The Green Book; Or, Freedom Under the Snow: A Novel
by Mór Jókai · English · Gutenberg #34503 · 804,189 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Green Book; Or, Freedom Under the Snow: A Novel
Author: Mór Jókai
Translator: Ellen Waugh
Release date: November 29, 2010 [eBook #34503]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34503
Credits: Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREEN BOOK; OR, FREEDOM UNDER THE SNOW: A NOVEL ***
Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
MAURUS JOKAI
THE GREEN BOOK
OR
_FREEDOM UNDER THE SNOW_
A Novel
TRANSLATED BY
MRS. WAUGH
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1897
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
BLACK DIAMONDS. A Novel. Translated by Frances A.
Gerard. With a Photogravure Portrait of the Author.
16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50. (In "The Odd Number
Series.")
One of the best of the novels of Mr. Jokai that have
thus far been put into English.... The story is a happy
blend of the elements of romance with those of
every-day life.... The action is varied, animated, and
sufficiently exciting to sustain the reader's interest,
to which a constant appeal is also made by the fresh
and piquant aspects given the book by its Hungarian
atmosphere.--_Dial_, Chicago.
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.
Copyright, 1897, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SNOW ROSES 1
II. MIST SHADOWS 4
III. COMME LE MONDE S'AMUSE 11
IV. NO RIVAL 17
V. PLAN OF WAR AGAINST A WOMAN 21
VI. OLD AGE 34
VII. THE EIGHT-IN-HAND 47
VIII. AN ORGY OVER A VOLCANO 51
IX. THE BOARD OF GREEN CLOTH AND THE GREEN BOOK 64
X. FROM SCENT OF MUSK TO REEKING TAR 85
XI. THE HUNTED STAG 102
XII. HOW A FORTRESS WAS TAKEN 118
XIII. A CANNIBAL 125
XIV. THE YOUNG HOPEFUL 134
XV. THE CZAR SMILES 141
XVI. SOPHIE 158
XVII. BETHSABA 168
XVIII. KORYNTHIA 172
XIX. THE MONSTER 176
XX. THE BLIND HEN'S GENUINE PEARL 199
XXI. THE MOST POWERFUL RULER OF THEM ALL 207
XXII. THE DEVIL 218
XXIII. THE STORY OF THE MAN WITH THE GREEN EYES 225
XXIV. "THEN YOU ARE NOT--?" 232
XXV. GOG AND MAGOG 247
XXVI. UNDER THE PALMS 255
XXVII. PANACEA 264
XXVIII. THE WEDDING PRESENT 272
XXIX. MADAME POTIPHAR 279
XXX. A MOTHER'S BLESSING 284
XXXI. THE WILL 290
XXXII. NOT ONLY A BULLET STRIKES HOME 299
XXXIII. THE RENDEZVOUS 303
XXXIV. A DIVIDED HEART 316
XXXV. SPARKS AND ASHES 323
XXXVI. DAIMONA 326
XXXVII. IT'S NOT THE KNIFE ALONE THAT STRIKES TO THE HEART 346
XXXVIII. THE TRAGI-COMEDY AT GRUSINO 357
XXXIX. THE HERMIT 365
XL. DISCORDS 372
XLI. HOW TO ROB A MAN OF HIS WIFE 377
XLII. THE FEAST OF MASINKA 389
XLIII. UNDER THE COMETS 404
XLIV. THE MAN WITH THE GREEN EYES 409
XLV. THE HERALD 429
XLVI. "BEATUS ILLE...." 430
XLVII. THE TEMPTER 435
XLVIII. THE MOUSE PLAYS WITH THE CAT 441
XLIX. THE ANTIDOTE 446
L. "DEREVASKI DALOI" 452
LI. THE NAMELESS WIFE OF A NAMELESS MAN 460
EPISODES.--THE RESCUED POET 479
GHEDIMIN AND ZENEIDA 482
THE ROMANCE OF CONSTANTINE 483
THE GREEN BOOK
OR
_FREEDOM UNDER THE SNOW_
CHAPTER I
SNOW ROSES
A blizzard is covering the roads with a thick coating of snow. The
horses are up to their fetlocks in it. The dark-green firs bend beneath
its weight, and what has melted in the midday sun already hangs from the
slender branches of the undergrowth in thick masses of icicles; and as
the wind sweeps through the forest the ice-covered leaves and branches
ring and jingle like fairy bells.
