During the first few minutes Sofya Nikolayevna felt sorry for her father-in-law and sad to part with him. The image of the old man who had learnt to love her and was suffering now from the separation, came vividly before her. But before long the easy motion of the carriage, with the fleeting glimpses of fields and coppices and the outline of the hills along which they were driving, had a soothing effect upon her mind; and she began to feel heartily glad that she had left Bagrovo. Her joy was too great to be concealed, though she realised that her husband would not like it. He, she thought, was sadder than he had any business to be. Some explanations might possibly have followed, but were fortunately prevented by the presence of Parasha. The carriage rolled quickly through the village of Noikino, where it was saluted by hearty shouts from the Mordvinians, and then crossed the river Nasyagai by a crazy bridge. They crossed the same river again and passed through the village of Polibino, and came at last to Korovino, where a fresh team was waiting for their arrival; their own horses were to rest there for some hours and return to Bagrovo in the evening.

Sofya Nikolayevna had provided herself with writing materials, and now she wrote a warm letter of thanks to her husband's parents. It was intended especially for Stepan Mihailovitch; and he understood this perfectly and hid the letter in the secret drawer of the modest writing-desk which satisfied his needs; and there Sofya Nikolayevna came upon her own letter unexpectedly eight years afterwards, when the old man was in his grave. The horses were put to, good-byes were said to the coachman and postilion—long-legged Tanaichonok was acting as postilion on this occasion—and the pair resumed their journey. Fortune was kind at this point to Sofya Nikolayevna: it proved impossible to get to the Yerlykins' house, and thus she was saved from a most tiresome and oppressive visit. A deep river on the way had to be crossed, and the bridge had rotted and collapsed. As it would take a long time to mend it, the young couple could keep straight on towards Ufa. As they got near the town, Sofya Nikolayevna could think of nothing but her sick father, who had not seen her for more than a fortnight; he had been left in the care of servants and must be feeling lonely and eager for his daughter's return. The travellers took a full hour to cross the river ByÉlaya in a crazy ferry-boat; and the ascent of the steep hill on the other side took time. Before it was over, Sofya Nikolayevna was very impatient and in great agitation. At last she got to the house. In a fever of excitement she hurried to her father's room and softly opened the door. He was lying in his usual position; and near him, on the very armchair which was usually occupied by Sofya Nikolayevna herself, his servant Nikolai was sitting.

This man was a Kalmuck, and I must tell something of his history. In those distant times it was a common practice in the district of Ufa to buy native boys and girls, either Kalmucks or Kirghizes, from their parents or relations, and to make use of them later as serfs. Forty years before the date of my story, M. Zubin had bought two Kalmuck boys. He had them baptized, became fond of them, and made pets of them. He had them taught to read and write; and, when they grew up, they became his personal servants. Both of them were intelligent and neat-handed and appeared to be very devoted; but, when Pugatchoff⁴⁶ raised the standard of revolt, they both ran off and joined the rebels. One of them soon lost his life; but the other, who had been his master's favourite and was called Nikolai, now became the favourite of one Chika, who was prominent among the rebels and stood high in the favour of Pugatchoff himself. It is well known that one band of the revolters was encamped for a long time near Ufa, on the opposite bank of the river ByÉlaya. Nikolai was in this camp and had by this time been promoted to a position of some authority. It was said that he was fiercer than any of them and breathed fire and slaughter against no one so much as his old master who had brought him up. Tradition tells that, whenever the rebels were preparing to cross the river and fall upon the defenceless town, they saw a great army march out to defend the heights on the opposite bank, and an ancient warrior at their head, riding on a snow-white horse, and holding a spear in one hand and a Cross in the other. The cowardly band of outlaws were terrified by this vision and desisted from all their attempts; and they had done nothing when the news came that Pugatchoff was defeated. Of course they scattered at once. The revolt came to an end, and the scattered rabble were seized and brought to trial. Nikolai, who was one of these, was condemned to the gallows. I cannot vouch for the truth of this; but I have been assured that, after his trial at Ufa, the noose was actually round his neck, when M. Zubin claimed the privilege which he possessed as a landholder, pardoned his old favourite, and took him home, undertaking to be responsible himself for the criminal's behaviour. Nikolai seemed penitent and tried by zeal and devotion to atone for his crime. By degrees he contrived to get back into his master's confidence; and, when Sofya Nikolayevna, after her stepmother's death, took over the management of the household, she found Nikolai established as butler; he had been a favourite with her stepmother, and this now became a passport to her father's goodwill. Nikolai had been guilty of much insolence to his young mistress during her time of humiliation; but he was a very cunning fellow and quite realised his present position. He played the part of the repentant sinner, throwing all the guilt on the stepmother, and blaming himself for the slavish spirit in which he had carried out her orders. It would have been quite easy for Sofya Nikolayevna to get rid of him for good and all; but her youth and generous nature made her believe that his repentance was genuine. She pardoned him, and actually begged her father to leave him in his old position. As time went on, she was sometimes vexed by the way in which he settled things without consulting her, and she felt doubts about his honesty. She noticed also that his intimacy with her father, though concealed from her, was closer than she liked. But he was very zealous in his attendance upon his sick master, sleeping always in the same room, and also found time to do his work as butler exceedingly well. She was therefore content with mild reproofs, and the man was left free to take root at leisure in his double office. When she became engaged, she had to see herself to the buying of her wedding-clothes and to spend much time with her future husband; and so she was less with her father and gave less attention to household affairs. Nikolai took full advantage of this opportunity, and his power over the old invalid increased daily. Hoping soon to get rid of his mistress and to become master of the house himself, he grew more insolent and less careful to conceal his power. Sofya Nikolayevna sometimes snubbed him sharply; she was grieved to see her father's increasing dependence on this man and abdication of his own authority.

Nikolai had made full use of the few days that preceded and followed the marriage, and of her absence for a fortnight at Bagrovo: his master, now at death's door, was completely under his control. Sofya Nikolayevna guessed the true state of affairs as soon as she saw the man lying asleep in the armchair; never before had he ventured on such a liberty. She gave him a look which sent him in some haste and confusion out of the room. Her father was by no means as pleased to see her as she expected; he made haste to tell her that Nikolai was not to blame: "It is at my urgent wish," he said, "that he sometimes takes a seat at my bedside." "It is a pity you do that, father," she said; "you will spoil him altogether and be forced to turn him off; I know him better than you do." Then, without entering upon further explanations, she expressed her joy at having found him no worse. AlexyÉi Stepanitch soon came in, and then the old man, touched by his daughter's unfeigned tenderness, his son-in-law's attentive behaviour, and the love between husband and wife, listened with pleasure to their narrative and thanked God with tears for their happiness.

