governess who shared her room slept also. All became still, except that a cricket chirped as if in triumph, a cock crew in the yard and was answered from far away, and the groaning of the wounded man went on unceasingly. Then at last she rose, with noiseless steps reached the door, and felt her way into the room in which she had been told that Bolkonsky lay. By the feeble light of a candle placed upon a bench she could dimly discern a form lying on a mattress in the corner. Ever since she had heard that he was near her she had been cherishing the hope of visiting him. But now that she was close to him, fear came over her, and she scarcely dared to find out for herself what change his terrible wound might have wrought in him. Still, a force she could not resist urged her on. She drew near to where he lay, and saw that his face was altered only in that it wore a softer, more youthful expression than she had ever seen on it before. She sank on her knees beside him. He smiled and stretched out his hand. From that time she spent with him every hour which the doctor would allow her to dedicate to him. Every evening she sat by his side, screening from his eyes the light of the candle, and knitting socks; for he had happened to say that old women who knit socks make the best nurses, and that there is something which soothes the patient in the sight of the nurse's knitting. He was very quiet and patient. All his old troubles and vexations had left him, he knew nothing now of his former discontent with life, or of the fear of death which he had sometimes experienced. At last all his friends and attendants came to take leave of him; and they brought with them his boy, and he kissed the child, and gave him his blessing, and then lay back and quietly passed away.

During Bolkonsky's last hours his sister Marya also was with him. Her stern old father had been suddenly struck down by paralysis. For some little time he lingered on, unable to speak so as to be understood; then a slight change took place, and he recovered his speech sufficiently to mention his son, and to thank his daughter. When she told him that her brother was at Smolensk, he said quietly and clearly, 'Yes; Russia is lost! They have ruined her!' Then he began to sob, and tears flowed from his eyes. He tried to say something more. Marya thought he was speaking about ber, or her brother, or Russia, or his approaching death, and could not understand what he said. But the old servant who lovingly waited on him interpreted his words. Put on your white dress: I like it,' he said. These were the last words Marya heard from her father's lips. Soon afterwards he tranquilly died. Scarcely had Marya recovered from the shock caused by his death, when she found herself threatened by an unexpected trouble. The peasants of the estate to which the old prince had retired, in order not to remain in the line of the advancing invaders, were a morose and stubborn set of men, among

whom had spread an opinion that the old order of things was about to give place to a new, and who were inclined to take advantage of the death of the stern master they had feared, in order to set the authority of his representatives at defiance. One morning Marya received from her French governess one of the manifestoes which the invaders were circulating among the peasants. Becoming suddenly aware of her danger, she determined to fly at once, and sent for the village headman to tell him to get horses ready. He declared that none were to be had. All the fodder was gone, he said, seized for the use of the army. And so the horses had been turned loose. The peasants themselves, he added, were starving from want of grain. Marya immediately ordered the seigneural stores to be thrown open and their contents distributed among the starving villagers. But they were not starving at all. The story of their want was a pure invention; and the gift of corn, instead of rendering them grateful, merely added to their belief that the moment of their own strength, of their proprietor's weakness, had arrived. News was brought to Marya that they were assembling outside and wished to see her. Her servants

Our

All

begged her not to go out to them, but she insisted on going. needs are the same, and we will share all things in common. that I have is yours,' she said, gazing at the faces of the men who stood near her. They in turn looked steadily at her, with an expression common to all of them, but whether it was one of curiosity, devotion, gratitude, or of fear and distrust, she could not tell. No answer came from the crowd. Again she spoke to them, urging them to leave their homes, to which the enemy were drawing near, and to avail themselves of the provision she promised in her brother's name to make for them elsewhere. Still no man came forward to reply. Only voices were heard in the crowd, vaguely hinting that she had spoken cunningly, and they were to give up their homes and go into slavery, forsooth! Disappointed and sad, she went to her solitary chamber, and the house was closed. The next morning, when the carriages were packed, and the princess was ready to start, the villagers sent to say that they would not allow her to leave. Just at this time young Nicholas Rostof, with one of his comrades and a couple of soldiers, happened to visit the village on a foraging expedition, his regiment being quartered not far off; and before long he had been informed by the Princess Marya of what had taken place. The romantic nature of her position, and the appealing glances of her fine eyes, produced a profound impression upon the young hussar. The tears came into his eyes as he offered her his services. Then he left the house, and with swift steps strode up to the assembled monjiks. Where is the headman?' he cried. Why do you want to know?' was beginning one of the crowd who stood nearest, when Rostof's clenched fist sent his hat flying and stopped his speech. Hats off!' cried Rostof, who had now worked himself

They did so instantly. crowd at once obeying

into a rage. Then seizing by the collar the man who had answered him, he called on the soldiers to bind him. The headman's turn came next; two of the Rostof's orders to them to take off their sashes and tie his hands. Now, listen to me!' cried Rostof, turning to the moujiks. March off home instantly, and don't let me hear a word more.' • We never meant to do any harm. It was only our stupidity. It was all nonsense they were doing.' Such were the utterances of the crowd, each man blaming his neighbour. The mutiny was quelled. A couple of hours later the villagers were zealously assisting in packing the carriages, their labours superintended by the headman, who, at the special request of the princess, had been freed from his bonds. A little later she was able to join her rescuer's family, and with them to watch over her brother during the last days of his life. Some time later, when Moscow began to rise again from its ashes, Pierre Besukhof returned there, and there found the Princess Marya and Natasha Rostof. He was now a widower, and therefore he did not think it so necessary as before to avoid Natasha, with whom, as well as with the sister of his friend Andrew Bolkonsky, he had many things to talk about. His harsh experiences of life had changed him much. Even his appearance had altered. What was foolish and frivolous or even vicious in him appeared to have been burnt out of him by the fires of adversity, and only the nobler elements of his character to have remained. He seemed, as Natasha said to Marya, with one of the now rare smiles of old,

to have come out of a She also was very differ

bath-morally, you know, out of a bath.' ent from what she had been. But gradually, with the colour to her cheek, came back some of the former life and brightness to her mind. To Pierre she seemed even more charming than she had ever been.

