The Most Interesting Stories of All Nations

J >> Julian Hawthorne >> The Most Interesting Stories of All Nations

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"What is the matter with your master, Yakov? Is he worse?"

"No, madam. God has been gracious. He told me to push the box
nearer him, and ordered Edouard Vicentevitch to open it. He wants
to send some telegram or other."

"Thank God, he is not worse. Yakov, I am going to send a telegram
to the station myself, in a few minutes, by my coachman. You can
give him the general's telegram, too."

"Very well, madam."

"And another thing. I shall not go to bed. If there is any change
in your master's condition, Yakov, come and knock at my door at
once. I beg of you, tell me the very moment anything happens.
Here is something for you, Yakov;--you have grown thin, waiting
upon your master!"

"I thank you most humbly, your excellency. We must not grudge our
exertions," the man answered, putting a note of considerable value
in his pocket.

III

Contrary to expectation, the night passed quietly enough. Emotion
and weariness claimed their own; Olga Vseslavovna, in spite of all
her efforts, fell into a sleep toward morning; and when she awoke,
she started in dismay, noticing that the sun had already climbed
high in the sky, and was pouring into her room.

Her maid, a deft Viennese, who had remained with this accommodating
mistress for five years, quieted her by telling her that the master
was better, that he was still asleep, not having slept for the
greater part of the night.

"The doctor and Yakov were busy with him most of the night," she
explained. "They were sorting all sorts of papers; some of them
they tied up, writing something on them; others they tore up, or
threw into the fire. The grate is full of ashes. Yakov told me."

"And there were no more telegrams?"

"No, madam, there were no more. Yakov and our Friedrich would have
let me know at once; I was there in the anteroom; they both kept
coming through on errands. But there were no more telegrams,
except the two that were sent last night."

Olga Vseslavovna dressed, breakfasted, and went to her husband.
But at the threshold of his room she was stopped by the direction
of the sick man to admit no one without special permission except
the doctor, or his eldest daughter, if she should come.

"Tell Edouard Vicentevitch to come out to me," ordered the
general's wife. The doctor was called, and in great confusion
confirmed the general's orders.

"But perhaps he did not think that such an order could apply to
me?" she said, astonished.

The doctor apologized, but had to admit that it was she who was
intended, and that his excellency had sent word to her excellency
that she should not give herself the trouble of visiting him.

"He is out of his mind," declared the general's wife quietly, but
with conviction, shrugging her shoulders. "Why should he hate me
so--for all my love to him, an old man, who might have been my
father?"

And Olga Vseslavovna once more took refuge in her pocket
handkerchief, this time, instead of tears, giving vent to sobs of
vexation.

The doctor, always shy in the presence of women, stood with hanging
head and downcast eyes, as though he were to blame.

"What is it they are saying about you burning papers all night?"
Olga Vseslavovna asked, in a weak voice.

"Oh, not nearly all night. Iuri Pavlovitch remembered that he
ought to destroy some old letters and papers. There were some to
be put in order. There, in the box, there is a packet addressed to
your excellency. I was told to write the address."

"Indeed! Could I not see it?"

"Oh no, on no account. They are all locked up in the box along
with the last will. And the general has the keys."

A bitter smile of humiliation played about the young woman's lips.

"So the new will has not been burned yet?" she asked. And to the
startled negative of the doctor, who repeated that "it was lying on
the top of the papers in the box," she added:

"Well, it will be burned yet. Do not fear. Especially if God in
His mercy prolongs my husband's life. You see, he has always had a
mysterious passion for writing new documents, powers of attorney,
deeds of gift, wills, whatever comes into his mind. He writes new
ones, and burns the old ones. But what can you do? We must submit
to each new fancy. We cannot contradict a sick man."

Olga Vseslavovna went back to her room. She only left her bedroom
for a few minutes that day, to hear the final word of the lights of
the medical profession, who had come together for a general
consultation in the afternoon; all the rest of the day she shut
herself up. The conclusions of the physicians, though they
differed completely in detail, were similar in the main, and far
from comforting; the life and continued suffering of the sick man
could not last more than a few days.

In the evening a telegram came from Anna Iurievna; she informed her
father that she would be with him on the following day, at five in
the afternoon.

