Mizora: A Prophecy

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  MIZORA:

  A PROPHECY.

  A MSS. FOUND AMONG THE PRIVATE PAPERS OF THEPRINCESS VERA ZAROVITCH;

  _Being a true and faithful account of her Journey to the Interior of theEarth, with a careful description of the Country and its Inhabitants,their Customs, Manners and Government._

  WRITTEN BY HERSELF.

  Publisher's logo]

  NEW YORK:

  _G. W. Dillingham, Publisher_,

  Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co.

  MDCCCXC.

  _All Rights Reserved._

  Copyright, 1889byMary E. Bradley.

  PREFACE.

  The narrative of Vera Zarovitch, published in the _CincinnatiCommercial_ in 1880 and 1881, attracted a great deal of attention. Itcommanded a wide circle of readers, and there was much more said aboutit than is usual when works of fiction run through a newspaper in weeklyinstallments. Quite a number of persons who are unaccustomed tobestowing consideration upon works of fiction spoke of it, and grewgreatly interested in it.

  I received many messages about it, and letters of inquiry, and someladies and gentlemen desired to know the particulars about theproduction of the story in book form; and were inquisitive about it andthe author who kept herself in concealment so closely that even herhusband did not know that she was the writer who was making this stir inour limited literary world.

  I was myself so much interested in it that it occurred to me to make thesuggestion that the story ought to have an extensive sale in book form,and to write to a publisher; but the lady who wrote the work seemedherself a shade indifferent on the subject, and it passed out of myhands and out of my mind.

  It is safe to say that it made an impression that was remarkable, andwith a larger audience I do not doubt that it would make its mark as anoriginal production wrought out with thoughtful care and literary skill,and take high rank.

  Yours very truly,

  Murat Halstead.

  _Nov. 14th, 1889._

  PART FIRST

  CHAPTER I.

  Having little knowledge of rhetorical art, and possessing but a limitedimagination, it is only a strong sense of the duty I owe to Science andthe progressive minds of the age, that induces me to come before thepublic in the character of an author. True, I have only a simplenarration of facts to deal with, and am, therefore, not expected topresent artistic effects, and poetical imagery, nor any of those flightsof imagination that are the trial and test of genius.

  Yet my task is not a light one. I may fail to satisfy my own mind thatthe true merits of the wonderful and mysterious people I discovered,have been justly described. I may fail to interest the public; which isthe one difficulty most likely to occur, and most to be regretted--notfor my own sake, but theirs. It is so hard to get human nature out ofthe ruts it has moved in for ages. To tear away their present faith, islike undermining their existence. Yet others who come after me will bemore aggressive than I. I have this consolation: whatever reception maybe given my narrative by the public, I know that it has been writtensolely for its good. That wonderful civilization I met with in Mizora, Imay not be able to more than faintly shadow forth here, yet from it, thepresent age may form some idea of that grand, that ideal life that ispossible for our remote posterity. Again and again has religiousenthusiasm pictured a life to be eliminated from the grossness andimperfections of our material existence. The Spirit--the Mind--thatmental gift, by or through which we think, reason, and suffer, is by onetragic and awful struggle to free itself from temporal blemishes anddifficulties, and become spiritual and perfect. Yet, who, sweeping thelimitless fields of space with a telescope, glancing at myriads ofworlds that a lifetime could not count, or gazing through a microscopeat a tiny world in a drop of water, has dreamed that patient Scienceand practice could evolve for the living human race, the ideal life ofexalted knowledge: the life that I found in Mizora; that Science hadmade real and practicable. The duty that I owe to truth compels me toacknowledge that I have not been solicited to write this narrative by myfriends; nor has it been the pastime of my leisure hours; nor written toamuse an invalid; nor, in fact, for any of those reasons which haveprompted so many men and women to write a book. It is, on the contrary,the result of hours of laborious work, undertaken for the sole purposeof benefiting Science and giving encouragement to those progressiveminds who have already added their mite of knowledge to the comingfuture of the race. "We owe a duty to posterity," says Junius in hisfamous letter to the king. A declaration that ought to be a motto forevery schoolroom, and graven above every legislative hall in the world.It should be taught to the child as soon as reason has begun to dawn,and be its guide until age has become its master.

  It is my desire not to make this story a personal matter; and for thatunavoidable prominence which is given one's own identity in relatingpersonal experiences, an indulgence is craved from whomsoever may perusethese pages.

