hand, carried it to Marfa’s lips. Then she refreshed herself. They
found new life in these welcome waters. Suddenly Nadia started up; an
involuntary cry escaped her.
Michael Strogoff was there, a few steps from her. It was he. The dying
rays of the sun fell upon him.
At Nadia’s cry Michael started. But he had sufficient command over
himself not to utter a word by which he might have been compromised. And
yet, when he saw Nadia, he also recognized his mother.
Feeling he could not long keep master of himself at this unexpected
meeting, he covered his eyes with his hands and walked quickly away.
Nadia’s impulse was to run after him, but the old Siberian murmured in
her ear, “Stay, my daughter!”
“It is he!” replied Nadia, choking with emotion. “He lives, mother! It
is he!”
“It is my son,” answered Marfa, “it is Michael Strogoff, and you see
that I do not make a step towards him! Imitate me, my daughter.”
Michael had just experienced the most violent emotion which a man can
feel. His mother and Nadia were there!
The two prisoners who were always together in his heart, God had brought
them together in this common misfortune. Did Nadia know who he was? Yes,
for he had seen Marfa’s gesture, holding her back as she was about to
rush towards him. Marfa, then, had understood all, and kept his secret.
During that night, Michael was twenty times on the point of looking for
and joining his mother; but he knew that he must resist the longing he
felt to take her in his arms, and once more press the hand of his young
companion. The least imprudence might be fatal. He had besides sworn not
to see his mother. Once at Tomsk, since he could not escape this very
night, he would set off without having even embraced the two beings
in whom all the happiness of his life was centered, and whom he should
leave exposed to so many perils.
Michael hoped that this fresh meeting at the Zabediero camp would have
no disastrous consequences either to his mother or to himself. But he
did not know that part of this scene, although it passed so rapidly, had
been observed by Sangarre, Ogareff’s spy.
The Tsigane was there, a few paces off, on the bank, as usual, watching
the old Siberian woman. She had not caught sight of Michael, for he
disappeared before she had time to look around; but the mother’s gesture
as she kept back Nadia had not escaped her, and the look in Marfa’s eyes
told her all.
It was now beyond doubt that Marfa Strogoff’s son, the Czar’s courier,
was at this moment in Zabediero, among Ivan Ogareff’s prisoners.
Sangarre did not know him, but she knew that he was there. She did not
then attempt to discover him, for it would have been impossible in the
dark and the immense crowd.
As for again watching Nadia and Marfa Strogoff, that was equally
useless. It was evident that the two women would keep on their
guard, and it would be impossible to overhear anything of a nature to
compromise the courier of the Czar. The Tsigane’s first thought was
to tell Ivan Ogareff. She therefore immediately left the encampment. A
quarter of an hour after, she reached Zabediero, and was shown into the
house occupied by the Emir’s lieutenant. Ogareff received the Tsigane
directly.
“What have you to tell me, Sangarre?” he asked.
“Marfa Strogoff’s son is in the encampment.”
“A prisoner?”
“A prisoner.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Ogareff, “I shall know--”
“You will know nothing, Ivan,” replied Tsigane; “for you do not even
know him by sight.”
“But you know him; you have seen him, Sangarre?”
“I have not seen him; but his mother betrayed herself by a gesture,
which told me everything.”
“Are you not mistaken?”
“I am not mistaken.”
“You know the importance which I attach to the apprehension of this
courier,” said Ivan Ogareff. “If the letter which he has brought from
Moscow reaches Irkutsk, if it is given to the Grand Duke, the Grand Duke
will be on his guard, and I shall not be able to get at him. I must have
that letter at any price. Now you come to tell me that the bearer of
this letter is in my power. I repeat, Sangarre, are you not mistaken?”
Ogareff spoke with great animation. His emotion showed the extreme
importance he attached to the possession of this letter. Sangarre
was not at all put out by the urgency with which Ogareff repeated his
question. “I am not mistaken, Ivan,” she said.
“But, Sangarre, there are thousands of prisoners; and you say that you
do not know Michael Strogoff.”
“No,” answered the Tsigane, with a look of savage joy, “I do not know
him; but his mother knows him. Ivan, we must make his mother speak.”
“To-morrow she shall speak!” cried Ogareff. So saying, he extended his
hand to the Tsigane, who kissed it; for there is nothing servile in this
act of respect, it being usual among the Northern races.
Sangarre returned to the camp. She found out Nadia and Marfa Strogoff,
and passed the night in watching them. Although worn out with fatigue,
the old woman and the girl did not sleep. Their great anxiety kept them
awake. Michael was living, but a prisoner. Did Ogareff know him, or
would he not soon find him out? Nadia was occupied by the one thought
that he whom she had thought dead still lived. But Marfa saw further
into the future: and, although she did not care what became of herself,
she had every reason to fear for her son.
Sangarre, under cover of the night, had crept near the two women, and
remained there several hours listening. She heard nothing. From an
instinctive feeling of prudence not a word was exchanged between Nadia
and Marfa Strogoff. The next day, the 16th of August, about ten in the
morning, trumpet-calls resounded throughout the encampment. The Tartar
soldiers were almost immediately under arms.
