Petrarch, Boccaccio, Ariosto, Tasso, copy after copy, edition after edition. Here is a "Decameron," Venezia, 1517. The name and date go strangely together. In a solemn upheaval time when Wittenberg theses were startling Europe, when Protestantism, with all its base, austere variations, was springing into being, this little book saw the light, glided into the world of the sixteenth century, whose public life wears so grim and earnest a look to posterity, and, slipping from house to house and hand to hand, woke laughter in Italian eyes and fed the unquenched craving of the South for story-telling. Look at this annotated edition of Petrarch's sonnets, the sonnet a gem, though scarcely of the first water, in a worthless setting of wire-spun commentary. At the time this was printed, Petrarch was a greater force in the world than Dante. Europe was still young and childish, with youth's passion for grace, youth's shrinking from deep water and love for beautiful outsides. There is a Bojardo side by side with Orlando Furiososhadow and substance. And in that lowest shelf a grim row of Tod en-tauzer quaintly underlies those tales of love and war.

All the characters in those haunts of pleasure are here reproduced, knight and maiden, mork and matron; but beside them all stands the inevitable spectre with scythe and hour-glass, and in the midst of its riot and festival you see the Middle-Age standing still with down-dropped eyes and hand on mouth, pondering for an instant the aw ful secret ringed by which it lives and laughs. Opposite are books of alchemy, interspersed with unintelligible ciphers. Such books as "Leonardo da Vinci” may have studied in that withdrawn transition time of his. Ah! we must leave it, our room of rooms, carrying with us a summer picture of it—calm bands of sunlight lying on the brown polish of the floor, and creeping along the booklined angles, fit companion for all the jest and laughter, all the love and pathos which dwell here embalmed.

We have stayed so long in the antechambers that we have no time to linger long in the Douce Library to which it leads. And yet the Douce Library is rich beyond all telling in MSS., Latin, French, and English; in early printed work, in the out-of-the-way corners of Elizabethan literature, in old stories of travel, quaintly illustrated and adorned. That centre-stand boasts four manuscripts of the Roman de la Rose, one with four half-page illustrations, drawn in soft, dove-like tints of gray, refreshing after the commoner reds and blues of the other three "Lancelot du Lac," "Reynaut et Isengrim," " Vie de Merlin,” “ Vœu du Paon," "Roman d' Alexandre”. there they stand, one after another, names of enchantment for all time. And by them is the shelf of "Hours," not the least attractive of the books that surround you. Take out one of them, a small red octavo, Heures Gotique," the binder mysteriously calls it, but if you turn to the mutilated title-page you will find that it is a book of "Hours, à l'usaige de Soisions." The famous Simon Vestre is the printer, so the date must be 1.10 or so; on the wide margin of nearly every one of the 300 pages are four exquisite woodcuts, all different, all intensely German.

66

Durer might have drawn them all, except that they are even quainter than his work -a priest admitting a company of veritable Nuremberger's to celebration; Herodias' daughter watching the fall of John Baptist's head; devils cast out and flying away on leathern wings; Dives and Lazarus, terribly specific; a double page, terribly dramatic, of David and "Urie," where Urie is in the prefront of the battle in grim earnest, and the Nuremberg-fashioned spear of an Ammonite lanz-knecht is entering deep into his side. Or if you care more for splendor of illumination than for minute engraving, get the librarian's leave, and spend an hour with the famous "Ormesby Psalter," the Salterium fratris Roberti de Ormesby," as the inscription calls it, among the most magnificent of all the monk-works of the magnificent fourteenth century. Not even the treasures of San Marco at Florence, where Angelico's own hand is traceable on the precious missals, can show more brilliant coloring, more fertile design, more delicate leaf-work, or more fanciful grotesque, than the patient life's labor of the northern

friar.

