Chapter II: Part 2

The daughter of Obrazétz loved the heretic, who was long unconscious of the feelings he had inspired, and himself untouched by the mysterious fire that was consuming the heart of the young Anastasia. But his turn, too, had come--he, too, had seen and loved; but she knew not of his love--she hardly knew the nature of her own feelings; sometimes she feared she was under the influence of magic, or imagined that the anxiety she felt for the heretic was a holy desire to turn him from the errors of his faith to save his immortal soul--or, if she knew the truth, she dared not acknowledge it even to her own heart--far less to any human being. To love a heretic was a deadly sin; but to save a soul would be acceptable to God--a holy offering at the footstool of the throne of grace and mercy. This hope would justify any sacrifice. The great Prince was about to march against Tver, and Antonio was to accompany him. Could she permit him to depart without an effort to redeem him from his heresy, or, alas! without a token of her love? She determined to send him the crucifix she wore round her neck--a holy and a sacred thing, which it would have been a deadly sin to part with unless to rescue a soul from perdition--and she sent it. Her brother, too, was to accompany the army, and had besides, on his return, to encounter a judicial combat. The soul of the old warrior Obrazétz was deeply moved by the near approach of his son's departure. One son had died by his side--he might never see Iván more, and his heart yearned to join with him in prayer. "The mercies of God are unaccountable."

"Trusting in them, Obrazétz proceeded to the oratory, whither, by his
command, he was followed by Khabár and Anastasia.

"Silently they go, plunged in feelings of awe: they enter the oratory;
the solitary window is curtained; in the obscurity, feebly dispelled
by the mysterious glimmer of the lamp, through the deep stillness,
fitfully broken by the flaring of the taper, they were gazed down
upon from every side by the dark images of the Saviour, the Holy
Mother of God, and the Holy Saints. From them there seems to breathe
a chilly air as of another world: here thou canst not hide thyself
from their glances; from every side they follow thee in the slightest
movement of thy thoughts and feelings. Their wasted faces, feeble
limbs, and withered frames--their flesh macerated by prayer and
fasting--the cross, the agony--all here speaks of the victory of will
over passions. Themselves an example of purity in body and soul, they
demand the same purity from all who enter the oratory, their holy
shrine.

"To them Anastasia had recourse in the agitation of her heart; from
them she implored aid against the temptations of the Evil One; but
help there was none for her, the weak in will, the devoted to the
passion which she felt for an unearthly tempter.

Thrice, with crossing and with prayer, did Obrazétz bow before the
images; thrice did his son and daughter bow after him. This pious
preface finished, the old man chanted the psalm--'Whoso dwelleth
under the defence of the Most High.' Thus, even in our own times,
among us in Russia, the pious warrior, when going to battle, almost
always arms himself with this shield of faith. With deep feeling,
Khabár repeated the words after his father. All this prepared
Anastasia for something terrible she trembled like a dove which is
caught by the storm in the open plain, where there is no shelter for
her from the tempest that is ready to burst above her. When they
arose from prayer, Obrazétz took from the shrine a small image of St
George the Victorious, cast in silver, with a ring for suspending it
on the bosom. 'In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the
Holy Ghost!' he said, with a solemn voice, holding the image in his
left hand, and with his right making three signs of the cross--'with
this mercy of God I bless thee, my dear and only son, Iván, and I
pray that the holy martyr, George, may give thee mastery and victory
over thine enemies: keep this treasure even as the apple of thine eye.
Put it not off from thee in any wise, unless the Lord willeth that
the foe shall take it from thee. I know thee, Ivan, they will not
take it from thee living; but they may from thy corse. Keep in mind at
every season thy father's blessing.'

"Anastasia turned as white as snow, and trembled in every limb; her
bosom felt oppressed as with a heavy stone, a sound as of hammering
was in her ears. She seemed to hear all the images, one after another,
sternly repeating her father's words. He continued--'It is a great
thing, this blessing. He who remembereth it not, or lightly esteemeth
it, from him shall the heavenly Father turn away his face, and shall
leave him for ever and ever. He shall be cast out from the kingdom of
heaven, and his portion shall be in hell. Keep well my solemn word.'

"Every accent of Obrazétz fell upon Anastasia's heart like a drop of
molten pitch. She seemed to be summoned before the dreadful
judgment-seat of Christ, to hear her father's curse, and her own
eternal doom. She could restrain herself no longer, and sobbed
bitterly; the light grew dim in her eyes; her feet began to totter.
Obrazétz heard her sobs, and interrupted his exhortation. 'Nástia,
Nástia! what aileth thee?' he enquired, with lively sympathy, of his
daughter, whom he tenderly loved. She had not strength to utter a
word, and fell into her brother's arms. Crossing himself, the boyárin
put back the image into its former place, and then hastened to
sprinkle his child with holy water which always stood ready in the
oratory. Anastasia revived, and when she saw herself surrounded by
her father and brother, in a dark, narrow, sepulchral place, she
uttered a wild cry, and turned her dim eyes around. 'My life, my
darling child, my dove! what aileth thee?' cried the father.
'Recollect thyself: thou art in the oratory. 'Tis plain some evil eye
hath struck thee. Pray to the Holy Virgin: she, the merciful one,
will save thee from danger.'

"The father and son bore her to the image of the Mother of God. Her
brother with difficulty raised her arm, and she, all trembling, made
the sign of the cross. Deeply, heavily she sighed, applied her
ice-cold lips to the image, and then signed to them with her hand
that they should carry her out speedily. She fancied that she saw the
Holy Virgin shake her head with a reproachful air.

