The General's Will by Vera Jelihovsky
It happened in winter, just before the holidays. Ivan Feodorovitch
Lobnitchenko, the lawyer, whose office is in one of the main
streets of St. Petersburg, was called hurriedly to witness the last
will and testament of one at the point of death. The sick man was
not strictly a client of Ivan Feodorovitch; under other
circumstances, he might have refused to make this late call, after
a day's heavy toil . . . but the dying man was an aristocrat and a
millionaire, and such as he meet no refusals, whether in life, or,
much more, at the moment of death.
Lobnitchenko, taking a secretary and everything necessary, with a
sigh scratched himself behind the ear, and thrusting aside the
thought of the delightful evening at cards that awaited him, set
out to go to the sick man.
General Iuri Pavlovitch Nasimoff was far gone. Even the most
compassionate doctors did not give him many days to live, when he
finally decided to destroy the will which he had made long ago, not
in St. Petersburg, but in the provincial city where he had played
the Tsar for so many years. The general had come to the capital
for a time, and had lain down—to rise no more.
This was the opinion of the physicians, and of most of those about
him; the sick man himself was unwilling to admit it. He was a
stalwart-hearted and until recently a stalwart-bodied old man,
tall, striking, with an energetic face, and a piercing, masterful
glance, hard to forget, even if you saw him only once.
He was lying on the sofa, in a richly furnished hotel suite,
consisting of three of the best rooms. He received the lawyer
gayly enough. He himself explained the circumstances to him,
though every now and then compelled to stop by a paroxysm of pain,
with difficulty repressing the groans which almost escaped him, in
spite of all his efforts. During these heavy moments, Ivan
Feodorovitch raised his eyes buried in fat to the sick man's face,
and his plump little features were convulsed in sympathy with the
sufferer's pain. As soon as the courageous old man, fighting hard
with the paroxysms of pain, had got the better of them, taking his
hands from his contorted face, and drawing a painful breath, he
began anew to explain his will. Lobnitchenko dropped his eyes
again and became all attention.
The general explained in detail to the lawyer. He had been married
twice, and had three children, a son and a daughter from his first
marriage, who had long ago reached adultship, and a nine-year-old
daughter from his second marriage. His second wife and daughter he
expected every day; they were abroad, but would soon return. His
elder daughter would also probably come.
The lawyer was not acquainted with Nazimoff's family; indeed he had
never before seen the general, though, like all Russia, he knew of
him by repute. But judging from the tone of contempt or of pity
with which he spoke of his second wife or her daughter, the lawyer
guessed at once that the general's home life was not happy. The
further explanations of the sick man convinced him of this. A new
will was to be drawn up, directly contrary to the will signed six
years before, which bequeathed to his second wife, Olga
Vseslavovna, unlimited authority over their little daughter, and
her husband's entire property. In the first will he had left
nearly everything, with the exception of the family estate, which
he did not feel justified in taking from his son, to his second
wife and her daughter. Now he wished to restore to his elder
children the rights which he had deprived them of, and especially
to his eldest daughter, Anna Iurievna Borissova, who was not even
mentioned in the first will. In the new will, with the exception
of the seventh part, the widow's share, he divided the whole of his
land and capital between his children equally; and he further
appointed a strict guardianship over the property of his little
daughter, Olga Iurievna.
The will was duly arranged, drawn up and witnessed, and after the
three witnesses had signed it, it was left, by the general's wish,
in his own keeping.
"I will send it to you to take care of," he said to the lawyer.
"It will be safer in your hands than here, in my temporary
quarters. But first I wish to read it to my wife, and . . . to my
eldest daughter . . . if she arrives in time."
The lawyer and the priest, who was one of the witnesses, were
already preparing to take leave of the general, when voices and
steps were heard in the corridor; a footman's head appeared through
the door, calling the doctor hurriedly forth. It appeared that the
general's lady had arrived suddenly, without letting anyone know by
telegram that she was coming.
The doctor hastily slipped out of the room; he feared the result of
emotion on the sick man, and wished to warn the general's wife of
his grave danger, but the sick man noticed the move, and it was
impossible to guard him against disturbance.
"What is going on there?" he asked. "What are you mumbling about,
Edouard Vicentevitch? Tell me what is the matter? Is it my
"Your excellency, I beg of you to take care of yourself!" the
doctor was beginning, evidently quite familiar with the general's
family affairs, and therefore dreading the meeting of husband and
wife. "It is not Anna Iurievna. . . ."
"Aha!" the sick man interrupted him; "she has come? Very well.
Let her come in. Only the little one . . . I don't wish her to
come . . . to-day."
Suffering was visible in his eyes, this time not bodily suffering.
The door opened, with the rustling of a silk dress. A tall, well-
developed, and decidedly handsome woman appeared on the threshhold.
She glanced at the pain-stricken face, which smiled contemptuously
toward her. In a moment she was beside the general, kneeling
beside him on the carpet, bending close to him, and pressing his
hand, as she repeated in a despairing whisper:
"Oh, Georges! Georges! Is it really you, my poor friend?"
It would be hard to define the expression of rapidly changing
emotions which passed over the sick man's face, which made his
breast heave, and his great heart quiver and tremble painfully.
Displeasure and pity, sympathy and contempt, anger and grief, all
were expressed in the short, sharp, bitter laugh, and the few words
which escaped his lips when he saw his little daughter timidly
following her mother into his room.
"Do not teach her to lie!" and he nodded toward the child, and
turned toward the wall, with an expression of pain and pity on his
face. The lawyer and the priest hastened to take their leave and
"Ah! Sinners! sinners!" muttered the latter, as he descended the
"Things are not in good shape between them?" asked Lobnitchenko.
"They don't get on well together?"
"How should they be in good shape, when he came here to get a
divorce?" whispered the priest, shaping his fur cap. "But God
decided otherwise. Even without a divorce, he will be separated
forever from his wife!"
"I don't believe he is so very far gone. He is a stalwart old man.
Perhaps he will pull through," went on the man of law.
