Bab Bab 10 · 第7章（4）

Lisa charmed him more and more every moment. Accustomed to be

unceremonious with pretty country girls, he tried to kiss her, but

Lisa jumped aside, and suddenly assumed so distant and severe an air

that though it amused him he did not attempt any further familiarities.

"If you wish to remain friends," she said, with dignity, "do not forget

yourself."

"Who has taught you this wisdom?" asked Alexis, with a laugh. "Can

it be my little friend Nastia, your mistress's maid? So this is how

civilization spreads."

Lisa felt she had almost betrayed herself, and said, "Do you think I

have never been up to the Manor House? I have seen and heard more than

you think. Still, chattering here with you won't get me mushrooms. You

go that way, _barin_; I'll go the other, begging your pardon;" and Lisa

made as if to depart, but Alexis held her by the hand.

"What is your name, my dear?"

"Akulina," she said, struggling to get her fingers free. "Let me go,

_barin,_ it is time for me to be home."

"Well, my friend Akulina, I shall certainly call on your father,

Yassili, the blacksmith."

"For the Lord's sake don't do that. If they knew at home I had been

talking here alone with the young _barin,_ I should catch it. My father

would beat me within an inch of my life."

"Well, I must see you again."

"I will come again some other day for mushrooms."

"When?"

"To-morrow, if you like."

"My dear Akulina, I would kiss you if I dared. To-morrow, then, at the

same time; that is a bargain."

"All right."

"You will not play me false?"

"No."

"Swear it."

"By the Holy Friday, then, I will come."

The young couple parted. Lisa ran out of the wood across the fields,

stole into the garden, and rushed headlong into the farmyard, where

Nastia was waiting for her. Then she changed her dress, answering at

random the impatient questions of her _confidante_, and went into the

dining-room to find the cloth laid and breakfast ready. Miss Jackson,

freshly powdered and Jaced, until she looked like a wine glass, was

cutting thin slices of bread and butter. Her father complimented Lisa

on her early walk.

"There is no healthier habit," he remarked, "than to rise at daybreak."

He quoted from the English papers several cases of longevity, adding

that all centenarians had abstained from spirits, and made it a

practice to rise at daybreak winter and summer. Lisa did not prove

an attentive listener. She was repeating in her mind the details of

her morning's interview, and as she recalled Akulina's conversation

with the young sportsman her conscience smote her. In vain she assured

herself that the bounds of decorum had not been passed. This joke, she

argued, could have no evil consequences, but conscience would not be

quieted. What most disturbed her was her promise to repeat the meeting.

She half decided not to keep her word, but then Alexis, tired of

waiting, might go to seek the blacksmiths daughter in the village and

find the real Akulina--a stout, pockmarked girl--and so discover the

hoax. Alarmed at this she determined to re-enact the part of Akulina.

Alexis was enchanted. All day he thought about his new acquaintance

and at night he dreamt of her. It was scarcely dawn when he was up and

dressed. Without waiting even to load his gun he set out followed by

the faithful Shogar, and ran to the meeting place. Half an hour passed

in undeniable delay. At last he caught a glimpse of a blue _sarafan_

among the bushes and rushed to meet dear Akulina. She smiled to see his

eagerness; but he saw traces of anxiety and melancholy on her face. He

asked her the cause, and she at last confessed. She had been flighty

and was very sorry for it. She had meant not to keep her promise, and

this meeting at any rate must be the last. She begged him not to seek

to continue an acquaintance which could have no good end. All this,

of course, was said in peasant dialect; but the thought and feeling

struck Alexis as unusual in a peasant. In eloquent words he urged

her to abandon this cruel resolution. She should have no reason for

repentance; he would obey her in everything, if only she would not rob

him of his one happiness and let him see her alone three times or even

only twice a week. He spoke with passion, and at the moment he was

really in love. Lisa listened to him in silence.