Ever and anon the moon shines out from amid the fast-flying clouds;
then, as though it has seen enough, hides itself again under the ghostly
mist. The sighing of the wind through the forest is like the trembling
of fever-stricken nature. In the stillness of night, through the
pathless forest, rides a troop of horsemen. Their little long-maned
horses sniff their way with low, sunk necks; by the shaggy fur caps of
their riders, and their long lances hanging far back at their sides,
they are to be recognized as a party of Don Cossacks.
They ride in battle array. In the van a picket with drawn carbines; next
to them a detachment; then a cannon drawn by six horses. After that
follow a large body of men; then, again, a mounted gun and
artillerymen. Behind these another troop of mounted horsemen, and
another gun-carriage drawn by six horses. But to this the cannon is
wanting. In its stead a human form lies bound. The head hangs down over
the back of the rattling carriage, and as the moon ever and anon peeps
out from between the clouds, it discloses a face distorted with agony,
from which all trace of hair on head or beard has been cut away--perhaps
dragged out. The eyes and mouth are wide open. A coarse horsecloth
covering is fastened underneath the man. A corner of it drags along the
snow-covered ground. From it every now and then a drop of blood falls--a
sign that, in bleeding, the man still lives. The drops of blood in the
snow fantastically change, as they fall, into roses. Red flowers on the
white snow-field! The ghost-like procession disappears in the mist.
Keeping carefully to one side, but ever following closely on the track
of the soldiers, is a horseman, also mounted on a long-maned,
broad-headed pony. He wears a thick fur coat; a fur-bordered czamarka is
on his head; icicles hang from his long beard. He rides slowly and
cautiously, his horse taking long strides, as though its master were
seeking something on the ground. Then, as often as he sees a red rose
upon the snow, he dismounts, kneels, and with a golden spoon he takes up
the crystallized token and places it in an enamelled reliquary, then
rides on to the next.
The way leads without interruption through a primeval forest. It is the
forest of Bjelostok. Only there, in all Europe, are bisons to be met
with. There no sound of axe is ever heard; storms alone bring down the
giant trees. One forest arises out of the decay of the former. Beeches,
oaks, limes, vie in height with tall pines. In the dead of night resound
the shriek of the lynx, and the roar of the female bison anxiously
calling for its sucking calf. But no human sound is to be heard. No
human dwelling is near. Had not the path through the forest been a
highway, undergrowth had long since made it impenetrable.
The fallen drops of blood lead the rider on farther and farther. Now
they appear at longer intervals. At length the last rose is reached; the
track left by the wheels of the gun carriage is now his only guide. The
horseman continues to follow it. The man bound to the gun-carriage is
assuredly dead by this time. If dead, they will as surely bury him
somewhere.
Upon the endless solitary forest follow towns equally void of human
beings. On the banks of a great river stand two towns facing one
another, marked upon maps of a former century as still fortified places,
but now only to be classed among ruins. At that time they were specified
by name, Kazimir and Ivanowicze, I believe. Now their very names are
lost to history. Fallen walls, heaps of bricks and stones everywhere.
Nettles grow rank in the snow-covered squares and streets; castles,
churches, and temples are overgrown with briers to the very roofs. The
broad river is frozen over; from out the ice rise the piles of a
half-burned drawbridge, near to which stretches a track across the snow.
The solitary horseman follows the traces. In the middle of the river his
scrutinizing search is suddenly brought to a halt by a newly made gap in
the ice.
That it is newly made is shown by the broken ice lying about, upon which
no fresh layer of snow has had time to form. The shape of the gap is
oblong--like an open grave. Close round it are traces of many feet upon
the snow; not far away the smooth surface shows the pressure of a human
form, which must have lain there face downwards. Here, without a doubt,
has been the place of burial. They had lowered the body under the ice (a
secure burial-place, indeed); the current would then convey it gently to
the sea.
The horseman dismounts, kneeling down beside the open space and baring
his head. He murmurs something--perhaps a prayer. Into the water beneath
there drops something--perhaps a tear.
At that instant the moon shines out resplendent. The man's head is
distinctly visible--a head once seen not easily forgotten. A high
forehead; the hair of reddish hue, but already tinged with gray, growing
low upon it; the face thin, nervous; cheek-bones and chin prominent;
nose aquiline; deep-set eyes; the towsled beard brushed forward; the
character of the whole face was one of suppressed suffering, of silent
woe. The moon has again disappeared under the clouds. A thick, heavy
mist falls around. Primeval forest and ruins alike fade; the figure of
the horseman grows more and more shadowy.