66

Who can pass out of such a building without a feeling of profound melancholy? The thought is almost too obvious to be dwelt upon, but it is overpowering and inevitable. These shelves of mighty folios, these cases of labored manuscripts, these illuminated volumes of which each may represent a life-the first dominant impression which they make cannot fail to be like that which a burial-ground leaves — a Hamlet-like sense of "the pity of it." Which is the sadder image, the dust of Alexander stopping a bunghole, or the brain and life-blood of a hundred monks cumbering the shelves of the Bodleian? Not the former, perhaps; for Alexander's dust matters little, were his work considered: but these monks' work is in their books; to these books they sacrificed their lives, and gave themselves up as an offering to posterity. And posterity, overburdened by its own concerns, passes them by without a look or a word! Here and there, of course, is a volume which has made a mark upon the world; but the mass are silent forever, and zeal, industry, talent, for once that they have had permanent results, have a thousand times been sealed by failure. And yet men go on writing, writing; and books are born under the shadow of the great libraries, just as children are born within sight of the tombs. It seems as though Nature's law were universal as well as rigid in its sphere, wide wastes of sand shut in the green oasis; many a seed falls among thorns, or by the wayside; many a bud must be sacrificed before there comes the perfect flower; many a little life must exhaust itself in a useless book, before the great work is made which is to remain a force forever. And so we might as profitably murmur at the withered buds, at the seed that takes no root, at the stretch of desert, as at the unread folios. They are waste, it is true; but it is the waste that is thrown off by humanity in its ceaseless process towards the fulfilment of its law.

A HIGH CALLING.

Ir was done away with long ago. Government took it up, said it was dangerous, and put a stop to it. Perhaps it was dangerous, and perhaps government was right to put a stop to it. But I didn't like it then, for it was my bread, and meant five pounds a week to me; and when it was stopped, my profession was ruined.

I don't look like it now, for you see I've made flesh, and am close on fifty; but fifteen or twenty years ago, when I was in my fleshings, I could have shown you such a figure and such muscles as you wouldn't see every day. Me and my brother were a regular pair, just the same height, and wonderfully alike. It was a bit of gammon; but it took wonderfully in the bills; and our manager said it would be utter madness to announce ourselves as Benjamin and Thomas Hitchens; so we used to be in blue letters all over London, "Les Frères Provençaux;" and the people came to see us from all parts.

We were engaged, you see, at the Royal Conduit Gardens, and did the trapeze work. Now, I dare say you'll find plenty of people who will say it was known long before; but don't you believe 'em. I'm the man who invented the trapeze - -at least, I'm the boy; that is, I invented it when I was a boy, on the swing in our back garden, the one we made under the old apple-tree, out of mother's clothes-line, and rubbed till it broke all to bits, and let Tom down that heavy that he put out his shoulder.

You see it was from experimenting on that swing, hanging by my legs, by one hand, by two hands, and upsidedown, that I sowed the seeds of all those wonderful trapeze exploits that have, as we say in the bills, "thrilled expectant audiences in every nerve and fibre of their frames."

Tom turned very sulky after he put his shoulder out, and he wouldn't try any more tricks, till he grew jealous of seeing me get so handy at them (he was a queer fellow, was Tom, and never could bear for me to be aliead of him, even in taking medicine), and then he set to when I wasn't by, and worked sɔ hard that he got to shorten the rope, and to

hang by one foot, quite clever. I hadn't known any thing about it, he'd been so sly; so that I was quite took aback one day when, after figuring about in my boyish fashion upon the rope, he snickered at me a bit, and then, to my great astonishment: "Get down," he says; and he sets to, does all I have done before, and a great deal more too, till he ends by hanging by one leg, when, crash! the rope snapped, and down came poor Tom on his head and shoulder with a most terrible bang.

Up got Tom, and flew at me like a tiger, because I was laughing and I put it to you, could I help it? - and then we had a regular stand-up fight, which was not ended until our Mary charged down on us with a clothes-prop, and caught Tom by the throat with the big prong, so as she held him against the wall till he promised he wouldn't fight any more. Tom didn't keep his promise, for he was a terrible boy for fighting, and many's the up-and-down set-to we have had together. Woe betide any boy, though, who touched me! It didn't matter how big he was, Tom always took my part, and thrashed him.

From doing things on the rope, we took to tumbling a little on the ground, tying ourselves in knots, walking on our hands; and I shall never forget the day that I first threw a somersault without touching the ground with my hands. That day was a marked one for me; first, because of the pride I felt as I ran in the field and spun over; second, because Tom was so jealous that he took a run and a jump, and came down on his back, making it so stiff and bad that he couldn't move hardly for a week.

