his hair was just as thick; the thin bit of beard was quite white and turned up. The blue eyes were kind and attentive. He was lying on his back evidently in fever; on his cheeks there was a sickly pink color.

Mejenetsky approached him. "What is it?" he asked.

The old man with difficulty lifted himself on to his elbow and stretched out his little snaky, dried-up hand. Attempting to speak, he began to breathe heavily, as if balancing himself, and gasping for breath he said softly:

"You did not reveal it to me then, God forgive you, but I disclose it to all."

"What do you disclose?"

"About the Lamb... about the Lamb I disclose... that youth had the Lamb; and it is said the Lamb will overcome them, will overcome all . . . and those who are with him are the elect and faithful.”

old man's companions. But the old man well knew what he was saying, and it had for him a clear and deep meaning. The meaning was that evil has not long to rule, that the Lamb by righteousness and meekness conquers all... that the Lamb will wipe every tear, and there will be neither weeping, sickness, nor death. And he felt that this was already being accomplished in the whole world because it was being accomplished in his soul enlightened by the approach of death.

"Yea, come quickly! Amen! Yea, come! Lord Jesus! Come!" he murmured, with a slight, significant, and, as it appeared to Mejenetsky, insane smile.

XIII.

"There he is, a representative of the people," thought Mejenetsky, coming out from the old man. "This is one of the best of them, and what darkness. They" (he implied Roman and his

"You must understand in the spirit. The Kings have received power with the Beast. The Lamb shall overcome them."

"What kings?" said Mejenetsky. "There are seven kings, five are fallen, and one is, and the other is not yet come: and when he cometh he must continue a short space . . . and then it will be all up with him. . . . Do you understand?"

Mejenetsky shook his head, thinking the old man was raving, and that his words were senseless. So also thought the prisoners, his room mates. The shaven prisoner who had called Mejenetsky came up to him, and touching him with his shoulder to attract his attention, winked at the old man.

"Our Tobacco Kingdom' keeps babbling and babbling," he said, "but he does not himself know what he means."

So thought both Mejenetsky and the

they are now, nothing can be done."

Mejenetsky at one time was occupied with revolutionary work amongst the people, and knew all the "inertia," as he called it, of the Russian peasant. He had also associated with soldiers, both on active service and discharged, and knew all their obstinate faith in the oath, in the necessity of obedience, and knew the impossibility of influencing them by argument. He was aware of all this, but had never drawn from it the natural conclusion. The discussion with the new revolutionists upset and angered him.

"They say that all we did, all Haltourin, Kibalich, Perovskaya' did, was unnecessary, even harmful, that it was this which called forth the reaction of Alexander III., that thanks to them the people are persuaded that the revolutionary activity emanates from the landlords who have killed the Tsar be5 Leading Russian Terrorists. (Trans.)

cause he deprived them of the serfs. How absurd! What a want of comprehension, and how insolent it is to say so," he thought, continuing to pace the corridor.

All the dormitories were locked except the one used by the new revolutionists. Approaching it Mejenetsky heard the laugh of the brunette he detested, and the strident, assertive voice of Roman. They were evidently speaking about him. Mejenetsky stopped to listen. Roman was saying:

"Not understanding the economic laws, they did not realize what they were doing. And there was here a good deal of . . ."

Mejenetsky could not and did not wish to hear what it was there was a good deal of, and indeed he did not require to know this. The tone of voice alone demonstrated the complete contempt which these people felt towards him-Mejenetsky, the hero of the revolution, who had sacrificed for it twelve years of his life.

And in Mejenetsky's soul there arose a fearful hatred such as he had never before experienced. A hatred against every one, everything, against all this senseless world in which could live only people akin to beasts, like this old man with his Lamb, and similar half-bestial hangmen and warders, and these insolent, self-assured, still-born theorists.

The warder on duty came and led away the women to the female quarters.

Mejenetsky retreated to the far end of the corridor in order not to encounter him. Having returned, the warder locked the door on the new political prisoners, and asked Mejenetsky to go to his room. Mejenetsky obeyed mechanically, but begged him not to lock the door.

Mejenetsky lay down on his bed with his face to the wall.

"Is it possible that all my life has indeed been spent in vain: my energy, strength of will, genius" (he deemed no

one superior to himself in mental qualities), "sacrificed in vain?" He recalled to mind how, not long ago, when already on his way to Siberia he had received a letter from Svetlogoub's mother, who upbraided him, in as he thought a silly feminine way, for having ruined her son by attracting him into the terrorist work. When he received the letter he only contemptuously smiled: what could this foolish woman understand about the aims which were before him and Svetlogoub? Now, recalling this letter, and thinking of the kind, trustful, impulsive personality of Svetlogoub, he began to meditate first about him and then about himself. "Is it possible that my whole life has been a mistake?" He closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep, but suddenly he realized with horror the return of the attacks he had had during his first month at the Petropavlovsky fortress. Again the pain in his head, again the horrible faces, big-mouthed, dishevelled, dreadful, on the dark, speckled background, and again figures visible to the open eyes. The added feature was that some criminal in gray trousers with a shaved head was swinging over him.