Ivan Ogareff arrived, surrounded by a large staff of Tartar officers.
His face was more clouded than usual, and his knitted brow gave signs of
latent wrath which was waiting for an occasion to break forth.
Michael Strogoff, hidden in a group of prisoners, saw this man pass. He
had a presentiment that some catastrophe was imminent: for Ivan Ogareff
knew now that Marfa was the mother of Michael Strogoff.
Ogareff dismounted, and his escort cleared a large circle round him.
Just then Sangarre approached him, and said, “I have no news.”
Ivan Ogareff’s only reply was to give an order to one of his officers.
Then the ranks of prisoners were brutally hurried up by the soldiers.
The unfortunate people, driven on with whips, or pushed on with lances,
arranged themselves round the camp. A strong guard of soldiers drawn up
behind, rendered escape impossible.
Silence then ensued, and, on a sign from Ivan Ogareff, Sangarre advanced
towards the group, in the midst of which stood Marfa.
The old Siberian saw her, and knew what was going to happen. A scornful
smile passed over her face. Then leaning towards Nadia, she said in a
low tone, “You know me no longer, my daughter. Whatever may happen, and
however hard this trial may be, not a word, not a sign. It concerns him,
and not me.”
At that moment Sangarre, having regarded her for an instant, put her
hand on her shoulder.
“What do you want with me?” said Marfa.
“Come!” replied Sangarre, and pushing the old Siberian before her, she
took her to Ivan Ogareff, in the middle of the cleared ground. Michael
cast down his eyes that their angry flashings might not appear.
Marfa, standing before Ivan Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms
on her breast, and waited.
“You are Marfa Strogoff?” asked Ogareff.
“Yes,” replied the old Siberian calmly.
“Do you retract what you said to me when, three days ago, I interrogated
you at Omsk?”
“No!”
“Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff, courier of the
Czar, has passed through Omsk?”
“I do not know it.”
“And the man in whom you thought you recognized your son, was not he
your son?”
“He was not my son.”
“And since then you have not seen him amongst the prisoners?”
“No.”
“If he were pointed out, would you recognize him?”
“No.”
On this reply, which showed such determined resolution, a murmur was
heard amongst the crowd.
Ogareff could not restrain a threatening gesture.
“Listen,” said he to Marfa, “your son is here, and you shall immediately
point him out to me.”
“No.”
“All these men, taken at Omsk and Kolyvan, will defile before you; and
if you do not show me Michael Strogoff, you shall receive as many blows
of the knout as men shall have passed before you.”
Ivan Ogareff saw that, whatever might be his threats, whatever might be
the tortures to which he submitted her, the indomitable Siberian would
not speak. To discover the courier of the Czar, he counted, then, not on
her, but on Michael himself. He did not believe it possible that, when
mother and son were in each other’s presence, some involuntary movement
would not betray him. Of course, had he wished to seize the imperial
letter, he would simply have given orders to search all the prisoners;
but Michael might have destroyed the letter, having learnt its contents;
and if he were not recognized, if he were to reach Irkutsk, all Ivan
Ogareff’s plans would be baffled. It was thus not only the letter which
the traitor must have, but the bearer himself.
Nadia had heard all, and she now knew who was Michael Strogoff, and why
he had wished to cross, without being recognized, the invaded provinces
of Siberia.
On an order from Ivan Ogareff the prisoners defiled, one by one, past
Marfa, who remained immovable as a statue, and whose face expressed only
perfect indifference.
Her son was among the last. When in his turn he passed before his
mother, Nadia shut her eyes that she might not see him. Michael was to
all appearance unmoved, but the palm of his hand bled under his nails,
which were pressed into them.
Ivan Ogareff was baffled by mother and son.
Sangarre, close to him, said one word, “The knout!”
“Yes,” cried Ogareff, who could no longer restrain himself; “the knout
for this wretched old woman--the knout to the death!”
A Tartar soldier bearing this terrible instrument of torture approached
Marfa. The knout is composed of a certain number of leathern thongs,
at the end of which are attached pieces of twisted iron wire. It is
reckoned that a sentence to one hundred and twenty blows of this whip is
equivalent to a sentence of death.
Marfa knew it, but she knew also that no torture would make her speak.
She was sacrificing her life.
Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground.
Her dress torn off left her back bare. A saber was placed before her
breast, at a few inches’ distance only. Directly she bent beneath her
suffering, her breast would be pierced by the sharp steel.
The Tartar drew himself up. He waited. “Begin!” said Ogareff. The whip
whistled in the air.
But before it fell a powerful hand stopped the Tartar’s arm. Michael was
there. He had leapt forward at this horrible scene. If at the relay at
Ichim he had restrained himself when Ogareff’s whip had struck him, here
before his mother, who was about to be struck, he could not do so. Ivan
Ogareff had succeeded.
“Michael Strogoff!” cried he. Then advancing, “Ah, the man of Ichim?”
“Himself!” said Michael. And raising the knout he struck Ogareff a sharp
blow across the face. “Blow for blow!” said he.
“Well repaid!” cried a voice concealed by the tumult.
Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael, and in another instant he
would have been slain.
