Many years passed by and much happened during that time—famine and plague, and the rebellion of Pugatchoff.³³ The landowners of the Orenburg district scattered before the bands of the usurper, and Stepan Mihailovitch also made off with his family, first to SamÁra, and then down the Volga to Saratoff and as far off as Astrakhan. But by degrees all disturbances passed over and calmed down and were forgotten. Children became boys, boys became men, and men came to grey hairs; and among these last was Stepan Mihailovitch. He saw this himself, but he hardly believed it. He would sometimes allude to the ravages of time, but he did so without uneasiness, as if there were no personal reference to himself. Yet my grandfather had ceased to be his old self: his herculean strength and tireless activity had gone for ever. This sometimes surprised him; but he went on living precisely in the old way—eating and drinking to his heart's content, and dressing with no regard to the weather, though he sometimes suffered for this neglect. Little by little, his keen clear eye became clouded and his great voice lost its power; his fits of anger were rarer, but so were his bright and happy moods. His elder daughters had all married, and the oldest had been dead some time, leaving a daughter of three years old. Aksinya,³⁴ the second, had lost one husband and married again; Elizabeth, a clever but arrogant woman, had somehow married a General Yerlykin, who was old and poor and given to drinking; and Alexandra had found herself a husband in Ivan Karatayeff, well-born, young, and rich, but a passionate lover of the Bashkirs and their wandering life—a true Bashkir himself in mind and body. The youngest daughter, Tanyusha, had not married. The only son³⁵ was now twenty-six, a handsome youth with a complexion of lilies and roses: his own father used to say of him, "Put a petticoat on him, and he'd be a prettier girl than any of his sisters!" Though his wife, Arina Vassilyevna, shed bitter tears and would not be comforted, Stepan Mihailovitch sent his son into the Army as soon as he was sixteen. He served for three years, and, owing to the influence of Mihail Kurolyessoff, acted as aide-de-camp for part of the time to SuvÓroff. But SuvÓroff left the district of Orenburg and was succeeded by a German general (I think his name was Treubluth); and he sentenced the young man to a severe flogging, from which his entire innocence, if not his noble birth, should have protected him. His mother nearly died of grief, when she heard it; and even my grandfather thought this was going too far. He withdrew his son from the Army and got him a place in the law court at Ufa, where he earned promotion by long and zealous service.

I cannot pass over in silence a strange fact that I have noticed: most of the Germans and foreigners in general who held posts in the Russian service in those days were notorious for their cruelty and love of inflicting corporal punishment. The German who punished young Bagroff so cruelly was a Lutheran himself, but at the same time a great stickler for all the rites and ceremonies of the Russian Church. This historic incident in the annals of the Bagroff family happened in the following way. The general ordered a service to be performed in the regimental chapel on the eve of some unimportant saint's-day; he was always present himself on these occasions, and all officers were expected to attend. It was summer, and the chapel windows were open. Suddenly, a voice in the street outside struck up a popular song. The general rushed to the window: three subalterns were walking along the street, and one of them was singing. He ordered them under arrest and sentenced each of them to 300 lashes. My unfortunate father, who was not singing but merely walking with his friends, pleaded his noble birth; but the general said with a sneer, "A noble is bound to show special respect to divine service"; and then the brute himself looked on till the last stripe was inflicted on the innocent youth. This took place in a room next the chapel, where the solemn singing of the choir could be distinctly heard; and the tyrant forbade his victim to cry out, "for fear of disturbing divine worship." After his punishment, he was carried off unconscious to hospital, where it was found necessary to cut off his uniform, owing to the swelling of his tender young body. It was two months before his back and shoulders healed up. What must it have cost his mother to hear such news of her only son whom she simply worshipped! My grandfather lodged a complaint in some quarter; and his son, who had sent in his papers at once, got his discharge from the Army before he left the hospital, and entered the Civil Service as an official of the fourteenth or lowest class. Eight years had now gone by, and the incident was by this time forgotten.

AlexyÉi Stepanitch was now living peacefully at Ufa and performing his duties there. Twice a year he paid a visit to his parents at Bagrovo, 240 versts away. His life was quite uneventful. Quiet, bashful, and unassuming, this young heir to a landed estate lived on good terms with all the world, till suddenly the modest course of his existence became disturbed.

There was a permanent military administration in the town of Ufa, and next in authority the Lieutenant-Governor was Nikolai Zubin, who resided regularly in the town. M. Zubin was an honest and able man, but his character was weak. His wife had died, leaving three children—Sonitchka,³⁶ a girl of twelve, and two younger boys. He was devoted to his daughter; and it was no wonder he should love a child so beautiful and so clever, who, in spite of her tender years, soon became her father's companion and assisted him in the management of the household. Eighteen months after the death of his first wife, whom he had loved and sincerely mourned, M. Zubin found consolation by falling in love with the daughter of M. Rychkoff, a landowner in Orenburg, well-known for his descriptions of that country. The marriage soon took place; and the young wife, Alexandra, by her intelligence and beauty, soon gained entire control over her submissive husband. But she was hard and unfeeling, and conceived a hatred for her stepdaughter, her father's darling, who bade fair to grow up into a beautiful woman. The thing is common enough. The name of stepmother has long been proverbial for cruelty, and it fitted Mme. Zubin precisely. But it was by no means easy to tear Sonitchka from her place in her father's heart: she was not a girl who could be put down easily, and the contest which followed inflamed the stepmother's anger to an extraordinary pitch. She swore that this hussy of thirteen, who was the idol of her father and all the town, should some day live in the maids' room, wear the coarsest clothes, and carry the slops out of the children's nursery. She kept her oath to the letter: after two or three years, Sonitchka was living with the servants and clothed like a scullion, and she scrubbed and cleaned the nursery which was now inhabited by two half-sisters. But what was the father doing? He had once loved her dearly; but now for whole months he never saw her; and when he did meet her going about in rags, he turned away with a sigh, wiped away a furtive tear, and made off as soon as possible. It is the way of many elderly men who have married again and are dominated by young wives. As I do not know exactly the ways and methods by which Mme. Zubin attained her object, I shall not speak of them; nor shall I dwell upon the cruelties and sufferings inflicted upon the bereaved girl, with her sensitive temper and strong will; nothing was spared her, not even the most humiliating punishments and beatings for imaginary offences. I shall only say, that the stepdaughter was not far from suicide, and was only saved from it by a miracle. It happened thus. When she had decided to put an end to an intolerable existence, the poor child wished to say her last prayer before an image of Our Lady of Smolensk, the image with which her mother on her deathbed had blessed her. She fell on her knees in her garret before the ikon, and, with floods of bitter tears, pressed her face on the dirt-stained floor. Suffering deprived her of consciousness for some minutes; when she recovered and got up, she saw the candle, which she had put out the night before, still burning before the image. At first she cried out with surprise and involuntary fear; but soon she recognised that she had seen a miracle wrought by Divine Power. She took courage; she was conscious of a strength and composure she had never felt before; and she firmly resolved to suffer and endure and live. From that day the helpless child wore armour of proof against the increasing exasperation of her stepmother: whatever she was told to do, she did; whatever was inflicted upon her, she bore. Degrading punishment no longer forced the tears from her eyes, no longer made her turn sick and faint, as it used to do. "Mean slut" had long been her title, and "desperate wretch" was now added to it. But the measure of God's patience now brimmed over, and His thunder pealed: Mme. Zubin, in the prime of life and in the pride of her health and beauty, died ten days after giving birth to a son. Twenty-four hours before the end, knowing that she must die, she was eager to take the load off her conscience. Sonitchka was suddenly wakened in the night and summoned to her stepmother's bedside. The dying woman confessed in the presence of witnesses her guilty conduct towards her stepdaughter, begged her forgiveness, and conjured her in the name of God to be good to the children. The girl forgave her and promised to care for the orphans; and she kept that promise. Mme. Zubin confessed also to her husband that the accusations which had been brought against his daughter were all calumnies and falsehoods.

