Princess Irina and Her Serf Slaves
"Where are my serf men, where are my slaves?! I ordered all the serfs to be gathered. I want to look at them," rang out the clear voice of the estate's mistress.
"Right away, my lady, messengers have been sent throughout the estate, some are in the field, some at other tasks. You yourself ordered, ma'am, to give no slack, so that your serfs, my lady, would work from dawn till dusk," — timidly and obsequiously, bowing his head low, reported to his mistress the 50-year-old serf steward Nikita.
The lady-mistress, Princess Irina — a maiden of eighteen years, after the death of her only parent, Prince Pavel Petrovich Rakitksy (her mother had passed away during childbirth), from the ancient,
wealthy and well-known family of the Princes Rakitksy, entered her inheritance, receiving a vast estate with ten thousand serf souls and capital, they say, of over a million rubles. The guardian until the young princess's majority was appointed by the deceased's will as the young beauty's uncle, her mother's brother, Count Zefirov, an old libertine, who, by and large, cared not a whit for the young aristocrat's upbringing nor for managing her affairs.The young ruler was at that tender age when she is no longer a little girl, but not yet a woman. Slender, even somewhat thin, of no more than average height, a pale little face with elegant, fine, noble features, in which her breeding was visible to the naked eye, bright blue, intelligent eyes with a radiant gaze, in which, nevertheless, a certain coldness and imperiousness could be read, flaxen curls of hair falling onto thin little shoulders, a chest that had only just appeared, small, firm and already sharply defined, plus thousands of serf slaves and a million-ruble fortune — all this promised the young charmer good prospects in life.
"What is this, Nikita?"
"It's an official paper, ma'am, they are requesting a conscription levy, a decision is needed, mistress. They demand ten male souls from you, mistress, for 25 years of service, ma'am."
"Well, and why are you shoving this at me, you fool?!" — the young beauty asked coldly. "Or did you yourself want to serve the Tsar-Father?" — she asked with a slight smirk.
"God forbid, my lady, and I'm not of the right age anymore." — smiling ingratiatingly, the uncomplaining slave answered his still very young charmer.
"Well, we'll see about that, whether you're suitable or not," — suddenly angered, the young mistress declared to the stunned servant — "Write yourself down as the first one, you brute."
"Have mercy, mistress!" — a grown, healthy, strong man, slightly touched with gray, in fear and trembling, prostrated himself at the feet of the eighteen-year-old girl, his mistress, owner, and ruler, who was given the right to completely decide the fate of him and ten thousand others like him, powerless slaves. Who could simply, for amusement, tear a man who had, in essence, lived his life, away from his family, and even had the right to decide whether this man lived or died. — "Have mercy, my lady, five little children, my wife is wasting away with consumption, any moment she might die, the children are still small, they'll be left orphans, they have absolutely no one, spare me, mistress, I beg you by Christ God, by the memory of your late father, do not destroy the children! I will be your slave forever..."
"What?!!!" — the young mistress cried out again, even more angrily — "You blockhead, you are already my slave forever, what nonsense are you spouting?!"
"I am at fault, ma'am, I blurted out in the heat of the moment, truly I am your slave, forever I am, was and will be, mistress, do not destroy me!" — and Nikita began to kiss his young ruler's shoes fiercely and frantically.
"How many more recruits are needed, read the paper, you brute, instead of spraying my feet with your spit."
"I obey, mistress," — wiping away tears, the slave mumbled — "ten souls, they demand, ma'am," — Nikita croaked, still not getting up from his knees. — "So they ask Your Grace to decide by tomorrow, ma'am, whom to appoint. Aged from 17 to (here Nikita hesitated) to... 50 years old, strong in health and sound of mind, ma'am."
"Well, write yourself down as the first one, I want it that way, simply I want it THAT way — and that's final!" — the young charmer shouted clearly, lifting her dress slightly, baring her white, tender, slender legs, stamping her little heel loudly and bursting into infectious, ringing laughter...
"My lady!!!" — in despair, fully prostrated at the small, neat, beautiful feet of his ruler, Nikita cried out! "Little children, wife on her deathbed... my lady, mistress, do not destroy me!!!"
"Ivan!" — stamping her heel menacingly again, the young mistress called her coachman, who was nearby.
"Ivan, take this..." — the mistress nodded haughtily towards the steward lying on the ground... — "to the stable and give him 20... wait... 25 lashes of the whip, one lash for each year of future service, and give the brute a good steaming, so he knows how to contradict his mistress, lock him up there until morning, in the morning they will come to take the recruits — hand him over as a soldier. Sell his wife with the children together, you can do it cheaply, don't haggle too much, she's of little use, she's sickly, the children will be a burden to me. Offer her to the neighboring landowner Kirill Andreevich, or better yet to some distant province, so they're completely out of sight. If you don't sell her, leave her in the cellar overnight, she'll go faster that way."
Don't stand on ceremony too much. And also, line up all the male men from 17 to 50, whomever I point to — hand that one over to the recruits along with Nikitka. I don't want to hear anything about them or from them, simply whomever I point to — that one will go as a soldier for 25 years. I appoint you, brainless brute, as my steward instead of this disobedient one.
"I hear, ma'am," Ivan thudded to his knees before the young but mature-beyond-her-years charmer. And immediately, with one hand, he grabbed the hair of Nikitka, paralyzed with grief, and dragged him off to the stable to be flogged, carrying out his mistress's command. "Stop!" — his young mistress, the young Princess Irina, called out to him, — "first kiss my little heel, and mind you don't slobber on it like this one, or I'll send you after Nikitka." — the mistress again only slightly lifted her dress, baring a bit of her lovely leg — "And also, I heard you want to get married?"
"Yes, my lady," — Ivan noticeably paled.
"Who is she? One of my slave girls?" — the young beauty inquired haughtily.
"Exactly so, mistress, from your cooks, ma'am, her name is Agrafena, ma'am." — the strapping fellow answered in a trembling voice.
"Bring her to me, I'll look at her first, the wife of my steward must be a strapping wench, she must be suitable. If I don't like her — I myself will point out whom you are to take."
"I obey, mistress" — Ivan again fell to his knees and kissed the young princess's heel, she disdainfully moved her foot away.
Nikita, unable to withstand the cruel beating and the fate prepared for him by his young mistress, gave up the ghost on the 24th lash from the new steward, who knew his job well. His wife together with the children was sold to a landowner of N-province, they say she soon died, and the children — some died, some became beggars. Ivan was strictly forbidden to marry, and not because the bride didn't suit the mistress's fancy, but in general, just because, because the young mistress wanted it THAT way.
And with her serfs, her most faithful slaves, this young girl was free to act at Her discretion. The would-be bride Agrafena, on the young princess's order, was first flogged by Ivan, then harnessed to a cart in which the young princess rode, laughing and bubbling with her girlish laughter, then, on the mistress's order, he placed his beloved in a specially dug pit, where she, on the mistress's order, after being in the cold without food or drink, passed away on the fifth day, and was buried there by Ivan, like a dog. He himself was ordered to castrate himself, and thus he served as a eunuch to his young goddess, Princess Irina.
Author's e-mail: rakitsky.serega@yandex.ru