' III
 
 Portrait of Tolstoy 
 
 Photogravure from photograph taken in 1895
 
 ilUtatralPvi Sjibrani SiiUton 
 
 HADJI MURAD 
 
 Translated by AYLMER MAUDE 
 
 THE LIGHT THAT 5HINE5 IN 
 THE DARKNESS 
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 By 
 LEV N. TOLSTOY 
 
 Edited by DR. HAGBERG WRIGHT 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 COLONIAL PRESS COMPANY 
 
 PUBLF5HERS
 
 Copyright, igii 
 By DoDD, Mead & Company 
 
 Copyright, igi2 
 By Dodd, Mead & Company
 
 HADJI MURAD
 
 SRU 
 
 od^hn^^ii 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Portrait of Tolstoy taken in 1895 . . Frontispiece 
 
 A Circassian 214 
 
 Tolstoy's Daughters, Tatyana, and Marya Luovna 17 
 
 St. Matthew 146 
 
 In the Restaurant 113
 
 PREFACE 
 
 "1 AM writing to you specially to say how glad 
 I have been to be your contemporary, and to ex- 
 press my last and sincere request. My friend, 
 return to literary activity! That gift came to 
 you from whence comes all the rest. . . . 
 Great writer of our Russian land, listen to my 
 wish!" 
 
 So wrote Turgenev on his deathbed to Tol- 
 stoy, when the latter, absorbed in religious 
 struggles and studies, had for five years pro- 
 duced no work of art save one short story. 
 
 Nor was it long before the wish was realised, 
 for three years later Tolstoy was writing "The 
 Death of Ivan Ilyitch," and that tremendous 
 drama, "The Power of Darkness"; and these 
 were followed by a number of short stories, 
 some plays, a long novel ("Resurrection") and 
 the works now posthumously published. 
 Among these latter a foremost place belongs to 
 "Hadji Murad," in which Tolstoy again tells 
 of that Caucasian life which supplied him with
 
 6 PREFACE 
 
 the matter for some of his earliest tales as well 
 as for his great story "The Cossacks," which 
 Turgenev declared to be "the best story that 
 has been written in our (Russian) language." 
 
 The Caucasus indeed offered a rich variety of 
 material on which Tolstoy drew at every stage 
 of his literary career. It was there that, at 
 the age of twenty-three, he first saw war as a 
 volunteer; there he served for two years as a 
 cadet ; and there finally he became an officer, be- 
 fore leaving to serve in the Crimean war — 
 which in its turn gave him material for his 
 sketches of "Sevastopol." 
 
 In his letters from, the Caucasus he often 
 complained of the dulness and emptiness of his 
 life there; yet it certainly attracted him for a 
 while, and was not devoid of stirring and curi- 
 ous incidents. 
 
 The most extraordinary of these relates to a 
 gambling debt he incurred and was unable to 
 pay. Having given notes-of-hand, he was in 
 despair when the date of pajTiient approached 
 without his having been able to procure the 
 money needed, and he prayed earnestly to God 
 "to get me out of this disagreeable scrape."
 
 PREFACE 7 
 
 The very next morning he received a letter en- 
 closing his notes-of-hand, which were returned 
 to him as a free gift by a young Chechen named 
 Sado, who had become his kundk (devoted 
 friend) and had won them back at cards from 
 the officer who won them from Tolstoy. 
 
 It was in company with that same Sado that 
 Tolstoy, when passing from one fort to another, 
 was chased by the enemy and nearly captured. 
 
 His life was in imminent danger on another 
 occasion, when a shell, fired by the enemy, 
 smashed the carriage of a cannon he was point- 
 ing; but once again he escaped unhurt. 
 
 It was during his first year in the Caucasus 
 that Tolstoy began writing for publication. 
 ''The Raid," describing the kind of warfare he 
 was witnessing there, was the second of his 
 stories to appear in print. A little later he 
 wrote two other tales dealing with the same 
 subject: ''The Wood-Felling," and "Meeting a 
 Moscow Acquaintance in the Detachment." 
 
 Feeling that he had not exhausted the ma- 
 terial at his disposal, he then planned "The 
 Cossacks: a Caucasian Story of 1852," which 
 he kept on hand unfinished for nearly ten years.
 
 8 PREFACE 
 
 and might not have published even then had he 
 not happened to lose some money at Chinese 
 billiards to a stranger he met at the club in 
 Moscow. To pay this debt, he sold ''The Cos- 
 sacks" for Rs. 1,000 (about £150 in those days) 
 to Katkov, the well-known publicist and pub- 
 lisher, with whom he subsequently quarrelled. 
 The circumstances under which he had parted 
 with "The Cossacks" were so unpleasant to 
 Tolstoy that he never completed the story. 
 
 Ten years later, when he had set his heart on 
 producing an attractive reading-book for chil- 
 dren, he wrote the charming little story "iV 
 Prisoner in the Caucasus" (one of the gems in 
 "Twenty-three Tales"), founded on the above- 
 mentioned incident of his own narrow escape 
 from capture; and finally, after another thirty 
 years had passed, he drew upon his Caucasian 
 recollections for the last time when he com- 
 posed "Hadji Murad." 
 
 Tolstoy had met Hadji Murad in Tiflis in 
 December 1851,^ and in a letter addressed to 
 
 1 Writing my "Life of Tolstoy" before I knew the full 
 story of Hadji INIurad, I confused liiiu, in the first edition, 
 with some one else, and stated that Tolstoy met bini at 
 Karalyk in 1871. On reading my book the Countess Tolstoy
 
 PREFACE 9 
 
 his brother Sergius on the 23rd of that month 
 he wrote, — 
 
 *'If you wish to show off with news from the 
 Caucasus, you may recount that a certain Hadji 
 Munid (second in importance to Shamil him- 
 self) surrendered a few days ago to the Rus- 
 sian Government. He was the leading dare- 
 devil and 'brave' of all Chechnya, but has been 
 led into committing a mean action." 
 
 The details of Hadji Murad's life as given by 
 Tolstoy in his story are not always historically 
 exact ; but the main events are true, and the tale 
 is told in a way that gives a vivid and faithful 
 picture of those stirring times. 
 
 Of the struggle for independence carried on 
 in the Caucasus with such desperate bravery 
 for so many years, very little was known to 
 English readers until the publication of ]\lr. 
 Baddeley's "The Russian Conquest of the Cau- 
 casus," which gives an excellent account of that 
 involved, confusing and long drawn-out, but im- 
 portant, contest. 
 
 The Caucasus is peopled by so many tribes, 
 
 warned rue of this mistake, but lier wariiini^ did not reacli 
 me soon enougli, and I was only able to put the matter ri,::^iit 
 in a later edition.
 
 10 PREFACE 
 
 differing so much among themselves, and all so 
 strange to Western Europeans, that it is not 
 easy to summarise the history of the conflict 
 in a way at once correct and clear. There are, 
 however, certain main facts which should be 
 borne in mind when reading "Hadji Murad." 
 
 As her only possible way of escape from the 
 oppression of Persia on one side and of Turkey 
 on another, Christian Georgia — lying to the 
 south of the Caucasian Mountains — submitted 
 to Russia as long ago as the commencement of 
 the nineteenth century. 
 
 Even before that Russia had spasmodically 
 attempted to conquer the northern part of the 
 Caucasus ; but from then onwards she had a 
 special incentive to press forward and annex 
 the territories dividing her from Georgia which 
 was already hers. 
 
 The internecine feuds of the native tribes 
 generally prevented them from offering a 
 united resistance to Russian aggression; but 
 the dense forests of Chechnya, and the exceed- 
 ingly mountainous character of Daghestan, ren- 
 dered the subjugation of those regions a matter 
 of great difficulty.
 
 PREFACE 11 
 
 In addition to the geographical obstacles 
 there was another, due to a strong religious re- 
 vival which sprang up among the Mohammedan 
 population and, despite the feuds among the 
 tribes, to a considerable extent and for a con- 
 siderable time united them in a holy war against 
 the infidel Russians. 
 
 Like all great religious movements this re- 
 vival had roots in a distant past. It also had 
 currents, religious and political, which swept 
 now in one direction and now in another. 
 
 To begin with, there was a Murid movement 
 which appears to have been almost identical 
 with Sufi 'ism, and to have existed from the 
 third century of the Mohammedan era. That 
 movement, going beyond the Shariat (the writ- 
 ten law), inculcated the Tarikat (the Path) 
 leading to the higher life. It also proclaimed 
 the equality of all Mussulmans, rich and poor 
 alike, and enjoined temperance, abstinence, 
 self-denial, and the renunciation of the good 
 things of both worlds, that man may make him- 
 self "free to receive worthily the love towards 
 God." In Muridism a teacher was called a 
 Murshid ("one who shows" the way), while a
 
 12 PREFACE 
 
 Murid was a disciple or follower ("one who 
 desires" to find the way). 
 
 Such was Muridism for several centuries: a 
 peaceful, religious movement of a highly 
 spiritual character; but within the last few gen- 
 erations the struggle against Russia had given 
 a new quality to the movement, and from being 
 spiritual it had become strongly political. 
 
 As early as 1785 Mansur, a leader of un- 
 known origin, appeared in the Caucasus preach- 
 ing the Ghazavat, or Holy War, against the in- 
 fidels; and from 1830 onwards, when Kazi- 
 Mulhi, the first Imam (uniting in himself su- 
 preme spiritual and temporal power) took the 
 field, Muridism became identified with the fierce 
 struggle for independence carried on by the 
 native tribes against the Russian invaders. 
 
 Mansur and Kazi-Mulla are both mentioned 
 in Tolstoy's story, in which also Hadji Murad 
 tells of the part he took in the execution or 
 assassination of Kazi-Mulla 's successor, Ham- 
 zdd. Shamil, too, who succeeded Hamzad and 
 was the greatest of the Imams, figures as one of 
 the principal characters in the story. 
 
 How little the nature and importance of that
 
 PREFACE 13 
 
 war in the Caucasus was understood by 
 Western Europe is shown by the fact that when 
 tlie Crimean War broke out — the year after 
 Hadji Murad's death — no serious attempt was 
 made to support or encourage Shamil in the 
 struggle whicli, even after the conchision of the 
 Crimean War, he desperately maintained 
 against Russia till his last fortress fell in 1859, 
 and he himself was sent prisoner to Kaluga. 
 
 We may be said to owe the existence of this 
 story to the severe illnesses from which Tolstoy 
 sutYered in 1901 and 1902, for his sickness kept 
 him in a state in which he found it difficult to 
 work at ''What is Religion?" or the other 
 didactic essays he was engaged upon, and by 
 way of relaxation he turned to fiction and 
 produced "Hadji Murad." It is worth no- 
 ticing that in the fifth chapter of this — 
 one of the last stories he ever wrote — 
 Tolstoy describes a skirmish and a soldier's 
 death in a way that closely reminds one of an 
 incident he had handled in "The Wood Fell- 
 ing," nearly half a century before. He thus, 
 at the outset and at the close of his literary 
 career, told almost the same tale in almost the
 
 14 PREFACE 
 
 same way and with almost the same feeling. 
 
 On comparing the Caucasian stories he wrote 
 between the ages of twenty-three and thirty- 
 four with the one he wrote when he was 
 seventy-four, one finds in them all the same 
 wonderfully acute power of observation which 
 seized the characteristic indications both of the 
 inner and the outer life of man ; the same reten- 
 tive memory; the same keen interest in life, 
 and the same discrimination between things 
 sympathised with and things disapproved of, 
 but there is this very noticeable difference : each 
 of the earlier stories contains a character who 
 more or less closely represents Tolstoy himself, 
 through whose eyes everything is seen. 
 "Hadji Murad," on the contrary, is written 
 quite objectively. Before he wrote it Tolstoy 
 had become sure of himself, and felt that he 
 had only to tell the story, and that his judg- 
 ment of men and of actions would justify itself 
 without his own point of view even needing to be 
 explicitly stated. 
 
 In ''Hadji Murad," as in all his later writ- 
 ings, Tolstoy makes us feel how repugnant to 
 him were the customary ways of the life we call
 
 PREFACE 15 
 
 ''civilised," with its selfishness and self-indul- 
 gence, its officialism, banquets, balls, and mas- 
 querades, and above all, with its complete lack 
 of spiritual fervour. The manners and customs 
 of the semi-savage tribesmen arouse no such 
 abhorrence in him. The natural instinctive 
 spontaneity of their conduct appeals to him; 
 and throughout the tale he makes us feel that 
 Hadji Murad could not possibly have acted 
 otherwise than as he did, either when he de- 
 serted the Russians or when he returned to 
 them, or when he slew his guards and tried once 
 more to escape to the mountains. Hadji Murad 
 held life cheap — his own as well as that of other 
 people; but though he spilt much blood, he 
 never arouses the antipathy we are made to 
 feel for the pedantic, stupid cruelty of Nicho- 
 las I. 
 
 Especially attractive to Tolstoy is the re- 
 ligious fervour of self-abnegation, and the 
 readiness for self-sacrifice in a great cause, 
 which were so frequently shown by the moun- 
 taineers. 
 
 "We are more closely akin to the men of other 
 lands than we often realise; and lest some one
 
 16 PREFACE 
 
 reading this book should say to himself, ''Yes, 
 the Eussians are so-and-so, but we are not as 
 they . . ."it may be well to mention that 
 the elder Vorontsov's mother was an English- 
 woman, a Herbert of the Pembroke family. 
 For that fact, and for much else, I am indebted 
 to Mr. J. F. Baddeley, and especially for his 
 version of the song of the blood-feud sung by 
 Khanefii, which I have borrowed. 
 
 The footnotes are not part of the original 
 work, but belong to the translation. 
 
 AYLMER MAUDE.
 
 HADJI MURAD
 
 HADJI MURAD' 
 
 I WAS returning home by the fields. It was 
 midsummer; the hay harvest was over, and they 
 were just beginning to reap the rye. At that 
 season of the year there is a delightful variety 
 of flowers — red white and pink scented tufty 
 clover; milk-white ox-eye daisies with their 
 bright yellow centres and pleasant spicy smell ; 
 yellow honey-scented rape blossoms; tall cam- 
 panulas with white and lilac bells, tulip-shaped; 
 creeping vetch; yellow red and pink scabious; 
 plantains with faintly-scented neatly-arranged 
 purple, slightly pink-tinged blossoms; corn- 
 flowers, bright blue in the sunshine and while 
 still young, but growing paler and redder 
 towards evening or when growing old; and 
 delicate quickly-withering almond-scented dod- 
 der flowers. I gathered a large nosegay of 
 these different flowers, and was going home, 
 
 1 Spelt by the Russians Miirat. Murad seems the more 
 correct. — Ed. 
 
 19
 
 20 HADJI MURAD 
 
 when I noticed in a ditch, in full bloom, a beau- 
 tiful thistle plant of the crimson kind, which in 
 our neighbourhood they call "Tartar," and 
 carefully avoid when mowing — or, if they do 
 happen to cut it down, throw out from among 
 the grass for fear of pricking their hands. 
 Thinking to pick this thistle and put it in the 
 centre of my nosegay, I climbed down into the 
 ditch, and, after driving away a velvety humble- 
 bee that had penetrated deep into one of the 
 flowers and had there fallen sweetly asleep, I 
 set to work to pluck the flower. But this 
 proved a very difficult task. Not only did the 
 stalk prick on every side — even through the 
 handkerchief I wrapped round my hand — but it 
 was so tough that I had to struggle with it for 
 nearly five minutes, breaking the fibres one by 
 one ; and when I had at last plucked it, the stalk 
 was all frayed, and the flower itself no longer 
 seemed so fresh and beautiful. Moreover, 
 owing to its coarseness and stiffness, it did not 
 seem in place among the delicate blossoms of 
 my nosegay. I felt sorry to have vainly 
 destroyed a flower that looked beautiful in its 
 proper place, and I threw it away.
 
 HADJI MURAD 21 
 
 ''But wliat energy and tenacity! With what 
 determination it defended itself, and how 
 dearly it sold its life!" thought I to myself, 
 recollecting the effort it had cost me to pluck 
 the flower. The way home led across black- 
 earth fields that had just been ploughed up. I 
 ascended the dusty path. The ploughed field 
 belonged to a landed proprietor, and was so 
 large that on both sides and before me to the 
 top of the hill nothing was visible but evenly 
 furrowed and moist earth. The land was well 
 tilled, and nowhere was there a blade of grass 
 or any kind of plant to be seen ; it was all black. 
 "Ah, what a destructive creature is man. 
 . . . How many different plant-lives he 
 destroys to support his own existence!'* 
 thought I, involuntarily looking round for some 
 living thing in this lifeless black field. In front 
 of me, to the right of the road, I saw some kind 
 of little clump, and drawing nearer I found it 
 was the same kind of thistle as that which I had 
 vainly plucked and thrown away. This "Tar- 
 tar" plant had three branches. One was 
 broken, and stuck out like the stump of a muti- 
 lated arm. Each of the other two bore a
 
 22 HADJI MU RAD 
 
 flower, once red but now blackened. One stalk 
 was broken and half of it hung down with a 
 soiled flower at its tip. The other, though also 
 soiled with black mud, still stood erect. Evi- 
 dently a cartwheel had passed over the plant, 
 but it had risen again and that was whj^ though 
 erect, it stood twisted to one side, as if a piece 
 of its body had been torn from it, its bowels had 
 been drawn out, an arm torn off, and one of its 
 eyes plucked out; and yet it stood firm and did 
 not surrender to man, who had destroyed all 
 its brothers around it. . . . 
 
 ''What energy!" I thought. ''Man has con- 
 quered everything, and destroyed millions of 
 plants, yet this one won't submit." And I re- 
 membered a Caucasian episode of years ago, 
 which I had partly seen myself, partly heard 
 of from eye-witnesses, and in part imagined. 
 
 The episode, as it has taken shape in my 
 memory and imagination, was as follows. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 This happened towards the end of 1851. 
 On a cold November evening Hadji Murad 
 rode into Makhmet, a hostile Chechen aoulj^ 
 
 2 Aoul, Tartar village.
 
 HADJI MURAD 23 
 
 that was filled with the scented smoke of burn- 
 ing kizyak,^ and that lay some fifteen miles 
 from Russian territory. The strained chant of 
 the muezzin had just ceased, and through the 
 clear mountain air, impregnated with kizydk 
 smoke, above the lowing of the cattle and the 
 bleating of the sheep that were dispersing 
 among the saklyas ^ (which were crowded to- 
 gether like the cells of a honeycomb), could be 
 clearly heard the guttural voices of disputing 
 men, and sounds of women's and children's 
 voices rising from near the fountain below. 
 
 This was Hadji Murad, Shamil's ndih,^ 
 famous for his exploits, who used never to ride 
 out without his banner, and was always accom- 
 panied by some dozens of murids, who cara- 
 coled and showed off before him. Now, with 
 one murid only, wrapped in hood and hurka^ 
 from under which protruded a rifle, he rode, a 
 fugitive, trying to attract as little attention as 
 possible, and peering with his quick black eyes 
 into the faces of those he met on his way. 
 
 3 Kizydk, fuel made of straw and manure. 
 
 4 Siiklyo, a Caucasian bouse, clay plastered and often 
 built of earth, 
 
 Xa'ib, lieutenant or governor, 
 c Burka, a long, round felt cape.
 
 24 HADJI MURAD 
 
 When he entered the aoul, Hadji Murad did 
 not ride up the road leading to the open square, 
 but turned to the left into a narrow side street ; 
 and on reaching the second sdklya, which was 
 cut into the hillside, he stopped and looked 
 round. There was no one under the penthouse 
 in front; but on the roof of the sdklya itself, 
 behind the freshly-plastered clay chimney, lay a 
 man covered with a sheepskin. Hadji Murad 
 touched him with the handle of his leather- 
 plaited whip, and clicked his tongue. An old 
 man rose from under the sheepskin. He had 
 on a greasy old heshmet '^ and a nightcap. His 
 moist red eyelids had no lashes, and he blinked 
 to get them unstuck. Hadji Murad, repeating 
 the customary " Selaam aleikum!" uncovered 
 his face. "Aleikum, selaam!" said the old 
 man, recognising Hadji Murad and smiling 
 with his toothless mouth ; and rising up on his 
 thin legs, he began thrusting his feet into the 
 wooden-heeled slippers that stood by the chim- 
 ney. Then he leisurely slipped his arms into 
 the sleeves of his crumpled sheepskin, and go- 
 ing to the ladder that leant against the roof, he 
 
 7 Bcshnict, a Tartar uiKlorgarnient with sleeves.
 
 HADJI MURAD 25 
 
 descended backwards. "While he dressed, and 
 as he climbed down, he kept shaking his head 
 on its thin, shrivelled sunburnt neck, and 
 mumbling something with his toothless mouth. 
 As soon as he reached the ground he hospitably- 
 seized Hadji Munid's bridle and right stirrup; 
 but the strong, active murid who accompanied 
 Hadji Murad had quickly dismounted and, 
 motioning the old man aside, took his place. 
 Hadji Murad also dismounted and, walking 
 with a slight limp, entered under the penthouse. 
 A boy of fifteen, coming quickly out of the 
 door, met him and wonderingly fixed his 
 sparkling eyes, black as ripe sloes, on the new 
 arrivals. 
 
 ''Run to the mosque and call your father," 
 ordered the old man, as he hurried forward to 
 open the thin, creaking door into the sdklya for 
 Hadji Murad. 
 
 As Hadji Murad entered the outer door, a 
 slight spare middle-aged woman in a yellow 
 smock, red heshmet, and wide blue trousers 
 came through an inner door carrying cushions. 
 
 ''May thy coming bring happiness!" said 
 she, and, bending nearly double, began arrang-
 
 26 HADJI MURAD 
 
 ing the cushions along the front wall for the 
 guest to sit on. 
 
 ''May thy sons live!" answered Hadji 
 Murad, taking off his hurka, his rifle and his 
 sword and handing them to the old man, who 
 carefully hung the rifle and sword on a nail 
 beside the weapons of the master of the house, 
 which were suspended between two large basins 
 that glittered against the clean clay-plastered 
 and carefully whitewashed wall. 
 
 Hadji Murad adjusted the pistol at his back, 
 came up to the cushions and, wrapping his 
 Circassian coat closer round him, sat down. 
 The old man squatted on his bare heels beside 
 him, closed his eyes, and lifted his hands, palms 
 upwards. Hadji Murad did the same; then, 
 after repeating a prayer, they both stroked 
 their faces, passing their hands downwards till 
 the palms joined at the end of their beards. 
 
 "Ne habar?" asked Hadji Murad, addressing 
 the old man. (That is, "Is there anything 
 new!") 
 
 ''Habar yok" ("nothing new"), replied the 
 old man, looking with his lifeless red eyes not 
 at Hadji Murad 's face but at his breast. "I
 
 HADJI MUR AD 27 
 
 live at the apiary, and have only to-day come to 
 see my son. . . . He knows." 
 
 Hadji ]\riirad, understanding that the old man 
 did not wisli to say what he knew and what 
 Hadji Murad wanted to know, slightly nodded 
 his head and asked no more questions. 
 
 ''There is no good news," said the old man. 
 ''The only news is that the hares keep- discuss- 
 ing how to drive away the eagles; and the 
 eagles tear first one and then another of them. 
 The other day the Russian dogs burnt the hay 
 in the Mitchit aoid. . . . May their faces be 
 torn!" added he, hoarsely and angrily. 
 
 Hadji Murad 's murid entered the room, his 
 strong legs striding softly over the earthen 
 floor. Retaining -only his dagger and pistol, he 
 shook off his burJia, rifle and sword as Hadji 
 Muriid had done, and hung them up on the same 
 nails with his leader's weapons. 
 
 "Who is he!" asked the old man, pointing to 
 the newcomer. 
 
 "My murid. Eldar is his name," said Hadji 
 Murad. 
 
 "That is well," said the old man, and mo- 
 tioned Eldar to a place on a piece of felt beside
 
 28 HADJI MURAD 
 
 Hadji Murad. Eldar sat down, crossing his 
 legs, and fixing his fine ram-like eyes on the 
 old man, who, having now started talking, was 
 telling how their brave fellows had caught two 
 Russian soldiers the week before, and had killed 
 one and sent the other to Shamil in Veden. 
 
 Hadji Murad heard him absently, looking at 
 the door and listening to the sounds outside. 
 Under the penthouse steps were heard, the 
 door creaked, and Sado, the master of the 
 house, came in. He was a man of about forty, 
 with a small beard, long nose, and eyes as 
 black, though not as glittering, as those of his 
 fifteen-year-old son who had run to call him 
 home, and who now entered with his father 
 and sat down by the door. The master of the 
 house took off his wooden slippers at the door, 
 and pushing his old and much-worn cap on 
 to the back of his head (which had remained 
 unshaved so long that it was beginning to be 
 overgrown with black hair), at once squatted 
 down in front of Hadji Murad. 
 
 He too lifted his hands, palms upwards, as 
 the old man had done, repeated a prayer, and 
 then stroked his face downwards. Only after
 
 HADJI MURAD 29 
 
 that did he begin to speak. He told how an 
 order had come from Shamil to seize Hadji 
 Murad, alive or dead; that Shamil 's envoys had 
 left only the day before; that the people were 
 afraid to disobey Shamil 's orders; and that 
 therefore it was necessary to be careful. 
 
 ''In my house," said Sado, "no one shall in- 
 jure my kundk ^ while I live ; but how will it be 
 in the open fields? ... We must think it 
 over," 
 
 Hadji Murad listened with attention and 
 nodded approvingly. When Sado had finished 
 he said, — 
 
 "Very well. Now we must send a man with 
 a letter to the Russians. My murid will go, but 
 he will need a guide." 
 
 "I will send brother Bata," said Sado. *'Go 
 and call Bata," he added, turning to his son. 
 
 The boy instantly bounded to his nimble feet 
 as if he were on springs, and swinging his 
 arms, rapidly left the sdklya. Some ten 
 minutes later he returned with a sinewv, short- 
 legged Chechen, burnt almost black b}^ the sun, 
 wearing a worn and tattered yellow Circassian 
 
 ^ Kunulc, sworn friend, guest.
 
 30 HADJI MURAD 
 
 coat with frayed sleeves, and crumpled black 
 leggings. 
 
 Hadji Murad greeted the newcomer, and at 
 once, and again without wasting a single word, 
 asked, — 
 
 "Canst thou conduct my murid to the Rus- 
 sians?" 
 
 "I can," gaily replied Bata. ''I can cer- 
 tainly do it. There is not another Chechen who 
 would pass as I can. Another might agree to 
 go, and might promise anything, but would do 
 nothing ; but I can do it ! " 
 
 "All right," said Hadji Murad. "Thou wilt 
 receive three for thy trouble," and he held up 
 three fingers. 
 
 Bata nodded to show that he understood, and 
 added that it was not money he prized, but that 
 he was ready to serve Hadji Murad for the 
 honour alone. Every one in the mountains 
 knew Hadji Murad, and how he slew the Rus- 
 sian swine. 
 
 "Very well. ... a rope should be long, 
 but a speech short," said Hadji Murad. 
 
 "Well, then, I'll hold my tongue," said Bata. 
 
 "Where the river Argun bends by the cliff,"
 
 HADJI MUR AD 31 
 
 said Hadji Murad, "there are two stacks in a 
 glade in the forest — thou knowestf" 
 
 ''I know." 
 
 ''There my four horsemen are waiting for 
 me," said Hadji Murad. 
 
 "Aye," answered Bata, nodding. 
 
 "Ask for Khan Mahoma. He knows what to 
 do and wliat to say. Canst thou lead him to 
 the Russian commander, Prince Vorontsov?" 
 
 "I'll take him there." 
 
 ' ' Take him, and bring him back again. Canst 
 thou?" 
 
 "I can." 
 
 "Take him there, and return to the wood. I 
 shall be there too." 
 
 "I will do it all," said Bata, rising, and put- 
 ting his hands on his heart he went out. 
 
 Hadji Murdd turned to his host when Bata 
 had gone. 
 
 "A man must also be sent to Chekhi," he be- 
 gan, and took hold of one of the cartridge 
 pouches of his Circassian coat, but immediately 
 let his hand drop and became silent on seeing 
 tw.o women enter the sdklya. 
 
 One was Sado's wife — the thin middle-aged
 
 32 HADJI MURAD 
 
 woman who had arranged the cushions for 
 Hadji Murad. The other was quite a young 
 girl, wearing red trousers and a green heshmet; 
 a necklace of silver coins covered the whole 
 front of her dress, and at the end of the not 
 long but thick plait of hard black hair that hung 
 between her thin shoulder-blades a silver rouble 
 was suspended. Her eyes, as sloe black as 
 those of her father and brother, sparkled 
 brightly in her young face, which tried to be 
 stern. She did not look at the visitors, but 
 evidently felt their presence. 
 
 Sado's wife brought in a low round table, on 
 which stood tea, pancakes in butter, cheese, 
 chiirek (that is, thinly rolled out bread), and 
 honey. The girl carried a basin, a ewer, and a 
 towel. 
 
 Sado and Hadji Murad kept silent as long as 
 the women, with their coin ornaments tinkling, 
 moved softly about in their red soft-soled slip- 
 pers, setting out before the visitors the things 
 they had brought. Eldar sat motionless as a 
 statue, his ram-like eyes fixed on his crossed 
 legs, all the time the women were in the sdMya. 
 Only after they had gone, and their soft foot-
 
 HADJI MURAD 33 
 
 steps could no longer be heard behind the door, 
 did he give a sigh of relief. 
 
 Hadji Muriid having pulled out a bullet that 
 plugged one of the bullet-pouches of his Circas- 
 sian coat, and having taken out a rolled-up 
 note that lay beneath it, held it out, saying, — 
 ^*To be handed to my son." 
 "Where must the answer be sent?" 
 ''To thee, and thou must forward it to me." 
 "It shall be done," said Sado, and placed the 
 note in a cartridge-pocket of his own coat. 
 Then he took up the metal ewer and moved the 
 basin towards Hadji Munld. 
 
 Hadji Murad turned up the sleeves of his 
 heshmet on his white muscular arms, and held 
 out his hands under the clear cold water which 
 Sado poured from the ewer. Having wiped 
 them on a clean unbleached towel, Hadji Murad 
 turned to the table. Ekhir did the same. 
 While the visitors ate, Sado sat opposite, and 
 thanked them several times for their visit. The 
 boy sat by the door, never taking his sparkling 
 eyes off Hadji Murad 's face, and smiled as if 
 in confirmation of his father's words. 
 
 Though Hadji Murad had eaten nothing for
 
 34 HADJI MUEAD 
 
 more than twenty-four hours, tie ate only a little 
 bread and cheese; then, drawing out a small 
 knife from under his dagger, he spread some 
 honey on a piece of bread. 
 
 ''Our honey is good," said the old man, evi- 
 dently pleased to see Hadji Murad eating his 
 honey. ' ' This year, above all other years, it is 
 plentiful and good." 
 
 *'I thank thee," said Hadji Murad, and 
 turned from the table. Eldar would have liked 
 to go on eating, but he followed his leader's ex- 
 ample, and, having moved away from the table, 
 handed Hadji Murad the ewer and basin. 
 
 Sado knew that he was risking his life by 
 receiving Hadji Murad in his house, as, after 
 his quarrel with Shamil, the latter had 
 issued a proclamation to all the inhabitants of 
 Chechnya forbidding them to receive Hadji 
 Murad on pain of death. He knew that the in- 
 habitants of the aoiil might at any moment be- 
 come aware of Hadji Murad 's presence in his 
 house, and might demand his surrender ; but this 
 not only did not frighten Sado, but even gave 
 him pleasure. He considered it his duty to 
 protect his guest though it should cost him his
 
 HADJI MURAD 35 
 
 life, and he was proud and pleased with himself 
 because he was doing his duty. 
 
 "Whilst thou art in my house and my head 
 is on my shoulders no one shall harm thee," he 
 repeated to Hadji Murad. 
 
 Hadji Murad looked into his glittering eyes, 
 and understanding that this was true, said with 
 some solemnity, — 
 
 ''Mayest thou receive joy and life!" 
 
 Sado silently laid his hand on his heart as a 
 sign of thanks for these kind words. 
 
 Having closed the shutters of the sdklya and 
 laid some sticks in the fireplace, Sado, in an 
 exceptionally bright and animated mood, left 
 the room and went into that part of his sdklya 
 where his family all lived. The women had not 
 yet gone to sleep, and were talking about the 
 dangerous visitors who were spending the night 
 in their guest-chamber.
 
 1£ 
 
 At the advanced fort Vozdvizhensk, situated 
 some ten miles from the aonl in which Hadji 
 Murad was spending the night, three soldiers 
 and a non-commissioned officer left the fortifi- 
 cations and went beyond the Shahgirinsk Gate. 
 The soldiers, dressed as Caucasian soldiers 
 used to be in those days, wore sheepskin coats 
 and caps, and boots that reached above their 
 knees, and they carried their cloaks tightly 
 rolled up and fastened across their shoulders. 
 Shouldering arms, they first went some five 
 hundred paces along the road, and then turned 
 off it and went some twenty paces to the right — 
 the dead leaves rustling under their boots — 
 till they reached the blackened trunk of a broken 
 plane tree, just visible through the darkness. 
 There they stopped. It was at this plane tree 
 that an ambush party was usually placed. 
 
 The bright stars, that seemed to be running 
 along the tree-tops while the soldiers were 
 walking through the forest, now stood still, 
 
 36
 
 HADJI MURAD 37 
 
 shining brightly between the bare branches of 
 the trees. 
 
 **A good job it's dry," said the non-commis- 
 sioned officer, Panov, bringing down his long 
 gun and bayonet with a clang from his shoul- 
 der, and placing it against the plane tree. The 
 three soldiers did the same. 
 
 ''Sure enough, I've lost it !" crossly muttered 
 Panov. ''Must have left it behind, or I've 
 dropped it on the way." 
 
 "What are you looking for!" asked one of 
 the soldiers in a bright, cheerful voice. 
 
 ' ' The bowl of my pipe. Where the devil has 
 it got to?" 
 
 "Have you the stem?" asked the cheerful 
 voice. 
 
 "Here's the stem." 
 
 "Then why not stick it straight into the 
 ground?" 
 
 "Not worth bothering!" 
 
 "We'll manage that in a minute." 
 
 It was forbidden to smoke while in ambush, 
 but this ambush hardly deserved the name. It 
 was rather an outpost to prevent the moun- 
 taineers from bringing up a cannon unobserved
 
 38 HADJI MUEAD 
 
 and firing at the fort as they used to do. Panov 
 did not consider it necessary to forego the 
 pleasure of smoking, and therefore accepted the 
 cheerful soldier's offer. The latter took a knife 
 from his pocket and dug with it a hole in the 
 ground. Having smoothed this round, he 
 adjusted the pipe-stem to it, then filled the hole 
 with tobacco and pressed it down ; and the pipe 
 was ready. A sulphur match flared and for a 
 moment lit up the broad-cheeked face of the 
 soldier who lay on his stomach. The air 
 whistled in the stem, and Panov smelt the pleas- 
 ant odour of burning tobacco. 
 
 ''Fixed it up?" said he, rising to his feet. 
 
 "Why, of course!" 
 
 "What a smart chap you are, Avdeev! 
 . . . As wise as a judge! Now then, lad." 
 
 Avdeev rolled over on his side to make room 
 for Panov, letting smoke escape from his 
 mouth. 
 
 Panov lay down prone, and, after wiping the 
 mouthpiece with his sleeve, began to inhale. 
 
 When they had had their smoke the soldiers 
 began to talk. 
 
 "They say the commander has had his fin-
 
 HADJI MUR AD 39 
 
 gers in the cash-box again," remarked one of 
 them in a lazy voice. "He lost at cards, you 
 see." 
 
 "He'll pay it back again," said Panov. 
 
 "Of course he will! He's a good officer," 
 assented Avdeev. 
 
 "Good! good!" gloomily repeated the man 
 who had started the conversation. "In my 
 opinion the company ought to speak to him. 
 'If you've taken the money, tell us how much 
 and when you'll repay it.' " 
 
 "That will be as the company decides," said 
 Panov, tearing himself away from the pipe. 
 
 "Of course. 'The community is a strong 
 man,' " assented Avdeev, quoting a proverb. 
 
 "There will be oats to buy and boots to get 
 towards spring. The money will be wanted, 
 and what if he's pocketed it!" insisted the dis- 
 satisfied one. 
 
 "I tell you it will be as the company wishes," 
 repeated Panov. "It's not the first time: he 
 takes, and gives back." 
 
 In the Caucasus in those days each company 
 chose men to manage its own commissariat.. 
 They received 6 roubles 50 kopeks a month per
 
 40 HADJI MURAD 
 
 man ^ from the treasury, and catered for the 
 company. They planted cabbages, made hay, 
 had their own carts, and prided themselves on 
 their well-fed horses. The company's money 
 was kept in a chest, of which the commander 
 had the key ; and it often happened that he bor- 
 rowed from the chest. This had just happened 
 again, and that was what the soldiers were 
 talking about. The morose soldier, Nikitin, 
 wished to demand an account from the com- 
 mander, while Panov and Avdeev considered 
 it unnecessary. 
 
 After Panov, Nikitin had a smoke ; and then, 
 spreading his cloak on the ground, sat down on 
 it, leaning against the trunk of the plane tree. 
 The soldiers were silent. Only far above their 
 heads the crowns of the trees rustled in the 
 wind. Suddenly, above this incessant low 
 rustling, rose the howling whining weeping and 
 chuckling of jackals. 
 
 '^Hear those accursed creatures — how they 
 caterwaul!" 
 
 "They're laughing at you because your mug's 
 
 1 About f 1, for at that time the rouble was worth about 
 three shillings.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 41 
 
 all on one side," remarked the high voice of 
 another soldier, a Little Russian. 
 
 All was silent again: only the wind swayed 
 the branches, now revealing and now hiding 
 the stars. 
 
 ''I say, Panov," suddenly asked the cheer- 
 ful Avdeev, ''do you ever feel dull!" 
 
 "Dull, why?" replied Panov reluctantly. 
 
 ''Well, I do feel dull ... so dull some- 
 times that I don't know what I might not be 
 ready to do to myself." 
 
 "There now!" was all Panov replied. 
 
 "That time when I drank all the money, it 
 was from dulness. It took hold of me . . . 
 took hold of me till I thinks to myself, 'I'll just 
 get blind drunk!' " 
 
 "But sometimes drinking makes it still 
 worse." 
 
 "Yes, that's happened to me too. But what 
 is one to do with oneself?" 
 
 "But what makes you feel so dull?" 
 
 "What, me? . . . Why, it's the longing 
 for home." 
 
 "Is yours a wealthy home, then?" 
 
 "No, we weren't wealthy, but things went
 
 42 HADJI MURAD 
 
 properly — we lived well." And Avdeev began 
 to relate what he had already many times told 
 to Panov. 
 
 ''You see, I went as a soldier of mv own free 
 will, instead of my brother," he said. "He 
 has children. They were five in family, and 
 I had only just married. Mother began beg- 
 ging me to go. So I thought, 'Well, maybe 
 they will remember what I've done.' So I went 
 to our proprietor ... he was a good mas- 
 ter, and he said, 'You're a fine fellow, go!' 
 So I went instead of my brother." 
 
 "Well, that was right," said Panov. 
 
 "And 5^et, will you believe me, Panov, if I 
 now feel so dull, it's chiefly because of that? 
 'Why did you go instead of your brother?' I 
 say. 'He's now living like a king over there, 
 while I have to suffer here;' and the more I 
 think the worse I feel. . . . Seems it's 
 just a piece of ill-luck!" 
 
 Avdeev was silent. 
 
 "Perhaps we'd better have another smoke, '^ 
 said he after a pause. 
 
 "Well then, fix it up!" 
 
 But the soldiers were not to have their smoke.
 
 HADJI MURAD 43 
 
 Hardly had Avdeev risen to fix the pipe stem 
 in its place when above the rustling of the 
 trees they heard footsteps along the road. 
 Panov took his gun, and pushed Nikitin with 
 his foot. 
 
 Nikitin rose and picked up his cloak. 
 
 The third soldier, Bondarenko, rose also, and 
 said, — 
 
 ''And I have just dreamt such a dream, 
 mates. . . ." 
 
 "8h!" said Avdeev, and the soldiers held 
 their breath, listening. The footsteps of men 
 not shod in hard boots were heard approaching. 
 Clearer and clearer through the darkness was 
 heard a rustling o'f the fallen leaves and dry 
 twigs. Then came the peculiar guttural tones 
 of Chechen voices. The soldiers now not only 
 heard, but saw two shadows passing through 
 a clear space between the trees. One shadow 
 was taller than the other. When these shad- 
 ows had come in line with the soldiers, Panov, 
 gun in hand, stepped out on to the road, fol- 
 lowed by his comrades. 
 
 ''Who goes there?" cried he. 
 ■Me, friendly Chechen," said the shorter 
 
 ((
 
 44 HADJI MURAD 
 
 one. This was Bata. "Gun, yok!^ . . . 
 sword, yok!" said he, pointing to himself. 
 '^Prince, want!" 
 
 The taller one stood silent beside his com- 
 rade. He, too, was unarmed. 
 
 "He means he's a scout, and wants the 
 colonel," explained Panov to his comrades. 
 
 "Prince Vorontsov . . . much want! 
 Big business!" said Bata. 
 
 ' ' All right, all right ! We '11 take you to him, ' ' 
 said Panov. "I say, you'd better take them," 
 said he to Avdeev, "you and Bondarenko; and 
 when you 've given them up to the officer on duty 
 come back again. Mind," he added, "be care- 
 ful to make them keep in front' of you ! ' ' 
 
 "And what of this?" said Avdeev, moving 
 his gun and bayonet as though stabbing some 
 one. "I'd just give a dig, and let the steam 
 out of him ! ' ' 
 
 "What '11 he be worth when you've stuck 
 him!" remarked Bondarenko. 
 
 "Now, march!" 
 
 When the steps of the two soldiers conduct- 
 
 2 Yok, no, not.
 
 HADJI MURAD 45 
 
 ing the scouts could no longer be heard, Panov 
 and Nikitin returned to their post. 
 
 ''What the devil brings them here at night?" 
 said Nikitin. 
 
 "Seems it's necessary," said Panov. "But 
 it's getting chilly," he added, and, unrolling 
 his cloak, he put it on and sat down by the tree. 
 
 About two hours later Avdeev and Bondar- 
 enko returned. 
 
 "Well, have you handed them over!" 
 
 "Yes. They're not yet asleep at the colonel's 
 — they were taken straight in to him. And do 
 you know, mates, those shaven-headed lads are 
 fine?" continued Avdeev. "Yes, really? What 
 a talk I had with them!" 
 
 "Of course you'd talk," remarked Nikitin 
 disapprovingly. 
 
 "Really, they're just like Russians. One of 
 them is married. 'Molly,' says I, ^harf'^ 
 'Bar/ he says. Bondarenko, didn't I say 'harf 
 'Many harT 'A couple,' says he. A couple! 
 Such a good talk we had ! Such nice fellows ! ' ' 
 
 "Nice, indeed!" said Nikitin. "If you met 
 him alone he'd soon let the guts out of you." 
 
 3 Bar, have.
 
 46 HADJI MURAD 
 
 "It will be getting light before long," said 
 Panov. 
 
 "Yes, the stars are beginning to go out," said 
 Avdeev, sitting down and making himself com- 
 fortable. 
 
 And the soldiers were again silent.
 
 Ill 
 
 The windows of the barracks and of the sol- 
 diers' houses had long been dark in the fort; 
 but there was still light in the windows of the 
 best house there. 
 
 In it lived Prince Simon Mikhailovich Vor- 
 ontsov, commander of the Kurin Regiment, an 
 imperial aide-de-camp, and son of the com- 
 mander-in-chief. Vorontsov lived with his wife, 
 Mary Vasilevna, a famous Petersburg beauty, 
 and lived in this little Caucasian fort more lux- 
 uriously than any one had ever lived there be- 
 fore. To Vorontsov, and especially to his wife, 
 it seemed that they were not only living a very 
 modest life, but one full of privations; while 
 to the inhabitants of the place their luxury was 
 surprising and extraordinary. 
 
 Now at midnight, in the spacious drawing- 
 room with its carpeted floor, its rich curtains 
 drawn across the windows, at a card table lit 
 by four candles, sat the hosts and their vis- 
 itors, playing cards. One of the players was 
 
 47
 
 48 HADJI MURAD 
 
 Vorontsov himself: a long-faced, fair-haired 
 colonel, wearing the initials and gold cords of 
 an aide-de-camp. His partner — a graduate of 
 Petersburg University, whom the Princess Vor- 
 ontsov had lately had sent out as tutor to her 
 little son (born of her first marriage )-^was a 
 shaggy young man of gloomy appearance. 
 Against them played two officers: one a broad 
 and red-faced man, Poltoratsky, a company 
 commander, who had exchanged out of the 
 guards ; and the other, the regimental adjutant, 
 a man with a cold expression on his handsome 
 face, who sat very straight on his chair. 
 
 The princess, Mary Vasilevna, the large- 
 built large-eyed and black-browed beauty, sat 
 beside Poltoratsky (her crinoline touching his 
 legs) and looked over his cards. In her words, 
 her looks, and her smile, in her perfume and in 
 every movement of her body, there was some- 
 thing that reduced Poltoratsky to obliviousness 
 of everything except a consciousness of her 
 nearness; and he made blunder after blunder, 
 trying his partner's temper more and more. 
 
 ''No . . . that's too bad! You've again 
 wasted an ace," said the regimental Adjutant,
 
 HADJI MURAD 49 
 
 flushing all over, as Poltoratsky threw out an 
 ace. 
 
 PoltorAtsky uncomprehendingly — as though 
 he had just awoke — turned his kindly, wide-set 
 black eyes towards the dissatisfied Adjutant. 
 
 ''Do forgive him!" said Mary Vasilevna, 
 smiling. "There, you seel Didn't I tell you 
 so?" she went on, turning to Poltoratsky. 
 
 "But that's not at all what you said," replied 
 Poltoratsky, smiling. 
 
 "Wasn't it?" she replied, also smiling; and 
 this answering smile excited and delighted Pol- 
 toratsky to such a degree that he blushed crim- 
 son, and seizing the cards began to shuffle. 
 
 "It isn't your turn to deal," said the Ad- 
 jutant sternly, and with his white ringed hand 
 he himself began to deal as though he only 
 wished to get rid of the cards as quickly as 
 possible. 
 
 The Prince's valet entered the drawing- 
 room, and announced that the officer on duty 
 wanted the Prince. 
 
 "Excuse me, gentlemen," said the Prince, 
 speaking Eussian with an English accent. 
 "Will you take my place, Marie?"
 
 50 HADJI MURAD 
 
 ''Do you all agree?" asked the Princess, ris- 
 ing quickly and lighlly to her full height, 
 rustling with her silks, and smiling the radiant 
 smile of a happy woman. 
 
 "I always agree to everything," replied the 
 Adjutant, very pleased that the Princess — who 
 could not play at all — was now going to play 
 against him. 
 
 Poltoratsky only spread out his hands and 
 smiled. 
 
 The rubber was nearly finished when the 
 Prince returned to the drawing-room. He 
 came back animated and very pleased. 
 
 *'Do you know what I propose?" 
 
 ''What is it?" 
 
 *'Let us have some champagne." 
 
 "I am always ready for that," said Poltor- 
 dtsky. 
 
 ' ' Wliy not ? We shall be delighted ! ' ' said the 
 Adjutant. 
 
 "Vasily! bring some!" said the Prince. 
 
 "What did they want you for?" asked Mary 
 Vasilevna. 
 
 "It was the officer on duty, and another 
 
 man. ' '
 
 HADJI MUR AD 51 
 
 <<■ 
 
 Who? What about?" asked Mary Vasil- 
 evna quickly. 
 
 ^'I mustn't say," said Vorontsov, shrugging 
 his shoulders. 
 
 "You mustn't say!" repeated Mary Vasi'l- 
 evna. "We'll see about that." 
 
 When the champagne was brought, each of 
 the visitors drank a glass ; and, having finished 
 the game and settled the scores, they began to 
 take their leave. 
 
 "Is it your company that's ordered to the 
 forest to-morrow I" the Prince asked Poltor- 
 ^tsky as they said good-bye. 
 
 "Yes, mine . . . why?" 
 
 "Oh, then we'll meet to-morrow," said the 
 Prince, slightly smiling. 
 
 "Very pleased," replied Poltoratsky, not 
 quite understanding what Vorontsov was saying 
 to him, and preoccupied only by the thought 
 that he would in a minute be pressing Mary 
 Vasilevna's hand. 
 
 Mary Vasilevna, according to her wont, not 
 only firmly pressed his hand, but shook it vig- 
 orously; and again reminding him of his mis- 
 take in playing diamonds, she gave him what
 
 52 HADJI MURAD 
 
 appeared to Poltoratsky to be a delightful af- 
 fectionate and meaning smile. 
 
 Poltoratsky went home in an ecstatic condi- 
 tion only to be understood by people like him- 
 self who, having grown up and been educated 
 in society, meet a woman belonging to their 
 own circle after months of isolated military life, 
 and, moreover, a woman like the Princess Vor- 
 ontsov. 
 
 When he reached the little house in which he 
 and his comrade lived he pushed the door, but 
 it was locked. He knocked, but still the door 
 was not opened. He felt vexed, and began 
 banging the door with his foot and his sword. 
 Then he heard a sound of footsteps, and Vovilo 
 — a domestic serf belonging to Poltoratsky — 
 undid the cabin-hook which fastened the door. 
 
 ''What do you mean by locking yourself in, 
 blockhead?" 
 
 ''But how is it possible, sir . . . ?" 
 
 "You're tipsy again! I'll show you how 'it 
 is possible!' " and Poltoratsky was about to 
 strike Vovilo, but changed his mind. "Well, go 
 to the devil ! . . . Light a candle. ' '
 
 HADJI MURAD 53 
 
 *'In a minute." 
 
 Vovilo was really tipsy. He had been drink- 
 ing at the Name's-Day party of the ordnance- 
 sergeant. On returning home he began com- 
 paring his life with that of the latter, Ivan Pet- 
 rovich. Ivan Petrovich had a salary, was mar- 
 ried, and hoped in a year's time to get his dis- 
 charge. 
 
 Vovilo had been taken *'np" when a boy; 
 that is, he had been taken into his owner's 
 household service; and now he was already over 
 forty, was not married, and lived a campaign- 
 ing life with his harum-scarum young master. 
 He was a good master, who seldom struck him; 
 but what kind of a life was it? ''He promised 
 to free me when we return from the Caucasus, 
 but where am I to go with my freedom ? . . . 
 It's a dog's life!" thought Vovilo; and he felt 
 so sleepy that, afraid lest some one should come 
 in and steal something, he fastened the hook 
 of the door and fell asleep. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 Poltoriitsky entered his bedroom, which he 
 shared with his comrade Tikhonof.
 
 54 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 "Well, have you lost?" asked Tikhonof, wak- 
 ing up. 
 
 '*As it happens, I've not. I've won seven- 
 teen roubles, and we drank a bottle of Cliquot!" 
 
 **And you've looked at Mary Vasilevna?" 
 
 *'Yes, and I've looked at Mary Vasilevna," 
 repeated Poltoratsky. 
 
 *'It will soon be time to get up," said Tik- 
 honof. "We are to start at six." 
 
 "Vovilo!" shouted Poltoratsky, "see that 
 you wake me up properly to-morrow at five!" 
 
 "How's one to wake you, if you fight?" 
 
 "I tell you you're to wake me! Do you 
 hear?" 
 
 "All right." Vovilo went out, taking Pol- 
 toratsky 's boots and clothes with him. Pol- 
 toratsky^ got into bed, and smiling, smoked a 
 cigarette and put out his candle. In the dark 
 he saw before him the smiling face of Mary 
 Vasilevna. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 The Vorontsovs did not go to bed at once. 
 When the visitors had left, Mary Vasilevna 
 went up to her husband, and standing in front 
 of him, said severely, —
 
 HADJI MUR AD 55 
 
 ^'Eli hien! Voiis allez me dire ce que c'est." ' 
 
 ''Mais, ma chere." 
 
 ''Pas de 'ma chere'! C'etait un emissaire, 
 n'est ce pasf" 
 
 "Qitand meme, je ne puis pas vous le dire." 
 
 "Vous ne pouvez pasf Alors, c'est moi qui 
 vais vous le dire!" 
 
 "Vous?" 
 
 "It was Hadji Murad, wasn't it?" said Mary 
 Vasileviia, who had for some days past heard 
 of the negotiations, and thought that Hadji 
 Murad himself had been to see her liusband. 
 Vorontsov could not altogether deny this, but 
 disappointed her by saying that it was not 
 Hadji Murad himself but only an emissary to 
 announce that Hadji Murad would come to 
 meet him next day, at the spot where a wood- 
 cutting expedition had been arranged. 
 
 In the monotonous life of the fortress, the 
 
 1 "Well, now ! You're going to tell me what it's all 
 
 about . . ." 
 
 "But, my dear . . ." 
 
 "Don't 'my dear' me! It was an emissary, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Well, supposing it was. still I must not tell you." 
 
 "You must not? Well, then, it's I who will tell 
 
 you . . ." 
 "You?"
 
 56 HADJI MURAD 
 
 young Vorontsovs — ^both husband and wife — 
 were glad of this occurrence; and when, after 
 speaking of the pleasure the news would give 
 his father, they went to bed, it was already past 
 two o'clock.
 
 IV 
 
 After the three sleepless nights he had passed 
 flying from the murids Shamil sent to capture 
 him, Hadji Murad fell asleep as soon as Sado, 
 having bid him good-night, had gone out of the 
 sciklya. He slept fully dressed, with his head 
 on his hand, his elbow sinking deep into the 
 red down-cushions his host had arranged for 
 him. 
 
 At a little distance, by the wall, slept Eldar. 
 He lay on his back, his strong young limbs 
 stretched out so that his high chest with the 
 black cartridge-pouches sewn into the front of 
 his white Circassian coat was higher than his 
 freshly-shaven blue-gleaming head, which had 
 rolled off the pillow and was thrown back. His 
 upper lip, on which a little soft down was just 
 appearing, pouted like a child's, now contract- 
 ing and now expanding, as though he were 
 sipping something. He, like Hadji Murad, 
 slept with pistol and dagger in his belt. The 
 
 57
 
 58 HADJI MURAD 
 
 sticks in the grate burnt low, and a nightlight 
 in the niche in the wall gleamed faintly. 
 
 In the middle of the night the floor of the 
 guest-chamber creaked, and Hadji Murad im- 
 mediately rose, putting his hand to his pistol. 
 Sado entered treading softly on the earthen 
 floor. 
 
 "What is itr' asked Hadji Murad, as if he 
 had not been asleep at all. 
 
 **We must think," replied Sado, squatting 
 down in front of him, ''A woman from her 
 roof saw j^ou arrive, and told her husband ; and 
 now the whole aoul knows. A neighbour has 
 just been to tell my wife that the Elders have 
 assembled in the mosque, and want to detain 
 you." 
 
 ' ' I must be off ! " said Hadji Mur.^d. 
 
 "The horses are saddled," said Sado, quickly 
 leaving the suMya. 
 
 "Eldar!" whispered Hadji Murad; and El- 
 d^r, hearing his name, and above all his mas- 
 ter's voice, leapt to his feet, setting straight 
 his cap. 
 
 Hadji Murad donned his weapons and then 
 his hurka. Eldar did the same; and they both
 
 HADJIMURAD 59 
 
 went silently out of the saklya into the pent- 
 house. The black-eyed boy brought their 
 horses. Hearing the clatter of hoofs on the 
 hard beaten road, some one stuck his head out 
 of the door of a neighbourng sdhlya, and, clat- 
 tering with his wooden shoes, a man ran up the 
 hill towards the mosque. There was no moon, 
 but the stars shone brightly in the black sky, 
 so that the outlines of the saklya roofs could 
 be seen in the darkness, and rising above the 
 other buildings, the mosque with its minarets 
 in the upper part of the village. From the 
 mosque came a hum of voices. 
 
 Hadji Murad, quickly seizing his gun, placed 
 his foot in the narrow stirrup, and, silently and 
 easily throwing his body across, swung himself 
 on to the high cushion of the saddle. 
 
 "May God reward you!" he said, address- 
 ing his host, while his right foot felt instinc- 
 tively for the stirrup, and with his whip he 
 lightly touched the lad who held his horse, as 
 a sign that he should let go. The boy stepped 
 aside; and the horse, as if it knew what it had 
 to do, started at a brisk pace down the lane 
 towards the principal street. Eld^r rode be-
 
 60 HADJI MURAD 
 
 hind him. Sado in his sheepskin followed al- 
 most running, swinging his arms, and crossing 
 now to one side and now to the other of the 
 narrow side-street. At the place where the 
 streets met, first one moving shadow and then 
 another appeared in the road. 
 
 ''Stop . . . who's that? Stop!" shouted 
 a voice, and several men blocked the path. 
 
 Instead of stopping, Hadji Murad drew his 
 pistol from his belt, and increasing his speed 
 rode straight at those who blocked the way. 
 They separated, and Hadji Muriid without 
 looking round started down the road at a swift 
 canter. Eldar followed him at a sharp trot. 
 Two shots cracked behind them, and two bul- 
 lets whistled past without hitting either Hadji 
 Murad or Eldar. Hadji Murad continued rid- 
 ing at the same pace, but having gone some 
 three hundred yards, he stopped his slightly 
 panting horse, and listened. 
 
 In front of him, lower down, gurgled rapidly 
 running water. Behind him, in the aoul, cocks 
 crowed, answering one another. Above these 
 sounds he heard behind him the approaching 
 tramp of horses, and the voices of several men.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 61 
 
 Hadji Murad touched his liorse and rode on at 
 an even pace. Those behind him galloped and 
 soon overtook him. They were some twenty 
 mounted men, inhabitants of the aoiil, who had 
 decided to detain Hadji Murad, or at least to 
 make a show of detaining him in order to jus- 
 tify themselves in Shamil's eyes. When they 
 came near enough to be seen in the darkness, 
 Hadji Murad stopped, let go his bridle, and 
 with an accustomed movement of his left hand 
 unbuttoned the cover of his rifle, which he drew 
 forth with his right. Eldar did the same. 
 
 ''What do you want?" cried Hadji Murad. 
 ''Do you wish to take me! . . . Take me, 
 then!" and he raised his rifle. The men from 
 the aoiil stopped, and Hadji Murad, rifle in 
 hand, rode down into the ravine. The mounted 
 men followed him, but did not draw any nearer. 
 When Hadji Murad had crossed to the other 
 side of the ravine, the men shouted to him that 
 he should hear what they had to say. In re- 
 ply he fired his rifle and put his horse to a 
 gallop. When he reined it in, his pursuers were 
 no longer within hearing, and the crowing of 
 the cocks could also no longer be heard; only
 
 62 HADJI MURAD 
 
 the mnrmnr of the water in the forest sounded 
 more distinctly, and now and then came the cry 
 of an owl. The black wall of forest appeared 
 quite close. It was in this forest that his 
 murids awaited him. 
 
 On reaching it Hadji Murad paused, and 
 drawing much air into his lungs, he whistled 
 and then listened silently. The next minute he 
 was answered by a similar whistle from the 
 forest. Hadji Murad turned from the road and 
 entered it. When he had gone about a hun- 
 dred paces, he saw among the trunks of the 
 trees a bonfire, and the shadows of some men 
 sitting round it, and, half lit-up by the fire- 
 light, a hobbled horse which was saddled. Four 
 men were seated by the fire. 
 
 One of them rose quickly, and coming up to 
 Hadji Muriid took hold of his bridle and 
 stirrup. This was Hadji Murad 's sworn 
 brother, who managed his household affairs for 
 him. 
 
 "Put out the fire," said Hadji Murad, dis- 
 mounting. 
 
 The men began scattering the pile, and tram- 
 pling on the burning branches.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 63 
 
 "Has Bata been here?" asked Hadji Mur^d, 
 moving- towards a hurka that was spread on 
 the ground. 
 
 ''Yes, he went away long ago, with Khan 
 Mahomtl'^ 
 
 ' ' Which way did they go ? " 
 
 "That way," answered Khanefi, pointing in 
 the opposite direction to that from which Hadji 
 Murad had come. 
 
 "All right," said Hadji Murad, and unsling- 
 ing his rifle he began to load it. 
 
 "We must take care — I have been pursued," 
 said Hadji Murad to a man who was putting 
 out the fire. 
 
 He was Gamzalo, a Chechen. Gamzalo ap- 
 proached the hurka, took up a rifle that lay on 
 it- wrapped in its cover, and without a word 
 .went to that side of the glade from which Hadji 
 Murad had come. 
 
 Eldar, when he had dismounted, took Hadji 
 Murad's horse; and having reined up both 
 horses' heads high, tied them to two trees. 
 Then he shouldered his rifle, as Gamziilo had 
 done, and went to the other side of the glade. 
 The bonfire was extinguished, the forest no
 
 64 HADJI MURAD 
 
 longer looked so black as before, and in the sky 
 the stars shone, though but faintly. 
 
 Lifting his eyes to the stars, and seeing that 
 the Pleiades had already risen half-way up the 
 sky, Hadji Murad calculated that it must be 
 long past midnight, and that his nightly prayer 
 was long overdue. He asked Khaneti for a 
 ewer (they always carried one in their packs), 
 and putting on his hurka he went to the water. 
 
 Having taken off his shoes and performed his 
 ablutions, Hadji Murad stepped on to the hurka 
 with bare feet, and then squatted down on his 
 calves, and having first placed his fingers in 
 his ears and closed his eyes, he turned to the 
 south and recited the usual prayer. 
 
 When he had finished he returned to the 
 place where the saddle-bags lay, and sitting- 
 down on the hurka he leant his elbows on his 
 knees and bowed his head, and fell into deep 
 thought. 
 
 Hadji Murad always had great faith in his 
 own fortune. When planning anything he felt 
 in advance firmly convinced of success, and 
 fate smiled on him. It was so, with a few rare 
 exceptions, during the whole course of his 
 stormy military life; and so he hoped it would
 
 HADJI MURAD 65 
 
 be now. He pictured to himself how — with the 
 army Vorontsov would place at his disposal — 
 he would march against Shamil and take him 
 prisoner, and revenge himself on him ; and how 
 the Russian Tsar would reward him, and he 
 would again rule over not only Avaria, but also 
 over the whole of Chechnya, which would sub- 
 mit to him. With these thoughts he fell asleep 
 before he was aware of it. 
 
 He dreamt how he and his brave followers 
 rushed at Shamil, with songs and with the cry, 
 ''Hadji Murad is coming!" and how they 
 seized him and his wives, and he heard the 
 wives crying and sobbing. He woke up. The 
 song, Lya-il-allysha, and the cry, ''Hadji Murad 
 is coming!" and the weeping of Shamil's wives, 
 was the howling weeping and laughter of jack- 
 als that awoke him. Hadji Murad lifted his 
 head, glanced at the sky which seen between the 
 trunks of the trees was already getting light 
 in the east, and inquired after Khan Mahonui 
 of a murid who sat at some distance from him. 
 On hearing that Khan Mahoma had not yet re- 
 turned, Hadji Murad again bowed his head and 
 fell asleep at once. 
 
 He was awakened by the merry voice of Khan
 
 66 HADJI MURAD 
 
 Mahoma, returning from his mission with Bata. 
 Khan Mahoma at once sat down beside Hadji 
 Murad, and told him how the soldiers had met 
 them and had led them to the Prince himself; 
 and how pleased the Prince was, and how he 
 promised to meet them in the morning, where 
 the Russians would be felling trees beyond the 
 Mitchik, in the Shalin glade. Bata interrupted 
 his fellow-envoy to add details of his own. 
 
 Hadji Murad asked particularly for the words 
 with which Vorontsov had answered his offer 
 to go over to the Russians ; and Khan Mahoma 
 and Bata replied with one voice that the Prince 
 promised to receive Hadji Murad as a guest, 
 and to act so that it should be well for him. 
 
 Then Hadji Murad questioned them about 
 the road, and when Khan Mahoma assured 
 him that he knew the way well, and would con- 
 duct him straight to the spot, Hadji Murad 
 took out some money and gave Bata the prom- 
 ised three roubles; and he ordered his men to 
 take out of the saddle-bags his gold-ornamented 
 weapons and his turban, and to clean them- 
 selves up so as to look well when they arrived 
 among the Russians.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 67 
 
 While they cleaned their weapons, harness 
 
 and horses, the stars faded away; it became 
 
 quite light, and an ^arly morning breeze 
 sprang up.
 
 Eablt in the morainsr, ^hile it ^vas still dark. 
 tvro companies, carrying axes and commanded 
 hv Poltoratskv, marched six miles bevond the 
 Shahgirinsk Gate, and having thrown out a line 
 of sharpshooters, set to work to fell trees as 
 soon as the day broke. Towards eight o'clock 
 the mist which had mingled with the perfnmed 
 smoke of the hissing and crackling damp green 
 branches on the bonfires began to rise, and the 
 wood-fellers — who till then had not seen five 
 paces off, but had only heard one another — 
 began to se£ both the bonfires and the road 
 through the forest, blocked with fallen trees. 
 The sun now appeared like a bright spot in the 
 fog, and now again was hidden. 
 
 In the glade, some way from the road. Pol- 
 toratsky, and his subaltern Tikhonof. two of- 
 ficers of the 3rd Company, and Baron Freze, 
 an ex-of&cer of the Guards who had been re- 
 duced to the ranks for a duel, a fellow-student 
 of Poltoratskv's at the Cadet College, were sit- 
 
 68
 
 HADJI MUR AD 69 
 
 ting on (Irnm^. Bits of pajier that had con- 
 tained food, cigarette stumps, and empty bot- 
 tles hiy scattered round the drums. The of- 
 ficers had had some vodka, and were now eating, 
 and drinking porter. A drummer was uncork- 
 ing their third bottle. 
 
 Poltoratsky, although he had not had enough 
 sleep, was in that peculiar state of elation and 
 kindly careless gaiety which he always felt 
 when he found himself among his soldiers and 
 with his comrades, where there was a possi- 
 bility of danger. 
 
 The officers were carrying on an animated 
 conversation, the subject of which was the latest 
 news: the death of General Sleptsov. Xone of 
 them saw in this death that most important 
 moment of a life — its termination and return 
 to the source whence it sprang — but they only 
 saw in it the valour of a gallant officer, who 
 rushed at the mountaineers sword in hand and 
 desperately hacked them. 
 
 Though all of them — and especially those who 
 had been in action — knew and could not help 
 knowing that never in those days in the Cau- 
 casus, nor in fact auv^vhere. nor at any time.
 
 70 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 did such hand-to-band hacking as is always 
 imagined and described take place (or if hack- 
 ing with swords and bayonets ever does take 
 place, it is only those who are running away 
 that get hacked), that fiction of hand-to-hand 
 fighting endowed them with the calm pride and 
 cheerfulness with which they sat on drums 
 (some with a jaunty air, others on the contrary 
 in a very modest pose), drank and joked with- 
 out troubling about death, which might over- 
 take them at any moment as it had overtaken 
 Sleptsov. And, as if to confirm their expecta- 
 tions, in the midst of their talk, they heard to 
 the left of the road the pleasing stirring sound 
 of a rifle-shot; and a bullet, merrily whistling 
 somewhere in the misty air, flew past and 
 crashed into a tree. 
 
 "Hullo!" exclaimed Poltoratsky in a merry 
 voice; "why, that's at our line. . . . There 
 now, Kostya," and he turned to Freze, "now's 
 your chance. Go back to the company. I will 
 lead the whole company to support the cordon, 
 and we'll arrange a battle that will be simply 
 delightful . . . and then we'll make a re- 
 port."
 
 HADJI MURAD 71 
 
 Freze jumped to his feet and went at a quick 
 pace towards the smoke-enveloped spot where 
 he had left his company. 
 
 Poltoratsky's little Kabarda dapple-bay was 
 brought to him, and he mounted and drew up 
 his company, and led it in the direction whence 
 the shots were fired. The outposts stood on the 
 skirts of the forest, in front of the bare de- 
 scending slope of a ravine. The wind was 
 blowing in the direction of the forest, and not 
 only was it possible to see the slope of the 
 ravine, but the opposite side of it was also dis- 
 tinctly visible. When Poltor^tsky rode up to 
 the line, the sun came out from behind the mist; 
 and on the other side of the ravine, by the out- 
 skirts of a young forest, at the distance of a 
 quarter of a mile, a few horsemen became vis- 
 ible. They were the Chechens who had pur- 
 sued Hadji Murad and wanted to see him meet 
 the Russians. One of them fired at the line. 
 Several soldiers fired back. The Chechens re- 
 treated, and the firing ceased. 
 
 But when Poltoratsky and his company came 
 up, he nevertheless gave orders to fire; and 
 scarcely had the word been passed, when along
 
 72 HADJI MURAD 
 
 the whole line of sharpshooters started the in- 
 cessant, merry, stirring rattle of our rifles, ac- 
 companied by pretty dissolving cloudlets of 
 smoke. The soldiers, pleased to have some dis- 
 traction, hastened to load, and fired shot after 
 shot. The Chechens evidently caught the feel- 
 ing of excitement, and leaping forward one 
 after another, fired a few shots at our men. 
 One of these shots wounded a soldier. It was 
 that same Avdeev who had lain in ambush the 
 night before. 
 
 When his comrades approached him he was 
 lying prone, holding his wounded stomach with 
 both hands, and rocking himself with a rhyth- 
 mic motion, moaned softly. He belonged to 
 Poltor^tsky's company, and Poltoratsky, see- 
 ing a group of soldiers collected, rode up to 
 them. 
 
 "What is it, lad? Been hit?" said Poltor- 
 atsky. ''Where?" 
 
 Avdeev did not answer. 
 
 ''I was just going to load, your honour, when 
 I heard a click," said a soldier who had been 
 with Avdeev; "and I look, and see he's dropped 
 his gun."
 
 HADJI MUR AD 73 
 
 ''Tut, tut, tut!" PoltorMsky clicked his 
 tongue. ''Does it hurt much, Avdeev?" 
 
 "It doesn't hurt, but it stops me walking. A 
 drop of vodka now, your honour!" 
 
 Some vodka (or rather the spirits drunk by 
 the soldiers in the Caucasus) was found, and 
 Panov, severely frowning, brought Avdeev a 
 can-lid full. Avdeev tried to drink it, but im- 
 mediately handed back the lid. 
 
 "My soul turns against it," he said. "Drink 
 it yourself." 
 
 Panov drank up the spirit. 
 
 Avdeev raised himself, but sank back at 
 once. They spread out a cloak and laid him 
 on it. 
 
 "Your honour, the colonel is coming," said 
 the sergeant-major to Poltoratsky. 
 
 "All right. Then will you see to him?" said 
 Poltoratsky: and, flourishing his whip, he rode 
 at a fast trot to meet Vorontsov. 
 
 Vorontsov was riding his thoroughbred Eng- 
 lish chestnut gelding, and was accompanied by 
 the adjutant, a Cossack, and a Chechen inter- 
 preter. 
 
 "What's happening here?" asked Vorontsov.
 
 74 HADJI MURAD 
 
 <(' 
 
 'Why, a skirmishing party attacked our ad- 
 vanced line," Poltoratsky answered. 
 
 "Come, come; you've arranged the whole 
 thing yourself!" 
 
 *'0h no. Prince, not I," said Poltoratsky with 
 a smile; ''they pushed forward of their own 
 accord." 
 
 ''I hear a soldier has been wounded?" 
 
 ''Yes, it's a great pity. He's a good sol- 
 dier. ' ' 
 
 "Seriously?" 
 
 "Seriously, I believe ... in the stom- 
 ach." 
 
 "And do you know where I am going?" Vor- 
 ontsov asked. 
 
 "I don't." 
 
 "Can't you guess!" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Hadji Murad has surrendered, and we are 
 now going to meet him. ' ' 
 
 "You don't mean to say so?" 
 
 "His envoy came to me yesterday," said 
 Vorontsov, with difficulty repressing a smile of 
 joy. "He will be waiting for me at the Shalin 
 glade in a few minutes. Place sharpshooters
 
 HADJI MURAD 75 
 
 as far as the glade, and then come and join me." 
 "J understand," said Poltoratsky, lifting his 
 hand to his cap, and rode back to his company. 
 He led the sharpshooters to the right himself, 
 and ordered the sergeant-major to do the same 
 on the left side. 
 
 The wounded Avdeev had meanwhile been 
 taken back to the fort by some of the soldiers. 
 On his way back to rejoin Vorontsov, Poltor- 
 atsky noticed behind him several horsemen who 
 were overtaking him. In front, on a white- 
 maned horse, rode a man of imposing appear- 
 ance. He wore a turban, and carried weapons 
 with gold ornaments. This man was Hadji 
 Murad. He approached Poltoratsky and said 
 something to him in Tartar. Raising his eye- 
 brows, Poltoratsky made a gesture with his 
 arms to show that he did not understand, and 
 smiled. Hadji Murad gave him smile for smile, 
 and that smile struck Poltoriitsky by its child- 
 like kindliness. Poltoratsky had never ex- 
 pected to see the terrible mountain chief look 
 like that. He expected to see a morose, hard- 
 featured man ; and here was a vivacious person, 
 whose smile was so kindly that Poltoriltsky felt
 
 76 HADJI MUEAD 
 
 as if he were an old acquaintance. He had but 
 one peculiarity: his eyes, set wide apart, gazed 
 from under their black brows attentively, pene- 
 tratingly and calmly into the eyes of others. 
 
 Hadji Murad's suite consisted of five men. 
 Among them was Khan Mahoma, who had been 
 to see Prince Vorontsov that night. He was a 
 rosy, round-faced fellow, with black lashless 
 eyes and a beaming expression, full of the joy 
 of life. Then there was the Avar Khanefi, a 
 thick-set, hairy man, whose eyebrows were 
 joined. He was in charge of all Hadji Murad's 
 property, and led a stud-bred horse which car- 
 ried tightl^'-jiacked saddle-bags. Two men of 
 the suite were particularly striking. The first 
 was a Lesghian : a youth, broad-shouldered, but 
 with a waist as slim as a woman's, a brown 
 beard just appearing on his face, and beautiful 
 ram-like eyes. This was Eldar. The other, 
 GamzAlo, was a Chechen, blind in one eye, 
 without eyebrows or eyelashes, with a short red 
 beard, and a scar across his nose and face. 
 Poltoratsky pointed out to Hadji Murdd, Vor- 
 ontsov, who had just appeared on the road. 
 Hadji Murdd rode to meet him, and, putting
 
 HADJI MUEAD 77 
 
 his right hand on his heart, said something in 
 Tartar, and stopped. The Chechen interpreter 
 translated. 
 
