by Jules Verne
The young traveller was tall and upright, as far as could be judged of her figure from the very simple and ample pelisse that covered her. Although she was still a very young girl in the literal sense of the term, the development of her high forehead and clearly-cut features gave the idea that she was the possessor of great moral energy—a point which did not escape Michael Strogoff. Evidently this young girl had already suffered in the past, and the future doubtless did not present itself to her in glowing colours; but it was none the less certain that she had known how to struggle still with the trials of life. Her energy was evidently both prompt and persistent, and her calmness unalterable, even under circumstances in which a man would be likely to give way or lose his self-command.
Such was the impression which she produced at first sight Michael Strogoff, being himself of an energetic temperament, was naturally struck by the character of her physiognomy, and, while taking care not to cause her annoyance by a too persistent gaze, he observed his neighbour with no small interest The costume of the young traveller was both extremely simple and appropriate. She was not rich—that could be easily seen; but not the slightest mark of negligence was to be discerned in her dress. All her luggage was contained in a leather bag under lock and key, and which, for want of room, she held on her lap.
She wore a long, dark pelisse, which was gracefully adjusted at the neck by a blue tie. Under this pelisse, a short skirt, also dark, fell over a robe which reached to the ankles, and of which the lower edge was ornamented with some simple embroidery. Half-boots of worked leather, and thickly soled, as if chosen in the anticipation of a long journey, covered her small feet.
Michael Strogoff fancied that he recognized, by certain details, the fashion of the costume of Livonia, and he thought that his neighbour must be a native of the Baltic provinces.
But whither was this young girl going, alone, at an age when the fostering care of a father, or the protection of a brother, are considered a matter of necessity? Had she now come, after an already long journey, from the provinces of Western Russia? Was she merely going to Nijni-Novgorod, or was the end of her travels beyond the eastern frontiers of the empire? Would some relation, some friend, await her arrival by the train? Or was it not more probable, on the contrary, that she would find herself as much isolated in the town as she was in this compartment, where no one—she must think—appeared to care for her? It was probable.
In fact, the effect of habits contracted in solitude was clearly manifested in the bearing of the young girl. The manner in which she entered the carriage and prepared herself for the journey, the slight disturbance she caused among those around her, the care she took not to incommode or give trouble to any one, all showed that she was accustomed to be alone, and to depend on herself only.
Michael Strogoff observed her with interest, but, himself reserved, he sought no opportunity of accosting her, although several hours must elapse before the arrival of the train at Nijni-Novgorod.
Once only, when her neighbour—the merchant who had jumbled together so imprudently in his remarks tallow and shawls—being asleep, and threatening her with his great head, which was swaying from one shoulder to the other, Michael Strogoff awoke him somewhat roughly, and made him understand that he must hold himself upright and in a more convenient posture.
The merchant, rude enough by nature, grumbled some words against “people who interfere with what does not concern them,” but Michael Strogoff cast on him a glance so stern that the sleeper leant on the opposite side, and relieved the young traveller from his unpleasant vicinity.
The latter looked at the young man for an instant, and mute and modest thanks were in that look.
But a circumstance occurred which gave Michael Strogoff a just idea of the character of the maiden. Twelve versts before arriving at the station of Nijni-Novgorod, at a sharp curve of the iron way, the train experienced a very violent shock. Then, for a minute, it ran on to the slope of an embankment.
Travellers more or less shaken about, cries, confusion, general disorder in the carriages—such was the effect at first produced. It was to be feared that some serious accident had happened. Consequently, even before the train had stopped, the doors were opened, and the panic-stricken passengers thought only of getting out of the carriages and taking refuge on the line.
Michael Strogoff thought instantly of the young girl; but, while the passengers in her compartment were precipitating themselves outside, screaming and struggling, she had remained quietly in her place, her face scarcely changed by a slight pallor.
She waited—Michael Strogoff waited also.
She had not made any attempt to leave the carriage Nor did he move either.
Both remained quiet.
“A determined nature!” thought Michael Strogoff.
However, all danger had quickly disappeared. A breakage of the coupling of the luggage-van had first caused the shock to, and then the stoppage of, the train, which in another instant would have been thrown from the top of the embankment into a bog. There was an hour’s delay. At last, the road being cleared, the train proceeded, and at half-past eight in the evening arrived at the station of Nijni-Novgorod.
Before any one could get out of the carriages, the inspectors of police presented themselves at the doors and examined the passengers.
Michael Strogoff showed his podorojna, made out in the name of Nicholas Korpanoff. He had consequently no difficulty.
As to the other travellers in the compartment, all bound for Nijni-Novgorod, their appearance, happily for them, was in nowise suspicious.
The young girl in her turn, exhibited, not a passport, since passports are no longer required in Russia, but a permit indorsed with a private seal, and which seemed to be of a special character. The inspector read the permit with attention. Then, having attentively examined the person whose description it contained:
“You are from Riga?” he said.
“Yes,” replied the young girl.
“You are going to Irkutsk?”
“Yes.”
“By what route?”
“By Perm.”
“Good!” replied the inspector. “Take care to have your permit viséd at the police station of Nijni-Novgorod.”
