NIKOLAI M. KARAMZIN
The gate banged after us; the drawbridge
thundered up again. Crossing a spacious courtyard, grown over
with bushes, nettles, and feathergrass, we came to a huge house
from which light was shining. A tall peristyle in antique
fashion led to an iron porch, the steps of which resounded
under our feet. On every side it was gloomy and deserted. In
the first hall, surrounded inside by a Gothic colonnade,
there hung a lamp that scarcely cast its light on the rows of
gilded columns, which were beginning to fall down from age;
in one spot lay fragments of a cornice, in another, bits of
pilasters; in a third, whole columns that had tumbled down.
My guide looked around at me several times with piercing
eyes, but did not say a word.
All this made a terrifying impression on me, composed
partly of dread, partly of a mysterious, inexplicable satisfac-
tion, or, to put it better, the pleasant anticipation of some-
thing extraordinary.
We crossed two or three more halls like the first one and
illuminated with the same lamps. Then a door opened to the
right, and in the corner of a small room there sat a venerable
gray-haired old man, his elbow propped on a table on which
two white wax candles were burning. He raised his head,
looked at me with a kind of mournful tenderness, gave me his
weak hand, and said in a pleasant voice:
"Though eternal grief inhabits the walls of this castle, still
a traveler who seeks hospitality shall always find a peaceful
refuge here. Foreigner! I do not know you, but you are a
man, and in my dying heart there still dwells a love for men.
My house and my embrace are open to you."
He embraced me and seated me and, trying to impart to
his gloomy face an aspect of liveliness, he looked like a bright
but cold autumnal day that resembles mournful winter more
than joyous summer. He sought to appear hospitable, to
impart with his smile confidence and a pleasant sensation of
intimacy, but the signs of grief of heart that were planted so
deeply on his countenance could not disappear in a moment.
"You, young man," he said, "must inform me concerning
the happenings of the world, which I have renounced but
still not yet quite forgotten. For a long time I have lived in
solitude; for a long time I have heard nothing of mankind's
fate. Tell me, does love still reign on earth? Does incense
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still smoke on the altars of virtue? Are the peoples happy that
dwell in the lands you have seen?"
"The domain of science," I answered, "is spreading more
and more, but human blood still flows on the earth; the
tears of the unfortunate still flow; men praise the name of
virtue and dispute concerning her existence."
The old man sighed and shrugged his shoulders. Learning
that I was a Russian, he said: "We come from the same
people as you. The ancient inhabitants of the islands of
Riigen and Bornholm were Slavs. But you long before us
came to the light of Christianity. Magnificent cathedrals,
dedicated to the one God, rose Up to the clouds in your lands,
while we, in the darkness of idolatry, still brought bloody
sacrifices to unfeeling idols. In triumphant hymns you cele-
brated the great Creator of the universe, while we, blinded by
paganism, praised the idols of mythology in discordant songs."
The old man spoke to me of the history of the northern
peoples, of the happenings of antiquity and modern times,
spoke so that I was forced to marvel at his intelligence, his
knowledge, and even his eloquence.
In half an hour he arose and wished me good night. The
servant in the black garb took a candle from the table and
led me through long narrow corridors. We came to a large
room, hung with ancient weapons, swords, lances, suits of
armor and helmets. In a corner underneath a canopy stood a
high bed, adorned with "carvings and old bas-reliefs.
I wished to ask this servant a multitude of questions, but
he, not waiting for them, bowed and left; the iron door banged
shut—the noise resounded frightfully in the empty walls—and
all was silent. I lay down on the bed, looked at the ancient
weapons, lit up through the little window by a weak ray of
moonlight, thought of my host and of his first words, "Eternal
grief inhabits the walls of this castle," and mused of times
past, of the events Of which this castle might have been a
witness; mused, like a man who wanders between graves and
coffins, gazes at the dust of the dead, and makes it live again
in his imagination. Finally, the image of the mournful
stranger at Gravesend came to my soul, and I fell asleep.
