are pondering? you would like to cultivate newer soil than ours; you, too, want to go away, but further than françois, and for another purpose?" then the younger brother ceased to punt. he still stood erect on the raised stern of the boat, and suffered the pole to float aimlessly behind him. "as you have discovered it, mathurin," he said, "keep my secret. it is true that proposals have been made to me.... with my two thousand francs i might have, on the other side of the atlantic, a whole farm of my own and a brood of horses.... some friends of mine are looking into the matter for me ... but i have not made up my mind. i have not yet consented." "you are afraid of father?" "i am afraid of leaving him in difficulties. if i were to go, who would carry on la fromentière? there is certainly rousille, she might marry." "not that _boquin_ fellow! that would not do for us at all! but my father has said no; and he is not the man to go back on his word." "then i do not see who is to carry on the farm?" in a hard, imperious voice, which betrayed the intensity of his feelings, the cripple cried: "then i count for nothing?" "my poor mathurin...." "i am better, i shall recover," continued mathurin, in the same tone. "when it comes to be my turn to rule, no one but myself will manage la fromentière, do you understand?" not to exasperate him, andré replied: "your recovery would be a happy thing for us all, old man. i, for one, heartily wish it may come about." but the cripple's wrath was not to be appeased so easily nor so quickly. rising from his recumbent position with an effort which threatened to capsize the punt, he dragged himself on hands and knees to the stern, where shouting, "give me your place, boy, you shall see me punt," he struggled for possession of the pole; and seating himself in the stern, began propelling the boat with astonishing force and steadiness, keeping it clear of the banks, and with a rapidity, despite ice splinters and sedges, which andré could not have accomplished. his huge frame took up the whole width of the boat; his powerful chest bent and raised itself with all the ease of robust health. as he went on arms and punt pole worked ever more vigorously; the banks flew by on either side. soon he turned off into a canal on the right for some hundred yards. now rays of light appeared on the surface of the water, rendering them more dazzling. they proceeded from the door of la seulière. the farm buildings rose up indistinctly from out the darkness; sounds of voices singing broke the stillness, mingled with the noise of footsteps on the paved court. with a couple of strokes, mathurin brought up the boat into line with some ten other punts lying side by side; and before andré had thought of going to his help, had rolled with his crutches on to the slope before the house where he got up unaided. "well punted, mathurin," cried his younger brother, jumping on shore. he, crimsoned, breathless, pleased as if with a victory won, looked round: "then don't worry yourself!" he said. "a man who can punt a boat as i do, is capable of managing a farm," and with a blow of his shoulder he shook the house door. a voice from within called out: "gently there! who wants to break the door in?" it was flung noisily open, revealing mathurin standing in the full glare of the lamplight. the appearance of a ghost could not have produced greater effect. the noise ceased abruptly, the girls, frightened, ran away or clustered in groups against the walls. in their astonishment, many of the lads took off their hats, which they had kept on while dancing; farmers' wives half rose from the chairs on which they were sitting. scarcely did they recognise the new-comer at such an hour and place. tired and crimsoned from his exertions, affected by the hot air of the room, but proud of the stupefaction he was causing, mathurin stood erect on his crutches, and, laughing in his tawny beard, called out in a stentorian voice: "how do you do, all of you!" then, addressing the group of girls who were retreating to the other end of the room: "who will dance a round with me, my beauties? why do you look at me like that? i am not a ghost. i have brought my brother, handsome driot, to dance _vis-à-vis_ with me." and they saw him approach, followed by the youngest son of la fromentière, tall and slim, his hand at his forehead in military salute. then the room resounded with merry laughter, questions, and greetings; the girls ran towards them as precipitately as they had before retreated; men's hands were extended on all sides. old gauvrit's loud voice drowned all others, as, already somewhat heated with wine, he called out from an inner room: "the handsomest girl to dance with mathurin! the handsomest! let her show herself!" it was not in obedience to her father that félicité gauvrit came forward. but, though for an instant disconcerted by this abrupt entry before all these men and women, she realised that she must put a bold face on it, and going up to mathurin lumineau, her black eyes looking into his, she threw her arms round his neck and embraced him. "i embrace him," she said, "because he has more courage than most of the lads in the parish. it was i who invited him!" stupefied, intoxicated by the memories awakened in him, mathurin once more shrank away. they saw him grow livid, and, turning on his crutches, force a path through the group of men on his left, with: "make way, make way, lads. i want to sit down!" he found a place in the second room, beside some of the elder men, old gauvrit among them; who rising, poured him out a bumper of the white wine of sallertaine, in token of welcome. still quite pale, mathurin lifted the glass with the customary formula, "i drink to you all with cordiality and love!" soon he appeared to be forgotten, and dancing was resumed. the farmstead where the gathering was held was a fairly modern building, the usual large house-place being divided into two rooms of unequal size. in the smaller of these the elder men, with the master of the house, were drinking and playing luette. in the larger, that by which the two lumineaus had entered, dancing was going on. the tables had been pushed along the walls beside the beds, the curtains of which had been spread over the counterpanes to save them from being torn. some half-dozen matrons, who had accompanied their daughters, had collected round the hearth before a fire of dried cow-dung, the fuel of that treeless district, each having on the mantel-piece her cup of coffee, with a dash of brandy in it, from which she took an occasional sip. petroleum lamps placed along the wall lighted the narrow space reserved for dancing. a smoky, heated, vinous atmosphere pervaded the house. the icy air from without drew in under the door, sometimes making the young maraîchines, despite their stout woollen gowns, shiver with cold. but no one minded. the room was filled with laughter, chatter, and movement. youths and maidens from isolated farmhouses, cut off from one another by periodical inundations, they were tired of solitude and repose. escaped from their tedium and restored for a brief space of social intercourse, they seemed possessed by feverish excitement. soon all the gay dancers would be dispersed again over the mute, trembling sheet of water. they knew it; and made the most of the short reprieve. so dancing recommenced. first the maraîchine, a dance for four, a kind of ancient _bourrée_, which the lookers-on accompanied by a rhythmic humming; then _rondes_ sung by a male or female voice, taken up by the others in chorus to the accompaniment of an accordeon played by a sickly, deformed boy of twelve; or there were modern dances, polkas and quadrilles, danced to one and the same tune, the time only made to vary. the girls, for the most part, danced well, some with a keen sense of rhythm and grace. round their waists the most dainty had knotted a white handkerchief, to preserve their dresses when, after each refrain, their partner seized his lady round the waist and jumped her as high as possible, to demonstrate the lightness of the maraîchines and the strength of the maraîchins. known to each other, these young people from the same parish, often neighbours, resumed the flirtations of the preceding winter; they made love; appointed meetings at chalons fair, or at some coming dance at another farm; new-comers were gladly welcomed. among these latter andré lumineau was the most sought after, the most cheery, most fertile at inventing nonsense and talking it. time passed. twice père gauvrit had gone through the two rooms, opened the house door, and said: "the moon is rising and will soon be visible; the wind is getting up and it freezes hard," then had gone back to resume his place at the card-table where the players awaited him. mathurin lumineau had taken a hand, but was playing absently, attending far less to his cards than to every movement, look, and word of félicité. already the artful beauty had several times contrived to bring her partner to a halt in the inner room, that she might exchange a few words with mathurin. she was radiant with pride; on the bold, regular features that towered above the greater number of tulle coifs could be read triumphant joy, that after six whole years, the mad love she had inspired still endured, and had brought back to her the young men of la fromentière. it was ten o'clock. a little maraîchine, her complexion russet as a thrush, started the first notes of a _ronde_: "when as a little child i played, light-hearted, never dull; down to the spring one day i strayed the cresses fresh to cull." twenty lads and as many girls took up the chorus: "the ducks, the ducks, the ducklings, oh! to the marais forth they go!" and the _ronde_ invaded both rooms. at the same time félicité gauvrit, who had refused to take her place in the chain of dancers, drew near the table where mathurin was sitting. he at once rose, throwing down his cards to the man sitting next him. "stay where you are, mathurin," she exclaimed. "do not trouble about me. i have come to watch the dancers." but she drew a chair into a corner of the room, assisted mathurin to it, and then sat down beside him. neither spoke. they were sitting in the half shade of a projecting piece of furniture; the cripple was not looking at félicité, nor she at him. side by side they sat in the shade of the cherry wood wardrobe, apparently engrossed in watching the dancers as they passed in and out of the room. but what they really saw was something very different; one saw the past love meetings, the plighted troth, the return that night in the waggon, the awful suffering stretching out through years, the desertion--now at this very moment--at an end. the other saw the possible, perhaps, near future; the farmstead of la fromentière where she would reign; the bench in church where she would sit; the greetings that would be hers from the proudest girls round about; and the husband she would have--andré lumineau--who was now dancing the _ronde_ with the little girl of fifteen, the singer of the couplets. mathurin began speaking in a low voice, words broken by long periods of silence; he was very pale and in fear that this brief happiness would too soon come to an end. grave and reserved, her hands crossed upon her apron, the daughter of la seulière spoke without haste words heard by none but themselves. many eyes were turned upon this strange pair of once betrothed lovers. the dance went on, the refrain echoed from the walls. the clear, laughing voice of the little maraîchine sang: "the spring was deep, alas, alas, therein i needs must fall. along the road just then did pass three barons valiant all. "'what will you give us, maiden fair, if to your help we press?' 'an' you do that,' i did declare, 'my gift you'll never guess.' "now when the little maid was freed and home again that day, straight to the window she did speed and sang a merry lay. "'not that we ask, oh, maiden fair, 'tis hard to treat us so, but tresses of your golden hair, or tokens ere we go.'" the dance grew faster and more furious. the big maraîchins seized their partners and sprang them so high that their muslin coifs touched the ceiling. the mothers drank a final cup of coffee. the card-players watched the _sarabande_ through the dusty atmosphere by the uneven light of the smoking lamps. mathurin and félicité, sitting closer together, still talked on. but the daughter of la seulière had suffered one of her hands to be taken between those of the cripple, and it was the huge hairy hands that trembled, and the little white hand that seemed not to understand, or to be unwilling to respond. the _ronde_ came to an end: "'ah, tokens give i none,' said she, 'to barons gay like you, for chosen i am proud to be by pierre, who serves us true.'" for the first time félicité, looking at mathurin said confidentially, with a laugh: "that song is rousille's story." "do you know what she wanted?" returned mathurin hotly, "to marry our farm-servant; to become mistress of la fromentière! but i was on the watch. i had that fellow jean nesmy turned out, and i swear to you it will be long before he dare show his face there again. and now...." here he lowered his voice and bent forward until the tawny hair touched the outer rim of the muslin coif, which did not draw back--"and now, if you will still have me, félicité, it is you who shall be the mistress of la fromentière." she had not time to answer. she had risen, the last refrain of the _ronde_ had ended in a murmur of surprise. a man, whose white head towered above those of the assembled guests, had abruptly entered and advanced into the middle of the first room, without removing the hat he wore on his entrance, or making any salutation. his clothes were coated with ice; on his left arm he carried an old brown cloak that swept the ground as he walked. severe of countenance, with eyes half closed from coming suddenly into the glare of light, he was evidently seeking someone. all made way for the farmer of la fromentière, "are my lads here?" he asked. "yes, of course," returned a voice behind him. "here i am, father." "that's right, driot," said the old man without looking back, "i am not afraid for you, though this is not the place for my sons. but it is freezing so hard that it seems likely that the whole marais will be frozen before sunrise; and it may be the death of mathurin, crippled as he is. why did you bring him?" in the general silence the farmer's eyes swept the larger room; a movement of some of those present showed him mathurin sitting in the inner one; and the father saw his crippled son, and beside him the girl who had been the cause of so much suffering and sorrow. "that girl!" he muttered, "lying in wait for him again!" with imperious gesture he forced a passage through the dancers, shouldering them to right and left. "gauvrit," he exclaimed, nodding to the host, who had risen and was staggering towards him, "gauvrit, i have no wish to offend you; but i must take away my lads. the marais is a deathtrap in weather such as this." "i couldn't prevent your sons coming," stammered gauvrit. "i assure you, toussaint lumineau...." without heeding him, the farmer raised his voice: "out of this, mathurin!" said he. "take the wrap i have brought you," and he threw the shabby old cloak over the cripple's shoulders, who rising, meek as a child, followed his father without a word. the guests looked on, some mockingly, others with emotion, at the sight of the fine old man who had come that bitter night across the marais to rescue his son from the wiles of la seulière. some of the girls said to each other, "he had not a word for félicité." others, "how handsome he must have been as a young man." and one voice murmured, and it was that of the young girl who had sung the _ronde_, "andré is the image of his father." toussaint lumineau and his sons heard nothing of this. the door of la seulière had shut behind them, and they were out in the darkness and the icy wind. the clouds were very high; as they scudded along in huge irregular bodies they formed a succession of black patches, their edges silvered by the moon. the cold was so intense it seemed to pierce through the stoutest clothing, and chill to the very marrow of the bones. it was indeed death to any but the strongest. the farmer, who knew the danger, hurriedly untied the two punts, and getting into the first motioned mathurin to lie down in the bottom of the boat, then pushed out into the middle of the canal. again the cripple obeyed, curling himself up on the boards; wrapped in his brown cloak, motionless, he looked like a mass of sea-wrack. but, unnoticed by the others, he had lain down with his face turned towards la seulière, and raising his cloak with one finger, was looking back towards the farm. as long as distance and the canal banks allowed him to distinguish the light proceeding from the chinks of the door, he remained with eyes fixed upon the paling ray that recalled to him a new hope. then the cloak fell back into its place, covering the radiant, tearful face of the crippled man. andré followed in the second punt. by the same dykes, past the same meadows they returned, struggling against the strong gusts of wind that blew. the storm that had burst had prevented the sheet of ice from covering the water. the farmer, unaccustomed to punting, did not make