Sofya Nikolayevna began at once the business of instalment. She chose three rooms, quite separate from the rest, for their own occupation; and in a few days her arrangements were so complete that she could receive her own guests without any disturbance to her father. It was her intention to arrange as before about the management of the house and the attendance on her father, and to assign to Nikolai the subordinate part of carrying out her instructions; but the man had always hated her, and now felt himself strong enough to declare open war against his young mistress. While attending to the father more zealously than ever, he contrived with extraordinary cunning to insult the daughter at every turn; and to AlexyÉi Stepanitch he was so insolent that the young man lost patience, in spite of his easy and unexacting temper, and told his wife that he could not possibly put up with the position. For some time Sofya Nikolayevna did not trouble her father, hoping by her own influence to keep Nikolai within the bounds of reasonable politeness; she relied upon his intelligence, and also believed that he knew her determined character and would not venture to drive her to extremities. But the malicious Asiatic—this was the servants' name for him—was convinced beforehand that he would conquer, and tried to provoke Sofya Nikolayevna into some passionate outburst. Long ago he had been able to instill into his master the belief that the young lady could not endure her father's faithful servant and would certainly try to turn him out of the house. The invalid was horrified by this prospect, and solemnly declared that he would prefer death to such a deprivation. Sofya Nikolayevna tried to hint to her father in very gentle and affectionate terms that Nikolai forgot himself in his behaviour to her husband and neglected to carry out her orders; it seemed to be his intention to provoke her to anger. But her father became agitated and refused to listen: he said that he was perfectly satisfied with Nikolai, and begged her not to trouble the butler but to give her orders to some other servant. Young and impulsive, and accustomed to undisputed authority in her father's house, Sofya Nikolayevna found it hard to endure the insulting behaviour of an unworthy menial; yet her love for her father, and her desire to nurse and comfort him and alleviate his sufferings as far as possible, kept her for long from the idea of leaving him in that dying state to depend entirely upon such a wretch as Nikolai and other servants. She controlled her impulsiveness and injured pride; she gave her household orders through one of the other servants, knowing all the time that all her instructions were altered by her enemy at his will and pleasure. She induced her father to order that Nikolai should not enter the sick-room while she was sitting there. But this arrangement soon broke down: under various pretexts, the man constantly came into the room; and indeed the invalid himself constantly asked for him. This painful situation continued for several months.

Sofya Nikolayevna arranged her engagements in the town in accordance with her own wishes. The people whom she liked she often met, either in their houses or her own; the rest she seldom saw, and was content to exchange formal calls with them. Her husband was acquainted already with everybody in the town; but his wife's intimate friends now became intimate with him. He became popular with them and got on very well in his new position—I mean, in the select society that gathered round his wife.

Meanwhile, soon after her return to Ufa, Sofya Nikolayevna began to feel unpleasant symptoms of a peculiar kind, which gave great satisfaction to Stepan Mihailovitch when he heard of them. The continuation of his ancient line, the descendants of the great Shimon, was a constant theme of the old man's thoughts and wishes; it troubled his peace of mind and stuck in his head like a nail. On receiving the good news from his son, Stepan Mihailovitch was full of happy hopes and convinced that the child would infallibly be a boy. His family always said that his spirits were unusually high at this time. He had prayers said in church for his daughter-in-law's health, forgave certain sums owed him by neighbours or dependants, asked every one to congratulate him, and made them drink till they were dizzy.

In his excitement and joy, it occurred to him suddenly to bestow a mark of his favour upon Aksyutka, the maid who poured out tea and coffee, to whom he always showed an unaccountable partiality. Aksyutka was a peasant's daughter who had lost both parents and was brought to the house at Bagrovo when she was seven years old, merely to save her from starvation. She was exceedingly ugly—red-haired and freckled, with eyes of no colour in particular; she was also bad-tempered and a horrible sloven. This does not sound attractive; but Stepan Mihailovitch took a great fancy to her, and never did dinner pass without his giving or sending to the child something taken from the dishes at table. When she grew up, he made her pour out his tea in the morning and talked to her for hours at a time. She was now a good deal over thirty. One morning, soon after the good news came from Ufa, Stepan Mihailovitch said to her: "What makes you go about looking like a scarecrow? Be off, you stupid creature, and put on your best clothes that you wear on holidays. I mean to find you a husband." Aksyutka grinned: she thought her master was not serious, and answered: "Why, who would marry an orphan like me, except perhaps Kirsanka, the shepherd?" (Kirsanka, as every one knew, was deformed and idiotic.) Stepan Mihailovitch seemed vexed; he went on, "If I arrange the marriage, you can have your pick of the young men. Go and dress yourself, and come back at once." Aksyutka went out surprised and delighted; and Stepan Mihailovitch summoned Little Ivan to his presence. We have heard something of this man already; he was now twenty-four years old, with a complexion of lilies and roses, a very fine young fellow, both tall and stout. At the time of Pugatchoff's revolt, when the master himself took refuge with his family at Astrakhan, Ivan's father had been left in charge of the serfs at Bagrovo; and it was generally supposed that his death was due to overwork and anxiety at that time. He left two sons, both called Ivan, and this one was known as Little Ivan, to distinguish him from his elder brother, who inherited his father's nickname of Weasel. Little Ivan appeared before his master, "like a leaf before the grass."⁴⁷ Stepan Mihailovitch looked at him with admiration, and then said in a voice so kind that the lad's heart leaped for joy, "Ivan, I mean to give you a wife." "Your will is law, batyushka Stepan Mihailovitch," answered the man, devoted body and soul to his master. "Well, go and dress yourself in your best, and come back to me in less than no time." Ivan flew off to do his master's bidding. Aksyutka was the first to reappear; she had smoothed her red hair and greased it with oil, and put on her smartest jacket and skirt, and her bare feet were hidden in shoes; but alas! she was no more beautiful than before. She was much excited, and her mouth was constantly expanding into a broad grin, which she tried to hide with her hand, because she felt ashamed of it. Stepan Mihailovitch laughed: "Oh, she's willing enough to take a husband," he said. Back flew Ivan; but the sight of Aksyutka's ugly face and fine dress sent a cold shiver down his back. "There is your bride," said Stepan Mihailovitch; "she is a good servant to me as your father was once. You may both count on my protection." His wife now came in, and he turned to her and said: "Arisha, the bride's clothes are all to be made out of our stuff; I shall give her a cow and provide everything to eat and drink at the wedding." No one raised any objections, and the marriage took place. Aksyutka was charmed with her handsome husband, but he detested his repulsive wife, who was ten years older than him to boot. She was jealous of him all day long, and not without reason; and he beat her all day long, with some excuse on his side also; for nothing but the stick—and not even that for long—could shut her mouth and keep her wicked tongue from wagging. It was a pity, a great pity: Stepan Mihailovitch did a wrong thing when he made others sad because he was happy.

Of his happiness I judge partly by tradition but more from a letter which he wrote to Sofya Nikolayevna and which I have seen myself. We have seen that he was capable of strong and deep affection; yet it is hard to believe that a man with so little refinement of manner could give verbal expression to such tender and delicate solicitude as breathed through the whole of this letter. He begged her and commanded her to be careful of her health, and sent her much advice on the subject. Unfortunately, I can only remember a few words of it: "If you were living in my house"—this was one thing the old man said—"I would not suffer the wind to blow on you or a grain of dust to settle on your skin."

Sofya Nikolayevna was able to appreciate this affection, though she understood that half of it was intended for the expected heir; and she promised to carry out scrupulously his wishes and instructions. But it was hard for her to keep this promise. She was one of those women who pay for the joy of motherhood by a constant discomfort which is more painful and distressing than any real illness; and she suffered in mind also, because her relations with her father became daily more humiliating and the insolence of Nikolai more unbearable. AlexyÉi Stepanitch, who saw no danger in his wife's constant sufferings, and was told that the symptoms were quite natural and would soon pass away, though he was sorry for his wife, was not excessively put out; and this was another cause of distress to Sofya Nikolayevna. He worked hard at his duties in the law-court, hoping soon to be promoted. He had become accustomed to living with his father-in-law; he avoided for the present all contact with Nikolai, and looked forward without impatience to a change in their position. His wife did not like this either. Things dragged on like this, as I have said already, for several months, and it was not a happy time for any of them.

