LITTLE PAULINA: CHRISTMAS IN RUSSIA

IT was nearing the close of a short winter’s day,—the day before Christmas. Thickly fell the snow, fiercely keen blew the northern wind, heaping the drifts into crannies and gullies, and then whirling them far and wide. The fir-trees were all behung with wreaths of sheeted white, that the next blast flung abroad in scattered showers. The sky lowered above all, gray, cheerless, and hopeless, as a man—setting his teeth hard, and facing the inclemency as he best might—cast his eyes up toward the heavens, and then looked around him, with an air that bespoke his having lost his way amid the solitudes of the pine forest.

He might have been a denizen of the place, for the coarseness and even squalor of his clothing. The rough tunic and cloak of sheepskin, the bearhide gloves, and wolfskin cap befitted the meanest serf. But for all his peasant garb, it was clear he was a stranger in this part of the country.

With one more perplexed look about him, he suddenly shouted aloud. The sound seemed dulled and deadened by the damp, frozen air and the curtained canopy of overhanging trees.

His voice seemed shut in, like himself, within the confines of this dreary wood prison. Yet once again he shouted,—once again sent forth an appealing cry for aid,—if it might be that{6} human aid was near. And then—amid the gloom and silence—there came an answering sound,—a cry high-pitched, but dulled by distance and by seeming lack of power in the shouter.

The man turned his steps in the direction of the response he had heard, calling loudly. It was repeated, and evidently drew nearer. Just then he emerged from among the thickest of the trees, into a more open space, a sort of pathway leading through the forest.

Along this track he could now see, coming toward him, a small, dark figure, muffled in fur. It looked like a black bundle, more than a human being. The head was enveloped in a dark sheepskin cap, that fitted so closely around the face as to show only eyes, nose, and mouth. The body was wrapped in a cloak, and the lower limbs were encased in thick leggings and boots. Except that the head and shoulders were plentifully sprinkled with snow, and the small patch of face looked bright and rosy, the whole seemed a moving ball, of coarse, dark, furry stuff.

But the rosy patch looked cheerily. The dark leggings stumped along with an alert, assured step; and it was evident that from this small muffled individual came the high-pitched cry that had answered the man’s call for help.

The man hastened to meet the child, saying:—

“Well met, little one! Direct me out of this wood. Be my guide. You doubtless know every winding of the forest path.”

“I am a stranger in these parts,” the child answered. “I came from the capital. I live in Kief—that is, I did live there. I am going to find a home with my father.”

“And where is your father?” said the man.

“They banished him—he’s in exile—I am going to him,” she replied.

“Going to him! Do you know how far it is to the frozen regions whither culprits are banished, little one?” asked the man.{7}

“Yes; I know it is a long way off—but I have managed to come nearly a fourth of my journey, and I shall get through the rest, never fear.”

“‘Never fear!’ But don’t you fear? It’s a long way, and a fearful place when you get there.”

“I know it is; but if it’s bad for me, it’s bad for my father,—and it will make the place better for him if he have his little Paulina with him, to help him bear its fearfulness.”

“I am not speaking of what it is to him. It would be more tolerable to him, I dare say, with his child to keep him company there; but what I mean is, that it will be a terrible place for you—you don’t know its horrors.”

“Oh, yes, I do. They told me of them when he was banished. They tried to prevent my going after him, but I got away. I made my escape—I crept out of the house—I watched my opportunity—I managed to get past the sentinels at the city gates—I have made my way, by little and little. I shall reach there, never fear.” And she nodded with an assured air, as she repeated the last words.

The man shook his head. “You don’t know the place you are so eager to reach, my little maid,” he said.

“I dare say it’s very dreadful; but, however bad it may be, home is worse now,—without my father.”

“And who is your father?” said the man.

The child was just about to answer in her prompt, straightforward way; but she caught the earnest, scrutinizing look of the stranger, as his eye rested upon her, while he asked the question. She checked herself, and said: “Didn’t you say you had lost your way in this forest? Do you live far from here?”

An odd smile passed over the man’s face, as he answered: “Yes; very far. I have wandered among the depths of this forest till I’m perishing with cold, and starving with hunger.{8} I want food and shelter. How far distant is the next village?”