"Promise," she said, "to seek no other meetings with me but those which

I myself appoint."

He was about to swear by the Holy Friday when she stopped him with a

smile.

"I do not want you to swear. Your word is enough."

Then together they wandered talking in the wood, till Lisa said:

"It is time."

They parted; and Alexis was left to wonder how in two meetings a simple

rustic had gained such influence over him. There was a freshness and

novelty about it all that charmed him, and though the conditions

she imposed were irksome, the thought of breaking his promise never

even entered his mind. After all, in spite of his fatal ring and the

mysterious correspondence, Alexis was a kind and affectionate youth,

with a pure heart still capable of innocent enjoyment. Did I consult

only my own wishes I should dwell at length on the meetings of these

young people, their growing love, their mutual trust, and all they did

and all they said. But my pleasure I know would not be shared by the

majority of my readers; so for their sake I will omit them. I will

only say that in a brief two months Alexis was already madly in love,

and Lisa, though more reticent than he was, not indifferent. Happy

in the present they took little thought for the future. Visions of

indissoluble ties flitted not seldom through the minds of both. But

neither mentioned them. For Alexis, however strong his attachment to

Akulina, could not forget the social distance that was between them,

while Lisa, knowing the enmity between their fathers, dared not count

on their becoming reconciled. Besides, her vanity was stimulated by the

vague romantic hope of at last seeing the lord of Tugilovo at the feet

of the daughter of a village blacksmith. Suddenly something happened

which came near to change the course of their true love. One of those

cold bright mornings so common in our Russian autumns Ivan Berestoff

came a-riding. For all emergencies he brought with him six pointers

and a dozen beaters. That same morning Grigori Muromsky, tempted by

the fine weather, saddled his English mare and came trotting through

his agricultural estates. Nearing the wood he came upon his neighbour

proudly seated in the saddle wearing his fur-lined overcoat. Ivan

Berestoff was waiting for the hare which the beaters were driving with

discordant noises out of the brushwood. If Muromsky could have foreseen

this meeting he would have avoided it. But finding himself suddenly

within pistol-shot there was no escape. Like a cultivated European

gentleman, Muromsky rode up to and addressed his enemy politely.

Berestoff answered with the grace of a chained bear dancing to the

order of his keeper. At this moment out shot the hare and scudded

across the field. Berestoff and his groom shouted to loose the dogs,

and started after them full speed. Muromsky's mare took fright and

bolted. Her rider, who often boasted of his horsemanship, gave her

her head and chuckled inwardly over this opportunity of escaping a

disagreeable companion. But the mare coming at a gallop to an unseen

ditch swerved. Muromsky lost his seat, fell rather heavily on the

frozen ground, and lay there cursing the animal, which, sobered by the

loss of her master, stopped at once. Berestoff galloped to the rescue,

asking if Muromsky was hurt. Meanwhile the groom led up the culprit by

the bridle. Berestoff helped Muromsky into the saddle and then invited

him to his house. Peeling himself under an obligation Muromsky could

not refuse, and so Berestoff returned in glory, having killed the hare

and bringing home with him his adversary wounded and almost a prisoner

of war.

At breakfast the neighbours fell into rather friendly conversation;

Muromsky asked Berestoff to lend him a droshky, confessing that his

fall made it too painful for him to ride back. Berestoff accompanied

him to the outer gate, and before the leavetaking was over Muromsky

Pad obtained from him a promise to come and bring Alexis to a friendly

dinner at Prelutchina next day. So this old enmity which seemed before

so deeply rooted was on the point of ending because the little mare had

taken fright.

Lisa ran to meet Per father on his return.

"What has happened, papa?" she asked in astonishment. "Why are you

limping? Where is the mare? Whose droshki is this?"

"My dear, you will never guess;"--and then he told Per.

Lisa could not believe Per ears. Before she Pad time to collect herself

she heard that to-morrow both the Berestoffs would come to dinner.

