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MICHAEL was held before the Emir’s throne, at the foot of the
terrace, his hands bound behind his back. His mother overcome at last by mental
and physical torture, had sunk to the ground, daring neither to look nor
listen.
“Look while you may,” exclaimed Feofar-Kahn, stretching his
arm towards Michael in a threatening manner. Doubtless Ivan Ogareff, being well
acquainted with Tartar customs, had taken in the full meaning of these words,
for his lips curled for an instant in a cruel smile; he then took his place by
Feofar-Khan.
A trumpet call was heard. This was the signal for the amusements to
begin. “Here comes the ballet,” said Alcide to Blount; “but,
contrary to our customs, these barbarians give it before the drama.”
Michael had been commanded to look at everything. He looked. A troop of
dancers poured into the open space before the Emir’s tent. Different
Tartar instruments, the “doutare,” a long-handled guitar, the
“kobize,” a kind of violoncello, the “tschibyzga,” a
long reed flute; wind instruments, tom-toms, tambourines, united with the deep
voices of the singers, formed a strange harmony. Added to this were the strains
of an aerial orchestra, composed of a dozen kites, which, fastened by strings
to their centers, resounded in the breeze like AEolian harps.
Then the dancers began. The performers were all of Persian origin; they
were no longer slaves, but exercised their profession at liberty. Formerly they
figured officially in the ceremonies at the court of Teheran, but since the
accession of the reigning family, banished or treated with contempt, they had
been compelled to seek their fortune elsewhere. They wore the national costume,
and were adorned with a profusion of jewels. Little triangles of gold, studded
with jewels, glittered in their ears. Circles of silver, marked with black,
surrounded their necks and legs.
These performers gracefully executed various dances, sometimes alone,
sometimes in groups. Their faces were uncovered, but from time to time they
threw a light veil over their heads, and a gauze cloud passed over their bright
eyes as smoke over a starry sky. Some of these Persians wore leathern belts
embroidered with pearls, from which hung little triangular bags. From these
bags, embroidered with golden filigree, they drew long narrow bands of scarlet
silk, on which were braided verses of the Koran. These bands, which they held
between them, formed a belt under which the other dancers darted; and, as they
passed each verse, following the precept it contained, they either prostrated
themselves on the earth or lightly bounded upwards, as though to take a place
among the houris of Mohammed’s heaven.
But what was remarkable, and what struck Alcide, was that the Persians
appeared rather indolent than fiery. Their passion had deserted them, and, by
the kind of dances as well as by their execution, they recalled rather the calm
and self-possessed nauch girls of India than the impassioned dancers of Egypt.
When this was over, a stern voice was heard saying:
“Look while you may!”
The man who repeated the Emir’s words—a tall spare
Tartar— was he who carried out the sentences of Feofar-Khan against
offenders. He had taken his place behind Michael, holding in his hand a broad
curved saber, one of those Damascene blades which are forged by the celebrated
armorers of Karschi or Hissar.
Behind him guards were carrying a tripod supporting a chafing-dish
filled with live coals. No smoke arose from this, but a light vapor surrounded
it, due to the incineration of a certain aromatic and resinous substance which
he had thrown on the surface.
The Persians were succeeded by another party of dancers, whom Michael
recognized. The journalists also appeared to recognize them, for Blount said to
his companion, “These are the Tsiganes of Nijni-Novgorod.”
“No doubt of it,” cried Alcide. “Their eyes, I
imagine, bring more money to these spies than their legs.”
In putting them down as agents in the Emir’s service, Alcide
Jolivet was, by all accounts, not mistaken.
In the first rank of the Tsiganes, Sangarre appeared, superb in her
strange and picturesque costume, which set off still further her remarkable
beauty.
Sangarre did not dance, but she stood as a statue in the midst of the
performers, whose style of dancing was a combination of that of all those
countries through which their race had passed—Turkey, Bohemia, Egypt,
Italy, and Spain. They were enlivened by the sound of cymbals, which clashed on
their arms, and by the hollow sounds of the “daires”—a sort
of tambourine played with the fingers.
Sangarre, holding one of those daires, which she played between her
hands, encouraged this troupe of veritable corybantes. A young Tsigane, of
about fifteen years of age, then advanced. He held in his hand a
“doutare,” strings of which he made to vibrate by a simple movement
of the nails. He sung. During the singing of each couplet, of very peculiar
rhythm, a dancer took her position by him and remained there immovable,
listening to him, but each time that the burden came from the lips of the young
singer, she resumed her dance, dinning in his ears with her daire, and
deafening him with the clashing of her cymbals. Then, after the last chorus,
the remainder surrounded the Tsigane in the windings of their dance.