“They told me it was some miles on,” said the child. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you. Instead of taking you on with me there, I’ll turn back with you, to the good woman at whose hut I slept last night. She gave me a night’s lodging, and I dare say she’ll do as much for you. She has a kind heart.”

The same smile passed over his face, as the man replied: “If you present me to her as your friend,—an unfortunate fellow who has lost his way,—I have no doubt she will take me under her roof. And, truly, in this snow-storm, the sooner food and warmth may be had, the better. But in securing them for me, you are hindering your journey, little one. Shall you not grudge the delay?”

“It will be but a few hours. You need my help. If I turn out of my way to give it you, my journey afterward will prosper the better,” she said. “My father would approve of it.”

“Your father is a worthy man, then?”

“You seem to doubt it!” said the child, turning a flashing eye up toward the speaker.

“If he be so,—and his teaching his child charity and kindliness of conduct speaks in his favor,—how comes it that the emperor banished him?” returned the man.

“The emperor was made to believe unjustly of my father. Enemies misrepresented his actions. My father was too proud to vindicate himself to his sovereign, even had he had the opportunity of pleading his own cause.”

Again the man smiled, and then fell into a reverie, while his young conductress took him by the hand, and led him along the path by which she had come. After a time she looked up into his face, and, seeing its dreamy expression, said: “You are feeling sleepy, are you not? Beware of that!{9}”

“I do find myself drowsily inclined,” said the man. “The cold—the long fast—the many hours’ wandering—I own I shall be glad of a moment’s rest, little one. Let us stop here a few minutes.”

And he would have leaned against the trunk of one of the nearest trees skirting the forest track; but the child exclaimed vehemently,—tugging at his hand: “No, no! you must not rest. Anything but that! Rouse yourself! Come on, come on! Here, take me up in your arms, and carry me for a little way. The exertion will do you good, and the warmth of my body will help to unnumb you. Lift me up; be quick!”

The man laughed, but obeyed her peremptory order. There was such an air of decision in all she said and did,—as if it were the only right thing to be said or done,—that it was difficult to resist her commands. In the present instance, the course she had appointed was certainly the best that could have been hit upon for averting the threatened danger.

The effort of raising her helped the man to throw off the overpowering sensation of drowsiness that was fast seizing upon him; and when she was in his arms, she nestled close to him, and hugged him around the neck. She was a slight child of her age, so that she was not inconveniently heavy; yet, had she been even heavier, the man, though unaccustomed to bear such weights, would have willingly gone on carrying her.

“Do you know, I have just such a little girl of my own,—a little daughter,—perhaps a year or two younger than you, with whom I was going to spend the Christmas Day, when, owing to an accident, I became lost in the forest. I should like my little girl to thank you for your care of her father. I wish she could see you. What say you to coming with me to my home, and making friends with her?”

“I should like it very much; but you live far from here,{10} and I must not let anything interfere with my journey to my father.”

“But my home—at least, the place where my little girl now is—lies all in your way. You must pass it going to your father. We’ll journey together, as far as we can. Our first concern is, to get back to your friendly peasant woman’s hut, recruit our strength, and afterward to devise some means of getting on. Perhaps she can provide us with a guide.”

“Trust to me, I’ll guide you,” said the child.

He laughed but made no reply.

“Now you’ve got over your drowsiness, you can set me down again,” she resumed.

“But you’ll be glad of the lift. You must be tired,” said the man; “and I don’t mind carrying you, if it rests you.”

“Oh, I’m not at all tired. I’ve learned to walk a good long way, now, without wanting to rest. Set me down, please. It will do us both good to be in sharper exercise. Here, let’s run! It’ll warm us. Come! One, two, three, and away!”

The man hesitated. “I’m not in the humor to run,” he said, laughing.

“Nonsense! It’ll do you good! You must!” she replied. “The less you feel inclined to stir quickly, the more necessary it is you should exert yourself. It’s only the numbing effect of this bleak air. You feel chilled inside, don’t you? But, never mind! Nothing like a race to cure you. Now, then! Give me your hand! Let’s start for that clump of low bushes, yonder!”

