Ivan Turgenev

The Living Mummy

Ivan Turgenev

(1818–1883)

The Living Mummy

(1876)

Scribner’s Monthly,

Vol. 12, No. 4

pp.563–569

Scribner and Co.

New York

1876

Table of Contents

The Living Mummy

Notes

The Living Mummy

“A DRY fisherman and a wet hunter make sorry figures,” says the French proverb. Never having had any turn for angling, I can form no opinion as to the feelings of a fisherman in fine sunny weather—or tell how far, in foul weather, the satisfaction he obtains from a good catch makes up for the unpleasantness of getting drenched. But, for any one out shooting, rain is an actual disaster.

Well, it was to a disaster of this kind that Ermolai and I were exposed in one of our expeditions after blackcock in the Bielef district. From the earliest morn the rain fell without ceasing. We tried everything we could think of in order to escape from it. We pulled our water-proofs almost over our heads; we took shelter under trees, in hopes of being less drenched. But our water-proofs, besides hindering us from shooting, let in the wet in the most shameless manner; and under the trees, though at first scarcely a drop reached us, yet, after a time, the moisture which had accumulated on the leaves broke through; every branch spouted on us like a water-pipe, till a cold stream insinuated itself under our cravats and ran down our backs. Things had got to their worst, as Ermolai observed.

“It’s no use, Peter Petrovich,” at last he exclaimed. “There will be no shooting to-day. The scent won’t lie in the wet, and the guns will hang fire.”

“What’s to be done?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you. We’ll go to Alexievka. Perhaps you don’t know such a place exists. It’s a hamlet belonging to your mother, about eight versts off. We can spend the night there, and tomorrow—”

“We’ll come back here?”

“No, not here. I know some covers beyond Alexievka, much better for blackcock than hereabouts.”

I did not stop to ask my trusty companion why he had not taken me there at once, and, before long, we reached the little village, of the existence of which, to tell the truth, I had never till then had the slightest idea. There was a small seigneurial house in it, very old, but unoccupied, and therefore clean. Within its walls I spent a tolerably quiet night.

Next morning I awoke very early. The sun had only just risen; there was not a single cloud in the sky; all around was brilliant with the fresh light of the early sunbeams flashed back by yesterday’s raindrops.

While a carriage was being got ready, I took a stroll through what had once been a fruit-garden, but was now a little wilderness, surrounding the house on all sides with its rich, odoriferous vegetation. Ah! how pleasant it was in the open air, beneath the clear sky, in which trembled the larks, from which streamed the silvery rain of their ringing notes! Actual dew had they borne aloft on their wings, and in the dew of fancy their songs seemed to have been steeped. I wandered along bare-headed, joyfully drawing long deep breaths.

On the slope of a shallow ravine, close to the garden hedge, a number of bee-hives were to be seen. A narrow path led up to them, gliding like a snake between compact walls of nettles and fern, above which, rose here and there, a stray stalk of dark green hemp. I strolled along this path and reached the bee-hives. Beside them stood the wattled hut which they occupied in winter. I glanced through its half-opened door-way. All was dark inside, and dry, and still; the air redolent of mint and balm. In one corner was a raised planking, and on it there seemed to be stretched a small figure, with a coverlet thrown over it. I was turning away when—“Barin, [1] Barin, Peter Petrovich!” I heard a voice cry—a voice weak, languid, hoarse, resembling the rustling of sedge in a pool. I stopped short.

“Peter Petrovich! Please come here,” continued the voice.

It came to my ears from the corner where, as I have said, the planking stood.

I drew near—and stopped in amazement. Before me lay a human being of some kind; but of what kind was it?

The face was so emaciated, so bronzed into one monotonous hue, that it was precisely like one of those depicted in old manuscripts. The nose was as sharp as the edge of a knife; of lips scarcely anything could be seen; from underneath the kerchief round the head some thin locks of yellowish hair straggled on to the forehead. The only touches of high light in the picture were contributed by the teeth and eyes. Under the chin, at the fold of the covering, two small hands, of the same bronzed hue as the face, were slowly working their bony fingers. When I looked more closely, I saw that the features were not only free from ungainliness, but were even finely cut—but the whole face was strange,—startling. What heightened the singular effect it produced upon me was that I could see, on those metallic cheeks, a smile striving, but unsuccessfully, to break forth:

“You do not recognize me, Barin?” whispered the voice again. It seemed as if it were merely exhaled from the scarcely moving lips. “But how could you recognize me? I am Loukeria. Do you recollect, I used to lead the Khorovods [2] at your mother’s, in Spasskoe? I used to lead the singing, too, if you remember.”