"When they had carried Anastasia to her chamber, she felt better."

Hitherto none had shared her secret thoughts; but the experienced eye of the widow Selínova had detected the nature of her malady, and she longed to know the object of her affection.

"One day, they were sitting alone together, making lace. A kind of
mischievous spirit whispered her to speak of the heretic. Imagine
yourself thrown by destiny on a foreign land. All around you are
speaking in an unknown tongue; their language appears to you a chaos
of wild, strange sounds. Suddenly, amid the crowd, drops a word in
your native language. Does not then a thrill run over your whole
being? does not your heart leap within you? Or place a Russian
peasant at a concert where is displayed all the creative luxury and
all the brilliant difficulties of foreign music. The child of nature
listens with indifference to the incomprehensible sounds; but
suddenly Voróbieva with her nightingale voice trills out--_The cuckóo
from out the fírs so dánk hath not cúckooed._ Look what a change
comes over the half-asleep listener. Thus it was with Anastasia! Till
this moment Selínova had spoken to her in a strange language, had
only uttered sounds unintelligible to her; but the instant that she
spoke the _native_ word, it touched the heart-string, and all the
chords of her being thrilled as if they were about to burst.
Anastasia trembled, her hands wandered vaguely over her lace cushion,
her face turned deadly pale. She dared not raise her eyes, and
replied at random, absently.

"'Ah!' thought Selínova, 'that is the right key: that is the point
whence cometh the storm!'

"Both remained silent. At length Anastasia ventured to glance at her
visitor, in order to see by the expression of her face, whether she
had remarked her confusion. Selínova's eyes were fixed upon her work,
on her face there was not even a shade of suspicion. The crafty widow
intended little by little, imperceptibly, to win the confidence of
the inexperienced girl.

"'And where then is _he_ gone?' she asked after a short pause,
without naming the person about whom she was enquiring.

"'He is gone with the Great Prince on the campaign,' answered
Anastasia blushing; then, after a moment's thought she added--'I
suppose thou askedst me about my brother?'

"'No, my dear, our conversation was about Antony the leech. What a
pity he is a heretic! You will not easily find such another gallant
among our Muscovites. He hath all, both height and beauty: when he
looketh, 'tis as though he gave you large pearls; his locks lie on
his shoulders like the light of dawn; he is as white and rosy as a
young maiden. I wonder whence he had such beauty--whether by the
permission of God, or, not naturally, by the influence of the Evil
One. I could have looked at him--may it not be a sin to say, I could
have gazed at him for ever without being weary!'

"At these praises Anastasia's pale countenance blushed like the
dawning that heralds the tempest. 'Thou hast then seen him?' asked
the enamoured maiden, in a trembling, dying voice, and breaking off
her work.

"'I have seen him more than once. I have not only seen him, but
wonder now, my dear--I have visited him in his dwelling!'

"'The maiden shook her head, her eyes were dimmed with the shade of
pensiveness; a thrill of jealousy, in spite of herself, darted to
her heart. 'What! and didst thou not fear to go to him?' she
said--'Is he not a heretic?'

"'If thou knewest it, Nástenka, what wouldst thou not do for love?'

"'Love?' ... exclaimed Anastasia, and her heart bounded violently in
her breast.

"'Ah if I were not afraid, I would disclose to thee the secret of my
soul.'

"'Speak, I pray thee, speak! Fear not; see! I call the Mother of God
to witness, thy words shall die with me.'

"And the maiden, with a quivering hand, signed a large cross.

"'If so, I will confide in thee what I have never disclosed but to
God. It is not over one blue sea alone that the mist lieth, and the
darksome cloud: it is not over one fair land descendeth the gloomy
autumn night; there was a time when my bosom was loaded with a heavy
sorrow, my rebellious heart lay drowned in woe and care: I loved thy
brother, Iván Vassílievitch. (The maiden's heart was relieved, she
breathed more freely.) Thou knowest not, my life, my child, what kind
of feeling is that of love, and God grant that thou mayest never know!
The dark night cometh, thou canst not close thine eyes: the bright
dawn breaketh, thou meetest it with tears, and the day is all
weary--O, so weary! There are many men in the fair world, but thou
see'st only one, in thy bower, in the street, in the house of God. A
stone lieth ever on thy breast, and thou canst not shake it off.'

"Then Selínova wept sincere tears. Her companion listened to her with
eager sympathy: the feelings just depicted were her own.

* * * * *

"There was a deep silence. It was broken by the young widow.

"'Nástenka, my life?' she began in a tone of such touching, such
lively interest, as called for her reluctant confidence.

"The daughter of Obrazétz glanced at her with eyes full of tears, and
shook her head.

"'Confide in me, as I have confided in thee,' continued Selínova,
taking her hand and pressing it to her bosom. 'I have lived longer in
the world than thou ... believe me, 'twill give thee ease ... 'tis
clear from every symptom, my love, what thou ailest.'

"And Anastasia, sobbing, exclaimed at last--'O, my love, my dearest
friend, Praskóvia Vladimírovna, take a sharp knife, open my white
breast, look what is the matter there!'

"'And wherefore need we take the sharp knife, and wherefore need we
open the white breast, or look upon the rebellious heart? Surely, by
thy fair face all can tell, my child, how that fair face hath been
darkened, how the fresh bloom hath faded, and bright eyes grown dull.
After all, 'tis clear thou lovest some wandering falcon, some
stranger youth.'