But Nikolai was not satisfied with this state of things: he desired a final solution. Seeing that Sofya Nikolayevna was controlling her quick temper and righteous indignation, he determined to force her hand. It was necessary for his purpose that she should lose patience and complain to her father; and he warned the invalid more than once that he was constantly expecting Sofya Nikolayevna to complain of him and demand his instant dismissal. He did not wait for any pretext or opportunity. One day, in the presence of other servants, when his young mistress was standing close to him at the open door of the next room, he began, speaking loud and looking straight at her, to use such offensive language of herself and her husband that Sofya Nikolayevna was struck dumb for a moment by his insolence. But she recovered immediately, and without a word to him rushed to her father's room, where, choking with wrath and excitement, she repeated the insulting words which had been said almost to her face by his favourite. Nikolai came in at her heels and would not let her finish her story. Feigning tears and crossing himself, he solemnly swore, that it was mere slander, that he had never said anything of the sort, and that it was wicked of Sofya Nikolayevna to ruin an innocent man! "You hear what he says, Sonitchka," said the invalid in a peevish voice. This was too much for Sofya Nikolayevna: stung to the quick, she forgot her magnanimous self-restraint and forgot also that she might kill her father with fright. She raised her voice with such effect that the favourite was forced to leave the room. Then she said to her father: "After this insult I cannot live under the same roof with Nikolai: you must choose which of us is to go, he or I!"—and then she rushed wildly from the room. The old man had a seizure, and Nikolai hastened to his aid. The usual remedies were applied with success, and then master and man had a long conversation, after which Sofya Nikolayevna was summoned to the room. "Sonitchka," he said, with all the firmness and calmness he could muster, "my weak and suffering state makes it impossible for me to part with Nikolai; my life depends on him. You must buy another house; here is money for the purpose." Sofya Nikolayevna fell fainting to the ground and was carried back to her own room.

To this had come the tender tie of affection between parent and child, a tie which should surely have been made doubly strong by the temporary coolness due to the stepmother, and then by the father's penitence and the daughter's devotion and forgetfulness of all her wrongs. And then, when she married, she had chosen her husband with this in view, and had stipulated that she should not be parted from her father! And now they were to part at a time when the doctors declared he would not live another month! But in this forecast the doctors were mistaken, just as they often are nowadays: he lived on for more than a year.

When Sofya Nikolayevna recovered from her swoon and her eyes fell on the pale anxious face of AlexyÉi Stepanitch, she realised that there was one creature on earth who loved her: she threw her arms round her husband, and floods of tears gave relief to her heart. She told him all that had passed between her and her father. The narrative revived the smart of her wounded feelings, and brought out more clearly the difficulty of her position; and she would have despaired, but for the support of her kind husband. Though weaker in character and less far-sighted than she was, he never ran into extremes and never lost presence of mind and power of judgment in the trying hours of life. It may seem strange that AlexyÉi Stepanitch could give moral support to Sofya Nikolayevna; but, for all her exceptional intelligence and apparent strength of will, the effect of a sudden shock to her feelings was to make her lose courage and become utterly bewildered. As an honest chronicler of oral tradition, I am bound to add that she was too sensitive to the opinion of society and paid it too much deference, in spite of her own superiority to the people among whom she lived. What would be said by people at Ufa, and especially by the ladies who took the lead in society there? What would be thought by her husband's family? What, above all, would be said by Stepan Mihailovitch when he heard that she had left her father? As she asked herself these questions, the injury to her pride gave her as much pain as the wound to her feelings as a daughter. To her it seemed equally terrible that her father should be blamed for ingratitude to his daughter, or that she should be blamed for failing in affection to a dying father. One or other alternative was bound to be chosen; and either he or she was bound to be condemned.

AlexyÉi Stepanitch felt deep pity for her as he watched these sufferings, and he felt puzzled also. It was no easy task to administer consolation to Sofya Nikolayevna: her eager fancy painted appalling pictures of disaster, and her ready tongue gave them lively expression. She was prepared to brush aside every attempt to find an issue from the situation, and to trample on every suggestion of a settlement. But AlexyÉi Stepanitch had love to teach him, and also that sanity and simplicity of mind which was wanting in his wife. He waited till the first irrepressible outburst was over, the first outcry of the wounded heart; and then he began to speak. The words were very ordinary, but they came from a kind, simple heart; and if they did not calm Sofya Nikolayevna, they did at least by degrees make it possible for her to understand what was said. He told her that she had always done her duty as a loving daughter, and that she must continue to do it by falling in with her father's wishes. It was probably no sudden decision: her father might have wished for a long time that they should live apart. For a sick and dying man it was difficult or even impossible to part from the regular attendant who nursed him so faithfully. Stepan Mihailovitch must be told the whole truth; but to acquaintances it would be enough to say that her father had always intended to set up the young couple in a house of their own during his lifetime. She would be able to visit her father twice a day and attend to him almost as much as before. Of course people in the town would find out in time the real reason of the separation—they had probably some idea already of the facts—but they would only pity her and abuse Nikolai. "Besides," he added, "though your father talked like that, when it comes to acting, he may shrink from the separation. Talk it over with him, and lay all your case before him." Sofya Nikolayevna made no reply: during a long silence her eyes rested with a curious, puzzled gaze on her husband. The truth of his simple words and his plain way of looking at things—these breathed peace and comfort into her heart. His plan seemed to her new and ingenious, and she wondered she had never thought of it herself. With a heart full of love and gratitude she embraced her husband.

So it was settled that Sofya Nikolayevna should appeal to her father to alter his decision and let them stay on in the house, at all events until she had entirely recovered from her confinement; their household arrangements would be quite separate, and all collisions with Nikolai would be avoided. In favour of this suggestion, there was one very pressing argument—that, while it was bad for Sofya Nikolayevna in her present condition to be jolted over the ill-paved streets of the town, no risk to herself would prevent her from paying a daily visit to her father. But the explanation with her father was unsuccessful. The old man told her calmly but firmly that his decision had been carefully considered and was no impulse of the moment. "My dear Sonitchka," he said, "I knew beforehand that after your marriage you could not live under the same roof as Nikolai. You are not able to judge him coolly, and I don't blame you for it: he sinned deeply against you in old days, and, though you forgave him, you were unable to forget his conduct. I know that he does not behave properly to you even now; but you take an exaggerated view of it all." At this point Sofya Nikolayevna tried to break in, but he stopped her and said: "Wait and hear to the end what I have to say. Let us suppose that he is as guilty as you take him to be: that makes it all the more impossible for you to live in the same house with him; but I cannot face parting from him. Have pity on my helpless and suffering condition. I am no longer a man, but a lifeless corpse; you know that Nikolai has to move me in bed ten times a day; no one can take his place. All I ask is peace of mind. Death is hovering over me, and every moment I must prepare for the change to eternity. I was constantly made wretched by the thought that Nikolai was giving offence to you. Our parting is inevitable; go, my dear, and live in a house of your own. When you come to visit me you shall not see the object of your dislike: he will be only too glad to keep out of the way. He has gained his object and got you out of the house, and now he will be able to rob me at his leisure. I know and see it all, but I forgive him everything for his unwearied nursing of me day and night. What he undergoes in his attendance on me is beyond the power of human endurance. Do not distress me, but take the money and buy a house for yourselves."

I shall not describe all the phases through which Sofya Nikolayevna passed—her doubts and hesitations, her mental conflicts, her tears and sufferings, her ups and downs of feeling from day to day. It is enough to say that the money was accepted and the house bought, and husband and wife were settled there before a fortnight had passed. The little house was new and clean, and had never been occupied before. Sofya Nikolayevna began with her usual ardour to put her house in order and to settle the course of their daily life; but her health, much affected by her condition, and still more by all the agitation she had gone through, soon broke down altogether. She was confined to bed for a fortnight, and did not see her father for a whole month. Their first interview was a touching and pitiful sight. He had grown much weaker; missing his daughter and blaming himself for her illness, he had suffered much by her absence. Their meeting gave happiness to both, but it cost them tears. He was especially grieved to see her so terribly thin and so altered in looks; but this was due, not so much to grief and illness as to her condition. The features of some women look different and even ugly during pregnancy; and Sofya Nikolayevna was a case in point. In course of time things settled down and her relations with her father became easy; Nikolai never ventured to appear when she was present. There was just one person who could not reconcile himself to the thought that she had left a dying father to settle in a house of her own; and that was Stepan Mihailovitch. She quite anticipated this, and wrote him a very frank letter just before she was taken ill, in which she tried to explain her father's action and defend it as far as possible. She might have saved herself the trouble, for Stepan Mihailovitch blamed her and not her father, and said that it was her duty to bear without a sign of displeasure all the misconduct of "that scoundrel" Nikolai. He wrote to his son to reprove him for allowing his wife to abandon her father to the hands of servants. But Stepan Mihailovitch did not realise, either that the separation was necessary to preserve the peace of a dying man, or that a wife could act without the permission of her husband. In the present case, however, husband and wife were entirely of one mind.