"God's hand is over all," answered the priest, shrugging his
shoulders. And so they went their different ways.
"OLGA!" cried the sick man, without turning round, and feeling near
him the swift movement of his wife, he pushed her away with an
impatient movement of his hand, and added, "Not you! my daughter
"Olga! Go, my child, papa is calling you," cried the general's
wife in a soft voice, in French, to the little girl, who was
standing undecidedly in the center of the room.
"Can you not drop your foreign phrases?" angrily interrupted the
general. "This is not a drawing-room! You might drop it, from a
sense of decency."
His voice became shrill, and made the child shudder and begin to
cry. She went to him timidly.
The general looked at her with an expression of pain. He drew her
toward him with his left hand, raising the right to bless her.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!" he
whispered, making the sign of the cross over her. "God guard you
from evil, from every bad influence. . . . Be kind . . . honest . . .
most of all, be honest! Never tell lies. God guard you from
falsehood, from lying, even more than from sorrow!"
Tears filled the dying man's eyes. Little Olga shuddered from head
to foot; she feared her father, and at the same time was so sorry
for him. But pity got the upper hand. She clung to him, wetting
him with her tears. Her father raised his hand, wishing to make
the sign of the cross once more over the little head which lay on
his breast, but could not complete the gesture. His hand fell
heavily, his face was once more contorted, with pain; he turned to
those who stood near him, evidently avoiding meeting his wife's
eyes, and whispered:
"Take her away. It is enough. Christ be with her!" And for a
moment he collected strength to place his hand on the child's head.
The doctor took the little girl by the hand, but her mother moved
quickly toward her.
"Kiss him! Kiss papa's hand!" she whispered, "bid him good-by!"
The general's wife sobbed, and covered her face with her
handkerchief, with the grand gesture of a stage queen. The sick
man did not see this. At the sound of her voice he frowned and
closed his eyes tight, evidently trying not to listen. The doctor
led the little girl away to another room and gave her to her
When he came back to the sick man, the general, lying on the sofa,
still in the same position, and without looking at his wife who
stood beside his pillow, said to her:
"I expect my poor daughter Anna, who has suffered so much injustice
through you. . . . I have asked her to forgive me. I shall pray
her to be a mother to her little sister . . . . I have appointed
her the child's guardian. She is good and honest . . . she will
teach the child no evil. And this will be best for you also. You
are provided for. You will find out from the new will. You could
not have had any profit from being her guardian. If Anna does not
consent to take little Olga to live with her, and to educate her
with her own children, as I have asked her, Olga will be sent to a
school. You will prefer liberty to your daughter; it will be
pleasanter for you. Is it not so?"
Contempt and bitter irony were perceptible in his voice. His wife
did not utter a syllable. She remained so quiet that it might have
been thought she did not even hear him, but for the convulsive
movement of her lips, and of the fingers of her tightly clasped
The doctor once more made a movement to withdraw discreetly, but
the general's voice stopped him.
"Edouard Vicentevitch? Is he here?"
"I am here, your excellency," answered the doctor, bending over the
sick man. "Would not your excellency prefer to be carried to the
bed? It will be more comfortable lying down."
"More comfortable to die?" sharply interrupted the general. "Why
do you drivel? You know I detest beds and blankets. Drop it!
Here, take this," and he gave him a sheet of crested paper folded
in four, which was lying beside him. "Read it, please. Aloud! so
that she may know."
He turned his eyes toward his wife. The doctor unwillingly began
his unpleasant task. He was a man of fine feeling, and although he
had no very high opinion of the general's wife, still she was a
woman. And a beautiful woman. He would have preferred that she
should learn from someone else how many of the pleasures of life
were slipping away from her, in virtue of the new will. But there
was nothing for it but to do as he was ordered. It was always hard
to oppose Iuri Pavlovitch; now it was quite impossible.
Olga Vseslavovna listened to the reading of the will with complete
composure. She sat motionless, leaning back in an armchair, with
downcast eyes, and only showing her emotion when her husband was no
longer able to stifle a groan. Then she turned toward him her
pale, beautiful face, with evident signs of heartfelt sympathy, and
was even rising to come to his assistance. The sick man
impatiently refused her services, significantly turning his eyes
toward the doctor, who was reading his last will and testament, as
though he would say: "Listen! Listen! It concerns you."
It did concern her, without a doubt. General Nazimoff's wife
learned that, instead of an income of a hundred thousand a year,
which she had had a right to expect, she could count only on a sum
sufficient to keep her from poverty; what in her opinion was a mere
The doctor finished reading, coughing to hide his confusion, and
slowly folded the document.
"You have heard?" asked the general, in a faint, convulsive voice.
"I have heard, my friend," quietly answered his wife.
"You have nothing to say?"
"What can I say? You have a right to dispose of what belongs to
you. . . . But . . . still I . . ."
"Still you what?" sharply asked her husband.
"Still, I hope, my friend, that this is not your last will. . . ."
General Nazimoff turned, and even made an effort to raise himself
on his elbow.
"God willing, you will recover. Perhaps you will decide more than
once to make other dispositions of your property," calmly continued
The sick man fell back on the pillows.
"You are mistaken. Even if I do not die, you will not be able to
deceive me again. This is my last will!" he replied convulsively.
And with trembling hand he gave the doctor a bunch of keys.
"There is the dispatch box. Please open it, and put the will in."
The doctor obeyed his wish, without looking at Olga Vseslavovna.
She, on her part, did not look at him. Shrugging her shoulders at
her husband's last words, she remained motionless, noticing nothing
except his sufferings. His sufferings, it seemed, tortured her.
Meanwhile the dying man followed the doctor with anxious eyes, and
as soon as the latter closed the large traveling dispatch box he
stretched out his hand to him for the keys.
"So long as I am alive, I will keep them!" he murmured, putting the
bunch of keys away in his pocket. "And when I am dead, I intrust
them to you, Edouard Vicentevitch. Take care of them, as a last
service to me!" And he turned his face once more to the wall.
"And now, leave me alone! The pain is less. Perhaps I shall go to
sleep. Leave me!"
