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Chapter 5
231 Pearson Education, Inc.
Chapter 6
364 Courtesy of Oak Ridge National Laboratory, U.S. Dept. of Energy.
xii Preface

Option A: Minimal background in linear algebra

Chapter 1 Sections 1–6 6 lectures

Chapter 2 Sections 1–2 2 lectures
Chapter 3 Sections 1–6 7 lectures
Chapter 5 Sections 1–6 9 lectures
Chapter 6 Sections 1–7, 8* 10 lectures
Chapter 7 Section 4 1 lecture
Total 35 lectures
* If time allows.

Option B: Some background in linear algebra

Review of Topics in 5 lectures

Chapters 1–3
Chapter 4 Sections 1–3 2 lectures
Chapter 5 Sections 1–6 10 lectures
Chapter 6 Sections 1–7, 8* 11 lectures
Chapter 7 Sections 1–3*, 4–7 7 lectures
Chapter 8 Sections 1–2* 2 lectures
Total 37 lectures
* If time allows.

3. Two-Semester Sequence
Although two semesters of linear algebra have been recommended by the LACSG,
it is still not practical at many universities and colleges. At present, there is no
universal agreement on a core syllabus for a second course. In a two-semester se-
quence, it is possible to cover all 43 sections of the book. You might also consider
adding a lecture or two in order to demonstrate how to use MATLAB.

Computer Exercises
The text contains a section of computing exercises at the end of each chapter. These
exercises are based on the software package MATLAB. The MATLAB Appendix in
the book explains the basics of using the software. MATLAB has the advantage that
it is a powerful tool for matrix computations, yet it is easy to learn. After reading the
Appendix, students should be able to do the computing exercises without having to refer
to any other software books or manuals. To help students get started, we recommend a
one 50-minute classroom demonstration of the software. The assignments can be done
either as ordinary homework assignments or as part of a formally scheduled computer
laboratory course.
Although the course can be taught without any reference to a computer, we be-
lieve that computer exercises can greatly enhance student learning and provide a new
dimension to linear algebra education. One of the recommendations of the LASCG is
 Preface xiii

that technology should be used in a first course in linear algebra. That recommenda-
tion has been widely accepted, and it is now common to see mathematical software
packages used in linear algebra courses.

Acknowledgments
We would like to express our gratitude to the long list of reviewers who have contributed
so much to all previous editions of this book. Thanks also to the many users who have
sent in comments and suggestions. Special thanks are also due to the reviewers of the
tenth edition:
• Stephen Adams, Cabrini University
• Kuzman Adzievski, South Carolina State University
• Mike Albanese, Central Piedmont Community College
• Alan Alewine, McKendree University
• John M. Alongi, Northwestern University
• Bonnie Amende, St. Martin’s University
• Scott Annin, California State University Fullerton
• Ioannis K. Argyros, Cameron University
• Mark Arnold, University of Arkansas
• Victor Barranca, Swarthmore College
• Richard Bastian, Monmouth University
• Hossein Behforooz, Utica College
• Kaddour Boukaabar, California University of Pennsylvania
• David Boyd, Valdosta State University
• Katherine Brandl, Centenary College of Louisiana
• Regina A. Buckley, Villanova University
• George Pete Caleodis, Los Angeles Valley College
• Gregory L. Cameron, Brigham Young University, Idaho
• Jeremy Case, Taylor University
• Scott Cook, Tarleton State University
• Joyati Debnath, Winona State University
• Geoffrey Dietz, Gannon University
• Paul Dostert, Coker College
• Kevin Farrell, Lyndon State College
• Jon Fassett, Central Washington University
• Adam C. Fletcher, Bethany College
• Lester French, University of Maine at Augusta
• Michael Gagliardo, California Lutheran University
• Benjamin Gaines, Iona College
• Mohammad Ganjizadeh, Tarrant County College
• Sanford Geraci, Broward College
xiv Preface

• Nicholas L. Goins, St. Clair County Community College

• Raymond N. Greenwell, Hofstra University
• Mark Grinshpon, Georgia State University
• Mohammad Hailat, University of South Carolina, Aiken
• Maila Brucal Hallare, Norfolk State University
• Ryan Andrew Hass, Oregon State University
• Mary Juliano, SSJ, Caldwell University
• Christiaan Ketelaar, University of Delaware
• Yang Kuang, Arizona State University
• Shinemin Lin, Savannah State University
• Dawn A. Lott, Delaware State University
• James E. Martin, Christopher Newport University
• Peter McNamara, Bucknell University
• Mariana Montiel, Georgia State University
• Robert G. Niemeyer, University of the Incarnate Word
• Phillip E. Parker, Wichita State University
• Katherine A. Porter, St. Martin’s University
• Pantelimon Stanica, Naval Postgraduate School
• J. Varbalow, Thomas Nelson Community College
• Haidong Wu, University of Mississippi
Thanks to the entire editorial, production, technology, marketing, and sales staff at
Pearson for all their efforts.
We would like to acknowledge the contributions of Gene Golub and Jim Wilkinson.
Most of the first edition of the book was written in 1977–1978 while Steve was a visit-
ing scholar at Stanford University. During that period, he attended courses and lectures
on numerical linear algebra given by Gene Golub and J. H. Wilkinson. Those lectures
greatly influenced him in writing this book. Finally, we would like to express gratit-
ude to Germund Dahlquist for his helpful suggestions on earlier editions of the book.
Although Gene Golub, Jim Wilkinson, and Germund Dahlquist are no longer with us,
they continue to live on in the memories of their friends.
Steven J. Leon
leonste@[Link]
Lisette de Pillis
depillis@[Link]
CHAPTER 1
2

1
F

1
4
1
3 1
4 1
2
1
1 1
3
3 4
M C

1
4

Matrices and Systems of Equations

One of the most important problems in mathematics is that of solving a system of linear
equations. Well over 75 percent of all mathematical problems encountered in scientific
or industrial applications involve solving a linear system at some stage. By using the
methods of modern mathematics, it is often possible to take a sophisticated problem
and reduce it to a single system of linear equations. Linear systems arise in applications
to such areas as business, economics, sociology, ecology, demography, genetics, elec-
tronics, engineering, and physics. Therefore, it seems appropriate to begin this book
with a section on linear systems.

1.1 Systems of Linear Equations

A linear equation in n unknowns is an equation of the form
a1 x1 + a2 x2 + · · · + an xn = b
where a1 , a2 , . . . , an and b are real numbers and x1 , x2 , . . . , xn are variables. A linear
system of m equations in n unknowns is then a system of the form

a11 x1 + a12 x2 + · · · + a1n xn = b1

a21 x1 + a22 x2 + · · · + a2n xn = b2
.. (1)
.
am1 x1 + am2 x2 + · · · + amn xn = bm

where the aij ’s and the bi ’s are all real numbers. We will refer to systems of the form (1)
as m × n linear systems. The following are examples of linear systems:

(a) x1 + 2x2 = 5 (b) x1 − x2 + x3 = 2 (c) x1 + x2 = 2

2x1 + 3x2 = 8 2x1 + x2 − x3 = 4 x1 − x2 = 1
x1 =4

1
2 Chapter 1 Matrices and Systems of Equations

System (a) is a 2 × 2 system, (b) is a 2 × 3 system, and (c) is a 3 × 2 system.

By a solution of an m × n system, we mean an ordered n-tuple of numbers
(x1 , x2 , . . . , xn ) that satisfies all the equations of the system. For example, the ordered
pair (1, 2) is a solution of system (a), since
1 · (1) + 2 · (2) = 5
2 · (1) + 3 · (2) = 8
The ordered triple (2, 0, 0) is a solution of system (b), since
1 · (2) − 1 · (0) + 1 · (0) = 2
2 · (2) + 1 · (0) − 1 · (0) = 4
Actually, system (b) has many solutions. If α is any real number, it is easily seen that
the ordered triple (2, α, α) is a solution. However, system (c) has no solution. It follows
from the third equation that the first coordinate of any solution would have to be 4.
Using x1 = 4 in the first two equations, we see that the second coordinate must satisfy
4 + x2 = 2
4 − x2 = 1
Since there is no real number that satisfies both of these equations, the system has no
solution. If a linear system has no solution, we say that the system is inconsistent. If
the system has at least one solution, we say that it is consistent. Thus, system (c) is
inconsistent, while systems (a) and (b) are both consistent.
The set of all solutions of a linear system is called the solution set of the system.
If a system is inconsistent, its solution set is empty. A consistent system will have a
nonempty solution set. To solve a consistent system, we must find its solution set.