"What do you say?" she exclaimed, turning pale. "The Berestoffs, father

and son! Dine with us to-morrow! No, papa, you can do as you please, I

certainly do not appear."

"Why? Are you mad? Since when have you become so shy? Have you imbibed

hereditary hatred like a heroine of romance? Come, don't be afoot."

"No, papa, nothing on earth shall induce me to meet the Berestoffs."

Her father shrugged his shoulders, and left off arguing. He knew he

could not prevail with her by opposition, so he went to bed after his

memorable ride. Lisa, too, went to her room, and summoned Nastia.

Long did they discuss the coming visit. What will Alexis think on

recognising in the cultivated young lady his Akulina? What opinion will

he form as to her behaviour and her sense? On the other hand, Lisa was

very curious to see how such an unexpected meeting would affect him.

Then an idea struck her. She told it to Nastia, and with rejoicing they

determined to carry it into effect.

Next morning at breakfast Muromsky asked his daughter whether she still

meant to hide from the Berestoffs.

"Papa," she answered, "I will receive them if you wish it, on one

condition. However I may appear before them, whatever I may do, you

must promise me not to be angry, and you must show no surprise or

disapproval."

"At your tricks again!" exclaimed Muromsky, laughing. "Well, well, I

consent; do as you please, my black-eyed mischief." With these words

he kissed her forehead, and Lisa ran off to make her preparations.

Punctually at two, six horses, drawing the home-made carriage, drove

into the courtyard, and skirted the circle of green turf that formed

its centre.

Old Berestoff, helped by two of Muromsky's servants in livery, mounted

the steps. His son followed immediately on horseback, and the two

together entered the dining-room, where the table was already laid.

Muromsky gave his guests a cordial welcome, and proposing a tour of

inspection of the garden and live stock before dinner, led them along

his well-swept gravel paths.

Old Berestoff secretly deplored the time and trouble wasted on such a

useless whim as this Anglo-mania, but politeness forbade him to express

his feelings.

His son shared neither the disapproval of the careful farmer, nor the

enthusiasm of the complacent Anglo-maniac. He impatiently awaited the

appearance of his hosts daughter, of whom he had often heard; for,

though his heart as we know was no longer free, a young and unknown

beauty might still claim his interest.

When they had come back and were all seated in the drawing-room,

the old men talked over bygone days, re-telling the stories of the

mess-room, while Alexis considered what attitude he should assume

towards Lisa. He decided upon a cold preoccupation as most suitable,

and arranged accordingly.

The door opened, he turned his head round with indifference--with such

proud indifference--that the heart of the most hardened coquette must

have quivered. Unfortunately there came in not Lisa but elderly Miss

Jackson, whitened, laced in, with downcast eyes and her little curtsey,

and Alexis' magnificent military movement failed. Before he could

reassemble his scattered forces the door opened again and this time

entered Lisa. All rose, Muromsky began the introductions, but suddenly

stopped and bit his lip. Lisa, his dark Lisa, was painted white up

to her ears, and pencilled worse than Miss Jackson herself. She wore

false fair ringlets, puffed out like a Louis XIV. wig; her sleeves _à

l'imbécille_ extended like the hoops of Madame de Pompadour. Her figure

was laced in like a letter X, and all those of her mother's diamonds

which had escaped the pawnbroker sparkled on her fingers, neck, and

ears. Alexis could not discover in this ridiculous young lady his

Akulina. His father kissed her hand, and he, much to his annoyance,

had to do the same. As he touched her little white fingers they seemed

to tremble. He noticed, too, a tiny foot intentionally displayed and

shod in the most coquettish of shoes. This reconciled him a little to

the rest of her attire. The white paint and black pencilling--to tell

the truth--in his simplicity he did not notice at first, nor indeed

afterwards.

