The room was a small one; beneath the artistic5 wall-paper one detected the outline of square-hewn stones. There were women’s things lying about; there were flowers in a bowl on a low, strong table. There were a few good engravings on the wall; deep-curtained windows, low chairs, a sofa, a fan. But it was not a womanly room. The music filling it, vibrating back from the grim stone walls, was not womanly music. It was more than manly6. It was not earthly, but almost divine. It happened to be Grieg, with the halting beat of a disabled, perhaps a broken, heart in it, as that master’s music usually has.
The girl was alone in the room. The presence of any one would have silenced something that was throbbing7 at the back of the chords. Quite suddenly she stopped. She knew how to play the quaint8 last notes. She knew something that no master had ever taught her.
She swung round on the stool and faced the light. It was afternoon—an autumn afternoon in Russia—and the pink light made the very best of a face which was not beautiful at all, never could be beautiful—a face about which even the owner, a woman, could have no possible illusion. It was broad and powerful, with eyes too far apart, forehead too broad and low, jaw9 too heavy, mouth too determined10. The eyes were almond-shaped, and slightly sloping downward and inward—deep, passionate11 blue eyes set in a Mongolian head. It was the face of a woman who could, morally speaking, make mincemeat of nine young men out of ten. But she could not have made one out of the number love her. For it has been decreed that women shall win love—except in some happy exceptions—by beauty only. The same unwritten law has it that a man’s appearance does not matter—a law much appreciated by some of us, and duly canonized by not a few.
The girl was evidently listening. She glanced at a little golden clock on the mantel-piece, and then at the open window. She rose—she was short, and somewhat broadly built—and went to the window.
“He will be back,” she said to herself, “in a few minutes now.”
She raised her hand to her forehead, and pressed back her hair with a little movement of impatience12, expressive13, perhaps, of a great suspense14. She stood idly drumming on the window-sill for a few moments; then, with a quick little sigh, she went back to the piano. As she moved she gave a jerk of the head from time to time, as schoolgirls who have too much hair are wont15 to do. The reason of this nervous movement was a wondrous16 plait of gold reaching far below her waist. Catrina Lanovitch almost worshipped her own hair. She knew without any doubt that not one woman in ten thousand could rival her in this feminine glory—knew it as indubitably as she knew that she was plain. The latter fact she faced with an unflinching, cold conviction which was not feminine at all. She did not say that she was hideous17, for the sake of hearing a contradiction or a series of saving clauses. She never spoke18 of it to any one. She had grown up with it, and as it was beyond doubt, so was it outside discussion. All her femininity seemed to be concentrated, all her vanity centred, on her hair. It was her one pride, perhaps her one hope. Women have been loved for their voices. Catrina’s voice was musical enough, but it was deep and strong. It was passionate, tender if she wished, fascinating; but it was not lovable. If the voice may win love, why not the hair?
Catrina despised all men but one—that one she worshipped. She lived night and day with one great desire, beside which heaven and hell were mere19 words. Neither the hope of the one nor the fear of the other in any way touched or affected20 her desire. She wanted to make Paul Alexis love her; and, womanlike, she clung to the one womanly charm that was hers—the wonderful golden hair. Pathetic, aye, pathetic—with a grin behind the pathos21, as there ever is.
She sat down at the piano, and her strong, small hands tore the heart out of each wire. There are some people who get farther into a piano than others, making the wires speak as with a voice. Catrina Lanovitch had this trick. She only played a Russian people-song—a simple lay such as one may hear issuing from the door of any kabak on a summer evening. But she infused a true Russian soul into it—the soul that is cursed with a fatal power of dumb and patient endurance. She did not sway from side to side as do some people who lose themselves in the intoxication22 of music. But she sat quite upright, her sturdy, square shoulders motionless. Her strange eyes were fixed23 with the stillness of distant contemplation.