2 × 2 Systems
Let us examine geometrically a system of the form
a11 x1 + a12 x2 = b1
a21 x1 + a22 x2 = b2
Each equation can be represented graphically as a line in the plane. The ordered pair
(x1 , x2 ) will be a solution of the system if and only if it lies on both lines. For example,
consider the three systems

(i) x1 + x2 = 2 (ii) x1 + x2 = 2 (iii) x1 + x2 = 2

x1 − x2 = 2 x1 + x2 = 1 −x1 − x2 = −2

The two lines in system (i) intersect at the point (2, 0). Thus, {(2, 0)} is the solution
set of (i). In system (ii), the two lines are parallel. Therefore, system (ii) is inconsistent
and hence its solution set is empty. The two equations in system (iii) both represent the
same line. Any point on this line will be a solution of the system (see Figure 1.1.1).
In general, there are three possibilities: the lines intersect at a point, they are paral-
lel, or both equations represent the same line. The solution set then contains either one,
zero, or infinitely many points.
 1.1 Systems of Linear Equations 3

x2 x2

x1 x1

(2, 0)

(i) Unique Solution: Intersecting Lines (ii) No Solution: Parallel Lines

Intersecting Point (2, 0)

x2

x1

(iii) Infinite Solutions: Same Line

Figure 1.1.1.

The situation is the same for m × n systems. An m × n system may or may not be
consistent. If it is consistent, it must have either exactly one solution or infinitely many
solutions. These are the only possibilities. We will see why this is so in Section 1.2
when we study the row echelon form. Of more immediate concern is the problem of
finding all solutions of a given system. To tackle this problem, we introduce the notion
of equivalent systems.

Equivalent Systems
Consider the two systems

(a) 3x1 + 2x2 − x3 = −2 (b) 3x1 + 2x2 − x3 = −2

x2 = 3 −3x1 − x2 + x3 = 5
2x3 = 4 3x1 + 2x2 + x3 = 2

System (a) is easy to solve because it is clear from the last two equations that x2 = 3
and x3 = 2. Using these values in the first equation, we get

3x1 + 2 · 3 − 2 = −2
x1 = −2
4 Chapter 1 Matrices and Systems of Equations

Thus, the solution of the system is (−2, 3, 2). System (b) seems to be more difficult
to solve. Actually, system (b) has the same solution as system (a). To see this, add the
first two equations of the system:

3x1 + 2x2 − x3 = −2
−3x1 − x2 + x3 = 5
x2 = 3

If (x1 , x2 , x3 ) is any solution of (b), it must satisfy all the equations of the system. Thus,
it must satisfy any new equation formed by adding two of its equations. Therefore, x2
must equal 3. Similarly, (x1 , x2 , x3 ) must satisfy the new equation formed by subtracting
the first equation from the third:

3x1 + 2x2 + x3 = 2
3x1 + 2x2 − x3 = −2
2x3 = 4

Therefore, any solution of system (b) must also be a solution of system (a). By a similar
argument, it can be shown that any solution of (a) is also a solution of (b). This can be
done by subtracting the first equation from the second:

x2 = 3
3x1 + 2x2 − x3 = −2
−3x1 − x2 + x3 = 5

Then add the first and third equations:

3x1 + 2x2 − x3 = −2
2x3 = 4
3x1 + 2x2 + x3 = 2

Thus, (x1 , x2 , x3 ) is a solution of system (b) if and only if it is a solution of system (a).
Therefore, both systems have the same solution set, {(−2, 3, 2)}.

Definition Two systems of equations involving the same variables are said to be equivalent if
they have the same solution set.

If we interchange the order in which two equations of a system are written, this
will have no effect on the solution set. The reordered system will be equivalent to the
original system. For example, the systems

x1 + 2x2 = 4 4x1 + x2 = 6
3x1 − x2 = 2 and 3x1 − x2 = 2
4x1 + x2 = 6 x1 + 2x2 = 4
 1.1 Systems of Linear Equations 5

both involve the same three equations and, consequently, they must have the same
solution set.
If one equation of a system is multiplied through by a nonzero real number, this
will have no effect on the solution set, and the new system will be equivalent to the
original system. For example, the systems

x1 + x2 + x3 = 3 2x1 + 2x2 + 2x3 = 6

and
−2x1 − x2 + 4x3 = 1 −2x1 − x2 + 4x3 = 1

are equivalent.
If a multiple of one equation is added to another equation, the new system will be
equivalent to the original system. This follows since the n-tuple (x1 , . . . , xn ) will satisfy
the two equations

ai1 x1 + · · · + ain xn = bi
aj1 x1 + · · · + ajn xn = bj

if and only if it satisfies the equations

ai1 x1 + · · · + ain xn = bi
(aj1 + αai1 )x1 + · · · + (ajn + αain )xn = bj + αbi

To summarize, there are three operations that can be used on a system to obtain an
equivalent system:
I. The order in which any two equations are written may be interchanged.
II. Both sides of an equation may be multiplied by the same nonzero real number.
III. A multiple of one equation may be added to (or subtracted from) another.
Given a system of equations, we may use these operations to obtain an equivalent
system that is easier to solve.

n × n Systems
Let us restrict ourselves to n×n systems for the remainder of this section. We will show
that if an n × n system has exactly one solution, then operations I and III can be used
to obtain an equivalent “strictly triangular system.”

Definition A system is said to be in strict triangular form if, in the kth equation, the coef-
ficients of the first k − 1 variables are all zero and the coefficient of xk is nonzero
(k = 1, . . . , n).

EXAMPLE 1 The system

3x1 + 2x2 + x3 = 1
x2 − x3 = 2
2x3 = 4
6 Chapter 1 Matrices and Systems of Equations

is in strict triangular form, since in the second equation the coefficients are 0, 1, −1, re-
spectively, and in the third equation the coefficients are 0, 0, 2, respectively. Because of
the strict triangular form, the system is easy to solve. It follows from the third equation
that x3 = 2. Using this value in the second equation, we obtain
x2 − 2 = 2 or x2 = 4
Using x2 = 4, x3 = 2 in the first equation, we end up with

3x1 + 2 · 4 + 2 = 1
x1 = −3

Thus, the solution of the system is (−3, 4, 2).

Any n × n strictly triangular system can be solved in the same manner as the last
example. First, the nth equation is solved for the value of xn . This value is used in the
(n − 1)st equation to solve for xn−1 . The values xn and xn−1 are used in the (n − 2)nd
equation to solve for xn−2 , and so on. We will refer to this method of solving a strictly
triangular system as back substitution.

EXAMPLE 2 Solve the system

2x1 − x2 + 3x3 − 2x4 = 1

x2 − 2x3 + 3x4 = 2
4x3 + 3x4 = 3
4x4 = 4

Solution
Using back substitution, we obtain

4x4 = 4 x4 = 1
4x3 + 3 · 1 = 3 x3 = 0
x2 − 2 · 0 + 3 · 1 = 2 x2 = −1
2x1 − (−1) + 3 · 0 − 2 · 1 = 1 x1 = 1

Thus, the solution is (1, −1, 0, 1).

In general, given a system of n linear equations in n unknowns, we will use opera-

tions I and III to try to obtain an equivalent system that is strictly triangular. (We will
see in the next section of the book that it is not possible to reduce the system to strictly
triangular form in the cases where the system does not have a unique solution.)

