Part 20 (1/2)

When the philosopher turned and looked in the opposite direction, he saw quite another picture. The village reached down to the plain; meadows stretched away to an immense distance, their bright green growing gradually dark; far away, about twenty versts off, many other villages were visible. To the right of these meadows were chains of hills, and in the remote distance one saw the Dnieper s.h.i.+mmer and sparkle like a mirror of steel.

”What a splendid country!” said the philosopher to himself. ”It must be fine to live here! One could catch fish in the Dnieper, and in the ponds, and shoot and snare partridges and bustards; there must be quant.i.ties here. Much fruit might be dried here and sold in the town, or, better still, brandy might be distilled from it, for fruit-brandy is the best of all. But what prevents me thinking of my escape after all?”

Behind the hedge he saw a little path which was almost entirely concealed by the high gra.s.s of the steppe. The philosopher approached it mechanically, meaning at first to walk a little along it un.o.bserved, and then quite quietly to gain the open country behind the peasants' houses.

Suddenly he felt the pressure of a fairly heavy hand on his shoulder.

Behind him stood the same old Cossack who yesterday had so bitterly lamented the death of his father and mother, and his own loneliness.

”You are giving yourself useless trouble, Mr Philosopher, if you think you can escape from us,” he said. ”One cannot run away here; and besides, the roads are too bad for walkers. Come to the colonel; he has been waiting for you for some time in his room.”

”Yes, of course! What are you talking about? I will come with the greatest pleasure,” said the philosopher, and followed the Cossack.

The colonel was an elderly man; his moustache was grey, and his face wore the signs of deep sadness. He sat in his room by a table, with his head propped on both hands. He seemed about five-and-fifty, but his att.i.tude of utter despair, and the pallor on his face, showed that his heart had been suddenly broken, and that all his former cheerfulness had for ever disappeared.

When Thomas entered with the Cossack, he answered their deep bows with a slight inclination of the head.

”Who are you, whence do you come, and what is your profession, my good man?” asked the colonel in an even voice, neither friendly nor austere.

”I am a student of philosophy; my name is Thomas Brutus.”

”And who was your father?”

”I don't know, sir.”

”And your mother?”

”I don't know either; I know that I must have had a mother, but who she was, and where she lived, by heavens, I do not know.”

The colonel was silent, and seemed for a moment lost in thought. ”Where did you come to know my daughter?”

”I do not know her, gracious sir; I declare I do not know her.”

”Why then has she chosen you, and no one else, to offer up prayers for her?”

The philosopher shrugged his shoulders. ”G.o.d only knows. It is a well-known fact that grand people often demand things which the most learned man cannot comprehend; and does not the proverb say, 'Dance, devil, as the Lord commands!'”

”Aren't you talking nonsense, Mr Philosopher?”

”May the lightning strike me on the spot if I lie.”

”If she had only lived a moment longer,” said the colonel sadly, ”then I had certainly found out everything. She said, 'Let no one offer up prayers for me, but send, father, at once to the seminary in Kieff for the student Thomas Brutus; he shall pray three nights running for my sinful soul--he knows.' But what he really knows she never said. The poor dove could speak no more, and died. Good man, you are probably well known for your sanct.i.ty and devout life, and she has perhaps heard of you.”

”What? Of me?” said the philosopher, and took a step backward in amazement. ”I and sanct.i.ty!” he exclaimed, and stared at the colonel.

”G.o.d help us, gracious sir! What are you saying? It was only last Holy Thursday that I paid a visit to the tart-shop.”

”Well, she must at any rate have had some reason for making the arrangement, and you must begin your duties to-day.”

”I should like to remark to your honour--naturally everyone who knows the Holy Scripture at all can in his measure--but I believe it would be better on this occasion to send for a deacon or subdeacon. They are learned people, and they know exactly what is to be done. I have not got a good voice, nor any official standing.”

”You may say what you like, but I shall carry out all my dove's wishes.