 ''He says, 'I surrender myself to the will of 
 the Russian Tsar. I wish to serve him,' he 
 says. 'I wished to do so long ago, but Shamil 
 would not let me.' " 
 
 Having heard what the interpreter said, Vor- 
 ontsov stretched out his hand in its wash- 
 leather glove to Hadji Murad. Hadji Murad 
 looked at it hesitatingly for a moment, and then 
 pressed it firmly, again saying something, and 
 looking first at the interpreter and then at Vor- 
 ontsov. 
 
 ''He says he did not wish to surrender to 
 any one but you, as you are the son of the Sir- 
 dar, and he respects you much." 
 
 Vorontsov nodded to express his thanks. 
 Hadji Murad again said something, pointing to 
 his suite. 
 
 "He says that these men, his henchmen, will 
 serve the Russians as well as he." 
 
 Vorontsov turned towards them, and nodded 
 to them too. The merry, black-eyed, lashless 
 Chechen, Khan Malioma, also nodded, and said
 
 78 HADJI MURAD 
 
 something which was probably amusing, for 
 the hairy Avar drew his lips into a smile, show- 
 ing his ivory-white teeth. But the red-haired 
 Gamzalo's one red eye just glanced at Voront- 
 sov and then was again fixed on the ears of his 
 horse. 
 
 When Vorontsov and Hadji Murad with their 
 retinues rode back to the fort, the soldiers, re- 
 leased from the lines, gathered in groups and 
 made their own comments. 
 
 ''What a number of souls the damned fellow 
 has destroyed ! And now see what a fuss they 
 will make of him!" 
 
 ''Naturally. He was Shamil's right hand, 
 and now — no fear!" 
 
 "Still there's no denying it! he's a fine fel- 
 low — a regular dzhigitr' ^ 
 
 "And the red one! The red one squints at 
 you like a beast!" 
 
 "Ugh! He must be a hound!" 
 
 They had all specially noticed the red one. 
 Where the wood-felling was going on, the sol- 
 diers nearest to the road ran out to look. Their 
 
 1 Among the Chechens, a dshir/it is the same as a brave 
 among the Indians, but the word is inseparably connected 
 with the idea of sliilful horsemanship.
 
 HADJI MURAD 79 
 
 officer shouted to them, but Vorontsov stopped 
 him. 
 
 ''Let them have a look at their old friend." 
 ''You know who that is?" asked Vorontsov, 
 turning to the nearest soldier, and speaking 
 the words slowly with his English accent. 
 "No, your Excellency." 
 "Hadji Murad. . . . Heard of him?" 
 "How could we help it, your Excellency? 
 We've beaten him many a time!" 
 
 "Yes, and we've had it hot from him, too." 
 "Yes, that's right, your Excellency," an- 
 swered the soldier, pleased to be talking with 
 his chief. 
 
 Hadji Murad understood that they were 
 speaking about him, and smiled brightly with 
 his eyes. 
 
 Vorontsov, in the most cheerful mood, re- 
 turned to the fort.
 
 VI 
 
 Young Vorontsov was much pleased that it was 
 he, and not any one else, who had succeeded in 
 winning over and receiving Hadji Murad — next 
 to ShamiyRussia 's chief and most active enemy. 
 There was just one unpleasant thing about it: 
 General Meller-Zakomelsky was in command of 
 the army in Vozdvizhensk, and the whole affair 
 ought to have been carried out through him; 
 and as Vorontsov had done everything himself 
 without reporting it, there might be some un- 
 pleasantness; and this thought somewhat in- 
 terfered with his satisfaction. On reaching his 
 house he entrusted Hadji Murad 's henchmen 
 to the regimental adjutant, and himself showed 
 Hadji Murad into the house. 
 
 Princess Mary Vasilevna, elegantly dressed 
 and smiling, and her little son, a handsome 
 curly-headed, six-year-old boy, met Hadji 
 Murad in the drawing-room. The latter placed 
 
 his hands on his heart, and through the inter- 
 so
 
 HADJI MURAD 81 
 
 preter — who had entered with him — said with 
 solemnity that he regarded himself as the 
 Prince's kunak, since the Prince had brought 
 him into his own house; and that a kundk's 
 whole family was as sacred as the kundk him- 
 self. 
 
 Hadji Murad's appearance and manners 
 pleased Mary Vasilevna; and the fact that he 
 flushed when she held out her large white hand 
 to him, inclined her still more in his favour. 
 She invited him to sit down ; and having asked 
 him whether he drank coffee, had some served 
 up. He, however, declined it when it came. He 
 understood a little Russian, but could not speak 
 it. When something was said which he could 
 not understand he smiled, and his smile pleased 
 Mary Vasilevna, just as it had pleased Pol- 
 toratsky. The curly-headed, keen-eyed little 
 boy (whom his mother called Bulka) standing 
 beside her did not take his eyes off Hadji 
 Murad, whom he had always heard spoken of as 
 a great warrior. 
 
 Leaving Hadji Murad with his wife, Voron- 
 tsov went to his office to do what was necessary 
 about reporting the fact of Hadji Murad's hav-
 
 82 HADJI MURAD 
 
 ing come over to the Russians. When he had 
 written a report to the general in command of 
 the left flank — General Kozlovsky — at Grozny, 
 and a letter to his father, Vorontsov hnrried 
 home, afraid that his wife might be vexed with 
 him for forcing on her this terrible stranger, 
 who had to be treated in such a way that he 
 should not take offence, and yet not too kindly. 
 But his fears were needless. Hadji Munid was 
 sitting in an armchair with little Bulka, Voron- 
 tsov 's stepson, on his knee; and with bent head 
 was listening attentively to the interpreter, who 
 was translating to him the words of the laugh- 
 ing Mary Vasilevna. Mary Vasilevna was tell- 
 ing him that if every time a kiindk admired 
 anything of his he made him a present of it, he 
 would soon have to about like Adam . . . 
 
 When the Prince entered, Hadji Murad rose 
 at once, and surprising and otfending Bulka by 
 putting him off his knee, changed the playful 
 expression of his face to a stern and serious 
 one; and he only sat down again when Voron- 
 tsov had himself taken a seat. 
 
 Continuing the conversation, he answered 
 Mary Vasilevna by telling her that it was a law
 
 HADJI MUR AD 83 
 
 among his people that anything your kiimik 
 admired must be presented to him. 
 
 "Thy son, lundk!" he said in Russian, pat- 
 ting the curly head of the boy, who had again 
 climbed on his knee. 
 
 "He is delightful, your brigand!" said Mary 
 Vasilevna, to her husband in French. "Bulka 
 has ])een admiring his dagger, and he has given 
 it to him." 
 
 Bulka showed the dagger to his father. 
 *'C'est mi ohjet de prix!" ' added she. 
 
 "II faudni trouver V occasion de lui faire ca- 
 dean,"'-^ said Vorontsov. 
 
 Hadji Murad, his eyes turned down, sat strok- 
 ing the boy's curly head and saying: "Dzhigit, 
 dzhigit!" 
 
 "A beautiful, beautiful dagger," said Voron- 
 tsov, half drawing out the sharpened blade, 
 which had a ridge down the centre. "I thank 
 thee!" 
 
 "Ask him what I can do for him," he said to 
 the interpreter. 
 
 The interpreter translated, and Hadji Murad 
 
 1 "It is a tliiiij: of value." 
 
 2 "We must find an oi)itortunity to ujake him a present."
 
 84 HADJI MURAD 
 
 at once replied that he wanted nothing, but that 
 he begged to be taken to a place where he could 
 say his prayers. 
 
 Vorontsov called his valet, and told him to do 
 what Hadji Murad desired. 
 
 As soon as Hadji Murad was alone in the 
 room allotted to him his face altered. The 
 pleased expression, now kindly and now stately, 
 vanished, and a look of anxiety showed itself. 
 Vorontsov had received him far better than 
 Hadji Murad had expected. But the better 
 the reception the less did Hadji Murad trust 
 Vorontsov and his officers. He feared every- 
 thing : that he might be seized, chained, and sent 
 to Siberia, or simply killed; and therefore he 
 was on his guard. He asked Eldar, when the 
 latter entered his room, where his murids had 
 been put, and whether their arms had been 
 taken from them, and where the horses were. 
 Eldar reported that the horses were in the 
 Prince's stables; that the men had been placed 
 in a barn ; that they retained their arms, and 
 that the interpreter was giving them food and 
 tea. 
 
 Hadji Murad shook his head in doubt; and
 
 HADJI MURAD 85 
 
 after undressing he said his prayers, and told 
 Eldar to bring him his silver dagger. He then 
 dressed, and, having fastened his belt, sat down 
 with his legs on the divan to await what might 
 befall him. 
 
 At four in the afternoon the interpreter came 
 to call him to dine with the Prince. 
 
 At dinner he hardly ate anything, except some 
 
 pilau, ^ to which he helped himself from the 
 very part of the dish from which Mary Vasi- 
 
 levna had helped herself. 
 
 ''He is afraid we shall poison him," Mary 
 Vasilevna remarked to her husband. ''He has 
 helped himself from the place where I took my 
 helping." Then, instantly turning to Hadji 
 Murad, she asked him through the interpreter 
 when he would pray again. Hadji Murad lifted 
 five fingers and pointed to the sun. "Then it 
 will soon be time," and Vorontsov drew out his 
 watch and pressed a spring. The watch struck 
 four and one quarter. This evidently sur- 
 prised Hadji MurAd, and he asked to hear it 
 again, and to be allowed to look at the watch. 
 
 3 An Oriental disb, prepared with rice and mutton, or 
 chicken.
 
 86 H A D J I M U R A D 
 
 ''Voild Voccasion! Donnez lui la montre,"* 
 said the Princess to her husband, 
 
 Vorontsov at once offered the watch to Hadji 
 Miirad. 
 
 The latter placed his hand on liis hreast and 
 took the watch. Several times he touched the 
 spring, listened, and nodded his head approv- 
 ingly. 
 
 After dinner, Meller-Zakomelsky's aide-de- 
 camp was announced. 
 
 The aide-de-camp informed the Prince that 
 the Genera], having heard of Hadji Murad's 
 arrival, was highly displeased that this had not 
 been reported to him, and required Hadji 
 Murad to be brought to him without delay. 
 Vorontsov replied that the General's command 
 should be obeyed ; and through the interpreter 
 he informed Hadji Murad of these orders, and 
 asked him to go to Meller with him. 
 
 When Mary Vasilevna heard what the aide- 
 de-camp had come about, she at once understood 
 that unpleasantness might arise between her 
 husband and the General, and decided, in spite 
 of all her husband's attempts to dissuade her, 
 to go with him and Hadji Murad, 
 
 4 "This is the opportunity ! Give him the watch."
 
 HADJI MURAD 87 
 
 ''Vous feriez Men mieux de rester — c'est mon 
 affaire, non pas la voire . . ."^ 
 
 '^Vons ne pouvez pas m'emp'eeher d' alter 
 voir madame la generale!" 
 
 ''You could go some other time." 
 
 "But I wish to go now!" 
 
 There was no help for it, so Vorontsov 
 agreed; and they all three went. 
 
 When they entered, Meller with sombre 
 politeness conducted Mary Vasilevna to his 
 wife, and told his aide-de-camp to show Hadji 
 Murad into the waiting-room, and not to let him 
 out till further orders. 
 
 "Please . . ." he said to Vorontsov, open- 
 ing the door of his study and letting the Prince 
 enter before him. 
 
 Having entered the study, he stopped in 
 front of the Prince and said, without offering 
 him a seat, — 
 
 "I am in command here, and therefore all 
 negotiations with the enemy must be carried on 
 through me! Why did you not report to me 
 the fact of Hadji Murad 's having come over?" 
 
 "An emissary came to me and announced 
 
 c "You would do much better to reinaiii nt lioine . . . 
 this is my business, and not yours." 
 
 « "You cannot prevent my goin^ ♦^o <5ee the general's wife!"
 
 88 HADJI MURAD 
 
 Hadji Murad's wish to capitulate only to me," 
 replied Vorontsov, growing pale with excite- 
 ment, expecting some rude expression from the 
 angry general, and at the same time becoming 
 infected with his anger. 
 
 *'I ask you why I was not informed?" 
 
 *'I intended to do so, Baron, but . . ." 
 
 ''You are not to address me as 'Baron,' but 
 as 'Your Excellency'!" And here the Baron's 
 pent-up irritation suddenly broke out, and he 
 uttered all that had long been boiling in his soul. 
 
 "I have not served my sovereign twenty- 
 seven years in order that men who began their 
 service yesterday, relying on family connec- 
 tions, should give orders under my very nose 
 about matters that do not concern them!" 
 
 "Your Excellency, I request you will not say 
 things that are incorrect!" interrupted Voron- 
 tsov. 
 
 "I am saying what is correct, and I won't 
 allow . . ." said the General, still more 
 irritably. 
 
 But at that moment Mary Vasilevna entered, 
 rustling with her skirts, and followed by a little 
 modest-looking lady, Meller-Zakomelsky's wife.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 89 
 
 ''Come, come, Baron ! Simon did not wish to 
 displease you," began Mary Vasilevna. 
 
 "I am not speaking about that, Prin- 
 
 C-vioo • • • 
 
 ''Well, you know, let's leave all that! . . . 
 You know, 'A bad peace is better than a good 
 quarrel!' . . . Oli dear, what am I say- 
 ing?" and she laughed. 
 
 The angry General capitulated to the enchant- 
 ing laugh of the beauty. A smile hovered un- 
 der his moustache. 
 
 "I confess I was wrong," said Vorontsov, 
 "but—" 
 
 "Well, and I too got rather carried away," 
 said Meller, and held out his hand to the Prince. 
 
 Peace was re-established, and it was decided 
 to leave Hadji Murad for the present at Mel- 
 ler 's, and then to send him to the commander of 
 the left flank. 
 
 Hadji Murad sat in the next room, and though 
 he did not understand what was said, he under- 
 stood what it was necessary for him to under- 
 stand — namely, that they were quarrelling 
 about him, and that his desertion of Shamil was 
 a matter of immense importance to the Pus-
 
 90 HADJI MURAD 
 
 sians, and that therefore not only would they not 
 exile him or kill him, but that .he would be able 
 to demand much from them. He also under- 
 stood that though Meller-Zakomelsky was the 
 commanding-officer, he had not as much influ- 
 ence as his subordinate Vorontsov; and that 
 Vorontsov was important and Meller-Zakomel- 
 sky unimportant; and therefore, when Meller- 
 Zakomelsky sent for him and began to question 
 him, Hadji Murtid bore himself proudly and 
 ceremoniously, saying that he had come from 
 the mountains to serve the White Tsar, and 
 would give account only to his Sirdar, meaning 
 the commander-in-chief. Prince Vorontsov, in 
 Tiflis.
 
 VII 
 
 The wounded Avdeev was taken to the hos- 
 pital — a small wooden ))inlding roofed with 
 boards, at the entrance of the fort — and was 
 placed on one of the empty beds in the common 
 ward. There were four patients in the ward: 
 one, ill with typhus and in high fever, another, 
 pale, with dark shadows under his eyes, who 
 had ague and was just expecting another attack, 
 and yawned continually; and two more who had 
 been wounded in a raid three weeks before : one 
 in the hand — he was up — and the other in the 
 shoulder; the latter was sitting on a bed. All 
 of them, except the typhus patient, surrounded 
 and questioned the newcomer, and those who 
 had brought him. 
 
 ''Sometimes they fire as if it were peas they 
 were spilling over you, and nothing happens 
 . . . and this time only about five shots were 
 fired," related one of the bearers. 
 
 ''Each gets what fate sends!" 
 
 "Oh!" groaned Avdeev loudly, trying to 
 
 91
 
 92 HADJIMURAD 
 
 master his pain when they began to place him 
 on the bed; but he stopped groaning when he 
 was on it, and only frowned and moved his feet 
 continually. He held his hands over his wound 
 and looked fixedly before him. 
 
 The doctor came, and gave orders to turn the 
 wounded man over, to see whether the bullet 
 had passed out behind. 
 
 ^'What's this?" the doctor asked, pointing to 
 the large white scars that crossed one another 
 on the patient's back and loins. 
 
 "That was done long ago, your honour!" re- 
 plied Avdeev, with a groan. 
 
 They were the scars left by the flogging 
 Avdeev had received for the money he drank. 
 
 Avdeev was again turned over, and the doc- 
 tor long probed in his stomach, and found the 
 bullet, but failed to extract it. He put a dress- 
 ing on the wound, and having stuck plaster over 
 it went away. During the whole time the doc- 
 tor was probing and bandaging the wound 
 Avdeev lav with clenched teeth and closed eves, 
 but when the doctor had gone he opened them 
 and looked around as though amazed. His eyes
 
 HADJI MUR AD 93 
 
 were turned to the other patients and to the sur- 
 geon 's orderly, but he seemed to see not them, 
 but something else that surprised him. 
 
 His friends, Panov and Serogin, came in; but 
 Avdeev continued to lie in the same position, 
 looking before him with surprise. It was long 
 before he recognised his comrades, though his 
 eyes gazed straight at them. 
 
 ''I say, Peter, have you no message to send 
 home?" said Panov. 
 
 Avdeev did not answer, though he was look- 
 ing Panov in the face. 
 
 ''I say, haven't you any orders to send 
 home?" again repeated Panov, touching 
 Avdeev 's cold large-boned hand. 
 
 Avdeev seemed to come to. 
 
 ''Ah! . . . Panov!" 
 
 **Yes, here. . . . I've come! Have you 
 nothing for home ? Serogin would write a let- 
 ter." 
 
 ''Serogin . . ." said Avdeev, moving his 
 eyes with difficulty towards Serogin, "will you 
 write? . . . Well then, write so: 'Your 
 son,' say, 'Peter, has given orders that you
 
 94 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 should live loiig,^ He envied bis brother' 
 . . . 1 told you about that to-day . . . 
 'and now he is himself glad. Don't worry him. 
 . . . Let him live. God grant it him. I am 
 glad!' Write that." 
 
 Having said this he was long silent, with his 
 eyes fixed on Pan 6 v. 
 
 ''And did you find your pipe?" he suddenly 
 asked. Panov did not reply. 
 
 "Your pipe . . . your pipe! I mean, 
 have you found it?" Avdeev repeated. 
 It was in my bag." 
 
 That's right! . . . Well, and now give 
 me a candle. ... I am going to die," said 
 Avdeev. 
 
 Just then Poltoratsky came in to inquire after 
 his soldier. 
 
 "How goes it, my lad! Badly?" said he. 
 
 Avdeev closed his eyes and shook his head 
 negatively. His broad-cheeked face was pale 
 and stern. He did not reply, but again said to 
 Panov, — 
 
 1 A popular expression, meaning that the sender of the 
 message is already dead. 
 
 i i 
 
 i 1 1
 
 HADJI MURAD 95 
 
 ( ( 
 
 Bring a candle. ... I am going to 
 die." 
 
 A wax taper was placed in his hand, but liis 
 fingers would not bend, so it was placed between 
 them, and was held up for him. 
 
 Poltoratsky went away, and five minutes later 
 the orderly put his ear to Avdeev's heart and 
 said that all was over. 
 
 Avdeev's death was described in the following 
 manner in the report sent to Tiflis, — 
 
 ^^22rd Nov. — Two companies of the Kurin 
 regiment advanced from the fort on a wood- 
 felling expedition. At midday a considerable 
 number of mountaineer,'-, suddenly attacked the 
 wood-fellers. The sharpshooters began to re- 
 treat, but the 2nd Company charged with the 
 bayonet and overthrew the mountaineers. In 
 this affair two privates were slightly wounded 
 and one killed. The mountaineers lost about a 
 hundred men killed and wounded.
 
 VIII 
 
 On the clay Peter Avdeev died in the hospital 
 at Vozdvizhensk, his old father, the wife of the 
 brother in whose place he had enlisted, and 
 that brother's daughter — who was already ap- 
 proaching womanhood and almost of age to get 
 married — were threshing oats on the hard- 
 frozen threshing floor. 
 
 The day before, there had been a heavy fall 
 of snow followed towards morning by a severe 
 frost. The old man woke when the cocks were 
 crowing for the third time, and seeing the bright 
 moonlight through the frozen window-panes, 
 got down from the oven-top, put on his boots, 
 his sheepskin coat and cap, and went out to the 
 threshing-floor. Having worked there for a 
 couple of hours, he returned to the hut and 
 awoke his son and the women. When the 
 younger woman and the girl came to the thresh- 
 ing-floor they found it ready swept, a wooden 
 shovel sticking in the dry white snow, and be- 
 side it birch brooms with the twigs upwards, 
 
 96
 
 HADJI MUR AD 97 
 
 and two rows of oat-sheaves laid ears to ears 
 in a long line the whole length of the clean 
 threshing-floor. They choose their flails and 
 started threshing, keeping time with their tri])le 
 blows. The old man struck powerfully with his 
 heavy flail, breaking the straw; the girl struck 
 the ears from above with measured blows ; and 
 his daughter-in-law turned the oats over with 
 her flail. 
 
 The moon had set, dawn was breaking, and 
 they were finishing the line of sheaves when 
 Akim, the eldest son, in his sheejjskin and cap, 
 joined the threshers. 
 
 "What are you lazing about for?" shouted his 
 father to him, pausing in his work and leaning 
 on his flail. 
 
 "The horses had to be seen to." 
 
 "'Horses seen to!'" the father repeated, 
 mimicking him. "The old woman will look 
 after them. . . . Take your flail! You're 
 getting too fat, you drunkard!" 
 
 "Have you been standing me treat?" mut- 
 tered the son. 
 
 "What?" said the old man, frowning sternly 
 and missing a stroke.
 
 98 HADJI MURAD 
 
 The son silently took a flail, and tliey began 
 threshing with four flails. 
 
 ''Trak, tapatam . . . trak, tapatam 
 . . . trak . . ." came down the old man's 
 heavy flail after the three others. 
 
 *' Why, you've got a nape like a goodly gentle- 
 man ! . . . Look here, my trousers have 
 hardly anything to hang on !" said the old man, 
 omitting his stroke and only swinging his flail 
 in the air, so as not to get out of time. 
 
 They had finished the row, and the women 
 began removing the straw with rakes. 
 
 "Peter was a fool to go in your stead. 
 They'd have knocked the nonsense out of you in 
 the army ; and he was worth five of such as you 
 at home!" 
 
 "That's enough, father," said the daughter- 
 in-law, as she threw aside the binders that had 
 come off the sheaves. 
 
 "Yes, feed the six of you, and get no work out 
 of a single one ! Peter used to work for two. 
 He was not like . . ." 
 
 Along the trodden path from the house came 
 the old man's wife, the frozen snow creaking 
 under the new bark shoes she wore over her
 
 HADJI MURAD 99 
 
 tigiitly-wound woollen leg-bands. The men were 
 shovelling the iinwinnowed grain into heaps, the 
 woman and the girl sweeping up what remained. 
 
 "The Elder has been, and orders everybody 
 to go and work for the master, carting bricks," 
 said the old woman. "I've got breakfast 
 ready. . . . Come along, won't you?" 
 
 "All right. . . . Harness the roan and 
 go," said the old man to Akim, "and you'd bet- 
 ter look out that you don't get me into trouble, 
 as you did the other day! . . . One can't 
 help regretting Peter!" 
 
 "When he was at home you used to scold 
 him," retorted Akim. "Now he's away you 
 keep nagging at me." 
 
 "That shows you deserve it," said his mother 
 in the same angry tones. "You'll never be 
 Peter's equal." 
 
 "Well, all right," said the son. 
 
 "'All right,' indeed! You've drunk the 
 meal, and now you say 'all right !' " 
 
 "Let bygones be bygones!" said the daugh- 
 ter-in-law. 
 
 The disagreements between father and son 
 had begun long ago — almost from the time
 
 100 HADJIMURAD 
 
 Peter went as a soldier. Even then the old 
 man felt that he had parted with an eagle for a 
 cnckoo. It is true that according to right — as 
 the old man understood it — a childless man had 
 to go in place of a family man. Akim had four 
 children, and Peter had none; but Peter was a 
 worker like his father, skilful, observant, 
 strong, enduring, and above all, industrious. 
 He was always at work. If he happened to 
 pass by where people were working he lent a 
 helping hand, as his father would have done, 
 and took a turn or two with the scythe, or 
 loaded a cart, or felled a tree, or chopped some 
 wood. The old man regretted his going away, 
 but there was no help for it. Conscription in 
 those days was like death. A soldier was a 
 severed branch ; and to think about him at home 
 was to tear one's heart uselessly. Only occa- 
 sionally, to prick his elder son, the father men- 
 tioned him, as he had done that day. But his 
 mother often thought of her younger son, and 
 she had long — for more than a year now — been 
 asking her husband to send Peter a little money, 
 to which the old man made no reply. 
 
 The Kurenkovs were a well-to-do family, and
 
 HADJI MUR AD 101 
 
 the old man bad some savings hidden away; but 
 he would on no account have consented to toucb 
 what be bad laid by. Now, however, his old 
 woman, having heard him mention their 
 younger son, made up ber mind again to ask 
 him to send bim at least a rouble after selling 
 the oats. This she did. As soon as the young 
 people bad gone to work for the proprietor, and 
 the old folk were left alone together, she per- 
 suaded bim to send Peter a rouble out of tbe 
 oats-money. 
 
 So when ninety-six busbels of tbe winnowed 
 oats had been packed on to three sledges, lined 
 with sacking carefully pinned together at the 
 top with wooden skewers, she gave ber old man 
 a letter written at her dictation by tbe cburcli 
 clerk; and the old man promised when he got 
 to town to enclose a rouble, and to send it off 
 to the right address. 
 
 The old man, dressed in a new sheepskin with 
 a homespun cloak over it, bis legs wrapped 
 round with warm white woollen leg-bands, took 
 tbe letter, placed it in his wallet, said a prayer, 
 got into the front sledge, and drove to town. 
 His grandson drove in tbe last sledge. AVben
 
 102 HADJI MURAD 
 
 he reached the town the old man asked the inn- 
 keeper to read the letter to him, and he listened 
 to it attentively and approvingly. 
 
 In her letter Peter's mother first sent him her 
 blessing, then greetings from everybody, and 
 the news of his godfather's death; and at the 
 end she added that Aksinya (Peter's wife) had 
 not wished to stay with them, but had gone into 
 service, where they heard she was living well 
 and honestly. Then came a reference to that 
 present of a rouble; and finally, in her own 
 words, what the old woman, with tears in her 
 eyes and yielding to her sorrow, had dictated 
 and the church clerk had taken down exactly, 
 word for word : — 
 
 "One thing more, my darling child, my sweet 
 dove, my own Peterkin ! I have wept my eyes 
 out lamenting for thee, thou light of my eyes. 
 To whom hast thou left me! . . ." At this 
 point the old woman had sobbed and wept, and 
 said: "That will do!" So the words stood in 
 the letter ; but it was not fated that Peter should 
 receive the news of his wife's having left home, 
 nor the present of the rouble, nor his mother's 
 last words. The letter with the money in it
 
 HADJI MUR AD 103 
 
 came back with the announcement that Peter 
 had been killed in the war, defending his Tsar, 
 his Fatherland, and the Orthodox Faith. That 
 is how the army clerk expressed it. 
 
 The old woman, when this news reached her, 
 wept for as long as she could spare time, and 
 then set to work again. The very next Sunday 
 she went to church, and had a requiem chanted, 
 and Peter's name entered among those for 
 whose souls prayers were to be said; and she 
 distributed bits of holy bread to all the good 
 people, in memory of Peter the servant of God. 
 
 Aksmya, the soldier's widow, also lamented 
 loudly when she heard of her beloved husband's 
 death, with whom she had lived but one short 
 year. She regretted her husband, and her own 
 ruined life ; and in her lamentations mentioned 
 Peter's brown locks and his love, and the sad- 
 ness of her life with her little orphaned Vanka ; 
 and bitterly reproached Peter for having had 
 pity on his brother, but none on her — obliged to 
 wander among strangers ! 
 
 But in the depth of her soul Aksmya was glad 
 of her husband's death. She was pregnant by 
 the shopman in whose service she was living;
 
 104 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 and no one would now have a right to scold her, 
 and the shopman could marry her as, when he 
 was persuading her to yield, he had said he 
 would.
 
 IX 
 
 Michael Semenovich Vorontsov, being the son 
 of the Russian ambassador, had been educated 
 in England, and possessed a European educa- 
 tion quite exceptional among the higher Rus- 
 sian officials of his day. He was ambitious, 
 gentle, and kind in his manner with inferiors, 
 and a finished courtier with superiors. He did 
 not understand life without power and submis- 
 sion. He had obtained all the highest ranks 
 and decorations, and was looked upon as a 
 clever commander, and even as the conquerer of 
 Napoleon at Krasnoye. 
 
 In 1852 he was over seventy, but was still 
 quite fresh, moved briskly, and above all was 
 in full possession of a facile refined and agree- 
 able intellect, which he used to maintain his 
 power and to strengthen and spread his popu- 
 larity. He possessed large means — his own 
 and his wife's (nee Countess Branitsky) — and 
 received an enormous salary as viceroy; and he 
 
 105
 
 106 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 spent a great part of his means on building a 
 palace and laying out a garden on the south 
 coast of the Crimea. 
 
 On the evening of 4th December 1852 a 
 courier's troyka drew up before his palace in 
 Tiflis. A tired officer, black with dust, whom 
 General Kozlovsky had sent with the news of 
 Hadji Murad's surrender to the Russians, went 
 stretching the stiffened muscles of his legs 
 past the sentinel, and entered the wide porch. 
 It was six o'clock, and Vorontsov was just go- 
 ing in to dinner, when he was informed of the 
 arrival of the courier. Vorontsov received him 
 at once, and was therefore a few minutes late 
 for dinner. 
 
 When he entered the drawing-room, the thirty 
 persons invited to dine, sitting beside the Prin- 
 cess Elizabeth Ksaverevna Vorontsov, or stand- 
 ing in groups by the windows, turned their faces 
 towards him. Vorontsov was dressed in his 
 usual black military coat, with shoulder-straps 
 but no epaulets, and wore the White Cross of 
 the Order of St. George at his neck. 
 
 His clean-shaven, foxlike face smiled pleas- 
 antly as, screwing up his eyes, he surveyed the
 
 HADJI MUR AD 107 
 
 assembly. Entering witli quick, soft steps he 
 apologised to the ladies for being late, greeted 
 the men, and approaching the Princess Ma- 
 nana Orbelytini — a tall, fine, handsome woman 
 of Oriental type about forty-five years of age — 
 he offered her his arm to take her in to dinner. 
 The Princess Elizabeth Ksaverevna Vorontsov 
 herself gave her arm to a red-haired general 
 with bristly moustaches, who was visiting Tiflis. 
 A Georgian Prince offered his arm to the Prin- 
 cess Vorontsov 's friend, the Countess Choi- 
 seuil ; Dr. Andreevsky, the aide-de-camp, 
 and others, with ladies or without, followed 
 these first couples. Footmen in livery and 
 knee-breeches drew back and replaced the 
 guests' chairs when they sat down, while the 
 major-domo ceremoniously ladled out steaming 
 soup from a silver tureen. 
 
 Vorontsov took his place in the centre of one 
 side of the long table, and his wife sat opposite, 
 with the General on her right. On the Prince's 
 right sat his lady, the beautiful Orbelyani ; and 
 on his left was a graceful, dark, red-cheeked 
 Georgian woman, glittering with jewels and in- 
 cessantly smiling.
 
 108 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 '' Excellent es, chere amie!" ^ replied Voron- 
 tsov to his wife's inquiry about what news the 
 courier had brought him. "Simon a eu de la 
 chance!" ^ And he began to tell aloud, so that 
 every one could hear, the striking news (for 
 him alone not quite unexpected, because nego- 
 tiations had long been going on) that the 
 bravest and most famous of Shamil's officers, 
 Hadji Murad, had come over to the Russians, 
 and would in a day or two be brought to Tiflis. 
 
 Everybody — even the young aides-de-camp 
 and officials who sat at the far ends of the table, 
 and who had been quietly laughing at something 
 among themselves — became silent and listened. 
 
 "And you. General, have you ever met this 
 Hadji Muriid?" asked the Princess of her 
 neighbour, the carroty General with the bristly 
 moustaches, when the Prince had finished 
 speaking. 
 
 "More than once, Princess." 
 
 And the General went on to tell how Hadji 
 Mur6d, after the mountaineers had captured 
 Gergebel in 1843, had fallen upon General 
 
 1 "Excellent, my dear!" 
 
 2 "Simon has bad good fortune."
 
 HADJI MUR AD 109 
 
 Pablen's detachment and killed Colonel Zolo- 
 tukhin almost before their very eyes. 
 
 Vorontsov listened to the General and smiled 
 amiably, evidently pleased that the latter had 
 joined in the conversation. But suddenly Vor- 
 ontsov 's face assumed an absent-minded and 
 depressed expression. 
 
 The General, having started talking, had be- 
 gun to tell of his second encounter with Hadji 
 Murad. 
 
 ''Why, it was he, if your Excellency will 
 please remember," said the General, ''who 
 arranged the ambush that attacked the rescue 
 party in the 'Biscuit' expedition." 
 
 "Where?" asked Vorontsov, screwing up his 
 eyes. 
 
 What the brave General spoke of as the 
 "rescue,"' was the affair in the unfortunate 
 Dargo campaign in which a whole detachment, 
 including Prince Vorontsov who commanded it, 
 would certainly have perished had it not been 
 rescued by the arrival of fresh troops. Every 
 one knew that the whole Dargo campaign under 
 Vorontsov 's command — in which the Russians 
 lost many killed and wounded and several can-
 
 no HADJI MURAD 
 
 non — had been a shameful affair; and there- 
 fore, if any one mentioned it in Vorontsov's 
 presence, they only did so in the aspect in which 
 Vorontsov had reported it to the Tsar: as a 
 brilliant achievement of the Russian army. 
 But the word ''rescue" plainly indicated that 
 it was not a brilliant victory, but a blunder 
 costing many lives. Everybody understood 
 this, and some pretended not to notice the 
 meaning of the General's words, others nerv- 
 ously waited to see what would follow, while a 
 few exchanged glances and smiled. Only the 
 carroty General with the bristly moustaches 
 noticed nothing, and, carried away by his nar- 
 rative, quietly replied, — 
 
 "At the rescue, your Excellency." 
 Having started on his favourite theme the 
 General recounted circumstantially how Hadji 
 Muriid had so cleverly cut the detachment in 
 two, that if the rescue party had not arrived 
 (he seemed to be particularly fond of repeating 
 the word "rescue") not a man in the division 
 would have escaped, because. . . . The 
 General did not finish his storv, for Manana 
 Orbelyani, having understood what was happen-
 
 HADJI MUR AD 111 
 
 iiig', interrupted him by asking if he had foimd 
 comfortable quarters iu Tifiis. The General, 
 surprised, glanced at everybody all round, and 
 saw his aides-de-camp from the end of the table 
 looking fixedly and significantly at him, and sud- 
 denly he understood ! Withou*^ rejjlying to the 
 Princess's question he frowned, became silent, 
 and began hurriedly eating, without chewing, 
 the delicacy that lay on his plate, both the 
 appearance and taste of which completely mys- 
 tified him. 
 
 Everybody felt uncomfortable, hut the dis- 
 comfort of the situation was relieved by the 
 Georgian Prince — a very stupid man, but an 
 extraordinarily refined and artful flatterer and 
 courtier — who sat on the other side of the Prin- 
 cess Vorontsov. Without seeming to have no- 
 ticed anything, he began to relate how Hadji 
 Murad had carried oiT the widow of Akhmet 
 Khan of Mekhtuli. 
 
 ''He came into the village at night, seized 
 what he wanted, and galloped off again with the 
 whole party." 
 
 "Why did he want that particular woman?" 
 asked the Princess.
 
 112 HADJI MURAD 
 
 '^Oh, he was her husband's enemy, and pur- 
 sued him, but could never once succeed in meet- 
 ing him right up to the time of his death, so he 
 revenged himself on the widow." 
 
 The Princess translated this into French to 
 her old friend the Countess Choiseuil, who sat 
 next to the Georgian Prince. 
 
 ''Quelle horreur!"^ said the Countess, clos- 
 ing her eyes and shaking her head. 
 
 '^Oh, no !" said Vorontsov, smiling. "I have 
 been told that he treated his captive with 
 chivalrous respect and afterwards released 
 her. ' ' 
 
 ^* Yes, for a ransom!" 
 
 "Well, of course. But, all the same, he acted 
 honourably." 
 
 These words of the Prince's set the tone for 
 the further conversation. The courtiers under- 
 stood that the more importance was attributed 
 to Hadji Murad the better pleased the Prince 
 would be. 
 
 "The man's audacity is amazing. A remark- 
 able man!" 
 
 "Why, in 1849, he dashed into Temir Khan 
 
 3 How horrible !"
 
 HADJI MUR AD 113 
 
 Shurj'i, and plundered the shops in broad day- 
 light.'^ 
 
 An Armenian sitting at the end of the table, 
 who had been in Temir Khan Shura at the 
 time, related the i3articulars of that exploit of 
 Hadji Murad's. 
 
 In fact, only Hadji Murad was talked about 
 during the whole dinner. 
 
 Everybody in succession praised his courage, 
 his ability, and his magnanimity. Some one 
 mentioned his having ordered twenty-six prison- 
 ers to be slain; but that too was met by the 
 usual re,]oinder, ''What's to be done? A la 
 guerre, comme a la guerre!"* 
 
 "He is a great man." 
 
 ''Had he been born in Europe he might have 
 been another Napoleon," said the stupid Geor- 
 gian i^rince with a gift of flattery. 
 
 He knew that every mention of Napoleon was 
 pleasant to Vorontsov, who wore the White 
 Cross at his neck as a reward for having de- 
 feated him. 
 
 "Well, not Napoleon, perhaps, but a gallant 
 cavalry general, if you like," said Vorontsov. 
 
 * "War is war."
 
 114 HADJI MURAD 
 
 ''If not Napoleon, then Murad." 
 
 ''And his name is Hadji Murad !" 
 
 "Hadji Murad has surrendered, and now 
 there'll be an end to Shamil also," some one re- 
 marked. 
 
 "They feel that now" — this "now" meant 
 under Vorontsov — "they can't hold out," re- 
 marked another. 
 
 "Tout cela est grace a vous!"^ said Ma- 
 nana Orbelyani. 
 
 Prince Vorontsov tried to moderate the waves 
 of flattery which began to flow over him. Still, 
 it was pleasant, and in the best of spirits he 
 led his lady back into the drawing-room. 
 
 After dinner, when coffee was being served in 
 the drawing-room, the Prince was particularly 
 amiable to everybody, and going up to the Gen- 
 eral with the red bristly moustaches, he tried to 
 appear not to have noticed his blunder. 
 
 Having made a round of the visitors, he sat 
 down to the card table. He only played the 
 old-fashioned game of ombre. The Prince's 
 partners were the Georgian Prince, an Arme- 
 
 5 "And all that, tlianks to tou !"
 
 HAD Ji MUliAD 115 
 
 nian General (who had learnt the game of ombre 
 from Prince Vorontsov's valet, and the fourth 
 was Dr. Andreevsky, a man remarkable for the 
 great influence he exercised. 
 
 Placing beside him his gold snuff-box, with a 
 portrait of xVlexander I. on the lid, the Prince 
 tore open a pack of highly-glazed cards, and 
 was going to spread them out when his Italian 
 valet, Giovanni, brought him a letter on a silver 
 tray. 
 
 "Another courier, your Excellency." 
 
 Vorontsov laid down the cards, excused him- 
 self, opened the letter, and began to read. 
 
 The letter was from his son, who described 
 Hadji Murad's surrender, and his own encoun- 
 ter with Meller-Zakomelsky. 
 
 The Princess came up and inquired what their 
 son had written. 
 
 "It's all about the same matter. . . . II a 
 eu quelques desagrcments auec le commandant 
 de la place. Simon a eu tort.^ . . . But 
 'All's well that ends well,' " he added in Eng- 
 lish, handing the letter to his wife; and 
 
 6 "He has had some unpleasantness with the comiuander 
 of the place. Simon was in the wrong."
 
 116 HADJI MURAD 
 
 turning to his respectfully waiting partners, he 
 asked them to draw cards. 
 
 When the first round had been dealt, Voron- 
 tsov did what he was in the habit of doing when 
 in a particularly pleasant mood : with his white, 
 wrinkled old hand he took out a pinch of French 
 snuff, carried it up to his nose, and released it.
 
 X 
 
 When, next day, Hadji Murad appeared at the 
 Prince's palace, the waiting-room was already 
 full of people. Yesterday's General with the 
 bristlv moustaches was there in full uniform, 
 with all his decorations, having come to take 
 leave. There was the commander of a regi- 
 ment who was in danger of being court-mar- 
 tialled for misappropriating commissariat 
 money; and there was a rich Armenian (pat- 
 ronised by Doctor Andreevsky) who wanted to 
 get from the Government a renewal of his mo- 
 nopoly for the sale of vodka. There, dressed in 
 black, was the widow of an officer who had been 
 killed in action. She had come to ask for a 
 pension, or for free education for her children. 
 There was a ruined Georgian Prince in a 
 magnificent Georgian costume, who was trying 
 to obtain for himself some confiscated church 
 property. There was an official with a large 
 roll of paper containing a new plan for subju- 
 gating the Caucasus. There was also a Khan, 
 
 117
 
 118 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 who had come solely to be able to tell his people 
 at home that he had called on the Prince. 
 
 They all waited their turn, and were one by 
 one shown into the Prince's cabinet and out 
 again by the aide-de-camp, a handsome, fair- 
 haired youth. 
 
 When Hadji Murad entered the waiting-room 
 with his brisk though limping step all eyes 
 were turned towards him, and he heard his 
 name whispered from various parts of the room. 
 He was dressed in a long white Circassian 
 coat over a brown heshmet trimmed round the 
 collar with fine silver lace. He wore black leg- 
 gings and soft shoes of the same colour, which 
 were stretched over his instep as tight as gloves. 
 On his head he wore a high cap, draped turban- 
 fashion — that same turban for which, on the 
 denunciation of Akhmet Khan, he had been 
 arrested by General Kliigenau, and which 
 had been the cause of his going over to 
 Shamil. 
 
 Hadji Murad stepped briskly across the par- 
 quet floor of the waiting-room, his whole slender 
 figure swaying slightly in consequence of his 
 lameness in one leg, whcli was shorter than the
 
 HADJI MUR AD 119 
 
 other. His eyes, set far apart, looked calmly 
 before him and seemed to see no one. 
 
 The handsome aide-de-camp, having greeted 
 him, asked him to take a seat while he went to 
 announce hitn to the Prince; but Hadji Murad 
 declined to sit down, and, putting his hand on 
 his dagger, stood with one foot advanced, look- 
 ing contemptuously at all those present. 
 
 The Prince's interpreter, Prince Tarkhanov, 
 approached Hadji Murad and spoke to him. 
 Hadji Murad answered abruptly and unwill- 
 ingly. A Kumyk Prince, who was there to 
 lodge a complaint against a police official, came 
 out of the Prince's room, and then the aide-de- 
 camp called Hadji Murad, led him to the door 
 of the cabinet, and showed him in. 
 
 Vorontsov received Hadji Murad standing 
 beside his table. The white old face of the 
 commander-in-chief did not wear yesterday's 
 smile, but was rather stern and solemn. 
 
 On entering the large room, with its enormous 
 table and great windows with green Venetian 
 blinds, Hadji Murad placed his small sunburnt 
 hands on that part of his chest where the front 
 of his white coat overlapped, and, having low-
 
 120 HADJI MURAD 
 
 ered his eyes, began without hurrying to speak 
 in Tartar distinctly and respectfully, using the 
 Kumyk dialect, which he spoke well. 
 
 '*I put myself under the powerful protection 
 of the great Tsar and of yourself," said he, 
 ''and promise to serve the White Tsar in faith 
 and truth to the last drop of my blood, and I 
 hope to be useful to you in the war with Shamil, 
 who is my enemy and yours." 
 
 Having heard the interpreter out, Vorontsov 
 glanced at Hadji Murad, and Hadji Murad 
 glanced at Vorontsov. 
 
 The eyes of the two men met, and expressed 
 to each other much that could not have been put 
 into words, and that was not at all what the in- 
 terpreter said. Without words they told each 
 other the whole truth. Vorontsov 's eyes said 
 that he did not believe a single word Hadji Mu- 
 rad was saying, and that he knew he was and 
 always would be an enemy to everything Rus- 
 sian, and had surrendered only because he was 
 obliged to. Hadji Murad understood this, and 
 yet continued to give assurances of his fidelity. 
 His eyes said, ''That old man ought to be 
 thinking of his death, and not of war; but
 
 HADJI MUE AD 121 
 
 though old he is cunning, and I must be care- 
 ful." Vorontsov understood this also, but 
 nevertheless he spoke to Hadji Murad in the 
 way he considejed necessary for the success of 
 the war. 
 
 ''Tell him," said Vorontsov, ''that our sov- 
 ereign is as merciful as he is mighty, and will 
 probably at my request pardon him and take 
 him into his service. . . . Have you told 
 him?" he asked, looking at Hadji Murad. 
 
 . . . "Until I receive my master's gra- 
 cious decision, tell him I take it on myself to 
 receive him and to make his sojourn among us 
 pleasant." 
 
 Hadji Murad again pressed his hands to the 
 centre of his chest, and began to say something 
 with animation. 
 
 "He says," the interpreter translated, "that 
 before, when he governed Avaria in 1839, he 
 served the Russians faithfully, and would never 
 have deserted them had his enemv, Akhmet 
 Khan, wishing to ruin him, not calumniated 
 him to General Kliigenau." 
 
 "I know, I know," said Vorontsov (though, 
 if he had ever known, he had long forgotten
 
 122 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 it). ''I know," said lie, sitting down and mo- 
 tioning Hadji Murad to the divan that stood 
 beside the wall. But Hadji Murad did not sit 
 down. Shrugging his powerful shoulders as a 
 sign that he could not make up his mind to sit 
 in the presence of so important a man, he went 
 on, addressing the interpreter, — 
 
 ''Akhmet Khan and Shamil are both my ene- 
 mies. Tell the Prince that Akhmet Khan is 
 dead, and I cannot revenge myself on him ; but 
 Sliamil lives, and I will not die without taking 
 vengeance on him," said he, knitting his brows 
 and tightly closing his mouth. 
 
 ''Yes, yes; but how does he want to revenge 
 himself on Shamil?" said Vorontsov quietly to 
 the interpreter. "And tell him he may sit 
 down." 
 
 Hadji Munid again declined to sit down; and, 
 in answer to the question, replied that his ob- 
 ject in coming over to the Russians was to help 
 them to destroy Shamil. 
 
 "Very well, very well," said Vorontsov; 
 "but what exactly does he wish to do? . . . 
 Sit down, sit down !" 
 
 Hadji Murad sat down, and said that if only
 
 HADJT MURAD 123 
 
 they would send liiiii to tlio Lesgliian line, and 
 would give liini an army, be would guarantee to 
 raise the whole of Daghestan, and Shaniil would 
 then be unable to hold out. 
 
 ''That would be excellent. . . . I'll think 
 it over," said Vorontsov. 
 
 The interpreter translated Vorontsov 's words 
 to Hadji Murjkl. 
 
 Hadji Murad pondered. 
 
 "Tell the Sirdar one thing more," Hadji 
 Murad began again: "That mj family are in 
 the hands of my enemy, and that as long as 
 they are in the mountains I am bound, and can- 
 not serve him. Shamil would kill my wife and 
 my mother and my children if I went openly 
 against him. Let the Prince first exchange my 
 family for the prisoners he has, and then I will 
 destroy Shamil or die!" 
 
 "All right, all right," said Vorontsov. "I 
 will think it over. . . . Now let him go to 
 the chief of the staff, and explain to him in de- 
 tail his position, intentions, and wishes." 
 
 Thus ended the first interview between Hadji 
 Murad and Vorontsov, 
 
 That evening, at the new theatre, which was
 
 124 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 decorated in Oriental style, an Italian opera 
 was performed. Vorontsov was in his box 
 when the striking figure of the limping Hadji 
 Murad wearing a turban appeared in the stalls. 
 He came in with Loris-Melikov/ Vorontsov 's 
 aide-de-camp, in whose charge he was placed, 
 and took a seat in the front row. Having sat 
 through the first act with Oriental, Mohamme- 
 dan dignity, expressing no pleasure, but only 
 obvious indifference, he rose and looking calmly 
 round at the audience went out, drawing to him- 
 self everybody's attention. 
 
 The next day was Monday, and there was the 
 usual evening party at the Vorontsovs'. In 
 the large brightly-lighted hall a band was play- 
 ing, hidden among trees. Young and not very 
 young women, in dresses displaying their bare 
 necks arms and breasts, turned round and 
 round in the embrace of men in bright uni- 
 forms. At the buffet footmen in red swallow- 
 tail coats and wearing shoes and knee-breeches, 
 poured out champagne and served sweetmeats 
 
 1 Count Michael Tarielovitch Loris-JMelikov, who after- 
 wards became Minister of tlie Interior, and framed the Lib- 
 eral ulcase which was signed by Alexander II. the day that 
 be was assassinated.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 125 
 
 to the ladies. The ''Sirdar's" wife also, in 
 spite of her age, went about half-dressed among 
 the visitors, affably smiling, and through the 
 interpreter said a few amiable words to Hadji 
 Murjid, who glanced at the visitors with the 
 same indifference he had shown yesterday in 
 the theatre. After the hostess, other half- 
 naked women came up to him, and all of them 
 shamelessly stood before him and smilingly 
 asked him the same question: How he liked 
 what he saw? Vorontsov himself, wearing 
 gold epaulets and gold shoulder-knots, with his 
 white cross and ribbon at his neck, came up 
 and asked him the same question, evidently 
 feeling sure, like all the others, that Hadji 
 Murad could not help being pleased at what he 
 saw. Hadji Murad replied to Vorontsov, as 
 he had replied to them all, that among his peo- 
 ple nothing of the kind was done, without ex- 
 pressing an opinion as to whether it was good 
 or bad that it was so. 
 
 Here at the ball Hadji Murad tried to speak 
 to Vorontsov about buying out his family; but 
 Vorontsov, pretending he had not heard him, 
 walked away; and Loris-Melikov afterwards
 
 126 HADJI MURAD 
 
 told Hadji Murad that this was not the place 
 to talk about business. 
 
 When it struck eleven Hadji Murad, having 
 made sure of the time by the watch the Vor- 
 ontsovs had given him, asked Loris-Melikov 
 whether he might now leave. Loris-Melikov 
 said he might, though it would be better to stay. 
 In spite of this Hadji Murad did not stay, but 
 drove in the phaeton placed at his disposal to 
 the quarters that had been assigned to him.
 
 XI 
 
 On the fifth day of Hadji Murad's stay in Tiflis, 
 Loris-Melikov, the Viceroy's aide-de-camp, 
 came to see him at the latter 's command. 
 
 "My head and my hands are glad to serve 
 the Sirdar," said Hadji Murad with his usual 
 diplomatic expression, bowing his head and put- 
 ting his hands to his chest. "Command me!" 
 said he, looking amiably into Loris-Melikov 's 
 face. 
 
 Loris-Melikov sat down in an arm-chair 
 placed by the table, and Hadji Murad sank on 
 to a low divan opposite, and resting his hands 
 on his knees, bowed his head and listened at- 
 tentively to what the other said to him. 
 
 Loris-Melikov, who spoke Tartar fluently, 
 told him that though the Prince knew about his 
 l^ast life, he yet wanted to hear the whole story 
 from himself. 
 
 "Tell it me, and I will write it down and 
 translate it into Russian, and the Prince will 
 send it to the Emperor. ' ' 
 
 127
 
 128 HADJI MURAD 
 
 Hadji Murad remained silent for a while (he 
 never interrupted any one, but always waited 
 to see whether his collocutor had not some- 
 thing more to say). Then he raised his head, 
 shook back his cap, and smiled the peculiar 
 childlike smile that had captivated Mary Vas- 
 ilevna. 
 
 ''I can do that," said he, evidently flattered 
 by the thought that his story would be read by 
 the Emperor. 
 
 ''Thou must tell me" (nobody is addressed 
 as ''you" in Tartar) "everything, deliberately, 
 from the beginning," said Loris-Melikov, draw- 
 ing a notebook from his pocket. 
 
 "I can do that, only there is much — very 
 much — to tell! Many events have happened!" 
 said Hadji Murad. 
 
 "If thou canst not do it all in one day, thou 
 wilt finish it another time," said Loris-Melikov. 
 
 "Shall I begin at the beginning?" 
 
 "Yes, at the very beginning . . . where 
 thou wast born, and where thou didst live." 
 
 Hadji Murad 's head sank, and he sat in that 
 position for a long time. Then he took a stick 
 that lay beside the divan, drew a little knife
 
 HADJI MUR AD 129 
 
 with ivory gold-inlaid handle, sharp as a razor, 
 from under his dagger, and started whittling 
 the stick with it and speaking at the same time. 
 
 "Write: Born in Tselmess, a small aoul, 'the 
 size of an ass's head,' as we in the mountains 
 say," he began. "Not far from it, about two 
 cannon-shots, lies Khunzakh, where the Khans 
 lived. Our family was closely connected with 
 them. 
 
 "My mother, when my eldest brother Osman 
 was born, nursed the eldest Khan, Abu Nutsal 
 Khan. Then she nursed the second son of the 
 Khan, Umma Khan, and reared him; but Akh- 
 met, my second brother, died; and when I was 
 born and the Khansha ^ bore Bulach Khan, my 
 mother would not go as wet-nurse again. My 
 father ordered her to, but she would not. 
 She said: 'I should again kill my own son; and 
 I will not go.' Then my father, who was pas- 
 sionate, struck her with a dagger, and would 
 have killed her had they not rescued her from 
 him. So she did not give me up, and later on 
 she composed a song . . . but I need not 
 tell that. 
 
 1 Khansha, Khan's wife.
 
 130 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 "Well, so my mother did not go as nurse," 
 he said, with a jerk of his head, "and the 
 Khansha took another nurse, but still remained 
 fond of my mother; and mother used to take 
 us children to the Khansha 's palace, and we 
 played with her children, and she was fond 
 of us. 
 
 ' '■ There were three young Khans : Abu Nutsal 
 Khan, my brother Osman's foster-brother; 
 Umma Khan, my own sworn brother; and 
 Bulach Khan, the youngest — whom Shamil 
 threw over the precii^ice. But that happened 
 later. 
 
 "I was about sixteen when murids began to 
 visit the aouls. They beat the stones with 
 wooden scimitars, and cried, 'Mussulmans, 
 Ghazavdt!' The Chechens all went over to 
 Muridism, and the Avars began to go over, 
 too. I was then living in the palace like a 
 brother of the Khans. I could do as I liked, 
 and I became rich. I had horses and weapons 
 and money. I lived for pleasure and had no 
 care, and went on like that till the time when 
 Kazi-Mulla, the Imam, was killed and Hamzad 
 succeeded him. Hamzad sent envoys to the
 
 HADJI MUE AD 131 
 
 Khans to say that if they did not join the 
 Ghazavdt he would destroy Khunzakh. 
 
 "This needed consideration. The Khans 
 feared the Russians, but were also afraid to 
 join in the Holy War. The old Khansha sent 
 me with her second son, Umma Khan, to Tiflis, 
 to ask the Russian commander-in-chief for help 
 against Hamzad. The commander-in-chief at 
 Tiflis was Baron Rosen. He did not receive 
 either me or Umma Khan. He sent word that 
 he would help us, but did nothing. Only his 
 officers came riding to us and played cards with 
 Umma Khan, They made him drunk with 
 wine, and took him to bad places; and he lost 
 all he had to them at cards. His body was as 
 strong as a bull's, and he was as brave as a 
 lion, but his soul was weak as water. He 
 would have gambled away his last horses and 
 weapons if I had not made him come away. 
 
 "After visiting Tiflis my ideas changed, and 
 I advised the old Khansha and the Khans to 
 join the Ghazavdt. . . ." 
 
 "What made you change your mind?" asked 
 Loris-Melikov. "Were you not pleased with 
 the Russians?"
 
 132 HADJI MUEAD 
 
 Hadji Murad paused. 
 
 *'No, I was not pleased," lie answered de- 
 cidedly, closing bis eyes, "And there was also 
 another reason why I wished to join the Gha- 
 zavat." 
 
 ''What was that?" 
 
 **Why, near Tselmess the Khan and I en- 
 countered three murids, two of whom escaped, 
 but the third one I shot with my pistol. 
 
 ''He was still alive when I approached to 
 take his weapons. He looked up at me, and 
 said, 'Thou hast killed me. . . . T am 
 happy; but thou art a Mussulman, young and 
 strong. Join the Ghazavdt! God wills it!" 
 
 "And did you join it!" 
 
 "I did not, but it made me think," said Hadji 
 Murad, and he went on with his tale. 
 
 "When Hamzad approached Khunzakh we 
 sent our Elders to him to say that we would 
 agree to join the Ghazavdt if the Imam would 
 send a learned man to us to explain it to us. 
 Hamzad had our Elders' moustaches shaved off, 
 their nostrils pierced, and cakes hung to their 
 noses ; and in that condition he sent them back 
 to us.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 133 
 
 "The Elders brought word that Hamzad was 
 ready to send a Sheik to teach us the Ghazavdt, 
 but only if the Khansha sent him her youngest 
 son as a hostage. She took him at his word, 
 and sent her youngest son, Bulach Khan. Ham- 
 zad received him well, and sent to invite the two 
 elder brothers also. He sent word that he 
 wished to serve the Khans as his father had 
 served their father. . . . The Khansha was 
 a weak, stupid and conceited woman, as all 
 women are when they are not under control. 
 She was afraid to send away both sons, and 
 sent only Umma Khan, I went with him. "VVe 
 were met by murids about a mile before we ar- 
 rived, and they sang and shot and caracoled 
 around us; and when we drew near, Hamzad 
 came out of his tent and went up to Umma 
 Khan's stirrup and received him as a Khan. 
 He said, — 
 
 " 'I have not done any harm to thy family, 
 and do not wish to do any. Only do not kill 
 me, and do not prevent my bringing the people 
 over to the Ghazavdt, and I will serve you with 
 my whole army, as my father served your 
 father! Let me live in your house, and I will
 
 134 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 help you with my advice, and you shall do as 
 you like!' 
 
 ''Umroa Khan was slow of speech. He did 
 not know how to reply, and remained silent. 
 Then I said that if this was so, let Hamzad come 
 to Khunzakh, and the Khansha and the Khans 
 would receive him with honour. . . . But 
 I was not allowed to finish — and here I first en- 
 countered Shamil, who was beside the Imam. 
 He said to me, — 
 
 " 'Thou hast not been asked. ... It was 
 the Khan ! ' 
 
 ''I was silent, and Hamzad led Umma Khan 
 into his tent. Afterwards Hamzc4d called me 
 and ordered me to go to Khunzakh with his 
 envoys. I went. The envoys began persuad- 
 ing the Khansha to send her eldest son also to 
 Hamzad. I saw there was treachery, and told 
 her not to send him ; but a woman has as much 
 sense in her head as an egg has hair. She 
 ordered her son to go. Abu Nutsal Khan did 
 not wish to. Then she said, 'I see thou art 
 afraid!' Like a bee, she knew where to sting 
 him most painfully. Abu Nutsal Khan flushed, 
 and did not speak to her any more, but ordered
 
 HADJI MUR AD 135 
 
 his horse to be saddled. I went with him. 
 
 "Hamziid met us with even greater honour 
 than he had shown Umma Khan. He himself 
 rode out two rifle-shot lengths down the hill to 
 meet us. A large party of horsemen with their 
 banners followed him, and they too sang, shot, 
 and caracoled. 
 
 ''When we reached the camp, Hamzad led the 
 Khan into his tent, and I remained with the 
 horses. . . . 
 
 ' ' I was some way down the hill when I heard 
 shots fired in Hamzjid's tent. I ran there, and 
 saw Umma Khan lying prone in a pool of blood, 
 and Abu Nutsal was fighting the murids. One 
 of his cheeks had been hacked off, and hung 
 down. He supported it with one hand, and 
 with the other stabbed with his dagger at all 
 who came near him. I saw him strike down 
 Hamzad 's brother, and aim a blow at another 
 man; but then the murids fired at him and he 
 fell." 
 
 Hadji Murad stopped, and his sunburnt face 
 flushed a dark red, and his eyes became blood- 
 shot. 
 
 "I was seized with fear, and ran awav. "
 
 136 HADJI MURAD 
 
 ''Eeally? . . . I thought thou never wast 
 afraid," said Loris-Melikov. 
 
 "Never after that. . . . Since then I 
 have always remembered that shame, and when 
 I recalled it I feared nothing!"
 
 XII 
 
 ' ' But enough ! It is time for me to pray, ' ' said 
 Hadji Murad, drawing from an inner breast- 
 pocket of his Circassian coat Vorontsov's re- 
 peater watch and carefully pressing the spring. 
 The repeater struck twelve and a quarter. 
 Hadji Murad listened with his head on one side, 
 rej^ressing a childlike smile. 
 
 '^Kundk Vorontsov's present," he said, smil- 
 ing. 
 
 "It is a good watch," said Loris-Melikov. 
 ''Well then, go thou and pray, and I will wait." 
 
 "YaksM. Very well," said Hadji Murad, 
 and went to his bedroom. 
 
 Left by himself, Loris-Melikov wrote down 
 in his notebook the chief things Hadji Murad 
 had related ; and then lighting a cigarette, began 
 to pace up and down the room. On reaching 
 the door opposite the bedroom, he heard ani- 
 mated voices speaking rapidly in Tartar. He 
 guessed that the speakers were Hadji Murad 's 
 
 137
 
 138 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 miirids, and, opening the door, he went in to 
 them. 
 
 The room was impregnated with that special 
 leathery acid smell peculiar to the mountain- 
 eers. On a burka spread out on the floor sat 
 the one-eyed red-haired Gamzalo, in a tattered 
 greasy beshmet, plaiting a bridle. He was say- 
 ing something excitedly, speaking in a hoarse 
 voice; but when Loris-Melikov entered he im- 
 mediately became silent, and continued his work 
 without paying any attention to him. 
 
 In front of Gamzalo stood the merry Khan 
 Mahoma, showing his white teeth, his black 
 lashless eyes glittering, saying something over 
 and over again. The handsome Eldar, his 
 sleeves turned up on his strong arms, was pol- 
 ishing the girths of a saddle suspended from 
 a nail. Khanefi, the principal worker and man- 
 ager of the household, was not there; he was 
 cooking their dinner in the kitchen. 
 
 ''What were you disputing about?" asked 
 Loris-Melikov, after greeting them. 
 
 "Why, he keeps on praising Shamil," said 
 Khan Mahoma, giving his hand to Loris-Meli- 
 kov. "He says Shamil is a great man, learned, 
 holy, and a chhigit."
 
 HADJI MUR AD 139 
 
 *'How is it that he has left him and still 
 praises himr' 
 
 "He has left him, and- still praises him," re- 
 peated Khan Mahoma, his teeth showing and 
 his eyes glittering. 
 
 "And does he really consider him a saint?" 
 asked Loris-Melikov. 
 
 "If he were not a saint the people would not 
 listen to him," said Gamzalo rapidly. 
 
 "Shamil is no saint, but Mansiir was!" re- 
 plied Khan Mahoma. "He was a real saint. 
 When he was Imam the people were quite dif- 
 ferent. He used to ride through the aouls, and 
 the people used to come out and kiss the hem 
 of his coat and confess their sins and vow to 
 do no evil. Then all the people — so the old 
 men say — lived like saints: not drinking, nor 
 smoking, nor neglecting their prayers, and for- 
 gave one another their sins, even when blood 
 had been spilt. If any one then found money 
 or anything, he tied it to a stake and set it up 
 by the roadside. In those days God gave 
 the people success in everything — not as 
 now." 
 
 "In the mountains they don't smoke or drink 
 now," said Gamzalo.
 
 140 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 ''Your Sliamil is a Idmorey," said Khan Ma- 
 homa, winking at Loris-Melikov. {Ldmorey 
 was a contemptuous term for a mountain- 
 eer.) 
 
 "Yes, Idmorey means mountaineer," replied 
 Gamzalo. "It is in tbe mountains that the 
 eagles dwell." 
 
 "Smart fellow. Well hit!" said Khan Ma- 
 homii with a grin, pleased at his adversary's 
 apt retort. 
 
 Seeing the silver cigarette-case in Loris-Mel- 
 ikov 's hand, Khan Mahoma asked for a ciga- 
 rette; and when Loris-Melikov remarked that 
 they were forbidden to smoke, he winked with 
 one eye and jerking his head in the direction 
 of Hadji Murad's bedroom replied that they 
 could do it as long as they were not seen. He 
 at once began smoking — not inhaling — and 
 pouting his red lips awkwardly as he blew out 
 the smoke. 
 
 "That is wrong!" said Gamzalo severely, and 
 left the room for a time. 
 
 Khan Mahoma winked after him, and, while 
 smoking, asked Loris-Melikov where he could 
 best buy a silk heshmet and a white cap.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 141 
 
 (<' 
 
 'Why; hast thou so much money?" 
 
 ''I have enough," replied Khan Mahoma with 
 a wink. 
 
 ''Ask him where he got the money," said 
 Eldar, turning his handsome smiling face 
 towards Loris-Melikov. 
 
 ''Oh, I won it!" said Khan Mahoma quickly; 
 and related how, walking in Tiflis the day be- 
 fore, he had come ujDon a group of men — Rus- 
 sians and Armenians — playing at orlychiJca (a 
 kind of heads-and-tails). The stake was a large 
 one : three gold pieces and much silver. Khan 
 Mahoma at once saw what the game consisted 
 in, and, jingling the coppers he had in his 
 pocket, he went up to the players and said he 
 would stake the whole amount. 
 
 "How couldst thou do it? Hadst thou so 
 much?" asked Loris-Melikov. 
 
 "I had only twelve kopeks," said Khan Ma- 
 homfi, grinning. 
 
 "Well, but if thou hadst lost?" 
 
 "Why, look here!" said Khan Mahom6, 
 pointing to his pistol. 
 
 "Wouldst thou have given that?" 
 
 "Why give it? I should have run away, and
 
 142 HADJI MURAD 
 
 if any one had tried to stop me I should have 
 killed him— that's all!" 
 
 "Well, and didst thou win?" 
 "Aye, I won it all, and went awaj^!" 
 Loris-Melikov quite understood what sort of 
 men Khan Mahoma and Eldar were. Khan 
 Mahoma was a merry fellow, careless and ready 
 for any spree. He did not know what to do 
 with his superfluous vitality. He was always 
 gay and reckless, and played with his own and 
 other people's lives. For the sake of that 
 sport with life, he had now come over to the 
 Russians, and for the same sport he might go 
 back to Shamil to-morrow. 
 
 Eldar was also quite easy to understand. 
 He was a man entirely devoted to his murshid; 
 calm, strong, and firm. 
 
 The red-haired Gamzalo was the only one 
 Loris-Melikov did not understand. He saw that 
 that man was not only loyal to Shamil, but felt 
 an insuperable aversion contempt repugnance 
 and hatred for all Russians; and Loris-Melikov 
 could therefore not understand why he had 
 come over to the Russians. It occurred to him 
 that, as some of the higher officials suspected,
 
 HADJI MUR AD 143 
 
 Hadji Murad's surrender, and his tales of 
 hatred against Shamil, might be a fraud; and 
 that perhaps he had surrendered only to spy 
 out the Russians' weak spots, that — after es- 
 caping back to the mountains — he might be able 
 to direct his forces accordingly. Gamzalo's 
 whole person strengthened this suspicion. 
 
 "The others, and Hadji Murad himself, know 
 how to hide their intentions; but this one be- 
 trays them by his open hatred," thought he. 
 
 Loris-Melikov tried to speak to him. He 
 asked whether he did not feel dull. "No, I 
 don't!" he growled hoarsely, without stopping 
 his work, and he glanced at Loris-Melikov out 
 of the corner of his one eye. He replied to all 
 Loris-Melikov 's other questions in a similar 
 manner. 
 
 While Loris-Melikov was in the room, Hadji 
 Murad's fourth murid, the Avar Khaneti, came 
 in; a man with a hairy face and neck, and a 
 vaulted chest as rough as though overgrown 
 with moss. He was strong, and a hard worker ; 
 always engrossed in his duties, and, like Eldar, 
 unquestionably obedient to his master. 
 
 When he entered the room to fetch some rice,
 
 144 HADJI MUEAD 
 
 Loris-Melikov stopped liim and asked where he 
 came from, and how long he had been with 
 Hadji Murad. 
 
 "Five years," replied Khanefi. "I come 
 from the same aoul as he. My father killed 
 his uncle, and they wished to kill me," he said 
 calmly, looking from beneath his joined eye- 
 brows straight into Loris-Melikov 's face. 
 "Then I asked them to adopt me as a brother." 
 
 "What do you mean by 'adopt as a 
 brother?' " 
 
 "I did not shave my head nor cut my nails 
 for two months, and then I came to them. They 
 let me in to Patimat, his mother, and she gave 
 me the breast and I became his brother." 
 
 Hadji Murad 's voice could be heard from 
 the next room, and Eldar, immediately answer- 
 ing his call, promptly wiped his hands and went 
 with large strides into the drawing-room. 
 
 "He asks thee to come," said he, coming 
 back. 
 
 Loris-Melikov gave another cigarette to the 
 merry Khan Malioma, and went into the draw- 
 ing-room.
 
 XIII 
 
 When Loris-Melikov entered the drawing- 
 room, Hadji Murad received him with a liriglit 
 face. 
 
 ''Well, shall I continue?" he asked, sitting 
 down comfortably on the divan. 
 
 ''Yes, certainly," said Loris-Melikov. "I 
 have been in to have a talk with thy hench- 
 men. . . . One is a jolly fellow!" he added. 
 
 "Yes, Khan Mahomd is a frivolous fellow," 
 said Hadji Murad. 
 
 "I liked the young handsome one." 
 
 "Ah, that's Eldar. He's young, but firm — 
 made of iron!" 
 
 They were silent for a while. 
 
 "So I am to go onl" 
 
 "Yes, yes!" 
 
 "I told thee how the Khans were killed. 
 . . . Well, having killed them, Hamzad 
 rode into Khunzakh and took up his quarters 
 in their palace. The Khansha was the only one 
 
 U.5
 
 146 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 of the family left alive. Hamzad sent for her. 
 She reproached him, so he winked to his murid, 
 Aseldar, who struck her from behind and 
 killed her." 
 
 "Why did he kill her " asked Loris-Melikov. 
 
 "What could he do? . . . AVhere the fore 
 legs have gone, the hind legs must follow! He 
 killed off the whole family. Shamil killed the 
 youngest son — threw him over a preci- 
 pice. . . . 
 
 "Then the whole of Avaria surrendered to 
 Hamzad. But my brother and I would not sur- 
 render. We wanted his blood for the blood of 
 the Khans. We pretended to yield, but our 
 only thought was how to get his blood. We 
 consulted our grandfather, and decided to await 
 the time when he would come out of his palace, 
 and then to kill him from an ambush. Some 
 one overheard us and told Hamzad, who sent 
 for grandfather, and said, 'Mind, if it be true 
 that thy grandsons ar? planning evil against 
 me, thou and they shall hang from one 
 rafter. I do God's work, and cannot be hin- 
 dered. . . . Go, and remember what I have 
 said ! '
 
 HADJI MUK AD 147 
 
 "Our grandfatlier came liome and told us. 
 
 ''T]ien we decided not to wait, but to do the 
 deed on the first day of the feast in the mosque. 
 Our comrades would not take part in it, but my 
 brother and I remained firm. 
 
 "We took two pistols each, put on our 
 hurJcas, and went to the mosque. Hamzad en- 
 tered the mosque with thirty murids. They 
 all had drawn swords in their hands. Aseldar, 
 his favourite murid (the one who liad cut off 
 the head of the Khansha) saw us, shouted to 
 us to take off our hufl-as, and came towards 
 me. I had my dagger in my hand, and I killed 
 him with it and rushed at Plamzad; but my 
 brother Osman had already shot him. He was 
 still alive, and rushed at my brother dagger 
 in hand, but I gave him a finishing blow on the 
 head. There were thirty murids, and we were 
 only two. They killed my brother Osman, but 
 I kept them at bay, leapt through the window, 
 and escaped. 
 
 "When it was known that Hamzad had been 
 killed, all the people rose. The murids fled; 
 and those of them who did not flee were killed." 
 
 Hadji Murad paused, and breathed heavily.
 
 148 HADJI MURAD 
 
 ''That was all very well," he continued, "but 
 afterwards everything was spoilt. 
 
 ''Shamil succeeded .Hamzad. He sent en- 
 voys to me to say that I should join him in 
 attacking the Russians, and that if I refused 
 he would destroy Khunzakh and kill me. 
 
 ''I answered that I would not join him, and 
 would not let him come to me. . . ." 
 
 ''Why didst thou not go with him?" asked 
 Loris-Melikov. 
 
 Hadji Murad frowned, and did not reply at 
 once. 
 
 "I could not. The blood of my brother Os- 
 man and of Abu Nutsal Khan was on his hands. 
 I did not go to him. General Rosen sent me 
 an officer's commission, and ordered me to gov- 
 ern Avaria. All this would have been well, but 
 that Rosen appointed as Khan of Kazi- 
 Kumukh, first Mahomet-Murza, and afterwards 
 Akhmet Khan, who hated me. He had been 
 trying to get the Khansha's daughter, Sultan- 
 etta, in marriage for his son, but she would not 
 give her to him, and he believed me to be the 
 cause of this. . . . Yes, Akhmet Khan 
 hated me and sent his henchmen to kill me, but
 
 HADJI MUR AD 149 
 
 I escaped from them. Then he calumniated 
 me to General Kliigenau. He said that I told 
 the Avars not to supply wood to the Russian 
 soldiers ; and he also said that I had donned a 
 turhan— this one — " and Hadji Murad touched 
 his turban — ''and that this meant that I had 
 gone over to Shamil. The General did not be- 
 lieve him, and gave orders that I should not 
 be touched. But when the General went to 
 Tiflis, Akhmet Khan did as he pleased. He 
 sent a company of soldiers to seize me, put me 
 in chains, and tied me to a cannon. 
 
 ''So they kept me six days," he continued. 
 "On the seventh day they untied me and started 
 to take me to Temir-Khan-Shura. Forty 
 soldiers with loaded guns had me in charge. 
 My hands were tied, and I knew that they had 
 orders to kill me if I tried to escape. 
 