But Ogareff, who on being struck had uttered a cry of rage and pain,
stopped them. “This man is reserved for the Emir’s judgment,” said he.
“Search him!”
The letter with the imperial arms was found in Michael’s bosom; he had
not had time to destroy it; it was handed to Ogareff.
The voice which had pronounced the words, “Well repaid!” was that of
no other than Alcide Jolivet. “Par-dieu!” said he to Blount, “they are
rough, these people. Acknowledge that we owe our traveling companion
a good turn. Korpanoff or Strogoff is worthy of it. Oh, that was fine
retaliation for the little affair at Ichim.”
“Yes, retaliation truly,” replied Blount; “but Strogoff is a dead man.
I suspect that, for his own interest at all events, it would have
been better had he not possessed quite so lively a recollection of the
event.”
“And let his mother perish under the knout?”
“Do you think that either she or his sister will be a bit better off
from this outbreak of his?”
“I do not know or think anything except that I should have done much
the same in his position,” replied Alcide. “What a scar the Colonel has
received! Bah! one must boil over sometimes. We should have had water in
our veins instead of blood had it been incumbent on us to be always and
everywhere unmoved to wrath.”
“A neat little incident for our journals,” observed Blount, “if only
Ivan Ogareff would let us know the contents of that letter.”
Ivan Ogareff, when he had stanched the blood which was trickling
down his face, had broken the seal. He read and re-read the letter
deliberately, as if he was determined to discover everything it
contained.
Then having ordered that Michael, carefully bound and guarded, should
be carried on to Tomsk with the other prisoners, he took command of
the troops at Zabediero, and, amid the deafening noise of drums and
trumpets, he marched towards the town where the Emir awaited him.
CHAPTER IV THE TRIUMPHAL ENTRY
TOMSK, founded in 1604, nearly in the heart of the Siberian provinces,
is one of the most important towns in Asiatic Russia. Tobolsk, situated
above the sixtieth parallel; Irkutsk, built beyond the hundredth
meridian--have seen Tomsk increase at their expense.
And yet Tomsk, as has been said, is not the capital of this important
province. It is at Omsk that the Governor-General of the province and
the official world reside. But Tomsk is the most considerable town of
that territory. The country being rich, the town is so likewise, for
it is in the center of fruitful mines. In the luxury of its houses, its
arrangements, and its equipages, it might rival the greatest European
capitals. It is a city of millionaires, enriched by the spade and
pickax, and though it has not the honor of being the residence of the
Czar’s representative, it can boast of including in the first rank
of its notables the chief of the merchants of the town, the principal
grantees of the imperial government’s mines.
But the millionaires were fled now, and except for the crouching poor,
the town stood empty to the hordes of Feofar-Khan. At four o’clock the
Emir made his entry into the square, greeted by a flourish of trumpets,
the rolling sound of the big drums, salvoes of artillery and musketry.
Feofar mounted his favorite horse, which carried on its head an aigrette
of diamonds. The Emir still wore his uniform. He was accompanied by
a numerous staff, and beside him walked the Khans of Khokhand and
Koundouge and the grand dignitaries of the Khanats.
At the same moment appeared on the terrace the chief of Feofar’s wives,
the queen, if this title may be given to the sultana of the states
of Bokhara. But, queen or slave, this woman of Persian origin was
wonderfully beautiful. Contrary to the Mahometan custom, and no doubt by
some caprice of the Emir, she had her face uncovered. Her hair, divided
into four plaits, fell over her dazzling white shoulders, scarcely
concealed by a veil of silk worked in gold, which fell from the back
of a cap studded with gems of the highest value. Under her blue-silk
petticoat, fell the “zirdjameh” of silken gauze, and above the sash
lay the “pirahn.” But from the head to the little feet, such was the
profusion of jewels--gold beads strung on silver threads, chaplets of
turquoises, “firouzehs” from the celebrated mines of Elbourz, necklaces
of cornelians, agates, emeralds, opals, and sapphires--that her dress
seemed to be literally made of precious stones. The thousands of
diamonds which sparkled on her neck, arms, hands, at her waist, and at
her feet might have been valued at almost countless millions of roubles.
The Emir and the Khans dismounted, as did the dignitaries who escorted
them. All entered a magnificent tent erected on the center of the first
terrace. Before the tent, as usual, the Koran was laid.
Feofar’s lieutenant did not make them wait, and before five o’clock the
trumpets announced his arrival. Ivan Ogareff--the Scarred Cheek, as
he was already nick-named--wearing the uniform of a Tartar officer,
dismounted before the Emir’s tent. He was accompanied by a party of
soldiers from the camp at Zabediero, who ranged up at the sides of the
square, in the middle of which a place for the sports was reserved. A
large scar could be distinctly seen cut obliquely across the traitor’s
face.
Ogareff presented his principal officers to the Emir, who, without
departing from the coldness which composed the main part of his dignity,
received them in a way which satisfied them that they stood well in the
good graces of their chief.
At least so thought Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet, the two
inseparables, now associated together in the chase after news. After
leaving Zabediero, they had proceeded rapidly to Tomsk. The plan they
had agreed upon was to leave the Tartars as soon as possible, and to
join a Russian regiment, and, if they could, to go with them to Irkutsk.
