E. A. Gan: Dzhellaledin

Tr. Gitta Hammarberg (unedited)

..............................O, quanto,
Quanto, donne leqqiadre,
Para piu caro il vostre amore a noi,
Se costanza, e belta, s'unisse in voi!
Metastasio

Taurida has just joined the number of Russian provinces. The inhabitants rested from troubles and internecine strife that had been plaguing the Crimea during the course of twelve years, especially during the last rule of the misfortunate khan Sagib-Girei. Having visited Petersburg and become captivated by the military structure, the government, and the life of the Russians, the khan planned to transform his region, introduced a new discipline, took over some European customs; but since both a transformation and a second birth of a state, are always hateful to people guilty of abuses, and demand unshakeable firmness and an iron will, the khan who was weak and had no power over the minds of the people, managed to raise only hatred and rebellion. His natural brother, Batyi-Girei led the rebels, imprisoned the khan who was hiding in Kafa with a few devoted potentates. Sagib-Girei fled to Russia; Empress Catherine II reinstated him on the shaky throne, but soon before him appeared an enemy, more terrible than his brother, the Sultan of the Ottoman Porte. Janissaries and troops under the khan's command poured into Taman; the khan who was powerless to resist them with armed force, tried to persuade the Porte to peace, and for the peace negotiations he dispatched a young prince, the son of Chagir-Agadur, his top confidant, to Taman. The delegate's head was chopped off; discord and rebellion flamed up more strongly than before; the khan, fearing the number of enemies, the general hatred, and most of all his own weakness, turned the scepter over to empress Catherine and left for Russia with a large pension.

Then Russian armies entered the Crimea; the people, after swearing allegiance allegiance to the new power, soon got used to the gentle rule of the monarch; only the potentates were dissatisfied: their rule had ended; nothing more remained for them than to shut themselves in in the harems, heap onto their wives all the burden of the suppressed customs of despotism, or to seek a new home in lands where a silken cord and a light wave of the hand, understood by the slaves-servants, call forth fear and death among the worshippers of Mohammed. Most of them, abhorring Christian power, voluntarily went into exile from their homeland; others who couldn't decide to abandon their rich holdings, bore their lot and after letting out a heavy sigh and a cloud of smoke, sat down with legs folded on their soft carpets. Chagir-Agadur was among the latter; he remained in the Crimea, not out of fear of losing his significant property, not from indifference to Russian rule; but Turkey, who traitorously had killed his older, favorite son, was hateful to him: furthermore could a follower of Sagib-Girei hope for safety under the rule of his khan's enemy? Seeking peace, he settled with his wife and his infant grand-daughter--the daughter of the punished kahn's deputee-- and with his last son on his home family estate, situated about 30 versts from Karga-pul (old Crimea). There was a time when Chagir-Agadur, holding the highest post at the court of the rulers of the Crimea, prepared his son to succeed him; to please the last khan after returning with him from Petersburg, he even introduced many European customs into his household and into the education of his son, making him study Russian and enter the society of Russian civil servants who lived in Bakhchisarai as plenipotentiaries of our government; then he didn't foresee the end of Sagib-Girei: now, deceived in all his expectations, he severed all ties with the new rulers, did not leave his estate, harbored freely all sorts of unrealizable thoughts, and covering up the evil of Muslim self-importance, he tried to convey to his son all the bitterness of his enmity against the oppressors of the fatherland: so he called the Russians.

The youngster fulfilled his father's wishes: proud, courageous, characterized by thirst for action, he absorbed all such impressions; all passions found room in his heart, and once there, his heart tempered them, like a flame tempers the blade of a Damascine dagger. His family took pride in him, acquaintances called him the palm of Taurian youth; he had no peers, neither in riding nor in beauty; no-one's bullet hit the aim, attached to a pillar, in lieu of an enemy breast, surer; no-one handled a horse more adroitly than he, and when he grasping his bow, was carried like a whirlwind along a rocky path so that only sparks were flying from under the hooves of his horse, then even his most envious comdrades could not help admiring him.

But since the Russians entered the Crimea, Dzhellaledin quit the games and horsebackriding; it was not easy for him to move from the luxury of Bakhchisarai, from uninterrupted amusements, which were the only preoccupation of the young potentates, still not involved in the responsibilities of governing, to the quiet of the village, to the inaction he was condemned to by his father's will. Following his example he too severed all relations with the Russians, blamed them for his pleasant situation, not knowing moderation in a single one of his emotions: he hated them to the extent that his blood seethed with evil any time he met a giaour. Where could a person of true faith escape from them when Russian forces were distributed in an uninterrupted chain along the shores of the Black Sea and occupied all cities and villages for fear of attacks by the Ottoman Porte? The youngster's face turned morose; his eyes which had glimmered like dew at sunset, were hidden downcast, eternally frowning brows. He exchanged his free life for imprisonment in his parents' house, the daring of his comrades, for important discussions of the neighboring murzas and imams. Only rarely, when the anguish of inactivity pained him too much, when the very air did not seem to want to enter his lungs, he left for the mountains, to a forested region where he was not afraifd of meeting the enemy, where only wild wolves were roving, lost buffaloes, and at times the black eyes of a chamois glimmered through the branches of the bushes. There he would spend days and nights, hunting, chasing after prey which he left to be eaten up by other beasts; or, hidden from the midday heat under the crowns of ancient trees he would lean over a spring, breathe the coolness, have a look at the rich nuances of streams and the play of shadows with the sun's rays that in places penetrated the tree leaves, threw circles of bright light on the pure waters of the brook and colored each little pebble that glimmered brightly on the bottom of the riverbed. When the heat dissipated and a cool sea breeze refreshened the surroundings, Dzhellaledin on purpose chose the most difficult paths, the most inaccessible crags and jumping from rock to rock sometimes holding on to exposed roots of bushes to avoid falling into the abyss, with childlike joy battling the obstacles, overcoming the limits set by nature, he made it to a peak where since the creation of the world no human had set foot. A rock overgrown with moss served as his pillow, the sky as his luxurious canopy, and the stars twinkling high above peeked into the youngster's face as into the eyes of a houri, guarding his peace; at dawn he woke up before the lark, and shaking off his night visions, he indulged an ineffable feeling of sweetness while awaiting the time for the morning prayer. How light the air seemed to him, not poisoned by peoples' breathing. With what joy he aimed his gaze at the blue of the sea and the sky, misted over by pre-dawn fogs. Not a single living being disturbed the quiet of this miraculous nature: here the eagle, shakijng its wings, lowering its head, dozed off above the abyss; there the chamois rested, having lied down under the canopy of an aromatic olive; below--hills and valleys, villages and forests flowed together into one motley picture, and further on, the sea, its mother-of-pearl coves intersected by vineyards, spread out infinite, and lost itself in the azure of the heavens. And now the Crimean East grows light; pale clouds rise, one after another above the plain of the sea, ever whiter and more magnificent; it seems as if they burn from below; the waves take on color as a chameleon under the light of the nearest object, they take on the purple hue of the clouds, dance, play, like children in new holiday garb; the sun appears at the edge of the sky, and keeps rising, seethes with life. The eagle, flapping his wings, separates himself from the earth and slowly circles the heavens; the chamois waking up, looks around timidly, feels the proximity of a human and disappears into a thicket; from the depths of the valley the drawn-out cry of the mullah resounds, in the fortress the bells of the Greek church are pealing, thousands of mixed voices resound in the forest: everywhere is life, life full of strength and joy. In the woods, below the clouds on the barest peaks, all is motion, all is joyous and greets each in its own way the dawn of the new day. Dzhellaleddin, joining in the general striving, performed his ablutions by the closest spring, reverentially read the first suré (_ú€™) of the Koran and continued his conversation with nature, monotonous but always filled with delights.

Thus flowed his days, thus flowed his years. The Tatars got more and more used to the gentle rule; the hatred for the Christians weakened in the most indomitable hearts, and the Russians too became more trusting; many of the functionaries brought their wives and children from Russia and whole families settled on the shores of the Black Sea; beautiful houses went up in the cities and valleys among the flat-roofed Tatar buildings; Christian temples built several centuries ago by the Genovese, now in ruins or rebuilt into mosques, were again re-converted for their original purpose; pious Russian soldiers erected crosses everywhere where it was possible to replace the toppled half-moons. All, according to predestination, took on a new look; all except Chagir- Agadur and his son.

______________________

On the other side of the southern shore, the mountains abut the sea in a half-circle and form a deep valley: the wavy soil, now rising, now sinking, slopes toward the sea shore, and the entire valley seems like a single beautiful garden; the vineyards spread out on the hills; poplars, chestnut and mulberry trees, entwined by wild grape vines surround the garden as a live fence, clear mountain springs intersect them from all directions; now, hidden in the bushes, they purl invisible, now they rush out to freedom and stream along the rocks and flow into the sea. High above the gardens rises a grey, jagged cliff, their watchman, their patron: he shields the children of the south with his broad chest; he seems to be admiring the eternal spring with its eternally greening gardens, which grow and flower under his protection. In the depths of the valley, straight out of the waves rises another cliff not as high, but notable for its inaccessibility: crowding ledge upon ledge, it looks like a sugarloaf; from three sides it is girded by the walls and towers of a Genovese fortress; on the forth side it falls steeply into the sea; the sharp -tipped peak of the cliff is crowned by a tower with round arches and at the time the fortress contained many other notable ruins, fragments of the once luxurious city of Sidagios-Soldai.

On the road from the valley to the fortress, paced a Tatar on a beautiful horse; neither the brightness of the day, nor the charm of the surrounding vistas could disperse his pensiveness, imprinted in deep lines on his high forehead and on his tightly compressed lips. His appearance, his clothes, the rich harness of his horse, showed the nobility of his lineage; passing Tatars stopped when they met him and folding their arms on their breast, bowed deeply: the traveller barely nodded to them or mumbled an aleikium es-seliam and continued his path. When he approached the fountain he jumped off his horse, tied him to a tree and and made his way to the fortress gates on an overgrown path. Evening shadows fell on the valley: the Tatar wandered among the ruins for a long time; finally he reached the highest peak of the cliff, entered the tower, and holding on to the window, he hung out over the abyss.

The sea was seething stormily as in the days it earned its designation as inhospitable; rows upon rows of waves attacked the cliffs at the water's edge, broke up, and recoiled in fury as if only to gather new force, left behind them streams of sputtering foam. The air, as if in contrast to the rebelling elements, was completely quiet, the poplars barely rustled with their pyramid shaped crowns; only on the tussled vineyards remained the traces of the severe thunder storm that was raging the evening before.

The Tatar pensively watched a faraway sail, diving into the blackened waves, when several mixed voices were heard at the tower entrance and disturbed his thoughts as a flock of ominous ravens. He raised his head; alien speech reached his ears:--"again these giaours!"--he said to himself and hastily left the tower, but he had to stop against his will: to the entrance led several steps, carved into the steep cliff which a single person barely could negotiate; Russian officers already started to ascend. On the side of the precipice facing the sea a fragment of the wall was left standing. The Tatar with downcast eyes was leaning against it: he was afraid that the infidel clothing would touch his true-faith cloak. The Russians were speaking, laughing, carefully stepping on the damp rocks, a few persons had already reached the platform leading to the tower doors; then one of them, a young man in a red uniform with black velvet lapels, curly hair, perfumed, stopped on the top stair, stretched down his hand and said in a merry voice:

"Hurrah! Termophile's obstacles are overcome. Now let me assist you, ma belle cousine; give me your hand."

"At least, Leonid, this Termophile yielded without a battle," answered a gentle silvery voice. The sound of it pierced the breast of Dzhellaledin, his heart stirred like a snow leopard, awakened by a shot: this was a voice, long familiar and dear to him. On a lower step, almost at his feet stood a young woman. Throwing her head back, stretching her hand to her companion, she began to climb up.

A green riding habit, wonderfully setting off her figure, stretched out over her body and with its broad folds fell down to her feet. The black cap with black feathers, a bit slanted on her forehead, the gentle, charming blush, peculiar to pale faces only, crept up on her cheeks like a ray of sunrise along the snow, still untouched by human feet; the waves of blond hair, falling out of the cap, spread out over her shoulders. She steps up, she comes so close to the Tatar that the franrance of her curls surrounds him with the scent of jasmin; that the very curls themselves playing with the mischievous breeze, touch his face... He stands like a sinner, turned to stone by the sudden appearance of a fairy, and only a shiver runs from his heart into all his veins, and makes his breathing more rapid. Suddenly a shout!... The officer slipped, let go of his lady's hand.. she lost her footing... she is reeling... her companions shuffle, throw themselves to her aid... the Tatar is faster, grasps with his powerful arm the beauty's body, lifts her up like a child, and before she has time to come to her senses, sets her down by the tower doors. The beauty thanks him in confusion, the artillery officer in the red uniform is apologizing profusely, the Tatar rapidly turns around, but two women again bar the stairs for him, followed by some officers, and he bites his lips from impatience: better not to see her at all, than to see her speaking to another!..

"Isn't this the window we spoke about yesterday?" the familiar voice is heard again.

"The very one, ma'am. Do you see the red rock below it? That's blood... But, please, the locals surely know the legend better than I.. Hey, you, Tatar! Isn't it true that a Genovese princess threw herself out of this window when your forefathers took the fortress?"

The Tatar, who had already started to descend the stairs, stopped.

"I don't know," he said, turning his proud look at the perfumed ge-e-entleman, "I don't know whether the legend is true, but I know for sure that my forefathers never once pushed daredevils who forgot themselves among them off this cliff."

He went down and hid from view. Only then did the artillery officer laugh his head off.

"Oho!" he exclaimed, "what a boor, one ought to give these ignoramuses a lesson more often; our government is too indulgent with them."

"On the contrary, Petr Galaktionovich, it seems to me that the sharp rebuttal is your own fault; judging by his appearance, he is no simple Tatar: why did you have to offend him with such disrespectful words?"

"For heaven's sake, Liudmila Nikolaevna, surely we, the victors should not kneel before the the conquered?"

"In the first place, the Crimea was not defeted by force and arms; in the second place, after concluding the peace, there are neither conquerors nor conquered: now we're all brothers."

"She's being a smart-aleck," countered another lady. "I even told her late mother: hey, don't let her read all sorts of nonsense! But no, enlightenment, education! And just look at her now, she has to have her say about everything, just like some sort of professor."

"You are getting upset for nothing, mommy dear," said the young amazon, "I..."

"Be quiet, please!"

This exclamation, like the ninth wave, fatal to sailors, usuallly put an end to all conversations between the stepmother and her stepdaughter.

The young people tried to renew the group's former merriment, the artillery officer tried to prove his legend about the Genovese princess and her salto-mortale jump; but nothing could return the former ease, and soon the whole group went down to the gates where Cossacks with horses and carriage awaited them. The two oldest ladies borded the drozhki, the only kind of carriage which then could travel on the narrow road; the amazon jumped onto a small English horse and the cavalcade set out on the journey back to the valley where the Konstantinogradskii regiment was quartered.

Halfway there it caught up with the Tatar who just as slowly was returning to his village; catching sight of him, the artillery officer was riding amidst his friends, the amazon alone lagged behind the carriage: immersed in sad thoughts, she didn't notice her new acquaintance, but he, on the other hand, noticed the sad expression on her face and the tears which she stealthily wiped dry. He reined in his horse, and at a distance rode behind her, trying to guess the reason for her sadness.

"What is troubling you, my beauty?" he thought, catching her every movement. "Can it be that even the paradisical giaours are given grief and tears? Oh, if only I could turn into eternity that moment when you lied on my breast: never would tears moisten your eyes! For I would chase away all sorrows from you and shoulder them myself... But, enough, enough! Is it for me to think of the daughter of my enemy, the enemy of my faith?.. No! Hatred and the sword--that's my love, my wives, children, my entire family..." Thus the Tatar was thinking, not taking his eyes off his beauty and following her along all the bends of the winding path.

The cavalcade meanwhile entered the valley, turned to the gates of a beautiful house, and the amazon was hidden from the Tatar's view; then he, slapping his horse, galloped at the speed of lightning through the village.

"That's prince Dzhellaledin!" the villagers said to each other, watching the dust swirling on the road after the rider.

As he returned home, Dzhellaledin for the first time in his life, tried to avoid the company of his father: he was bothered by people looking at him, he desired solitude, and finding out that the old man was sitting in his room, he went straight to the garden. There, throwing himself on the grass by the densest bushes, he gave himself up to, not his terrible thoughts of hatred, but a kind of contemplation that can't be named, that now, like a mirror reflects the past, now flying over days and years, leaves the future far behind, picks imagined flowers, weaves them into magnificent garlands, and suddenly capriciously tears them up, throws them away, and again returns to the past.

