The Pobratim: A Slav Novel

The figure in the high-backed arm-chair bowed slightly, and without uttering a single word, motioned the stranger to a seat at a short distance. The Baron sat down.

"Thank you especially for at last giving your consent to my marriage with the beautiful Anya."

The Baron waited for a reply, but as none came, he went on:

"Although her guardian hinted that Anya was somewhat too young for me, still I know she loves me; and as for myself, I swear that henceforth the aim of my life will be that of making her happy."

The Baron, though sixteen years older than his childlike bride, was himself barely thirty; he was, moreover, a most handsome man – tall, stalwart, with dark flashing eyes, a long flowing moustache, a mass of black hair, and a remarkably youthful appearance. He waited again a little while for an answer, but the mother did not speak.

The large and lofty hall in which they were, with its carved stalls jutting out of the wainscot, looked far more like a church than a habitable room; the few fantastic oil lamps seemed like stars shining in the darkness, while the mellow light of the moon, pouring in from the mullioned windows, fell on the Baron's manly figure, and left the Countess in the dark.

As no answer came, the stranger, at a loss what to say, repeated his own words:

"Yes, all my days will be devoted to the happiness of our child."

"Our child?" said the Countess at last, with a slight tremor in her voice.

The Baron started like a man roused in the midst of a dream.

"Your daughter I mean, Countess."

Seized by a strange feeling of oppression, which he was unable to control, the Baron, in his endeavour to overcome it, began to relate to the mother how he had met Anya by chance, how he had fallen in love with her the very moment he had seen her, how from that day she had engrossed all his thoughts, for, from their first meeting, her image had haunted him day and night.

"In fact," added he, "it was the first time I had loved, the very first."

"The first?" echoed the voice in the dark.

The strong man trembled like an aspen leaf. Those two words coming from that dark, motionless figure, sitting at some distance, seemed to be a voice from the tomb, an echo from the past; that past which never buries its dead. To get over his increasing nervousness the Baron began to speak with greater volubility:

"In my early youth, or rather in my childhood I should say," added he, "I did love once – "

"Once?" repeated the voice.

The Baron started again and stopped. Was it Anya's mother who spoke, or was there an echo in that room? Still, he went on:

"Yes, once I loved, or, at least, thought myself in love."

"Thought?" added the voice.

That repetition was getting unbearable; anyhow, he tried not to heed it.

"Well, Countess, it was only a childish fancy, a boy's infatuation; at sixteen, I was spoony on a girl two years younger than myself, just about the age my Anya is now. Fate parted us; I grieved a while; but, since I saw your daughter, I understood that I had never loved before, no, never!"

"Never before – no, never!" uttered the woman in the dark.

The Baron almost started to his feet; that voice so silvery clear, so mournfully sweet, actually seemed to come from the far-off regions from where the dead do not return. After a short silence, only interrupted by two sighs, he went on:

"There were, of course, other loves between the first and the last – swift, evanescent shadows, leaving no traces behind them. And now that I have made a full confession of my sins, Countess, can I not see my Anya?"

"Your Anya?"

This was carrying a joke rather too far.

"Well, my fiancee?" said he, rather abruptly.

"No, Aleksij Orsinski, not yet. You have spoken, and I have listened to you; it is my turn to speak. I, too, have something to say about Anya's father."

The Baron had always been considered as a brave man, but now either the darkness oppressed him, or the past arose in front of him threateningly, or else the strange and almost weird behaviour of his future mother-in-law awed him; but, somehow or other, he had never felt so uncomfortable before. Not only a disagreeable feeling of creepiness had come over him, but even a slight perspiration had gathered on his brow. He almost fancied that, instead of a woman, a ghost was sitting there in front of him echoing his words. Who was that ghost? Perhaps, he would not – probably, he dared not recognise it. He tried, however, to shake off his nervousness, and said, with forced lightness:

"I have had the honour of knowing Count Yarnova personally; he was somewhat eccentric, it is true; still, a more honourable man never – "

"He was simply mad," interrupted the Countess; "anyhow, it is not of Count Yarnova, but of Anya'a father of whom I wish to speak." Then, after a slight pause, as if nerving herself to the painful task, the woman in the dark added: "For you must know that not a drop of the Count's blood flows in my daughter's veins."