"Anastasia answered not a word; she could not speak for tears; and
hid her face in her hands. At last, softened by Selínova's friendly
sympathy, and her assurances that she would be easier if she would
confide her secret to such a faithful friend, she related her love
for the heretic. The episode of the crucifix was omitted in this tale,
which finished, of course, with assurances that she was enchanted,
bewitched.

"Poor Anastasia!

"Snowdrop! beautiful flower, thou springest up alone in the bosom of
thy native valley! And the bright sun arises every day to glass
himself in thy morning mirror; and the beaming moon, after a sultry
day, hastens to fan thee with her breezy wing, and the angels of God,
lulling thee by night, spread over thee a starry canopy, such as king
never possessed. Who can tell from what quarter the tempest may bring
from afar, from other lands, the seeds of the ivy, and scatter them
by thy side, and the ivy arises and twines lovingly around thee, and
chokes thee, lovely flower! This is not all: the worm has crawled to
thy root, hath fixed its fang therein, and kills ye both, if some
kind hand save ye not."

These extracts will enable our readers to judge for themselves of the merits of M. Lajétchnikoff's style as it appears in Mr Shaw's translation. A better selection might have been made, had we not been desirous to avoid any such anticipation of the development of the story as light diminish its interest; but we are inclined to believe that most of our readers will agree with us in thinking, that if M. Lajétchnikoff has succeeded in faithfully illustrating the manners of the age of Iván the Great, he has also shown that he possesses brilliancy of fancy, fervour of thought, and elevation of sentiment, as well as knowledge of the movements of the heart, revealed only to the few who have been initiated into nature's mysteries.

He does not appear to be largely gifted with the power of graphic description, of placing the scenes of nature, or the living figures that people them, vividly before us--he loves rather to indulge, even to excess, mystical or passionate thoughts that are born in his own breast, and to adorn them with garlands woven from the flowers of his fancy; but these flowers are of native growth, the indigenous productions of the Russian soil. His images often sound to our ears homely, sometimes even familiar and mean, but they may be dignified in their native dress. He has no lively perception of the beauties of external nature; his raptures are reserved for the wonders of art, for what the human mind can create or achieve; and, curiously enough, it is architecture that seems to excite in him the greatest enthusiasm. In illustration of this feeling, we must still extract an eloquent discourse on the life of the artist, which the author puts into the mouth of Fioraventi Aristotle--a passage of much feeling, and, we fear, of too much truth:--

"Thou knowest not, Antony, what a life is that of an artist! While
yet a child, he is agitated by heavy incomprehensible thoughts: to
him the sphynx, Genius, hath already proposed its enigmas; in his
bosom the Promethean vulture is already perched, and groweth with his
growth. His comrades are playing and making merry; they are preparing
for their riper years recollections of childhood's days of
paradise--childhood, that never can be but once: the time cometh, and
he remembereth but the tormenting dreams of that age. Youth is at
hand; for others 'tis the time of love, of soft ties, of revelry--the
feast of life; for the artist, none of these. Solitary, flying from
society, he avoideth the maiden, he avoideth joy; plunging into the
loneliness of his soul, he there, with indescribable mourning, with
tears of inspiration, on his knees before his Ideal, imploreth her to
come down upon earth to his frail dwelling. Days and nights he
waiteth, and pineth after unearthly beauty. Woe to him if she doth
not visit him, and yet greater woe to him if she doth! The tender
frame of youth cannot bear her bridal kiss; union with the gods is
fatal to man; and the mortal is annihilated in her embrace. I speak
not of the education, of the mechanic preparation. And here at every
step the Material enchaineth thee, buildeth up barriers before thee:
marketh a formless vein upon thy block of marble, mingling soot with
thy carmine, entangling thy imagination in a net of monstrous rules
and formulas, commandeth thee to be the slave of the house-painter or
of the stone-cutter. And what awaiteth thee, when thou hast come
forth victorious from this mechanic school--when thou hast succeeded
in throwing off the heavy sum of a thousand unnecessary rules, with
which pedantry hath overwhelmed thee--when thou takest as thy guide
only those laws which are so plain and simple?... What awaiteth thee
then? Again the Material! Poverty, need, forced labour, appreciators,
rivals, that ever-hungry flock which flieth upon thee ready to tear
thee in pieces, as soon as it knoweth that thou art a pure possessor
of the gift of God. Thy soul burneth to create, but thy carcass
demandeth a morsel of bread; inspiration veileth her wing, but the
body asketh not only to clothe its nakedness with a decent covering,
but fine cloth, silk, velvet, that it may appear before thy judges in
a proper dress, without which they will not receive thee, thou and
thy productions will die unknown. In order to obtain food, clothes,
thou must _work_: a merchant will order from thee a cellar, a
warehouse; the signore, stables and dog kennels. Now at last thou
hast procured thyself daily bread, a decent habit for thy bones and
flesh: inspiration thirsteth for its nourishment, demanding from thy
soul images and forms. Thou createst, thou art bringing thy Ideal to
fulfilment. How swiftly move the wheels of thy being! Thy existence
is tenfold redoubled, thy pulse is beating as when thou breathest the
atmosphere of high mountains. Thou spendest in one day whole months
of life. How many nights passed without sleep, how many days in
ceaseless chain, all filled with agitation! Or rather, there is nor
day nor night for thee, nor seasons of the year, as for other men.
Thy blood now boileth, then freezeth; the fever of imagination
wasteth thee away. Triumph setteth thee on fire, the fear of failure
maddeneth thee, tearing thee to pieces, tormenting thee with dread of
the judgments of men; then again ariseth the terror of dying with thy
task unfinished. Add, too, the inevitable shade of glory, which
stalketh ever in thy footsteps, and giveth thee not a moment of
repose. This is the period of creation! While creating, thou hast
been dwelling at the footstool of God. Crushed by thy contact with
the hem of his garment, overwhelmed by inspiration from Him whom the
world can scarcely bear, a poor mortal, half alive, half dead, thou
descendest upon earth, and carriest with thee what thou hast created
_there_, in _His_ presence! Mortals surround thy production, judging,
valuing, discussing it in detail; the patron laudeth the ornaments,
the grandeur of the columns, the weight of the work; the distributors
of favour gamble away thy honour, or creep like mice under thy plan,
and nibble at it in the darkness of night. No, my friend, the life of
an artist is the life of a martyr."

