Ivan submitted, to all appearances; he began to drive
as coachman. As he was a proficient in that line
his master speedily took a fancy to him,—the
more so as Ivan behaved very discreetly and quietly,
and the horses throve under his care; he tended them
so that they became as plump as cucumbers,—one
could never leave off admiring them! The master
began to drive out more frequently with him than with
the other coachmen. He used to ask: “Dost
thou remember, Ivan, how unpleasant was thy first
meeting with me? I think thou hast got rid of
thy folly?” But to these words Ivan never made
any reply.
So, then, one day, just before the Epiphany, the master
set out for the town with Ivan in his troika with
bells, in a broad sledge lined with rugs. The
horses began to ascend a hill at a walk, while Ivan
descended from the box and went back to the sledge,
as though he had dropped something.—The
cold was very severe. The master sat there all
wrapped up, and with his beaver cap drawn down over
his ears. Then Ivan pulled a hatchet out from
under the skirts of his coat, approached his master
from behind, knocked off his cap, and saying:
“I warned thee, Piotr Petrovitch—now
thou hast thyself to thank for this!”—he
laid open his head with one slash. Then he brought
the horses to a standstill, put the cap back on his
murdered master’s head, and again mounting the
box, he drove him to the town, straight to the court-house.
“Here’s the general from Sukhoy for you,
murdered; and I killed him.—I told him
I would do it, and I have done it. Bind me!”
They seized Ivan, tried him, condemned him to the
knout and then to penal servitude.—The
merry, bird-like dancer reached the mines—and
there vanished forever....
Yes; involuntarily—although in a different
sense,—one repeats with Alexyei Sergyeitch:—“The
old times were good ... well, yes, but God be with
them! I want nothing to do with them!”
THE SONG OF LOVE TRIUMPHANT
(1881)
MDXLII
DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
Wage du zu irren und zu traeumen!
SCHILLER.
The following is what I read in an Italian manuscript:
I
About the middle of the sixteenth century there dwelt
in Ferrara—(it was then flourishing under
the sceptre of its magnificent dukes, the patrons
of the arts and of poetry)—there dwelt two
young men, named Fabio and Muzio. Of the same
age and nearly related, they were almost never separated;
a sincere friendship had united them since their early
childhood, and a similarity of fate had strengthened
this bond. Both belonged to ancient families;
both were wealthy, independent, and without family;
the tastes and inclinations of both were similar.
Muzio occupied himself with music, Fabio with painting.
Copyrights
A Reckless Character from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