There was another awkward pause; Aleksij's heart began to beat much faster, the perspiration was gathering on his brow in much bigger drops.

"Count Yarnova was not your daughter's father, you say?" He would have liked to add: "Who was, then?" but he durst not.

"No, Aleksij Orsinski, he was not."

A feeling of sickness came over the Baron; he hardly knew whether he was awake, or asleep and dreaming. Who was that woman in the dark?

The Countess, after a while, resumed her story: "I was born in St. Petersburg, of a wealthy and honourable, but not of a noble family. I, too, was but a child when I fell in love, deeply in love, with a neighbour's son. Unlike yours, Baron, and I suppose all men's, a woman's first love is the only real one. I was then somewhat younger than my daughter now is, for I had barely reached my thirteenth year, and as for my lover, he was fifteen. We often met, unknown to our parents, in our garden; I saw no harm in it – I was too young, too guileless, not to trust him – "

She stopped.

"And he?" asked the Baron, as if called upon to say something.

"He, like Romeo, whispered vows of love, of eternal fidelity. He believed in his vows just then, as you did, Aleksij Orsinski; for I daresay that with you, as with all men, the last love is the only true one."

"Then?" asked the Baron.

"Once we stepped out of the garden together; a carriage was waiting for us; we drove to a lonely chapel not far from our house; a priest there blessed us and made us man and wife. Our marriage, however, was to be kept a secret till we grew older, or, at least, till my husband was master of his actions, for he knew that his parents would never consent to our union."

There was another pause; but now the Baron could not trust himself to speak, his teeth were almost chattering as if with intense cold.

"A time of sickness and sorrow reigned over our country; the people were dying by hundreds and by thousands. The plague was raging in St. Petersburg. My husband's family were the first to flee from the contagion. We remained. The scourge had just abated, when, to my horror and dismay, I understood that I should in a few months become a mother. I wrote to my husband, but I received no answer; still, I knew he was alive and in good health. I wrote again, but with no better success. The day came when, at last, I had to disclose my terrible secret to my parents."

The Countess stopped, passed her hands over her brow as if to drive away the remembrance of those dreadful days.

"It is useless to try and relate their anger and my shame. My parents would not believe in my marriage; besides, the priest that had married us, even the witnesses, had all been swept away by that weird scavenger, the plague. I had no paper, no certificate, not even a ring to show that I was married. Contumely was not enough; I was not only treated by my parents with pitiless scorn, but I was, moreover, turned out of their house. When our own parents shut their doors against us, is it a wonder if the world is ruthless?

"What was I to do? where was I to go? With the few roubles I had I could not travel very far or live very long. I wandered to the castle where my husband was living; I asked for him, but I was told that he was ill."

"But he was ill," said the Baron, "was he not?"

"Perhaps his watery love had already flowed away, and he had given orders not to receive me if I should present myself. For a moment I stood rooted on the doorstep, bewildered, not knowing what to do; then I asked to see his mother. This was only exposing myself to one humiliation more. She came out in the hall; there she called me bitter names, and when I told her that I had not a bed whereon to lie that night, she replied that the Neva was always an available bed for girls like me; then she ordered her servants to cast me out.

"Houseless, homeless, almost penniless; my husband's mother was right – the Neva was the only place where I could find rest. In its fast-fleeting waters I might indeed find shelter.

"With my thoughts all of suicide I directed myself towards the open country, hoping soon to reach the banks of the broad river, for I was not only tired out, but weak and faint for want of food. My legs at last began to give way; weary, disheartened, I sank down by the roadside and began to sob aloud. All at once I heard a creaking noise of wheels, the tramp of horses, and merry human voices singing in chorus. As I lifted up my head I saw two carts passing, wherein a band of gipsies were all huddled together. Seeing my grief and hearing my sobs, the driver stopped; a number of boys and young men, girls and women jumped, crawled or scrambled down from the carts, as crabs do out of a basket; then they all crowded around me to find out what had befallen me. I would not answer their questions, nor could I have done so even if I had wanted. I was almost too faint to speak. An elderly woman, the chief's wife, pushed all the others aside, came up to me, took my hand and examined it carefully; then she began to speak in a language I did not understand.

