Marie Tarnowska

Dio mi tolg

essa

s-like slim, green dancers holding hands-fled backwards as we passed, and the rays of the March sun

the barefooted children of the Roman Campagna stood to gaz

y labored scrawls of some childish hand. A blue ornamental flourish decked the front; and under the printed title, "Program of Lessons," the words "History," "Geography," "Arithmetic," were followed by a series of blank spaces for the hours to be filled in. Alas, for the tragic pu

ge seignorial name met my eye: long Russian names of prince, of lover or of murderer. On every page was the convulsion of death o

e some ineffable modern Aphrodite-rose the

ing hand in the prison at Venice-are

esight. I wore blue spectacles. I was very happy. My mother loved me very

here with the little girl whom every one loved and who gaz

dden behind those dim blue glasses, no one to-day would raise his voi

er eyes should be uncovered, and "Mura," as her parents fondly called her, looked out upon the

decca in defiance of prison rules, are in thin handwriting, with names and dates harshly underlined; but here an

ung Vassili Tarnowsky confronts us: the radiant, temerario

ld, and wise beyond my years. But, sagacious as I thought myself, I could never believe anything that was told me against Vassili. My eyes saw nothing but his beauty. On th

ARIE TARNOWSK

ies: a musical enumeration of feminine names which rings the knell of his child-wife's happ

nto curt narrative, as if a wave of apathy had suddenly submerged the tragic heroine and left in her place only a passive

cent face of a child: Tioka. He is all bright curls and laughter. Unaware of the carnage that surrounds him, he runs with

··

e hand and the heart of the writer wearied of their task. Wit

he anguish I have suffered, I am sure that pity would be shown t

abruptly the trag

I am at Trani; at the furthermost end of Italy; al

come so far to seek: the woman who never gav

riatic trailed its blue silken waters past the barred windows. I raised the heavy knocker; it fe

fluttered-black and white and timid as swallows-a

all her!" She left us. The two Sisters accompanied me up a broad stone staircase to a sma

omen's voices singing in the prison chapel,

ie e

e elei

rgan rolled beneath the tr

r pur

inviol

f the two Sisters, "plays the organ for the other p

in the morning," ad

na, are the passionate days of Moscow,

a my

matut

e silence. Then the door opened, and on the threshold stood Mar