“Loukeria!” I exclaimed. “Can this be you?”

“Yes, Barin. I am Loukeria.”

I knew not what to say, but stared as if stupefied at that dark, motionless face, with its pale and death-like eyes fixed on mine. Was it possible? That mummy—Loukeria, the beauty of the household, that tall, lithe, clear-skinned, rosy-cheeked girl, so given to laughter and dance and song!—Loukeria, the bright Loukeria, whom all our lads courted, for whom, I myself, then a youngster of sixteen, had secretly sighed!

“Tell me, Loukeria,” I said at last; “what can have happened to you?”

“A great trouble has befallen me! But don’t be repelled by my misfortune, Barin. Take a seat on that pail there—a little nearer, please, or you won’t be able to hear what I say. You see what a fine strong voice I have now. Ah, how glad I am to see you! How did you ever come to Alexievka?”

Loukeria spoke continuously, though her words came slowly and were faintly uttered.

“It was Ermolai who brought me here,” I said. “But, tell me—”

“Tell you about my troubles? Very well, Barin. It’s a long time since they came upon me, some six or seven years ago. I had just then been betrothed to Vassily Poliakof. Do you recollect him? Well made, with curly hair—he was one of your mother’s servants. But you weren’t in the country at that time; you were studying then at Moscow. Vassily and I were very fond of each other. He was never out of my mind. Well, one night—it was in the spring—I could not sleep. A little before daybreak, I heard a nightingale singing in the garden so sweetly, so wonderfully, that I could not help getting up and going out on the steps to listen to it. It sang and sang. All of a sudden I fancied that some one was calling to me with a voice like Vassily’s—low, like this—‘Lasha!’ [3] I looked round, and—I suppose I was only half awake—I missed my footing, slipped off the steps, and fell right down on the ground. I thought I was not much hurt, for I jumped up directly and went back to my room. But it seems I must have got some hurt inside. Let me wait a minute, Barin, to get my breath.”

Loukeria stopped talking. I gazed at her in wonder. What astonished me most was that she told her tale in a tone that was almost lively, without a groan or a sigh, never complaining or asking for sympathy.

“From the time of that accident,” continued Loukeria, “I began to fade and wither away. My skin darkened; first I found a difficulty in walking, then I could not use my legs any more. I could neither stand nor sit up, but had to be always lying down. I never cared to eat or drink, and continually grew worse and worse. Your mother kindly got doctors to see me, and had me sent to a hospital. But not the slightest good came of it all. And there was not a single doctor who could tell what was the matter with me. What didn’t they do to me! They seared my back with hot irons, they placed me in pounded ice. But it was all of no use. After a time I seemed to get numb all over, and at last it was settled that there was no curing me. The gentry cannot be expected to keep cripples in their houses, so I was sent on here where I have some relations. And here I live, as you see.”

Loukeria again stopped, and again tried to smile.

“But, it’s dreadful, this state you’re in!” I exclaimed, and not knowing what to say next, added: “And how about Vassily Poliakof?” not a very discreet question to ask.

Loukeria turned away her eyes a little.

“Poliakof? He was very unhappy for some time. And then he married another girl, one from Glinnoe. Do you know Glinnoe? It’s not far off. Her name is Agrafena. He was very fond of me; but he was a young man, you know; he couldn’t always remain unmarried. And what sort of a helpmate should I have been for him? He has a wife who is good and comely, and they have children. He is employed in the steward’s office of a neighboring estate—your mother gave him a permit—and all goes well with him, thank God!”

“And so you’re always lying here without moving?” I asked.

“This is the seventh year, Barin, I’ve been lying here. During the summer I remain in this hut. When it turns cold, I am removed to the outer room of the bath-house.”

“And who looks after you?”

“There are kind folks here as well as elsewhere. I am not deserted, and I don’t want much looking after. As for victuals—why, I scarcely eat anything; and for drink—there is water in that pitcher. It always stands there, with plenty of fresh spring-water. I can get at it without help. One of my arms is still serviceable, and, besides, there is a young girl, an orphan, who comes to see after me, God bless her! She was here just now. Didn’t you meet her? A fair-haired girl, and so pretty! She brings me flowers. I am so fond of flowers. I haven’t any garden ones; I had some once, but they’re all gone. But see how charming the wild flowers are; and they smell even sweeter than the garden ones. See, here are some lilies of the valley—what can be prettier?”