 "As we approached Mansooha the path be- 
 came narrow, and on the right was an abyss 
 about a hundred and twenty yards deep. I 
 went to the right — to the very edge. A soldier 
 wanted to stop me, but I jumped down and 
 pulled him with me. He was killed outright, 
 but I, as you see, remained alive.
 
 150 H A D J I M IT R A D 
 
 **Ribs, head, arms, and leg — all were broken! 
 I tried to crawl, but grew giddy and fell asleep. 
 I awoke, wet with blood. A shepherd saw me, 
 and called some people who carried me to an 
 aoul. My ribs and head healed, and my leg too, 
 only it has remained short," and Hadji Murad 
 stretched out his crooked leg. ''It still serves 
 me, however, and that is well," said he. 
 
 "The people heard the news, and began com- 
 ing to me. I recovered, and went to Tselmess. 
 The Avars again called on me to rule over 
 them," said Hadji jMurad, with tranquil, con- 
 fident pride, "and I agreed." 
 
 He quickly rose, and taking a portfolio out 
 of a saddle-bag, drew out two discoloured let- 
 ters and handed one of them to Loris-Melikov. 
 They were from General Kliigenau. Loris- 
 Melikov read the first letter, which was as fol- 
 lows, — 
 
 "Lieutenant Hadji Murad, thou hast served 
 under me, and I was satisfied with thee, and 
 considered thee a good man. 
 
 "Recently Akhmet Khan informed me that 
 thou art a traitor, that thou hast donned a tur- 
 ban, and hast intercourse with Shamil, and that
 
 HADJI M UK AD 151 
 
 thou hast taught the people to disobey the Rus- 
 sian Government. I ordered thee to be ar- 
 rested and brought liefore me, but thou fledst. 
 I do not know whether this is for tliy good or 
 not, as I do not know whether thou art guilty or 
 not. 
 
 "Now hear me. If thy conscience is pure, if 
 thou art not guilty in anything towards the 
 great Tsar, come to me; fear no one. I am thy 
 defender. The Khan can do nothing to thee; 
 he is himself under my command, so thou hast 
 nothing to fear." 
 
 Kliigenau added that he always kept his 
 word and was just, and he again exhorted 
 Hadji Murad to appear before him. 
 
 When Loris-Melikov had read this letter, 
 Hadji Murad, before handing him the second 
 one, told him what he had written in reply to 
 the first. 
 
 "I wrote that I wore a turban, not for Sha- 
 mil's sake, l)ut for my soul's salvation; that I 
 neither wished nor could go over to Shamil, be- 
 cause he was the cause of my father's, my 
 brothers', and my relations' deaths; but that I 
 could not join the Russians because I had been
 
 152 HADJI MURAD 
 
 dishonoured by them. (In Khunzakh, while I 
 was bound, a scoundrel sh — on me ; and I could 
 not join your people until that man was killed.) 
 But, above all, I feared that liar, Akhmet Khan. 
 
 "Then the General sent me this letter," said 
 Hadji Murad, handing Loris-Melikov the other 
 discoloured paper. 
 
 "Thou hast answered my first letter, and I 
 thank thee," read Loris-Melikov, "Thou 
 writest that thou art not afraid to return, but 
 that the insult done thee by a certain Giaour 
 prevents it; but I assure thee that the Russian 
 law is just, and that thou shalt see him who 
 dared to offend thee punished before thine eyes. 
 I have already given orders to investigate the 
 matter. 
 
 "Hear me, Hadji Murad! I have a right to 
 be displeased with thee for not trusting me and 
 my honour ; but I forgive thee, for I know how 
 suspicious mountaineers are in general. If thy 
 conscience is pure, if thou hast put on a turban 
 only for thy soul's salvation, then thou art 
 right, and mayst look me and the Russian Gov- 
 ernment boldly in the eyes. He who dishon- 
 oured thee shall, I assure thee, be punished;
 
 HADJI MURAD 153 
 
 and thy property shall he restored to thee, and 
 thou shalt see and know what Russian law is. 
 And besides, we Russians look at things dif- 
 ferently, and thou has not sunk in our eyes be- 
 cause some scoundrel has dishonoured thee. 
 
 *'I myself have consented to the Chimrints 
 wearing turbans; and I regard their actions in 
 the right light; and therefore I repeat that 
 thou hast nothing to fear. Come to me with 
 the man by whom I am sending thee this let- 
 ter. He is faithful to me, and is not the slave 
 of thy enemies but is the friend of a man who 
 enjoys the special favour of the Government." 
 
 Further on Kliigenau again tried to persuade 
 Hadji Murad to come over to him. 
 
 "I did not believe him," said Hadji Murad 
 when Loris-Melikov had finished reading, "and 
 did not go to Kliigenau. The chief thing for 
 me was to revenge myself on Akhmet Khan; 
 and that I could not do through the Russians. 
 Then Akhmet Khan surrounded Tselmess, and 
 wanted to take me or kill me. I had too few 
 men, and could not drive him off; and just then 
 came an envoy with a letter from Shamil, 
 promising to help me to defeat and kill Akhmet
 
 154 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 Khan, and making me ruler over the whole of 
 Avaria. I considered the matter for a long 
 time, and then went over to Shamil ; and from 
 that time have fought the Russians continu- 
 ally." 
 
 Here Hadji Murad related all liis military 
 exploits, of which there were very many, and 
 some of which were already familiar to Loris- 
 Melikov. All his campaigns and raids had been 
 remarkable for the extraordinary rapidity of 
 his movements and the boldness of his attacks, 
 which were alwa3^s crowned with success. 
 
 ''There never was any friendship between 
 me and Shamil," said Hadji Munid at the end 
 of his story, "but he feared me and needed 
 me. But it so happened that I was asked who 
 should be Imfim after Shamil, and I replied: 
 'He will be Imam whose sword is sharpest!' 
 
 "This was told to Shamil, and he wanted to 
 get rid of me. He sent me into Tabasaran. I 
 went, and captured a thousand sheep and three 
 hundred horses; but he said I had not done 
 the right thing, and dismissed me from being 
 Nail), and ordered me to send him all the money. 
 I sent him a thousand gold pieces. He sent his
 
 HADJI MURAD 155 
 
 murids, and they took from me all my property, 
 lie demanded that I shonJd go to him; but I 
 knew he wanted to kill me, and I did not go. 
 Then he sent to take me. I resisted, and went 
 over to Vorontsov. Only I did not take my 
 family. My mother, my wives, and my son are 
 in his liands. Tell the Sirdar that as long as 
 my family is in Shamil's power, I can do noth- 
 ing. ' ' 
 
 ''I will tell him," said Loris-Melikov. 
 
 ''Take pains, do try! . . . What is mine 
 is thine, only help me with the Prince! I am 
 tied up, and the end of the rope is in Shamil's 
 hands," said Hadji Murad, concluding his 
 story.
 
 XIV 
 
 On 20th December Vorontsov wrote as fol- 
 lows to Chernysliov, tlie Minister of War. 
 The letter was in French, — 
 
 ''I did not write to you by the last post, dear 
 Prince, as I wished first to decide what we 
 should do with Hadji Murad, and for the last 
 two or three days I have not been feeling quite 
 well. 
 
 ''In my last letter I informed you of Hadji 
 Mur^d's arrival here. He reached Tifiis on the 
 8th, and next day I made his acquaintance ; and 
 during" the following seven or eight days I have 
 spoken to him and have considered what use 
 we can make of him in the future, and espe- 
 cially what we are to do with him at present; 
 for he is much concerned about the fate of his 
 family, and with every appearance of perfect 
 frankness says that while they are in Shamil's 
 hands he is paralysed and cannot render us any 
 
 service, nor show his gratitude for the friendly 
 
 1 r,6
 
 HADJI MURAD 157 
 
 reception and forgiveness we have extended 
 to him. 
 
 "His uncertainty ahout those dear to him 
 makes him feverish ; and the persons I have 
 appointed to live with him assure me that he 
 does not sleep at night, hardly eats anything, 
 prays continually, and asks only to be allowed 
 to ride out accompanied by several Cossacks — 
 the sole recreation and exercise possible for 
 him, and made necessary to him by lifelong 
 habit. Every day he comes to me to know 
 whether I have any news of his family, and to 
 ask me to have all the prisoners in our hands 
 collected and offered to Shamil in exchange for 
 them. He would also give a little money. 
 There are people who would let him have some 
 for the purpose. He keeps repeating to me: 
 'Save my family, and then give me a chance to 
 serve you' (preferably, in his opinion, on the 
 Lesghiau line) 'and if within a month I do not 
 render you great seiwice, punish me as you 
 think fit.' I reply that to me all this appears 
 very just; and that many persons among us 
 would even not trust him so long as his family 
 remains in the mountains and are not in our
 
 158 HADJI MUEAD 
 
 hands as hostages; and that I will do every- 
 thing possible to collect the prisoners on our 
 frontier; that I have no power under our laws 
 to give him monev for the ransom of his familv 
 in addition to the sum he mav himself be able 
 to raise, but that I may perhaps find some 
 other means of heli)ing him. After that I told 
 him frankly that in my opinion Shamil would 
 not in any case give up the family, and that 
 Shamil might tell him so straight out and 
 promise him a full pardon and his former posts, 
 but threaten, if liadji Munid did not return, to 
 kill his mother, wives, and six ''hildren; and I 
 asked liiiii whether he could say frankly what 
 he would do if he received such an announce- 
 ment from Shamil. Hadji Mui'ad lifted his 
 eyes and arms to heaven, and said that every- 
 thing is in God's hands, but that he would never 
 surrender to his foe; for he is certain Shamil 
 would not forgive him, and he would therefore 
 not have long to live. As to the destruction of 
 . his family, he did not think Shamil would act 
 so rashly: firstly, to avoid making him a 3^et 
 more desperate and dangerous foe; and 
 secondly, because there were many people, and
 
 Hx\DJI MTJRAD 159 
 
 even very influeiitial people, in Dagiiestan, who 
 would dissuade Sliamil from sncli a course. 
 Finally, he re]ieated several times that what- 
 ever God might decree for him in the future, 
 he was at present interested in nothing hut his 
 family's ransom; and he im])lored me, in God's 
 name, to help him, and to allow him to return 
 to the neighhourhood of the Chechnya, where 
 he could, with the help and consent of our com- 
 manders, have some intercourse with his family, 
 and regular news of their condition, and of the 
 best means to liberate them. He said that 
 many people, and even some Ndibs in that part 
 of the enemy's territory, were more or less 
 attached to him; and that among the whole oi 
 the population already subjugated by Russia, 
 or neutral, it would be easy with our help to 
 establish relations very useful for the attaim 
 ment of the aim which gives him no peace day 
 or night, and the attainment of which would 
 set him at ease and make it possible for him to 
 act for our good and to win our confidence. 
 
 ''He asks to be sent back to Grozny with a 
 convoy of twenty or thirty picked Cossacks, 
 who would serve him as a protection against
 
 160 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 foes and us as a guarantee of his good faith. 
 ''You will understand, dear Prince, that I 
 have been much perplexed by all this ; for, do 
 what I will, a great responsibility rests on me. 
 It would be in the highest degree rash to trust 
 him entirely ; yet in order to deprive him of all 
 means of escape we should have to lock him up, 
 and in my opinion that would be both unjust 
 and impolitic. A measure of that kind, the 
 news of which would soon spread over the 
 whole of Daghestan, would do us great harm 
 by keeping back those (and there are many 
 such) who are now inclined more or less openly 
 to oppose Shamil, and who are keenly watching 
 to see how we treat the Imam's bravest and 
 most adventurous officer, now that he has found 
 himself obliged to place himself in our hands. 
 If we treat Hadji Murad as a prisoner, all the 
 good effect of the situation will be lost. There- 
 fore I think that I could not act otherwise than 
 as I have done, though at the same time I feel 
 that I may be accused of having made a great 
 mistake if Hadji Murad should take it into his 
 head again to escape. In the service, and espe- 
 cially in a complicated situation such as this,
 
 HADJI MURAD 161 
 
 it is difficult, not to say impossible, to follow 
 any one straight path without risking mistakes, 
 and without accepting responsibility; but once 
 a path seems to be the right one, I must follow 
 it, happen what may. 
 
 ''I beg of you, dear Prince, to submit this to 
 his Majesty the Emperor for his consideration ; 
 and I shall be happy if it pleases our most 
 august monarch to approve my action. 
 
 ''All that I have written above, I have also 
 written to Generals Zavodovsky and Kozlovsky, 
 to guide the latter when communicating direct 
 with Hadji Murad, whom I have warned not to 
 act or go anywhere without Kozlovsky 's con- 
 sent. I also told him that it would be all the 
 better for us if he rode out with our convoy, 
 as otherwise Shamil might spread a rumour 
 that we were keeping him prisoner ; but at the 
 same time I made him promise never to go to 
 Vozdvizhensk, because my son, to whom he first 
 surrendered and whom he looks upon as his 
 kiindk (friend), is not the commander of that 
 place, and some unpleasant misunderstanding 
 might easily arise. In any case, Vozdvizhensk 
 lies too near a thickly populated, hostile settle-
 
 162 HADJI MUE AD 
 
 ment ; while for the intercourse with his friends 
 which he desires, Grozny is in all respects suit- 
 able. 
 
 ''Besides the twenty chosen Cossacks who, at 
 Ms own request, are to keep close to him, I am 
 also sending Captain Loris-Melikov with him — 
 a worthy excellent and highly-intelligent officer 
 who speaks Tartar, and knows Hadji Murad 
 well, and apparently enjoys his full confidence. 
 During the ten days Hadji Murad has spent 
 here, he has, however, lived in the same house 
 with Lieutenant-Colonel Prince Tarkhanof, who 
 is in command of the Shoushin District, and is 
 here on business connected with the service. 
 He is a truly worthy man whom I trust entirely. 
 He also has won Hadji Murad 's confidence, and 
 through him alone — as he speaks Tartar per- 
 fectly — we have discussed the most delicate and 
 secret matters. I have consulted Tarkhanof 
 about Hadji Murad, and he fully agrees with me 
 that it was necessary either to act as I have 
 done, or to put Hadji Murad in prison and 
 guard him in the strictest manner (for if we 
 once treat him badly, he will not be easy to 
 hold), or else to remove him from the country
 
 HADJI MURAD 163 
 
 altogether. But these two last measures 
 would not only destroy all the advantage accru- 
 ing to us from Hadji Murad's quarrel with Sha- 
 mil, hut would inevitahly check any growth of 
 the present insubordination and possible future 
 revolt of the people against Shamil's power. 
 Prince Tarkhanof tells me he himself has no 
 doubt of Hadji Murad's truthfulness, and that 
 Hadji Murad is convinced that Shamil will 
 never forgive him, but would have him executed 
 in spite of any promise of forgiveness. The 
 only thing Tarkhanof has noticed in his inter- 
 course with Hadji Murad that might cause any 
 anxiety, is his attachment to his religion. 
 Tarkhanof does not deny that Shamil might 
 influence Hadji Murad from that side. But as 
 I have already said, he will never persuade 
 Hadji Munid that he will not take his life 
 sooner or later, should the latter return to him. 
 "This, dear Prince, is all I have to tell you 
 about this episode in our affairs here."
 
 XV 
 
 The report was despatched from Tiflis on 24th 
 December 1851, and on Xew Year's Eve a 
 courier, having overdriven a dozen horses and 
 beaten a dozen drivers till the blood came, de- 
 livered it to Prince Chernvshov, who at that 
 time was Minister of War; and on 1st January 
 1852 Chernyshov, among other papers, took 
 Vorontsov's report to the Emperor Nicholas. 
 
 Chernyshov disliked Vorontsov because of 
 the general respect in which the latter was 
 held, and because of his immense wealth ; and 
 also because Vorontsov was a real aristocrat, 
 while Chernyshov after all was a parvenu; but 
 especially because the Emperor was particu- 
 larly well disposed towards Vorontsov, There- 
 fore at every opportunity Chernyshov tried to 
 injure Vorontsov. 
 
 When he had last presented a report about 
 Caucasian affairs, he had succeeded in arous- 
 ing Nicholas's displeasure against Vorontsov 
 because — through the carelessness of those in 
 
 164
 
 HADJI MUR AD 165 
 
 command — almost the whole of a small Cauca- 
 sian detachment had been destroyed by the 
 mountaineers. He now intended to present the 
 steps taken by Vorontsov in relation to Hadji 
 Murad in an unfavourable light. He wished 
 to suggest to the Emperor that Vorontsov 
 always protected and even indulged the natives, 
 to the detriment of the Russians; and that he 
 had acted unwisely in allowing Hadji Murad 
 to remain in the Caucasus, for there was every 
 reason to suspect that he had only come over 
 to spy on our means of defence; and that it 
 would therefore be better to transport him to 
 Central Russia, and make use of him only after 
 his family had been rescued from the mountain- 
 eers and it had become possible to convince our- 
 selves of his loyalty. 
 
 Chernyshov's plan did not succeed, merely be- 
 cause on that New Year's Day Nicholas was in 
 particularly bad spirits, and out of perversity 
 would not have accepted any suggestion what- 
 ever from any one, and least of all from 
 Chernyshov, whom he only tolerated — regard- 
 ing him as indispensable for the time being, but 
 looking upon him as a blackguard ; for Nicholas
 
 166 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 knew of his endeavours at the trial of the De- 
 cembrists"^ to secure the conviction of Zachary 
 Chernyshov and of his attempt to obtain 
 Zachary 's property for himself. So, thanks to 
 Nicholas's ill temper, Hadji Murad remained in 
 the Caucasus; and his circumstances were not 
 changed as they might have been had Cherny- 
 shov presented his report at another time. 
 
 • • « • • 
 
 It was half-past nine o'clock when, through 
 the mist of the cold morning (the thermometer 
 showed 13 degrees Fahrenheit below zero) 
 Chernyshov 's fat, bearded coachman, sitting on 
 the box of a small sledge (like the one Nicholas 
 drove about in) with a sharp-angled cushion- 
 shaped azure velvet cap on his head, drew up 
 at the entrance of the Winter Palace, and gave 
 a friendly nod to his chum, Prince Dolgoruky's 
 coachman — who, having brought his master to 
 the palace, had himself long been waiting out- 
 side, in his big coat with the thickly wadded 
 skirts, sitting on the reins and rubbing his 
 numbed hands together. Chernyshov had on a 
 
 1 The military conspirators who tried to secure a Consti- 
 tution for Russia in 1S25, on the accession of Nicholas I.
 
 HADJI MURAD 167 
 
 long, large-caped cloak, with a fluffy collar of 
 silver beaver, and a regulation three-cornered 
 liat with cocks' feathers. He threw back the 
 bearskin apron of the sledge, and carefully 
 disengaged his chilled feet, on which he had no 
 goloshes (he prided himself on never wearing 
 any). Clanking his spurs with an air of 
 bravado, he ascended the carpeted steps and 
 passed through the hall door, which was re- 
 spectfully opened for him by the porter, and 
 entered the hall. Having thrown off his cloak, 
 which an old Court lackey hurried forward to 
 take, he went to a mirror and carefully removed 
 the hat from his curled wig. Looking at him- 
 self in the mirror, he arranged the hair on his 
 temples and the tuft above his forehead with an 
 accustomed movement of his old hands, and 
 adjusted his cross, the shoulder-knots of his 
 uniform, and his large-initialled epaulets; and 
 then went up the gently-ascending carpeted 
 stairs, his not very reliable old legs feebly 
 mounting the shallow steps. Passing the Court 
 lackeys in gala livery, who stood obsequiously 
 bowing, Chernyshov entered the waiting-room. 
 A newly appointed aide-de-camp to the Em-
 
 168 HADJI MURAD 
 
 peror, in a shining new uniform, with epaulets 
 shoulder-knots and a still fresh rosy face, a 
 small black moustache, and the hair on his 
 temples brushed towards his eyes (Nicholas's 
 fashion) met him respectfully. 
 
 Prince Vasily Dolgoruky, Assistant-Minister 
 of War, with an expression of ennui on his dull 
 face — which was ornamented with similar 
 whiskers, moustaches, and temple tufts brushed 
 forward like Nicholas 's^greeted him. 
 
 ''L'eni'pereurf" said Chernyshov, addressing 
 the aide-de-camp, and looking inquiringly 
 towards the door leading to the cabinet. 
 
 ^' Sa majeste vient de rentrer,"^ replied the 
 aide-de-camp, evidently enjoying the sound of 
 his own voice, and, stepping so softly and 
 steadily that had a tumbler of water been 
 placed on his head none of it would have been 
 spilt, he approached the noiselessly opening- 
 door and, his whole body evincing reverence for 
 the spot he was about to visit, he disappeared. 
 
 Dolgoruky meanwhile opened his portfolio to 
 see that it contained the necessary papers, 
 while Chernyshov, frowning, paced up and 
 
 2 His majesty Las just returned.
 
 HADJI MURAD 169 
 
 down to restore the circulation in his numbed 
 feet, and thought over what he was about to 
 report to the Emperor. He was near the door 
 of the cabinet when it opened again, and the 
 aide-de-camp, even more radiant and respectful 
 than before, came out and with a gesture in- 
 vited the minister and his assistant to enter. 
 
 The Winter Palace had been rebuilt after 
 the fire some considerable time before this ; but 
 Nicholas was still occupying rooms in the upper 
 story. The cabinet in which he received the 
 reports of his ministers and other high officials, 
 was a very lofty apartment with four large win- 
 dows. A big portrait of the Emperor Alexan- 
 der I hung on the front wall. Between the win- 
 dows stood two bureaux. By the walls stood 
 several chairs. In the middle of the room was 
 an enormous writing-table, with an arm-chair 
 before it for Nicholas, and other chairs for 
 those to whom he gave audience. 
 
 Nicholas sat at the table in a black coat with 
 shoulder-straps but no epaulets, his enormous 
 body — of which the overgrown stomach was 
 tightly laced in — was thrown back, and he 
 gazed at the newcomers with fixed, lifeless eyes.
 
 170 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 His long, pale face, with its enormous receding 
 forehead between the tufts of hair which were 
 brushed forward and skilfully joined to the wig 
 that covered his bald patch, was specially cold 
 and stony that day. His eyes, always dim, 
 looked duller than usual; the compressed lips 
 under his upturned moustaches, and his fat 
 freshly-shaven cheeks — on which symmetrical 
 sausage-shaped bits of whiskers had been left — 
 supported by the high collar, and his chin which 
 also pressed upon it, gave to his face a dissatis- 
 fied and even irate expression. The cause of 
 the bad mood he was in was fatigue. The 
 fatigue was due to the fact that he had been to 
 a masquerade the night before, and while walk- 
 ing about as was his wont, in his Horse Guards' 
 uniform with a bird on the helmet, among the 
 i^ublic which crowded round and timidly made 
 way for his enormous, self-assured figure, he 
 again met the mask who at the previous mas- 
 querade, by her whiteness, her beautiful figure, 
 and her tender voice had aroused his senile 
 sensuality. She had then disappeared, after 
 promising to meet him at the next masquerade. 
 At yesterday's masquerade she had come up
 
 HADJI MUR AD 171 
 
 to him, and he had not let her go again, but had 
 led her to the box specially kept ready for that 
 purpose, where he could be alone with her. 
 Having arrived in silence at the door of the box, 
 Nicholas looked round to find the attendant, but 
 he was not there. Nicholas frowned, and 
 pushed the door open himself, letting the lady 
 enter first. 
 
 "II y a quelqu'un!" ^ said the mask, stopping 
 short. 
 
 The box actually was occupied. On the small 
 velvet-covered sofa sat, close together, an Uhlan 
 officer and a pretty, curly-haired, fair young- 
 woman in a domino, who had removed her mask. 
 On catching sight of the angry figure of Nicho- 
 las, drawn up to its full height, the fair-haired 
 woman quickly covered her face with her mask ; 
 but the Uhlan officer, rigid with fear, without 
 rising from the sofa, gazed at Nicholas with 
 fixed eyes. 
 
 Used as he was to the terror he inspired in 
 people, that terror always pleased Nicholas, 
 and by way of contrast he sometimes liked to 
 astound those who were plunged in terror by 
 
 3 There's some one tbere !
 
 172 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 addressing kindly words to them. He did so 
 on this occasion. 
 
 "Well, friend!" said he to the officer, rigid 
 with fear, "you are younger than I, and might 
 give up your place to me." 
 
 The officer jumped to his feet, and growing 
 pale and then red and bending almost double, 
 he followed his partner silentl}^ out of the box, 
 and Nicholas remained alone with his lady. 
 
 She proved to be a pretty, twenty-year old 
 virgin, the daughter of a Swedish governess. 
 She told Nicholas how, when quite a child, she 
 had fallen in love with him from his portraits ; 
 how she adored him, and made up her mind to 
 attract his attention at any cost. Now she had 
 succeeded, and wanted nothing more — so she 
 said. 
 
 The girl was taken to the place where Nicho- 
 las usually had rendezvous with women, and 
 there he spent more than an hour with her. 
 
 When he returned to his room that night and 
 lay on the hard narrow bed about which he 
 prided himself, and covered himself with the 
 cloak which he considered to be (and spoke of 
 as being) as famous as Napoleon's hat, it was
 
 HADJI MUK AD 173 
 
 long before he could fall asleep. He thought 
 now of the frightened and elated expression on 
 that girl's fair face, and now of the full, power- 
 ful shoulders of his regular mistress, Nelidova, 
 and he compared the two. That profligacy in 
 a married man was a bad thing did not once 
 enter his head; and he would have been greatly 
 surprised had any one censured him for it. 
 Yet, though convinced that he had acted 
 properly, some kind of unpleasant after-taste 
 remained behind, and to stifle that feeling he 
 began to dwell on a thought that always tran- 
 quil lised him — the thought of his own greatness. 
 
 Though he fell asleep very late, he rose be- 
 fore eight, and after attending to his toilet in 
 the usual way — rubbing his big well-fed bodjr 
 all over with ice — and saying his prayers (re- 
 peating those he had been used to from child- 
 hood — the prayer to the Virgin, the Apostles' 
 Creed, and the Lord's Prayer, without attach- 
 ing any kind of meaning to the words he 
 uttered), he went out through the smaller 
 portico of the palace on to the embankment, 
 in his military cloak and cap. 
 
 On the embankment he met a student in the
 
 174 HADJI MURAD 
 
 uniform of the School of Jurisprudence, who 
 was as enormous as himself. On recognising 
 the uniform of that School, which he disliked 
 for its freedom of thought, Nicholas frowned; 
 but the stature of the student, and the painstak- 
 ing manner in which he drew himself up and 
 saluted, ostentatiously sticking out his elbow, 
 mollified Nicholas's displeasure. 
 
 ''Your name?" said he. 
 
 "Polosatov, your Imperial Majesty." 
 
 *' . . . fine fellow!" 
 
 The student continued to stand with his hand 
 lifted to his hat. 
 
 Nicholas stopped. 
 
 ''Do you wish to enter the army*?" 
 * "Not at all, your Imperial Majesty." 
 
 "Blockhead!" And Nicholas turned away 
 and continued his walk, and began uttering 
 aloud the first words that came into his head. 
 
 "Kopervine . . . Kopervine — " he re- 
 peated several times (it was the name of yes- 
 terday's girl). "Horrid . . . horrid — " 
 He did not think what he said, but stifled his 
 feelings by listening to it. 
 
 "Yes, what would Russia do without me?"
 
 HADJI MURAD 175 
 
 said he, feeling his former dissatisfaction re- 
 turning; "yes, what would — not Russia alone, 
 but Europe be, without me?" and calling to 
 mind the weakness and stupidity of his brother- 
 in-law, the King of Prussia, he shook his head. 
 
 As he was returning to the small portico, he 
 saw the carriage of Helena Pavlovna,^ with a 
 red-liveried footman, approaching the Saltykov 
 entrance of the palace. 
 
 Helena Pavlovna was to him the personifi- 
 cation of that futile class of people who dis- 
 cussed not merely science and poetry, but even 
 the ways of governing men : imagining that they 
 could govern themselves better than he, Nicho- 
 las, governed them! He knew that however 
 much he crushed such people, they reappeared 
 again and again; and he recalled his brother, 
 Michael Pavlovich, who had died not long be- 
 fore. A feeling of sadness and vexation came 
 over him, and with a dark frown he again be- 
 gan whispering the first words that came into 
 his head. He only ceased doing this when he 
 re-entered the palace. 
 
 * Widow of Nicholas's brother Michael : a clever, well- 
 educated woman, interested in science, art, and public af- 
 fairs.
 
 176 HADJI MURAD 
 
 On reaching his apartments he smoothed his 
 whiskers and the hair on his temples and the 
 wig on his bald patch, and twisted his 
 moustaches upwards in front of the mirror; 
 and then went straight to the cabinet in which 
 he received reports. 
 
 He first received Chernyshov, who at once 
 saw by his face, and especially by his eyes, that 
 Nicholas was in a particularly bad humour that 
 day; and knowing about the adventure of the 
 night before, he understood the cause. Having 
 coldly greeted Chernyshov and invited him to 
 sit down, Nicholas fixed on him a lifeless gaze. 
 The first matter Chernyshov reported upon was 
 a case, which had just been discovered, of em- 
 bezzlement by commissariat officials; the next 
 was the movement of troops on the Prussian 
 frontier; then came a list of rewards to be 
 given at the New Year to some people omitted 
 from a former list; then Vorontsov's report 
 about Hadji Murad; and lastly some unpleas- 
 ant business concerning an attempt by a stu- 
 dent of the Academy of Medicine on the life 
 of a professor. 
 
 Nicholas heard the report of the embezzle-
 
 HADJI MUR AD 177 
 
 ment silently, with compressed lips, his large 
 white hand — with one ring on the fourth finger 
 — stroking some sheets of paper, and his eyes 
 steadily fixed on Chernyshov 's forehead and on 
 the tuft of hair above it. 
 
 Nicholas was convinced that everybody stole. 
 He knew he would have to punish the commis- 
 sariat officials now, and decided to send them 
 all to serve in the ranks; but he also knew that 
 this would not prevent those who succeeded 
 them from acting in the same way. It was a 
 characteristic of officials to steal, and it was his 
 duty to punish them for doing so ; and tired as 
 he was of that duty he conscientiously per- 
 formed it. 
 
 ''It seems there is only one honest man in 
 Russia!" said he. 
 
 Chernyshov at once understood that this one 
 honest man was Nicholas himself, and smiled 
 approvingly. 
 
 "It looks Tike it, your Imperial Majesty," 
 said he. 
 
 ''Leave it — I will give a decision," said 
 Nicholas, taking the document and putting it on 
 the left side of the table.
 
 178 HADJI MURAD 
 
 Then Chernyshov reported about the re- 
 wards to be given, and about moving the army 
 on the Prussian frontier. 
 
 Nicholas looked over the list and struck out 
 some names; and then briefly and firmly gave 
 orders to move two divisions to the Prussian 
 frontier. Nicholas could not forgive the King 
 of Prussia for granting a Constitution to his 
 people after the events of 1848, and therefore, 
 while expressing most friendly feelings to his 
 brother-in-law in letters and conversation, he 
 considered it necessary to keep an army near 
 the frontier in case of need. He might want to 
 use these troops to defend his brother-in-law's 
 throne if the people of Prussia rebelled (Nicho- 
 las saw a readiness for rebellion everywhere) 
 as he had used troops to suppress the rising in 
 Hungary a few years previously. Another 
 reason why troops were wanted, was to give 
 more weight and influence to the advice he gave 
 to the King of Prussia. 
 
 *'Yes — what would Russia be like now, if it 
 were not for me?" he again thought. 
 
 ''Well, what else is there?" said he. 
 
 '*A courier from the Caucasus," said
 
 HADJI MUR AD 179 
 
 Cliernj'shov, and he reported what Vorontsov 
 had written about Hadji Murad's surrender. 
 
 ''Dear me!" said Nicholas. "Well, it's a 
 good beginning!" 
 
 "Evidently the plan devised by your Majesty 
 begins to bear fruit," said Chernyshov. 
 
 This approval of his strategic talents was 
 particularly pleasant to Nicholas, because, 
 though he prided himself on those talents, at 
 the bottom of his heart he knew that they did 
 not really exist; and he now desired to hear 
 more detailed praise of himself. 
 
 "How do you mean?" he asked. 
 
 "I understand it this way — that if your 
 Majesty's plans had been adopted long ago, and 
 we had moved forward steadily though slowly, 
 cutting down forests and destroying the sup- 
 plies of food, the Caucasus would have been 
 subjugated long ago. I attribute Hadji Mu- 
 rad's surrender entirely to his having come to 
 the conclusion that they can hold out no 
 longer." 
 
 "True," said Nicholas. 
 
 Although the plan of a gradual. advance into 
 the enemy's territory by means of felling for-
 
 180 HADJI MURAD 
 
 ests and destroying the food supplies was 
 Ermolov's and Velyammov's plan, and was 
 quite contrary to Nicholas's own plan of seiz- 
 ing Shamil's place of residence and destroying 
 that nest of robbers — which was the plan on 
 which the Dargo expedition in 1845 (that cost 
 so many lives) had been undertaken — Nicholas 
 nevertheless also attributed to himself the plan 
 of a slow advance and a systematic felling of 
 forests and devastation of the country. It 
 would seem that to believe that the plan of a 
 slow movement by felling forests and destroy- 
 ing food supplies was his own, necessitated the 
 hiding of the fact that he had insisted on quite 
 contrary operations in 1845. But he did not 
 hide it, and was proud of the plan of the 1845 
 expedition, and also of the plan of a slow ad- 
 vance — though evidently the two were contrary 
 to one another. Continual brazen flattery from 
 everybody round him, in the teeth of obvious 
 facts, had brought him to such a state that he 
 no longer saw his own inconsistencies or 
 measured his actions and words by reality 
 logic or even by simple common sense; but was 
 quite convinced that all his orders, however
 
 HADJI MUR AD 181 
 
 senseless unjust and mutually contradictory 
 they might be, became reasonable just and mu- 
 tually accordant simply because he gave them. 
 His decision in the case next reported to him — 
 that of the student of the Academy of Medi- 
 cine — was of that senseless kind. 
 
 The case was as follows : A young man who 
 had twice failed in his examinations was being 
 examined a third time, and when the examiner 
 again would not pass him, the young man, whose 
 nerves were deranged, considering this to be an 
 injustice, in a paroxysm of fury seized a pen- 
 knife from the table and, rushing at the pro- 
 fessor, inflicted on him several trifling wounds. 
 
 ''What's his name?" asked Nicholas. 
 
 **Bzhez6vsky." 
 
 **A Pole?" 
 
 *'0f Polish descent, and a Eoman Catholic," 
 answered Chernyshov. 
 
 Nicholas frowned. He had done much evil 
 to the Poles. To justify that evil he had to be 
 certain that all Poles were rascals, and he con- 
 sidered them to be such, and hated them accord- 
 ingly in proportion to the evil he had done to 
 them.
 
 182 HADJI MURAD 
 
 "Wait a little," he said, closing his eyes and 
 bowing his head, 
 
 Chernyshov, having more than once heard 
 Nicholas say so, knew that when the Emperor 
 had to take a decision, it was only necessary 
 for him to concentrate his attention for a few 
 moments, and the spirit moved him, and the 
 best possible decision presented itself, as 
 though an inner voice had told him what to do. 
 He was now thinking how most fully to satisfy 
 the feeling of hatred against the Poles which 
 this incident had stirred up within him; and the 
 inner voice suggested the following decision. 
 He took the report and in his large handwriting 
 wrote on its margin, with three orthographical 
 mistakes : 
 
 ^' Diserves deth, hut, thmik God, we have no 
 capitle punishment, and it is not for me to in- 
 troduce it. Make him run the gauntlet of a 
 thousand men tivelve times. — Nicholas." 
 
 He signed, adding his unnaturally huge 
 flourish. 
 
 Nicholas knew that twelve thousand strokes 
 with the regulation rods were not only certain 
 death with torture, but were a superfluous
 
 HADJI MUR AD 183 
 
 cruelty, for five thousand strokes were suffi- 
 cient to kill the strongest man. But it pleased 
 him to be ruthlessly cruel, and it also pleased 
 him to think that we have abolished capital 
 punishment in Russia. 
 
 Having written his decision about the stu- 
 dent, he pushed it across to Chernyshov. 
 
 ''There," he said, "read it." 
 
 Chernyshov read it, and bowed his head as 
 a sign of respectful amazement at the wisdom 
 of the decision. 
 
 "Yes, and let all the students be present on 
 the drill ground at the punishment," added 
 Nicholas. 
 
 "It will do them good! I will abolish this 
 revolutionary spirit, and will tear it up by the 
 roots!" he thought. 
 
 "It shall be done," replied Chernyshov; and 
 after a short pause he straightened the tuft on 
 his forehead and returned to the Caucasian re- 
 port. 
 
 "What do you command me to write in re- 
 ply to Prince Vorontsov's despatch?" 
 
 "To keep firmly to my system of destroying 
 the dwellings and food supplies in Chechnya,
 
 184 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 and to harass them by raids," answered Nicho- 
 las. 
 
 ''And what are your Majesty's commands 
 with reference to Hadji Murad?" asked 
 Chernyshov. 
 
 ''Why, Vorontsov writes that he wants to 
 make use of him in the Caucasus." 
 
 "Is it not dangerous?" said Chernyshov, 
 avoiding Nicholas's gaze. "Prince Voron- 
 tsov is, I'm afraid, too confiding." 
 
 "And you — what do you think?" asked 
 Nicholas sharply, detecting Chernyshov 's in- 
 tention of presenting Vorontsov 's decision in 
 an unfavourable light. 
 
 "Well, I should have thought it would be 
 safer to deport him to Central Russia." 
 
 "You would have thought!" said Nicholas 
 ironically. "But I don't think so, and agree 
 with Vorontsov. Write to him accordingly." 
 
 "It shall be done," said Chernyshov, rising 
 and bowing himself out. 
 
 Dolgoruky also bowed himself out, having 
 during the whole audience only uttered a few 
 words (in reply to a question from Nicholas) 
 about the movement of the army.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 185 
 
 After Chernyshov Nicholas received Bibikov, 
 General-Governor of the Western Provinces. 
 Having expressed his approval of the measures 
 taken by Bibikov against the mutinous peasants 
 who did not wish to accept the Orthodox Faith, 
 he ordered him to have all those who did not 
 submit tried by court-martial. That was 
 equivalent to sentencing them to run the gaunt- 
 let. He also ordered the editor of a newspaper 
 to be sent to serve in the ranks of the army for 
 publishing information about the transfer of 
 several thousand State peasants to the Imperial 
 estates. 
 
 ''I do this because I consider it necessary," 
 said Nicholas, ''and I will not allow it to be dis- 
 cussed.'^ 
 
 Bibikov saw the cruelty of the order concern- 
 ing the Uniate ^ peasants, and the injustice of 
 transferring State peasants (the only free peas- 
 ants in Russia in those days) to the Crown, 
 which meant making them serfs of the Imperial 
 family. But it was impossible to express dis- 
 sent. Not to agree with Nicholas's decisions 
 
 G The Uniates acknowledge the Pope of Rome, though in 
 other respects they are in accord with the Orthodox Russo- 
 Greelf Church.
 
 186 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 would have meant the loss of that brilliant po- 
 sition which it had cost Bibikov forty years 
 to attain, and which he now enjoyed; and he 
 therefore submissively bowed his dark head 
 (already touched with grey) to indicate his sub- 
 mission and his readiness to fulfil the cruel, 
 insensate and dishonest supreme will. 
 
 Having dismissed Bibikov, Nicholas, with a 
 sense of duty well fulfilled, stretched himself, 
 glanced at the clock, and went to get ready to 
 go out. Having put on a uniform with epaulets 
 Orders and a ribbon, he went out into the re- 
 ception hall, where more than a hundred per- 
 sons — men in uniforms and women in elegant 
 low-necked dresses, all standing in the places 
 assigned to them — awaited his arrival with agi- 
 tation. 
 
 He came out to them with a lifeless look in 
 his eyes, his chest expanded, his stomach bulg- 
 ing out above and below its bandages ; and feel- 
 ing everybody's gaze tremulously and obsequi- 
 ously fixed upon him, he assumed an even more 
 triumphant air. When his eyes met those of 
 people he knew, remembering who was who, he 
 stopped and addressed a few words to them,
 
 HADJI MURAD 187 
 
 sometimes in Russian and sometimes in French, 
 and transfixing them with his cold glassy eye, 
 listened to what they said. 
 
 Having received all the New Year congratula- 
 tions, he passed on to church. God, through 
 His servants the priests, greeted and praised 
 Nicholas just as worldly people did; and weary 
 as he was of these greetings and praises, Nicho- 
 las duly accepted them. All this was as it 
 should be, because the welfare and happiness 
 of the whole world depended on him; and 
 though the matter wearied him, he still did not 
 refuse the universe his assistance. 
 
 When at the end of the service the mag- 
 nificently arrayed deacon, his long hair crimped 
 and carefully combed, began the chant Many 
 Years, which was heartily caught up by 
 the splendid choir, Nicholas looked round 
 and noticed Nelidova, with her fine shoul- 
 ders, standing by a window, and he decided 
 the comparison with yesterday's girl in her 
 favour. 
 
 After Mass he went to the Empress and spent 
 a few minutes in the bosom of his family, jok- 
 ing with the children and with his wife. Then,
 
 188 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 passing through the Hermitage," he visited the 
 Minister of the Court, Volkonsky, and among 
 other things ordered him to pay out of a special 
 fund a yearly pension to the mother of yes- 
 terday's girl. From there he went for his cus- 
 tomary drive. 
 
 Dinner that day was served in the Pompeian 
 Hall, Besides the younger sons of Nicholas 
 and Michael, there were also invited Baron 
 Lieven, Count Rjevsky, Dolgoruky, the Prus- 
 sian Ambassador, and the King of Prussia's 
 aide-de-camp. 
 
 AVhile waiting for the appearance of the Em- 
 peror and Empress, an interesting conversation 
 took place between Baron Lieven and the Prus- 
 sian Ambassador concerning the disquieting 
 news from Poland. 
 
 "La Pologne et le Caucase, ce sont les deux 
 cauteres de la Russie/' "^ said Lieven. "II nous 
 faut 100,000 hommes a peu pres, dans chaqu'un 
 de ces deux pays.'* 
 
 6 A celebrated museum and picture gallery in St. Peters- 
 burg, adjoining tbe Winter Palace. 
 
 7 "Poland and tbe Caucasus are Russia's two sores. We 
 need about 100,000 men in eacb of tbose two countrie-s."
 
 HADJI MUR AD 189 
 
 The Ambassador expressed a fictitious sur- 
 prise that it should be so. 
 
 ''Vous dites, la Pologne — "^ began the Am- 
 bassador. 
 
 '' Oh Old, c'etait un coup de maitre de 
 Metternich, de nous en avoir laisse I'em- 
 barras. . . ." 
 
 At this point the Empress, with her trembling 
 head and fixed smile, entered, followed by Nich- 
 olas. 
 
 At dinner Nicholas spoke of Hadji Murad's 
 surrender, and said that the war in the Cau- 
 casus must now soon come to an end in conse- 
 quence of the measures he was taking to limit 
 the scope of the mountaineers, by felling their 
 forests and by his system of erecting a series 
 of small forts. 
 
 The Ambassador, having exchanged a rapid 
 glance with the aide-de-camp — to whom he had 
 only that morning spoken about Nicholas's un- 
 fortunate weakness for considering himself a 
 great strategist — warmly praised this plan, 
 
 8 "Yon sny tlint Poland — " "Oh. yes. it was a master- 
 stroke of iMctternicli's to leave us tbe bother of it. . . ."
 
 190 HAD. IT MURAD 
 
 which once more demonstrated Nicholas's great 
 
 strategic ability. 
 
 After dinner Nicholas drove to the ballet, 
 
 where hundreds of women marched round in 
 tights and scant clothing. One of them spe- 
 cially attracted him, and he had the German 
 ballet master sent for, and gave orders that a 
 diamond ring should be presented to him. 
 
 The next day, when Chernyshov came with 
 his report, Nicholas again confirmed his order 
 to Vorontsov — that now that Hadji Murad had 
 surrendered, the Chechens should be more ac- 
 tively harassed than ever, and the cordon round 
 them tightened. 
 
 Chernyshov wrote in that sense to Voron- 
 tsov; and another courier, overdriving more 
 horses and bruising the faces of more drivers, 
 galloped to Tiflis.
 
 XVI 
 
 In obedience to this command of Nicholas, a 
 raid was immediately made in Chechnya that 
 same month, January 1852. 
 
 The detachment ordered for the raid con- 
 sisted of four infantry battalions, two com- 
 panies of Cossacks, and eight guns. The col- 
 umn marched along the road, and on both sides 
 of it in a continuous line, now mounting, now 
 descending, marched Jligers in high boots, 
 sheepskin coats and tall caps, with rifles on 
 their shoulders and cartridges in their belts. 
 
 iVs usual when marching through a hostile 
 country, silence was observed as far as pos- 
 sible. Only occasionally the guns jingled, jolt- 
 ing across a ditch, or an artillery horse, not 
 understanding that silence was ordered, snorted 
 or neighed, or an angry commander shouted 
 in a hoarse subdued voice to his subordinates 
 that the line was spreading out too much, or 
 marching too near or too far from the column. 
 
 191
 
 192 HADJI MURAD 
 
 Only once was the silence broken, when, from 
 a bramble patch between the line and the col- 
 umn, a gazelle with a white breast and grey 
 back jumped out, followed by a ram of the same 
 colour with small backward-curving horns. 
 Doubling up their forelegs at each big bound 
 they took, the beautiful and timid creatures 
 came so close to the column that some of the 
 soldiers rushed after them, laughing and shout- 
 ing, intending to bayonet them, but the gazelles 
 turned back, slipped through the line of Jdgers, 
 and, pursued by a few horsemen and the com- 
 pany's dogs, fled like birds to the mountains. 
 It was still winter, but towards noon, when 
 the column (which had started early in the 
 morning) had gone three miles, it had risen 
 high enough and was powerful enough to make 
 the men quite hot, and its rays were so bright 
 that it was painful to look at the shining steel 
 of the bayonets, or at the reflections — like little 
 suns — on the brass of the cannons. 
 
 The clear rapid stream the detachment had 
 just crossed lay behind, and in front were tilled 
 fields and meadows in the shallow valleys. 
 Further in front were the dark mysterious for-
 
 HADJI MURAD 193 
 
 est-clad hills, with crags rising beyond them, 
 and further still, on the lofty horizon, were the 
 ever-beautiful ever-changing snowy peaks that 
 played with the light like diamonds. 
 
 In a black coat and tall cap, shouldering his 
 sword, at the head of the 5th Company marched 
 Butler, a tall handsome officer who had recently 
 exchanged from the Guards. He was tilled 
 with a buoyant sense of the joy of living, and 
 also of the danger of death, and with a wish 
 for action, and the consciousness of being part 
 of an immense whole directed by a single will. 
 This was the second time he was going into 
 action, and he thought how in a moment they 
 would be fired at, and that he would not only 
 not stoop when the shells flew overhead, nor 
 heed the whistle of the bullets, but would even 
 carry his head more erect than before, and 
 would look round at his comrades and at the 
 soldiers with smiling eyes, and would begin to 
 talk in a perfectly calm voice about quite other 
 matters. 
 
 The detachment turned off the good road on 
 to a little-used one that crossed a stubbly maize 
 field, and it was drawing near the forest when
 
 194 HADJI MURAD 
 
 — they could not see whence — with an ominous 
 whistle, a shell flew past amid the baggage 
 wagons, and tore up the ground in the field by 
 the roadside. 
 
 ''It is beginning," said Butler, with a bright 
 smile to a comrade who was walking beside 
 him. 
 
 And so it was. After the shell, from under 
 the shelter of the forest appeared a thick crowd 
 of mounted Chechens with banners. In the 
 midst of the crowd could be seen a large green 
 banner, and an old and very far-sighted ser- 
 geant-major informed the short-sighted Butler 
 that Shamil himself must be there. The horse- 
 men came down the hill and appeared to the 
 right, at the highest part of the valley near- 
 est the detachment, and began to descend. A 
 little general in a thick black coat and tall cap 
 rode up to Butler's company on his ambler, and 
 ordered him to the right to encounter the de- 
 scending horsemen, Butler quickly led his com- 
 pany in the direction indicated, but before he 
 reached the valley he heard two cannon shots 
 behind him. He looked round : two clouds of 
 grey smoke had risen above two cannons and
 
 HADJi MURAD 195 
 
 were spreading along the valley. The raonn- 
 taiiieer's horsemen — who had evidently not ex- 
 pected to meet artillery — retired, Butler's 
 company began firing at them, and the whole 
 ravine was filled with the smoke of powder. 
 Only higher up, above the ravine, could the 
 mountaineers be seen hurriedly retreating, 
 though still firing back at the Cossacks who 
 pursued them. The company followed the 
 mountaineers further, and on the slope of a 
 second ravine they came in view of an aoul. 
 
 Following the Cossacks, Butler with his com- 
 Ijany entered the aoul at a run. None of its 
 inhabitants were there. The soldiers were 
 ordered to burn the corn and the hay, as well 
 as the saklyas, and the whole aoul was soon 
 filled with pungent smoke, amid which the sol- 
 diers rushed about, dragging out of the suklyas 
 what they could find, and above all catching 
 and shooting the fowls the mountaineers had 
 not been able to take away with them. 
 
 The officers sat down at some distance beyond 
 the smoke, and lunclipd and di'ank. ^''he ser- 
 geant-major brought them some honeycombs on 
 a board. There was no sign of any Chechens,
 
 196 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 and early in the afternoon the order was given 
 to retreat. The companies formed into a col- 
 umn behind the aoul, and Butler happened to 
 be in the rearguard. As soon as they started 
 Chechens appeared, and, following the detach- 
 ment, tired at it. 
 
 When the detachment came out into an open 
 space, the mountaineers pursued it no further. 
 Not one of Butler's company had been 
 wounded, and he returned in a most happy and 
 energetic mood. When, after fording the same 
 stream it had crossed in the morning, the de- 
 tachment spread over the maize fields and the 
 meadows, the singers ^ of each company came 
 forward, and songs filled the air. 
 
 ^'Very diff'rent, very diff'rent, Jagers are, 
 Jdgers are!" sang Butler's singers, and his 
 horse stepped merrily to the music. Trezorka, 
 the shaggA' grey dog of the company, with his 
 tail curled up, ran in front with an air of re- 
 sponsibility, like a commander. Butler felt 
 buoyant calm and joyful. War presented itself 
 to him as consisting only in his exposing him- 
 self to danger and to possible death, and thereby 
 
 1 Each regiment had a choir of singers.
 
 HADJT MURAD 197 
 
 gaining rewards and the respect of his com- 
 rades here, as well as of his friends in Russia. 
 Strange to say, his imagination never pictured 
 the other aspect of war : the death and wounds 
 of the soldiers officers and mountaineers. To 
 retain this poetic conception he even uncon- 
 sciously avoided looking at the dead and 
 wounded. So that day, when we had three dead 
 and twelve wounded, he passed by a corpse 
 lying on its back, and only saw with one eye 
 the strange position of the waxen hand and a 
 dark red spot on the head, and did not stop to 
 look. The hillsmen appeared to him only as 
 mounted cUliigits, from whom one had to de- 
 fend oneself. 
 
 "You see, my dear sir," said his major in 
 an interval between two songs, ''it's not as 
 with you in Petersburg — 'Eyes right! Eyes 
 left!' Here we have done our job; and now 
 we go home, and Masha will set a pie and some 
 nice cabbage soup before us. That's life; 
 don't you think so? — Now then! As the Dawn 
 tuas Breaking!" he called for his favourite 
 song. 
 
 There was no wind, the air was fresh and
 
 198 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 clear, and so transparent that the snow hills 
 nearly a hundred miles away seemed quite near, 
 and in the intervals between the songs the reg- 
 ular sound of the footsteps and the jingle of the 
 guns was heard as a background on which each 
 song began and ended. The song that was 
 being sung in Butler's company was composed 
 by a cadet in honour of the regiment, and went 
 to a dance tune. The chorus was, ''Very 
 diff'rent, very diff'rent, Jdgers are, Jcigers 
 are!" 
 
 Butler rode beside the officer next in com- 
 mand above him. Major Petrov, with whom he 
 lived; and he felt he could not be thankful 
 enough to have exchanged from the Guards and 
 come to the Caucasus. His chief reason for 
 exchanging was that he had lost all he had at 
 cards, and was afraid that if he remained there 
 he would be unable to resist playing, though 
 he had nothing more to lose. Now all this was 
 over, his life was quite changed, and was such 
 a pleasant and brave one! He forgot that he 
 was ruined, and forgot his unpaid debts. The 
 Caucasus, the war, the soldiers, the officers, 
 those tipsy brave good-natured fellows, and
 
 HADJI MUR AD 199 
 
 Major Petrov himself, all seemed so delightful 
 that sometimes it appeared too good to be true 
 that he was not in Petersburg — in a room filled 
 with tobacco-smoke, turning down the corners 
 of cards and gambling, hating the holder of 
 the bank, and feeling a dull pain in his head — 
 but was really here in this glorious region 
 among these brave Caucasians. 
 
 The Major and the daughter of a surgeon's 
 orderly, formerly known as Masha, but now 
 generally called by the more respectful name 
 of Mary Dmitrievna, lived together as man and 
 wife. Mary Dmitrievna was a handsome fair- 
 haired very freckled childless woman of thirty. 
 Whatever her past may have been, she was now 
 the major's faithful companion, and looked 
 after him like a nurse — a very necessary mat- 
 ter, since the Major often drank himself into 
 oblivion. 
 
 When they reached the fort everything hap- 
 pened as the Major had foreseen. Mary 
 Dmitrievna gave him, Butler, and two other 
 officers of the detachment who had been in- 
 vited, a nourishing and tasty dinner, and 
 the Major ate and drank till he was unable to
 
 200 HADJI MURAD 
 
 speak, and then went oi¥ to his room to 
 sleep. 
 
 Butler, tired but contented, having drunk 
 rather more Chikhir wine than was good for 
 him, went to his bedroom, and hardly had he 
 time to undress before, placing his hand under 
 his handsome curly head, he fell into a sound, 
 dreamless, and unbroken sleep.
 
 XVII 
 
 The aoul which had been destroyed was that in 
 which Hadji Murad had spent the night before 
 he went over to the Russians. Sado, with his 
 family, had left the aoul on the approach of the 
 Russian detachment; and when he returned he 
 found his sdMya in ruins — the roof fallen in, 
 the door and the posts supporting the pent- 
 house burned, and the interior filthy. His son, 
 the handsome, bright-eyed boy who had gazed 
 with such ecstasy at Hadji Murad, was brought 
 dead to the mosque on a horse covered with a 
 hurka. He had been stabbed in the back with a 
 bayonet. The dignified woman who had served 
 Hadji Murad when he was at the house now 
 stood over her son's body, her smock torn in 
 front, her withered old breasts exposed, her 
 hair down ; and she dug her nails into her face 
 till it bled, and wailed incessantly. Sado, with 
 pickaxe and spade, had gone with his relatives 
 to dig a grave for his son. The old grand- 
 
 201
 
 202 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 father sat by the wall of the ruined sdklya, cut- 
 ting a stick and gazing solidly in front of him. 
 He had only just returned from the apiary. 
 The two stacks of hay there had been burnt ; the 
 apricot and cherry trees he had planted and 
 reared were broken and scorched; and, worse 
 still, all the beehives and bees were burnt. 
 The wailing of the women and of the little chil- 
 dren who cried with their mothers, mingled 
 with the lowing of the hungry cattle, for whom 
 there was no food. The bigger children did not 
 play, but followed their elders with frightened 
 eyes. The fountain was polluted, evidently on 
 purpose, so that the water could not be used. 
 The mosque was polluted in the same way, and 
 the Mullah and his assistants were cleaning it 
 out. No one spoke of hatred of the Russians. 
 The feeling experienced by all the Chechens, 
 from the youngest to the oldest, was stronger 
 than hate. It was not hatred, for they did not 
 regard those Russian dogs as human beings; 
 but it was such repulsion disgust and perplexity 
 at the senseless cruelty of these creatures, that 
 the desire to exterminate them — like the desire 
 to exterminate rats, j^oisonous spiders, or
 
 HADJI MURAD 203 
 
 wolves — was as natural an instinct as that of 
 self-preservation. 
 
 The iiilialiitants of the aoiil were confronted 
 by the choice of remaining there and restoring 
 with frightful effort what had been produced 
 with sucli labour and had been so lightly and 
 senselessly destroyed, facing every moment the 
 possibility of a repetition of what had hap- 
 pened, or — contrary to their religion and de- 
 spite the repulsion and contempt they felt — to 
 submit to the Russians. The old men prayed, 
 and unanimously decided to send envoys to 
 Shamil, ashing him for help. Then they imme- 
 diately set to work to restore what had been 
 destroyed.
 
 XVIII 
 
 On the morning after the raid, not very early, 
 Butler left the house by the back porch, mean- 
 ing to take a stroll and a breath of fresh air 
 before breakfast, which he usually had with 
 Petrov. The sun had already risen above the 
 hills, and it was painful to look at the brightly 
 lit-up white walls of the houses on the right 
 side of the street ; but then, as always, it was 
 cheerful and soothing to look to the left, at the 
 dark receding ascending forest-clad hills, and 
 at the dim line of snow peaks which as usual 
 pretended to be clouds. Butler looked at these 
 mountains, inhaled deep breaths and rejoiced 
 that he was alive, and that it was just he him- 
 self that was alive, and that he lived in this 
 beautiful place. 
 
 He was also rather pleased that he had be- 
 haved so well in yesterday's affair, both dur- 
 ing the advance and especially during the re- 
 treat, when things were pretty hot ; and he was 
 also pleased to remember how on their return 
 
 304
 
 HADJI MUR AD 205 
 
 after the raid MAsha (or INfary Dmitrievna), 
 Petrov's mistress, had treated them at dinner, 
 and had been particularly nice and simple with 
 everybody, but specially kind — as he thought — 
 to him. 
 
 Mary Dmitrievna, with her thick plait of hair, 
 her broad shoulders, her high bosom, and the 
 radiant smile on her kindly freckled face, in- 
 voluntarily attracted Butler, who was a strong 
 young bachelor; and it even seemed to him that 
 she wanted him ; but he considered that that 
 would be wrong towards his good-natured 
 simple-hearted comrade, and he maintained a 
 simple respectful attitude towards her, and was 
 pleased with himself for so doing. 
 
 He was thinking of this when his meditations 
 were disturbed by the tramp of many horses' 
 hoofs along the dusty road in front of him, as if 
 several men were riding that way. He looked 
 up, and saw at the end of the street a group 
 of horsemen coming towards him at a walk. 
 In front of a score of Cossacks, rode two men : 
 one in a white Circassian coat, with a tall tur- 
 ban on his head; the other, an officer in the Eus- 
 sian service, dark, with an aquiline nose, and
 
 206 HADJI MURAD 
 
 much silver on his uniform and weapons. The 
 man with the turban rode a fine chestnut horse 
 with mane and tail of a lighter shade, a small 
 head, and beautiful eyes. The officer's was a 
 large handsome Karabfikh horse. Butler, a 
 lover of horses, immediately recognised the 
 great strength of the first horse, and stopped to 
 learn who these people were. 
 
 The officer addressed him. ''This the house 
 of commanding officer?" he asked, his foreign 
 accent and his words betraying his foreign 
 origin. 
 
 Butler replied that it was. "And who is 
 that?" he added, coming nearer to the officer 
 and indicating the man with the turban. 
 
 ''That, Hadji Murad. He come here to stay 
 with the commander," said the officer. 
 
 Butler knew about Hadji Murad, and about 
 his having come over to the Russians ; but he 
 had not at all expected to see him here in this 
 little fort. Hadji Murad gave him a friendly 
 look. 
 
 "Good day, Jcoflildy,^^ said Butler, repeating 
 the Tartar greeting he had learnt. 
 
 ''Saubull" (Be well!) replied Hadji Murad,
 
 HADJI MUR AD 207 
 
 nodding*. He rode up to Butler and held out 
 his hand, from two fingers of which hung his 
 whip. 
 
 "Are you the chief?" he asked. 
 
 "No, the chief is in here. I will go and call 
 him," said Butler, addressing the officer; and 
 he went up the steps and pushed the door. But 
 the door of the visitors' entrance — as Mary 
 Dmitrievna called it — was locked; and as it still 
 remained closed after he had knocked, Butler 
 went round to the back door. He called his 
 orderly, but received no reply; and finding 
 neither of the two orderlies, he went into the 
 kitchen, where Mary Dmitrievna — flushed, with 
 a kerchief tied round her head, and her sleeves 
 rolled up on her plump white arms — was roll- 
 ing pastry, white as her hands, and cutting it 
 into small pieces to make pies of. 
 
 "Where have the orderlies gone to?" asked 
 Butler. 
 
 "Gone to drink," replied ^fary Dmitrievna. 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 "To have the front door opened. Yon have 
 a whole horde of mountaineers in front of your 
 house. Hadji Murad has come!"
 
 208 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 "Invent something else!" said Mary Dmitri- 
 evna, smiling. 
 
 "I am not joking, he is really waiting by the 
 porch!" 
 
 "Is it really true?" said she. 
 
 "Why should I want to deceive you? Go and 
 see; he's just at the porch!" 
 
 "Dear me, here's a go!" said Mary Dmitri- 
 evna, pulling down her sleeves, and putting up 
 her hand to feel whether the hairpins in her 
 thick plait were all in order. "Then I will go 
 and wake Ivan Matveitch." 
 
 "No, I'll go myself. And you, Bondarenko, 
 go and open the door," said he to Petrov's 
 orderly, who had just appeared. 
 
 "Well, so much the better!" said Mary 
 Dmitrievna, and returned to her work. 
 
 When he heard that Hadji Murad had come 
 to his house, Ivan Matveitch Petrov, the Ma- 
 jor, who had already heard that Hadji Murad 
 was in Grozny, was not at all surprised; and 
 sitting up in bed he made a cigarette, lit it, and 
 began to dress, loudly clearing his throat, and 
 grumbling at the authorities who had sent "that 
 devil" to him.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 209 
 
 When he was ready, he told his orderly to 
 bring him some medicine. The orderly knew 
 that "medicine" meant vodka, and brought 
 some. 
 
 ''There is nothing so bad as mixing," mut- 
 tered the Major, when he had drunk the vodka 
 and taken a bite of rye bread. "Yesterday I 
 drank a little Chikhir, and now I have a head- 
 ache. . . . Well, I'm ready," said he, and 
 went to the parlour, into which Butler had 
 already shown Hadji Murad and the officer who 
 accompanied him. 
 
 The officer handed the Major orders from the 
 commander of the Left Flank, to the effect that 
 he should receive Hadji Mur^d, and should 
 allow him to have intercourse with the moun- 
 taineers through spies, but was on no account 
 to let him leave the fort without a convoy of 
 Cossacks. 
 
 Having read the order, the Major looked in- 
 tently at Hadji Murad, and again scrutinised 
 the paper. After passing his eyes several 
 times from one to the other in this manner, be 
 at last fixed them on Hadji Murad and said : 
 
 '.'Yakshi, Bek; yalzslii!" (Very well, sir, very
 
 210 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 well!) Let him stay here, and tell him I have 
 orders not to let him out — and that what is 
 commanded is sacred! Well, Butler, where do 
 you think we'd better lodge him? Shall we put 
 him in the office?" 
 
 Butler had not time to answer before Mary 
 Dmitrievna — who had come from the kitchen 
 and was standing in the doorway — said to the 
 Major, — 
 
 "Why? Keep him here! We will give him 
 the guest chamber and the storeroom. Then 
 at any rate he will be within sight," said she, 
 glancing at Hadji Murad; but meeting his eyes 
 she turned quickly away. 
 
 "Well, you know, I think Mary Dmitrievna 
 is right," said Butler. 
 
 "Now then, now then; get away! Women 
 have no business here," said the Major, 
 frowning. 
 
 During the whole of this discussion, Hadji 
 Murad sat with his hand on the hilt of his dag- 
 ger, and a faint smile of contempt on his lips. 
 He said it was all the same to him where he 
 lodged, and that he wanted nothing but what 
 the Sirdar had permitted — namely to have com-
 
 HADJI MUR AD 211 
 
 municatiou with the mountaineers; and that 
 he therefore wished that they should be allowed 
 to come to him. 
 
 The Major said this should be done, and asked 
 Butler to entertain the visitors till something- 
 could be got for them to eat, and their rooms 
 could be prepared. Meantime he himself would 
 go across to the office, to write what was neces- 
 sary, and to give some orders. 
 
 Hadji Murad's relations with his new 
 acquaintances were at once very clearly de- 
 fined. From the first he was repelled by, and 
 felt contempt for, the Major, to whom he always 
 behaved very haughtily. Mary Dmitrievna, 
 who prepared and served up his food, pleased 
 him particularly. He liked her simplicity, and 
 especially the — to him — foreign type of beauty, 
 and he was influenced by the attraction she felt 
 towards him and unconsciously conveyed. He 
 tried not to look at her or speak to her; but his 
 eves involuntarilv turned towards her and fol- 
 lowed her movements. With Butler, from 
 their first acquaintance, he immediately made 
 friends, and talked much and willingly with 
 him about his life, telling him of his own, and
 
 212 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 commimicating to him the news the spies 
 brought him of his family's condition; and even 
 consulting him about how he ought to act. 
 
 The news he received through the spies was 
 not good. During the first four days of his 
 stay in the fort they came to see him twice, and 
 both times brought bad news. 
 
 <
 
 XIX 
 
 Hadji Murad's family had been removed to 
 Vedeno soon after his desertion to the Rus- 
 sians, and were there kept under guard, await- 
 ing Shamil's decision. The women: his old 
 mother Patimat, and his two wives with their 
 five little children, were kept under guard in the 
 sdklya of the officer, Ibrahim Raschid; while 
 Hadji Murad's son, Yusuf, a youth of eighteen, 
 was put in prison: that is, into a pit more than 
 seven feet deep, together with seven criminals 
 who like himself were awaiting a decision as 
 to their fate. 
 
 The decision was delayed, because Shamil 
 was away on a campaign against the Russians. 
 
 On 6 January 1852, he returned to Vedeno, 
 after a battle in which, according to the Rus- 
 sians, he had been vanquished, and had fled to 
 Vedeno; but in which, according to him and all 
 the murids, he had been victorious, and had 
 repulsed the Russians. In this battle he him- 
 
 213
 
 214 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 self fired bis rifle — a thing he seldom did — and, 
 drawing his sword, would have charged straight 
 at the Russians, had not the miirids who accom- 
 panied him held him back. Two of them were 
 killed on the spot, at Shamil's side. 
 
 It was noon when Shamil — surrounded by a 
 party of mnrids who caracoled around him, fir- 
 ing their rifles and pistols and continually sing- 
 ing Lya illy ah il AlloJi! — rode up to his place of 
 residence. 
 
 All the inhabitants of the large aoid were in 
 the street or on their roofs to meet their ruler; 
 and as a sign of triumph they also fired 
 off rifles and pistols. Shamil rode a white 
 arab steed, which pulled at its bit as it ap- 
 proached the house. The horse's equipment 
 was of the simplest, without gold or silver orna- 
 ments, a delicately worked red leather bridle 
 with a stripe down the middle, metal cup- 
 shaped stirrups, and a red saddle-cloth show- 
 ing a little from under the saddle. The Imam 
 wore a brown cloth cloak, lined with black fur 
 showing at the neck and sleeves, and was tightly 
 girded round his thin long waist with a black 
 strap which held a dagger. On his head he
 
 A Circassian.
 
 HADJI MURAD 215 
 
 wore a tall cap with flat crown and black tassel ; 
 round it was wound a white turban, one end of 
 which hung down on his neck. He wore green 
 slippers and black leggings, trimmed with plain 
 braid. 
 
 In fact, the Imam wore nothing bright — no 
 gold or silver— and his tall erect powerful 
 figure, clothed in garments without any orna- 
 ments, surrounded by murids with gold and 
 silver on their clothes and weapons, produced 
 on the people just the impression and influence 
 that he desired and knew how to produce. His 
 pale face, framed by a closely-trimmed reddish 
 beard, with his small eyes always screwed up, 
 was as immovable as though hewn out of stone. 
 As he rode through the aoul he felt the gaze of 
 a thousand eyes turned eagerly on him, but his 
 eyes looked at no one. 
 
 Hadji Murad's wives had come out into the 
 penthouse with the rest of the inmates of the 
 sdldya, to see the Imam's entry. Only Pati- 
 m^t, Hadji Murad's old mother did not go out, 
 but remained sitting on the floor of the saklya 
 with her grey hair down, her long arms encir- 
 cling her thin knees, blinking with her scorch-
 
 216 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 ing black eyes as she watched the dying embers 
 in the fireplace. She, like her son, had always 
 hated Shamil; and now she hated him more 
 than ever, and did not wish to see him. Neither 
 did Hadji Murad's son see Shamil 's triumphal 
 entry. Sitting in his dark and fetid pit, he only 
 heard the firing and singing, and endured tor- 
 tures such as can only be felt by the young who 
 are full of vitality and deprived of freedom. 
 He only saw his unfortunate dirty and ex- 
 hausted fellow prisoners — embittered, and for 
 the most part filled with hatred of one another. 
 He now passionately envied those who, enjoying 
 fresh air and light and freedom, caracoled on 
 fiery steeds around their chief, shooting and 
 heartily singing: Lya ilhjah il Allah! 
 
 When he had crossed the aoiil, Shamil rode 
 into the large courtyard adjoining the inner 
 court where his seraglio was. Two armed 
 Lesghians met him at the open gates of this 
 outer court, which was crowded with people. 
 Some had come from distant parts about their 
 own affairs; some had come with petitions; 
 and some had been summoned by Shamil to be 
 tried and sentenced. As Shamil rode in, all re-
 
 HADJI MUR AD 217 
 
 spectfully saluted the Imjim with their hands 
 on their breasts. Some knelt down and re- 
 mained on their knees while he rode across the 
 court from the outer to the inner gates. 
 Though he recognised among the people who 
 waited in the court many whom he disliked, 
 and many tedious petitioners who wanted liis 
 attention, Shamil passed them all with the same 
 immovable stony expression on his face, and 
 having entered the inner court, dismounted at 
 the penthouse in front of his apartment, to the 
 left of the gate. He was worn out, mentally 
 rather than physically, with the strain of the 
 campaign — for in spite of the public declara- 
 tion that he had been victorious, he knew very 
 well that his campaign had been unsuccessful; 
 that many Chechen aoids had been burnt down 
 and ruined, and that the unstable and fickle Che- 
 chens were wavering, and those nearest the bor- 
 der line were ready to go over to the Russians. 
 All this oppressed him, and had to be dealt 
 with; but at that moment Shamil did not wish 
 to think at all. He only desired one thing: rest, 
 and the delights of family life, and the caresses 
 of his favourite wife, the eighteen-year-old.
 
 218 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 black-eyed, quick-footed Aminal, who at that 
 very moment was close at hand behind the fence 
 that divided the inner court and separated the 
 men's from the women's quarters (Shamil felt 
 sure she was there with his other wives, looking 
 through a chink in the fence while he dis- 
 mounted), l)ut not only was it impossible for 
 him to go to her, he could not even lie down on 
 his feather cushions and rest from his fatigues, 
 but had first of all to perform the mid-day rites, 
 for which he had just then not the least inclina- 
 tion, but which — as the religious leader of the 
 people — he could not omit, and which more- 
 over, were as necessary to him himself as his 
 daily food. So he performed his ablutions and 
 said his prayers, and summoned those who were 
 waiting for him. 
 
 The first to enter was Jemal Eddin, his fath- 
 er-in-law and teacher, a tall grey-haired good- 
 looking old man, with a beard white as snow 
 and a rosy red face. He said a prayer, and be- 
 gan questioning Shamil about the incidents of 
 the campaign, and telling him what had hap- 
 pened in the mountains during his absence. 
 
 Among events of many kinds — murders con-
 
 HADJI MURAD 219 
 
 nected with blood-reuds, cattle-stealing, jjeople 
 accused of disobeying the Tarikat (smoking 
 and drinking wine) — Jenial Eddin related how 
 Hadji ]\linad had sent men to bring his family 
 over to the Russians, but that this had been 
 detected, and the family had been brought to 
 Vedeno, where they were kept under guard and 
 awaited the Imam's decision. In the next 
 room, the guest-chamber, the Elders were as- 
 sembled to discuss all these affairs, and Jemal 
 Eddin advised Shamil to finish with them and 
 let them go that same day, as they had already 
 been waiting three days for him. 
 
 After eating his dinner — served to him in his 
 room by Zeidat, a dark sharp-nosed disagree- 
 able-looking woman, whom he did not love but 
 who was his eldest wife — Shamil passed into 
 the guest-chamber. 
 
 The six old men who made up his Council — 
 white, grey, or red-bearded, with tall caps on 
 their heads, some with turbans and some with- 
 out, wearing new heslimets and Circassian 
 coats girdled with straps to which hung their 
 daggers — rose to greet him on his entrance. 
 Shamil towered a head above them all. He, as
 
 220 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 well as all tlie others, lifted his hands, palms 
 upwards, closed his eyes and recited a prayer, 
 and then stroked his face downwards with both 
 hands, uniting them at the end of his beard. 
 Having done this, they all sat down, Shamil on 
 a larger cushion than the others, and discussed 
 the various cases before them. 
 
 In the case of the criminals, the decisions 
 were given according to the Shariiit ; two were 
 sentenced to have a hand cut off for stealing; 
 one man to be beheaded for murder ; and three 
 were pardoned. Then they came to the jDrin- 
 cipal business — how to stop the Chechens from 
 going over to the Eussians. To counteract 
 that tendency, Jemal Eddin drew up the follow- 
 ing proclamation: — 
 
 *'I wish you eternal peace with God the Al- 
 mighty ! 
 
 '*I hear that the Russians flatter you and 
 invite you to surrender to them. Do not be- 
 lieve them, and do not surrender, but endure. 
 If ye be not rewarded for it in this life, ye shall 
 receive your reward in the life to come. Re- 
 member what happened before, when the}^ took 
 your arms from you ! If God had not brought
 
 HADJI MUR AD 221 
 
 you to reason then, in 1840, ye would now he 
 soldiers, and your wives would no longer wear 
 trousers and would be dishonoured. 
 