At last, having done all this for our own amusement as boys, we had to give it up, for times got very bad at home. Poor father, who had only been a journeyman painter, fell ill and died; and mother moved to London, where, after a deal of trying, we boys got a job here and a job there at rough painting, for, from helping father at home, we were both pretty handy with the brush.

Times, however, were very hard with us, when one day we heard of a chance. The Royal Conduit Gardens were being done up in a hurry, the lessee having taken them, as it were, at the eleventh hour; and being at a high rent, of course he wanted to get them open as soon as possible. Redecoration was the order of the day, and every man who could handle a brush was taken on, painters being scarce in the spring.

Well, we went, and were soon busy at work, painting arbors, and arches, and touching up orchestra and artificial sky till the Gardens were opened, when the manager, who was a very civil fellow, gave Tom and your humble servant a ticket for the opening day.

That was a treat for us, for we were in good spirits, having a few shillings in our pockets. We saw the theatricals, heard the music, looked at this, looked at that, and were thoroughly enjoying ourselves, until we joined the circle about to witness the performances of the Tantipalpiti family; and there we stood for some time seeing them walk on their hands, tie themselves in knots, and do a few clumsy somersaults. Then Tom looked at me, and I looked at him, and we went away laughing together at what we had

seen.

66

Why," said Tom at last, stopping short, and giving himself a tremendous slap on the thigh, "if I couldn't do that fly-over better than any one there, I'd eat my boots." "It was poor, wasn't it?" I said.

"Poor!" echoed Tom; "it was shameful."

We walked home that night in silence; but no sooner were we in our room than Tom whips off his coat and waistcoat, and kicks away his boots, and then goes through half a dozen of our old tricks—rather stiffly, but better than any thing we had seen.

"Have a try, old boy," he said; and I had a try; and the next day we nearly frightened our landlady to death, and sent her off searching for help to cut Tom down, because he had hung himself from a hook in the ceiling. They got used to our antics at last, and took no notice of us, as we tried hard to get off that stiffness, for the same idea had struck us both that we had better take to tumbling, than paint and starve.

"It strikes me," said Tom, " that if we get a rope or two and some cross-bars fixed, we can rather astonish some of them; anyhow, we'll see."

I quite agreed with Tom; and a short time after, as bold as brass, we applied to the manager of the Gardens for an engagement. Of course, he wanted to see what we could do; so a couple of ropes were fitted up over the stage of the little hall, a bar was tied across like a swing; and on it we set to, turning over, hanging by hands and toes anl the backs of our heads, and playing such daring pranks, that we brought down the house that is to say, the lessee and his friends applauded loudly; and I believe I never felt so happy in my life as when he engaged us on the spot at a salary.

For the whole of that season we were as successful as could be; and through constant practice we got to be very handy, and did our tricks in a way which the newspapers called graceful; but as a matter of course, there were soon a host of imitators; and at the beginning of next season, people wanted something new, and the manager asked us if we couldn't introduce something-"It must be wonderfully exciting, you know," he said, "or else it won't take. You'd think that was strong enough for them," he continued, pointing to a balloon; "but, lor bless you, they don't care now for balloons. Go and think it over. For my part, I thought of proposing a trapeze at the top of the two highest scaffold poles we can get."

I started a bit as he said that; and just then the balloon rose and went away swiftly and lightly over the trees, while I watched it thoughtfully, for I had got an idea into my head.

The next morning I talked it over with Tom, who agreed to it in a minute; and we shook hands over it slowly, for our minds were made up.

When the manager engaged us first, he said our name wouldn't do a bit. The Tantipalpitis' name, he said, was by rights Bodge. The consequence was (as I have said), we went in for French; so the announcement of the "Grand Trapeze Act" of "Les Frères Provençaux" was advertised all over London.

How well I remember that bright June day, when, going forward in our grand dresses, all tights, satin, ruff, and spangles, we were greeted with a roar of applause, and saw that the Gardens were crammed with people, in the middle of whom was the great balloon ready filled, and swinging about as it tugged at its ropes.

"How do you feel, Tom?" I said, looking at him. "Brave as a lion, my boy," he says stoutly. "It's no more than doing it twenty feet high."

"True," I said; " and it is as easy to be drowned in sixty as in six hundred feet of water."

