by Jules Verne
The spectators, waiting around the square, as well as Feofar Khan’s body-guard, to whom this execution was only one of the attractions, were eagerly expecting it. Then, their curiosity satisfied, they would rush off to enjoy the pleasures of intoxication.
The Emir made a sign. Michael, thrust forward by his guards, took his place at the foot of the terrace, and then, in the Tartar language, which he understood, Feofar said to him—
“You came to see our goings out and comings in, Russian spy. You have seen for the last time. In an instant your eyes will be forever shut to the light of day.”
Michael’s fate was to be not death, but blindness; loss of sight, more terrible perhaps than loss of life. The unhappy man was condemned to be blinded.
However, on hearing the Emir’s sentence, Michael’s heart did not grow faint. He remained unmoved, his eyes wide open, as though he wished to concentrate his whole life into one last look. To entreat pity from these savage men would be useless, besides, it would be unworthy of him. He did not even think of it. His thoughts were condensed on his mission, which had apparently so completely failed; on his mother, on Nadia, whom he should never more see! But he let no sign appear of the emotion which he felt.
Then, a feeling of vengeance to be accomplished came over him.
“Ivan,” said he, in a menacing voice, “Ivan the Traitor, the last menace of my eyes shall be for you!”
Ivan Ogareff shrugged his shoulders.
But Michael was mistaken. He was not to be looking at Ivan when his eyes were put out.
Marfa Strogoff stood before him.
“My mother!” cried he. “Yes! yes! My last glance shall be for you, and not for this wretch! Stay there, before me! Now I see once more your well-beloved face! Now shall my eyes close as they rest upon it . . . !”
The old woman, without uttering a word, advanced.
“Take that woman away!” said Ivan.
Two soldiers were about to seize her, but she stepped back and remained standing a few paces from Michael.
The executioner appeared. This time, he held his sabre bare in his hand, and this sabre he had just drawn from the chafing-dish on which the perfumed coals burned, where he had brought it to a white heat.
Michael was going to be blinded in the Tartar fashion, with a hot blade passed before his eyes!
Michael did not attempt to resist. Nothing existed before his eyes but his mother, whom his eyes seemed to devour. All his life was in that last look.
Marfa Strogoff, her eyes open wide, her arms extended towards where he stood, was gazing at him.
The incandescent blade passed before Michael’s eyes.
A despairing cry was heard. His aged mother fell senseless to the ground.
Michael Strogoff was blind.
His orders executed, the Emir retired with his train. There remained in the square only Ivan Ogareff and the torch bearers.
Did the wretch intend to insult his victim yet further, and yet to give him a parting blow?
Ivan Ogareff slowly approached Michael, who, feeling him coming, drew himself up. Ivan drew from his pocket the Imperial letter, he opened it, and with supreme irony he held it up before the sightless eyes of the Czar’s courier, saying—
“Read, now, Michael Strogoff, read, and go and repeat at Irkutsk what you have read. The true Courier of the Czar is Ivan Ogareff.”
This said, the traitor thrust the letter into his breast. Then, without looking round he left the square, followed by the torch-bearers.
Michael was left alone, at a few paces from his mother, lying lifeless, perhaps dead.
He heard in the distance cries and songs, the varied noises of a wild debauch. Tomsk, illuminated, glittered and gleamed like a city en fête.
Michael listened. The square was silent and deserted.
He went, groping his way, towards the place where his mother had fallen. He found her with his hand, he bent over her, he put his face close to hers, he listened for the beating of her heart. Then he murmured a few words.
Did Marfa still live, and did she hear her son’s words? Whether she did so or not, she made not the slightest movement.
Michael kissed her forehead and her white locks. He then raised himself, and, groping with his foot, trying to stretch out his hand to guide himself, he walked by degrees to the edge of the square.
Suddenly Nadia appeared.
She walked straight to her companion. A knife in her hand cut the cords which bound Michael’s arms.