EXAMPLE 3 Solve the system

x1 + 2x2 + x3 = 3
3x1 − x2 − 3x3 = −1
2x1 + 3x2 + x3 = 4
 1.1 Systems of Linear Equations 7

Solution
Subtracting 3 times the first row from the second row yields

−7x2 − 6x3 = −10

Subtracting 2 times the first row from the third row yields

−x2 − x3 = −2

If the second and third equations of our system, respectively, are replaced by these new
equations, we obtain the equivalent system

x1 + 2x2 + x3 = 3
−7x2 − 6x3 = −10
−x2 − x3 = −2

If the third equation of this system is replaced by the sum of the third equation and − 17
times the second equation, we end up with the following strictly triangular system:

x1 + 2x2 + x3 = 3
−7x2 − 6x3 = −10
− 17 x3 = − 47

Using back substitution, we get

x3 = 4, x2 = −2, x1 = 3

Let us look back at the system of equations in the last example. We can associate
with that system a 3 × 3 array of numbers whose entries are the coefficients of the xi ’s:
⎧ ⎫
⎪
⎪ 1 2 1 ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ 3 −1 −3 ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎩ ⎪
⎭
2 3 1

We will refer to this array as the coefficient matrix of the system. The term matrix
means a rectangular array of numbers. A matrix having m rows and n columns is said
to be m×n. A matrix is said to be square if it has the same number of rows and columns,
that is, if m = n.
If we attach to the coefficient matrix an additional column whose entries are the
numbers on the right-hand side of the system, we obtain the new matrix
⎧ ⎫
⎪
⎪ 1 2 1 3⎪⎪
⎪
⎪ 3 −1 −3 −1 ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎩ ⎪
⎭
2 3 1 4
8 Chapter 1 Matrices and Systems of Equations

We will refer to this new matrix as the augmented matrix. In general, when an m × r
matrix B is attached to an m × n matrix A in this way, the augmented matrix is denoted
by (A|B). Thus, if
⎧ ⎫ ⎧ ⎫
⎪ a11 a12 · · · a1n ⎪ ⎪ b11 b12 · · · b1r ⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪ a21 a22 · · · a2n ⎪
⎪ ⎪ ⎪
⎪ b21 b22 · · · b2r ⎪⎪
⎪
A=⎪ ⎪ ..
⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ , B = ⎪
⎪ ..
⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ . ⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪ . ⎪
⎪
⎩ ⎭ ⎩ ⎭
am1 am2 · · · amn bm1 bm2 · · · bmr
then
⎧ ⎫
⎪
⎪ a11 ··· a1n b11 ··· b1r ⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
(A|B) = ⎪
⎪
⎪
.. .. ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ .
⎩
. ⎪
⎭
am1 · · · amn bm1 · · · bmr
With each system of equations, we may associate an augmented matrix of the form
⎧ ⎫
⎪
⎪ a11 · · · a1n b1 ⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎪ .. .. ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ . ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎩
. ⎪
⎭
am1 · · · amn bm
The system can be solved by performing operations on the augmented matrix. The xi ’s
are placeholders that can be omitted until the end of the computation. Corresponding
to the three operations used to obtain equivalent systems, the following row operations
may be applied to the augmented matrix:

Elementary Row Operations

I. Interchange two rows.
II. Multiply a row by a nonzero real number.
III. Replace a row by the sum of that row and a multiple of another row.

Returning to the example, we find that the first row is used to eliminate the elements
in the first column of the remaining rows. We refer to the first row as the pivotal row.
For emphasis, the entries in the pivotal row are all in bold type and the entire row is
color shaded. The first nonzero entry in the pivotal row is called the pivot.
⎧ ⎫
(pivot a11 = 1)  ⎪
⎪ 1 2 1 3⎪⎪ ← pivotal row
⎪ 3 −1 −3 −1 ⎪
⎪ ⎪
entries to be eliminated
→ ⎩ ⎪ ⎪
⎭
a21 = 3 and a31 = 2 2 3 1 4

By using row operation III, 3 times the first row is subtracted from the second row and
2 times the first row is subtracted from the third. When this is done, we end up with the
matrix
⎧ ⎫
⎪
⎪ 1 2 1 3⎪⎪
⎪ 0 −7 −6 −10 ⎪
⎪ ⎪ ← pivotal row
⎪
⎩ ⎪
⎭
0 −1 −1 −2
 1.1 Systems of Linear Equations 9

At this step, we choose the second row as our new pivotal row and apply row opera-
tion III to eliminate the last element in the second column. This time the pivot is −7
and the quotient −1
−7
= 17 is the multiple of the pivotal row that is subtracted from the
third row. We end up with the matrix
⎧ ⎫
⎪
⎪
1 2 1 3⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ 0 −7 −6 −10 ⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎩ ⎪
⎭
0 0 − 17 − 47
This is the augmented matrix for the strictly triangular system, which is equivalent to
the original system. The solution of the system is easily obtained by back substitution.

EXAMPLE 4 Solve the system

− x2 − x3 + x4 = 0
x1 + x2 + x3 + x4 = 6
2x1 + 4x2 + x3 − 2x4 = −1
3x1 + x2 − 2x3 + 2x4 = 3

Solution
The augmented matrix for this system is
⎧ ⎫
⎪ 0 −1 −1 1 0⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎪ 1 1 1 1 6⎪⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ −2 −1 ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎩ 2 4 1 ⎪
⎭
3 1 −2 2 3
Since it is not possible to eliminate any entries by using 0 as a pivot element, we will
use row operation I to interchange the first two rows of the augmented matrix. The new
first row will be the pivotal row and the pivot element will be 1:
⎧ ⎫
(pivot a11 = 1) ⎪ 1 1 1 1 6 ⎪ ← pivotal row
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎪ 0 −1 −1 1 0⎪⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎩ 2 4 1 −2 −1 ⎪
⎭
3 1 −2 2 3
Row operation III is then used twice to eliminate the two nonzero entries in the first
column:
⎧ ⎫
⎪ 1 1 1 1 6⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎪ 0 −1 −1 1 0⎪⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎩0 2 −1 −4 −13 ⎪
⎪
⎭
0 −2 −5 −1 −15
Next, the second row is used as the pivotal row to eliminate the entries in the second
column below the pivot element −1:
⎧ ⎫
⎪ 1 1 1 1 6⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎪ 0 −1 −1 1 0⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎩ 0 0 −3 −2 −13 ⎪
⎭
0 0 −3 −3 −15
10 Chapter 1 Matrices and Systems of Equations

Finally, the third row is used as the pivotal row to eliminate the last element in the third
column:
⎧ ⎫
⎪ 1 1 1 1 6⎪
⎪
⎪ 0 −1 −1 ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ 1 0⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪0 −3 −2 −13 ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎩ 0 ⎪
⎭
0 0 0 −1 −2

This augmented matrix represents a strictly triangular system. Solving by back substi-
tution, we obtain the solution (2, −1, 3, 2).

In general, if an n × n linear system can be reduced to strictly triangular form, then

it will have a unique solution that can be obtained by performing back substitution on
the triangular system. We can think of the reduction process as an algorithm involving
n − 1 steps. At the first step, a pivot element is chosen from among the nonzero entries
in the first column of the matrix. The row containing the pivot element is called the
pivotal row. We interchange rows (if necessary) so that the pivotal row is the new first
row. Multiples of the pivotal row are then subtracted from each of the remaining n − 1
rows so as to obtain 0’s in the first entries of rows 2 through n. At the second step, a
pivot element is chosen from the nonzero entries in column 2, rows 2 through n, of
the matrix. The row containing the pivot is then interchanged with the second row of
the matrix and is used as the new pivotal row. Multiples of the pivotal row are then
subtracted from the remaining n − 2 rows so as to eliminate all entries below the pivot
in the second column. The same procedure is repeated for columns 3 through n − 1.
Note that at the second step row 1 and column 1 remain unchanged, at the third step
the first two rows and first two columns remain unchanged, and so on. At each step, the
overall dimensions of the system are effectively reduced by 1 (see Figure 1.1.2).
If the elimination process can be carried out as described, we will arrive at an
equivalent strictly triangular system after n − 1 steps. However, the procedure will break
down if, at any step, all possible choices for a pivot element are equal to 0. When this
happens, the alternative is to reduce the system to certain special echelon, or staircase-
shaped, forms. These echelon forms will be studied in the next section. They will also
be used for m × n systems, where m = n.

x x x x x x x x x x
x x x x x 0 x x x x
Step 1
x x x x x 0 x x x x
x x x x x 0 x x x x

x x x x x x x x x x
0 x x x x 0 x x x x
Step 2
0 x x x x 0 0 x x x
0 x x x x 0 0 x x x

x x x x x x x x x x
0 x x x x 0 x x x x
Step 3
0 0 x x x 0 0 x x x
0 0 x x x 0 0 0 x x