The next minute we were holding the trapeze bars, close to the balloon, waiting the signal for it to rise; and now, for the first time, I felt a sensation of fear, and I'll tell you what gave it to me- the people, instead of cheering us as soon as we began to rise, kept perfectly silent, and that seemed to go right through me; for you must know that what we had been advertised to do was to perform our rope and bar tricks right under the balloon, twenty feet below the car, and that without any thing to save us if we should make a slip.

There was no time for fear, though; and the next minute we were doing it all as coolly as could be, as we rose fifty, a hundred, a thousand feet in the air, and floated away out of sight.

I don't recall that I was so very glad to get up into the car, for the excitement kept me from feeling afraid; I remember thinking, though, that Tom looked rather pale. Then we wrapped up well, and enjoyed our first hour's ride till we came down right away in Kent.

We kept that on time after time, and the people came to see us in mobs. The manager said it was the greatest take he had ever had; and I must say he behaved to us very handsomely, what with raising our wages and making us presents. But I did not feel easy in my own mind, for the idea was my own invention, and I thought I ought not to have exposed poor Tom to danger likewise; but all the same

I dared not say a word, for if I had, I knew how jealous he would have turned directly.

I should think we had done this about a month; and all through that month there was ringing in my ears the words of a woman who said out loud on the second time we went up: "Ah! they'll do that once too often." Suppose, I thought to myself, we do do it once too often! But then there came the thought of the money, and that drove away a great deal of my timidity, as I told myself that a man might play such antics for his whole life and never fall. Well, as I said, we had been doing it about a month, when one evening we took our places as usual. It was an extra night, and the largest balloon was to ascend; our rope, too, was to be lengthened to thirty feet, and at that distance below the car we were to swing about as usual.

You may say we ought to have been used to it by this time; there are things, though, which you never do get used to, try how you will; and this was one of them.

The bands were playing away their best; the people were eagerly looking at the half a dozen aëronauts who were to ascend; the manager of the balloon was there; the signal was given, and the people got in. Then the balloon was allowed to rise so high that our trapeze swung clear, when I hung from it by my legs, holding a cross-bar in my hands, over which Tom threw his legs, and hung head downwards; and then away we went, up, up through the soft evening air, so slowly that Tom's hands touched the top of one of the elm-trees as he waved about a couple of flags.

Our custom was to hang quite still till we were up four or five hundred feet, and then to begin our twining and twisting; and so we did now, when Tom pitched away the flags, and we went through our tricks, rising higher and higher, with the faces of the dense crowd getting mixed into a confused mass, and the strains of the band growing fainter and fainter, till all below was quite mingled in a faint hum.

We had only one more trick to do, and that was to cast loose the bar, and each man swing by his own rope. I had loosened my end, the perspiration streaming down me the while, and Tom had done the same, when, swinging round towards me with a horrible white face, he exclaimed," Ben, old man, I'm going to fall."

It's no use; I couldn't tell you what I felt then, if I had tried ever so, only that in half a second, I saw Tom lying a horrible crushed corpse far below; and I felt so paralyzed that I thought I should have let go of my own rope and fallen myself. I could act, though, and I did, for in a flash I had given myself a jerk forward, and thrown myself against Tom, flinging my legs round him and holding him tightly; and then, tired as I was, I felt that I had double weight to sustain, for Tom's rope was swinging to and fro, and as my legs clung round his body, his head hung down, and I knew he must have fainted.

How I managed to hold on, I can't tell now, for though weak with all I had done, I managed to give a hoarse cry for help, and the next moment I heard a cry of horror from the basket-work car.

Then I felt the rope begin to jerk as they began to haul us up, and I managed to shriek out: "No! no!" for if they had hauled any longer, they must have jerked poor Tom from my hold.

I often ask myself whether it was half an hour or only a few seconds before I saw a rope lowered with a big running noose, and then I've a misty notion of having set my teeth fast on the rope, as I felt a dreadful weight, as of lead, dragging at me. Then I felt that it was all over, and I knew that I had been the death of poor Tom, for he had seemed to fall, as I felt the rope by which I hung jerk again violently. I saw the earth below like a map, and the golden clouds up above the great net-covered ball, and then a mist swam before my eyes, and all seemed black and thick as night.