Through the thick mist, in the dead stillness of black night, is a weird
sound of sighing and moaning. Perhaps it is the she-bison calling her
young--perhaps it is the voice of one singing "Boze cos Polske."
CHAPTER II
MIST SHADOWS
At the same time that the wanderer on the rough path of Bjelostok forest
was gathering up its snow roses, another man on the far-off shores of
the Black Sea was preparing for a long, distant, and hurried journey.
The two men hasten to the same goal. They had never seen one another,
had never heard the other's name, had never corresponded. Yet each is
aware of the other's existence; aware that they are to meet, and that
this meeting must take place on a given day. The first has, perhaps, the
shorter road to take, but he can only ride slowly; he has to avoid
inhabited towns, to utilize night for his progress, to pass the days in
isolated csards.
The second has the longer and more difficult way; but the only battle he
has to fight is with the elements of earth, water, fire, and wind, and
these he can conquer. The fifth obstacle--man--places himself
obsequiously at his service. This traveller wears the uniform of a
colonel. Short of stature, he gains in height by the singular erectness
of his head and the elasticity of his walk. By that walk he can be
detected under any disguise. His closely cropped hair displays a broad,
high brow; his eager eyes dance in his head as he speaks. He has an
expressive face--one from which it is easy to read his thoughts, even
when his lips are silent--a face in which every muscle moves with his
words; one in strongest contrast to that of the other man. He can hide
his every feeling under an immovable countenance; this one betrays
beforehand his every thought. During his five minutes' colloquy with the
jemsik, he has exhausted a whole gamut of expressions, from flattery to
rage, as if playing upon the strings of a violin. He gesticulates
violently with his hands; now his five fingers are under the peasant's
nose; then they strike him on the shoulder, punch him in the ribs, seize
him by the lappet of his coat; now shake, then embrace him. He kisses
him, strokes his beard with coaxing action, then tugs at it, pushes him
roughly away, finally reaching him his flask for a drink; and perhaps
his only object has been to find out whether the road to Jekaseviroslaw
is passable or not.
For while the snow still lies deep in the forest of Bjelostok, and
gun-carriages may yet drive across the ice-covered Niemen, thaw has
already set in along the valleys of the Dnieper and the Don, and the
whole plain is a sea, from out which the rush huts, with their
surrounding plantations of reeds, stand out like solitary islands. To
every hut a boat made of willow is secured; this boat is the one and
only mode of locomotion, albeit a dangerous one, whereby in the spring
season the inhabitants can convey themselves to the pasture-land to look
after their cattle and horses.
As far as eye can reach stretches out the endless reddish-brown plain.
Rushes, reeds, and other water-plants not yet freed from their dried-up
winter clothing, lend a deep-red shimmer to the landscape, to which the
sprouting willows, now illumined by the light of the setting sun, add
their tinge of color. The storm-portending evening glow tinges the
fleecy clouds flame color, causing the rest of the sky to appear topaz
green. Myriads of water-birds whirl restlessly through the air, filling
the plain with their cries. In the far distance swim a flock of swans,
tinged golden in the setting sun, which, half-sunken beneath the
horizon, sends out its last rays across the changing clouds, like a
departing sovereign clothed in gold and purple.
Across the great, never-ending plain there is but one path, laid
bridge-like with willow stems. Over this the traveller must needs make
his way--there is no alternative. The river banks passed, further sign
of human habitation ceases. The smithy of a gypsy colony, which has
established itself on the side of a hill, alone sends its light far out
into the evening mist. Soon that, too, will be lost in the gathering
gloom; then the traveller's three-horsed car must jolt along by the
fitful light of the moon. An occasional kurgan rising up here and there
in the Steppe is the sole sign that it was once inhabited by a people.
Those tschudas upon the brow of the hill were their gods. Blocks of
stone, with roughly carved human heads, proclaim afar, even to the banks
of the Amur, the former abiding-place of a race which has not left even
a name behind, only its gods, which later races have called tschudas
(from the Hungarian word _csuda_, signifying "miracle").