“And you don’t find the life you lead wearisome or painful, my poor Loukeria?”

“What can one do? I won’t say what isn’t true. At first it was very dreary. But after I got accustomed to it and learned to be patient, it seemed a mere nothing. There are others still worse off.”

“How so?”

“There are some who are homeless, there are others who are blind or deaf. But I, thank God! see quite well and hear everything, everything. If a mole burrows underground I can hear it, and I can enjoy every scent, however faint it may be. When the buckwheat is in flower in the fields, or the lime-trees in the garden, there is no need to tell me of it. I am the first to know it, as long as the wind blows the right way. No, why should I anger God? There are many who are worse off than I am. For instance, when one is well, one may easily fall into sin. But from me, all sin has, as it were, passed aside. Father Alexis, our priest, was going to give me the sacrament the other day, and he said: ‘You need not confess. What sin can you possibly commit in the state you’re in?’ ‘But,’ I replied: ‘How about mental sins, Father?’ ‘Come,’ says he, and smiled withal, ‘those can be no great sins.’”

“Though, I dare say I’ve not done much even in the way of those same mental sins,” continued Loukeria, “because I’ve accustomed myself not to think, not even to remember. Time goes faster that way.”

I must own I felt astonished.

“You are always alone, Loukeria. How can you prevent ideas from coming into your mind? Surely, you cannot always be sleeping?”

“Oh, no, Barin! Though I am free from any acute suffering, yet, I have a pain just here, and in the bones, too, which does not let me sleep properly. No—here I lie and lie, and think of nothing. I know that I am alive, that I breathe—and that is all. I see, I hear. The bees hum around the hives; a pigeon lights on the roof and coos; a hen comes with her chickens to pick up the crumbs; sometimes a sparrow flies in, or a butterfly—it’s all a pleasure to me. Two years ago, some swallows made their nest over there, in the corner, and reared a brood. How interesting that was! One of them would fly in, cling to the nest, give the young birds their food, and then be off again. Next minute, there would be the other one instead. Sometimes they would not fly in, would only flit past the open door, and, then how the little ones would open their beaks wide and cry for food! I looked out for them again next year, but folks say that some one hereabouts shot them. What good could he get by that? Why, a swallow’s body is not much bigger than a cock-chafer’s. How cruel you sportsmen are!”

“I never kill swallows,” I hastened to say.

“Once, something funny happened,” continued Loukeria. “A hare ran in here; it’s a fact! I suppose it had been chased by dogs. Anyhow, in it came, right through the door-way. It sat close by me, sat ever so long, twitching its nose the while and its mustaches—just like an officer—and looking at me all the time. One could see it knew well enough that it needn’t be afraid of me. At last, up it jumped, bounded to the door, gave a look back when it got there—and was gone. What a droll creature it was!

“Wasn’t it funny, though?” said Loukeria, glancing at me. I laughed to please her. She moistened her dry lips.

“In winter, I must allow, I’m not so well off, for then it’s so dark. It would be a pity to light a candle, and what would be the use of it? I can read and write, and I was always fond of reading, but what is there for me to read? There are no books here, but, even if there were, how could I hold one up? Father Alexis brought me an almanac one day, but he saw it was of no use, so he just took it back again. However, even in the dark, there’s always something to listen to. A cricket chirps, or a mouse begins to gnaw. And so one gets on well enough without thinking of anything.

“Besides, I say my prayers,” continued Loukeria, with a slight sigh. “Only I don’t know many. And why should I go wearying the Lord? What is there I can ask Him for? He knows better than I do what is meet for me. He has laid upon me a cross; it is a sign of his love for me. That is how we are told to look upon such things. I say the Lord’s Prayer, the Angelical Salutation, the Prayer for all who are Afflicted, and then I go on lying here without thinking at all.”

Two or three minutes passed by. I did not break the silence, but sat perfectly still, on the reversed pail which served as a scanty stool. The cruel stony immobility of the unfortunate living creature who lay there before me, seemed to communicate itself to me. I felt as if I too were losing vitality.

“Loukeria,” I began at last, “think over the suggestion I am going to make. Would you like me to arrange for your being removed to a hospital,—a good hospital in town. Who knows whether it may not be possible to cure you? At all events you would not be left alone.”

Loukeria’s eyebrows twitched a little.