When I came to, I was lying on my back in the car, with a man pouring brandy between my lips. My first words were gasped out in a husky tone, for I did not know where I was; and then I remember bursting out into quite a shriek, as I cried: "Where's Tom?"

"Here, old man," he said, for they had managed to drag us both into the car; and for the next hour we sat there

shivering, saturated with cold perspiration; even the men in the car being silent, unnerved, as I suppose, by our narrow escape.

Tom wanted to go again, but I wouldn't let him. "I did not tremble," he said; "it was only a sudden fit of giddiness through being unwell."

I went up, though, many times afterwards alone, on horses and on bulls; and I meant to have had a car of flying swans for a grand hit, when government stepped in, and put a stop to it; and, as I said before, very sorry I was, for it was my living.

THRICE.

BY IVAN TOURGANEFF.

I.

I HAD been shooting all day over a moor, which lay about twenty miles distant from my country-seat. The weather was superb, and my luck had tempted me to remain out much later than usual, so that it was already dark before I arrived at the top of a hill which marked the half-way point of my homeward road.

- or

On this rising ground stood a house, which was always sure to attract my notice, whether I saw it in the sunset glow, when it reminded me, with its closely-shuttered windows, and its general air of desolation, of some blind old man who had crept out to warm himself in the sun, whether, as at this moment, the strange fascination of moonlight added to the weird lonesomeness of the scene. On this particular evening it allured me more than ever. I hesitated, paused in front of the house, then deliberately made my way through the dusty nettles till I reached the low wall that enclosed the garden. Here I stood still, and leaning with both arms upon the closely-locked gate, I surveyed the scene at my leisure. The garden lay before me in the moonlight, fragrant and tranquil; it consisted of an oldfashioned lawn, cut by straight paths which converged to a central flower-bed, about which tall linden-trees made a border, and hid the house from view. At one point, however, a space had been broken through, and two windows of the house were visible. These two windows, to my extremest surprise, were lighted. I looked about me. Here and there over the level grass young apple-trees reared their heads, through whose spare foliage the blue of the night sky could be discerned; in front of each one its own faint, broken shadow lay on the grass, which shone white with dew in the moonlight. one side the linden-trees were of a faint green; on the other they were only opaque, black masses; a singular, suppressed rustling made itself heard, every now and then, in the foliage of the lindens. It was like an invitation to tread the pathway beneath them, a lure under their shadowy roof. The whole sky was sown with stars; from the far-off spaces of heaven their mild, bluish light was poured out; they seemed to keep silent watch over the earth. Al things were asleep. The warm and perfumed air was motionless, yet it seemed to vibrate, as water ripples, moved by a falling twig. There was a longing, a kind of thirst in this warm air. bent over the wall; a wild red poppy lifted its slender stem out of the thick grass; one great dew-drop shone in the open cup. All around seemed to lie motionless, waiting, expecting. For what did it linger and listen, this blue, dreamy night?

On

For a sound, for a living voice, this listening silence waited; but all was still. The nightingales had long since ceased; and the sudden hum of a beetle flying, the light plash of the fish in the little pond at the end of the garden, the sleepy note of some half-awakened bird, a far-off sound from the fields, so remote that no ear could distinguish if man, or beast, or bird, had uttered it, the quick short hoofbeat of a horse on the road all these small noises, this murmur, made the silence yet more profound. Some peculiar feeling oppressed my heart; it was scarcely the expectation of happiness, scarcely the remembrance of it; I dared not move; silent I stood before this silent garden, which lay in the moonlight and the dew; I stood and looked, without know

ing why, and yet without intermission, at those two windows, which shone out a pale reddish light in the half-darkness, when suddenly a strain of music sounded in the house; it rolled like a wave, out into the night; the still ringing air gave it back as an echo, and I started involuntarily.

Following the chords, a woman's voice made itself audible. I listened. Ah, what! How shall I describe my astonishment? Two years earlier, in Italy, in Sorrento, I had heard the same song, the same voice!

