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The Continental Classics, Volume XVIII., Mystery Tales by Various

V >> Various >> The Continental Classics, Volume XVIII., Mystery Tales




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


III

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

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

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

"And there were no more telegrams?"

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

"But there were no more telegrams, except the two that were sent
last night."

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

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

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

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

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

And Olga Vseslavovna once more took refuge in her pocket handkerchief,
this time, instead of tears, giving vent to sobs of vexation. The
doctor, always shy in the presence of women, stood with hanging head
and downcast eyes, as though he were to blame.

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

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

"Indeed! Could I not see it?"

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

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

"So the new will has not been burned yet?" she asked.

And to the startled negative of the doctor, who repeated that "it was
lying on the top of the papers in the box," she added:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To seal up the papers? Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was only the Sister of Mercy.

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

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

The Sister of Mercy went out.

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

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

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

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

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

A saving thought!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am coming! What is it?"

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

Yakov said all this as they went.

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


IV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hardly had the general's wife departed when Martha asked the general
to let her leave, saying she would find work elsewhere. The general
saw no way of keeping her; and he did not even wish to do so, thinking
her only a quarrelsome, ill-tempered woman. The confidential servant
left the house, and even the city. And immediately her revenge and
torture of the general began, cutting straight at the root of his
happiness, his health, even his life. He began to receive, almost
daily, letters from different parts of Russia, for Martha had plenty
of friends and chums. With measureless cruelty Martha began by sending
the less important documents, still signed with her mistress' maiden
name; then two or three letters from the series of the most recent
times, and finally there came a whole packet of those sent by the
general's wife to the tutor, in the first year of her marriage with
the general, before Borisoff had met Anna.