The traveller will find shelter for the night with a Czaban, who has
chanced to dig himself a cave near the wayside, and lives there,
surrounded by his numerous herds of sheep. The Colonel remarks in his
note-book that the shepherds living in the neighborhood of the kurgans
are a stupid, squalid set, who smell of cheese.
Next morning the chariot with its ringing bells proceeds ever farther
and farther, until the inundated banks of the Dnieper oblige it to halt.
Here, the traveller has no resource but to take to a boat. Luckily the
stream is sufficiently swollen to enable his boat successfully to
navigate the famous Falls of Herodotus without striking on the rocks.
Only of the last does the ferryman warn him. It is the Nyenaschiketz
(the Insatiable). There it is not advisable to tempt one's fate by
evening light.
"But I must go on," says the traveller, imperiously. He is in haste.
That alters the case. His imperious "must" knows no hindrances. Upon it
follows the only answer, "Seisas" (Immediately). This one word
characterizes the whole people. It even bridges over the "Insatiable."
The boat goes to pieces, but boatman and traveller swim safely to
shore. The remainder of the night is passed in a fisherman's hut. The
traveller here remarks in his note-book that the boatmen and fisher-folk
who live on the banks of the Dnieper are a stupid, squalid set, who
smell of fish.
The opposite bank is inhabited by the Zaporogenes, who take their name
from the falls "zaporagi"--people who live beside waterfalls. Here it is
only possible to proceed on horseback. By nightfall the traveller has
reached Szetsa, a so-called village. The houses are earthen caves,
thatched with grass, called "kurenyi." The traveller, after having sung
and drunk with the Zaporogenes, observes in his note-book that the
dwellers in "kurenyi" are a stupid, squalid set, smelling of
coach-grease.
The first work of a Zaporagen is to soak his new garments in tar, to
make them durable. Among that people are to be found the first
indistinct traces of a longing after freedom, primitive, but still
existent. This instinct reaches its culminating-point in the propensity
to rob their neighbors; turn their wives out of doors when tired of
them, and take to themselves a fresh one, who may please them better.
On, on, in the saddle, until the ancient city of the Steppe looms in the
horizon, "the Mother of Cities." It is Kiev, the so often razed and
rebuilt Jerusalem of the Scythians, with its catacombs and remains of
Sarmatic saints. In the distance a deceptive Fata Morgana, looking with
its gilded cupolas like a city of churches, from out which the mighty
tower of Lavra rises like a giant.
The traveller avoids alike the Beresztovo, the most inhabited quarter,
and the barracks; nor does he avail himself of the hospitable shelter of
the Lavra monastery, but seeks the Jewish quarter, and there in a
poor-looking Jewish hovel passes the night, taking counsel with soldiers
who, as though informed beforehand of his coming, have entered one by
one through the low entrance-door, to disappear in like manner by the
opposite one.
The traveller remarks in his note-book that the Jews are a stupid,
squalid set, who smell of anise-seed.
The way lies ever northwards. Spring-time vanishes from the earth; the
glow of evening from the sky; a canopy of gloomy gray mist overspreads
the firmament: the pale disk of the sun is like a medal upon a ragged
soldier's cloak. Even the waning moon only rises late of nights. The
nights grow longer, and the flames of the rush-heaps burning in the
fields impede the way. The traveller is often obliged to turn back to
the houses which border the pine forests. They are well-ordered, pretty
domiciles, inhabited by apostates who have taken refuge from their
pursuers in the woods.
There, too, sounds an occasional chord of yearning after freedom. They
are prepared to endure, to make a firm stand, one and the other, in
order to be allowed to write the name of Jesus ("Jhsus"). This is
something for a beginning!
The traveller records in his note-book that the Raskolniks are stupid
and unhappy, and smell of leather.
Still farther northwards. Upon the plains green with young wheat follow
again expanses of snow; instead of flocks of swans and cranes, swarms of
ravens and Arctic birds are to be seen thickening the air. This time the
traveller passes the night in the Sloboden, where all sorts and
conditions of men congregate--men from the most remote parts in search
of work, offering their pair of hands for any description of labor.
Hither each brings his misery, his ignorance, and--foul odors. The
misery and ignorance are one and the same, but the foul odors are
diverse: by these they distinguish one from another, through these they
fall into broils. No sooner do they perceive the alien smell than they
come to blows.
Time presses with the traveller. Now he has reached the land of sledges.