  In order to explain how and why I came to venture upon a journey noother of my sex has ever attempted, I am compelled to make a slightmention of my family and nationality.

  I am a Russian: born to a family of nobility, wealth, and politicalpower. Had the natural expectations for my birth and condition beenfulfilled, I should have lived, loved, married and died a Russianaristocrat, and been unknown to the next generation--and this narrativewould not have been written.

  There are some people who seem to have been born for the sole purpose ofbecoming the playthings of Fate--who are tossed from one condition oflife to another without wish or will of their own. Of this class I am anillustration. Had I started out with a resolve to discover the NorthPole, I should never have succeeded. But all my hopes, affections,thoughts, and desires were centered in another direction, hence--but mynarrative will explain the rest.

  The tongue of woman has long been celebrated as an unruly member, andperhaps, in some of the domestic affairs of life, it has beenunnecessarily active; yet no one who gives this narrative a perusal, canjustly deny that it was the primal cause of the grandest discovery ofthe age.

  I was educated in Paris, where my vacations were frequently spent withan American family who resided there, and with whom my father had formedan intimate friendship. Their house, being in a fashionable quarter ofthe city and patriotically hospitable, was the frequent resort of manyof their countrymen. I unconsciously acquired a knowledge and admirationfor their form of government, and some revolutionary opinions in regardto my own.

  Had I been guided by policy, I should have kept the latter a secret, buton returning home, at the expiration of my school days, I imprudentlygave expression to them in connection with some of the politicalmovements of the Russian Government--and secured its suspicion at once,which, like the virus of some fatal disease, once in the system, wouldlose its vitality only with my destruction.

  While at school, I had become attached to a young and lovely Polishorphan, whose father had been killed at the battle of Grochow when shewas an infant in her mother's arms. My love for my friend, and sympathyfor her oppressed people, finally drew me into serious trouble andcaused my exile from my native land.

  I married at the age of twenty the son of my father's dearest friend.Alexis and I were truly attached to each other, and when I gave to myinfant the name of my father and witnessed his pride and delight, Ithought to my cup of earthly happiness, not one more drop could beadded.

  A desire to feel the cheering air of a milder climate induced me to paymy Polish friend a visit. During my sojourn with her occurred theanniversary of the tragedy of Grochow, when, according to custom, allwho had lost friends in the
two dreadful battles that had been foughtthere, met to offer prayers for their souls. At her request, Iaccompanied my friend to witness the ceremonies. To me, a silent andsympathizing spectator, they were impressive and solemn in the extreme.Not less than thirty thousand people were there, weeping and praying onground hallowed by patriot blood. After the prayers were said, the voiceof the multitude rose in a mournful and pathetic chant. It was rudelybroken by the appearance of the Russian soldiers.

  A scene ensued which memory refuses to forget, and justice forbids me todeny. I saw my friend, with the song of sorrow still trembling on herinnocent lips, fall bleeding, dying from the bayonet thrust of a Russiansoldier. I clasped the lifeless body in my arms, and in my grief andexcitement, poured forth upbraidings against the government of mycountry which it would never forgive nor condone. I was arrested, tried,and condemned to the mines of Siberia for life.

  My father's ancient and princely lineage, my husband's rank, the wealthof both families, all were unavailing in procuring a commutation of mysentence to some less severe punishment. Through bribery, however, theco-operation of one of my jailors was secured, and I escaped in disguiseto the frontier.

  It was my husband's desire that I proceed immediately to France, wherehe would soon join me. But we were compelled to accept whatever meanschance offered for my escape, and a whaling vessel bound for theNorthern Seas was the only thing I could secure passage upon withsafety. The captain promised to transfer me to the first southward boundvessel we should meet.

  But none came. The slow, monotonous days found me gliding farther andfarther from home and love. In the seclusion of my little cabin, my fatewas more endurable than the horrors of Siberia could have been, but itwas inexpressibly lonesome. On shipboard I sustained the character of ayouth, exiled for a political offense, and of a delicate constitution.