And again, follow

ing the association of ideas, he began to search for the regulator to which he could fasten the rope.

An insufferable hatred demanding expression consumed his heart. He could not sit still, he could not calm himself, could not dispel his thoughts.

"How?" he already began to put the question to himself. "Cut open an artery? I couldn't manage that. Hang myself? Of course, that is the simplest."

He remembered a rope tied round a bundle of wood lying in the corridor. "To get on the wood or on a stool. In the corridor the warder walks. But he is sure to go to sleep or go out. I must watch, and when the opportunity comes, fetch the rope into my room and fasten it to the regulator."

Standing by his door Mejenetsky listened to the steps of the warder in the passage, and from time to time when the warder went to the far end, he looked through the open door, but the warder did not go away nor did he fall asleep. Mejenetsky with sharp ears listened to the sound of his steps and waited.

At that moment, in the dormitory where the sick old man lay in the darkness barely lighted by a smoking lamp, amidst the sleepy sounds of breathing, grumbling, snoring, and coughing, there was taking place the greatest thing in the world. The old sectarian was dying, and to his spiritual vision was revealed all that which he had so passionately sought for and desired during the whole of his life. In a blinding light he saw the Lamb in the form of a bright youth, and a great multitude of people from all nations were standing in front of him in white robes, and all were in great joy, and there was no longer any evil in the world. All this had taken place, the old man knew it, in his soul, and in the whole world, and he felt great joy and peace.

Whereas for those who were in the dormitory what took place was this: the old man was loudly gasping, the death-rattle in his throat. His neighbor awoke and roused the others. When the noise ceased, and the old man became quiet and cold, his companions began to knock against the door.

The warder opened the door and went in. In about ten minutes two prisoners brought out the dead body The Fortnightly Review.

and carried it away to the mortuary. The warder followed them, locking the door behind him. The corridor remained empty.

"Lock it, lock it," thought Mejenetsky, following from his door all that was taking place, "you will not prevent me from leaving all this senseless horror."

Mejenetsky no longer felt that inner frenzy which previously tormented him, he was completely absorbed by one thought: how to avoid any hindrance to the accomplishment of his object.

With palpitating heart he went up to the bundle of wood, untied the rope, pulled it out, and looking round at the entrance carried it into his room. There he mounted the stool and slung the rope over the regulator. Having tied both ends, he made a knot, and, by doubling the rope, arranged a noose. The noose was too low. He again tied the rope, gauged the height of his neck, and anxiously listening and looking round at the door he got on the stool, pushed his neck through the noose, adjusted it, and kicking away the stool he hung in the air. . . .

...

It was not until his morning round that the warder saw Mejenetsky standing with bent knees by the overturned stool. He was taken out of the noose. The Governor hurried up, and, learning that Roman was a doctor, called him to offer assistance to the strangled

man.

All the usual methods of restoration were applied, but Mejenetsky did not revive.

Mejenetsky's body was taken to the mortuary and put on the planks by the side of the body of the old sectarian. Leo Tolstoy.

Probably every one is secretly impressed by the prestige and significance of style, and, in some dim way, is made conscious of the fact that style possesses a meaning and is fraught with an intelligible message. The uniformity and unanimity of great buildings is proof of the existence of such a meaning. Coherence of structure stands for coherence of thought. Where not a detail, or smallest feature, which in any way conflicts with the general character, is admitted, we cannot but be aware of an intelligent principle at work, selecting and rejecting. We observe, also, that this principle is independent of and stronger than individual will, since the more it comes into play the more the initiative of the individual is superseded and his action absorbed. From this absorption of the individual there results that uniformity of the great styles which, we feel, can embody no petty whim or chance current of floating fashion, but a powerful, deep-seated conviction of the age. The typical buildings that stretch back in long array into the past, Doric temple and Roman palace, and early Christian basilica, and Arab mosque, and soaring Gothic minster, seem each to incarnate this spirit of their own time. So different, yet each instinct with definite character, they invite us, like sphinx riddles, to guess their meaning. And we are never tired of guessing. Each generation in turn addresses itself to the task, and ponders over the message which it feels must inhabit forms so harmonious and coherent.