Her death caused a complete reversal of affairs. M. Zubin also had a paralytic stroke, and, though he survived for some years, never left his bed again. The oppressed and ragged Cinderella, whom the servants—and especially those belonging to Mme. Zubin—had been mean enough to humiliate and insult to their heart's content, suddenly became the absolute mistress of the household, her sick father having put everything under her control. The reconciliation between the guilty father and the injured daughter was touching and even distressing to the daughter and all who saw it. For long, M. Zubin was wrung by remorse: his tears flowed day and night, and he repeated the same words over and over, "No, Sonitchka, it is impossible you should forgive me!" To each one of his acquaintance in the town he formally confessed his misconduct towards his daughter; and "Sofya Nikolayevna," as she was now called, became the object of general respect and admiration. Made wise by years of suffering, this girl of seventeen developed into a grown woman, a mother to the children, and the manager of the household. She even discharged public duties; for, owing to her father's illness, she received all heads of departments, officials, and private citizens; she discussed matters with them, wrote letters and official documents, and at last became the real manager of the business in her father's office. Sofya Nikolayevna nursed her father with anxious care and tenderness; she looked after her three brothers and two sisters, and even took trouble about the education of the elder children. Her own brothers, SerghÉi and Alexander, were now boys of twelve and ten; and she contrived to find teachers for them—a kind old Frenchman called Villemer, whom fortune had somehow stranded at Ufa, and a half-educated Little Russian who had been exiled to the town for an attempted fraud. She availed herself of the opportunity to study with her brothers, and worked so hard that she could soon understand a French book or conversation and even talk French a little herself. Eighteen months later she sent her brothers to Moscow for their education. Through a certain M. Anitchkoff who lived at Ufa, she had become acquainted with his cousin who lived at Moscow, and they often corresponded. The well-known writer, Novikoff, shared a house at Moscow with this M. Anitchkoff; and both friends were so struck by the letters from this young lady on the banks of the river ByÉlaya, that they sent her regularly all new and important books in the way of Russian literature; and this did much for her mental development. This M. Anitchkoff had a special respect for her, and considered it an honour to carry out her request. He undertook to receive both her brothers and place them at a boarding-school connected with Moscow University, and performed his undertaking punctiliously. The boys got on well at school, but their studies were broken off when the summons came for them to enter the Guards, in which they had been enrolled while still in the cradle.

All clever and educated people who came to Ufa hastened to make the acquaintance of Sofya Nikolayevna, were attracted by her, and never forgot her. Many of these acquaintances became in course of time the intimate friends of her children, and the relation was severed only by death. I shall name only those of them whom I knew myself—V. Romanovsky, A. Avenarius, Peter Chichagoff, Dmitri Myortvavo, and V. Itchansky. Scholars also and travellers, attracted by the novelty and beauty of the district, invariably made the young lady's acquaintance and left written testimony of their admiration for her beauty and wit. It is true that her position in society and her home helped her, and served, one might say, as a pedestal for the statue; but the statue itself was a noble figure. I remember especially the verses of Count Manteuffel, a traveller; he sent them to Sofya Nikolayevna with a most respectful letter in French; and he also sent a copy of an immense work in five quarto volumes, by a Dr. Buchan,³⁷ which had just been translated from English into Russian and made a great sensation in the medical world of that day. Buchan's Domestic Medicine was a real treasure to Sofya Nikolayevna: she was able to make use of its directions to make up medicines for her father's benefit. In his verses Count Manteuffel compared the fair lady of Ufa to both Venus and Minerva.

In spite of his enfeebled state, M. Zubin did not resign his office for several years. Twice a year he gave a ball; he did not appear himself, in order to welcome the ladies, but the men went to see him where he lay in his study; and the young hostess had to receive the whole town. Several times a year, her father insisted on her going out to balls in the houses of the leading people, and she yielded to his earnest entreaties and put in a short appearance at the ball. She wore fine dresses and was an excellent dancer in the fashion of the time. When she had gone through a Polish minuet and a single country-dance or schottische, she went away at once, after flashing through the room like a meteor. All who had the right to be so, were in love with Sofya Nikolayevna, but they sighed at a respectful distance; for this young lady gave none of them any encouragement whatever.

And with this peerless creature the son of Stepan Mihailovitch fell in love! He could not understand and appreciate her fully, but her appearance alone and her lively cheerful temper were enough to bewitch a man; and bewitched he accordingly was. He saw her first in church, and the first sight was enough for his susceptible heart. AlexyÉi Stepanitch—henceforth we shall give him both his names—soon discovered that the fair lady received all officials who visited at her father's house; and, being himself an official in the law-court, he began to appear regularly in her drawing-room, to pay his respects on high days and holidays. He saw her every time, and his passion grew steadily. His calls were so regular and so prolonged—though he hardly opened his mouth—that they soon attracted general notice; and it is probable that the first person to notice them was the young hostess herself. Rapturous looks, flaming cheeks, helpless confusion—these are the symbols by which love has always spoken. A frank passion has been an object of ridicule from time immemorial, and all Ufa laughed at AlexyÉi Stepanitch. He was humble and shy and as bashful as a country girl; and his only reply to all jests and allusions to the subject was to blush the colour of a peony. But Sofya Nikolayevna, so cold and even snubbing in her manner to her fashionable admirers, was surprisingly indulgent to this speechless worshipper. Perhaps she was sorry for this young man who had no armour against all the ridicule he suffered on her behalf; perhaps she understood that his was no idle or passing fancy and that his whole life was at stake; anyhow, the severe young beauty not only bowed graciously and looked kindly at him, but tried also to start conversation; and his timid, incoherent replies and agitated voice did not seem to her ridiculous or repulsive. I should say, however, that Sofya Nikolayevna, though she stood on her dignity with self-assertive people, was always kind and condescending to humility and modesty.

Things went on thus for some time. Suddenly, a bold thought flashed on the brain of AlexyÉi Stepanitch—the thought of getting Sofya Nikolayevna for his wife. At first he was frightened by his own ambition, so bold and so unlikely to be realised. How could he raise his eyes to Sofya Nikolayevna, the chief personage in Ufa, and, in his opinion, the cleverest and most beautiful woman in the world? He abandoned his intention entirely for a time. But by degrees the lady's constant goodwill and attention, her friendly glances which seemed to him to hold out some encouragement, and, above all, the passion which mastered his whole being, recalled the abandoned ideal; and it soon grew familiar and became part of his life. There was an old lady called Mme. Alakayeff, then living at Ufa to look after a lawsuit, who used to visit at the Zubins' house; she was distantly related to AlexyÉi Stepanitch and had always taken a great interest in him. He now began to visit her oftener, and did his best to please her; and at last he confessed his love for a certain person, and his intention to seek her hand. His love was the talk of the town and therefore no news to Mme. Alakayeff; but his intention of marrying her was a surprise. "She won't have you," said the old lady, shaking her head; "she's too clever, too proud, too highly educated. Plenty of people have been in love with her, but not one has ever dared to ask the question. You're a handsome lad, certainly, well-born and fairly well-off, and you will be rich in course of time—everybody knows that; but then you're a plain country fellow, no scholar or man of the world, and you're terribly bashful in society." AlexyÉi Stepanitch was aware of all this himself; but love had entirely confused his brain, and a voice whispered in his ear day and night that Sofya Nikolayevna would accept him. Though the young man's hopes seemed to her unfounded, Mme. Alakayeff consented to go to Sofya Nikolayevna's house, where, without making any allusion to his wishes, she would turn the conversation on to him and take note of all that was said. She started at once, and AlexyÉi Stepanitch remained in the house till she should come back. She was absent for some time, and the lover became so distressed and despondent that he began to cry and then fell asleep, tired out, with his head leaning against the window. When the old lady came back, she wakened him and said with a cheerful air: "Well, AlexyÉi Stepanitch, there is really something in it! When I began to speak about you, and was rather hard upon you, Sofya Nikolayevna took up the cudgels in earnest on your behalf, and ended by saying that she was sure you were very kind and modest and gentle, and respectful to your parents; and she said that God sent his blessing on such people, and they were much better than your pert and forward talkers." AlexyÉi Stepanitch was so enraptured by this report that he hardly knew where he was. Mme. Alakayeff gave him time to recover, and then said with decision: "If your mind is quite made up about this, I will tell you what you had better do. Go home at once, tell the whole story to your parents, and ask for their consent and blessing, before kind people put their oar in. If they give you one and the other, I don't refuse to work in your cause. Only don't be in a hurry: begin by getting on the soft side of your sisters; your mother won't go against your wishes. Of course, your father's consent matters most of all. I know him: he is masterful to a degree, but he has good sense; have a talk to him when he is in a good humour." AlexyÉi Stepanitch did not see the need of all this caution and manoeuvring: he said that his parents would be delighted, and asked what possible flaw could be found in Sofya Nikolayevna. "Two terrible flaws," said the shrewd old lady: "she has only twopence to her fortune, and her grandfather was a simple sergeant in a Cossack regiment." The significance of her words was entirely lost upon AlexyÉi Stepanitch, but the old lady was not wrong in her presentiment, and her warning came too late.