rapid progress. from time to time he would ask: "you are not too cold, mathurin?" then in a louder voice: "are you following, andré?" and in their wake a cheery voice would reply: "i am all right." the strain was tremendous, but with it was mingled the joy of taking back his two sons. although there was no apparent reason, and he had not thought of her for weeks, the farmer's thoughts flew to his dead wife: "she would be pleased with me," he mused, "for taking mathurin away from la seulière." and at times in the turn of a canal he would seem to see a pair of blue eyes like those of his old wife smiling upon him, which gradually sank until they rested among the reeds under the punt. and he would dry his eyelids with his sleeve, shake himself free from the overmastering drowsiness, and say again to his youngest son: "are you following?" the younger son was not dreaming. he was thinking over what he had seen and heard: mathurin's senseless infatuation, his violence, which, when their father should be no more, would make life very difficult to the head at la fromentière. the events of that evening had increased the temptation of pastures new to this disturbed mind. in course of time both punts had reached the duck meadow. chapter xii. rousille's love dream. sunday afternoon had become rousille's hour for solitude. she could only go to vespers when the farm-servant was left in charge of the house; and he had stipulated that he should go once a fortnight to saint jean-de-mont to his sister, a deaf-mute. mathurin, who formerly had not left la fromentière, now never missed attending high mass at sallertaine, where he met félicité gauvrit, greeted her for the most part without speaking, in order not to vex his father, watched her as she moved about the place, then sat down at one of the inn tables to luette. as for andré, he seemed just now to like to be away from la fromentière as much as possible, and on sundays would be off as early as he could to the villages on the sea coast, where he sought out old sailors and travellers who could tell him of the countries where fortunes were to be made. rousille knew nothing of the attraction that led her brother so far afield. one day she affectionately reproached him with leaving her so much alone. at first he had laughed, then suddenly had grown serious and said: "don't reproach me with leaving you so much alone, rousille. perhaps you will reap the benefit of my tramps one of these days; i am acting in your interests." thus on the fourth sunday in january la fromentière was in charge of rousille. but rousille did not find time hang heavy on her hands; she had taken refuge in the threshing-floor at the back of the farm, and was sitting at the foot of a great heap of straw, her face turned towards the marais, visible through a break in the hedge. she would have been frozen in the north wind that was blowing, had not the straw all about her kept in the warmth like a nest. leaning her head back against it, she had buried her elbows in the soft depths of some loose straw that had been forked out from the compact mass and not yet taken away. the air was so clear that she could see away to the clock tower of perrier, to the most remote farmsteads of the marais, and even to the ruddy streaks, but rarely visible, of the pine-grown downs that bordered the sea more than three leagues distant. she was looking before her, but her mind was travelling beyond her father's meadows, beyond the great marais, beyond the horizon--for jean nesmy had written to her. rousille had the letter in her pocket--was feeling it with the tips of her fingers. since morning she had known it by heart, had said it over to herself many a time, that letter of jean nesmy; the smile it called forth did not leave her lips, save to light up her eyes. all care was driven away, forgotten. little rousille was still loved by someone; the letter testified to it. it said: "le château, parish des châtelliers, "january th. "my dear friend, "we are all in good health, and i hope it is the same with you, though one is never sure when so far away. i have hired myself as labourer in a farm on the back of a hill as you leave the moor of nouzillac, about which i have told you. in fine weather one can see six clock towers round about, and i think that but for the mount of saint michel one might see the trees of the marais where you are. despite that, i see you always before my eyes. on saturdays i generally go home to la mère nesmy, and so does my brother next in age to myself, who also has hired himself to one of the farmers of la flocellière. we talk of you at mother's, and i often say that i am not as happy as i was before i knew you, or as i should be if they all at home knew you. at any rate, they know your name! my sister noémi and the little ones, when they come along the road to meet me on saturday evenings, always call out to make me laugh: 'any news of rousille?' but mother nesmy will not believe that you care for me, because we are too poor. if only she saw you, she would understand that it is for life. and i spend my time on sundays telling her all about la fromentière. "rousille, it is now four months since i have seen you, according to your desire. it was only at the fair at pouzanges that, through a man from the marais who came to buy wood, i heard that your brother andré had come home, and that he was working on the land as the master of la fromentière likes those about him to work; so it will not be very long before i come back to see you. some evening i shall come, when the men are still out in the fields, and you, perhaps, are thinking of me as you boil the soup in the big room. i shall come round by the barn, and when you hear or see me, open the window, rousille, and tell me with one of your little smiles, tell me that you still care for me. then la mère nesmy will make the journey in the proper manner, and will ask your hand from your father, and if he says, yes, by my baptism! i swear to you that i will bring you home to be my wife. you are my one thought and desire; there is no one but you that i cherish in my heart of hearts. take care of yourself. i greet you with my whole heart. "jean nesmy." one by one, like the beads of a rosary being told, and that pass between the fingers of the devotee, the sentences of the letter passed through the mind of marie-rose, and her eyes gazing intently on the landscape, saw only the image of jean nesmy. the young girl saw him in his coat with the horn buttons, his high cheek-bones, his eager eyes that only laughed for her and for good work done, when at the close of day, his scythe slung on to his bare arm, he scanned the corn he had cut, and the sheaves he had tied standing upright in the stubble. "father no longer talks against him," thought she. "he even defended him once to mathurin. as for me, he has never found me complain, nor refuse to do the work i had to do, and i think he is pleased with me for having done my best. if andré were to settle down now, and to bring a wife to la fromentière, perhaps father would not refuse to let me marry. and i begin to think that master andré has his reasons for absenting himself on sundays, and going off to saint jean, perrier, and saint gervais, as he does...." she smiled. her eyes had taken the colour of the fresh straw that surrounded her. far away, on the road to the meadows, she saw a fine strapping youth walking with swaying movement, carrying over one shoulder a pole to jump the dykes with. "driot," she murmured. "i will tease him about his sunday walks." soon she saw andré come up the hill, skirt the dwarf orchard, then pass between the leafless hedges in the road. when he was at a little distance, she coughed to attract his attention. he looked up. his face which had worn an anxious expression cleared; instead of continuing his way to the courtyard of la fromentière, he jumped over into a small field that ran beside it, passed the row of hives where the bees were sleeping their winter sleep, and stopped beside rousille in the threshing-floor, leaning on his pole. as he did so, he endeavoured to assume the half-bantering, half-protecting air he usually adopted towards his sister, thinking himself obliged to laugh with her as with a child. "i was looking for you," he said. "oh, you were looking for me very badly then. your head was bent down. i believe you were thinking of someone else than me." "indeed!" "yes. where do you come from with your pole, you roamer? not from vespers?" "no, from saint jean. the water is grand, and jolly cold. on the other side of le perrier there are inundations on both sides of the road." "you have been calling at the farms, i suppose. did you stop at la seulière?" "you do not know me one bit; do you think i should go against...." he was about to say "against the intrigues of mathurin, who has returned to his former infatuation," but he stopped short. so happy herself that she did not notice his reticence, she resumed: "to the levrelles? no? then to the mill of moque-souris, where there is that pretty little marie dieu-donnée, the prettiest miller's daughter between here and beauvoir?" "still wrong." trying to be grave, but without succeeding in hiding the joy that pervaded her whole soul, she resumed: "you see, i want you so much to marry, andré. and such a dear boy as you are, i think it would be easy. indeed, you have no idea how greatly i wish it!" andré's face grew careworn again as before, and he said: "on the contrary i know very well...." "no. you always think of me as a child. but i am twenty, driot. i know when others are unhappy. you, for instance, are grieving over our françois; you miss him even more than father does. if you were to marry, you would forget your sorrow a little. settled down at la fromentière, married to a girl you love, your thoughts would no longer be brooding over the past as now." "and above all," put in andré, "there would be a housekeeper here, and little rousille could marry her faithful swain." pressing herself back against the rick with a girlish movement of shoulders, head, and arms, rousille raised herself and knelt forward the better to reach her pocket. bending over the aperture hidden amongst the innumerable folds of her dress, she extracted the letter and gently held up the square of paper to her brother, raising it to the level of her head and following it with her eyes as she did so. "i would show it to no one but you, andré ... read my letter ... i want to prove that i have confidence in you. and then you will understand how light it makes one's heart to receive such a dear letter, so light that one feels like air. it will make you want to receive such an one yourself." andré took the letter without showing the slightest impatience, and without a word of thanks. but as he read, he grew moved, not with jealousy of such love, but with pity for the girl, who was dreaming her dream of happiness between two misfortunes. for he had definitely decided to leave the farmstead and la vendée. some tidings, in a measure foreseen, dreaded for some time past, very serious for la fromentière, had caused him to come to a decision that very afternoon. he had returned home, sorrow stricken, weighing all the pain he was about to cause; and now coming upon this joy, this hope of rousille's, those eyes that persisted in smiling at life, that flower of the ruined farmstead, the feeling came over him that he must spare the child, at least, that one evening, and not tell her at once all he knew. having read the letter he slowly folded it, and gave it back to rousille, who, impatient for an appreciative comment, her whole soul in her eyes, her lips breaking into a smile, asked: "do you think that father would consent, if you were to marry, and if you spoke for my jean?" "would you go to live in the bocage, rousille?" "i should have to on account of mathurin, who would never suffer us near him." she was surprised at the manner in which andré looked at her, so gravely and so tenderly. taking her hand in both of his, her hand which still held the letter, he said: "no, little rousille, i will not speak for you. but i will shortly do something else, of which i cannot tell you now, and which will avail you. the day i do it, your marriage will be assured, unless father breaks up everything.... and it will not be at the bocage that you will make your home, but at la fromentière, in our mother's place--the dear mother with whom we were so happy in the days of our childhood. put your faith in what i say, and do not worry about mathurin." letting go her hand, which fell to her side, he added: "i have an idea that you, at least, will be happy, rousille." she opened her lips to speak; he made her a sign that he would say no more. all the same rousille asked hurriedly, seeing him move away: "one thing only, andré, tell me only one thing. promise me that you will always till the ground, for father would be so grieved...." and he answered: "i promise you, i will." rousille watched him as he went round the corner, and on into the courtyard. what was the matter with him? what meant those mysterious words? why had he spoken the last so sadly? for a moment she wondered; but the trouble was evanescent. scarce had solitude returned about her, than rousille heard again the words of her love-letter singing their soft refrain to her. they came into her heart, one by one, like transparent waves, each opening out in its turn and covering the shore. "it cannot be a very important secret," thought she, "since driot will continue to till the ground, that will make father happy, and i shall be happy too." she recalled the smile that had passed over her brother's face, and thought: "it is nothing," and peace, entire, unquestioning, returned to her. in the twilight of that winter afternoon on the borders of the marais of sallertaine, for one short hour there was a girl who smiled at life, and deemed that bad times were past and gone. she was still smiling, still sheltered in her retreat amid the straw, when andré accosted his father, coming in from the sunday tour of inspection, with: "everything is certainly going to the bad, father." the farmer, his head full of the promise of hay and wheat harvests he had just been examining, answered contentedly: "no, everything is coming up well. the spring crop of oats is promising; what is going to the bad?" "i heard at saint jean-de-mont that there is to be a sale of the furniture at the château, father!" for a moment toussaint lumineau could not take it in. "yes, all the furniture," repeated andré. "it is advertised in the papers. see, if you don't believe me, here's the list. everything is to be sold." he drew a paper from his pocket, and pointed with his finger to an advertisement, from which the old farmer laboriously read: "on sunday, february th, maître oulry, notary at chalons, will proceed to sell the furniture of the château de la fromentière. there will be sold: the entire drawing-room and dining-room furniture, old tapestries, oak chests, pictures, beds, tables, china and glass, wines, guns, contents of the library, wardrobes, etc." "well?" exclaimed andré. "oh," returned his father, "who would have foretold this eight years ago? have they become poor, then, in paris?" he fell into silence, not willing to judge his master too hardly. "it is ruin," said andré. "after the furniture, they will be for selling the land, and us with it!" the head of la fromentière, the successor of so many farmers under the same masters, was standing in the middle of the room; he raised his weary eyes until they rested upon the little copper crucifix hanging at the head of his bed, then let them fall again in sign of acceptance. "it will be a great misfortune," he said, "but it will not hinder our working!" and he went out, perhaps to shed tears. chapter xiii. the auction. in the ensuing week the coming sale at the château was the frequent subject of discussion among the men of la fromentière. andré openly attacked the masters. "they are ruined," he said. "all the nobles go the same road, because they do nothing. so much the worse for them!" "so much the worse for the farmers," replied his father; "they do not often gain much by changing masters." toussaint lumineau was painfully hit by the coming event, not only in his sincere and lifelong affection for the master's family, but in his honest pride as a peasant. it was a humiliation to hear people talk of the downfall of the family to whom the lumineaus were allied by traditions of generations; he took his share of the blame, his share of the disgrace; he felt he had lost stability, that in future he must be exposed to chances and changes, like so many another; and even found himself envying those whose farms belonged to wealthy proprietors, clear of mortgage. "no," he resumed, "you do wrong to speak as you do, driot. our masters may have their reasons for this, of which we know nothing. perhaps m. le marquis is about to marry his daughter, and is in want of ready money. rich and poor alike find it an expensive business to settle their children." "if that is their only means to obtain money, they must be at a pretty low ebb!" rejoined andré. "to think that even family portraits are to be sold. i remember seeing them one day when i went with you to pay the rent." "bah! perhaps they were not good likenesses. besides, the marquis probably