Figure 1.1.2.
 1.1 Systems of Linear Equations 11

SECTION 1.1 EXERCISES

1. Use back substitution to solve each of the following (e) 2x1 + x2 + 3x3 = 1
systems of equations: 4x1 + 3x2 + 5x3 = 1
(a) x1 − 3x2 = 2 (b) x1 + x2 + x3 = 8
6x1 + 5x2 + 5x3 = −3
2x2 = 6 2x2 + x3 = 5
(f) 3x1 + 2x2 + x3 = 0
3x3 = 9
−2x1 + x2 − x3 = 2
(c) x1 + 2x2 + 2x3 + x4 = 5
3x2 + x3 − 2x4 = 1 2x1 − x2 + 2x3 = −1
−x3 + 2x4 = −1 (g) 1
x
3 1
+ 23 x2 + 2x3 = −1
4x4 = 4 x1 + 2x2 + 3
x = 3
2 3 2
(d) x1 + x2 + x3 + x4 + x5 = 5 1
x
2 1
+ 2x2 + 12
5 3
x = 1
10
2x2 + x3 − 2x4 + x5 = 1
(h) x2 + x3 + x4 = 0
4x3 + x4 − 2x5 = 1
3x1 + 3x3 − 4x4 = 7
x4 − 3x5 = 0
x1 + x2 + x3 + 2x4 = 6
2x5 = 2
2. Write out the coefficient matrix for each of the systems 2x1 + 3x2 + x3 + 3x4 = 6
in Exercise 1.
7. The two systems
3. In each of the following systems, interpret each equation
as a line in the plane. For each system, graph the lines and 2x1 + x2 = 3 2x1 + x2 = −1
and
determine geometrically the number of solutions. 4x1 + 3x2 = 5 4x1 + 3x2 = 1
(a) x1 + x2 = 4 (b) x1 + 2x2 = 4 have the same coefficient matrix but different right-hand
x1 − x2 = 2 −2x1 − 4x2 = 4 sides. Solve both systems simultaneously by eliminat-
2x1 − x2 = 3 x1 + x2 = 1
(d) ing the first entry in the second row of the augmented
(c)
matrix:
−4x1 + 2x2 = −6 x1 − x2 = 1
−x1 + 3x2 = 3 ⎧ ⎫
⎪ 2 1 3 −1 ⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪
4. Write an augmented matrix for each of the systems in ⎩4 3 5 1⎭
Exercise 3.
5. Write out the system of equations that corresponds to and then performing back substitutions for each of the
each of the following augmented matrices: columns corresponding to the right-hand sides.
⎧ ⎫ ⎧ ⎫ 8. Solve the two systems
(a) ⎪
⎩3 2 8⎪ ⎭ (b) ⎪⎩ 5 −2 1 3⎪ ⎭
1 5 7 2 3 −4 0
⎧ ⎫ x1 + 2x2 − 2x3 = 1 x1 + 2x2 − 2x3 = 9
⎪
⎪ 2 1 4 −1 ⎪ ⎪
⎪
(c) ⎪ 4 −2 4⎪
⎪ 2x1 + 5x2 + x3 = 9 2x1 + 5x2 + x3 = 9
⎪
⎩
3 ⎪
⎭
5 2 6 −1 x1 + 3x2 + 4x3 = 9 x1 + 3x2 + 4x3 = −2
⎧ ⎫
⎪ 4 −3 1 2 4⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪3 1 −5 6 5⎪ ⎪ by doing elimination on a 3 × 5 augmented matrix and
(d) ⎪
⎪
⎪1
⎪
⎪
⎪
⎩ 1 2 4 8⎪ ⎪
⎭ then performing two back substitutions.
5 1 3 −2 7 9. Given a system of the form
6. Solve each of the following systems:
−m1 x1 + x2 = b1
(a) x1 − 2x2 = 5 (b) 2x1 + x2 = 8
−m2 x1 + x2 = b2
3x1 + x2 = 1 4x1 − 3x2 = 6
(c) 4x1 + 3x2 = 4 (d) x1 + 2x2 − x3 = 1 where m1 , m2 , b1 , and b2 are constants:
2
x + 4x2 = 3 2x1 − x2 + x3 = 3 (a) Show that the system will have a unique solution if
3 1 m1 = m2 .
−x1 + 2x2 + 3x3 = 7
12 Chapter 1 Matrices and Systems of Equations

(b) Show that if m1 = m2 , then the system will be where a11 , a12 , a21 , and a22 are constants. Explain why a
consistent only if b1 = b2 . system of this form must be consistent.
(c) Give a geometric interpretation of parts (a) and (b).
10. Consider a system of the form 11. Give a geometrical interpretation of a linear equa-
tion in three unknowns. Give a geometrical description
a11 x1 + a12 x2 = 0 of the possible solution sets for a 3 × 3 linear
a21 x1 + a22 x2 = 0 system.

1.2 Row Echelon Form

In Section 1.1, we learned a method for reducing an n × n linear system to strict trian-
gular form. However, this method will fail if, at any stage of the reduction process, all
the possible choices for a pivot element in a given column are 0.

EXAMPLE 1 Consider the system represented by the augmented matrix

⎧ ⎫
⎪ 1 1 1 1 1 1 ⎪ ← pivotal row
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎪ −1 −1 0 0 1 −1 ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎪ −2 −2 0 0 3 1⎪⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ 3 −1 ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎩ 0 0 1 1 ⎪
⎭
1 1 2 2 4 1

If row operation III is used to eliminate the nonzero entries in the last four rows of the
first column, the resulting matrix will be
⎧ ⎫
⎪ 1 1 1 1 1 1⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎪ 0 0 1 1 2 0⎪⎪
⎪ ← pivotal row
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪0
⎪ 0 2 2 5 3⎪⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎩0 0 1 1 3 −1 ⎪
⎪
⎭
0 0 1 1 3 0

At this stage, the reduction to strict triangular form breaks down. All four possible
choices for the pivot element in the second column are 0. How do we proceed from
here? Since our goal is to simplify the system as much as possible, it seems natural to
move over to the third column and eliminate the last three entries:
⎧ ⎫
⎪ 1 1 1 1 1 1⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎪
⎪
⎪ 0 0 1 1 2 0⎪⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪0 ⎪
⎪
⎪ 0 0 0 1 3⎪⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ 1 −1 ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎩0 0 0 0 ⎪
⎭
0 0 0 0 1 0