It can scarcely be necessary to add that Pierre married Natasha, and Marya Bolkonsky became the wife, and saved by her wealth the ruined property, of the young hussar who had rescued her from the mutinous moujiks. The epilogue to the story describes the wedded life of the two young couples, and gives, in the pictures of the heroines in their happy homes, two charming portraits of perfect wives. Widely different are their characters from that of Anna Karenina, the very imperfect wife from whom Count Tolstoy's other great work takes its name. But of Anna Karenina we have no longer time to speak.

W. R. S. RALSTON.

THE EGYPTIAN CRISIS.

In order to understand the true significance of the crisis which has recently occurred in Egypt, it is necessary to realise the conditions by which the crisis was preceded, and under which it took place. Having resided at Cairo, with brief intervals, throughout the period embraced between the final formation of the new Ministry by Mr. Rivers Wilson's arrival in Egypt, and its disruption by the dismissal of Nubar Pasha, and having from personal relations been in a position to know more than ordinary residents of what was going on in the world of Egyptian politics, I can perhaps throw some light on a chapter of Anglo-Oriental history which is worth studying, not only from its intrinsic importance, but from its bearing on a number of similar issues, of far greater gravity, with which England, at no distant period, must be called to deal. I see that in many quarters the crisis is regarded as a proof of the arbitrary and unaccountable caprice which is the characteristic of Eastern despotisms. The assumption is plausible, but erroneous. If my view is correct, the abrupt dismissal of the Prime Minister of the Egyptian Cabinet was a deliberate act, pursued in accordance with a settled policy; a long foreseen move in the game which is being played out between the European Powers on the one hand and the Khedive on the other. How this came to pass it is my object, if possible, to explain.

I am not going to repeat once more the weary tale of the causes which have brought Egypt into her present embarrassments. I intend to assume that the general history of England's relations with Egypt during the last five years is, in the main, familiar to my readers. It is enough for my purpose to say that with the appointment of the Commission of Inquiry in the spring of 1878, England finally abandoned the attitude of non-intervention in the affairs of Egypt to which she had adhered so pertinaciously, and, as I have long held, so ill-advisedly. It is true that this Commission was in theory established at the instance, and in the name, of the Khedive. But, as a matter of fact, it was forced upon his Highness, sorely against his will, by the direct pressure of the French and English Governments, and was only accepted by him in virtue of a belief, whether well or ill founded, that the security of his throne

would be endangered by continued resistance to their demands. From the date, therefore, when the Commission was appointed, the era of direct European, or, more strictly speaking, Anglo-French, intervention may be said to have commenced. The Commission eventuated in the establishment of the existing Egyptian régime. The true character of this régime, difficult as it is of explanation in any case, is utterly unintelligible unless we bear in mind the origin of the anomalous investigation to which it owes its existence. At the close of 1876, the Khedive, being then apparently on the verge of bankruptcy, concluded an arrangement with his European creditors, as represented by Mr. Goschen and M. Joubert, in accordance with which he consolidated his debts, and pledged himself to pay an annual sum as interest and sinking fund, which, for present purposes, may be stated as being in round numbers seven per cent. upon a capital of a hundred millions. Before, however, twelve months had elapsed, the Khedive alleged that the above arrangement had been concluded on the faith of erroneous, if not fraudulent, returns; that the country was utterly unable to meet the drain upon its resources caused by the payment of the interest on its debt, and that this debt must be reduced if Egypt was not to be ruined by the burden of taxation. His Highness further proposed that a fresh Commission should be appointed to investigate the resources of Egypt. In itself the request was not, primâ facie, an unreasonable one: and it would, under the circumstances of the case, have been acceded to without serious objection, if any confidence had been, or could have been, reposed in the good faith of its author. But after the endless conflicting representations which had been made at various times, on the authority of the Khedive himself, as to the resources and liabilities of Egypt, no such confidence was forthcoming. At the time the proposal for a reduction of the debt interest was thus mooted by his Highness, Nubar Pasha was residing in Paris in exile, and was in close communication with parties by whom Egyptian securities were largely held in France. If I am not mistaken, the ex-Minister was the first to advise that no demand for a reduction of interest should be entertained, till steps had been taken to ascertain, independently, not only what the Khedive really owed, and what he could pay, but how his embarrassments had been brought about. Great distrust of the Egyptian Government (or, more truly speaking, of the Khedive, for up to this time the Khedive and the Egyptian Government were identical) had long been entertained by its European creditors. This distrust assumed a more distinct form after the publication, in these pages, of an article professing to give an explanation of the true causes which had led to the financial difficulties of Egypt under the personal administration of Ismail Pasha. The importance of this article-as a link in the chain of events I am endeavouring to explain-lay not so much in the attention it excited as in the fact that it was underVOL. V.-No. 26. X X