"Shall I be able to hold out? Shall I last so long?" sighed the
sick man, all day long. And the more he was disturbed in mind, the
more threatening were his attacks of pain. He passed a bad night.
Toward morning a violent attack, much worse than any that had gone
before, almost carried him away. He could hardly breathe, owing to
the sharp suffering. Hot baths for his hands and steam inhalations
no longer had any beneficial effect, though they had alleviated his
pain hitherto.

The doctor, the Sister of Mercy, and the servant wore themselves
out. But still, as before, his wife alone was not admitted to him.
She raged with anger, trying, and not without success, to convince
everyone that she was going mad with despair. Little Olga had been
taken away on the previous day by a friend of the general's, to
stay there "during this terrible time." That night Madame Nazimoff
did not go to bed at all; and, as befitted a devoted wife, did not
quit her husband's door. When the violent attack just before dawn
quieted down, she made an attempt to go in to him; but no sooner
did the sick man see her at the head of his couch, on which he had
at last been persuaded to lie, than strong displeasure was
expressed in his face, and, no longer able to speak, he made an
angry motion of his hand toward her, and groaned heavily. The
Sister of Mercy with great firmness asked the general's wife not to
trouble the sick man with her presence.

"And I am to put up with this. I am to submit to all this?"
thought Olga Vseslavovna, writhing with wrath. "To endure all this
from him, and after his death to suffer beggary? No, a thousand
times no! Better death than penury and such insults." And she
fell into gloomy thought.

That gesture of displeasure at the sight of his wife was the last
conscious act of Iuri Pavlovitch Nazimoff. At eight in the morning
he lost consciousness, in the midst of violent suffering, which
lasted until the end. By the early afternoon he was no more.

During the last hour of his agony his wife knelt beside his couch
without let or hindrance, and wept inconsolably. The formidable
aristocrat and millionaire was dead.

Everything went on along the usual lines. The customary stir and
unceremonious bustle, instead of cautious whispering, rose around
the dead body, in preparation for a fashionable funeral. No near
relatives were present except his wife, and she was confined to her
room, half-fainting, half-hysterical. All responsibility fell on
the humble doctor, and he busied himself indefatigably,
conscientiously, in the sweat of his brow, making every effort to
omit nothing. But, as always happens, he omitted the most
important thing of all. The early twilight was already descending
on St. Petersburg, shrouded in chilly mist, when Edouard
Vicentevitch Polesski struck his brow in despair; he had suddenly
remembered the keys and the box, committed to his care by the dying
man. At that moment, the body, dressed in full uniform, with all
his regalia, was lying in the great, darkened room on a table,
covered with brocade, awaiting the coffin and the customary
wreaths. The doctor rushed into the empty bedroom. Everything in
it was already in order; the bed stood there, without mattress or
pillows. There was nothing on the dressing table, either.

Where were the keys? Where was the box? The box was standing as
before, untouched, locked. His heart at once felt lighter. But
the keys? No doubt the police would come in a few minutes. It was
astonishing that they had not come already. They would seal
everything. Everything must be in order. Where was Yakov?
Probably he had taken them. Or . . . the general's wife?

Polesski rushed to look for the manservant, but could not find him.
There was so much to do; he had gone to buy something, to order
something. "Oh Lord! And the announcement?" he suddenly
remembered. It must be written at once, and sent to the
newspapers. He must ask the general's wife, however, what words he
should use. However much he might wish to avoid her, still she was
now the most important person. And he could ask at the same time
whether she had seen the keys.

The doctor went to the rooms of the general's wife. She was lying
down, suffering severely, but she came out to him. "What words was
he to use? It was all the same to her. 'With deep regret,' 'with
heartfelt sorrow,' what did she care? The keys? What keys? No!
she had not seen any keys, and did not know where they were. But
why should he be disturbed about them? The servants were
trustworthy; nothing would go astray."

"Yes, but we must have them ready for the police. They will come
in a few minutes, to seal up the dead man's papers!"

"To seal up the papers? Why?"

"That is the law. So that everything should be intact, until after
the last will and testament of the deceased has been read,
according to his wishes."

General Nazimoff's wife paled perceptibly. She knew nothing of
such an obstacle, and had not expected it. The doctor was too busy
to notice her pallor.