All that they had seen of the invasion, its burnings, its pillages, its
murders, had perfectly sickened them, and they longed to be among the
ranks of the Siberian army. Jolivet had told his companion that he could
not leave Tomsk without making a sketch of the triumphal entry of the
Tartar troops, if it was only to satisfy his cousin’s curiosity; but the
same evening they both intended to take the road to Irkutsk, and being
well mounted hoped to distance the Emir’s scouts.
Alcide and Blount mingled therefore in the crowd, so as to lose no
detail of a festival which ought to supply them with a hundred good
lines for an article. They admired the magnificence of Feofar-Khan, his
wives, his officers, his guards, and all the Eastern pomp, of which the
ceremonies of Europe can give not the least idea. But they turned away
with disgust when Ivan Ogareff presented himself before the Emir, and
waited with some impatience for the amusements to begin.
“You see, my dear Blount,” said Alcide, “we have come too soon, like
honest citizens who like to get their money’s worth. All this is before
the curtain rises, it would have been better to arrive only for the
ballet.”
“What ballet?” asked Blount.
“The compulsory ballet, to be sure. But see, the curtain is going to
rise.” Alcide Jolivet spoke as if he had been at the Opera, and taking
his glass from its case, he prepared, with the air of a connoisseur, “to
examine the first act of Feofar’s company.”
A painful ceremony was to precede the sports. In fact, the triumph of
the vanquisher could not be complete without the public humiliation of
the vanquished. This was why several hundreds of prisoners were brought
under the soldiers’ whips. They were destined to march past Feofar-Khan
and his allies before being crammed with their companions into the
prisons in the town.
In the first ranks of these prisoners figured Michael Strogoff. As
Ogareff had ordered, he was specially guarded by a file of soldiers. His
mother and Nadia were there also.
The old Siberian, although energetic enough when her own safety was in
question, was frightfully pale. She expected some terrible scene. It was
not without reason that her son had been brought before the Emir. She
therefore trembled for him. Ivan Ogareff was not a man to forgive
having been struck in public by the knout, and his vengeance would
be merciless. Some frightful punishment familiar to the barbarians
of Central Asia would, no doubt, be inflicted on Michael Ogareff had
protected him against the soldiers because he well knew what would
happen by reserving him for the justice of the Emir.
The mother and son had not been able to speak together since the
terrible scene in the camp at Zabediero. They had been pitilessly kept
apart--a bitter aggravation of their misery, for it would have been some
consolation to have been together during these days of captivity. Marfa
longed to ask her son’s pardon for the harm she had unintentionally done
him, for she reproached herself with not having commanded her maternal
feelings. If she had restrained herself in that post-house at Omsk,
when she found herself face to face with him, Michael would have passed
unrecognized, and all these misfortunes would have been avoided.
Michael, on his side, thought that if his mother was there, if Ogareff
had brought her with him, it was to make her suffer with the sight of
his own punishment, or perhaps some frightful death was reserved for her
also.
As to Nadia, she only asked herself how she could save them both, how
come to the aid of son and mother. As yet she could only wonder, but
she felt instinctively that she must above everything avoid drawing
attention upon herself, that she must conceal herself, make herself
insignificant. Perhaps she might at least gnaw through the meshes which
imprisoned the lion. At any rate if any opportunity was given her she
would seize upon it, and sacrifice herself, if need be, for the son of
Marfa Strogoff.
In the meantime the greater part of the prisoners were passing before
the Emir, and as they passed each was obliged to prostrate himself,
with his forehead in the dust, in token of servitude. Slavery begins by
humiliation. When the unfortunate people were too slow in bending, the
rough guards threw them violently to the ground.
Alcide Jolivet and his companion could not witness such a sight without
feeling indignant.
“It is cowardly--let us go,” said Alcide.
“No,” answered Blount; “we must see it all.”
“See it all!--ah!” cried Alcide, suddenly, grasping his companion’s arm.
“What is the matter with you?” asked the latter.
“Look, Blount; it is she!”
“What she?”
“The sister of our traveling companion--alone, and a prisoner! We must
save her.”
“Calm yourself,” replied Blount coolly. “Any interference on our part in
behalf of the young girl would be worse than useless.”
Alcide Jolivet, who had been about to rush forward, stopped, and
Nadia--who had not perceived them, her features being half hidden by
her hair--passed in her turn before the Emir without attracting his
attention.
However, after Nadia came Marfa Strogoff; and as she did not throw
herself quickly in the dust, the guards brutally pushed her. She fell.
Her son struggled so violently that the soldiers who were guarding him
could scarcely hold him back. But the old woman rose, and they were
about to drag her on, when Ogareff interposed, saying, “Let that woman
stay!”
As to Nadia, she happily regained the crowd of prisoners. Ivan Ogareff
had taken no notice of her.
Michael was then led before the Emir, and there he remained standing,
without casting down his eyes.
“Your forehead to the ground!” cried Ogareff.
“No!” answered Michael.
Two soldiers endeavored to make him bend, but they were themselves laid
on the ground by a buffet from the young man’s fist.