But my sleep was troubled. I dreamed that the suits of
armor hanging on the wall turned into knights and that these
knights came toward me with naked swords and with angry
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NIKOLAI M. KARAMZIN
looks and said: "Unhappy man! How dare you
come to our island? Do not sailors pale at the sight of its
granite .shores? How dare you enter the terrible sanctuary of
this castle? Does not its terror resound over all the
surroundings? Does not the traveler turn back on seeing its
frightening towers? Impudent man! Die for your pernicious
curiosity!" Their swords clanged over me, the blows fell on my
breast—but suddenly all vanished, and I awoke and in
another minute fell asleep again. Now a new dream disturbed
my spirit. I dreamed that terrible thunder resounded in the
castle, the iron doors banged, the windows shook, the floor
rocked, and a frightful winged monster that I cannot
describe flew toward my bed, hissing and roaring. The
nightmare vanished, but I could no longer fall asleep; I felt a
need for fresh air, went to the window, and found to one side a
small door, opened it, and descended a steep staircase into
the garden.
The night was clear, and the full moon shed a silvery light
on the dark foliage of the old oaks and elms that formed a
long dense alley. The murmur of the waves blended with the
murmur of the leaves, stirred by the wind. In the distance the
rocky mountains lay white, resembling a wall of teeth that
encircled the whole island of Bornholm; between them and
the walls of the castle a large wood was visible on one side,
and on the other, an open plain with small thickets.
My heart beat even more strongly with the impression of
the terrible nightmares, and my blood had not yet subsided.
I entered the dark alley, under the shelter of the rustling oaks,
and with a feeling almost like veneration I submerged myself
in its gloom. Thoughts of the druids stirred in my mind, and
I felt as if I were approaching that very sanctuary where all
the mysteries and horrors of their religion were preserved.
Finally the long alley brought me to some clumps of rosemary,
behind which there rose a sandy hillock. I wanted to climb to
its top, from there to behold in the bright moonlight the land-
scape of the sea and the island, but suddenly I noticed an
opening leading inside the hill: with some effort a man could
enter it. An irrepressible feeling of curiosity impelled me to
enter this cavern, more like the work of human hands than
like a creation of wild Nature. I entered, and felt the damp
and cold, but resolved to go on and, going forward some ten
paces, made out several steps that led up to a wide iron door;
this, to my amazement, was not locked. As if involuntarily
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my hand opened it—there, behind an iron grating that held a
large padlock, a lamp was burning, fastened to the vaulting;
in the corner on a bed of straw lay a pale young woman in a
black dress. She was asleep, and her reddish locks, intertwined
with the yellow blades of straw, covered her high breast,
which scarcely stirred with her breathing. One of her hands,
white but withered, lay on the ground, while her head was
cradled on the other. If a painter had sought to depict ex-
hausted, endless, and eternal misery, lulled to sleep by the
poppies of Morpheus, then this woman could well have served
as a subject for his brush.
My friends! Who is not touched at the sight of an unfortu-
nate? But the sight of a young woman, suffering in a subter-
ranean dungeon, the Sight of the weakest and dearest of all
creatures, persecuted by fate, could endow a stone itself with
feeling. I looked at her with commiseration and thought to
myself: What barbarian's hand has shut you away from the
light of day? Can it be for a heavy transgression? But the
gentleness of your face, the tranquil motion of your breast,
and my own heart reassure me that you are innocent!
At that very moment she awoke, looked at the grating,
caught sight of me, gave a startled sigh, and raised her head,
arose and came up to me and lowered her eyes to the ground,
as if trying to collect her thoughts, again fixed her gaze On me,
and was on the point of Speaking, but did not speak.
"If the sympathy of a wayfarer," I said after several min-
utes of silence, "brought by the hand of fate to this castle
and to this cave, can lighten your fate, if his real commisera-
tion can deserve your trust, then demand his services!"
She looked at me with motionless eyes, in which I could see
amazement, something of curiosity, irresolution, and doubt.
Finally, after a strong inner movement that stirred my breast
as if with an electric shock, she answered firmly:
"Whoever you may be, whatever chance has brought you
here, foreigner, I cannot ask anything from you but pity. It is
not in your power to alter my fate. I kiss the hand that
punishes me."
"But your heart is innocent," I said, "and it, of course,
cannot deserve such a cruel punishment?"