Up till then, Dzhellaledin, busy with hunting, his father's conversation, had not looked for women, not thought about them; had seen only faces disfigured by wrinkles, had touched only his mother's hands. And suddenly, not too long ago, passing through the village late in the evening, his ears caught, through an open window, the sounds of an instrument and a female voice: never had such a harmony touched his ears. Dismounting carefully, he leant against the fence, opposite the window; he imagined the singing and the singer still clearer. It was a young, very young girl, she sat alone in her room by some instrument, and, it seemed, poured forth the anguish of her soul in expressive sounds. The voice flooded the room, broke up, like the trilling of a nightingale, turned into a gloomy melody, grew more and more quiet, faded, and again burst out into a merry song of our homeland; it captivated his ears, penetrated his soul, and for a long time chased out all other impressions. The singer grew silent, closed the window; the Tatar again on horseback covered half the forest which separated the valley from his village, but the sounds still followed him: they were with him, in his heart, he heard them through the rustle of leaves, twenty times it seemed to him as if a magic melody still resounded in the dale, reached his ears with the playful breeze, and twenty times he was ready to return, so that he could lose himself in the sweet voice of the siren, and wake up only at the beckoning sound of the archangel's trumpet. From that time on, Dzhellaledin would leave more and more often in the evenings; and wherever he turned his horse, the faithful beast, as if guessing the secret wish of his master, always stopped under the chestnut tree opposite the singer's window. If he managed to find her alone, he would watch her for hours, listen to her singing, the rustle of her dress, even after she left, the houris looked at the spot the heavenly creature had vacated, and regardless of the distance that separated them, he was happy.

But if she was surrounded by a crowd, if he was doomed to watch from afar how fashionable people approached her, spoke with her... Oh, then his Muslim blood awoke in his veins, he was ready to jump into the crowd with his dagger, to chase it away, to tear it to pieces, in order to return to his tree once more, and once more admire his treasure,-- although from a distance, but with undivided attention; so that each glance, each smile, each sound of her voice belonged to him alone... or at least to no one else...

And suddenly chance, predestination, Allah--call it what you may--threw the beauty into Dzhellaledin's embraces. Passion had long been brewing in his breast which was like a barrel of gunpowder just waiting for a spark to explode the whole being of the youngster.

A man who has grown up surrounded by women, who from a young age on was used to seeing them at all times, to taking their hand freely in a crowd of dancers or while out playing, does not know and cannot fathom the full force of the first touch of a being who just a minute ago had seemed as high and distant as a star in the sky. The mere memory of this touch spread like an electric current through all the young man's veins, penetrated the minutest fibers of his heart, gave him a thousand lives. Many thoughts and desires which up till then had not dared touch his soul, now came to life like bees, warmed by the rays of the spring sun. In his thoughts he played with his darling's curls, dried her tears with his hot breath, passionately pressed the valuable burden to his breast. But what wings can compare with the rapid flight of the imagination, awakened for the first time by the voice of the heart? It flies faster than an arrow, shot up by a skilled shooter, flies through the fogs, through clouds, ever higher; and, finally, flies through empty space without hitting anything, falls down to earth, crushed, exhausted.

Thus Dzhellaledin too was flying high in his dreams, awoke alone on the cold earth; but in his soul a thought was forming: his love for a single person was victorious over his hatred for an entire nation, and blessing his old man, his father who had made him learn Russian, he boldly entered his room.

____________________

The brigadeer Nikolai Lavrentevich Z..., having served his fatherland faithfully and truly for fourty years, was covered with wounds and decorations, beloved by his superiors, respected by those under his command; the common soldiers called him father, not commander. Twenty years ago, he married a certain orphan, the ward of Countess G..., a smart, good, and educated girl; which in those years was regarded as a rarity in the middle class of society. Mother Russia, as a child-bogatyr [Russian epic hero], was still lying softly in the cradle of ignorance, grew up and unwillingly left her cradle. The brigadeer did not know his wife's soul; they lived, not in luxury but also not in need--one could say, in clover, and they pampered their only child, Liudmila, as a memory of their youth and a hope for their old age. Her mother put all her energy into bringing up her daughter, taught her many useful rules, and her efforts were rewarded with full success, when after a sudden illness she bade farewell to this earth, and left her thirteen-year-old daughter without supervision and support. Nikolai Lavrentevich was great at taking charge of regiments of soldiers, but the upbringing of a girl was beyond his skills; for a long time he was inconsolable and did not wish to think about replacing his loss, finally he began to remember the deceased less and less often and would go out in society. A campaign was furthermore scheduled at the time: what was he to do with his daughter, who was to care for her? he couldn't very well drag her along on the campaign. The brigadeer didn't know what to do. At that time he found a good landowner, a widow, Anis'ia Ivanovna, through friendship with him and his late wife, she invited him to leave Liudmila with her for a time, promising to keep her and protect her as her right eye. And, in fact, Anis'ia Ivanovna cared for her so well, that Nikolai Lavrentievich, returning from the campaign and not knowing how to thank the widow, offered her his hand, heart, and the rank of brigadeer's wife: she accepted it all with great pleasure and the brigadeer returned to the Crimea as a family man. At home all went well, order was re-established, but here's the trouble: Anis'ia Ivanoivna turned out to be not quite so good after she entering a married station. The poor brigadeer, spoiled by the meek character of his first wife just couldn't cope with the hot temper of his second companion. In battle, His Excellence Potemkin praised him; he was the first one to penetrate enemy trenches, didn't pale before a sabre blade or the roar of an iron cannon, but there were times when at the merest "I don't want to!" from the brigadeer's wife, the brigadeer was ready to hide under a chair.

Socrates, the most indulgent of men, called the scolding of his better half thunder, and the impure water she poured over his bald head, rain, the aftermath of thunder. But the brigadeer had read nothing about Socrates, and furthermore, the brigadeer's wife, instead of dirty water, antiquity's classical remedy against husbands, used tears, quite a new invention. The brigadeer didn't know what to call this. At first he retreated with his honor intact, tried to see the weak side of the enemy, in order to attack him suddenly and then beat him, but seeing, finally, that his spouse, a veritable Gibraltar as far as marriage is concerned, attacked from the rear, and since then he always capitulated without a battle.

More than anyone, the brigadeer's daughter suffered from his second marriage, With a good heart, talents, and a firm will and wish for good, Liudmila was an untapped gold-mine of good qualities, but like all mines, her character also required a skillful hand to extract and purify the treasure from admixtures of useless hardened particles of earth. Some of her late mother's examples and instructions were preserved untainted in her heart, her teachings were sacred to her daughter, she respected them, but one of them was insufficiently developed in the young girl's mind: these were only first images, sketches, which lacked defined form and color. She was very pious, but in this instance she followed only the main, the most famous precepts of religion: many truly divine instructions which can so perfect a thinking human believer's character, slipped her mind. To complete the chaos, the unfinished upbringing, the freedom of orphanhood and the subsequent eloquent although often false preachings of her stepmother, so confused her thinking, that even her character turned fickle, inconstant, and her views of the world and human responsibility took the most inconsistent turn... Constantly vacillating between good and evil, she went from one extreme to another: at times she stubbornly opposed even the most trifling orders of her stepmother and only imitated her fondness for power, while suddenly she blindly submitted and fulfilled her caprices. The brigadeer's wife did not like her longings for her mother, but regardless, Liudmila sometimes would grieve for entire days, without saying a word, and would appear in the living room with eyes puffed up from weeping.

The brigadeer's wife, having received an education of the kind Prostakova [an ignorant, uncouth, and illiterate landowner Fonvizin's drama "Nedorosl," GH] thanked the lord for, would receive letters but not be able to read them and she did not care for book learning in young people. Liudmila would often bury herself in books, or suddenly, forgetting both her grief and her learning, would throw herself greedily at anything that could provide her with the least diversion. For the future, as for the present, she had no definite desires: at age sixteen she daydreamed of love and a simple hut, riches and outfits, happiness among wild flowers, and happiness in brocades a la Marie Antoinette. Her heart still was silent, but in its silence it was already prepared to pick up the first grain of emotion thrown its way by either a northern snowstorm or an African hurricane, it did not matter which. But the major trait of her character was that once she had put her mind to something, she would bend to neither proofs nor convictions; quite the opposite, contrariness was for her plans like a hammer that could not shatter them and would even further affirm and temper her plans. But should one leave them in peace, not remind her of them for a while, they'd disperse by themselves, and Liudmila would of her own free will abandon the path no power in the world could have made her deviate from. This trait was the main source of disagreements that arose between the stepdaughter and her stepmother; and meanwhile, Anis'ia Ivanovna did not hate her, cared about her outfits, her future, explored rich suitors, who by a strange coincidence of circumstances twice managed to slip away from her, when she had made attempts on her own behalf: she only wished to give Liudmilla away on her terms, make her, as the saying goes, dance to her pipe, to take in hand, by these true and tried means, both her stepdaughter and her future son-in-law with his inevitable thousand souls.

______________________

A few days after the outing to the fortress, the brigadeer's wife and her stepdaughter were sitting by their sewing frames; the brigadeer in his wide robe was pacing in the room, emitting dense clouds of smoke from his lips and giving orders to servants who kept coming and going, when suddenly a young rider rode up to the gates with two servants, handed them his horse, ran onto the porch and found himself face to face with the host.

The brigadeer, used to similar visits, was quite surprised at the appearance of the Tatar, and figuring from his clothing, that he must belong to the highest class, politely greeted his guest. The brigadeer's wife cleared her throat, prepared to speak--she spoke much and eloquently in all similar situations-- and adjusted her cap; Liudmila did not lift her eyes from her work. Girlish instinct told her what and who must have caused the Tatar's visit, but so silently, so silently that she herself barely could hear the secret voice and blushed, almost without knowing why.

"What gives me the pleasure to see you in my home?" the brigadeer asked gently, noting the confusion of his guest, and right away he added to the messenger standing by the doors: "call a translator!.."

"Not necessary," countered the Tatar: "I speak Russian. I am the son of Chagir-Agadur, the owner of the neighboring village. My father prays to God, that your days might extend to infinity..."

"I am grateful, very grateful," interrupted the birgadeer, "I am very glad to make your acquaintance. This is my wife and daughter, I hope you will like them; sit down, prince!"

"My father sent me on a commission..."

Here Dzhellaledin told a whole story he had made up in order to gain access to a house, where, he had heard, his fellow-countrymen were very well-received; it showed; lies are one of the necessary accomplishes of love. It was a story about buying and selling horses. The brigadeer, the most sensitive strings of his heart touched, went on an on praising the good qualities and beauty of his horses with all the details and technical expressions of a horse lover, who could hold his own as far as devotion to horses goes next to any bedouin. The prince did not interrupt his ecstacies, listened attentively and stole a sideward glance at the spekare's daughter who, bending over her sewing frame, worked so diligently, that only the needle flashed in the air and the white hand, constantly drawing attention to itself, invited kisses.

"Where did you learn to speak Russian so well, prince?" the brigadeer's wife edged in a word, concerned about the prolonged silence.

"I have had frequent dealings with Russians, and made a point of learning your language."

"Yes, and it's high time for you to become Russianized!" the brigadeer's wife continued. "And my dear fellow, surely you too, following our customs will soon dissolve your harems and introduce your wives into society?"

"That is against our laws, madam, and laws bend to no customs."

"What barbaric laws!.. And, my dear sir, do you have many wives in your harem?"

"I am not married... I have no harem...," the prince answered lightly blushing.

"Wife!.."

"So that's how it is! And why is it rumored about you that you marry so early? And it isn't only among busurmany [non-believers, non-Christians, esp. Muslims, GH, but among us too, so help me God, that people give away such young children in marriage. Me too, believe it or not, married my first husband at age thirty--this is my second..."

"Anis'ia Ivanovna!.."

"Sixteen years I lived with him, buried him, four years I was a widow, and soon two years now..."

"Hello cousin! Hello auntie.." said Petr Galaktionovich bursting into the room as a moth. "Uncle, how are you?"-- And jumping toward the ladies, he kissed first the brigadeer's wife's hand and then Liudmila's..

The Tatar jumped up, his face darkened.

"Where, prince, are you rushing like that? Sit down; I'll have my Nalet brought out--a wonder, not a horse! A swan-like neck, high withers, like the kokheilskii breed from Nedzhdi; and his eyes, his eyes: just like all your Georgian women! Wait, prince..."

But the prince, changing his countenance, declined, giving his word to stop by later to admire Nalet.

"What excellent fellows, these busurmany!" eclaimed the brigadeer's wife. "I have the impression that this is the same one we met at the fortress: did you notice Liudmilushka?"

"No, mommy," the girl prattled on, blushing to the color of a poppy.

"The same one or not, they're all decent ingnoramuses," noted Petr Galaktionovich. "Truly, ma tante, I don't know why it is that you receive these barbarians in your house? Where's their manners? Where's their behavior?.."

"And you, my dear fellow, you'd have all dance menuets and bow like they do abroad. You know, my husband has constant dealings with them, and, to be sure, their manners are very proper. You should have seen when in the month of may the Tatar potentates were introduced to our most gracious empress, how she received them affectionately, how she exchanged bows with them!.. I just feasted my eyes; I went to Bakhchisarai on purpose."

After this came a detailed description of the empress's court and her journey.

"And have you recently had any letters from your brother?" asked the brigadeer, taking advantage of the minute his wife let up. "Where is he now?"

"In Petersburg; yesterday I received a letter from him. The court is still in Moscow; They are preparing festivities in Tsarskoe Selo for her majesty's arrival... My brother is a lucky felllow! He is having fun and keeps rising in rank."

"Yes, he is lucky. Oh well, there's nothing new in the world of politics."

"Nothing, it seems. There is peace everywhere; there's no hope of getting out of this unbearable Crimea... By the way, I came to say goodbye to you."

"Where's God taking you?"

"I've been called to the Headquarters for a while; now I'm leaving... but not for long, my soul only comes to life in your family's company. At the first opportunity I'll be back with you, at your feet, ma belle cousine."

The artillery officer bade his hosts farewell, and while he is busy packing his pomades and perfumes a la Pompadour, we'll say a few words about his person. Petr Galaktionovich Belogradov was the son of some second cousin of Anis'ia Ivanovna, and called her auntie, only according to the Russian habit of counting as immediate family, cousins five times removed. Together with a good fortune, he received a proper education, was very preoccupied with himself, loved to show off with the cut of his clothing, with his easygoing manners; he didn't pass up an opportunity to hint at his assets, connections, estates--showing them through a magnifying glass-- about his brother who served in the Guard, about his hopes for inheritances from various uncles and grandmothers; in society he was called a braggart, a self-promoter; it was also rumored that once, in battle... oh, well, God be with him; whom won't people talk about even in our time. In conclusion, one must say, that he was a good man.

The next day the Tatar as promised appeared in the brigadeer's house and this time he was less timid; he conversed with the host, admired his Nalet, whom two grooms could barely restrain, right away he agreed on a price with the seller and managed to listen to the brigadeer's wife's chronological tale about her marriage, widowhood, second marriage and move to the Crimea. The couple were very pleased with the acquaintance of the young prince, asked him to visit them more often, which he, naturally, didn't decline and, a month later Liudmila wrote the following to her girl friend in the Penza guberniia:

"You scold me, Dashen'ka, for writing you so rarely; believe me, the reason for that is not laziness, but lack of time: is it long since we moved to the Crimea, and here I am already embroidering a second dress for mommy, in silks, with the tiniest of stitches! You should know how difficult that is! Strange, I just can't get used to calling her mommy. Every time when I call this woman with the name of my angel, my late mother, it seems I'm blaspheming. Oh, Dasha, they don't even allow me to weep over her. Only my pillow receives my hot tears, and only God sees the anguish of my soul. Often I long for her so much, so much!... It seems as if all my joys flew to the heavens with her, and there is no more joy for me on earth.

What should I tell you about our Crimea? I know well only the valley where daddy's regiment is quartered: it is a charming place. How many flowers and gardens here are! What plants don't we have. You won't believe me when I tell you that almonds and olives grow here like birches in your parts. And what fountains, streams!... It is fun to watch how they flow over the pebbles, bright, translucent--if you throw a ring into them, you still see it as if it were on your finger. I collected some sea shells for you. How I first feared bad weather at sea! The waves break as if they'd inundate the whole world and so they pour onto the shore; but in quiet weather the sea is just as translucent as the streams; I've grown to love it a lot. Society here is good, we often go on excursions in the surrounding areas, we even dance occasionally; here is glorious regimental music, and there's also no shortage of cavaliers, not like in your Penza. I'll tell you about one new acquaintance: a Tatar prince often visits us: just don't think that he looks like that Tatar prince who served as postmaster in our post office!... No, this is a young and very rich prince. He visits us often, especially since our regiment set up camp; apparently he is bashful, Dashenka. I've noticed that he likes Belogradov less than anyone--do you know that dandy?.. I myself can't stand him either; it is true that at their first meeting Belogradov offended him and he never misses an opportunity to tease him; a couple of times the prince flared up to such an extent that daddy barely managed to quell an argument. Now this unbearable braggart has left, and all is peaceful here. Mommy is usually occupied with the household--she is preparing winter supplies--and leaves me alone with the prince: we talk for days on end; I love the strangeness of his speech, his special way of seeing things, he is very smart, and our ladies call him handsome. I also find that he is not bad; just his eyes, Dasha.. I can't convey to you their expression, I can't get used to them! And how they look at me!.. At this moment I am sitting alone in my room and feel that my cheeks are burning just from remembering this gaze. Ten times a day it happens that while I am busy working, I don't watch him at all, but he only has to turn his black fiery eyes my way, and I feel that gaze right away, without seeing him; I start burning, as if the midday sun's rays hit me right on the head, as if the sparks of two burning coals hit my soul; then I sit down at the piano, to disspell my confusion, I play, I sing, and the prince always listens to me rapturously... apparently he loves music a lot. Sometimes it seems to me... a thought enters my head... which I rapidly chase away... No, God forbid. Don't ask, what this thought is; I myself can't admit it to myself. Farewell, dear friend, they're calling me."