Grigori Muromsky, remembering his promise, tried not to show surprise;

for the rest, he was so much amused at his daughter's mischief, that

he could scarcely keep his countenance. For the prim Englishwoman,

however, it was no laughing matter. She guessed that the white and

black paint had been abstracted from her drawer, and a red patch of

indignation shone through the artificial whiteness of her face. Flaming

glances shot from her eyes at the young rogue, who, reserving all

explanation for the future, pretended not to notice them. They sat down

to table, Alexis continuing his performance as an absent-minded pensive

man. Lisa was all affectation. She minced her words, drawled, and would

speak only in French. Her father glanced at her from time to time,

unable to divine her object, but he thought it all a great joke. The

Englishwoman fumed, but said nothing. Ivan Berestoff alone felt at his

ease. He ate for two, drank his fill, and as the meal went on became

more and more friendly, and laughed louder and louder.

At last they rose from the table. The guests departed and Muromsky gave

vent to his mirth and curiosity.

"What made you play such tricks upon them?" he inquired. "Do you know,

Lisa, that white paint really becomes you? I do not wish to pry into

the secrets of a lady's toilet, but if I were you I should always

paint, not too much, of course, but a little."

Lisa was delighted with her success. She kissed her father, promised

to consider his suggestion, and ran off to propitiate the enraged Miss

Jackson, whom she could scarcely prevail upon to open the door and hear

her excuses.

Lisa was ashamed, she said, to show herself before the visitors--such a

blackamoor. She had not dared to ask; she knew dear kind Miss Jackson

would forgive her.

Miss Jackson, persuaded that her pupil had not meant to ridicule her,

became pacified, kissed Lisa, and in token of forgiveness presented her

with a little pot of English white, which the latter, with expressions

of deep gratitude, accepted.

Next morning, as the reader will have guessed, Lisa hastened to the

meeting in the wood.

"You were yesterday at our master's, sir?" she began to Alexis. "What

did you think of our young lady?"

Alexis answered that he had not observed her.

"That is a pity."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to ask you if what they say is true."

"What do they say?"

"That I resemble our young lady; do you think so?"

"What nonsense, she is a deformity beside you!"

"Oh! _barin,_ it is a sin of you to say so. Our young lady is so fair,

so elegant! How can I vie with her?"

Alexis vowed that she was prettier than all imaginable fair young

ladies, and to appease her thoroughly, began describing her young lady

so funnily that Lisa burst into a hearty laugh.

"Still," she said, with a sigh, "though she may be ridiculous, yet by

her side I am an illiterate fool."

"Well, that _is_ a thing to worry yourself about. If you like I will

teach you to read at once."

"Are you in earnest, shall I really try?"

"If you like, my darling, we will begin at once."

They sat down. Alexis produced a pencil and note-book, and Akulina

proved astonishingly quick in learning the alphabet. Alexis wondered at

her intelligence. At their next meeting she wished to learn to write.

The pencil at first would not obey her, but in a few minutes she could

trace the letters pretty well.

"How wonderfully we get on, faster than by the Lancaster method."

Indeed, at the third lesson Akulina could read words of even three

syllables, and the intelligent remarks with which she interrupted the

lessons fairly astonished Alexis. As for writing she covered a whole

page with aphorisms, taken from the story she had been reading. A week

passed and they had begun a correspondence. Their post-office was the

trunk of an old oak, and Nastia secretly played the part of postman.

Thither Alexis would bring his letters, written in a large round hand,

and there he found the letters of his beloved scrawled on coarse blue

paper. Akulina's style was evidently improving, and her mind clearly

was developing under cultivation.

Meanwhile the new-made acquaintance between Berestoff and Muromsky

grew stronger, soon it became friendship. Muromsky often reflected

that on the death of old Berestoff his property would come to Alexis,

who would then be one of the richest landowners in that province. Why

should he not marry Lisa? Old Berestoff, on the other hand, though he

looked on his neighbour as a lunatic, did not deny that he possessed

many excellent qualities, among them a certain cleverness. Muromsky

was related to Count Pronsky, a distinguished and influential man.