Ogareff approached Michael. “You shall die!” he said.
“I can die,” answered Michael fiercely; “but your traitor’s face, Ivan,
will not the less carry forever the infamous brand of the knout.”
At this reply Ivan Ogareff became perfectly livid.
“Who is this prisoner?” asked the Emir, in a tone of voice terrible from
its very calmness.
“A Russian spy,” answered Ogareff. In asserting that Michael was a spy
he knew that the sentence pronounced against him would be terrible.
The Emir made a sign at which all the crowd bent low their heads. Then
he pointed with his hand to the Koran, which was brought him. He opened
the sacred book and placed his finger on one of its pages.
It was chance, or rather, according to the ideas of these Orientals, God
Himself who was about to decide the fate of Michael Strogoff. The people
of Central Asia give the name of “fal” to this practice. After having
interpreted the sense of the verse touched by the judge’s finger, they
apply the sentence whatever it may be.
The Emir had let his finger rest on the page of the Koran. The chief of
the Ulemas then approached, and read in a loud voice a verse which ended
with these words, “And he will no more see the things of this earth.”
“Russian spy!” exclaimed Feofar-Kahn in a voice trembling with fury,
“you have come to see what is going on in the Tartar camp. Then look
while you may.”
CHAPTER V “LOOK WHILE YOU MAY!”
MICHAEL was held before the Emir’s throne, at the foot of the terrace,
his hands bound behind his back. His mother overcome at last by mental
and physical torture, had sunk to the ground, daring neither to look nor
listen.
“Look while you may,” exclaimed Feofar-Kahn, stretching his arm towards
Michael in a threatening manner. Doubtless Ivan Ogareff, being well
acquainted with Tartar customs, had taken in the full meaning of these
words, for his lips curled for an instant in a cruel smile; he then took
his place by Feofar-Khan.
A trumpet call was heard. This was the signal for the amusements to
begin. “Here comes the ballet,” said Alcide to Blount; “but, contrary to
our customs, these barbarians give it before the drama.”
Michael had been commanded to look at everything. He looked. A troop
of dancers poured into the open space before the Emir’s tent. Different
Tartar instruments, the “doutare,” a long-handled guitar, the “kobize,”
a kind of violoncello, the “tschibyzga,” a long reed flute; wind
instruments, tom-toms, tambourines, united with the deep voices of the
singers, formed a strange harmony. Added to this were the strains of an
aerial orchestra, composed of a dozen kites, which, fastened by strings
to their centers, resounded in the breeze like AEolian harps.
Then the dancers began. The performers were all of Persian origin;
they were no longer slaves, but exercised their profession at liberty.
Formerly they figured officially in the ceremonies at the court of
Teheran, but since the accession of the reigning family, banished or
treated with contempt, they had been compelled to seek their fortune
elsewhere. They wore the national costume, and were adorned with a
profusion of jewels. Little triangles of gold, studded with jewels,
glittered in their ears. Circles of silver, marked with black,
surrounded their necks and legs.
These performers gracefully executed various dances, sometimes alone,
sometimes in groups. Their faces were uncovered, but from time to time
they threw a light veil over their heads, and a gauze cloud passed over
their bright eyes as smoke over a starry sky. Some of these Persians
wore leathern belts embroidered with pearls, from which hung little
triangular bags. From these bags, embroidered with golden filigree, they
drew long narrow bands of scarlet silk, on which were braided verses
of the Koran. These bands, which they held between them, formed a belt
under which the other dancers darted; and, as they passed each verse,
following the precept it contained, they either prostrated themselves
on the earth or lightly bounded upwards, as though to take a place among
the houris of Mohammed’s heaven.
But what was remarkable, and what struck Alcide, was that the Persians
appeared rather indolent than fiery. Their passion had deserted them,
and, by the kind of dances as well as by their execution, they recalled
rather the calm and self-possessed nauch girls of India than the
impassioned dancers of Egypt.
When this was over, a stern voice was heard saying:
“Look while you may!”
The man who repeated the Emir’s words--a tall spare Tartar--was he who
carried out the sentences of Feofar-Khan against offenders. He had taken
his place behind Michael, holding in his hand a broad curved saber, one
of those Damascene blades which are forged by the celebrated armorers of
Karschi or Hissar.
Behind him guards were carrying a tripod supporting a chafing-dish
filled with live coals. No smoke arose from this, but a light vapor
surrounded it, due to the incineration of a certain aromatic and
resinous substance which he had thrown on the surface.
The Persians were succeeded by another party of dancers, whom Michael
recognized. The journalists also appeared to recognize them, for Blount
said to his companion, “These are the Tsiganes of Nijni-Novgorod.”
“No doubt of it,” cried Alcide. “Their eyes, I imagine, bring more money
to these spies than their legs.”
In putting them down as agents in the Emir’s service, Alcide Jolivet
was, by all accounts, not mistaken.
In the first rank of the Tsiganes, Sangarre appeared, superb in her
strange and picturesque costume, which set off still further her
remarkable beauty.