In the fourth column, all the choices for a pivot element are 0; so again, we move on to
the next column. If we use the third row as the pivotal row, the last two entries in the
fifth column are eliminated and we end up with the matrix
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
coloured coffins sold and lined here; coffins also let out on hire, and
old ones repaired.”
The girls retired to their bedroom; Adrian made a tour of inspection
of his quarters, and then sat down by the window and ordered the
tea-urn to be prepared.
The enlightened reader knows that Shakespeare and Walter Scott
have both represented their grave-diggers as merry and facetious
individuals, in order that the contrast might more forcibly strike our
imagination. Out of respect for the truth, we cannot follow their
example, and we are compelled to confess that the disposition of our
coffin-maker was in perfect harmony with his gloomy occupation.
Adrian Prokhoroff was usually gloomy and thoughtful. He rarely
opened his mouth, except to scold his daughters when he found
them standing idle and gazing out of the window at the passers by,
or to demand for his wares an exorbitant price from those who had
the misfortune—and sometimes the good fortune—to need them.
Hence it was that Adrian, sitting near the window and drinking his
seventh cup of tea, was immersed as usual in melancholy
reflections. He thought of the pouring rain which, just a week
before, had commenced to beat down during the funeral of the
retired brigadier. Many of the cloaks had shrunk in consequence of
the downpour, and many of the hats had been put quite out of
shape. He foresaw unavoidable expenses, for his old stock of funeral
dresses was in a pitiable condition. He hoped to compensate himself
for his losses by the burial of old Trukhina, the shopkeeper’s wife,
who for more than a year had been upon the point of death. But
Trukhina lay dying at Rasgouliai, and Prokhoroff was afraid that her
heirs, in spite of their promise, would not take the trouble to send so
far for him, but would make arrangements with the nearest
undertaker.
These reflections were suddenly interrupted by three masonic
knocks at the door.
“Who is there?” asked the coffin-maker.
The door opened, and a man, who at the first glance could be
recognized as a German artisan, entered the room, and with a jovial
air advanced towards the coffin-maker.
“Pardon me, respected neighbour,” said he in that Russian dialect
which to this day we cannot hear without a smile: “pardon me for
disturbing you.... I wished to make your acquaintance as soon as
possible. I am a shoemaker, my name is Gottlieb Schultz, and I live
across the street, in that little house just facing your windows. To-
morrow I am going to celebrate my silver wedding, and I have come
to invite you and your daughters to dine with us.”
The invitation was cordially accepted. The coffin-maker asked the
shoemaker to seat himself and take a cup of tea, and thanks to the
open-hearted disposition of Gottlieb Schultz, they were soon
engaged in friendly conversation.
“How is business with you?” asked Adrian.
“Just so so,” replied Schultz; “I cannot complain. My wares are not
like yours: the living can do without shoes, but the dead cannot do
without coffins.”
“Very true,” observed Adrian; “but if a living person hasn’t anything
to buy shoes with, you cannot find fault with him, he goes about
barefooted; but a dead beggar gets his coffin for nothing.”
In this manner the conversation was carried on between them for
some time; at last the shoemaker rose and took leave of the coffin-
maker, renewing his invitation.
The next day, exactly at twelve o’clock, the coffin-maker and his
daughters issued from the doorway of their newly-purchased
residence, and directed their steps towards the abode of their
neighbour. I will not stop to describe the Russian caftan of Adrian
Prokhoroff, nor the European toilettes of Akoulina and Daria,
deviating in this respect from the usual custom of modern novelists.
But I do not think it superfluous to observe that they both had on
the yellow cloaks and red shoes, which they were accustomed to
don on solemn occasions only.
The shoemaker’s little dwelling was filled with guests, consisting
chiefly of German artisans with their wives and foremen. Of the
Russian officials there was present but one, Yourko the Finn, a
watchman, who, in spite of his humble calling, was the special object
of the host’s attention. For twenty-five years he had faithfully
discharged the duties of postilion of Pogorelsky. The conflagration of
1812, which destroyed the ancient capital, destroyed also his little
yellow watch-house. But immediately after the expulsion of the
enemy, a new one appeared in its place, painted grey and with white
Doric columns, and Yourko began again to pace to and fro before it,
with his axe and grey coat of mail. He was known to the greater part
of the Germans who lived near the Nikitskaia Gate, and some of
them had even spent the night from Sunday to Monday beneath his
roof.
Adrian immediately made himself acquainted with him, as with a
man whom, sooner or later, he might have need of, and when the
guests took their places at the table, they sat down beside each
other. Herr Schultz and his wife, and their daughter Lotchen, a
young girl of seventeen, did the honours of the table and helped the
cook to serve. The beer flowed in streams; Yourko ate like four, and
Adrian in no way yielded to him; his daughters, however, stood upon
their dignity. The conversation, which was carried on in German,
gradually grew more and more boisterous. Suddenly the host
requested a moment’s attention, and uncorking a sealed bottle, he
said with a loud voice in Russian:
“To the health of my good Louise!”
The champagne foamed. The host tenderly kissed the fresh face of
his partner, and the guests drank noisily to the health of the good
Louise.
“To the health of my amiable guests!” exclaimed the host, uncorking
a second bottle; and the guests thanked him by draining their
glasses once more.
Then followed a succession of toasts. The health of each individual
guest was drunk; they drank to the health of Moscow and to quite a
dozen little German towns; they drank to the health of all
corporations in general and of each in particular; they drank to the
health of the masters and foremen. Adrian drank with enthusiasm
and became so merry, that he proposed a facetious toast to himself.
Suddenly one of the guests, a fat baker, raised his glass and
exclaimed:
“To the health of those for whom we work, our customers!”
This proposal, like all the others, was joyously and unanimously
received. The guests began to salute each other; the tailor bowed to
the shoemaker, the shoemaker to the tailor, the baker to both, the
whole company to the baker, and so on. In the midst of these
mutual congratulations, Yourko exclaimed, turning to his neighbour:
“Come, little father! Drink to the health of your corpses!”
Everybody laughed, but the coffin-maker considered himself
insulted, and frowned. Nobody noticed it, the guests continued to
drink, and the bell had already rung for vespers when they rose from
the table.
The guests dispersed at a late hour, the greater part of them in a
very merry mood. The fat baker and the bookbinder, whose face
seemed as if bound in red morocco, linked their arms in those of
Yourko and conducted him back to his little watch-house, thus
observing the proverb: “One good turn deserves another.”
The coffin-maker returned home drunk and angry.
“Why is it,” he exclaimed aloud, “why is it that my trade is not as