The young girl bent her head in token of assent.
Hearing these questions and replies, Michael Strogoff experienced a mingled sentiment both of surprise and pity. What! This young girl, alone, journeying to that far-off Siberia, and at a time when, to its ordinary dangers, were added all the perils of an invaded country and one in a state of insurrection! How would she reach it? What would become of her?
The inspection ended, the doors of the carriages were then opened, but, before Michael Strogoff could move towards her, the young Livonian, who had been the first to descend, had disappeared in the crowd which thronged the platforms of the railway station.
CHAPTER V.
THE TWO ANNOUNCEMENTS.
NIJNI-NOVGOROD, Lower Novgorod, situate at the junction of the Volga and the Oka, is the chief town in the district of the same name. It was here that Michael Strogoff was obliged to leave the railway, which at the time did not go beyond that town. Thus, as he advanced, his travelling would become first less speedy and then less safe.
Nijni-Novgorod, the fixed population of which is only from thirty to thirty-five thousand inhabitants, contained at that time more than three hundred thousand; that is to say, the population was increased tenfold. This addition was in consequence of the celebrated fair, which was held within the walls for three weeks. Formerly Makariew had the benefit of this concourse of traders, but since 1817 the fair had been removed to Nijni-Novgorod.
The town, dreary enough at most times, then presented a truly animated scene. Six different races of merchants, European and Asiatic, were fraternising under the congenial influence of trade.
Even at the late hour at which Michael Strogoff left the platform, there was still a large number of people in the two towns, separated by the stream o
f the Volga, which compose Nijni-Novgorod, and the highest of which is built on a steep rock, and is defended by one of those forts tailed in Russia “krenil.”
Had Michael Strogoff been obliged to stay at Nijni-Novgorod, he would have had some trouble in finding an hotel, or even an inn, to suit him. In the meantime, as he had not to start immediately, for he was going to take a steamer, he was compelled to look out for some lodging; but, before doing so, he wished to know exactly the hour at which the steamboat would start. He went to the office of the company whose boats plied between Nijni-Novgorod and Perm. There, to his great annoyance, he found that the Caucasus—for that was the boat’s name—did not start for Perm till the following day at twelve o’clock. Seventeen hours to wait! It was very vexatious to a man so pressed for time. However, he resigned himself to circumstances, for he never senselessly murmured. Besides, the fact was that no telegue or tarantass, berlin or postchaise, nor horse could take him more quickly either to Perm or Kasan. It would be better, then, to wait for the steamer, a mode of conveyance far more rapid than any other, and which would enable him to regain lost time.
Here, then, was Michael Strogoff strolling through the town and quietly looking out for some inn in which to pass the night. However, he troubled himself little on this score, and, but that hunger pressed him, he would probably have wandered on till morning in the streets of Nijni-Novgorod. He was looking for supper rather than a bed. But he found both at the sign of the City of Constantinople. There, the landlord offered him a fairly comfortable room, with little furniture, it is true, but which was not without an image of the Virgin, and portraits of a few saints framed in yellow gauze.
A goose filled with sour stuffing swimming in thick cream, barley bread, some curds, powdered sugar mixed with cinnamon, and a jug of kwass, the ordinary Russian beer, were placed before him, and sufficed to satisfy his hunger. He did justice to the meal, which was more than could be said of his neighbour at table, who, having, in his character of “old believer” of the sect of Raskalniks, made the vow of abstinence, rejected the potatoes on the dish in front of him, and carefully refrained from putting sugar in his tea.
His supper finished, Michael Strogoff, instead of going up to his bedroom, again strolled out into the town. But, although the long twilight yet lingered, the crowd was already dispersing, the streets were gradually becoming empty, and at length every one retired to his dwelling.
Why did not Michael Strogoff go quietly to bed, as would have seemed more reasonable after a long railway journey? Was he thinking of the young Livonian girl who had for so many hours been his travelling companion? Having nothing better to do, he was thinking of her. Did he fear that, lost in this busy city, she might be exposed to insult? He feared so, and with good reason. Did he hope to meet her, and, if need were, to afford her protection? No. To meet would be difficult. As to protection—what right had he——
“Alone,” he said to himself, “alone, in the midst of these wandering tribes! And yet the present dangers are nothing compared to those she must undergo. Siberia! Irkutsk! I am about to dare all risks for Russia, for the Czar, while she is about to do so—For whom? For what? She is authorized to cross the frontier! And the country beyond is in revolt! The steppes are full of Tartar bands!”
Michael Strogoff stopped for an instant, and reflected.
“Without doubt,” thought he, “she must have determined on undertaking her journey before the invasion. Perhaps she is even now ignorant of what is happening. But no; that cannot be, for the merchants discussed before her the disturbances in Siberia—and she did not seem surprised. She did not even ask for an explanation. She must have known it then, and, though knowing it, she is still resolute. Poor girl! Her motive for the journey must be urgent indeed! But though she may be brave—and she certainly is so—her strength must fail her, and, to say nothing of dangers and obstacles, she will be unable to endure the fatigue of such a journey. Never car she pass Irkutsk!”