Sangarre did not dance, but she stood as a statue in the midst of the
performers, whose style of dancing was a combination of that of all
those countries through which their race had passed--Turkey, Bohemia,
Egypt, Italy, and Spain. They were enlivened by the sound of cymbals,
which clashed on their arms, and by the hollow sounds of the “daires”--a
sort of tambourine played with the fingers.
Sangarre, holding one of those daires, which she played between her
hands, encouraged this troupe of veritable corybantes. A young Tsigane,
of about fifteen years of age, then advanced. He held in his hand a
“doutare,” strings of which he made to vibrate by a simple movement of
the nails. He sung. During the singing of each couplet, of very peculiar
rhythm, a dancer took her position by him and remained there immovable,
listening to him, but each time that the burden came from the lips of
the young singer, she resumed her dance, dinning in his ears with her
daire, and deafening him with the clashing of her cymbals. Then, after
the last chorus, the remainder surrounded the Tsigane in the windings of
their dance.
At that moment a shower of gold fell from the hands of the Emir and his
train, and from the hands of his officers of all ranks; to the noise
which the pieces made as they struck the cymbals of the dancers, being
added the last murmurs of the doutares and tambourines.
“Lavish as robbers,” said Alcide in the ear of his companion. And in
fact it was the result of plunder which was falling; for, with the
Tartar tomans and sequins, rained also Russian ducats and roubles.
Then silence followed for an instant, and the voice of the executioner,
who laid his hand on Michael’s shoulder, once more pronounced the words,
which this repetition rendered more and more sinister:
“Look while you may”
But this time Alcide observed that the executioner no longer held the
saber bare in his hand.
Meanwhile the sun had sunk behind the horizon. A semi-obscurity began
to envelop the plain. The mass of cedars and pines became blacker and
blacker, and the waters of the Tom, totally obscured in the distance,
mingled with the approaching shadows.
But at that instant several hundreds of slaves, bearing lighted torches,
entered the square. Led by Sangarre, Tsiganes and Persians reappeared
before the Emir’s throne, and showed off, by the contrast, their dances
of styles so different. The instruments of the Tartar orchestra sounded
forth in harmony still more savage, accompanied by the guttural cries of
the singers. The kites, which had fallen to the ground, once more winged
their way into the sky, each bearing a parti-colored lantern, and under
a fresher breeze their harps vibrated with intenser sound in the midst
of the aerial illumination.
Then a squadron of Tartars, in their brilliant uniforms, mingled in
the dances, whose wild fury was increasing rapidly, and then began a
performance which produced a very strange effect. Soldiers came on the
ground, armed with bare sabers and long pistols, and, as they executed
dances, they made the air re-echo with the sudden detonations of their
firearms, which immediately set going the rumbling of the tambourines,
and grumblings of the daires, and the gnashing of doutares.
Their arms, covered with a colored powder of some metallic ingredient,
after the Chinese fashion, threw long jets--red, green, and blue--so
that the groups of dancers seemed to be in the midst of fireworks.
In some respects, this performance recalled the military dance of
the ancients, in the midst of naked swords; but this Tartar dance
was rendered yet more fantastic by the colored fire, which wound,
serpent-like, above the dancers, whose dresses seemed to be embroidered
with fiery hems. It was like a kaleidoscope of sparks, whose infinite
combinations varied at each movement of the dancers.
Though it may be thought that a Parisian reporter would be perfectly
hardened to any scenic effect, which our modern ideas have carried so
far, yet Alcide Jolivet could not restrain a slight movement of the
head, which at home, between the Boulevard Montmartre and La Madeleine
would have said--“Very fair, very fair.”
Then, suddenly, at a signal, all the lights of the fantasia were
extinguished, the dances ceased, and the performers disappeared. The
ceremony was over, and the torches alone lighted up the plateau, which a
few instants before had been so brilliantly illuminated.
On a sign from the Emir, Michael was led into the middle of the square.
“Blount,” said Alcide to his companion, “are you going to see the end of
all this?”
“No, that I am not,” replied Blount.
“The readers of the Daily Telegraph are, I hope, not very eager for the
details of an execution a la mode Tartare?”
“No more than your cousin!”
“Poor fellow!” added Alcide, as he watched Michael. “That valiant
soldier should have fallen on the field of battle!”
“Can we do nothing to save him?” said Blount.
“Nothing!”
The reporters recalled Michael’s generous conduct towards them; they
knew now through what trials he must have passed, ever obedient to his
duty; and in the midst of these Tartars, to whom pity is unknown, they
could do nothing for him. Having little desire to be present at the
torture reserved for the unfortunate man, they returned to the town.
An hour later, they were on the road to Irkutsk, for it was among
the Russians that they intended to follow what Alcide called, by
anticipation, “the campaign of revenge.”
Meantime, Michael was standing ready, his eyes returning the Emir’s
haughty glance, while his countenance assumed an expression of intense
scorn whenever he cast his looks on Ivan Ogareff. He was prepared to
die, yet not a single sign of weakness escaped him.
The spectators, waiting around the square, as well as Feofar-Khan’s
body-guard, to whom this execution was only one of the attractions, were
eagerly expecting it. Then, their curiosity satisfied, they would rush
off to enjoy the pleasures of intoxication.