honest as any other? Is a coffin-maker brother to the hangman?
Why did those heathens laugh? Is a coffin-maker a buffoon? I
wanted to invite them to my new dwelling and give them a feast,
but now I’ll do nothing of the kind. Instead of inviting them, I will
invite those for whom I work: the orthodox dead.”
“What is the matter, little father?” said the servant, who was
engaged at that moment in taking off his boots: “why do you talk
such nonsense? Make the sign of the cross! Invite the dead to your
new house! What folly!”
“Yes, by the Lord! I will invite them,” continued Adrian, “and that,
too, for to-morrow!... Do me the favour, my benefactors, to come
and feast with me to-morrow evening; I will regale you with what
God has sent me.”
With these words the coffin-maker turned into bed and soon began
to snore.
It was still dark when Adrian was awakened out of his sleep.
Trukhina, the shopkeeper’s wife, had died during the course of that
very night, and a special messenger was sent off on horseback by
her bailiff to carry the news to Adrian. The coffin-maker gave him
ten copecks to buy brandy with, dressed himself as hastily as
possible, took a droshky and set out for Rasgouliai. Before the door
of the house in which the deceased lay, the police had already taken
their stand, and the trades-people were passing backwards and
forwards, like ravens that smell a dead body. The deceased lay upon
a table, yellow as wax, but not yet disfigured by decomposition.
Around her stood her relatives, neighbours and domestic servants.
All the windows were open; tapers were burning; and the priests
were reading the prayers for the dead. Adrian went up to the
nephew of Trukhina, a young shopman in a fashionable surtout, and
informed him that the coffin, wax candles, pall, and the other funeral
accessories would be immediately delivered with all possible
exactitude. The heir thanked him in an absent-minded manner,
saying that he would not bargain about the price, but would rely
upon him acting in everything according to his conscience. The
coffin-maker, in accordance with his usual custom, vowed that he
would not charge him too much, exchanged significant glances with
the bailiff, and then departed to commence operations.
The whole day was spent in passing to and fro between Rasgouliai
and the Nikitskaia Gate. Towards evening everything was finished,
and he returned home on foot, after having dismissed his driver. It
was a moonlight night. The coffin-maker reached the Nikitskaia Gate
in safety. Near the Church of the Ascension he was hailed by our
acquaintance Yourko, who, recognizing the coffin-maker, wished him
good-night. It was late. The coffin-maker was just approaching his
house, when suddenly he fancied he saw some one approach his
gate, open the wicket, and disappear within.
“What does that mean?” thought Adrian. “Who can be wanting me
again? Can it be a thief come to rob me? Or have my foolish girls got
lovers coming after them? It means no good, I fear!”
And the coffin-maker thought of calling his friend Yourko to his
assistance. But at that moment, another person approached the
wicket and was about to enter, but seeing the master of the house
hastening towards him, he stopped and took off his three-cornered
hat. His face seemed familiar to Adrian, but in his hurry he had not
been able to examine it closely.
“You are favouring me with a visit,” said Adrian, out of breath. “Walk
in, I beg of you.”
“Don’t stand on ceremony, little father,” replied the other, in a hollow
voice; “you go first, and show your guests the way.”
Adrian had no time to spend upon ceremony. The wicket was open;
he ascended the steps followed by the other. Adrian thought he
could hear people walking about in his rooms.
“What the devil does all this mean!” he thought to himself, and he
hastened to enter. But the sight that met his eyes caused his legs to
give way beneath him.
The room was full of corpses. The moon, shining through the
windows, lit up their yellow and blue faces, sunken mouths, dim,
half-closed eyes, and protruding noses. Adrian, with horror,
recognized in them people that he himself had buried, and in the
guest who entered with him, the brigadier who had been buried
during the pouring rain. They all, men and women, surrounded the
coffin-maker, with bowings and salutations, except one poor fellow
lately buried gratis, who, conscious and ashamed of his rags, did not
venture to approach, but meekly kept aloof in a corner. All the others
were decently dressed: the female corpses in caps and ribbons, the
officials in uniforms, but with their beards unshaven, the tradesmen
in their holiday caftans.
“You see, Prokhoroff,” said the brigadier in the name of all the
honourable company, “we have all risen in response to your
invitation. Only those have stopped at home who were unable to
come, who have crumbled to pieces and have nothing left but
fleshless bones. But even of these there was one who hadn’t the
patience to remain behind—so much did he want to come and see
you....”
At this moment a little skeleton pushed his way through the crowd
and approached Adrian. His fleshless face smiled affably at the
coffin-maker. Shreds of green and red cloth and rotten linen hung on
him here and there as on a pole, and the bones of his feet rattled
inside his big jack-boots, like pestles in mortars.
“You do not recognize me, Prokhoroff,” said the skeleton. “Don’t you
remember the retired sergeant of the Guards, Peter Petrovitch
Kourilkin, the same to whom, in the year 1799, you sold your first
coffin, and that, too, of deal instead of oak?”
With these words the corpse stretched out his bony arms towards
him; but Adrian, collecting all his strength, shrieked and pushed him
from him. Peter Petrovitch staggered, fell, and crumbled all to
pieces. Among the corpses arose a murmur of indignation; all stood
up for the honour of their companion, and they overwhelmed Adrian
with such threats and imprecations, that the poor host, deafened by
their shrieks and almost crushed to death, lost his presence of mind,
fell upon the bones of the retired sergeant of the Guards, and
swooned away.
For some time the sun had been shining upon the bed on which lay
the coffin-maker. At last he opened his eyes and saw before him the
servant attending to the tea-urn. With horror, Adrian recalled all the
incidents of the previous day. Trukhina, the brigadier, and the
sergeant, Kourilkin, rose vaguely before his imagination. He waited
in silence for the servant to open the conversation and inform him of
the events of the night.
“How you have slept, little father Adrian Prokhorovitch!” said Aksinia,
handing him his dressing-gown. “Your neighbour, the tailor, has been
here, and the watchman also called to inform you that to-day is his
name-day; but you were so sound asleep, that we did not wish to
wake you.” “Did anyone come for me from the late Trukhina?”
“The late? Is she dead, then?”
“What a fool you are! Didn’t you yourself help me yesterday to
prepare the things for her funeral?”
“Have you taken leave of your senses, little father, or have you not
yet recovered from the effects of yesterday’s drinking-bout? What
funeral was there yesterday? You spent the whole day feasting at
the German’s, and then came home drunk and threw yourself upon
the bed, and have slept till this hour, when the bells have already
rung for mass.”
“Really!” said the coffin-maker, greatly relieved.
“Yes, indeed,” replied the servant.
“Well, since that is the case, make the tea as quickly as possible and
call my daughters.”