Vieni pensando a me segretamente! Those words thrilled me strangely; they brought back with indescribable vividness the memory of that Italian evening. I had been loitering by the sea-shore, and was returning homeward with rapid step; it was late; a lovely southern night, not silent and melancholy, as with us. No; radiant, bewitching, splendid, like a happy woman in her prime; the moon was wondrously clear; great brilliant stars sparkled in the deep blue heaven; black shadows were relieved with sharp outlines against the yellow-lighted ground. The street was narrow; on both sides of the way were garden-walls of stone; above these, orange-trees stretched their crooked branches, and their heavy fruit hung like golden balls; some half hidden in the foliage, some glowing in all their ripened beauty in the moonlight. Many trees were covered with delicate white blossoms, and all the air was filled with the strong, penetrating, yet delicious fragrance. I went on my way, and, it must be owned, already so used to all these wonders, that I was thinking only how soon I should arrive at my hotel, when suddenly from a little pavilion which rose just above the wall under which I was passing, a woman's voice struck on my ear. She was singing a song which I had never heard before, and there was such a summons in her tone, and she seemed to me so absorbed in the passionate and joyful expectation which the words expressed, that I involuntarily stood still, and looked up. There were two windows in the little pavilion; the blinds were closed, and a faint light shone through their apertures. After the voice had thrice repeated: "vieni, vieni," it ceased, and directly one of the windows was flung open, and a slender figure in white leaned out. She leaned towards me, holding out both hands; "Sei tu?" she cried, softly. In another moment, perceiving her mistake, she drew back with a little scream, and when I ventured to look up again, the pavilion was closed and dark.

I remained standing, and could not readily recover myself. The face I had just seen was wondrously beautiful, and though it had vanished so quickly that I could not perhaps recall every feature, yet the general impression of it was very strong and deep. I felt certain I should never forget it. The moonlight fell full upon the wall and the window where she had appeared, and, heavens! how brilliant were her large dark eyes, and how the heavy curls of black hair swept her rounded shoulders! How much shy tenderness in her attitude! how coaxing the voice in which she had called to me, the quick, clear-toned whisper!

-

I had drawn a little aside, and now I crossed the narrow street and stood hidden in the deep shadow of the opposite wall. Soon I heard again a little stir inside the pavilion, -a rustle and a laugh. Then I detected steps approaching from a distance. A man of about my own height appeared at the corner; he came up to a little door which I had not before observed, knocked twice with the iron ring, waited a little, knocked again, then began to sing in a half whisper: "Ecco vidente." The little door unclosed; he slipped in. I awakened out of my stupor, shook my head, pulled my hat down over my brows, and went home much out of humor. The following day I walked up and down in the street of the pavilion for two hours, notwithstanding the extreme heat; and the same evening I deserted Sorrento, without having even seen the house of Tasso.

Now let the reader imagine the surprise that overpowered me, when in this wilderness, this remote Russian solitude, I heard once more the same voice, the same song.

As before, it was night; as before, the voice rang out suddenly from a strange, lighted room; and as before, I was alone. Is it not a dream? I thought. And again came

the concluding word; " vieni !" - Will the window open,

and shall I see the singer's face? The window softly unclosed, and a woman's figure was seen. I recognized her at once, though she was full fifty paces distant, and a light cloud at that instant veiled the moon. It was she, the unknown lady of Sorrento. Resting her arms upon the sill, she looked silently out into the night. For some time she remained motionless, then, raising her head, she cried three times, "Addio!" Her musical voice rang far, and seemed to tremble in the linden-trees, and to return again from the distant fields.

All about me seemed for the moment to be filled with the voice of this woman, to repeat her words to repeat herself. She closed the window, and shortly the light was extinguished in the house.

When I again became a reasonable person, which I confess was not soon, I entered upon a careful examination of the house and grounds. In the yard there was nothing unusual to be seen, save in one corner, under a shed, a travelling-carriage. The front of it, gray with mud which had dried on, stood out clear in the moonlight. The windowshutters of the house were all tightly closed.

For half an hour I walked up and down outside the garden wall, till at last I excited the attention of an old watch-dog, who did not bark at me, it is true, but looked out under the gate at me with such an ironical_expression in his eyes, that I took the hint and went off. I had gone not over half a mile when I heard a sharp trot behind me. A rider came by at full speed, looked around for an instant at me, so that I caught a glimpse of an aquiline nose and a long, drooping moustache, then taking a road to the right, vanished behind the wood. "That is the man," I thought to myself. I felt sure it was he whom I had seen two years ago slip in through the garden gate in Sorrento.