The count might be very useful to Alexis, and Muromsky (so thought

Berestoff) would probably be glad to marry his daughter so well. Both

the old men pondered all this so thoroughly that at last they broached

the subject, confabulated, embraced, and severally began a plan of

campaign. Muromsky foresaw one difficulty--how to persuade his Betty to

make the better acquaintance of Alexis, whom she had never seen since

the memorable dinner. They hardly seemed to suit each other well. At

any rate Alexis had not renewed his visit to Prelutchina. Whenever old

Berestoff called Lisa made a point of retreating to her own room.

"But," thought Muromsky, "if Alexis called every day Betty could not

help falling in love with him. That is the way to manage it. Time will

settle everything."

Berestoff troubled himself less about his plans. That same evening

he called his son into his study, lit his pipe, and, after a short

silence, began:

"You have not spoken about the army lately, Alexis. Has the Hussar

uniform lost its attraction for you?"

"No, father," he replied respectfully. "I know you do not wish me to

join the Hussars. It is my duty to consult your wishes."

"I am pleased to find you such an obedient son, still I do not wish

to force your inclinations. I will not insist upon your entering the

Civil Service at once; and in the meantime I mean to marry you."

"To whom, father?" exclaimed his astonished son.

"To Lisa Muromskaia; she is good enough for any one, isn't she?"

"Father, I did not think of marrying just yet."

"Perhaps not, but I have thought about it for you."

"As you please, but I don't care about Lisa Muromskaia at all."

"You will care about her afterwards. You will get used to her, and you

will learn to love her."

"I feel I could not make her happy."

"You need not trouble yourself about that. All you have to do is to

respect the wishes of your father."

"I do not wish to marry, and I won't."

"You shall marry or I will curse you; and, by Heaven, I will sell and

squander my property, and not leave you a farthing! I will give you

three days for reflection, and, in the meanwhile, do not dare to show

your face in my presence."

Alexis knew that when his father took a thing into his head nothing

could knock it out again; but then Alexis was as obstinate as his

father. He went to his room and there reflected upon the limits of

parental authority, on Lisa Muromskaia, his father's threat to make him

a beggar, and finally he thought of Akulina.

For the first time he clearly saw how much he loved her. The romantic

idea of marrying a peasant girl and working for a living came into his

mind; and the more he thought of it, the more he approved it. Their

meetings in the wood had been stopped of late by the wet weather.

He wrote to Akulina in the roundest hand and the maddest style, telling

her of his impending ruin, and asking her to be his wife. He took

the letter at once to the tree trunk, dropped it in, and went much

satisfied with himself to bed.

Next morning, firm in resolution, he started early to call on Muromsky

and explain the situation. He meant to win him over by appealing to his

generosity.

"Is Mr. Muromsky at home?" he asked reining up his horse at the porch.

"No, sir, Mr. Muromsky went out early this morning."

How provoking, thought Alexis.

"Well, is Miss Lisa at home?"

"Yes, sir."

And throwing the reins to the footman, Alexis leapt from his horse and

entered unannounced.

"It will soon be over," he thought, going towards the drawing-room.

"I will explain to Miss Muromsky herself." He entered ... and was

transfixed. Lisa!... no, Akulina, dear, dark Akulina, wearing no

_sarafan_ but a white morning frock, sat by the window reading his

letter. So intent was she upon it that she did not hear him enter.

Alexis could not repress a cry of delight. Lisa started, raised her

hand, cried out, and attempted to run away. He rushed to stop her.

"Akulina! Akulina!" Lisa tried to free herself.

"_Mais laissez moi donc, Monsieur! mais êtes vous fou?_" she repeated,

turning away.

"Akulina! my darling Akulina!" he repeated, kissing her hand.