"Very well; I shall write the announcement at once, and send it to
the newspapers. I suppose 'Novoe Vremya' and 'Novosti' will be
enough?"

"Do as you think best. Write it here, in my room. Here is
everything you require; pens, paper. Write, and then read it to
me. I shall be back in a moment. I want to put a bandage round my
head. It aches so. Wait for me here." And the general's wife
went from the sitting-room to her bedroom.

"Rita!" she whispered to her faithful maid, who was hurriedly
sewing a mourning gown of crape for her. "Do not let the doctor go
till I return. Do you understand? Do what you please, but do not
let him go." The general's wife slipped from the bedroom into the
passage through a small side door, and disappeared.

The two rooms between hers and the chamber where the dead man lay
were quite empty and nearly dark; there were no candles in them.
From the chamber came the feeble glimmer of the tiny lamps burning
before the icons.* The tapers were not lit yet, as the deacon had
not yet arrived. He was to come at the same time as the priest and
the coffin. For the moment there was no one near the dead man; in
the anteroom sat the Sister of Mercy.

* Sacred images.

"You wish to pray?" she asked the general's wife.

"Yes, I shall pray there, in his room."

She slipped past the dead body without looking at it, to the room
that had been the general's bedroom, and closed the door behind
her. She was afraid to lock it, and after all, was it necessary?
It would only take a moment. There it is, the box! She knows it
of old! And she knows its key of old, too; it is not so long since
her husband had no secrets from her.

The key was quickly slipped into the lock, and the lid rose
quickly. The paper? That new, detestable paper, which might
deprive her of everything. Ah! there it is!

To close the lid quickly, and turn the key in the lock; to hide the
keys somewhere; here, between the seat and the back of the sofa, on
which he lay. That's it!

A sigh of relief from fear escaped the beautiful lips of the
handsome woman, lips which were pale through those terrible days.
She could feel secure at last!

She must look at the document, the proof of his cruelty, his
injustice, his stupidity! She must make sure that there was no
mistake! Olga Vseslavovna went up to the window, and taking
advantage of the last ray of the gray day, unfolded the will.

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!" she
read. Yes, that is it, the will.

"How he pronounced those same words, when he was blessing little
Olga," she remembered. "Blessing her! And his hand did not
tremble, when he signed this. To deprive her, to deprive them
both, of everything, all on account of those hated people? But
now--it should never be! On no account! Your down-at-the-heel
pedagogue shall not strut about in peacock's feathers! Olga
and I . . . require the money more!"

And the general's wife was tempted to snap her fingers in triumph
in the direction of the dead man.

Suddenly, quite close to the door, the sound of steps was heard.
Good heavens! And she held the big sheet of crested paper in her
hand! Where could she put it? She had no time to think of folding
it up. There! they are coming in already! Who can it be?

And the will lay on the floor, the general's wife kneeling on it,
as on a prayer carpet, in an attitude of prayer, her clasped hands
on the window sill, her wet eyes fixed on a faintly twinkling star,
as though calling heaven to witness her inconsolable grief and
bereavement.

It was only the Sister of Mercy.

"Madam, the people have come, bringing the coffin; and I think the
police have also come."

"Yes, in a moment. Tell them I am coming immediately."

The Sister of Mercy went out.

"See how she loved her husband. And why was he so unjust to her at
the last?" she involuntarily reproached the dead general.

Meanwhile the general's wife had risen hastily, folded the will as
best she could, in four, in eight folds, and crushing it together
in her hand, went quietly from the room, which now filled her with
dread.

She was so confused that she did not even think of looking for her
pocket; she simply held her packet tight, and let her hand hang
down, hiding it in the folds of her wide dressing-gown. There
seemed to be so many people in the room which a moment before was
empty, that she felt cowed. Her heart beat pitilessly, and the
blood throbbed so violently in her temples that she could not
understand what was said to her. They were asking her if they
might place the body in the coffin, which had already been placed
beside it. Her silence was taken as consent. The skilful
undertakers easily lifted the already rigid body.

Olga Vseslavovna stood at the head of the dead general. Among the
crowd of undertakers and servants, she suddenly saw coming toward
her, with outstretched hand, and with tears of compassion in her
eyes, the Princess Ryadski, the same aristocratic kinswoman who had
already taken little Olga to stay with her.