Within a week AlexyÉi Stepanitch got leave of absence. He called on Sofya Nikolayevna to say "good-bye," and she treated him kindly, wishing him a pleasant journey, and hoping he might find his parents in good health and happy to see him. Her kind words encouraged him to hope, and off he went home. The old people were glad to see him, but they were puzzled by the time of his visit and looked at him inquiringly. His sisters—who lived near Bagrovo and came there in hot haste on a summons from their mother—kissed their brother and made much of him, but kept on smiling for some reason. The youngest sister, Tatyana, was his favourite, and he revealed his passion to her ears first. Being a rather romantic girl and fonder of her brother than the older sisters were, she listened to him with sympathy, and at last went so far as to confide to him a great secret: the family knew already of his love-affair and were opposed to it. It had happened in this way.

Two months before, Ivan Karatayeff had travelled to Ufa on business and brought back this piece of news to his wife. Alexandra Karatayeff—I have spoken already of her character—boiled over with rage and indignation. She took the lead in the family, and could twist them all, except, of course, her father, round her little finger. She set one of her brother's servants to spy on his master, and made him report to her every detail concerning his love-affair and his life at Ufa; and she found a female friend in the town, who first rummaged and ferreted about, and then, with the help of a discarded attorney's clerk, sent her a long letter composed of town talk and servants' gossip. As her chief authorities were the servants of the late Mme. Zubin, it is easy to guess the kind of portrait which these enemies drew of Sofya Nikolayevna.

It is a well-known fact that in the good old days of the Empress Catherine—perhaps it is the case still—there was little love lost between a man's wife and his sisters; and the case was worse when the sisters had only one brother, because his wife must become the sole and undisputed mistress of the household. A great deal of selfishness underlies human nature; it often works without our knowledge, and no one is exempt from it; honourable and kind people, not recognising selfish motives in themselves, quite honestly attribute their actions to other and more presentable causes; but they deceive themselves and others unintentionally. Where there is no kindness of heart or refinement of manners, selfishness shows itself without any concealment or apology; and so it was with the womankind of Stepan Mihailovitch. It was inevitable that they should all resent their brother's marriage, irrespective of his choice. "Alosha will change towards us and love us less than before; his bride will be a cuckoo in the nest and push out the birds born there"—such would certainly have been the language of the sisters, even if AlexyÉi Stepanitch had chosen a bird of their own feather; but Sofya Nikolayevna was worse than anything they could imagine. Alexandra summoned her sister Elizabeth and hurried to Bagrovo, to communicate to her mother and sisters—of course, with suitable embellishments—all the information she had received of her brother's goings on. They believed every word she said, and their opinion of Sofya Nikolayevna was to the following effect. In the first place, the Zubin girl—this was her regular name in the secret meetings of the family council—was of mean birth: her grandfather had been a Ural Cossack, and her mother, Vyera Ivanovna Kandalintsoff, had belonged to the merchant class; the alliance was therefore a degradation to an ancient and noble family. In the second place, the Zubin girl was a mere pauper: if her father died or was dismissed from his post, she would depend on charity for her bread, and all her brothers and sisters would be a stone round her husband's neck. Thirdly, the Zubin girl was proud and fashionable, a crafty adventuress who was accustomed to lord it over the town of Ufa; and she would turn up her nose with no ceremony at plain people living in the country, however long their pedigree. Fourthly and lastly, the Zubin girl was a witch who used magic herbs to keep all the men running after her with their tongues hanging out; and their poor brother was one of her victims; she had scented out his future wealth and his easy temper, and had determined to marry into a noble family by hook or by crook. Alexandra managed the whole affair; her glib and wicked tongue frightened them all and soon proved to them, beyond all possibility of doubt, that such a marriage was a terrible misfortune for them. "Likely enough, she will get round Stepan Mihailovitch himself, and then we're all done for; we must leave no stone unturned to prevent the marriage." It was clearly of the first importance to impress upon Stepan Mihailovitch the worst possible opinion of Sofya Nikolayevna; but who was to bell the cat? Their conscience was not clear, and they dared not go to work openly. If their father suspected that they had any concealed purpose, he would not believe even the truth in that case; once before, when there had been some talk of choosing a daughter-in-law, he had seen through their repugnance to the scheme and had told them so plainly.

They had recourse therefore to the following stratagem. Arina Vassilyevna had a married niece living near; her name was Flona Lupenevsky; she was short and stout, a notorious fool and gossip, and not averse to strong liquors. She was instructed to come to Bagrovo as if on an ordinary visit, and to bring in, among other topics, the love-affairs of AlexyÉi Stepanitch; she was, of course, to represent Sofya Nikolayevna in the most unfavourable light. Alexandra spent a long time coaching this lady in what she was to say and how she was to say it. When she had learnt it as well as she could, Mme. Lupenevsky turned up at Bagrovo and had dinner there; after dinner, hosts and guests slept for three hours and then assembled for tea. The master of the house was in good humour and himself gave his guest an opening to begin her performance. "Come now, Flona," he said, "tell us the news you got from the travellers to Ufa"—her sister, Mme. Kalpinsky, had just been there with her husband—"I warrant they brought home a good budget, and you will add as much more out of your own head."