Miss Jackson, who was an eye-witness of this scene, knew not what to

think. The door opened and Grigori Muromsky entered.

"Ah!" cried he, "you seem to have settled things between you."...

The reader will excuse me the unnecessary trouble of winding up.

KIRDJALI.

Kirdjali was by birth a Bulgarian.

Kirdjali, in Turkish, means a bo

Story 7. KIRDJALI

w, a knight-errant.

Kirdjali with his depredations brought terror upon the whole of

Moldavia. To give some idea of him I will relate one of his exploits.

One night he and the Arnout Michailaki fell together upon a Bulgarian

village. They set fire to it from both ends and went from hut to hut,

Kirdjali killing, while Michailaki carried off the plunder. Both cried,

"Kirdjali! Kirdjali!" and the whole village ran.

When Alexander Ipsilanti proclaimed the insurrection and began raising

his army, Kirdjali brought him several of his old followers. They

knew little of the real object of the _hetairi._ But war presented an

opportunity for getting rich at the expense of the Turks, and perhaps

of the Moldavians too.

Alexander Ipsilanti was personally brave, but he was wanting in

the qualities necessary for playing the part he had with such eager

recklessness assumed. He did not know how to manage the people under

his command. They had neither respect for him nor confidence.

After the unfortunate battle, when the flower of Greek youth fell,

Jordaki Olimbisti advised him to retire, and himself took his place.

Ipsilanti escaped to the frontiers of Austria, whence he sent his

curse to the people whom he now stigmatised as mutineers, cowards, and

blackguards. These cowards and blackguards mostly perished within the

walls of the monastery of Seke, or on the banks of the Pruth, defending

themselves desperately against a foe ten times their number.

Kirdjali belonged to the detachment commanded by George Cantacuzène, of

whom might be repeated what has already been said of Ipsilanti.

On the eve of the battle near Skuliana, Cantacuzène asked permission

of the Russian authorities to enter their quarters. The band was left

without a commander. But Kirdjali, Sophianos, Cantagoni, and others had

no need of a commander.

The battle of Skuliana seems not to have been described by any one in

all its pathetic truth. Just imagine seven hundred Arnouts, Albanians,

Greeks, Bulgarians, and every kind of rabble, with no notion of

military art, retreating within sight of fifteen thousand Turkish

cavalry. The band kept close to the banks of the Pruth, placing in

front two tiny cannons, found at Jassy, in the courtyard of the

Hospodar, and which had formerly been used for firing salutes on

festive occasions.

The Turks would have been glad to use their cartridges, but dared not

without permission from the Russian authorities; for the shots would

have been sure to fly over to our banks. The commander of the Russian

military post (now dead), though he had been forty years in the army,

had never heard the whistle of a bullet; but he was fated to hear it

now. Several bullets buzzed passed his ears. The old man got very angry

and began to swear at Ohotsky, major of one of the infantry battalions.

The major, not knowing what to do, ran towards the river, on the other

side of which some insurgent cavalry were capering about. He shook his

finger at them, on which they turned round and galloped along, with

the whole Turkish army after them. The major who had shaken his finger

was called Hortchevsky. I don't know what became of him. The next day,

however, the Turks attacked the Arnouts. Hot daring to use cartridges

or cannon balls, they resolved, contrary to their custom, to employ

cold steel. The battle was fierce. The combatants slashed and stabbed

one another.

The Turks were seen with lances, which, hitherto they had never

possessed, and these lances were Russian. Our Nekrassoff refugees were

fighting in their ranks. The _hetairi,_ thanks to the permission of our

Emperor, were allowed to cross the Pruth and seek the protection of our

garrison. They began to cross the river, Cantagoni and Sophianos being

the last to quit the Turkish bank; Kirdjali, wounded the day before,

was already lying in Russian quarters. Sophianos was killed. Cantagoni,

a very stout man, was wounded with a spear in his stomach. With one

hand he raised his sword, with the other he seized the enemy's spear,

pushed it deeper into himself, and by that means was able to reach his

murderer with his own sword, when they fell together.