"I must shake hands with her! And that horrible packet is in my
hand! Where shall I put it? How can I hide it?" Before her eyes
gleamed the brilliantly lighted, ashen forehead of the dead man,
helplessly bent backward and sideways, as the whole body was
suspended in the hands of the undertakers, over its last abode.

A saving thought!

The general's wife bent gently over the dead body. She gently
supported the head of the corpse, gently laid it on the satin
cushion, straightened the frills which surrounded the hard pillow,
and, unperceived, left under it the twisted roll of paper.

"It will be safer there!" The thought flashed through her mind.
"He wanted to keep his will himself; well, keep it to eternity,
now! What more can you ask?"

And it even seemed ludicrous to her. She could hardly restrain a
smile of triumph, changing it into a sad smile of grief, in reply
to her kinswoman's condolences. The coffin was already lying in
state on the bier; it was covered with brocade and flowers. The
princess, as kinswoman of the late general, bent low, and first
laid on the dead body the wreath she had brought with her.

"The poor sufferer has entered into rest," she whispered, shaking
her head. "Will the funeral service be soon? Where will it be?
Where is Olga Vseslavovna?"

"She will be here in a moment," the Sister of Mercy whispered,
deeply affected; "she has gone to fix herself. They will begin the
funeral service in a few minutes, and she is all in disorder. She
is in great grief. Will you not take a seat?"

"What? Sit down? Thank you," loftily replied the princess. And
she went toward a dignified personage who was entering, adorned
with many orders and an aristocratic beard.

The general's wife soon came to herself. "Rita! I must wash and
dress as quickly as possible. Ah! pray forgive me, doctor! They
called me away to my husband. They were placing him in the
coffin." She sighed deeply. "What is this? Oh, yes, the
announcement of his death. Very good. Send it, please. But I
must dress at once. The funeral service will begin immediately."

"Doctor! Is the doctor here?" an anxious voice sounded in the
corridor.

"I am coming! What is it?"

"Please come quick, Edouard Vicentevitch!" Yakov called him. "The
lady is very ill downstairs; Anna Iurievna, the general's daughter!
I was out to order the flowers; I come back, and see the lady lying
in a faint in the entrance. She had just arrived, and asked; and
they answered her that he was dead, without the slightest
preparation! And she could not bear it, and fainted."

Yakov said all this as they went.

"Actress!" angrily thought Olga Vseslavovna. And immediately she
added mentally, "Well, she may stand on her head now, it is all the
same to me!"

IV

Whether it was all the same to her or not, the deep despair of the
daughter, who had not been in time to bid her father farewell, had
not been in time to receive his blessing, after many years of
anger, which had borne heavily on the head of the blameless young
woman, was so evidently sincere, and produced such a deep
impression on everyone, that her stepmother also was moved.

Anna Iurievna resembled her father, as much as a young, graceful,
pretty woman can resemble an elderly man with strongly-marked
features and athletic frame, such as was General Nazimoff. But in
spite of the delicacy of her form, and the gentleness of her eyes,
her glance sometimes flashed fire in a manner very like the
flashing eyes of her father, and in her strong will, firm
character, and inflexible adherence to what she believed to be
necessary and right, Anna was exactly like her father.

For nearly ten years his daughter had obediently borne his anger;
from the day of her marriage to the man she loved, whom evil-minded
people had succeeded in calumniating in the general's mind. Though
writing incessantly to him, begging him to pardon her, to
understand that he had made a mistake, that her husband was a man
of honor, and that she would be fully and perfectly happy, but for
the burden of her father's wrath, and of the separation from him,
she had never until the last few weeks received a reply from him.
But quite recently something mysterious had happened. Not only had
her father written to her that he wished to see her and her
children in St. Petersburg, whither he was just setting out, but a
few days later he had written again, a long, tender letter, in
which he had asked her forgiveness. Without giving any
explanations, he said that he had received indubitable proofs of
the innocence and chivalrous honor of her husband; that he felt
himself deeply guilty toward him, and was miserable on account of
the injustice he had committed. In the following letters, praying
his daughter to hasten her coming, because he was dangerously ill,
and the doctors thought could not last long, he filled her with
astonishment by expressing his intention to make a new will, and
his determination to separate his youngest daughter "from such a
mother," and by his prayers to her and her husband not to refuse to
take upon themselves little Olga's education.