"My friend! Permit me to remain near you," the general's wife
began, bending tenderly over her husband.
"Go!" he cried sharply. "Leave me in peace, I tell you!"
She rose, trembling. The doctor hastily offered her his arm. She
left the room, leaning heavily on him, and once more covering her
face with her handkerchief, in tragic style.
"Be calm, your excellency!" whispered the doctor sympathetically,
only half conscious of what he was saying. "These rooms have been
prepared for you. You also need to rest, after such a long
"Oh, I am not thinking about myself. I am so sorry for him. Poor,
poor, senseless creature. How much I have suffered at his hands.
He was always so suspicious, so hard to get on with. And whims and
fantasies without end. You know, doctor, I have sometimes even
thought he was not in full possession of his faculties."
"Hm!" murmured the doctor, coughing in confusion.
"Take this strange change of his will, for instance," the general's
wife continued, not waiting for a clearer expression of sympathy.
"Take his manner toward me. And for what reason?"
"Yes, it is very sad," murmured the doctor.
"Tell me, doctor, does he expect his son and daughter?"
"Only his daughter, Anna Iurievna. She promised to come, with her
oldest children. A telegram came yesterday. We have been
expecting her all day."
"What is the cause of this sudden tenderness? They have not seen
each other for ten years. Does he expect her husband, too? His
son-in-law, the pedagogue?" contemptuously asked the general's
"No! How could he come? He could not leave his service. And his
son, too, Peter Iurevitch, he cannot come at once. He is on duty,
in Transcaspia. It is a long way."
"Yes, it is a long way!" assented the general's wife, evidently
busy with other thoughts. "But tell me, Edouard Vicentevitch, this
new will, has it been written long?"
"It was drawn up only to-day. The draft was prepared last week,
but the general kept putting it off. But when his pains began this
morning. . . ."
"Is it the end? Is it dangerous?" interrupted Olga Vseslavovna.
"Very—a very bad sign. When they began, Iuri Paylovitch sent at
once for the lawyer. He was still here when you arrived."
"Yes. And the old will, which he made before, has been destroyed?"
"I do not know for certain. But I think not. Oh, no, I forgot.
The general was going to send a telegram."
"Yes? to send a telegram?"
The general's wife shrugged her shoulders, sadly shook her head,
"He is so changeable! so changeable! But I think it is all the
same. According to law, only the last will is valid?"
"Yes, without doubt; the last."
The general's wife bowed her head.
"What hurts me most," she whispered, with a bitter smile, bending
close to the young doctor, and leaning heavily on his arm, "what
hurts me most, is not the money. I am not avaricious. But why
should he take my child away from me? Why should he pass over her
own mother, and intrust her to her half-sister? A woman whom I do
not know, who has not distinguished herself by any services or good
actions, so far as I know. I shall not submit. I shall contest
the will. The law must support the right of the mother. What do
you think, doctor?"
The doctor hastily assented, though, to tell the truth, he was not
thinking of anything at the moment, except the strange manner in
which the general's wife, while talking, pressed close to her
At that moment a bell rang, and the general's loud voice was heard:
"Doctor! Edouard Vicentevitch!"
"Coming!" answered the doctor.
And leaving Olga Vseslavovna at the threshold of her room, he ran
quickly to the sick man.
"A vigorous voice—for a dying man! He shouts as he used to at the
manoeuvers!" thought the general's wife.
And her handsome face at once grew dark with the hate which stole
over it. This was only a passing expression, however; it rapidly
gave place to sorrow, when she saw the manservant coming from the
"What is the matter with your master, Yakov? Is he worse?"
"No, madam. God has been gracious. He told me to push the box
nearer him, and ordered Edouard Vicentevitch to open it. He wants
to send some telegram or other."
"Thank God, he is not worse. Yakov, I am going to send a telegram
to the station myself, in a few minutes, by my coachman. You can
give him the general's telegram, too."
"Very well, madam."
"And another thing. I shall not go to bed. If there is any change
in your master's condition, Yakov, come and knock at my door at
once. I beg of you, tell me the very moment anything happens.
Here is something for you, Yakov;—you have grown thin, waiting
upon your master!"
"I thank you most humbly, your excellency. We must not grudge our
exertions," the man answered, putting a note of considerable value
in his pocket.
Contrary to expectation, the night passed quietly enough. Emotion
and weariness claimed their own; Olga Vseslavovna, in spite of all
her efforts, fell into a sleep toward morning; and when she awoke,
she started in dismay, noticing that the sun had already climbed
high in the sky, and was pouring into her room.
Her maid, a deft Viennese, who had remained with this accommodating
mistress for five years, quieted her by telling her that the master
was better, that he was still asleep, not having slept for the
greater part of the night.
"The doctor and Yakov were busy with him most of the night," she
explained. "They were sorting all sorts of papers; some of them
they tied up, writing something on them; others they tore up, or
threw into the fire. The grate is full of ashes. Yakov told me."
"And there were no more telegrams?"
"No, madam, there were no more. Yakov and our Friedrich would have
let me know at once; I was there in the anteroom; they both kept
coming through on errands. But there were no more telegrams,
except the two that were sent last night."
Olga Vseslavovna dressed, breakfasted, and went to her husband.
But at the threshold of his room she was stopped by the direction
of the sick man to admit no one without special permission except
the doctor, or his eldest daughter, if she should come.
"Tell Edouard Vicentevitch to come out to me," ordered the
general's wife. The doctor was called, and in great confusion
confirmed the general's orders.
"But perhaps he did not think that such an order could apply to
me?" she said, astonished.
The doctor apologized, but had to admit that it was she who was
intended, and that his excellency had sent word to her excellency
that she should not give herself the trouble of visiting him.
"He is out of his mind," declared the general's wife quietly, but
with conviction, shrugging her shoulders. "Why should he hate me
so—for all my love to him, an old man, who might have been my
And Olga Vseslavovna once more took refuge in her pocket
handkerchief, this time, instead of tears, giving vent to sobs of
The doctor, always shy in the presence of women, stood with hanging
head and downcast eyes, as though he were to blame.