Another month passed by. Dzhellalein with each day got more attached to Liudmila; with difficulty he hid his passion; ten times, left alone with his beauty, he was ready to pour out his feelings before her, without hope for the smallest reciprocation... an inadvertent timidity gripped him, and he was silent. And Liudmila? She could not account for her feelings, and, for that matter, never took the trouble to sort them out. The silent, respetful adoration of the handsome Muslim flattered her self-esteem, the newness of her situation entertained her, and she never thought of the consequences; the question "what will come of it all?" never entered her head... The pleasure in seeing the young adherent of a different faith, in talking to him, in getting intoxicated from his gazes and his speech, was not in her opinion, the same as loving him. And love itself, seemed to her like a flower which one could transplant from one soil to another, play with, enjoy the fragrance of, and after plucking it, one could throw it out the window. She didn't suspect, the inexperienced girl, that in this flower calyx, under the tender petals, poison is often lurking, which is activated while one plays with the flower and which poisons a person before she can notice its baneful action. While the prince didn't speak of love directly, Liudmila liked not to figure anything out and continued her innocent game, which to her had all the charm of somethig new.

But what did the mother and father do meanwhile, my smart readers ask me. The father was busy with his regiment, his horses, and his wife, in general was more busy with her stepdaughters outfits than her behavior. Furthermore, a bit of coquetry didn't seem all bad to her, especially with a prince who only lacked the Christian faith in order to be a desirable suitor, and, truth to say, this thought already was very much on Anis'ia Ivanovna's mind. According to reliable information, at his father's death, the prince would inherit two rich estates, several gardens in the Kachinian valley, the most fertile one in all of Russia, houses in Bakhchisarai, in Kafa; all this was only real estate capital: and how much money, valuables, didn't the old prince own! It wasn't in vain he had held the highest posts under the Crimean khans. Of course, religion was an important point: but surely a young man in love could change his religion because of his love for a girl? Then all obstacles would fall by themselves and her stepdaughter, would be a rich-very-rich princess, and although it is a Tatar title, it is nevertheless is very pleasant to the ears.

Once, in the evening, when the brigadeer's wife is making jam in the garden, the brigadeer is talking to the prince in the living room, and Liudmila, as usual, is sitting at her sewing frame, Belogradov suddenly appears.

"Important news, important news!" he shouted while still in the hallway. "We're at war!"

"With whom? What for?" asked the brigadeer.

"With the Turks. The Divan has lng now been presenting various absurd demands to our ambassador, Bulgakov; finally on the seventh of august they imprisoned him in the seven-towered castle. That, of course, Russia cannot forgive... A marvel, a war, a campaign!"

"You aren't joking, are you?"

"For heaven's sake, Nikolai Lavrentevich, I'm straight from Headquarters. Dispatches have been reeived..."

"But still, this war isn't for us, the Crimea won't be left without troups..."

The brigadeer stopped, probably afraid of offending his guest with suspicions; but the windbag Belogradov continued:

"Yes, yes, that's correct! For now the sonnies of Mohammed are after all family; what's good about that, again they're cooking up something."

"Petr Galaktionovich!.."

"Aw, and it's a shame that until now we've kept in ckeck our good intentions to chase all this rabble out of Europe! Should these barbarians still long occupy the best corner of the educated world?"

"Petr Galaktionovich, hold your tongue!.."

"Bravo! If only we could organize some sort of Crusades, overrun Turkey, suppress all the Muslims--and Constantinopel would be ours. Hurrah! What a gain, what treasures!..and beautiful women, beauties... A marvel! I'll be the first one to enlist as a crusader."

"Fie-you, what a windbag!!" muttered the brigadeer, winking at Belogradov and pointing with his eyes at the prince.

This minute on the closest minaret resounded the muezzin's calls to evening prayers: the prince got up with a downcast face, he looked now at the brigadeer, now at Liudmila, and cast threatening glances at Belogradov.

"Now here's someone to stand on ceremony with!" said the windbag in a low voice. "And now, by the way, is the right time for him to make his ablutions, to pray to Allah..."

"Mister officer," shouted the prince, heatedly grasping him by the arm: "God only knows which one of us needs to pray more. And in the meantime, shouldn't you perform a different kind of ablution, in your own fashion, in the European manner."

Belogradov got confused by the unexpecteed attack.

"What's this? What do you want from me?"

"Proof of the bravery of a the future Crusader! We'll see whether your bullet is as accurate as your tongue is sharp."

"A duel? With a Tatar?.. I'll be damned!.. According to the manifesto of april 21 duels are forbiddden..."

"You're hedging? Out of respect for my hosts I was silent when you offended my fellow countrymen and believers; now you've set to toying with me personally; it is not noble to refuse to continue the game."

The brigadeer entered the argument, tried to quiet the prince's fury, wanted to force Belogradov to apologize.

"Surely his offense cannot be smoothed over by some sort of an apology?" the prince countered. "At our first meeting this fellow took a sharp attitude to me: I could forgive a thoughtless coarseness, now it seems, he has chosen me as the constant butt of his wit... You know that thousands in my place would have torn out his soul by his tongue together with his last word of ridicule? I won't defile your threshold with a murder, but demand payment for the offense according to your custom; an officer cannot, ought not decline my invitation."

All the brigadeer's attempts at persuasion were vain: the prince was impassioned, Belogradov did not agree to a duel, nor to apologizing to the Tatar; the host, fearing the consequences, took the offender into another room for a couple of words. Liudmila shivered and wept.

The prince took a few rapid steps, and suddenly, nearly walking into her, stopped.

"You are here?.. You heard?" he uttered in confusion. "About what are these tears?.. You... you fear for him?" he said rapidly.

"Ah, no, no, prince!.. But a duel... that's horrible. One of you might die, the other will die in Siberia, we'll lose you...both of you... and what a horrible memory this day will cast on my whole life, how poorly you repay our hospitality..."

"Are you begging on his behalf?" the prince uttered drily.

"No, not on his behalf!.. For my own sake, for my father's peace of mind... Prince, I beg you, agree to a reconciliation. I've never yet begged anyone for anything in my whole life.. I don't know how to ask, I cannot... you see, my tears are choking me!"

"But why these tears, this fear? Do you love him?"--he said, aiming a piercing gaze at Liudmila.

Liudmila raised her head.

"Him? Belogradov? I never loved him; and now he is hateful to me..."

The prince made a movement; it seemed to her that he wanted to leave. Beside herself she grasped his arm, he shuddered, pressed her hand to his breast, to his lips... In vain did Liudmila try to free herself: the Tatar's lips were firmly implanted on the young girl's hand.

"Prince, if anything in the world is dear to you, if you love anything, in the name of that thing, I entreat you to withdraw from your bloody argument!.."

"Do I love anything, Liudmila?.. Oh, I do, I do. Above honor, above my own peace and quiet! Tell me what to do, demand that I do it: this minute I am ready to crawl at the feet of my enemy..."

"Agree to a reconciliation."

"To anything in the world! Let them call me a coward, whatever they want.. I forgive all offenses for your sake, Liudmila, for you, the rose of my soul!...And you still have to ask whether I love anything? When there is no other joy for me, no other sun...than you. They're coming. Liudmila, remember...!.."

The brigadeer entered the room, Belogradskii followed; the prince went up to the old man with rapid steps, gave him is hand.

"You wish to reconcile me with this man," he said, "I agree. I ask you to forgive me for the unpleasantries that happened; I don't need his apologies."

And he rapidly left the room, leaving everyone in confusion.

A few days later, Liudmila, not daring to reveal her feelings to anyone, again wrote Dashen'ka, her only girl friend:

"And so, it's come to pass--the merest thought of which made me tremble before! he loves me: the Tatar loves a Christian girl, a Russian! I'm afrid, Dashen'ka, my hand trembles when I write these lines. Oh, why didn't I break off my acquaintance with him from the very begining? It seemed impossible to me that he'd forget our differences in religion; I had no idea, I didn't think... Why did he tell me so clearly what I never wanted to know, what I ought not to hear. How ardently I prayed to the Creator to take this cup from me, barely suspecting the prince's feelngs. How am I now to pray to Him, how am I to turn my soul to Him, my soul, in which I already sense that an unfortunate reciprocity has sunk in? How am I to uproot it, to extinguish it? With what tears can I now wash off the traces of my sin? You now fear me, my angel, am I right? You no longer love me? No, Dasha, I am still worthy of your friendship. I am alone, completely alone, there was no one to warn me, whom to ask for advise... but my intentions are firm, I will never see him again! Ah, why, why was he born under the sign of the moon, and not the holy cross?.. But this cannnot be changed. I will no longer see him!"

_________________________

Liudmila kept her word. Under the pretext of illness, she shut herself in in her room, which was built upstairs of the house like a mezzanine and did not open into the living room. To all his questions, the prince received the same answer: "she is ill." Her father and stepmother did not deceive him, they themselves believed in Liudmila's illness: so much did she change since the day her heart for the first time started to beat faster in her breast; the brigadeer's wife, suspecting nothing, more than once reproached her for pretending, asked her to come to the living room, if just for a minute: "The prince is aksing for you, the prince misses you." Nothing could rock Liudmila's firm decisiveness: she did not leave her cell; she suffered,--poor child-- suffered and prayed, and was silent,--and Anis'ia Ivanovna tried to heal her secret fever with domestic cures.

In vain did the prince morning and night visit the brigadeer, ten times a day he rode by his windows, and often he wandered around the house for nights on end, hoping to catch a single glance, the sound of her voice, or even an outline of her dear face through the curtains. Liudmila did not appear. The prince was tormented with all the ardency of feelings of an Asian, to whom in love, as in hate, there are no bounds, no limits. Was it long ago he hated the Russians? And now? He now loved not only Liudmila, he loved her father, her stepmother, anyone who came close to her; neither his father's reproaches for his frequent absences, not his mother's worries about the pallor and sorrow of her favorite son, moved him; he became callous, numb towards everything that was alien to his Liudmila.

After about three weeks, the Tatars returned to their houses after evening prayer; the mosque emptied, the herds returned from pasture, it grew dark. The mullah and a few respected nobles from Kargapul' gathered in Chagir-Agadur's house. In the corner of the garden, in a small clearing, under a walnut tree, a carpet was spread, on a low table, decorated with woodcarving and mother of pearl, a tray was set with sherbets and the guests together with the host settled in a cirle, they set out a row of long pipes and began to sip the nectar of the East--thick, black coffee. At a respetful distance, a few servants were standing; not far away, in the bushes, flashed the clothing of a girl who played with wooden balls, rolling them on the grass. The conversation, as usual, began with silence; the guests vied with each other in blowing grey smoke rings; then they began their conversation with complaints about the high prices, bad times, and quietly cursed the Russians.

"Cunning is the hawk in the sky!" uttered prince Chagir-Agadur meaningfully, "but there is a bird that can outsmart even him!"

"Allah bless you, Agadur, for your good prophesy!--exclaimed a grey-bearded mullah, in a white turban, the Muslim tiara of wisdom. "But where is this bird? It's time for him to stretch his wings."

"He's already even sharpened his claws, surely you don't know?"

"Know what? What?"

"The Padishakh has declared war on Russia."

"Great is Allah, and Mohammed, his prophet! So, will you flee to Turkey, or will you send your son there?" asked the mullah.

"May Allah-Tealia purify and enlighten your mind, Abdul'melik! Surely you haven't forgotten that the Turks already devoured my oldest son? No, I won't budge for the time being..."

"And where is your son, Agadur?" asked one of the guests. "It's been over two months since he's been seen or heard. What's the matter with him?"

"Who can see into the heart of man? I myself don't recognize my son: he spends day and night in the mountains, wanders in the forest, out-rode two horses, every day he grows thinner, paler and he doesn't answer any of my questions."

"Iaman! Iaman (that's bad)" said an old mullah, shaking his head and striking his beard. "But surely you know what his soul desires?.. A girl friend? His time has come, he's already past twenty."

"It is so; you are right. But where is one to find a pearl worthy of my Dzhellaledin?" countered the prince with paternal pride. "Show us in which ocean we must start fishing."

"I vow, vow with all the prophets, prince, you are too haughty! Not all roses of Bakhchisarai have yet withered, not all beautiful girls among the true believers have moved. Have you seen the daughter of prince Haddzhi? No?.. Well then, what other bride does your son need?"

The old man took a liking to the idea of marrying Dzhellaledin and he asked around about the suggested bride, and all his conversation partners turned to this theme.

In half an hour, clatter of a horse's hooves were heard in the street, and a tired horse, covered in foam, ran into the yard. Dzhellaledin dismounted, threw the reins into the arms of a servant who came to meet him, and with dim eyes, with hanging head, he wandered into the garden.

"He wore out his raven black, didn't caress him, didn't even look at his favorite.. What's happeing with our prince!" said the Tatar to his comrade, leading the panting horse around the courtyard.

"Yah, yah, it's bad," answered another Tatar and they began to talk in low voices.

Dzhellaledin, hearing the voices of people conversing in the garden, walked far to the side and exhausted, threw himself on a stone bench. Dark and heavy was his soul. Not a single friendly star shone on his horizon, not a single flame flared up for even a minute's consolation in the darkness of hopelessness. The sun flared up and grew dim, days and weeks fell into eternity, and Liudmila didn't appear. Every day he flew to her with a spark of hope, and every day the answer "she's sick" poured cold water over the weak spark.

Holding his head in his hands, Dzhellaledin sat motionless, feeling poorly under the power of his love and at the same time keeping it burning with memories about the charms of the invisible beauty. The madman blew on the embers lying on his heart and afterwards would weep bloody tears over the fiery, unbearable hurt. Formerly, when he was alone with his reflections, he'd drown in the sweetness of splendid fantasies; now, impoverished by reality, he found sweetness in his sorrow and wouldn't have exchanged it for his previous peace of mind for all the treasures of the East.

The moon was high in the sky, the guests long ago had left the garden, the village sounds grew silent, but Dzhellaledin did not leave his bench by the spring. He didn't keep track of time since his eyes lost their light, and his soul its sustenance; time had stopped for him at one point and seemd like an ocean without waves and without life. He didn't hear how a light rustle arose in the bushes, a white veil flashed in the darkness and stopped before him; his eyes were sullenly directed at the ground.

"Again you are sad and lonely!" uttered a tender, child's voice. "Surely joy hasn't forever left your soul, Dzhellaledin?"

"Oh, is that you, Emina," said the prince, noticing his niece, "hello, my child, did you have a lot of fun today?"

"Emina can;t have fun when her relatives are weeping."

"Who is it that weeps?"

"You, Dzhellaledin"

"I?.. You are mistaken, Emina, no one has seen my tears."

"And is it easier when the tears fall, not in the face, but in the heart?"

Dzhellaledin was silent.

"Mother calls you to supper," said Emina after a moment's silence.

"I don't want any supper."

"And what will I tell her?"

"That I am not hungry, that I already had supper... whatever."

He again became immersed in thought. Emina did not leave.

"Do you know, Dzhellaledin, soon you'll be happy," the girl commenced again.

"How is that?"

"Today they guessed the reason for your anguish and found a talisman for it.

"They guessed?" shouted Dzhellaledin, and jumped up from his place. "Who guessed? How do you know?.."

"Don't be angry, Dzhellaledin, I didn't want to make you angry; I was glad that I'll soon see you happy."

"I'm not angry, Emina, but tell me who guessed what; what talisman did they find; don't hide anything..."

"They want to marry you off; they say that a wife will chase away your sorrow..."

"Me.. they want to marry me off? To whom? When?"

Emina told him all that she had heard from Chagir-Agadur and his guests while she, unnoticed, was playing among the bushes.

"So that's what my family and friends are thinking! No, it won't work. It is easier to catch a wild tiger than one that has already known an iron cage. Liudmila I must see you! I'll get to you through a threefold wall... Get me my horse!" he shouted, rapidly leaving the garden--"Faster, my horse!"