"What had happened? How could that light-minded woman have so
deeply wounded my father?" Anna asked in bewilderment.

"If she was merely light-minded!" her husband answered, shrugging
his shoulders. "But she is so malicious, so crafty, and so daring
that anything may be expected from her."

"But in that case there would be an open scandal. We would know
something for certain. Nowadays they even relate such stories in
the newspapers, and my father is so well known, so noteworthy!"

"That is just why they don't write about him!" answered Borisoff,
her husband, smiling. He himself flatly refused to go to St.
Petersburg. With horror he remembered the first year of his
marriage, before he had succeeded in obtaining a transfer to
another city, and was compelled to meet the woman he detested;
compelled also to meet his father-in-law, a wise and honorable old
man, who had fallen so completely into the toils of this crafty
woman. Anna Iurievna knew that her husband despised her
stepmother; that he detested her as the cause of all the grief
which they had had to endure through her, and most of all, on
account of the injustice she was guilty of toward her brother, the
general's son.

For six years Borisoff had lived with young Peter Nazimoff, as his
tutor and teacher, and loved him sincerely. The boy had already
reached the highest class at school, when his sister, two years
older than he, finished her schooling, and returned to her father's
house, about the time of the general's second marriage. What the
young tutor tried not to notice and to endure, for love of his
pupil, in the first year of the general's second marriage, became
intolerable when the general's daughter returned home, and to all
the burden of his difficult position was added the knowledge of
their mutual love. He proceeded frankly, and the whole matter was
soon settled. But the young man had never uttered a syllable as to
the cause of Madame Nazimoff's hatred for him. For the sake of his
father-in-law's peace of mind, he sincerely hoped that he would
never know. Anna was convinced that the whole cause of her
stepmother's hostility was her prejudice against what was in her
opinion a mesalliance. In part she was right, but the chief reason
of this hostility remained forever a secret to her. Unfortunately,
it was not equally a secret to her father.

Of late years he had gradually been losing faith in his second
wife's character. It went so far that the general felt much more
at ease when she was away. Before the last illness of Iuri
Pavlovitch, which, to tell the truth, was almost his first, Olga
Vseslavovna had gone abroad with her daughter, intending to travel
for a year; but she had hardly been gone two months when the
general unexpectedly determined to go to St. Petersburg to seek a
divorce, to see his elder daughter, and change his will. Perhaps
he would never have determined on such decisive measures had not
something wholly unexpected taken place.

Borisoff was quite mistaken in thinking that he had so carefully
destroyed all the letters which the general's young wife had
written to him, before his marriage to Anna, that no material
evidence of Olga Vseslavovna's early design of treachery remained.
Even before she married the general, she had had a confidential
servant, who carried out many commissions for the beautiful young
woman, whose fame had gone abroad through the three districts along
the Volga, the arena of her early triumphs. Later, the young lady
found a new favorite in foreign lands--the same Rita who was still
with her. Martha, the Russian confidential servant, heartily
detested the German girl, and such strife arose between them that
not only the general's wife, but even the general himself, was
deprived of peace and tranquillity. Martha was no fool; Olga
Vseslavovna had to be careful with her; she did take care, but she
herself did not know to what an extent she was in the woman's
power. Foreseeing a black day of ingratitude, Martha, with
wonderful forethought, had put on one side one or two letters from
each series of her mistress' secret correspondence, which always
passed through her hands. Perhaps she would not have made such a
bad use of them but for her mistress' last, intolerable insult.
Prizing in her servants, next to swift obedience, a knowledge of
languages, her mistress did not make use of her when traveling
abroad; but hitherto she had taken both servants with her. But on
her last journey she was so heartily tired of Martha, and her
perpetual tears and quarrels, that she determined to get on without
her, the more so that her daughter's governess was also traveling
with her. Her company was growing too numerous.

There was no limit to Martha's wrath when she learned that she was
going to be left behind. Her effrontery was so great that she
advised her mistress "for her own sake" not to put such an affront
upon her, since she would not submit to it without seeking revenge.
But her mistress never dreamed of what Martha was planning, and
what a risk she ran.

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