has others. how are people in our station in life to know all that families like theirs possess?" "and personal clothing? is that usually sold? it is not very creditable in them to let everything go in a public sale, as if they were bankrupts." "i tell you what, andré, i do not believe that half the things will be sold that are down in the catalogue; it is merely to draw people." but all the same, in his heart of hearts, the farmer well knew how poor were the reasons which respect for the family led him to urge. rising from the table, under pretext of having work to do, he shortened the meal. andré's aggressiveness did not lessen, indeed his irritation seemed to increase as the day fixed for the sale approached. the poor lad needed to anger himself against something or somebody to gain courage. february th was the date on which he had secretly planned to leave la fromentière, four days before the departure of an emigrant ship that he was to join at antwerp. his anger was inspired not by temper, but by the ever-increasing grief within him. he forced himself to speak ill of la fromentière because he still loved it, and was about to desert it. thus sunday, the th of february, arrived. on that day the silence that had reigned over la fromentière vanished, but to give place to what noises--what clatter! visitors were again seen within its walls, but what visitors! people had come from afar, curiosity dealers from nantes, from la rochelle, even from paris. before eight in the morning they had gathered in groups beside the two flights of steps leading to the portico. men, short, stout, red-faced; some with auburn beards, others with bird-like noses, talking together in subdued voices, sitting on chairs--to be sold--that had been ranged in rows on the broad carriage drive, laid with the red gravel that used to crunch so pleasantly beneath the roll of carriage wheels. on the topmost of the entrance steps, now converted into an auctioneer's rostrum, were the notary, maître oulry, his eyes displaying discreet satisfaction behind his spectacles, the public crier, indifferent as any stone-breaker to the relics of which he was about to announce the dispersion, and the furniture removers standing in their shirt-sleeves despite the intense cold. the two flights of stone steps, stained with mud even to half way up the balustrades, testified to the crowds admitted on the previous two days to see the interior of the château. some had gone from curiosity, taking advantage of their first opportunity to go over a seigniorial dwelling; but all within was in disorder, faded, covered with dust. the battens, which for years had secured the windows of the rooms on the ground-floor, had been unnailed on one side, and hung down beside the open _persiennes_. in the dining-hall, and the two drawing-rooms _en suite_, had been piled the greater part of the bedroom furniture, cooking utensils, and crockery. pictures, turned with their faces to the wall, formed a dado in front of couches and easy-chairs; there were four clocks on one mantel-piece, candelabras standing in fireplaces, fire-dogs on occasional tables, book shelves on the billiard table, baskets of choice wine standing in the boudoir of the dowager marquise, hung with its dainty cherry-coloured satin; silk draperies trailing on a kitchen table. broken bell-ropes and strips of torn paper hung from the walls. everywhere was disorder and desolation as complete as is produced by death in the human frame. pushing their way through the narrow passages left by all these piles of costly objects were to be seen coarse men accustomed to the handling of rags and rubbish, discharged servants, dealers in old clothes, coffee-house keepers covetously fingering carved oak chests, scratching the gold off picture frames to see how deep it was laid; opening cupboards and drawers, and bursting into rude loud laughter if, perchance, they lighted upon some private token, such as photographs, letters, missals, rosaries, relics of departed souls thus exposed to, and profaned by vulgar eyes. on the upper floors boys in their sabots had perched themselves on the window-sills with legs hanging out, or were trying the mattresses still left on their wooden bedsteads. gradually as the late february day dispersed the fog, and it was drifted by the wind in heavy masses over the woods, vehicles of all descriptions--cabriolets, victorias, tilburys, closed carriages formerly graced with armorial bearings, now let out on hire, mixed with some few well-appointed turn-outs--drove into the park. these were unharnessed, the carriages standing upon the lawns, some of the horses tied to the trees with nosebags of hay; while others, their feet clogged, were left to graze where they would. a row of carts stood on the border of a neighbouring copse, their shafts raised diagonally. all round the château was like a fair; the stables and coach-houses had been appropriated; plough horses were to be seen in the loose boxes; coachmen and stable-boys from inns, in their straw hats, gazed admiringly at the vast proportions of the stables and dependencies, or stood hypnotized before the copper appointments of the stalls, the nickel locks, the iron bars separating one from the other. "it was a fine place after all," they said to themselves. the sight of all the careful appointments seemed to give them a vague insight into the ancient splendours of the domain, while at the same time it came across them with stupefying force: how could a man have lost such a fortune? how could there be ruin, with a rental of hundreds of thousands of pounds? and, as a natural consequence, they gave the family credit for vices which had but a very small share in the disaster, for, spitting on the cemented floors, they exclaimed: "a pleasure-loving set!" in front of the entrance the crowd increased rapidly, some impelled by the desire to buy, others by curiosity. three hundred people, seated on chairs and benches, formed a compact, immovable, semicircular mass; outside them was perpetual movement of coming and going. dealers in antiquities, sellers of old clothes, occupied the first row; after them came a number of shopkeepers, former purveyors to the marquis, householders of chalons with their wives, country dames dressed up as if for easter day, with bright eyes and loud voices, wearing little bunches of spring flowers in their bodices which they themselves had cut from the hot-houses of la fromentière, given up this day to pillage. they commented derisively to each other on the ill-kept state of the apartments in the château, the dirty windows, the grass-grown avenues, the bogs in the cross roads of the park. "we keep things very differently," said they. "thank goodness, we know better what is fitting than your ruined marquises do!" and with an air of "knowing all about it," they called up memories of bygone fêtes. behind them, again, were to be seen peasants of saint gervais, of soullans, of saint urbian, but men only. very few had come from the parish itself. the auction was not for them; what should take them there? to many who had known the family, it had seemed as if it would have been an insult to assist at the humiliating spectacle. at the most some ten of the old inhabitants of sallertaine were there, and they not the most important, keeping well at the back, not daring to sit down. shamefaced, as though the lord of the château were there before them and sorrowful, they had followed the crowd, having nothing else to do in their sunday leisure, and now exchanged recollections of kind words spoken by "monsieur henri," of greetings and girlish smiles given by mademoiselle ambroisine. alas! after all the money so lavishly spent, so many a kindly action, so much cordiality and urbanity shown for centuries past by successive marquises of la fromentière--after eight years there only remained that slight expression of regret to be seen in the sad faces of a handful of farmers. still fewer in number were the neighbouring gentry. hidden among the throng was the baron de la houvelle, whose mania for collecting led him to forget what was due to his rank; the comte de bouart, coarse and red-faced, attracted by the wine cellar, and young d'escaron, whose object was to secure a breeding mare. but the notary had many commissions to buy; for earlier in the week, before the day on which the château had been on view to the invasion of plebeians, châtelaines, young and old, friends of the family, had driven over and, shown round by the game-keeper, might have been seen in private apartments and reception rooms, examining old tapestries and household linen with many an exclamation and regret. only one member of the lumineau family was present at the auction, and that was mathurin, to whom every event, even of a painful character, was a grateful change to his sufferings and weariness. when he had announced "i shall go," his father had said: "i could not; it would irritate me too much. go if you like; and when they come to selling personal things, send me word, mathurin, for i want some little thing as a remembrance of m. le marquis." at some distance from the circle of buyers, to the left of the entrance, mathurin lumineau had found a seat under a group of trees. wrapped in his brown cloak, more taciturn and brooding than ever, he had gradually pushed back his chair until he was almost hidden between the branches of two fir-trees, thence, as if lying in ambush, he listened to all that was going on, and his blue eyes, ever and anon lit up with sudden anger, scanned the front of the château, now the buyers, now the passers-by. at half-past eight the auction began. the auctioneer, a small bloodless man, endowed with a strong voice, announced from the top of the entrance steps to the crowd assembled, to brute nature, to the forests left for the past eight years to solitude and silence: "the reception-room furniture of m. le marquis, comprising six _fauteuils_, a couch, four ebony chairs upholstered in old gold satin, louis xv. style, with gilt nails, for fifteen hundred francs; the covers will be thrown in. going at fifteen hundred francs! fifteen hundred and twenty; fifteen hundred and fifty; sixteen hundred." he rolled his eyes as the price augmented. at sixteen hundred francs, the old gold satin _suite_ was knocked down; and while the notary was putting the curtains up for auction, mathurin's eyes followed the _fauteuils_, couch, and chairs he had only seen once before and that by chance on a quarter-day, now being carted away by the furniture removers who fell at once on these the first spoils. after the contents of the reception rooms followed tables, wardrobes, beds, these latter especially coveted; crockery, covered with dust and displayed to view on the steps, clocks, the billiard table. the sale lasted the whole day, save a short interval at half-past ten. the auctioneer's voice was untiring. as people went, their places were taken by new-comers; the pale rays of the february sun lighted up clouds of dust issuing from the open windows; the rooms were thronged. many of the purchasers were carrying away their lots themselves; others, who were only later to come into possession of their acquisitions, were writing their names in chalk on old oak chests, or pieces of furniture, covered for the time being with heaps of incongruous articles. costly hangings, partly unnailed, hung from the cornices, and streaming over step-ladders, trailed on the dusty floors. towards four o'clock, the number of spectators had diminished; tethered horses had been taken from under sheltering trees; vehicles of all kinds and descriptions were on the homeward way to town and outskirts. mathurin had not left his nook under the shade of the fir-trees. an uneasy suspicion was agitating him violently. twice, at some distance in the direction of the offices, he had thought to recognise the eager face of jean nesmy. the young man, clad in brown, his hat drawn over his eyes, who only stealthily advanced, but who had been seen by mathurin now here, now there in the copse on the other side of the lawn, could be no other than the dismissed farm-servant, rousille's lover. mathurin sat and waited for his father, to whom he had despatched a village lad, telling him of the approaching close of the sale. in the bluish mist, to right of the château, farmer lumineau appeared, and with him marie-rose. despite the growing dusk, both were somewhat shamefaced. rousille did not go far, at a hundred paces from the front of the château she stopped, and sitting on the bench of _la marquise_, looked on with startled eyes at the scene of devastation, while her father went up closer to make his purchase. among the two hundred people still grouped round the granite steps, women predominated. they had stayed to see the "wearing apparel and toilet appurtenances," given out by the notary as being the next lot. and now the auctioneer lifted above his head a soft, clinging, pale violet material, that unfolded and fluttered in the wind. "a young lady's dress of mauve silk with muslin collarette--ten francs!" he called. "show it!" cried the women's voices. and rousille saw the object lowered on to the stone steps, the little silken gown left behind, forgotten, that still retained something of the supple grace of its wearer, mademoiselle ambroisine de la fromentière. and coarse words and low jests reached her, made by the brokers as they handled the dainty relics of refinement and purity. "can they put up that for sale!" she murmured; she shrank from the profanation, and would gladly have gone away. but at that moment two sudden emotions, two surprises nailed her to her seat. across the lawn, facing her, in front of a group of fir-trees, she had seen mathurin, who had left the protection of the branches, and was looking over at the bench of _la marquise_, shaking his fist; while, quite close behind her, she heard a voice from out the flowering laurels, say: "my rousille, jean nesmy has come!" with perfect self-control she did not turn her head, made no movement; feeling herself to be spied upon, she had all the courage of her ancestors whom peril had ever found ready. scarce opening her lips as if only breathing to calm her beating heart, she said to him who had rustled the leaves behind her: "beware! mathurin is watching us." "i know, he has already seen me." "then, go quickly! come back later." "when?" "to-night, in the barn; when i put my candlestick on the window-sill." mathurin was hurrying across with the aid of his crutches to satisfy himself that he had seen a man's figure among the shadows of trees in that opposite group. jean nesmy meanwhile slipped away amid the undergrowth, and through the lonely copses. round the steps, already in darkness, loud talking and laughing rose from the diminished crowd. "i will have it. that's what i want," was heard in lumineau's strong voice. the auctioneer was offering a walking-stick, with horn handle bound with a gold ring. "that depends, my good man," was the reply, amid the jibes of the townspeople of chalons, "that depends! to say 'i will have it' in an auction is not enough. what price do you put on it?" "two francs," said a broker. "five francs!" cried the farmer. now no one laughed; the bid was an unusual one. toussaint lumineau had made it greatly to prevent competition, but also, as he would have said, from a spirit of bravado to prove that the tenant was not ruined like his master. mounting the lower steps he reached up a crown piece, seized the cane, and, not venturing to lean upon it, tucked it under his arm, and slouched away from the remaining group of bargainers who were greedily snapping up odd remnants of the furniture of la fromentière, hastily priced, given for next to nothing. skirting the excited cluster of buyers, he went towards the group of trees where mathurin had again taken up his post. "let us go," he said, "i have made my purchase. m. henri's walking-stick." "you paid too much for it," said the cripple. "my poor lad," returned the farmer reproachfully, "he would have given it to me had he been there. i paid that price that no one should dispute it with me.... all those fellows would have made game of me, had i not!