To put the finishing touches to the new house and modest household arrangements, Sofya Nikolayevna called in the assistance of a widow whom she knew, who lived in a humble position at Ufa. This was Mme. Cheprunoff, a very simple and kind-hearted creature. She owned a little house in the suburbs, and a small but productive garden, which brought her in a trifle. She had other means of maintaining herself and her adored only child, a little one-eyed boy called Andrusha: she hawked about small wares of different kinds, and even sold cakes in the market. But her chief source of income was the sale of Bokhara muslin, which she went to Orenburg every year to buy. Sofya Nikolayevna was related through her mother to this woman; but she had the weakness to conceal the relationship, though every one in the town knew it. Mme. Cheprunoff was devoted to her brilliant and distinguished kinswoman. She used to pay secret visits to Sofya Nikolayevna during the time when she was persecuted and humiliated by her stepmother; and Sofya Nikolayevna, when her time of triumph and influence came, became the avowed benefactress of Mme. Cheprunoff. When they were alone together, Sofya Nikolayevna lavished caresses upon her unselfish and devoted kinswoman; but, when other people were present, the one was the great lady and the other the poor protÉgÉe who sold cakes in the streets. This treatment did not offend Mme. Cheprunoff: on the contrary, she insisted on it. She loved and admired her beautiful cousin with all her heart, and looked on her as a superior being, and would never have forgiven herself if she had thrown a shadow on the brilliant position of Sofya Nikolayevna. The secret was revealed, as it had to be, to AlexyÉi Stepanitch; and he, in spite of the ancient lineage which his sisters were always dinning into his ears, received this humble friend as his wife's worthy kinswoman, and treated her with affection and respect all his life; he even tried to kiss the work-worn hand of the cake-seller, but she would never allow it. He was only prevented by his wife's earnest entreaties from speaking of this relationship in his own family and in the circle of their acquaintance. This conduct earned him the love of the simple-minded woman; and whenever there were differences in the household in later years, she was his ardent champion and defender. She knew all the shops and was a great hand at a bargain; and so, with her help, Sofya Nikolayevna did her furnishing quickly and well.

When the young Bagroffs bought a house and started housekeeping by themselves, there was much talk and gossip in the town; and at first many exaggerations and inventions were current. But AlexyÉi Stepanitch had spoken the truth: the real reason came out before long. This was due chiefly to Nikolai, who boasted among his friends that he had ousted the pettish young lady, and took the opportunity to give a lively description of her character. So the talk and gossip soon quieted down.

Husband and wife had at last a house entirely to themselves. In the morning, AlexyÉi Stepanitch drove down to his work at the law-courts, dropping his wife at her father's house; and on his return he spent some time every day with his father-in-law, before taking his wife home. A modest dinner awaited them there. To sit alone together, at a meal of their own ordering, in their own house, was a charming sensation for a time; but nothing is a novelty for long, and this charm could not last for ever. In spite of her bad health and small means, Sofya Nikolayevna's clever hands made her little house as dainty as a toy. Taste and care are a substitute for money; and many of their visitors thought the furnishing splendid. The hardest problem was to arrange about their servants. Sofya Nikolayevna had brought two servants as part of her portion—a man named Theodore and a black-eyed maid called Parasha; these two were now married to one another; and at the same time Annushka, a young laundress belonging to Sofya Nikolayevna, was married to Yephrem YevsÉitch, a young servant who had been brought from Bagrovo. This man was honest and good-natured and much attached to his young mistress, which cannot be said of the other servants. She returned his affection, and he well deserved it: he was one in a thousand, and his devotion to her was proved by his whole life.

YevsÉitch (as he was always called in the family) became later the attendant of her eldest son,⁴⁸ and watched over him like a father. I knew this worthy man well. Fifteen years ago I saw him for the last time; he was then blind and spending his last days in the Government of Penza on an estate belonging to one of the grandsons of Stepan Mihailovitch. I spent a whole month there in the summer; and every morning I went to fish in a pool where the stream of Kakarma falls into the river Niza. The cottage where YevsÉitch was living stood right on the bank of this pool; and every day as I came up I saw him leaning against the angle of the cottage and facing the rising sun. He was bent and decrepit, and his hair had turned perfectly white; pressing a long staff to his breast, he leaned upon it with the knotted fingers of both hands, and turned his sightless eyes towards the sun's rays. Though he could not see the light, he could feel its warmth, so pleasant in the fresh morning air, and his face expressed both pleasure and sadness. His ear was so quick that he heard my step at some distance, and he always hailed me as an old fisherman might hail a schoolboy, though I was then myself over fifty years old. "Ah, it's you, my little falcon!"—he used to call me this when I was a child—"you're late this morning! God send you a full basket!" He died two years later in the arms of his son and daughter and his wife, who survived him several years.

Meantime life at Ufa took a very regular and unvarying course. Owing to her state of health and spirits, Sofya Nikolayevna paid few visits and only to intimate friends, whose small number was made smaller by the absence of the Chichagoffs. Autumn was nearly over before those dearest of friends returned from the country with Mme. Myortvavo. The disordered nerves and consequent low spirits of his wife were at first a source of great uneasiness to AlexyÉi Stepanitch. He was completely puzzled: he had never in his life met people who were ill without anything definite the matter, or sad with no cause for sadness; he could make nothing of illness due to some inexplicable grief, or grief due to some imaginary or imperceptible illness. But he saw that there was no serious danger, and his anxiety calmed down by degrees. He was convinced that it was all the effect of imagination, which had always been his way of accounting for his wife's moods of excitement and distress, whenever he found it impossible to arrive at any reason within his comprehension. If he ceased to be uneasy, he began to be rather bored at times; and this was very natural, in spite of his love for his wife and pity for her constant suffering. To listen for whole hours every day to constant complaints about her condition, which was not after all so very exceptional; to hear gloomy presentiments, or even prophecies, of the fatal results which were sure to follow (and Sofya Nikolayevna, thanks to her reading of medical works, was extraordinarily ingenious in discovering ominous symptoms); to endure her reproaches and constant demands for those trifling services which a man can seldom render—all this was wearisome enough. Sofya Nikolayevna saw what he felt, and was deeply hurt. If she had found him in general incapable of deep feeling and strong passion, she would have reconciled herself sooner to her situation. She used often to say herself, "A man cannot give you what he has not got"; and she would have recognised the truth of the saying and submitted to her fate. But the misfortune was that she remembered the depth and ardour of her husband's passion in the days of his courtship, and believed that he might have continued to love her in the same fashion, had not something occurred to cool his feelings. This unlucky notion by degrees took hold of her imagination, and her ingenuity soon discovered many reasons to account for this coolness and much evidence of its truth. As to reasons—there was the hostile influence of his family, her own ill-health, and, worst of all, her loss of beauty; for her looking-glass forced upon her the sad change in her appearance. Her proofs were these—that her husband was not disquieted by her danger, took insufficient notice of her condition, did not try to cheer and interest her, and, above all, found more pleasure in talking to other women. And then a passion, which hitherto had lurked unrecognised, the torturing passion of jealousy, as keen-sighted as it is blind, flashed up like gunpowder in her heart. Every day there were scenes—tears and reproaches, quarrels and reconciliations. And all the time AlexyÉi Stepanitch was entirely innocent. To the insinuations of his sisters he paid no attention at all; to his father's opinion he attached great importance, and that was so favourable to Sofya Nikolayevna that she had even risen in her husband's eyes in consequence. He was sincerely, if not deeply, distressed about her sufferings; and her loss of beauty he regarded as temporary, and looked forward with pleasure to the time when his young wife would get back her good looks. Though the sight of her suffering distressed him, he could not sympathise with all her presentiments and prognostications which he believed to be quite imaginary. He was incapable, as most men would be, of paying her the sort of attention she expected. It was really a ticklish business to administer consolation to Sofya Nikolayevna in her present condition: you were quite likely to put your foot in it and make matters worse; it required much tact and dexterity, and these were qualities which her husband did not possess. If he found more pleasure in talking to other women, it was probably because he was not afraid that some casual remark might cause annoyance and irritation.