"'Poor child!' said she at last, patting my hair and kissing me on my eyes; 'you are indeed in trouble; still, bright days are in store for you; take courage, cheer up, live, for you will soon be a grand lady, and then you will trample over all your enemies – yes, over every one of them. You have no home,' said she, as if answering my own thoughts; 'What does it matter? Have we a home? Have the little birds that nestle in the leafy boughs a home? No, all the world is their home. Come with us. You have no family; well, you will be our child.'

"Saying this she gave an order to the men around her, and almost before I was aware of it, half-a-dozen brawny arms lifted me tenderly and placed me on a heap of clothes in one of the carts. Soon my protectress was by my side whispering words of endearment in my ear; and as for myself, weak and starving, forlorn and dejected as I was, I cared very little what became of me.

"The gipsy woman, who was versed in medicine, poured me out some kind of cordial or sleeping draught and made me drink it; a few minutes afterwards a pleasant drowsiness came over me, then I fell fast asleep. I only awoke some hours later, and I found myself lying on a mattress in a tent. I remained for some time bewildered, unable to understand where and with whom I was; still, when I came to my senses the keen edge of my grief was blunted. The gipsy woman, my protectress, kissed me in a fond, mother-like way; then she brought me a plate of food.

"'Eat,' said she, 'grief has a much greater hold on an empty stomach than on a satiated one.'

"I was young and hungry; the smell of the food was good; I did not wait to be asked twice. I never remembered to have tasted anything so delicious. It was not soup, but a kind of savoury stew, containing vegetables and meat – an olla-podrida of ham, beef and poultry. After that, they offered me some fragrant drink, which soon made me feel drowsy, and then sent me off to sleep again. I woke early the next morning, when they were about to start on their daily wanderings. With my head still muddled with sleep, I was helped into the cart, and sat down between my new friend and her husband.

"That life in the open air, the kindness and good-humour of the people amongst whom I lived, soothed and quieted me. All ideas of suicide vanished entirely from my mind. Self-murder is an unknown thing amongst gipsies. Besides, my friend assured me, again and again, that I should soon become a very great lady, and then all my enemies would be at my mercy.

"'But how shall I ever repay you for your kindness?' I asked.

"'The day will come when the hand of persecution will be uplifted against us; then you alone will protect us.'

"In the meanwhile I was treated like a queen by all of them. Moreover, they were a wealthy band, possessing not only horses, carts and tents, but also money. They might have lived comfortably in some town, or settled as farmers somewhere; but their life was by far too pleasant to give it up. Heedless, jovial, contented people, their only care seemed to be where they were to have their next meal.

"A few months afterwards, my daughter was born in a tent, not far from Warsaw."

"She must have been a great comfort to you," quoth the Baron, thinking he ought to say something appropriate.

"A comfort? The unwished-for child of a man that had blighted my life, a comfort? No, indeed, Baron. In fact, I saw very little of this daughter of mine; a young gipsy nursed her and took care of her. My own parents had taught me what love was. My husband's mother – a grand lady – thought that the Neva was the best cradle for her unborn grandchild. Besides, other work was waiting for me than nursing and rearing Anya.

"Count Yarnova one day met our band of gipsies on the road, and he stretched his ungloved hand to have his fate read and explained. My friend – no ordinary fortune-teller – was well versed in palmistry, and a most lucid thought-reader; she told him that before the year was out he would be a married man.

"'In a few days,' added she, 'on Christmas Eve, you will see your young bride in your own mirror; you will see her again after a few days, and she will tend upon you and cure you from a fever when the doctor's help will be worse than useless. As soon as you get well you will start on a journey; then you will stop for some days in two large towns, both of which begin with the same letter; there you will see again that beautiful child you saw on Christmas Eve.'

"'But when and where shall I meet her, not as a vision, but as a real person?'