We are so much accustomed to see virtue rewarded and vice punished, that we might perhaps have been better pleased to have seen this kind of poetical justice more equitably dispensed; but the cause of virtue is perhaps as effectually served by making it attractive as by making it triumphant, and vice is as much discouraged by making it odious or contemptible as by making it unsuccessful.

It only remains to say a few words of the translator's labours; and although we do not pretend to decide on the fidelity of the version he has given us, or how much his author may have lost or gained in his hands, we cannot but think that we perceive internal evidence of efforts to be faithful, even at the hazard of losing perhaps something of more value in the attempt. However this may be, it is plain that Mr Shaw is himself a vigorous and eloquent writer of his own language, as the extracts we have given may vouch. We feel greatly indebted to him for unlocking to us the stores of Russian fiction, which, if they contain many such works as _The Heretic_, will well repay the labour of a careful examination. There is about every thing Russian an air of orientalism which gives a peculiar character to their dress, their mansions, their manners, their feelings, their expressions, and their prejudices, which will probably long continue to distinguish Russian literature on that of the other nations of Europe, whose steps she has followed, perhaps too implicitly, in her attempts to overtake them in the race of civilization and intellectual improvement.

* * * * *

THRUSH-HUNTING.

BY ALEXANDER DUMAS.

We have heard of certain cooks, the Udes and Vatels of their day, whose boast it was to manufacture the most sumptuous and luxurious repast out of coarse and apparently insufficient materials. We will take the liberty of comparing M. Dumas with one of these artistical _cuisiniers_, possessing in the highest degree the talent of making much out of little, by the skill with which it is prepared, and the piquant nature of the condiments applied. A successful dramatist, as well as a popular romance-writer, his dialogues have the point and brilliancy, his narrative the vivid terseness, generally observable in novels written by persons accustomed to dramatic composition. Confining himself to no particular line of subject, he rambles through the different departments of light literature in a most agreeable and desultory manner; to-day a tourist, to-morrow a novelist; the next day surprising his public by an excursion into the regions of historical romance, amongst the well-beaten highways and byways of which he still manages to discover an untrodden path, or to embellish a familiar one by the sparkle of his wit and industry of his researches. The majority of his books convey the idea of being written _currente calamo_, and with little trouble to himself; and these have a lightness and brilliancy peculiar to their lively author, which cannot fail to recommend them to all classes of readers. They are like the sketches of a clever artist, who, with a few bright and bold touches, gives an effect to his subject which no labour would enable a less talented painter to achieve. But M. Dumas can produce highly finished pictures as well as brilliant sketches, although for the present it is one of the latter that we are about to introduce to our readers.

Every body knows, or ought to know, that M. Dumas has been in Italy, and found means to make half a dozen highly amusing volumes out of his rambles in a country, perhaps, of all others, the most familiar to the inhabitants of civilized Europe--a country which has been described and re-described _ad nauseam_, by tourists, loungers, and idlers innumerable. On his way to the land of lazzaroni he made a pause at Marseilles to visit his friend Méry, a poet and author of some celebrity; and here he managed to collect materials for a volume which we can recommend to the perusal of the daily increasing class of our countrymen who think that a book, although written in French, may be witty and amusing without being either blasphemous or indecent.

We have reason to believe that many persons who have not visited the south-eastern corner of France, think of it as a "land of the cypress and myrtle;" where troubadours wander amongst orange groves, or tinkle their guitars under the shade of the vine and the fig-tree. There is something in a name, and Provence, if it were only for the sake of its roses, ought, one would think, to be a smiling and beautiful country. And so part of it is; but in this part is assuredly not included the district around its chief city. One hears much of the vineyards and orange groves of the south. We do not profess to care much about vines, except for the sake of what they produce; most of the vineyards we ever saw looked very like plantations of gooseberry bushes, and the best of them were not so graceful or picturesque as a Kentish hop-ground. As to olives, admirable as they undoubtedly are when flanking a sparkling jug of claret, we find little to admire in the stiff, greyish, stunted sort of trees upon which they think proper to grow. But neither vines nor olives are to be found around Marseilles. Nothing but dust; dust on the roads, dust in the fields, dust on every leaf of the parched, unhappy-looking trees that surround the country-houses of the Marseillais. The fruit and vegetables consumed there are brought for miles overland, or by water from places on the coast; flowers are scarce--objecting, probably, to grow in so arid a soil, and in a heat that, for some months of the year, is perfectly African. Game there is little or none; notwithstanding which, there are nowhere to be found more enthusiastic sportsmen than at Marseilles. It is on this hint M. Dumas speaks. His description of the manner in which the worthy burghers of Marseilles make war upon the volatiles is rather amusing.