But Sofya Nikolayevna could not look at the matter in this light. Her view of it was dictated by her nature, whose fine qualities were apt to run to extremes. But what was to be done, if the nerves of one were tough and strong and those of the other sensitive and morbid, if hers were jarred by what had no effect upon his? The Chichagoffs alone understood the causes of this uncomfortable situation; and, though they received no confidences from either husband or wife, they took a warm interest in both and did much to calm Sofya Nikolayevna's excitement by their friendship, their frequent visits, and their rational and sensible conversation. Both husband and wife owed much to them at this period.

So things went on till the time that Sofya Nikolayevna became a mother. Though she was often troubled in mind, her health improved during the last two months, and she was safely delivered of a daughter. She herself, and her husband still more, would have preferred a son; but, when the mother pressed the child to her heart, she thought no more of any distinction between boy and girl. A passion of maternal love filled her heart and mind and whole being. AlexyÉi Stepanitch thanked God for his wife's safety, rejoiced at her relief, and soon reconciled himself to the fact that his child was a girl.

But at Bagrovo it was quite another story! Stepan Mihailovitch was so confident that he was to have a grandson to carry on the line of the Bagroffs, that he would not believe at first in the birth of a grand-daughter. When at last he read through his son's letter with his own eyes and was convinced that there was no doubt about it, he was seriously annoyed. He put off the entertainment planned for his labourers, and refused to write himself to the parents; he would only send a message of congratulation to the young mother, with instructions that the infant was to be christened Praskovya, in compliment to his cousin and favourite, Praskovya Ivanovna Kurolyessova. His vexation over this disappointment was a touching and amusing sight. Even his womankind derived a little secret amusement from it. His good sense told him that he had no business to be angry with any one, but for a few days he could not control his feelings—so hard was it for him to give up the hope, or rather the certainty, that a grandson would be born, to continue the famous line of Shimon. In the expectation of the happy news, he had kept his family tree on his bed, ready any day to enter his grandson's name; but now he ordered this document to be hidden out of sight. He would not allow his daughter Aksinya to travel to Ufa in order to stand godmother to the babe; he said impatiently, "Take that journey for a girl's christening? Nonsense! If she brings a girl every year, you would have travelling enough!" Time did its work, however, and the frown, never a formidable frown this time, vanished from the brow of Stepan Mihailovitch, as he consoled himself with the thought that he might have a grandson before a year was out. Then he wrote a kind and playful letter to his daughter-in-law, pretending to scold her for her mistake and bidding her present him with a grandson within a twelvemonth.

Sofya Nikolayevna was so entirely absorbed by the revelation of maternity and by devotion to her child, that she did not even notice the signs of the old man's displeasure, and was quite unaffected by Aksinya's absence from the christening. It proved difficult to keep her in bed for nine days after her confinement. She felt so well and strong that she could have danced on the fourth day. But she had no wish to dance; she wanted to be on her feet day and night, attending to her little Parasha. The infant was feeble and sickly; the mother's constant distress of body and mind had probably affected the child. The doctor would not allow her to nurse the child herself. AndrÉi Avenarius was the name of this doctor; he was a very clever, cultivated, and amiable man, an intimate friend of the young people and a daily visitor at their house. As soon as possible Sofya Nikolayevna took her baby to her father's house, hoping that it would please the invalid to see this mite, and that he would find in it a resemblance to his first wife. This resemblance was probably imaginary; for, in my opinion, it is impossible for an infant to be like a grown-up person; but Sofya Nikolayevna never failed to assert that her first child was the very image of its grandmother. Old M. Zubin was approaching the end of his earthly career; both body and mind were breaking fast. He looked at the baby with little interest, and had hardly strength to sign it with the Cross. All he said was, "I congratulate you, Sonitchka." Sofya Nikolayevna was distressed by her father's critical condition—it was more than a month since she had seen him—and also by his indifference to her little angel, Parasha.

But soon the young mother forgot all the world around her, as she hung over her daughter's cradle. All other interests and attachments grew pale in comparison, and she surrendered herself with a kind of frenzy to this new sensation. No hands but hers might touch the child. She handed it herself to the foster-mother and held it at the breast, and it was pain to her to watch it drawing life, not from its mother, but from a stranger. It is hard to believe, but it is true, and Sofya Nikolayevna admitted it herself later, that, if the child sucked too long, she used to take it away before it was satisfied, and rock it herself in her arms or in the cradle, and sing it to sleep. She saw nothing of her friends, not even of her dear Mme. Chichagoff. Naturally they all thought her eccentric or absurd and her chief intimates were vexed by her conduct. She paid a hasty visit every day to her father, and returned every day with fear in her heart that she would find the child ill. She left her husband perfectly free to spend his time as he liked. For some days he stopped at home; but his wife never stirred from the cradle and took no notice of him, except to turn him out of the little nursery, because she feared that twice-breathed air might hurt the baby. After this, he began to go out alone, till at last he went to some party every day; and he began to play cards to relieve his boredom. The Ufa ladies were amused at the sight of the deserted husband, and some of them flirted with him, saying that it was a charity to console the widower, and that Sofya Nikolayevna would thank them for it when she recovered from her maternal passion and reappeared in society. Sofya Nikolayevna did not hear of these good Samaritans till later; when she did, she was vexed. Mme. Cheprunoff, who came often to the house, watched Sofya Nikolayevna with astonishment, pity, and displeasure. She was a tender mother herself to her little boy with the one eye, but this devotion to one object and disregard of everything else seemed to her to border on insanity. With groans and sighs she struck her fists against her own body—this was a regular trick of hers—and said that such love was a mortal sin which God would punish. Sofya Nikolayevna resented this so much that she kept Mme. Cheprunoff out of the nursery in future. No one but Dr. Avenarius was admitted there, and he came pretty often. The mother was constantly discovering symptoms of different diseases in the child; for these she began by consulting Buchan's Domestic Medicine, and then, when that did not answer, she called in Avenarius. He found it impossible to argue her out of her beliefs: all he could do was to prescribe harmless medicines. Yet the child was really feeble, and at times he was obliged to prescribe for it in real earnest.

It is difficult to say what would have been the upshot of all this; but, by the inscrutable designs of Providence, a thunderbolt burst over the head of Sofya Nikolayevna: her adored child died suddenly. The cause of death was uncertain: it may have been too much care, or too much medicine, or too feeble a constitution; at any rate, the child succumbed, when four months old, to a very slight attack of a common childish ailment. Sofya Nikolayevna was sitting by the cradle when she saw the infant start and a spasm pass over the little face; she caught it up and found that it was dead.