66

It was almost too late to return home, and I decided to pass the night in the little village about a mile beyond, where I had always a friendly welcome awaiting me from the local magistrate. He had already gone to bed when I arrived at his door, but rose and admitted me, and as soon as I could reasonably do so, I began to question him about the inmates of the house on the hill. Yes," he said, "the ladies had come." "What ladies?" I asked. "The owners," he said. "They are not Russian ladies?"-"Why not?" He believed they were Russians. "Have they been here some time?" "Not long." "How long do they stay? He did not know. "Are they ladies of fortune?" He did not know. Probably they were. "Did a gentleman come with them? -The village magistrate yawned, sighed profoundly, “No, I believe not; I don't know.". "Who do you have for neighbors in this part of the country? Neighbors? why, various ones." "But what are their names?" "Whose names, the ladies', or the neighbors'?"—"The ladies' names.". -My rural friend sighed once more, and stretched himself wearily. "Their names?" he said in a sleepy voice. "Heaven knows what their names are! The eldest is Anna Zeodorovna, I believe, and the otherwhat her name is I don't know!". "Their family name, "Family name?"- "Yes, surname.' "Surname? Ah, so! Now, really, I don't know. -"Are they young? "No, no. Not young." "But how old, then? "Well, the youngest will be into the forties.""You can lie, can't you?"

then?"

-

66

The village magistrate was silent. After a minute or two, he said, "Well, you know better. I said I didn't know."

Experience has taught me that when a Russian of the lower orders begins in this way, it is utterly impossible to get a reasonable answer out of him; furthermore, my host had thrown himself down again upon his bed, and could only with some difficulty move his sleepy lips. I let him lie, declined the offered supper, and retreated to the hayloft.

singular occurrence! Twice in succession - who could have believed it? But I must ascertain who she is, and what has brought her here." Perplexed by these disconnected broken thoughts, I fell asleep at last, and was the sport of curious dreams. For instance, I seemed to be walking in a desert, during the oppressive heat of noonday, and suddenly I perceive before me on the glowing, yellow land, a great shadow. Looking up, my unknown beauty sweeps through the air, all white, with long white wings, and beckons me to follow. I rush forward, but fast and light she flies before me. I cannot raise myself from off the ground, and stretch my arms towards her in vain. "Addio!" she cries to me, and vanishes. "Why hast thou then no wings? Addio!" And from all sides it cried, "Addio!" Every grain of sand calls and hisses it at me. As an indescribably shrill note this-i-penetrates my ear, I seek to drive it away as if it were a tormenting fly. I seek to follow with my glance my vanishing beauty, but she has become a cloud, rising slowly heavenward. The sun moves, trembles, laughs, stretches out long golden threads toward her. These threads surround her, and hide her from my sight. I call out madly, "That is not the sun, it is an Italian spider; who has given him a passport into Russia? I will denounce him. I have seen him stealing oranges in a far-off garden."

66

66

Or again, I saw the fair unknown far up a mountain side, and hastening toward her, the way was barred by some enormous rock, which I could not pass, while from beyond her voice cried, Passa, passa quei 'colli," and I strove with desperate energy to tear the rock away with my hands. Then, of a sudden, a li tle dark cleft opened, through which I sought to go. But an old man motioned me back, whom I recognized as a servant I had seen about the house on the hill. I search vainly for money, and cry out: "Let me pass, and I will reward you later!" But the figure changes to a knight in rusty armor, who says: Nay, Señor, I am not a Russian servant as you suppose. I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, the famous wandering knight. My whole life long I have sought my Dulcinea without finding her, and I cannot suffer it that you should find yours." "Passa, passa quei 'colli!" sobs the voice beyond. "Make way, Señor," I cry, and rush furiously forward. His long lance pierces my heart. I fall as if dead, but I see her coming, bearing a lamp. She bends over me where I lie, and she says, scornfully: "So this is he, the weak-hearted one! He desired to know who I am!" And as she speaks, a drop of burning oil falls directly upon my wounded heart. I cry out "Psyche!" and awake.