"Every Marseillais who aspires to the character of a keen sportsman, has what is termed a _poste à feu_. This is a pit or cave dug in the ground in the vicinity of a couple of pine-trees, and covered over with branches. In addition to the pine-trees, it is usual to have _cimeaux_, long spars of wood, of which two are supported horizontally on the branches of the trees, and a third planted perpendicularly in the ground. These _cimeaux_ are intended as a sort of treacherous invitation to the birds to come and rest themselves. So regularly as Sunday morning arrives, the Marseillais Cockney installs himself in his pit, arranges a loophole through which he can see what passes outside, and waits with all imaginable patience. The question that will naturally be asked, is--What does he wait for?

"He waits for a thrush, an ortolan, a beccafico, a robin-redbreast, or any other feathered and diminutive biped. He is not so ambitious as to expect a quail. Partridges he has heard of; of one, at least, a sort of phoenix, reproduced from its own ashes, and seen from time to time before an earthquake, or other great catastrophe. As to the hare, he is well aware that it is a fabulous animal of the unicorn species.

"There is a tradition, however, at Marseilles, that during the last three months of the year, flocks of wild pigeons pass over, on their way from Africa or Kamschatka, or some other distant country. Within the memory of man no one has ever seen one of these flights; but it would nevertheless be deemed heresy to doubt the fact. At this season, therefore, the sportsman provides himself with tame pigeon, which he fastens by a string to the _cimeaux_, in such a manner that the poor bird is obliged to keep perpetually on the wing, not being allowed rope enough to reach a perch. After three or four Sundays passed in this manner, the unfortunate decoy dies of a broken heart."

There is not nearly so much caricature in this picture as our readers may be disposed to think. Whoever has passed a few weeks of the autumn in a French provincial town, must have witnessed and laughed at the very comical proceedings of the _chasseurs_, the high-sounding title assumed by every Frenchman who ever pointed a gun at a cock-sparrow. One sees them going forth in the morning in various picturesque and fanciful costumes, their loins girded with a broad leathern belt, a most capacious game-bag slung over their shoulder, a fowling-piece of murderous aspect balanced on their arm; their heads protected from the October sun by every possible variety of covering, from the Greek skull-cap to the broad-brimmed Spanish sombrero. Away they go, singly, or by twos and threes, accompanied by a whole regiment of dogs, for the most part badly bred, and worse broken curs, which, when they get into the field, go pottering about in a style that would sorely tempt an English sportsman to bestow upon them the contents of both barrels. Towards the close of the day, take a stroll outside the town, and you meet the heroes returning. "Well, what sport?" "_Pas mal, mon cher_. Not so bad," is the reply, in a tone of ill-concealed triumph; and plunging his hand into his game-bag, the chasseur produces--a phthisical snipe, a wood pigeon, an extenuated quail, and perhaps something which you at first take for a deformed blackbird, but which turns out to be a water-hen. As far as our own observations go, we do aver this to be a very handsome average of a French sportsman's day's shooting. If by chance he has knocked down a red-legged partridge, (grey ones are very scarce in France,) his exultation knows no bounds. The day on which such a thing occurs is a red-letter day with him for the rest of his life. He goes home at once and inscribes the circumstance in the family archives.

But this state of things, it will perhaps be urged, may arise from the scarcity of game in France, as probably as from the sportsman's want of skill. True; but the worst is to come. After you have duly admired and examined snipe, pigeon, quail, and water-hen, your friend again rummages in the depths of his _gibecière_, and pulls out--what?--a handful of tomtits and linnets, which he has been picking off every hedge for five miles round. "_Je me suis rabattu sur le petit gibier_," he says, with a grin and a shrug, and walks away, a proud man and a happy, leaving you in admiration of his prowess.

M. Dumas expresses a wish to make the acquaintance of one of these modern Nimrods, and his friend Méry arranges a supper, to which he invites a certain Monsieur Louet, who plays the fourth bass in the orchestra of the Marseilles theatre. The conversation after supper is a good specimen of _persiflage_. After doing ample justice to an excellent repast, during which he had scarcely uttered a word,

"Monsieur Louet threw himself back in his chair and looked at us all, one after the other, as if he had only just become aware of our presence, accompanying his inspection with a smile of the most perfect benevolence; then, heaving a gentle sigh of satisfaction--'Ma foi! I have made a capital supper!' exclaimed he.

"'M. Louet! A cigar?' cried Méry: 'It is good for the digestion.'

"'Thank you, most illustrious poet!' answered M. Louet; 'I never smoke. It was not the fashion in my time. Smoking and boots were introduced by the Cossacks. I always wear shoes, and am faithful to my snuff-box.'

"So saying, M. Louet produced his box, and offered it round. We all refused except Méry, who, wishing to flatter him, attacked his weak side.

"'What delicious snuff, M. Louet! This cannot be the common French snuff?'

"'Indeed it is--only I doctor it in a particular manner. It is a secret I learned from a cardinal when I was at Rome.'

"'Ha! You have been to Rome?' cried I.

"'Yes, sir; I passed twenty years there.'

"'M. Louet,' said Méry, 'since you do not smoke, you ought to tell these gentlemen the story of your thrush-hunt.'