"Where are you going this late?"

"Goodbye, Emina; tell my mother not to wait for me today."

In about ten minutes Dzhellaledin was already riding off along the road leading to the village.

Dawn chased away night darkness, a fresh september morning awakened nature, and together with the first lark, Liudmila fluttered into the garden: only at this time of day did she leave her room in which she had condemned herself to voluntary seclusion and went into the garden, not fearing to meet Dzhellaledin there. At the end of a poplar alley, by the slope of a hillock, stood a latticed garden pavilion, covered with grape vines and wild jasmine, and there Liudmila went to pray every morning, to converse in her soul with the memory of her mother, and in secret even from herself, sometimes think about the one who tore out reason from her heart. There she went now too along the smooth path and, kneeling down, she turned her gaze and her thoughts to heaven. This day, a mysterious trembling and a secret premonition flowed together in her breast with the anguish about those for whom fate and duty broke her heart. She prayed avidly with all the innocence of a child; her lips mouthed not a memorized prayer, but the words of her heart, and tears slowly rolled down her face. Dzhellaledin stood a few steps away from her, watched her, and did not dare to approach; it seemed to him that he saw before him a sacred peri who brought a tear of repentance to atone for her inadvertent guilt.

Liudmila finished her prayer, stood up and without wiping away her tears, sat down on a bench deep in thoughts and leaned her back against the railing. Then she heard a rustle and Dzhellaledin entered the pavilion... She gave a shout, wanted to run...

"Don't run away from me, for heaven's sake, wait!... God himself, feeling compassion for my torments, sends me this minute... don't destroy His grace!"

Uttering these words, Dzhellaledin trembled, and something like a tear even glimmered in his eyes; Liudmila's heart froze at the sight of the pallor of the youngster's martyred face; she stopped and again sat down on the bench.

For a whole month Dzhellaledin, awaiting the minute of a meeting, wandered like an exile for whom the road to everything dear and close was closed, and now that the minute had arrived, he stood before Liudmila in silence, as if the gift of thought and word vanished by her presence. In similar situations, a woman, however young and inexperienced she may be, always is faster at finding the thread of conversation. Liudmila was the first one to break the awkward silence.

"I was left in debt," she said quietly, "I still have not thanked you... do you remember, a month ago... for your concession..."

"Oh, I remember, I remember! What wouldn't I then have done for you?.. now too, and always...Liudmila!.. Do you know, since I heard your voice, saw you for the first time, my will, my memory, my reason, all has left me! only one desire has remained,--to see you every minute! You became for me the flower of Dzhennet, which I could admire entire centuries without moving. My hatred for the Russians, my thirst for revenge, which I suckled with my mother's milk, which my strength grew up with, all melted from the rays of your gaze; this glance set my soul afire, day and night it burns before me brighter than the sun, and burns me up, destroys me!.. I know," he continued after s few minutes' silence, "you fear the Muslim in me, hate in me a person of different faith...so, cure me, fairy, remove your spell.. or give yourself to me! I can stand it no longer, torments have gnawed up my heart... nowhere, not in anything does it find consolation; nowhere are there any beautiful women in the whole wide world for me, no houries in paradise, besides you...Liudmila, Liudmila!.."

Like a madman, he fell to her feet, kissed her knees, the hem of her dress.

"Get up, prince, calm down for a minute, listen to me," said the young girl, calling forth all the fortitude of her soul. "I am no fairy, know no magic, I can neither invoke it nor destroy it.. My magic--is prayers but they are all-powerful for me only. I don't fear you, neither for your religion, nor origin, but a barrier has been erected between us which no love is powerful enough to take down; even if it destroys love. Prince, don't seek to see me, run away, flee to Turkey, to Russia, wherever you want: you will forget me and then you'll still find many beautiful women in this world, many rarities.

"You can sooner promise green leaves to an oak branch, burned down by heavenly thunder, than joy to me without you!.. If you loved me even with a hundredth part of my love, barriers would fall as if they were cobwebs... For me there is no barrier on the path that leads to you, to find you, life of my soul, I'll get through under clouds, to the bottom of an abyss!.. If only to rest on your breast! Can you blame a cedar for being born in Lebanon and not in the snows of your fatherland? I have forgotten that you are Russian, so you too must forget the Tatar in me... But you don't love me. Tell me, Liudmila, I want to hear it from your lips; better to kill a man with one blow that to place a drop of poison in his blood every day..."

Liudmila wept and was silent.

"You don't love me, and never will love me? In your eyes I am a madman, a despicable Tatar? Tell me, tell me!.. Not all means for my healing are yet exhausted..."

He rose and pierced her with his glance; his hand was pressed to the handle of a dagger.

"Oh, my God, my God, how severely you are testing me... Can't you see how much I have suffered during the time of our separation? A thousand times I've been ready to break my oath, taken at a moment of repentance... I... I love you, Dzhellaledin... and I still ask you to run, to leave me..."

"Liudmila! My bliss!" the Tatar shouted ecstatically; "You love me, you said..." His voice broke, joy burst out so suddenly, that his heart so long used to sorrow, could not find room for it. Liudmila, as a messenger from heaven, with one stroke, dispersed the darkness, clothed the youngster's being in a rainbow glimmer. In the heat of ecstacy he now thanked her, now asked her to repeat the word whereby she had returned to him more than life itself--the joy of living.

"Don't rejoice, prince," said Liudmila sadly, freeing her hand from the youngster's hands. "I love you, but I repeat my request: be gone! Predestination has determined different paths for us to go through life, and different paths to end it."

"What does that mean?" asked the surprised young man.

"It means that I as a Christian cannot be the wife of a Muslim, and as a Russian I ought not to love a man who does not even conceal his hatred for Russia."

"Then why did you open paradise for me? Surely not so that I'd feel more keenly my fall to earth? No, one does not play so with a human being! You said that you loved me; with those words you joined your fate to mine and only the sword of Azrail can separate us."

"My fate cannot be linked to anything but a Christian," she said firmly and added quietly, as if not fully daring to express her thoughts, and isn't it true that Dzellaledin cannot be a Christian?.."

"A Christian?" he repeated in amazement, "what are you demanding of me?.. A traitor, an apostate!.. Do you know how these words jarr my hearing?.. How heavily, how hurtfully they fall on my heart?.."

"Prince!.."

"An apostate of my faith?" Dzhellaledin repeated, and his face, seething with passion, grief, and a ray of sudden hope, took on a look of stern pride. "Do you really think, that my fatherland isn't as dear to me, its laws aren't as holy for me, as yours are to you? Do you know, that the cross, hung around the neck of a Tatar, makes him a target for hundreds of daggers? That the hands of my own father won't tremble when tearing out the heart from the breast of his son-traitor?.."

"Forgive me, prince, that was a mad thought.. Let us part."

"Wait, wait!.. No!, I don't have enough strength to part with you.. a minute without you is more terrifying than all the daggers of the world...Stop, let my agitation calm down, let's be reasonable... Liudmila. An apostate!..."

Grasping his head with both hands, he began to pace the pavilion with rapid steps; a strong battle was visible in every trait of his face; finally, he stopped before Liudmila.

"Huge is the price I must pay for you, but my love for you too is immeasurable. I can abandon both family and the earth from which I am created, for your sake, throw away glory as a booty to the dogs, to my slanderers: only don't demand one thing of me, I cannot sell my conscience!.. Agree to elope with me, my precious one; we'll leave for Russia, in time you'll ask for forgiveness and the blessings of your father, for me alone will the path to my fatherland and the hearts of my family be closed. For your sake I'll become a Russian; never, neither with my manners nor my words will I offend your faith, nor force mine on you. Only do not glance into my soul, don't ask me to be baptized."

"And won't my conscience begin to scream at me every minute, that I belong to a Muhammadan? Why poison the life of my father, flee from him, when I know Dzhellaledin, know for sure, that he will give us his blessings if you abandon your Muhammadan faith. The slander of people and family will fall on you anyway, whether or not their suspicions are justified: what is it that scares you?.."

"Did I hear that in your enlightened Europe people do everything for others out of fear for human judgements. I don't know your customs: my judgement lies in my soul, pangs of conscience mean a thousand times more to me than the slander of peope, and you yourself, think, Liudmila, will you be able to depend on the conscience, the honor of a man, who has betrayed his law, all that he used to love and honor as something holy? Liudmila! I could deceive you, but lies are abhorrent to me... What is my religion to you, when you alone will be my goddess, your will, will be my laws... We'll settle somewhere in a corner of Russia, you will blossom as a rose in the gardens of Istambul, under the protection of my love; never did mortals experience the bliss that will be our lot, Liudmila, don't you agree?.. Will you give yourself to me?.."

Liudmila with incredible effort stood up and took a step toward the doors; the love of her darling and her own heart lacerated her weak chest. Sighing from tears, turning her eyes away from the prince's face, she rapidly, as if afraid that she might not have enough strength to finish, uttered:

"Your nobility amazes me; now I repeat without blushing that I love you, love you with all my soul... but we will not meet again except by the altar of a Christian church..."

The prince had no time to come to his senses before Liudmila was gone; he wanted to run after her; at the top of the hill appeared the brigadeer in his morning gown, he had come out to breathe the fresh air, and his daughter senseless, without feelings, fell on his breast.

"She's deceived me!"--shouted Dzhellaledin besides himself, "deceived me. You giaours be damned! The hour, when your voice reached my ears, be damned!.."

He jumped out of the pavilion and a few minutes later he galloped past the garden on a horse, so rapidly that the steed's hooves seemed not to touch earth, and blood was gushing from his flanks from the beating of the Tatar's sharp stirrups.

"There it is! I ask to sell them horses," said the brigadeer with parental concern,--"the turn any one of them into a skeleton within a month! And where is he rushing as if the devil were breathing down his neck?.."

Towards evening the same day the brigadeer paced his wife's room, let his pipe go out and lit it again, cleared his throat, stopped, prepared to speak, and continued to be silent.

"What, my dear, did you catch a cough? You better drink some guelder rose tea with honey, or elder tea."

"No, Anis'ia Ivanovna, that's not it; but here I am, I came to you with my head hanging: I'm sure you've guessed!"

"Guessed what?"

"Well, what I argued about with you the other day, do you remember?.. About prince Dzhellaledin..."

"What about him? Has he proposed?"

"It's not that he has proposed directly: he himself knows that while a turban covers his head, not a single orthodox girl in her right mind will enlist as his fiance. This is what happened..."

He told his wife all that he heard in the morning from Liudmila; the brigadeer's wife shook her head.

"It's not good, not at all good! These girls do enlist, it's not that they'd listen to their elders' reason, but they themselves forever commit stupid things. We should have hidden her from him, closed our doors to him! On the contrary, let him appear more often, sing, play, get stronger attached, and he himself will throw off the turban. After all, such a groom can be found only by searching with a candle."

"Of course, of course! Even I like him heartily. Oh, well, should he be stubborn about taking our faith then there's no point in even thinking of him."

"Nonsense, my dear, he'll resist and then change his mind; love after all, does strange things."

"And if his father gets angry and disinherits him?"

"Heavens, he is the only son; and even if that were to happen, once he has accepted our faith, the Russian government will always side with him. So, after his father's death all can be done over; after all, they say that his father is really old, he won't live out the century. Liudmila should be taught a lesson. What's with her, the silly thing, to hide from me! Am I not her mother?"

And the brigadeer's wife left to give her stepdaughter an instructive lecture.

But contrary to the expectations of the entire family, the prince didn't appear, it was even rumored that he had left for Akhmechet to his relative. Liudmila's sickness was no joke; love and the struggle with her feelings overame her weak constitution. The regimental doctor shook his head, felt her pulse, and tried to assure the worried brigadeer, that it'll pass, that it is the result of early morning walks, so dangerous in the Crimea, where even at the hottest time of day, not a single native will meet neither dawn nor dusk without warm clothing.

However, despite the doctor's assurances, Liudmila's condition worsened every day; she had constant fevers, didn't recognize anyone and in incoherent words, she recounted the visions of her heated imagination. They sent to Headquarters for the staff doctor who had a reputation for his knowledge and art: his efforts returned life to Liudmila, but not her health; she still hadn't got out of bed, when one morning the brigadeer was called out of her room, and entering the living room, he caught sight of Dzhellaledin, dusty, in his travelling clothes. One could have asked him whether he was returning from the land of the dead, so tormented and colorless was his face.

"Nikolai Lavrentevich!" said the prince, throwing himself at him. "I have brought you my fate, my honor, my soul; do with them what you want, only give me or at least let me have a look at my treasure... I heard that she is ill and dying... Allow me to end my life at her feet."

The brigadeer pressed his hand with compassion.

"Calm yourself, prince. The danger has passed, but you cannot see her now: she is so weak that the smallest irritation can again push her to the edge of the grave. It seems, you've come straight from the road, you probably have been riding all night; let's go into my study, you'll rest, and then you'll explain your intentions to me."

"No, right now, this minute, I don't need to rest; I see that Liudmila has told you..."

The brigadeer nodded.

"You know everything; you even know how difficult it was for me to abandon a Muslim's duties, the duties of a son: but my love for her has conquered everything! I have decided to sever all ties, if you promise to accept me as your son, give me Liudmila: only... for God's sake.. do not ever blame me, do not call me an apostate..."

"No, no, my noble young man! Your decisiveness deserves not of blame but praise. Believe me, in a few more years many others of your fellow countrymen will follow your example. Russia receives a new citizen with open embraces, and once you learn to know her closer, you'll be convinced that all absurdities which your people attribute to the Russians and their government, are the inventions of minds, blinded by fanaticism or the habits of suppressed hatred. Liudmila is yours, but prince, don't rush; the step you contemplate is not unimportant. First familiarize yourself with our laws, customs, compare them with yours, test yourself; if neither reason nor conviction but only passion guides your actions, beware! Satisfaction and age burn up the seething blood, passion evaporates like smoke, and only dust remains and winds will disperse that; keep in mind that our laws allow you to fill this emptinesss neither with a new marriage, nor the voluptuousness of Asiatic harems, and, maybe, later repentance will flame up in place of cooled love. Think well, prince, what you are deciding to do; my daughter's happiness is dear to me, and for your happiness which you so assuredly place in my hands, I'll have to account before the Lord."

"If my heart still harbored any prejudices against Russia, your nobility would have destroyed them! No, do not fear future repentance; I am not acting on a first inclination of emotions: love has long battled with reason within me; I myself have tried to extinguish it, to weaken it by separation: it survived the battle without harm, on the contrary, it grew stronger and now even a worm in the grave cannot destroy it."

"You have a father: does he know about your intentions? Will he not prevent them? Do not hide anything from me."

"My father does not know aund must know nothing: he has become hardened in his enmity towards Russia, his prejudices are unbeatable. I will go further: I cannot here complete the rite of baptism, nor can I remain i the Crimea: here I am not out of danger..."

"So, go to Russia, to Petersburg; I'll give you letters to my acquaintances, you will be well received everywhere, and meanwhile we will try with joint forces to soften your father. I'd advise you to enter our service, if only for a short time: this will gain you more trust..."

"And Liudmila?"

"Liudmila is yours. I myself plan to go to Petersburg, come winter: there I will personally place her in your hands, and God will bless your life."

"But it is still three, four months until winter."

"Oh, youth, youth! You say yourself that you cannot complete the rite of baptism here: how is it that you want to step up to the marriage altar before the holy baptismal font? And, Liudmila too may not even think of a lengthy journey before she is fully recovered. I assume that you need Liudmila alive, rather than dead?.."

The brigadeer's sensibility drove the poor youngster to despair, but he had to bow to necessity, and to please his future father-in-law, and to go and have a rest in his study.

______________________

Liudmila's health was improving; gradually they revealed to her all that awaited her in the future; she met her heart's beloved, could openy indulge in the feeling that had attracted her to the passionate yuongster, and his presence, better than any medicines, returned vitality to her. With each day she drank in her new life, love glistened in her eyes, her face became covered with a rosy hue, and at the same time, her every word, every action, breathed of such innocence, that Dzhellaledin's passion in Liudmila's presence turned into a quiet and intoxicating feeling. She did not make his blood seethe, but she flickered like a lamp.

Up till then Dzhellaledin's mind had been slumbering in lethargic numbness; he had been living by instinct, feeling; he had sooner been attracted to good than evil, without giving himself any account for it, and the most beautiful gift of heaven, which places us so high above any breathing creatures, had been concealed under coarse ideas and superstitions: and amidst this darkess a flame of strong, bright love, burst forth. At first the sudden crossing from darkness to bright light, blinded the poor youth, all his five senses turned into seeing alone, in the presence of Liudmila, and they were all destroyed, replaced by sadness the minute he was separated from her. Now when the assurance of reciprocity, the positive hope for happiness, had calmed his agitated soul a bit, he began to see surrounding objects a bit clearer, he began to make comparisons and to blush for his own ignorance. It was bitter for him to see the superiority of educated people, but he did not begin to hate them, which happens to petty minds: he wanted to become their equal, to surpass them. A new kind of zeal took hold of him: he wanted to be the sole object of Liudmila's attention; to give up to another a single one of her smiles, her glances seemed to him an unbearable loss. He wished to make his beloved's every emotion without exception beholden to him, but not by coarse despotism, but by superiority over everything else in the world. At the single thought of becoming the only being, worthy of worship by the one being he himself worshipped above all else, Dzhellaledin felt within himself so much strength, so much energy, that everything seemed possible to him.