At that moment a shower of gold fell from the hands of the Emir and his
train, and from the hands of his officers of all ranks; to the noise which the
pieces made as they struck the cymbals of the dancers, being added the last
murmurs of the doutares and tambourines.
“Lavish as robbers,” said Alcide in the ear of his
companion. And in fact it was the result of plunder which was falling; for,
with the Tartar tomans and sequins, rained also Russian ducats and roubles.
Then silence followed for an instant, and the voice of the executioner,
who laid his hand on Michael’s shoulder, once more pronounced the words,
which this repetition rendered more and more sinister:
“Look while you may”
But this time Alcide observed that the executioner no longer held the
saber bare in his hand.
Meanwhile the sun had sunk behind the horizon. A semi-obscurity began to
envelop the plain. The mass of cedars and pines became blacker and blacker, and
the waters of the Tom, totally obscured in the distance, mingled with the
approaching shadows.
But at that instant several hundreds of slaves, bearing lighted torches,
entered the square. Led by Sangarre, Tsiganes and Persians reappeared before
the Emir’s throne, and showed off, by the contrast, their dances of
styles so different. The instruments of the Tartar orchestra sounded forth in
harmony still more savage, accompanied by the guttural cries of the singers. The
kites, which had fallen to the ground, once more winged their way into the sky,
each bearing a parti-colored lantern, and under a fresher breeze their harps
vibrated with intenser sound in the midst of the aerial illumination.
Then a squadron of Tartars, in their brilliant uniforms, mingled in the
dances, whose wild fury was increasing rapidly, and then began a performance
which produced a very strange effect. Soldiers came on the ground, armed with
bare sabers and long pistols, and, as they executed dances, they made the air
re-echo with the sudden detonations of their firearms, which immediately set
going the rumbling of the tambourines, and grumblings of the daires, and the
gnashing of doutares.
Their arms, covered with a colored powder of some metallic ingredient,
after the Chinese fashion, threw long jets—red, green, and blue— so
that the groups of dancers seemed to be in the midst of fireworks. In some
respects, this performance recalled the military dance of the ancients, in the
midst of naked swords; but this Tartar dance was rendered yet more fantastic by
the colored fire, which wound, serpent-like, above the dancers, whose dresses
seemed to be embroidered with fiery hems. It was like a kaleidoscope of sparks,
whose infinite combinations varied at each movement of the dancers.
Though it may be thought that a Parisian reporter would be perfectly
hardened to any scenic effect, which our modern ideas have carried so far, yet
Alcide Jolivet could not restrain a slight movement of the head, which at home,
between the Boulevard Montmartre and La Madeleine would have
said—“Very fair, very fair.”
Then, suddenly, at a signal, all the lights of the fantasia were
extinguished, the dances ceased, and the performers disappeared. The ceremony
was over, and the torches alone lighted up the plateau, which a few instants
before had been so brilliantly illuminated.
On a sign from the Emir, Michael was led into the middle of the square.
“Blount,” said Alcide to his companion, “are you going
to see the end of all this?”
“No, that I am not,” replied Blount.
“The readers of the Daily Telegraph are, I hope, not very eager
for the details of an execution a la mode Tartare?”
“No more than your cousin!”
“Poor fellow!” added Alcide, as he watched Michael. “That
valiant soldier should have fallen on the field of battle!”
“Can we do nothing to save him?” said Blount.
“Nothing!”
The reporters recalled Michael’s generous conduct towards them;
they knew now through what trials he must have passed, ever obedient to his
duty; and in the midst of these Tartars, to whom pity is unknown, they could do
nothing for him. Having little desire to be present at the torture reserved for
the unfortunate man, they returned to the town. An hour later, they were on the
road to Irkutsk, for it was among the Russians that they intended to follow
what Alcide called, by anticipation, “the campaign of revenge.”
Meantime, Michael was standing ready, his eyes returning the
Emir’s haughty glance, while his countenance assumed an expression of
intense scorn whenever he cast his looks on Ivan Ogareff. He was prepared to
die, yet not a single sign of weakness escaped him.
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 was thrust forward by his guards to the
foot of the terrace, and 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 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 he felt. Then, a feeling of
vengeance to be accomplished came over him. “Ivan,” said he, in a
stern voice, “Ivan the Traitor, the last menace of my eyes shall be for
you!”
Ivan Ogareff shrugged his shoulders.
But Michael 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 saber bare in his hand,
and this saber he had just drawn from the chafing-dish, 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.
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.”
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