Long before sunrise I rose and dressed, and slinging my gun over my shoulder, walked straight back to the scene of my last night's adventure. Larks were twittering on every side, and jays were screaming in the birch-trees, as I drew near the house. All was quiet, save the dog, who snarled at me from under the gate. With an impatience that was almost vexation, I waited for some signs of life on the part of the inmates. Presently, a little side door opened, and the old servant-man whom I had before seen, came out. He wore a striped jacket, his coarse gray hair stood out stiffly from his head, and he looked the very embodiment of discontent. He regarded me with surprise, and would have retreated, but I called out hastily, "My dear! my dear!" -"What do you wish at this early hour?" he said. "Tell me; they say your mistress has come? He was silent a minute, then replied slowly, "Yes, she has come." 166 "Alone?". 16 No, with her sister.". "Had they visitors yesterday?" There were none." He would have shut the door. "Wait a moment, my dear. the favor." The old man coughed and shivered with the cold. "What do you wish then?" he said. "Tell me, I beg, how old is your mistress?" He looked at me hesitatingly. "How old is she? I do not know," he said. "She must be well past forty."- "Past forty! The sister, then; how old is she? -"She must be well near forty."—"Is it possible? Is she a handsome woman?"-"Who, the sister?" "Yes, the sister." He made a grimace. "I know not how she may appear to others. To me she is not handsome.”—“What do you mean by that?”

Do me

"But wait - wait a minute - here". and I held out to him a piece of money, which I had been keeping ready in my hand. But I only hit the rapidly closed door, and the bit of silver rolled upon the ground.

Ah, you old rogue," I thought," they have ordered you to hold your tongue. But wait a little, you shall not escape me so easily."

And I pledged myself at all hazards to unravel this mystery. A half-hour longer I walked up and down, undecided what to do next. Finally I concluded to set on foot inquiries in the village, concerning the owner of the country-house, and who were the persons who had really arrived there now, and later to return myself, and to resume my observations.

The unknown lady will be sure to come out by daylight, and show herself to be a living creature, and not a ghost, I said to myself.

It was a mile to the village, and I was soon there, once more in good courage, and much refreshed by the cool morning air, after my restless night. In the village I learned from two peasants, who were on their way to their field-work, all that they could tell me, namely, that the country-seat and the village together were called Michailowskoje, and that it was the property of a major's widow, Anna Zeodorovna Schlikoff, who had a sister, an unmarried person, by name, Pelagia Zeodorovna Badajeff; that they were no longer young, were rich, almost never resided in their house; except two maids and a cook, had never any one with them, and that Anna Zeodorovna had very lately arrived, accompanied by her sister only. This last statement occupied my attention; it could not be believed that these peasants were also under orders to keep silence in regard to my unknown lady. To admit however that Anna Zeodorovna, the widow of five-and-forty, and that young, charming creature whom I had yesterday seen, were one and the same person, - this was purely impossible! Pelagia Zeodorovna, however, was not, according to account, in any way distinguished for beauty, and besides, I could not but shrug my shoulders and laugh disdainfully at the bare idea that this woman whom I had seen in Sorrento bore such a name as Pelagia Badajeff. And yet, I thought, I saw her yesterday in that house; saw her with my own living eyes. Vexed and ill-tempered enough, yet more eager than ever to attain my object, I thought at first I would return directly to the country-house. I looked at my watch; it was only six o'clock. I decided to wait. No doubt every one in the house was yet asleep, and to reappear there again would be idle and foolish. In front of me was plenty of low growth, behind me an aspen-wool. I must do myself the justice to own that, notwithstanding the thoughts which tormented me, the noble passion for field-sport was not yet extinct in my soul. Possibly," I thought, "I may shoot a brace of cocks, and so pass away the time." But I was inattentive, and consequently unsuccessful; and when at last my watch assured me it was nine o'clock, I resolved to return to the house on the hill. Making my way out of the woo', I came upon a grassgrown road, leading I knew not whither; and while I stood thinking about it, there came suddenly in sight, approaching me from among the trees, two figures on horseback, - my unknown beauty, and the man whom I had seen the preceding evening on the road to the village!

66

They rode silently, holding each other by the hand, and the two horses scarcely seemed to advance, so very slow was their gait. When I had recovered from my terror, truly it was nothing less than terror, no other name can I possibly give to the feeling which overmastered me, my gaze fastened itself upon her with the most intense eager How lovely she was! how graceful her slender

ness.