She planned several of these running matches, fixing the starting-posts, appointing the goals, arranging and deciding all the particulars. And when they had been successively achieved, she turned to the man, and said with an air of satisfied triumph: “Well! wasn’t I right? You feel warmer now, don’t you?”

He returned her nod with another, smiling, and highly enter{11}tained. But she, quite gravely, rejoined: “Of course; and yet, if I had not made you take a good run, you’d have kept creep-creep-creeping along, till your blood had become as stagnant as the surface of our Dnieper, when it’s frozen into ice a foot thick. Besides, the race has not only made you warm, it has beguiled the way; for here is the good woman’s hut close at hand. Now, once more. Give me this much start, and I’ll beat you!”

The good peasant woman received her little guest of overnight and her companion with much hearty kindness.

“’Tis a wild place,” she said, “and when one of these sudden snow-storms come on, ’tis hard for us—let alone a stranger—to find the way out.”

“I’ve given him a helping hand as far as I can,” said the child{12} with her decisive nod. “Now it’s for you to do your share, and kindly give him a meal, as you did me last night.”

“What I have, he shall be welcome to,” said the woman.

“Thanks, mistress,” replied the man. “I sha’n’t forget you; and one day or other—” he paused; and Paulina finished his sentence for him. “One day or other,” she said, “it may be your chance to meet with some poor body even worse off than yourself. Do what you can for them. That will be the best way of returning this good woman’s kindness to us.”

The child said this while she was bustling about, helping the woman to spread the table, and prepare the meal. She trotted about diligently, seeming to know where everything was kept, and making herself quite at home.

She still kept the poor stranger under her immediate protection, providing for his accommodation and comfort, pointing a seat out for him near to the hearth; relieving him of his outer cloak, and hanging it up on a nail; lifting the fur cap from his head, and beating the snow out of it, before she replaced it; hovering about him, and paying him those little fondling attentions, half-cherishing, half-deferential, which mark the conduct of a child toward an indulgent parent.

Presently she came and sat down beside him on the settle. “What a curious ring you have upon this finger. It’s something like one that my father used to wear. But his was an emerald; and this is, of course, a bit of green glass. Still, it’s very pretty,—it looks almost as well. Indeed, it’s larger; and here are some curious characters engraved upon it. Who gave it you?”

“It was my father’s,” said the man.

“Then, of course, not in the worst poverty could you part with it,” said she. “It is a false stone, isn’t it?”

“Having passed from father to son, for many generations,{13} and from my own father’s hands into mine, it possesses a value for me beyond the most priceless gem,” answered he.

“And it really is pretty in itself,” said the child, “and very curious. These characters are like those I have heard my father describe upon the imperial signet; he said his own ring was very like the emperor’s, only smaller, and quite plain. Yours is about the size,—and with just such characters. Perhaps it was made in imitation; but, though it’s an imitation jewel, it’s very bright and pretty. It’s just as good as if it were real.”

“Just,” said the man. “I’m quite satisfied with it. The emperor’s own signet-ring couldn’t content me better.”

“Ah, but it would me,” said the child. “If I had that, I’d soon use it to some purpose. I’d affix it to the deed which should repeal my father’s sentence.{14}”

She turned the ring round and round upon the man’s finger, as his hand still lay in hers, sighed thoughtfully, then looked out toward the still falling snow, saying: “But I am dreaming of what I should like to happen, when I ought to be working at what I can do. We stay too long. Come, let us be going.”

“The afternoon is set in for a continued fall of snow,” said the peasant woman. “Best not to venture into the forest now. Nightfall will overtake you before you can reach the village. Abide another night here, and set out to-morrow early. You will be all the better for the rest.”

“But even if you are so kind as to let me sleep here again, and share your eldest child’s cot, as I did before, how can you manage for our poor friend here?” said the little girl, pointing to the stranger.

“The good man can lie upon this settle, by the side of the hearth. ’Twill be a warm, snug berth for him; and if it be a little rough or hard, he has lain upon many a rougher and harder, I’ll warrant,” said the woman with a good-humored smile.