--" and with a movement of the shoulder he signified the notary, the auctioneer, the invisible agents of the law, who to his excited fancy had had a hand in the proceedings now coming to an end. moderating his pace so as not to hurry mathurin, whose crutches struck against the mole-hills on the lawn, the farmer crossed the broad expanse where the blue mist thickened. they could hear the cracking of whips; see the red light of lanterns passing along the leafless woods, the frightened wood-pigeons circling over head. rousille saw her father coming. she had remained in the same place sitting on the bench, joyous at heart, but with somewhat too much of love's dream in her eyes, for her father asked severely: "what is it, child? this is no day for laughter." "nothing," she answered, rising. "then walk on in front," put in mathurin. "you might be meeting someone." and she went down the avenues, then along the path by the leafless hedges in front as she had been hidden. her white coif turned neither to the right nor to the left; but proud as one enduring for her love, she walked on with elastic step down the hill towards the elm-trees of the farmstead, and her eyes gazing fixedly into the gathering night--those eyes which none could read, gazing at everything, seeing nothing, were filled with tender musings. she entered her domain, and began to pour over the bread the soup which had been simmering in her absence. the men stayed without, talking. when they came in she felt sure that she had been again betrayed by mathurin, and that her father was angry with her. andré came in last, at about eight o'clock. the farmer had proposed waiting supper until his return, and he and mathurin had sat in the chimney-corner warming themselves, by turns taking and trying the cane of m. henri as they talked over the sad events of the day: the men who had come from sallertaine to bid, how they had heard the battens nailed up again across the lower windows as they came away; the lights they had seen wandering along the corridors of the upper floor as in the good old days when the great white house was full of guests. "our masters will never come back now," said toussaint lumineau. "and i, who always believed in them! this is the end!" "the end!" repeated andré, as he came in at the door from the outer darkness. "i am glad not to have seen it." the good-looking young maraîchin seemed tired and troubled; his eyes were brilliant as if about to shed tears. toussaint lumineau thought that the shame of this public auction, so painful to him, had affected his son in like manner, and had been the sole cause of his long absence. "sit down, driot," he said, "you must be hungry. the soup is ready." "no, i am not hungry," replied andré. "nor am i," returned his father. mathurin alone, dragging himself to the table, ladled out a plate of soup; while his father remained sitting beside the fire, and driot stood leaning against the projecting chimney-corner, looking alternately at his father and brother. "where did you go?" asked the farmer. andré made a sweeping gesture: "from one to the other. to your friend guerineau, of la pinçonnière; to the miller of moque-souris; the levrelles; the massonneau...." "a good fellow, le glorieux," interrupted the farmer; "worthy family his." "i saw the ricolleaus of malabrit too." "what, you went as far as that?" "the ertus of la parée du mont----" toussaint lumineau looked straight into his son's clear eyes, trying to understand. "what led you to go and see all these people, my boy?" "an idea"--no longer able to endure his father's inquiring look, his eyes sought the dark corner wherein stood the bed--"an idea. well then, going along, i thought i would go as far as la roche and see françois." "françois?" murmured the farmer. "you are like me then, dear lad, your thoughts are often with him?" slowly the young man nodded his head, as he answered: "yes, this evening especially; this evening, more than any evening of my whole life, i would have liked to have him beside me." andré's words were spoken with such strong emotion, with so mournful a solemnity, that mathurin, who had not known the date of andré's departure, understood that the time had come, and that his brother had not many more minutes to remain in la fromentière. the blood rushed to his head, his lips half opened, a violent fit of trembling seized him, while his eyes stared fixedly at andré. there was an unwonted animation in those eyes of his, for, while they expressed triumphant pride, there was also, in that supreme hour, something of pity and affection, perhaps of remorse. andré knew that they bade him farewell. the father, meanwhile, had drawn up his chair to the table, and raising the cane horizontally to the level of the lamp, that andré might the better see it, was caressing the gold ring with his fingers, none too clean from the day's toil. he imagined that his son's thoughts were again with the present, or like his own, were embracing the same future. "see," said he, "what i bought as a souvenir of m. henri. how often he has knocked against my door with the point of this cane, tap! tap! tap! 'are you there, my old lumineau?' andré, when you are the master of la fromentière----" at these words the young man, who was standing behind the farmer, felt all his courage give way. unable to restrain his tears, and fearing lest his father should turn towards him, he retreated silently towards the door. toussaint lumineau had noticed nothing; he continued: "when you are the master at la fromentière, you will see no more of the family. i do not believe that the farmstead will be sold. i greatly hope not, but our marquises will not come amongst us again. my lad, the new times you will be living in will not be like those i used to know!" now driot's tears fell fast as he looked at the old walls worn with the shoulders of many a lumineau past and gone. "do not distress yourself, dear boy. if the masters go, the land remains." driot's tears fell fast as he looked on the rosary of mère lumineau, hanging at the head of the bed. "the land is good, though you have spoken ill of it, and so you will find out." driot's tears fell as he looked at mathurin. "you will do your best for it; and it will do its best for you!" driot's tears fell fast as he looked at his father, still fondling the light wood cane. he gazed for some time by the light of the lamp on the tired hands, the horny hands, seamed with scars gained working for his family for their support and education--the hands that had never known discouragement, and, impelled by respect and grief, he did a thing unknown at la fromentière, now that the sons were grown up and the mother dead; he came close in the shadow behind his father, leant over him, and kissed the old man's wrinkled brow. "dear boy!" said toussaint lumineau, kissing him in return. "i will be off to bed," murmured andré. "i am done up." he seized mathurin's hand in a warm, hurried clasp. but he took some time to go the ten paces which separated him from the door leading into the kitchen where rousille was washing up her dishes. as he shut the door he looked back once more into the room. then he was heard talking to his sister. then he was heard no more. deep night enveloped the farmstead, the last on which the roof of la fromentière would shelter driot. an hour after, any late wanderers along the road, seeing the mass of buildings standing out from the trees, darker even than the enveloping fog and as silent, would surely have thought that all within were sleeping soundly. but, save the farm-servant, all within were wide-awake. mathurin, greatly excited, had not ceased talking and turning restlessly. the light extinguished, talking still continued between father and son, whose beds were ranged, near each other, beside the wall. not daring to speak of andré's flight, the idea of which was ever present with him like a persistent nightmare, the cripple turned feverishly from one subject to another, and his father found it impossible to calm him. "i assure you i did see the _boquin_. i was some distance from him, but i detest him too much to make any mistake about the fellow; he has a sly way of running about like a ferret. he wore a brown suit, and had something tawny in his hat, like oak leaves." "go to sleep, mathurin, you must be mistaken." "yes, of course they were oak leaves. when he was here he used to stick them in his hat every now and then out of bombast, to show that his province was richer and more wooded than ours. ah, the _dannion_! if i could but have run!" "you would not have found him, my poor boy! he is at home in his bocage. what should have brought him to the marquis' sale?" "to see my sister, of course! he may even have spoken to her for all i know, for it was too dark for me to see rousille plainly." the father, lying in his large canopied bed, sighed, and said: "always your sister! you worry yourself too much about her. go to sleep, mathurin. they would not dare to speak to each other; they know i should not allow it." the cripple was silent for a few seconds, then his mind reverted to the events of the day; he enumerated the neighbours who had spoken to him, and what they had said about the probable sale of la fromentière; then, impelled by the one master-thought, he recapitulated the things to be done for the improvement of the farmstead, the conditions of the fresh lease to be arranged for with the owners, and added: "you do think me better, don't you? my back is straighter. i am not so short of breath. did yoo notice, as we came home to-night, how at every step i used my legs without needing my crutches?" several times in the middle of a sentence he had stopped short to listen, seeming to hear that which in imagination he never ceased to see; driot for the last time leaving the room at the end of the house; driot going stealthily through the courtyard that his footsteps might not be heard on the gravel; driot passing the door close by, and going away for ever. towards eleven o'clock, bas-rouge, who had growled at times earlier in the night, began to bark violently to the right of the yard. "what is the matter with him?" exclaimed toussaint lumineau; "one would think there were people moving about in our lane." mathurin, growing cold, silently raised himself on his elbows. after a minute the farmer resumed: "do you hear how our dog is barking? there certainly must be someone near." "father," returned mathurin, "he is as mad as a march hare at this time of year. i think he sees bernacles flying in the air." the barking sounded nearer, not angry but joyous, as of a dog being taken for a walk. then a footstep was distinctly heard, and the animal began to howl. "they are throwing stones at bas-rouge," exclaimed the farmer. "i must go." "no; do not go. i will not have you go! stay, father, stay!" "why?" asked toussaint lumineau. "i have done it scores of times before, and have taken no harm." sitting on the side of his bed, the old peasant listened yet for a few seconds, before hastily putting on his breeches and running to the door. a thought flashed through mathurin's mind: "it is andré. i have but to say one word, and my father will be with him in time. shall i?" six years of suffering and of being in subordinate position to the younger ones, answered: "no!" and letting himself fall back on his pillow, he said, as if reassured: "it is not worth the trouble. the sounds are already further off." and, in truth, bas-rouge must have run out into the lane towards the main road. his barks were more faintly heard and at intervals; he evidently was seeing the intruder off the premises. the farmer lay down again, and no longer hearing mathurin move, fell asleep. it was a little past midnight. at that hour rousille was still at work in her room, with doors bolted and window shut, waiting for him who had promised to come. the thought of seeing her lover once more, of what she should say to him, and the idea that there might be some danger to jean nesmy, were he surprised by her father, had occupied the long hours during which the murmur of voices from the adjoining room had not ceased to reach her. "what can they have to say to each other?" she thought. on the side towards the barn she had carefully closed the shutter of a narrow little window, cut in the thickness of the wall, breast high, and protected by an iron bar. sitting on the chest at the foot of the bed, she was hemming some coarse kitchen aprons. the candle standing near lit up the bowed head of the young girl and the more distant panels of the five wardrobes, the polished pillars of the bedsteads, and the sides of the chests, each of which gave a different softened reflection; there was the violet of wild cherry wood, the dark-red of the cherry-tree, the golden-brown of walnut and oak, and finally the ghostly reflection of one, made for a somewhat eccentric great grandmother, of the finest ash wood; and in the same room and atmosphere that had surrounded her ancestresses, industrious as was their descendant, now sat rousille, the last daughter of the lumineaus, with eyes modestly bent upon her needlework. rousille was never idle. however, in this self-imposed night-watch, it sometimes happened that she would pause with thread outstretched, or would rise and go with slippered feet to listen at the door of the room nearest to the house-place whence voices were still audible. when nothing more was heard, neither the barking of the dog, nor the vague sound of voices, she still listened, but she had ceased to ply her needle. looking round the room with the eye of a housekeeper, she thought: "will he find it in good order, and as he would like his house to be kept?" rousille tied the kerchief she wore as protection from the cold more closely; then a little shudder of fear ran through her at the thought that her father might suddenly appear; and her face grew grave and stern, as before, when she had had to do battle for jean nesmy; then, rising, she placed her candlestick on the deep window-sill, which by reason of the thickness of the wall was triangular, like the loophole of a fortress. after that she opened back the shutter on its hinges. a breath of icy fog enveloped the flame, nearly extinguishing it; almost on tip-toe, with both hands shading her eyes, rousille endeavoured to distinguish objects from out the darkness. was he there? she only saw the bare branches of two gooseberry-bushes trained against the wall. there was no sound of footsteps; no sign of anyone; she only heard the dull thud of mist-drops falling from the slates on to the turf beneath. a minute passed. suddenly the branches were pushed aside, a dark head emerging from the total darkness was framed in the window between the wall and the iron bar. the face was pale, but the eyes laughing, half-closed, dazzled by the candle-flame. "i thought," said jean nesmy, "that you were not coming. i was chilled to the bone. i was going!" he looked so radiant as he said it, his eyes gradually opening, revealing the rapture of perfect delight. rousille, more grave, for she had within her the recollection of her past meditations, said: "we must talk quickly. father has only just fallen asleep. if he were to awake! if he were to come upon us!" but jean nesmy seemed in nowise to share her fears. nor did he look about the room to see if all was in order. he only looked at rousille, so agitated under her little coif. the light placed between them illuminated their eyes to the very depths. "you are as pretty as ever," replied the lad. "one might well walk miles to catch a sight of you! mother nesmy did not want me to come on account of the expense; but i said to her: 'i would rather go without my bread,' and it was true, my rousille." she could not help smiling. "you always know how to pay compliments, jean nesmy; and really i see no change in you." "there is none," he returned, showing his white teeth. and now she forgot all her previous uneasiness, and it seemed to them both, as though they had never been apart, so natural was the interchange of ideas; the candle quivered under the mutual stream of question and answer. "tell me, rousille, how are things going? are you happy?" "not very. at la fromentière we have more sorrow than happiness. now, as you know, our master the marquis has had all his furniture sold. such a pity!" "our nobles of le bocage would not have done such a thing," said the _boquin_, throwing back his head. "besides," resumed rousille, "since françois left us nothing goes right. driot is inconsolable at his absence." "even now?" "even now. we thought him so lively when he first came home. well, this evening he actually cried. why could it have been? was it fear that the farm would be sold over our heads? was it anything else? with him one never knows." "perhaps he is thinking of a sweetheart about here?" "i wish indeed it were so, jean, for his sake and ours, because his marriage would be the signal for our own. you see, all our hope is in andré. i have thought many a time, indeed why not tell you--every day since the one on which you went: if andré does not marry, my poor jean, i shall be quite white-haired before our banns are published in your church and mine. father will not let me go unless there is a housekeeper here to take my place. and as for our coming to live here with mathurin--he hates us both too much. there would be bad blood at la fromentière. father would never put us on the farm with mathurin." "does he ever speak of me when he is ploughing?" asked jean. "i never go into the fields," replied rousille. "but one evening i heard him say to my eldest brother, 'do not speak ill of the _boquin_, lumineau! i refused him my daughter, and in that i did well; but he was a good worker, he had a love for soil.'" behind the iron bar the face of the former farm-hand coloured with pride. "it is true that i loved everything about the place for your sake, rousille. and so andré will not marry?" "i do not say that. he is still in such low spirits; but time will cure that. we shall have him on our side, that good andré; he spoke so kindly to me the day of the letter. he promised to help me; but did not explain in what way." "did he mean soon?" "i think so," said rousille, "for his manner was very decided, and he was very sure about the step he was going to take." suddenly she lowered her voice--"did you hear that?" she asked. "no, nothing." "something moved in the bakery." "look at me, rousille. nothing moved," returned jean. obedient, victorious over all fear for love of