The love of a strong and noble soul is to feelings what a flame is to underground treasures: extract a piece of impure metal from earth, covered with a layer of soil, or, worse yet, lift it up on the street, dirty, trampled by passers-by, covered with dust, and then throw it in a fire and it comes out as pure and beautiful as it was on the first day of creation. "This is a fairy tale love, a love not of our century!" many, many will argue with me. It is true, it is not typical of our educated society, our refined customs, where even feelings are melted down to fit the rest. But it animated a person in whom the mind had not yet had time to enslave the heart. Dzhellaledin belonged to those wondrous creations of nature in whom she appears all so rarely in her full primordial force, in all her proud beauty.

After Liudmila's recovery the prince did not stay long in the Crimea, nor did he return to his father's estates any more. When Chagir-Agadur finally found out where that forest was situated where his son would rove day and night, he many times sent him orders to return, accompanied by threats. Dzhellaledin bitterly heard out the messenger, and remained unshakeable. Sometimes, subjecting himself to the childish caprice of Liudmila, he attentively listened to her lectures on the new religion, he memorized prayers with her, and she rejoiced in the successes of her disciple, and he..."

"Up till now," he would sometimes say, "while praying, I turned my face to Mecca; now with every prayer I begin to address you; you are the dawn of my new life; where you are, there is my east!"

On the eve of his departure, Dzhellaledin came to the brigadeer's house for the last time to bid farewell to his family. The brigadeer supplied his future son-in-law abundantly with letters of recommendation; Anis'ia Ivanovna collected the adresses of various stores for which she gave Dzhellaledin a whole heap of errands, asking him to run them immediately upon arrival; and she promised to send him money... at the first opportunity.

In the small corner room, by the window opened to the garden, stood Liudmila, leaning her head against the curtains. The light of the flame, weakly shedding its light through the dark blue glass of the lamp on the objects close to it, left the youg girl in half-darkness. Before her, outside the window, vineyards were spreading; in the distance, from out of the forest rose the jagged mountain peaks, at the foot of which Dzhellaledin was born and grew up. All was quiet. A mountain spring, tore itself loose from a fountain's pipes, with a murmur streamed down the rocky channel between the vineyards and, it seemed, lulled nature to sleep with a lullabye.

For a while Liudmila stood alone, trying to refresh her face, moistened with hot tears, with the cool evening air. Dzhellaledin entered the room.

"Many sacrifices did I make to ransom you, my priceless one," he said quietly, "But separation is the hardest one of all!.. Liudmila should you ever forget my love, there will not be in this world nor in the world beyond, a punishment adequate for you!"

He squeezed his hands hard with an expression of excruciating suffering and lowered his head against his breast.

"May the blessing of my parents fall on my head as a curse, if every heartbeat of mine will not belong to you alone!...Everywhere, always, both here and in the grave itself...Dzhellaledin, I prepared a going-away present for you, here, take it. Not for anything in the world would I part with it to anyone: it is the blessing of my poor dying mother: may it shield your head and every minute remind you of me..."

Liudmila tore from her neck a golden cross on a black ribbon and hung it on Dzhellaledin's breast.

"Now we are betrothed," she said, "linked with unbreakable bonds; I am yours, eternally your faithful friend..."

"Mine, my Liudmila!".. the prince whispered, pressing her convulsively in his embraces, and she trustingly pressed herself to his breast; he lifted her like a child, and for the first time their souls flowed together in an inaudible, slow kiss. The breathing grew more rapid in the Tatar's breast, his head blazed up, and he forced himself to tear his lips from Liudmila's, and set her down on the floor, and with a piercing sigh he leaned against the window supporting his burning head with his hands. Suddenly a rustle was heard in the bushes and Dzhellaledin's sigh was answered as a sad echo in someone's breast. Liudmila trembling pressed herself to the prince's shoulder, he glanced out the window... Then a white veil separated itself from the wall, and a weak, trembling voice uttered in the Tatar language: "May your life be happy, Dzhellaledin."

"Ah, is that Emina? What storm has brought you here at this time?"

"Only in the darkness could I get through to you, in day time my uncle's servants would have hindered me.. I brought you your mother's greetings..."

"Who is this girl?" asked Liudmila worried, not understanding her language, "where did she come from, why?"

"Don't be afraid my angel, this is the daughter of my late brother; she came to me with a message from my mother... Tell me, Emina, what news you bring me?" Dzhellaledin said, turning to the messenger.

"A rumor has reached us that you are leaving for the land of the giaours tomorrow, that you will deny your true belief and become their brother; your mother moistens your feet with her tears, curses the daylight of the day when you for the first time saw light, don't ruin yourself, leave the Christians, return to the breast that fed you..."

"I can't, Emina, I can't!"

"She asked me to tell you: return, and I will gather all the beautiful women from Georgia and Stambul for your harem..."

The prince gave a scornful laugh.

"Dzhellaledin, your father threatens you with a curse... Your mother wanted to come here, but, you know, she is old, her anguish about you has dried her out; she is deathly ill..."

"Ah!... Liudmila, Liudmila!" he shouted, grasping with one hand his bride's waist and pressig the other to his breast as tightly as if he were forcefully tearing out the snake that had brought pain to his heart.

"Return, if only to soften your father's fury. To sprinkle with earth the eyes of your mother which will soon close out of grief for her unfaithful son."

"No, Emina, it is impossible! I will place my head under my father's dagger to beg for his forgiveness; I will give my own life for my mother, I'll lie down in the grave instead of her, but the life of my soul, the light and joy of my life, no, I cannot give them up for any rewards or any curses. Tell my mother, that her son, the Christian, never will stop loving her. Emina, tell her everything that is weighing on my heart... but you can't understand this!... Listen, Emina, protect her old age; try together with her to soften my father's fury, shield me from his curses..."

He turned away to hide two large tears that hung on his eyelashes.

"Stop Dzhellaledin, this is not yet all. Your mother found out that your father's hirelings want to lie in wait for you in the forest through which your road goes. Be careful, select another path. Sending me here, she added, "if neither your words nor your tears will return him to us, give him my blessing, tell him that his mother's love and prayer fly after him to the end of the world!" In addition, she sent you this. (A heavy bundle fell at Dzhellaledin's feet). She no longer needs adornments, and they'll be useful to you in an alien land... Farewell, Dzhellaledin, farewell..."

A muffled moan came from the breath of the poor girl; she began to leave through the bushes.

"Stop, Emina, where are you off to?"

"Home."

"Alone?"

"Alone."

"Is that possible, such a long way!"

"I'll go straight through the mountains, it's not that far that way; by daylight I ought to be at home. Farewell."

"You might run across a wolf or a villain."

The handle of a saber glistened in Emina's hand and with pride she returned it to its sheathe.

"Child, in your hands that is a toy. Liudmila, goodbuy for an hour, I'll accompany this poor child. Stop, Emina, stop!.."

Emina was no longer there. Dzhellaledin ran out to the garden, called her: in vain! Ten paths lead through the mountains from the valley to Chagir-Agadur's village: the prince ran around for half an hour and returned to the room worried.

Next morning a fast troika carried Dzhellaledin to an alien land.

_______________________

At that time Russia had already declared war on the Porte; hostile actions had begun and the majority of the Russian generals were in the active army. Prince Dzhellaledin upon his arrival in Petersburg found virtually none of the peope the brigadeer had recommended him in writing. Luckily count ***, who after a long and ardent service, was in retirement, and took the young foreigner under his protection and even vowed to be his godfather.

For a long time Dzhellaledin could not get used to the noise and grandeur of the capital; the endless bustle and movement were as exhausting as they were surprising to the peaceful mountain dweller, who regarded Bakhchisarai as the height of grandeur and luxury, Bakhchisarai which at its most flourishing time counted no more that twenty thousand inhabitants. The wide streets, the huge houses, churches, monuments, all amazed the Tatar. His circle of acquaintances also widened with incredible speed; captal cities are always filled with crowds of the idle, who greedily throw themselves on everything that can provide even the smallest diversion to their yawning life: a young Tatar prince of handsome appearance, was at that time a curiosity, worthy of attention. The know-it-alls in society were telling with various elaborations the story of his love and baptism; Dzhellaledin was taken around town, he was brought to endless dinners and evenings, he was looked over, people made him talk, the smallest nuances of savagery, oddities, were noted in him, finally his intellectual qualities were systematically laid out, and people decided that there was nothing special in him and turned their backs on him. Then having paid his dues to his amazement at the capital and the capital's amazement at him, he set about to fulfill his old intentions. Assured of the friendly attention of count ***, Dzhellaledin informed him of his wish to be equal in knowledge to the people who surrounded him, before entering their world. With every day he learned more and more about his mistaken notions about Russia and he wanted to become worthy of its protection and the possession of Liudmila. The count, one of the most ardent patrons of enlightenment in Russia was fully supportive of the young man's intentions; he showed him all paths to achieve the desired goal and introduced him into a cricle of people known for their erudition.

Thus passed the winter; circumstances did not allow the brigadeer to come to Petersburg as he had planned when the prince left and the journey was postponed till summer. The prince was pining and more than once he decided to abanon everything and fly to his bride on the wings of his passionate soul; but now he too got to know the tyranny of circumstances, felt himself chained down by them, suffered, and with new fervor he tackled his studies. All his letters to his father, filled with tenderness and submission, remained unanswered; his relatives and friends also cut him out; he did not know what was happening in his family and only his constant correspondence with Liudmila sweetened his loneliness. And what a correspondence! His soul flowed into his pen and animated each phrase. But some excerpts of these letters show the condition of his soul best.

"You want to know, my priceless friend, all the details of my life: it is monotonous and difficult, as a path through rocky Arabia; a single wish keeps me on the path: that it might some day lead to a happy one! I am sitting quietly, alone, surrounded by books, instructors, and hope that given time, you won't blush before your fellow countrymen, calling me your husband.

But yesterday, my patron, count *** almost by force took me along to Tsarskoe Selo, where a great holiday was celebrated; it seemed to me that I saw before me the realization of Eastern tales about the feasts of genii and fairies; but not for long did the seduction of my hearing and vision tear my thoughts away from you,--every beautiful woman reminded me of my Liudmila, and from the circle of luxury and joy my soul flew to my mountains, my native haven, and at the minute of this passionate reflection, from a grove a trees I heard the sounds of music, my whole body shivered, my heart overflowed with blood--these were familiar sounds, it was the same song you captivated me with and which you sang so often later during the days of our bliss;-- a mad impatience took hold of me, I wept and barely managed to hide from peoples' eyes. Liudmila, I must see you, I can no longer bear our separation, and must I remain for long in this magnificent, gilded desert? When will I see you, my treasure? Every minute, flying by, carries away with it a piece of bliss which I could be enjoying with you! Every day brings the two of us closer to the grave--and I am now afraid of it. Imagining what immeasurable happiness awaits me in the future--I'd like to convert my life into eternity; it seems to me that an ordinary human life is too brief for a person whom fate brings such a full cup of bliss. And you, my Liudmila, are you still the same? My absence didn't cool your feelings? How many worthy young people surround you--I feel their superiority over me, but for the sake of my love, Liudmila don't make comparisons, or tell me who you want me to be? Don't prefer another... Europeans often blame us Asians for jealousy--but does he love who does not feel jealousy? What is jealousy, if not a constant fear of losing the bliss which adorns our life? Whoever does not fear the loss, does not treasure it; and whoever does not give up his life to his last breath, his blood to the last drop, defending his treasure, will never be worthy of possessing it! But why all this? Liudmila, forgive me, I am raving--could you ever forget your vows and your love, could you, my angel, throw a man into the abyss of the cruellest sufferings. No, no! The cross which I this very minute feel on my heart and our first farewell kiss joined us forever. We make up one whole, despite the thousands of versts that separate us.--I live through you, I feel through you, my whole being is filled with you, every beat of my pulse is measured by your life; I firmly believe, Liudmila that if the hand of death were pressing your heart, mine would give up at that very minute...

Liudmila, my friend!... Oh, console, support me with your love! What dreadful information has reached me. My father has betrayed Russia! And for whom?--For the Turks, who treacherously murdered my brother, whom he used to hate: apparently an evil fate has overtaken us! And why did he move to another estate near Alushta. He incited the Tatars to revolt, he concealed the landing of the Turks and together with them butchered a whole battalion of Russians in the ruins of a Greek church. And where did he hide afterwards?.. My good angel, find out, calm me. You can imagine how this event alarmed me: it ruined all my plans. Now our separation will last a long time. I have entered military service for a brief time to please your father and have to serve out of necessity. The bulk of the estate has been ruined by my father, probably on purpose; the rest has been given over, according to his testament, to a distant relative. I'm advised to sue him, to declare my father's testament unjust. No. I firmly opposed all requests and threats of my parents when they wanted to tear me apart from my Liudmila; but I do not want to nor should I revolt against their will, where it is only a matter of riches. I am young, I feel withinn myself much strength, I have many abilities, and we live under such a government where bravery, justice, and more than anything a firm will, lead to gold and honors. I personally neeed nothing, my riches and honors are all in you; but I don't want you to experience poverty for my sake, and maybe a life on the move. I'll surround you with luxury, as you have surrounded me with happiness, but for this it is necessary to postpone our meeting. A war is blazing at both ends of Russia; they wanted to post me to Turkey, but I requested a transfer to regiments which are being formed against the Swedes; here I can give free rein to the iatagan's blade, not fearing to pierce with it my father's heart. Tomorrow at dawn I'll leave Petersburg; the Russian troups are off on post horses to fight an enemy, twice as numerous; all the more glory, all the more opportunities for excellence! Through rows of enemies I will fight my way to my Liudmila, over their corpses I'll fly to you... If I myself will fall as a corpse on alien soil, don't forget me, friend of my soul; be assured that your every tear of remembrance will fall on my dust, your bright gaze will reach it and even in worlds beyond the stars, will be its favorite star." . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

He rode away to the field of battle, the noble young man. He voluntarily postponed his own happiness to surround with happiness the one for whom he had sacrificed so much; and although in his letters to her he never reminded her of how dearly her happiness had cost him, his heart more than once was overflowing with blood. From his childhood Dzhellaledin was used to respect his parents, his faith; he treasured these feelings which with invisible threads link a person with heaven and with virtue; for a long time they battled in his heart with the image of Ludmila; she was victorious, she uprooted feelings sown in him by nature herself, but the image could not heal the wounds, and their burning pain often disturbed the joy of Dzhellaledin's most radiant hopes; overcome by an inadvertent memory, he suffered, in his thoughts he asked forgiveness from his father, his mother, and a minute later he returned, all passionate and faithful to his Liudmila.

Hoping to provide for her future, he enlisted under the Russian flag; however insignificant were the infantry actions of the armies fighting in the north, everywhere he found a way to excel; it seemed that glory had pronounced him its favorite; his superiors praised the young soldier; finally at Parasalmi his crucial day arrived: with a score of braves like him, he won from the Swedes their flag, two cannons, and wounded, he fell into the arms of the few comrades who remained alive.

His wounds were severe, but not mortal; Dzhellaledin lied for some time in a military hospital, and when somewhat healed, he appeared before Count Saltykov, the commander-in-chief of the Russian infantry in Sweden, the count decorated him with the cross of St. George and granted him permission to leave the army to allow his wounds to heal completely.

It was getting dark; a piercing autumn wind blew from the sea; rows of blue-grey clouds, flowing around the mountain ridges, clothed them in turn in foggy blankets and settled in dense layers in the west. The forest , turned yellow, as a ripe field, was swaying on the mountain slopes, occasionally intersected by a jagged wall or a grey boulder which, hanging above an abyss was peering into its black mouth. Right in the thicket of the trees ran a lonely path and, now t rose above the clouds, now it steeply headed down into the valley, and where, despite the late time of year, in the glades fresh sod was still growing green, the red branches of wild roses shone bright among the dark greenery of the juniper bushes, and on the sides of the boulders where winds had blown just a handful of earth, everywhere long garlands of capers were spreading out with bouquets of white and pink shrubs. No one was travelling the road; the squeaking of the last bullock cart grew quiet beyond the mountain, the harsh screeches of birds quieted down for the evening, and a barely audible, intermittent tolling of a bell could be heard in the silence of the forest; it burst forth and died down from its own rapid movement; soon the rumble of wheels could be heard and through the thicket of trees a postal carriage could be glimpsed: the coachman who was constantly urged on, covered the tired horses with blows; once it made it to the top of a mountain it went full speed down the steep slope, and a wheel got caught on a dry stump, flew off its axle, and the horses ran off on their own with the overturned carriage into the depths of the valley. Shouting and curses resounded in the air, the coachman managed to stop the horses; but looking over the carriage he announced that it was impossible to continue further in it. Then an impatient traveller, after agreeig with him on a meeting place and leaving the suitcases at his mercy, mounted a horse without a saddle, and disappeared from his sight. Not for long, however, did he ride along the mountain road, his exhausted steed kept stumbling, stopped, and finally went on at the slowest pace. Vexation seethed in the heart of the poor traveller, and the flight of eagle wings would have seemed slow to him compared to his impatience, and he had to move step by step to the goal of his desires.