All was over. The Turks remained victorious, Moldavia was cleared of

insurgents. About six hundred Arnouts were scattered over Bessarabia.

Unable to obtain the means of subsistence, they still felt grateful

to Russia for her protection. They led an idle though not a dissolute

life. They could be seen in coffee-houses of half Turkish Bessarabia,

with long pipes in their mouths sipping thick coffee out of small cups.

Their figured Zouave jackets and red slippers with pointed toes were

beginning to look shabby. But they still wore their tufted scull-cap

on one side of the head; and daggers and pistols still protruded

from beneath, their broad girdles. No one complained of them. It

was impossible to imagine that these poor, peaceable fellows were

the celebrated pikemen of Moldavia, the followers of the ferocious

Kirdjali, and that he himself had been one of them.

The Pasha governing Jassy heard of all this, and, on the basis of

treaty rights, requested the Russian authorities to deliver up the

brigand. The police made inquiries, and found that Kirdjali really was

at Kishineff. They captured him in the house of a runaway monk in the

evening, while he was at supper, sitting in the twilight with seven

comrades.

Kirdjali was arraigned. He did not attempt to conceal the truth. He

owned he was Kirdjali.

"But," he added, "since I crossed the Pruth, I have not touched a

hair of property that did not belong to me, nor have I cheated the

meanest gipsy. To the Turks, the Moldavians, and the Walachians I am

certainly a brigand, but to the Russians a guest. When Sophianos, after

exhausting all his cartridges, came over here, he collected buttons

from the uniforms, nails, watch-chains, and nobs from the daggers for

the final discharge, and I myself handed him twenty _beshléks_ to fire

off, leaving myself without money. God is my witness that I, Kirdjali,

lived by charity. Why then do the Russians now hand me over to my

enemies?"

After that Kirdjali was silent, and quietly awaited his fate. It was

soon announced to him. The authorities, not thinking themselves hound

to look upon brigandage from its romantic side, and admitting the

justice of the Turkish demand, ordered Kirdjali to be given up that he

might be sent to Jassy.

A man of brains and feeling, at that time young and unknown, but

now occupying an important post, gave me a graphic description of

Kirdjali's departure.

"At the gates of the prison," he said, "stood a hired _karutsa._

Perhaps you don't know what a _karutsa_ is? It is a low

basket-carriage, to which quite recently used to be harnessed six or

eight miserable screws. A Moldavian, with a moustache and a sheepskin

hat, sitting astride one of the horses, cried out and cracked his whip

every moment, and his wretched little beasts went on at a sharp trot.

If one of them began to lag, then he unharnessed it with terrific

cursing and left it on the road, not caring what became of it. On the

return journey he was sure to find them in the same place, calmly

grazing on the steppes. Frequently a traveller starting from a station

with eight horses would arrive at the next with a pair only. It was

so about fifteen years ago. Now in Russianized Bessarabia, Russian

harness and Russian _telegas_ (carts) have been adopted.

"Such a _karutsa_ as I have described stood at the gate of the jail in

1821, towards the end of September. Jewesses with their sleeves hanging

down and with flapping slippers, Arnouts in ragged but picturesque

costumes, stately Moldavian women with black-eyed children in their

arms, surrounded the _harutsa._ The men maintained silence. The women

were excited, as if expecting something to happen.

"The gates opened, and several police officers stepped into the street,

followed by two soldiers leading Kirdjali in chains.

"He looked about thirty. The features of his dark face were regular and

austere. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and seemed to possess great

physical strength. He wore a variegated turban on the side of his head,

and a broad sash round his slender waist. A dolman of thick, dark blue

cloth, the wide plaits of his over-shirt falling just above the knees,

and a pair of handsome slippers completed his dress. His bearing was

calm and haughty.