“Oh no, Barin!” she said in an uneasy whisper. “Don’t send me to a hospital; don’t take me from where I am. I should only suffer all the more there. How can I be cured? There was a doctor came here one day and wanted to examine me. I begged him not to. ‘For Christ’s sake, do not disturb me!’ I said. What was the use? He began turning me over from one side to another, bending my arms and legs, and kneading them into dough, saying the while: ‘I do this for the sake of science. I’m a scientific man, you see, and employed by Government. And you mustn’t go putting difficulties in my way,’ said he, ‘for I’ve had a decoration given me for what I’ve done, and it’s for the sake of such stupids as you that I labor.’ He went on worriting me ever so long, then he told me the name of my complaint—such a learned one—and then he left me. But for a whole week afterward, there wasn’t a bone in me that didn’t ache.

“You said that I am alone, always alone. No, not always. People come here sometimes. I am a quiet body, in no one’s way. The village girls come in here and gossip; pilgrim women turn in here on their wanderings, and tell stories about Jerusalem, and Kief, and the Holy Cities. But I’m not afraid of being alone; I even prefer being so. No, Barin, don’t disturb me, don’t send me to a hospital. Thank you all the same. You mean it kindly, but please let me be as I am.”

“As you like, as you like, Loukeria. You see I thought it would do you good—”

“I know it was meant for my good, Barin. But who is there who can be sure he is right in helping another? Who can enter into another’s heart? Let every one help himself!—you’d hardly believe me, but sometimes when I lie here all alone, it’s exactly as if there wasn’t another living creature in the whole world beside myself. Just I alive and no one else! And then it seems to me as if a shadow came over me from on high, and I become rapt in meditation. It’s wonderful!”

“And what do you meditate about at such times, Loukeria?”

“That’s impossible to say, Barin; there’s no explaining it. Besides, I forget all about it afterward. It comes just like a cloud. The rain falls, all is fair and fresh, but I don’t remember of what nature it was. Only I say to myself: ‘If there had been any one here, nothing of the sort would have happened, and I should have felt nothing—except my troubles.’”

Loukeria drew a long breath, not without difficulty. Her lungs were evidently as little at her command as the rest of her frame.

“When I look at you, Barin,” she began anew, “I can see that you are very sorry for me. But you must not pity me too much,—really you must not. I’ll tell you something. Sometimes even now I—you recollect, don’t you, how merry I used to be in old days? Well even now I sing songs at times.”

“Sing songs?”

“Yes, songs, old songs, such as are sung at Christmas, at marriages, in Khorovods; all sorts of songs. I used to know a good many, and I haven’t forgotten them. Only I never sing dance-songs now. In my present condition, that wouldn’t be becoming!”

“And how do you sing them? To yourself?”

“Yes, and aloud too. I can’t sing loud, of course, but still—I told you, you know, that there’s a young girl who comes to see me. She’s an orphan, so she’s quick. Well, I’ve been giving her lessons. She’s already learned four songs. Don’t you believe me? Well then, I’ll soon show you—”

Loukeria drew a long breath. The idea that this almost inanimate being was about to sing gave me an involuntary shudder. But before I could say a word, there began to sound in my ears a prolonged note, scarcely audible, but still true and clear; and after it, followed a second and a third. “In the Meadows,” was the song Loukeria chose. She sang without altering the stony expression of her face; even her eyes remained fixed. But how pathetic was the sound of that poor feeble voice, wavering like a thread of smoke! How earnestly did the singer strive to throw her whole soul into her song! It was no longer a shudder of repugnance which I felt; an inexpressible compassion took hold of all my heart.

“Ah! I can sing no more!” she said abruptly. “I have no more strength left.—It was such a pleasure to see you.”

She closed her eyes.

I laid my hand upon her small, chilly fingers. She looked up at me, and her dark eyelids, shaded like those of ancient statues with golden lashes, closed again. A moment later they glimmered in the half light. They were moist with tears.

I remained as still as ever.

“What a strange creature I am!” suddenly exclaimed Loukeria with unexpected vivacity; and, opening her eyes wide, tried to wipe away the tears. “Oughtn’t I to be ashamed? What is the matter with me? Such a thing has not happened to me for ever so long, not since the day when Vassily Poliakof came to see me last spring. As long as he was sitting here and talking, it was all right; but as soon as he was gone, I took to crying away all by myself. What an idea! Well, tears don’t cost the like of us anything! Barin,” added Loukeria, “you’ve a handkerchief, haven’t you? Would you mind drying my eyes?”