The Emir made a sign. Michael was thrust forward by his guards to the
foot of the terrace, and Feofar said to him, “You came to see our goings
out and comings in, Russian spy. You have seen for the last time. In an
instant your eyes will be forever shut to the day.”
Michael’s fate was to be not death, but blindness; loss of sight, more
terrible perhaps than loss of life. The unhappy man was condemned to be
blinded.
However, on hearing the Emir’s sentence Michael’s heart did not grow
faint. He remained unmoved, his eyes wide open, as though he wished
to concentrate his whole life into one last look. To entreat pity from
these savage men would be useless, besides, it would be unworthy of him.
He did not even think of it. His thoughts were condensed on his mission,
which had apparently so completely failed; on his mother, on Nadia, whom
he should never more see! But he let no sign appear of the emotion he
felt. Then, a feeling of vengeance to be accomplished came over him.
“Ivan,” said he, in a stern voice, “Ivan the Traitor, the last menace of
my eyes shall be for you!”
Ivan Ogareff shrugged his shoulders.
But Michael was not to be looking at Ivan when his eyes were put out.
Marfa Strogoff stood before him.
“My mother!” cried he. “Yes! yes! my last glance shall be for you, and
not for this wretch! Stay there, before me! Now I see once more your
well-beloved face! Now shall my eyes close as they rest upon it...!”
The old woman, without uttering a word, advanced.
“Take that woman away!” said Ivan.
Two soldiers were about to seize her, but she stepped back and remained
standing a few paces from Michael.
The executioner appeared. This time, he held his saber bare in his hand,
and this saber he had just drawn from the chafing-dish, where he had
brought it to a white heat. Michael was going to be blinded in the
Tartar fashion, with a hot blade passed before his eyes!
Michael did not attempt to resist. Nothing existed before his eyes but
his mother, whom his eyes seemed to devour. All his life was in that
last look.
Marfa Strogoff, her eyes open wide, her arms extended towards where he
stood, was gazing at him. The incandescent blade passed before Michael’s
eyes.
A despairing cry was heard. His aged mother fell senseless to the
ground. Michael Strogoff was blind.
His orders executed, the Emir retired with his train. There remained
in the square only Ivan Ogareff and the torch bearers. Did the wretch
intend to insult his victim yet further, and yet to give him a parting
blow?
Ivan Ogareff slowly approached Michael, who, feeling him coming, drew
himself up. Ivan drew from his pocket the Imperial letter, he opened it,
and with supreme irony he held it up before the sightless eyes of the
Czar’s courier, saying, “Read, now, Michael Strogoff, read, and go and
repeat at Irkutsk what you have read. The true Courier of the Czar is
Ivan Ogareff.”
This said, the traitor thrust the letter into his breast. Then, without
looking round he left the square, followed by the torch-bearers.
Michael was left alone, at a few paces from his mother, lying lifeless,
perhaps dead. He heard in the distance cries and songs, the varied
noises of a wild debauch. Tomsk, illuminated, glittered and gleamed.
Michael listened. The square was silent and deserted. He went, groping
his way, towards the place where his mother had fallen. He found her
with his hand, he bent over her, he put his face close to hers, he
listened for the beating of her heart. Then he murmured a few words.
Did Marfa still live, and did she hear her son’s words? Whether she
did so or not, she made not the slightest movement. Michael kissed her
forehead and her white locks. He then raised himself, and, groping with
his foot, trying to stretch out his hand to guide himself, he walked by
degrees to the edge of the square.
Suddenly Nadia appeared. She walked straight to her companion. A knife
in her hand cut the cords which bound Michael’s arms. The blind man knew
not who had freed him, for Nadia had not spoken a word.
But this done: “Brother!” said she.
“Nadia!” murmured Michael, “Nadia!”
“Come, brother,” replied Nadia, “use my eyes whilst yours sleep. I will
lead you to Irkutsk.”
CHAPTER VI A FRIEND ON THE HIGHWAY
HALF an hour afterwards, Michael and Nadia had left Tomsk.
Many others of the prisoners were that night able to escape from the
Tartars, for officers and soldiers, all more or less intoxicated,
had unconsciously relaxed the vigilant guard which they had hitherto
maintained. Nadia, after having been carried off with the other
prisoners, had been able to escape and return to the square, at the
moment when Michael was led before the Emir. There, mingling with the
crowd, she had witnessed the terrible scene. Not a cry escaped her when
the scorching blade passed before her companion’s eyes. She kept, by her
strength of will, mute and motionless. A providential inspiration bade
her restrain herself and retain her liberty that she might lead Marfa’s
son to that goal which he had sworn to reach. Her heart for an instant
ceased to beat when the aged Siberian woman fell senseless to the
ground, but one thought restored her to her former energy. “I will be
the blind man’s dog,” said she.
On Ogareff’s departure, Nadia had concealed herself in the shade. She
had waited till the crowd left the square. Michael, abandoned as a
wretched being from whom nothing was to be feared, was alone. She saw
him draw himself towards his mother, bend over her, kiss her forehead,
then rise and grope his way in flight.