 "Judge of the future by the past. It is bet- 
 ter to die in enmity with the Russians than to 
 live with the Unbelievers. Endure for a little 
 while, and I will come with the Koran and the 
 sword, and will lead you against the enemy. 
 But now I strictly command j^ou not only to 
 entertain no intention, but not even a thought 
 of submitting to the Russians!" 
 
 Shamil approved this proclamation, signed 
 it, and had it sent out. 
 
 After this business they considered Hadji 
 Murad's case. This was of the utmost impor- 
 tance to Shamil. Although he did not wish to 
 admit it, he knew that if Hadji MurAd, with his 
 agility boldness, and courage had been with 
 him, what had now happened in Chechnya 
 would not have occurred. It would therefore 
 be well to make it up with Hadji Murad, and 
 again have the benefit of his services; but as 
 this was not possible, it would never do to al- 
 low him to help the Russians ; and therefore he 
 must be enticed back and killed. They might
 
 222 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 accomplish this either by sending a man to 
 Tiflis who would kill him there, or by inducing 
 him to come back, and then killing him. The 
 only means of doing the latter was by making 
 use of his family, and especially his son, whom, 
 as Shamil knew, Hadji Murad loved passion- 
 ately. Therefore thev must act through the son. 
 
 When the councillors had talked all this over, 
 Shamil closed his eyes and sat silent. 
 
 The councillors knew that this meant that 
 he was listening to the voice of the Prophet, 
 who spoke to him and told him what to do. 
 
 After five minutes of solemn silence Shamil 
 opened his eyes, and narrowing them more than 
 usual, said, — 
 
 ''Bring Hadji Murad 's son to me." 
 
 "He is here," replied Jemal Eddin; and in 
 fact Yusuf, Hadji Murad 's son, thin pale tat- 
 tered and evil-smelling, but still handsome in 
 face and figure, with black eyes that burnt like 
 his grandmother Patimat's, was already stand- 
 ing by the gate of the outside court, waiting to 
 be called in. 
 
 Yusuf did not share his father's feelings 
 towards Shamil. He did not know all that had
 
 HADJI MURAD 223 
 
 happened in the past, or if lie knew it, not hav- 
 ing lived through it, he still did not understand 
 why his father was so obstinately hostile to 
 Shamil. To him, who wanted only one thing 
 — to continue living the easy loose life that as 
 the N (lib's son he had led in Khunzakh — it 
 seemed quite unnecessary to be at enmity with 
 Shamil. Out of defiance and a spirit of contra- 
 diction to his father, he particularly admired 
 Shamil, and shared the ecstatic adoration with 
 which he was regarded in the mountains. With 
 a peculiar feeling of tremulous veneration for 
 the Imam, he now entered the guest-chamber. 
 As he stopped by the door he met the steady 
 gaze of Shamil's half-closed eyes. He paused 
 for a moment, and then approached Shamil and 
 kissed his large, long-fingered hand. 
 
 *'Thou art Hadji Murad's son?" 
 
 "I am. Imam." 
 
 **Thou knowest what he has done?" 
 
 **I know. Imam, and deplore it." 
 
 ** Canst thou write?" 
 
 **I was preparing myself to be a Mullah — " 
 
 ''Then write to thy father that if he will re- 
 turn to me now, before the Feast of Bairam,
 
 224 HADJI MURAD 
 
 I will forgive him, and everything shall be as 
 it was before ; but if not, and if he remains with 
 the Russians — " and Shamil frowned sternly, 
 ''I will give thy grandmother, thy mother, and 
 the rest, to the different aoiils, and thee I will 
 behead!" 
 
 Not a muscle of Yusuf 's face stirred, and he 
 bowed his head to show that he understood 
 Shamil's words. 
 
 ''Write that, and give it to my messenger." 
 
 Shamil ceased speaking, and looked at Yusuf 
 for a long time in silence. 
 
 ''Write that I have had pity on thee and will 
 not kill thee, but will put out thine eyes as I 
 do to all traitors! . . . Go!" 
 
 While in Shamil's presence Yusuf appeared 
 calm; but when he had been led out of the 
 guest-chamber he rushed at his attendant, 
 snatched the man's dagger from its sheath, and 
 wished to stab himself; but he was seized by 
 the arms, bound, and led back to the pit. 
 
 That evening at dusk, after he had finished 
 his evening prayers, Shamil put on a white fur- 
 lined cloak, and passed out to the other side 
 of the fence where his wives lived, and went
 
 HADJI MURAD 225 
 
 straight to Aminal's room; but he did not find 
 her there. She was with the older wives. 
 Then Shamil, trying to remain unseen, hid be- 
 hind the door and stood waiting for her. But 
 Aminal was angry with him because he had 
 given some silk stuff to Zeidat, and not to her. 
 She saw him come out and go into her room 
 looking for her, and she purposely kept away. 
 She stood a long time at the door of Zeidat 's 
 room, softly laughing at Shamil 's white figure 
 that kept coming in and out of her room. 
 
 Having waited for her in vain, Shamil re- 
 turned to his own apartments when it was al- 
 ready time for the midnight prayers.
 
 XX 
 
 Hadji Murad had been a week in the Major's 
 house at the fort. Although Mary Dmitrievna 
 quari-elled with the shaggy Khanefi (Hadji 
 Murad had only brought two of his murids, 
 Khanefi and Eldar, with him) and had turned 
 him out of her kitchen — for which he nearly 
 killed her — she evidently felt a particular re- 
 spect and sympathy for Hadji Murad. She 
 now no longer served him his dinner, having 
 handed over that duty to Eldar, but she seized 
 every opportunity of seeing him and rendering 
 him service. She always took the liveliest in- 
 terest in the negotiations about his family, 
 knew how manv wives and children he had, and 
 their ages; and each time a spy came to see 
 him, she inquired as best she could into the 
 results of the negotiations. 
 
 Butler during that week had become quite 
 friendly with Hadji Murad. Sometimes the lat- 
 ter came to Butler's room; sometimes Butler 
 went to Hadji Murad 's. Sometimes they con- 
 
 226
 
 HADJI MURAD 227 
 
 versed by the help of the interpreter; and some- 
 tinies got on as best they could with signs and 
 especially with smiles. 
 
 Hadji j\Iurad had evidently taken a fancy to 
 Butler. This could be gathered from Eldar's 
 relations with the latter. When Butler entered 
 Hadji Murad's room, Ehlar met him with a 
 pleased smile, showing his glittering teeth, and 
 hurried to put down a cushion for him to sit 
 on, and to relieve him of his sword if he was 
 wearing one. 
 
 Butler also got to know and became friendly 
 with the shaggy Khanefi, Hadji Murad's sworn 
 brother. Khanefi knew many mountain songs, 
 and sang them well. To please Butler, Hadji 
 Murad often made Khanefi sing, choosing the 
 songs which he considered best. Khanefi had a 
 high tenor voice, and sang with extraordinary 
 clearness and expression. One of the songs 
 Hadji Murad specially liked, impressed Butler 
 by its solemnly mournful tone, and he asked 
 the interpreter to translate it. 
 
 The subject of the song was the very blood- 
 feud that had existed between Khanefi and 
 Hadji Murad. It ran as follows: —
 
 228 HADJI MURAD 
 
 "The earth will dry on my grave, 
 
 Mother, my jMother! 
 And thou wilt forget me, 
 And over me rank grasses wave, 
 
 Father, my Father! 
 Nor wilt thou regret me ! 
 When tears cease thy dark eyes to lave, 
 
 Sister, dear Sister ! 
 No more will grief fret thee! 
 
 "But thou my Brother the Elder, wilt never forget, 
 
 With vengeance denied me ! 
 And thou, my Brother the Younger, wilt ever regret. 
 
 Till thou liest beside me ! 
 
 "Hotly thou camest, O death-bearing ball that I 
 spurned, 
 For thou wast my Slave ! 
 And thou, black earth, that battle-steed trampled and 
 churned. 
 Wilt cover my grave ! 
 
 "Cold art Thou, Death, yet I was thy Lord and 
 
 thy Master! 
 My body sinks fast to earth ; my Soul to Heaven flies 
 
 faster."
 
 HADJI MUR AD 229 
 
 Hadji Murad always listened to this song 
 with closed eyes, and when it ended on a long 
 gradually dying note he always remarked in 
 Russian, — 
 
 ''Good song! Wise song!" 
 
 After Hadji Murad 's arrival and Butler's in- 
 timacy with him and his murids, the poetry of 
 the energetic life of the mountains took a still 
 stronger hold on Butler. He procured for him- 
 self a heshmet, a Circassian coat and leggings, 
 and imagined himself a mountaineer living the 
 life those people lived. 
 
 On the day of Hadji Murad 's departure, the 
 Major invited several officers to see him off. 
 They were sitting, some at the table where 
 Mary Dmitrievna was pouring out tea, some at 
 another table on which stood vodka Chikhir 
 and light refreshments, when Hadji Murad, 
 dressed for the journey, came limping with soft 
 rapid footsteps into the room. 
 
 They all rose and shook hands with him. The 
 Major offered him a seat on the divan, but 
 Hadji Murad thanked him and sat down on a 
 chair by the window. 
 
 The silence that followed his entrance did
 
 230 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 not at all abash him. He looked attentively at 
 all the faces and fixed an indifferent gaze on 
 the tea-table with the samovar and refresh- 
 ments. Petrovsky, a lively officer who now met 
 Hadji Murad for the first time, asked him 
 through the interpreter whether he liked Tifiis. 
 
 "Alya!" he replied. 
 
 "He says, 'Yes,' " translated the interpreter. 
 
 ''What did he like there?" 
 
 Hadji Murad said something in reply. 
 
 "He liked the theatre best of all." 
 
 "And how did he like the ball at the house 
 of the Commander-in-chief I" 
 
 Hadji Murad frowned. "Every nation has 
 its own customs ! Our women do not dress in 
 such a way," said he, glancing at Mary Dmitri- 
 evna. 
 
 "Well, didn't he like it?" 
 
 "We have a proverb," said Hadji Mur^d to 
 the interpreter, " 'The dog gave meat to the 
 ass, and the ass gave hay to the dog, and both 
 went hungry,' " and he smiled. "It's own cus- 
 toms seem good to each nation." 
 
 The conversation went no further. Some of 
 the officers took tea ; some, other refreshments.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 231 
 
 Hadji Murad accepted the tumbler of tea of- 
 fered him, and put it down before him. 
 
 ''Won't you have cream and a bun?" asked 
 Mary Dmitrievna, offering them to him. 
 
 Hadji Murad bowed his head. 
 
 ''Well, I suppose it is good-bye!" said But- 
 ler, touching his knee. "When shall we meet 
 again!" 
 
 "Good-bye, good-bye!" said Hadji Murad 
 with a smile, in Russian, "Kundk huhig. — 
 Strong kiindk to thee! Time — aijda — go!" 
 and he jerked his head in the direction in which 
 he had to go. 
 
 Eldar appeared in the doorway carrying 
 some large white thing across his shoulder and 
 a sword in his hand. Hadji Murad beckoned 
 him to himself, and Eldar came with his big 
 strides and handed him a white hui'ka and the 
 sword. Hadji Murad rose, took the burka, 
 threw it over his arm, and, saying something 
 to the interpreter, handed it to Mary Dmitri- 
 evna. 
 
 The interpreter said, "He says thou hast 
 praised the burka, so accept it." 
 
 "Oh, why?" said Mary Dmitrievna, blushing.
 
 232 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 ''It is necessary. Like Adam," said Hadji 
 Munid. 
 
 ''Well, thank you," said Mary Dmitrievna, 
 taking the hurka. "God grant that you rescue 
 your son," added she. "Ulan yakshi," said 
 she. "Tell him that I wish him success in re- 
 
 « 
 
 leasing his son." 
 
 Hadji Murad glanced at Mary Dmitrievna, 
 and nodded his head approvingly. Then he 
 took the sword from Eldar and handed it to 
 the Major. The Major took it, and said to the 
 interpreter, — 
 
 "Tell him to take my chestnut gelding. I 
 have nothing else to give him." 
 
 Hadji Munid waved his hand in front of his 
 face to show that he did not want anvthing and 
 would not accept it. Then, pointing first to 
 the mountains and then to his heart, he went 
 out. 
 
 Every one followed him as far as the door. 
 The officers who remained inside the room drew 
 the sword from its scabbard, examined its blade, 
 and decided that it was a real Gurda.^ 
 
 Butler accompanied Hadji Murad to the 
 
 lA highly-prized quality of blade.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 233 
 
 porch, and then something very unexpected oc- 
 curred which might have ended fatally for 
 Hadji Murad, had it not been for his quick ob- 
 servation, determination, and agility. 
 
 The inhabitants of the Kumiikh aoiil, Tash- 
 Kichu, which was friendly to the Russians, 
 greatly respected Hadji Murad, and had often 
 come to the fort merely to look at the famous 
 Ndib. They had sent messengers to him three 
 days previously to ask him to visit their mosque 
 on the Friday. But the Kumiikh princes who 
 lived in Tash-Kichu hated Hadji Murad be- 
 cause there was a blood feud between them; 
 and on hearing of this invitation they announced 
 to the people that they would not allow him to 
 enter the mosque. The people became excited, 
 and a fight occurred between them and the 
 princes' supporters. The Russian authorities 
 pacified the mountaineers and sent word to 
 Hadji Murad not to go to the mosque. 
 
 Hadji Mun'id did not go, and every one sup- 
 posed that the matter was settled. 
 
 But at the very moment of his departure, 
 when he came out into the porch before which 
 the horses stood waiting, Arslan Khan — one
 
 234 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 of the Kumukh princes and an acquaintance of 
 Butler's and of the Major's — rode up to the 
 house. 
 
 When he saw Hadji Murad he snatched a 
 pistol from his belt and aimed at him; but be- 
 fore he could fire, Hadji Murad — in spite of his 
 lameness — rushed down from the porch like a 
 cat towards Arslan Khan, who fired and 
 missed. 
 
 Seizing Arslan Khan's horse by the bridle 
 with one hand, Hadji Murad drew his dagger 
 with the other and shouted something to him 
 in Tartar. 
 
 Butler and Eldar both ran at once towards 
 the enemies, and caught them by the arms. The 
 Major, who had heard the shot, also came out. 
 
 ''What do you mean by it, Arslan — starting 
 such a horrid business on my premises!" said 
 he, when he heard what had happened. "It's 
 not right, friend! 'To the foe in the field, you 
 need not yield!' — but to start this kind of 
 slaughter in my place — !" 
 
 Arslan Khan, a little man with black mous- 
 taches, got off his horse, pale and trembling, 
 looked angrily at Hadji Murad, and went into 
 the house with the Major. Hadji Murad,
 
 HADJI MUR AD 235 
 
 breatbiug heavily and smiling, returned to the 
 horses. 
 
 ' ' Why did he want to kill him ? ' ' Butler asked 
 the interpreter, 
 
 "He says it is a law of theirs," the inter- 
 preter translated Hadji Murad's reply. "Ars- 
 lan must avenge a relation's blood, and so he 
 tried to kill him." 
 
 *'And supposing he overtakes him on the 
 road f ' ' asked Butler. 
 
 Hadji Murad smiled. 
 
 ''Well, if he kills me it will prove that such 
 is Allah's will. . . . Good-bye," he said 
 again in Russian, taking his horse by the with- 
 ers. Glancing round at everybody who had 
 come out to see him off, his eyes rested kindly 
 on Mary Dmitrievna. 
 
 '* Good-bye, my lass," said he to her. *'I 
 thank you." 
 
 "God help you — God help you to rescue your 
 family!" repeated Mary Dmitrievna. 
 
 He did not understand her words, but felt 
 her sympathy for him, and nodded to her. 
 
 "Mind, don't forget your hunuk/' said But- 
 ler. 
 
 "Tell him I am his true friend and will never
 
 236 HADJI MURAD 
 
 forget liim," answered Hadji Munid to the in- 
 terpreter; and in spite of his short leg he 
 swung himself lightly and quickly, barely touch- 
 ing the stirrup, into the high saddle, automat- 
 ically feeling for his dagger and adjusting his 
 sword. Then, with that peculiarly proud look 
 with which only a Caucasian hillsman sits his 
 horse — as though he were one with it — he rode 
 away from the Major's house. Khanefi and 
 Eldar also mounted, and having taken a 
 friendly leave of their hosts and of the of- 
 ficers, they rode off at a trot, following their 
 murshid. 
 
 As usual after any one's departure, those 
 who remained behind began to discuss them. 
 
 '^Pluckj^ fellow! Didn't he rush at Arslan 
 Khan like a wolf! His face quite changed!" 
 
 ^'But he'll be up to tricks — he's a terrible 
 rogue, I should say," remarked Petrovsky. 
 
 ''God grant there were more Eussian rogues 
 of such a kind ! ' ' suddenly put in Mary Dmitri- 
 evna with vexation. ''He has lived a week with 
 us, and we have seen nothing but good from 
 him. He is courteous wise and just," she 
 added.
 
 HADJI MURAD 237 
 
 ''How did you find that out?" 
 
 ''Well, I did find it out!" 
 
 ''She's quite smitten," said the Major, who 
 had just entered the room ; ' ' and that 's a fact ! ' ' 
 
 "Well, and if I am smitten? What's that 
 to you? But why run him down if he's a good 
 man? Though he's a Tartar, he's still a good 
 man!" 
 
 "Quite true, Mary Dmitrievna," said But- 
 ler; "and you're quite right to take his part!"
 
 XXI 
 
 Life in our advanced forts in the Chechen lines 
 went on as usual. Since the events last nar- 
 rated there had been two alarms when the com- 
 panies were called out, and militiamen galloped 
 about; but both times the mountaineers who 
 had caused the excitement got away; and once 
 at Vozdvfzhensk they killed a Cossack, and suc- 
 ceeded in carrying off eight Cossack horses that 
 were being watered. There had been no fur- 
 ther raids since the one in which the aoiil was 
 destroyed; but an expedition on a large scale 
 was expected in consequence of the appoint- 
 ment of a new Commander of the Left Flank, 
 Prince Baryatinsky. He was an old friend of 
 the Viceroy's, and had been in command of 
 the Kabarda Regiment. On his arrival at 
 Grozny as commander of the whole Left Flank, 
 he at once mustered a detachment to continue 
 to carry out the Tsar's commands as communi- 
 cated by Chernyshov to Vorontsov. The de- 
 
 238
 
 HADJI MURAD 239 
 
 tacliment mustered at Vozdvizhensk left the 
 fort, and took up a position towards Kurin. 
 The troops were encamped tliere, and were fell- 
 ing the forest. Young Vorontsov lived in a 
 splendid cloth tent, and his wife, Mary Vasil- 
 evna, often came to the camp and stayed the 
 night. Baryatinsky's relations with Mary 
 Vasilevna were no secret to any one, and the 
 officers who were not in the aristocratic set, 
 and the soldiers, abused her in coarse terms — 
 for her presence in camp caused them to be 
 told off to lie in ambush at night. The moun- 
 taineers were in the habit of bringing guns 
 within range and firing shells at the camp. 
 The shells generally missed their aim, and 
 therefore at ordinary times no special meas- 
 ures were taken to prevent such firing; but 
 now, men were placed in ambush to hinder the 
 mountaineers from injuring or frightening 
 Mary Vasilevna with their cannons. To have 
 to be always lying in ambush at night to save 
 a lady from being frightened, offended and an- 
 noyed them; and therefore the soldiers, as well 
 as the officers not admitted to the higher soci- 
 ety, called Mary Vasilevna bad names.
 
 240 HADJI MURAD 
 
 Butler, having obtained leave of absence 
 from his fort, came to the camp to visit some 
 old messmates from the cadet corps and fellow- 
 officers of the Kurin regiment, who were serv- 
 ing as adjutants and orderly-officers. "WTien he 
 first arrived he had a very good time. He put 
 up in Poltoratsky's tent, and there met many 
 acquaintances who gave him a hearty welcome. 
 He also called on Vorontsov whom he knew 
 slightly, having once served in the same regi- 
 ment with him. Vorontsov received him very 
 kindly, introduced him to Prince Baryatinsky, 
 and invited him to the farewell dinner he was 
 giving in honour of General Kozlovsky, who, 
 until Baryatinsky 's arrival, had been in com- 
 mand of the Left Flank. 
 
 The dinner was magnificent. Special tents 
 were erected in a line, and along the whole 
 length of them a table was spread, as for a 
 dinner-party, with dinner-services and bottles. 
 Everything recalled life in the guards in Peters- 
 burg. Dinner was served at two o'clock. In 
 the middle on one side sat Kozlovsky; on the 
 other, Baryatinsky. At Kozlovsky 's right and 
 left hand sat the Vorontsovs, husband and wife.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 241 
 
 All along tlie table on both sides sat the of- 
 ficers of the Kabarda and Kurin regiments. 
 Butler sat next to Poltoriitsky, and they both 
 chatted merrily and drank with the officers 
 around them. When the roast was served and 
 the orderlies had gone round and filled the 
 champagne glasses, Poltonitsky, with real anxi- 
 iety, said to Butler, — 
 
 ''Our Kozlovsky will disgrace himself!" 
 
 ''Why?" 
 
 "Why, he'll have to make a speech, and what 
 good is he at that? . . . Yes, it's not as 
 easy as capturing entrenchments under fire ! 
 And with a lady beside him, too, and these aris- 
 tocrats!" 
 
 "Really it's painful to look at him," said the 
 officers to one another. And now the solemn 
 moment had arrived. Baryatinsky rose and 
 lifting his glass addressed a short speech to 
 Kozlovsky. When he had finished, Kozlovsky 
 — who always had a trick of using the word 
 "how" superfluously — rose and stammeringly 
 began, — 
 
 "In compliance with the august will of his 
 Majesty, I am leaving you — parting from you.
 
 242 H A D J 1 M U R A D 
 
 gentlemen," said he, "But consider me as al- 
 ways remaining among you. The truth of the 
 proverb, how 'One man in the field is no war- 
 rior,' is well known to you, gentlemen. . . . 
 Therefore, how every reward I have re- 
 ceived . . . how all the benefits showered 
 on me by the great generosity of our sovereign 
 the Emperor . . . how all my position — 
 how my good name . . . how everything 
 decidedly . . . how . . ." (here his 
 voice trembled) ". . . how I am indebted to 
 you for it, to you alone, my friends!" The 
 wrinkled face puckered up still more, he gave a 
 sob, and tears came into his eves. "How from 
 my heart I offer you my sincerest, heartfelt 
 gratitude!" 
 
 Kozlovsky could not go on, but turned round 
 and began to embrace the officers. The Prin- 
 cess hid her face in her handkerchief. The 
 Prince blinked, with his mouth drawn awry. 
 Many of the officers' eyes grew moist, and But- 
 ler, who had hardly known Kozlovsky, could 
 also not restrain his tears. He liked all this 
 very much. 
 
 Then followed other toasts. Bary^itinsky's,
 
 HADJI MUR AD 243 
 
 Voroutsov's, the officers', and the soldiers' 
 healths were drunk, and the visitors left the 
 table intoxicated with wine and with the mil- 
 itary elation to which they were always so 
 prone. The weather was wonderful, sunny and 
 calm, and the air fresh and bracing. On all 
 sides bonfires crackled and songs resounded. 
 It might have been thought that everybody was 
 celebrating some joyful event. Butler went to 
 Poltoratsky's in the happiest most emotional 
 mood. Several officers had gathered there, and 
 a card-table was set. An Adjutant started a 
 bank with a hundred roubles. Two or three 
 times Butler left the tent with his hand grip- 
 ping the purse in his trousers-pocket; but at 
 last he could resist the temptation no longer, 
 and despite the promsie he had given to his 
 brother and to himself not to play, he began to 
 bet. Before an hour was past, very red, per- 
 spiring, and soiled with chalk, he sat with both 
 elbows on the table and wrote on it — under 
 cards bent for "corners" and "transports" — 
 the figures of his stakes. He had already lost 
 so much that he was afraid to count up what 
 was scored against him. But he knew without
 
 244 HADJIMURAD 
 
 counting that all the pay he could draw in ad- 
 vance, added to the value of his horse, would 
 not suffice to pay what the Adjutant, a stranger 
 to him, had written down against him. He 
 would still have gone on playing, but the Ad- 
 jutant sternly laid down the cards he held in 
 his large clean hands, and added up the chalked 
 figures of the score of Butler's losses. Butler, 
 confused, began to make excuses for being un- 
 able to pay the whole of his debt at once; and 
 said he would send it from home. When he 
 said this he noticed that everybody pitied him, 
 and that they all — even Poltoratsky — avoided 
 meeting his eye. That was his last evening 
 there. He need only have refrained from play- 
 ing, and gone to the Vorontsovs who had in- 
 vited him, and all would have been well, thought 
 he; but now it was not only not well, but ter- 
 rible. 
 
 Having taken leave of his comrades and ac- 
 quaintances he rode home and went to bed, and 
 slept for eighteen hours as people usually sleep 
 after losing heavily. From the fact that he 
 asked her to lend him fifty kopeks to tip the 
 Cossack who had escorted him, and from his
 
 HADJI MURAD 245 
 
 sorrowful looks and short answers, Mary 
 Dmitrievna guessed that he had lost at cards, 
 and she reproached the Major for having given 
 him leave of absence. 
 
 When he woke up at noon next day and re- 
 membered the situation he was in, he longed 
 again to plunge into the oblivion from which 
 he had just emerged ; but it was impossible. 
 Steps had to be taken to repay the four hun- 
 dred and seventy roubles he owed to the 
 stranger. The first step he took was to write 
 to his brother, confessing his sin and implor- 
 ing him, for the last time, to lend him five hun- 
 dred roubles on the security of the mill that 
 they still owned in common. Then he wrote 
 to a stingy relative, asking her to lend him five 
 hundred roubles at whatever rate of interest 
 she liked. Finally he went to the Major, know- 
 ing that he — or rather Mary Dmitrievna — had 
 some money, and asked him to lend him five 
 hundred roubles. 
 
 ''I'd let you have them at once," said the 
 Major, ''but M^sha won't! These women are 
 so close-fisted — who the devil can understand 
 them? . . . And yet you must get out of it
 
 246 HADJI MURAD 
 
 somehow, devil take him ! . . . Hasn't that 
 brute the canteen-keeper something?" 
 
 But it was no use tryiug to borrow from the 
 canteen-keeper; so that Butler's salvation 
 could only come from his brother or from his 
 stingy relative.
 
 XXII 
 
 Not having attained his aim in Chechnya, Hadji 
 Murad returned to Tiflis and went every day 
 to Vorontsov's; and whenever he could obtain 
 audience he implored the Viceroy to gather to- 
 gether the mountaineer prisoners and to ex- 
 change them for his family. He said that un- 
 les that were done his hands were tied and he 
 could not serve the Russians and destroy 
 Shamil, as he desired to do. Vorontsov 
 vaguely promised to do what he could, but put 
 it off, saying that he would decide when Gen- 
 eral Argutinsky reached Tiflis and he could talk 
 the matter over with him. 
 
 Then Hadji Murad asked Vorontsov to al- 
 low him to go to live for a while in Nukha, a 
 small town in Transcaucasia, where he thought 
 he could better carry on negotiations about his 
 family with Shamil and with the people who 
 were attached to himself. Moreover, Nukha 
 being a Mohammedan town, had a mosque 
 
 247
 
 248 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 where he could more conveniently perform the 
 rites of prayer demanded by the Mohammedan 
 law. Vorontsov wrote to Petersburg about it, 
 but meanwhile gave Hadji Murad permission 
 to go to Nukha. 
 
 For Vorontsov and the authorities in Peters- 
 burg, as well as for most Russians acquainted 
 with Hadji Murad 's history, the whole episode 
 presented itself as a lucky turn in the Cau- 
 casian war, or simply as an interesting event. 
 For Hadji Murad, on the other hand, it was 
 (especially latterly) a terrible crisis in his life. 
 He had escaped from the mountains partly to 
 save himself, partly out of hatred of Shamil; 
 and difficult as this flight had been, he had at- 
 tained his object and for a time was glad of 
 his success, and really devised a plan to attack 
 Shamil ; but the rescue of his family — which he 
 had thought would be easy to arrange — had 
 proved more difficult than he expected. 
 
 Shamil had seized the family and kept them 
 prisoners, threatening to hand the women over 
 to the different aouls, and to blind or kill the 
 son. Now Hadji Murad had gone to Nukh^ 
 intending to try, by the aid of his adherents
 
 HADJI MUR AD 249 
 
 in Daghestan, to rescue his family from Shamil 
 by force or by cunning. The last spy who had 
 come to see him in Nukha informed him that 
 the Avars devoted to him were preparing to 
 capture his family and to come over to the Rus- 
 sians with it; but that there were not enough 
 of them, and they could not risk making the 
 attempt in Vedeno where the family was at 
 present imprisoned, but could only do it if the 
 family were moved from Vedeno to some other 
 place: in which case they promised to rescue 
 them on the way. 
 
 Hadji Murad sent word to his friends that 
 he would give three thousand roubles for the 
 liberation of his family. 
 
 At Nukhii a small house of five rooms was 
 assigned to Hadji Murad near the mosque and 
 the Khan's palace. The officers in charge of 
 him, his interpreter, and his henchmen stayed 
 in the same house. Hadji Murad 's life was 
 spent in the expectation and reception of mes- 
 sengers from the mountains, and in rides he 
 was allowed to take in the neighbourhood. 
 
 On 24th April, returning from one of these 
 rides, Hadji Murad learnt that during his ab-
 
 250 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 sence an official had arrived from Tiflis, sent by 
 Vorontsov. In spite of his loDging to know 
 what message the official had brought him, 
 Hadji Murad, before going into the room where 
 the officer in charge and the official were wait- 
 ing, went to his bedroom and repeated his noon- 
 day prayer. When he had finished he came out 
 into the room which served him as drawing and 
 reception room. The official who had come 
 from Tiflis, Councillor Kirillov, informed 
 Hadji Murad of Vorontsov 's wish that he 
 should come to Tiflis on the 12th, to meet Gen- 
 eral Argutinsky. 
 
 ''YaJishi!" said Hadji Murad angrily. The 
 councillor did not please him. "Have you 
 brought money?" 
 
 "I have," answered Kirillov. 
 
 "For two weeks now," said Hadji Murad, 
 holding up first both hands and then four fin- 
 gers. "Give here!" 
 
 "We'll give it you at once," said the official, 
 getting his purse out of his travelling-bag. 
 "What does he want with the money!" he went 
 on in Russian, thinking Hadji Murad would not 
 understand. But Hadji Murad understood,
 
 H A D .1 r ^l U R A D 251 
 
 and glanced angrily at Kirillov. AVbile get- 
 ting out the money the councillor, wishing to 
 begin a conversation with Hadji Mnrad in order 
 on his return to have something to tell Prince 
 Vorontsov, asked through the interpreter 
 whether Hadji Mur;id was not feeling dull 
 there. Hadji Munid gianced contemptuously 
 out of the corner of his eye at the fat unarmed 
 little man dressed as a civilian, and did not re- 
 ply. The interpreter repeated the question. 
 
 "Tell him that 1 cannot talk with him! Let 
 him give me the money!" and having said this, 
 Hadji Murad sat down at the table ready to 
 count the money. 
 
 When Kiritlov had got out the money and 
 arranged it in seven piles of ten gold pieces 
 each (Hadji Murad received five gold pieces 
 daily) and pushed them towards Hadji Murad, 
 the latter poured the gold into the sleeve of his 
 Circassian coat, rose, and quite unexpectedly 
 slapped Councillor Kirillov on his bald pate, 
 and turned to go. 
 
 The councillor jumped up and ordered the 
 interpreter to tell Hadji Murad that he must 
 not dare to behave like that to him, who held a
 
 252 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 rank equal to that of colonel ! The officer in 
 charge confirmed this, but Hadji Murad only 
 nodded to signify that he knew, and left the 
 room. 
 
 ''What is one to do with him?" said the of- 
 ficer in charge. ''He'll stick his dagger into 
 you, that's all! One cannot talk with those 
 devils! I see that he is getting exasperated." 
 
 As soon as it began to grow dusk, two spys 
 with hoods covering their faces up to their 
 eyes, came to him from the hills. The officer 
 in charge led them to Hadji Murad 's room. 
 One of them was a fleshy swarthy Tavlinian; 
 the other, a thin old man. The news they 
 brought was not cheering for Hadji Murad. 
 His friends who had undertaken to rescue his 
 family, now definitely refused to do so, being 
 afraid of Shamil — who threatened to punish 
 with the most terrible tortures any one who 
 helped Hadji Murad. Having heard the mes- 
 sengers, Hadji Murad sat with his elbows on 
 his crossed legs, and bowing his turbaned head, 
 remained silent a long time. 
 
 He was thinking, and thinking resolutely. 
 He knew that he was now considering the mat-
 
 HADJI MURAD 253 
 
 ter for the last time, and that it was necessary 
 to eome to a decision. At last he raised his 
 head, gave each of the messengers a gold piece, 
 and said: "Go!" 
 
 ''What answer will there be?" 
 
 "The answer will be as God pleases. . . . 
 Go!" 
 
 The messengers rose and went away, and 
 Hadji Mnrad continued to sit on the carpet, 
 leaning his elbows on his knees. He sat thus 
 a long time, and pondered. 
 
 "What am I to do? To take Shamil at his 
 word and return to him?" he thought. "He 
 is a fox and will deceive me. Even if he did 
 not deceive me, it would still be impossible to 
 submit to that red liar. It is impossible . . . 
 because now that I have been with the Russians 
 he will not trust me," thought Hadji Murad; 
 and he remembered a Tavlinian fable about a 
 falcon who had been caught and lived among 
 men, and afterwards returned to his own kind 
 in the hills. He returned, but wearing jesses 
 with bells; and the other falcons would not re- 
 ceive him. "Fly back to where they hung 
 those silver bells on thee!" said they. "We
 
 254 HADJI MURAD 
 
 have no bells and no jesses.'^ The falcon did 
 not want to leave his home, and remained; but 
 the other falcons did not wish to let him stay 
 there, and pecked him to death. 
 
 **And they would peck me to death in the 
 same way," thought Hadji Murad. ''Shall I 
 remain here and conquer Caucasia for the Rus- 
 sian Tsar, and earn renown, titles, riches!" 
 
 ''That could be done," thought he, recalling 
 his interviews with Vorontsov, and the flatter- 
 ing things the Prince had said. "But I must 
 decide at once, or Shamil will destroy my fam- 
 ily." 
 
 That night Hadji Murad remained awake, 
 thinking.
 
 XXIII 
 
 By midnight his decision had ])een formed. 
 He had decided that he must fly to the moun- 
 tains, and with the Avars still devoted to him 
 must break into Vedeno, and either die or res- 
 cue his family. Whether after rescuing them 
 he would return to the Russians or escape to 
 Khunzakh and fight Shamil, he had not made up 
 his mind. All he knew was that first of all he 
 must escape from the Russians into the moun- 
 tains; and he at once began to carry out his 
 plan. 
 
 He drew his black wadded beshmet from 
 under his pillow, and went into his henchmen's 
 room. They lived on the other side of the hall. 
 As soon as he entered the hall, the outer door 
 of which stood open, he was at once enveloped 
 by the dewy freshness of the moonlit night 
 and his ears were filled by the whistling and 
 trilling of several nightingales in the garden 
 by the house. 
 
 255
 
 256 HADJI MURAD 
 
 Having crossed the hall, Hadji Murad opened 
 the door of his henchmen's room. There was 
 no light in the room, but the moon in its first 
 quarter shone in at the window. A table and 
 two chairs were standing on one side of the 
 room; and four of Hadji Murad 's henchmen 
 were lying on carpets or on hurkas on the floor. 
 Khanefi slept outside with the horses. Gam- 
 zalo heard the door creak, rose, turned round, 
 and saw Hadji Murad. On recognising him he 
 lay down again. But Eldar, who lay beside 
 him, jumped up and began putting on his hesh- 
 metj expecting his master's orders. Khan Ma- 
 homa and Bata slept on. Hadji jMurad put 
 down the heshmet he had brought on the table, 
 and it hit the table with a dull sound. This 
 was caused by the gold sewn up in it. 
 
 ''Sew these in too," said Hadji Murad, hand- 
 ing Eldt'ir the gold pieces he had that day re- 
 ceived. Eldar took them, and at once went into 
 the moonlight, drew a small knife from under 
 his dagger, and started unstitching the lining 
 of the heshmet. Gamzalo raised himself and 
 sat up with his legs crossed. 
 
 "And you, Gamzalo, tell the fellows to ex-
 
 HADJI MUR AD 257 
 
 amine the rifles and pistols and to get the am- 
 munition ready. To-morrow we shall go far," 
 said Hadji Murad. 
 
 "We have bullets and powder; everything 
 shall be ready," replied Gamzalo, and roared 
 out something incomprehensible. He under- 
 stood why Hadji Murad had ordered the rifles 
 to be loaded. From the first he had desired 
 only one thing — to slay and stab as many Rus- 
 sians as possible, and to escape to the hills ; and 
 this desire had increased day by day. Now at 
 last he saw that Hadji Murad also wanted this, 
 and he was satisfied. 
 
 When Hadji Murad went away, Gamzdlo 
 roused his comrades, and all four spent the 
 rest of the night examining their rifles pistols 
 flints and accoutrements; replacing what was 
 damaged, sprinkling fresh powder on to the 
 pans, and stoppering packets filled with pow- 
 der measured for each charge with bullets 
 wrapped in oiled rags, sharpening their swords 
 and daggers and greasing the blades with tal- 
 low. 
 
 Before daybreak Hadji Murad again came 
 out into the hall to get some water for his ab-
 
 258 HADJI MURAD 
 
 lutions. The songs of the nightingales that had 
 burst into ecstasy at dawn sounded even louder 
 and more incessant than they had done before, 
 while from his henchmen's room, where the 
 daggers were being sharpened, came the reg-, 
 ular squeaking and rasping of iron against 
 stone. 
 
 Hadji Murad got himself some water from a 
 tub, and was already at his own door when, 
 above the sound of the grinding, he heard from 
 his miirids' room the high tones of Khaneti's 
 voice singing a familiar song. Hadji Murad 
 stopped to listen. The song told of how a 
 dzhigit, Hamzad, with his brave followers cap- 
 tured a herd of white horses from the Russians, 
 and how a Russian prince followed him beyond 
 the Terek and surrounded him with an army 
 as large as a forest; and then the song went 
 on to tell how Hamzad killed the horses, and, 
 with his men entrenched behind this gory bul- 
 wark, fought the Russians as long as they had 
 bullets in their rifles, daggers in their belts, and 
 blood in their veins. But before he died Ham- 
 zad saw some birds flying in the sky and cried 
 to them, —
 
 HADJI MUR AD 259 
 
 "Fly on, ye winged ones, fly to our homes! 
 Tell ye our mothers, tell ye our sisters, 
 Tell the white maidens, fighting we died 
 For Ghazaviit ! Tell them our bodies 
 Never shall lie and rest in a tomb ! 
 AVolves shall devour and tear them to pieces, 
 Ravens and vultures pluck out our eyes." 
 
 With that the song ended, and at the last 
 words, sung to a mournful air, the merry Ba- 
 ta's vigorous voice joined in with a loud shout 
 of "Lija-il lijakha-iV AUakh!" finishing with 
 a shrill shriek. Then all was quiet again, ex- 
 cept for the iclnit, tcliuk, tchuk, tchuk and whis- 
 tling of the nightingales from the garden, and 
 from behind the door the even grinding, and 
 now and then the whizz, of iron sliding quickly 
 along the whetstone. 
 
 Hadji Murad was so full of thought that he 
 did not notice how he tilted his jug till the 
 water began to pour out. He shook his head 
 at himself, and re-entered his room. After 
 performing his morning ablutions he examined 
 his weapons and sat down on his bed. There 
 was nothing more for him to do. To be al-
 
 260 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 lowed to ride out, be would have to get permis- 
 sion from the officer in charge; but it was not 
 yet daylight, and the officer was still asleep. 
 
 Khanefi's song reminded him of another song, 
 the one his mother had composed just after he 
 was born : the song addressed to his father, 
 that Hadji Murad had mentioned to Loris-Mel- 
 ikov. 
 
 "Thy sword of Damascus-steel tore my white bosom; 
 
 But close on it laid I my own little boy ; 
 
 In my hot-streaming blood him I laved ; and the wound 
 
 Without herbs or specifics was soon fully healed. 
 
 As I, facing death, remained fearless, so he, 
 
 My boy, my dzhigit, from all fear shall be free!" 
 
 He remembered how his mother put him to 
 sleep beside her under a cloak, on the roof of 
 their sdklya, and how he asked her to let him 
 see the place on her side where the wound had 
 left a scar. Hadji Murad seemed to see his 
 mother before him — not wrinkled, grey-haired, 
 with gaps between her teeth, as he had lately 
 left her, but young handsome and so strong that 
 she carried him in a basket on her back across
 
 HADJI MURAD 261 
 
 the mountains to her father's when he was a 
 heavy five-year-old boy. He also recalled his 
 grandfather, wrinkled and grey-bearded, and 
 how the old man hammered silver with his 
 sinewy hands, and made him say his prayers. 
 
 He thought of the fountain at the foot of the 
 hill, whither, holding to her wide trousers, he 
 went with his mother to fetch water. He re- 
 membered the lean dog that used to lick his 
 face, and he recalled with special vividness the 
 peculiar smell of sour milk and smoke in the 
 shed where his mother took him with her when 
 she went to milk the cows or scald the milk. 
 He remembered how she shaved his head for 
 the first time, and how surprised he was to 
 see his round blue-gleaming head reflected in 
 the brightly-polished brass basin that hung 
 against the wall. 
 
 And the recollection of himself as a little 
 child reminded him of his beloved son, Yusuf, 
 whose head he himself had shaved for the first 
 time; and now this Yusuf was a handsome 
 young dzhigit. He pictured him as he was 
 when last he saw him. It was on the day that 
 Hadji Murad left Tselmess. His son brought
 
 262 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 him his horse and asked to be allowed to ac- 
 company him. Yusiif was ready dressed and 
 armed, and led his own horse by the bridle. 
 His rosy handsome young' face and "the whole 
 of his tall slender figure (he was taller than 
 his father) breathed of daring, youth, and the 
 joy of life. The breadth of his shoulders, 
 though he was so young, the very wide youth- 
 ful hips, the long slender waist, and the 
 strength of his long arms, the power flexibility 
 and agility of all his movements had always 
 rejoiced Hadji Murad, who admired his son. 
 
 "Thou hadst better stay. Thou wilt be alone 
 at home now. Take care of thy mother and 
 thy grandmother," said Hadji Murad. And he 
 remembered the spirited and proud look and 
 the flush of pleasure with which Yusuf had re- 
 plied that as long as he lived no one should 
 injure his mother or grandmother. All the 
 same Yusuf had mounted and accompanied his 
 father as far as the stream. There he turned 
 back, and since then Hadji Murad had not seen 
 his wife, his mother, or his son. And it was 
 this son whose eyes Shamil wished to put out! 
 Of what would be done to his wife, Hadji Murad 
 did not wish to tliink.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 263 
 
 These thoughts so excited him that he could 
 not sit still any longer. He jumped up and 
 went limping quickly to the door, opened it, 
 and called Eldar. The sun had not yet risen, 
 but it was already quite light. The nightin- 
 gales were still singing. 
 
 "Go, and tell the officer that I want to go 
 out riding; and saddle the horses," said he.
 
 XXIV 
 
 Butler's only consolation all tliis time was the 
 poetry of warfare, to which he gave himself 
 up not only during his hours of service, but also 
 in private life. Dressed in his Circassian cos- 
 tume he rode and swaggered about, and twice 
 went into ambush with Bogdanovitch, though 
 neither time did they discover or kill any one. 
 This closeness to and friendship with Bogdano- 
 vitch, famed for his courage, seemed pleasant 
 and warlike to Butler. He had paid his debt, 
 having borrowed the money of a Jew at an 
 enormous rate of interest — that is to say, he 
 had only postponed his difficulties without solv- 
 ing them. He tried not to think of his position, 
 and to find oblivion not only in the poetry of 
 warfare, but also in wine. He drank more and 
 more every day, and day by day grew morally 
 weaker. He was now no longer the chaste 
 Joseph he had been towards Mary Dmitrievna, 
 but on the contrary began courting her grossly, 
 
 264
 
 HADJI MURAD 265 
 
 but to his surprise, met with a strong and de- 
 cided repulse which put him to shame. 
 
 At the end of April there arrived at the fort 
 a detachment with which Baryatinsky intended 
 to effect an advance right through Chechnya, 
 which had till then been considered impass- 
 able. In that detachment were two companies 
 of the Kabarda regiment, and according to the 
 Caucasian custom these were treated as guests 
 by the Kurin companies. The soldiers were 
 lodged in the barracks, and were treated not 
 only to supper, consisting of buckwheat-por- 
 ridge and beef, but also to vodka. The officers 
 shared the quarters of the Kurin officers, and 
 as usual those in residence gave the ncAvcomers 
 a dinner, at which the regimental singers per- 
 formed, and which ended up with a drinking- 
 bout. Major Petrov, very drunk and no longer 
 red but ashy pale, sat astride a chair, and draw- 
 ing his sword, hacked at imaginary foes, al- 
 ternately swearing and laughing, now embrac- 
 ing some one and now dancing to the tune of 
 his favourite song.
 
 266 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 "Shamil, he began to riot 
 In the days gone by-; 
 Try, ry, rataty, 
 In the years gone by!" 
 
 Bntler was there, too. He tried to see the 
 poetry of warfare in this also; but in tlie depth 
 of his soul he was sorry for the Major. To 
 slop him however was quite impossible; and 
 Butler, feeling that the fumes were mounting 
 to his own head, quietly left the room and went 
 home. 
 
 The moon lit up the white houses and the 
 stones on the road. It was so light that every 
 pebble, every straw, every little heap of dust 
 was visible. As he approached the house, But- 
 ler met Mary Dmitrievna with a shawl over her 
 head and neck. After the rebuff she had given 
 him, Butler had avoided her, feeling rather 
 ashamed; but now, in the moonlight and after 
 the wine he had drunk, he was pleased to meet 
 her, and wished again to make up to her. 
 
 "Where are you off to?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, to see after my old man," she an- 
 swered pleasantly. Her rejection of Butler's
 
 HADJI MUR AD 267 
 
 advances was quite siueere and decided, ])iit she 
 did not like his avoiding her as he ha<l done 
 hitely. 
 
 "Why bother about liim? He'll soon come 
 back." 
 
 "But will he?" 
 
 "If he doesn't, they'll bring liim." 
 
 "Just so. . . . That's not right, you know! 
 . . . But you think I'd better not go?" 
 
 "No, don't. We'd better go home." 
 
 ]\fary Dmitrievna turned back and walked 
 beside him. The moon shone so brightly that 
 round the shadows of their heads a halo seemed 
 to move along the road. Butler was looking at 
 this halo and making up his mind to tell her that 
 he liked her as much as ever, but he did not 
 know how to begin. She waited to hear what 
 he would say. So they walked on in silence 
 almost to the house, when some horsemen ap- 
 peared from round the corner. They were an 
 officer with an escort. 
 
 "Who's that coming now!" said Mary Dmit- 
 rievna, stepping aside. The moon was behind 
 the rider, so that she did not recognise him 
 until he had almost come u[) to But lev and her-
 
 268 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 self. It was Peter Nikolaevicli Kamenev, an 
 officer who had formerly served with the Major, 
 and whom Mary Dmitrievna therefore knew. 
 
 *'Is that you, Peter Nikolaevich?" said she, 
 addressing him. 
 
 " It 's me, ' ' said Kamenev. ' ' Ah, Butler, how 
 d'youdo? . . . Not asleep yet? Having a walk 
 with Mary Dmitrievna! You'd better look out, 
 or the Major will give it you. . . . Where is 
 he?" 
 
 ''Why, there. . . . Listen!" replied Mary 
 Dmitrievna, pointing in the direction whence 
 came the sounds of a tidumbas ^ and of songs. 
 ''They're on the spree." 
 
 "How's that? Are your people having a 
 spree on their own?" 
 
 "No; some officers have come from Hasav- 
 Yurt, and they are being entertained." 
 
 "Ah, that's good! I shall be in time. ... I 
 just want the Major for a moment." 
 
 "On business?" asked Butler. 
 
 "Yes, just a little business matter." 
 
 "Good or bad?" 
 
 ^Tulumhas, a sort Of kettledrum.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 269 
 
 "It all depends. . . . Good for us, but bad 
 for some people," and Kamenev laughed. 
 
 By this time they had reached the Major's 
 house. 
 
 "Chikhirev, " shouted Kj'imenev to one of his 
 Cossacks, ''come here!" 
 
 A Don Cossack rode up from among the 
 others. He was dressed in the ordinary Don 
 Cossack uniform, with high boots and a mantle, 
 and carried saddle-bags behind. 
 
 ''Well, take the thing out," said Kamenev, 
 dismounting. 
 
 The Cossack also dismounted, and took a sack 
 out of his saddle-bag. Kamenev took the sack 
 from him, and put his hand in. 
 
 "Well, shall I show you a novelty? You 
 won't be frightened, Mary Dmitrievna?" 
 
 "Why should I be frightened?" she replied. 
 
 "TTere it is!" said Kamenev, taking out a 
 man's head, and holding it up in the light of 
 the moon. "Do you recognise it?" 
 
 It was a shaven head with salient brows, 
 black short-cut beard and moustaches, one eye 
 open and the other half-closed. The shaven 
 skull was cleft, but not right through, and there
 
 270 HADJI MURAD 
 
 was congealed blood in the nose. The neck 
 was wrapped in a blood-stained towel. Not- 
 withstanding the many wounds on the head, the 
 blue lips still bore a kindly childlike expression. 
 
 Mary Dmitrievna looked at it, and without a 
 word turned away and went quickly into the 
 house. 
 
 Butler could not tear his eyes from the terri- 
 ble head. It was the head of that very 
 Hadji Murad with whom he had so recently 
 spent his evenings in such friendly inter- 
 course. 
 
 ''How's that! Who has killed him?" he 
 asked. 
 
 ''Wanted to give us the slip, but was caught," 
 said Kamenev, and he gave the head back to 
 the Cossack, and went into the house with 
 Butler. 
 
 "He died like a hero," said Kamenev. 
 
 "But however did it all happen?" 
 
 "Just wait a bit. When the Major comes I 
 will tell vou all about it. That's what I am 
 sent for. I take it round to all the forts and 
 aouls and show it." 
 
 The Major was sent for, and he came back
 
 HADJI MUR AD 271 
 
 accompanied by two other officers as drunk as 
 himself, and began embracing Kamenev. 
 
 "And I have brought you Hadji Murad's 
 head," said Kamenev. 
 
 "No? . . . Killed?" 
 
 "Yes; wanted to escape," 
 
 "I always said he would bamboozle them! 
 . . . And where is it? The head, I mean. . . . 
 Let's see it." 
 
 The Cossack was called, and brought in the 
 bag with the head. It was taken out, and the 
 Major looked at it long with drunken eyes. 
 
 "All the same, he was a fine fellow," said he. 
 "Let me kiss him!" 
 
 "Yes, it's true. It was a valiant head," said 
 one of the officers. 
 
 When all had looked at it, it was returned to 
 the Cossack, who put it in his bag, trying to let 
 it bump against the floor as gently as possible. 
 
 "I say, Kamenev, what speech do you make 
 when you show the head?" asked an officer. 
 
 "No! . . , Let me kiss him. He gave me a 
 sword!" shouted the Major. 
 
 Butler went out into the porch. 
 
 Mary Dmitrievna was sitting on the second
 
 272 HADJI MURAD 
 
 step. She looked round at Butler, and at once 
 turned angrily away again. 
 
 ''What's the matter, Mary Dmitrievna?" 
 asked he. 
 
 ^'You're all cutthroats! ... I hate it! 
 You're cutthroats, really," and she got up. 
 
 "It might happen to any one," remarked 
 Butler, not knowing what to say. "That's 
 war." 
 
 "War! War, indeed! . . . Cutthroats and 
 nothing else. A dead body should be given 
 back to the earth, and they're grinning at it 
 there! . . . Cutthroats, really," she repeated, 
 as she descended the steps and entered the 
 house by the back door. 
 
 Butler returned to the room, and asked 
 Kamenev to tell them in detail how the thing 
 had occurred. 
 
 And Kamenev told them. 
 
 This is what had happened.
 
 XXV 
 
 Hadji Murad was allowed to go out riding in 
 the neighbourhood of the town, but never with- 
 out a convoy of Cossacks. There was only half 
 a troop of them altogether in Nukha, ten of 
 whom were employed by the officers, so that if 
 ten were sent out with Hadji Murad (according 
 to the orders received) the same men would have 
 had to go every other day. Therefore, after 
 ten had been sent out the first day, it was de- 
 cided to send only five in future, and Hadji 
 Murad was asked not to take all his henchmen 
 with him. But on 25th April he rode out with 
 all five. When he mounted, the commander, 
 noticing that all five henchmen were going with 
 him, told him that he was forbidden to take 
 them all ; but Hadj'i Murad pretended not to 
 hear, touched his horse, and the commander 
 did not insist. 
 
 With the Cossacks rode a non-commissioned 
 officer, Nazarov, who had received the Cross of 
 
 273
 
 274 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 St. George for bravery. He was a young 
 healthy brown-haired lad, as fresh as a rose. 
 He was the eldest of a poor family belonging 
 to the sect of Old Believers, had grown up with- 
 out a father, and had maintained his old mother, 
 three sisters, and two brothers. 
 
 ''Mind, Nazarov, keep close to him!" shouted 
 the commander. 
 
 "All right, your honour!" answered Naziirov, 
 and rising in his stirrups and adjusting the rifle 
 that hung at his back, he started his fine large 
 roan gelding at a trot. Four Cossacks followed 
 him: Therapontov, tall and thin, a regular thief 
 and plunderer (he it was who had sold gun- 
 powder to Gamzalo) ; Ignatov, a sturdy peasant 
 who boasted of his strength, was no longer 
 young, and had nearly completed his service; 
 Mishkin, a weakly lad at whom everybody 
 laughed; and the young fair-haired Petrakov, 
 his mother's only son, always amiable and jolly. 
 
 The morning had been misty, but it cleared 
 up later on, and the opening foliage, the young 
 virgin grass, the sprouting corn and the ripples 
 of the rapid river just visible to the left of the 
 road, all glittered in the sunshine.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 275 
 
 Hadji Munkl rode slowly along, followed by 
 the Cossacks and by his henchmen. They rode 
 out along the road beyond the fort at a walk. 
 They met women carrying baskets on their 
 heads, soldiers driving carts, and creaking 
 wagons drawn by buffaloes. When he had gone 
 about a mile and a half, Hadji Murad touched 
 up his white Kabarda horse, which started at 
 an amble that obliged the henchmen and Cos- 
 sacks to ride at a quick trot to keep up with him. 
 
 ''Ah, he's got a fine horse under him," said 
 Therapontov. "If only he were still an enemy 
 I'd soon bring him down." 
 
 "Yes, mate. Three hundred roubles were 
 offered for that horse in Tiflis." 
 
 "But I can get ahead of him on mine," said 
 Nazarov. * 
 
 ' ' You get ahead ? A likely thing ! " 
 
 Hadji Murad kept increasing his pace. 
 
 "Hey, kunak, you mustn't do that. Steady !" 
 cried Nazarov, starting to overtake Hadji Mu- 
 rad. 
 
 Hadji Murad looked round, said nothing, and 
 continued to ride at the same pace. 
 
 "Mind, they're up to something, the devils!"
 
 276 HADJI MURAD 
 
 said Ignatov. "See how they are tearing 
 along." 
 
 So they rode for the best part of a mile in the 
 direction of the mountains. 
 
 ''I tell you it won't do!" shouted Nazarov. 
 
 Hadji Murad did not answer, and did not look 
 round, but only increased his pace to a gallop. 
 
 ''Humbug! You'll not get away!" shouted 
 Nazarov, stung to the quick. He gave his big 
 roan gelding a cut with his whip, and rising in 
 his stirrups and bending forward, flew full 
 speed in pursuit of Hadji Murad. 
 
 The sky was so bright, the air so clear, and 
 life played so joyously in Nazarov 's soul as, 
 becoming one with his fine strong horse, he flew 
 along the smooth road behind Hadji Murad, 
 that the possibility of Anything sad or dread- 
 ful happening never occurred to him. He re- 
 joiced that with every step he was gaining on 
 Hadji Murad. 
 
 Hadji Murad judged by the approaching 
 tramp of the big horse behind him that he would 
 soon be overtaken, and seizing his pistol with 
 his right hand, with his left he began slightly 
 to rein in his Kabarda horse, which was ex-
 
 HADJI MURAD 277 
 
 cited by hearing the tramp of hoofs behind it. 
 
 ''You mustn't, I tell you!" shouted Nazarov, 
 almost level with Hadji Murad, and stretching 
 out his hand to seize the latter 's bridle. But 
 before he reached it a shot was fired. — "What 
 are you doing?" screamed Nazarov, catching- 
 hold of his breast. ''At them, lads!" he ex- 
 claimed, and he reeled and fell forward on his 
 saddle-bow. 
 
 But the mountaineers were beforehand in tak- 
 ing to their weapons, and fired their pistols at 
 the Cossacks and hewed at them with their 
 swords. 
 
 Nazarov hung on the neck of his horse, which 
 careered round his comrades. The horse under 
 Ignatov fell, crushing his leg, and two of the 
 mountaineers, without dismounting, drew their 
 swords and hacked at his head and arms. Pe- 
 trakov was about to rush to his comrades' res- 
 cue, when two shots — one in the back and the 
 other in his side — stung him, and he fell from 
 his horse like a sack. 
 
 Mishkin turned round and galloped off 
 towards the fortress. Khanefi and Bata 
 rushed after him, but he was already too far
 
 278 . HADJI MUR AD 
 
 away and they could not catch him. When they 
 saw that they could not overtake him, they 
 returned to the others. 
 
 Petrakov lay on his back, his stomach ripped 
 open, his young face turned to the sky, and 
 while dying he gasped for breath like a fish. 
 
 Gamzalo having finished off Ignatov with his 
 sword, gave a cut to Nazarov too, and threw him 
 from his horse. Bata took their cartridge- 
 pouches from the slain. Khanefi wished to take 
 Nazarov 's horse, but Hadji Murad called out 
 to him to leave it, and dashed forward along the 
 road. His murids galloped after him, driving 
 away Nazarov 's horse that tried to follow them. 
 They vv^ere already among rice fields more than 
 six miles from Nuklui when a shot was fired 
 from the tower of that place to give the alarm. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 *'0h, good Lord! Oh, dear me! Dear me! 
 What have they done ? ' ' cried the commander of 
 the fort, seizing his head with his hands, when 
 he heard of Hadji Murad 's escape. ''They've 
 done for me! They've let him escape, the vil- 
 lains!" cried he, listening to Mishkin's account. 
 
 An alarm was raised everywhere, and not
 
 HADJI MURAD 279 
 
 only the Cossacks of the place were sent after 
 the fugitives, but also all the militia that could 
 be mustered from the pro-Russian aouls. A 
 thousand roubles reward was offered for the. 
 capture of Hadji Murad alive or dead, and two 
 hours after he and his followers had escaped 
 from the Cossacks more than two hundred 
 mounted men were galloping after the offi- 
 cer in charge to find and capture the runa- 
 ways. 
 
 After riding some miles along the highroad, 
 Hadji Murad checked his panting horse, which, 
 wet with persi^iration, had turned from white 
 to grey. 
 
 To the right of the road could be seen the 
 sdklyas and minarets of the aoul Benerdzhik, 
 on the left lay some fields, and beyond them the 
 river. Although the wav to the mountains lav 
 to the right, Hadji Murad turned in the oppo- 
 site direction, to the left, assuming that his pur- 
 suers would be sure to go to the right ; while he, 
 abandoning the road, would cross the Alazan 
 and would come out on to the highroad on the 
 other side, where no one would expect him, and 
 would ride along it to the forest, and then.
 
 280 HADJI MURAD 
 
 after recrossing the river, would make his way 
 to the mountains. 
 
 Having come to this conclusion, he turned to 
 the left. But it proved impossible to reach the 
 river. The rice-field which had to be crossed 
 had just been flooded, as is always done in 
 spring, and had become a bog in which the 
 horses' legs sank above their pasterns. Hadji 
 Murad and his henchmen turned, now to the 
 left, now to the right, hoping to find drier 
 ground; but the field they happened to be in 
 had been equally flooded all over, and was now 
 saturated with water. The horses drew their 
 feet out of the sticky mud into which they sank, 
 with a pop like that of a cork drawn from a 
 bottle, and stopped, panting, after every few 
 steps. They struggled in this way so long that 
 it began to grow dusk, and they had still not 
 reached the river. To their left lay a patch of 
 higher ground overgrown with shrubs, and 
 Hadji Murad decided to ride in among these 
 clumps and remain there till night to rest their 
 worn-out horses and let them graze. The men 
 themselves ate some bread and cheese that they 
 had brought with them. At last night came on
 
 HADJI MURAD 281 
 
 and the moon that had been shining at first, 
 hid behind the hill, and it became dark. There 
 were a great many nightingales in that neigh- 
 bourhood, and there were two of them in these 
 shrubs. As long as Hadji Murad and his men 
 were making a noise among the bushes the 
 nightingales had been silent, but when the peo- 
 ple became still, the birds again began to call 
 to one another and to sing. 
 
 Hadji Murad, awake to all the sounds of 
 night, listened to them involuntarily, and their 
 trills reminded him of the song about Hamzad 
 which he had heard the night before when he 
 went to get water. He might now at any mo- 
 ment find himself in the position in which Ham- 
 zdd had been. He fancied that it would be so, 
 and suddenly his soul became serious. He 
 spread out his burka and performed his ablu- 
 tions, and scarcely had he finished before a 
 sound was heard approaching their shelter. It 
 was the sound of many horses' feet plashing 
 through the bog. 
 
 The keen-sighted Bata ran out to one edge 
 of the clump, and peering through the darkness 
 saw black shadows, which were men on foot and
 
 282 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 on horseback. Khanefi discerned a similar 
 crowd on the other side. It was Karganov, the 
 military commander of the district, with his 
 militia. 
 
 "Well, then, we shall fight like Hamzad," 
 thought Hadji Murad. 
 
 When the alarm was given, Kargiinov, with a 
 troop of militiamen and Cossacks, had rushed 
 off in pursuit of Hadji Murad; but he had been 
 unable to find any trace of him. He had al- 
 ready lost hope, and was returning home, when 
 towards evening he met an old man and 
 asked him if he had seen any horsemen about. 
 The old man replied that he had. He had seen 
 six horsemen floundering in the rice-field, and 
 then had seen them enter the clump where he 
 himself was getting wood. Karganov turned 
 back, taking the old man with him ; and seeing 
 the hobbled horses, he made sure that Hadji 
 Murad was there. In the night he surrounded 
 the clump, and waited till morning to take Hadji 
 Murad alive or dead. 
 
 Having understood that he was surrounded, 
 and having discovered an old ditch among the 
 shrubs, Hadji Murad decided to entrench him-
 
 HADJI MUR AD 283 
 
 self iu it, and to resist as long as strength and 
 ammunition lasted. Ho told this to his com- 
 rades, and ordered them to throw up a bank in 
 front of Ihe ditch ; and his henchmen at once set 
 to work to cut down branches, dis^' up the earth 
 with their daggers, and to make an entrench- 
 ment. Hadji Murad himself worked with them. 
 
 As soon as it began to grow light the com- 
 mander of the militia troop rode up to the clump 
 and shouted, — 
 
 ''Hey! Hadji Murad, surrender! We are 
 many, and you are few!" 
 
 In reply came the report of a rifle, a cloudlet 
 of smoke rose from the ditch, and a bullet hit 
 the militiaman's horse, which staggered under 
 him and began to fall. The rifles of the militia- 
 men, wiio stood at the outskirt of the clump of 
 shrubs, began cracking in their turn, and their 
 "bullets whistled and hummed, cutting off leaves 
 and twigs and striking the embankment, but not 
 the men entrenched behind it. Only Gamzalo's 
 horse, that had strayed from the others, was 
 hit in the head by a bullet. It did not fall, but 
 breaking its hobbles and rushing among the 
 bushes it ran to the other horses, pressing close
 
 284 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 to them, and watering the young grass with its 
 blood. Hadji Miirad and his men fired only 
 when any of the militiamen came forward, and 
 rarely missed their aim. Three militiamen 
 were wounded, and the others, far from making 
 up their minds to rush the entrenchment, re- 
 treated further and further back, only firing 
 from a distance and at random. 
 
 So it continued for more than an hour. The 
 sun had risen to about half the height of the 
 trees, and Hadji Murad was already thinking 
 of leaping on his horse and trying to make his 
 way to the river, when the shouts were heard 
 of many men who had just arrived. These 
 were Hadji Aga of Mekhtuli with his followers. 
 There were about two hundred of them. Hadji 
 Aga had once been Hadji Murad 's kundk, and 
 had lived with him in the mountains, but he had 
 afterwards gone over to the Russians. With 
 him was Akhmet Khan, the son of Hadji Mu- 
 rad 's old enemy. 
 
 Like Karganov, Hadji Aga began by calling 
 to Hadji Murad to surrender, and Hadji Mur^d 
 answered as before with a shot. 
 
 ''Swords out, lads!" cried Hadji Aga, draw-
 
 HADJI MURAD 285 
 
 ing his own ; and a hundred voices were raised 
 of men who rushed shrieking in among the 
 shrubs. 
 
 The militiamen ran in among the shrubs, but 
 from beliind the entrenchment came the crack 
 of one shot after another. Some three men fell, 
 and the attackers stopped at the outskirts of the 
 clump and also began firing. As they fired they 
 gradually approached the entrenchment, run- 
 ning across from behind one shrub to another. 
 Some succeeded in getting across; others fell 
 under the bullets of Hadji Murad or of his men. 
 Hadji Murad fired without missing; Gamzalo 
 too, rarely wasted a shot, and shrieked with joy 
 every time he saw that his bullet had hit its 
 aim. Khan Mahoma sat at the edge of the 
 ditch singing ''// lyakha il Allah!" and fired 
 leisurely, but often missed. Eldar's whole body 
 trembled with impatience to rush dagger in 
 hand at the enemy, and he fired often and at 
 random, constantly looking round at Hadji Mu- 
 rad and stretching out beyond the entrench- 
 ment. The shagg>^ Khanefi, with his sleeves 
 rolled up, did the duty of a servant even here. 
 He loaded the gims which Hadji Murad and
 
 286 HADJI MUR AD 
 
 Kahn Malioma passed to him, carefully driving 
 home with a ramrod the bullets wrapped in 
 greasy rags, and pouring dry powder out of 
 the powder-flask on to the pans. Bata did not 
 remain in the ditch as the others did, hut kept 
 running to the horses, driving them away to a 
 safer place, and, shrieking incessantly, fired 
 without using a prop for his gun. He was the 
 first to be wounded. A bullet entered his neck, 
 and he sat down spitting blood and swearing. 
 Then Hadji Murad was wounded., the bullet 
 piercing his shoulder. He tore some cotton 
 wool from the lining of his beshmet, plugged 
 the wound with it, and went on firing. 
 
 *'Let us flay at them with our swords!" said 
 Eldar for the third time, and he looked out from 
 behind the bank of earth, ready to rush at the 
 enemy; but at that instant a bullet struck him, 
 and he reeled and fell backwards on to Hadji 
 Murad 's leg. Hadji Murad glanced at him. 
 His beautiful ram's eyes -gazed intently and 
 seriously at Hadji Murad. His mouth, the up- 
 per lip pouting like a child's, twitched without 
 opening. Hadji Murad drew his leg away from 
 under him and continued firing.
 
 HADJI MUR AD 287 
 
 Khanefi bent over the dead Eldar and began 
 taking" the unused ammunition out of the car- 
 tridge-cases of his coat. 
 
 Khan Mahoma meanwhile continued to sing, 
 loading leisurely and firing. The enemy ran 
 from shrub to shrub, hallooing and shrieking, 
 and drawing ever nearer and nearer. 
 
 Another bullet hit Hadji Murad in the left 
 side. He lay down in the ditch, and again 
 pulled some cotton wool out of his heshmet and 
 plugged the wound. This wound in the side 
 was fatal, and he felt that he was dying. Mem- 
 ories and pictures succeeded one another with 
 extraordinary rapidity in his imagination. 
 Now he saw the powerful Abu Nutsal Khan as, 
 dagger in hand and holding up his severed 
 cheek, he rushed at his foe; then he saw the 
 weak, bloodless old Vorontsov, with his cunning- 
 white face, and heard his soft voice; and then 
 he saw his own son Yusuf, his wife Sofiat, and 
 then the pale, red-bearded face of his enemy 
 Shamil with half-closed eyes. All these 
 images passed through his mind without evok- 
 ing any feeling within him: neither pity nor 
 anger nor any kind of desire; everything
 
 288 HADJI MURAD 
 
 seemed so insignificant in comparison with 
 what was beginning, or had already begun, 
 within him. 
 
 Yet his strong body continued the thing that 
 he had commenced. Gathering together his last 
 strength, he rose from behind the bank, fired 
 his jDistol at a man who was just running to- 
 wards him, and hit him. The man fell. Then 
 Hadji Murad got quite out of the ditch, and, 
 limping heavily, went dagger in hand straight 
 at the foe. 
 
 Some shots cracked, and he reeled and fell. 
 Several militiamen with triumphant shrieks 
 rushed towards the fallen body. But the body 
 that seemed to be dead, suddenly moved. First 
 the uncovered bleeding shaven head rose; then, 
 with hands holding to the trunk of the tree, the 
 body rose. He seemed so terrible that those 
 who were running towards him stopped short. 
 But suddenly a shudder passed through him; 
 he staggered away from the tree and fell on his 
 face, stretched out at full length, like a thistle 
 that had been mown down, and he moved no 
 more. 
 
 He did not move, but still he felt.
 
 HADJI MURAD 289 
 
 "When Hadji Aga, who was the first to reach 
 him, struck him on the head with a large dagger, 
 it seemed to Hadji Murad that some one was 
 striking him with a hammer, and he could not 
 understand who was doing it, or why. That 
 was his last consciousness of any connection 
 with his body. He felt nothing more, and his 
 enemies kicked and hacked at what had no 
 longer anything in common with him. 
 
 Hadji Aga placed his foot on the back of the 
 corpse, and with two blows cut off the head, and 
 carefully — not to soil his shoes with blood — 
 rolled it away with his foot. Crimson blood 
 spurted from the arteries of the neck, and black 
 blood flowed from the head, soaking the grass. 
 
 Karganov and Hadji Aga and Akhmet Khan 
 and all the militiamen gathered together — like 
 sportsmen round a slaughtered animal — near 
 the bodies of Hadji Murad and his men 
 (Khanefi, Khan Mahoma, and Gamzalo were 
 bound), and amid the powder-smoke which hung 
 over the bushes, they triumphed in their 
 victory. 
 
 The nightingales, that had hushed their songs 
 while the firing lasted, now started their trills
 
 290 HADJI MURAD 
 
 once more : first one quite close, then others in 
 the distance. 
 
 « • • • • 
 
 It was of this death that I was reminded by 
 the crushed thistle in the midst of the ploughed 
 field.
 
 The Light That Shines in Darkness
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TOLSTOY AS DRAMATIST 
 
 In almost evxry kind of literary work he touched, 
 Tolstoy succeeded at once in reaching the fore- 
 most rank. 
 
 When he sent his first story, Childhood, anony- 
 mously to the poet Nekrasov, editor of The Con- 
 temporary ^^then tne leading Petersburg maga- 
 zine), the latter promptly accepted and published 
 it; Dostoyevsky was so struck by it that he wrote 
 from Siberia to inquire who its talented author 
 was; Turgenev sang its praises, and Panaev was 
 so delighted with it that his friends, it was said, 
 had to avoid him on the Nevsky lest he should in- 
 sist on reading them extracts from it. 
 
 When Tolstoy turned from stories to novels he 
 achieved the same immediate and complete suc- 
 cess. The appearance of the first instalment of 
 War and Peace sufficed to place him abreast of the 
 world's greatest writers of fiction. 
 
 Fourteen years later he turned to spiritual auto- 
 
 5
 
 6 PREFACE 
 
 biography, and his Confession immediately took 
 rank beside those of St. Augustine and Rousseau. 
 
 When he propounded his interpretation of 
 Christ's teaching, his works produced a profound 
 impression and, though they were prohibited in 
 Russia, found a large circulation abroad besides 
 a surreptitious one at home. 
 
 Next he took to writing short, simple stories 
 for the people, and the very first of these, What 
 Men Live By (v. Twenty-three Tales), circulated 
 by hundreds of thousands of copies in Russia, was 
 translated into all civilised languages, and de- 
 lighted people, old and young. In the five conti- 
 nents. 
 
 When he turned his attention to social prob- 
 lems, and wrote fVhat Then Must We Do? the 
 book aroused the deepest Interest wherever It was 
 read, and was promptly recognised as one of the 
 most remarkable studies of poverty ever penned. 
 
 He took to essays, and at once produced a 
 series which many readers have declared to be as 
 Interesting and stimulating as any that were ever 
 written. 
 
 Interested in the philosophy of art, he wrote 
 What is Art? His preparation for this attempt
 
 PREFACE 7 
 
 to put art on a new basis took him, it is true, fifteen 
 years, and a majority of critics everywhere de- 
 nounced the opinions he expressed; but, at any 
 rate, there was no doubt about the general interest 
 he aroused, and the longer the matter is discussed, 
 the stronger grows the suspicion that on the main 
 point of the discussion Tolstoy saw deeper than his 
 critics, and that, great artist as he was, his phi- 
 losophy of art as well as his practice of it was 
 fundamentally sound. 
 
 Finally his philippics, such as his Reply to the 
 Synod, which had excommunicated him (v. Essays 
 and Letters)^ and his denunciation of the Courts- 
 martial in / Cannot he Silent! rang out with a sin- 
 cerity, courage, and effectiveness unparalleled since 
 Pascal's Provincial Letters, or the famous theses 
 Luther nailed to the church door at Wittenberg. 
 
 Only as a dramatist did Tolstoy fail at his first 
 attempt; and even in that direction success came 
 so promptly that it is his success rather than his 
 failure that surprises one. 
 
 As a seventeen-year-old student at Kazan Uni- 
 versity, he had taken part with much success in 
 two plays given for some charity at Carnival time; 
 and his taste for theatricals did not soon pass,
 
 8 PREFACE 
 
 for in later years, when writing of the time after 
 his return from the defence of Sevastopol, and tell- 
 ing of the death of his brother Demetrius, he 
 adds: " I really believe that what hurt me most 
 was that his death prevented my taking part in 
 some private theatricals then being got up at 
 Court and to which I had been invited." 
 