"My heart," she replied, "may well have been in error. God
will forgive my weakness. I trust that soon my life will come
to an end. Leave me, stranger!"
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NIKOLAI M. KARAMZIN
She came up to the grating, looked at me
tenderly, and repeated in a low voice:
"For God's sake, leave me! . . . if he sent you here, he
whose terrible curse still rings eternally in my ears, tell him
that I suffer, that I suffer day and night, that my heart is
withered with grief, that no tears can ever lighten my sorrow.
Tell him that I bear my imprisonment without a murmur,
without complaining, that I die his tender, unhappy . . ."
Suddenly she fell silent, thought for a moment, and with-
drew from the grating, fell to her knees and covered her face
with her hands; a minute later she looked at me again, again
lowered her eyes to the ground, and said tenderly and timidly:
"Perhaps you know my story, but if you do not know it,
then do not ask me, for God's sake, do not ask! Foreigner,
farewell!"
Before going I was about to say a few words to her that
came directly from my heart, but my glance still met hers,
and it seemed to me that she was on the point of asking me
something very important for her heart's peace. I stopped,
awaiting her question, but after a long sigh it died on her pale
lips. We parted.
Coming out of the cavern, I refrained from closing the iron
door, so that the fresh pure air would penetrate into the dun-
geon through the grating and lighten the unfortunate woman's
breathing. The glow of dawn was red in the sky; the birds had
awakened; a breeze was blowing the dew from the bushes and
flowers that grew around the hillock.
My God! I thought. My God! How miserable to be shut
off from the company of living, free, joyful beings with which
the endless expanses of Nature are everywhere populated!
Even in the far north, among high, lichen-covered rocks, ter-
rifying to the gaze, the work of Your hand is fair, the work of
Your hand enraptures the spirit and the heart. And here,
where the foamy waves have battled granite crags from the
beginning of time, here too Your hand has imprinted the liv-
ing signs of a creator's love and well-being; here too at morn
roses bloom in an azure heaven, here too tender breezes are
scented with their aroma, here too green carpets are laid out
like soft velvet under man's feet, here too birds sing, sing
merrily for the merry man, and sadly for the sad man, pleas-
ing all; here too the grieving heart can relieve itself of its
burden of misfortunes in the embrace of a sympathetic Na-
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ture! But that poor woman, locked up in a dungeon, is shut
away from this consolation; the dew of morning no longer
moistens her tired heart; the breeze does not refresh her
wasted breast; the sun's rays do not illumine her gloomy eyes;
the silent balsamic effusions of the moon do not nourish her
spirit with gentle dreams and pleasant reveries. Creator! Why
have You given man the destructive power to make one an-
other and himself unfortunate?" My strength gave way, and
my eyes closed, under the branches of the tall oak tree, on the
soft greensward. My sleep lasted about two hours.
"The door was open, and the foreigner entered the cavern,"
I heard as I awakened, and opening my eyes I saw the old
man, my host: he was sitting in deep thought on a bench of
turf, about five paces away from me; beside him stood the
man who had brought me into the castle. I went up to them.
The old man looked at me with some severity, arose, pressed
my hand, and his look became more gentle. We entered the
thick alley together without saying a word. It seemed that he
was hesitating in his mind and was uncertain, but suddenly
he stopped short and, fixing on me a penetrating, fiery gaze,
asked firmly, ,
.
"You have seen her?"
"Yes," I answered, "I have seen her, but I do not know
who she is and why she suffers there."
"You will learn," he said, "you will learn, young man, and
your heart will bleed with pity. Then you will ask yourself
why Heaven has poured out the full cup of its wrath on this
weak, gray-haired old man, a man who loved virtue, who
honored its holy laws."
We sat down under the tree, and the old man told me a
frightful tale, a tale that you will not hear now, my friends;
it will remain for another time. But now I will tell you one
thing only, that I penetrated the mystery of the stranger at
Gravesend, a terrible mystery!
The sailors were waiting for me at the gate of the castle.
We returned to the ship, they raised sail, and Bornholm van-
ished from our sight.
The sea murmured. In mournful meditation I stood on the
deck, my hand on the mast. Deep sighs constrained my breast,
and finally, I looked up at the heavens, and the wind blew a
tear on my face into the sea.
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