him, she bent once more towards the window, even began to laugh as she said: "it is easy to see that you have no fear of anything. where were you hidden, just now, before i opened the shutter?" "among the layers of straw. the wind was as keen as on one of my worst wild-fowl expeditions; it stupefied me, and seeing no light i must have fallen asleep for a while." "really? and what woke you?" "bas-rouge, going after your farm-servant." "going after the farm-servant?" exclaimed rousille in astonishment. "i heard the dog bark, but i thought he was after a tramp, there are so many about on these roads; or that he had recognised you----" "you know very well, rousille, that he never barks at me, since i used to take him out with me when i went shooting. no, i am certain that it was the farm-servant.... i heard the latch fall, and the distinct sound of footsteps on the gravel at the back of the house. i tell you it was the servant, or else your brother.... i am convinced that a man went out from here." she blanched a little and then drew herself up: "no!" she replied, "andré does not go out shooting like you; nor does he go off to chalons as françois did! can mathurin have got up to spy upon us while father was asleep? oh, do take care of yourself, jean nesmy! listen!" seizing the candlestick from the window-sill, she held it out at arm's-length towards the other end of the room, the light shining on the polished furniture as she moved it. "you are right, someone is moving about in the bakery," said jean nesmy. now the door was gently pushed from the outer side, and the bolt shaken in its socket. rousille grew white. but she had brave blood in her veins, and still holding the light as far forward as possible, she noiselessly crossed the room, cautiously slid back the bolt, and flung open the door. a shadow moving about in the room sprang towards rousille, and she saw it was bas-rouge. "what are you doing here--where do you come from?" she said. a rush of air came whistling in from the adjoining room. had the outer door not been fastened? the girl glanced towards the window, and saw jean nesmy still there; then she went into the bakery: the straw baskets, the kneading trough, the ladder reaching to the hayloft, the faggots for next baking day, all was there; but the door leading into the furthermost room, andré's, was wide open. rousille went on, the wind nearly extinguishing the light which she was obliged to shade with her hand. it blew in unimpeded from the courtyard. yes, andré had gone out.... she ran to the bed; it was untouched.... a doubt seized her that, at first, she repelled. she thought of françois; of andré's tears that evening--his agitation.... "oh, my god," she murmured. rapidly she stooped and lowered the candle to see under the bed where andré kept his boots and shoes; they had gone. she opened his trunk, it was empty. going back into the bakery, she clambered up into the loft. there to the right, beside a heap of wheat, she ought to find a little black portmanteau he had brought home from africa. she lifted the candle, the portmanteau was not there. everything pointed to the one fact. there was no manner of doubt concerning the misfortune that had befallen them. terrified, she hastily descended the ladder, and unable to keep the secret, she screamed: "father!" a voice, muffled by the intervening walls, replied: "what is it?" "driot has gone!" she cried, as she ran through the rooms. outside the barred window, her eyes seeking him, she thought she discerned a shadow. "farewell, jean nesmy," she called, without stopping. "never come back any more. all is lost to us," and she disappeared into the kitchen, to the door of her father's room. toussaint had sprung out of bed, and now came, barefoot, hurriedly buttoning his work-day clothes over his night-shirt. startled out of his first sleep, only half understanding the purport of her words, stern of countenance, he came forth into the light shed by his daughter's candle. "what are you screaming about?" he said. "he cannot be far off." then seeing her terrified face he, too, thought of françois, and trembling, followed her. they traversed the whole length of the house, and on into andré's room; there rousille made way for her father to enter first. he did not go far into the room; he looked at the undisturbed bed, and that sufficed to make him understand. for a moment he remained motionless, tears blinding him; then, staggering, turned towards the courtyard, on the threshold, clinging to the doorposts for support, he took a long breath, as if to call into the night, but only a stifled, scarce audible sound escaped him: "my driot!" and the noble old man, struck by the bitter cold, fell backwards in a swoon. at that instant from the other end of the house mathurin, swearing, and striking head and crutches against the walls and furniture, came struggling along. "lend me a hand, rousille," he cried, "i must see what is going on!" rousille was kneeling beside her father, kissing him amid her tears. the farm-servant, roused by the noise, came through the yard with a lantern. chapter xiv. dwellers in towns. the farmer soon recovered consciousness. sitting up, he looked about him, and hearing mathurin moaning and saying: "he is dead!" answered: "no, my boy, i am all right," then with the aid of the farm-servant he went back to his bed. at dawn next morning, he started for a tour round the farms to try and learn particulars of his son. it seemed that neither mathurin nor the man had had the least suspicion of andré's flight; they had neither seen nor heard the slightest thing. thus toussaint lumineau went to make inquiries among the old and new friends frequented by andré during the last few months, sons of farmers, gooseherds, or sailors. for three whole days he scoured the marais from saint gervais to fromentière, from sallertaine to saint gilles. those he asked knew but little, or were unwilling to betray confidence. all agreed in stating that andré had often talked of making his fortune across the sea where the land was new and fertile. the best informed went on to say: "last sunday he said good-bye to several of us, myself among the number. he told me he was off to south america, where, for a mere nothing, he would get a farm of seventy-four acres of virgin soil; but i do not remember the name of the place where he was going." on the evening of the third day, when, having had this information, the farmer returned home, he found the cripple sitting by the fireside. "mathurin," he said, "you ought still to have some of those books where countries are sketched out, you know what i mean?" "geography books? yes, there must be some left from old schooldays. why?" "i want to look at america," replied the old man. "it is there that your brother is going they all say." dragging himself to the chest, from under the clothes at the bottom the cripple brought forth a handful of school books, which had belonged to one or other of them as boys, and came back with a little elementary atlas, on the cover of which was written in a beginner's large handwriting: "this book belongs to lumineau andré, son of lumineau toussaint, of la fromentière, commune of sallertaine, vendée." the father stroked his hand over the writing, as if to caress it. "it was his," he said. mathurin opened the atlas. it was all to pieces; the maps were rounded at the corners from wear, crumpled or torn, the edges frayed. the cripple's fingers turned the pages gingerly, and stopped at a map covered with ink-blots in which the two americas, united by their isthmus, in deep orange colour, looked like a pair of huge spectacles. the two men bent over it. "this is south america," said mathurin. "and here is the sea." the farmer pondered for a considerable time over mathurin's words, endeavouring to harmonise them with the inky map, then shook his head. "i cannot picture to myself where he is," he said sadly, "but i see that there is sea, and that he is lost to us...." mathurin slowly shut his book and said: "they were both bad sons; they have forsaken you." the farmer did not seem to have heard him; turning to rousille, he said gently, far more gently than was his wont: "rousille, have a cup of coffee ready for me the first thing to-morrow morning. i will go and find out françois." and accordingly at ten o'clock the next morning, the fourth day after driot's departure, the farmer of la fromentière alighted from the train at the station of la roche-sur-yon. the moment he set foot on the platform, he began looking for his son amongst the porters engaged in shutting the carriage doors, or taking the luggage from the van. taller by a head than most of the passengers who were hurrying hither and thither, he would stop every ten paces to follow with his eyes some porter with young, full face like françois. he wanted to see his son again, but was nervous at meeting him in so public a place. he, clad in his black cloth suit, with blue waistband, his new hat bound with velvet set well at the back of his head, free to come and go at his own time--he, the master of his working and leisure hours, felt a kind of shame at the thought that among that group of paid servants, hustled about by their superiors, clad in a uniform they had no right to exchange for ordinary clothes, was a lumineau of la fromentière. not finding françois on the platform, he was proceeding to a part of the line where carriages were uncoupled, and was watching a gang of men push a loaded truck along with their shoulders, thinking the while, "why, they are doing the work of our oxen at home," when a voice called out: "hey! where are you going?" "to find my boy." "who is he?" "you may perhaps know him," replied the farmer, touching the brim of his hat. "he is employed on the line; his name is françois lumineau." the inspector said carelessly: "lumineau? ah, yes, one of the men on the line. been here four months?" "five," returned the father. "maybe. a stout, red-faced fellow, somewhat lazy. do you want to speak to him?" "yes." "very well. if you know where he lives, go to him there. you can do your business with him when he goes home to his dinner. foot passengers are not allowed on the lines, my good man." and as he went away, the inspector grumbled: "these peasants think they have the right to go anywhere, as if they were in their own fields." the farmer controlling himself on françois' account, made no reply. he left the railway station and began wandering among the broad, deserted streets with their rows of low-built houses on either side; rain had been falling since early morning. the people he stopped to inquire of did not know café la faucille, the name of which he had learned from the maraîchins who came to the fairs of la roche. at length, by means of the sign-board, he found it out for himself, in the outskirts of the town. like the others in the street it was a little one-storied house, with one window. pushing open the door, toussaint lumineau found himself in a coffee shop, furnished with deal tables, cane stools, and a glass cupboard, wherein were displayed bottles of wine and spirits, and on a counter at the foot were a few plates of cold meat, between two boxes of sweet biscuits. nobody was there. lumineau took his stand in the middle of the shop; the bell, set ringing by the farmer's entrance, continued to sound more and more feebly. before it had altogether ceased, an inner door opposite opened, emitting a whiff of cookery, and a woman, without cap, her hair very much dressed, came forward in a mincing manner. although he stood with his back to the light she at once recognised the new-comer, coloured vividly, let fall the corner of her apron she was holding in both hands, and stopped short. "oh," she said, "it is you, father! what a surprise! how long it is since we have seen you!" "yes, true. a very long time." she hesitated, glad to see her father, and not daring to say so, not knowing his object in coming, and whether she ought to ask him to sit down, to kiss him, or to keep her distance as one who may not hope to be forgiven. her eyes were fixed on him. however, the words, not hard, the gentle tones and voice that trembled, reassured her; and she asked: "may i kiss you, father, despite all?" he suffered her embrace, but did not return the kiss. then sitting on a stool, while eléonore went to the other side of the table, he looked at his daughter with melancholy curiosity to see in what way she had changed. eléonore, standing near the wall, embarrassed by the penetrating gaze, began fastening the collar of her grey woollen dress, drawing down the sleeves over her bare arms, then twisted a ring she was wearing on her right hand. "i did not expect," she stammered, casting down her eyes.... "it has quite startled me to see you again! françois will be astonished too. he comes in at eleven every day, sometimes half-past. father, you will have something to eat?" he made a negative gesture. "a glass of wine? you will not refuse that?" for all answer, toussaint lumineau said: "do you know what has happened at home, eléonore?" suddenly the slight amount of self-possession she had assumed left her. she drew back still further. her light blue eyes assumed an expression of fear, while she glanced towards the street as if, perchance, the expected help were coming from that direction. then, obliged to speak, leaning her head against the wall, with eyes downcast: "yes," she said. "he came to la roche. he wanted to see françois." "what!" exclaimed toussaint lumineau, rising and pushing back the stool. "andré? you have spoken to andré?" "very early on monday he came. his face had a look on it that is always coming back to me when i am alone. oh! a look as of a world of sorrow. he pushed open the door, like you did, and said: 'françois, i am going away from la fromentière, because you are not there!' i am sure, father, it is a blow to you ... but do not be angry, for we said nothing to induce him to go. we were even sorry on your account." she had put out her hand as if to ward the old man off; but she saw at once that there was nothing to fear, and the outstretched hand fell beside the dingy plastered wall. for toussaint lumineau was crying as he looked at her. the tears were coursing down his face, wrinkled by suffering. he wanted to know everything, and asked: "did he speak of me?" "no." "did he speak of la fromentière?" "no." "did he at last say where he was going?" "he would neither sit down nor stay. he kissed us both; but words neither came to him nor to us. françois asked him: 'where are you going, driot?' and he answered: 'to buenos ayres, in america. i mean to try and make money. when i am a rich man you shall all hear of me. good-bye, lionore. good-bye, françois,' and he was gone." "gone," repeated lumineau; "my last one gone!" eléonore's feelings were touched in sympathy, the corners of her eyes grew moist; but they still turned towards the street, while her father shut his. "father," she said, "will you mind coming into the kitchen with me? françois will soon be coming in, and if he does not find his dinner ready, you know what it will be! he is not always easy to get on with." she went into the inner room, followed by her father. it was but a shed built on, quite dark even in broad daylight, whose only window looked on to a narrow yard built up on all sides. an iron stove, at present alight, three chairs, and a table took up nearly all the space. the farmer, taking a chair, sat down between the window and the open door, that he might see françois when he came in. eléonore busied herself with cookery, laid the table for two, went backwards and forwards from one room to the other, always in a hurry, never getting on much with what she had in hand. toussaint lumineau was silent. she felt it necessary to sigh as she passed him, and say: "things have gone sadly against you. and how melancholy it must be at la fromentière now! poor father, i am sorry for you!" he, listening, took her empty words as words of pity. "lionore," he said, after a while, as she stooping was cutting the bread for the soup, "lionore, you have given up the coif of la vendée?" "yes, they ironed them so badly here at la roche, and it cost so much. besides, no one wears caps here." "humph! well, since you have given up dressing as did your mother and grandmother, and all the women of the family i have ever known, are you any the happier? are you content in your new circumstances?" she went on cutting the bread into thin slices, and answered: "it is not the same kind of work, but i cannot say but that i have as much to do as i had at home. there are the rooms to keep in order, marketing to do, my stones to wash every other day when it rains, as to-day, or snows; cooking at all times of the day, and that for people who are not always very civil, i assure you. sometimes there are complaints that there are so few customers, for there was too high a price paid for the café--much too high. and then when men passing come in for a drink, i am often afraid of them. indeed, if i had not neighbours----" "and your brother, is he content?" interrupted the farmer. "half and half. the pay is so poor, you see. two francs at la fromentière go farther than three here." the father hesitated a little. then asked, lowering his voice: "tell me, perhaps he regrets what he has done? i have no son with me