 While living in Petersburg and Moscow as a 
 young man, Tolstoy was enthusiastic in his admira- 
 tion of one of the great Russian actors of those 
 days; but he never lived much in cities, and prob- 
 ably no other great dramatist ever spent so little 
 time in the theatre as he did. In that, as in many 
 other lines of work, his quickness of perception, 
 tenacity of memory and vividness of emotion en- 
 abled him to dispense with the long training men 
 of less genius require. 
 
 In 1863, soon after his marriage, he wrote two 
 plays which were never published. One, a farcical 
 comedy called The Nihilist, was privately per- 
 formed with much success. The other, also a 
 comedy, called The Infected Family, he intended 
 for public performance. With that end in view, 
 Tolstoy took it to Moscow early in 1864. The 
 theatrical season (which in Russia ends at the be-
 
 PREFACE 9 
 
 ginning of Lent) was then, however, too far ad- 
 vanced for any manager to stage the piece that 
 winter; and, as it dealt with a topic of the day 
 which lost some of its freshness by keeping, Tol- 
 stoy never afterwards offered it to any one. 
 
 That was the one and only rebuff he ever had 
 to face in his literary career, if one excepts the 
 amusing incident of his sending a short prose poem 
 anonymously to a Moscow newspaper, and re- 
 ceiving it back declined with thanks, on the ground 
 that its author was " not yet sufficiently expert in 
 expression ! " For the next six years he seems not 
 to have taken any interest in the drama; but in 
 1870 we find him writing to Fet: — 
 
 " There is much, very much, I want to tell you 
 about. I have been reading a lot of Shakespear, 
 Goethe, Pushkin, Gogol and Moliere, and about 
 all of them there is much I want to say to you." 
 
 A few days later he again wrote to the same 
 friend: — 
 
 " You want to read me a story of cavalry life 
 
 And I don't want to read you anything, 
 
 because T am not writing anything; but I very 
 
 much want to talk about Shakespear and 
 
 Goethe, and the drama in general. This whole
 
 10 PREFACE 
 
 winter I am occupied only with the drama; and it 
 happens to me, as usually happens to people who, 
 till they are forty, have not thought of a certain 
 subject, or formed any conception of it; and then 
 suddenly, with forty-year-old clearness, turn their 
 attention to this new, untasted subject — it seems 
 to them that they discern In it much that is new. 
 All winter I have enjoyed myself lying down, 
 drowsing, playing bezique, snow-shoeing, skating, 
 and most of all lying in bed (ill) while characters 
 from a drama or comedy have performed for me. 
 And they perform very well. It is about that I 
 want to talk to you. In that, as in everything, you 
 are a classic and understand the essence of the 
 matter very deeply. I should like also to read 
 Sophocles and Euripides." 
 
 The mood passed, and for another fifteen years 
 one hears no more about it: Tolstoy being 
 absorbed first in the production of an ABC Book 
 for school-children, then with Anna Karenina, 
 then with his Confession and religious studies, as 
 well as with field-work, hut-building, and boot- 
 making. 
 
 Early in 1886, noting the wretched character of 
 the plays given in the booths at the Carnival
 
 PREFACE ir 
 
 Shows on the Maidens' Field just outside Moscow, 
 not far from his own house, and feeling how 
 wrong It was that the dramatic food of the people 
 should consist of the crudest melodramas, he was 
 moved to turn into a play a small Temperance 
 story he had written. This piece, called The First 
 Distiller, is of no great Importance In Itself, but 
 was the precursor of the splendid dramas he soon 
 afterwards produced. 
 
 The following summer, while out ploughing, he 
 hurts his leg, neglects it, and gets erysipelas, which 
 almost leads to blood-poisoning. His life is in 
 Imminent danger, he has to undergo a painful 
 operation, is laid up for weeks, and while ill writes 
 most of The Power of Darkness, an immensely 
 powerful play which serves as a touchstone for 
 those who have the Tolstoy feeling in them. 
 
 From the poisoning of Peter, the husband, in 
 the beginning, to the murder of the baby In the 
 middle, and NIkita's arrest at the end, the piece 
 is full of horrors which most people, who do not 
 look at things from Tolstoy's point of view, find 
 it wellnigh impossible to endure. To them the 
 play appears to be one of unmitigated blackness. 
 To Tolstoyans it is not so. The lies, the crimes,
 
 12 PREFACE 
 
 the horrors are there, as in real life; but in the 
 play one sees more clearly than in common life 
 the clue to the meaning of it all. When Nikita's 
 conscience begins to be touched; when Mitritch, 
 the old soldier, teaches him not to be afraid of 
 men; and finally when Akim, the old father, 
 rejoices that his son has confessed, the heavens 
 open and the purpose of life — the preparing for 
 what is yet to come by getting things straight 
 here anci now — is revealed; and the effect of the 
 play, instead of being sordid or painful, becomes 
 inspiring. 
 
 The play was founded on fact, though what 
 happened in real life was even more gruesome, 
 for in actual fact Nikita's prototype, when on 
 the point of driving off to Akulina's wedding, 
 suddenly seized a large wooden wedge and aimed 
 a tremendous blow at her younger sister; and he 
 did this not out of malice, but because he felt so 
 sure that it is a misfortune to be alive in a world 
 where things have gone so wrong as they have 
 done in the world we live in. Fortunately his 
 blow, which seemed certain to kill the girl, glanced 
 aside, and merely stunned her without doing her 
 any permanent injury.
 
 PREFACE 13 
 
 The Power of Darkness was prohibited by the 
 Dramatic Censor, and throughout the reign of 
 Alexander III. its public performance in Russia 
 was forbidden. 
 
 It was produced for the first time at the Theatre 
 Libre in Paris, in February 1888. Among its 
 most enthusiastic admirers was Zola, who was as 
 anxious about it as he could hav^e been had it 
 been his own work. " Above all, do not strike 
 out a single scene or a single word, and do not 
 fear for its success," said he at one of the re- 
 hearsals; and he was quite right. The piece had a 
 tremendous success, and was played at one and the 
 same time at three different Paris theatres, as 
 well as at the Freie Biihnen in Berlin, where it 
 had a similar triumph. After the accession of 
 Nicholas II. it was acted in Russia, and took 
 rank at once as one of the greatest masterpieces of 
 Russian dramatic art, and as such holds a place in 
 the repertory of the best Moscow and Petersburg 
 theatres. 
 
 Many Englishmen who have seen it have been 
 immensely impressed by It. Laurence Irving 
 wrote me: " I suppose England is the only country 
 in Europe where The Power of Darkness has not
 
 14 PREFACE 
 
 been acted. It ought to be done. It is a stupen- 
 dous tragedy; the effect on the stage Is unparal- 
 leled." Bernard Shaw, writing to Tolstoy, said, 
 " I remember nothing in the whole range of 
 drama that fascinated me more than the old 
 soldier in your Power of Darkness. One of the 
 things that struck me in that play was the feeling 
 that the preaching of the old man, right as he was, 
 could never be of any use — that it could only 
 anger his son and rub the last grains of self- 
 respect out of him. But what the pious and good 
 father could not do, the old rascal of a soldier 
 did as if he was the voice of God. To me that 
 scene, where the two drunkards are wallowing in 
 the straw and the older rascal lifts the younger 
 one above his cowardice and his selfishness, has 
 an intensity of effect that no merely romantic 
 scene could possibly attain." Arthur Symons 
 wrote: "More than any play I have ever seen, 
 this astounding play of Tolstoy's seems to me to 
 fulfil Aristotle's demand upon tragedy: 'Through 
 pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of 
 these emotions.' I had never read it; my im- 
 pression was gained directly from seeing it on the 
 stage. Well, though as I listened to it I felt the
 
 PREFACE 15 
 
 pity and fear to be almost insupportable, I left 
 the theatre with a feeling of exultation, as I have 
 left a concert room after hearing a piece of noble 
 and tragic music. How out of such human dis- 
 cords such a divine harmony can be woven I do 
 not know; that is the secret of Tolstoy's genius, as 
 it is the secret of the musician's. Here, achieved 
 In terms of naked horror, I found some of the 
 things that Maeterlinck has aimed at and never 
 quite rendered through an atmosphere and through 
 forms of vague beauty. And I found also an- 
 other kind of achievement, by the side of which 
 Ibsen's cunning adjustments of reality seemed 
 either trivial or unreal. Here, for once, human 
 life is islanded on the stage, a pin-point of light In 
 an Immense darkness; and the sense of that sur- 
 rounding darkness is conveyed to us as in no other 
 play that I have ever seen, by an awful sincerity 
 and by an unparalleled simplicity. Whether Tol- 
 stoy has learnt by instinct some stage-craft which 
 playwrights have been toiling after in vain, or by 
 what conscious and deliberate art he has supple- 
 mented instinct, I do not know. But, out of hor- 
 ror and humour, out of the dregs of human life 
 and out of mere faith in those dregs, somehow, as
 
 1 6 PREFACE 
 
 a man of genius does once in an age, Tolstoy has 
 in this play made for us the great modern play, 
 the great play of the nineteenth century." 
 
 That Tolstoy should thus have begun success- 
 ful play-writing at a time when he was supposed 
 to have turned aside from art, and when he was 
 nearly sixty years of age, was remarkable; but at 
 any rate The Power of Darkness was a serious 
 piece, obviously dealing with moral questions 
 which stirred his soul profoundly at the time; and, 
 moreover, he wrote it for the People's Theatre, 
 started to provide first-rate drama for the peas- 
 ants. It came, therefore, as a yet greater sur- 
 prise to many people when, three years later, he 
 was persuaded by his daughters to write a comedy 
 for them to perform at home, Yasnaya Polyana. 
 
 One knows pretty well how it happened. The 
 taste for play-writing was strong upon him. 
 After more than twelve years devoted to didactic 
 work which gave his sense of humour little or no 
 scope, it was in the nature of things that he should 
 feel some reaction. 
 
 At first the play was to have been only a short 
 two-act affair. He did not like to refuse his 
 daughters' request, and thought that if they must
 
 PREFACE 17 
 
 act something, It was better that they should act a 
 play voicing his contempt for the follies and ex- 
 travagance of society and his consciousness of the 
 peasants' needs. Once started on the work, how- 
 ever, it took hold of him and grew and grew, till 
 it became a full-fledged four-act comedy with over 
 thirty speaking characters in it, and with the 
 didactic purpose overwhelmed by the fun, the 
 bustle, and the stage-craft of it. 
 
 After many rehearsals this play. Fruits of Cul- 
 ture, was performed at Yasnaya Polyana on De- 
 cember 30, 1889, with immense success. Tanya, 
 Tolstoy's eldest daughter, took the part of her 
 namesake in the play very successfully, and Mary, 
 his second daughter, played the cook most admir- 
 ably, 
 
 Tolstoy himself heartily enjoyed the perform- 
 ance. One greatly respects his thirty-year 
 struggle to live a simple life, consuming little and 
 giving much; but one does not love him the less 
 for the occasional lapses into whole-hearted gaiety 
 which light up the record of his life, and show 
 us how very human was this giant. Yasnaya 
 Polyana, on New Year's eve 1889, crammed with 
 guests all in the highest spirits; the large upstairs
 
 1 8 PREFACE 
 
 room full of spectators laughing till their sides 
 ached at Tolstoy's comedy, is a scene those who 
 would understand Tolstoy should by no means 
 forget or despise. Yet, even then, the other side 
 of his nature, which never let him rest, caused him 
 to note in his Diary: " I am ashamed of all this 
 expense in the midst of poverty." 
 
 The whole company threw themselves into the 
 piece with enthusiasm, and acted really well. In 
 particular, V. M. Lopatin, a neighbouring Justice 
 of the Peace, extracted from the part of the Third 
 Peasant so much more than its author had antici- 
 pated or even intended, that Tolstoy, in ecstasies, 
 slapped his thighs and laughed till the tears rolled 
 down his cheeks; for he was always extremely sus- 
 ceptible to anything really good, whether in acting 
 or in other forms of art. 
 
 I well remember meeting at Yasnaya Polyana, 
 on two different occasions, the sculptor Ginzburg, 
 who was an admirable mimic. He could keep a 
 room full of people entranced while he enacted 
 a Jew tailor stitching clothes, or a nurse tending 
 or neglecting an imaginary baby. None of those 
 present expressed warmer admiration of these per- 
 formances than did Tolstoy himself, and when he
 
 PREFACE 19 
 
 went for a walk with us afterwards, he said to 
 Ginzburg with great animation: 
 
 " Ah, if our theatre realists could only be got to 
 understand that what is wanted is not to put real 
 babies on the stage or show the real messes they 
 make, but to convey, as you do, by voice and fea- 
 ture the real feeling that has to be expressed! " 
 
 No blunder made by Tolstoy's critics is more 
 gratuitous or indefensible than the pretence that 
 he was indifferent to the form of art, or demanded 
 of it that it should always have a directly didactic 
 intention. 
 
 Not without express purpose did he, in JFhat 
 is Art? write, " Art is a means of union among 
 men, joining them together in the same feelings, 
 and indispensable for the life and progress 
 towards well-being of individuals and of hu- 
 manity " ; and he then goes on to say : " Thanks to 
 man's capacity to be infected with the feelings of 
 others by means of art, all that is being lived 
 through by his contemporaries is accessible to him, 
 as well as the feelings experienced by men 
 thousands of years ago, and he has also the possi- 
 bility of transmitting his own feelings to others." 
 
 " If men lacked this capacity of being infected
 
 20 PREFACE 
 
 by art, people would be more separated and hos- 
 tile to one another, and more savage than wild 
 beasts. Therefore, the activity of art is a most 
 important one — as important as the activity of 
 speech itself, and as generally diffused." And in 
 a memorable passage he adds, " We are accus- 
 tomed to understand art to be only what we hear 
 and see in theatres, concerts, and exhibitions; to- 
 gether with buildings, statues, poems, novels. 
 But all this is but the smallest part of the 
 art by which we communicate with each other in 
 life. All human life is filled with works of art of 
 every kind — from cradle-song, jest, mimicry, the 
 ornamentation of houses, dress, and utensils, up to 
 church services, buildings, monuments, and tri- 
 umphal processions. It is all artistic activity." 
 
 He insists again and again on the value and 
 prevalence of art, and when speaking of those 
 primitive Christians and others who have wished 
 to repudiate art, he says, " Evidently such people 
 were wrong in repudiating all art, for they denied 
 that which cannot be denied — one of the indis- 
 pensable means of communication, without which 
 mankind could not exist." 
 
 Tolstoy knew very well that a performance
 
 Tolstoy's Daughters Tatyana and Marya Luoina.
 
 PREFACE 21 
 
 must be excellent in its form and method of ex- 
 pression in order to be a work of art. In the 
 illustration he gives of the performance of music, 
 for instance, he says that for musical execution to 
 be artistic and to transmit feeling, many condi- 
 tions are necessary, of which the three chief are 
 the pitch, the time, and the strength of the sound, 
 and he adds: " Musical execution is only then art, 
 only then infects, when the sound is neither higher 
 nor lower than it should be — that is, when exactly 
 the infinitely small centre of the required note is 
 taken; when that note is continued exactly as long 
 as needed; and when the strength of the sound is 
 neither more nor less than is required. The 
 slightest deviation of pitch in either direction, the 
 slightest increase or decrease in time, or the 
 slightest strengthening or weakening of the sound 
 beyond what is needed, destroys the perfection 
 and, consequently, the infectiousness of the work. 
 So that the feeling of infection by the art of music, 
 which seems so simple and so easily obtained, is a 
 thing we receive only when the performer finds 
 those Infinitely minute degrees which are necessary 
 to perfection in music. It Is the same in all arts: 
 a wee bit lighter, a wee bit darker, a wee bit
 
 22 PREFACE 
 
 higher, lower, to the right or the left — in paint- 
 ing; a wee bit weaker or stronger in intonation, or 
 a wee bit sooner or later — in dramatic art; a wee 
 bit omitted, over-emphasised, or exaggerated — 
 in poetry, and there is no contagion. It is only 
 obtained when an artist finds those infinitely minute 
 degrees of which a work of art consists, and only 
 to the extent to which he finds them." 
 
 Confronted by words such as these, it is amaz- 
 ing that any one can pretend that Tolstoy was in- 
 different to quality in the forms of art; but not 
 less amazing is the assertion that only what is 
 directly moralising was considered by him fit 
 subject-matter for art. On this point his words 
 are decisive, when he includes among the subject- 
 matter suitable for good art, " the simplest feel- 
 ings of common life." 
 
 The truth Is that, in spite of certain preposses- 
 sions which tend to confuse the matter, and in spite 
 of his pugnacious controversial methods, which 
 often led to recrimination rather than to elucida- 
 tion, Tolstoy's greatness as an artist was increased 
 by the fact that he thoroughly understood the aim 
 and purpose of art; and he was able to speak with 
 authority on the philosophy of art, just because he
 
 PREFACE 23 
 
 was one of the most intellectual and intelligent of 
 the world's artists. 
 
 As mentioned in my Life of Tolstoy, the main 
 theme in Fruits of Culture was drawn from Tol- 
 stoy's acquaintance with the Lvovs, a wealthy and 
 aristocratic family, the head of which wished to 
 convert Tolstoy to spiritualism. The latter 
 sturdily maintained a sceptical attitude, arguing 
 that since mankind has been at the pains to dis- 
 criminate between matter (which can be investi- 
 gated by the five senses) and spirit (which is an 
 affair of the conscience, and cannot be investi- 
 gated by the senses), we must not again confuse 
 the two by attempting to find physical evidence of 
 spiritual existence. If the phenomena we are 
 investigating is cognisable by the senses, then, he 
 argued, such phenomena are, ipso facto, not 
 spiritual, but material. In this, as in certain other 
 matters, Tolstoy, seeking clearness, painted in 
 black and white, and shunned those delicate shades 
 which often elude and perplex us — but without 
 which, after all, it is not always possible to get a 
 true picture. 
 
 Fruits of Culture found its way on to the public 
 stage in Russia before The Power of Darkness,
 
 24 PREFACE 
 
 and both there and abroad the two plays have been 
 almost equally successful. It is often treated as 
 pure comedy, and the peasants presented as simply 
 comic characters. This Tolstoy did not intend, 
 and did not like. He meant the hardness of their 
 lot and their urgent need of land to stand out in 
 sharp contrast to the waste of wealth by the cul- 
 tured crowd. 
 
 During the last thirty years of his life Tolstoy 
 himself used, as is well known, to dress much like 
 a peasant, though never in the beggar-pilgrim 
 garb in which he is made to figure in a Life of him 
 recently published in this country; and it happened 
 that one winter's day, when Fruits of Culture was 
 being rehearsed in Tula (the nearest town to Yas- 
 naya Polyana), he went, by request, to the hall 
 where it was being staged. Wearing his rough 
 sheepskin overcoat, he attempted to enter, but was 
 roughly shoved out by the doorkeeper, who told 
 him it was no place for the likes of him ! 
 
 The same year the play was presented at Tsar- 
 skoe Selo, by amateurs drawn from the high- 
 est circles of Court society, and was witnessed 
 by a dozen Grand Dukes and Grand-Duchesses 
 as well as by the Tsar himself, who warmly
 
 PREFACE 25 
 
 thanked the performers for the pleasure it 
 had given him. So the whirligig of time brought 
 it about that Tolstoy, who twenty-three years be- 
 fore had just missed his chance of acting at the 
 Imperial Court, now had a play of his own per- 
 formed there, while he himself was being mistaken 
 for a peasant, and on that account treated with 
 gross indignity. 
 
 We have Tolstoy's word for it that he would 
 have written more plays had it not been for the 
 censor. He once said, " I feel certain the censor 
 would not pass my plays. You would not believe 
 how, from the very commencement of my activity, 
 that horrible censor question has tormented me! 
 I wanted to write what I felt; but at the same time 
 it occurred to me that what I wrote would not 
 be permitted, and involuntarily I had to abandon 
 the work. I abandoned, and went on abandoning, 
 and meanwhile the years passed away." 
 
 He once expressed surprise that, in Fruits of 
 Culture, the drunken man-cook's monologue on the 
 ways of the rich folk was allowed to be performed. 
 
 Of the three plays left by Tolstoy for publi- 
 cation after his death, one is a short two-act Tem- 
 perance play called in English The Cause of it All
 
 26 PREFACE 
 
 (the Russian title is a colloquialism diflficult to ren- 
 der, but " From it all evil flows " is as near as 
 one can get to it) . It does not claim to be a piece 
 of much importance, but if ever it is staged, it 
 should act easily and well. 
 
 Another of these posthumous plays is The Man 
 That Was Dead (The Live Corpse), a powerful 
 piece, in which Tolstoy introduces one of those 
 gipsy choirs which had such an influence on him 
 (and still more on his brother Sergius) when he 
 was a young man of twenty to twenty-three, before 
 he went to the Caucasus and entered the army. 
 
 The position of the gipsy choirs in Russia is 
 a peculiar one. Reputedly Egyptian in origin 
 (" Pharaoh's Tribe," one of the characters in the 
 play calls them), they live a life quite distinct 
 from that of the Russians, yet not at all resem- 
 bling that of the itinerant gipsies one meets travel- 
 ling about with caravans in England. They 
 possess a remarkable musical talent, having a kind 
 of music both vocal and instrumental all their 
 own. They perform at special restaurants in the 
 suburbs of Moscow, and also give concerts in pub- 
 lic halls and at private houses. It is no more 
 unusual for Russian noblemen to marry gipsy girls
 
 PREFACE 27 
 
 than it Is for English noblemen to marry Gaiety 
 girls. The songs referred to in Scene II are all 
 well-known gipsy songs, and if staged with a real 
 gipsy choir to perform them, this should be one of 
 the most striking scenes In the play. 
 
 Tolstoy himself held that gipsy music deserved 
 to rank among the best kinds of music, on account 
 of its genuine spontaneity, the depth of feeling In 
 It, and the exquisite perfection with which It is 
 rendered by the gipsies. His own daughters used 
 to play and sing gipsy songs admirably. 
 
 The main plot of this play, like that of The 
 Power of Darkness, was supplied to Tolstoy by 
 his friend N. V. Davydov, a Judge and a Lecturer 
 on criminal law at Moscow University, who fre- 
 quently drevp» his attention to cases that occurred 
 In the Law Courts, and which Davydov thought 
 might provide suitable subjects for a story or a 
 drama. 
 
 Curiously enough, after Tolstoy had written 
 this play, he was visited first by the stepson of the 
 " live corpse," and then by the " live corpse " him- 
 self. The latter had been convicted, had served 
 his time, and had returned to Moscow. He had 
 given up drink and was seeking means of subsist-
 
 28 PREFACE 
 
 ence, when he heard of the play Tolstoy was writ- 
 ing, and that it was founded on his own case. 
 Tolstoy questioned him carefully, and as a result 
 of the conversation rewrote the play in order to 
 set the conduct of the corpse in a more favourable 
 light than before. In this revised version Tol- 
 stoy makes him finally commit suicide, whereas in 
 an earlier version the law took its course as it did 
 in real life, and matters only settled down and 
 adjusted themselves after his victims had served 
 their sentences and justice had ceased to meddle. 
 
 Tolstoy also gave the " corpse " a letter to 
 Davydov, who obtained for him some small post 
 at the Law Courts, where he served till his death; 
 no one but his benefactors and his own family 
 knowing who he was. Some time after his death 
 Davydov told me this about him. 
 
 Part of the attraction of the story for Tolstoy 
 lay in the fact that the intervention of the law did 
 no good to any one, but only harm to all con- 
 cerned; for it was part and parcel of Tolstoy's 
 non-resistant theory that Law Courts and the 
 Administration of justice are purely noxious. 
 
 The Man That Was Dead has already been 
 staged at the Artistic Theatre in Moscow, and it
 
 PREFACE 29 
 
 is to be hoped that we shall see It in London; but 
 the last of Tolstoy's plays, The Light That Shines 
 in Darkness, was left unfinished, and is hardly 
 likely to be produced, unless by the Stage Society, 
 or some similar organisation. In Russia It is pro- 
 hibited on account of its allusions to the refusal of 
 military service. 
 
 Yet it is in some ways the most interesting of 
 Tolstoy's posthumous works. It is obviously not 
 strictly autobiographical, for Tolstoy was not 
 assassinated as the hero of the piece is, nor was 
 his daughter engaged to be married to a young 
 prince who refused military service. But like 
 some of his other writings, the play is semi-autobi- 
 ographical. In it, not only has Tolstoy utilised 
 personal experiences, but more than that, he 
 answers the question so often asked : Why, hold- 
 ing his views, did he not free himself from 
 property before he grew old? 
 
 Some people, and especially some of those most 
 devoted to Tolstoy's memory, are sure to suppose 
 and to declare that he intends Nicholas Ivanovich 
 Sarintsev to be taken as a faithful portrait of him- 
 self. But to understand Tolstoy one has to recog- 
 nise the duality of his character, which he never
 
 30 PREFACE 
 
 concealed and often mentioned; and the hero of 
 The Light Thai Shines in Darkness has none of 
 this duahty. He represents only one side of Tol- 
 stoy, and is not at all the sort of man, for instance, 
 who would have written or enjoyed Fruits of Cul- 
 ture. 
 
 Not only are the facts different to the real ones, 
 and the character of the hero much simpler than 
 Tolstoy's own, but the problem at issue between 
 Sarintsev and his wife is not quite the same as the 
 one at issue between Tolstoy and the Countess. 
 With that unerring artistic tact which Tolstoy 
 never lost, he causes Nicholas Ivanovich Sarintsev 
 to make a definite proposal to retain " fifty acres 
 and the kitchen garden and the flooded meadow," 
 which would " bring in about £50 a year." Now 
 what in real life most frightened the Countess, 
 was not that she was asked to accept poverty, but 
 that she was asked to manage a household in which 
 there should be no limit to the giving up. 
 
 Tolstoy held, as he says in The Demands of 
 Love, that if people begin giving up and set any 
 limits thereto, then " life will be hell, or will be- 
 come hell, if they are not hypocrites. 
 Where and how can one stop? Only those will
 
 PREFACE 31 
 
 find a stopping-place who are strangers to the feel- 
 ing of the reality of the brotherhood of man, or 
 who are so accustomed to lie that they no longer 
 notice the difference between truth and falsehood. 
 The fact is, no such stopping-place can exist. 
 If you give the beggar your last shillings, 
 you will be left without bread to-morrow; but to 
 refuse means to turn from that for the sake of 
 which one lives." 
 
 Had that point, and the need of admitting to 
 one's cottage " the tramp with his lice and his 
 typhus," and giving away the children's last cup 
 of milk, been pressed home in the play as it was 
 in Tolstoy's teaching, some of the readers' sympa- 
 thy would go over to the side of the wife called on 
 to face such conditions for herself and her family; 
 and that is why Tolstoy's artistic instinct in- 
 duced him to introduce a definite proposal quite 
 at variance with the demands of his own teach- 
 ing. 
 
 And again, the conflict in the play is be- 
 tween the husband on the one side and the wife 
 and family on the other. There is no mention of 
 a friend urging the husband on in opposition to 
 the wife. Those who closely followed Tolstoy's
 
 32 PREFACE 
 
 own fate well know that on this point also the play 
 does not describe his own case. 
 
 Not the less on that account does the play most 
 touchingly present to us the intense tragedy of 
 Tolstoy's later years, and the impossibility in 
 which he found himself of acting so as neither to 
 violate his own conscience nor to evoke anger in 
 the hearts of those nearest to him. His religion 
 had brought " not peace, but a sword " ; and it was 
 because he believed in it so firmly, and yet shrank 
 from treating those of his own household as his 
 foes, that his struggle was so intense, and that for 
 more than thirty years he hesitated before he de- 
 cided to leave wife and home, the scenes endeared 
 to him by childhood's memory, and the spot where 
 he hoped to be (and eventually was) buried — the 
 spot where his brother had hidden the green stick 
 on which he said was inscribed the secret of how 
 to banish from the world all sin, bitterness, dis- 
 cord, and evil — all, In short, that makes us sad or 
 sorry. 
 
 Plays Tolstoy found more difficult to write than 
 stories or novels; for in the novel or story it is 
 possible to stop and explain, and gradually to pre-
 
 PREFACE 33 
 
 pare an incident or develop a character, whereas 
 in a play the situations and clash of characters and 
 wills have to be presented ripe and ready. 
 Novel-writing he compared to painting, in which 
 many shades may be employed; plays he compared 
 to sculpture, where all must be clear-cut, definite, 
 and compact. 
 
 He often remarked that subjects suitable for 
 novels are not suitable for plays and vice versa; 
 and he expressed satisfaction that he had never 
 been obliged to witness the dramatised versions of 
 Resurrection or of Jnna Karenina which have 
 been staged. He had nothing at all to do with 
 those productions, and quite disapproved of them. 
 
 Of his plays in general Tolstoy once remarked 
 to me: "When writing them I never anticipated 
 the importance that has been attributed to them." 
 While he fully recognised, and perhaps at times 
 overrated, the value of his didactic and propa- 
 gandist writings, he was often inclined to under- 
 rate the value of the artistic work which during 
 his later years he sometimes undertook more or 
 less as a recreation, and on that account was the 
 more ready to treat lightly. It was mentioned 
 by the Editor in the first volume of these Posthu-
 
 34 PREFACE 
 
 mous Works of Tolstoy's, the translations were 
 chosen by an agent of the executors; and I am 
 responsible only for the novel Hadjo-Murad which 
 will appear in the third volume. 
 
 AYLMER MAUDE.
 
 THE LIGHT THAT SHINES IN 
 DARKNESS
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE 
 
 Nicholas Ivanovicii Sarintsev. 
 
 Marie Ivanovna (Masiia), his wife. 
 
 LuBA (LuBov Nicolaevna), 1 . . , „u.^^e 
 ^ "^ !■ their daughters. 
 
 MiSSIE, J 
 
 Stephen, ] , . 
 
 ' [ their sons. 
 Vania, J 
 
 MiTROFAN Dmitrich. Tutor to Vania. 
 
 Alexandra Ivanovna. Sister to Marie Ivan- 
 ovna. 
 
 Peter Semenovich Kokhovtsev. Her husband. 
 
 Lisa. Their daughter. 
 
 Princess Cheremshanov. 
 
 Boris. Her son. 
 
 ToNiA. Her daughter. 
 
 Father Vasily (Vasily Ermilovich). A vil- 
 lage priest. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 Alexis Mikhailovich Starkovsky. 
 
 Nurse and Footmen in Sarintsev's house. 
 
 Ivan, 
 
 Sebastian, „ 
 
 „ I Feasants. 
 
 Ephraim, 
 
 Peter, 
 
 A Peasant Woman. Ivan's wife. •
 
 38 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Malashka. Ivan's daughter. 
 
 Alexander Petrovich. A tramp. 
 
 A country Police Sergeant. 
 
 Lawyer. 
 
 Yakov. Carpenter. 
 
 Clerk. 
 
 Sentries. 
 
 General. 
 
 Colonel. 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 
 Soldiers. 
 
 Police Officer. 
 
 Stenographer. 
 
 Chaplain. 
 
 Patients in Hospital. 
 
 Sick Officer. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 
 House Surgeon. 
 
 Warders. 
 
 Countess and other Guests at Sarlntsev's dance. 
 
 Pianist.
 
 a 
 
 ACT I 
 
 The stage represents a covered veranda in a rich 
 country-house. In front of the veranda are 
 flower garden, a tennis ground, and a croquet 
 lawn. The children with their governess are play- 
 ing croquet. On the veranda are seated: Marie 
 IVANOVNA Sarintsev, a liaudsome, elegant 
 woman of forty ; her sister Alexandra Ivanovna 
 KOKHOVTSEV, a fat, positive, and stupid zvoman 
 of forty-five: and her husband, Peter Semeno- 
 VICH KoKHOVTSEV, a fat, stout, clumsy man of 
 slovenly appearance, wearing a summer suit and 
 eye-glasses. They all sit at a table laid for break- 
 fast with samovar and cofee. All are drinking 
 coffee; Peter Semenovich is smoking. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 If you were not my sister, and Nicholas Ivano- 
 vich were not your husband, but merely an 
 acquaintance, I should find all this novel and 
 charming, and should perhaps uphold him. I 
 should have found it very nice. But when I see 
 your husband playing the fool, simply playing 
 the fool, I cannot help telling you what I think 
 of it. And I shall tell him too, that husband 
 of yours. I shall speak straight out to dear 
 Nicholas. I am not afraid of anybody. 
 
 39
 
 40 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Marie. 
 
 I do not mind in the least: I see it myself. But 
 I really do not think it is as important as all that. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 You may not think so; but I assure you, if 
 you let it go on, you will all be beggared. That 
 is what will come of this sort of thing. 
 
 Peter. 
 Beggared, indeed ! With their fortune ! 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Yes, beggared. Don't interrupt me. Of 
 course, you always think that anything a man does 
 is right. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 I don't know. I only say. . . . 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 You never know what you are talking about, 
 and when once you men begin your nonsense, 
 there is no knowing where it will end. All I say 
 is, that if I were in your place, I should not allow 
 it. I should have put a stop to all this. I never 
 heard of such a thing. The husband, the head 
 of the family, does nothing, neglects his affairs, 
 gives everything away, and plays the bountiful
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 41 
 
 right and left. I know how It will end. I know 
 all about it. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 {to Marie Ivanovna.) Do explain to me, 
 Marie, what this new fad of his is. There are 
 Liberals, County Councils, the Constitution 
 Schools, reading-rooms and all the rest of it — I 
 understand all that. Then there are Socialists, 
 strikes, an eight-hour day — I understand that too. 
 But what is all this? Do explain. 
 
 Marie. 
 He told you all about it yesterday. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 I own that I could not understand. The Gos- 
 pel, the Sermon on the Mount, that churches are 
 unnecessary. But where are we to pray, and all 
 that? 
 
 Marie. 
 
 That is the worst of it. He would destroy 
 everything and put nothing in its place. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 How did it begin? 
 
 Marie. 
 
 It began last year, when his sister died. He 
 became very gloomy, perpetually spoke of death,
 
 42 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 and then fell ill, as you know. And after his 
 typhoid fever he changed entirely. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Still he came to see us in Moscow in the spring, 
 and he was very amiable and played cards. He 
 was very nice and quite normal. 
 
 Marie. 
 Yes, but he was not the same. 
 
 Peter. 
 In what way? 
 
 Marie. 
 He was perfectly indifferent to his family, and 
 the New Testament had become an obsession. 
 He read it all day; at night he got up to read 
 it instead of sleeping, making notes and copying 
 out passages. Then he began to visit bishops and 
 aged monks, to discuss religion. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Did he go to confession and take the sacra- 
 ment? 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Before that he had not done so since his mar- 
 riage, that is for twenty-five years. But at the 
 time I am speaking of he confessed and took com-
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 43 
 
 munion at the monastery, and immediately after- 
 ward decided it was unnecessary to confess, or 
 even to go to church at all. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 You see how inconsistent he is. A month ago 
 he went to church and kept all the fasts; now sud- 
 denly he thinks all that is useless. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Well, talk to him yourself. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 I will; indeed I will. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 All that does not matter much. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 It seems to you that it does not matter, because 
 men have no religion. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Do let me speak. I say that that is not the 
 point. If he denies the Church, where does the 
 New Testament come in? 
 
 Marie. 
 
 He says we are to live in accordance with the 
 Sermon on the Mount, and give everything away.
 
 44 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Peter. 
 
 How are we to live ourselves if we give every- 
 thing away? 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 And where does the Sermon on the Mount 
 order us to shake hands with our footmen? It 
 says " blessed are the meek," but there is not a 
 word about shaking hands. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Of course he is fanatical in this, as he always 
 is when he takes up anything. At one time it 
 was music, then schools. . . . But that does 
 not make it any easier for me. 
 
 Peter. 
 Why has he gone to town? 
 
 Marie. 
 
 He did not tell me, but I know he has gone 
 to attend the hearing of the timber-stealing case. 
 The peasants cut down some of our forest. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Those big fir-trees ? 
 
 Marie. 
 Yes. They were condemned to pay for them, 
 and sentenced to imprisonment, and their appeal
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 45 
 
 is to be heard to-day. I am sure that is why he 
 went. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 He will forgive them, and to-morrow they will 
 come and chop down all the trees in his park. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 They seem to be beginning already. All the 
 apple trees are broken, and the fields trampled. 
 He forgives it all. 
 
 Peter. 
 How extraordinary! 
 
 Alexandra. 
 That is exactly why I say that you must inter- 
 fere. If it continues much longer — everything 
 will go. I think it is your duty as a mother to 
 take some steps. 
 
 Marie. 
 What can I do? 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 What can you do, indeed? Put a stop to it, 
 make him understand that it is impossible. You 
 have children. What an example to set them! 
 
 Marie. 
 It is hard, but I try to bear it, and to hope that
 
 46 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 this will pass as all his other infatuations have 
 done. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Yes; but God helps those who help themselves. 
 You must make him feel that he is not alone, and 
 that he is not living in the proper way. 
 
 Marie. 
 The worst of it all is that he takes no interest 
 in the children. I have to settle everything by 
 myself. On the one hand I have a baby, and on 
 the other, grown-up children — a girl and a boy 
 — who both need attention and guidance, and I am 
 alone. He used to be such a careful and tender 
 father. Now he does not care about anything. 
 Last night I told him Vania was lazy and had 
 failed again in his examinations, and he said it 
 would be much better for him to leave school 
 altogether. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Where would he send him? 
 
 Marie. 
 Nowhere. That is the horrible part of it. 
 Everything is wrong, but he does not say what we 
 are to do. 
 
 Peter. 
 How strange!
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 47 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Not at all strange. It is just the usual way you 
 men have of finding fault with everything and do- 
 ing nothing yourselves. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Stephen has finished his studies and must decide 
 what he is going to do, but his father will not say 
 anything to him about it. He wanted to enter 
 the Civil Service — his father said it v/as useless; 
 he wanted to enter the Horse Guards — Nicholas 
 Ivanovich disapproved. The boy asked what he 
 was to do, and his father asked why he did not 
 go and plough : that would be far better than the 
 Civil Service. What is he to do? He comes to 
 me for advice, and I have to decide. But the 
 means of carrying out any plan are In his father's 
 hands. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 You ought to tell Nicholas so plainly. 
 
 Marie. 
 Yes; I must talk to him. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Tell him plainly that you cannot stand It: that 
 you do your duty and that he must do his. 
 Otherwise, he had better make the property over 
 to you.
 
 48 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Marie. 
 Oh ! that Is so unpleasant. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 I will tell him, If you like. I will tell him so 
 straight out. 
 
 (A young priest enters, somewhat 
 shy and nervous. He carries a book 
 and shakes hands with all present.) 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 I have come to see Nicholas Ivanovlch. I've 
 — I've brought back a book. 
 
 Marie. 
 He has gone to town, but he will soon return. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 What book did he lend you? 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 It Is Renan — yes — a book — the Life of 
 Jesus. 
 
 Peter. 
 Oh ! what a book for you to read. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 {contemptuously.) Did Nicholas Ivanovlch give 
 you that to read? Well, do you agree with 
 Nicholas Ivanovlch, and with Monsieur Renan?
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 49 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 {excited, li^^ht'iug a cigarette.) Yes, Nicholas 
 Ivanovich gave it to me to read. Of course I do 
 not agree with it. If I did I should not be, so to 
 speak, a servant of the Church. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 And since you are, so to speak, a true servant 
 of the Church, why don't you convert Nicholas 
 Ivanovich? 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 Everybody, if I may say so, has his own views 
 on these subjects. And Nicholas Ivanovich, if I 
 may say so, says much that is true. But on the 
 main point he is in error concerning er — er — er 
 — the Church. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 And what are the true things that Nicholas 
 Ivanovich says? Is it true that the Sermon on 
 the Mount bids us give away our possessions to 
 strangers, and let our family be beggars? 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 The family is, so to speak, held sacred in the 
 Church, and the fathers of the Church have be- 
 stowed their blessing on the family, haven't they? 
 But the highest perfection requires — well, yes, 
 requires renunciation of earthly goods.
 
 so THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Alexandra. 
 That Is all very well for saints, but ordinary 
 mortals ought simply to act hke good Christians. 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 Nobody can tell what he was sent to earth for. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 You are married, I suppose? 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 Certainly. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 And have you got any children? 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 Yes, two. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Then why don't you renounce earthly joys in- 
 stead of smoking cigarettes? 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 It is, I may say, owing to my weakness and my 
 unworthiness that I do not. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 It seems to me that instead of bringing Nicholas 
 Ivanovich to his senses, you are upholding him. 
 I tell you frankly it is not right. 
 
 (Enter Nurse.)
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 51 
 
 Nurse. 
 Don't you hear baby crying? Please come to 
 him. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 I'm coming — I'm coming. (Exit.) 
 
 Alexandra. 
 I am so sorry for my sister. I see how she 
 suffers. It is no easy matter to manage a house- 
 hold — seven children, and one of them a baby at 
 the breast. And he with his new-fangled theories 
 — I really think he is not quite right here {points 
 to her head.) Now tell me truly, what is this 
 new religion you have discovered? 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 I don't quite understand, If I may say so. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Please do not pretend you do not understand. 
 You know perfectly well what I am asking. 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 But, pardon me — 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 I ask you what this creed is, according to which 
 you must shake hands with all peasants, allow 
 them to cut down your forest, give them money 
 for drink, and forsake your own family.
 
 52 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 I do not know. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 He says it is the Christian teaching. You are a 
 priest of the Orthodox Church. Therefore, you 
 ought to know and ought to say whether the 
 Christian teaching encourages stealing. 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 But I — 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Otherwise, why do you call yourself a priest, 
 and wear long hair and a cassock? 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 But we are never asked such things. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Really? Well I ask you? Yesterday Nicholas 
 Ivanovich said the Gospel command is: " Give to 
 every man that asks." How is that to be inter- 
 preted? 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 I think In the simplest sense. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 I do not think so at all. I think it means, as 
 we were always taught, that everybody has what 
 God has given him.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 53 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 
 Of course, but still — 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 It Is quite evident that you are on his side. I 
 was told you were; and It is very wrong of you, I 
 tell you quite frankly. If It were some school- 
 mistress, or some boy who accepted his every word 
 — but you, in your position, ought to understand 
 what your responsibilities are. 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 I try to. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 How can he be called religious when he does 
 not go to church, and does not recognise the sacra- 
 ments? And you, Instead of bringing him to 
 reason, read Renan with him, and Interpret the 
 Gospel as you like. 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 (agitated.) I cannot answer. I am — I am — 
 amazed, and would rather not say anything. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Oh ! If I were a bishop I would teach you to read 
 Renan and smoke cigarettes. 
 
 Peter. 
 Stop, for Heaven's sake! By what right — ?
 
 54 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Please don't lecture me. I am sure Father 
 Vasily does not mind. Well, I have said all I had 
 to say. It would be much worse if I had any ill- 
 feeling. Is not that so? 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 Pardon me if I have expressed myself badly — 
 pardon me. {Awkward silence.) 
 
 (Enter LuBA and LiSA.) 
 (LUBA, the daughter of Marie 
 IVANOVNA, is a pretty, energetic girl 
 of twenty. Lisa, the daughter of 
 Alexandra Ivanovna, is older. 
 Both wear sliawls on their heads, and 
 carry baskets — they are going mush- 
 rooming in the woods. They greet 
 Alexandra Ivanovna, Peter Se- 
 MENOVICH, and the priest.) 
 
 Luba. 
 
 Where is mother? 
 
 Alexandra. 
 She has just gone to nurse the baby. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Mind you bring back plenty of mushrooms. 
 A village girl brought some beauties this morning. 
 I would go with you, but it is so hot.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 55 
 
 Lisa. 
 Do come, father. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Yes, do go. You are getting too fat. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Very well. But I must get some cigarettes. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Where are all the other young people? 
 
 Luba. 
 Stephen has gone to the station on his bicycle; 
 Metrofan Alexandrovich has gone to town with 
 father; the little ones are playing croquet; and 
 Vania is romping with the dogs in the porch. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Has Stephen come to any decision? 
 
 LuBA. 
 Yes, he is going to enlist as a volunteer. He 
 was horribly rude to father yesterday. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Well, he has a good deal to bear. Even a 
 worm will turn. The boy wants to begin life, and 
 he is told to go and plough.
 
 5 6 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Father did not say that. He said . 
 Alexandra. 
 
 It makes no difference. The boy must make a 
 start, and whatever he proposes is found fault 
 with. Oh, there he is ! 
 
 {Enter Stephen on bicycle.) 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Talk of an angel and you hear his wings. We 
 were just speaking of you. Luba says that you 
 did not speak nicely to your father yesterday. 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 Not at all. Nothing particular happened. He 
 expressed his opinion, and I expressed mine. It 
 is not my fault if our views do not agree. Luba 
 understands nothing, and is always ready to criti- 
 cise. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 What did you decide? 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 I don't know what father decided. I'm afraid 
 he does not know himself; but I have made up my 
 mind to join the Horse Guards as a volunteer. 
 It is only in our house that difficulties are raised
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 57 
 
 about everything. It is quite simple. I have 
 finished my studies; I have got to do my military 
 service. It would be unpleasant to serve in the 
 army with coarse, drunken officers, so I shall join 
 the Guards, where I have friends. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Why did your father object? 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 Father? Oh, what's the good of talking about 
 him. He is infatuated with his idee fixe, and sees 
 only what he wants to see. He says that the 
 military is the most dastardly of all the services, 
 therefore I ought not to serve, and therefore he 
 gives me no money. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 * 
 
 No, Stephen, that was not what he said. I was 
 there. He said that if it is impossible to get out 
 of it, one should at least wait till one is called as 
 a recruit, but that to volunteer is to choose that 
 service oneself. 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 It is I, not he, who will serve. He was an 
 officer himself. 
 
 Lisa. 
 He did not say that he would not give you
 
 58 'the light that 
 
 money, but that he could not participate in a 
 matter that was contrary to all his principles. 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 Principles have nothing to do with it. I've got 
 to serve, and there's an end of it. 
 
 Lisa. 
 I only said what I heard. 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 I know. You agree with father in everything. 
 Auntie, did you know that? Lisa Is always on 
 father's side. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 When it is a question of justice. 
 
 *- 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Oh, I know Lisa is always on the side of non- 
 sense. She has a knack of finding it. She scents 
 it from afar. 
 
 (Etiter VaniA. He runs on to 
 the veranda in a red blouse, accom- 
 panied by the dogs, with a telegram 
 in his hand.) 
 
 Vania. 
 {to LuBA.) Guess who is coming 1
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 59 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Why should I guess? Give me the telegram. 
 {Stretches out her hand for it. Vania holds it 
 out of her reach.) 
 
 Vania. 
 
 I won't give it to you, and I won't tell you. It 
 is some one who will make you blush. 
 
 LuBA. 
 Nonsense! Who is it from? 
 
 Vania. 
 
 Aha! You are blushing, you are I Aunt 
 Aline, isn't It true that she's blushing? 
 
 LuBA. 
 What nonsense! Aunt Aline, who is It from? 
 
 Alexandra. 
 The Cheremshanovs. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Oh I 
 
 Vania. 
 *'OhI" indeed. Why are you blushing? 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Auntie, show me the telegram. (Reads.) 
 "Arrive by mail train; all three. — Cheremsha-
 
 6o THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 novs." That means the princess, Boris, and 
 Tonia. Well, I am very glad. 
 
 Vania. 
 
 Of course you are very glad. Stephen, see 
 how she's blushing. 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 Oh, drop it. You keep on saying the same 
 thing over and over again. 
 
 Vania. 
 
 You say that because you're a bit smitten by 
 Tonia yourself. You'll have to draw lots, be- 
 cause sister and brother may not marry brother 
 and sister. 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 Don't talk such rubbish. You'd better be 
 careful. I've warned you several times. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 If they come by the mail train they ought to 
 be here directly. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 That's true. Then we had better not go out. 
 {Enter Peter Semenovich with 
 cigarettes.)
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 6i 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Uncle Peter, we are not going. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Why? 
 
 LuBA. 
 
 The Cheremshanovs will be here directly. We 
 had better have one set at tennis before they ar- 
 rive. Stephen, will you play? 
 
 Stephen. 
 All right. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Vania and I against you and Lisa. Agreed? 
 Well, then, I'll go and get the balls and call the 
 village children. (Exit.) 
 
 Peter. 
 So much for my walk. 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 (rising to go.) Good-bye. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Oh, wait a little, Father Vasily. I want to 
 talk to you, and Nicholas Ivanovich will soon be 
 here.
 
 62 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 
 (sits down and lights another cigarette.) He 
 may be some time yet. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 A carriage has just driven up; I expect it is 
 he. 
 
 Peter. 
 Which Princess Cherem^hanov is it? Is it 
 possible that her maiden name was Gohtsine? 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Yes, yes, that nice Princess Cheremshanov who 
 lived in Rome with her aunt. 
 
 Peter. 
 I shall be glad to see her. • I have not seen her 
 since the time when we used to sing duets to- 
 gether in Rome. She sang very well. She has 
 two children, I believe. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Yes, and they are both coming with her. 
 
 Peter. 
 I did not know they were so intimate with the 
 Sarintsevs. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 They are not intimate; but they were abroad
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS . 63 
 
 together last year, and I believe that the princess 
 has designs on Luba for her son. She knows a 
 thing or two. 
 
 Peter. 
 The Cheremshanovs were rich themselves. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 They were. The prince is still alive, but he 
 has dissipated his fortune, and has taken to drink 
 She petitioned the Tsar, saved a few crumbs, and 
 left him. But she brought up her children splen- 
 didly. The daughter is an excellent musician, 
 and the son went through the university, and is 
 very nice. Still I do not think Masha is par- 
 ticularly pleased. This is not a time for guests. 
 Ah, there is Nicholas. 
 
 {Enter NICHOLAS IVANOVICH.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Good morning. Aline. Hallo ! Peter Seme- 
 nov. {To the priest.) How do you do, Vasily 
 Ermilovich. {He shakes hands.) 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 There is some coffee here. Shall I pour it out? 
 It is not very hot, but it can be warmed up. {She 
 rings.)
 
 64 • THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Nicholas. 
 No, thank you. I have had breakfast. 
 Where is Masha? 
 
 Alexandra. 
 She is nursing the baby. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Is she well? 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Pretty well. Have you done all your busi- 
 ness? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Yes. I think I will have some tea or some 
 coffee if there is any. {To the priest.) Have 
 you brought the book? Have you read it? I 
 have been thinking about you all the way. 
 
 {Enter footman; hows. NICHO- 
 LAS shakes hands with him.) 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 {shrugging her shoulders, and exchanging glances 
 zvith her husband.) Heat up the samovar, 
 please. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Never mind, Aline. I do not want anything, 
 and if I do, I can drink it as it is.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 65 
 
 MiSSIE. 
 {seeing her father, runs from the croquet ground, 
 and clasps her arms around his neck.) Father, 
 come along. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 {fondling her.) Directly, directly. Let r-.if; 
 
 have something to drink. Go and play. I will 
 
 come soon. {Sits down at the table, drinks tea, 
 and eats.) 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Were they found guilty? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Yes. They pleaded guilty. {To the priest.) 
 I imagine Renan did not convince you. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 But you disagreed with the verdict? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 {annoyed.) Of course I did. {To priest.^ 
 The main question for you lies, not in the divinity 
 of Christ, not in the history of Christianity, but in 
 the Church 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 How was that? They confessed themselves: 
 you gave them the lie. They were not stealing, 
 only taking .
 
 66 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 {begins speaking to the priest, then turning decid- 
 edly to Alexandra Ivanovna.) My dear 
 Aline, do not worry me with innuendos and pin- 
 pricks. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 I am not doing anything of the sort. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 If you really want to know why I cannot 
 prosecute the peasants for cutting down some 
 trees which they badly needed. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 I dare say they need this samovar also. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Well, if you want me to tell you why I cannot 
 allow men to be imprisoned for felling ten trees 
 in a wood that is considered mine. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Considered so by every one. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 There you are, arguing again. I shall go out 
 with the dogs. {He leaves the veranda.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Even supposing I were to consider that wood
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 67 
 
 mine — though that is impossible — we have 
 2,250 acres of forest, with approximately 200 
 trees on each — I think that makes about 450,000 
 in all. They felled 10 — that is ^^^ part. 
 Well, is it worth while, is it possible, to drag a 
 man away from his family and put him in prison 
 for such a thing? 
 
 Stephen. 
 Well, if you don't prosecute for this ^-^-^part, 
 the rest of the 45,000 will also soon be felled. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I only gave that answer in reply to your aunt. 
 In reality, I have no right to this forest. The 
 land belongs to all — that is, to no individual — 
 and we personally have never done a stroke of 
 work on it. 
 
 Stephen. 
 Oh, no! You saved up, and you looked after 
 the land. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 How did I get enough to save up, and when 
 did I ever look after the forest myself? But 
 there ! you can't prove such things to a man who 
 feels no shame in injuring others. 
 
 Stephen. 
 No one is injuring others.
 
 68 THE LIGHT THAT . 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 If he is not ashamed of being idle — of living 
 on the labour of others — it cannot be proved, 
 and all the political economy you learnt at the 
 university only serves to justify your position. 
 
 Stephen. 
 On the contrary, science destroys all prejudices. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Well, that does not matter. What does matter 
 to me is the fact that if I were in Ephim's place, 
 I should do just what he did; and having done it 
 I should be in despair if I were imprisoned, and 
 therefore, since I would do unto others as I would 
 be done by^ I cannot prosecute him, and must do 
 my best to get him off. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 But, in that case, it is not possible to 
 own anything. 
 
 J- Alexandra. 
 
 "S Then it is much more profitable to steal 
 
 ^ than to work. 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 You never answer one's arguments. I 
 say that he who economises has a right to 
 use his savings.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 69 
 
 Nicholas. 
 {smiling.) I do not know which of you to 
 answer, {to Peter.) It is not possible to own 
 anything. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 If that Is so, one cannot have clothes or a crust 
 of bread. One must give up everything, and life 
 becomes impossible. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 It is impossible to live as we live. 
 
 Stephen. 
 Then we must die. Therefore that teaching is 
 no good for life. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 On the contrary, it is given only for life. Yes, 
 we must relinquish everything — not only a for- 
 est by which we profit, though we have never 
 seen it, but we should give up our clothes and our 
 bread even. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 And the children's bread also? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Yes, the children's also — and not bread only 
 — we must give up ourselves. That is the whole 
 teaching of Christ. We must use all our efforts 
 to give up ourselves.
 
 70 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Stephen. 
 To die, therefore? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Yes, if you die for others it would be good 
 both for yourself and for others; but the fact re- 
 mains that man is not simply a spirit, but a spirit 
 in the flesh; and the flesh impels us to live for 
 self, while the enlightened spirit urges us to live 
 for God, for others; and the result of this con- 
 flict makes us take a middle course. The nearer 
 we attain to God the better. Therefore the more 
 we try to live for God the better. The flesh will 
 make sufficient efforts on Its own account. 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 Why take a middle course? If such a life Is 
 best, then one should give up everything and die. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 It would be splendid. Try to do it, and you 
 will find it good for you as well as for others. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 No, all this Is neither clear nor simple. It Is 
 dragged In by the hair. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 What am I to do? I cannot make you under- 
 stand. Enough of thlsl
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 71 
 
 Stephen. 
 Enough, indeed ! I do not understand. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 {to the priest.) Well, what did you think of the 
 book? 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 
 {agitated.) I hardly know what to say. The 
 historical side Is sufficiently studied, but it is hardly 
 convincingly or satisfactorily proved — perhaps 
 because the data are Insufficient. You cannot 
 prove the divinity or non-divinity of Christ his- 
 torically. There is only one unanswerable 
 proof. . . 
 
 {During the conversation all, one 
 after the other, leave the room • — 
 ■first the ladies, then Stephen, and 
 finally Peter Semenovich, leaving 
 the priest and Nicholas alone.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 You mean the Church? 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 Yes, of course, the Church; the testimony of 
 men — well, of truly holy men, shall we say? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 It would certainly be excellent if such an infal- 
 lible authority existed which we could trust, and
 
 72 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 it is desirable that it should exist. But its de- 
 sirability is no proof that it does exist. 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 
 I contend that it does prove it. God could not, 
 as It were, let His law be distorted, be badly in- 
 terpreted; and He had to institute a — well — a 
 custodian of His truths. He had to, hadn't He, 
 to prevent the distortion of these truths? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Very well; but you set out to prove the truths 
 themselves, and now you are proving the truth of 
 the custodians. 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 
 Well, in regard to that, we must, so to speak, 
 believe. 
 
 Ntcholas. 
 
 Believe? We cannot live without belief. We 
 must believe, but not what others tell us; only 
 what we are led to by the course of our own 
 thoughts, our own reason . . . the belief in 
 God, in the true life everlasting. 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 
 Reason may deceive you — each man has his 
 own —
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 73 
 
 Nicholas. 
 (warmly.) That Is horrible blasphemy! God 
 has given us one holy instrument by which to 
 know the truth — one that can unite us all, and 
 we distrust It! 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 
 But how can we trust it when there is so much 
 difference of opinion — isn't there? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Where is there any difference of opinion as to 
 two and two making four; as to our not doing to 
 others what we do not wish to be done to our- 
 selves; as to there being a cause for everything: 
 and such truths as these? We all recognise these 
 truths because they are in accordance with our 
 reason. As to such questions as what God re- 
 vealed to Moses on Mount Sinai, whether or not 
 Buddha flew away on a sunbeam, or whether Mo- 
 hammed and Christ flew up to heaven — and 
 things of that sort — we all disagree. 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 
 No, we do not all disagree. All who have the 
 truth are united in one faith in the God Christ. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 You are not united then because you all differ,
 
 74 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 so why should I believe you rather than a Bud- 
 dhist lama? Simply because 1 happened to be 
 born in your faith? 
 
 {Sounds of dispute from the ten- 
 nis-court. " Out." '' No, it was 
 not." " I saw it." 
 
 During the conversation the FoOT- 
 MAN rearranges the table, bringing in 
 fresh tea and coffee.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 {continuing.) You say the Church gives union. 
 But, on the contrary, the worst differences were 
 always caused by the Church. " How often 
 would I have gathered Thy children together, 
 even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her 
 wings." 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 It was so before Christ. Christ united all. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Christ united us all, but we became disunited 
 because we understood Him wrongly. He de- 
 stroyed all Churches. 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 Then what does " tell the Church " mean?
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 75 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 It is not a question of words, nor do these 
 words apply to the Church. The whole thing is 
 the spirit of the teaching. Christ's teaching is 
 universal, and contains all beliefs, and does not 
 contain anything that is exclusive — neither the 
 resurrection, nor the divinity of Christ, nor the 
 sacraments — indeed, nothing that can disunite. 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 
 Well, that is your interpretation of the Chris- 
 tian teaching; but the Christian teaching is en- 
 tirely founded on the divinity of Christ and His 
 resurrection. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 That is why Churches are so horrible. They 
 disunite by declaring that they possess the full, 
 certain, and infallible truth — " filling us with the 
 Holy Ghost." It began with the first meeting of 
 the apostles. From that moment they began to 
 affirm that they were possessed of full and exclu- 
 sive truth. Why, If I say that there is a God, 
 that the world began, all will agree with me, and 
 this recognition of God will unite us; but if I say 
 there is a god Brahma, or a Jewish god, or a 
 Trinity — such a divinity disunites. Men want 
 to unite and invent a means to that end, but they 
 disregard the only certain means of union — an
 
 76 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 aspiration after truth. It is as if in a great build- 
 ing, where the light falls from the roof on to the 
 middle of the floor, men were to stand in groups 
 in the corners instead of going into the light. If 
 they went into the light they would, without think- 
 ing about it, be united. 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 
 But how would you guide the people without 
 having, so to speak, a fixed truth? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 That is the horror of it. Each of us has his 
 own soul to save, has God's work to do, and we 
 are all anxious about saving and teaching others. 
 And what do we teach them ? It is simply hor- 
 rible to think that at the end of the nineteenth 
 century we are teaching that God created the 
 world in six days, then sent a flood, putting all the 
 animals into the Ark, and all the absurd nonsense 
 of the Old Testament; and then that Christ or- 
 dered us to be baptised in water, or the absurdity 
 of the redemption without which you cannot be 
 saved; then that Christ flew away to skies which 
 do not exist, and there sits at the right hand of 
 God the Father. We are accustomed to all this, 
 but really it is terrible. A pure child, open to 
 good and truth, asks us what the world is, what its 
 law is, and instead of teaching him the love and
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 77 
 
 truth which we have believed, we carefully stuff 
 his head with all sorts of dreadful, absurd lies 
 and horrors, ascribing them all to God. This is 
 awful. It is a crime that nothing can surpass. 
 And we, and you with your Church, do all this. 
 Forgive me. 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 
 Yes, if you look at Christ's teaching in that 
 way — rationally, so to speak. — then it Is so. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 It is the same, no matter in what way you look 
 at it. 
 
 (Silence. The Priest takes leave 
 of him. Enter Alexandra Ivan- 
 
 OVNA.) 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Good-bye, Father Vasily. Do not listen to 
 him; he will lead you astray. 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 Oh no ! One must put the Gospel to the test. 
 It is too important a matter to be neglected, isn't 
 It? 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Really, Nicholas, you have no pity on him. 
 Though he Is a priest, he Is little more than a
 
 78 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 boy. He cannot have settled convictions; he can- 
 not be steadfast. ... 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Are we to let him become confirmed in them, 
 to harden in deceit? Why should we? Ah, he 
 is a good, sincere man. 
 
 x'\lexandra. 
 
 Well, what would happen to him were he to 
 believe you? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 It Is not a question of believing me; but if he 
 could see the truth it would be well for him and 
 for every one. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 If it were really well, all would believe you. 
 As it is, we see just the contrary. No one be- 
 lieves you — your wife least of all. She cannot 
 believe you. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Who told you so? 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Well, explain all this to Masha. She never 
 understood and never will, and no one in the 
 world ever will, understand why you should take 
 care of strangers and neglect your own children. 
 Explain that to Masha.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 79 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Masha is sure to understand. Forgive me, 
 Aline, but if it were not for outside influences, to 
 which she is so susceptible, she would understand 
 me and go hand-in-hand with me. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 To deprive her own children for the drunken 
 Ephim and Co.? Never. As for your being 
 angry with me, you will excuse me, but I cannot 
 help speaking. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 I am not angry. On the contrary, I am very 
 glad that you said all you had to say, and gave 
 me the opportunity of giving all my own views. 
 I thought it over on my way to-day, and I am go- 
 ing to tell her at once, and you will see that she 
 will agree, for she is both wise and good. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 You will allow me to have my doubts. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Well, I have none. This is no invention of 
 mine : it is what we all know, and what Christ 
 revealed to us. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 You think He revealed this? I think He 
 revealed something quite different.
 
 8o THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 There can be nothing different. Just listen. 
 Do not argue; listen to me. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 I am listening. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 You admit that at any minute we may die and 
 return to nothingness or to God, who demands 
 that we should live according to His will. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Well ? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Well, what else am I to do in this life but that 
 which the highest Judge that is in my soul — my 
 conscience, God — demands? My conscience, 
 God, demands that I should consider all men 
 equal, should love and serve all. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Your children among the rest. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Of course; but I must do everything my con- 
 science dictates. The most important thing of all 
 is to recognise that my life does not belong to me, 
 nor yours to you, but to God, who sent us and 
 requires us to live according to His will. And 
 His will
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 8i 
 
 Alexandra. 
 And you will convince Masha of this? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Certainly. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 She will cease to educate her children as she 
 should and will desert them? Never. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Not only she; you too will understand that that 
 is the only thing to do. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Never! 
 
 (Ente?- Marie Ivanovna.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Well, Masha, I hope I did not wake you ud 
 this morning. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 No, I was not asleep. Did you have a pleasant 
 journey? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Yes, very pleasant. 
 
 Marie. 
 Why are you drinking that cold tea? Anyhow, 
 we must have some fresh made for our guests. 
 You know that Princess Cheremshanova is com- 
 ing with her son and daughter.
 
 82 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Nicholas. 
 If you are pleased, so am I. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Yes. I am very fond of her and of her chil- 
 dren, but it is hardly the moment for visitors. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Well, have a talk with him, and I will go and 
 watch the game. 
 
 {A silence, after which Marie 
 IvANovNA titid Nicholas Ivano- 
 VICH both speak at once.) 
 
 Marie. 
 It is hardly the moment, because we must 
 talk things over. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I was just telling Aline. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 What? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 No; you speak. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Well, I wanted to talk to you about Stephen. 
 Something must be decided. The poor boy is In 

 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 83 
 
 suspense, does not know what is going to happen, 
 and comes to me; but how can I decide? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 How can any one decide? He can decide for 
 himself. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Why, you know he wants to enter the Guards 
 as a volunteer, and he cannot do it without a cer- 
 tificate from you, and he must have money, and 
 you give him nothing (agitated.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Masha, for heaven's sake do not get agitated, 
 and listen to me. I neither give nor refuse. To 
 enter the military service voluntarily I consider 
 foolish madness, such as only a savage is capable 
 of. If he does not understand the meanness, the 
 baseness of such an action, or if he does it out of 
 self-interest — 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Oh, everything seems mad and foolish to you 
 now. He wants to live — you have lived. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 {hotly.) I lived without understanding, with no 
 one to tell me. But it depends on him now — 
 not on me.
 
 84 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Marie. 
 
 But It does depend on you, when you give him 
 no money. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I cannot give what does not belong to me. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 What do you mean by " does not belong to 
 me" ? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 The labour of others does not belong to me. 
 To give him money, I must take from others. 
 I have no right to; I cannot. So long as I am 
 the master of the estate I cannot dispose of It 
 otherwise than as my conscience dictates. I can- 
 not spend the labour of peasants, which costs them 
 their whole strength, on the drinking-bouts of a 
 hussar. Take the estate from me; then I shall 
 not be responsible. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 You know I do not want that, and I cannot do 
 it. I have to educate the children, to nurse them, 
 to bring them into the world. It Is cruel. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Dearest Masha, that Is not the point. When 
 you began to speak, I began also, and I wanted so
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 85 
 
 to talk frankly to you. All this is impossible. 
 We live together, and do not understand each 
 other; sometimes it seems as though we misunder- 
 stood each other on purpose. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 I want to understand you, but I cannot. I can- 
 not understand what has come over you. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Then try to understand now. It is hardly the 
 moment, but heaven knows when there will be 
 a moment. Try to understand not only me, but 
 yourself and your own life. We cannot go on 
 living without knowing what we live for. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 We lived so before, and we lived very well 
 {noting an expression of displeasure on his face.) 
 — All right; I am listening. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 I used to live thus, thus — that Is to say, with- 
 out thinking why I lived; but the time came when 
 I was aghast. We live on the labour of others, 
 we make others work for us, we bring children 
 Into the world, and educate them for the same 
 thing. Old age, death, will come, and I shall
 
 86 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 ask myself: " What did I live for? To produce 
 parasites like myself?" Besides, this life is not 
 even amusing. It is only tolerable when one is 
 overflowing with the energy of life, like Vania. 
 
 Marie. 
 Every one lives like that. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 And every one is unhappy. 
 
 Marie. 
 Not at all. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 I, at least, discovered that I was terribly un- 
 happy, and that I was causing you and the children 
 to be unhappy, and I asked myself: " Is it possible 
 that God created you for this? " And directly I 
 thought that, I felt that the answer was " No." 
 Then I asked myself: " What did God create us 
 for?" 
 
 (// footman enters. Marie 
 IVANOVNA does not listen to her hus- 
 band, but speaks to the footman.) 
 
 Marie. 
 Bring some hot milk.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 87 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 I found the answer in the Gospel : we do not 
 live for ourselves at all. It was revealed to me 
 clearly once when I was thinking over the parable 
 of the labourers in the vineyard. Do you remem- 
 ber it? 
 
 Marie. 
 Yes; I know the labourers. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Somehow or other that parable showed me my 
 mistake more clearly than anything. I had be- 
 lieved that my life was my own just as those la- 
 bourers believed that the vineyard was theirs, and 
 everything was terrible to me. But as soon as I 
 realised that my life was not my own, that I was 
 sent into the world to do the work of God — 
 
 Marie. 
 What of that? We all know that. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Well, if we know it, we cannot continue to live 
 as we do, when we know our whole life is not a 
 fulfilment of this will, but, on the contrary, is in 
 perpetual contradiction to It.
 
 88 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Marie. 
 
 In what way Is it a contradiction when we do 
 no harm to any one? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 How can you say we do no harm to any one? 
 That is exactly the conception of life that the 
 labourers in the vineyard had. We — 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Oh, yes; I know the parable. Well, what of 
 it? He gave them all the same portion. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 {after a silence.) No; that is not it. But think 
 of this, Masha; we have only one life, and it Is 
 in our power to live It devoutly or to ruin it 
 
 Marie. 
 
 I cannot think and discuss. I get no sleep at 
 night; I am nursing baby. I manage the whole 
 household, and instead of helping me you keep 
 on telling me things I do not understand. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Masha! 
 
 Marie. 
 And now these visitors are arriving.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 89 
 
 Nicholas. 
 But we will talk It out to the end, shall we not? 
 {He kisses her.) Yes? 
 
 Marie. 
 Yes. But do be your former self. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 That I cannot. But listen to me — 
 
 ( The sound of approaching car- 
 riage bells and wheels is heard.) 
 
 Marie. 
 
 There is no time now — they have arrived. I 
 must go to them. 
 
 {Disappears round the corner of 
 the house, followed by Stephen and 
 LuBA. Alexandra Ivanovna and 
 her husband and LiSA come on to the 
 veranda. NICHOLAS IvANOVlCH 
 walks about in deep thought.) 
 
 Vania. 
 
 {jumping over a bench.) I don't give in; we'll 
 finish the game! Well, Luba? 
 
 LUBA. 
 {seriously.) No nonsense, please I
 
 90 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Well, have you convinced her? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Aline, what is going on between us now is seri- 
 ous, and jokes are quite out of place. It is not I 
 who am convincing her, but life, truth, God. 
 Therefore she cannot help being convinced — if 
 not to-day, then to-morrow; if not to-morrow — 
 The worst of it all is that no one ever has time. 
 Who has come? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 The Cheremshanovs — Katia Cheremshanova, 
 whom I have not seen for eighteen years. The 
 last time we met we sang together: " La ei darem 
 la mano." {He sings.) 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 {to her husband.) Please do not interfere, and 
 do not imagine that I have quarrelled with Nicho- 
 las. I am speaking the truth. {To Nicho- 
 las.) I was not joking in the least, but it seemed 
 so strange that you wanted to convince Masha at 
 the very moment when she wanted to talk matters 
 over with you. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Very well, very well. Here they are. Please 
 tell Masha that I am in my room. {Exit.)
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene I 
 
 Same place in the country. Time: One week 
 later. 
 
 {Scene represents large drawing- 
 room. Table is laid with samovar, 
 tea and coffee. Piano against the 
 wall, music-rack. 
 
 Marie Ivanovna, the Princess, 
 and Peter Semenovich are seated 
 at the table.) 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Yes, Princess. It does not seem so long ago 
 that you used to sing Rosine, and I . . . 
 Whereas now I should not even do for a Don 
 Basilio. 
 
 Princess. 
 Now the children might sing, but times have 
 altered. 
 
 Peter. 
 Yes, they are positivists. But I hear your 
 daughter is a very serious and excellent musician. 
 Are they still asleep? 
 
 91
 
 92 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Yes, they went out riding by moonlight and 
 returned very late. 1 was nursing baby and heard 
 them. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 And when does my better half return? Have 
 you sent the carriage for her? 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Yes, it went a long time ago. She ought to be 
 here soon. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 Did Alexandra Ivanovna really go with the sole 
 purpose of fetching Father Gerasim? 
 
 Marie. 
 Yes, the thought suddenly struck her yesterday, 
 and she flew off at once. 
 
 Princess. 
 What energy! I admire it. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Oh, as to that, it never fails us. {Takes out a 
 cigar.) Well, I think I'll take a turn in the park 
 with the dogs and smoke while the young people 
 are getting up.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 93 
 
 Princess. 
 
 I don't know, dear Marie Ivanovna, but I really 
 think you take it too much to heart. I under- 
 stand him. He is full of such high aspiration. 
 What does it matter if he does give his property 
 away to the poor? It's only too true that we all 
 think too much of ourselves. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Oh, if it were only that. But you don't know 
 him — you do not know all. It is not only help- 
 ing the poor. It is a complete change — the 
 utter wrecking of everything. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 I certainly do not wish to intrude into your 
 family life, but if you would allow me . . . 
 
 Marie. 
 
 But I look on you as one of the family, espe- 
 cially now. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 I should just advise you to put your demands 
 plainly before him, and openly come to some 
 agreement with him as to the limits — 
 
 Marie. 
 (agitated.) There are no limits 1 He wishes to
 
 94 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 give everything away. He wants me at my age to 
 become a cook — a laundress. 
 
 Princess. 
 Oh, impossible! How extraordinary I 
 
 Marie. 
 
 (taking out a letter.) Now we are quite alone; I 
 should like to tell you everything. Yesterday he 
 wrote me this letter. I will read it to you. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 What ! living in the same house with you, he 
 writes you letters? How strange ! 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Oh, no. I quite understand. He gets so ex- 
 cited when he talks I have been feeling anxious 
 about his health lately. 
 
 Princess. 
 Well, what does he write? 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Listen. {8he reads.) " You reproach me for 
 destroying our former life without offering you 
 anything else or saying how I intend to provide 
 for my family. When we begin to talk we both 
 get excited, so I am writing instead. I have told
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 95 
 
 you many times why I can't go on living as I have 
 done. And as for trying to convince you that it 
 is wrong to live as we have been accustomed to 
 do, that we must lead a Christian life, I cannot 
 do that in a letter. You can do one of two things 
 ■ — either believe in truth and liberty and go 
 with me, or believe in me, give yourself trustfully 
 to me, and follow me." {Slops reading.) But 
 I can do neither of these things ! I do not be- 
 lieve that I ought to live as he desires, and more- 
 over I love the children and I cannot trust him. 
 {Continues to read.) " My plan is this. We 
 will give all our land to the peasants, leaving our- 
 selves fifty acres and the kitchen garden and the 
 flooded meadow. We will try to work, but we 
 will not force ourselves or our children to work. 
 What we reserve for ourselves will bring in about 
 five hundred roubles * a year." 
 
 Princess. 
 
 ft is impossible to live on five hundred roubles 
 a year with seven children. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Well, and then he goes on to say that we will 
 give up our house for a school and live in the 
 gardener's cottage, in two rooms. 
 