The blind man knew not who had freed him, for Nadia had not spoken a word.
But this done:
“Brother!” said she.
“Nadia!” murmured Michael, “Nadia!”
“Come, brother,” replied Nadia, “use my eyes whilst yours sleep. I will lead you to Irkutsk.”
CHAPTER VI.
A FRIEND ON THE HIGHWAY.
HALF an hour afterwards, Michael and Nadia had left Tomsk.
Many others of the prisoners were that night able to escape from the Tartars, for officers and soldiers, all more or less intoxicated, had unconsciously relaxed the vigilant guard which they had hitherto maintained both at the camp of Labediero and while on the march. Nadia, after having been carried off with the other prisoners, had been able to escape and return to the square, at the moment when Michael was led before the Emir. There, mingling with the crowd, she had witnessed the terrible scene. Not a cry escaped her when the scorching blade passed before her companion’s eyes. She kept, by her strength of will, mute and motionless. A providential inspiration bade her restrain herself and retain her liberty that she might lead Marfa’s son to that goal which he had sworn to reach. Her heart for an instant ceased to beat when the aged Siberian woman fell senseless to the ground, but one thought restored to her former energy. “I will be the blind man’s dog,” said she.
On Ogareff’s departure, Nadia had concealed herself in the shade. She had waited till the crowd left the square. Michael, abandoned as a wretched being from whom nothing was to be feared, was alone. She saw him draw himself towards his mother, bend over her, kiss her forehead, then rise and grope his way in flight.
A few instants later, she and he, hand in hand, had descended the steep slope, when, after having followed the high banks of the Tom to the furthest extremity of the town, they happily found a breach in the inclosure.
The road to Irkutsk was the only one which penetrated towards the east. It could not be mistaken. It was possible that on the morrow, after some hours of carousal, the scouts of the Emir, once more scattering over the steppes, might cut off all communication. It was of the greatest importance therefore to get in advance of them, to reach Krasnoiarsk before they could, which town was five hundred versts from Tomsk, so that they might not be compelled to leave the highroad sooner than they possibly could help. How could Nadia bear the fatigues of that night, from the 10th to the 17th of August? How could she have found strength for so long a stage? How could her feet, bleeding under that forced march, have carried her thither? It is almost incomprehensible. But it is none the less true that on the next morning, twelve hours after their departure from Tomsk, Michael and she reached the town of Semilowskoë, after a journey of fifty versts.
Michael had not uttered a single word. It was not Nadia who held his hand, it was he who held that of his companion during the whole of that night; but, thanks to that trembling little hand which guided him, he had walked at his ordinary pace.
Semilowskoë was almost entirely abandoned. The inhabitants, fearing the Tartars, had fled to the province of Yeniseisk. Not more than two or three houses were still occupied. All that the town contained, useful or precious, had been carried off in waggons.
However, Nadia was obliged to make a halt of a few hours. They both required food and rest
The young girl led her companion to the extremity of the town. There they found an empty house, the door wide open. A rickety wooden bench stood in the middle of the room, near the high stove which is to be foun
d in all Siberian houses. They silently seated themselves. Nadia gazed in her companion’s face as she had never before gazed. There was more than gratitude, more than pity, in that look. Could Michael have seen her, he would have read in that sweet desolate gaze a world of devotion and tenderness.
The eyelids of the blind man, made red by the heated blade, fell half over his eyes. The pupils seemed to be singularly enlarged. The rich blue of the iris was darker than formerly. The eyelashes and eyebrows were partly burnt, but in appearance, at least, the old penetrating look appeared to have undergone no change. If he could no longer see, if his blindness was complete, it was because the sensibility of the retina and optic nerve was radically destroyed by the fierce heat of the steel.
Then Michael stretched out his hands.
“Are you there, Nadia?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the young girl; “I am close to you, and I will not go away from you, Michael.”
At his name, pronounced by Nadia for the first time, a thrill passed through Michael’s frame. He perceived that his companion knew all, who he was, what ties bound him to Marfa.