now, lionore; i am wretched. do you think that françois would come back to his home?" he forgave all, forgot all; he craved help from the children who had wronged him. eléonore's face changed abruptly. drying her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief, she shook her pointed chignon, and replied drily: "i do not think so, father. i would rather tell you so out straight. you will be seeing my brother--will talk it over with him, but i do not think----" and as if deeply hurt she turned abruptly away to the store. the half-hour had struck, the door of the café opened noisily, a man came in. without looking up, or moving from her place, the girl said: "here he is." despite the railway uniform and cap he was wearing, the farmer, in the semi-darkness of the shop, had already recognised his son by the downcast head, slouching gait, and habit of holding his arms out from his body. soon françois stood before him in the doorway of the kitchen, and a glance revealed the same heavy features as of old--russet-red complexion, drooping moustache, and look of stolid indifference. on seeing his father a shade of emotion passed over his face. "good day, father," said he, holding out his hand. "so things are not going well by what i see?" the farmer made a sign of acquiescence. "you are in trouble. yes, i understand. so should i be if i were you. andré ought not to have done it; he was the last, he ought to have stayed." toussaint lumineau had seized françois' hand, and was pressing it between both of his with a tenderness that spoke volumes, and his eyes, which sought the eyes of his son, uttered the same entreaty. in measure, however, that his father's mute pleading entered his soul, françois quickly recovered from his surprise, hardening himself against the momentary feeling of compassion. presently, drawing back his hand, he retreated a step, saying with the air of a man defiant and on the defensive. "i understand. you are not wanting to engage another servant, but would rather have lionore and me back at sallertaine?" "if you could, françois. i have no one else to look to." a half-satisfied smile at the correctness of his surmise passed over françois' face as he rejoined: "yet you see that the other has gone too; and that there is nothing more to be done with the land." "you are mistaken. he has gone to cultivate it elsewhere, in america! it was because he missed you so sorely, françois, that he lost heart at home." "yes," said françois, drawing up a chair for himself and sitting down to the table. "it seems to be a wonderful country, america! but here with us it's too hard." the farmer did not take up the words which had angered him before. "well!" he said, "i will give you help. i have no other son now, for you know that mathurin is of no account in the management of a farm. you will soon be the master; the next lease shall be drawn up in your name, and there will still be a lumineau at la fromentière. will you come back?" françois made a gesture of annoyance and gave no reply. "you are making nothing," resumed the farmer, "by what eléonore tells me." "no, the pay is poor enough." "the café has not many customers?" "no; but we paid too much for it. we are not sure that it will answer." he turned to his sister who was listening passive and tearful. "but we scrape along, eh, lionore? in time i may get a rise, so the sub-inspector tells me. then i shall be better off. i don't want more. we have got to know people already; on sundays i have my half-day off." "you had the whole day at la fromentière!" "i don't say that i hadn't. but what you ask, father, can't be done." a man, whose entrance they had not perceived, now called out from the adjoining room: "is no one here? is there no dinner to be had?" eléonore, glad of the interruption, passed between her brother and father, and they heard her laugh to appease the customer. françois drew the soup-tureen towards him, and put in the ladle. "you must not mind my helping myself," he said to his father, who remained sitting at the window behind him, "i have only got a quarter of an hour; it's a long way to the station. i shall be fined," and between the mouthfuls of soup he asked in a softened voice: "you have not given me news of rousille. is she quite well? and mathurin, does he still imagine that he will be all right again? he who always was so keen on being master at la fromentière did nothing to keep andré back, i suppose?" toussaint lumineau rose abruptly, unable longer to control his anger. "you are a couple of ungrateful children, both of you!" he exclaimed in a loud voice. "stay in your town!" and going out of the kitchen, he crossed the café before the eyes of the sickly-looking mechanic, and of eléonore, who, terrified, leant forward: "i told you so, poor father. i told you he would not! i knew it. still, _au revoir_." then to françois who was following him: "you are going with him to the station." he shook his head. "yes, go! it would look better; he would not then be able to say that we had not treated him kindly." the farmer had opened the door into the street. "i will go with you to the station, if you like," said françois sheepishly. "i did not ask you to go with me to the station, ungrateful son; i asked you to come back and save us all from ruin, and you have refused!" was the reply. they saw him stride down the street erect, his fine figure making two of the puny town mechanics, his silvery hair shining through the mist of rain. the door shut behind him. "no easy customer, the old papa," said the man who was dining. "don't talk of it," exclaimed eléonore; "i am quite ill." "what was it he wanted?" with a coarse laugh françois said as he went back to the kitchen: "wanted me to go back and dig for him." the mechanic, shrugging his shoulders, said with a self-satisfied air: "a fine idea! the old gentleman was a bit unreasonable, i think." chapter xv. the emigrant. it was late afternoon when toussaint lumineau returned to la fromentière. it had rained heavily all day. on the hearth in the house-place the largest pot was boiling full of potatoes for the men's supper, and to give food for the pigs. sitting by the fireside mathurin and the farm-servant, kept indoors by the inclement weather, were warming themselves and waiting for news. the cripple who had been very gloomy, and in a state of nervous excitement since andré's departure, had not spoken a word the whole afternoon. rousille could be heard folding linen and arranging it in piles in the cupboard of the adjacent room. the farmer ascended the house steps and opened the door. simultaneously the thought came into the minds of the three awaiting him: "what did they say? will they come back? did they let you go away without even a promise to return?" but no one dared to ask him. with a curt greeting to his household the farmer went straight to his bedside, and began silently changing his sunday garb for his working clothes. the best coat, new hat, shoes, were all laid away. the answer must have been unsatisfactory. an awkward silence reigned in the room; as the minutes went on mathurin's irritation increased. bent almost double in the chimney-corner, his face drawn, he, the eldest son, felt hurt at being treated like a servant or a woman. why not have taken him apart? a sign would have sufficed. why not have given it him? his ill temper broke forth when his father, having changed his clothes, said peremptorily: "rousille, you will come with me and the man into the barn to make baskets. you, mathurin, for once will take your sister's place, and watch the pot." "so you think me of no use at all?" said the cripple. contrary to his usual habit, which was to give reasons and modify orders, the farmer, raising his voice, made answer: "i am sole master here. come, rousille!" followed by his daughter and the man, he crossed the yard in the front of the house, went into the barn, and threw open the double doors that separated it from the cart shed. there was the wine press, the red tilbury; and ranged against the walls were wheelbarrows, hen-coops, ladders, rafters, and poles; in the middle of the circle formed by this medley was a sandy space, where the fowls came to scratch and cover themselves with sand. the farmer sat down upon a joist beside a vat in which a bundle of osiers were steeping, his face turned towards the farmhouse. rousille kneeling close to him, her back to the light, drew the twigs from the water one by one, peeled them with her pocket-knife and handed them to her father. he, taking the white stems, twisted them round the already prepared framework of the baskets. in a corner the man was chopping poles of chestnut wood with a hedge-bill. the rain came down faster than ever, the air grew colder and more penetrating, spreading a veil of mist between the barn and the house. a fantastic twilight, coming from one knew not whither, uncertain as the rain and driven by the wind, cast a faint glimmer upon the workers. the ducks were quacking merrily in the marais; sparrows were chirping in the gutters of the roof. not a word passed between the father, his daughter, and the man. toussaint lumineau was looking at rousille--looking at her more often and attentively than was his wont; his thought was: "she is all that is left to me." at times he stopped plaiting, the white osier remained motionless, and his hand sank nerveless to his side. then it was that the remembrance of his other children was passing, like the rain, in a torrent over his soul. in the depths of his heart the father would cry, "françois! andré!" he tried to picture south america as he had seen it on map. where was his youngest son now in the great wide world? was he in a town, or wandering along unknown roads, or on the great ocean that sucks in so many victims? toussaint lumineau strove to get to him, but the effort was vain. all the scenes his imagination could picture were lost in the unknown. at that same hour, far away, the heart of a young man was recalling with all the faithfulness of familiar scenes, la fromentière and its elms, his father, rousille, mathurin, the meadows of the marais and all the country round. it was the son of whom the old man was thinking with such poignant regret; he, whom all three in the barn were vainly trying to follow in their inexperience of travel. tired after a night passed in the train, and in going from one agent's office to the other, a stranger and unknown, andré was sitting on a bundle of sheep-skins in the docks of a great seaport, awaiting the hour of embarkation in a steamer that was to bear him away to the new country. in front of him the waters of the river scheldt dashed up against the quay; emerging from the fog on one side they formed a kind of half circle, to be lost in deeper fog on the other, their broad expanse covered with shipping. andré's weary eyes followed the moving panorama of sailing vessels, steamers, coasting and fishing boats all standing out grey in the fog and the fading light of day, now massed together, now disentangling and gliding away each to its own destination. more often he looked beyond to the low-lying land round which the river curved, meadows half under water, deserted, immeasurable, seeming to float on the pale waters. how they reminded him of the province he had left! how they spoke to him! neither the rolling of trucks, nor the whistle of commanding officers, nor the voices of the thousands of men of all nations unloading their ships round about him could draw away his thoughts. nor did he feel any interest in the great city that extended behind him, and whence at times, amid the noise and bustle of the quay, came the sound of peals of bells such as he had never yet heard. but the time was drawing near. he knew this by the increasing agitation within him. the tramp of an approaching body of people made him turn his head; they were emigrants coming out of the sheds where they had been penned in by the agents, forming a long grey stream, seen through the mist. they come nearer, the foremost making their way through the casks and piles of sacks heaped upon the quay, and crossing the muddy gangway, hasten to secure the best places between decks; others follow, a confused mass of men, women, and children. young and old are hard to distinguish; like tears, all look alike; all have the same sad look in their eyes; all are wearing their oldest clothes for the voyage: shapeless coats, jerseys, old mantles, kerchiefs over the women's heads, patched petticoats, odd garments in which they have worked and toiled many a day. they rub against andré lumineau, sitting on the bundle of skins, and pay no heed to him. they do not speak to one another, but in their hurried progress families form into distinct groups; mothers holding their children by the hand and shielding them from the wind, fathers with elbows extended protecting them from the pressure. all are carrying something: a bundle of clothing, a loaf of bread, a handbag tied together with string. all have made the same pause at the same place. as they turn in from the streets through the dock gates, they straighten themselves and stretch out their necks to look across, ever in the same direction, to the plains of the scheldt, where a golden shimmer through the fog denotes the quarter of the setting sun; and, as though it were their own, they gaze upon a solitary little clock tower which rises out of the misty distance. then they turn into the docks, find which is their boat, the steam already up, the windlass at work, the bridge black with emigrants. and their courage fails, they are afraid; many among them would fain turn back. but for them there is no turning back, they must embark, their tickets tremble in their shaking hands. in spirit only they return to the old country, to the poverty they have anathematized and now regret; to the deserted rooms, the suburbs, the factories, the country sides where once was "home." pale and nerveless the living stream suffers itself to be swept on, and embarks. for a long time andré lumineau looked on without joining the crowd. he was seeking a fellow-countryman. seeing none, he at last put himself in line with the others; he was wearing his military cloak, the buttons of which had been changed, and was carrying the black portmanteau that five days ago reposed in the hayloft of fromentière. his neighbours glanced at him with indifference, accepting him without remark. among them he crossed the quay, mounted the gangway, and stepped on board, the ship already swaying with the motion of the river. then while others in the throng who had friends or relations with them were walking the decks in groups, or examining the machinery, or inspecting the cabins, he leaned over the side of the boat at the stern trying to distinguish the river and the grey meadow land, for memories were rushing thickly upon him, and his courage was nigh to deserting him. but doubtless the fog had deepened, for he saw nothing. beside him, hunched up upon the seat, was an old woman with still fresh complexion, wrapped in a black cloak with a cape to it, her coif fastened with a pair of gold pins, and rocking a child in her arms. andré took no notice of her. but she, unable to fix her eyes anywhere in the bustle and confusion of a ship on the point of departure, raised them every now and then to the stranger standing beside her, who so surely was thinking of the home he was leaving. perhaps she had a son of the same age. the feeling of pity grew in her and albeit, well knowing that her neighbour would not understand her language, the old woman said: "u heeft pyn." after she had repeated it several times he understood by the word "pain" and the intonation with which it was said, that the woman asked, "you are in sorrow?" and answered: "yes, madame." the old mother took driot's hand in her soft shrivelled one, all cold and damp with the fog, and stroked it tenderly, and the young vendéen broke down utterly and wept, thinking of bygone caresses from his old mother, who, too, had worn a white coif and gold pins on grand occasions. * * * * * mist and fog were sweeping over the marais of la vendée, as over the plains of the scheldt, driven by gusts of wind. at times an expression of anguish crossed the face of toussaint lumineau as he followed with his eyes the quivering points of the osiers rousille held out to him, as though they had been the masts of ships labouring in the ocean. at other times he would look long and lingeringly at his one remaining child, and rousille knew that she was fair to look upon. a violent squall struck the elm-trees, stripping them clear of leaves, and beating their branches against the roof of la fromentière. the rainspouts, the tiles, the rafters and walls, the very lizards in the barn groaned and creaked together--and the storm-cry groaned, wildly and madly, over the marais. three hundred leagues away the melancholy whistle of a sirene awoke the echoes, the screw of a huge steamer parted the waters of the river and drew away slowly from shore, as though yet half inert and drifting. no sooner did the emigrants, outcasts of the old world, poor and hopelessly miserable, feel themselves afloat, than they were terrified. the thoughts of all on board flew back to their deserted homes. it was in the darkness of night that andré lumineau went forth. * * * * * the farmer threw back a handful of