Sofya Nikolayevna must have had a marvellous constitution to support this blow. For some days she knew no one and the doctors feared for her reason; there were three of them, Avenarius, Zanden, and Klauss; all three were much attached to their patient, and one of them was always with her. But, by God's blessing and thanks to her youth and strength, that terrible time passed by. The unhappy mother recovered her senses, and her love for her husband, whose own distress was great, asserted itself for the time and saved her. On the fourth day she became conscious of her surroundings; she recognised AlexyÉi Stepanitch, so changed by grief that he was hard to recognise, and her bosom friend, Mme. Chichagoff; a terrible cry burst from her lips and a healing flood of tears gushed from the eyes which had been dry till then. She silently embraced her husband and sobbed for long on his breast, while he sobbed himself like a child. The danger of insanity was past, but the exhaustion of her bodily strength was still alarming. For four days and nights she had neither eaten nor drunk, and now she could swallow no food nor medicine nor even water. Her condition was so critical that the doctors did not oppose her wish to make her confession and receive the sacraments. The performance of this Christian duty was beneficial to the patient: she slept for the first time, and, when she woke after two hours looking bright and happy, she told her husband that she had seen in her sleep a vision of Our Lady of Iberia, exactly as she was represented on the ikon of their parish church; and she believed that, if she could put her lips to this ikon, the Mother of God would surely have mercy on her. The image was brought from the church, and the priest read the service for the Visitation of the Sick. When the choir sang, "O mighty Mother of God, look down in mercy on my sore bodily suffering!"—all present fell on their knees and repeated the words of the prayer. AlexyÉi Stepanitch sobbed aloud; and the sufferer too shed tears throughout the service and pressed her lips to the image. When it was over, she felt so much relief that she was able to drink some water; and from that time she began to take food and medicine. Her two dear friends, Mme. Chichagoff and Mme. Cheprunoff, were with her constantly; she was soon pronounced out of danger, and her husband's troubled heart had rest. The doctors set to work with fresh zeal to restore her strength, and their great anxiety was in a way dangerous to their patient; for one of them found traces of consumption, another of marasmus, and the third was apprehensive of an aneurysm. But fortunately they were unanimous on one point: the patient should go at once to the country, to enjoy pure air and, preferably, forest air, and take a course of koumiss. At the beginning of June it was not too late to drink mare's milk, as the grass on the steppes was still fresh and in full growth.

Stepan Mihailovitch took the news of his grand-daughter's death very coolly: he even said, "No reason to tear one's hair over that! There will be plenty more girls." But when he heard later of the dangerous illness of Sofya Nikolayevna, the old man was much disturbed. When a third message came, that she was out of immediate danger but very ill, and that the doctors were baffled and prescribed a course of koumiss, he was exceedingly angry with the doctors: "Those bunglers murder our bodies," he said, "and defile our souls by making us swallow the drink of heathens. If a Russian is forbidden by his Church to eat horseflesh, then he has no business to drink the milk of the unclean animal." Then he added with a heavy sigh and a gesture of disgust: "I don't like it at all: her life may perhaps be saved, but she will never be right again, and there will be no children." Stepan Mihailovitch was deeply grieved and remained for a long time in a state of depression.

Twenty-nine versts to the south-west of Ufa, on the road to Kazan, where the Uza falls into that noble river, the Dyoma, there lay in a rich valley a little Tatar village called by the Russians Alkino, surrounded by forests. The houses nestled in picturesque disorder at the foot of a hill called Bairam-Tau⁴⁹ which gave them shelter from the north; and another hill, Zein-Tau,⁵⁰ rose on the west. The Uza, fringed with bushes, flowed to the south-west; the forest-glades were fragrant with grasses and flowers; and, all round, oaks and limes and maples cleft the air and imparted to it an invigorating virtue. To this charming spot AlexyÉi Stepanitch brought his wife, weak and pale and thin, a mere shadow of her old self; Avenarius, their friend and doctor, came with them, and they had some difficulty in getting the patient to the end of the journey. The owner of the village received them with cordial hospitality; he had a comfortable house, but Sofya Nikolayevna was unwilling to install herself there, and one of the outbuildings was cleared out for her occupation. The family were only too kind in their attentions to her, so that the doctor was obliged to forbid their visits for a time. They spoke Russian fairly well, though they professed the Mohammedan creed; and, though their dress and habits were then partly Russian and partly Tatar, koumiss was their invariable drink from morning till night. For Sofya Nikolayevna, the health-giving beverage was prepared in a cleanly, civilised manner: the mare's milk was fermented in a clean, new wooden bucket and not in the usual bag of raw horse-hide. The natives declared that koumiss made in their fashion tasted better, and was more effective; but Sofya Nikolayevna felt an unconquerable aversion to the horse-hide bag. When the doctor had laid down rules for the cure, he went back to Ufa, leaving AlexyÉi Stepanitch, with Parasha and Annushka, in charge of the invalid. The air and the koumiss, of which small doses were taken at first; the daily drives with AlexyÉi Stepanitch through the forest which surrounded the village—YevsÉitch, who was now a favourite with Sofya Nikolayevna, acted as coachman; the woods, where the patient lay for whole hours in the cool shade on a leather mattress with pillows, breathing the fragrant air into her lungs, listening sometimes to an entertaining book, and often sinking into refreshing sleep—the whole life was so beneficial to Sofya Nikolayevna that in a fortnight she was able to get up and could walk about. When Avenarius came again he was delighted by the effect of the koumiss, and increased the doses; but, as the patient could not endure it in large quantities, he thought it necessary to prescribe vigorous exercise in the form of riding on horseback. For a Russian lady to ride was in those days a startling novelty: AlexyÉi Stepanitch did not like it, and Sofya Nikolayevna herself was shocked by the notion. Their host's daughters presented an instructive example, for they constantly rode far and wide over the country on their Bashkir ponies; but Sofya Nikolayevna turned a deaf ear for long to all persuasions, and even to the entreaties of her husband, whom the doctor had speedily and completely convinced of the necessity of the exercise. At last the Chichagoffs came on a visit to Alkino, and Sofya Nikolayevna's resistance was overcome by a joint effort. What appealed to her most strongly was the example of Mme. Chichagoff, who, in the spirit of true friendship, sacrificed her own prejudices and began to ride, at first alone, and then with the patient. This hard exercise required a change of diet; and fat mutton, which Sofya Nikolayevna did not like either, was prescribed. Avenarius probably took a hint from the habits of the Bashkirs and Tatars, who, while moving from place to place throughout the summer, drink koumiss and eat hardly anything but fat mutton, not even bread; and they ride all day long over the broad steppes, until the prairie grass turns from green to grey and veils itself with a soft, silvery down. The treatment answered admirably. They sometimes rode out in a large party with the sons and daughters of their host. There was a potash factory which they sometimes visited, about two versts from Alkino, situated in the depth of the forest and on the bank of a stream; and Sofya Nikolayevna looked with interest at the iron cauldrons full of burning wood-ash, the wooden troughs in which the dross was deposited, and the furnaces in which the product was refined and converted into porous white lumps of the vegetable salt called "potash." She admired the rapidity with which the work was carried on, and the activity of the Tatars, whose skull-caps were a novelty to her, and also the long shirts which came down to their feet and yet left them free command of their limbs. In general her hosts were very kind, and tried to amuse their guest by making the natives sing and dance before her, or wrestle, or run races on horseback.

At first AlexyÉi Stepanitch was always present at these expeditions and entertainments; but, when he ceased to feel anxious about his wife's health, and saw her surrounded by troops of attentive friends, he began by degrees to find some time on his hands. Country life and country air, with the beauty of that landscape, roused in him a desire for his old amusements. He made fishing-lines and began to angle for the wily trout in the clear mountain streams round Alkino; and he went out sometimes to catch quails with a net. Theodore, Parasha's young husband, was a capital hand at this sport and could make pipes to decoy the birds. With sportsmen in general, netting for quails does not rank high; but really I do not know why they despise it. To lie on the fragrant meadow grass with your net hanging in front of you on the tall stalks; to hear the quails calling beside you and at a distance; to imitate their low, sweet note on the pipe; to hear the excited birds reply and watch them run, or even fly, from all sides towards you; to watch their curious antics, and to get excited yourself over the success or failure of your strategy—all this gave me much pleasure at one time, and even now I cannot recall it with indifference. But it was impossible to make this pleasure intelligible to Sofya Nikolayevna.