"You will always have your joke, dear uncle," said the lady; "but they brought plenty of news, and I have no need to invent." Then off she started on a string of silly gossip, true and untrue, which I shall spare my readers. My grandfather pretended to disbelieve her throughout, even when she was telling the truth; he made fun of her stories, threw her out on purpose, and teased her till all the hearers laughed heartily. The stupid woman, who had taken a stiff glass on waking to give her courage, got vexed at last and said with some heat: "Uncle, why do you keep on laughing and believe nothing I say? Wait a moment; I have kept one special bit of news for the end, and that won't make you laugh, though you can't help believing it." The family exchanged glances, and my grandfather laughed. "Come, out with it!" he said coolly; "I shan't believe it; and, if I don't laugh at it, it's because I'm bored by your stories." "O uncle, uncle," she began, "you're quite in the dark about my dear cousin, AlexyÉi Stepanitch. He's a perfect wreck: the witch of Ufa, the daughter of a great man there, Governor or Commander-in-Chief, I don't know which, has used devilish arts to fascinate him. She's a perfect beauty, they say, and has captivated all the men, young and old; she has bewitched them with magic herbs, and they all run after her. And my poor cousin, AlexyÉi Stepanitch, is so bad that he can neither eat nor drink nor sleep. He's constantly sitting beside her, he can't take his eyes off her, he just looks and sighs; and at night he's always walking past her house, carrying a gun and a sword and keeping guard over her. They say that the Zubin girl is very sweet upon him; of course he's handsome and well-born; she knows what she's about and means to marry him. It's natural enough: she has no money, and her father is a Cossack's son who rose from the ranks; though he has worked his way up and held great posts, he has put nothing by; he has spent every penny on dinners and fine parties and dresses for his daughter. The old man is at death's door, and there is a swarm of children—half a dozen of them by his two wives. They will all settle on your shoulders, uncle, if my cousin marries her; she has no portion but the clothes she wears; they have silk to their backs but nothing to put in their bellies. And AlexyÉi Stepanitch, they say, is changed out of all knowledge: he looks terrible; the very servants weep to see him and dare not inform you. Believe me, uncle, every single word is gospel truth. Question his servants, and they won't deny it."

At this, Arina Vassilyevna began to cry and her daughters to rub their eyes. My grandfather was rather taken aback, but soon recovered himself. Then he smiled and said coolly: "Plenty of lies there, and perhaps a grain of truth. I have heard myself that the young lady is pretty and clever; and that's all the magic there is about it.³⁸ It's little wonder if AlexyÉi's eyes were dazzled. All the rest is rubbish. Mlle. Zubin has no idea of marrying AlexyÉi; he is no match for her; she will find a better man and a more pushing man to marry her. And now, that's enough: not a word more on the subject! Let us go and drink tea out of doors." As a matter of course, neither Mme. Lupenevsky nor any one else dared to refer again to the news from Ufa. The visitor departed in the evening. After supper, when Arina Vassilyevna and her daughters were about to take a silent farewell of Stepan Mihailovitch, he stopped them and said: "Well, Arisha, what do you think about it? Though that stupid Flona added plenty of lies, yet it seems to me there is truth in the story too. The boy's letters have been quite different of late. The thing needs some looking into. The best plan would be to summon Alosha here; we shall learn all the truth from him." At this point Alexandra offered to send a special messenger to Ufa to find out the truth through a relation of her husband's: "She is a very honest woman," she said, "and nothing would make her tell a lie." Her father agreed not to send for his son till the fresh report arrived. Alexandra started at once for her own house, which was not more than 30 versts from Bagrovo, and returned in a week, bringing with her the letter I have mentioned already, which she had received long before from her gossiping female friend at Ufa. This letter was shown and read aloud to Stepan Mihailovitch; and, though he put little faith in the women as detectives and informers, some statements in the letter seemed to him probable, and he was displeased. He said positively, that, if Mlle. Zubin did wish to marry Alosha, he would forbid it, on the ground of her birth. "Write by the next post to Alosha," he said, "and tell him to come home." A few days passed, and were used by the women to prejudice Stepan Mihailovitch as strongly as possible against the marriage; and then, as we know already, the young man turned up at Bagrovo without having received the letter.

AlexyÉi Stepanitch heard the whole of this story from Tatyana, and it made him very serious and uneasy. He was not by nature strong-willed, and had been brought up in blind obedience to his family and his father. In his alarm, he did not know what to do. At last he decided to speak to his mother. Arina Vassilyevna was devoted to her only son; but, as she was accustomed to look on him as still a child and convinced that this child had taken a fancy to a dangerous toy, she met his avowal of strong feeling with the words one would use to a child who begged to hold the hot poker; and, when this treatment brought the tears to his eyes, she tried to comfort him in the way that a child is comforted for the loss of a favourite toy. He might say what he pleased, he might try as he pleased to refute the slander brought against Sofya Nikolayevna—his mother either did not listen at all or listened without attending. Two more days passed by; the young man's heart was breaking; though his love and longing for Sofya Nikolayevna increased every hour, it is probable that he would not easily have plucked up courage to broach the subject to his father; but Stepan Mihailovitch took the first step. Early one fine morning, he was sitting as usual on his stoop, when AlexyÉi Stepanitch, looking rather pale and worn after an almost sleepless night, came out to join his father. The old man was in a cheerful mood; he greeted his son affectionately, and then, looking attentively at his face, he read what was going on within. He gave him his hand to kiss, and then said, not in anger but with energy: "Listen to me, AlexyÉi! I know the burden on your mind, and I see that this fancy has taken a strong hold of you. Just tell me the story now, the whole truth and nothing but the truth." AlexyÉi Stepanitch felt more fear than love for his father, and was not in the way of speaking to him frankly; but his love for Sofya Nikolayevna lent him courage. He threw himself at his father's feet and repeated the whole story, omitting no details and keeping nothing back. Stepan Mihailovitch listened with patience and attention. When one of the family appeared in the distance and evidently meant to come and say "good morning," he waved his blackthorn staff with a significant gesture, and then nobody, not even Aksyutka with the tea, dared approach before he summoned them. Though his son's story was ill-arranged, confused, long, and unconvincing, yet Stepan Mihailovitch with his clear head made out the gist of the matter. But unfortunately he did not and could not approve of it. Of the romantic side of love he had small appreciation, and his masculine pride was offended by his son's susceptibility, which seemed to him degrading weakness in a man and a sign of worthlessness; and yet at the same time he saw that Sofya Nikolayevna was not in the least to blame, and that all the evil he had heard about her was merely malicious falsehood, due to the ill will of his own womankind. After a little reflection, he said, with no sign of anger, even affectionately, but firmly: "Listen to me, AlexyÉi! You are just at the time of life when a pretty girl may easily take a man's fancy. In that there is no harm whatever; but I see that you have gone too far, and that does not do. I don't blame Sofya Nikolayevna in the least; she seems to me a very worthy girl; but she's not a good match for you, and she won't suit us. In the first place, her nobility dates from yesterday, while you are the descendant of an ancient and noble line. Then she is accustomed to town life, highly educated, and independent; since her stepmother died she has ruled a household; and, though poor herself, she is used to luxury; but we are plain country people, and you know yourself how we live. And you ought to know your own character; you're too compliant. But her cleverness is the chief objection to her; to marry a wife cleverer than one's self is a mistake; she is sure to rule her husband; and you are so much in love that you are certain to spoil her at first. Well, as your father, I now bid you clear your head of this notion. I confess I don't believe myself that Sofya Nikolayevna would accept you. Choose your shoe of the right size, and it won't pinch your foot. We will find out a wife for you here—some gentle, quiet girl, well-born and with some money. Then you can give up your office and live here in comfort. You know, my boy, we're not rolling in wealth. We get enough to eat, but very little money comes in. As to the Kurolyessoff legacy, about which people made such a noise, I never give it a thought; we can't count on it: Praskovya Ivanovna is young enough to marry and have children of her own. Now, mind what I say, Alosha: throw all this off like water off a duck's back, and don't let me hear again of Sofya Nikolayevna." Then Stepan Mihailovitch gave his hand graciously to his son, who kissed it as respectfully as usual. The old man ordered tea to be served and the family to be summoned; he was more than usually cheerful and friendly to them all, but AlexyÉi Stepanitch was terribly depressed. No anger on his father's part would have produced such an effect; that was soon over and was always followed by indulgence and kindness, but the old man's quiet determination deprived him of all hope. There was a change in his expression, so sudden and complete, that his mother was frightened to see it and plied him with questions—"Was he unwell? What had happened to him?" His sisters noticed the change also, but they were more cunning and held their tongues. None of this was lost on Stepan Mihailovitch. He looked askance at Arina Vassilyevna and muttered through his teeth, "Don't worry the boy!" So they took no more notice of him but left him in peace, and the day went on with its usual routine.

