A Dead Man. A RUSSIAN MATRIMONIAL STORY.

Waikato Times, Volume X, Issue 570, 15 January 1876, Page 2 (Supplement)

A Dead Man. A RUSSIAN MATRIMONIAL STORY.

It was just before the opening of the railway from Taganrog to Kharkof, in 1869, and I was driving those dreary distances in Amman. For the first two days and nights the weather wns lovely, but on the third morning, soon after sunrije, the sky became covered with heavy, torn and jagged clouds, a northerly wind arose, and, with thunder, lightning, cold, gale and snow, the Winter burst on us as it yearly breaks on Southern Itussia. In half an hour the rich, black, rolling plains had become an ocean of inky mud, and we reached the post station of Donski only to find the order : ' Impossible to proceed.' I called for tea and the samovar was brought in by a fine, upright, gray bearded man, whom, from his black velvet tunic and slashed sleeves, I took to be the Post-master himself. He was followed into the room by a noble-looking Cossack woman of his own age, who said : ' Little husband, why don't you ask the Lord if he will oat a partridge and a bit of bread ? The kurupatka is plump, and the day will be long before his troika can be harnessed to face the storm.' She smiled sweetly as she spoke — ho smiled loviDgly on her ; then she left us, looking lingeringly back. ' Your wife's in love with you still, and you with her, Postmaster,' I said. ' You must have beaten her well when she was young for her to love you so. How long is it since you were married ?' I 1 am sixty,' he replied, ' I was married at twenty-five, thirty-five years ago ; five years before I died.' ' What ?' said I. ' Five years before my death. Is it possible you don't kuow ruy story ? You must have come from a long way off, for I have heard that it is told even upon the Azof.' And throwing his legs across the chair, without more ado he spoke thus : • I was born in 1809, and can remember the return from Pans of my father and uncle — Cossacks of the Don. Those were grand days, when every Cossack wai an officer by birth, and when the Hetman Platol was king of Europe, conqueror of the Turks and of the French, and friend and equal of the white Tsar. Now, this Petersburg Tsar says we're no better than his great Russian slaves, and for years my sabro and long pistol have hung upon tne wall unused ; and when I have worn my red-banded cap and my reditnped breeches I've always hid as n-uch is I could of the stripe in my boots, fo['m ashamed of it now, and they're even ;oing to take away our privilege of the upply of salt.' •In 1831, as a young postmaster, for oy father was dead, with a good place nd a handsome beard, I waa the bea t *

match in the two church villages round. T could pick my wife, and I chose Olga that you saw just now.' 1 There?' said I.

' Ah, wait and see! "Wait, little lord. Don't be impatient. Olga was as lovely a« she was good. You baVe seen lier in her sixtieth year; her giodnes is vihat it was, and, though I may be an unsafe judge, her beauty, I think is not yet gone.' He looked at me. I nodded. • We were all happy at first, but T was young. I felt the chain. I was faithful to her as far as women went, bufc not kind. We had no children. One day in '39 she was in low spirits about me, and flung hpr arms upon a sudden abont my neck, with ' Do you really love me, little John ?' ' You know I do.' ' But not as I lore you.' At that very moment, lorJ, the devil must have been unchained from hell. To tell you what thoughts flashed in an instant through my mad mind would be impossible. That what she said was irnrl That while I did love her in a kind of way, I was bound to her for life whether I would or no. In a fit of wild rase T struck her one short, .sharp blow. She looked at me with despair in her eyes, and walked slowly into out other room. I ran into the stable yard ' Harness a troika,' said I to the atarosta. ' I leave at once for Kharkof with dispatches thai the courier dropped and tW T've found upon the floor. Quick ! quick ! the best courier horses.' In an instant they were ready- Merrily jingl' d the bells in the crisp air. Paul took the reins and off I whirled In twenty hours T was at Kharkof. To mv friend the starosta at the great Kharkof station, who was equal in rank and pay to most postmasters themselves, I said : 'Dome a service, little fri?nd, as T would do one for you Tarn going to leave my wife, to whom I have bpen nnkind. and am going to enlist in the Guards. Bnt T wish her to forget me, ond she mubt think me dead. Write to her in a week and f ell her that T was taken with the cholera and died. Beg her to forgive me for mv unkindness; say t'\at I was grateful for her love and if, was my last wish that she should marry again some lad mor? worthy of her than myself. Make interest to have the station continued to her as postmistress. She was a priest's dau?hter and can write. We crossed ourselves ; he swore; we bowed to the image in the corner of the stable, we kissed, and in five minutes T was crone. At the recruiting office I enlisted for the Empress' regiment of Cuirassiers of the Guard, as a fourteen years' volunteer, and in a false name. I'd of course no papers, but they asked no questions, for I was a fine recruit. My beard was shaved, mv hair was cut. and when T got to Petersburg and was fitted with my uniform and eagle-crowned helmet no ohp would hi t p known me. I rose to be S^rggant and second Riding Master From your pndnrojnn T s">e that you are English. Now. in 1853, when T had served mv time, there were rumours of war in Turkey against you, andjtemptinar offers were made fo me to g»on an d drill the new recruits. But I was wretch s d. and home sickness drove me south, thongh if T found my wi r c dead or married again I int°nded to kill myself Petersburg is nor a place for Cossacks either Bv brooding over the past I had become madly in love with my wife. It was no use for me to lell myself that I had left her well off; that she was married and happy ; that she was forty-four and fat, or else perhaps, a scarecrow. I was madly in love. I pot my discharge and pension papers and started south. At Kharkof my friend was d"«d. What if she too were dead? 'Who keeps the Donski post-station nowP' T murmured, crossing myself the while under mv loner cloik. The widow.' ' A widow that has kept it fourteen years ?' ' The same.' In eighteen hours T was there. T recognised two of the old men, but they not me. I rushed into the house. She was at her day-book writing, not changed. Only graver and with silver in her black hair. 1 Mv own little Olcra.' in the best style of oli days. She did not turn to look nt me, bnt threw up her arms and fell forwa d on the table I rushed to her and felt her heart, with mine too all but | ceasing to beat. In a moment she came to herself — our lips fast glued together That was in '53. This is '69. Sixteen years gone like a day. We hare made up for the pa'-t, little lord. 'Bnt would you believe it? That wretched Government at St. Petersburg insists that I am dead and that the Donski station is keot by my widow. Or else they say the cuiras«ier riding-master must be dead, and wMi him his pension. My widow accepts the situation with a ■ smile, for our neighbours all know better than to believe the Government, but she keeps the books, nigns the receipts and pays the taxes. I draw my pension in my cuirassier name. A great Petersburg noble who was passing here last week told me that he didn't believe a word of my story, but that the Postmistress and I were ' quito in the fashion.' What did ; he mean P'