But gradually his vexation ceased and was replaceed by meditation; his whole being was turned into thought and he flew to the valley, to the house where his soul constantly lived... and suddenly unexpected light poured in around him: the sun piercing through the louds at the very minute of dawn, spread its long rays over the sky, penetrated the very depths of the forest and covered with its bright shine everything turned westward; peaks of mountains, tree stubs blackened by time, withered leaves, rocks overgrown with moss,--all turned golden by the wondrous shine, and every drop of dew on the grasses glittered in radiant colors. The rays turned brighter, and then the sun went behind the mountain and darkness, doubled by sunrise replaced the momentary light. It seemed as if the cold of death reached the joy at its very peak, and the grave covered up the barely glimmering smile of nature! The traveller's heart sank, a inexplicable anguish tore a deep sigh from his breast: were not this fast ray of light and the darkness that followed it a prophetic greeting of the voluntary exile? He was finally approaching his goal, so long and ardently awaited. A few more hours, and he'd be in the embraces of his bride, a single kiss from whom would amply compensate him for all his sacrifices and sufferings.... Why is his heart shivering, as if sensing mortal grief? Why, after suffering so much sorrow can he not get used to the thought of happiness, can he not believe it is for real? Liudmila, the years of his carefree youth, his parents, his friends, were spinning around before him as in the visions of pre-dawn dreams, when spectres blur together with reality, get more individuality, and sprinkling with fascinating flowers the senses, awakened before consciousness, they flutter about and cling to him like dear boisterous children. Memories, bitter and sweet, the voice of his conscience, the singing of birds of paradise, desires intermittently flew around the traveller's heart, extracting from it, now a sigh of ecstacy, now a wail of living torment. And meanwhile the night darkness grew denser, storm clouds were scattered over the skies, and only rarely a distant star, peeking through a rip in a cloud, threw on earth a trembling, downcast ray. The wind grew stronger, rustled the crowns of the trees, and hitting them in uneven gusts, tore off dry leaves, twirled them in the air and chased them ahead. Night birds were calling in the hollows; their plaintive howling and the sharp whistling of the rising storm flowed together with the roaring of the mountain springs which overflowing with autumn rains were rapidly streaming into the valley. A shiver went through the young traveller, and he pulled his raincoat tighter around him, and urging on the horse he soon came out of the forest onto a wide clearing.

He could already hear the roar of the sea waves, breaking on the granite shores; only a single cliff, crowned by a jagged ridge, separated him from his native village, he went past it, and in nightly darkness the familiar minarets glowed white before him, and the fires glowed in the Tatar dwellings. Spontaneously the traveller jumped off his horse and bent his forehead to the ground which for so many years had carried and nourished him. A bit later he entered the village. An hour's riding still remained to the valley: how could he appear at such a late hour, how could he disturb the peace of his hosts? The passions of the young man had already learned to submit to worldly proprieties--he thought of a place to spend the night. Should he ride straight to his parents home? But whom would he meet there? Where is his father, where is his mother, and won't he meet the downcast gaze of the inheritor on the threshold, where before he was greeted with caresses and blessings? Where should he direct his steps? All his friends had renounced him since the time he exchanged the turban for the Russian spiked helmet. "But maybe at least my mother is alive" Dzhellaledin thought and turned his horse into into an alley. His whole soul concentrated on seeing when he directed his gaze to the site of his family home; he bent forward, holding his breath: isn't a fire glowing through the branches of a chestnut tree. All is quiet... the moon came out from behind the clouds as if on purpose to illuminate the sad picture. Dzhellaledin rode up to the gates, and a cold sweat broke out o his forehead: reality surpassed expectations!.. On the spot of his fathers mansions were lying burnt-out blackened piles of stones; in the middle rose a white stone with sharp top. The courtyard was overgrown with grass, the poplars surrounded it as before, but their dark crowns, casting long shadows on the ground and swaying at the smallest breeze, looked like ghosts, gathering for a midnight dance...Dzhellaledin covered his face with his hands, large tears rolled through his fingers... After standing there for a while he turned around and with slow steps went to the dwelling of the mullah Abdul'melik. Never had a foreigner left his threshold without blessing Muslim hospitality. At the first knock on the door a boy met him and invited him into the house. The mullah was resting on a soft divan by the fireplace; the embers glowed weakly under the ashes, barely illuminating the room; the flame in the old man's long chubuk pipe had gone out; apparently he was indulging in eastern bliss. Dzhellaledin stopped silently on the threshold. The furnishings of the room, the silence, the half-darkness and the look of this old man, all spoke to his heart familiar, still recently dear sounds; he quietly uttered a greeting in Tatar; the mullah slowly opened his eyes, wanted to meet politeness with politeness, but once he had a closer look at the guest, the greeting froze unfinished on his lips.

"Did you recognize me, Abdul'melik?"

"There is no God besides Allah! It is you, the son of Chagir-Agadur... the apostate before..."

"Hold your tongue, Adbul'melik; I came to you to find hospitality and curses should not soil the lips of the host."

"You? To me?...Hospitality?.." mumbled the mullah getting up from the divan.--"surely the Russians still have shelter and a piece of bread for their brothers."

"I am not asking you for bread, for night shelter I'll pay you... but, of course you are not alone in the village. Goodbye!"

"No, no, wait!.. I don't need your gold, it will burn the fingers of a true believer; but I must read you the testament of your father and mother..."

"Where are they?" shouted Dzhellaledin, forgetting his dissatisfaction.

"They are in a place to which has no access for your perished soul! They are drinking water out of the well of paradise; eternal bliss is their lot, just as yours is eternal torment."

"Did they die?.." moaned the young man.

"No they didn't die, but were killed by people you now call your brothers. I uncovered the body of your father from a pile of Russian bodies, and heard his last sigh, and this sigh uttered a paternal curse over the head of the son-turned-villain!"

Dzhellaledin leaned against the wall.

"Your mother," continued the mullah, playing with the sufferings of the apostate, "your mother wasted away from grief! She died without cursing you, but her eyes, blinded from tears, her graying hair, blamed the parricide, him who ruined the whole family... Go, admire their graves, if you don't fear that the curse will penetrate the earth and burn up your sinful head... Now, farewell. Allah said: "don't get to know your enemies!" Run away from my threshold, the rights of hospitality won't save you another time..."

Dzhellaledin, not hearing the threat, was standing, pale, leaning against the wall. Then the old man, shaking his head recited in a solemn voice a verse from the Koran: "God gave man life to enjoy it and he spreads goodness around him, but man made it into a continuous loathing! You will recognize your transgression, but too late, your lips will be sealed with despair, thirst will torture your soul, and the thirst will be quenched by blood, boiling on coals!"

Dzhellaledin took a step towards the doors; the mullah stopped him once more.

"Your father was my friend," he said, softening his voice, "listen to an old man: throw off your dishonorable clothing, wash with tears of repentance your sin, which has soiled your soul, and Allah..."

The young man proudly looked at him and went to the doors.

"May your internals tear your own child to pieces! And may ravens and kites build their nests above your grave..."

Dzhellaledin did not hear the rest of the curses. Swaying he went out of the mullah's house, and no longer thinking of peace and night shelter, he wandered aimlessly down the street. What peace could he hope for in the village where every glance, every word poured hot coals on his heart, even without that, already rent by flames? "Parricide! family's ruin!.." resounded in his ears. His father's last wheezing, interrupted by a curse was carried to him by the whistling of the wind... He hastened his steps, almost ran, himself not knowing whither, moans pursued his steps, his face broke out into a cold sweat... The village was left far behind him; only the gardens stretched out along the road, when he fell down on the slope of a small hillock in exhaustion. Wild bushes and trampled grass spread out around him, paths from all directions cut up the hillock; Dzhellaledin lifted his head, calling forth a memory: this place was familiar to him; moon light illuminated the surroundings. Then on the top and on the other side of the hillock scattered stones started to glow white; turbans, sculpted from marble or granite, arose in disarray above the graves of true believers, ivy wound around some of them with its mourning greenery, others were lying in dust, as had been the intentions of those who once threatened to drown part of the world in blood and tears and did not leave a single patch of earth for their dispersed descendants.

On the side, behind a separate fence, rested the ashes of several generations of a princely line, who since ancient times had owned the village; there, in the men's and the women's parts two new graves were rising... An ineffable feeling took hold of Dzhellaledin's soul! It was neither fear nor sorrow, it was a vague sense of expectance: a strange whisper rustled above the graves, something hovered in the air, clung to him, and attracted him with irrepressible power to the top of the hill. He let himself be drawn in, fell down on a new monument and with hot tears he prayed that his parents would forgive him, be reconciled with their son, who always, whatever may come, will not stop respecting their memory and submiting to divine commands... His prayer and tears lifted the weight from his heart. Kneeling, placing his arms and head on the marble turban, he sank into contemplation without thoughts, into a moral lull.

Darkness started to lift, when a quiet rustle brought Dzhellaledin out of his torpor. he lifted his head--from the side of the women's cemetery a white figure approached him, so quietly, slowly, that it seemed as if she was sliding over the ground without touching it with her feet. Dzhellaledin strained his eyes; his pulse stopped beating in his veins... it was the build, height, and clothing of his mother. Surely she didn't leave heavenly bliss to console her suffering son and bring him the forgiveness he had prayed for so ardently? The apparition stopped, Dzhellaledin threw himself at it with a moan; a moan of horror answered him, but at that very minute it turned into a joyous exclamation, and a live, trembling being fell on the prince's breast.

"My God, it is you!"

"Dzhellaledin? Are you with me again! I prayed to heaven for you!"

"My good Emina! How did you find out about my arrival?"

"I didn't know anything! At dawn I often come here, hiding from people; in the whole world I used to have as many relatives as there are gravestones here: now you are here--I'm no longer an orphan!.."

And the poor girl besides herself with rapture fell to his feet. With the appearance of a living being, earthly thoughts returned to Dzhellaledin's soul and drove away the memories of the dead.

"Emina," he said, after a few minutes had passed. "Have you seen her? Have you heard anything about her?"

"About whom?" the girl asked animately.

Dzhellaledin named Liudmila; Emina lowered her head and dropped her relative's hand.

"Oh, yes, I've seen her, your beloved; she is still just as pretty...very pretty..."

"Where, when did you see her, Emina?"

"Not long ago she passed through here on horseback with a crowd of men; another woman and an officer in a red uniform rode next to her."

Dzhelaleddin knitted his brows and, taking Emina by the hand, he went down hill.

"Where are you staying?" the girl began anew.

"I don't have a place to stay; I am leaving now."

"You're leaving again, Dzhellaledin?.. Where to?"

"To the valley, to my bride... Ah, you, Emina! Where did you come from? where do you live?"

"I live with old Fatima, my nurse. Come with me Dzhellaledin. It's still early to go to the valley; let's go, Fatima loves you."

Dzhellaledin glanced at the sky: it was barely light. He took Emina up on her invitation.

_______________________

How carefully he sorted his suitcase in the morning, checked out his uniform, attached his decorations on it. With what effort he smoothed down his black curls that looked so good on his high noble brow. The Tatar attended to his looks before a sliver of mirror, like a city girl, planning an amorous conquest. Yesterday's anguish, the death of his parents, the night in the cemetery were erased from his memory and left only a barely noticeable trace, between his eyebrows--but his eyes glittered with joy.

In the court yard a beautiful horse trampled the earth with its hooves; two Tatars who weren't afraid of burning their hands with the apostate's gold, could barely rein in the lively animal.

The sun had not yet completed a third of its heavenly path, when the young officer galloped along the familiar road of the valley. How the Russian uniform became him! The felt cloak barely thrown over his shoulders, did not hide his waist; two crosses, bought at the price of blood, adorned his broad chest; a European education, added gracefulness and agility to his movements without erasing the pride and natural grandeur of a Muslim. The minute of near bliss again lit a flame in his eyes, which had gone out from torturous ailment. What sparks of love his glances emitted, what a smile played on his lips! Love and happiness penetrated his breast with each breath, glimmered in every part of his face. If someone wanted to paint the soul of a hero, soaring from the battlefield to Eden to receive his well-deserved rewards, Dzhellaledin at this minute would have been the best personification of someone approaching paradisical ecstacies!..

When he turned his horse onto the narrow street that led to the brigadeer's house, two officers came out through the gates: he saw them from behind, but the red uniform made an unpleasant impression on him. The officers hid in the alley; Dzhellaledin rode up to the porch.

He entered the first room, didn't meet a living soul, but this room was somehow festive, all decorated: the floors newly washed, the curtains ot the windows decorated with lace, the chairs and the piano carried out, and replaced with chairs without covers. Dzhellaledin threw a fleeting glance around him and opened the door to the next room.

"Ah, dear! Prince, where did you come from so early?.. Wait a minute, I'm just coming out."

And Anis'ia Ivanovna, throwing a red shawl over her shoulders, squeezed sideways through the opened half of the door. Dzhellaledin had barely pressed her in his embraces, kissed her hands, when she responded to his greetings in confusion, blushing, clearing her throat, trying to set her dress straight.

"Sit down, prince. How you frightened me! We did not expect you at all..."

"How's that? Didn't you receive my last letter?"

"There, there!... No, it is true, we didn't receive... for a long time now we haven't received any letters from you; we already thought that the Swedes had wounded you."

"I was severly wounded, luckily. Without that I wouldn't have made it to you so soon... But where is Liudmila?.. take me to her..."

The brigadeer's wife's face turned redder than her shawl.

"Liudmila, my dear, is not at home; she went to the doctor's wife: she has brought her flowers for tonight's celebration."

"What celebration?"

"It's nothing, prince, truly nothing.. sit down, sit down, Liudmila will soon be back."

The prince biting his nails from irritation, sat down in the chair proffered.

"And is Nikolai Lavrentevich at home?"

"Yes, he is at home but he's still resting. You won't recognize him: for about a year now he's been ailing, he was thoroughly frightened at Alushta... You know, where the Tat... Turks hacked to pieces an entire battalion? Nikolai Lavrentevich had great responsibilities, nearly lost his position: after all he is the regional commander-in-chief; furthermore, he caught a chill on the uninterrupted campaigns; now he is getting cured, but somehow is adjusting poorly."

The memory of Alushta seemed a reproach to Dzhellaledin: he was silent; the brigadeer's wife, against her habit, also had little to say and was playing with the fringes of her shawl and she looked out the windows fearfully.

"And is Liudmila well? did she expect me this soon?"

"Thank god, prince, she's well, happy; and as far as expecting you--none of us expected you."

"Of course I arrived a few days early. I was in such a hurry!.. However, in every letter I let you know that I was hoping to get out of the army soon."

"But as for your ketters, my dear, I swear to God we didn't receive any! and we only found out from the papers that you were severely wounded."

"Strange! I also didn't get any news of you for about four months, but assumed that the reason for that was the constant movements of the army... What a lot of time she is taking!"--added the prince, looking out the window.

He was sitting as if on needles; Anis'ia Ivanovna also was twisting, as if sitting on burning coals. They were silent.

"Well, prince," asked the brigadeer's wife, "did you have a good time in Petersburg?"

"My joy, madam, was here; Petersburg seemed to me a gigantic tomb, in which I was buried alive; only now has my resurrection begun."

They were silent again.

"Yes, it is probably true that the capital too has grown empty. The troups have left; the residents, I'm sure, are now mourning the wounded, the dead... Colonel Belogradov just arrived here; he too was wounded by the Turks, excelled right before the eyes of Suvorov, is covered with decorations, and almost at the same time he received a huge inheritance after the death of his uncle... Riches and honors are falling on him as if from the sky. A great man, most intelligent!.."

"I congratulate you on the happiness of your relative... and Liudmila?"

Every time Dzhellaledin returned to this subject the brigadeer's wife drew a deep breath, wanted to say something, and couldn't.

"Liudmila went to the doctor's wife... Hm!.. And how are things, prince, did you happen to get married in Petersburg?"

"You're joking, madam? Me.. marry?"

"And why not? You're a young man, Petersburg is blessed with beautiful women..."

"But for me there is only one beautiful woman in the whole world!.."

