I.
We are about
to relate a story
of mingled fact and fancy.
The facts
are borrowed
from the Russian author,
Petjerski;
the fancy is our own.
Our task
will chiefly
be to soften the outlines
of incidents almost
too sharp
and rugged
for literary use,
to supply them
with the necessary
coloring and sentiment,
and to give a coherent
and proportioned shape
to the irregular fragments
of an old chronicle.
We know something,
from other sources,
of the customs described,
something of the character
of the people
from personal observation,
and may
therefore the more freely take
such liberties as
we choose with the rude,
vigorous sketches
of the Russian original.
One who happens
to have read the work
of Villebois
can easily
comprehend the existence
of a state of society,
on the banks
of the Volga,
a hundred years ago,
which is now impossible,
and will soon become incredible.
What is strangest
in our narrative
has been declared
to be true.
II.
We are in Kinesma,
a small town
on the Volga,
between Kostroma and Nijni-Novgorod.
The time
is about the middle
of the last century,
and the month October.
There was trouble one day,
in the palace
of Prince Alexis,
of Kinesma.
This edifice,
with its massive white walls,
and its pyramidal roofs
of green copper,
stood upon a gentle mound
to the eastward
of the town,
overlooking it,
a broad stretch
of the Volga,
and the opposite shore.
On a similar hill,
to the westward,
stood the church,
glittering with its dozen bulging,
golden domes.
These two establishments
divided the sovereignty
of Kinesma between them.
Prince Alexis
owned the bodies
of the inhabitants,
(with the exception of a
few merchants and tradesmen,)
and the Archimandrite Sergius
owned their souls.
But the shadow
of the former
stretched also over other villages,
far beyond the ring
of the wooded horizon.
The number of his serfs
was ten thousand,
and his rule
over them was
even less
disputed than theirs
over their domestic animals.
The inhabitants of the place
had noticed with dismay
that the slumber-flag
had not
been hoisted on the castle,
although it
was half an hour
after the usual time.
So rare a
circumstance
betokened sudden wrath
or disaster,
on the part
of Prince Alexis.
Long experience
had prepared the people
for anything
that might happen,
and they
were consequently not
astonished at the singular event
which presently transpired.
The fact is,
that in the first place,
the dinner
had been
prolonged full ten minutes
beyond its accustomed limit,
owing to a discussion
between the Prince,
his wife,
the Princess Martha,
and their son Prince Boris.
The last
was to leave
for St. Petersburg
in a fortnight,
and wished
to have his departure preceded
by a festival
at the castle.
The Princess Martha
was always ready
to second the desires
of her only child.
Between the two
they had
pressed some twenty
or thirty thousand rubles
out of the old Prince,
for the winter diversions
of the young one.
The festival,
to be sure,
would have been
a slight expenditure
for a noble of
such immense wealth
as Prince Alexis;
but he never
liked his wife,
and he