“Nadia,” replied he, “we must separate!”
“We separate? How so, Michael?”
“I must not be an obstacle to your journey! Your father is waiting for you at Irkutsk! You must rejoin your father!”
“My father would curse me, Michael, were I to abandon you now, after all you have done for me!”
“Nadia, Nadia,” replied Michael, “you should think only of your father!”
“Michael,” replied Nadia, “you have more need of me than my father. Do you mean to give up going to Irkutsk?”
“Never!” cried Michael, in a tone which plainly shewed that none of his energy was gone.
“But you have not the letter!”
“That letter of which Ivan Ogareff robbed me! . . . Well! I shall manage without it, Nadia! They have treated me as a spy! I will act as a spy! I will go and repeat at Irkutsk all I have seen, all I have heard; I swear it by Heaven above! The traitor shall meet me one day face to face! But I must arrive at Irkutsk before him.”
“And yet you speak of our separating, Michael?”
“Nadia, the wretches have taken everything from me!”
“I have some roubles still, and my eyes! I can see for you, Michael; and I will lead you thither, where you could not go alone!”
“And how shall we go?”
“On foot.”
“And how shall we live?”
“By begging.”
“Let us start, Nadia.”
“Come, Michael.”
The two young people no longer kept the names “brother” and “sister.” In their common misfortune, they felt still closer united. They left the house after an hour’s repose. Nadia had procured in the town some morsels of “tchornekhleb,” a sort of barley bread, and a little mead, called “meod” in Russia. This had cost her nothing, for she had already begun her plan of begging. The bread and mead had in some degree appeased Michael’s hunger and thirst Nadia gave him the lion’s share of this scanty meal. He eat the pieces of bread his companion gave him, drank from the gourd she held to his lips.
“Are you eating, Nadia?” he asked several times.
“Yes, Michael,” invariably replied the young girl, who contented herself with what her companion left.
Michael and Nadia quitted Semilowskoë, and once more set out on the laborious road to Irkutsk. The girl bore up in a marvellous way against fatigue. Had Michael seen her, perhaps he would not have had the courage to go on. But Nadia never complained, and Michael, hearing no sigh, walked at a speed he was unable to repress. And why? Did he still expect to keep before the Tartars? He was on foot, without money; he was blind, and if Nadia, his only guide, were to be separated from him, he could only lie down by the side of the road and there perish miserably. But if, on the other hand, by energetic perseverance he could reach Krasnoiarsk, all was perhaps not lost, since the governor, to whom he would make himself known, would not hesitate to give him the means of reaching Irkutsk.
Michael walked on, speaking little, absorbed in his own thoughts. He held Nadia’s hand. The two were in incessant communication. It seemed to them that they had no need of words to exchange their thoughts. From time to time Michael said:
“Speak to me, Nadia.”
“Why should I, Michael? We are thinking together!” the young girl would reply, and contrived that her voice should not betray her extreme fatigue.
But sometimes, as if her heart had ceased to beat for an instant, her limbs tottered, her steps flagged, her arms fell to her sides, she dropped behind. Michael then stopped, he fixed his eyes on the poor girl, as though he would try to pierce the gloom which surrounded him; his breast heaved; then, supporting his companion more than before, he started on afresh.
However, amidst these continual miseries, a fortunate circumstance on that day occurred which it appeared likely would considerably mitigate their fatigues. They had been walking from Semilowskoë for two hours when Michael stopped.
“Is there no one on the road?” he asked.
“Not a single soul,” replied Nadia.
“Do you not hear some noise behind us? If they are Tartars we must hide. Keep a good look-out!”
“Wait, Michael!” replied Nadia, going back a few steps to where the road turned to the right.
Michael waited alone for a minute, listening attentively.
Nadia returned almost immediately and said:
“It is a cart. A young man is leading it
“Is he alone?”
“Alone.”