Indulging in such reflections, Michael Strogoff wandered on as chance led him; but, being well acquainted with the town, he knew that he could, without difficulty, retrace his steps.
Having strolled on for about an hour, he seated himself on a bench against the wall of a large wooden cottage, which stood, with many others, on a vast open space.
He had scarcely been there five minutes when a hand was laid heavily on his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” roughly demanded a tall and powerful man, who had approached unperceived.
“I am resting,” replied Michael Strogoff.
“Do you mean to stay all night on the bench?” asked the man.
“Yes, if I feel inclined to do so,” answered Michael Strogoff, in a tone somewhat too sharp for the simple merchant he wished to personate.
“Come forward, then, that I may see you,” said the man.
Michael Strogoff, remembering that, above all things, prudence was necessary, instinctively drew back.
“It is not necessary,” he replied; and he calmly stepped back ten paces or so.
The man seemed, as Michael observed him well, to have the look of a Bohemian, such as are met at fairs, and with whom contact, either physical or moral, is unpleasant Then, as he looked more attentively through the dusk which was coming on, he perceived, near the cottage, a large caravan, the usual travelling dwelling of the Zingaris or gipsies, who swarm in Russia wherever a few copecks can be obtained.
As the gipsy took two or three steps forward, and was about to interrogate Michael Strogoff more closely, the door of the cottage was opened. He could just see a woman, who advanced quickly, and in a language which Michael Strogoff knew to be a mixture of the Mongol and Siberian:
“Another spy!” she said. “Let him alone, and come to supper. The ‘papluka’ * is waiting for you.”
Michael Strogoff could not help smiling at the epithet bestowed on him, dreading spies as he did above all things.
But in the same dialect, although his accent was very different, the Bohemian replied in words which signify:
“You are right, Sangarre! Besides, we start to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?” repeated the woman in a tone of surprise.
“Yes, Sangarre,” replied the Bohemian; “tomorrow, and the Father himself sends us—where we are going!”
Thereupon the man and woman entered the cottage, and carefully closed the door.
“Good!” said Michael Strogoff, to himself; “if these gipsies do not wish to be understood when they speak before me, they had better use some other language.”
From his Siberian origin, and because he had passed his childhood in the Steppes, Michael Strogoff, it has been said, understood almost all the languages in usage from Tartary to the Sea of Ice. As to the exact signification of the words exchanged between the gipsy and his companion, he did not trouble his head. For why should it interest him?
It was already late when he thought of returning to his inn to take some repose. He followed, as he did so, the course of the Volga, whose waters were almost hidden under the countless number of boats floating on its bosom.
By the direction of the river he knew the spot which he had just left this collection of caravans and cottages occupied the great square in which was held, year by year, the principal market of Nijni-Novgorod, and this explained the assemblage in the square of these mountebanks and gipsies from all quarters of the world.
An hour after, Michael Strogoff was sleeping soundly on one of those Russian beds which always seem so hard to strangers, and on the morrow, the 17th of July, he awoke at break of day.
He had still five hours to pass in Nijni-Novgorod; it seemed to him an age. How was he to spend the morning unless in wandering, as he had done the evening before, through the streets? By the time he had finished his breakfast, strapped up his bag, had his podorojna inspected at the police office, he would have nothing to do but start But he was not a man to lie in bed after the sun had risen; so he rose, dressed himself, placed the letter with
the imperial arms on it carefully at the bottom of its usual pocket within the lining of his coat, over which he fastened his belt; he then closed his bag and threw it over his shoulder. This done, he had no wish to return to the City of Constantinople, and intending to breakfast on the bank of the Volga near the wharf, he settled his bill and left the inn. By way of precaution, Michael Strogoff went first to the office of the steam-packet company, and there made sure that the Caucasus would start at the appointed hour. As he did so, the thought for the first time struck him that, since the young Livonian girl was going to Perm, it was very possible that her intention was also to embark in the Caucasus, in which case he should accompany her.
The town above with its kremlin, whose circumference measures two versts, and which resembles that of Moscow, was altogether abandoned. Even the governor did not reside there. But if the town above was like a city of the dead, the town below, at all events, was alive.
Michael Strogoff, having crossed the Volga on a bridge of boats, guarded by mounted Cossacks, reached the square where the evening before he had fallen in with the gipsy camp. This was somewhat outside the town, where the fair of Nijni-Novgorod was held, with which that of Leipzig itself is not to be compared. In a vast plain beyond the Volga rose the temporary palace of the governor-general, where by imperial orders that great functionary resided during the whole of the fair, which, thanks to the people who composed it, required an ever-watchful surveillance.
This plain was now covered with booths symmetrically arranged in such a manner as to leave avenues broad enough to allow the crowd to pass without a crush.
Each group of these booths, of all sizes and shapes, formed a separate quarter particularly dedicated to some special branch of commerce. There was the iron quarter, the furriers’ quarter, the woollen quarter, the quarter of the wood merchants, the weavers’ quarter, the dried fish quarter, etc Some booths were even built of fancy materials, some of bricks of tea, others of masses of salt meat—that is to say, of samples of the goods which the owners thus announced were there to the purchasers—a singular, and somewhat American, mode of advertisement.