"What is it they are saying about you burning papers all night?"
Olga Vseslavovna asked, in a weak voice.
"Oh, not nearly all night. Iuri Pavlovitch remembered that he
ought to destroy some old letters and papers. There were some to
be put in order. There, in the box, there is a packet addressed to
your excellency. I was told to write the address."
"Indeed! Could I not see it?"
"Oh no, on no account. They are all locked up in the box along
with the last will. And the general has the keys."
A bitter smile of humiliation played about the young woman's lips.
"So the new will has not been burned yet?" she asked. And to the
startled negative of the doctor, who repeated that "it was lying on
the top of the papers in the box," she added:
"Well, it will be burned yet. Do not fear. Especially if God in
His mercy prolongs my husband's life. You see, he has always had a
mysterious passion for writing new documents, powers of attorney,
deeds of gift, wills, whatever comes into his mind. He writes new
ones, and burns the old ones. But what can you do? We must submit
to each new fancy. We cannot contradict a sick man."
Olga Vseslavovna went back to her room. She only left her bedroom
for a few minutes that day, to hear the final word of the lights of
the medical profession, who had come together for a general
consultation in the afternoon; all the rest of the day she shut
herself up. The conclusions of the physicians, though they
differed completely in detail, were similar in the main, and far
from comforting; the life and continued suffering of the sick man
could not last more than a few days.
In the evening a telegram came from Anna Iurievna; she informed her
father that she would be with him on the following day, at five in
"Shall I be able to hold out? Shall I last so long?" sighed the
sick man, all day long. And the more he was disturbed in mind, the
more threatening were his attacks of pain. He passed a bad night.
Toward morning a violent attack, much worse than any that had gone
before, almost carried him away. He could hardly breathe, owing to
the sharp suffering. Hot baths for his hands and steam inhalations
no longer had any beneficial effect, though they had alleviated his
The doctor, the Sister of Mercy, and the servant wore themselves
out. But still, as before, his wife alone was not admitted to him.
She raged with anger, trying, and not without success, to convince
everyone that she was going mad with despair. Little Olga had been
taken away on the previous day by a friend of the general's, to
stay there "during this terrible time." That night Madame Nazimoff
did not go to bed at all; and, as befitted a devoted wife, did not
quit her husband's door. When the violent attack just before dawn
quieted down, she made an attempt to go in to him; but no sooner
did the sick man see her at the head of his couch, on which he had
at last been persuaded to lie, than strong displeasure was
expressed in his face, and, no longer able to speak, he made an
angry motion of his hand toward her, and groaned heavily. The
Sister of Mercy with great firmness asked the general's wife not to
trouble the sick man with her presence.
"And I am to put up with this. I am to submit to all this?"
thought Olga Vseslavovna, writhing with wrath. "To endure all this
from him, and after his death to suffer beggary? No, a thousand
times no! Better death than penury and such insults." And she
fell into gloomy thought.
That gesture of displeasure at the sight of his wife was the last
conscious act of Iuri Pavlovitch Nazimoff. At eight in the morning
he lost consciousness, in the midst of violent suffering, which
lasted until the end. By the early afternoon he was no more.
During the last hour of his agony his wife knelt beside his couch
without let or hindrance, and wept inconsolably. The formidable
aristocrat and millionaire was dead.
Everything went on along the usual lines. The customary stir and
unceremonious bustle, instead of cautious whispering, rose around
the dead body, in preparation for a fashionable funeral. No near
relatives were present except his wife, and she was confined to her
room, half-fainting, half-hysterical. All responsibility fell on
the humble doctor, and he busied himself indefatigably,
conscientiously, in the sweat of his brow, making every effort to
omit nothing. But, as always happens, he omitted the most
important thing of all. The early twilight was already descending
on St. Petersburg, shrouded in chilly mist, when Edouard
Vicentevitch Polesski struck his brow in despair; he had suddenly
remembered the keys and the box, committed to his care by the dying
man. At that moment, the body, dressed in full uniform, with all
his regalia, was lying in the great, darkened room on a table,
covered with brocade, awaiting the coffin and the customary
wreaths. The doctor rushed into the empty bedroom. Everything in
it was already in order; the bed stood there, without mattress or
pillows. There was nothing on the dressing table, either.
Where were the keys? Where was the box? The box was standing as
before, untouched, locked. His heart at once felt lighter. But
the keys? No doubt the police would come in a few minutes. It was
astonishing that they had not come already. They would seal
everything. Everything must be in order. Where was Yakov?
Probably he had taken them. Or . . . the general's wife?
Polesski rushed to look for the manservant, but could not find him.
There was so much to do; he had gone to buy something, to order
something. "Oh Lord! And the announcement?" he suddenly
remembered. It must be written at once, and sent to the
newspapers. He must ask the general's wife, however, what words he
should use. However much he might wish to avoid her, still she was
now the most important person. And he could ask at the same time
whether she had seen the keys.
The doctor went to the rooms of the general's wife. She was lying
down, suffering severely, but she came out to him. "What words was
he to use? It was all the same to her. 'With deep regret,' 'with
heartfelt sorrow,' what did she care? The keys? What keys? No!
she had not seen any keys, and did not know where they were. But
why should he be disturbed about them? The servants were
trustworthy; nothing would go astray."
"Yes, but we must have them ready for the police. They will come
in a few minutes, to seal up the dead man's papers!"
"To seal up the papers? Why?"
"That is the law. So that everything should be intact, until after
the last will and testament of the deceased has been read,
according to his wishes."
General Nazimoff's wife paled perceptibly. She knew nothing of
such an obstacle, and had not expected it. The doctor was too busy
to notice her pallor.
"Very well; I shall write the announcement at once, and send it to
the newspapers. I suppose 'Novoe Vremya' and 'Novosti' will be
"Do as you think best. Write it here, in my room. Here is
everything you require; pens, paper. Write, and then read it to
me. I shall be back in a moment. I want to put a bandage round my
head. It aches so. Wait for me here." And the general's wife
went from the sitting-room to her bedroom.