"'I shall be most happy,' replied M. Louet graciously, 'if you think it will amuse the company.'

"'To be sure it will,' cried Méry. 'Gentlemen, you are going to hear the account of one of the most extraordinary hunts that has taken place since the days of Nimrod the mighty hunter. I have heard it told twenty times, and each time with increased pleasure. Another glass of punch, M. Louet. There! Now begin.--We are all impatience.'

"'You are aware, gentlemen,' said M. Louet, 'that every Marseillais is born a sportsman.'

"'Perfectly true,' interrupted Méry 'it is a physiological phenomenon which I have never been able to explain; but it is nevertheless quite true.'

"'Unfortunately,' continued M. Louet, 'or perhaps I should say fortunately, we have neither lions nor tigers in the neighbourhood of Marseilles. On the other hand, we have flights of pigeons.'

"'There!' cried Méry, 'I told you so. They insist upon it.'

"'Certainly,' replied M. Louet, visibly vexed; 'and, whatever you may say to the contrary, the pigeons _do_ pass. Besides, did you not lend me the other day a book of Mr Cooper's, the _Pioneers_, in which the fact is authenticated?'

"'Ah, yes! Authenticated in America.'

"'Very well! If they pass over America why should they not pass over Marseilles? The vessels that go from Alexandria and Constantinople to America often pass here.'

"'Very true!' replied Méry, thunderstruck by this last argument. 'I have nothing more to say. M. Louet, your hand. I will never contradict you again on the subject.'

"'Sir, every man has a right to his opinion.'

"'True, but I relinquish mine. Pray go on, M. Louet.'

"'I was saying, then, that instead of lions and tigers we have flights of pigeons.' M. Louet paused a moment to see if Méry would contradict him. Méry nodded his head approvingly.

"'True,' said he, 'they have flights of pigeons.'"

Satisfied by this admission M. Louet resumed.

"'You may easily imagine that at the period of the year when these flights occur, every sportsman is on the alert; and, as I am only occupied in the evening at the theatre, I am fortunately able to dispose of my mornings as I like. It was in 1810 or '11, I was five-and-thirty years of age; that is to say, gentlemen, rather more active than I am now. I was one morning at my post, as usual, before daybreak. I had tied my decoy pigeon to the _cimeaux_, and he was fluttering about like a mad thing, when I fancied I saw by the light of the stars something perched upon my pine-tree. Unfortunately it was too dark for me to distinguish whether this something were a bat or a bird, so I remained quite quiet, waiting for the sun to rise. At last the sun rose and I saw that it was a bird. I raised my gun gently to my shoulder, and, when I was sure of my aim, I pulled the trigger. Sir, I had omitted to discharge my gun on returning from shooting the evening before. It had been twelve hours loaded, and it hung fire.

"'Nevertheless I saw by the way in which the bird flew that he was touched. I followed him with my eyes till he perched again. Then I looked for my pigeon; but by an extraordinary chance a shot had cut the string which tied him, and he had flown away. Without a decoy I knew very well it was no use remaining at the post, so I resolved to follow up the thrush. I forgot to tell you, gentlemen, that the bird I had fired at was a thrush.

"'Unluckily I had no dog. When one shoots with a decoy, a dog is worse than useless--it is a positive nuisance. I was obliged, therefore, to beat the bushes myself. The thrush had run along the ground, and rose behind me when I thought I still had him in front. At the sound of his wings I turned and fired in a hurry. A shot thrown away, as you may suppose. Nevertheless I saw some feathers fall from him.'

"'You saw some feathers?' cried Méry.

"'Yes, sir. I even found one, which I put in my buttonhole.'

"'In that case,' said Méry, 'the thrush was hit?'

"'That was my opinion at the time. I had not lost sight of him, and I continued the pursuit; but the bird was scared, and this time flew away before I got within range. I fired all the same. There is no saying where a stray shot may go.'

"'A stray shot is not enough for a thrush,' said Méry, shaking his head gravely. 'A thrush is a very hard-lived bird.'

"'Very true, sir; for I am certain my two first shots had wounded him, and yet he made a third flight of nearly half a mile. But I had sworn to have him, and on I went. Impossible to get near him. He led me on, mile after mile, always flying away as soon as I came within fifty or sixty paces. I became furious. If I had caught him I think I should have eaten him alive, and the more so as I was beginning to get very hungry. Fortunately, as I had calculated on remaining out all day, I had my breakfast and dinner in my game-bag, and I eat as I went along.'

"'Pardon me,' said Méry, interrupting M. Louet; 'I have an observation to make. Observe, my dear Dumas, the difference between the habits of the human race in northern and southern climes. In the north the sportsman runs after his game; in the south he waits for it to come to him. In the first case he takes out an empty bag and brings home a full one; in the other he takes it out full and brings it home empty. Pray, go on, my dear M. Louet. I have spoken.' And he recommenced puffing at his cigar.

"'Where was I?' said M. Louet, who had lost the threat of his narrative through this interruption.

"'Speeding over hill and dale in pursuit of your thrush.'