“The field of battle is a harder couch. Stretched wounded upon the earth in the open air is rougher lying than upon this good settle,” replied the man.

“You are warm now, hands and all,” said the child. “I will leave you for a little while, that I may help our kind hostess. While she and I are about it, you can rock the cradle with your foot.”

While thus busily engaged, Paulina was struck by a sound in the outer room, as of talking. She listened. She could not distinguish the words, but she felt certain that she heard another man’s voice in reply to that of the stranger. The talking was carried on in a low, whispered tone, but talking she assuredly heard.

When she returned to the room, however, the stranger was{15} alone, and sitting in precisely the same attitude as she had left him,—bending over the wood embers, spreading his hands to catch their welcome warmth, and with one foot resting on the rocker of the cradle.

“You see, I am obeying your commands,” he said, glancing with a smile toward the cradle.

“I’m glad to see you can profit by good example,” she said. “I fancied you were neglecting your duty, and so came to remind you of it. But it’s all right. I made a mistake, I see.”

The next morning, at daybreak, Paulina was astir, and preparing to set out. She went to rouse the stranger, whom she found still fast asleep on the settle.

“Awake, awake! It is time we were off,” she said, as she shook him by the shoulder.

“How now!” exclaimed the man, angrily, as he half-started up, half-opened his eyes, and looked around him in surprise.{16}

“It is a fine morning. The snow has ceased. We ought to be on our way. Come! up with you!” said the child.

“It is too early,—by and by,—another hour’s rest,” muttered the man, as he let himself fall back upon the settle.

“I can’t afford to wait an hour longer,” said Paulina. “If you prefer another hour’s sleep to my guidance, stay behind. But, take my word; you had much better go with me through the wood. Remember how you lost yourself yesterday. Well, what say you? Decide at once; for I am in a hurry to be off.”

“Since you will have it so,—I suppose I must,” said the man, yawning, stretching, and rising reluctantly. “But what a terrible tyrant you are, my little protectress.”

“It’s all for your good,” returned she. “I want to set out early, in order that we may reach the village on the other side of the wood before evening.”

The man laughed; while she alertly set before him the black bread and the warm milk and water, which the good woman had provided for their breakfast, and brought him his sheepskin cloak, and helped to fasten it under his chin.

The weather had quite cleared up. For a Russian climate, the day was fine; and the two wanderers made their way through the forest with such good speed that it was still early in the afternoon when they reached the village. It was a very small hamlet, consisting of a few wood-cutters’ huts. At the door of the most important looking among them, which served as a sort of post-house, there stood a sledge, surrounded by a small retinue of attendants, as if awaiting the master. Paulina lingered a moment to admire the pretty trappings of the vehicle, its soft cushions, its fur and velvet linings, the bright harness, and the elegant shape of the coach itself.

Her companion asked one of the men standing near, whither the sledge was bound.{17}

“We are going to take it for our master to Igorhof,” replied the attendant.

“The very place where my daughter is.”

“As the sledge is going empty to Igorhof, I wonder whether these people would allow us to ride in it,” said the man. “I should dearly love to reach Igorhof on Christmas Day. I’ll tell them I’m not so poor as I seem, and that, if they’ll trust my word and allow us to ride, I’ll pay them for their courtesy when we arrive at Igorhof, where I have friends and money.”

“But is that true?” asked the child.

“Perfectly true,” answered the man.{18}

“We can but try, then,” said Paulina. “It would help us on our way delightfully. But I’m afraid they won’t believe such shabbily dressed people as you and I; and perhaps they will object to our riding in the fine coach, lest we should soil it, and they get into disgrace with their master. Still, we can but try. After all, if they refuse, we are but where we were.”

“To be sure,” said the man. “Besides, I can offer them my ring as a pledge for the money I promise them, until we reach Igorhof.”

“But as it’s a false stone, they won’t care to take it,” said the child. “And if they believe it real, and accept it for such, that would be deceiving them.”

“Never mind, I can but try,” repeated the man.

“Well, you can try if they’ll take it, when you have owned it to be false; but tell the truth.”

“Never fear; I’ll say nothing but the truth—the exact truth,” said the man, as he advanced toward one of the attendants.