  It is not necessary to the interest of this narrative to enter into thedetails of shipwreck and disaster, which befel us in the Northern Seas.Our vessel was caught between ice floes, and we were compelled toabandon her. The small boats were converted into sleds, but in suchshape as would make it easy to re-convert them into boats again, shouldit ever become necessary. We took our march for the nearest Esquimauxsettlement, where we were kindly received and tendered the hospitalityof their miserable huts. The captain, who had been ill for some time,grew rapidly worse, and in a few days expired. As soon as the approachof death became apparent, he called the crew about him, and requestedthem to make their way south as soon as possible, and to do all in theirpower for my health and comfort. He had, he said, been guaranteed a sumof money for my safe conduct to France, sufficient to place his familyin independent circumstances, and he desired that his crew should do allin their power to secure it for them.

  The next morning I awoke to find myself deserted, the crew havingdecamped with nearly everything brought from the ship.

  Being blessed with strong nerves, I stared my situation bravely in theface, and resolved to make the best of it. I believed it could be only amatter of time when some European or American whaling vessel shouldrescue me: and I had the resolution to endure, while hope fed the flame.

  I at once proceeded to inure myself to the life of the Esquimaux. Ihabited myself in a suit of reindeer fur, and ate, with compulsoryappetite, the raw flesh and fat that form their principal food.Acclimated by birth to the coldest region of the temperate zone, andnaturally of a hardy constitution, I found it not so difficult to endurethe rigors of the Arctic temperature as I had supposed.

  I soon discovered the necessity of being an assistance to my new friendsin procuring food, as their hospitality depends largely upon the stateof their larder. A compass and a small trunk of instruments belonging tothe Captain had been either over-looked or rejected by the crew in theirflight. I secured the esteem of the Esquimaux by using the compass toconduct a hunting party in the right direction when a sudden snow-stormhad obscured the landmarks by which they guide their course. Icheerfully assumed a share of their hardships, for with these poorchildren of the North life is a continual struggle with cold andstarvation. The long, rough journeys which we frequently took over iceand ridges of snow in quest of animal food, I found monotonouslydestitute of everything I had experienced in former traveling, exceptfatigue. The wail of the winds, and the desolate landscape of ice andsnow, never varied. The coruscations of the Aurora Borealis sometimeslighted up the dreary waste around us, and the myriad eyes of thefirmament shone out with a brighter lustre, as twilight shrank beforethe gloom of the long Arctic night.

  A description of the winter I spent with the Esquimaux can be of littleinterest to the readers of this narrative. Language cannot convey tothose who have dwelt always in comfort the feeling of isolation, thestruggle with despair, that was constantly mine. We were often confinedto our ice huts for days while the blinding fury of the wind driven snowwithout made the earth look like chaos. Sometimes I crept to the narrowentrance and looked toward the South with a feeling of homesickness toointense to describe. Away, over leagues of perilous travel, layeverything that was dear or congenial; and how many dreary months,perhaps years, must pass before I could obtain release from associationsmore dreadful than solitude. It required all the courage I could commandto endure it.

  The whale-fishing opens about the first week in August, and continuesthroughout September. As it drew near, the settlement prepared to movefarther north, to a locality where they claimed whales could be foundin abundance. I cheerfully assisted in the preparations, for to meetsome whaling vessel was my only hope of rescue from surroundings thatmade existence a living death.

  The dogs were harnessed to sleds heavily laden with the equipments of anEsquimaux hut. The woman, as well as the men, were burdened with immensepacks; and our journey begun. We halted only to rest and sleep. A fewhours work furnished us a new house out of the ever present ice. Wefeasted on raw meat--sometimes a freshly killed deer; after which ourjourney was resumed.

  As near as I could determine, it was close to the 85 deg. north latitude,where we halted on the shore of an open sea. Wild ducks and game wereabundant, also fish of an excellent quality. Here, for the first time inmany months, I felt the kindly greeting of a mild breeze as it hailed mefrom the bosom of the water. Vegetation was not profuse nor brilliant,but to my long famished eyes, its dingy hue was delightfully refreshing.

  Across this sea I instantly felt a strong desire to sail. I believed itmust contain an island of richer vegetation than the shore we occupied.But no one encouraged me or would agree to be my companion. On thecontrary, they intimated that I should never return. I believed thatthey were trying to frighten me into remaining with them, and declaredmy intention to go alone. Perhaps I might meet in that milder climatesome of my own race. My friend smiled, and pointing to the South, said,as he designated an imaginary boundary:

  "Across _that_ no white man's foot has ever stepped."

  So I was alone. My resolution, however, was not shaken. A boat wasconstructed, and bidding adieu to my humble companions, I launched intoan unknown sea.