Suddenly she stopped and leaped to her feet. She did not go to the window, but stood listening beside the piano. The beat of a horse’s hoofs24 on the narrow road was distinctly audible, hollow and sodden25 as is the sound of a wooden road. It came nearer and nearer, and a certain unsteadiness indicated that the horse was tired.
“I thought he might have come,” she whispered, and she sat down breathlessly.
When the servant came into the room a few minutes later Catrina was at the piano.
“A letter, mademoiselle,” said the maid.
“Lay it on the table,” answered Catrina, without looking round. She was playing the closing bars of a nocturne.
She rose slowly, turned, and seized the letter as a starving man seizes food. There was something almost wolf-like in her eyes.
“Steinmetz,” she exclaimed, reading the address. “Steinmetz. Oh! why won’t he write to me?”
She tore open the letter, read it, and stood holding it in her hand, looking out over the trackless pine-woods with absorbed, speculative26 eyes. The sun had just set. The farthest ridge27 of pine-trees stood out like the teeth of a saw in black relief on the rosy28 sky. Catrina Lanovitch watched the rosiness29 fade into pearly gray.
“Madame the Countess awaits mademoiselle for tea,” said the maid’s voice suddenly, in the gloom of the door-way.
“I will come.”
The village of Thors—twenty miles farther down the river Oster, twenty miles nearer to the junction30 of that river with the Volga—was little more than a hamlet in the days of which we write. Some day, perhaps, the three hundred souls of Thors may increase and multiply—some day when Russia is attacked by the railway fever. For Thors is on the Chorno-Ziom—the belt of black and fertile soil that runs right across the vast empire.
Karl Steinmetz, a dogged watcher of the Wandering Jew—the deathless scoffer31 at our Lord’s agony, who shall never die, who shall leave cholera32 in his track wherever he may wander—Karl Steinmetz knew that the Oster was in itself a Wandering Jew. This river meandered33 through the lonesome country, bearing cholera germs within its waters. Whenever Osterno had cholera it sent it down the river to Thors, and so on to the Volga.
Thors lay groaning34 under the scourge35, and the Countess Lanovitch shut herself within her stone walls, shivering with fear, begging her daughter to return to Petersburg.
It was nearly dark when Karl Steinmetz and the Moscow doctor rode into the little village, to find the starosta, a simple Russian farmer, awaiting them outside the kabak.
Steinmetz knew the man, and immediately took command of the situation with that unquestioned sense of authority which in Russia places the barin on much the same footing as that taken by the Anglo-Indian in our eastern empire.
“Now, starosta,” he said, “we have only an hour to spend in Thors. This is the Moscow doctor. If you listen to what he tells you, you will soon have no sickness in the village. The worst houses first—and quickly. You need not be afraid, but if you do not care to come in, you may stay outside.”
As they walked down the straggling village-street the Moscow doctor told the starosta in no measured terms, as was his wont, wherein lay the heart of the sickness. Here, as in Osterno, dirt and neglect were at the base of all the trouble. Here, as in the larger village, the houses were more like the abode36 of four-footed beasts than the dwellings37 of human beings.
The starosta prudently38 remained outside the first house to which he introduced the visitors. Paul went fearlessly in, while Steinmetz stood in the door-way, holding open the door.
As he was standing39 there he perceived a flickering40 light approaching him. The light was evidently that of an ordinary hand-lantern, and from the swinging motion it was easy to divine that it was being carried by some one who was walking quickly.
“Who is this?” asked Steinmetz.
“It is likely to be the Countess Catrina, Excellency.”
Steinmetz glanced back into the cottage, which was dark save for the light of a single petroleum41 lamp. Paul’s huge form could be dimly distinguished42 bending over a heap of humanity and foul43 clothing in a corner.
“Does she visit the cottages?” asked Steinmetz sharply.
“She does, God be with her! She has no fear. She is an angel. Without her we should all be dead.”
“She won’t visit this, if I can help it,” muttered Steinmetz.
The light flickered44 along the road toward them. In the course of a few minutes it fell on the stricken cottage, on the starosta standing in the road, on Steinmetz in the door-way.