I hastened to do what she asked, and left the handkerchief with her. At first she would not keep it. “Why should I have such a present made me?” she said. The handkerchief was quite a common one, but white and clean. At last she took it in her weak fingers, and kept them closed upon it. By this time I had grown accustomed to the twilight in which we were, and could distinctly make out her features, could even discern a slight rosy flush through the bronze hue of her face, could discover in that face—at least so I fancied—some traces of its former beauty.

“You asked me, Barin, if I slept,” Loukeria began anew. “In reality I don’t often sleep; but when I do I always have dreams, beautiful dreams. I never feel ill in them. In dreams I am always quite well and young. The only misfortune is that when I wake, I want to have a good stretch, and here I am unable to move. Once I had such a wonderful dream! Shall I tell you about it? Very well, you shall hear it.

“I seemed to be standing in a corn-field, and all around was rye, ever so tall, quite ripe, like so much gold! And along with me was a dog of a ruddy color, a terribly snappish one, always trying to bite me. And in my hands I seemed to hold a sickle—not a common one, but one just like what the moon is when it looks like a sickle. And with that same sort of moon I had to cut all that rye. But I was quite done up with the heat, and the moon dazzled my eyes, and sluggishness took hold of me. And all around grew corn-flowers, such swarms of them! And all of them bent their heads toward me. I said to myself: ‘I’ll pick these corn-flowers. Vassily promised he would come. I’ll make myself a wreath first; there will be time enough for my reaping afterward.’ Well, I began plucking the corn-flowers, but they melted away in my hands, and so I could not make myself a wreath. Meanwhile I heard some one come close to me and call: ‘Loukeria, Loukeria!’ ‘Ah!’ thought I, ‘what a pity; I’ve not had time enough after all. Never mind, I’ll put this moon on my head instead of the corn-flowers.’ So I put on the moon, just like a Kokoshnick [4], and immediately I began to shine so brightly that I lighted up the whole field. Presently there came swiftly gliding along the surface of the corn, not Vassily, but Christ himself! How I knew that it was Christ I cannot say. He was not as we see him in Church pictures, but still it was he—tall, youthful, beardless, all in white, only with a golden girdle. He stretched out his hand to me and said: ‘Be not afraid, my chosen spouse, but follow me. In my heavenly kingdom shalt thou lead the choral dance, and sing songs of Paradise.’ And I, how closely did I cling to his hand! The dog was following at my heels, but just then we rose in the air. He was in front—his wings, long wings like a sea-gull’s, spreading over all the heavens—and I followed after him. So the dog had to stay behind. Then for the first time I understood that the dog was my ailment, and that in the heavenly kingdom there was now no place for it.”

Loukeria paused for a while.

“Another time I had a dream,” she continued; “or, perhaps it was a revelation; I know not. It seemed to me that I was lying here in this hut, and there came to me my dead parents, my father and my mother. And they bowed low before me, but without uttering a word. And I said to them: ‘Wherefore, O my father and my mother, do ye bow down before me?’ And they replied: ‘Because thou hast suffered much in this world, thou hast not only freed thine own soul, but thou hast also taken from us a heavy burden; and, therefore, have we fared far better in the other world. With thine own sins hast thou already finished thy reckoning. Now dost thou overcome ours also.”

“And when they had thus spoken, my parents again rendered me obeisance and disappeared—there was nothing to be seen but the bare walls. Thereupon I was greatly troubled as to what manner of thing had come to pass. I even made confession of it to the priest. But he was of opinion that it was not a revelation, inasmuch as revelations are made only to clerical personages.

“Here is another dream I have had,” continued Loukeria. “I saw myself sitting by the road-side under a willow-tree, holding a staff in my hand, a bag slung across my shoulder, my head wrapped in a kerchief—just like a pilgrim. And on a pilgrimage, in truth, I had wandered somewhere far, far away. And before me pilgrims kept incessantly passing. Slowly did they move, as though unwillingly, and all in one direction; the faces of all of them were sad, and they all closely resembled one another. And I saw that among them, there kept darting to and fro a female form, a whole head taller than the rest, and her dress was strange, not like ours, not a Russian dress. Her face also was strange, a meager face and stern. All the others seemed to keep aloof from her. Suddenly she turned round and came straight up to me. Then she stopped and looked at me steadfastly. Her eyes were like those of a hawk, yellow, large, and exceedingly clear. I asked her, ‘Who art thou?’ and she replied: ‘I am thy Death.’ I might well have been frightened, but instead of that a great joy came over me, and I made the sign of the cross. And, to me, that Death of mine said: ‘I pity thee, Loukeria, but I cannot take thee with me. Farewell!’ Ah me! how sad did I become!