"The Baron wore on the forefinger of his right hand a kind of magic ring, in which a little crystal ball was set. The gipsy lifted the Baron's hand to her eyes and looked at the crystal ball for a few seconds.

"'It is spring,' said she; 'the trees are in bloom, and Nature wears her festive garb. In a splendid saloon, where all the furniture is of gold and the walls are covered with rich silks, I see a handsome young girl dressed in spotless white, holding a guitar and singing; behind her there is a mass of flowers; around her gentlemen and ladies are listening to the sound of her sweet voice.'

"Count Yarnova was a Swedenborgian, and he not only believed in the occult art, but had dabbled himself in magic, until his rather weak mind was somewhat unhinged. He, of course, did not doubt the truth of what the gipsy had foretold him; moreover, he was right, because everything happened exactly as she had predicted.

"On Christmas Eve the Count was alone in his room sitting at a little table reading, and glancing every now and then, first at a clock, afterwards at a huge cheval-glass opposite the alcove. All the servants of the house, except his valet – a young gipsy of our band – had gone to Mass, according to the custom of the place. At half-past eleven my friends accompanied me to the Count's palace; the valet opened the door noiselessly and led me unseen, unheard, in the alcove. I was dressed in white and shrouded in a mass of silvery veils. On the stroke of twelve I appeared between the two draped columns which formed the opening of the alcove; the light hanging in the middle of the room was streaming on me, and my image, reflected in the glass, looked, in fact, like a vision. The Count, seeing it, heaved a deep breath, started to his feet, drew back, stood still for an instant, uttered an exclamation of surprise, then made a step towards the looking-glass. At that moment the valet opened the door as if in answer to his master's summons. The Count looked round, thus giving me time to slip away; when he glanced again at the mirror I had disappeared. Then the thought came to him that the image he had seen within the glass was only the reflection of some one standing in the alcove; he ordered the valet to look within the inner part of the room, and when the servant man assured him that there was nobody, he ventured to look in it himself. The valet swore that nobody had come in the house, and by the time the servants returned from midnight Mass I was already far away.

"The Count had not been well for some days, and the shock he received upset his nerves in such a way that he took to his bed with a kind of brain fever. I attended him during his illness whilst he was delirious, and when he recovered he had a slight remembrance of me, just as of a vision we happen to see in a dream. He asked if a young girl had not tended him during his illness; his valet and the other servants told him that a mysterious stranger had come to take care of him, and that she had soothed him much more by placing her hand upon his brow, than all the doctor's stuff had done; still, no one had ever seen her before, or knew where she had come from.

"As soon as the Count was strong enough to travel, he decided to go and visit some of the large towns of Europe, thus hoping to find me.

"The vigilant eye of the police had long suspected Yarnova of being an agitator; some letters addressed to him, and some of his own writings on occult lore, had been strangely misinterpreted, and from that time a constant watch had been held over him. No sooner had he started than information was sent to the police that he was conspiring against the Government, and thus I managed to be sent after him and watch over him. Money, passports, and letters of introduction to the ambassadors were handed to me.

"Vienna was one of the towns where he stopped for a few days. A follower of Cagliostro's was at that time showing there the phantoms of the living, and those of the dead – not for money, of course, but for any slight donation the visitors were pleased to give. The gipsy, who accompanied Yarnova as valet, came to inform me that the Count intended to go to this spiritualistic séance. The medium was also acquainted of the fact, and for a slight consideration I was allowed to appear before the public as my own materialised spirit. How most of the ghosts were shown to the public, I cannot tell; I only know that I appeared on a dimly-lighted stage, behind a thick gauze curtain, wrapped up in a cloud of tulle, whilst harps and viols were playing some weird funereal dirges. The people – huddled all together in a dark corner – saw, I fancy, nothing but vague, dim forms passing or floating by; but they were so anxious to be deceived that they would have taken the wizard at his word, even if he had shown them an ape and told them it was their grandmother.

"When Yarnova saw me, he got so excited that it was with the greatest difficulty that he could be kept quiet.