 * A rouble = about 2S.
 
 96 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Princess. 
 
 Yes, I really begin to think that he's not well. 
 What have you answered? 
 
 Marie. 
 
 I told him I could not agree to it. That, were 
 I alone, I would follow him anywhere. But with 
 the children . . . Just think — I am nursing 
 little Nicholas. I told him it was impossible to 
 break up everything like that. Was this what I 
 married him for? I am already old and feeble. 
 It is not an easy matter to bring nine children into 
 the world and nurse them. 
 
 Princess. 
 I never dreamt It had gone so far I 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Well, that is how matters stand, and I can't 
 imagine what will become of us. Yesterday he 
 remitted the entire rent of the peasants from 
 Dmitrovka, and he intends to give that land to 
 them outright. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 I really think you ought not to permit that. It 
 is our duty to protect our children. If he cannot 
 own his estate himself, let him give it to you.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 97 
 
 Marie. 
 I don't want it. 
 
 Princess. 
 But it is your duty to retain it, for the sake of 
 your children. Let him make it over to you. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 My sister suggested that to him, but he said he 
 had no right to dispose of it, as the land belonged 
 to those who tilled it, and it was his duty to give 
 it to the peasants. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 Yes, I see it is really much more serious than I 
 thought. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 And fancy! our priest is on his side. 
 
 Princess. 
 I noticed that yesterday. 
 
 Marie. 
 Now my sister has gone to Moscow to consult a 
 lawyer, and above all to bring Father Gerasim 
 back with her to see if he has any Influence with 
 him. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 I do not think tha<- Christianity consists In ruin- 
 ing one's own family.
 
 98 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Marie. 
 
 But he will not trust Father Gerasim. He is 
 too far confirmed in his convictions, and you know 
 when he talks I can find no arguments to use 
 against him. The worst of it is — I believe he is 
 right. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 That is only because you love him. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 I do not know why, but it is dreadful, dreadful. 
 Everything remains unsettled. That's what re- 
 ligion does ! 
 
 {Enter Nurse.) 
 
 Nurse. 
 
 Please, ma'am, the baby is awake and wants 
 you. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 I will come in a moment. I am worried, and 
 the baby has colic, you see. I am coming. 
 
 {Exit Princess.) 
 {From the other side enters Nicho- 
 las with a paper in his hand.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 It is incredible ! 
 
 Marie 
 
 What is the matter?
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 99 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 The matter is just this, that for a pine tree of 
 ours, Peter is to go to jail. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Bnt why? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Because he felled it. They took the matter to 
 court, and he is sentenced to a month's imprison- 
 ment. His wife came to implore me — 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Well, can't you help her? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 I cannot now. The only thing to do is not to 
 own any forest; and I will not! I will just go 
 and see if I can help in the trouble of which I my- 
 self have been the cause. 
 
 {Enter LuBA and Boris.) 
 
 LuBA. 
 
 Good morning, father. (Kisses him.) 
 Where are you going? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 T have just come from the village and I'm now 
 on my way back. A himgiy man is being put in 
 jail for —
 
 100 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 It's probably Peter. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Yes — Peter. 
 
 {Exeunt Nicholas and Marie IvanovnaJ 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 {sitting down before the samovar.) Will you 
 take coffee or tea? 
 
 Boris. 
 I do not care. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Things are just as they were. I cannot see how 
 it will end. 
 
 Boris. 
 I do not quite understand him. I know the 
 peasants are poor and ignorant, that it's our duty 
 to help them. But not by showing favour to 
 thieves. 
 
 LuBA. 
 
 But how? 
 
 Boris. " 
 
 By everything we do. We must dedicate all 
 our knowledge to them, but we cannot give up our 
 life. 
 
 LUBA. 
 Father says that is just what we must do.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS loi 
 
 Boris. 
 I do not see why. It is quite possible to help 
 the people without ruining one's own life, and 
 that is what I intend doing myself. If only 
 you — 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Your wishes are mine. And I am not afraid 
 of anything. 
 
 Boris. 
 But what about your ear-rings, and your dress? 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 The ear-rings we can sell, and as for the frock, 
 I might dress differently without being altogether 
 ugly. 
 
 Boris. 
 I want to have another talk with him. Do you 
 think I should be in his way if I went to the vil- 
 lage? 
 
 LUBA. 
 I'm sure you wouldn't. I can see he is very 
 fond of you. Yesterday he talked to you nearly 
 all the time. 
 
 Boris. 
 Then I'll go. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Yes, do. And I'll go and wake up Lisa and 
 Tonia. 
 
 (Exit on different sides.)
 
 102 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Scene II 
 
 Village street. The peasant Ivan Ziabrev is 
 lying on the ground at a cottage door, with a 
 sheepskin coat over him. 
 
 Ivan. 
 
 Malashka! 
 
 {From behind the cottage comes a 
 little girl with a baby in her arms. 
 The baby cries.) 
 I want a drink of water. 
 
 (Malashka goes into the cottage. 
 The baby is heard crying still. She 
 brings a jug of water.) 
 Why do you hit the baby and make him howl? 
 I'll tell your mother. 
 
 Malashka. 
 
 Do tell mother! Baby's howling because he's 
 hungry. 
 
 Ivan. 
 
 (drinking.) Why don't you go and get some 
 milk at Demkin's? 
 
 Malashka. 
 
 I have been. They haven't got any, and there 
 was not a soul at home.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 103 
 
 Ivan. 
 Oh, I wish Death would come quicker. Has 
 the dinner bell rung? 
 
 Malashka. 
 
 {screaming at the top of her voice.) Yes, It has 
 rung! There's the master coming! 
 
 {Enter NICHOLAS.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Why are you lying out here? 
 
 Ivan. 
 There are flies there. And it's too hot. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Have you got warm then? 
 
 Ivan. 
 I feel as if I were on fire now. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Where is Peter? At home? 
 
 Ivan. 
 How could he be, at this hour? He's gone to 
 the fields to bring in the sheaves. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I was told he had been arrested.
 
 104 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Ivan. 
 
 That's quite true. The policeman has gone to 
 the field after him. 
 
 {Enter a pregnant Woman, with 
 a sheaf of oats and a pitchfork, and 
 immediately hits Malashka over the 
 head.) 
 
 Woman. 
 
 Why did you go away from the baby? Do 
 listen to him screaming. You only think of run- 
 ning out in the road. 
 
 Malashka. 
 
 {crying loudly.) I just came out to give father a 
 drink of water. 
 
 Woman. 
 
 I'll give it you. {Sees Nicholas Ivano- 
 VICH.) Good-day, Nicholas Ivanovich. You 
 see what they are all bringing me to ! There's no 
 one but me to do anything, and I'm worn out. 
 Now they're taking our very last man to jail, and 
 this lazy lout is lying about doing nothing. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Why do you say that? You can see he is ill. 
 
 Woman. 
 Ill, indeed. What about me? When there's
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 105 
 
 work to be done then he's sick, but if he wants to 
 go on the spree and knock me about, he's well 
 enough. Let him die like a dog. I don't care. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 How sinful to talk like that! 
 
 Woman. 
 
 I know it's a sin. But my temper gets the 
 better of me. Look how I am, and I have to 
 work for two. All the others have got their oats 
 in, and a quarter of our field isn't cut yet. I 
 ought not to have stopped, but I had to come 
 home and see after the children. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I will have your oats cut for you and will send 
 some binders out to your field. 
 
 Woman. 
 
 Oh, I can manage the binding myself, if we 
 can only get it cut. Oh, Nicholas Ivanovich, do 
 you think he's going to die? He's very low in- 
 deed. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 I'm sure I don't know; but he's certainly very 
 weak. I think he had better be taken to the hos- 
 pital. 
 
 Woman. 
 
 Oh, my God! {Begins to weep loudly.)
 
 io6 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Don't take him away. Let him die here. ( To 
 the husband.) What did you say? 
 
 Ivan. 
 I want to go to hospital. I'm lying here worse 
 than a dog. 
 
 Woman. 
 Oh, I don't know what to do ! I shall go mad ! 
 Malashka, get dinner! 
 
 Nicholas. 
 And what have you got for dinner? 
 
 Woman. 
 Some potatoes and bread. That's all we've 
 got. {Goes into cottage, the sounds of a pig 
 squealing and children crying are heard.) 
 
 Ivan. 
 
 {groaning.) Oh, God, if Death would come! 
 
 {Enter BORIS.) 
 
 Boris. 
 Can't I be of any use here! 
 
 Nicholas, 
 No one can be of any use here. The evil is 
 too deeply rooted. We can only be of use to our- 
 selves by realising on what foundations we build 
 our happiness. Here -is a family — five chil-
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 107 
 
 dren — the wife pregnant, the husband ill, and 
 nothing in the house to eat but potatoes. And at 
 this moment it is a question whether they will have 
 food for next year. And there is no help for 
 them. How can one help? I am going to hire 
 a man to work for them. But who will that man 
 be? A man as badly off as they are, who has 
 given up tilling his own land through drunkenness 
 or poverty. 
 
 Boris. 
 
 Excuse me, but If that is the case, why are you 
 here? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 I am trying to ascertain my own position; to 
 
 know who looks after our gardens, builds our 
 
 houses, makes our clothes, feeds and dresses us. 
 
 (Peasants with scythes and 
 
 Women with pitchforks pass them. 
 
 They how to the master.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 {stopping one of them.) Ephraim, can you take 
 the job of cutting Ivan's oats for him? 
 
 Ephraim. 
 {shaking his head.) I'd do it gladly, but I can't. 
 I haven't got my own in yet. I'm just hurrying 
 off to do it now. Why? Is Ivan dying?
 
 io8 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Another Peasant. 
 There's old Sebastian. Maybe he can take the 
 job. Sebastian! They want a man to reap. 
 
 Sebastian. 
 Take the job yourself if you want It. One day 
 may mean the whole year in such weather as this. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 {to Boris.) All those men are half-starved, 
 many of them ill or old, living on bread and 
 water. Look at that old man. He suffers from 
 rupture — and he works from four in the morn- 
 ing till ten at night, and is barely alive. And we 
 — now, is it possible, when we once understand 
 this, to go on living quietly and calling ourselves 
 Christians? Can we call ourselves anything short 
 of beasts? 
 
 Boris. 
 But what are we to do? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Not be a party to evil. Not possess land. 
 Not feed upon their toil. How this can be man- 
 aged I do not know. The thing Is — at least so 
 It was with me. I lived and did not understand 
 what sort of life I led. I didn't understand that 
 I was a son of God and that we were all sons of
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 109 
 
 God and all brothers. But when I came to under- 
 stand that, when I saw that all had equal claims 
 on life, my whole life was changed. I cannot ex- 
 plain it very well to you, I can only say that be- 
 fore, I was blind, just as my family still are, but 
 now my eyes are opened I cannot help seeing. 
 And, seeing, I cannot go on living as before. 
 But, of course, for the present we must do as best 
 we can. 
 
 {Enter Police-Sergeant, with 
 Peter, and his wife and a boy.) 
 
 Peter. 
 {falling on his knees before Nicholas Ivano- 
 viCH.) Forgive me, for Christ's sake. I'm 
 done for! My wife can't get along alone. 
 Can't you let me go on bail? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 I will see about it. I will write. ( To the 
 Police-Sergeant.) Couldn't you let him stay 
 here meanwhile? 
 
 Sergeant. 
 
 I have orders to take him to the police-station. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Go then; I will hire a labourer. I will do all 
 that is possible. This Is my fault. How can one 
 live like this? 
 
 {Exit.)
 
 no THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Scene III 
 
 Same as Scene I. // is raining outside. 
 Drawing-room with a piano. TONIA has just 
 finished playing the Schumann Sonata, and is still 
 sitting at the piano. Stephen stands near the 
 piano. After the music, Luba, Lisa, Anna 
 IvANOVNA, MiTROFAN Dmitrich and the Priest 
 are all greatly moved. 
 
 Luba. 
 The Andante is so lovely. 
 
 Stephen. 
 No — the Scherzo! But the whole thing Is 
 charming. 
 
 Beautiful ! 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Stephen. 
 {to ToNiA.) I had no idea you were such an 
 artist. Your rendering is masterly. Difficulties 
 do not seem to exist for you, you only think of 
 the expression, and it is so exquisitely delicate. 
 
 Luba. 
 So noble, too 1
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS iii 
 
 TONIA. 
 
 I feel It Is not what I want it to be. There's a 
 great deal lacking In my playing. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 It could not be better. It Is marvellous. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Schumann is very great. But I think Chopin 
 appeals to the heart more. 
 
 Stephen. 
 He Is more lyrical. 
 
 TONIA. 
 
 I do not think a comparison is possible. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Do you remember that Prelude of his? 
 
 TONIA. 
 
 Do you mean the so-called George Sand one? 
 
 {Begins to play.) 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 No, not that one. That is lovely, but it is 
 hackneyed. Please play this one. 
 
 (ToNiA tries to play, but breaks 
 off and stops.) 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 No, the one iri D minor.
 
 112 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 TONIA. 
 
 Oh, this one. It Is wonderful. It Is like chaos 
 before the Creation. 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 (laughs.) Yes, yes! Do play it. No, better 
 not — you are tired. We have already had a 
 wonderful morning, thanks to you. 
 
 (ToNiA rises and looks out of the 
 window. ) 
 
 TONIA. 
 
 There are the peasants again. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 That's what is so precious in music. I under- 
 stand Saul. I'm not tormented by the devil, but 
 I know how Saul felt. There's no art that can 
 make one forget everything like music. 
 
 TONIA. 
 
 And yet you are going to marry a man who 
 doesn't understand music. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Oh, but — Boris does understand it. 
 
 Boris. 
 [absent-minded.) Music! — Yes, I like music. 
 But it isn't important. And I am rather sorry
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 113 
 
 for the life that people lead who attach so much 
 importance to it. 
 
 ( There are sweets on the table and 
 they all eat.) 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 How nice to be engaged! Then one always 
 has sweets. 
 
 Boris. 
 Oh, it is not I — it's mother. 
 
 TONIA. 
 Very nice of her. {Goes to the window.) 
 Whom do you want to see? The peasants have 
 come to see Nicholas Ivanovich. 
 
 LuBA. 
 {going to the window.) He is not at home. 
 Wait. 
 
 TONIA. 
 And what about poetry? 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 No, the value of music is that it takes hold of 
 you, and carries you away from reality. We were 
 all so gloomy just now, and when you began to 
 play, everything brightened. It did really. 
 Take the waltzes of Chopin. They're hackneyed, 
 of course, but — • 
 
 TONIA. 
 
 This one? {She plays.)
 
 114 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Scene IV 
 
 {Enter Nicholas. He greets 
 ToNiA, LuBA, Stephen, and Lisa.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 {to LuBA.) Where's Mother? 
 
 LuBA. 
 I think she is In the nursery. Father, how 
 wonderfully Tonia plays. Where have you 
 been? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 In the village. 
 
 (Stephen calls the footman, who 
 enters.) 
 
 Stephen. 
 Bring another samovar. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 {shakes hands zvith footman.) Good morning! 
 {Footman confused. Exit. Exit 
 also Nicholas.) 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 Poor chap ! He's so embarrassed. He 
 doesn't understand. It's as If we were all guilty 
 somehow.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 115 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 (re-enters.) I was going to my room without 
 telling you what I felt. I think it was wrong of 
 me. (To ToNiA.) If you, who are our guest, 
 are hurt by what I am going to say, please forgive 
 me, as I must speak. You said just now, Luba, 
 that Tonia played well. Here you are, seven or 
 eight healthy young men and women. You slept 
 till ten o'clock. Then you had food and drink, 
 and you are still eating, and you play and discuss 
 music. And there, where I have just come from, 
 the people are up at three in the morning. Some 
 have not slept at all, having watched the cattle all 
 night, and all of them, even the old, the sick, and 
 the children, and the women with babies at the 
 breast and those who are about to have children, 
 work with their utmost strength, that we may 
 enjoy the fruits of their labour. And as if that 
 were not enough, one of them, the only worker 
 in the family, is just now being dragged to prison 
 because in the spring he cut down a pine-tree in 
 the forest which is called mine — one of the hun- 
 dred thousand that grow there. Here we are, 
 washed and dressed, having left all our unclean- 
 ness in the bedrooms for slaves to carry away. 
 Eating, drinking, or discussing, which touches us 
 more — Schumann or Chopin — and which of 
 them drives away our ennui the more effectually.
 
 ii6 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 That is what I thought on seeing you all just now, 
 and so tell you. Just think whether it is possible 
 to go on like that! {Standing in great agita- 
 tion.) 
 
 Lisa. 
 It Is true — quite true. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Thinking as you do, life is impossible. 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 Why Is It Impossible? I don't see why we 
 shouldn't talk about Schumann even though the 
 peasants are poor. The one doesn't exclude the 
 other. If men — 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 (angrily.) If a man has no heart and Is made 
 of wood ■ — 
 
 Stephen. 
 Well, I will be silent. 
 
 Tonia. 
 
 This problem is terrible. And it is the prob- 
 lem of our time. We must not be afraid of it. 
 We must look reality in the face in order to solve 
 it.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 117 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 There is no time to wait for the problem to be 
 solved by concerted action. Each of us may die 
 to-day or to-morrow. How am I to live without 
 suffering from this inner conflict. 
 
 Boris. 
 Of course the only way is not to share in the 
 
 ev 
 
 il. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Well, forgive me if I have hurt you. I could 
 not help saying what I felt. (Exit.) 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 How could we avoid sharing in it? Our whole 
 life is bound up with it. 
 
 Boris. 
 
 That is exactly why he says that in the first 
 place one ought not to possess property, and one's 
 whole life should be so altered that one may serve 
 others, and not be served by them. 
 
 TONIA. 
 Oh, I see you are quite on Nicholas Ivanovich's 
 side.
 
 ii8 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Boris. 
 
 Yes, I begin to understand for the first time; 
 and, besides, all I saw in the village. We have 
 only to take off the spectacles through which we 
 are accustomed to view the life of the peasants, 
 to see how their misery is connected with our 
 pleasures, and there you are. 
 
 MiTROFAN. 
 
 But the remedy is not to ruin our own lives. 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 Isn't it extraordinary how Mitrofan Ermilovich 
 and I, standing at opposite poles, agree on some 
 points? Those are my exact words: not to ruin 
 our own lives. 
 
 Boris. 
 
 It's perfectly simple. You both want a pleas- 
 ant life, and so you want to adopt a plan of living 
 that will ensure it. You (turning to Stephen) 
 would like to preserve present conditions, and 
 Mitrofan Ermilovich wants new ones. 
 
 (LuBA speaks under her breath to 
 TONIA. TONIA goes to the piano 
 and plays a Chopin Nocturne. All 
 are silent.) 
 
 Stephen. 
 That is beautiful. That solves all problems.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 119 
 
 Boris. 
 
 It only obscures them, and delays their solution. 
 {During the music enter silently 
 Marie Ivanovna and the Princess. 
 They sit down and listen. Before the 
 end of the Nocturne carriage bells are 
 heard.) 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Oh, that is Auntie ! 
 
 {Goes to meet her. Music con- 
 tinues. Knter Alexandra Ivan- 
 ovna and a lawyer and Father 
 Gerasim with his pectoral cross. 
 All present rise.) 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 Pray continue. It is very pleasant. 
 
 ( The Princess and Father 
 Vasily go up to him and ask his 
 blessing. ) 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 I have done what I said I would. I found 
 Father Gerasim and persuaded him to come with 
 me. He is going to Kursk. So I have done my 
 part. And here is the lawyer. He has the 
 papers all ready to sign.
 
 I20 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Would you not like to have some luncheon? 
 
 ( The Lawyer lays his papers on 
 the table and goes.) 
 I am very grateful to Father Gerasim. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 What else could I do? It was not on my way, 
 but my Christian duty bade me come. 
 
 (Princess whispers to the young 
 people. They all talk among them- 
 selves, and go out on the veranda, 
 except Boris. Father Vasily rises 
 to go.) 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 Stay with us. You as a spiritual father, and 
 the pastor here, may derive some benefit and be 
 of use. Stay, if Marie Ivanovna does not object. 
 
 Marie. 
 Oh, no. Father Vasily is like one of the family 
 to me. I consulted him as well, but being young, 
 he lacks authority. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 Undoubtedly, undoubtedly.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 121 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 {approaching him.) Now, you see, Father 
 Gerasim, you are the only one that can help us and 
 persuade him to see reason. He is a clever man 
 and a learned man; but you know yourself, learn- 
 ing can only do harm. He does not see clearly 
 somehow. He persists in saying that the Chris- 
 tian command is to have no possessions. But is 
 that possible? 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 It is all a snare, intellectual pride, self-will. 
 The fathers of the Church have settled that ques- 
 tion adequately. But how did it all come about? 
 
 Marie. 
 To be quite frank with you, I must say that when 
 we married he was indifferent to religious ques- 
 tions, and we lived the first twenty years of our 
 life happily. Then he began to think about 
 these things. His sister may, perhaps, have in- 
 fluenced him, or his reading. But at any rate he 
 began to think, to read the Gospel, and then all 
 at once he became very pious, going to church, 
 visiting monks, and then he suddenly stopped 
 all that, and changed his life completely. Now 
 he does everything for himself, he permits none 
 of the servants to do anything for him, and, 
 worst of all, he is giving away all his property.
 
 122 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Yesterday he gave away his forest and the land 
 attached to it. I am afraid. I have seven chil- 
 dren. Do talk to him. I'll go and ask whether 
 he will see you. (Exit.) 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 Yes, nowadays, many are leaving the Church. 
 What about the property? Does it belong to him 
 or his wife? 
 
 Alexandra. 
 It is his own. That is the worst of it. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 And what is his rank. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 Not a high one. I think he is a captain. He 
 has been in the army. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 Many are leaving the Church nowadays. In 
 Odessa there was a lady who became infatuated 
 with spiritualism, and she began to do a lot of 
 harm. But finally God prevailed, and brought 
 her again within the Church. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 Now, father, you must understand. My son 
 is going to marry their daughter. I have given
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 123 
 
 my consent. But the girl is used to a life of lux- 
 ury, and she must have means of her own so that 
 the entire burden may not fall upon my son. I 
 must say he works hard, and he is a remarkable 
 young man. 
 
 {Enter Marie Ivanovna and 
 Nicholas Ivanovich.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 How do you do, Princess? How do you do? 
 Pardon me — I do not know your name. ( To 
 Father Gerasim.) 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 Do you not wish for a blessing? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 No, I do not. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 I am Gerasim Feodorovich. Pleased to meet 
 you. 
 
 {Footman brings refreshments and 
 wine.) 
 It is fine weather, and very favourable for har- 
 vesting. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 I understand you have come on the invitation 
 of Alexandra Ivanovna to convince me of my
 
 124 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 errors, and to lead me into the right way. If 
 that is the case, do not let us beat about the bush. 
 Let us come to the point. I do not deny that I 
 disagree with the teaching of the Church. I used 
 to believe in it, but I have ceased to do so. 
 Nevertheless, I long with my whole soul to be in 
 harmony with the truth, and if you can show it 
 to me, I will accept it without hesitation. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 How can you say you do not believe the teach- 
 ing of the Church? What are we to believe if 
 not the Church? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 God, and his law, given to us in the Gospel. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 The Church instructs us in that very law. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 If that were so, I would believe the Church. 
 But the Church teaches the very opposite. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 The Church cannot teach the opposite, for it is 
 founded by our Lord. It is said, " I give you the 
 power, and the Gates of Hell shall not prevail 
 against it."
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 125 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 That refers to something quite different. But, 
 supposing that Christ did found a church. How 
 do I know that it is your Church? 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 Because it is said, " Where two or three are 
 gathered together in My name — " 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 That does not apply either, and does not prove 
 anything. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 How can you renounce the Church, when the 
 Church alone possesses grace? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I did not renounce the Church until I was 
 wholly convinced that it supports all that is con- 
 trary to Christianity. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 The Church cannot err, because she alone pos- 
 sesses the truth. Those err who leave her. The 
 Church is sacred. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 But I have told you I do not admit that, be- 
 cause the Gospel says, " Ye shall know them by
 
 126 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 their fruits." And I perceive that the Church 
 gives her sanction to oath-taking and murder and 
 executions. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 The Church admits and consecrates the powers 
 instituted by God. 
 
 (During the conversation enter one 
 by one LuBA, Lisa, Stephen, 
 ToNiA, and Boris, who sit or stand 
 and listen.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I know that not only killing but anger is for- 
 bidden by the Gospel. And the Church gives its 
 blessing to the army. The Gospel says, " Do not 
 swear," and the Church administers oaths. The 
 Gospel says — 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 Excuse me — when Pilate said, "I ask you in 
 the name of the living God," Christ accepted the 
 oath, and said, " Yes, that I am." 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Oh, what are you saying? That Is simply 
 ridiculous! 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 That is why the Church does not permit in- 
 dividuals to Interpret the Gospel. She would
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 127 
 
 preserve men from error, and she cares for them 
 as a mother for her children. She gives them an 
 interpretation befitting the powers of their mind. 
 No! Allow me to finish. The Church does not 
 give her children a burden heavier than they can 
 bear. She requires only that they fulfil the com- 
 mandments. Love, do not kill, do not steal, do 
 not commit adultery. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Yes. Do not kill me, do not steal from me 
 what I have stolen. We have all robbed the 
 people, have stolen their land, and then we in- 
 stituted the law against stealing. And the Church 
 sanctions it all. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 That is all a snare, mere spiritual pride speak- 
 ing in you. You want to show off your intellect. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Not at all! I merely ask you, how, according 
 to the law of Christ, am I to behave now, when 
 I have recognised the sin of robbing the people 
 and appropriating their land! What must I do? 
 Go on holding my land, exploiting the labour of 
 the starving peasants, just for this? {He points 
 to the servant who is bringing in lunch and wine.) 
 Or am I to give back the land to those who have 
 been robbed by my ancestors?
 
 128 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 You must act as a son of the Church should act. 
 You have a family, children, and must bring them 
 up as befits their station. 
 
 •Nicholas. 
 Why must I? 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 Because God has placed you in that station. 
 i\nd if you want to do charitable acts, then per- 
 form them by giving away part of your fortune, 
 and by visiting the poor. 
 
 / 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Then why was it said that the rich man could 
 not enter the kingdom of heaven? 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 It was said, if he desired to be perfect. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 But I do want to be perfect. It is said in the 
 Gospel, " Be ye perfect even as your Father in 
 Heaven is perfect." 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 But one must understand to what It applies.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 129 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 That is exactly what I am trying to understand, 
 and all that was said in the Sermon on the Mount 
 is simple and clear. 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 It is all spiritual pride. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Why pride, if it is said that what is hidden from 
 the wise shall be revealed to babes? 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 It will be revealed to the humble not to the 
 proud. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 But who is proud? Is it I, who think that I 
 am like the rest, and therefore must live like the 
 rest, live by my labour, and in the same poverty 
 as all my brothers, or is it they who consider 
 themselves apart from the rest, as the priests who 
 think they know the whole truth, and cannot 
 err, and interpret the words of Christ to suit 
 themselves? 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 (offended.) I beg your pardon, Nicholas Tvano- 
 vich, I have not come to argue as to who is right.
 
 I30 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 I did not come to be lectured. I complied with 
 the wish of Alexandra Ivanovna, and came to have 
 a talk. But you appear to know everything bet- 
 ter than I, so the conversation had better cease. 
 But I beseech you for the last time, in the name 
 of God, to reconsider the matter. You are ter- 
 ribly wrong, and will lose your own soul. 
 
 Marie. 
 Won't you come and have something to eat? 
 
 Father Gerasim. 
 
 Thank you very much. {Accepts.) 
 
 {Exit with Anna Ivanovna.) 
 
 Marie. 
 {to Father Vasily.) What is the result of 
 your talk? 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 Well, my opinion is that Nicholas Ivanovich 
 spoke truly, and Father Gerasim brought no argu- 
 ments against what he said. 
 
 Princess. 
 He was not allowed to speak. And then he 
 did not like it. It became a sort of wordy tour- 
 nament, with everybody listening. He withdrew 
 out of modesty.
 
 SHINES IX DARKNESS 131 
 
 Boris. 
 
 It was not at all from modesty. Everything he 
 said was false, and he obviously had nothing more 
 to say. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 Oh, I see. With your usual fickleness you are 
 beginning to agree with Nicholas Ivanovich. If 
 those are your opinions you ought not to marry. 
 
 Boris. 
 
 I only say that truth is truth. I cannot help 
 saying it. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 You are the last person who ought to speak 
 like that. 
 
 Boris. 
 Why? 
 
 Princess. 
 
 Because you are poor, and have nothing to give 
 away. However, the whole affair is no concern 
 of ours. (Exit.) 
 
 (After her all except Nicholas 
 and Marie Ivanovna go out.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 (sits deep in thought and smiles meditatively.) 
 Masha, what is all this about? Why did you
 
 132 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 ask that miserable, misguided man to come here? 
 Why should that noisy woman and this priest take 
 part in the most intimate questions of our life? 
 Couldn't we settle all our affairs between our- 
 selves? 
 
 Marie. 
 
 But what can I do if you wish to leave our 
 children with nothing? I cannot sit still and let 
 you do that. You know it is not greed — I do 
 not want anything for myself. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I know, I know. I trust you. But the mis- 
 fortune is that you do not believe. I don't mean 
 that you don't believe the truth. I know you see 
 it; but you cannot bring yourself to trust it. You 
 do not trust the truth, and you do not trust me. 
 You would rather trust the crowd — the princess 
 and the rest. 
 
 Marie. 
 I trust you; I have always trusted you. But 
 when you want to make our children beggars — 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 That proves that you do not trust me. Do 
 you imagine T have not struggled and have not had 
 fears? But now I am perfectly convinced, not only 
 that It can be done, but must be done, and that
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 133 
 
 this is the only right thing to do for the children. 
 You always say that if it were not for the children 
 you would follow me. And I say that if it were 
 not for the children you might go on living as you 
 do. We should only be injuring ourselves. As it 
 is we injure them. 
 
 Marie. 
 But what can I do if I don't understand? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 And I — what am I to do ? I know why you 
 sent for that poor creature dressed up in his cas- 
 sock and his cross, and I know why Aline brought 
 the lawyer. You want me to transfer the estate 
 to your name. I cannot do that. You know I 
 have loved you during the twenty years we have 
 been married. I love you, and I have every wish 
 for your welfare, and that is why I cannot sign 
 that transfer. If I am to make over the estate, 
 then it must be to those from whom it came — the 
 peasants. I cannot give it to you. I must give it 
 to them. I am glad the lawyer has come. I 
 must do it. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 This is dreadful! Why are you so cruel? If 
 you think it a sin to hold property, give it to me. 
 {Weeps.)
 
 134 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 You do not know what you are saying. If I 
 gave it to you I could not go on living with you. 
 I should have to go away. I cannot continue to 
 live in these conditions, and see the peasants 
 squeezed dry, whether it is in your name or mine. 
 I cannot see them put in prison. So choose. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 How cruel you are! This is not Christianity; 
 it is wicked. I cannot live as you want me to do. 
 I cannot take things from my children to give to 
 strangers, and for that you would forsake me ! 
 Well, go. I see that you no longer love me, and, 
 indeed, I know the reason. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Very well, I will sign it. But, Masha, you are 
 asking the impossible of me. (Goes to the table 
 and signs.) It is you who desired that. I can- 
 not live so. {Rushes away holding his head.) 
 
 Marie. 
 {calling.) Luba! Aline! {They enter.) He 
 has signed — and gone. What am I to do? He 
 said he would go away, and he will. Go to him. 
 
 Luba. 
 
 He is gone.
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene I 
 
 Scene is laid in Moscow. Large room, and in 
 it a carpenter's bench, a table with papers, a book- 
 case. Boards lean against and cover the mirror 
 and the pictures. Nicholas Ivanovich is 
 working at the bench; a carpenter is planing. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 {taking a finished board from the bench.) Is 
 that all right? 
 
 Carpenter. 
 
 [adjusts the plane.) It's not up to much. Go at 
 It! Don't be afraid. Like that. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I wish I could, but I cannot manage it. 
 
 Carpenter. 
 But why do you go in for carpentering, sir? 
 There are so many in our trade now, you can't 
 make a living at it. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 (continues working.) I am ashamed to live In 
 idleness. 
 
 135
 
 136 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Carpenter. 
 
 But that's your lot In life, sir. God has given 
 you property. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 That is just the point. I do not believe God 
 gave anything of the kind. Men have amassed 
 goods that they have taken from their brothers. 
 
 Carpenter. 
 
 {wondering.) That may all be very true. But 
 still you need not work. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 I understand that it seems strange to you that 
 In this house, where there is so much superfluity, I 
 still wish to earn my living. 
 
 Carpenter. 
 
 (laughing.) Well, that's just like you gentlemen. 
 There's nothing you don't want to do. Now just 
 smooth off that plank. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Perhaps you will not believe me and will laugh 
 at me when I say that I used to live that way and 
 was not ashamed of It, but now that I believe 
 the teaching of Christ that we are all brothers, I 
 am ashamed to live that life.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 137 
 
 Carpenter. 
 If you are ashamed give away your property. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I wanted to, but I did not succeed. I have 
 handed it over to my wife. 
 
 A Voice. 
 {from outside.) Father, may I come in? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Of course you may! You may always come 
 in. 
 
 {Enter LuBA.) 
 
 Luba. 
 Good-morning, Yakov. 
 
 Carpenter. 
 Good-morning, miss. 
 
 Luba. 
 
 {to her father.) Boris has left for the regiment. 
 I'm so afraid he will do or say something he ought 
 not to. What do you think? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 What can I think? He will act according to 
 his conscience.
 
 138 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 But that's awful. He has only such a short 
 time to serve now, and he may go and ruin his 
 life. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 He did well in not coming to me. He knows 
 I cannot tell him anything beyond what he knows 
 himself. He told me himself that he asked for 
 his discharge because he saw that there could not 
 be a more lawless, cruel, brutal occupation than 
 that which is based on murder. And that there 
 is nothing more humiliating than to obey implicitly 
 any man who happens to be his superior in rank. 
 He knows all this. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 That is precisely what I'm afraid of. He 
 knows of all that and he'll be sure to do some- 
 thing. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 His conscience, that God within him, must de- 
 cide that. If he had come to me I should have 
 advised him only one thing, not to act on the dic- 
 tates of reason, but only when his whole being 
 demanded it. There's nothing worse than that. 
 There was I, desiring to do Christ's bidding, 
 which is to leave father, wife, children — and 
 follow Him, And I was on the point of going.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 139 
 
 And how did that end? It ended by my coming 
 back and living in town, with you, in luxury. 
 That was because I wanted to do something be- 
 yond my strength, and it ended in placing me in a 
 stupid and humiliating position. I want to live 
 simply — to work — and in these surroundings, 
 with footmen and hall porters, it becomes a pose. 
 There, I see Yakov NIkanorovich is laughing at 
 me. 
 
 Carpenter. 
 Why should I laugh? You pay me — you 
 give me tea — I am very grateful to you. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Don't you think I had better go to him, 
 father? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 My darling, I know how hard it is for you — 
 how terrible ! But you ought not to be frightened. 
 I am a man who understands life. No harm can 
 come of it. All that seems to you bad, really 
 brings joy to the heart. You must understand 
 that a man who chooses that path has had to make 
 a choice. There are circumstances in which the 
 scales balance evenly between God and the devil. 
 And at that moment God's greatest work is being 
 done. Any interference from without is very 
 dangerous, • and only brings suffering. It is as
 
 140 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 though a man were making a great effort to bear 
 down the scale, and the touch of a finger may 
 break his back. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 But why suffer? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 It is the same thing as though a mother should 
 say, " Why suffer?" But a child cannot be born 
 without pain. And so it is with spiritual birth. 
 I can only say one thing — Boris is a true Chris- 
 tian, and therefore free. And if you cannot be 
 like him, if you cannot believe God as he does, 
 then believe God through him. 
 
 Marie. 
 (outside the door.) May I come in? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Certainly — always. Quite a meeting here to- 
 day. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Our priest has come — Vasily Ermilovlch. 
 He is on his way to the bishop to resign his cure. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Not really. Is he here? Luba, call him. He 
 will certainly want to see me. 
 
 {Exk Luba.)
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 141 
 
 Marie. 
 
 I came to tell you about Vania. He is behav- 
 ing so badly and will not study, and I am sure he 
 will not pass. I have tried to talk to him but he 
 is impertinent, 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Masha — you know I do not sympathise with 
 your mode of life and your ideas of education. 
 It is an awful question whether I have the right to 
 look on and see my children ruined. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Then you must offer a definite substitute. 
 What do you propose? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I cannot say — I can only tell you that the first 
 thing is to get rid of this corrupting luxury, 
 
 Marie. 
 
 And make peasants of them! That I cannot 
 agree to. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Then do not ask me. All that upsets you now 
 is inevitable. 
 
 {Enter Father Vasily and em- 
 braces Nicholas Ivanovich.) 
 Then you have really done it!
 
 142 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 I cannot go on any longer ! 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I did not expect it would come so soon. 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 
 It had to come. In my vocation one cannot 
 remain indifferent. I had to confess, to adminis- 
 ter the sacrament; how could I, knowing it to be 
 false ! 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 And what will happen now? 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 I am going to the bishop to be examined. I 
 am afraid I shall be exiled to the Solavetsky Mon- 
 astery. I thought at one time of running away 
 and going abroad, of asking you to help me, but 
 then I gave up the idea. It would be cowardly. 
 The only thing is — my wife — 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Where is she? 
 
 Father Vasily. 
 
 She has gone to her father. My mother-in- 
 law came and took away our son. That hurt. I 
 wanted so much — {He stops, hardly restrain- 
 ing his tears.)
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 143 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Well, God help you. Are you staying here 
 with us? 
 
 {Enter Alexandra Ivanovna 
 
 with a letter.) 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 A special messenger has brought this for you, 
 Nicholas Ivanovich. How do you do, Father 
 
 Vasily? 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 
 I am no longer Father Vasily, Alexandra Ivan- 
 ovna. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 Really? Why? 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 
 I have discovered that we do not believe In the 
 right way. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Oh dear, oh dear, how sinful ! You are a good 
 man, but what errors you do fall into. It is all 
 Nicholas Ivanovich's doing. 
 
 Father Vastly. 
 Not Nicholas Ivanovich's, but Christ's. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Oh, stop, stop! Why leave the fold of the
 
 144 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Orthodox Church? I know you mean well, but 
 you are ruining your own soul. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 (to himself.) I expected this. What am I to 
 do? 
 
 Alexandra. 
 What is it? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 {reading.) It is from the Princess. This is 
 what she writes: " Boris has refused to serve and 
 has been arrested. You have been his ruin. It 
 is your duty to save him. He is at the Kroutitsk 
 Barracks." Yes, I must go to him, if only they 
 will let me see him. {He takes off his apron, puts 
 his coat on, and goes out.) {Exit all.) 
 
 Scene II 
 
 Office. A Clerk sitting. Sentry pacing up 
 and down at opposite door. Enter General 
 with his aide-de-camp. Clerk jumps up. Sen- 
 try salutes. 
 
 General'. 
 
 Where is the colonel? 
 
 Clerk. 
 He was asked to go to see the recruit, your 
 excellency.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 145 
 
 General. 
 Very well. Ask him to come here. 
 
 Clerk. 
 Yes, your excellency. 
 
 General. 
 What are you copying there? The deposition 
 of the recruit? 
 
 Clerk. 
 Yes, your excellency. 
 
 General. 
 Give it to me. 
 
 (Clerk gives it and goes out.) 
 
 General. 
 
 {giving paper to Aide-de-camp.) Read it, 
 please. 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 
 (reading.) "To the questions which were put 
 to me: (i) Why I refused to take the oath; (2) 
 Why I refused to carry out the demands of the 
 government; and (3) what made me utter words 
 offensive not only to the military body, but to the 
 highest authority, I answer: to the first question: 
 I will not take the oath because I profess the 
 teaching of Christ. In His teaching Christ 
 clearly forbids it, as in the Gospel, Matt. v. 33- 
 37, and the Epistle of James, v. 12."
 
 146 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 General. 
 
 There they are, discussing and putting their 
 own interpretations on it. 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 
 (continuing.) " It is said in the Gospel Matt. v. 
 37, ' Let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, 
 nay: for whatsoever is more than these cometh of 
 evil,' and James, v. 12 : ' But above all things, my 
 brethren, swear not, neither by heaven, neither by 
 the earth, neither by any other oath; but let your 
 yea be yea; and your nay, nay; lest ye fall into 
 condemnation.' 
 
 " But even if there were not such explicit pro- 
 hibition of swearing in the Gospel, I would not 
 swear to fulfil the will of men, for according to 
 Christ's teaching I am bound to fulfil the will of 
 God, which may not coincide with the will of 
 
 men." 
 
 General. 
 
 There they are, discussing! If I had my way, 
 such things would not occur. 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 
 (reading.) "And I refuse to comply with the 
 demands of men calling themselves the govern- 
 ment because — " 
 
 General. 
 What impudence !
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 147 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 
 " Because these demands are criminal and 
 wicked. I am required to enter the army, to be 
 prepared and instructed how to murder. This is 
 forbidden by the Old as well as by the New Tes- 
 tament, and, moreover, by my conscience. As to 
 the third question — " 
 
 {Enter COLONEL with Clerk, 
 General shakes hands ivith him.) 
 
 Colonel. 
 You are reading the deposition,? 
 
 General. 
 Yes. Unpardonably impudent. Continue. 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 (reading.) " As to the third question, what in- 
 duced me to speak offensively to the Council. I 
 answer, that I was led by my desire to serve God 
 and to denounce shams which are perpetrated in 
 His name. This desire I hope to preserve while 
 I live. That is why — " 
 
 General. 
 
 Oh, enough of that rubbish ! The question is, 
 how to root it all out, and prevent him from cor- 
 rupting our men. {To Colonel.) Have you 
 spoken to him?
 
 148 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Colonel. 
 
 I have been talking to him all this time. I tried 
 to appeal to his conscience, to make him under- 
 stand that he was only making matters worse for 
 himself and that he would not achieve anything 
 by such methods. I spoke to him about his fam- 
 ily. He was very excited, but he stuck to his 
 words. 
 
 General. 
 
 It is idle to say much to him. We are soldiers; 
 men of actions, not words. Have him brought 
 here. 
 
 (Exit Aide-de-camp and Clerk.) 
 
 General. 
 
 (sitting down.) No, colonel. You were wrong." 
 Such fellows must be dealt with in quite another 
 fashion. Strong measures are needed to cut off 
 the offending member. One foul sheep ruins the 
 whole flock. Sentimentality has no place here. 
 His being a prince and having a mother and a 
 fiancee does not concern us. There is a soldier be- 
 fore us and we must fulfil the will of the Tsar. 
 
 Colonel. 
 
 I only thought it would be easier to influence 
 him by persuasion.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 149 
 
 General. 
 
 Not at all. Firmness, only firmness. I had a 
 case like this once before. He must be made to 
 feel that he Is nothing, that he is a grain of sand 
 under the wheel of a chariot, and that he cannot 
 impede its progress. 
 
 Colonel. 
 Well, we can try. 
 
 General. 
 {beginning to get angry.) It is not a question of 
 trying. I have nothing to try. I have served my 
 sovereign for forty-four years, have given and am 
 giving my life to the service, and suddenly a boy 
 comes and wants to teach me, and quotes Bible 
 texts. Let him talk that nonsense to the priests. 
 To me he is either a soldier, or a prisoner. That's 
 the end of it. 
 
 {Enter Boris under escort of two 
 soldiers. Aide-de-camp follows him 
 in.) 
 
 General. 
 
 {pointing to Boris with his finger.) Place him 
 there. 
 
 Boris. 
 No necessity whatever to " place " me any- 
 where. I will stand or sit where I please, for as to 
 your authority over me, I do not —
 
 I50 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 General. 
 
 Silence ! You don't recognise my authority — 
 I'll make you recognise it! 
 
 Boris. 
 (sits down.) How wrong of you to shout like 
 that! 
 
 General. 
 
 Lift him up and make him stand! 
 
 {Soldiers raise BORIS up.) 
 
 Boris. 
 That you can do. You can kill me, but you can- 
 not force me to obey you. 
 
 General. 
 Silence, I say ! Listen to what I say to you. 
 
 Boris. 
 I do not in the least wish to hear what you say. 
 
 General. 
 He is mad. He must be sent to the hospital 
 to test his sanity. That's the only thing to do 
 with him. 
 
 Colonel. 
 
 We have orders to send him to the Gendarmerie 
 Department to be questioned.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 151 
 
 General. 
 Very well — do so. But put him into uniform. 
 
 Colonel. 
 He refuses to wear it. 
 
 General. 
 Then tie his hands and feet. (To Boris.) 
 Now listen to what I am going to tell you. It is 
 a matter of perfect indifference to me what be- 
 comes of you. But for your own sake I would 
 advise you to think it over. You will only rot 
 in the fortress, and be of no use to any one. Give 
 it up. You were excited, and so was I. (Slap- 
 ping him on the shoulder.) Go — take your oath 
 and drop all that nonsense. ( To the Aide-de- 
 camp.) Is the priest here? (To Boris.) 
 Well? (Boris is silent.) Why don't you an- 
 swer? I assure you I'm advising you for your own 
 good. The weakest goes to the wall. You can 
 keep your own ideas and merely serve your time. 
 We won't be hard on you. Well? 
 
 Boris. 
 
 I have nothing more to say. I have said every- 
 thing. 
 
 General. 
 Just now you said that there were such and such 
 verses in the Gospel. Surely the priests know
 
 152 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 that? You'd better talk that over with the priest, 
 and then think it over. That's surely the best 
 way. Good-bye. I hope to meet you again and 
 be able to congratulate you on your entrance into 
 the service of the Tsar. Send the priest here. 
 
 {Exit General with Colonel 
 and Aide-de-camp.) 
 
 Boris. 
 
 {to soldiers and Clerk.) You see how they talk. 
 They are perfectly aware themselves that they are 
 deceiving you. Don't give in to them. Throw 
 down your arms. Go away. Let them flog you 
 to death in their disciplinary battalions. Even 
 that is better than to be the slaves of these im- 
 postors ! 
 
 Clerk. 
 No, that's impossible. How can we get on 
 without the army? It is impossible. 
 
 Boris. 
 
 We must not reason in that way. We must do 
 just as God desires. And God desires us to — 
 
 Soldier. 
 
 Then why do they call it the " Christ-serving 
 Army?"
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 153 
 
 Boris. 
 That is not said anywhere. It's the invention 
 of these impostors. 
 
 Soldier. 
 
 How so ? The bishops must know. 
 
 {Enter Police Officer with 
 Stenographer.) 
 
 Police Officer. 
 {to Clerk.) Is Prince Cheremshanov the re- 
 cruit here? 
 
 Clerk. 
 Yes, sir. There he is. 
 
 Police Officer. 
 Please step this way. Are you the Prince Boris 
 Cheremshanov who refused to take the oath? 
 
 Boris. 
 I am he. 
 
 {Officer sits dozvn and motions to 
 a seat opposite.) 
 
 Police Officer. 
 Please sit down. 
 
 Boris. 
 I think there's no use in our talking. 
 
 Police Officer. 
 I don't agree. To you at any rate it may be
 
 154 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 of advantage. You see, I have been informed 
 that you refused military service and refused to 
 take the oath, which raises the suspicion that you 
 belong to the revolutionary party. And this I 
 have to investigate. If this is true, then we must 
 remove you from military service and either put 
 you in prison or exile you, according to the extent 
 of your participation in the revolutionary move- 
 ment. Otherwise we leave you to the military 
 authorities. Please note that I have told you 
 everything quite frankly, and I trust you will show 
 the same confidence in talking to us. 
 
 Boris. 
 In the first place I cannot have any confidence 
 In those who wear that {pointing to the uniform.) 
 In the second place your very office is of such a 
 nature that I cannot respect it, but, on the con- 
 trary, despise it from my heart. But I will not 
 refuse to answer your questions. What is it you 
 want to know? 
 
 Police Officer. 
 
 First, please, your name, rank, and religious 
 faith. 
 
 Boris. 
 You know all that, so that I will not answer. 
 Only one of those questions is of any importance
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 155 
 
 to me. I do not belong to the so-called Orthodox 
 Church. 
 
 Police Officer. 
 Then what Is your religion? 
 
 Boris. 
 I cannot define it. 
 
 Police Officer. 
 Still — 
 
 Boris. 
 Let us say Christian, founded on the Sermon 
 on the Mount. 
 
 Police Officer. 
 Take that down. 
 
 {Stenographer writes.) 
 
 Police Officer. 
 {to Boris.) But you acknowledge that you be- 
 long to some state, some class? 
 
 Boris. 
 I do not admit that. I consider myself a man, 
 a servant of God. • 
 
 Police Officer. 
 But why do you not recognise your allegiance 
 to the Russian State? 
 
 Boris. 
 
 Because I do not recognise the existence of any 
 State.
 
 156 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Police Officer. 
 What do you mean — when you say you do not 
 recognise It? Do you want to destroy it? 
 
 Boris. 
 Most certainly I do, and I work to that end. 
 
 Police Officer. 
 {to Scribe.) Take that down. {To Boris.) 
 By what means do you work? 
 
 Boris. 
 By denouncing deceit and Hes, and by spread- 
 ing the truth. Just now, the moment before you 
 entered, I was telling these soldiers that they 
 must not believe the deceit in which they are made 
 to share. 
 
 Police Officer. 
 But beside these measures of denunciation and 
 proselytising, do you admit other means? 
 
 Boris. 
 I not only exclude violence, but I consider It 
 the greatest sin, and all underhand actions also. 
 
 Police Officer. 
 (/o Scribe.) Take It down. Very good. Now 
 allow me to ask you about your acquaintances, 
 your friends. Do you know Ivashenkov?
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 157 
 
 Boris. 
 
 No. 
 
 Police Officer. 
 And Klein? 
 
 Boris. 
 I have heard of him, but I have never seen him. 
 
 {Enter Chaplain.) 
 
 Police Officer. 
 Well, I think that is all. I consider that you 
 are not a dangerous person. You do not con- 
 cern our department. I hope you will soon be 
 released. Good-day. {Shakes liands.) 
 
 Boris. 
 There is one thing I should like to say to you. 
 Excuse me, but I cannot resist saying jt. Why 
 have you chosen such a bad and wicked calling? 
 I would advise you to leave it. 
 
 Police Officer. 
 {smiling.) Thank you for your advice: I have 
 my reasons. Now, father, I'll give up my place 
 to you. 
 
 {The priest, an old man zuith 
 cross and Testament, steps for- 
 ward. The Scribe advances to 
 receive his blessing.)
 
 158 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Chaplain. 
 
 {to Boris.) Why do you grieve your superiors 
 and refuse to perform the duty of a Christian 
 by serving your Tsar and country? 
 
 Boris. 
 {smiling.) It is precisely because I wish to per- 
 form the duties of a Christian that I do not wish 
 to be a soldier. 
 
 Chaplain. 
 
 Why do you not wish it? It is written, " Lay 
 down your life for your friends." That is the 
 part of a true Christian. 
 
 Boris. 
 Yes, to lay down your own, but not take the 
 life of others. To give up my life is just what 
 I wish. 
 
 Chaplain. 
 You judge wrongly, young man. And what 
 did Jesus Christ say to the soldiers? 
 
 Boris. 
 {smiling.) That only proves that even in His 
 time soldiers plundered, and He forbade them 
 to do so. 
 
 Chaplain. 
 Well — why do you refuse to take the oath?
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 159 
 
 Boris. 
 You know It Is forbidden In the Gospel. 
 
 Chaplain. 
 
 Not at all. How was It that when Pilate said, 
 " In the name of God I ask you, are you the 
 Christ? " Our Lord Jesus Christ answered, " I 
 am He." That proves an oath Is not forbidden. 
 
 Boris. 
 
 Are you not ashamed to say that, you, an old 
 man? 
 
 Chaplain. 
 
 I advise you not to be obstinate. It is not for 
 us to change the world. Take the oath, and have 
 done with It. As for what Is sin and what is not 
 sin, leave that for the Church to decide. 
 
 Boris. 
 
 Leave it to you? Are you not afraid to take 
 such a weight of sin upon your soul ? 
 
 Chaplain. 
 
 What sin? I have always been true to the 
 faith In which I was educated. I have been a 
 priest now for over thirty years; there can be no 
 sin upon my soul. 
 
 Boris. 
 Then whose Is the sin of deceiving so many
 
 i6o THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 people? You know what their heads are full of. 
 {Points to the sentry.) 
 
 Chaplain. 
 
 That, young man, Is not for us to judge. Our 
 duty is to obey our superiors. 
 
 Boris. 
 Leave me alone. I pity you, and what you say 
 disgusts me. If you were like that general it 
 would not be so bad. But you come with cross 
 and Bible to try to persuade me in the name of 
 Christ to deny Christ. Go — go! {Excitedly.) 
 Go. Take me away where I shall see no one. 
 I am tired — I am terribly tired. 
 
 Chaplain. 
 Well, good-bye. 
 
 {Enter AiDE-DE-CAMP. BORIS re- 
 tires to hack of scene.) 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 Well? 
 
 Chaplain, 
 Great stubbornness. Great insubordination. 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 
 He has not consented to take the oath and to 
 serve?
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS i6i 
 
 Chaplain. 
 Not in the least. 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 Then I shall have to take him to the hospital. 
 
 Chaplain. 
 To make out that he is ill. Of course that's 
 the best way; otherwise his example might be bad 
 for the rest. 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 He will be examined in the ward for mental 
 ailments. These are my orders. 
 
 Chaplain. 
 Of course. Good-day. (Exit.) 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 
 (approaching Boris.) Please come with me. I 
 am ordered to escort you. 
 
 Boris. 
 Where to? 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 Just for a time, to the hospital, where you will 
 be more comfortable, and will have leisure to 
 think the matter over. 
 
 Boris. 
 
 I have thought it over for some time. But let 
 us go. {Exeunt.)
 
 1 62 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Scene III 
 
 Reception-room in the Hospital. 
 
 (Head Physician and House 
 Surgeon and Patients in hospi- 
 tal dress. Warders in blouses.) 
 
 Sick Officer. 
 
 I tell you, you simply make me worse. There 
 were times when I felt quite well. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 
 Don't get so excited. I am quite willing to 
 discharge you, but you know yourself that it is 
 unsafe for you to be at liberty. If I knew that 
 you would be taken care of — 
 
 Sick Officer. 
 
 You think I shall begin to drink again. Oh 
 no! I've learned my lesson. Every additional 
 day spent here is simply killing me. You do just 
 the contrary to what {over excited) should be 
 done. You are cruel. It is all very well for 
 you — 
 
 Head Physician. 
 
 Calm yourself. {Makes a sign to Warders 
 who approach the Officer from behind.)
 
 SHIiNES IN DARKNESS 163 
 
 Sick Officer. 
 
 It's all very well for you to talk when you are 
 free. But how do you think I feel here in the 
 company of lunatics? {To Warders.) Why 
 are you coming so near to me? Get away? 
 
 Head Physician. 
 I beg you to be calm. 
 
 Sick Officer. 
 
 And I beg, I insist on my discharge. {Shrieks, 
 rushes at doctor. Warders seize him — a strug- 
 gle — they lead him away.) 
 
 House Surgeon. 
 
 Same thing all over again. He was on the 
 point of striking you. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 
 Alcoholic subject, and there's nothing to be 
 done for him. Still there is some improvement. 
 
 {Enter Aide-de-camp.) 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 Good morning. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 
 Good morning.
 
 1 64 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 
 I have brought you a very interesting case. A 
 certain Prince Cheremshanov was to do his mili- 
 tary service, and refused on the ground of the 
 Gospel. He was handed over to the police, but 
 they found him outside their jurisdiction, and de- 
 cided it was not a political case. The chaplain 
 talked to him, but without the slightest effect. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 
 {laughing.) And as usual you bring him to us 
 as the last resort. Well, let's have a look at him. 
 
 {Exit House Surgeon.) 
 
 Aide-de-camp. 
 They say he is a well-educated fellow, and that 
 he's engaged to a rich girl. It is very strange. I 
 must say the hospital is exactly the right place for 
 him. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 It must be a case of mania ^— - 
 
 (Boris is brought in.) 
 
 Good morning. Please sit down. We'll have 
 a little talk. {To the others.) Leave us alone. 
 
 {Exeunt all save Boris and Physician.)
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 165 
 
 Boris. 
 
 I would like to ask you, if you are going to 
 shut me up somewhere, to do it as quickly as pos- 
 sible and let me have a rest. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 Excuse me : I must comply with the regulations. 
 I will merely put a few questions to you. How 
 do you feel? From what are you suffering? 
 
 Boris. 
 There's nothing the matter with me. I am 
 perfectly well. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 
 Yes; but your conduct is different from the con- 
 duct of others. 
 
 Boris. 
 I am acting according to the dictates of my 
 conscience. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 You have refused to perform your military 
 duty. What is your motive? 
 
 Boris. 
 I am a Christian, and therefore cannot kill. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 But is it not necessary to protect the country
 
 1 66 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 from foreign enemies, and restrain from evil 
 those who disturb the peace within? 
 
 Boris. 
 
 The country is not attacked by any enemies, 
 and as for disturbers of the peace within her bor- 
 ders, there are more of those within the Govern- 
 ment than among the people towards whom the 
 Government uses violence. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 What do you mean by that? 
 
 Boris. 
 
 I mean that the chief cause of evil — alcohol 
 — is sold by the Government; a false religious 
 creed is spread by the Government; and the very 
 military service, such as I am required to perform, 
 and which is the principal means of corruption in 
 the country, is required by the Government. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 
 Then, according to your views. Government 
 and State are unnecessary. 
 
 Boris. 
 
 I do not know; but I am quite sure I must not 
 participate in these evils.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 167 
 
 Head Physician. 
 But what will become of the world? We are 
 given a mind with which to look ahead. 
 
 Boris. 
 Yes, and we are also given common sense to see 
 that the organisation of society shall not be 
 founded on violence, but on love, and that the re- 
 fusal of one man to participate in evil has noth- 
 ing dangerous in it — 
 
 Head Physician. 
 Now please let me make an examination. Will 
 you kindly lie down? {Begins to examine him.) 
 Do you feel any pain here? 
 
 Boris. 
 
 No. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 Nor here? 
 
 Boris. 
 No. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 Breathe. Now don't breathe. Thank you. 
 Now allow me. ( Takes out a measure and meas- 
 ures his nose and his forehead.) Now be so kind 
 as to shut your eyes and walk.
 
 i68 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Boris. 
 Aren't you ashamed to do all that? 
 
 Head Physician. 
 What? 
 
 Boris. 
 
 All these silly things. You know perfectly 
 well that I'm all right, and have been sent here 
 for refusing to take part in their wickedness, and 
 as they had no arguments to offer in opposition to 
 my truth, they pretend that they think me abnor- 
 mal. And you aid them in that ! That is des- 
 picable and disgraceful. You'd better stop it. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 Then you do not wish to walk? 
 
 Boris. 
 
 No, I do not. You may torment me as much 
 as you like. That is your business. But I do not 
 wish to help you in it. {Vehemently.) Stop it, 
 I say! 
 
 (Head Physician presses a but- 
 ton. Two Warders enter.) 
 
 Head Physician. 
 Be calm, please. I quite understand that your
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 169 
 
 nerves are rather over-strained. Would you not 
 like to go to your quarters? 
 
 {Enter House Surgeon.) 
 
 House Surgeon. 
 Visitors have come for Cheremshanov. 
 
 Boris. 
 Who are they? 
 
 House Surgeon. 
 Sarintsev and his daughter. 
 
 Boris. 
 I should like to see them. 
 
 Head Physician. 
 
 I have no objection. Ask them in. You may 
 receive them here. 
 
 {Enter NICHOLAS IvANOVICH and 
 LuBA. Princess Cheremshanova 
 puts her head into the door, saying, 
 "Go in, I'll come later.") 
 
 LuBA. 
 
 {goes straight to Boris, takes his face between 
 her hands, and kisses him.) Poor Boris! 
 
 Boris. 
 No, don't pity me. I feel so well — so happy.
 
 I70 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 I am so easy in my mind. {To Nicholas Ivan- 
 OVICH.) How do you do? {Embraces him.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 I came to tell you something important. In 
 the first place, it is worse in such cases to overdo 
 it than to do too little; in the second place, you 
 must act according to the Gospel, taking no 
 thought as to your future words and acts. When 
 taken before the authorities " think not what ye 
 shall say, for the Holy Ghost will teach you in 
 that hour what ye ought to say." The moment 
 to act is not when your reason dictates this or 
 that, but only when your whole being determines 
 your action. 
 
 Boris. 
 That's just what I did. I did not think I 
 should refuse to serve. But when I saw all this 
 falsehood, the emblem of justice, the documents, 
 the police, and the members of the Council smok- 
 ing — I could not help speaking as I did. It 
 seemed a terrible thing to do, but only till I began. 
 Then all became so simple and delightful. 
 
 (LuBA sits weeping.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Above all, do nothing for the sake of the praise 
 of men, or in order to please those whose esteem
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 171 
 
 you value. As for myself, I tell you honestly that 
 if you took the oath this moment and entered the 
 army, I would love and respect you no less; pos- 
 sibly even more than before, because it is not 
 what is done in the world that is of value, but 
 what is done within the soul, 
 
 Boris. 
 That is certainly so, because if a thing Is done 
 within the soul, it will bring about a change in 
 the world. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Well, I have said what I had to say. Your 
 mother is here, and she is quite broken-hearted. 
 If you can do what she desires, do it. That is 
 what I wanted to tell you. 
 
 {In the corridor frightful scream- 
 ing of the lunatics. One lunatic 
 bursts into the room. Warders fol- 
 low and drag him away.) 
 
 LuBA. 
 This is dreadful ! And you will have to be 
 here! {JVeeps.) 
 
 Boris. 
 
 This doesn't frighten me. Nothing frightens 
 me now. I feel at peace. The only thing that I
 
 172 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 fear is your attitude to all this. Help me — Tm 
 sure you will help me. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 How can I be glad? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Be glad. That is impossible. Neither am I 
 glad. I suffer for him and would willingly take 
 his place. But I am suffering, and yet I know 
 that it is for the best. 
 
 LuBA. 
 For the best! When will they let him go? 
 
 Boris. 
 No one knows. I am not thinking about the 
 future; the present is joyful. And you could 
 make it still more so. 
 
 {Enter Princess.) 
 
 Princess. 
 I can wait no longer. ( To Nicholas Ivano- 
 VICH.) Well, have you persuaded him? Are 
 you willing, Boris darling? You must know how 
 I have suffered. Thirty years of my life have 
 been given to you. To bring you up and be so 
 proud of you, and then when all is ready and fin- 
 ished, suddenly to give up everything. Prison, 
 disgrace! No, Boris —
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 173 
 
 Boris. 
 
 Listen, mother. 
 
 Princess. 
 (to Nicholas Ivanovich.) Why don't you 
 say something? You have brought about his 
 ruin, and you ought to persuade him. It's all 
 very well for you. Luba, speak to him! 
 
 LuBA. 
 What can I do? 
 
 Boris. 
 Mother, try to understand that some things are 
 impossible. Just as it is impossible to fly, so it 
 is impossible for me to serve in the army. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 You only imagine you cannot! It's all non- 
 sense. Others have served, and are serving now. 
 You and Nicholas Ivanovich have invented a new 
 Christian creed that is not Christian at all. It is 
 a diabolical creed, that causes suffering to every 
 one around you. 
 
 Boris. 
 So it is written in the Gospel. 
 
 Princess. 
 Nothing of that sort is said. And if it is, it's
 
 174 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 simply stupid. Boris darling, spare me! {Falls 
 on his neck and sobs.) My whole life has been 
 full of sorrow. You have been my only gleam 
 of gladness, and now you turn it into anguish. 
 Boris, have pity! 
 
 Boris. 
 It is very, very painful to me, mother, but I 
 cannot promise you that. 
 
 Princess. 
 Do not refuse. Say you will try! 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Say you will think it over, and do think it over. 
 
 Boris. 
 Very well — I will do that. But have pity on 
 me, also, mother. It is hard for me too. 
 
 {Again desperate screams in a corridor.) 
 
 I am in a lunatic asylum, you see, and I may lose 
 my reason. 
 
 {Enter Head Physician.) 
 
 Head Physician. 
 Madame, this may have the worst results. 
 Your son is in a very excited state. I think we 
 had better consider the visit at an end. The reg- 
 ular visiting day is Thursday before twelve.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 175 
 
 Princess. 
 Well, well, I will go. Good-bye, Boris. Only 
 do think it over. Spare me, and on Thursday 
 meet me with good news. {Kisses him.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 (shaking hands with him.) Think it over, with 
 God's help, as if to-morrow you were going to die. 
 That is the only way to make the right decision. 
 Good-bye. 
 
 Boris. 
 {approaching LuBA.) What are you going to 
 say to me? 
 
 LuBA. 
 What can I say? I cannot be untruthful. I 
 do not understand why you torture yourself and 
 others. I do not understand, and there is noth- 
 ing I can say. {Weeps.) 
 
 {They all go.) 
 
 Boris. 
 {alone.) Oh, how difficult, how difficult it is! 
 God help me ! 
 
 {Enter Warders with hospital attire.) 
 
 Warder. 
 Will you please put this on? 
 
 Boris. 
 {begins to change — then.) No, I will not! 
 {They change his garments by force.)
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene I 
 
 Moscow. A year has passed since the third 
 act. Big drawing-room with piano arranged for 
 dancing party in Sarintsev's house. Footman ar- 
 ranges flowers in front of piano. A Christmas 
 tree. 
 
 {Enter Marie Ivanovna in ele- 
 gant silk dress, with Alexandra 
 Ivanovna.) 
 
 Marie. 
 
 It Isn't a ball. It is only a small dance. A 
 party, as we used to say, for the young people. I 
 can't let my children go out to dances and never 
 give a party myself. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 I'm afraid Nicholas will be displeased. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 What can I do? {To Footman.) Put it 
 here. Heaven knows I do not want to grieve 
 him. But I think he is less exacting now, on the 
 whole. 
 
 '176
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 177 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Oh no ! Only he does not talk about it. He 
 seemed quite upset when he went to his room 
 after dinner. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 But what is to be done? what is to be done? 
 We must all live. There are six children, and if 
 I did not provide some amusement for them at 
 home, Heaven knows what they would do. At 
 any rate, I am happy about Luba. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Has he proposed? 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Practically. He has spoken to her and she has 
 accepted him. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 That will be another awful blow for him. 
 
 Marie. 
 But he knows. He cannot help knowing. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 He does not like him. 
 
 Marie. 
 {to Footman.) Put the fruit on the side-board. 
 Whom do you mean? Alexis Mikhailovich?
 
 178 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Of course not, for he is the embodied negation of 
 all his theories — a man of the world, nice, kind, 
 agreeable. Oh, that awful nightmare of Boris 
 Cheremshanov ! How is he now? 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Lisa has been to see him. He's still there. 
 She says he has grown very thin, and the doctors 
 are anxious about his hfe or reason. 
 
 Marie. 
 He is a victim of his dreadful theories. His 
 life ruined — to what end? It certainly was not 
 my wish, 
 
 (Enter Pianist.) 
 
 You have come to play for the dancing? 
 
 Pianist. 
 Yes, I am the pianist. 
 
 Marie. 
 Please sit down and wait. Will you have some 
 tea? 
 
 Pianist. 
 No, thank you. (Goes to piano.) 
 
 Marie. 
 I never wished it. I was fond of Boris. But
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 179 
 
 of course he was no match for Luba, especially 
 after taking up with Nicholas's ideas. 
 
 Alexandra. 
 Still, his strength of conviction is extraordinary. 
 What agony he has been through ! They tell 
 him that if he will not give in he must stay where 
 he is or else be sent to the fortress, and he gives 
 them but one answer. And Lisa says he's so 
 happy, even merry. 
 
 Marie. 
 Fanatic! Oh, there's Alexis Mikhailovich! 
 
 {Enter the brilliant Alexis 
 Mikhailovich Starkovsky in 
 evening dress.) 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 
 I have come early. {Kisses the hands of both 
 ladies.) 
 
 Marie. 
 So much the better. 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 And Lubov Nicolaevna? She said she was go- 
 ing to dance a lot to make up for what she had 
 missed. I volunteered to help her. 
 
 Marie. 
 She is arranging the favours for the cotillion.
 
 i8o THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 I'll go and help her. May I? 
 
 Marie. 
 Certainly. 
 
 (Starkovsky Hirns to go, and 
 meets Luba coming towai'd him car- 
 rying a cushion on which are stars 
 and ribbons. LuBA in evening 
 dress, not low-necked.) 
 
 Luba. 
 
 Oh, there you are! That's right. Do help 
 me. There are two more cushions in the draw- 
 ing-room, bring them here. How do you do ! 
 How do you do ! 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 I am off! {Goes.) 
 
 Marie. 
 {to Luba.) Listen, Luba. To-night our guests 
 are sure to make insinuations and ask questions. 
 May we announce it? 
 
 Luba. 
 No, mother, no. Why? Let them ask. It 
 would grieve father. 
 
 Marie. 
 But he must know, or at least guess. And we
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS i8i 
 
 shall have to tell him sooner or later. I really 
 think it is best to announce it to-night. It is a 
 farcical secret. 
 
 LuBA. 
 
 No, no, mother — please! It would spoil the 
 whole evening. No, don't! 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Very well, as you like. 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Or, anyhow, not till the end of the evening, 
 just before supper. {Calling out.) Well, are 
 you bringing them? 
 
 Marie. 
 I will go and see to Natasha. 
 
 (Exit with Anna Ivanovna.) 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 
 (brings three cushions, the top one under his chin, 
 and lets something drop.) Don't you trouble, 
 Lubov Nicolaevna. I'll pick them up. I say, 
 what a lot of favours you've got! The thing is 
 to distribute them properly! Vania, come here. 
 
 {Enter Vania^ carrying more fa- 
 vours. )
 
 1 82 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Vania. 
 
 That's the last of them. Luba, Alexis Mik- 
 hailovich and I have got a bet on as to who will 
 get most favours. 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 It's very easy for you. You know everybody, 
 so you are sure of theirs in advance. I must win 
 the girls before I can get any favours at all. So 
 I have a handicap of forty points, you see. 
 
 Vania. 
 But you are grown up, and I'm only a boy. 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 I'm not very grown up, and so I am worse than 
 a boy. 
 
 Luba. 
 Vania, please go to my room and bring me the 
 paste and my needle-case; they're on the shelf. 
 But for mercy's sake don't break the watch there. 
 
 Vania. 
 (running off.) I'll break everything. 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 (takes Luba's hand.) May I, Luba? I am so 
 happy. (Kisses her hand.) The mazurka is 
 mine, but that isn't enough. There isn't time In
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 183 
 
 the mazurka to say much, and I have a great deal 
 to say. May I telegraph to my people and tell 
 them you have accepted me and how happy I am? 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 Yes, you can do it to-night. 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 One word more. How will Nicholas Ivano- 
 vich take the news? Have you told him? Have 
 you told him? Yes? 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 No, I have not, but I will. He will take it just 
 as he takes everything now that concerns his fam- 
 ily. He will say, " Do as you like." But in his 
 heart he will be grieved. 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 Because I am not Cheremshanov — because I 
 am a chamberlain, a marshal of nobility? 
 
 LuBA. 
 
 Yes. But I have tried to fight against myself 
 . — to deceive myself for his sake. And it is not 
 because I do not love him that I do not follow his 
 wishes, but because I cannot act a lie. And he 
 says himself that one should not. I long to live 
 my own life !
 
 1 84 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 Life is the only truth there is. What has be- 
 come of Cheremshanov? 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 [agitated.) Do not talk to me about him. I 
 want to find fault with him even when he is suffer- 
 ing. I know it is because I am to blame about 
 him. But one thing I do know: that there is 
 such a thing as love — real love — and that I 
 never had for him. 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 Do you really mean it, Luba? 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 You want me to say that it is you that I love 
 with a real love? I will not say that. I cer- 
 tainly love you. . . . But it is a different kind of 
 love. Neither of them is the real thing. If I 
 could only put them both together. . . . 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 Oh no, I'm quite content with mine. {Kisses 
 her hand. ) Luba ! 
 
 LuBA. 
 (moving from him.) No; we must talk this 
 over. You see, the guests are beginning to ar- 
 rive.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 185 
 
 {Enter Countess with Tonia 
 arid a younger girl.) 
 Mother will be here directly. 
 
 Countess. 
 We are the first then? 
 
 Starkovsky. 
 
 Somebody must be first. I offered to make an 
 india-rubber lady to be the first arrival. 
 
 {Enter Stephen with Vania, 
 who brings the paste and needles.) 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 {to Tonia.) I hoped to see you last night at the 
 Italian opera. 
 
 Tonia. 
 
 We were at my aunt's, sewing for the poor. 
 
 {Enter Students, Ladies, and 
 Marie Ivanovna.) 
 
 Countess. 
 
 {to Marie Ivanovna.) Shall we not see Nich- 
 olas Ivanovich? 
 
 Marie. 
 
 No; he never leaves his rooms. 
 
 Stephen. 
 How did Cheremshanov's affair end?
 
 1 86 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Marie. 
 He IS still In the asylum, poor boy. 
 
 Countess. 
 What obstinacy! 
 
 One of the Guests. 
 What an extraordinary delusion! What good 
 can come of it? 
 
 Student. 
 
 Take your partners for the quadrille, please ! 
 
 {Claps his hands. They take up 
 their positions and dance. Enter 
 Alexandra Ivanovna, and walks 
 up to her sister.) 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 He is frightfully excited. He has been to see 
 Boris, and on returning he saw the dancing going 
 on. He wants to go away. I went up to his 
 door, and heard his conversation with Alexander 
 Petrovich. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 What did they say? 
 
 Voice from the Dance. 
 Rond des dames. Les cavaliers en avant.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 187 
 
 Alexandra. 
 
 He has made up his mind that he cannot pos- 
 sibly continue to live here, and he is going away. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 What a torment that man is ! 
 
 {Exit Marie Ivanovna.) 
 
 Scene II 
 
 Nicholas Ivanovich's room. Music is 
 heard from afar. He has his coat on, and puts a 
 letter on the table. IFith him is a tramp, ALEX- 
 ANDER PetROVICH, in rags. 
 
 Alexander. 
 Don't be uneasy. We can get to the Caucasus 
 without a penny; and when we are once there you 
 can arrange matters. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 We will take the train to Tula, and then we 
 will go on foot. Now, we're ready. {Puts the 
 letter in the middle of the table, and goes to- 
 wards the door. Meets Marie Ivanovna, who 
 enters.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 What have you come for?
 