In two months she was well on the way to recovery: her face filled out, and a bright colour began to play again upon her cheeks. When Avenarius paid a third visit, he was entirely satisfied; and he had a perfect right to triumph; for he was the first to prescribe koumiss and directed the treatment himself. He had always been attached to his patient; and now that he had succeeded in saving her life, he loved her like a daughter.

AlexyÉi Stepanitch sent a weekly bulletin to his father at Bagrovo. Stepan Mihailovitch was glad to hear that his daughter-in-law was getting better; but of course he disbelieved in the healing power of the koumiss, and was very angry about the riding, which they were rash enough to mention in writing to him. His wife and daughters made use of this opportunity, and the sneering remarks, which they let fall on purpose in the course of conversation, worked him up to such a pitch that he wrote his son a rather offensive letter which gave pain to Sofya Nikolayevna. But, when he was convinced that his daughter-in-law had quite recovered and had even grown stout, pleasing hopes began to stir again in his breast, and he grew reconciled in some degree to the koumiss and the riding.

The young Bagroffs returned to Ufa at the beginning of autumn. Old M. Zubin was very far gone by that time, and his daughter's wonderful recovery produced no sort of impression on him. All his earthly business was done, and all ties broken; every thread that held him to life was severed, and the soul could hardly find shelter in the disruption of the body.

The normal course of relations between the young couple had been, so to speak, arrested in its development by a number of events: first, by the birth of the child and the mother's extravagant devotion to it; then, by the child's death which nearly deprived the mother of her reason and her life; and, finally, by the long course of treatment and residence in the Tatar village. In the stormy season of her distress and sickness, Sofya Nikolayevna had ever before her eyes the genuine love and self-sacrifice of her husband. At that time there were none of those collisions, which constantly occur at ordinary times between ill-matched characters; and, even if there were occasions for such misunderstandings, they passed unnoticed. When gold is in circulation, small change is of little importance. In exceptional circumstances and critical moments, nothing but gold passes; but the daily expenditure of uneventful life is mainly carried on with small change. Now AlexyÉi Stepanitch, though he was not poor in gold, was often hard up for small change. When a man, if he sees distress and danger threatening the health and life of one whom he loves, himself suffers in every fibre of his being; when he forgets sleep and food and himself altogether; when the nerves are strung up and the moral nature uplifted—at such times there is no room for small exactions, no room for small services and attentions. But when the time of tragic events has gone by, everything quiets down again; the nerves are relaxed and the spirit contracts; the material life of flesh and blood asserts itself, in all its triviality; habits resume their lost power; and then comes the turn of those exactions and demands we spoke of, the turn of small services and polite attentions and all the other trifles which make up the web of actual ordinary life. Time will again apply the test and bring back the necessity of self-sacrifice; but meanwhile life runs on without a stop in the ordinary groove, and its peace and adornment and pleasure—what we call happiness, in fact—is made up entirely of trivial things, of small change.

For these reasons, when Sofya Nikolayevna began to recover and AlexyÉi Stepanitch ceased to fear for her life and health, there began by degrees to reappear, on one side, the old exacting temper, and, on the other side, the old incapacity to satisfy its demands. Gentle reproaches and expostulations had become tiresome to the husband, and fierce explosions frightened him. Fear at once banished perfect frankness, and loss of frankness between husband and wife, especially in the less assertive and independent of the two, leads straight to the destruction of domestic happiness. After the return to Ufa, this evil would probably have grown worse in the trivial, idle atmosphere of town life; but Sofya Nikolayevna's father was now actually dying, and his sad, suffering condition banished all other anxieties and monopolised his daughter's; thoughts and feelings. Obedient to the law of her moral nature, she gave herself up without reserves to her duty as a daughter. Thus the process which was unveiling every corner of their domestic life, was again brought to a standstill. Sofya Nikolayevna spent her days and nights with her father. Nikolai, as before, waited on his sick master, nursing him with wonderful devotion and indefatigable care; and, as before, he kept out of sight of Sofya; Nikolayevna, though he had now the right and the power to appear before her with impunity. Touched by his behaviour, she had sent for him; a reconciliation took place, and she gave him leave to be present with her in the sick-room. The dying man, in spite of his apparent insensibility to all around him, noticed this change: he pressed his daughter's hand in his feeble grasp, and said in a hardly audible whisper, "I thank you." Sofya Nikolayevna never left her father after this time.

I said that when Stepan Mihailovitch received the good news of his daughter-in-law's recovery, fond hopes awoke once more in his breast. They were not disappointed: before long Sofya Nikolayevna wrote to him herself, that she hoped, if God was good to her, to give birth to a son, to be the comfort of his old age. At the instant Stepan Mihailovitch was overjoyed, but he soon controlled his feelings and hid his happiness from his womankind. Perhaps it occurred to him that this second child might be a daughter, that Sofya Nikolayevna and the doctors between them might kill it too with too much love and too much medicine, and that the mother might lose her health over again; or perhaps Stepan Mihailovitch was like many other people, who deliberately prophesy calamities with a secret hope that fortune will reverse their prognostications. He pretended that he was not in the least glad, and said coolly: "No, no! I'm too old a bird to look at that chaff. When the thing happens, it will be time enough to believe it and rejoice over it." His family were surprised to hear him speak so, and said nothing in reply. But, as a matter of fact, the old man for some unknown reason became convinced once more in his heart that he would have a grandson: he gave instructions again to Father Vassili to repeat in church the prayer for "women labouring of child"; and he fished out once more the family tree from its hiding-place, and kept it always beside him.

Meanwhile M. Zubin's last hour on earth came quietly on. He had suffered much for many years; it seemed hardly natural that life should linger on in a body which had lost all force and motion; and the ending of such a bare and pitiful existence could distress no one. Even Sofya Nikolayevna had only one prayer—that her father's soul might depart in peace. And there was peace, and even happiness, at the moment of death. The face of the dying man lit up suddenly, and this expression remained long upon the features, though the eyes were shut and the body had grown cold. The funeral was a solemn and splendid ceremony. M. Zubin had once been very popular; but he had become forgotten by degrees, and sympathy for his suffering had become gradually weaker. But now, when the news of his death flew round the town, old memories revived and evoked a fresh feeling of love and pity for him. On the day of his funeral every house was empty, and all the population of Ufa lined the streets between the Church of the Assumption and the cemetery. May he rest in peace! If he had the weakness of human nature, he had also its goodness.

After M. Zubin's death, guardians were appointed for the children of his two marriages; and AlexyÉi Stepanitch became guardian of his wife's two brothers, who, before finishing their education at the Moscow boarding-school, were summoned to Petersburg to enter the Guards. I forgot to mention that M. Zubin, shortly before his death, was successful in obtaining for AlexyÉi Stepanitch his promotion to a higher office at the law-courts.