The conversation with his father made a deep impression on AlexyÉi Stepanitch; one may say that it crushed him. His appetite and sleep failed, he lost interest in everything, even his bodily strength was affected. His mother shed tears, and even his sisters were uneasy. Next day his mother found it difficult to get from him any account of the interview with his father. To all inquiries he returned the same answer: "My father won't hear of it; I am a lost man, and life will soon be over for me." And within a week he did really take to his bed; he was very weak and often half-conscious; and, though his skin was not hot, he was constantly delirious. No one could understand what was the matter with him; but it was simply a nervous fever. The family were terribly alarmed. As there were no doctors in the neighbourhood, they treated him with domestic remedies; but he grew steadily worse till he was so weak that his death was expected hourly. His mother and sisters screamed and tore their hair. Stepan Mihailovitch, though he shed no tears and was not always sitting by the bedside, probably suffered more than any one; he understood perfectly what had caused this illness. But youth at last asserted itself, and the turn came after exactly six weeks. AlexyÉi Stepanitch woke up to life an absolute child, and life was slow in resuming its normal course with him; his convalescence lasted two months, and all the past seemed to have been blotted out from his memory. Everything that he saw, both indoors and out, pleased him as much as if it were new and strange. At last he got perfectly well; his face filled out and got back the healthy colour which it had lost for more than a year; he went out fishing and shooting quails, ate and drank heartily, and was in good spirits. His parents felt more joy than they could express, and were convinced that the illness had expelled all former thoughts and feelings from his head and heart. And perhaps this would really have been the case if they had taken him away from Ufa, kept him a whole year at home, and found a pretty girl for him to marry. But their fears were lulled to rest by his present condition, and they sent him back to the same place and the same duties after six months. This settled his fate once for all. The old passion revived and blazed up with far greater power. I do not know whether love came back to his heart all at once or by degrees; I only know that he went seldom at first to the Zubins' house, and then oftener, and at last as often as he could. I know also that his old friend, Mme. Alakayeff, continued her visits to Sofya Nikolayevna, sounding her cautiously as to her sentiments and bringing back favourable reports, which confirmed her own hope that the proud beauty was not indifferent to her humble worshipper. A few months after AlexyÉi Stepanitch had returned to Ufa, a letter from him suddenly arrived at Bagrovo, in which he declared to his parents, with his usual affection and respect, but also with a firmness not characteristic of him, that he loved Sofya Nikolayevna more than his own life and could not live without her; he had hopes of her accepting him, and asked his parents to give him their blessing and their consent to the match. This letter was a great surprise and shock to the old people. Stepan Mihailovitch knitted his brows but did not express his feelings by a single word. The family all sat round in perfect silence till he dismissed them by a gesture. When he was alone, my grandfather sat there a long time, tracing patterns on the floor of his room with his blackthorn staff. He soon realised that it was a bad business, that they had been mistaken, and that no fever would cure the lad of his passion. His impulsive and kindly nature shook his resolve and made him inclined to give his consent, as may be inferred from what he said to his wife. When they were alone together next morning, he said: "Well, Arisha, what do you think of it? If we refuse, we shall see no more of Alosha than of our own ears. He will die of grief, or go off to the wars, or become a monk—and that's the end of the Bagroff family!" But Arina Vassilyevna had been primed already by her daughters, and she answered, as if her son ran no risk: "As you please, Stepan Mihailovitch; your will is mine too. But how can you hope they will respect you in future, if they resist your positive commands now?" This mean and cunning trick was successful: the old man's pride was touched, and he resolved to stand firm. He dictated a letter, in which he expressed surprise that his son should begin the old business over again, and repeated what he had already said by word of mouth. In short, the letter contained a positive refusal.

Two or three weeks passed, and brought no reply from AlexyÉi Stepanitch. Then there came one stormy autumn morning, when my grandfather was sitting across his bed in his own room; he was wearing his favourite dressing-gown of fine camel's hair over a shirt buttoning up at the side, and had slippers on his bare feet. Arina Vassilyevna was sitting near him with her spinning-wheel, spinning goat's down and carefully drawing out the fine long threads with which she intended to make cloth—cloth to provide her son with light, warm, comfortable garments. Tanyusha was sitting by the window, reading a book. Elizabeth, who was on a visit to Bagrovo, was sitting on the bed near her father, telling him of her troubles—her husband's poor prospects, and the shifts they had to practise at home to make ends meet. The old man listened sadly, with his hands on his knees, and his head, now turning white, bent down over his breast. Suddenly the door opened; and Ivan, a tall, handsome lad, wearing a travelling jacket, entered the room with a quick step and delivered a letter which he had brought from the post-town 25 versts away. The stir among the party showed that the letter was eagerly expected. "From Alosha?" asked the old man quickly and uneasily. "From my brother," answered Tanyusha, who had gone to meet Ivan, taken the letter quickly from him, and looked at the address. "You have lost no time, and I thank you. A dram for Ivan! Then go and have your dinner and rest." The spirit-case was opened at once; Tanyusha took out a long, cut-glass decanter, filled a silver cup with brandy, and handed it to Ivan. Ivan crossed himself and drank it, then coughed, bowed, and left the room. "Read it aloud, Tanyusha," said her father; she did his reading and writing for him. She placed herself by the window; her father left his bed and her mother her spinning-wheel, and all crowded round the reader, who had unsealed the letter by this time but dared not take a preliminary peep. After a moment's silence, the letter was read slowly and audibly. It began with the form of address usual in those days—"Dear and honoured Father, and dear and honoured Mother," and then went on in this fashion—

"In answer to my last letter, I had the misfortune to receive a refusal of my request, my dearest parents. I cannot go against your will; I submit to it, but I cannot long drag the burden of my life without my adored Sofya Nikolayevna; and therefore a fatal bullet shall ere long pierce the head of your unhappy son."³⁹

The letter produced a powerful effect. My aunts began to whimper; my grandmother, who was taken utterly by surprise, turned pale, threw out her hands, and flopped down on the ground like a corn-sheaf. Even in those days fainting-fits were not unknown. Stepan Mihailovitch never stirred; but his head bent a little to one side, as it used to do when a fit of anger was coming on, and began to tremble slightly; and that tremulous motion went on from that hour till his death. The daughters rushed to their mother's aid and soon brought her back to her senses. At once, Arina Vassilyevna threw herself at her husband's feet, raising the cry of mourning for the dead; and her daughters followed her example. Taking no notice of the storm-signals on his brow, and quite forgetting that she herself had egged him on to disappoint his son, she cried at the top of her voice: "Batyushka Stepan Mihailovitch! have pity and do not be the death of your own child, our only son! Give Alosha leave to marry! If anything happens to him, I will not live one hour longer!" The old man never stirred. At last he said in an unsteady voice: "Enough of that howling! Alosha deserves a good whipping. But we'll leave it till to-morrow; morning brings good counsel. Now go and order dinner to be served." Dinner my grandfather regarded as a sedative at every domestic crisis. Arina Vassilyevna tried to begin again—"Mercy! Mercy!"—but Stepan Mihailovitch called out loudly, "Leave the room, all of you!"—and in his voice was audible the roar that goes before a storm. The room was cleared instantly, and no one ventured near him before the dinner-hour.