A few instants later, she and he, hand in hand, had descended the steep
slope, when, after having followed the high banks of the Tom to the
furthest extremity of the town, they happily found a breach in the
inclosure.
The road to Irkutsk was the only one which penetrated towards the east.
It could not be mistaken. It was possible that on the morrow, after some
hours of carousal, the scouts of the Emir, once more scattering over
the steppes, might cut off all communication. It was of the greatest
importance therefore to get in advance of them. How could Nadia bear the
fatigues of that night, from the 16th to the 17th of August? How
could she have found strength for so long a stage? How could her feet,
bleeding under that forced march, have carried her thither? It is almost
incomprehensible. But it is none the less true that on the next morning,
twelve hours after their departure from Tomsk, Michael and she reached
the town of Semilowskoe, after a journey of thirty-five miles.
Michael had not uttered a single word. It was not Nadia who held his
hand, it was he who held that of his companion during the whole of that
night; but, thanks to that trembling little hand which guided him, he
had walked at his ordinary pace.
Semilowskoe was almost entirely abandoned. The inhabitants had fled.
Not more than two or three houses were still occupied. All that the town
contained, useful or precious, had been carried off in wagons. However,
Nadia was obliged to make a halt of a few hours. They both required food
and rest.
The young girl led her companion to the extremity of the town. There
they found an empty house, the door wide open. An old rickety wooden
bench stood in the middle of the room, near the high stove which is to
be found in all Siberian houses. They silently seated themselves.
Nadia gazed in her companion’s face as she had never before gazed. There
was more than gratitude, more than pity, in that look. Could Michael
have seen her, he would have read in that sweet desolate gaze a world of
devotion and tenderness.
The eyelids of the blind man, made red by the heated blade, fell half
over his eyes. The pupils seemed to be singularly enlarged. The rich
blue of the iris was darker than formerly. The eyelashes and eyebrows
were partly burnt, but in appearance, at least, the old penetrating look
appeared to have undergone no change. If he could no longer see, if his
blindness was complete, it was because the sensibility of the retina and
optic nerve was radically destroyed by the fierce heat of the steel.
Then Michael stretched out his hands.
“Are you there, Nadia?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the young girl; “I am close to you, and I will not go
away from you, Michael.”
At his name, pronounced by Nadia for the first time, a thrill passed
through Michael’s frame. He perceived that his companion knew all, who
he was.
“Nadia,” replied he, “we must separate!”
“We separate? How so, Michael?”
“I must not be an obstacle to your journey! Your father is waiting for
you at Irkutsk! You must rejoin your father!”
“My father would curse me, Michael, were I to abandon you now, after all
you have done for me!”
“Nadia, Nadia,” replied Michael, “you should think only of your father!”
“Michael,” replied Nadia, “you have more need of me than my father. Do
you mean to give up going to Irkutsk?”
“Never!” cried Michael, in a tone which plainly showed that none of his
energy was gone.
“But you have not the letter!”
“That letter of which Ivan Ogareff robbed me! Well! I shall manage
without it, Nadia! They have treated me as a spy! I will act as a spy! I
will go and repeat at Irkutsk all I have seen, all I have heard; I swear
it by Heaven above! The traitor shall meet me one day face to face! But
I must arrive at Irkutsk before him.”
“And yet you speak of our separating, Michael?”
“Nadia, they have taken everything from me!”
“I have some roubles still, and my eyes! I can see for you, Michael; and
I will lead you thither, where you could not go alone!”
“And how shall we go?”
“On foot.”
“And how shall we live?”
“By begging.”
“Let us start, Nadia.”
“Come, Michael.”
The two young people no longer kept the names “brother” and “sister.”
In their common misfortune, they felt still closer united. They left
the house after an hour’s repose. Nadia had procured in the town some
morsels of “tchornekhleb,” a sort of barley bread, and a little mead,
called “meod” in Russia. This had cost her nothing, for she had already
begun her plan of begging. The bread and mead had in some degree
appeased Michael’s hunger and thirst. Nadia gave him the lion’s share
of this scanty meal. He ate the pieces of bread his companion gave him,
drank from the gourd she held to his lips.
“Are you eating, Nadia?” he asked several times.
“Yes, Michael,” invariably replied the young girl, who contented herself
with what her companion left.
Michael and Nadia quitted Semilowskoe, and once more set out on the
laborious road to Irkutsk. The girl bore up in a marvelous way against
fatigue. Had Michael seen her, perhaps he would not have had the courage
to go on. But Nadia never complained, and Michael, hearing no sigh,
walked at a speed he was unable to repress. And why? Did he still expect
to keep before the Tartars? He was on foot, without money; he was blind,
and if Nadia, his only guide, were to be separated from him, he could
only lie down by the side of the road and there perish miserably.
But if, on the other hand, by energetic perseverance he could reach
Krasnoiarsk, all was perhaps not lost, since the governor, to whom he
would make himself known, would not hesitate to give him the means of
reaching Irkutsk.
Michael walked on, speaking little, absorbed in his own thoughts. He
held Nadia’s hand. The two were in incessant communication. It seemed
to them that they had no need of words to exchange their thoughts. From
time to time Michael said, “Speak to me, Nadia.”
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