“‘Take me away,’ I cried: ‘take me with thee, mother dear!’ Then my Death turned back to me, and began to speak to me. I knew that she was telling me of my appointed time, but obscurely, in words hard to understand.

“‘After St. Peter’s Fast,’ she said.

“And then I awoke. Such are the wondrous dreams I have dreamt.”

Loukeria looked upward and remained musing for a time.

“The only thing that troubles me is this. Sometimes a whole week goes by without my having a moment’s sleep. Last year, a lady who passed by here came to see me, and she gave me a bottle of some remedy for sleeplessness; ten drops at a time, she told me to take of it. It did me a deal of good, and I was able to sleep. Only the bottle has long ago been emptied. Do you know what medicine that was, and how it is to be got?”

The lady had evidently given her laudanum. I promised to get her another bottle of the same kind, and then I could not help once more expressing my astonishment at her patience.

“Ah, Barin!” she exclaimed; “what are you talking about? What sort of patience is that of mine? Now Simeon Stylites exhibited really great patience. For thirty whole years did he stand on the top of a pillar! And there was another saint who had himself buried breast-high in the ground, and the ants came and devoured his face. Moreover, a person who had a deal of book-learning used to tell me this: There was a certain land, and the Agarians conquered that land, and tormented and slew the inhabitants thereof. And however much those inhabitants tried, they could by no means get themselves free. Then there appeared among that people a holy virgin, and she took a great sword, and she put on a weighty breastplate, and she went against those Agarians, and drove them all across the sea. And as soon as she had chased them away, she said to them: ‘Now consume me with fire, because my promise was that I would die by a fiery death in behalf of my people.’

And the Agarians took her and consumed her with fire, and from that time forth that people has been free. That was really a noble deed! But I—what have I done?”

I silently marveled a little as to whence, and under what aspect, the story of Joan of Arc had made its way hither. Then I asked Loukeria how old she was?

“Twenty-eight, or, perhaps, twenty-nine. At all events, not thirty. But why should I count my years? I will tell you something more—”

All of a sudden, Loukeria coughed huskily, and uttered a kind of groan.

“You have talked a good deal,” I said, “it may do you harm.”

“That’s true,” she replied, in an almost inaudible whisper. “Our talk has come to an end. But, never mind. When you are gone, I shall be silent enough. At all events, I have had a little solace.”

I rose to take leave, repeated my promise to send her the medicine, and begged her once more to think over the matter, and let me know if there was anything she wanted.

“There is nothing that I want. I have plenty of everything, thank God!” she said, with deep feeling, but only by a considerable effort. “May God grant to all their health! But there is one thing, Barin, you might ask your mother. The peasants here are very poor. If she would only diminish their obligations a little. They have not enough land. As to wood and such-like things, they have none at all. They would pray to God on your behalf. But I need nothing. I have all that I want.”

I took leave of Loukeria, after promising that I would see her request fulfilled. Just as I reached the door she called me back.

“Do you remember, Barin,” she said,—a singular expression touching her eyes and lips—“do you remember what long hair I used to have, right down to my knees? It was a long time before I could make up my mind about it. But how could I keep it in proper order, in the state I am in? So, at last, I had it cut short. Yes—Well, good-bye, Barin. I cannot talk any more.”

That same day, before going out shooting, I had a talk about Loukeria with the head of the hamlet. From him I learned that she bore the name among the villagers of “The Living Mummy,” and that she never gave the least trouble to any one: neither murmur nor complaint was ever heard from her lips.

“She never asks for anything, but, on the other hand, she is grateful for everything. Very quiet-like, to be sure,—very quiet-like. God has smitten her,”—it was thus he concluded—“for her sins, no doubt. But we won’t go into that. And as to condemning her, forsooth. No, no; we won’t condemn her. Let her go free!”

A few weeks later, I heard that Loukeria was dead. Death had come for her in truth, and that, too, “after the St. Peter’s Fast.” They say that on the day of her death, she heard a constant ringing of church bells, though Alexievka is reckoned to be more than five versts from a church, and it was not a Sunday or Saint’s day. Besides, Loukeria affirmed that the sound came, not from the church, but from “on high.” She probably had not ventured to say that it came “from heaven.”

Notes

[1] Master, Seigneur, or Sir.

[2] The Khorovod is the circling dance, accompanied by song,—the French ronde.

[3] Diminutive of Loukeria.

[4] The Russian crescent-shaped head-dress.