"Rita!" she whispered to her faithful maid, who was hurriedly
sewing a mourning gown of crape for her. "Do not let the doctor go
till I return. Do you understand? Do what you please, but do not
let him go." The general's wife slipped from the bedroom into the
passage through a small side door, and disappeared.
The two rooms between hers and the chamber where the dead man lay
were quite empty and nearly dark; there were no candles in them.
From the chamber came the feeble glimmer of the tiny lamps burning
before the icons.* The tapers were not lit yet, as the deacon had
not yet arrived. He was to come at the same time as the priest and
the coffin. For the moment there was no one near the dead man; in
the anteroom sat the Sister of Mercy.
* Sacred images.
"You wish to pray?" she asked the general's wife.
"Yes, I shall pray there, in his room."
She slipped past the dead body without looking at it, to the room
that had been the general's bedroom, and closed the door behind
her. She was afraid to lock it, and after all, was it necessary?
It would only take a moment. There it is, the box! She knows it
of old! And she knows its key of old, too; it is not so long since
her husband had no secrets from her.
The key was quickly slipped into the lock, and the lid rose
quickly. The paper? That new, detestable paper, which might
deprive her of everything. Ah! there it is!
To close the lid quickly, and turn the key in the lock; to hide the
keys somewhere; here, between the seat and the back of the sofa, on
which he lay. That's it!
A sigh of relief from fear escaped the beautiful lips of the
handsome woman, lips which were pale through those terrible days.
She could feel secure at last!
She must look at the document, the proof of his cruelty, his
injustice, his stupidity! She must make sure that there was no
mistake! Olga Vseslavovna went up to the window, and taking
advantage of the last ray of the gray day, unfolded the will.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!" she
read. Yes, that is it, the will.
"How he pronounced those same words, when he was blessing little
Olga," she remembered. "Blessing her! And his hand did not
tremble, when he signed this. To deprive her, to deprive them
both, of everything, all on account of those hated people? But
now—it should never be! On no account! Your down-at-the-heel
pedagogue shall not strut about in peacock's feathers! Olga
and I . . . require the money more!"
And the general's wife was tempted to snap her fingers in triumph
in the direction of the dead man.
Suddenly, quite close to the door, the sound of steps was heard.
Good heavens! And she held the big sheet of crested paper in her
hand! Where could she put it? She had no time to think of folding
it up. There! they are coming in already! Who can it be?
And the will lay on the floor, the general's wife kneeling on it,
as on a prayer carpet, in an attitude of prayer, her clasped hands
on the window sill, her wet eyes fixed on a faintly twinkling star,
as though calling heaven to witness her inconsolable grief and
It was only the Sister of Mercy.
"Madam, the people have come, bringing the coffin; and I think the
police have also come."
"Yes, in a moment. Tell them I am coming immediately."
The Sister of Mercy went out.
"See how she loved her husband. And why was he so unjust to her at
the last?" she involuntarily reproached the dead general.
Meanwhile the general's wife had risen hastily, folded the will as
best she could, in four, in eight folds, and crushing it together
in her hand, went quietly from the room, which now filled her with
She was so confused that she did not even think of looking for her
pocket; she simply held her packet tight, and let her hand hang
down, hiding it in the folds of her wide dressing-gown. There
seemed to be so many people in the room which a moment before was
empty, that she felt cowed. Her heart beat pitilessly, and the
blood throbbed so violently in her temples that she could not
understand what was said to her. They were asking her if they
might place the body in the coffin, which had already been placed
beside it. Her silence was taken as consent. The skilful
undertakers easily lifted the already rigid body.
Olga Vseslavovna stood at the head of the dead general. Among the
crowd of undertakers and servants, she suddenly saw coming toward
her, with outstretched hand, and with tears of compassion in her
eyes, the Princess Ryadski, the same aristocratic kinswoman who had
already taken little Olga to stay with her.
"I must shake hands with her! And that horrible packet is in my
hand! Where shall I put it? How can I hide it?" Before her eyes
gleamed the brilliantly lighted, ashen forehead of the dead man,
helplessly bent backward and sideways, as the whole body was
suspended in the hands of the undertakers, over its last abode.
A saving thought!
The general's wife bent gently over the dead body. She gently
supported the head of the corpse, gently laid it on the satin
cushion, straightened the frills which surrounded the hard pillow,
and, unperceived, left under it the twisted roll of paper.
"It will be safer there!" The thought flashed through her mind.
"He wanted to keep his will himself; well, keep it to eternity,
now! What more can you ask?"
And it even seemed ludicrous to her. She could hardly restrain a
smile of triumph, changing it into a sad smile of grief, in reply
to her kinswoman's condolences. The coffin was already lying in
state on the bier; it was covered with brocade and flowers. The
princess, as kinswoman of the late general, bent low, and first
laid on the dead body the wreath she had brought with her.
"The poor sufferer has entered into rest," she whispered, shaking
her head. "Will the funeral service be soon? Where will it be?
Where is Olga Vseslavovna?"
"She will be here in a moment," the Sister of Mercy whispered,
deeply affected; "she has gone to fix herself. They will begin the
funeral service in a few minutes, and she is all in disorder. She
is in great grief. Will you not take a seat?"
"What? Sit down? Thank you," loftily replied the princess. And
she went toward a dignified personage who was entering, adorned
with many orders and an aristocratic beard.
The general's wife soon came to herself. "Rita! I must wash and
dress as quickly as possible. Ah! pray forgive me, doctor! They
called me away to my husband. They were placing him in the
coffin." She sighed deeply. "What is this? Oh, yes, the
announcement of his death. Very good. Send it, please. But I
must dress at once. The funeral service will begin immediately."
"Doctor! Is the doctor here?" an anxious voice sounded in the
"I am coming! What is it?"
"Please come quick, Edouard Vicentevitch!" Yakov called him. "The
lady is very ill downstairs; Anna Iurievna, the general's daughter!