Michael hesitated an instant. Should he hide? or should he, on the contrary, try to find a place in the vehicle, if not for himself, at least for her? For himself, he would be quite content to lay one hand on the cart, to push it if necessary, for his legs showed no sign of failing him; but he felt sure that Nadia, compelled to walk ever since they crossed the Obi, that is, for eight days, must be almost exhausted.
He waited.
The cart was soon at the corner of the road. It was a very dilapidated vehicle, known in the country as a kibitka, just capable of holding three persons.
Usually the kibitka is drawn by three horses, but this had but one, a beast with long hair and a very long tail. It was of the Mongol breed, known for strength and courage.
A young man was leading it, with a dog beside him.
Nadia saw at once that the young man was Russian; his face was phlegmatic, but pleasant, and at once inspired confidence. He did not appear to be in the slightest hurry; he was not walking fast that he might spare his horse, and, to look at him, it would not have been believed that he was following a road which might at any instant be swarming with Tartars.
Nadia, holding Michael by the hand, made way for the vehicle.
The kibitka stopped, and the driver smilingly looked at the young girl.
“And where are you going to in this fashion?” he asked, opening wide his great honest eyes.
At the sound of his voice, Michael said to himself that he had heard it before. And it was satisfactory to him to recognise the driver of the kibitka, for his brow at once cleared
“Well, where are you going?” repeated the young man, addressing himself more directly to Michael.
“We are going to Irkutsk,” he replied.
“Oh! little father, you do not know that there are still versts and versts between you and Irkutsk?”
“I know it.”
“And you are going on foot?”
“On foot.”
“You, well! but the young lady?”
“She is my sister,” said Michael, who judged it prudent to give again this name to Nadia.
“Yes, your sister, little father! But, believe me, she will never be able to get to Irkutsk!”
“Friend,” returned Michael, approaching him, “the Tartars have robbed us of everything, and I have not a kopeck to offer you; but if you will take my sister with you
, I will follow your cart on foot; I will run when necessary, I will not delay you an hour!”
“Brother,” exclaimed Nadia, “I will not . . . I will not! . . . Sir, my brother is blind!”
“Blind!” repeated the young man, much moved.
“The Tartars have burnt out his eyes!” replied Nadia, extending her hands, as if imploring pity.
“Burnt out his eyes! Oh! poor little father! I am going to Krasnoiarsk. Well, why should not you and your sister mount in the kibitka? By sitting a little close, it will hold us all three. Besides, my dog will not refuse to go on foot; only I don’t go fast, so as to spare my horse.”
“Friend, what is your name?” asked Michael.
“My name is Nicholas Pigassof.”
“It is a name that I will never forget,” said Michael.
“Well, jump up, little blind father. Your sister will be beside you, in the bottom of the cart; I sit in front to drive. There is plenty of good birch bark and barley straw in the bottom; it’s like a nest Come, Serko, make room!”
The dog jumped down without more telling. He was an animal of the Siberian race, grey hair, of medium size, with an honest big head, just made to pat, and he, moreover, appeared to be much attached to his master.
In a moment more, Michael and Nadia were seated in the kibitka. Michael held out his hands as if to feel for those of Nicholas Pigassof.
“You wish to shake my hands!” said Nicholas. “There they are, little father! Shake them as long as it will give you any pleasure.”
The kibitka moved on; the horse, which Nicholas never touched with the whip, ambled along. Though Michael did not gain in speed, at least some fatigue was spared to Nadia.
Such was the exhaustion of the young girl, that, rocked by the monotonous movement of the kibitka, she soon fell into a sleep, its soundness proving her complete prostration. Michael and Nicholas laid her on the straw as comfortably as possible. The compassionate young man was greatly moved, and if a tear did not escape from Michael’s eyes, it was because the red-hot iron had dried up the last!
“She is very pretty,” said Nicholas.
“Yes,” replied Michael.
“They try to be strong, little father, they are brave, but they are weak after all, these dear little things! Have you come from far?”