“Herr Steinmetz, is that you?” asked a voice, deep and musical, in the darkness.
“Zum Befehl,” answered Steinmetz, without moving.
Catrina came up to him. She was clad in a long dark cloak, a dark hat, and wore no gloves. She brought with her a clean aromatic45 odor of disinfectants. She carried the lantern herself, while behind her walked a man-servant in livery, with a large basket in either hand.
“It is good of you,” she said, “to come to us in our need—also to persuade the good doctor to come with you.”
“It is not much that we can do,” answered Steinmetz, taking the small outstretched hand within his large soft grasp; “but that little you may always count upon.”
“I know,” she said gravely.
She looked up at him, expecting him to step aside and allow her to pass into the cottage; but Steinmetz stood quite still, looking down at her with his pleasant smile.
“And how is it with you?” he asked, speaking in German, as they always did together.
“Oh!” she answered indifferently, “I am well, of course. I always am. I have the strength of a horse. Of course I have been troubled about these poor people. It has been terrible. They are worse than children. I cannot quite understand why God afflicts47 them so. They have never done any harm. They are not like the Jews. It seems unjust. I have been very busy, in my small way. My mother, you know, does not take much interest in things that are not clean.”
“Madame the Countess reads French novels and the fictional48 productions of some modern English ladies,” suggested Steinmetz quietly.
“Yes; but she objects to honest dirt,” said Catrina coldly. “May I go in?”
Steinmetz did not move.
“I think not. This Moscow man is eccentric. He likes to do good sub rosa. He prefers to be alone.”
Catrina tried to look into the cottage; but Karl Steinmetz, as we know, was fat, and filled up the whole door-way.
“I should like to thank him for coming to us, or, at least, to offer him hospitality. I suppose one cannot pay him.”
“No; one cannot pay him,” answered Steinmetz gravely.
There was a little pause. From the interior of the cottage came the murmured gratitude49 of the peasants, broken at times by a wail50 of agony—the wail of a man. It is not a pleasant sound to hear. Catrina heard it, and it twisted her plain, strong face in a sudden spasm51 of sympathy.
Again she made an impatient little movement.
“Let me go in,” she urged. “I may be able to help.”
Steinmetz shook his head.
“Better not!” he said. “Besides, your life is too precious to these poor people to run unnecessary risks.”
She gave a strange, bitter laugh.
“And what about you?” she said. “And Paul?”
“You never hear of Paul going into any of the cottages,” snapped Steinmetz sharply. “For me it is different. You have never heard that of Paul.”
“No,” she answered slowly; “and it is quite right. His life—it is different for him. How—how is Paul?”
“He is well, thank you.”
Steinmetz glanced down at her. She was looking across the plains beyond the boundless52 pine forests that lay between Thors and the Volga.
“Quite well,” he went on, kindly53 enough. “He hopes to ride over and pay his respects to the countess to-morrow or the next day.”
And the keen, kind eyes saw what they expected in the flickering light of the lamp.
At this moment Steinmetz was pushed aside from within, and a hulking young man staggered out into the road, propelled from behind with considerable vigor54. After him came a shower of clothes and bedding.
But Catrina had slipped past him. In an instant he had caught her by the wrist.
“Come back!” he cried. “You must not go in there!”
She was just over the threshold.
“You have some reason for keeping me out,” she returned, wriggling56 in his strong grasp. “I will—I will!”
Almost immediately she gave a mocking laugh.
“Paul!” she said.
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1
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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rosiness
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| n.玫瑰色；淡红色；光明；有希望 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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scoffer
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| 嘲笑者 | |
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cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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meandered
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| （指溪流、河流等）蜿蜒而流( meander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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petroleum
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| n.原油，石油 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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afflicts
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的名词复数 ) | |
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fictional
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| adj.小说的，虚构的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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50
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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52
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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53
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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54
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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55
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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56
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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57
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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