 1 88 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Marie. 
 To see what you are doing. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I am suffering terribly. 
 
 Marie. 
 What have I come for? Not to let you do a 
 cruel thing. Why do you do it? What have I 
 done? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Why? Because I cannot go on living like this; 
 I cannot endure this horrible life of depravity! 
 
 Marie. 
 
 But this Is awful. You call my life, which I 
 devote to you and to the children, depraved! 
 {Noticing the presence of Alexander Petro- 
 VICH.) Renvoyez an moins cet homme. Je ne 
 veiix pas qu'il soit temoin de cette conversation. 
 
 Alexander. 
 
 {in broken French.) Comprenez ton jours moi 
 parte. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Wait for me outside, Alexander Petrovlch. I 
 will come directly. 
 
 {Exit Alexander Petrovich.)
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 189 
 
 Marie. 
 
 What can you have in common with that man? 
 Why he is more to you than your wife passes all 
 comprehension. Where do you intend to go? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I was leaving a letter for you. I did not want 
 to talk about it. It is too painful. But if you 
 wish I will try to tell you calmly what is in it. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 No; I absolutely cannot understand why you 
 hate and punish the wife who has given up every- 
 thing for you. Can you say that I go out into 
 society, that I love dress or flirtations? No! my 
 whole life has been devoted to my family. I 
 nursed all my children myself; I brought them 
 up myself; and during these last years the whole 
 burden of their education and all the manage- 
 ment of our affairs has fallen on me. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 {interrupting.) But all the weight of that bur- 
 den is due to your refusal to lead the life I pro- 
 posed. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 But what you proposed was impossible. Ask 
 anybody! I could not let the children grow up
 
 I90 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 illiterate, as you desired; and I could not do the 
 cooking and the washing with my own hands. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I never asked you to. 
 
 Marie. 
 Well, something very like It. You call your- 
 self a Christian, and you want to do good in the 
 world. You say you love humanity. Then why 
 do you torment the woman who has given her 
 whole life to you? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 In what way am I tormenting you? I love 
 you, but — 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Is it not tormenting me to leave me and to go 
 away? What will all the world say? One of 
 the two — either that I am a bad, wicked woman, 
 or that you are mad. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Let them say I am mad then. I cannot live 
 like this. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Why is it so terrible that I should give a party? 
 • — the only one during the whole season, for fear 
 of grieving you? I only did it because every one
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 191 
 
 said it was a necessity. Ask Mary, ask Varvara 
 Vasilievna. You treat this as a crime, and make 
 me suffer disgrace for it. It is not so much the 
 disgrace I mind. The worst of it is that you do 
 not love me — you love the whole world, even 
 that drunkard Alexander Petrovich. . . . 
 But I still love you — I cannot live without you. 
 What have I done? what have I done? (She 
 weeps.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 You will not understand my life — my spiritual 
 life. 
 
 Marie. 
 I do want to, but I can't. I only see that your 
 idea of Christianity makes you hate your family, 
 and hate me. Why, I do not understand. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 But others understand. 
 
 Marie. 
 Who? Alexander Petrovich, who gets money 
 from you? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 He and Ermilovich, Tonia, and Vasily. But 
 that is immaterial. If no one understood, it 
 would alter nothing. 
 
 Marie. 
 Vasily Ermilovich has repented, and has re-
 
 192 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 turned to his parish, and at this very moment 
 Tonia is dancing and flirting with Stephen. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I am very sorry. But this cannot make black 
 white, nor can it change my life. Masha, you 
 do not need me — let me go ! I have tried to 
 take part in your life — to bring into it the thing 
 that is life to me — but it cannot be done. The 
 only result is that I torture both you and myself; 
 and it is not only torture to me, but it ruins 
 everything I attempt. Everybody — even that 
 very Alexander Petrovich — has the right to say, 
 and does say, that I am an impostor: that I say 
 one thing and do another; that I preach the pov- 
 erty of Christ and live in luxury, under cover of 
 having given everything to my wife. 
 
 Marie. ' 
 
 Then you are ashamed of yourself before the 
 world? Are you not above that? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 It is not that I am ashamed of myself — though 
 I certainly am — but that I am hindering the work 
 of God. 
 
 Marie. * 
 
 You say yourself that the work of God goes on
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 193 
 
 in spite of all opposition. But leaving that aside, 
 tell me what you want me to do. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 I have told you. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 But, Nicholas, you know that that is impossi- 
 ble. Think of it. Luba is just going to be mar- 
 ried, Vania has entered the university, and Missie 
 and Katia are at school : how could I interrupt all 
 that? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 But I? What am I to do? 
 
 Marie. 
 
 Practise what you preach: endure and love. 
 Is that so difficult? Only put up with us — do 
 not deprive us of yourself! What is it that dis- 
 tresses you so? 
 
 (Vania rushes in.) 
 
 Vania. 
 Mother, you are wanted. 
 
 Marie. 
 Say I can't come. Go; go away. 
 
 Vania. 
 Please come I 
 
 (Exit.)
 
 194 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Nicholas. 
 You will not see my point of view, and under- 
 stand me. 
 
 Marie. 
 I only wish I could. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 No, you do not wish to understand; and we are 
 growing further and further apart. Put yourself 
 in my place for a moment and think, and you 
 will understand. In the first place, life here is 
 depraved — such words anger you, but I can use 
 no other when speaking of a life founded on rob- 
 bery — because the money you live on comes from 
 the land you have stolen from the people. Be- 
 sides, I see how the children are being corrupted 
 by it. " Woe to him who offends one of these 
 little ones ! " — and before my very eyes I see my 
 children ruined and corrupted. Nor can I bear 
 to see grown men dressed up in swallow-tailed 
 coats serving us as though they were slaves. 
 Every meal is a misery. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 But it has always been so. It is so in all 
 houses — abroad and everywhere.
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 195 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Since I have realised that we are all brothers, 
 I cannot look on without pain. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 It is your own fault. One can imagine any- 
 thing. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 {holly.) This want of understanding is awful. 
 To-day I spent the morning among the scavengers 
 in the Rijanov Night Lodgings. I saw a child 
 dying of starvation; a boy that had become a 
 drunkard; a consumptive laundress going to rinse 
 her linen in the river: and I come home and a 
 footman in a white tie opens my front door to me. 
 I hear my son, a young boy, tell that footman to 
 bring him a glass of water, and I see a regiment 
 of servants that work for us. Then I go to 
 Boris, who is giving up his life for the truth, and 
 I see this pure, strong, resolute man deliberately 
 driven to madness and to death in order that they 
 may get rid of him. I know, and they know, that 
 he has organic heart trouble; and they provoke 
 him, and then put him among raving maniacs! 
 Oh, it is awful ! And now I return home to learn 
 that my daughter — the only one of my family 
 who understood not me, but the truth — has
 
 196 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 thrown over both the truth and the man she was 
 engaged to, and had promised to love, and is go- 
 ing to marry a flunlcey — a liar. 
 
 Marie. 
 What a very Christian sentiment! 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Yes, It is wrong. I am to blame. But I want 
 you to enter into my feeling. I only say that she 
 has repudiated the truth. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 You say the truth. The rest, the majority, say 
 error. Vasily Ermilovich thought he had gone 
 astray, but now he returned to the Church. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 It is impossible. 
 
 Marie. 
 He wrote all about it to Lisa, and she will 
 show you the letter. These things do not last. 
 It's the same with Tonia, not to mention Alex- 
 ander Petrovich, who simply finds it profitable. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 (getting angry.) That is immaterial. I only 
 want you to understand me. I still consider that 
 truth remains truth. It is painful to me to come
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 197 
 
 home and see a Christmas tree, a ball, hundreds 
 squandered when others are dying of hunger. I 
 can not live like this! Have mercy on me! I 
 am worn out. Let me go ! Good-bye. 
 
 Marie. 
 
 If you go, I go with you; and if not with you, I 
 will throw myself under your train. Let them all 
 perish — all — Missie — Katia — all of them. 
 My God, my God, what anguish! Why is it? 
 
 {Sobbing.) 
 Nicholas. 
 {calling at the door.) Alexander Petrovich ! 
 Go. I shall not go with you. I shall stay. 
 {Takes off his coat.) 
 
 Marie. 
 We have not much longer to live. Do not let 
 us spoil our life after twenty-eight years together. 
 I will not give any more parties, but do not pain 
 me so! 
 
 (Vania and Katia rush in.) 
 
 Both. 
 Mother, come quick! 
 
 Marie. 
 Em coming — I'm coming! Then let us for- 
 give each other. 
 
 {Exeunt Marie Ivanovna and 
 Children.)
 
 198 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 (alone.) A child — a perfect child! Or — a 
 cunning woman! Ah, yes — a cunning child. 
 That is it ! O Thou dost not desire me for Thy 
 servant. Thou wouldest humiliate me that all 
 should point at me and say, " He talks but he does 
 not act." I submit. He knows best what He de- 
 sires. Humility, simplicity. Oh ! if I could only 
 raise myself to Him. (Enter Lisa.) 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Excuse me: I came to bring you a letter from 
 Vasily Ermilovich. It was written to me, but 
 he wanted me to tell you about it. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Is It really true then? 
 
 Lisa. 
 Yes. Read what he says. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Will you read it to me? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 (reading.) "I am writing to ask you to com- 
 municate this to Nicholas Ivanovlch. I pro- 
 foundly regret the error which made me openly 
 renounce the Holy Orthodox Church, and I re-
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 199 
 
 joice in my return. I wish the same for you and 
 for Nicholas Ivanovich, and I ask your forgive- 
 ness." . 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 They have driven the poor man to this, but still 
 it is terrible. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I wanted to tell you also that the Princess has 
 come. She came into my room in a terrible state 
 of excitement, and says she must see you. She 
 has just come from Boris. I think you had bet- 
 ter not see her. What good could it do? 
 
 Nicholas. 
 No, call her in. Evidently this is to be a ter- 
 rible day of trial. 
 
 Lisa. 
 Then I'll call her. {Exit.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 (alone.) Oh, just to remember that life consists 
 in serving Thee! To remember that if Thou 
 sendest trials to me, it is that Thou thinkest that 
 I am able to bear them; that they are not above 
 my strength, otherwise it would not be a trial. 
 Father, help me — help me to do Thy will, and 
 not my own. 
 
 (Enter Princess.)
 
 200 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Princess. 
 Oh, so you have admitted me — you have 
 deigned to receive me, I will not shake your 
 hand, because I hate and despise you. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 What has happened? 
 
 Princess. 
 
 Just this! He is being transferred to the dis- 
 ciplinary battalion, and it is your doing. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Princess, if you want anything, tell me what it 
 is. If you have only come to abuse me, you are 
 merely doing yourself harm. As for me, you 
 cannot offend me, because I sympathise with you, 
 and pity you with all my soul. 
 
 Princess. 
 How charitable! Sublime Christianity! No, 
 Monsieur Sarintsev, you cannot deceive me. I 
 know you now. It is nothing to you that you 
 have ruined my son, and here you are giving balls. 
 Your daughter, who is engaged to my son, is 
 about to make a match of which you approve, 
 while you pretend to lead the simple life — you 
 play at carpentering. How hateful you are to 
 me, with your pharisaical life!
 
 SHINES TN DARKNESS 201 
 
 Nicholas. 
 Calm yourself, Princess, and tell me what you 
 want. You have not come simply to abuse me. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 Yes, partly. I had to pour out my anguish. 
 What I want of you is this: they are sending him 
 to the disciplinary battalion, and I cannot bear 
 that. And it is you who have done It — you — 
 you — you ! 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Not I — God has done it. And God knows 
 how I pity you. Do not set yourself in opposi- 
 tion to the will of God. He is testing you. Bear 
 it humbly. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 I cannot bear it humbly. My son is all the 
 world to me, and you have taken him from me 
 and have ruined him. I cannot accept it quietly. 
 I have come to you, and I tell you again, and for 
 the last time, that you have brought about his 
 ruin, and you must save him. Go and obtain his 
 release — go to the authorities, to the Tsar, to 
 whomever you will. It is your duty. If you 
 will not, I know what I shall do. You will an- 
 swer to me for what you have done.
 
 202 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Tell me what I am to do. I am willing to do 
 all I can. 
 
 Princess. 
 
 I repeat once more, you must save him. If you 
 do not — remember. Good-bye. (Exit.) 
 
 (Nicholas lies down on the sofa. 
 Silence. Pause. Music of " Gross- 
 vater's Tanz " is distinctly heard.) 
 
 Stephen. 
 
 Father isn't here. Come on. 
 
 (Enter chain of dancers, adults 
 and children.) 
 
 LUBA. 
 
 (seeing her father.) Oh, you are here! I beg 
 your pardon ! 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 (rising.) Never mind. 
 
 (Chain goes through the room and 
 out at the other door.) 
 
 (alone.) Vasily Ermilovich has returned to the 
 Church. Boris is ruined through me. Luba will 
 marry. Is it possible that I am mistaken — mis- 
 taken in believing Thee? Ah no! Father, help 
 me I
 
 ACT V 
 
 Scene I 
 
 A cell in the Disciplinary Battalion. — Prison- 
 ers sitting or lying about. — Boris reading the 
 Gospel and making cotninents. 
 
 A man who has been flogged led out from this 
 cell. — " Oh, why is there not another Pugachev 
 to avenge us? " 
 
 Princess rushes in. — She is turned out. — 
 Struggle zvith an officer. 
 . Prisoners ordered to prayers. 
 
 Boris sent to the dungeon, and sentenced to be 
 flogged. 
 
 Scene II 
 
 The Czar's Study. — Cigarettes. — Jokes. — 
 Blandishments. — Princess is announced. — Or- 
 dered to wait. 
 
 Cringing Petitioners. 
 
 Then enter Princess. — Request refused. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene III 
 
 Marie Ivanovna. — Speak with doctor of ill- 
 ness of Nicholas Ivanovich. — He has changed, is 
 very mild, but dejected. 
 
 203
 
 204 THE LIGHT THAT 
 
 Nicholas Ivanovich enters with doctor. — 
 Treatment is futile. — The soul is more Important, 
 but I consent for the sake of my wife. {Enter 
 ToNiA with Stephen, Luba with Starkovsky.) 
 Talk of the land. Nicholas Ivanovich tries 
 not to of end the others. {All go.) 
 
 Nicholas. 
 {alone with LiSA.) I am in a state of continual 
 vacillation. Have I done right? I have 
 achieved nothing. I have ruined Boris. Vasily 
 Ermilovlch has returned to the Church. I am an 
 example of weakness. I see God did not want 
 me to be His servant. He has many other serv- 
 ants. They will do the right thing without me. 
 To see that clearly is to obtain peace of mind. 
 
 (Lisa goes. — He prays.) 
 
 Princess dashes in and kills him.- — All riish 
 in. — He says he did it himself accidentally. — 
 Writes petition to the Tsar. 
 
 Enter Vasily Ermilovich with Dukhohors. 
 — Nicholas Ivanovich dies rejoicing that the 
 falsehoods of the Church are broken down. — He 
 realises the meaning of his life. 
 
 Alternative for Last Scene. 
 
 Letter from Boris full of desperate agitation. 
 "I know — I have also passed through that."
 
 SHINES IN DARKNESS 205 
 
 Liberals.- — A professor from the height of 
 his superiority forgives and explains. 
 
 A Liberal society lady, wearing diamonds, pres- 
 ent. — 
 
 " They are unable to understand. It will take 
 a hundred years for them to do so."
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Man Who Was Dead ii 
 
 The Cause of It All i 
 
 59
 
 i
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON.^ 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 Elizaveta Ali:xandrovna Protasov,] her 
 Alexandra Allxandrovna(Sasha), , daughters 
 Floor Vasilievich Protasov. Lisa's husband. 
 Anna Dmitrievna Karenin. Fifty years. 
 Victor Mikiiailovich Karenin. Her son, 
 
 thirty-eight years. 
 Prince Sergius Dmitrievich Abreskov. 
 
 Sixty years. 
 Mikhail Alexandrovich Afremov. Protas- 
 
 ov's friend. 
 Stakhov, 
 BuTKEViCH, I Afremov's friends. 
 
 KOROTKOV, 
 
 Ivan Maksimovich. Old gipsy. 
 
 Nastassia Ivanovna. His wife. 
 
 Masha. Their daughter. 
 
 Ivan Petrovich Alexandrov. 
 
 Petushkov. 
 
 Artemiev. 
 
 VosNESSENSKY. Secretary of the Synod. 
 
 Examining Magistrate. 
 
 Secretary of the Examining Magistrate.
 
 lo THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Young Lawyer. 
 
 Petrushin. Lawyer. 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 Official. 
 
 Maria Dmitrievna O. Friend of Lisa; 
 
 Nurse. 
 
 MiSHNA. Lisa's little son. 
 
 Guard in the court. 
 
 Servants, Gipsies, Waiters, Policemen, etc. 
 
 I
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene I 
 
 Anna Pavlovna, a stout, mid- 
 dle-aged, tight-laced lady, is sitting 
 at the tea-table. 
 
 The Nurse enters, with a tea- 
 -pot in her hand. 
 
 Nurse. 
 May I take some boiling water? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 Oh, certainly. How is baby? 
 
 Nurse. 
 
 As restless as can be. What is the good of 
 ladies trying to nurse their babies themselves! 
 All their worries the baby has to suffer for. 
 When a mother stays awake all night long, and 
 never leaves off crying, what can her milk be 
 worth? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 Oh, that's over, I think. She is quiet now. 
 
 II
 
 12 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Nurse. 
 Quiet, indeed! I can't stand looking at the 
 poor dear. Just now she started off to write, 
 and how she cried all the time! 
 
 Sash A (entering). 
 ( To Nurse.) Lisa wants you. 
 
 Nurse. 
 I'm coming. (She goes out.) 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 Nurse says she still goes on crying. I do wish 
 she could manage to get over it! 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 Mother, you are perfectly astonishing! How 
 on earth can you expect her to behave as if noth- 
 ing had happened, when she's just left her hus- 
 band and taken her baby with her? . 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 I don't exactly. But the past must be left to 
 take care of itself. You may be quite sure that 
 if I approve of my daughter having left her hus- 
 band, and if I welcome the step she has taken 
 — well, that he deserved it. She has no reason to
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 13 
 
 make herself miserable. She ought only to be 
 overjoyed at being free now from such an abomi- 
 nable wretch. 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 How can you talk like that, mother? You 
 know perfectly well it isn't true. He's not a 
 wretch; he's a wonderful man — yes, he is. Oh, 
 of course, I know he has faults, but he's wonder- 
 ful ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 Wonderful, indeed! The moment he has 
 money, whether he gets it from his own pocket or 
 somebody else's — 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 Mother! He has never taken anybody else's 
 money. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 Yes, he has. Hasn't he taken his wife's money? 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 Why, he settled the whole of his fortune on 
 Lisa I 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 It was the only thing for him to do. He knew 
 he would squander everything he could lay hands 
 on.
 
 14 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 I'm sure I don't care whether he would or he 
 wouldn't. All I know is that a wife ought not to 
 leave her husband — particularly a husband like 
 Fedia. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 I suppose you would have liked her to wait till 
 he had spent absolutely everything they had, and 
 not have objected in the least when he brought 
 his gipsy mistresses home with him? 
 
 Sasha. 
 He hasn't got any mistresses. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 That is the worst of it — he seems to have be- 
 witched you all; I don't know how. I should 
 like to see him try it on with me. I can see 
 through him, and he knows it. In Lisa's place I 
 would have left him a good twelve months ago. 
 
 Sasha. 
 Oh, you think it's all so easy! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 That's just where you're mistaken. It's very 
 far from easy for me to see my daughter separated
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 15 
 
 from her husband. It Is, indeed. But anything 
 is better than that a young life like hers should be 
 ruined. I consider it truly providential that she 
 has made up her mind to go, and that everything 
 is over between them. 
 
 Sasha. 
 Perhaps it isn't. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 It will be. If only he will consent to a divorce. 
 
 Sasha. 
 What will be the good of that? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 The good will be that she is young and that she 
 may still have some happiness in store for her. 
 
 Sasha. 
 It is simply disgusting to hear you talk like that, 
 mother! Lisa can't love another man. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 Why not? Why shouldn't she, when she's 
 free? There are men a thousand times better 
 than your adored Fedia who would be enchanted 
 to marry Lisa.
 
 i6 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 I know whom you mean, mother. It's very 
 wrong of you. I know you mean Victor Karenin. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 Well, there's no harm In it if I do. He's been 
 in love with her for ten years, and she loves him. 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 She doesn't love him in the least as a husband. 
 They have just been friends ever since they were 
 children. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 I know what such friendships mean. Oh, if 
 only nothing crops up to prevent itl 
 
 A Maid enters. 
 What is it? 
 
 Maid. 
 
 The porter has come back with an answer to the 
 note for Victor Mikhailovich. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 Who sent him? 
 
 Maid. 
 Elizaveta Andreevna.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 17 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 Well ? 
 
 Maid. 
 Victor Mlkhailovlch told the porter he would 
 be here directly. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 How extraordinary, when we were just talking 
 about him ! But what can she want him for now? 
 ( To Sasha.) Do you know? 
 
 Sasha. 
 Maybe I do. Maybe I don't. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 You always make secrets of things. 
 
 Sasha. 
 Lisa will tell you when she comes. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna 
 
 shakes her head. {To the Maid.) The samo- 
 var is cold. Take it away, Duniasha, and make 
 the water boil again. 
 
 The Maid takes the samovar 
 and goes out. Sasha rises as if to 
 follow her from the room.
 
 1 8 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 You see I was right. She has sent for him at 
 once. 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 I dare say it's some perfectly different reason 
 from what you think. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 What for, then? 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 She doesn't care a scrap more for Karenin than 
 for that old nurse Tripovna. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 You will see. I know her. She's sent for him 
 because she wants him to console her. 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 O mother, how little you know her if you can 
 think — 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 You will see. Yes, and I am very, very glad 
 indeed. 
 
 Sasha. 
 We'll see. (She goes out, humming.)
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 19 
 
 Anna Pavlovna, 
 {Alone, shak'ni^ her head and mutterhig to her- 
 self.) Very well, I don't mind. Very well, I 
 don't mind. I — 
 
 Maid {entering.) 
 Victor Mikhailovich has come. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 Ask him in, and tell Elizaveta Andreevna. 
 
 The Maid goes out by the door 
 leading to the inner apartments. 
 
 Victor Karenin 
 
 entering, and shaking hands with Anna Pav- 
 lovna. I got a note from Elizaveta Andreevna 
 asking me to come round. I meant in any case to 
 call this evenmg, so I was delighted ... is 
 she quite well? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 She is all right; the baby is a little ailing. She 
 will be here in a minute. {Sadly.) We are hav- 
 ing a hard time just now. But you know all about 
 that. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 I know. I was here the day before yesterday, 
 when that letter came from him. But is this really 
 a final decision?
 
 20 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. • 
 
 I should think so! It would be utterly Impos- 
 sible to begin all over again. 
 
 Karenin, 
 
 I should like to urge that in this case particularly 
 second thoughts may be best. It is a terrible 
 thing to tear lives apart that have been bound to- 
 gether. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 No doubt. But with them the rift began long 
 ago, and the complete severance was easier than 
 one would have thought. He understands that 
 after all that has happened he could not return 
 home, even if it had been open to him to do so. 
 
 Karenin. 
 Why? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 After his disgusting conduct? He swore it 
 should never never happen again, and he gave his 
 word that if it did he would voluntarily resign all 
 claims on his wife, and give her back her entire 
 freedom.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 21 
 
 Karen IN. 
 How can a wife tied by the marriage bond be 
 given back her freedom? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 She can be made tree by a divorce. He has 
 agreed to a divorce, and we shall insist on it. 
 
 Karenin. 
 But Elizaveta Andreevna loved him so 
 deeply — 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 Her love has been so terribly tried that there is 
 hardly anything left of it. Drinking, gambling, 
 unfaithfulness — what love could bear with such a 
 husband? 
 
 Karenin. 
 True love holds in spite of all. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 You say: love. But who could love a man like 
 that? He was perfectly unreliable; there was no 
 depending on him in anything. You know the last 
 thing that happened {looking back at the door, 
 and finishing quickly what she had to say.) Their 
 situation was absolutely critical, everything was 
 pawned — they had nothing to meet the most nec- 
 essary expenses. At last his uncle sent two thou- 
 sand roubles due as Interest. He takes that money 
 and disappears, leaving his wife alone with the sick
 
 22 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 baby, waiting for him; and tlien comes a note, 
 asking to have his clothes and things sent after 
 him. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Yes, I know. 
 
 Sasha and Lisa come in together. 
 
 . Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 Victor Mikhailovich does come, you see, when 
 you send for him. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 I would have come sooner, but I was detained 
 {he shakes hands with the sisters.) 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Thank you so much. I have a great service 
 to ask you. There is no one else I could turn to. 
 
 Karenin. 
 Anything I can do, I will. 
 
 Lisa. 
 You know all about this, don't you? 
 
 Karenin. 
 Yes, I know.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 23 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 Then I will leave you to yourselves. {To Sa- 
 
 SHA.) Come with me. We shall be in the way. 
 
 (Anna Pavlovna aud Sasha go out.) 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Well, he has written to me saying it's all over 
 between us. I {restraining her tears) was so hurt 
 that — . Anyhow, I agreed to separate. I have 
 answered that I am willing to part, as he wishes, 
 it. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 And now you are sorry for having said so? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Yes. I feel I ought not to have accepted. I 
 cannot. — Anything, but not to part with him. 
 Now, give him that letter. Please, Victor, give 
 him the letter and tell him. — Bring him back! 
 
 Karenin {surprised.) 
 Well, but — 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Say I ask him to forget all that has happened, 
 and to come back. Of course I could send him the 
 letter. But I know him so well: his first impulse.
 
 24 THE MAN -WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 as always, would be a good one; but then some- 
 body else's influence would come in, and he would 
 change his mind and do the contrary of what he 
 really wished. 
 
 Karenin. 
 I will do what I can. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 You are surprised at my asking yon to help me? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 No — well, yes, to tell the truth; yes, I am sur- 
 prised. 
 
 Lisa. 
 But not angry? 
 
 Karenin. 
 How can I be angry with you? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I asked you because I know you love him. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Him, and you. You know that. And you 
 know that I love you for yourself alone, not for 
 anything I may hope from you. Thank you for 
 trusting me. I will do all I can.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 25 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I know you will. I will tell you everything. I 
 called to-day at Afremov's to ask if they knew 
 where he was. They told me that he had gone to 
 the gipsies. I am in terrible anxiety. I am so 
 afraid of his passion for them. If he is not re- 
 strained in time, it will enslave him again. It 
 must be prevented. You will look for him? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 I'll go at once. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Go. Find him, and tell . him I've forgotten 
 everything and am waiting for him. 
 
 Karenin (risiug.) 
 But where shall I go to find him? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 He is at the gipsies'. I went to the place my- 
 self. I went to the door.- — I was just going to 
 send in the letter, but then I thought I had better 
 not, and decided to ask you. Here is the address. 
 Tell him that he is to come back as if nothing had 
 happened; that I have forgotten everything. Do 
 it out of love for him, and out of friendship for 
 us.
 
 26 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 I will do everything I can. {He hows to her 
 and goes out.) 
 
 Lisa {alone.) 
 
 I cannot, I cannot. Anything but — I cannot! 
 
 {Enter Sasha.) 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 Well, have you asked him? 
 Lisa {nods.) 
 
 Sasha. 
 And he was willing to go? 
 
 Lisa. 
 Of course. 
 
 Sasha. 
 But why did you ask him to do it? I can't un- 
 derstand. 
 
 Lisa. 
 Whom else could I ask? 
 
 Sasha. 
 But you know that he is in love with you. 
 
 Lisa. 
 That is a thing of the past. And whom else
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 27 
 
 would you have me ask? Tell me: you think he 
 will come back? 
 
 Sasha. 
 I am sure he will. He — 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 (comifig back.) Where Is Victor Mlkhailovlch? 
 
 Lisa. 
 Gone. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 Gone? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I have asked him to do something for me. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 What was it? Another secret? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 No secret at all. I simply asked him to take a 
 letter to Fedia. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 To Fedia? To Fedor Vasilievich? 
 
 Lisa. 
 Yes, to Fedia.
 
 28 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 I thought it was all over between you. 
 
 Lisa. 
 I cannot part from him. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 What! The same old story beginning again? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I wanted to: I tried hard, but I can't. Pll do 
 anything you like, but I can't part from him. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 You don't mean you want him to come back? 
 
 Lisa. 
 Yes, I do. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 To have that wretch again in your house! 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Mother, I wish you would not talk about my 
 husband like that. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 He was your husband, but he is so no more.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 29 
 
 Lisa. 
 He Is my husband. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 A spendthrift, a drunkard, a rake — and you 
 cannot part from him. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Why do you torture me ? I am wretched 
 enough as it is. You are so inconsiderate — 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 That is how you take it. I torture you, do I? 
 Very well. Then I had better go. I cannot stand 
 it. 
 
 (Lisa keeps silent.) 
 
 I see; I am in your way, and you want me to 
 go. I can only say I am disgusted. I don't un- 
 derstand you, or what you want. You are wholly 
 unreliable. One moment you decide to leave your 
 husband, the next you send for the man who is in 
 love with you. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Nothing of the kind. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 You know that Karenin proposed to you, and
 
 30 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 now you send him to bring back your husband. 
 Do you simply want to make him jealous? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Mother! how abominable! Do leave me in 
 peace, can't you? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 Turn out your mother, do; and welcome your 
 depraved husband. No, no; I won't wait for you 
 to do it. I shall go at once. And you can do 
 whatever you choose. {She goes out, banging the 
 door.) 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 {dropping into a chair.) That, too 1 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 Don't worry. That will be all right. We will 
 make peace with mother. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 {crossing the room.) Duniasha, my bag! 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 Listen, mother I 
 
 {She follows her mother out of 
 the room looking significantly at 
 Lisa.)
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 31 
 
 Scene II 
 
 A room at the gipsies'. Gipsies sing " Kanavella." 
 
 (Fedia is lying on the sofa, his 
 
 face down; he has taken of his coat. 
 
 Afremov is sitting astride on a 
 
 chair, facing the leader of the gipsy 
 
 singers. 
 
 An Officer sits at the table, on 
 which are standing bottles of cham- 
 pagne and glasses. At his side sits 
 a Musician taking down the 
 songs.) 
 
 Afremov. 
 You asleep, Fedia? 
 
 Fedia. 
 (rising.) Shut up 1 Now then, "Not the even- 
 ing hour." 
 
 Gipsy. 
 Not yet, Fedor Vasilievich. Let Masha sing 
 a song first. 
 
 Fedia. 
 All right And after that, " Not the evening 
 hour." (He lies down again.) 
 
 Officer. 
 Let's have " The fatal hour! "
 
 32 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Gipsy. 
 (to Afremov.) Shall she sing that? 
 
 Afremov. 
 
 I don't mind. 
 
 Officer. 
 {to the Musician.) Have you got it right? 
 
 Musician. 
 
 It's Impossible to take it down correctly. Each 
 time the tune changes somehow. And they seem 
 to have a different scale. Now, here. {He calls 
 to a gipsy woman.) How is this? {Humming 
 the tune.) Is this right? 
 
 Gipsy Woman. 
 Quite right. Splendid. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {rising.) He won't get it right on paper, and 
 even if he does, and then shovels it into an opera, 
 he'll make it seem absolutely rotten. Well, 
 Masha, fire away! Anything will do: " The fatal 
 hour," if you like. Take the guitar. {He rises, 
 sits dotvn facing her, and looks in her eyes.) 
 
 (Masha sings.)
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 33 
 Fedia. 
 
 That's wonderful. And you're wonderful too, 
 Masha! Now then, " Not the evening hour." 
 
 Afremov. 
 
 Wait a moment. Let's have my funeral song 
 first. 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Funeral? What's that? 
 
 Afremov. 
 
 Why, when I die. . . . Really die, you 
 know ; when I am lying in the coffin, the gipsies will 
 come ... I shall give directions to my wife 
 in my will, you know. And then, when they begin 
 singing their " Shol-me-wersta," I shall jump out 
 of the coffin, don't you know. That is the song 
 you ought to note down. Now then, start in ! 
 
 {The Gipsies sing.) 
 
 Afremov. 
 
 What do you say to that? Eh? And now, 
 " Love, my dear ones." 
 
 {The Gipsies sing.) 
 (Afremov dances to the tune. 
 The Gipsies, smiling, go on sing- 
 ing and beat the measure.
 
 34 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Afremov sits down. The song 
 ends.) 
 
 Gipsy. 
 
 I say, Mikhail Andreevich, you dance like a true 
 gipsy. 
 
 Fedia. 
 And now, " Not the evening hour." 
 
 {The Gipsies sing.) 
 
 That's it. That is the song. Wonderful! 
 And how does it all happen? What is it all 
 about? Wonderful, wonderful! To think that 
 man can reach such ecstasy and then — nothing 
 more; nothing further — we can achieve nothing 
 with it! 
 
 Musician. 
 {taking notes.) Yes, it is very original. 
 
 Fedia. 
 Original is not the word. It is the real thing. 
 
 Afremov. 
 
 Well, Pharaoh's tribe, take a rest. {He takes 
 a guitar, and sits down at the side of the gipsy girl 
 Katia.)
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 35 
 Musician. 
 
 It is very simple, on the whole, but there's some- 
 thing queer about the rhythm. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 (with a gesture, cojnes near Masha and sits down 
 on the sofa close to her.) O Masha, Masha, you 
 turn my soul inside out. 
 
 Masha. 
 Well? What is it I asked you for? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 What? Money, {He takes money out from 
 his trousers' pockets.) There, take it. 
 
 (Masha laughs, takes the 
 money, and hides it in her bodice.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {to the Gipsies.) Incomprehensible creature! 
 She unlocks the gates of heaven for me! And 
 then all she asks for is — money! In the devil's 
 name, do you understand yourself what you are 
 doing? 
 
 Masha. 
 I don't know what there is to understand. I
 
 36 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 understand that if I care for some one I do my 
 best to please him, and I sing for him better than 
 for all the rest. 
 
 Fedia. 
 Do you care for me? 
 
 Masha. 
 You know how much. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 You — marvel! ( Kisses her.) 
 
 (The Gipsies, Men and 
 Women, leave the room. A few 
 couples remain: Afremov with 
 Katia, the Officer with another 
 girl, Gasha. The Musician 
 writes. A gipsy plays a waltz on 
 the guitar very softly.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 I am a married man. And you belong to your 
 gipsy troupe. They would not let you — 
 
 Masha. 
 
 My heart and the troupe have nothing to do 
 with one another. If I love a man, I love him no 
 matter what comes. Or if I hate a man, I hate 
 him, and no help for it.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 37 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 I am happy! I am happy! And you — are 
 you happy? 
 
 Masha. 
 
 I'm always happy when nice visitors come, and 
 then we all have fun. 
 
 Gipsy. 
 
 {entering, to Fedia.) A gentleman is asking for 
 you. 
 
 Fedia. 
 What gentleman? 
 
 Gipsy. 
 
 Don't know. He is well dressed. Sable fur 
 coat, 
 
 Fedia. 
 Rich? Well, ask him in. 
 
 Afremov. 
 Who can it be wants to see you here? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 The devil knows. Who can want me! 
 
 (Karenin comes in looking 
 round the room.)
 
 38 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Victor! You are the last man I would have ex- 
 pected. Take off your coat. What wind has 
 blown you here? Sit down. They will sing 
 " Not the evening hour " for you. 
 
 Karenin. 
 Je voiidrais voiis parler sans temoine. 
 
 Fedia. 
 What about? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Je viens de chez voiis. Votre femme m'a 
 char gee de cette lettre, et puis — 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {takes the letter, reads, frowns, then smiles affec- 
 tionately.) Listen, Karenin; you know, I dare 
 say, what that letter contains? 
 
 Karenin. 
 I know. And I want to tell you — : 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Wait, wait. Don't imagine, please, that I am 
 drunk, and that my words are unaccountable — I 
 mean, that I am unaccountable. I am drunk, but
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 39 
 
 my head Is quite clear about this. But what have 
 you been told to tell me?. 
 
 Karenin, 
 
 Your wife has asked me to find you, and to say 
 that she is waiting for you. She begs you to for- 
 get everything, and to come back. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 (listens silently, looking into his eyes.) I still 
 don't understand. Why have you? . . . 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Elizaveta Andreeva sent for me, and asked 
 me — 
 
 Fedia. 
 Then — 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 But it is not so much in your wife's name as on 
 my own behalf that I implore you to come home 
 with me ! 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 You're a better man than T am. What a ridic- 
 ulous way to put it ! It's not hard to be better than 
 me: I'm a scoundrel, and you are a good man. 
 That's why I won't go back on my decision. And 
 not only because of that. I simply cannot, and 
 will not. How could I go back?
 
 40 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Come to me first. I will tell her you have come 
 back, and to-morrow — 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Well — to-morrow? To-morrow I shall be 
 just what I am now, and she will be the same as 
 she is. {He goes to the table and drinks.) Bet- 
 ter have the tooth straight out. I told her that if 
 I didn't keep my word, she was to leave me. I 
 did not keep it, and there's an end of it. 
 
 Karenin. 
 For you, but not for her. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 It's very extraordinary that you should take so 
 much trouble to prevent our marriage from being 
 broken up. 
 
 (Karenin is about to say some- 
 thing, when Masha enters.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {interrupting him.) Now just hear her sing 
 " The Flax." Masha, sing for him. 
 
 {The Gipsies gradually return 
 to the room.)
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 41 
 Masha. 
 (whispering.) We ought to give him a cheer. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 (laughing.) Give him a cheer 1 Three cheers 
 for Victor Mikhailovich! 
 
 ( The Gipsies sing, cheering 
 Karenin.) 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 (listens, somehow confused. To Fedia.) How 
 much ought I to give them? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Give them twenty-five roubles. 
 
 (Karenin gives the money, then 
 quietly leaves the room.) 
 
 There, that's good. Now "The Flax." 
 (Looking round.) Hullo! Karenin has van- 
 ished. Devil take him ! 
 
 (The Gipsies disperse.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 (sitting down close to Masha.) You know who 
 that was? 
 
 Masha. 
 
 I heard the name.
 
 42 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 He is an excellent fellow. He came to fetch 
 me home, to my wife. She loves me, and that is 
 how I behave, fool that I am ! 
 
 Masha. 
 You're wrong. You ought to have pity on her. 
 
 Fedia. 
 You think so? I don't. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 Of course, if you don't love her, you oughtn't 
 to. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 How do you know that? 
 
 Masha. 
 Maybe I know. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Give me a kiss. Now, " The Flax," and then 
 let us stop. 
 
 {The Gipsies sing.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Wonderful ! Wonderful ! Oh, never to wake 
 up] To die like that without waking!
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 43 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene I 
 
 Two weeks have elapsed. At Lisa's. 
 
 (Karenin and Anna Pavlov- 
 NA are sitting in the dining-room. 
 Sasha enters from the inner 
 door.) 
 
 Well? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 The doctor says all danger is over now. The 
 only thing is to prevent the child taking cold. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 Poor Lisa is quite exhausted with all this anxiety. 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 He says it is a sort of slight angina. What is 
 ^hat? {She points to a basket.) 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 Grapes. Victor brought them. 
 
 Karenin. 
 Would you like to have some?
 
 44 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 Lisa like grapes. She has become so nervous 
 of late. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 She has not slept these two nights, nor eaten 
 anything. 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 (smiling.) Neither have you. 
 
 Karenin. 
 That is quite another thing. 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 (entering with Lisa, importantly.) As I told 
 you: change the compress every half-hour, If the 
 child is not asleep. If he is asleep, don't disturb 
 him. No painting the throat. Keep the room 
 warm, and — 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 And If he has another fit of choking? 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 He won't. But, anyhow, if It happens, spray 
 his throat. Then there are the powders to give 
 him. One the first thing In the morning, another 
 at night. I will write the prescription. 
 
 \
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 45 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 Won't you have some tea, doctor? 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 No, thanks. My patients are waiting for me. 
 {He sits down at the table. Sasha brings him pa- 
 per and ink.) 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Then you are quite sure it's not croup? 
 
 Doctor. 
 {smiling.) Quite sure. {He writes.) 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 •{to Lisa.) Have some tea now. And the best 
 thing will be for you to go and rest. Look what 
 you are like ! 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I breathe again" now. But it's your doing. 
 You are a true friend. {Presses his hand. Sasha 
 steps aside, visibly annoyed.) I thank you, my 
 dear friend. This is a case when a friend — 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 I have not done anything. You have nothing 
 to thank me for.
 
 46 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Who was it who had no sleep for two nights? 
 Who brought the very best doctor? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 My reward is that the child is out of danger. 
 And I am still more rewarded by your kindness — 
 your extreme kindness. 
 
 ( They again shake hands and he 
 smiles, showing the money that she 
 has left in his hand.) 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 (smiling.) That is the doctor's fee. I never 
 know how to give It to him. 
 
 Karenin. 
 Nor do L 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 What is it you don't know how to do? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 How to pay the doctor. He saved what to me 
 is more than my life, and I have to repay it with 
 money. There is something so unpleasant in the 
 idea.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 47 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 Leave that to me. I will do it all right. 
 There's no difficulty whatever. 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 (rises and hands the prescription.) Dissolve each 
 powder in a tablespoonful of boiled water, stir it 
 and . . . {he continues to give his directions 
 to Lisa, while Karenin 5/75 at the table drinking 
 tea. Anna Pavlovna and Sasha step for- 
 ward.) 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 I can't stand the way they talk to each other! 
 She behaves as if she were in love with him. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 I should not wonder if she were. 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 It's perfectly disgusting! 
 
 ( The Doctor shakes hands with 
 the family, and goes out. Anna 
 Pavlovna follows him to the 
 hall.) 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 {to Karenin.) He is such a sweet child. The 
 moment he felt better, he began to smile and to
 
 48 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 babble. I will go to him. But I am sorry to 
 leave you. 
 
 Karenin. 
 Have some tea first. Eat something. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I don't want anything. I feel so relieved now 
 all this anxiety is over. {She sobs.) 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 You see how exhausted you are ! 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I am so happy. Will you come along with me 
 to see the child? 
 
 Karenin. 
 With pleasure. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Then come. 
 
 {They go out together.) 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 {entering from the hall. To Sasha.) Why do 
 you look so gloomy? T handed him the money 
 all right, and he took it quite simply.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 49 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 I think it's odious of her! She's taken him to 
 the nursery. Just as if he were engaged to her — 
 or her husband ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 What difference does it make to you? Do you 
 want to marry him yourself, I wonder? 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 To marry that sign-post! I would marry any 
 one sooner than him. Nothing of the sort ever 
 entered my head. I simply feel disgusted that, 
 after F'edia, she should be making up to a stran- 
 ger. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 He Is not a stranger. They have been friends 
 since they were children. 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 They're in love — I can see they are, by the 
 way they smile and make eyes at each other. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 No wonder. He's been such a help now, all 
 during the baby's illness — so full of sympathy! 
 He did all he could, and she is grateful to him.
 
 50 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 I see no harm In her being in love with Victor and 
 marrying him. 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 It would be odious, disgusting! Simply dis- 
 gusting ! 
 
 (Karenin and Lisa come in 
 again. Karenin takes leave with- 
 out speaking. Sasha agitatedly 
 leaves the room.) 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 {to her mother.) What is the matter with 
 Sasha? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 I don't know, I'm sure. 
 
 (Lisa sighs.) 
 
 Scene II 
 
 In Afremov's study. Glasses full of wine are 
 on the table. 
 
 {Among the guests are Afre- 
 MOV; Fedia; Stakhov, a man 
 with a full heard, long hair; BuT- 
 KEVICH, who is clean shaven; 
 KoROTKOV, Afremov's toady.)
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 51 
 
 KOROTKOV. 
 
 And I tell you, he can't win. La Belle-Bois is 
 the best horse in Europe. I bet you she is. 
 
 Stakhov. 
 
 Shut up, old chap. You know nobody believes 
 what you say, and nobody will take your bet. 
 
 KOROTKOV. 
 
 I tell you your Kartouche will be beaten. 
 
 Afremov. 
 
 Don't quarrel. Let me settle the point for you. 
 Ask Fedia. You can depend upon his judgment. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 They're both good horses. It all depends on 
 the jockeys. 
 
 Stakhov. 
 
 That jockey Gusev is a wrong 'un. He ought 
 to be watched. 
 
 KOROTKOV. 
 {shouting.) That's not true. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Look here. I'll solve the problem for you. 
 Who won the Derby?
 
 52 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 KOROTKOV. 
 
 I know, but that does not prove anything. It 
 was just by accident. If Cracus hadn't been taken 
 ill. Now, look here — 
 
 {A Man-Servant enters.) 
 
 Afremov. 
 
 What is it? 
 
 Servant. 
 
 There's a lady here who wishes to speak to 
 Fedor Vasilievich. 
 
 Afremov. 
 Who is she? 
 
 Servant. 
 I do not know.. A real lady, sir. 
 
 Afremov. 
 Fedor, a lady for you. 
 
 Fedia. 
 (alar7ned.) Who is she? 
 
 Afremov. 
 He doesn't know. 
 
 Servant. 
 Shall I show her into the drawing-room, sir?
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 53 
 Fedia. 
 Wait. I'll go and see. {He goes out.) 
 
 KOROTKOV. 
 
 Who can It be? Oh, of course, Mashka. 
 
 Stakhov. 
 What Mashka? 
 
 KOROTKOV. 
 
 That gipsy-girl Masha. She's simply mad 
 about him. 
 
 Stakhov. 
 
 Nice girl she is. And how she sings! 
 
 Afremov. 
 
 Beautiful voice. Tanlusha and she are won- 
 derful. Last night they sang with Peter. 
 
 Stakhov. 
 What luck that man has! 
 
 Afremov. 
 
 What? To have all the women after him? 
 That's not much of a blessing! 
 
 KOROTKOV. 
 
 I hate these gipsy women. They're so vulgar.
 
 54 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 BUTKEVICH. 
 
 Nonsense! 
 
 KOROTKOV. 
 
 I would give you the whole lot of them for one 
 French woman. 
 
 Afremov. 
 
 Oh, you and your aesthetic views! I must go 
 and see who the woman is. {He follows Fedia 
 out of the room.) 
 
 Stakhov. 
 
 If it is Masha, bring her in. Let her sing us 
 something. The gipsies of to-day are not up to 
 the old level. There was a girl — Tania ! A 
 devil of a creature. 
 
 BUTKEVICH. 
 
 I expect they are just the same as they were be- 
 fore. 
 
 Stakhov. 
 
 Nothing of the sort. Now they've taken to 
 singing vulgar ballads, instead of the genuine 
 songs they used to in the old days. 
 
 BUTKEVICH. 
 
 There are some very good ballads.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 55 
 
 KOROTKOV. 
 
 If I will tell them what to sing; I bet you won't 
 know whether it's a ballad or a folk-song. 
 
 Stakiiov. 
 Betting is Korotkov's only line of thought. 
 
 Afremov. 
 
 (returning.) The lady is not Masha, gentlemen. 
 And she must be shown in here — there is no other 
 place for Fedia to talk with her. Let us go to 
 the billiard-room. 
 
 ( They all rise and leave the 
 room. Fedia and Sasha enter.) 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 (timidly.) Fedia, forgive me if my intrusion an- 
 noys you, but for God's sake listen to what I 
 have come to tell you. (Her voice trembles.) 
 (Fedia paces up and down the room.) 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 (She sits down, looks at him.) Fedia, do come 
 home! 
 
 Fedia. 
 Now listen, Sasha. I understand you very
 
 S6 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 well. You are a good girl, and in your place I 
 should do just like you — try to mend things. But 
 if you were in my place — though it's rather odd 
 to imagine such a delicate, sweet girl as you in it 
 — If you were in my place, I say, you would have 
 done just what I did — you would go, and not be 
 in the way of somebody else. 
 
 Sasha. 
 In the way of somebody else? But do you 
 Imagine Lisa can live without you? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Certainly, Sasha dear, she can, and she will. 
 And she will be happy, much hapier than with me. 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 Never. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 You are mistaken. {He takes her hand and 
 holds it.) But that is not the point. What is 
 more Important is that I cannot live the old life. 
 If you take a piece of cardboard and bend It a 
 hundred times. It may hold; but bend just once 
 more and it will break. That's the way it was 
 with Lisa and me. I cannot look into her eyes. 
 And she cannot look in mine. Believe me. It 
 hurts us both too much.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 57 
 
 Sasha. 
 No, no! 
 
 Fedia. 
 You say, No; but you know I am right. 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 I can only judge by imagining what It would 
 be like If 1 were In her place, and you told me 
 what you said just there. It would be awful for 
 me. 
 
 Fedia. 
 Yes, for you. 
 
 (/^w uncomfortable pause.) 
 
 Sasha. 
 (rising.) Must it be as you say? 
 
 Fedia. 
 It must. 
 
 Sasha. 
 Come back, Fedia! Come back! 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 You are so kind, Sasha dear! I shall always 
 hold you dear In my memory. . . . Good- 
 bye, my dear. Let me kiss you. {He kisses her 
 on the forehead.)
 
 58 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 (excited.) No, I don't say good-bye for good. 
 I don't believe it's all over. I won't believe it! 
 Fedia . . 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Listen, Sasha. But promise you will not tell 
 anybody what I am going to tell you now. Will 
 you give me your word? 
 
 Sasha. 
 I won't tell any one, 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Well, the truth is that, although I am her hus- 
 band, the father of her child, I am nothing to 
 her. . . . Wait, don't interrupt me. Don't 
 imagine I am jealous. I am not. Not in the 
 least. First of all, I should have no right to be; 
 and then I have no reason. Victor Karenin is her 
 old friend, and mine too. He loves her, and she 
 loves him. 
 
 Sasha. 
 
 No. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 She loves him, but being an honest woman, she 
 thinks she has no right to love anybody but her
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 59 
 
 husband. And yet she loves him, and will give 
 way to her feelings for him when this obstacle 
 {pointing to himself) is removed. And I will re- 
 move it — so that they may be happy. {His voice 
 shakes.) 
 
 Sasha. 
 Fedia, don't talk in that way. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 You know quite well it is true. I shall rejoice 
 in their happiness. It is the very best thing I 
 could do. I shall not go back. I shall give them 
 their freedom. Tell them that. No, don't tell 
 them anything. And good-bye! {He kisses her 
 head and opens the door for her.) 
 
 Sasha. 
 Fedia, how I admire you. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Good-bye, good-bye ! 
 
 (Sasha goes out.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {alone.) That's right, that's all right. {He 
 rings the bell. To the servant, zvho enters.) Call 
 your master. {alone.) It must be so.
 
 6o THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Fedia. 
 Let us go. 
 
 Afremov. 
 (enters.) Well, have you settled things? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Oh, yes. In the very best way. Everything is 
 perfect now. Where are all the others? 
 
 Afremov. 
 They're playing billiards. 
 
 Fedia. 
 Let's join them, then. (They go out.) 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene I 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna Karenina's boudoir. It 
 is a room of elegant simplicity, full of all kinds of 
 souvenirs. 
 
 (She is fifty years old, a grande 
 dame who tries to look younger, 
 and likes to interlard her conversa- 
 tion with French words.)
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 6i 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna, Victor Karenin's. 
 mother, is writing a letter. 
 
 Servant. 
 {entering.) Prince Sergius Dmitrievich. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Well, ask hirn in, of course. {She turns and 
 looks into a mirror, arranging her hair.) 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 {entering.) I hope I am not in the way. 
 
 {Kisses her hand.) 
 
 {He is a well-preserved bach- 
 elor of sixty, zvith moustache. The 
 dignified face of the old soldier has 
 a very sad expression.) 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 You know you are always welcome. And to- 
 day more than ever. You got my note? 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 I did — and here I am. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Oh, my dear friend, I begin to lose hope. He 
 is bewitched, positively bewitched. I never 
 thought he could be so obstinate, so heartless and
 
 62 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 indifferent towards me. He is quite changed since 
 that woman left her husband. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 How do matters stand now? 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 Well, he wants to marry her at all costs. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 But how about her husband? 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 He consents to be divorced. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 Oh! Is that so? 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Victor is willing to put up with all the ugliness 
 of the divorce court. Lawyers, evidence of guilt. 
 . . . All this is disgusting. And he does not 
 mind ! I cannot understand it. He with his deli- 
 cacy, his timidity. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 He is In love. And when a man Is truly in 
 love —
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 63 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Yes, but In our time love was a pure friend- 
 ship which lasted a lifetime. Such love I can un- 
 derstand and value. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 Nowadays, Ideal love does not exist any more. 
 La possession de I'dme ne leitr sufjit plus. That 
 is a fact, and we cannot change it. But what 
 about Victor? 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 No, he Is not like the rest. But this Is posi- 
 tively witchcraft. He is changed, I tell you. 
 You know I called on them — he asked me to — I 
 didn't find them at home, and I left a card. She 
 asks if I will receive her. And to-day {she looks 
 at the watch) about two — It is nearly that now 
 — she will be here. I promised Victor to receive 
 her, but you may Imagine in what a state I am. 
 I feel quite lost. So, true to my old habit, I have 
 sent for you to come. I am in such need of your 
 help! 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 You are very good. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 You will understand. You must see that her
 
 64 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 visit means the final decision, don't you? Victor's 
 whole future depends on it. I must either refuse 
 my consent . . . but how can I? 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 Don't you know her at all? 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 I have never seen her. But I am afraid of her. 
 A good woman cannot leave her husband — and 
 such a good man too. He is Victor's friend — did 
 you know that? He often came to us. I thought 
 him very nice. But whatever he might be, what- 
 ever wrong he has done her, a wife ought not 
 to leave her husband. She must bear her cross. 
 There is one thing I can't possibly grasp: how 
 could Victor, with his religious views, make up his 
 mind to marry a divorced woman? I have heard 
 him say over and over again — once quite lately 
 to Spitzin — that divorce is not consistent with the 
 true Christian doctrine. And now he is in favour 
 of it. If she has been able to fascinate him to this 
 point . . . ! I am afraid of her. How silly 
 of me to talk all the time like this. I asked you 
 to come so as to have your view of the situation. 
 What do you think? Tell me. Have you spoken 
 to Victor?
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 6s 
 
 Princk Abreskov. 
 
 I have. And my opinion is that he loves her. 
 He's already got into the habit of loving her, so 
 to speak. Love has taken hold him. He is a 
 man who opens his heart slowly — but then for 
 good. He will never love any other woman, and 
 he could not be happy with any other woman but 
 her. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 And Varia Kasanzeva, who would gladly have 
 married him ! Such a nice girl, and so devoted to 
 him ! 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 You are counting your chickens before they are 
 hatched. That's quite out of question now. I 
 think the only thing for you is to consent, and to 
 help him to marry. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 To marry a divorced woman! And suppose 
 that afterwards he were to meet his wife's first 
 husband somewhere ! How can you calmly sug- 
 gest such a thing! Could any mother wish to see 
 her only son — and such a son — married like 
 that? 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 My dear friend, it cannot be helped. Of course
 
 66 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 It would be nicer if he married a young girl you 
 know and you like, but he will not. Besides — 
 imagine if he had married a gipsy girl or . . . 
 And Lisa Protassova is a very nice woman. I 
 have met her at my niece Nelly's. She is a very 
 sweet, kind, loving, moral woman. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Moral, indeed! A woman who has left her 
 husband ! 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 How unlike you to speak so! How cruel. 
 Her husband is one of those men of whom one 
 may say that they are their worst enemies. But 
 certainly he is a worse enemy of his wife than of 
 himself. He is a weak man, a perfect wreck, a 
 drunkard. He has squandered his own fortune 
 and all that she possessed; she has a child. And 
 you condemn her for having left such a man. 
 And besides, it was not she, it was he who left her. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Oh, the ugliness of it all! And that I should 
 have to take part in It! 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 What is it that the gospel says?
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 67 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Yes, I know. Forgive us as we forgive those 
 who trespass against us. But this Is beyond me! 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 How could she go on living with such a man? 
 Even If she had not loved any one else she would 
 have had to leave him. She had to do It for her 
 child's sake. Her husband himself, a clever and 
 kind man when he is in his senses, advised her to 
 leave him. 
 
 (Victor comes in. He kisses 
 his mother s hand, and shakes 
 hands with Prince Abreskov.) 
 
 Victor. 
 
 Mother, I have come to tell you that Elizaveta 
 Andreevna will be here presently. I will tell the 
 servant to show her in. There is only one 
 thing I ask you. If you are still opposed to my 
 marrying her — 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 {interrupting him.) Most certainly I am. 
 
 Victor. 
 
 {continues frowning.) Then don't speak about 
 It, I beseech you ! Don't Inflict a refusal upon her.
 
 68 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 Anna Dmitrievna, 
 
 We shall not speak about that, I suppose. 
 Anyhow, I shall not start the topic. 
 
 Victor, 
 
 Nor will she. I only want you to know her. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 One thing I cannot understand: how do you 
 reconcile your wish to marry Madame Protassova, 
 whose husband is alive, with your condemnation 
 of divorce from the Christian point of view? You 
 — so religious! 
 
 Victor. 
 
 Mother, that is cruel! Are we all so unim- 
 peachable that, in this complex world, there is no 
 discrepancy between our convictions and our prac- 
 tice? Why are you so unkind to me, mother? 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 I love you. I want you to be happy! 
 
 Victor. 
 {to Prince A.breskov.) Sergius DmitrievichI 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 I don't doubt you want him to be happy. But
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 69 
 
 grey heads like ours are unable to know what 
 passes in the minds of youth. Least of all, a 
 mother who has her settled ideas about her son's 
 happiness. On that point women are all alike. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Indeed I I ought to have known you would all 
 be against me. Of course you are free to do as 
 you like. You are of age. But it will kill me. 
 
 Victor. 
 
 I do not recognise you. It is worse than cruel 
 to talk like that. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 (to Victor.) Don't talk like that, Victor. You 
 know that your mother does not act as she speaks. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 I shall speak exactly as I think and feel, but 
 without hurting her feelings. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 I am quite sure of that. 
 
 Servant. 
 (enters.) Here she is. 
 
 Victor. 
 I'll go. •
 
 70 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Servant. 
 
 Elizaveta Andreevna Protassova. 
 
 Victor. 
 
 I'll go, mother. I beseech you — 
 
 (Prince Abreskov m^5.) 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Ask the lady in. {To Prince Abreskov.) 
 Don't go. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 I thought you would prefer to talk with her 
 tete-a-tete. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 No, I am afraid. {Fussing about.) If I want 
 to be with her alone I will signal to you. That 
 depends . . . But at the moment I should 
 feel uncomfortable alone with her. When I want 
 you to leave the room I will do like that. {She 
 makes a sign.) 
 
 Prince Abreskov.. 
 
 I shall know. I am sure you will like her. 
 Only be justl 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Oh, you are all against me ! 
 
 (Lisa, in hat and visiting dress, 
 comes into the room.)
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 71 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 (rising.) I was so sorry you were not at home 
 when I called. It Is so kind of you to come to see 
 me. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I did not expect — thank you so much for wish- 
 ing to see me. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 You have met before, I believe? (Pointing to 
 Prince Abreskov.) 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 Yes, I have had the honour of making Madame 
 Protassova's acquaintance. (He shakes hands 
 with Lisa. They sit down.) I have heard so 
 much about you from my niece Nelly. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 We have always been great friends. (Looking 
 shyly at Anna Dmitrievna.) And we still are. 
 (To Anna Dmitrievna.) I did not expect you 
 would want to see me. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 T knew your husband very well. He was a 
 great friend of my son's, and often came to our
 
 72 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 house before he left for Tambov, I believe it 
 was there he married you? 
 
 Lisa. 
 Yes, we were married there. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 But afterwards, when he came back to Moscow, 
 he stopped coming to see me. 
 
 Lisa. 
 He used hardly to go anywhere. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 And he never brought you to me. 
 
 {An awkward silence.) 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 The last time I saw you was at an amateur per- 
 formance at Denisov's. It was a charming af- 
 fair. You were acting in the play. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 No — oh, yes, I acted. I had almost forgotten. 
 {Pause.) Anna Dmitrievna, forgive me if what 
 I am going to say displeases you. But I can't 
 pretend; T am really unable to. I came because 
 Victor Mikhailovich told me . . . because
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 73 
 
 . . . he told me you would like to see me. 
 . . . But It is better if you tell me. . . . 
 {Overpoivered by tears.) I am very unhappy, 
 and you are kind. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 I think I had better go. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 Yes, go. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 Good-bye. (He shakes hands iv'ith both the 
 ladies, and goes out.) 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Listen, Lisa ... I don't know your fath- 
 er's name — No, no, no, that doesn't matter. 
 
 Lisa. 
 Andreevna. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 No matter. Lisa! I pity you, I sympathise 
 with you. But I love Victor. He is all I love 
 on earth. I know his soul as if it was my own. 
 He is proud. He was proud even as a boy of 
 seven. He is proud not of his name, not of riches, 
 but proud of his purity, his high ideals. He never 
 swerved from them. He is as pure as an innocent 
 girl.
 
 74 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Lisa. 
 I know. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 He has never loved a woman before. You 
 are the first. I don't say I am not jealous of you 
 — I am. Yes, I am. But we mothers — your 
 son is still a baby, you can't know yet — we are 
 prepared for It. I was prepared to surrender him 
 to his future wife, and I made up my mind not to 
 be jealous. But I expected her to be as pure as 
 he Is. 
 
 Lisa. 
 I . . . Do you 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Forgive me. I know it is not your fault. I 
 know you are unhappy. But I know him. Now, 
 he Is ready to bear anything, and he will bear it 
 without ever saying a word; but he will suffer. 
 His pride will be wounded and will suffer, and he 
 will never be happy. 
 
 Lisa. 
 I have thought about that. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 Lisa, dear! You are such a clever, good
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 75 
 
 woman, and if you love him you certainly want 
 his happiness more than your own. And if so, 
 you can't wish to bind him so that he would be 
 sorry afterwards. He would never, oh never, 
 say so, but he would be. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 He would not, I know. I have thought so 
 much about it, and have asked myself what I ought 
 to do. I have discussed it with him quite openly. 
 But what am I to do if he says he cannot live 
 without me? I told him, let us be friends, but 
 don't bind up your pure life with mine, which is 
 wretched. But he does not see it from the same 
 standpoint. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Of course, he would not at the moment. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Persuade him not to marry me. I will agree. 
 I only want his happiness, not mine. But help 
 me! Don't hate me. Let us join in making him 
 happy. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 I think I love you already, (She kisses her. 
 Lisa bursts into tears.) And yet it is so horrible. 
 If only he had fallen in love with you before you 
 married —
 
 76 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 He says he loved me then, but thought It wrong 
 to stand in the way of another man's happiness. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 Oh, how unfortunate it all is! But let us love 
 each other, and God will help us to attain what 
 we wish. 
 
 Victor. 
 
 (entering.) Mother dear! I have heard all you 
 have been talking about. I knew it would be so. 
 I knew you would love her. So now everything 
 will be all right. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I am sorry you were listening. If I had known, 
 I should not have spoken like that. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 But, after all, nothing is decided yet. All I can 
 say is that I would have been very happy — if it 
 had not been for all these sad circumstances. 
 (She kisses her.) 
 
 Victor. 
 Don't change your mind, please — that is all I 
 ask you.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 77 
 
 Scene II 
 
 A room in a cheap flat; a bed, writing-table, 
 sofa are all the furniture. Fedia is alone. There 
 is a knock at the door. A Woman's voice is 
 heard outside: — 
 
 Why have you locked yourself in, Fedor Vasllle- 
 vich? Open the door, Fedia. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {opening the door.) I am so glad you have come. 
 I am so bored, so frightfully bored, 
 
 Masha. 
 Why didn't you come to us? Drunk again? 
 
 Fedia. 
 You know, I — 
 
 Masha. 
 Oh, what a fool I am to love you 1 
 
 Fedia. 
 Masha I 
 
 Masha. 
 Masha, indeed! If you cared for me the least
 
 78 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 bit, you would have been divorced by now. They 
 want it too — you know they do. You go on 
 saying you don't love her, but you stick to her all 
 the same. You don't want to be divorced. I can 
 see that. 
 
 Fedia. 
 You know why I don't. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 Nonsense! People are perfectly right when 
 they say there is no depending on you. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 What can I say? It hurts, your saying all that. 
 You know it yourself. 
 
 Masha. 
 Nothing can hurt you. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 You know perfectly well that my only joy in life 
 is in your love. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 My love Is all right. But you — you don't love 
 me.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 79 
 Fedia. 
 You know I do. I don't need to tell you that. 
 
 Masha. 
 Then why are you so cruel to me? 
 
 Fedia. 
 Cruel? I? Can you say that? 
 
 Masha. 
 {bursting into tears.) You are so unkind 1 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 (coming close to her and embracing her.) Don't 
 cry, Masha! Don't cry. Life is worth living. 
 Why be miserable? It Is so unlike you, my beau- 
 tiful one I 
 
 Masha. 
 You do love me? 
 
 Fedia. 
 Whom else could I love? 
 
 Masha. 
 
 Me, only me? And now read what you have 
 written.
 
 8o THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Fedia. 
 It will bore you. 
 
 Masha. 
 Anything you write must be fine. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Well, listen. {Reads.) " Late in the autumn 
 we decided, my friend and I, to meet at the Mari- 
 gin fort. There stood a castle with small tur- 
 rets. The night was dark and warm. The 
 fog . . ." 
 
 (Ivan Makarovich, an old 
 gipsy, and his wife, Nastassia 
 IvANOVNA — Masha's parents 
 — enter.) 
 
 Nastassia Ivanovna. 
 
 {coming close to her daughter.) Oh, you are 
 here, you, cursed sheep! {To Fedia.) No dis- 
 respect to you, sir. {To Masha.) But you — 
 how can you treat us like this? 
 
 Ivan Makarovich. 
 
 {to Fedia.) It's very wrong of you, sir, to ruin 
 a girl. It's wrong, it's ugly. 
 
 Nastassia Ivanovna. 
 Put on your shawl, and be gone from here. 
 How did you dare to run away like that? What
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 8i 
 
 am I to say to the others? To keep company with 
 a beggar ! He can't give you a penny. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 I have not done anything wrong. 1 love Fedor 
 Vasilievich — that is all. I'm not abandoning the 
 others. I will sing as before. But as to — 
 
 Ivan Makarovicii. 
 
 Shut up, or I will pull your hair out. You 
 ought to respect your parents, you ought. — It's 
 wicked of you to do that, sir! We all loved you; 
 we pitied you. How many times we used to sing 
 to you just for nothing! And that is how you 
 behave ! 
 
 Nastassia Ivanovna. 
 
 You have ruined my daughter, my only one; my 
 darling, my pearl, my priceless treasure ! Dragged 
 her down into the mud, that's what you have 
 done ! You've got no fear of God in your heart! 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Nastassia Ivanovna, you are mistaken. Don't 
 think me wicked. I consider your daughter just 
 like my sister. I hold her honour dear. Don't 
 be afraid. I love her, that is true. But that 
 can't be helped.
 
 82 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 Ivan Makarovich. 
 
 Why did you not love her when you had money? 
 You ought to have paid down ten thousand roubles 
 to us, and then you could have had her without any 
 disgrace. That is what all respectable men do. 
 But to steal her away like that, after having squan- 
 dered all you had ! You ought to be ashamed, sir. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 He did not take me away, I came to him. And, 
 if you take me away from him now, I will come 
 back. I love him — that's all. Lock me up ! 
 My love will be stronger than all your bolts. I 
 won't obey you. 
 
 Nastassia Ivanovna. 
 
 Don't be cross, Mashenka, darling. You have 
 done wrong. Now do come with us. 
 
 Ivan Makarovich. 
 
 Shut up, Masha. {He takes her by the hand.) 
 Good-bye, sir. 
 
 {All three go out together. 
 Prince Abreskov comes in.) 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 Forgive me. I have been — quite by chance 
 — a witness of this unpleasant Incident.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 83 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 With whom have I the honour — (Recognis- 
 ing him.) Oh, Prince Sergius Dmitrievich ! 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 I have been the witness of what has just oc- 
 curred. I did not desire to hear, but as I did 
 hear, I am bound in duty to tell you so. I was 
 shown in — the loudness of the voices evidently 
 drowned my repeated knocking — consequently I 
 had to wait till your visitors were gone. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Oh, that's all right. Won't you sit down? I'm 
 obliged to you for telling me, as it gives me an op- 
 portunity to explain to you what it was all about. 
 What you think of me does not in the least con- 
 cern me. But I should tell you this girl, a young 
 gipsy singer, has done nothing to deserve the scene 
 you witnessed. She is as pure as a dove. And 
 my only relations with her are friendly — friendly, 
 and nothing more. Poetical they may be — that 
 does not affect her purity, her honour. I am glad 
 to have told you that. But tell me, what Is It you 
 want of me? What can I do for you? 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 I must tell you first of all —
 
 84 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Forgive me, Prince. My position In society Is 
 now such that my having known you slightly long 
 ago does not entitle me to a visit from you without 
 some special reason for your wanting to see me. 
 What is that reason? 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 You are quite right — I will not deny there is. 
 I have come for a special reason. But I beg you 
 to believe that whatever change there may be In 
 your social position, it does not affect my esteem 
 for you. 
 
 • Fedia. 
 
 I am quite sure of that. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 Well, what I have to say is that the son of my 
 old friend, Anna Dmitrievna Karenina, and she 
 herself, have asked me to apply directly to you in 
 order to know what your relations are now — if 
 you allow me to speak of the matter — with your 
 wife, Elizaveta Andreevna Protassova. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 My relations with my wife, my former w'lie I 
 may say, have entirely ceased.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 85 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 So I understood. And that is why I consented 
 to come upon so delicate a mission. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Let me hasten to add that the fault is not hers, 
 but mine; in fact, my faults are endless. She 
 remains what she always has been, the most spot- 
 less of wives and of women. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 Victor Karenin, and especially his mother, are 
 anxious to know what you intend to do now. I 
 am to ask you about that. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 (excitedly.) I have no intentions whatever. I 
 leave my wife entirely free. I wish it to be un- 
 derstood that I will never stand in her way in any- 
 thing. I know she loves Victor Karenin, and I 
 have no objection at all. I think him rather a 
 bore, but a perfectly nice and respectable man; 
 and I am sure — as the saying is — that she will 
 be happy with him. And God bless them. That 
 is all I have to say. 
 
 Prince Abreskov, 
 Yes, but we —
 
 86 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 (interrupting him.) Don't imagine I am in the 
 least jealous. I said Victor was a bore, but I take 
 that back. He is an excellent, an honest, and 
 moral man — almost the exact opposite of me. 
 He has loved her from her youth up. Perhaps 
 she was in love with him too when she became 
 my wife. This has been her real love, the one of 
 which people are often not aware. And I think 
 she never ceased to love him, though being an 
 honest woman, she did not confess it even to her- 
 self. But it has hovered as something of a 
 shadow over our married life. . . . No, 
 really, I think I ought not to make such confessions 
 to you. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 Please don't stop short of anything you can tell 
 me. Believe me, my real object in coming to you 
 was just to gain a clear insight into your relations 
 with your wife. I quite understand what you 
 mean. I see that a sort of shadow, as you have 
 so well put it, may have existed. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Yes, it existed; and perhaps that is why I was 
 not satisfied with my life at home. I kept trying 
 to find satisfaction elsewhere, and indulged in all
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 87 
 
 sorts of passions. Why talk about it? I must seem 
 to you to be trying to exculpate myself, and I 
 don't want that. Besides, there is no excuse what- 
 ever for me. I have been a bad husband. I say 
 I have been, now I no longer am her husband. I 
 consider her entirely free. That is my answer, 
 which you may take back to them. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 That is very well, but you know the principles 
 of Victor and his mother. His relations with 
 Elizaveta Andreevna have been throughout most 
 respectful and distant, and remain so now. He 
 has tried to help her in her troubles — that is all. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Yes, and my vices have only helped their inti- 
 macy to ripen. Well, I suppose it could not be 
 helped. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 You know the strict religious principles of Vic- 
 tor and his mother. I don't agree with them on 
 that point. I have broader views. But I under- 
 stand and respect their feelings. I understand 
 that he, and his mother even more than he, could 
 not think of his union with a woman without the 
 consecration of the church.
 
 88 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Yes, I know how conservative he Is in that re- 
 spect. But what do they want? Divorce? I 
 have already told them that I consent to be di- 
 vorced. But to plead guilty, and pass through all 
 the lies connected with the proceedings — that 
 would be hard indeed. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 I quite agree with you. Only there is no choice 
 left. We must manage it somehow. But, of 
 course, you are quite right, and I understand you. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 (pressing his hand.) Thank you, my dear Prince, 
 thank you. I always knew you were kind and 
 just. Tell me, what ought I to do? Consider 
 my position. I don't pretend to be better than I 
 really am. I am a scoundrel. But there are 
 things which I cannot do calmly. I cannot tell 
 lies. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. . 
 
 I must say you are a puzzle to me. You are 
 a gifted, a clever man, with a fine sense of moral 
 duty. How could you have been so carried away 
 by your passions? How could you forget what 
 was due to yourself? How has your life come 
 to this point? Why, why have you ruined your- 
 self?
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 89 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 (mastering his tears.) For the past ten years I 
 have led my present dissipated life, and for the 
 first time I find a man like you to pity me. My 
 friends, rakes like myself, pity me, women pity me; 
 but a clever, a kind man like you . . . ! 
 Thank you! How have I ruined myself? In 
 the first place — alcohol. It is not that I enjoy 
 the taste of wine. But it prevents one thinking. 
 When I think, or when my senses are awake, I 
 feel that everything is different from what it ought 
 to be, and I am ashamed. I am ashamed now in 
 talking to you. Anything like being an official, 
 or having a place in a bank — seems to me abso- 
 lutely shameful. Well, the moment I begin to 
 drink, my shame is gone. And then music — not 
 operas or Beethoven, but gipsy songs — fills you 
 with new energy, makes you live a new life. And 
 when a pair of black eyes and a smiling face are 
 near you — But the more entrancing it all is, 
 the more you feel ashamed afterwards. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 And work? 
 
 Fedia. 
 I have tried. No work satisfies me. But 
 don't let us talk about me. Anyhow, I thank you 
 with all my heart.
 
 90 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 Well, what answer am I to take them? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Tell them I am willing to do as they wish. 
 They want to marry, and there must be nothing 
 in their way. That is so? 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 Yes, of course. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 I will see to it. Tell them I will; they may rely 
 on me. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 When? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Wait a moment — let us say they will be free 
 in a fortnight. Will that do? 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 May I say that you give them your word? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 You may. Good-bye, Prince. Thank you once 
 more. 
 
