e officer
would allow him to get off because he was wealthy, but that the poor
must march.

The Russian heard this, and perhaps on the point of making a bargain,
felt irritated, and would listen to no sort of arrangement, as a
scoundrel always does when you have been on the point of buying. Wassili
was put in irons, and destined to unlimited service--that is, to an
eternal exile, for the Russian soldier is never allowed to return to his
home.[1] Daria nearly fell a victim to her grief, and only recovered
some portion of vigour when the recruits were to set out.

[Footnote 1: He is enrolled for twenty years--that is, for a
whole life.]

On that day the recruiting party gorge them with meat and brandy till
they are nearly dead drunk. They are then thrown into the sledges and
carried off, still loaded with irons. A most heart-rending scene now
takes place; every family follows them with their cries, and chants the
prayers for the dead and the dying, while the unfortunate conscripts
themselves, besotted with liquor, remain stupid and indifferent, burst
into roars of laughter, or answer their friends with oaths and
imprecations.

Notwithstanding the force that had been shown to him, Wassili had drunk
nothing, and preserved his judgment unclouded; he stretched out his arms
towards Daria, towards his friends, and towards me, and bade us adieu
with many tears. Amidst the mournful sounds that struck upon her ears,
the young girl followed him rapidly, and had time to throw herself into
his arms before the sledge set out; but the moment he was beyond her
reach, she fell backward with violence on the ice. No one paid the least
attention to her; they all rushed forward and followed the sledges of
the recruiting party, which soon galloped out of sight. I lifted Daria
up; I did not attempt to restrain her grief, but took her back to her
father's, where she was paid every attention her situation required. In
about a month's time she was able to resume her usual occupations, but
she recovered only a portion of her former self.

Winter again set in. I often saw Daria, either at her father's house, or
when she walked out on purpose to meet me, which her father allowed, in
the hope of dissipating her sorrows. How the poor girl was altered since
the departure of Wassili! How many sad things the young Siberian told me
when our sledges glided together along the surface of the lake! What
melancholy there was in her language, and supersti