"'True, sir. I cannot describe to you the state of excitement and irritation I was in. I began to think of the bird of Prince Camaralzaman, and to suspect that I, too, might be the victim of some enchantment. I passed Cassis and La Ciotat, and entered the large plain extending from Ligne to St. Cyr. I had been fifteen hours on my feet, and I was half dead with fatigue. I made a vow to Our Lady of La Garde to hang a silver thrush in her chapel, if she would only assist me to catch the living one I was following; but she paid no attention to me. Night was coming on, and in despair I fired my last shot at the accursed bird. I have no doubt he heard the lead whistle, for this time he flew so far that I lost sight of him in the twilight. He had gone in the direction of the village of St. Cyr. Probably he intended to sleep there, and I resolved to do the same. Fortunately there was to be no performance that night at the Marseilles theatre.'"

The worthy basso goes to the inn at St. Cyr, and relates his troubles to the host, who decides that the object of his pursuit must have halted for the night in a neighbouring piece of brushwood. By daybreak M. Louet is again a-foot, accompanied by the innkeeper's dog, Soliman. They soon get upon the scent of the devoted thrush.

"'Every body knows that a true sporting dog will follow any one who has a gun on his shoulder. "Soliman, Soliman!" cried I; and Soliman came. Sir, the instinct of the dog was remarkable: we had hardly got out of the village when he made a point--such a point, sir!--his tail out as straight as a ramrod. There was the thrush, not ten paces from me. I fired both barrels--Poum! Poum! Powder not worth a rush. I had used all my own the day before, and this was some I had got from my host. The thrush flew away unhurt. But Soliman had kept his eye on him, and went straight to the place where the bird was. Again he made a most beautiful point; but although I looked with all my eyes, I could not see the thrush. I was stooping down in this manner, looking for the creature, when suddenly it flew away, and so fast, that before I got my gun to my shoulder, it was out of reach. Soliman opened his eyes and stared at me; as much as to say, "What is the meaning of all this?" The expression of the dog's face made me feel quit humiliated. I could not help speaking to him. "Never mind," said I, nodding my head, "you will see next time." You would have thought the animal understood me. He again began to hunt about. In less than ten minutes he stopped as if he were cut out of marble. I was determined not to lose this chance; and I went right before the dog's nose. The bird rose literally under my feet; but I was so agitated that I fired my first barrel too soon, and my second too late. The first discharge passed by him like a single ball; the second was too scattered, and he passed between it. It was then that a thing happened to me--one of those things which I should not repeat, but for my attachment to the truth. The dog looked at me for a moment with a sort of smile upon his countenance: then, coming close up to me while I was reloading my gun, he lifted his left hind leg, made water against my gaiter, and then turning round, trotted away in the direction of his master's house. You may easily suppose, that if it had been a man who had thus insulted me, I would have had his life, or he should have had mine. But what could I say, sir, to a dumb beast which God had not gifted with reason?'"

This canine insult only acts as a spur to the indefatigable chasseur, who, dogless as he finds himself, follows up his thrush till he reaches the town of Hyères. Here he loses all trace of the bird, but endeavours to console himself by eating the oranges which grow in the garden of his hotel. Whilst thus engaged, a thrush perches on a tree beside him, and the first glance at the creature's profile satisfied him that it is the same bird whose society he has been rejoicing in the for the last two days. Unfortunately his gun is in the house, of which the thrush seems to be aware, for it continues singing and dressing its feathers on a branch within ten feet of his head. Afraid of losing sight of it, M. Louet waits till the landlord comes to announce supper, and then desires him to bring his gun. But there is a punishment of fine and imprisonment for whoever fires a shot, between sunset and sunrise, within the precincts of the town; and although the enthusiastic sportsman is willing enough to run this risk, the hotel-keeper fears to be taken for an accomplice, and refuses to fetch the gun, threatening to drive away the bird if M. Louet goes for it himself. At last they come to terms. M. Louet sups and sleeps under the tree, the bird roosts on the same; and at the first stroke of the matin bell, mine host appears with the fowling-piece. Our chasseur stretches out his hand to take it, and--the bird flies away.

M. Louet throws down the price of his supper, and scales the garden wall in pursuit. He follows his intended victim the whole of that day, and at last has the mortification of seeing it carried away before his eyes by a hawk. Foot-sore and tired, hungry and thirsty, the unfortunate musician sinks down exhausted by the side of a road. A peasant passes by.

"'My friend,' said I to him, 'is there any town, village, or house in this neighbourhood?'

"'_Gnor si_,' answered he, '_cé la citta di Nizza un miglia avanti_.'

"The thrush had led me into Italy."

At Nice M. Louet is in great tribulation. In the course of his long ramble his money has worked a hole in his pocket, and he discovers that he is penniless just at the moment that he has established himself at the best hotel, and ordered supper for three by way of making up for past privations. He gets out of his difficulties, however, by giving a concert, which produces him a hundred crowns; and he then embarks for Toulon, on board the letter of marque, La Vierge des Sept Douleurs, Captain Garnier.

Once on the water, there is a fine opportunity for a display of French naval heroism, at the expense, of course, of the unfortunate English, to whom M. Dumas bears about the same degree of affection that another dark-complexioned gentleman is said to do to holy water. This is one of M. Dumas's little peculiarities or affectations, it is difficult to say which. Wherever it is possible to bring in England and the English, depreciate them in any way, or turn them into ridicule, M. Dumas invariably does it, and those passages are frequently the most amusing in his books. In the present instance, it is a very harmless piece of faufarronade in which he indulges.

The armed brig in which M. Louet has embarked, falls in which a squadron of English men-of-war. Hearing a great bustle upon deck, our musician goes up to enquire the cause, and finds the captain quietly seated, smoking his pipe. After the usual salutations--

"'M. Louet, have you ever seen a naval combat?' said the captain to me.