 (Prince Abreskov goes out.)
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 91 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 (sits a long while silent, then smiles.) Good, 
 good! That's right. That's right. Very good 
 Indeed. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene I 
 
 A private room in a restaurant. Fedia is 
 shown in by a Waiter. 
 
 Waiter. 
 
 This way, sir. You will be all by yourself; no 
 one will disturb you. I will bring you some paper 
 at once. 
 
 Ivan Petrovich Alexandrov. 
 
 {appearing in the doorway.) Protassov, do you 
 mind if I come in? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {very serious.) You may, if you like. But I 
 am busy, and — All right, come in. 
 
 Ivan Petrovich. 
 
 You are going to write an answer to their de- 
 mands. I will tell you what you ought to tell
 
 92 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 them. Don't you spare them. To say straight 
 out what you mean, and to act resolutely; that's 
 my system. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {to the zva'iter.) A bottle of champagne. 
 
 {The Waiter goes out.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {taking a revolver out of his pocket and putting it 
 on the table.) Wait a bit. 
 
 Ivan Petrovich. 
 
 What's that? Going to shoot yourself? Of 
 course! Why not? I understand you. They 
 mean to humiliate you, and you will show them 
 who you are — put a bullet through your head and 
 crush them by your magnanimity. I understand 
 you. I understand everything and everybody, be- 
 cause I am a genius. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Yes, of course. But — 
 
 {The Waiter returns with ink 
 and paper.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {putting a napkin over the revolver.) Open the 
 bottle. {The Waiter opens the bottle^ then
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 93 
 
 goes.) Let us have a drink first. {They drink. 
 Fedia sits down and begins to write a letter.) 
 Wait a moment. 
 
 Ivan Petrovich. 
 
 I drink to your - — great journey. I am above 
 that. I won't try to dissuade you. Life and 
 death are all the same to me. I die in life, and I 
 live in death. You want to kill yourself, so that 
 those two may be sorry for it and miss you badly. 
 And I — I will kill myself for the world to realise 
 what it has lost. I won't hesitate; I won't con- 
 sider and reconsider it. I will just take the re- 
 volver {snatching the revolver from the table.) 
 One, two — and all will be over. But the right 
 moment has not yet come. {He puts the revolver 
 back.) And why should I instruct them? They 
 ought to understand things by themselves. Oh, 
 you. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {writing.) Wait a moment. 
 
 Ivan Petrovich. 
 
 Contemptible creatures, who fuss about and un- 
 derstand nothing! Nothing whatever! I'm not 
 speaking to you — I'm only expressing my 
 thoughts to myself. And what is it that humanity 
 is in need of? Not much; only to prize its gen-
 
 94 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 iuses instead of persecuting them as it does, and 
 making their life a perpetual agony. No; I won't 
 be your plaything any more. I w.ill denounce you 
 all, hypocrites that you are ! 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {having finished his letter, drinks a glass of cham- 
 pagne, and reads what he has written.) Now 
 please, go ! 
 
 Ivan Petrovich. 
 
 Go? All right, I'll go. Anyhow, I don't hold 
 you back from what you have decided to do. I 
 shall do so too. But the time has not yet come. 
 I only wanted to tell you — 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 All right, you can tell me later. Now listen: 
 will you, please, give this to the manager {handing 
 him some money) ^ and ask him for a letter and a 
 parcel that have probably been sent here in my 
 name? Will you do that? 
 
 IvAN Petrovich. 
 
 I will. Then you promise to wait for me? I 
 will tell you something very important, something 
 the like of which you will not hear, neither in this 
 world nor in that to come — at least, not till I get 
 there. Am I to give him all this money?
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 95 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Let him take what I owe him. 
 
 (Ivan Petrovich goes out.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {sighs with a sense of relief, locks the door, takes 
 
 the revolver, cocks it, puts it close to his temple, 
 
 then shivers, and lets his hand drop with great 
 
 precaution. Groans.) No, I cannot, I cannot! 
 
 {There is a knock at the door.) 
 
 Who is there ? 
 
 Masha's voice outside. 
 It is I. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Who: "I?" Oh, Masha! {He opens the 
 door.) 
 
 Masha. 
 {entering.) I called at your place, then at Pop- 
 pov's, at Afremov's, and then I thought, at last, 
 I might find you here. {Seeing the revolver.) 
 Ah, what's that? You fool! You regular fool! 
 Could you really — 
 
 Fedia. 
 No, I could not. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 And I? Am I something to you or not? You
 
 96 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 heartless wretch! You have no pity for me! It 
 is a great sin, Fedor Vasilievich, to treat me like 
 that. A great sin! That is what I get now for 
 all my love ! 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 I wanted to release them. I promised to. And 
 I can't tell lies. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 And what about me? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Oh, you ! You would have felt it a deliverance 
 too. Is it better for you to go on being so mis- 
 erable on account of me? 
 
 Masha. 
 Of course it is. I cannot live without you. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 And with me your life is no life at all. When 
 I was dead, you would have cried over me, but 
 after a while you would feel much the better for 
 my loss. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 I shouldn't have cried at all. The devil may 
 take you for all I care, if you have no pity for me. 
 {She bursts into tears.)
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 97 
 Fedia. 
 
 Masha, darling 1 I only thought it would have 
 been better. 
 
 Masha. 
 Better for you, I dare say. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {smiling.) Why for me? I was going to kill 
 myself. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 It's just selfishness, that's all. But I wish I 
 knew what you wanted. 
 
 Fedia. 
 What? A great many things. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 Well, what? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 First of all, I must keep my promise. All 
 alone, this is too much for me. How can I tell 
 lies? How can I stand all the ugliness of the di- 
 vorce? How can I? 
 
 Masha. 
 There you are right. It is ugly. I myself —
 
 98 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 And then they have to be delivered in some 
 way or other. No doubt of that. My wife and 
 he must be free. They are kind, good people, 
 both of them. Why must they suffer? That is 
 my second reason. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 I don't think she's as kind as that, if she has for- 
 saken you. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 It was all my fault, not hers. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 Your fault, indeed ! Everything is your fault 
 — of course, she is an angel. Well, what else is 
 there? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Well, this. You are a good girl — yes, you 
 are. And if I live, I shall make you miserable. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 That is no concern of yours. I am lost anyhow. 
 I know that. 
 
 Fedia. 
 (sighing.) And the chief, the very chief reason, 
 lies in myself. You think I don't see that I am
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 99 
 
 good for nothing, a burden to everybody and to 
 myself too, as your father said. I am no good. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 Nonsense ! You won't get me to leave you. 
 I shall stick to you, and there is an end of it. 
 And as to your leading a bad life, drinking and 
 smoking — you are a living soul. Change; give 
 it all up. 
 
 Fedia. 
 It's easy for you to say it. 
 
 Masha. 
 Do as I say. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 When I look at your face, I think I could do 
 everything you ask me. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 And you will. You will do it all. (She sees 
 the letter.) What is that? You've written to 
 them. What have you said? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 I wrote what I had to. (He takes the letter, 
 is about to tear it.) Now It is of no use.
 
 loo THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Masha. 
 
 (snatching the letter from him.) You've written 
 that you were going to kill yourself? Did you 
 say you would shoot yourself, or just kill yourself, 
 without saying how? 
 
 Fedia. 
 I've written that I won't live any longer. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 Give me that letter. Have you read the fa- 
 mous novel, " What are We to Do? " 
 
 Fedia. 
 I think I have. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 It's not an entertaining book, I must say," but one 
 thing I liked in it. Do you remember that man 
 — what is his name? Ramanov — who made- 
 believe he was drowned? You can't swim, can 
 you? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 No. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 Very good, then. Give me your coat. Give 
 me your notebook, and all those things.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD loi 
 Fedia. 
 
 What an Idea ! 
 
 Masha. 
 
 No, wait. Let us go home, and you will put 
 on other clothes. 
 
 Fedia. 
 But that will be a fraud. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 Let it be a fraud. You went to have a bathe 
 in the river; you left your clothes on the bank. 
 The notebook and this letter will be found in your 
 pocket. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 And then? 
 
 Masha. 
 
 Then? Then we'll clear out, and will begin 
 a new and happy life. 
 
 Ivan Petrovich. 
 (returning.) I say! May I take the revolver? 
 
 Masha. 
 
 Yes, take it. We are off.
 
 102 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Scene II 
 The drawing-room at Lisa Protassova's. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 He promised so definitely that I was sure he 
 would keep his word. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I feel ashamed to say it, but really, hearing of 
 that gipsy girl has made me feel quite free from 
 him. Don't think I was jealous. No, I simply 
 felt free. And — I don't know how to put it 
 into words, Victor Mikhailovich — 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 {smiling.) Why do you speak to me in that for- 
 mal way? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Well then, Victor. But don't interrupt me. I 
 want to tell you exactly how I feel. What dis- 
 tressed me most of all was that I somehow felt I 
 loved two men at the same time. It seemed to 
 me so wicked, so frightfully immoral. 
 
 Karenin. 
 Immoral! You immoral!
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 103 
 Lisa. 
 
 But since I have come to know that there was 
 another woman he loved, and that he has no more 
 need of me, I feel quite free, I know now that I 
 can tell you truly that I love you, and you alone. 
 Now my mind is perfectly clear. I only suffer 
 from my position. This divorce is so awful. And 
 how agonising to wait for It! 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 All that will be over presently. He has prom- 
 ised to do all that is necessary; and besides, I 
 asked the secretary of the Synod to call on him 
 with the petition, and not to go before he has 
 signed it. If I did not know him as well as I do, 
 I should have thought he was dragging the whole 
 business out on purpose. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Oh no. Indeed he is not. It is only that he is 
 so weak and so honest. He was always so. He 
 hates saying what is untrue. But T am sorry you 
 have sent him money. You ought not to have 
 done that. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 I had to. Want of money for expenses would 
 have meant further delay.
 
 T04 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Lisa. 
 Yes, but it is so unpleasant. 
 
 Karenin. 
 I don't thinlc he has any right to be fastidious. 
 
 Lisa. 
 What egoists we are becoming. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 That is true — but then, it is partly your fault. 
 You made me wait so long, you have driven me 
 to such despair, that now I can't help saying how 
 happy I am. Happiness is very selfish. That is 
 your fault, darling. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Do you think it is only you who feel happy? 
 I do too. I am full of bliss, overwhelmed by it. 
 Now my boy has recovered, and your mother is 
 fond of me, and you — and what makes my great- 
 est joy — I love you so dearly. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Do you? You won't have any regrets? You 
 won't go back on your decision?
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 105 
 Lisa. 
 
 No. Ever since that day I have been a changed 
 being. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 You won't change back again? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Never, never. My only wish is that you should 
 forget the past as completely as I have done. 
 
 ( The Nurse enters with the boy, 
 who goes to his mother. She takes 
 him on her knees.) 
 
 Karenin. 
 What a miserable thing man's nature is! 
 
 Lisa. 
 Why do you say that? {She kisses the child.) 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 When you married, and I heard about it on my 
 return from abroad and was so unhappy because 
 I had lost you, it was at least a great joy to learn 
 that you just remembered me. That was enough 
 for me. After that, when we became friends and
 
 io6 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 you were kind to me — when I felt that there was 
 just a spark of something more than mere friend- 
 ship in our relations — I was almost happy. I 
 was only afraid — and I suffered from it a good 
 deal — that it was unfair to Fedia. But as I was 
 firmly convinced there could not be anything more 
 than pure friendship between me and the wife of 
 my friend — and besides, I knew what you were 
 — I was not greatly disturbed. On the whole I 
 was content. Then, when Fedia began to cause 
 you so much trouble, and I felt that I was your 
 support and that you somehow feared my friend- 
 ship, I was completely happy, and a vague hope 
 arose In my soul. And when Fedia became quite 
 impossible and you resolved to leave him, when I 
 told you for the first time I loved you and you did 
 not say " No," but left me in tears, then my hap- 
 piness was complete. If anybody had asked me 
 then what I desired more, I should have answered. 
 Nothing. But after that, the possibility arose of 
 uniting my life with yours; my mother grew fond 
 of you, my hope began to be realised. You told 
 me you loved me before, and you go on loving me; 
 now you say he does not exist for you and you love 
 only me — what else could I wish? But no, just 
 now I suffer because of the past. I wish it had 
 not existed, I wish there were nothing that could 
 remind me of him.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 107 
 
 Lisa. 
 {reproachfully.) O Victor! 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Forgive me, Lisa. If I tell you all this, it is 
 because I ought not to have a thought that I hide 
 from you. I tell you to show you how bad I am; 
 to show you that I know I must overcome such 
 feelings. And I have already overcome them. 
 I love him. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I am so glad. I did all I could. And I can't 
 help it if my heart underwent the change that you 
 longed for. There is nothing left in it — except 
 you. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Nothing but me? 
 
 Lisa. 
 Nothing. Or else I would not say so. 
 
 Servant. 
 {entering.) Mr. Vosnessensky. 
 
 Karenin. 
 Oh, he must have Fedia's answer.
 
 io8 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 {to Karenin.) Ask him in. 
 
 {The Servant goes out.) 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 {rising and going to the door.) You see, the an- 
 swer has come at once. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 {passing the child to the NuRSE.) I can hardly 
 believe, Victor, that It will be settled as we wish. 
 
 {She kisses the child. NuRSE 
 takes it away.) 
 
 (VosNESSENSKY enters.) 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Well? 
 
 Vosnessensky. 
 He was not In. 
 
 Karenin. 
 Not In? Then the petition Is not yet signed? 
 
 Vosnessensky. 
 
 No; It Is not. But there Is a letter from him, 
 addressed to you and Elizaveta Andreevna. 
 {He takes a letter out of his pocket and gives it
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 109 
 
 to Karenin.) I called at his house, and was told 
 that he had gone to a restaurant. They gave me 
 the address. I went there and found Fedor Vas- 
 ilievich, who asked me to call for the answer in 
 an hour. I called and — 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 This is too bad! He is trying again to gain 
 time by inventing all sorts of excuses. How low 
 he has sunk! 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Read the letter. What does he say? 
 
 (Karenin opens the letter.) 
 
 VOSNESSENSKY. 
 
 Do you want me any more? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 No. Good-bye. I thank you for — (He 
 stops in the middle of the sentence, amazed by 
 what he reads in the letter.) 
 
 (VOSNESSENSKY goeS OUt.) 
 
 Lisa. 
 What is the matter? What is in that letter? 
 
 Karenin. 
 Horrible! Horrible!
 
 no THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Lisa. 
 (rushing to seize the letter.) Read it to me I 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 {reading.) " Lisa and Victor, I write to you 
 both. I am not going to lie, and call you ' dear ' 
 and the like. I cannot master a feeling of bitter- 
 ness; I cannot help reproaching — not you, of 
 course, but myself — when I think of you, of your 
 love, your happiness. And I am wretched, be- 
 cause that is an accusation of myself. I know 
 Victor. I know that, in spite of my being the hus- 
 band, it is I who am the intruder. I stood in 
 your way, I am the cause of all your troubles. 
 And yet I cannot help feeling bitter and disliking 
 both of you. At a distance I love you both, par- 
 ticularly Lisa, darling Lisa- — but when I think of 
 you closely, I feel worse than Indifferent. I know 
 I am wrong, but I cannot change." 
 
 Lisa. 
 What is all that for? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 {continuing.) " But all this is not to the point. 
 What I am going to tell you is this: a change in 
 my feelings has made me fulfil your wish in a dif-
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 1 1 1 
 
 ferent way from what you desired. To lie, to 
 act a disgusting comedy, to bribe the consistory of- 
 ficials — the ugliness of all that is distasteful to 
 me. I am a bad man myself, but not in that way. 
 I cannot be a party to such low, dirty tricks. I 
 simply am unable to. The other issue on which I 
 have decided is the very simplest: you must marry 
 — that is the only way for you to be happy. I am 
 in your way — consequently, I must disappear." 
 
 Lisa. 
 {snatching Karenin's hand.) Victor! 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 {reading.) " I must disappear. And so I will. 
 When this letter reaches you I shall be no more. 
 P.S. — I am sorry you have sent me money for di- 
 vorce expenses. This is unpleasant, and unlike 
 you. But that cannot be mended now. I have 
 done so many shabby things in my life; well, now 
 it's your turn for once in a way. The money shall 
 be sent back to you. The way I have found to 
 settle things is much shorter and cheaper, and it is 
 the surest one. I ask you only not to be angry 
 with me, and not to think badly of me. And there 
 is one thing more: I know a poor man, the watch- 
 maker Eugene. Could you help him? He is a
 
 112 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 weak man, but very honest and good. Good-bye. 
 Fedla." 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 He has killed himself! 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 (rings the bell and runs to the hall.) Ask Mr. 
 Vosnessensky to come back. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I knew that would be the end. Fedla ! Fedia 
 darling! 
 
 Karenin. 
 Lisa I 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 It is not true I ceased to love him ! I love him 
 alone, and nobody else. And I have brought him 
 to his end. Leave me alone! 
 
 (Vosnessensky returns.) 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Where is Fedor Vasilievich? What did they 
 tell you? 
 
 Vosnessensky. 
 
 They told me he had gone out in the morning, 
 leaving this letter, and had not come back.
 
 
 =0
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 113 
 
 Karenin. 
 I must find out. I leave you, Lisa. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Don't be angry with me. I can't lie either. 
 Leave me now. Try, try to find out. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Scene I 
 
 A dirty room in a cheap restaurant. 
 
 {People are sitting around the 
 table, drinking tea and vodka. 
 Near the front a small table, at 
 which is sitting Fedia. He is in 
 rags, and has fallen very low. By 
 his side is Petushkov, a delicate, 
 keen-faced man, with long hair, 
 spiritual face. Both are slightly 
 tipsy.) 
 
 Petushkov. 
 I quite understand. This is real love. Well, 
 go on. 
 
 Fedia. 
 Of course we could expect a girl of our class to 
 feel like that, to sacrifice everything for the man
 
 114 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 she loves. But this girl is a gipsy, educated to 
 care only for money and to squeeze it out of every 
 one. And yet she has this pure disinterested love. 
 She gives everything without asking for anything 
 in return. It's the contrast of it that strikes me 
 most. 
 
 Petushkov. 
 
 Yes, that's what we painters call " les valeurs." 
 To produce the exact impression of scarlet, you 
 must have green round it. Well, that is not the 
 point. I understand. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 The only good I have done in life is that I have 
 not taken advantage of her love. And do you 
 know why? 
 
 Petushkov. 
 
 Was it because you pitied her? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 No, no. I did not pity her. But I had a sort 
 of admiration for her. And when she used to sing 
 — oh, how wonderfully she sang, and probably 
 sings now ! — not only then, but always, I looked 
 up to her. I have not ruined her life, simply be- 
 cause I loved her truly. And now she is simply 
 a dear, a very dear memory to me. {He drinks.)
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 115 
 Petushkov. 
 I understand. You are a true Idealist. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Now listen. I have had other passions in my 
 life. Once I was very much in love with a pretty 
 woman — basely, vilely, like a dog. She gave me 
 a rendezvous. I did not go. And why? Be- 
 cause of her husband; I felt I could not behave 
 meanly to him. The strange thing is that when I 
 remember that I want to feel glad, and to be sat- 
 isfied with myself for having behaved like an hon- 
 est man; instead, I repent as if I committed a sin. 
 With Masha it is just the contrary. I rejoice at 
 not having polluted my love. However low I may 
 fall, for whatever mean trifles I sell my life, 
 though I am covered with vermin and mange, 
 this diamond will remain untarnished, this ray of 
 sunlight will shine for ever in my soul. 
 
 Petushkov. 
 I understand. Where is she now? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 T don't know. I don't want to know. All that 
 belongs to the past. I don't want to mix it with 
 my present life.
 
 ii6 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 {At the table behind them a 
 Woman screams. The Manager 
 comes with a policeman, and they 
 take her away. Fedia and Pet- 
 USHKOV watch them, listen, and are 
 silent.) 
 
 Petushkov. 
 
 {when all is silent again.) Yes, your life is a 
 very wonderful one. 
 
 Fedia. 
 Oh no, it is quite simple. In our class — the 
 one in which I was born — three courses only are 
 open to a man; the first is to go into the govern- 
 ment service, to make money and to increase the 
 ugliness of the life round you. This was disgusting 
 to me, or perhaps I was simply unfit for it; but 
 disgust was the stronger motive. The second 
 course is to destroy the ugly conditions of life. 
 But only heroes can do that, and I am not a hero. 
 The third issue is to drink in order to forget, to 
 indulge in dissipation, and to sing. That was my 
 choice — I sang, and you see what end my sing- 
 ing has led me to. {He drinks.) 
 
 Petushkov. 
 And marriage? Home life? I should have 
 been happy if T had a good wife. My wife was 
 the cause of my ruin.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 117 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Home life? Oh yes, my wife was an ideal one. 
 She is still alive. But, don't you know, there was 
 no sparkle in her. You know how, in order to 
 make kvass fizz, they put a currant into the bottle. 
 Well, that currant was lacking in our life. It did 
 not sparkle. That is why I tried to find oblivion 
 somehow. I began to behave disgracefully. And 
 you know, I dare say, that we love those who sur- 
 round us just for the good we are doing them, and 
 our dislikes are caused by the evil we do them. I 
 wronged her greatly. She seemed to love me. 
 
 Petushkov. 
 Why do you say " seemed? " 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 I say so because she somehow could not creep 
 into my heart, as Masha did. But I don't want 
 to speak about that. There were times when she 
 was going to have a baby, or when she was nurs- 
 ing, and I stayed away for days and came home 
 quite drunk. Of course, that was why I loved her 
 less and less. (Ecstatically.) Oh, I know, I 
 realise it only at this very moment: the reason why 
 I love Masha is that I did her good, and not evil.
 
 ii8 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 That's it. And the other one I actually tor- 
 mented, and did not love. I simply did not love 
 her. I was jealous for a time, but that was soon 
 over. 
 
 (A Man approaches, Arte- 
 MIEV by name, dressed in a shabby 
 but carefully mended coat; his 
 moustaches are dyed, and he wears 
 an order on his coat.) 
 
 Artemiev. 
 
 Good appetite, gentlemen. {Bowing to Fe- 
 DIA.) You have made the acquaintance of our 
 artist? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {coolly.) Yes, I have. 
 
 Artemiev. 
 
 {to Petushkov.) Have you finished that por- 
 trait you were commissioned to paint? 
 
 Petushkov. 
 
 No; I didn't get the commission after all. 
 
 Artemiev. 
 
 {Sitting down.) You don't mind my sitting here 
 with you? 
 
 (Fedia and Petushkov re- 
 main silent.)
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 119 
 Petushkov. 
 Fedor Vasilievich was telling me about his life. 
 
 Artemiev. 
 
 Oh, secrets? I won't disturb you. Go on. I 
 don't want you. Pigs! {He goes to the uext 
 table, sits down and orders beer. He listens to 
 the talk of the other two.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 I don't like that man. 
 
 Petushkov. 
 He is offended. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 I don't care. I cannot stand people like that. 
 I know I couldn't open my mouth in his presence. 
 It's different with you — I feel quite at my ease. 
 Well, what was I saying? 
 
 Petushkov. 
 
 You were speaking about your jealousy. How 
 did you part with your wife? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Oh, that! {A pause.) It Is altogether a very 
 strange story. My wife has married.
 
 I20 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Petushkov. 
 How's that? Are you divorced? 
 
 Fedia. 
 No. {He smiles.) She Is a widow. 
 
 Petushkov. 
 A widow? What do you mean? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 I mean what I say. She is a widow. I do not 
 exist. 
 
 Petushkov. 
 I don't understand. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Don't you? I am dead. Yes, that's it. 
 
 (Artemiev leans towards them 
 and listens intently.) 
 
 Well, I think I may tell you. It happened a 
 long time ago; and, besides, you don't know who 
 I really am. That is how it happened: I was 
 making my wife totally miserable, I had squan- 
 dered everything I could lay hands on; in fact, I 
 had become intolerable. Well, a man came for- 
 ward to protect my wife. Don't imagine any- 
 thing wicked and mean. He was a friend of
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 121 
 
 mine, a very good man, very straightforward, the 
 exact opposite of me. And as there is much more 
 bad than good in me, he, being the contrary of 
 me, is the ideal of a good man: honest, firm, ab- 
 stemious, virtuous in all respects. He knew my 
 wife from the time she was quite a child. He was 
 in love with her when she married me, and he 
 bore his fate patiently. But after I had become 
 disreputable, and she was in great straits, he 
 came oftener to our house. I liked him to my- 
 self. She fell in love with her old friend, while I 
 only behaved worse and worse, and then left my 
 wife altogether, x-^t that time I Avas madly in 
 love with Masha. I proposed myself that they 
 should marry. They did not want to. I went 
 on misbehaving, and finally, of course — 
 
 Petushkov. 
 The usual thing in this world! 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 No. I feel sure that their love remained pure. 
 I know it did. He is very religious, and marriage 
 without the sanction of the Church is a sin in his 
 eyes. Well, they wanted me to get a divorce, and 
 I agreed to It. I was to plead guilty. But, oh ! 
 all the lies I would have had to tell. I could not
 
 122 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 face it. I wonder whether you can believe it, but 
 really I preferred killing myself to telling lies. I 
 was on the point of doing so when a kind friend 
 showed me that it was quite unnecessary. We 
 did, accordingly, something quite different. I sent 
 a farewell letter — and the next day my clothes 
 and my notebook were found on the bank. I 
 don't swim — that was known. 
 
 Petushkov. 
 
 But how could they believe you dead if your 
 body had not been found? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 It was found. Just imagine! A week after, 
 some body or other was dragged out of the water. 
 My wife was sent for to identify it as mine. It 
 was quite decomposed. She looked at it. " Is 
 that he? " they asked. " Yes, it is." That set- 
 tled it. I have been buried; they married, live 
 here in this town, and are very happy indeed. 
 And you see what has become of me. I live and 
 drink. Yesterday I passed their house. The 
 windows were lit; some one's shadow passed 
 across the window. Sometimes I feel very 
 wretched, but at others I am all right. The 
 worst is when I have no cash. {He drinks.)
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 123 
 
 Artemie\\ 
 
 {approaching them.) Excuse me, but you know 
 I have been listening to that story of yours. A 
 very entertaining one it is — and, the best of it 
 is, a very profitable one. You say you dislike 
 having no money. That is highly unpleasant, no 
 doubt. And in your position you ought always 
 to have lots of cash. You are dead, you say. 
 Stone-dead, eh? Well — 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Look here, I did not tell you anything, and 1 
 am in no need of any advice from you. 
 
 Artemiev. 
 
 But I want to give you a bit of advice. You 
 are dead, aren't you? Well, if it were found out 
 that you were alive, then those two, your wife and 
 the man she's so happy with now, would be con- 
 demned for bigamy. The least sentence they 
 could get would be deportation. Then why should 
 you be short of money? 
 
 Fedia. 
 Will you please leave me alone? 
 
 Artemiev. 
 Just write them a letter. And if you don't
 
 124 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 want to, let me write. Give me only their ad- 
 dress, and you'll be grateful to me. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Get away from here, I say. I did not tell you 
 anything. 
 
 Artemiev. 
 
 You did. I have a witness. The waiter here 
 heard you saying you were dead. 
 
 Waiter. 
 I don't know anything about it. 
 
 Fedia. 
 You wretch I 
 
 Artemiev. 
 
 I am a wretch? Waiter, call a policeman, 
 ni let the authorities know about this. 
 
 (Fedia rises to go. Artemiev 
 holds him back. A Policeman en- 
 ters.) 
 
 Scene II 
 
 In the country. A terrace hung with ivy. 
 
 (Anna Dmitrievna Kare-
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 125 
 
 NINA is talking with Lisa (en- 
 ceinte.) The Nurse and Lisa's 
 Boy. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 He Is already on his way from the station by 
 now. 
 
 Boy. 
 
 Who's coming? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Boy. 
 
 Oh, father's coming! 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 C'est etonnant comme il I'aime. Tout a fait 
 comme son pere. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 Tant mieux. Se souvient-il de son pere verit- 
 able? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 (sighing.) I haven't told him. I think it would 
 only confuse him. But sometimes I feel I ought 
 to. What do you think, mama? 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 It all depends on what you feel about it, Lisa, 
 If you follow the suggestion of your own heart,
 
 126 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 you will know when and what you ought to say. 
 How wonderfully death reconciles us with those 
 who are gone ! I must confess there was a time 
 when I simply hated Fedia — whom I knew as a 
 boy. And now I just think of him only as a 
 pleasant young man, Victor's friend. What an 
 impulsive man he was! Of course, what he did 
 was against the law, against religion. But all the 
 same he sacrificed his life for those he loved. 
 You may say what you like the action was a fine 
 one. {A pause.) I hope Victor will not forget 
 to bring me the wool. I shall soon have none 
 left. {She knits.) 
 
 Lisa. 
 There he comes. 
 
 ( The sound of approaching 
 
 wheels and the tinkling of small 
 
 bells attached to the harness is 
 
 heard. She rises and goes to the 
 
 end of the terrace.) 
 
 He is not alone. I see a lady's hat at his side. 
 
 Oh, that is mother! I have not seen her for ages. 
 
 {She goes to the door and meets Karenin and 
 
 Anna Pavlovna.) 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 {kissing Lisa and Anna Dmitrievna.) Victor 
 met me and brought me with him.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 127 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 That is nice. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 I thought I had better come, so as not to put off 
 my visit again. Here I am, and I will stay till 
 the evening train, if you don't mind. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 (Kissing his wife, the mother, and the boy.) 
 Congratulate me, all of you. I am so happy. I 
 shan't have to go to town again for two days. 
 They can manage without me to-morrow. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Oh, how nice ! Two days. It's so long since 
 we've seen anything of you. Suppose we drive 
 over to the hermitage. What do you say? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 How like his father the boy is. And what a 
 fine little fellow ! I only wish he mayn't have in- 
 herited everything from his father: he has his 
 kind heart. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 But not his weak will.
 
 128 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 He Is like him In everything. Victor quite 
 agrees with me that If Fedia had come under a 
 good Influence when he was young — 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 I don't understand all that. But I cannot 
 think of Fedia without tears. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 We all feel just the same. We hold him far 
 dearer In our memory than we did when he was 
 alive. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 Yes, Indeed. 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 How hopeless It all seemed at one time, and 
 then on a sudden all the difficulties were solved. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 (to her son.) Well, Victor, have you brought 
 me some wool? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Yes, I have. ( Taking some parcels out of his 
 bag.) There Is your wool and the eau-de-Co- 
 logne, and here are the letters. A letter for you,
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 129 
 
 Lisa, with a magistrate's seal. (He hands the 
 letter to Lisa.) Well, Anna Pavlovna, if you 
 care to tidy up, let me show you your room. I 
 must go and wash after our drive; dinner will 
 soon be ready. Lisa, shall I show Anna Pav- 
 lovna into the coiner room downstairs? 
 
 (Lisa, quite pale, holds the let- 
 ter with trembling hands and 
 reads it.) 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 What is it, Lisa? What is in that letter? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 He is alive! O God, when shall I be free 
 from him? O Victor, what does it all mean? 
 {She breaks into sobs.) 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 (taking the letter and reading.) Horrible! 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 What has happened? Tell me — tell me what 
 It is! 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 It is awful. He is alive. She is accused of 
 bigamy, and I am a criminal too. This letter is 
 from the investigating magistrate, who summons 
 Lisa to him.
 
 130 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 Horrible wretch! Why did he do it? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 It was all a He — a lie ! 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 Oh, how I hate him ! — I don't know what I 
 am saying. 
 
 {She goes into the house in 
 tears. Karenin follows her.) 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 Is it really possible he is alive? How can 
 it be? 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna. 
 
 I have always felt — that from the moment 
 Victor came into touch with them, they were 
 bound to drag him down into the mire. And 
 they have. They are all lies — lies and deceit! 
 
 ACT VI 
 
 Scene I 
 
 (The Investigating Magistrate's office.) 
 {The Magistrate sits at the
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 131 
 
 tabic, talking with Melnikov. 
 His Clerk is looking through a 
 pile of paper.) 
 
 Magistrate. 
 I never told her that. She invented it all, and 
 now she reproaches me, 
 
 Melnikov. 
 
 She does not reproach you, but she is hurt. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Well, I will come to dinner. Just now I have 
 an interesting case. {To the Clerk.) Call 
 them in, please. 
 
 Clerk. 
 Both? 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 {finishing a cigarette.) No, first Madame Kare- 
 nina, or, rather, Madame Protassova, to call her 
 by her first name. 
 
 Melnikov. 
 Oh, it is Madame Karenina. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Yes, an ugly business. I am only beginning 
 the inquiry, but I can see it is a bad business. 
 Well, good-bye.
 
 132 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 (Melnikov goes out. 
 
 The Clerk goes out and fetches 
 Lisa. She is in a black dress and 
 black veil.) 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Be seated, please. (He points to the chair at 
 the side of his table. LiSA sits down.) I am 
 very sorry, believe me, to have to question you. 
 But it is my duty. Be perfectly quiet, please. 
 You have the right not to answer questions if you 
 do not want to. But I should advise you not to 
 conceal the truth — this is by far the best for you 
 and for all the others. From the practical point 
 of view the truth will be far the best policy. 
 
 Lisa. 
 I have nothing to conceal. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 (looking in the paper before him.) Your rank? 
 Religion? I have that down already. I suppose 
 it is correct? (He shows her the paper.) 
 
 Lisa. 
 (reading.) Yes. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 You are charged with having contracted a sec-
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 133 
 
 ond marriage, well knowing th'at your first hus- 
 band was alive. 
 
 Lisa. 
 I did not know it. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 And also with having bribed your first husband 
 to pretend that he had committed suicide, in order 
 that you might regain your freedom. 
 
 Lisa. 
 That is all false. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Allow me to put to you a few questions. In 
 July last, did you send him twelve hundred roubles? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 The money belonged to him. It was the sum 
 produced by the sale of different things he left. 
 When I parted with him, and was waiting for the 
 divorce, I sent him this money. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Very well. This money was sent the 17th of 
 July, that is, two days before he disappeared.
 
 134 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I think that was the date. But I don't quite 
 remember. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Now, why was your lawyer instructed to with- 
 draw your petition for a divorce at precisely that 
 time? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I don't know. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Very well. Now, when the police asked you to 
 examine the corpse, how did it happen that you 
 identified it as being that of your husband? 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I was so much upset that I did not look at the 
 corpse. I was so certain it was he that when they 
 asked me whether it was I said I thought it was. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 You did not examine the corpse, because you 
 were in a state of great agitation. That is easily 
 understood. Very well. But may I ask why you 
 sent by post every month a certain sum of money 
 to Saratov, the town where your first husband re- 
 sided?
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 135 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 It was my husband who sent that money. I 
 cannot tell you to whom. It was a secret of his 
 and not of mine. I can only assure you that it 
 was not sent to Fedor Vasilievich, We were 
 firmly convinced that he was dead. That is an 
 absolute fact. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Very well. Permit me only to say, madam, 
 that although we are servants of the law that does 
 not prevent us from being humane. Believe me, 
 I quite understand the sadness of your position, 
 and have the greatest sympathy for your troubles. 
 You were tied to a man who squandered your 
 property, who was unfaithful; who, in short, made 
 you miserable. 
 
 ' Lisa. 
 
 I loved him. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Of course. Still it was quite natural for you 
 to desire your liberty, and you chose this simple 
 way without thinking that it might lead you to 
 what is considered a crime — to bigamy. I quite 
 understand that, and the jury will also understand. 
 That is why I would advise you to tell the entire 
 truth.
 
 136 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 I have told it. I have never Hed in my life. 
 (She bursts into tears.) May I go now? 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 I must ask you to remain here for a while. I 
 will not trouble you with any more questions. 
 None at all. I must ask you simply to read 
 your deposition and to sign it. You will see 
 whether I have taken down your answers correctly. 
 Will you kindly sit here? {Pointing to the ta- 
 ble near the window; then to the clerk.) Show 
 in Mr. Karenin. 
 
 ( The clerk shows in Karenin, 
 looking earnest and rather solemn.) 
 
 • Magistrate. 
 Be seated, please. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Thank you. {He remains standing.) What 
 do you want from me ? 
 
 Magistrate. 
 My duty is to make an inquiry. 
 
 Karenin. 
 In what capacity?
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 137 
 
 Magistrate. 
 (smiling.) In my capacity as investigating mag- 
 istrate. You are here charged with a crime. 
 
 Karenin. 
 Indeed? With what crime? 
 
 Magistrate. 
 Bigamy. But kindly let me put you some ques- 
 tions. Pray be seated. 
 
 Karenin. 
 No, thank you. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 Your name? 
 
 Karenin. 
 Victor Karenin. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Your rank? 
 
 Karenin. 
 Chamberlain of the Imperial Court. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 Your age? 
 
 Karenin. 
 Thirty-eight.
 
 138 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Magistrate. 
 Your religion? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Orthodox Greek. I have never before been 
 tried on any charge. Well, what next? 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Were you aware that Fedor Vasillevich Pro- 
 tassov was alive when you contracted a marriage 
 with his wife? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 No; I did not know that. We were certain 
 that he was drowned. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 To whom did you send money every month 
 after the false report of Protassov's death? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 I refuse to answer that question. 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Very well. What was the object of your hav- 
 ing sent twelve hundred roubles to Protassov a few 
 days before his simulated suicide on July 17th? 
 
 Karenin. 
 The money was given me to post by my wife.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 139 
 
 Magistrate. 
 By Madame Protassov? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 By my wife to send to her husband. She con- 
 sidered that this sum of money was his property, 
 and having parted with him she thought it unfair 
 to l^eep his money. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 One question more : why did you stop taking 
 steps to obtain a divorce? 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 Because Fedor Vasihevich had undertaken to 
 do all that was necessary, and wrote me a letter 
 to that effect. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 You have that letter? 
 
 Karenin. 
 No; I have lost it. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 It is very awkward that everything should be 
 lost that could have afforded proof that you are 
 speaking the truth.
 
 I40 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Karenin. 
 What else do you want from me? 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 All I want is to do my duty; and what you 
 want is to prove your innocence. So I should ad- 
 vise you, as I have advised Madame Protassova, 
 not to conceal things which are sure to be found 
 out, and to say frankly what actually happened. 
 It is more advisable, because Protassov himself 
 is in such a condition that he relates the actual 
 facts about everything, and will probably do so In 
 court. I should strongly advise you — 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 I shall be obliged if you will do your duty 
 strictly without volunteering any kind of advice. 
 May we go? {He goes to Lisa, who takes his 
 arm.) 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 I am sorry, but I must keep you here just now. 
 
 (Karenin turns to him with as- 
 tonishment,) 
 
 Oh no, I don't mean to arrest you, although 
 It would greatly facilitate my inquiry. But I 
 shall not proceed to that step. I only want to
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 141 
 
 question Protassov in your presence, and confront 
 him with you, to give you an opportunity of prov- 
 ing the untruth of his statements. Be seated, 
 please. {To the clerk.) Call in Mr. Protassov. 
 
 ( The clerk fetches in Fedia, in 
 rags, a total wreck.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {to Lisa and Karenin.) Elizaveta Andreevna, 
 Victor, it is not my fault it has come to this. I 
 wanted only to do the best for you. If I am 
 guilty, forgive me. {He hows to the ground be- 
 fore them.) 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Will you, please, answer my questions? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Ask whatever you like. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 Your name? 
 
 Fedia. 
 But you know it. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 Answer, please. 
 
 Fedia. 
 Fedor Protassov.
 
 142 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Magistrate. 
 Rank, religion, age? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {after a short silence.) You ought to be 
 ashamed to ask such silly questions. Ask some- 
 thing to the point, and leave all that nonsense. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Be careful, please, in your expressions. An- 
 swer my questions. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Well, as you are not ashamed. My rank: 
 graduate of the University of Moscow. My 
 age: forty. My religion: orthodox Greek. 
 What next? 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Did Mr. Karenin and his wife know you were 
 alive when you left your clothes on the bank and 
 disappeared? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 They did not. There can be no doubt about 
 that. I actually intended to kill myself, but 
 then — But I need not tell you all that. The 
 point is that they did not know.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 143 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Your statements to the police officer contained 
 a different story. What is the meaning of that? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 What police officer? Oh yes, a police officer 
 came to the Rjanov night-shelter to see me. I 
 was drunk, and I told all sorts of lies. I don't 
 remember now what I said. That was all non- 
 sense. Now I am not drunk, and I am telling 
 you the truth. They did not know. They be- 
 lieved me dead. How glad I was they did ! 
 And it would have been all right for ever but for 
 that wretch Artemiev. But if somebody must be 
 found guilty, it is only I. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 I understand your desire to be generous, but 
 the law wants the truth. Why had you money 
 sent to you? 
 
 (Fedia makes no answer.) 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 You received that money through a man named 
 Semenov, in Saratov. 
 
 (Fedia makes no answer.) 
 
 Magistrate. 
 Why do you not answer? My report will men-
 
 144 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 tion that the defendant did not answer these ques- 
 tions. This would certainly be in favour of the 
 prosecution, and hurt both you and the other two. 
 Don't you see that? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {silent for a moment, then passionately.) Oh, 
 are you not ashamed, sir? Why do you thrust 
 yourself into other people's lives ! You are en- 
 grossed by the power you possess, and you must 
 show it off ! You cause endless pain — moral 
 pain, much worse than physical torture — to those 
 who are a thousand times better and worthier 
 than you. 
 
 Magistrate. 
 I beg — 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Don't beg. I will tell you what I think, and 
 you {to the clerk) just write it down. At least, 
 for the first time, one of these reports will contain 
 sense, and something manly. {Raising his voice.) 
 There are three of us : she, he, and I. The relations 
 between us have been very complicated: a moral 
 struggle, the like of w^hich you never dreamed of. 
 This struggle has brought about a situation which 
 solved the difficulties. All our troubles were over. 
 They were happy, they loved my memory. I, in 
 my disgrace, was happy too, because I had done
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD HS 
 
 the right thing; because I had disappeared from 
 life — and quite right too — so as not to be in 
 the way of those who were full of life and lived 
 an honest life. We all lived as we ought to. 
 Then suddenly a blackmailing blackguard comes 
 along, and wants me to be a party to his plan of 
 blackmail. I turn him out. He goes to you, the 
 champion of justice, the guardian of morality. 
 And you, just because you get some wretched 
 monthly screw for your filthy work, you put on 
 your uniform and swagger at your ease; showing 
 off your power over those who tower above you, 
 and who would not let you pass the threshold of 
 their houses. You have climbed to a sort of pin- 
 nacle, and you are happy — 
 
 Magistrate. 
 I shall have you turned out. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Oh, I am not afraid of anything. I am a dead 
 man — you can do nothing to me. I can't be 
 worse off than I am, whatever you do to me. You 
 may order me out. I don't mind. 
 
 Karenin. 
 May we go?
 
 146 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Magistrate. 
 Sign your deposition first. 
 
 Fedia. 
 Ha, ha, ha, ha! You pitiful beast! 
 
 Magistrate. 
 
 Take him away. I shall make out an order 
 for your arrest. 
 
 Fedia. 
 (to Karenin and Lisa.) Forgive me. 
 
 Karenin. 
 
 (stretching out his hand to him.) It was fated 
 to happen so. 
 
 (Lisa passes; Fedia bows low to her.) 
 
 Scene II 
 
 A passage in law the court. In the background 
 is a glass door, with a Guard standing before it. 
 To the right is another door, through which the 
 Prisoners are being conducted to the court. 
 
 Ivan Petrovich, in rags, goes 
 to the door on the right, and tries 
 to pass through it.
 
 St. Matthew.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 147 
 
 Guard. 
 
 Stop ! No admission here. How dare you ! 
 
 Ivan Petrovich. 
 
 Why no admission? The law says that the 
 sittings of the court are public. 
 
 {Applause is heard from within.) 
 
 Guard. 
 
 No admission, I say. I am ordered not to let 
 anybody pass. 
 
 Ivan Petrovich. 
 
 You rude fellow! You don't know whom you 
 are addressing. 
 
 {A Young Lawyer enters.) 
 Young Lawyer. 
 Are you here on business? 
 
 Ivan Petrovich. 
 
 No, I am one of the public. And this rude 
 fellow, this Cerberus, won't let me go In. 
 
 Young Lawyer. 
 
 This is not the entrance for the public. Wait 
 a minute; the court will adjourn presently for 
 lunch. 
 
 {He is about to ^o, hut stops, 
 seeing Prince Abreskov coining 
 in.)
 
 148 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 Ivan Petrovich. 
 I ought to be admitted, anyhow. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 
 May I Inquire how far the proceedings have 
 gone? 
 
 Young Lawyer. 
 
 The speeches for the defence have just begun. 
 Petrushin is speaking now, 
 
 {Applause is heard from the court.) 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 What attitude do the defendants adopt? 
 
 Young Lawyer. 
 
 Very dignified indeed, especially that of Kare- 
 nin and Elizaveta Andreevna. It is as if they 
 were the judges and not the defendants. This is 
 the general impression. And Petrushin Is taking- 
 advantage of that. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 And Protassov? 
 
 Young Lawyer. 
 He is extremely excited, trembles all the time.
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 149 
 
 Quite natural, considering his life. But he is too 
 irritable. He interrupted the counsel for the 
 prosecution more than once, and his own counsel. 
 He is in a frightful state of excitement. 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 What sentence do you anticipate? 
 
 Young Lawyer. 
 
 It is hard to say; it is a very mixed jury. 
 Obviously the jury won't bring it in that there 
 has been any premeditation. But, all the 
 same 
 
 {The door opens, a gentleman 
 comes out of the court, Prince 
 Abreskov moves to the door.) 
 
 Young Lawyer. 
 
 Would you like to go in? 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 I should, very much. 
 
 Young Lawyer. 
 You are Prince Abreskov? 
 
 Prince Abreskov. 
 Yes.
 
 I50 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 Young Lawyer. 
 
 {to the Guard.) Let this gentleman pass. 
 
 There is a free seat on the left; take it. 
 
 (Prince Abreskov is allowed 
 to enter; a door is opened for 
 him, the Counsel for the defence 
 is seen through it speaking.) 
 
 Ivan Petrovich. 
 
 Silly aristocrats! I am an intellectual aristo- 
 crat. That's something much more. 
 
 Young Lawyer. 
 Excuse me. {He goes off hurriedly.) 
 
 Petushkov {entering.) 
 
 There you are, Ivan Petrovich ! How are 
 you? How far have the proceedings gone? 
 
 Ivan Petrovich. 
 
 The speeches for the defence have begun. 
 Don't try to pass. They will not let you. 
 
 Guard. 
 
 Silence. You are not in a public-house here. 
 {Further applause is heard. 
 The door opens, and there is a
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 151 
 
 rush of Lawyers, Gentlemen, 
 and Ladies into the passage.) 
 
 First Lady. 
 Wonderful ! He mov^d me to tears. 
 
 Officer. 
 
 It Is more thrilling than any novel. But I can- 
 not understand how she could have loved him. 
 Such a horrible face ! 
 
 ( The otlier door opens and the 
 Defendants appear; Lisa and 
 Karenin go through the passage. 
 Fedia follows them.) 
 
 First Lady. 
 
 Don't talk. Here he comes. Look how agi- 
 tated he is. 
 
 {The Lady and Officer pass of.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {Coming near to Ivan Petrovich.) You have 
 brought It? 
 
 Ivan Petrovich. 
 Here it is. {He hands him a case.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 {hides it in his pocket and moves to go; then sees
 
 152 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Petushkov.) How stupid it all is. How 
 wearisome! How meaningless! {He turns to 
 go.) 
 
 Petrushin. 
 
 (his counsel; a stout man, with red cheeks, very 
 animated.) Well, my friend, our case is looking 
 up. But don't spoil things in your last speech. 
 
 Fedia. 
 I shall not spealc at all. I don't want to. 
 
 Petrushin. 
 
 No? — you must. But don't be uneasy. Now 
 we are pretty sure to win. You just tell them 
 what you told me — that if you are being tried it 
 is for not having committed suicide, which would 
 have meant committing a crime indeed, against 
 both civil and ecclesiastic laws. 
 
 Fedia. 
 I shall not tell them anything. 
 
 Petrushin. 
 Why not? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 I don't want to. Tell me only — at the worst, 
 what can happen?
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD i53 
 
 Petrushin. 
 
 I told you. At the worst, It might be deporta- 
 tion to Siberia. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Who would be deported? 
 
 Petrushin. 
 
 You and your wife. 
 
 Fedia. 
 And at the best? 
 
 Petrushin. 
 
 Penance in a monastery, and, of course, the an- 
 nulment of the second marriage. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 In fact, I shall be tied to her again. I mean 
 she tied to me? 
 
 Petrushin. 
 
 Well, that cannot be helped. But don't be so 
 agitated. And please say what I told you to say. 
 I beseech you not to say what is unnecessary. 
 You want — {jioticing that they are surrounded 
 by listeners.) I am tired. I will go and rest. 
 You ought to rest also in the meanwhile. And 
 mind, don't let yourself be alarmed.
 
 154 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 
 
 Fedia. 
 No other sentence could possibly be expected? 
 
 Petrushin. 
 
 (going.) No other, 
 
 (Officers of the Court enter, 
 pass, and stand in the passage.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Now then. {He takes the revolver out of his 
 pocket and shoots himself through the heart. He 
 falls. All the people in the passage rush to him.) 
 I think I have not missed this time. Call Lisa. 
 
 {People are crowding in from 
 all the doors: Judges, witnesses, 
 public. Lisa rushes to Fedia. 
 Masha, Karenin, Ivan Petro- 
 viCH, Prince Abreskov follow 
 her.) 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 What have you done, Fedia! Why? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Forgive me, I could not make you free before. 
 Now, it is not for you, it is for my own
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS DEAD 155 
 
 sake. ... I am much better so. I was 
 ready even 
 
 Lisa. 
 
 You will live. 
 
 {A doctor bends down over him, 
 lays his ear to his heart.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Oh, I know it is over. Good-bye, Victor. 
 And, Masha, you are late this time. Oh, how 
 happy I am now! {Dies.)
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Old Akulina. Seventy years old; still brisk, 
 dignified, old fashioned. 
 
 Michael. Her son; thirty-five, passionate, 
 proud, vain, strong. 
 
 Martha. His wife, thirty-two. A grumbler; 
 talks a great deal and rapidly. 
 
 Paraska. Ten years old. Daughter of Mi- 
 chael and Martha. 
 
 Watchman Taras. Fifty. Self-important, 
 gives himself airs, speaks slowly. 
 
 Tramp. Forty; wiry, thin, speaks stiltedly. 
 When drunk is very free. 
 
 Ignat. a chatterbox, gay, stupid. 
 
 Neighbour. Forty. Fussy. 
 
 Autumn. A hut with a closet.
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Old Akulina is spimilng; the 
 housezvife Martha -is making 
 dough; little Paraska is rocking 
 the cradle. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Oh, my heart has a boding of 111. What can 
 he be about? It will be as bad as last time when 
 he went to sell the wood. He spent nearly half 
 on drink. And it's always my fault. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 Why reckon on evil? It is still early. It is 
 a long way off. It takes time. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Akimich has returned. It's not early. He 
 left after my man, but my man is not back. 
 Worry, worry, that's all the pleasure one gets. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 Akimich had sold his wood; he only had to 
 deliver it. Our man was taking his to the mar- 
 ket. 
 
 159
 
 i6o THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 Martha. 
 
 I should not be afraid if he was alone, but he 
 went with Ignat. And every time he goes out 
 with that thick-headed mule — heaven help me! 
 it never ends well, he always gets drunk. Day 
 after day I struggle on. Everything depends on 
 me. If anything good ever came along! But 
 nothing pleasant ever happens, and It's work, 
 work from morning till night. 
 
 The door opens, and the local 
 
 watchman Taras enters with a 
 
 ragged tramp. 
 
 Taras. 
 How do you do? I have brought you a lodger. 
 
 Tramp. 
 (Bozving.) Greetings to the hosts. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Why do you bring them to us so often? We 
 had a man here Wednesday night. You always 
 bring them to us. You ought to take them to 
 Stepanida: she has no children. I don't know 
 where to turn with mine, and you always bring 
 tramps to us. 
 
 Taras. 
 
 I take them to every one in turn.
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL i6i 
 
 Martha. 
 
 In turn, Indeed! I have children. And my 
 man Is out. 
 
 Taras. 
 
 If he sleeps here he won't wear out the place he 
 lies on. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 ( To the Tramp.) Come In, sit down. Make 
 yourself at home. 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 Thanks. I should like something to eat, If 
 possible. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Hasn't had time to look round, and asks for 
 food at once. Didn't you come through the vil- 
 lage? 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 (Sighs.) I'm not accustomed to this sort of 
 thing In my position. But as I have nothing of 
 my own — 
 
 Akulina rises, gets the bread, 
 cuts a slice and gives it to the 
 tramp. 
 
 Tramp. 
 {Taking the bread.) Merci. {He sits down 
 on the bench and eats greedily.)
 
 1 62 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 Taras. 
 Where Is Michael? 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Gone to town with the hay. It's time he was 
 back, but he's not. I can't help thinking some- 
 thing has happened. 
 
 Taras. 
 What could happen? 
 
 Martha. 
 
 What, indeed? Nothing good, of course; but 
 you can count on something bad. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 (Sitting down to her spinning wheel. To 
 Taras, pointing at Martha.) She never can 
 hold her tongue. I know, we women are not 
 wise. But once he's out of the house, he doesn't 
 care a rap. I expect him to come home drunk. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 If he was alone I wouldn't be afraid, but he 
 went with Ignat. 
 
 Taras. 
 
 (Smiling.) Oh, well, Ignat Ivanovich is a 
 rare one for drink.
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 163 
 
 Akulina. 
 What has Ignat got to do with him? 
 
 Martha. 
 
 It's all very well for you to talk, mother. But 
 I'm just sick to death of his drunkenness. When 
 he's sober, it would be a sin to complain, but when 
 he's drunk you know what he's like. Don't say 
 a word. Everything's wrong. 
 
 Taras. 
 
 But what about you women? A man gets 
 drunk. Well, what of that? He shows off a bit. 
 Sleep it off, and all will be smooth again. But 
 you women must pester. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 It doesn't matter what you do. If he's drunk, 
 everything's wrong. 
 
 Taras. 
 
 You must understand that a man can't help 
 drinking sometimes. Your woman's work keeps 
 you at home; but we can't help it, if we've got 
 business or are in company. What if one does 
 drink? There's no harm in it.
 
 i64 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 Martha. 
 
 It's all very well for you to talk, but it's hard 
 on us women; oh! so hard. If you men were in 
 our place for a week you'd alter your tune, I 
 know. Make and bake, and boil and spin, and 
 weave, and the cattle, and all the work, and these 
 little naked things to be washed and dressed and 
 fed. It all falls on us, and directly the least thing 
 isn't exactly as he likes — there it is, especially 
 when he's drunk. Oh, what a life is woman's! 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 (Munching.) Quite true. Drink is the cause 
 of it all, and all the catastrophes of life come 
 from it. 
 
 Taras. 
 It's evident that it's knocked you over. 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 No, not exactly, though I have suffered from 
 it too. Were it not for that, the course of my 
 life might have been different. 
 
 Taras. 
 
 Well, to my mind, if you drink wisely no harm 
 comes of it.
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 165 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 And I say it has such power that it may ruin 
 a man. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 That's what I say. You work, you do your 
 best, and all your reward is to be scolded or 
 beaten like a dog. 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 Not only that, but there are people who are 
 slaves to it — who lose their heads through it, and 
 perform actions that are quite undesirable. So 
 long as he does not drink, give him anything you 
 like, he will take nothing that does not belong to 
 him. Once he's drunk, he grabs anything that 
 comes to hand. He gets blows, he is put in 
 prison. When he's not drunk he is honest, 
 worthy; but directly he drinks, he becomes slavish 
 — he takes anything he can. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 I think it depends on oneself. 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 It depends on oneself when one is healthy, but 
 drink is a disease. 
 
 Taras. 
 
 A disease, indeed ! You give him what he de-
 
 i66 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 serves, and that disease will very soon disappear. 
 Good-bye, so long. {He leaves.) 
 
 Martha, wiping her hands, is 
 about to go out. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 {Looking at the tramp and seeing that he has 
 eaten the bread.) Martha, Martha, cut him 
 some more. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 What next! I'm going to see to the samovar. 
 Akulina rises, goes to the ta- 
 ble, takes the bread and cuts a slice 
 and gives it to the tramp. 
 
 Tramp. 
 Merci. I have developed a great appetite. 
 
 Akulina. 
 Are you a factory hand? 
 
 Tramp. 
 Who? I? I was an engine-driver. 
 
 Akulina. 
 Did you earn much? 
 
 Tramp. 
 From 50 to 70 roubles a month.
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 167 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 Dear me ! How on earth did you come down 
 In the world so? 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 I'm not the only one who's come down In the 
 world. I came down because we live In such 
 times that an honest man can't make his way. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 {Entering with samovar.) O Lord, he's not 
 back yet. He'll certainly be drunk. My heart 
 tells me so. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 I'm beginning to think he's gone on the spree. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 There, you see ! I have to struggle on alone, 
 make and bake, boll and spin, and weave, and the 
 cattle. It all falls on me, and these little naked 
 things. {She points to the children. The baby 
 in the cradle screams.) Parasha, rock the cradle. 
 Oh, what a life Is woman's! And If he's drunk 
 It Is all wrong. Say a word he doesn't like — 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 {Making the tea.) Here's the last of the tea. 
 Did you tell him to bring some?
 
 1 68 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Of course. He meant to. But will he? 
 Will he give a thought to his home? {She puts 
 the samovar on the table.) 
 
 The Tramp leaves the table. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 Why do you get up? We are going to have 
 tea. 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 I give you thanks for your kind hospitality. 
 {He throws down his cigarette and approaches 
 the table.) 
 
 Martha. 
 
 What are you? Are you a peasant or what? 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 I'm neither a peasant nor a noble, missus; I 
 belong to a double-edged class. 
 
 Martha. 
 What do you mean! {Gives him a cup.) 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 Merci. I mean that my father was a Polish 
 count; and besides him there were many more, 
 and I had two mothers also.
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 169 
 
 Akulina. 
 O Lord! How could you? 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 It was this way, because my mother lived in 
 prostitution — in polygamy, therefore — and 
 there were all sorts of fathers, and there were 
 two mothers, because the mother who bore me de- 
 serted me in my tender years. A yard-porter's 
 wife took pity on me and brought me up. In 
 general, my biography is complicated. 
 
 Martha. 
 Have some more tea. Were you apprenticed? 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 My apprenticeship was unsatisfactory, I was 
 given to a smith, not by my real mother but my 
 adopted mother. That blacksmith was my first 
 teacher. And his teaching consisted in beating 
 me so, that he hit his anvil seldomer than my un- 
 happy head. But no matter how much he beat 
 me, he could not deprive me of talent. Then I 
 went to a locksmith; there I was appreciated, and 
 made my way. I became the chief craftsman; I 
 made the acquaintance of educated men. I be- 
 longed to a party; I was able to acquire literary
 
 I70 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 speech. My life might have been raised, for I 
 had enormous talent. 
 
 Akulina. 
 Of course. 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 And then there was a disturbance — the tyran- 
 nous burden of the people's life — and I got into 
 prison, and was deprived of liberty of my life. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 What for? 
 For rights. 
 
 What rights? 
 
 Tramp. 
 Martha. 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 What rights ! The rights that the well-to-do 
 should not be everlastingly idle, and that the 
 working proletariat should be rewarded for his 
 toil. 
 
 Akulina. 
 You're talking about the land. 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 Of course. It is the same in the agrarian 
 question.
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 171 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 May the Lord and the Queen of Heaven grant 
 it. We are sorely pushed for land. 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 So my barque was carried along on the waves of 
 li,fe's ocean. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 What are you going to do now? 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 Now? Now I'm going to Moscow. I shall 
 go to some contractor. There's no help for it. 
 I shall humble myself. I shall say, Give me any 
 work you like, only take me on. 
 
 Akulina. 
 Have some more tea. 
 
 Tramp. 
 Thank you ; I mean merci. 
 
 Akulina. 
 There's Michael. Just in time for tea. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 (Rises.) Oh, woe betide us. He's with Ig- 
 nat. So he's drunk.
 
 172 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 Michael and Ignat stumble 
 into the room; both are drunk. 
 
 Ignat. 
 
 How do you do? {He prays before the ikon.) 
 Here we are, you dirty skunk,* just in time for 
 the samovar. We go to church — mass is just 
 over; we go to dinner, just eaten up, but we go to 
 the pub and we're In the nick of time. Ha-ha-ha. 
 You offer us tea, we offer you vodka. That's all 
 right, isn't it? {He laughs*.) 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Where did this swell come from? {He takes 
 a bottle from his coat pocket and puts it on the 
 table.) Where are the cups? 
 
 Akulina. 
 Did you have a good trip? 
 
 Ignat. 
 
 It couldn't have been better, you dirty skunk. 
 We drank, we had a good time, and here we are. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 {Fills the cup, and hands one to his mother and 
 then one to the tramp.) Have a drink, too. 
 
 * Literally, " dirty stick " — a very offensive expression in Rus- 
 sia. — Editor.
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL i73 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 {Takes cup.) I give you heartfelt thanks. 
 To your health. {Empties cup.) 
 
 Ignat. 
 
 You're a brick, you dirty skunk, to gulp it down 
 like that. I expect it's gone all down your mus- 
 cles after your fast. {He pours out more vodka.) 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 {Drinking.) I wish success to all you under- 
 take. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 Did you get a good price? 
 
 Ignat. 
 
 Whatever the price was, it's all gone on drink, 
 you dirty skunk. Hasn't it, Michael? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Of course. What's the good of looking at 
 money? It's not often you get the chance of a 
 spree. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 What are you showing off for? It's not nice. 
 There's no food in the house, and you go on like 
 this.
 
 174 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 Michael. 
 ( Threateningly. ) M artha ! 
 
 Martha. 
 
 What's the good of saying Martha? I know 
 I'm Martha. The very sight of you makes me 
 sick, you shameless drunkard! 
 
 Michael. 
 Martha, you take care. 
 
 Martha. 
 Take care, indeed. I shan't take care. 
 
 Michael. 
 Pour out the vodka, and offer it to the guests. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Oh, you blear-eyed dogl I don't want to speak 
 to you. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 You don't 1 You dog's hidel What did you 
 
 say? 
 
 Martha. 
 
 {Rocking the cradle.) What did I say? I 
 said I didn't want to speak to you, so there !
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 175 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Ah, you've forgotten? {Springs from the ta- 
 ble and gives her a blow on the head that displaces 
 her shawl.) 
 
 Martha. 
 
 {Running to the door.) Oh-h-h-h 1 
 
 Michael. 
 
 You shan't go away, you beast I {Rushes to- 
 wards her.) 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 {Jumps from the table and seizes Michael's 
 hand.) You have no right whatever to do that. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 {Pausing and looking at the tramp with amaze- 
 ment.) Is it long since you had a thrashing? 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 You have no right whatever to insult the female 
 sex. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Oh, you hound. Do you see that? {He 
 shows him his fist.) 
 
 Tramp. 
 You are not allowed to exploit the female sex.
 
 176 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 Michael. 
 
 I'll give you such a sound licking that you won't 
 know your head from your heels. 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 Well, beat me. Why don't you? Beat me. 
 {He offers him his face.) 
 
 Michael. 
 
 {Shrugs his shoulders and lifts his hands.) 
 Well, if I do — 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 You may sin seven times; you can only pay 
 the penalty once. Beat me. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 You are a queer man, I must say. {He drops 
 his arms and shakes his head.) 
 
 Ignat. 
 
 It's easy to see you're pretty gone on women, 
 you dirty skunk. 
 
 Tramp. 
 I stand up for rights. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 {To Martha, going to the table and breath- 
 ing heavily.) Well, Martha, you'd better light
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL . 177 
 
 a big candle, and say a good prayer for him.* 
 If it hadn't been for him I'd have beaten you to 
 pulp. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 What else do I expect from you? Struggle 
 all your life, bake and boil, and directly — 
 
 Michael. 
 
 That'll do, that'll do. {He offers the tramp 
 some vodka.) Drink. {To his wife.) What 
 are you making such a fuss about? Can't under- 
 stand a joke. Here, take the money, and put it 
 away. Here are six roubles and forty kopeks. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 What about the tea and sugar she asked for? 
 Michael gets a packet out of 
 r his pocket and gives it to his wife. 
 Martha takes the money and the 
 parcel and goes into the closet, si- 
 lently arranging the shawl on her 
 head. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 These women folk are such fools. {He ofers 
 more vodka.) 
 
 * It is a custom in Russia to light candles before ikons in the 
 churches, and to light one on behalf of the person you wish to 
 thank is a common way of expressing gratitude. — Editor.
 
 178 . THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 Tramp. 
 (Refusing.) Drink it yourself. 
 
 Michael. 
 Don't stand on ceremony. 
 
 Tramp. 
 (Drinks.) All success to you. 
 
 Ignat. 
 
 (To the Tramp.) I expect you've seen many 
 sights. Oh, you've got a fine coat on, a real good 
 coat. Wherever did you get it? (He touches 
 the ragged coat.) Don't you mend it; it's fine 
 just as it is. Years are telling on it, but you can't 
 help that. If I had a coat like that the women 
 would love me too. (To Martha.) Wouldn't 
 they? » 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 You ought not to make fun of a man that you 
 know nothing about, Ignat. 
 
 Tramp. 
 It Is want of education. 
 
 Ignat. 
 
 I mean it kindly. Drink. (Offers cup.) 
 
 Tramp drinks.
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 179 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 You said yourself that it was the cause of all 
 things, and that you'd been to prison through it. 
 
 Michael. 
 What did you do time for? 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 {Very drunk.) I suffered because I made an 
 appropriation. 
 
 Michael. 
 How? 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 It was like this. We came to him, the fat-bel- 
 lied creature, and we said, " Money — if not, see 
 here's a revolver." He tried every way, this way 
 and that, but he gave us 2,300 roubles. 
 
 Akulina. 
 O Lord I 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 We were just going to distribute this sum 
 fairly; Zembrikov was our leader. But the crows 
 were down on us. We were arrested — sent to 
 prison. 
 
 Ignat. 
 
 And did they take the money.
 
 i8o THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 Of course. But they could not bring it home 
 to me. The prosecutmg counsel said to me, 
 " You have stolen money." I answered at once, 
 " Robbers steal; but we have simply appropriated 
 for the party." He couldn't say anything to 
 that. He tried one thing and another, but he 
 could not answer. " Take him away to prison," 
 he said, thus cutting short my liberty of my life. 
 
 Ignat. 
 
 {To Michael.) He's clever, the hound. A 
 brick. {He offers more vodka.) Drink, you 
 dirty skunk. 
 
 Akulina. 
 What language you do use. 
 
 Ignat. 
 
 I'm not swearing, grannie. That's only a lit- 
 tle phrase of mine — dirty skunk, dirty skunk. 
 To your health, grannie. 
 
 Martha covies in, goes to the 
 table and pours out tea. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 That's all right. What's the good of being 
 offended? I say thank you to him. I respect
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL i8r 
 
 you, Martha, ever so much. {To the Tramp.) 
 Don't you make a mistake. {He puts his arm 
 round Martha.) I respect my old woman — • 
 that's how I respect my old woman. My old 
 woman; she's Ai. I wouldn't change her for 
 anybody. 
 
 Ignat. 
 
 That's right. Grannie Akulina, have a drink. 
 I stand it. 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 Such is the power of alcoholic stimulation. 
 Every one was in a state of melancholy. Now all 
 is pleasant. Friendly feeling reigns, grannie. 
 I feel full of love to you and to all mankind. 
 Dear brothers. {He sings a revolutionary song.) 
 
 Michael. 
 It affects him very much. He's been starved. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 The same hut. Morning. 
 Akulina and Martha. Mi- 
 chael is still sleeping. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 {Picking up the axe.) I'm going to chop some 
 wood.
 
 1 82 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 {With a pail.) He'd have knocked you about 
 badly yesterday If it hadn't been for that other 
 one. I don't see him. Has he gone? I ex- 
 pect he has. 
 
 They both go out. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 {Getting down from the stove.) Oh, oh, the 
 sun is up. {He gets up and puts on his hoots.) 
 I suppose the women have gone to fetch water. 
 Oh, my head does ache. But I don't care. It 
 can go to the devil. {Says his prayers; washes.) 
 I'll go and harness the horse. 
 
 Martha enters with wood. 
 
 Martha. 
 Where's yesterday's beggar? Is he gone? 
 
 Michael. 
 I suppose so. I don't see him. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 It doesn't matter. But he is clearly a clever 
 man. He said he earned fifty roubles a month. 
 He is a good man also.
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 183 
 
 Michael. 
 
 You think he Is good because he took your 
 part. 
 
 Martha. 
 What of that? 
 
 Michael dresses. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Did you put away the tea and sugar you brought 
 home last night? 
 
 Michael. 
 I thought you took them. 
 
 Akulina enters with the pail. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 {To the old woman.) Mother, did you take 
 the parcel? 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 1 don't know anything about it. 
 
 Michael. 
 I put it down on the window sill last night. 
 
 Akulina. 
 I saw it there. 
 
 Martha. 
 Where can it be? {Searches.)
 
 1 84 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 Akulina. 
 It's a bad job. 
 
 A Neighbour enters. 
 
 Neighbour. 
 
 Well, Michael, are you ready to go for the 
 wood? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Of course. I'll harness directly. But, you see, 
 we've lost something. 
 
 Neighbour. 
 Have you? What Is It? 
 
 Martha. 
 
 The master brought back a parcel of tea and 
 sugar from town last night. He put It here on 
 the window. I hadn't the sense to put It away, 
 and now It's gone. 
 
 Michael. 
 We suspect the tramp who slept here. 
 
 Neighbour. 
 What tramp? 
 
 Martha. 
 He was a thin man, without a beard.
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 185 
 
 Michael. 
 With a ragged coat. 
 
 Neighbour. 
 And curly hair and a hooked nose? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Yes, yes. 
 
 Neighbour. 
 
 T just met him. I wondered to see him walk 
 so fast. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 It's sure to be him. Was he far off when you 
 .net him? 
 
 Neighbour. 
 
 I don't expect he's crossed the bridge yet. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 {Seizes his cap; he and the NEIGHBOUR r//;/ 
 out.) We must catch him, the rogue. He took 
 it. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Oh, what a sin. It's sure to be him. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 And what if it is not? Once, about twenty 
 years ago, a man was accused of having stolen a
 
 1 86 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 horse. The villagers gathered together; one 
 said, " I saw him put a halter on him." Another 
 said, " I saw him leading it off." The horse was 
 a big, long, dappled one, easy to see. Everybody 
 began to search for it. In the wood they met the 
 young man. " You took it," He swore on his 
 oath he hadn't. " You took it. What's the good 
 of looking at him? " said one; "the women said 
 they had seen him and they are right." He an- 
 swered roughly. And George Lapushkin, a hot- 
 tempered man he was — he's dead now — just 
 lifted his fist and gave him a blow in the face. 
 " It was you," he said. After that blow, every 
 one fell on him; they struck him with sticks and 
 with their fists, and they beat him to death. And 
 then what do you think happened? The next day 
 they found the real thief. The other young man 
 had only gone to the wood to pick out a tree to 
 fell. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Of course, it's easy enough to make a mistake. 
 Although he's not in a good position, it's clear 
 he's a good man. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 He's fallen very low. What can you expect 
 from such a man?
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 187 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Listen to tFiem shouting! They are bringing 
 him back, I expect. 
 
 Michael enters, also the 
 Neighbour, an old man, and a 
 boy. They push in the Tramp 
 between them. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 {Holding the tea and sugar to his wife, ex- 
 citedly.) I found it in his trouser pocket. The 
 thief, the rogue ! 
 
 Akulina. 
 (To Martha.) Yes, it's him, poor fellow. 
 See how he hangs his head. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 He was evidently talking about himself yester- 
 day, when he said that a man will take anything 
 when he's drunk. 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 I'm not a thief. I'm an appropriator. I am 
 a worker, and I must live. You can't understand. 
 You may do your worst. 
 
 Neighbour. 
 
 Shall we take him to the village elder, or 
 straight to the police?
 
 1 88 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 Tramp. 
 Do what you like, I say. I am afraid of noth- 
 ing, and can suffer for my convictions. If you 
 were well educated you would understand. 
 
 Martha. 
 {To her husband.) Let him go in peace. 
 We've got the parcel back. Let him go; don't 
 let us sin. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 {Repeating his wife's words.) Don't let us 
 sin. You want to teach me ! I don't know what 
 to do without you? 
 
 Martha. 
 I only said you might let him off. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Let him off. Don't I know what to do unless 
 you teach me, you fool? Let him off! He may 
 go, but I have a word to say to him to make him 
 feel what he's done. So you listen, mossieu, to 
 what I have to say. You may be in a nasty fix, 
 but what you've done is disgusting, very disgust- 
 ing. Another man would break your ribs for it, 
 and then take you to the police; but I say. You've 
 done a nasty thing: it could not be worse. But 
 you are in such a bad way that I don't want to
 
 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 189 
 
 harm you. Go, go, in God's name, and don't do 
 such a thing again. ( Turning to his wife.) And 
 you wanted to teach me. 
 
 Neighbour. 
 
 You're wrong, Michael; you're wrong to en- 
 courage them. 
 
 Michael 
 
 (Still holding the parcel.) If I'm wrong, I'm 
 wrong. It's my business. (To his wife.) You 
 want to teach me. (He pauses, looks at the par- 
 cel, and with a decisive movement gives it to the 
 Tramp, looking at his wife.) Take this, and 
 drink tea on your way. (To the wife.) You 
 want to teach me. Go along, go along; it's no 
 good talking about it. 
 
 Tramp. 
 
 (Takes the parcel. — J pause.) You think I 
 don't understand? (His voice trembles.) I 
 quite understand. Had you beaten me like a dog 
 it would have been easier. Do you think I don't 
 know what I am? I am a rogue : I mean a degen- 
 erate. Forgive me, for Christ's sake. (Sobs, 
 throws the parcel on the table, and leaves the hut 
 hurriedly.) 
 
 Martha. 
 
 I'm glad he didn't take the tea, or we couldn't 
 have made any.
 
 I90 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 
 
 Michael. 
 {To his wife.) You wanted to teach me. 
 
 Neighbour. 
 Poor fellow! he burst into tears. 
 
 Akulina. 
 He Is a man, too.
 
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