osiers into the vat, saying: "let us go in. my old hands can work no longer." but he did not stir. the man, alone, ceased chopping the poles of chestnut wood, and left the barn. rousille, seeing that her father made no movement to rise, stayed where she was. chapter xvi. her father's bidding. evening had come, the evening of a february day, which casts its shadow so soon. through the door of the barn came only a deceptive gleam, like that of a smouldering cinder, blotting out all form. toussaint lumineau's arms had sunk on either side of his body; still sitting on the joist, his face uplifted in the dusk, he waited till the man should have crossed the yard. when he had seen the door of the house-place, where mathurin was watching, open and shut, he lowered his eyes to his daughter. "rousille," he said, "are you still of the same mind concerning jean nesmy?" the girl, kneeling on the ground, her profile indistinct in the darkness, slowly raised her head and stooped forward as though better to see him who spoke in so unexpected a manner. but she had nothing to conceal, she was not one of those who are timid and fearful; she only quieted her beating heart, which could have cried aloud with joy, and said, with apparent calm: "always, father. i have given him my love, and shall never withdraw it. now that andré is gone, i quite understand that i cannot leave you to go and live in the bocage. but i shall never marry; i will stay with you and serve you." "then you will not forsake me as they have done?" "no, father, never." her father rested his hand upon her shoulder, and the girl felt herself enveloped in a tenderness hitherto unknown. a hymn of thanksgiving passed from soul to soul. around them the wind and rain were raging. "rousille," resumed the farmer, "i have no longer a son to lean upon. andré was the last to betray me. françois has refused to come back. and yet la fromentière must continue ours." a firm, sweet voice answered: "it must." "then, little one," continued her father, "your wedding bells must ring!" rousille dared not understand. still on her knees she drew a little closer so as to touch her father. she longed that daylight would come back to reveal the expression of the eyes fixed upon her. but the darkness was impenetrable. "i had always hoped," continued the farmer, "that there would be one of my name to carry on the farm after me. god has refused me my desire. as for you, rousille, i should have liked to have given you to a maraîchin like ourselves; one in like position, and from our part. perhaps it was pride. things have not turned out according to my wishes. do you think that jean nesmy will consent to come back to la fromentière?" "i am certain of it! i can answer for him. he will come back!" "and his mother will not seek to offer us any affront?" "no, no. she loves her son too well for that; she knows everything. but mathurin!" and she stretched out her arm towards the house lying hidden in the darkness. "mathurin would not have it. he hates us! he would make life so hard for us that we could not stay here." "but i am still here, dear child, and i mean to gather the three of you about me." had rousille heard aright? had her father really in so many words given his consent to her marriage? yes, for he was now standing upright, and in rising he had raised his daughter, and was holding her in close embrace, his tears falling so fast that he could not speak. but contact with her youthful happiness seemed to have lent him fresh courage. "do not fear mathurin," he said, "i will reason with him, and he must obey. it was i who dismissed jean nesmy; it is now my will that he comes back to be my son and helper, and the master here when i am gone." the girl listened in the darkness. "it is my wish that he should come back as quickly as possible, for a place does not prosper in hired hands however good they may be. i have thought it all out for you, rousille. you will go from here where we now are, straight to the michelonnes." "yes, father." "that will give me the time to speak to your brother. you will therefore go to them and say: 'my father cannot leave la fromentière and mathurin, who has not been well these last few days. he asks you to go for him to the bocage, and to beg the mother of jean nesmy to let her son come back to be my husband. the sooner you start the better for us.'" now rousille's tears were falling fast. toussaint lumineau continued: "go, my rousille. greet the michelonnes from me ... tell them it is to save la fromentière." a whisper answered: "yes," and a pair of young arms were thrown round the old farmer's neck, and his face drawn down for a long, loving kiss. then, going a little away from him, across the darkness through which they could not see each other, rousille said: "i am happy, father. i will go at once to the michelonnes ... but, oh! how much better it would have been if we could have had all our people at my wedding!" and she ran out into the night. her father stood for a moment, proud and happy. she had said "our people," this little rousille; she spoke like her ancestresses who had ruled in la fromentière. she was a true descendant of the great-grandmothers she had never known, thorough housewives, who from the very day they were brought home as wives, staid and happy, seemed to bring with them as reading in an ever open book the sense of family cares and joys. rousille ran along the road, unheeding the stoniness of the way. rain fell heavily, but she did not feel it. sometimes she pressed her hand to her heart, to calm its beating. she thought, "i am happy," and with that she wept. the windows of all the houses in sallertaine were lighted when she reached the long street. the timid sisters michelonne had already shut their shutters, and drawn their bolts. "aunts michelonne!" she cried, knocking with her hand on the door, "please let me in quickly." it was the work of a moment for véronique to draw the bolt, open the door, and shut it behind the new-comer. "how wet you are, rousille!" she exclaimed, "and without cloak or kerchief in such weather! it has struck seven. what brings you out at such an hour?" at the far end of the room, on a chest beside the bed nearest to the fireplace, adelaide had stood the solitary tallow candle, its long smoky wick burnt to a thick glowing knob. by its dim light she was beginning to undress, and had already taken off her apron. a corner of the sheet turned back upon the coverlet showed a patch of whiteness; the rest of the shop was in gloom--chairs, spinning wheels, the table, the other bedstead, and the clock beside it calmly ticking. "do not let me disturb you, aunt adelaide," said the girl going towards her; "i have news." the eldest of the sisters taking the candlestick, held it up to rousille's face, and seeing traces of tears upon it, said: "sad news, again, dear child?" "no, aunts, glad news." "then let us sit down, and tell it quickly." the old sisters sat on the oak chest and made rousille take a chair facing them, close up that they might see her happy face, and each taking a hand in hers prepared to listen. the three faces were close together; the candle gave just light enough to reveal lip or eyes irradiated with a smile. "my news is," said rousille, "that my father, having no longer a son to help him, wishes jean nesmy to come back." "what, rousille, your sweetheart?" "aunt michelonne, it is to save la fromentière." "then you are going to be married, pet; you are going to be married?" exclaimed aunt adelaide enthusiastically, half rising; while her sister, on the contrary, bent lower to hide her emotion. "yes, father has said so. if you will help me." "if! you know i will; you are my daughter. you have only to ask for what you want--but tell me, is it money?" "no, aunt." "a trousseau that we will both set about making?" "something far more difficult," said rousille. "to make a journey--a long one." "i, a journey?" "you, or aunt véronique. as far as the bocage. father cannot leave home; you are to go in his stead to see jean nesmy's mother, and persuade her to let her son come away. will you do it?" véronique sat upright. "you go to the bocage, adelaide, you are more active than i am." "is that any reason? so great a pleasure; to do rousille so great a service, why should you not have the privilege?" "sister, you are the elder; you take the place of the mother." "you are right," said adelaide simply. she was silent for a short time; in the agitation of the news and her decision, the pretty pink cheeks had paled. then she said: "you see, it is forty years since i have been beyond the town of chalons. i never thought to make any journey again. where is jean nesmy's country?" with a pretty smile on her face at the recollections it evoked, rousille touched aunt michelonne's black dress three times with the tip of her finger. "here," she said, "is the farm of nouzillac, where he is employed; there, a parish called la flocellière; and there les châtelliers, where is his house, called la château." "i do not know any of those names, pet." "there are hills in all directions, some small, some large, and a great many trees. when the wind blows from saint michel it rains without ceasing. pouzanges is not far." "i have heard speak of saint michel and pouzanges when i was quite a child by _boquins_, who used in those days to come to our part to seek for fuel. and when must i go?" lowering her soft eyes, rousille answered: "father is hard pressed. he said the sooner the better." "holy virgin! but i cannot start to-night. still, look at the clock, véronique, your eyes are better than mine." the younger sister rising, trotted to the foot of the tall clock which stood between the beds, and with difficulty read the time from the copper-clock face. "too late, sister. the last tramway for chalons has just passed." "then," said adelaide, "i will start to-morrow morning. i have good legs to carry me to quatre-moulins, and a good tongue to ask my way later from the shopkeepers at chalons. i will go. all the way i shall be thinking of you, rousille, and when i see la mère nesmy--you will say i am conceited--but i shall not be a bit embarrassed, i will tell her of you, and i shall have plenty to tell. why are you getting up, little one?" "to go home, aunt michelonne." the two old sisters laughing, cried simultaneously: "no, that you are not indeed! you have told us nothing. what did your father say when he gave you permission? and what about françois? and what does mathurin think of it all? stay, dearie, and tell us all about everything; and what is to be the message for jean nesmy?" as when night falls over the fields partridges cluster together in a furrow, feather to feather, so the three women again grouped themselves, in close vicinity, in the corner of the shop. words, looks, smiles, gestures, sometimes tears, all that bespeaks deep feeling, found utterance, and was re-echoed by the two auditors. a joyous murmur floated through the dwelling of the two old maids. adelaide was slightly fevered; véronique, without wishing to confess it, was already nervous at the idea of being left alone. time went on. the neighbours, as they extinguished their lamps said: "mademoiselles michelonne are sitting up late to-night! work seems plentiful in their trade!" the town was sunk in darkness and silence under an icy rain when rousille left her aunt's doorstep. on both sides the same words served for their parting. adelaide said it first; rousille repeated it. in one case it was a promise; in the other an expression of thanks. "to-morrow morning!" "to-morrow morning!" chapter xvii. a february night. when rousille had crossed the courtyard and taken the road to sallertaine, the farmer, having taken the pot off the fire, left the barn. he found the man sitting in the chimney-corner, pushing together the half-dead twigs that had fallen from the fire-dogs with the points of his sabots. at the far end of the room, mathurin was moving restlessly about on his crutches, with crimsoned face, utterly unable to keep his nerves under control. he did not speak to his father, did not appear to have heard him enter. but after a minute, as the farmer, bending down, was speaking in a low voice to the man, he exclaimed violently: "and rousille, what had you to say to her that kept you so long in the barn?" before replying, toussaint lumineau followed with his eyes the movements of the unhappy young man, a prey to a species of madness produced by rage and pain, such as was too well known at la fromentière--since andré's departure the paroxysms had become more frequent--and the father was moved to pity. ignoring the insolence of the question, he said simply: "your sister will come back later, mathurin. where she has gone i have sent her." "i am not to know where she is, then?" cried the cripple still more violently. "everything is hidden from me here, and she is told all!" at a sign from the farmer the man took out a couple of potatoes with his knife from the saucepan, slipped them into his coat pocket, cut a slice of bread from the loaf on the table, and carrying off his supper, went out into the yard. the father and son were alone. toussaint lumineau, standing erect in the firelight, said: "on the contrary, you are going to know all, mathurin. your brother françois refuses to come home to us." "i thought so." the cripple had drawn back into a dark corner between the two beds, out of the range of the lamplight; there, as though on the watch for the words spoken, he listened; his trembling hands resting on the crutches shook the bed-curtains. "la fromentière cannot go on as it is now," resumed the farmer. "i have bidden rousille take a message to the michelonnes. one or the other of the sisters, whether it be adelaide or véronique matters not, is to go to the bocage to bring back jean nesmy." "ah! you are marrying rousille?" "yes, my friend." "to a dismissed farm-servant!" "i am taking him back." "a _boquin_! a man not of these parts!" "a good worker, mathurin, and one who always loved our soil." "and he is to live at la fromentière?" "of course. i need help. i need a son to stand by me." mathurin's tawny head was thrust out from darkness. "and me," he cried, "what are you going to do with me?" in his look was a concentrated reproach, all pent-up suffering and wrath of years. "so i, the eldest, the rightful heir, am only to bear my suffering and submit to the will of others?" "my son," replied his father gently, "you will continue to live with us as now; you will do what you can, and no one will expect more. no work will be undertaken here without your having first been consulted, that i promise you. the farmstead will be your home after my death as now." "no. i will not be ordered about by a man who does not bear my name. a lumineau, and a lumineau only, must be master here!" "it is the sorrow of my life, mathurin, that this cannot be." "i could have borne with françois, even with andré," continued the cripple, with equal vehemence, "but rousille and her _boquin_ shall never be the masters here. it is my home, and, i tell you, it is my turn!" "but, my poor boy, you cannot take the management." the serge curtains shook, and the unhappy man, suffocating with rage, made a few uncertain steps forward. "i cannot tell what is good ploughing?" he gasped. "yes." "i cannot buy a pair of oxen?" "yes." "i cannot have myself drawn about in a cart, or punt a boat? answer, if you please." "yes, my son." "then what further do i need for the management of a farm? labourers i can hire. a wife?" his father dared not say yes. "i will bring one!" mathurin had reached the corner of the table and was now leaning upon it, the upper part of his body swaying and struggling to maintain its equilibrium. "one who has more heart than all of you put together! she knows that i shall get well. she has almost given me her promise to marry me as i am ... when i shall have persuaded her." "do not trust to what the girls tell you, my poor lad. it is only fathers and mothers who love and cherish those afflicted as you are.... you are ill this evening. see, your limbs are failing you. come to bed, i will help you." the cripple did not try to answer. his eyes closed, his head sank on to his shoulder; the crutches slipped from under the arms that stretched out as those of a drowning man seeking help. he would have fallen to the ground had not the farmer rushed forward to support him. the giddiness did not last long. it was a sharp but short attack. hardly had his father got him into a recumbent position on the chest at the foot his bed than mathurin opened his eyes. he looked at his father, raised himself unaided, and putting hand to the back of his neck, said: "you see, it is nothing. the pain you caused did it.... i am not ill." all trace of anger had disappeared, but the misery in his face was the same, mingled with that kind of horror men experience when they have been at the very verge of death. "would you like me to help you?" asked his father. with a shrug of the shoulders the cripple began to undress himself, and taking off his coat, folded it, and laid it on the chest. "no. i will get to bed by myself. i want to be left in peace." his voice trembled as much as his hands. "you had better go to meet rousille. she will have her news to tell you--and, moreover, it is pitch dark, the roads are not too safe----" toussaint