I was out to order the flowers; I come back, and see the lady lying
in a faint in the entrance. She had just arrived, and asked; and
they answered her that he was dead, without the slightest
preparation! And she could not bear it, and fainted."
Yakov said all this as they went.
"Actress!" angrily thought Olga Vseslavovna. And immediately she
added mentally, "Well, she may stand on her head now, it is all the
same to me!"
Whether it was all the same to her or not, the deep despair of the
daughter, who had not been in time to bid her father farewell, had
not been in time to receive his blessing, after many years of
anger, which had borne heavily on the head of the blameless young
woman, was so evidently sincere, and produced such a deep
impression on everyone, that her stepmother also was moved.
Anna Iurievna resembled her father, as much as a young, graceful,
pretty woman can resemble an elderly man with strongly-marked
features and athletic frame, such as was General Nazimoff. But in
spite of the delicacy of her form, and the gentleness of her eyes,
her glance sometimes flashed fire in a manner very like the
flashing eyes of her father, and in her strong will, firm
character, and inflexible adherence to what she believed to be
necessary and right, Anna was exactly like her father.
For nearly ten years his daughter had obediently borne his anger;
from the day of her marriage to the man she loved, whom evil-minded
people had succeeded in calumniating in the general's mind. Though
writing incessantly to him, begging him to pardon her, to
understand that he had made a mistake, that her husband was a man
of honor, and that she would be fully and perfectly happy, but for
the burden of her father's wrath, and of the separation from him,
she had never until the last few weeks received a reply from him.
But quite recently something mysterious had happened. Not only had
her father written to her that he wished to see her and her
children in St. Petersburg, whither he was just setting out, but a
few days later he had written again, a long, tender letter, in
which he had asked her forgiveness. Without giving any
explanations, he said that he had received indubitable proofs of
the innocence and chivalrous honor of her husband; that he felt
himself deeply guilty toward him, and was miserable on account of
the injustice he had committed. In the following letters, praying
his daughter to hasten her coming, because he was dangerously ill,
and the doctors thought could not last long, he filled her with
astonishment by expressing his intention to make a new will, and
his determination to separate his youngest daughter "from such a
mother," and by his prayers to her and her husband not to refuse to
take upon themselves little Olga's education.
"What had happened? How could that light-minded woman have so
deeply wounded my father?" Anna asked in bewilderment.
"If she was merely light-minded!" her husband answered, shrugging
his shoulders. "But she is so malicious, so crafty, and so daring
that anything may be expected from her."
"But in that case there would be an open scandal. We would know
something for certain. Nowadays they even relate such stories in
the newspapers, and my father is so well known, so noteworthy!"
"That is just why they don't write about him!" answered Borisoff,
her husband, smiling. He himself flatly refused to go to St.
Petersburg. With horror he remembered the first year of his
marriage, before he had succeeded in obtaining a transfer to
another city, and was compelled to meet the woman he detested;
compelled also to meet his father-in-law, a wise and honorable old
man, who had fallen so completely into the toils of this crafty
woman. Anna Iurievna knew that her husband despised her
stepmother; that he detested her as the cause of all the grief
which they had had to endure through her, and most of all, on
account of the injustice she was guilty of toward her brother, the
For six years Borisoff had lived with young Peter Nazimoff, as his
tutor and teacher, and loved him sincerely. The boy had already
reached the highest class at school, when his sister, two years
older than he, finished her schooling, and returned to her father's
house, about the time of the general's second marriage. What the
young tutor tried not to notice and to endure, for love of his
pupil, in the first year of the general's second marriage, became
intolerable when the general's daughter returned home, and to all
the burden of his difficult position was added the knowledge of
their mutual love. He proceeded frankly, and the whole matter was
soon settled. But the young man had never uttered a syllable as to
the cause of Madame Nazimoff's hatred for him. For the sake of his
father-in-law's peace of mind, he sincerely hoped that he would
never know. Anna was convinced that the whole cause of her
stepmother's hostility was her prejudice against what was in her
opinion a mesalliance. In part she was right, but the chief reason
of this hostility remained forever a secret to her. Unfortunately,
it was not equally a secret to her father.
Of late years he had gradually been losing faith in his second
wife's character. It went so far that the general felt much more
at ease when she was away. Before the last illness of Iuri
Pavlovitch, which, to tell the truth, was almost his first, Olga
Vseslavovna had gone abroad with her daughter, intending to travel
for a year; but she had hardly been gone two months when the
general unexpectedly determined to go to St. Petersburg to seek a
divorce, to see his elder daughter, and change his will. Perhaps
he would never have determined on such decisive measures had not
something wholly unexpected taken place.
Borisoff was quite mistaken in thinking that he had so carefully
destroyed all the letters which the general's young wife had
written to him, before his marriage to Anna, that no material
evidence of Olga Vseslavovna's early design of treachery remained.
Even before she married the general, she had had a confidential
servant, who carried out many commissions for the beautiful young
woman, whose fame had gone abroad through the three districts along
the Volga, the arena of her early triumphs. Later, the young lady
found a new favorite in foreign lands—the same Rita who was still
with her. Martha, the Russian confidential servant, heartily
detested the German girl, and such strife arose between them that
not only the general's wife, but even the general himself, was
deprived of peace and tranquillity. Martha was no fool; Olga
Vseslavovna had to be careful with her; she did take care, but she
herself did not know to what an extent she was in the woman's
power. Foreseeing a black day of ingratitude, Martha, with
wonderful forethought, had put on one side one or two letters from
each series of her mistress' secret correspondence, which always
passed through her hands. Perhaps she would not have made such a
bad use of them but for her mistress' last, intolerable insult.
Prizing in her servants, next to swift obedience, a knowledge of
languages, her mistress did not make use of her when traveling
abroad; but hitherto she had taken both servants with her. But on
her last journey she was so heartily tired of Martha, and her
perpetual tears and quarrels, that she determined to get on without
her, the more so that her daughter's governess was also traveling
with her. Her company was growing too numerous.
There was no limit to Martha's wrath when she learned that she was
going to be left behind. Her effrontery was so great that she
advised her mistress "for her own sake" not to put such an affront
upon her, since she would not submit to it without seeking revenge.