It is hard to imagine the thoughts that passed through his mind in the interval, the struggle that took place in that iron heart between love and prudence, and the final defeat of the stubborn spirit; but, when Mazan's voice was heard outside the door, announcing dinner, my grandfather came out of his room quite composed. His face was rather pale, but his wife and daughters, who were standing, each by her own chair, till he appeared, could not see the faintest sign of anger; on the contrary, he was quieter and more cheerful than he had been in the morning, and made a hearty meal. Arina Vassilyevna had to harden her heart and suit her conversation to his mood; she dared not even sigh, far less ask questions; in vain she tried to guess what was passing through her husband's mind; the little chestnut-brown eyes in her fat face might ask what questions they pleased, but the dark-blue eyes of Stepan Mihailovitch, for all their frank good-humoured expression, gave no answer. After dinner he lay down as usual, and woke in a still more cheerful mood, but not a syllable did he utter about his son or the letter. Yet it was clear that no wrath was brooding in the old man's heart. When he said "good night"; to his wife after supper, she ventured to say, "Please say something about Alosha." He smiled and answered: "Did I not say that morning thoughts are best? Go to sleep, and God bless you!"

Morning did indeed bring good counsel and kindly action. My grandfather got up at four o'clock when Mazan was kindling his fire, and his first words were: "Tanaichonok, you are to take a letter at once to Ufa for AlexyÉi Stepanitch. Get ready immediately, and no one is to know your errand or where you are going. Put the young brown horse in the shafts, and the roarer abreast of him. Take six bushels of oats with you and a loaf of bread. Ask the housekeeper for two roubles in copper for your expenses. See that all is ready when my letter is written, and don't lose a moment!" When my grandfather demanded haste, he always got it. Then he opened the oak desk which served him as a writing-table, got writing materials, and with some effort—for ten years past he had written nothing but his signature—he wrote as follows in a stiff, old-fashioned hand:—

"Dear Son AlexyÉi,

"Your mother, Arina Vassilyevna, and I, give you our permission to marry Sofya Nikolayevna Zubin, if that be God's will, and we send you our blessing.

"Your father,

"Stepan Bagroff."

Half an hour later, long before it was light, Tanaichonok had reached the top of the long hill and passed the stackyard, and was trotting briskly along the road to Ufa. At six o'clock Stepan Mihailovitch ordered Aksyutka to bring the samovar but to wake no one in the house. In spite of this, the mistress was called and told in confidence that Tanaichonok had started very early with a pair of horses from the stable; he was carrying a letter from the master, but his destination was unknown. She did not venture to join her husband at once: she waited an hour or so, and appeared when he had finished his tea and was chatting with Aksyutka, the maid, who had been plain as a child and was now still plainer in middle life. "Well, what did they wake you for?" said Stepan Mihailovitch, holding out his hand to his wife. "I dare say you had a bad night." Arina Vassilyevna kissed his hand respectfully: "No," she said, "no one called me, I woke of myself; and I had a good night, for I hoped you would be kind to our poor boy." He looked attentively at her; but her face was accustomed to wear a mask, and he could not read her thoughts. "In that case," he said, "I have good news for you. I have sent a special messenger to Ufa and written to AlexyÉi that he has permission from us both to marry Sofya Nikolayevna."

Arina Vassilyevna had been horrified by her son's tragic intentions, and had sincerely begged and prayed her stern husband to consent to the marriage. Yet, when she heard how Stepan Mihailovitch had decided, she felt more fear than joy; or rather, she did not dare to feel joy, because she feared her daughters. She knew already what Elizabeth thought of the letter, and guessed what Alexandra would say. For these reasons she received the decision, which her husband hoped would delight her, rather coldly and strangely; and this did not escape him. Elizabeth expressed no satisfaction whatever, but merely respectful submission to her father's will; but Tanyusha, who took her brother's letter quite seriously, rejoiced with all her heart. Elizabeth was not alarmed even at first by her brother's threat; she shed tears and interceded for him, merely because it would not look well to act differently from her mother and youngest sister. She wrote at once to Alexandra, who was furious when she heard of the decision and came with all speed to Bagrovo. She too treated her brother's letter as an empty threat, a trick suggested by Sofya Nikolayevna; and the two together soon converted their mother and even Tanyusha to this belief. But the matter was settled, and open rebellion was now out of the question. Stepan Mihailovitch had thought that Sofya Nikolayevna would refuse his son; but no one else at Bagrovo believed this. But it is time now to leave Bagrovo and see what was going on at Ufa.

I will not take upon myself to decide positively whether AlexyÉi Stepanitch really intended to shoot himself, if his parents were obdurate, or took a hint from some incident in a novel and tried to excite their fears by suggesting the awful result of their refusal. Judging by the later development of his character—and I knew it well—I cannot think him capable of either course of action. Therefore, as I suppose, the young man was not playing a trick in order to frighten his parents; on the contrary, he sincerely intended to blow out his brains, if he was forbidden to marry Sofya Nikolayevna. But at the same time I do not think he could ever have brought himself to carry out his fatal purpose, although your mild quiet people, who are often called faint-hearted, are sometimes more capable of desperate actions than men of bold and energetic temperament. The idea of suicide was certainly borrowed from some novel: it was quite out of keeping with the character of AlexyÉi Stepanitch, his view of life, and the circle of ideas in which he had been born and brought up. However that may be, when he had launched the fatal letter, he became greatly agitated and was soon laid up with fever. His friend and confidante, Mme. Alakayeff, knew nothing of the letter; she came to see him daily and soon perceived that his illness and his love-affair were not enough to account for his excessive agitation. She was sitting beside him one day, knitting a stocking and talking about trifles, in order to amuse the invalid and distract his mind from his hopeless passion; he was lying on the sofa, with his hands behind his head, looking out of the window. Suddenly he turned as white as a sheet. A cart with a pair of horses had turned off the street into the courtyard, and he recognised the horses and Tanaichonok. He sprang to his feet, cried out, "A message from my father, from Bagrovo!" and made for the door. Mme. Alakayeff seized his arm, and, with the help of a servant, prevented him from hurrying to the steps; it was wet and cold autumn weather. Meanwhile Tanaichonok came quickly into the room and delivered the letter. AlexyÉi Stepanitch broke the seal with trembling fingers, read the few lines, burst into tears, and fell on his knees before the ikon. Mme. Alakayeff was puzzled until he handed her the letter; but, when she had read it, she too shed tears of joy. The young man was beside himself with happiness. He now confessed the nature of the letter he had written to his parents, and she shook her head when she heard it. Tanaichonok was called in and closely questioned; when he told how he had been sent off, they saw that Stepan Mihailovitch had settled the matter by himself, without the knowledge of his womankind and probably against their wishes.

Mme. Alakayeff was entirely taken by surprise: even when she had read the letter over again she could not believe her own eyes, because she knew Stepan Mihailovitch of old and quite realised the opposition of the family. But, when the first excitement of surprise and joy was over, the two began to discuss how they should set to work. So long as opposition from their own side made the marriage seem remote and impossible, they had been sanguine as to the feelings of the lady; but now a doubt seized on Mme. Alakayeff. When she recalled and examined all the favourable signs, she felt that perhaps she had attached more importance to them than they deserved; and, like a sensible woman, she made haste to moderate the young man's confident hopes, prudently calculating that, if he were seduced by them, he would find it harder to bear the sudden collapse of those radiant dreams. A refusal now seemed to her quite possible, and her fears had effect upon her companion. Still, she did not back out of her promise to help him: on the contrary, she went next day and laid his proposal before Sofya Nikolayevna.

Simply, clearly, and with no exaggeration, she described the constant and ardent attachment of AlexyÉi Stepanitch—all the town had long known it, and certainly Sofya Nikolayevna did; she spoke warmly of the fine character of her young relative, his kind heart, his rare modesty; she gave true and exact details of his financial position and prospects; she told the facts about his family, not forgetting to state that he had received by letter yesterday his parents' blessing and their full consent to seek the hand of a lady so worthy and highly respected as Sofya Nikolayevna; she added, that the young man had caught a fever in the excitement of waiting for his parents' reply, but found it impossible to postpone the decision of his fate, and therefore had asked her, as his kinswoman and a friend of Sofya Nikolayevna's, to find out whether a formal proposal for her hand, laid before her father, would be distasteful to her or not.