lumineau, who knew the danger of opposing his son in such an attack, made no demur. "i will go as far as the road, mathurin, and will tell the man to be at hand in the bakery in case you need him." he did not go even as far as the road. he was too uneasy. he went some hundred yards along the wall of la fromentière in the rain, turned back, and then not wishing to go in too soon as to allow mathurin time to calm down, he went into the stables to look to the animals, and see that none had broken loose. but, all unsuspected, mathurin had slipped out after him. the farmer had not gone ten paces beyond the gate ere the cripple had come out into the courtyard, cautiously shut the outer door, and was making his way towards the threshing-floor in order to reach the meadow by the short cut. his marvellous energy, and the diseased state of nervous excitability he was in, sustained him. a mad fancy, born of all his misery and all his dreams, forced him out on that cruel night to his doom. he would seek his lost love; would appeal by all the slights, all the suffering, all the affronts he had endured, to her who had been and still was the arbitress of his life; would say to her: "all forsake me; i have only you. tell me that you love me, and they will scorn me no more. save me, félicité gauvrit!" despite the dark night, the slippery ground, the two fences he had to climb, he went quickly along the track which bordered the park. like a naughty child fearing pursuit, he turned his head every now and then to listen. many a sound came to him, but it was only the whistling of the wind among the elms; the rain crashing down upon the slates; the roll of a distant train, probably on the way to chalons. mathurin descended the sloping meadow; the darkness was so dense that he had to turn back twice before he found the landing-stage. feeling for a punt with his crutch he threw himself into the first one, and with a stroke of the pole pushed it out, not into the canal which led direct to le perrier and la seulière, but to the left into a dyke rarely made use of by the occupants of the farm. the bottom of the boat was full of water; at each movement it washed over the limbs of the cowering man, but he heeded it not. what mattered the wet boat, the icy rain that was falling, the pitch darkness, the weeds that checked his progress many a time, the length of the way, the fatigue. he must reach her, did he strain his last nerve and die in the effort. the darkness was so great that mathurin could scarce see the bow of his boat. since sundown the wind had been driving the fog into the marais; in its length and breadth it was full of it, covering whole spaces with its swaying mass; it lay over the inundated meadows, the embankments, and islets, shrouding them all in its malarial folds. it dripped in poisonous drops down poplars and willows, from the thatched roofs of hovels on the edge of the great sea shore where men, condemned to live in them, drank in fever without the power of struggling against it. on such a deadly night was it that mathurin, already a prey to the malady hanging over him, the blood surging to his head, found his strength ebbing away. in vain he threw himself from side to side of the punt, unable to distinguish which way to go. sometimes his breath failed, he grew unconscious, and the puntsman would sit leaning forward motionless in the boat; then the cold would restore him, and with a shake he would continue his course. as he went on further into the wildest part of the marais, the shades of night grew peopled with forms. birds, more and more numerous, rose as he brushed past the quivering willows. it was the time of their flight. plovers, wild duck, bernacles, snipe, flew up, uttering their shrill or plaintive cry, soaring in invisible flocks, now high up in the icy fog, now close down to the sides of the boat. at each flight the cripple shuddered: "why do you cry thus at me, ye birds of ill-omen?" he thought. "leave me in peace, i am going to félicité--she will consent--we shall make preparation again for our wedding--we will live at la fromentière." but his strength was exhausted. little by little the torpor increased. his efforts relaxed; his sight failed. he continued touching the banks with the punt pole but fitfully, and not knowing where it struck. all suddenly the boat, which drifted across an embankment into the middle of a submerged meadow, stopped. water was all around. mathurin's hands relaxed their hold of the pole, his eyes opened wide with terror; he felt death creeping up from limbs to brain. raising himself, he cried out into the night with a loud voice: "félicité! father!" then his body swayed backwards and forwards, his hand made the sign of the cross, and with mouth still open he sank lifeless to the bottom of the boat. through the labyrinth of dykes another punt was being rapidly propelled; at its bow a lantern was slung, just clearing the water, its tiny flame swaying with a rapid movement, and shaken by the wind. the farmer had discovered mathurin's flight, and was seeking him. around him, too, coveys of birds arose. white wings fluttered in the light of the lantern. "ye birds," murmured the farmer, "tell me where to find him!" did the thousands of voices make answer? at each crossway of the canals the father stood in the stern of his boat, and turning successively to the four winds of heaven, he called out with all his strength the name of his son. twice men returning to their island homes from wild duck shooting, or belated farmers, had opened their windows to cry in the darkness: "what do you want?" "my son." the voices had given no reply. the third time toussaint lumineau thought he distinguished a feeble cry, very distant, coming through the icy fog, and leaving the canal which runs straight to perrier, he turned off to the left. from time to time he called again, but hearing no further sound, and fearing to have taken a wrong direction, he unfastened the lantern, and drew up to the side to see if there were traces of a punt pole. some hundred yards further on he detected by newly-made marks in the mud that the bank had been grazed; a punt had certainly passed that way. was it mathurin's? he followed it. the punt had made the circuit of a meadow, but on which side had it gone out? in vain the farmer, forcing his way through the rushes, tried the different canals that cut it at right angles, each time he came back baffled; all traces had disappeared. he was about to turn back when, by the light of his lantern, he caught sight of a piece of floating wood. he stooped to catch it; a presentiment of the truth flashed across him; it was one of the fromentière punt poles, drifting, carried by the wind towards the spot where the banks under water had converted meadow and dyke into one great lake. the farmer thought his son's boat had upset. "hold on, mathurin!" he cried. "i am coming. hold on!" and with a stroke of the pole he pushed on into the channel. "where are you, mathurin?" in the chopping waves of the open water he had made some thirty yards, when he was suddenly thrown forward. stooping over the side, he felt about, and caught hold of another boat, which he drew alongside his own. then turning the lantern upon it, he saw at the bottom of the punt his son, lying motionless. toussaint lumineau threw himself on his knees, nearly sending the boat under water; he felt his son's temples, there was no pulsation; his hands, they were icy cold; he put his mouth to the dead man's ear, and twice called him by name. "answer me, my son," he implored. "answer! move but a finger to show me you are still living." but his son's fingers did not move; the lips clothed by the tawny beard remained motionless, open as when the last cry proceeded from them. "my god!" groaned lumineau, still kneeling. "grant that he may not be called away before his easter communion. grant that he be not dead!" and taking off his coat he covered his son in it, like a bed, and leaving his own punt he got into the one where mathurin lay, and pushed off. a shade of hope sustained him, giving renewed vigour to his old arms. he must find help. standing upright, endeavouring to find out where he was in the pitch darkness, the father had punted on some distance before he detected the light of a farmhouse. then, to the right, a ray of light pierced through the fog. the punt glided on more rapidly through the dyke, it neared the building, and toussaint could make out that it was a farm from the shape of the doors and the lighted windows. alas! it was la seulière, and a dance was going in. the noise of laughter, songs, the muffled notes of an accordeon plainly audible within, died away in the wind without. the farmer went on past the brown hillock, but even while he punted with all speed he watched to see if the great dark shade cast by mathurin had not stirred; then seeing it motionless, thought to himself: "my son is dead!" some five hundred yards away on the other side of the canal, he knew now that there was another house, and he made all haste to reach it. for this time it was terre-aymont, the farm of massonneau le glorieux, his friend. and soon the farmer, throwing his boat-chain round a willow, had sprung to land, and going to the farmhouse door, was crying: "glorieux! glorieux! help!" soon lights were moving along the muddy slopes between the farm and the willow to which the boat had been attached, and men and women were hurrying to and fro with tears, laments, and low-voiced prayers. the whole sleeping household had been quickly roused, and were assembled on the bank. massonneau would have had mathurin carried into the house-place of la terre-aymont and have sent to fetch the doctor of chalons, but toussaint lumineau, having once more examined and felt over his son's body, said: "no, glorieux. his sufferings are at an end. i will take him back to la fromentière." then the farmer of la terre-aymont turned to two young lads standing in the background, who with arms round each other's necks, their brown heads touching, seemed to be looking on death for the first time. "my lads," he said, "go and fetch our large punt." disappearing in the fog, they ran to fetch the boat which was kept in a meadow close by la seulière, and as they passed they told the merrymakers what had happened. it was nearly ten at night when the body of mathurin lumineau was reverently placed by friendly hands in the great punt used for carrying forage, and which had so often been seen returning from the meadows laden with hay, one of the terre-aymont children perched on the top, singing. the body was laid in the middle of the boat, covered with a white sheet by the hands of mère massonneau; on it she placed a copper crucifix. toussaint lumineau took his place in the stern at his son's head. standing in the bow with their punt poles were the two sons of glorieux de la terre-aymont, two lanterns at their feet to light them on their way. the boat left the bank amid the laments of those present, and proceeded slowly down the grand canal, the wind driving the mists of the marais towards it as it advanced. when at a short distance from la seulière, a voice from land exclaimed: "there it is! i hear the punt poles; i see the lights!" the doors of both rooms were thrown open; the lamplight shone out, illuminating the hillock on which the house stood; the stunted trees on the edge of the dyke looked silvery out of the darkness. now all those present at the dance, young men and maidens, came forth in long procession down to the bank to greet the mournful convoy. in their gala dresses they knelt on the muddy bank, their coifs and aprons blown about in the wind. silently they watched the approach of the white shroud covering the remains of the cripple, their senior by so few years, and the poor old father sitting bent double in the stern, his head almost touching his knees, motionless as the dead son he was guarding. behind the others knelt a tall girl supported by two of her companions kneeling on either side of her, the blue kerchief and gold chain she wore conspicuous in the light that streamed from the house. all were silent. all followed with their eyes the boat as it slowly glided away again into the darkness. the sound of the punt poles, as they dipped the water, gradually died away; the ripples left on the smooth surface of the water subsided. the white shroud had passed away into the ever-deepening fog. there remained only a glimmer of light, the faint reflection of the lanterns passing across the meadows; soon nothing could be distinguished from out the enveloping darkness into which the punt had disappeared. "poor eldest lumineau! the handsomest of us all!" in the solitude of the marais, whither the pity of his fellow creatures could not accompany him, the old father wept as he looked on the burden at his feet; he wept, too, when lifting up his head his eyes lighted on the stalwart lads plying the punt poles, who, faithful to their home and soil, were keeping on the straight course. chapter xviii. springtide. the second week of april was extremely mild throughout the marais of la vendée; spring was at hand. the first to announce its coming were the blackthorns and willows; they were not yet in blossom but in bud. and those buds which precede the blossoms have a perfume of their own--the whole country side was permeated with it. in the low-lying meadows, from which the water had retired, flowering moss was sending up its slender heads amid the fresh blades of grass. the plover was making its nest. horses, turned out to grass, were enjoying their gallops on sunny banks, once more dry and firm. pools were blue as the clouds were white, because spring was coming. on an afternoon of that happy week when all life was young again, toussaint lumineau, standing at his gate, was awaiting the return of the eldest michelonne, whom, a week ago, he had sent on a mission to the town of châtelliers. for she had written him that her quest had been successful, and that she was bringing back from the bocage the humble labourer who was to be rousille's husband, the mainstay and eventually the master of la fromentière. that morning véronique had come to fetch rousille to go and meet the travellers, and now the time was approaching when the tilted cart drawn by la rousse should have rounded the corner and appeared at the foot of the hill between the two corn-fields swaying in the breeze. the farmer stood waiting on his own domain, leaning on the gate which, alas! had opened to let forth, without return, all the sons of la fromentière, and which he, himself, would now open to let in the new-comers. truly his heart was sad. life had treated him hardly; the future was not reassuring. would not the land soon be sold and left to chance? at the very moment that he was about to welcome those who should succeed him, could toussaint lumineau chase away the thought that the long traditions of bygone generations were coming to an end, and that, inseparable for centuries, his family name and that of the farm would no longer be one and the same? however, he was too old, and came of too good a stock to surrender hope. the blood that coursed in his veins contained, like wheat, something of eternal youth. it might be deemed dead, it sprang to life again. a dull, rapid thud, like the sound of men threshing, smote on the balmy air. toussaint lumineau recognised his mare's pace. she was coming at a gallop, as when returning from fairs, or fêtes, or weddings. he raised his head. once more he felt within him the courage to live on, and turning towards the road where the old trees were putting on their fresh glad verdure, knowing that beyond them joy was hastening to him, he took off his hat, and with outstretched arms said: "come, my rousille, with your jean nesmy." the end. _jarrold and sons, the empire press, norwich and london._ =selections from jarrold & sons' list of fiction= =maurus jókai's famous novels.= _authorised editions. crown vo, art linen, /- each._ =black diamonds.= (_fifth edition._) by maurus jÓkai, author of "the green book," "poor plutocrats," etc. translated by frances gerard. with special preface by the author. "full of vigour ... his touches of humour are excellent."--_morning post._ "an interesting story."--_times._ =the green book.= (freedom under the snow.) (_sixth edition._) by maurus jÓkai. translated by mrs. waugh. with a finely engraved portrait of dr. jókai. "brilliantly drawn ... a book to be read."--_daily chronicle._ "thoroughly calculated to charm the novel-reading public by its ceaseless excitement ... from first to last the interest never flags. a work of the most exciting interests and superb descriptions."--_athenæum._ =pretty michal.= (_fourth edition._) by maurus jÓkai. translated by r. nisbet bain. with a specially engraved photogravure portrait of dr. jókai. "a fascinating novel."--_the speaker._ "his workmanship is admirable, and he possesses a degree of sympathetic imagination not surpassed by any living novelist. the action of his stories is life-like, and full of movement and interest."--_westminster gazette._ =a hungarian nabob.= (_fifth edition._) by maurus jÓkai. translated by r. nisbet bain. with a fine photogravure portrait of dr. jókai. "full of exciting incidents and masterly studies of character."--_court circular._ "the work of a genius."--_pall mall gazette._