"Oh yes, yes, of course!.. But still, a young man... today he takes a liking for one thing, tomorrow there's something else: and two years is no joke, my dear!.. That's an eternity to be separated!"

"I agree: an eternity of torment."

"Still, it shouldn't be all torment, my dear; who is to blame a young man even if he went astray a bit; such is our nature after all: we feel joy, we weep, and we forget it all."

The brigadeer's wife's strange words confused Dzhellaledin, but suspicion was far from his mind.

"Yes," continued Anis'ia Ivanovna, we forget peope and people forget us... and even if you had married, Liudmila would have made no claims on you."

"How's that? Liudmila?"

"Well, yes!.. That is, she ought to have reasoned that... after all, when we are young, every feeling seems to be eternal, but it passes, and we ourselves are the first to laugh at it."

"I don't know that doctrine, madam, but should I not only have married, but even forgotten Liudmila for a minute or cast my glance at another woman, I'd be worthy of a shameful punishment."

"Oh, come on, prince, for heaven's sake!.. They punish only for murder, robbery, but to betray one's love isn't after all the same as highway robbery."

"It's worse, madam, much worse! A thief takes a purse, a robber takes a life, but whoever after joining his soul with another beloved soul voluntarily breaks the tie, takes away more than life, the treasure of a soul, faith in happiness... that person ruins the entire future as well as the past and to complete the torment, leaves a being orphaned... Oh, no, shameful punishment is too little for a criminal of that sort!"

--"Oh, prince, it is good that you're not the one to make laws!.. A tenth of the heads would fall in the Christian world! ... But, who in our time can so sharply sort out the feelings of someone close? And now that you've landed on our shore, you need to accept our customs too."

"I hope, madam, that I'll never practice them."

"Oh, well, it's up to you. And judge for yourself: how is a girl entering marriage not to think that there'll be children, a bad year, old age? That an extra copeck means a lot in life?.. And we've had no letters from you for a long time...we thought you'd been killed... We wept; and there's no point in drenching the century in tears..."

"What do you mean by that?.." shouted Dzhellaledin and jumped up from his chair.

"That the fact is that..." answered the brigadeer's wife, getting her courage up, "that Liudmila is a girl without a dowry... and you too are now left with your salary only... Oh, well, it would be smarter for both you and her to look for more profitable marriages."

"Your words frighten me!... Explain yourself."

"What, my dear, is there to be frightened about... Liudmila, after all, is not the only girl in the whole wide world."

"My God!..."

"She couldn't just remain an old maid because one suitor was thought dead... And then, Belogradov is just a fortuitous person..."

"What did you say?.. Repeat it, repeat it!.."

"I am speaking Russian; well, Liudmila is getting married to Belogradov... what's so difficult to understand about that?.."

"It isn't true! It's a lie!" shouted Dzhellaledin in a frenzy, "You're slandering, badmouthing my angel!.."

"I don't tolerate foul language from anyone in my house. Goodbye, prince..."

"I won't leave you," he said, grabbing the brigadeer's wife's hand, "you must admit that you're slandering!.. Liudmila can't marry anyone else: she is mine!"

"Lord! You're in a fever, and you're hurting my hand."

"No, you'll kill me first, tear me to pieces!.. I'm at your feet; admit that you were joking, deceiving me for pity's sake?.. Isn't it true, Liudmila is mine?.."

"For heaven's sake, prince, where's the joke? Liudmila has been betrothed already two months; she loves her fiance; we wrote you about it, after all..."

"A lie! A lie!.. It's you who tore her away from me, sold her to another... you must return my Liudmila, or you'll pay for her dearly.."

"What are you saying, prince, why are you badgering me?.. Liudmila, after all, is not a child; two years ago she could still throw herself on the neck of any old Tatar, but now she is eighteen years old, she can reason... after all, we've given her a gentle upbringing, she's not used to poverty; and then, a suitor such as Belogradov..."

"But does he then have two heads and an iron heart?" shouted Dzhellaledin madly. "Or do you think that you can play with a person without consequences? Deprive him of his fatherland, his riches, his family, everything that's called happiness in life, and the very core of moral life, and, when the game ends, trample him, like a worm?.. No!.. I vow by the dust of my father, Liudmila is mine and will be mine! I'll tear her out from the earth; I'll sooner strangle her on my breast, than allow another to touch a single hair on her head!.."

"Madman! Madman! Save me!.." howled Anis'ia Ivanovna, backing off towards the doors, trying to free her hand from Dzhellaledin's grip.

The rumble of a carriage could be heard at the entrance, and a lighthearted, caresless Liudmila jumped from the carriage with a bouquet of white roses in her hands.

"My dear friend! Liudmila!.."

"Dzhellaledin?.. You're alive?.."

She threw the roses from her hands, and paler than a white rose, she fell to the floor... Dzhellaledin lifted her in his embraces and paying no attention to Anis'ia Ivanovna's scream, nor the bustle of the servants, he tried to bring her to her senses. Liudmila opened her eyes and closed them again, with a terrified expression.

"Dzhellaledin... I was told that he was killed... Woe, woe be to me!"

"You've been deceived, my angel," said the young man not letting her out of his embraces, "I'm alive, I hastened here just in time to tear you from the hands of your persecutors, the merchants who wanted to sell you... Liudmila, my happiness, my treasure, tell me did this woman deceive me? You don't love another? You haven't forgotten me?"

Liudmila was silent.

"Oh, say something, Liudmila! Don't be afraid of her, don't be afraid of anyone in the world.. I am with you! Sooner will They tear out my heart than take you away! My priceless!... Speak, reassure me.."

Liudmila didn't utter a word.

"What does your silence mean?.. Liudmila, don't you recognize your friend?.. Or did your heart grow numb for pity?.. Liudmila... Can this be?.. No, away with all doubts!.. Friend of my heart, speak.., oh, say something, reasssure me..."

And he wept, kissing her hands, wept like a child, who in vain calls out to his mother's cold body. A stone would have taken pity over his anguish; Liudmila wept and was silent.

"So this is not a dream, no deceit!.." he shouted on the verge of inexpressible despair. "You betrayed me!.. Gave yourself to another! Complete what you've started, kill, strangle me... Liudmila, Liudmila, why did you ruin me?.."

He held his head in his hands and sobbed loudly; Liudmila slipped to the door. He threw himself after her, but Anis'ia Ivanovna barred his way.

"Liudmila!.. Let me go to her, let me in!"

"I won't let you, mister; it's improper for men to enter a girl's room."

Dzhellaledin strongly pulled her arm, threw himself to the door... and suddenly he stepped back in terror. Before him arose a ghost, an exile from the grave, with all signs of decomposition on his face. His yellow, translucent skin, had dried to the bones: two circles, without life or light, moved in deep hollows in the place of eyes; around the bare skull hung the remains of grey hair, which still clung to the temples and the back of the head, in expectation of total decay.

"Prince," uttered the unfortunate brigadeer in a hoarse voice, "stop, listen to me."

Supported by a servant, he took another step and fell on the divan. Anis'ia Ivanovna hid.

"Prince," he continued, "your anger is just and we are guilty before you, guilty before the Lord; we took away everything from you, and reward you with the blackest betrayal...But, God is my witness, I am not the defender of evil! For over a year consumption tortures my internals, I don't leave my room, I cannot observe the actions of my family... Belogradov arrived; soon after that there was a rumor about your death: who started it?.. May God punish the guilty party! Liudmila having lost her hope to see you again, could not withstand the temptation; a new love took the place of her grief, she became attached to her suitor, the priest betrothed them, and now they are joined forever!.. Forgive her, forgive us... I see too late that a good, meek girl did not know how to value you sufficiently; her heart could not make room for your love. She is living, just like all of us, all people; her grief passed, time brought her new joys, and that will give room for new tears, smiles: such did nature create her, don't blame her. Demand of me what you want: my property, my honor, my life are in your hands.. only spare the honor of my daughter; don't stain the last days of my life with shame..."

The voice of the old man trembled, tears were flowing down his face. Dzhellaledin was standing before him dark and silent.

"Why can't I simply use my last days to atone for the past? With what pride would I not have called you my son!.. But now, all that remains for me is only to wish you happiness, which you fully deserve. Find a soul, which like your own, could give itself up fully to a single love, and drown in it all other human feelings: love demands unequivocal equality in strength of feelings: otherwise it turns to a spring of troubles for both. Farewell, prince; once more, I pray that you forgive me, try to find diversions: you are still young, many consolations lie ahead."

Dzhellalein was standing the whole time, fastening on him a dim glance, pressing his head with his hands, with an expression of utmost suffering on his face: he listened to the brigadeer with strained attention, as if trying to capture the sense of his words in vain... But when the brigadeer took his hand, pressed it with compassion, and left, supporting himself on the shoulder of the servant, the prince went out of the house with quiet steps, went down from the porch, mounted his horse and gave him free reins...

An hour later he was lying on a berth in his nurse's hut, his head buried deep in the pillow. One might have taken him for someone sleeping, were it not for the hollow moans, forced out of his heart by live pain that kept showing that this was the torpor of suffering, and not rest. At his feet Emina was sitting; she had cast off the blanket, was wringing her hands, and with deep compassion she watched her relative and stealthily wiped off her tears.

It was well after midday when a tall Cossack came up to the doors of the hut and started up a conversation with the old Tatar woman who was sitting on the threshold. They were, it seemed, old acquaintances and their conversation did not at first attract the attention of Dzhellaledin nor his niece. Finally the Cossack got up.

"Where are you off to so soon?" the Tatar woman asked him.

"To the valley; I just stopped by in passing; I want to see the wedding of the brigadeer's daughter."

"And is the wedding soon?"

"Well, yes, it'll be another two-three hours and they'll be off to church. But it's time for me to go now. She is a beauty and he... looks like he is walking in clover." Dzhellaledin lifted his head.

"And what fare there'll be!" continued the Cossack, "they're rolling out a whole barrel of vodka, tens of buckets of beer: there'll be plenty to toast the young couple with, to wish them children, just as beautiful as they themselves..."

"No!.. Not me, then not him either!" shouted Dzhellaledin, getting up.

The Cossack, noticing the clothing of a Russian officer, bade farewell of the hostess and hid. The prince began to pace the room. His face was pale, his lips trembled, his eyes, blood seething, glittered like those of a jackal. In his mind an idea was brewing.

"Emina," he said to the young girl who slavishly stood before him, "Emina, do you want to do me an important, maybe a last service?"

"Serving you is the food of my soul."

"Even if what I'll demand went against the laws?"

"There is no law for me more weighty than your words."

"Let's go, time is precious, Emina. On the way I'll tell you what you can do for me."

He took her away, set her with himself on the horse, grasped her with his hand, ignoring the objections of the old nurse, and he was out of sight in the forest, along the road leading to the valley.

______________________

Petr Galaktionovich Belogradov was sitting before the mirror: phials with perfume, pomade, powder, combs, rings, chains, were scattered next to him on the table, as if in a haberdashery store, after the two-five o'clock customers. The house hairdresser was finishing his hairdo; a grandiose aisle de pigeon had his curls molded along his temples; from beneath the white powdering cover his legs were showing in white stockings, in shoes with expensive buckles. He was sitting meekly with all the immobility proper to a most important business, until the hairdresser finished the coiffure; then he threw off his shroud, put on a crimsom uniform, attached his cuff links, sprinkled his scarf with perfume, and turning around a couple of times before the mirror, asked the chamberlain whether the carriage had returned.

"No way, no-sir!" was the answer.

"Intolerable brother! What was to be expected!"

And he began to pace the room, whisting an aria from "Diana's tree."

A note was brought to him: he skimmed it and his face changed.

"Who brought the letter?"

"A young girl, a Tatar."

"Call her here."

The Tatar girl entered the room.

"Who sent you, who wrote this note?"

She made a sign that she didn't understand him.

"Hey! Anybody there? Call an interpreter."

"I can take his place if it's a matter of the Tatar language," said, a young officer, entering the room, just as dressed-up and perfumed as the host of the house.

"Ah, Aleksandr! You came a propos; have a look at what this girl or werewolf brought me."

"What's this? An invitation for a walk in the nearest forest with an old acquaintance... and what a threat in case you decline!"

"I don't know, to be sure, what to decide."

"What's there to decide about! It's clear, you must go... Only, listen, comrade, you're allowed to bring along one of the servants: take me."

"But at least question this statue where she is from, who sent her?"

"Eh, look what rougish little eyes the statue has: a marvel!.. Where are you from, my beauty?" he asked her in Tatar.

"From the forest."

"Well, the answer is not satisfactory... and who sent you?"

"You'll find out in the forest."

"A done deed! I'll ride with you for sure: this is an adventure."

"Not one of the more pleasant adventures. You see, I'm dressed, in an hour it's time to go to church."

"Well they promise not to detain you more than ten minutes; you'll get back in time."

"But I won't have time to dress a second time; my hairdo will be all rumpled..."

"You'll fix it!.. But, as you wish; only be careful that the secret personage won't fulfill his threat; here they know how to play with daggers, after all."

"It's true. Here, the carriage has returned."

Belogradov ran through the note once more, thought for a bit, wrapped himself in his coat, and left; his comrade followed him. They sat down in the carriage, they placed the girl who had to show them the way next to them and drove along the road to the forest. Having travelled about two versts, the carriage stopped according to the girl's sign, near the edge of the forest. Belogradov with his comrade got out and followed their guide to a thicket along a nearly unnoticeable path. Dry leaves rustled under their feet; to the side they could hear the roar of a waterfall; the water, running from rock to rock, glimmered silvery through the bushes. The Tatar woman turned from the path to a spring and they came to a small flat space where a Russian officer was pacing.

"Welcome!" he said to Belogradov with light irony. "I thank you for not declining to attend my poor little feast."

"Ah, prince..."

"You recognize me; then no explanation is necessary."

"On the contrary, I ask you to explain the meaning of your invitation, your threats?"

Dzhellaledin threw his cloak off his shoulders and handed Belogradov two pistols.

"This should make it clear," he added with the same irony.

Belogradov took a couple of steps back from him.

"Are you in your right mind, prince? You want to have a shootout with me... What for? Why..."

"There's not room for the two of us in the whole wide world; one of us must oust the other."

"But, for heaven's sake! We haven't seen each other in two years and as for past offenses, I am once more ready to ask your forgiveness... Now I am convinced that you are a true son of Russia..."

"I am the son of the devil, to whom I'll soon send you on an errand, if you don't forestall me."

"But.. the reason?.."

"Mister officer, don't force me into a clear irrefutable reason for my demands: if you even after that refuse my challenge I will have the right to shoot you as..a person not worthy of wearing a Russian uniform!"

Belogradov's comrade entered the conversation.

"Why all these unpleasant empty words? Belogradov, I'm convinced, will never deny you satisfaction if he feels he is guilty: but can't this bloody explanation be postponed to another day? You chose a bad moment: we're expected at another feast."

Dzhellaledin's face turned crimson.

"Not an hour's postponement!"--he shouted decisively. "Here are two pistols, only one of them is loaded... Mister officer will take the trouble to hand us the pistols."

"And pace off the distance," noted the officer.

"That won't be necessary. I don't want to cripple, nor be crippled; we will shoot at arm's length, with the barrel aimed at the heart."

"But that is butchery! Brigandage..." shouted the unhappy Belogradov, pale as an autumn leaf, "you are the instigator, it is not for you to dictate the conditions of the duel: this is against all laws!"

"You'll accept my conditions!" Dzhellaledin said in a firm voice, handing the pistols to the second. "Not another word."

"No! I will not duel with you; for sure I will not do it..."

And Belogradov took a few steps towards the path... Dzhellalein grasped his arm.

"Shoot... or you'll die this very minute."

In Dzhellaledin's hand glimmered a bared dagger. His face expressed such ferocity, his voice, and all his motions were so commanding that his adversary found no more objections. The second still tried to broker a reconciliation: a sign of impatience was his answer.

"Part with this madman," Belogradov's comrade whispered to him, "anyway, one of you is not to remain alive."

Belogradov automatically took from the second's hands a pistol, the prince indifferently took the other.

"Remember my testament... the cross goes to her!..." he shouted to the girl standing at a distance.

She fell to her knees and covered her head with her veil.

At the sign given a shot rang out... still for a couple of seconds the adversaries remained standing in their places; but Belogradov stumbled, dropped his pistol, and without a moan, without a single sigh, he fell to the ground... Blood was streaming from his heart, shot through.

Simultaneously resounded the wail of the second and the joyful shout of the girl. Only the prince stood immobile, fastening a savage, numb glance on the corpse of the man he killed.