But her mistress never dreamed of what Martha was planning, and
what a risk she ran.
Hardly had the general's wife departed when Martha asked the
general to let her leave, saying she would find work elsewhere.
The general saw no way of keeping her; and he did not even wish to
do so, thinking her only a quarrelsome, ill-tempered woman. The
confidential servant left the house, and even the city. And
immediately her revenge and torture of the general began, cutting
straight at the root of his happiness, his health, even his life.
He began to receive, almost daily, letters from different parts of
Russia, for Martha had plenty of friends and chums. With
measureless cruelty Martha began by sending the less important
documents, still signed with her mistress' maiden name; then two or
three letters from the series of the most recent times, and finally
there came a whole packet of those sent by the general's wife to
the tutor, in the first year of her marriage with the general,
before Borisoff had met Anna.
The crafty Martha, knowing perfectly the whole state of affairs to
which these letters referred, often copied out their contents, and
kept the letters themselves concealed, saying to herself, "God
knows what may turn up, some day!
"If they are no use, I can burn them. But they may be useful. It
is always a good thing to keep our masters in our power," argued
the sagacious woman, and she was not mistaken in her calculations,
although these letters served not for her profit, but only for a
These notes and letters, which finally opened his eyes to the true
character of his wife, and his own crying injustice to his elder
children, were now lying in the general's dispatch box, in a neatly
tied packet, directed in the doctor's handwriting to "Her
Excellency Olga Vseslavovna Nazimoff."
As soon as she received her father's first letter Anna began to get
ready to go to St. Petersburg, but unfortunately she was kept back
by the sickness, first of one child, then of another. But for his
last telegrams, she would not have started even now, because she
did not realize the dangerous character of his illness. But now,
finding that she had come too late, the unhappy woman could not
Everyone was grieved to see her bitter sorrow, after the funeral
service for her father. Princess Ryadski burst into tears, as she
looked at her; and all the acquaintances and relations of the
general were far more disturbed by her despair than by the
general's death. Olga Vseslavovna was secretly scandalized at such
lack of self-control, but outwardly she seemed greatly touched and
troubled by the situation of her poor stepdaughter. But she did
not venture to express her sympathy too openly in the presence of
others, remembering the words of "the crazy creature" when she had
come to herself after her fainting fit, and her stepmother had
hurried up to embrace her.
"Leave me!" Anna had cried, when she saw her. "I cannot bear to
see you! You killed my father!"
It was well that there were only servants in the anteroom. But the
general's wife did not wish to risk another such scene, now that so
many people were present. And besides she was extremely disturbed;
the friends who had come to the funeral service had brought
flowers; and the half-crazy princess, with the aid of two other
ladies, had taken a fancy to decorate the coffin, and especially
the head, with them. It is impossible to describe what Olga
Vseslavovna suffered, as she watched all those hands moving about
among the folds of the muslin, the frills, the covering, almost
under the satin cushion even; a little more and she would have
fainted in earnest.
She had always boasted that she had strong nerves, and this was
quite true; nevertheless, during these days, their strength was
evidently giving way, as she could not get to sleep for a long time
that night, and heaven only knows what fancies passed through her
mind. It was almost morning before Olga Vseslavovna got to sleep,
and even then it was not for long.
She dreamed that she was descending endless stairs and dark
corridors, with a heavy, shapeless burden on her shoulders. A
bright, constantly-changing flame flickered before her; now red,
now yellow, now green, it flitted before her from side to side.
She knew that if she could reach it, the burden would fall from
her. But the light seemed to be taunting her, now appearing, now
disappearing, and suddenly going out altogether. And she found
herself in the darkness, in a damp cellar, seemingly empty, but
filled with something's invisible presence. What was it? She did
not know. But this pervading something frightened her terribly,
smothered her, pressing on her from all sides, depriving her of
air. She was choking! Terror seized her at the thought that
it . . . was Death! Must she die? Was it possible? But that
brightly shining light had just promised her life, gayety,
brilliance! She must hurry to overtake it. And she tried to
run. But her feet would not obey her; she could not move.
"Heaven! Heaven!" she cried, "but what is it? Whence has such a
disaster come? What is holding me? Let me go, or I shall be
smothered in this stench, under this intolerable burden!"
Suddenly Iuri Pavlovitch walked past her. She immediately
recognized him, and joyfully caught at his cloak. "Iuri! Forgive
me! Help me!" she cried.
Her husband stopped, looked sadly at her, and answered: "I would
gladly help you, but you yourself hinder me. Let me go; I must
fulfill your directions."
At that moment she awoke. She was bathed in a cold perspiration,
and clutched wildly at the coverlet with both hands. There was no
one near her, but she clearly felt someone's presence, and was
convinced that she had really seen her husband a moment before. In
her ears resounded his words: "I must fulfill your directions!"
Directions? What directions?
She sprang up, and began to feel about over the carpet with her
bare feet, looking for her slippers. A terrible thought had come
into her mind. She felt that she must settle it at once. She must
take the will, take it away from there! burn it! destroy it! She
feverishly drew on her dressing gown, and threw a shawl over her
"Rita! Get up quick! Quick! Come!"
The frightened maid rose, still half asleep, and rubbed her eyes,
understanding nothing. Her mistress' ice-cold hands clutched her,
and dragged her somewhere.
"Ach lieber Gott . . . Gott in Himmel!" she muttered. "What has
happened? What do you want?"
"Hush! Come quick!" And Olga Vseslavovna, with a candle in her
trembling hand, went forward, dragging the trembling Rita with her.
She opened the door of her bedroom, and went out. All the doors
were open en suite, and straight in front of her, in the center of
the fourth, shone the coffin of her husband, covered with cloth of
gold and lit up by the tall tapers standing round the bier.
"What does it mean?" whispered the general's wife. "Why have they
opened all the doors?"