KIRDJALI.
Kirdjali was by birth a Bulgarian. Kirdjali, in the Turkish language,
signifies a knight-errant, a bold fellow. His real name I do not know.
Kirdjali with his acts of brigandage brought terror upon the whole of
Moldavia. In order to give some idea of him, I will relate one of his
exploits. One night he and the Arnout Mikhaelaki fell together upon
a Bulgarian village. They set it on fire at both ends, and began to go
from hut to hut. Kirdjali dispatched the inmates, and Mikhaelaki
carried off the booty. Both cried: “Kirdjali! Kirdjali!” The whole village
took to flight.
When Alexander Ipsilanti[1] proclaimed the revolt and began to
collect his army, Kirdjali brought to him some of his old companions.
The real object of the revolt was but ill understood by them, but war
presented an opportunity for getting rich at the expense of the
Turks, and perhaps of the Moldavians, and that was object enough
in their eyes.
Alexander Ipsilanti was personally brave, but he did not possess the
qualities necessary for the rôle which he had assumed with such
ardour and such a want of caution. He did not know how to manage
the people over whom he was obliged to exercise control. They had
neither respect for him nor confidence in him. After the unfortunate
battle, in which perished the flower of Greek youth, Iordaki Olimbioti
persuaded him to retire, and he himself took his place. Ipsilanti
escaped to the borders of Austria, and thence sent his curses to the
people whom he termed traitors, cowards and scoundrels. These
cowards and scoundrels for the most part perished within the walls
of the monastery of Seko, or on the banks of the Pruth, desperately
defending themselves against an enemy ten times their number.
Kirdjali found himself in the detachment of George Kantakuzin, of
whom might be repeated the same that has been said of Ipsilanti.
On the eve of the battle near Skoulana, Kantakuzin asked permission
of the Russian authorities to enter our lines. The detachment
remained without a leader, but Kirdjali, Saphianos, Kantagoni, and
others stood in no need whatever of a leader.
The battle near Skoulana does not seem to have been described by
anybody in all its affecting reality. Imagine seven hundred men—
Arnouts, Albanians, Greeks, Bulgarians and rabble of every kind—
with no idea of military art, retreating in sight of fifteen thousand
Turkish cavalry. This detachment hugged the bank of the Pruth, and
placed in front of themselves two small cannons, found at Jassy, in
the courtyard of the Governor, and from which salutes used to be
fired on occasions of rejoicing. The Turks would have been glad to
make use of their cartridges, but they dared not without the
permission of the Russian authorities: the shots would infallibly have
flown over to our shore. The commander of our lines (now
deceased), although he had served forty years in the army, had
never in his life heard the whistle of a bullet, but Heaven ordained
that he should hear it then. Several of them whizzed past his ears.
The old man became terribly angry, and abused the major of the
Okhotsky infantry regiment, who happened to be in advance of the
lines. The major, not knowing what to do, ran towards the river,
beyond which some of the mounted insurgents were caracoling
about, and threatened them with his finger. The insurgents, seeing
this, turned round and galloped off, with the whole Turkish
detachment after them. The major, who had threatened them with
his finger, was called Khortcheffsky. I do not know what became of
him.
The next day, however, the Turks attacked the Hetairists. Not daring
to use bullets or cannon-balls, they resolved, contrary to their usual
custom, to employ cold steel. The battle was a fiercely-contested
one. Yataghans[2] were freely used. On the side of the Turks were
seen lances, which had never been employed by them till then;
these lances were Russian: Nekrassovists fought in their ranks. The
Hetairists, by permission of our Emperor, were allowed to cross the
Pruth and take refuge within our lines. They began to cross over.
Kantagoni and Saphianos remained last upon the Turkish bank.
Kirdjali, wounded the evening before, was already lying within our
lines. Saphianos was killed. Kantagoni, a very stout man, was
wounded in the stomach by a lance. With one hand he raised his
sword, with the other he seized the hostile lance, thrust it further
into himself, and in that manner was able to reach his murderer with
his sword, when both fell together.
All was over. The Turks remained victorious. Moldavia was swept
clear of insurrectionary bands. About six hundred Arnouts were
dispersed throughout Bessarabia; and though not knowing how to
support themselves, they were yet grateful to Russia for her
protection. They led an idle life, but not a licentious one. They could
always be seen in the coffee-houses of half Turkish Bessarabia, with
long pipes in their mouths, sipping coffee grounds out of small cups.
Their figured jackets and red pointed slippers were already
beginning to wear out, but their tufted skullcaps were still worn on
the side of the head, and yataghans and pistols still protruded from
under their broad sashes. Nobody complained of them. It was
impossible to imagine that these poor, peaceably-disposed men were
the notorious insurgents of Moldavia, the companions of the
ferocious Kirdjali, and that he himself was among them.
The Pasha in command at Jassy became informed of this, and in
virtue of treaty stipulations, requested the Russian authorities to
deliver up the brigand.
The police instituted a search. They discovered that Kirdjali was
really in Kishineff. They captured him in the house of a fugitive monk
in the evening, when he was having supper, sitting in the dark with
seven companions.
Kirdjali was placed under arrest. He did not try to conceal the truth;
he acknowledged that he was Kirdjali.
“But,” he added, “since I crossed the Pruth, I have not touched a
hair of other people’s property, nor imposed upon even a gipsy. To
the Turks, to the Moldavians and to the Wallachians I am
undoubtedly a brigand, but to the Russians I am a guest. When
Saphianos, having fired off all his cartridges, came over into these
lines, collecting from the wounded, for the last discharge, buttons,
nails, watch-chains and the knobs of yataghans, I gave him twenty
beshliks, and was left without money. God knows that I, Kirdjali,
lived by alms. Why then do the Russians now deliver me into the
hands of my enemies?”
After that, Kirdjali was silent, and tranquilly awaited the decision that
was to determine his fate. He did not wait long. The authorities, not
being bound to look upon brigands from their romantic side, and
being convinced of the justice of the demand, ordered Kirdjali to be
sent to Jassy.
A man of heart and intellect, at that time a young and unknown
official, but now occupying an important post, vividly described to
me his departure.
At the gate of the prison stood a karoutsa.... Perhaps you do not
know what a karouisa is. It is a low, wicker vehicle, to which, not
very long since, used generally to be yoked six or eight sorry jades.
A Moldavian, with a moustache and a sheepskin cap, sitting astride
one of them, incessantly shouted and cracked his whip, and his
wretched animals ran on at a fairly sharp trot. If one of them began
to slacken its pace, he unharnessed it with terrible oaths and left it
upon the road, little caring what might be its fate. On the return
journey he was sure to find it in the same place, quietly grazing
upon the green steppe. It not unfrequently happened that a
traveller, starting from one station with eight horses, arrived at the
next with a pair only. It used to be so about fifteen years ago.
Nowadays in Russianized Bessarabia they have adopted Russian
harness and Russian telegas.
Such a karoutsa stood at the gate of the prison in the year 1821,
towards the end of the month of September. Jewesses in loose
sleeves and slippers down at heel, Arnouts in their ragged and
picturesque attire, well-proportioned Moldavian women with black-
eyed children in their arms, surrounded the karoutsa. The men
preserved silence, the women were eagerly expecting something.
The gate opened, and several police officers stepped out into the
street; behind them came two soldiers leading the fettered Kirdjali.
He seemed about thirty years of age. The features of his swarthy
face were regular and harsh. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and
seemed endowed with unusual physical strength. A variegated
turban covered the side of his head, and a broad sash encircled his
slender waist. A dolman of thick, dark-blue cloth, the broad folds of
his shirt falling below the knee, and handsome slippers composed
the remainder of his costume. His look was proud and calm....
One of the officials, a red-faced old man in a threadbare uniform,
three buttons of which were dangling down, with a pair of pewter
spectacles pinching the purple knob that served him for a nose,
unrolled a paper and, in a snuffling tone, began to read in the
Moldavian tongue. From time to time he glanced haughtily at the
fettered Kirdjali, to whom apparently the paper referred. Kirdjali
listened to him attentively. The official finished his reading, folded up
the paper and shouted sternly at the people, ordering them to give
way and the karoutsa to be driven up. Then Kirdjali turned to him
and said a few words to him in Moldavian; his voice trembled, his
countenance changed, he burst into tears and fell at the feet of the
police official, clanking his fetters. The police official, terrified,
started back; the soldiers were about to raise Kirdjali, but he rose up
himself, gathered up his chains, stepped into the karoutsa and cried:
“Drive on!” A gendarme took a seat beside him, the Moldavian
cracked his whip, and the karoutsa rolled away.
“What did Kirdjali say to you?” asked the young official of the police
officer.
“He asked me,” replied the police officer, smiling, “to look after his
wife and child, who lived not far from Kilia, in a Bulgarian village: he
is afraid that they may suffer through him. The mob is so stupid!”
The young official’s story affected me deeply. I was sorry for poor
Kirdjali. For a long time I knew nothing of his fate. Some years later
I met the young official. We began to talk about the past.
“What about your friend Kirdjali?” I asked. “Do you know what
became of him?”
“To be sure I do,” replied he, and he related to me the following.
Kirdjali, having been taken to Jassy, was brought before the Pasha,
who condemned him to be impaled. The execution was deferred till
some holiday. In the meantime he was confined in jail.
The prisoner was guarded by seven Turks (common people, and in
their hearts as much brigands as Kirdjali himself); they respected
him and, like all Orientals, listened with avidity to his strange stories.
Between the guards and the prisoner an intimate acquaintance
sprang up. One day Kirdjali said to them: “Brothers! my hour is near.
Nobody can escape his fate. I shall soon take leave of you. I should
like to leave you something in remembrance of me.”
The Turks pricked up their ears.
“Brothers,” continued Kirdjali, “three years ago, when I was engaged
in plundering along with the late Mikhaelaki, we buried on the
steppes, not from Jassy, a kettle filled with money. Evidently, neither
I nor he will make use of the hoard. Be it so; take it for yourselves
and divide it in a friendly manner.”
The Turks almost took leave of their senses. The question was, how
were they to find the blessed spot? They thought and thought and
finally resolved that Kirdjali himself should conduct them to the
place.
Night came on. The Turks removed the irons from the feet of the
prisoner, tied his hands with a rope, and, leaving the town, set out
with him for the steppe.
Kirdjali led them, keeping on in one direction from one mound to
another. They walked on for a long time. At last Kirdjali stopped near
a broad stone, measured twelve paces towards the south, stamped
and said: “Here.”
The Turks began to make their arrangements. Four of them took out
their yataghans and commenced digging the earth. Three remained
on guard. Kirdjali sat down upon the stone and watched them at
their work.
“Well, how much longer are you going to be?” he asked; “haven’t
you come to it?”
“Not yet,” replied the Turks, and they worked away with such ardour,
that the perspiration rolled from them like hail.
Kirdjali began to show signs of impatience.
“What people!” he exclaimed: “they do not even know how to dig
decently. I should have finished the whole business in a couple of
minutes. Children! untie my hands and give me a yataghan.”
The Turks reflected and began to take counsel together. “What harm
would there be?” reasoned they. “Let us untie his hands and give
him a yataghan. He is only one, we are seven.”
And the Turks untied his hands and gave him a yataghan.
At last Kirdjali was free and armed. What must he have felt at that
moment!... He began digging quickly, the guard helping him....
Suddenly he plunged his yataghan into one of them, and, leaving
the blade in his breast, he snatched from his belt a couple of pistols.
The remaining six, seeing Kirdjali armed with two pistols, ran off.
Kirdjali is now carrying on the profession of brigand near Jassy. Not
long ago he wrote to the Governor, demanding from him five
thousand levs,[3] and threatening, in the event of the money not
being paid, to set fire to Jassy and to reach the Governor himself.
The five thousand levs were handed over to him!
Such is Kirdjali!