Sofya Nikolayevna had long been accustomed to act for herself: without confusion and without any of the affectation and prudery expected of women in those days, she replied as follows:—

"I thank AlexyÉi Stepanitch for the honour he has done me, and you, dear lady, for your interest in the matter. I say frankly that I noticed long ago his partiality for me and have long expected that he would make me a proposal; but I have never decided whether I would accept or reject it. His last visit to his parents, the suddenness—you told me this yourself—of his long and dangerous illness at home, and the change in him when he came back to Ufa—these were signs that his parents disapproved of me as a daughter-in-law. This, I confess, I did not expect; it seemed more natural to fear opposition on the part of my father. Later I saw that AlexyÉi Stepanitch had revived his former feeling for me; and now I suppose that he has been able to induce his father and mother to consent. But you must admit yourself, my dear lady, that the matter now assumes quite a new aspect. To enter a family where one is not welcome, is too great a risk. Certainly, my father would not oppose my choice; but can I venture to conceal the truth from him? If he were to learn that an obscure country squire thought twice before admitting me to the honour of alliance with his family, he would consider it a degradation, and nothing would induce him to consent. I am not in love with AlexyÉi Stepanitch: I only respect his good qualities and his constant affection, and I believe he might make the woman he loved happy. Allow me, therefore, to think it over; and also, before I speak of this to my father and trouble him in his feeble state with such news, I wish to speak myself to AlexyÉi Stepanitch. Let him come and see us, when he is well enough."

Mme. Alakayeff reported this answer exactly to the young man. He did not think it promising, but she disagreed with him and tried to sooth his anxiety.

After parting on very friendly terms with her visitor, Sofya Nikolayevna sat for a long time alone in her drawing-room, and thought hard. Her bright lively eyes were clouded; sombre thoughts raced through her brain and were reflected on the mirror of her beautiful face. All that she had said to Mme. Alakayeff was perfectly true: the question, whether she should marry AlexyÉi Stepanitch or not, was really not settled. But the proposal had now been made, and it was necessary to make the great decision, so critical in every woman's life. Sofya Nikolayevna had an unusually clear head; in later years, the trials of life and her own passionate temperament may have warped her judgment, but she was able then to see everything exactly in its true light. Her prospects were not bright. Her father was a hopeless invalid, and Zanden, their best doctor, declared he could not live more than a year. His property consisted of two villages near Ufa, Zubkova and Kasimofka—forty serfs in all and a small amount of land; he had also scraped together a sum of 10,000 roubles which he intended as a portion for his daughter. To see her married was his constant and eager desire; but strange things do happen, and Sofya Nikolayevna had never before received a formal offer. He would leave behind him six orphans, the children of his two marriages, and separate guardians would have to be appointed. The three youngest would go to their grandmother, Mme. Rychkoff; their mother's fortune consisted of a small estate of fifty serfs. Sofya Nikolayevna's own brothers were at a boarding-school in Moscow; she would be left absolutely alone, without even distant relations to take her under their roof. In short, she had no where to lay her head. To face poverty and want, to live on the charity of strangers and in complete dependence upon strangers—such a fate might distress any one; but to a girl who had lived in comfort and held a high position in society, a girl proud by nature and flattered by general attention and popularity, a girl who had experienced all the burden of dependence and then all the charm of authority—such a change might well seem intolerable. And here was a young man, good-looking, honest, modest, the heir of an ancient line and an only son, whose father possessed 180 serfs and who was himself to inherit wealth from an aunt; and this young man worshipped her and offered her his hand and heart. At first sight, hesitation seemed out of the question. But, on the other hand, they were ill-matched in mind and temperament. No one in the town could believe that Sofya Nikolayevna would accept AlexyÉi Stepanitch, and she realised the justice of public opinion and could not but attach importance to it. She was considered a marvel of beauty and intelligence: her suitor was certainly pretty in a boyish way—which was no recommendation to Sofya Nikolayevna—but rather simple and stupid, and passed with every one for a plain country lad. She was quick and enterprising: he was timid and slow. She was educated and might almost be called learned, had read much, and had a wide range of intellectual interests: he was quite ignorant, had read nothing but a few silly novels and a song-book, and cared for little beyond snaring quails and flying his hawks. She was witty and tactful and shone in society: he could not string three words together; clumsy, shy, abject, and ridiculous, he could only blush and bow and squeeze into a corner or against a door, to escape from the talkative and sociable young men whom he positively feared, though he was in truth far cleverer than many of them. She had a firm, positive, unbending temper: he was humble and wanting in energy, easily silenced and easily discomfited. Was he the man to support and defend his wife in society and in domestic life?

Such were the contradictory thoughts and ideas and fancies which swarmed in the young girl's mind, mingling and jostling one another. Long after darkness had come down, she was still sitting there alone. At last a feeling of extreme misery, a terrible certainty that her reason was utterly baffled and growing less and less able to solve her problem, turned her thoughts to prayer. She hurried to her room to beg for the light of reason from on high, and fell on her knees before the image of Our Lady of Smolensk, who had once before by a miracle lightened her darkness and pointed out to her the path of life. For a long time she prayed, and her hot tears fell. But by degrees she felt a kind of relief, a measure of strength, a power of resolve, though she did not know yet what her resolve would be; and even this feeling helped her. She went downstairs to look at her father in his sleep; then she came back to her own room, lay down, and went peacefully to sleep. When she woke next morning, she was perfectly composed; she reflected for a few minutes, gave a thought to her hesitation and perplexity of the night before, and then kept quietly to her purpose, which was, first to have a conversation with her suitor, and then to settle the matter definitely, in accordance with the impression left on her mind by their interview.

AlexyÉi Stepanitch, wishing to know his fate as soon as possible, sent for the doctor and begged to be put on his legs without delay. The doctor promised to let him out soon and kept his promise for once. Within a week AlexyÉi Stepanitch, though still pale, thin, and feeble, was sitting in Sofya Nikolayevna's drawing-room. Touched by the loss of colour and change in his young face, she was not quite as outspoken and rigorous as she meant to be. In substance she repeated to him what she had said to Mme. Alakayeff, but she added two points—that she would not part from her father while he lived, and that she would not live in the country. She wished to live in a town, in Ufa, for choice, where she was acquainted with many worthy and cultivated people, and hoped to enjoy their society after her marriage. She ended by saying that she would like to see her husband in the public service and holding a position in the town, which, if not brilliant, should at least secure deference and respect. To all these conditions and anticipations of a wife's rights, AlexyÉi Stepanitch replied, with abject humility, that her will was law to him, and that his happiness would consist in the fulfilment of all her wishes. Such an answer no man should have given: it proved that his love was not to be depended on, and that he could not assure a woman's happiness; yet it pleased Sofya Nikolayevna, clever as she was. Reluctantly I must confess that love of power was one of her ruling passions; and the germs of this passion, now that she had been released from the cruel oppression of her stepmother, were sprouting actively at this time. Love of power did really, though she herself did not know it, help her to her decision.