"I do not know . . . they were all closed last night," murmured the
maid in reply, her teeth chattering with fear. She longed to ask
her mistress whither they were going, and what for? She wanted to
stop, and not enter the funeral chamber; but she was afraid to
They passed quickly through the rooms; at the door of the last the
general's wife set her candle down on a chair, and halted for a
moment. The loud snoring of the reader startled them both.
"It is the deacon!" whispered the general's wife reassuringly.
Rita had hardly strength to nod assent. All the same, the healthy
snoring of a living man comforted her. Without moving from where
she stood, the maid tremblingly drew her woolen shawl closer about
her, trying to see the sofa on which the deacon lay.
Knitting her brows, and biting her lips till they were sore, Olga
Vseslavovna went forward determinedly to the bier. She thrust both
hands under the flowers on the pillow. The frill was untouched.
The satin of the cushion was there, but where was . . . ? Her
heart, that had been beating like a hammer, suddenly stopped and
stood still. There was not a trace of the will!
"Perhaps I have forgotten. Perhaps it was on the other side,"
thought Olga Vseslavovna, and went round to the left side of the
No! It was not there, either! Where was it? Who could have taken
it? Suddenly her heart failed her utterly, and she clutched at the
edge of the coffin to keep herself from falling. It seemed to her
that under the stiff, pallid, rigidly clasped hands of the dead
general something gleamed white through the transparent muslin of
the covering, something like a piece of paper.
"Nonsense! Self-suggestion! It is impossible! Hallucination!"
The thought flashed through her tortured brain. She forced herself
to be calm, and to look again.
Yes! She had not been mistaken. The white corner of a folded
paper appeared clearly against the general's dark uniform. At the
same moment a cold draught coming from somewhere set the tapers
flickering. Shadows danced around the room, over the bier, across
the dead man's face; and in the quick change of light and shadow it
seemed to her that the rigid features became more living, that a
mournful smile formed itself on the closed lips, that the tightly-
shut eyelids quivered. A wild cry rang through the whole room.
With a desperate shriek: "His eyes! He is looking at me!" the
general's wife staggered forward and fell fainting to the floor,
beside her husband's bier.
The deacon sprang from his sofa with a cry, and an answering cry
came from the lips of the shivering Rita, as she fled from the
room. Servants rushed in, rubbing their eyes, still half-asleep,
questioning each other, running this way and that. The deacon,
spurred by a feeling of guilt, was determined to conceal the fact
that he was sleeping. "It was the lady!" he said. "She came in to
pray; she told me to stop reading while she prayed. She knelt
down. Then she prayed for a long time, and suddenly . . . suddenly
she cried out, and fainted. Grief, brothers! It is terrible! To
lose such a husband!" and he set them to work with restoratives,
himself rubbing the fallen woman's chilly hands.
The general's wife opened her eyes after a few minutes. Looking
wildly round in bewilderment, she seemed to be wondering where she
was and how she had come there. Suddenly she remembered.
"The will! In his hands! Take it!" she cried, and fainted again.
By this time the whole household was awake. Anna Iurievna had come
in, full of astonishment at the sudden disturbance, but with the
same feeling of deep quiet and peace still filling her heart and
giving her features an expression of joy and calm. She heard the
cry of the general's wife, and the words were recorded in her mind,
though she did not at first give them any meaning.
She set herself, with all the tenderness of a good woman, to
minister to the other's need, sending her own maid for sal
volatile, chafing the fainting woman's hands, and giving orders
that a bed should be prepared for her in another room, further away
from the bier. As she spoke, quietly, gravely, with authority, the
turmoil gradually subsided. The frightened servants recovered
themselves, and moved about with the orderly obedience they
ordinarily showed; and the deacon, above all anxious to cover his
negligence, began intoning the liturgy, lending an atmosphere of
solemnity to the whole room.
The servants, returning to announce that the bedroom was ready,
were ordered by Anna Iurievna to lift the fainting woman with all
care and gentleness, and she herself went with them to see the
general's wife safely bestowed in her room, and waited while the
doctor did all in his power to make her more comfortable. Olga
Vseslavovna did not at once recover consciousness. She seemed to
pass from a faint into an uneasy slumber, which, however, gradually
became more quiet.
Only then, as she was leaving the room, did Anna Iurievna bethink
her of the strange words that had fallen on her ears: "The will!
In his hands! Take it!" And repeating them questioningly to
herself, she walked slowly back toward the room in which lay her
But she was even more occupied with her own thoughts. She no
longer felt in her heart the bitter resentment toward Olga
Vseslavovna that had filled it yesterday. She was conscious of a
feeling of sorrow for the helpless woman, of compassion for her
empty, shallow life, the fruit of an empty, shallow heart. And she
was wondering why such empty, joyless lives should exist in a world
where there was such deep happiness and joy.
She came over to her father's coffin, close to which the deacon was
still droning out his liturgy, and stood beside the dead body,
looking down at the strong, quiet face, and vividly recalling her
dream of the night before. Her eyes rested on the many stars and
medals on his breast, and on his hands, quietly clasped in death.
Then suddenly, and quite mechanically, Olga Vseslavovna's cry, as
she returned to consciousness, came back into her mind:
"The will! In his hands! Take it!" And bending down, she noted
for the first time something white beneath the muslin canopy. As
she scrutinized it wonderingly, she was conscious of an humble,
apologetic voice murmuring something at her elbow:
"Forgive me, Anna Iurievna. I humbly beg you, forgive me! It was
I . . . in the night . . . the flowers fell . . . I was putting
them back . . . fixing the head of your sainted papa. . . . It
was under his head, the paper . . . I thought he wanted to keep
it. . . . I put it in his hands, to be safe! . . . Forgive me,
Anna Iurievna, if I have done any harm."
It was the deacon, still oppressed by a feeling of guilt. Anna
Iurievna turned to him, and then turned back again, to her father's
body, to the white object shining under the muslin canopy. And
once more Olga Vseslavovna's words came into her mind:
"The will! In his hands! Take it!"
Gently raising the canopy, she softly drew the paper from beneath
the general's clasped hands, and unfolded it. She read no more
than the opening words, but she had read enough to realize that it
was, indeed, her father's will.