* 1. "Dictionnaire de l'Ameublement et de la Décoration," Par Henry Havard, Paris: Ancienne Maison Quantin.

2" Le Mariage de Louis XV. d'après des documents nouveaux et une correspondance inédite de Stanislas Leczinski." Par Henry Gauthier-Villars. Paris: Librairie Plon, 1900.

as

But

Such is the attraction of style. it is not confined to styles of architecture. No sooner, even in comparatively trivial subjects, do we come in touch with that peculiar uniformity and ordered motion which marks the presence of style than we are conscious of the same sense of definite character and meaning. Styles of furniture have this definite character as well as styles of building. Louis Quinze furniture is uniform as Gothic architecture. There is, however, this difference, that the purpose and meaning of style in furniture is slighter and more on the surface than the meaning of style in architecture, and for this very reason is perhaps easier to seize. The meaning of Gothic lies deep in the heart of its age. It is the voice of national conviction, inexhaustible in interest but difficult completely to grasp and formulate. The meaning of such styles in furniture as Louis Quinze and Louis Seize refers to the society of the period, and deals not so much with national conviction as with the manners and life of a class. It is deficient, no doubt, in Gothic's depth of interest, yet, because of its comparative superficiality, should be easier to interpret.

In making the attempt we have at least this advantage, that we are dealing with a subject familiar to every one. French eighteenth-century furniture has been so long a fashion that most people's houses contain specimens of it. Moreover, besides these scattered examples, we have our great collections; we have the Wallace Collection

3 "La Noblesse en France avant et depuis 1789." Par H. de Barthélemy. Paris: CalmannLévy, 1905.

4 "La Reine Marie Antoinette." Par Pierre de Nolhac. Paris: Calmann-Lévy, 1905.

as

giving us the full blaze and glitter of the life of the ancient régime, and the Jones Collection, giving us that exquisite grace and refinement which to the end kept the sight of horrible reality from the vision of poor Marie Antoinette. These are museums, not of the furniture only, but of the painting and whole system of decoration of their period. It is scarcely necessary to point out the great value of such collections these, when it comes to the interpretation of the meaning of a style. It is, as we said, in its unanimity, in its development of the same theme and the same set of ideas in many different ways, that the significance of style is felt. All that we set eyes on, not the furniture only, but the ornaments, and bric-a-brac and pictures on the walls must combine to convey the same impression, if that impression is to be adequately appreciated and rightly understood. It is this unanimity in variety, the consciousness of being surrounded by ideas of the same character, but reproduced in countless different ways, which fills the suites of rooms of Hertford House with the very atmosphere and life of the French eighteenthcentury aristocracy. True, what we have here is no deep and solemn conviction, such as inspires those great manifestations of style in which the spirit of an age is embodied. It is only the spirit of a section of society which pervades these salons; a section, too, confessedly frivolous and pleasure-loving and altogether lacking in seriousness and depth of interest. And yet, the delightful complacency with which the philosophy of this particular class is voiced for us by the glittering harmony through which we move, makes it impossible not to wish to transcribe the message. French furniture has often been praised for its beauty, its preciousness, its fine workmanship; but how seldom do we hear it praised for its historical significance! How seldom do

we value it for what it tells us, not of the manners and tastes only, but of the ideas and limitations and view of life of this dominant section of French society! Let us remember, too, what there is of peculiar and fatal significance about a section of society in whose doom the spirit of opéra-bouffe and tragedy, unparalleled frivolity and unparalleled ferocity, are so horribly mingled and involved. Its airs and graces, its solemn antics and elaborate etiquette, relieved against the inky background of the Revolution, are inspired with a half serious, wholly pathetic interest which, in themselves, they might not possess. Morturi te salutant. This débonnaire philosophy, so lightly echoed by the splendor of these rooms, is the philosophy which was controverted by the guillotine.

How shall we seize it? Let us choose the most obvious characteristic here present and question that; it is sure to be the most significant one. Nor, as to this most obvious characteristic, is there much room for doubt. The richness of material, the elaborate and infinitely painstaking workmanship, suggest at once a consummate luxury and the manners and life of an essentially luxurious class. It is a furniture de luxe, if ever there was one. The gorgeousness and glitter of it, the loaded gilding of the chairs and couches, the inlays of precious woods and metals, the carved ormolu and painted porcelain, the ornaments of gold and silver and enamel, studded with gems, or wrought out of lapis lazuli, or rock crystal or other rare and precious stone, all bear out this character. The more we look, the more this impression is confirmed. Luxury here is dominant, is the master motive. It dominates, for one thing, the labor that serves it. There is never any mistaking for a moment the kind of excellence in workmanship, which springs from the free use of a natural gift, and