She expressed a wish to see the letter of consent which he had received from his parents; and he produced it from his pocket. She read it and was convinced that she was right in guessing that his wishes had at first been opposed. The young man was incapable of dissimulation, and also so much in love that he could not resist a kind look or word from his idol. So, when Sofya Nikolayevna demanded perfect frankness, he made a clean breast of everything; and I believe that this frankness finally settled the question in his favour. Sofya Nikolayevna was clever, but still she was a woman; and she was filled with the idea of reshaping and remoulding in her own way this good-tempered young man, so modest and sincere and uncorrupted by society. How delightful to think of the gradual awakening and enlightenment of this Orson! Orson had no lack of sense; and feeling, though wrapt in unbroken slumber, was there too. Orson would love her still better, if that were possible, in gratitude for his transformation. This vision took hold of her eager imagination; and she parted very graciously from her adorer, promising to talk the matter over with her father and communicate the result through Mme. Alakayeff. AlexyÉi Stepanitch was "swimming in bliss"—to use an expression of that day. That evening Sofya Nikolayevna again had recourse to prayer, and prayed for a long time with great mental strain and fervour. She was exhausted when she went to sleep; and she had a dream which she interpreted, as people often do, as a confirmation of her purpose. Men are clever enough to interpret anything according to their desires. This dream I forget; but I remember that it was capable, with much more probability and much less forcing, of the opposite interpretation. Next morning Sofya Nikolayevna lost no time in telling her father, who was now in a very feeble state, of the proposal she had received. M. Zubin did not know AlexyÉi Stepanitch, but had somehow come to think of him as a person of no importance; and he was not pleased, in spite of his eager desire to see his daughter settled before he died. But she proved to him, with her usual eagerness and convincing eloquence, that it was unwise to show the door to such a suitor. She urged all the advantages of the match which we know already, and, above all, that, far from parting with him, she would continue to live in the same house. She painted her helpless condition when it should please God to remove her father, till the sick man shed a tear and said: "Do as you please, my dear clever child. I consent to everything. Bring your future husband to see me soon: I wish to become better acquainted with him. And I insist on receiving a proposal in writing from his parents."

Sofya Nikolayevna then sent a note to Mme. Alakayeff, asking AlexyÉi Stepanitch to call on her father at a fixed hour. He was still "swimming in bliss," which he shared only with his old friend and supporter; but he was much disconcerted by this invitation which he had never expected from such a confirmed invalid. M. Zubin, in the absence of the Lieutenant-Governor the most important and powerful personage in the whole district of Ufa! M. Zubin, whom he had always approached with reverence and awe! His name seemed now more formidable than ever. What if he frowned on this proposal for his daughter's hand from one of the humblest of his subordinates? Might he not treat it as insolence, and thunder out: "How dared you think of my daughter? Are you a fit match for her? Off with him to prison and to judgment!" However wild these notions may appear, they did really pass through the young man's head; and he often told the story afterwards himself. Plucking up his spirits and encouraged by Mme. Alakayeff, he put on his uniform which hung loosely on his limbs from loss of flesh, and set off to wait on the great man. With his three-cornered hat under his arm, and clutching his troublesome sword in a trembling hand, he entered M. Zubin's study, so nervous that he could hardly breathe. M. Zubin, who had once been clever, lively, and energetic, now lay on his couch hardly able to move and shrunk to a mere skeleton. The visitor bowed low and remained standing by the door. This in itself was enough to annoy the invalid. "Step this way, M. Bagroff, and take a chair near my bed; I am too weak to talk loud." AlexyÉi Stepanitch, with a profusion of bows, sat down on the edge of a chair close to the bed. "I understand that you seek my daughter's hand," the old man went on. The suitor jumped up, bowed, and said that he did in fact venture to seek this happiness.

I could report the whole of this interview in detail, as I have often heard it fully described by AlexyÉi Stepanitch himself; but part of it would be a repetition of what we know already, and I am afraid of wearying my readers. The important points are these. M. Zubin questioned the young man about his family, his means, and his intentions with regard to his profession and place of residence; he said that Sofya Nikolayevna would have nothing but her portion of 10,000 roubles, two families of serfs as servants, and 3000 roubles in cash for initial expenses; and he added: "Though I am quite sure that you, as a dutiful son, would not have made such a proposal without the consent of your parents, yet they may change their minds; and social usage requires that they should write to me personally on the subject; and I cannot give you a positive answer till I receive a letter to that effect." AlexyÉi Stepanitch got up repeatedly, bowed, and sat down again. He agreed to everything and promised to write that very day to his parents. In half an hour the invalid said that he was tired—which was perfectly true—and dismissed the young man rather drily. The moment he left, Sofya Nikolayevna entered her father's study; he was lying with closed eyes, and his face expressed weariness and also anxiety. Hearing his daughter's approach, he threw an imploring glance at her, pressed his hands to his breast, and ejaculated: "Is it possible, Sonitchka, that you intend to marry him!" But Sofya Nikolayevna had anticipated the result of the interview and was prepared for an even worse impression. "I warned you, father," she said in a gentle but firm voice, "that AlexyÉi Stepanitch, owing to utter ignorance of society, awkwardness, and timidity, was bound to appear to you at first somewhat of a simpleton; but I, who have seen him often and had long conversations with him, will vouch for it that he is no fool and has more sense than most people. I beg you to have two more interviews with him; and I am sure you will agree with me." M. Zubin looked long at his daughter with a keen and penetrating gaze, as if he wished to read some secret hidden in her heart; then he sighed heavily and consented to do what she asked.

By the next post AlexyÉi Stepanitch sent a very affectionate and respectful letter to his parents. He thanked them for having given him life a second time, and humbly begged them to write at once to M. Zubin and request the hand of his daughter for their son; he added that this was the regular custom, and without such a letter the father would not give a positive answer. The fulfilment of this simple request gave some trouble to the old people at Bagrovo. They were no hands at composition, and, for want of previous experience, had no idea how to set about it, while they were exceedingly loath to commit themselves before the Governor's Deputy and their future relation, who was sure to be a skilful man of business and a practised writer. It took them a whole week to compose their letter; at last it got written somehow and was dispatched to AlexyÉi Stepanitch. It was not a skilful production, having none of those polite phrases and expressions of affection which are indispensable in such cases.

While waiting for the answer from home, AlexyÉi Stepanitch received two more invitations from M. Zubin. The second visit did not remove the unfavourable impression produced by the first. On the next occasion, however, Sofya Nikolayevna was present. Returning from a call earlier than usual, she walked into her father's room, as if she did not know that her suitor was sitting there. Her presence made all the difference. She could make him talk and knew what he could talk about, so as to display to advantage his natural good sense, high principle, and goodness of heart. M. Zubin was obviously pleased: he spoke kindly to the young man and invited him to come to the house as often as he could. When they were alone, the old man embraced his daughter with tears, called her by many fond names, and said she was a witch whose spells could draw out a man's good qualities, even when they were so deeply hidden that no one suspected their existence. She too was much pleased; for she had not dared to hope that AlexyÉi Stepanitch would do so much to support her favourable opinion and justify the character she had given him.

The letter containing the formal proposal arrived at last, and AlexyÉi Stepanitch delivered it in person to M. Zubin. Alas! without the magic presence and aid of Sofya Nikolayevna the suitor failed again to please his future father-in-law, who was also far from satisfied with the letter. Next day he had a long conversation with his daughter, in which he set before her all the disadvantages of marrying a man inferior to herself in intelligence, education, and force of character; he said that the Bagroff family would not take her to their hearts—they would be much more likely to hate her, because coarse and cruel ignorance always hates refinement; he warned her not to rely on the promises of a lover; for these as a rule are not kept after marriage, and AlexyÉi Stepanitch, even if he wished, would not have the power to keep them. To all this sage advice, drawn directly from the experience of life, she had an answer of surprising adroitness; and at the same time she depicted in such lively colours the advantages of marrying a man who, if he lacked energy and refinement, was at least kind-hearted, honourable, loving, and no fool, that her father was carried away by her confidence and gave his full consent. She clasped her father in her arms and kissed his wasted hands; then she gave him the ikon and received his blessing,⁴⁰ kneeling by his bed and weeping. "Father," she cried in her excitement, "with God's help, I hope that in a year's time AlexyÉi Stepanitch will be a different creature: the reading of good books, the society of clever people, and constant conversation with his wife—these will make up for defects of education; his bashfulness will pass away, and the power to take a place in society will come of itself." "May it be so!" he answered. "Now send for the priest. I wish that we should pray together for your happiness."