It was strange to see so many contrasts in clothing, in emotions, so many different passions in four people one of which was lying soulless on the ground. His crossing from life to decay was so fast, that the freshness of the ball outfit outlived his existence... The lace on his cuffs was still not rumpled, on his silk stockings there was not a single wrinkle, from his curls, blown by the wind could be felt the fragrance of eastern flowers. Next to him, on his knees, another candidate for the wedding feast tried to find the smallest sign of life in the body growing cold; and two steps from them was a girl, innocent as a child, beautiful as happiness itself, hugging the knees of the killer with an expression of the most ardent joy, not noticing that the edges of her white veil were swimming in blood... and around... compete silence: the trees were standing without swaying, the stream rustled monotonously, running over the stones, a light breeze was playing on the grass, a flock of birds, frightened by the shot, with a screech fluttered in the sky, and all was silent again.

"He is dead!" said the second.

"He is dead!" repeated the prince, and bending over the corpse he whispered something with a malicious grin.

"We must call the people, the carriage; carry off the body... My God, how am I to announce this misfortune? No, it's better to hide it..."

"Yes the bride will be in despair!"

The second didn't hear the last words; he was running to get the people.

"Go home, Emina," said Dzhellaledin, carelessly throwing his cloak on his shoulders, and lifting up the the pistol dropped by his adversary. "I thank you, I won't forget your service..."

"Where do you want to go?.. They'll kill you!"

"Don't be afraid... Where am I to go?.. I don't know... If I don't return, don't look for me."

"Dzhellaledin," the girl said timidly, "let me follow you... I am an orphan, besides you, I have no family, no home: do let me!.."

"It's impossible, Emina.. I too am homeless. Now I am no longer a resident of Russia; go home, keep everything I brought for... my bride; also keep all my stuff, the horse, money: I'm giving you your dowry. Be happy, pray for me. Farewell!.."

"Dzhellaledin, Dzhellaledin!.." the poor girl was whispering, and only the forest echo heard her moan and responded... but she carefully ran to the side where the branches of the bushes crunched under Dzhellaledin's feet.

Splendid is the weding feast in the valley. All rooms of the brigadeer's house are illuminated by torches; there was not enough room for the carriages in the courtyard and they took up part of the streets; in the windows through the geranium leaves, one can glean the shades of dressed-up ladies and cavaliers; servants are carrying trays with cups, and everywhere, in every room, in every group of guests, the Brigadeer's wife is constantly present with flowers in her cap, with a huge fan in her hands; she pays attention to everyone, bustles, chattering without cessation... her whole being has turned into the joyous idea of a son-in-law with five thousand souls...

Among some girls, Liudmila is shining in her dress and her beauty. How pretty she is in her white translucent dress, with myrtle branches and white roses in her hair, with a similar bouquet on her breast! What childish joy she expresses when she chatters with her girl friends! And how much love, how much emotion animate her glances when they are turned to the handsome colonel, who, leaning on a fire place is telling something to several officers who have gathered around him! Little by little the excitement in the gathering tones down, the noise and confusion give room to a more organized motion, the old men gather around the card tables, the old women sit down on the divans, the young people form rows, getting ready to dance. The tones resound of a menuet by signor Petroni Lanzi, which had brought the entire dancing Europe into ecstacy, and the young couple steps forward, charming everyone with the dexterity and grace of their motions. After them follow other couples, all are dancing and enjoying themselves: only a single forced smile, a single face is at times dark with reflections, the face of the second.

Outside the windows crowds of people are gathered; Russians and Tatars, Greeks and Armenians, curious to see the wedding feast. A few maids and lackeys standing up front are discussing the outfits, the the their masters' qualities, sharing the secrets of their charms and character.

"Where is the groom's brother?"--said one of the girls in a low voice.

"Listen, they say he got sick; they came to tell the master not to worry, his illness is not serious, it'll pass by morning."

"What's with him? Still today I saw how he returned home: he was in such a good mood!"

"But he wont have fun any more!.." uttered a male voice.

"How's that?"

"I'm not allowed to say! Tomorrow you'll find out."

"Look, Masha, what handsome young guys!"

"Whom then did I kill!.." someone shouted in a terrible voice. The crowd swayed, all began to look around... The street was full of peope, the night was dark... "Someone's had a drop too much!"--noted a servant in livery and again all turned to the happy sight, while a tall man in Russian uniform, made his way through the crowd and stood almost up against the windows. Those closest to him noticed that his face was unusually pale and a quiet, pain-filled moan now and then broke out from his heart... They moved away from him; the officer fastened his gaze on the glass.

The dance ended. Liudmila hid for a minute and showed up again in a different room, where the old men were sitting at cards; busy with their cards they did not notice the queen of the feast; she leaned against the window, began to fan her burning face. Soon next to her appeared a shadow of a man whom it was difficult to see well through the muslin of the curtains, gathered in pleats from the other side of the window. Liudmila speaks with him, smiles, gives him her hand, which the man caresses in his hands; several minutes pass in a tender conversation... now the music begins to play; Liudmila moves away from the wall, straightens her hair; the man appears right next to the window; their faces touch in a passing kiss, and she again flits away to the dancers; the colonel went towards the card table.

The music is playing louder, more sonorously, the dances become livelier and livelier, all faces shine with pleasure, joy is carried in the air above the heads of the newly married... and two steps away from them Dzhellaledin is standing! He had seen her beauty and happiness, her love, glittering in her glances, her caressing the young colonel... A pity that she could not enjoy the torture of her victim; that having torn his heart out, she couldn't like a pagan medicine woman, be watching for his pre-death convulsions... But those were not convulsions, nor the pangs of jealousy: what at that minute exploded in the breast of the abandoned, jilted lover, has no earthly name. He, like a ferocious wolf, he was on the verge of attacking the couple, in order to chase them off, to torture them, at the minute of the caress so offensive to him; he wanted to drink the blood of the traitoress like a vampire, in order to suck the life out of her with his last kiss, and then throw the senseless corpse at the feet of the orphaned husband; all his limbs were strained and trembled, as if under an instrument of torture... but he could not move from the spot. His legs had grown attached to the ground, his arms were frozen, and only his thoughts whirling in his head, flashed before him fragments of his past, and his eyes followed every motion of Liudmila, who was moving as if on clouds through the darkened glass of the windows.

She was skitting about, she was a happy carefree girl! She enjoyed her happiness; she had had a peek through the curtain to the future and she imagined Petersburg, the court, the parties, all the joys of family and soial life; and not a single sigh of repentance came from her heart, not a single thought did she turn to the man whom she traitorously had betrayed for gold, abandoned to irrevokable despair. Who, furthermore, lived through her, worshipped her virtue, was prepared to turn into a hero and a monster for her sake, an honest man and a villain... But what need had she, the happy wife of a rich colonel, what need had she for an impoverished Tatar?.. Impoversihed in all kinds of riches, spiritual, and worldly. In the moring she had shed a few tears of pity. Maybe her face was now a bit paler than usual; but layers of rouge covered up the pallor, and the rich outfit animatedher lips with an unfeigned smile. "I was persuaded, deceived!" she kept saying, excusing herself--"he'll find consolation." No! no there is no more consolation for him on earth! In a single day he had experienced all passions of humankind, he had known happiess, betrayal, hatred, vengeance, at dawn he had been drowning in the ecstacy of hope, in the evening he had bathed in blood,--and too late he found out that that was innocent blood!.. Oh, well, he could still reach the guilty ones, could pour out rivers of blood, enjoy a minute of just vengeance... and then? What was he to do then? Where was he to live out the rest of his, perhaps long, life? Where was he to lay down his head to rest? In what could he look for comfort, when he had lost even the ability to feel all that peope call joy? An unbreakable force knit together his being with that of Liudmila, and now, alive or dead, she will be with him forever, fill with bile every piece of his food, pour poison into the very air he'll breathe!..

She had appeared to the youngster as a dream-seductress, when he was dozing off in the quietude of carelessness. She had awakened the passions in his breast, blinded his eyes, penetrated his heart, and then said: "tear yourself loose from me, shatter your idols, break up your dwelling, turn everything into dust that was dear to you, and I'll carry you high above the earth, will build you a temple out of my love, will place you above any idols"... The madman obeyed, threw a flame of discord into his family, trampled everything that was dear and holy to him, and, hiding his tears within his heart, ran after her over thorns, through thickets, mountains, forests,--higher and higher, closer and closer to heaven: it seems they were almost there, the beautiful dream shone before him like a guiding star... and suddenly, when he had reached the heights of the reward promised him, the star flickered, died in the streams of air, and abandoned him between heaven and earth! Now he can no longer rise to the heavens: an abyss of space separates them; he cannot descend to earth: there daw is smoldering like fire, lit by his own hand. Where, oh where will he go? Everything that he loved, called his own, has scattered into clouds of black smoke, and this smoke has not dispersed because of the impenetrable curtain between him and his past: now it can no longer be resurrected. Only the thought of the dead man can still jump into this abyss without day and without limits, but that thought brings with it neither a pearl, nor a piece of a priceless coral, but a poisonous hissing of memories.

Now he is a homeless wanderer! His world is a bare boulder, his food is tears, his pillow is the sleepless pangs of repentance...

Night was turning into daybreak, when the carriages rolled, one after another along the streets in the valley. People dispersed, discussing the splendour of the fare; lights went out, noises abated, and soon only two windows remained weakly lit: the room of the newly-weds, and two streets away, in Belogradov's apartment the light was on above the body of the dead man.

The next day, around noon, Liudmila came out of her room in a rose colored satin robe, and a coquettish morning bonnet; several close friends had already gathered for breakfast; a rich silver service was brought out and the young woman began to pour the coffee, when our acquaintance from yesterday, the second, entered. He went up to the colonel, looking important.

"I must have a word with you," he said in a low voice.

"What about? You can speak to me in the presence of everybody, there are no strangers here."

"No, colonel, what I have to tell you cannot be said in the company of ladies."

"What kind of a government secret can it be?.." said the colonel unwillingly leaving his place.

The second took him into another room.

At the same time they told the young mistress, that some Tatar woman had come to her with a wedding gift.

"What kind of news is this," said Liudmila with noticeable concern, "I don't know any Tatar woman."

"It's their custom," countered one of the ladies, "ask her to be called, ma chere, and will see what kind of a gift it is."

The servant opened the door, and a girl in the first bloom of spring entered, a beautiful girl, but with something strange, even fearful, distorting her traits: her brows were tightly knit, her eyes wide open and immobile, as in a cataleptic person, her cheeks covered with a blood-red blush. Her long, tightly braided braids, fell out on her shoulders from under veil which was folded back, and her clothes were rumpled, and in places even torn and splattered with dark stains.

"What kind of a pauper is this?" shouted the brigadeer's wife angrily. "Why did you let her in?"

The girl slowly approached the table around which the happy company was gathered, and, stopping before Liudmila, pierced her with such a savage, coarse gaze that if poison could be poured out of eyes into the heart of the one they are aimed at, then surely the gaze of the Tatar girl would act on Liudmila like a Medusa's head. A trembling ran over the body of the newly-married woman; she wanted to say something, but could not: the whole company was under the sway of the heavy impression which this woman spread about her, only the brigadeer's wife did not lose her presence of mind.

"Throw out this madwoman! Why on earth did you come to give us the eye?.."

The Tatar woman bent her head, silently took a scarf from under her belt, unwrapped it, and threw on the table before Liudmila a golden cross on a black ribbon. All burst out in shouts... On the ribbon and on the cross were spots of dried blood...

--"Dzhellaledin! Dzhellaledin!.." pronounced the girl in a voice filled with bitter despair, and she burst into convulsive sobs.

Liudmila recognized her mother's cross, the cross she blessed Dzhellaledin with. She fell into a faint.

A day later, a funeral procession was moving from the valley to the cemetery: the clergy, church banners, torches, preceeded the chariot on which stood a coffin under a canopy with silver decorations; beind the chariot were rows of soldiers; the comrades of the deceased carried his decorations and weapons on a pillow; the mournful music brought grief into the soul of even the most indifferent viewer; drums were beating, a long string of carriages and pedestrians accompanied the sad procession.

Not far from there, by the seashore, where juniper and prickly blackthorn grow in the crevices between the rocks, another body was lying, not even worthy of burial... Horrible were the dead man's features, in which not even death itself had managed to re-establish peace; on a face grown blue, in the half-opened eyes were still reflected passions an grief. His clothing was torn, his breast bared and covered with blood, in a wide wound the blade of a dagger could still be seen, the fingers had frozen, turned numb, firmly holding the handle...

In vain did Emina beg both Tatars and Russians to commit the body of the unfortunate man to the earth: the Muhammadans saw in him an apostate, and the prophet's just punishment; the Christians rejected him as a criminal and a suicide... His heart, torn apart by peope while he was alive, was now fated to be torn apart by birds of prey. A single true friend did not abandom him; without tears, without wailing, she sat by the corpse on a rock, clearing off the dry leaves that fell on his head, and at times chased away a raven, who with a screech threw itself on its prey. Much later, an old Cossack, moved by young girl's situation, dug up at the same spot, a grave and with a prayer lowered the half-decayed body into it. The girl was taken to the village; she ran away; she was locked up, she freed herself. The Tatars decided that she was beset by the evil spirit that devoured their prince, and let her leave the village. The mad girl settled by the seashore, neither strong autumn winds, nor winter snowstorms ould chase her away; day and night she guarded the grave, sometimes a cordon of cossacks passing by, would throw her some bread and hasten to leave... For a long time the white veil on the seashore frightened the superstitious, finally it disappeared. The girl was found lying face down on the grave, her fingers dug into the earth; apparently the poor girl in a fit of madness, wanted to remove from the grave its contents, her unforgettable, eternally dear friend.

Colonel Belogradov for Petersburg left with his young wife. The brigadeer's wife became a widow, moved to live with them, and before her death, her favorite story was, after the details of her first and second marriages, the proof of her innocence in the adventures of her stepdaughter and the death of the Tatar prince.

Some years ago, I visited the southern shores of the ruins of Soldai. The fortress with its windows, towers, and walls, is still preserved in all its beauty; the other buildings of the Genovese potentates were taken apart at the end of last century for building barracks, which now represent ruins of a newer kind; grass grows green on the tiled roofs and the merlons of the towers, night birds nest under their arches. At the foot of the cliff peaceful Swiss have settled; they abandoned their beautiful homeland, for a piece of bread in alien mountains, under an alien sky. Nine huts with vineyards, a small chapel, built from the side-chapel of a ruined Greek monastery, and in the middle there is a fountain with a Genovese shield on one side and the picture of St. George on the other--that's all that makes up the colony. In the valley new gardens are blossoming; many luxurious houses have been built on the spots of former Tatar huts. Beyond the walls of Taraktash there is still a village, and the old men even now are telling stories about a Russian woman who seduced and ruined their last prince.

I wandered on the seashore for a long time, between blooming bushes, wishing to find even a sign of Dzhellaledin's grave: it has disappeared, without leaving a trace neither on earth nor in the hearts of those he loved, by whom he was so cruely rejected. All around, in the crevises of the cliffs, turtle-doves were building their nests, swallows circled in the air, returning to the arches of the ruins; the sea barely splashed against the shores; all was quiet, as the grave that received the sufferer.

The thought is consoling, that our troubles, worries, will fly like pigeons into the infinity of the desert raising merely a few grains of sand, awakening only a weak echo, which after having run through invisible cricles, gets ever weaker, the further from the point of contact, and disappears like sound itself into space.

But it is sad to think that in this poor heap of days called life, there are so few moments worthy of being called life! It is sad to see how often pure souls, lofty and beautiful turn into weak, petty souls, created only for material vegetation in the eartly bogs. Entangled in the indissoluble bonds of one's own feelings, the strong soul cannot abandon her weak friend, she will soar with her into the heavens, wanting to carry her to her homeland, warm her with the rays of her love, surround her with her bliss... In vain! The weak soul cannot take wings, cannot lift from the cold valley into lands beyond the clouds; occasionally, brought to ecstacy by love of her beautiful friend, she will aim her gazes to the heavens, but she is frightened by the rays of sun, the bolts of lighting. She fears the valley of the son of Daedalus, and grasping her innocent prey, slowly strangles her or mercilessly rends the bonds which tie her to the other, not remembering that those bonds had grown to be part of her friend, were made up of the fibers of her heart, and that rending them with her storng hand, she is ending her existence!.. That's almost the usual lot of souls that people call lofty, beautiful, and that Providence has given all the abilities, all the power to achieve, feel and value the happiness of life, only to withhold from them ...happiness itself!

Two years ago in Moscow, I met a sixty-year-old woman, who still held great claims to beauty and coquetry. Playing cards, she proudly conversed with her partners, lost fifty rubles to them on credit, and finishing her robber, went on to chide her grand-daughter for an extended conversation during the mazurka with a hussar officer. I only heard snatches, often repeated phrases: "What a girl, what an age! In our time..." And I took her for one of the rare virtuous persons, who had come of age during the general ship wreck of morals during the last century.

"Who is that firm protector of innocence?" I asked my neighbor.

" Oh, dear me! She considerest not a beam in her own eyes, but in her brothers she beholdest even motes; that is the widow of General Belogradov."

1838.