Sofya Nikolayevna wept and prayed for a long time, and AlexyÉi Stepanitch wept and prayed at her side; but those tears and prayers were not painful or violent and had no ill effect on the recently restored health of Sofya Nikolayevna. Her husband's entreaties and the advice of her friends and doctors prevailed with her, and she began to take care of herself and to pay due attention to her condition. They convinced her that the health and even the life of the unborn child depended on the state of her own health and spirits. Their arguments were confirmed by bitter experience, and she resolutely submitted to all that was required of her. When her father-in-law wrote to her and expressed in simple words his sympathy with her loss and his fear that she might again injure her own health by excess of grief, she sent a very reassuring letter in reply; and she did in fact attend carefully to her bodily health and composure of mind. A regular but not monotonous plan of life was laid down. The two doctors, Klauss—who was becoming very intimate with the Bagroffs—and Avenarius, made her go out every day before dinner, and sometimes on foot; and each evening they had an unceremonious party of pleasant people at home, or went out themselves, generally to the Chichagoffs' house. Mme. Chichagoff's brothers became great friends of the Bagroffs, especially the younger, Dmitri, who asked that, when the time came, he might stand godfather. Both brothers were well-bred men and well-educated, according to the standards of the time; and they came often to the house and passed the time there with pleasure. In the Bagroffs' house, reading aloud was a favourite occupation. But, as no one can read or listen to reading without intervals, Sofya Nikolayevna was taught to play cards. Klauss took the chief part in initiating her into this science; and, whenever the Bagroffs were alone of an evening, he never failed to make up their table. Avenarius could not take part in this pastime, because he never in his life knew the difference between the five and the ace.

Spring set in early that year, but in all its beauty. The ice on the ByÉlaya broke up, and the blocks were carried down by the stream; the river broke its banks and spread till it was six versts across. The whole of this expanse could be clearly seen from the windows of the Bagroffs' little house; their orchard burst into leaf and flower, and the fragrance of bird-cherries and apple-blossom filled the air. They used this orchard as a drawing-room, and the warm weather did good to Sofya Nikolayevna and made her stronger.

At this time an event happened at Ufa which caused a great sensation there and was especially interesting to the young Bagroffs, because the hero of the story was an intimate friend of theirs, and, if I am not mistaken, distantly related to AlexyÉi Stepanitch. Sofya Nikolayevna, as one would expect from her character, took a lively interest in such a romantic affair. A young man, named TimÁsheff, one of the most prominent and richest nobles of the district, fell in love with a Tatar girl, the daughter of a rich Tatar landowner. Her family, just like the Alkins, had altered their way of living to a certain extent in conformity with European customs, and they spoke Russian well; but they strictly observed the Moslem faith in all its purity. The beautiful SalmÉ returned the love of the handsome Russian officer, who was a captain in the regiment stationed near Ufa. As she could not be married to a Russian without changing her religion, it was perfectly certain that her parents and grown-up brothers would never give their consent to such a union. SalmÉ struggled long against her love, and love burns more fiercely in the hearts of women of Asia. At last, as is the rule in such cases, Mahomet was defeated, and SalmÉ made up her mind to elope with her lover, meaning to be baptised first and then married. The commander of TimÁsheff's regiment was General MansÚroff, a universal favourite and the kindest of men, who gained distinction afterwards when he crossed "The Devil's Bridge" in the Alps with SuvÓroff. He had lately married for love himself, and he knew and sympathised with TimÁsheff's enterprise, and promised to take the lovers under his protection. One dark, rainy night SalmÉ sallied forth from her father's house, and found TimÁsheff waiting for her in a wood close by with a pair of saddle-horses; they had to gallop about 100 versts to reach Ufa. SalmÉ was a skilful rider; every ten or fifteen versts they found fresh horses, guarded by soldiers of TimÁsheff's regiment; he was very popular with his men. Thus the fugitives flew along "on the wings of love," as a poet of that day would infallibly have said. Meanwhile SalmÉ's absence was quickly noticed: her passion for TimÁsheff had long been suspected, and a strict watch was kept over her movements. A band of armed Tatars assembled instantly, and followed the enraged father⁵¹ and brothers in furious pursuit of the lovers, uttering fierce shouts and threats of vengeance. They took the right track and would probably have captured the fugitives—at any rate blood would have been spilt, because a number of soldiers, eagerly interested in the affair, were posted at different points along the road—had not the pursuit been delayed by a stratagem. The bridge over a deep and dangerous river was broken down behind the lovers; and the Tatars were forced to swim across, and thus lost some two hours. Even so, the boat which carried TimÁsheff and SalmÉ across the ByÉlaya under the walls of Ufa, had hardly reached mid-stream, when the old Tatar galloped up to the bank, attended by his sons and half of his faithful company; the other half had stopped when their horses fell dead under them. A whole regiment of Russian soldiers were in possession of all the punts and ferry-boats, on the pretence of crossing to the town. The unhappy father gnashed his teeth in fury, cursed his daughter, and rode off home. Half dead with weariness and fear, SalmÉ was placed in a carriage and taken to the house of TimÁsheff's mother. The affair now assumed a legal and official character: here was a Mahometan woman asking of her own free will to be received into the Christian Church, and the authorities of the town took her under their protection, informed the mufti, who lived at Ufa and was always called "the Tatar bishop," of all that had passed, and called upon him to stop the injured family or any other Mahometans from all attempts to recover by violence a person who had deliberately preferred the Christian faith. In a few days the clergy prepared the convert to receive the sacraments of baptism and unction. The rite was celebrated with great pomp in the Cathedral: SalmÉ was christened Seraphima, and immediately afterwards, without leaving the church, the young lovers were married. All Ufa was interested in the affair. The young people and all the men naturally stood up for the beautiful SalmÉ; but the women, some of whom, perhaps, had personal reasons for disappointment, judged her conduct severely. Very few stretched out the hand of sincere friendship to the convert, whom her husband's station admitted to the inner circle of Ufa society. The young couple had no warmer sympathisers than Sofya Nikolayevna and AlexyÉi Stepanitch; and they were actively assisted by the wife of General MansÚroff, an amiable young woman whose maiden name was BulgÁkoff. Before long the TimÁsheffs had a firm footing in their new sphere. The bride's education was taken in hand; she had much natural ability, and soon became a success in society, where she aroused both sympathy and envy, due in some degree to her beauty and the peculiarity of her position. Sofya Nikolayevna kept up a steady friendship with Seraphima TimÁsheff till death divided them. To the general regret, Mme. TimÁsheff died of consumption three years after her marriage. She left two sons; her husband nearly went out of his mind with grief; he left the Army, gave up his life to the care of his children, and never married again. It was currently reported, though I cannot vouch for the truth of the reports, that her illness and death were due to secret pining after the kinsfolk she had abandoned and remorse for her change of religion.

These events did nothing to arrest the quick flight of time. The day came when Sofya Nikolayevna was forbidden to go out to parties, or even to take drives in the country. In fine weather she walked up and down the garden for half an hour twice a day; if it was wet, she opened all the doors in the house and followed the same routine under cover. It is probable that all this seclusion and strict regimen did more harm than good; yet my opinion is contradicted by the facts, for Sofya Nikolayevna was in perfect health. AlexyÉi Stepanitch found it necessary to let the doctors have their way; for he was constantly receiving instructions from his father to watch over his wife like the apple of his eye. Her friends also, and especially the doctors who felt a strong personal attachment for her, kept such a close watch on Sofya Nikolayevna that she could neither take a step nor swallow a morsel or drink a drop without their permission. As Avenarius had to leave the town on some official business, it fell on Klauss, who was the other leading lady's doctor at Ufa, to undertake the personal supervision of her health. Klauss was a German, a very kind man, clever and well-educated, but singularly grotesque in his appearance. Though he was still of middle age, he wore a bright yellow wig; and people asked where he could have got human hair of a colour never beheld on any human head; his eyebrows also were yellowish, and so were the whites of his small brown eyes; but his face, which was round and rather small, was as red as burning coal. His habits in society were very odd: though he liked kissing the hands of ladies, he would never allow himself to be kissed on the cheek, maintaining that it was a gross breach of manners on the part of a man to permit such a greeting. He had a great fondness for small children which he showed in this way: he took the child on his knees, placed its hand on the palm of his own left hand and stroked it for hours at a time with his right hand. His special favourites he constantly addressed as "Monster!" or "Turk!"—and Sofya Nikolayevna naturally came in for her share of these endearments.⁵²