[1] The chief of the Hetairists (Philiké Hetairia), whose object was
the liberation of Greece from the Turkish yoke.
[2] Long Turkish daggers.
[3] A lev is worth about ten-pence.

THE EGYPTIAN NIGHTS

 CHAPTER I.

Charsky was one of the native-born inhabitants of St. Petersburg. He

was not yet thirty years of age; he was not married; the service did
not oppress him too heavily. His late uncle, having been a vice-
governor in the good old times, had left him a respectable estate.
His life was a very agreeable one, but he had the misfortune to write
and print verses. In the journals he was called “poet,” and in the
ante-rooms “author.”
In spite of the great privileges which verse-makers enjoy (we must
confess that, except the right of using the accusative instead of the
genitive, and other so-called poetical licenses of a similar kind, we
fail to see what are the particular privileges of Russian poets), in
spite of their every possible privilege, these persons are compelled
to endure a great deal of unpleasantness. The bitterest misfortune
of all, the most intolerable for the poet, is the appellation with which
he is branded, and which will always cling to him. The public look
upon him as their own property; in their opinion, he was created for
their especial benefit and pleasure. Should he return from the
country, the first person who meets him accosts him with:
“Haven’t you brought anything new for us?”
Should the derangement of his affairs, or the illness of some being
dear to him, cause him to become lost in thoughtful reflection,
immediately a trite smile accompanies the trite exclamation:
“No doubt he is composing something!”
Should he happen to fall in love, his beauty purchases an album at
the English warehouse, and expects an elegy.
Should he call upon a man whom he hardly knows, to talk about
serious matters of business, the latter quickly calls his son and
compels him to read some of the verses of so-and-so, and the lad
regales the poet with some of his lame productions. And these are
but the flowers of, the calling; what then must be the fruits! Charsky
acknowledged that the compliments, the questions, the albums, and
the little boys bored him to such an extent, that he was constantly
compelled to restrain himself from committing some act of rudeness.
Charsky used every possible endeavour to rid himself of the
intolerable appellation. He avoided the society of his literary
brethren, and preferred to them the men of the world, even the
most shallow-minded: but that did not help him. His conversation
was of the most commonplace character, and never turned upon
literature. In his dress he always observed the very latest fashion,
with the timidity and superstition of a young Moscovite arriving in St.
Petersburg for the first time in his life. In his study, furnished like a
lady’s bedroom, nothing recalled the writer; no books littered the
table; the divan was not stained with ink; there was none of that
disorder which denotes the presence of the Muse and the absence of
broom and brush. Charsky was in despair if any of his worldly friends
found him with a pen in his hand. It is difficult to believe to what
trifles a man, otherwise endowed with talent and soul, can descend.
At one time he pretended to be a passionate lover of horses, at
another a desperate gambler, and at another a refined gourmet,
although he was never able to distinguish the mountain breed from
the Arab, could never remember the trump cards, and in secret
preferred a baked potato to all the inventions of the French cuisine.
He led a life of unbounded pleasure, was seen at all the balls,
gormandized at all the diplomatic dinners, and appeared at all the
soirees as inevitably as the Rezan ices. For all that, he was a poet,
and his passion was invincible. When he found the “silly fit” (thus he
called the inspiration) coming upon him, Charsky would shut himself
up in his study, and write from morning till late into the night. He
confessed to his genuine friends that only then did he know what
real happiness was. The rest of his time he strolled about,
dissembled, and was assailed at every step by the eternal question:
“Haven’t you written anything new?”
One morning, Charsky felt that happy disposition of soul, when the
illusions are represented in their brightest colours, when vivid,
unexpected words present themselves for the incarnation of one’s
visions, when verses flow easily from the pen, and sonorous rhythms
fly to meet harmonious thoughts. Charsky was mentally plunged into
a sweet oblivion... and the world, and the trifles of the world, and
his own particular whims no longer existed for him. He was writing
verses.
Suddenly the door of his study creaked, and the unknown head of a
man appeared. Charsky gave a sudden start and frowned.
“Who is there?” he asked with vexation, inwardly cursing his
servants, who were never in the ante-room when they were wanted.
The unknown entered. He was of a tall, spare figure, and appeared
to be about thirty years of age. The features of his swarthy face
were very expressive: his pale, lofty forehead, shaded by dark locks
of hair, his black, sparkling eyes, aquiline nose, and thick beard
surrounding his sunken, tawny cheeks, indicated him to be a
foreigner. He was attired in a black dress-coat, already whitened at
the seams, and summer trousers (although the season was well into
the autumn); under his tattered black cravat, upon a yellowish shirt-
front, glittered a false diamond; his shaggy hat seemed to have seen
rain and bad weather. Meeting such a man in a wood, you would
have taken him for a robber; in society—for a political conspirator; in
an ante-room—for a charlatan, a seller of elixirs and arsenic.
“What do you want?” Charsky asked him in French.
“Signor,” replied the foreigner in Italian, with several profound bows:
“Lei voglia perdonar mi, si ...” (Please pardon me, if....)
Charsky did not offer him a chair, and he rose himself: the
conversation was continued in Italian.
“I am a Neapolitan artist,” said the unknown: “circumstances
compelled me to leave my native land; I have, come to Russia,
trusting to my talent.”
Charsky thought that the Italian was preparing to give some
violoncello concerts and was disposing of his tickets from house to
house. He was just about to give him twenty-five roubles in order to
get rid of him as quickly as possible, but the unknown added:
“I hope, signor, that you will give a friendly support to your confrère,
and introduce me into the houses to which, you have access.”
It was impossible to offer a greater affront to Charsky’s vanity. He
glanced haughtily at the individual who called himself his confrère.
“Allow me to ask, what are you, and for whom do you take me?” he
said, with difficulty restraining his indignation.
The Neapolitan observed his vexation.
“Signor,” he replied, stammering: “Ho creduto ... ho sentito ... la
vostra Eccelenza ... mi ferdonera...” (I believed ... I felt ... Your
Excellency ... will pardon me....)
“What do you want?” repeated Charsky drily.
“I have heard a great deal of your wonderful talent; I am sure that
the gentlemen of this place esteem it an honour to extend every
possible protection to such an excellent poet,” replied the Italian:
“and that is why I have ventured to present myself to you....”
“You are mistaken, signor,” interrupted Charsky. “The calling of poet
does not exist among us. Our poets do not solicit the protection of
gentlemen; our poets are gentlemen themselves, and if our
Maecenases (devil take them!) do not know that, so much the worse
for them. Among us there are no ragged abbés, whom a musician
would take out of the streets to compose a libretto. Among us, poets
do not go on foot from house to house, begging for help. Moreover,
they must have been joking, when they told you that I was a great
poet. It is true that I once wrote some wretched epigrams, but thank
God, I haven’t anything in common with messieurs les poètes, and
do not wish to have.”
The poor Italian became confused. He looked around him. The
pictures, marble statues, bronzes, and the costly baubles on Gothic
what-nots, struck him. He understood that between the haughty
dandy, standing before him in a tufted brocaded cap, gold-
embroidered nankeen dressing-gown and Turkish sash,—and
himself, a poor wandering artist, in tattered cravat and shabby
dress-coat—there was nothing in common. He stammered out some
unintelligible excuses, bowed, and wished to retire. His pitiable
appearance touched Charsky, who, in spite of the defects in his
character, had a good and noble heart. He felt ashamed of his
irritated vanity.
“Where are you going?” he said to the Italian. “Wait ... I was
compelled to decline an unmerited title and confess to you that I
was not a poet. Now let us speak about your business. I am ready to
serve you, if it be in my power to do so. Are you a musician?”
“No, Eccelenza,” replied the Italian; “I am a poor improvisatore.”
“An improvisatore!” cried Charsky, feeling all the cruelty of his
reception. “Why didn’t you say sooner that you were an
improvisatore?”
And Charsky grasped his hand with a feeling of sincere regret.
His friendly manner encouraged the Italian. He spoke naïvely of his
plans. His exterior was not deceptive. He was in need of money, and
he hoped somehow in Russia to improve his domestic circumstances.
Charsky listened to him with attention.
“I hope,” said he to the poor artist, “that you will have success;
society here has never heard an improvisatore. Curiosity will be
awakened. It is true that the Italian language is not in use among
us; you will not be understood, but that will be no great misfortune;
the chief thing is that you should be in the fashion.”
“But if nobody among you understands Italian,” said the
improvisatore, becoming thoughtful, “who will come to hear me?”
“Have no fear about that—they will come: some out of curiosity,
others to pass away the evening somehow or other, others to show
that they understand Italian. I repeat, it is only necessary that you
should be in the fashion, and you will be in the fashion—I give you
my hand upon it.”
Charsky dismissed the improvisatore very cordially, after having
taken his address, and the same evening he set to work to do what
he could for him.

CHAPTER II.

The next day, in the dark and dirty corridor of a tavern, Charsky
discovered the number 35. He stopped at the door and knocked. It
was opened by the Italian of the day before.
“Victory!” said Charsky to him: “your affairs are in a good way. The
Princess N——, offers you her salon; yesterday, at the rout, I
succeeded in enlisting the half of St. Petersburg; get your tickets and
announcements printed. If I cannot guarantee a triumph for you, I’ll
answer for it that you will at least be a gainer in pocket....”
“And that is the chief thing,” cried the Italian, manifesting his delight
in a series of gestures that were characteristic of his southern origin.
“I knew that you would help me. Corpo di Baccol You are a poet like
myself, and there is no denying that poets are excellent fellows! How
can I show my gratitude to you? Stop.... Would you like to hear an
improvisation?”
“An improvisation!... Can you then do without public, without music,
and without sounds of applause?”
“And where could I find a better public? You are a poet: you
understand me better than they, and your quiet approbation will be
dearer to me than whole storms of applause.... Sit down somewhere
and give me a theme.” “Here is your theme, then,” said Charsky to
him: “the poet himself should choose the subject of his songs; the
crowd has not the right to direct his inspirations.” The eyes of the
Italian sparkled: he tried a few chords, raised his head proudly, and
passionate verses—the expression of instantaneous sentiment—fell
in cadence from his lips....
The Italian ceased.... Charsky remained silent, filled with delight and
astonishment.
“Well?” asked the improvisatore.
Charsky seized his hand and pressed it firmly.
“Well?” asked the improvisatore.
“Wonderful!” replied the poet. “The idea of another has scarcely
reached your ears, and already it has become your own, as if you
had nursed, fondled and developed it for a long time. And so for you
there exists neither difficulty nor discouragement, nor that
uneasiness which precedes inspiration? Wonderful, wonderful!”
The improvisatore replied: “Each talent is inexplicable. How does the
sculptor see, in a block of Carrara marble, the hidden Jupiter, and
how does he bring it to light with hammer and chisel by chipping off
its envelope? Why does the idea issue from the poet’s head already
equipped with four rhymes, and arranged in measured and
harmonious feet? Nobody, except the improvisatore himself, can
understand that rapid impression, that narrow link between
inspiration proper and a strange exterior will; I myself would try in
vain to explain it. But ... I must think of my first evening. What do
you think? What price could I charge for the tickets, so that the
public may not be too exacting, and so that, at the same time, I may
not be out of pocket myself? They say that La Signora Catalani[1]
took twenty-five roubles. That is a good price....”
It was very disagreeable to Charsky to fall suddenly from the heights
of poesy down to the bookkeeper’s desk, but he understood very
well the necessities of this world, and he assisted the Italian in his
mercantile calculations. The improvisator, during this part of the
business, exhibited such savage greed, such an artless love of gain,
that he disgusted Charsky, who hastened to take leave of him, so
that he might not lose altogether the feeling of ecstasy awakened
within him by the brilliant improvisation. The Italian, absorbed in his
calculations, did not observe this change, and he conducted Charsky
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