"'Never, sir.'

"'Would you like to see one?'

"'Why, captain, to say the truth, there are other things I should better like to see.'

"'I am sorry for it; for it you wished to see one, a real good one, your wish would soon be gratified.'

"'What! captain,' cried I, feeling myself grow pale; 'you do not mean to say we are going to have a naval combat? Ha, ha! I see you are joking, captain.'

"'Joking, eh? Look yonder. What do you see?'

"'I see three very fine vessels.'

"'Count again.'

"'I see more. Four, five, there are six of them.'

"'Can you distinguish what there is on the flag of the nearest one? Here, take the glass.'

"'I cannot make out very well, but I think I see a harp.'

"'Exactly.--The Irish harp. In a few minutes they'll play as a tune on it.'

"'But captain,' said I, 'they are still a long way off, and it appears to me, that by spreading all those sails which are now furled upon your masts and yards, you might manage to escape. In your place I should certainly run away. Excuse me for the suggestion, but it is my opinion as fourth bass of the Marseilles theatre. If I had the honour to be a sailor, I should perhaps think differently.'"

Very sensible advice, too, M. Louet, _we_ should have thought at least, considering the odds of six to one. But the fire-eating Frenchman thinks otherwise.

"'If it were a man, instead of a bass, who made me such a proposal,' replied the captain, 'I should have had a word or two to say to him about it. Know, sir, that Captain Garnier _never_ runs away! He fights till his vessel is riddled like a sieve, then he allows himself to be boarded, and when his decks are covered with the enemy, he goes into the powder magazine with his pipe in his mouth, shakes out the burning ashes, and sends the English on a voyage of discovery upwards.'

"'And the French?'

"'The French too.'

"'And the passengers?'

"'The passengers likewise.'

"'At that moment, a small white cloud appeared issuing from the side of one of the English ships. This was followed by a dull noise like a heavy blow on the big drum. I saw some splinters fly from the top of the brig's gunwale, and an artilleryman, who was just then standing on his gun, fell backwards upon me. 'Come, my friend,' said I, 'mind what you are about.' And, as he did not stir, I pushed him. He fell upon the deck. I looked at him with more attention. His head was off.

"My nerves were so affected by this sight, that five minutes later I found myself in the ship's hold, without exactly knowing how I had got there."

Thanks to a storm, the six English men of war manage to escape from the brig, and when M. Louet ventures to re-appear upon deck, he finds himself in the Italian port of Piombino, opposite the island of Elba. He has had enough of the water, and goes on shore, where he bargains with a vetturino to take him to Florence. A young officer of French hussars, and four Italians, are his travelling companions. The former, on learning his name and profession, asks him sundry questions about a certain Mademoiselle Zephyrine, formerly a dancer at the Marseilles theatre, and in whom he seems to take a strong interest.

Bad springs and worse roads render it very difficult to sleep. At last, on the second night of their journey, M. Louet succeeds in getting up a doze, out of which he is roused in a very unpleasant manner. We will give his own account of it.

"'Two pistol-shots, the flash of which almost burned my face, awoke me. They were fired by M. Ernest, (the hussar officer.) We were attacked by banditti.'

"'_Faccia in terra! Faccia in terra!_' I jumped out of the carriage, and as I did so, one of the brigands gave me a blow between the shoulders, that threw me upon my face. My companions were already in that position, with the exception of M. Ernest, who was defending himself desperately. At length he was overpowered and made prisoner.

"My pockets were turned inside out, and my hundred crowns taken away. I had a diamond ring on my finger, which I hoped they would not observe, and I turned the stone inside, heartily wishing, as I did so, that it had the power of Gyges' ring, and could render me invisible. But all was in vain. The robbers soon found it out. When they had taken every thing from us--

"'Is there a musician amongst you?' said he who appeared the chief.

"Nobody answered.

"'Well,' repeated he, 'are you all deaf? I asked if any of you knew how to play on an instrument.'

"'Pardieu!' said a voice, which I recognized as that of the young officer; 'there's M. Louet, who plays the bass.'

"I wished myself a hundred feet under ground.

"'Which is M. Louet?' said the brigand. 'Is it this one?' And, stooping down, he laid hold of the collar of my shooting-jacket, and lifted me on my feet.

"'For Heaven's sake, what do you want with me?' cried I.

"'Nothing to be so frightened about,' was the answer. 'For a week past we have been hunting every where for a musician, without being able to find one. The captain will be delighted to see you.'

"'What!' cried I, 'are you going to take me to the captain?'

"'Certainly we are.'

"'To separate me from my companions?'

"'What can we do with them? _They_ are not musicians.'

"'Gentlemen!' cried I, 'for God's sake, help me! do not let me be carried off in this manner.'

"'The gentlemen will have the goodness to remain with their noses in the dust for the space of a quarter of an hour,' said the brigand. 'As to the officer, tie him to a tree,' continued he, to the four men who were holding the hussar. 'In a quarter of an hour the postillion will untie him. Not a minute sooner, if you value your life.'

"The postillion gave a sort of affirmative grunt, and the robbers now moved off in the direction of the mountains. I was led between two of them. After marching for some time, we saw a light in a window, and presently halted at a little inn on a cross-road. The bandits went up stairs, excepting two, who remained with me in the kitchen, and one of whom had appropriated my fowling-piece, and the other my game-bag. As to my diamond ring and my hundred crowns, they had become perfectly invisible.