"On the morrow the Count started for Venice, this being the nearest town the name of which began with the same letter as Vienna. We got there on the last days of the Carnival; an excellent time for the purpose I had in hand, as the whole town seemed to have gone stark mad. The Piazza San Marco was like a vast pandemonium, where dominoes of every hue glided about, and masks of every kind walked, ran and capered, or pushed their way through the dense crowd, chattering, laughing, shouting. Bands of music were playing in front of several coffee-houses, people were blowing horns; in fact, the uproar was deafening. Dressed up as a Russian gipsy, and masked, I met the Count on the square, and I told him all that had happened to him from the day he had met the gipsies on the road. I only managed to escape from him when he was stopped by a wizard – his own valet – who told him he would see again that evening, at the masked ball of the Venice theatre, the beautiful girl whose vision he had seen in his own castle on Christmas Eve.

"The Count, of course, went to the masked ball, followed by his valet and myself, both in dominoes. Seeing a box empty, I went in it, remained rather in the background, took off my hood and appeared in the white veils, as he had already seen me twice. As soon as I appeared, the valet, who was standing behind his master, laid his hand on the Count's shoulder and whispered to him: 'Yarnova, look at that lady in that box on the second tier – the third from the stage.' The Count saw me, uttered an exclamation of surprise, turned round to find out who had spoken to him; but the black domino had slipped away amongst the crowd. I remained in the same position for a few moments, then I put on my domino and mask and left the box. I met the Count coming up, but, in the crowd, he, of course, did not notice me.

"A few days afterwards, we left Venice; even before the Carnival was quite over."

"I suppose you were sorry to leave that beautiful town of pleasure?" said the Baron.

"Very sorry indeed; still, there was something to me sweeter than pleasure, young as I was."

"What was it, Countess?"

"Revenge, so sweet to all Slavs."

"And you revenged yourself?"

"I have bided my time, Baron; every knot comes to the comb, they say."

"Did they all come?"

"Sooner or later, all, to the very last; some of my enemies even rotted in the mines of Siberia – "

The Baron shivered, thinking of his father.

"Others – " The Countess, for a moment, seemed to be thinking of the past.

"Well?"

"But it is my own story I am telling you, not theirs. Count Yarnova and I reached Paris almost at the same time. On my arrival, I presented myself at the Russian Embassy. As the Ambassadress happened to be looking for a companion or reader, the place was offered to me; I accepted it most willingly. A few days afterwards, I was informed by the gipsy, that the Count was to call on the Ambassadress the next day. I remembered the prediction; I did my best to bring it about. The room was exactly like the one described by my friend the gipsy; the furniture was gilt, the walls were covered over with old damask; as the Ambassadress was fond of flowers, the room looked like a hot-house. I had put on the same white dress in which he had already seen me three times, and knowing the very moment the Count would come, I spoke of Russian peasant songs; I mentioned the one I was to sing, and being requested to sing it, I did so. Before I ended it, the door was opened and Count Yarnova was announced.

"I do not know whether his could be called love at first sight, but surely everybody in the room thought that his sudden passion for me had almost deprived him of his reason.

"The Count called on the morrow, and asked if I could receive him; I did so, and he at once confessed his love for me. He told me that although he was old enough to be my father, still, he felt sure I should in time be fond of him, for marriages being made in heaven, I was ordained to be his wife.

"I tried to explain the plight in which I found myself, but he interrupted me at once, telling me that he knew everything.

"'I am aware that you have been forsaken by a cruel-hearted man,' said he, 'but henceforth I shall be everything to you.'

"I summoned my courage, I spoke to him of my child.

"'The child that was born on Christmas night?'

"'Yes,' I answered below my breath.

"'It is my own spiritual child,' said he.

"I looked at him astonished.

"'I know all about it,' he continued. 'On that night I saw you in a vision, just as it had been predicted to me; I saw you just as I see you now. That very night I had, moreover, a vision. I was married to you, and – but never mind about that dream. I have seen you after that – first in this magic ring; then I saw you materialised at Vienna, and again in Venice. Of course, it was not you, but your double, for you were at that time here in Paris, quite unconscious, quietly asleep, having, perhaps, a dream of what your other self was seeing.'