Thick mists and snow-storms are his companions. There come days in which
there is no morning or noon-day; the snow-drifts change the world around
him into a prison-house. Such terrific snow-storms are only known in
those parts; they are "pad," the terror of travellers. The night frosts
have become insupportable in their severity; the mile-stones lie hidden
under the snow; the north wind has swept it into hillocks in many
places; then, again, into deep holes, in which the sledge sinks
axle-deep: a chorus of wolves howl in the woods. By morning the door of
the csárda is snowed up; the only mode of egress is to crawl through the
hole in the roof, where the jemsik, his sledge already horsed, is in
waiting, leaning against the chimney. He calls laughingly to his fare:
"It is cold enough for a couple of fur coats, sir!"
The north wind has chased away the clouds over night; the sky is the
color of steel. In the gray lilac-tinted horizon a red glowing fire-ball
is rising--it is the sun, which, running its orbit, scarce rises over
the earth; even at mid-day it gives out no warmth. The kingdom of winter
reigns. And now the way becomes more peopled. Life seems bright and
stirring in this kingdom of winter. Whole strings of sledges, laden high
with wares, move onwards in the one direction; well-appointed equipages,
steering clear of the heavily laden freight, pass them by. It is the
last day of the journey. Along the horizon a shining streak grows
visible--the frozen ocean. The streak grows broader and broader, and as
the sun goes down the rays of the aurora borealis stretch up over the
starry sky to its very zenith; and, illuminated by this magic sea of
rosy light, there arises from out the expanse of snow a giant city, with
the white roofs of its palaces, the cupolas of its churches, the
bastions of its fortresses, cupolas and bastions alike of dazzling
whiteness, as though it were the ghost of a city, painted white upon
white; above it the rosy northern light, behind it the bluish-leaden
veil of mist.
The traveller has reached his goal. But the other--is he here too?
CHAPTER III
COMME LE MONDE S'AMUSE
It is the last day of "Butter-week." Despite the excessive cold, the
streets of St. Petersburg are thronged with a tumultuous crowd. To-day
meat may still be eaten, to-morrow the great fast begins; every
butcher's shop will be shut; for seven whole weeks oil is in the
ascendant. Every one is in haste to make a good meal to-day.
The great Haymarket, the "Szenaja Plostadt," is the attraction to the
hungry throng. There, in long rows before the butchers' booths, stand on
their four feet frozen oxen, bucks, and wild boars, with heads
outstretched, the butcher either sawing or chopping off the desired
joint for his customers; his knife would make no impression upon the
hard-frozen meat. Quantities of small game--hares, partridges,
pheasants, and black-cock--from other countries, preserved by the icy
atmosphere, hang in festoons from the booths. The venders of bear's
flesh have their separate quarter; the centre of the square is taken up
by the fish shops, where great heaps of bemaned sea-lions are offered as
delicacies. Purchasers in tens of thousands pass before the booths, some
on foot, others in sleighs with bells jingling, the greater part of them
women, while the sellers are all men. No women hawkers are to be found
here. Even the special delicacy of Butter-week, the "blinnis," are made
by men bakers; these are omelets soaked in butter and spread with
caviare. Then there are the Raznocsiks, tall young fellows, their fur
coats fastened with a girdle round their waists, who, with baskets on
their heads piled high with every kind of eatable, go in and out of the
crowd with untiring cry, "Come, buy pirogo! saikis! kwast!" The venders
of tea are keeping it boiling hot in their great samovars; the doors of
the spirit-booths are forever on the swing. Pirog especially disposes to
a good drink. It is a flat cake, composed of chopped fish, meat, and
coarse vegetables--a choice morsel--and this is the last day on which it
may be enjoyed; to-morrow it may not even be thought of. All St.
Petersburg is in the streets. It is a lovely day in March; not a day of
spring and violets, but of frost and icicles. The north wind of
yesterday has sent down the thermometer fourteen degrees. Splendid
weather!
At midday, just as the great clock of Isaac Church begins to strike, a
fresh hubbub arises among the noisy throng. Down the long, straight
street, called Czarskoje Zelo Prospect, a party of huntsmen were seen
coming along in full pursuit of a magnificent twelve-antlered stag. A
stag-hunt at that season of the year is forbidden by the common laws of
hunting. The new antlers are not yet grown; they are but knots grown
over with tender hide. No less is it permitted to follow a hunt through
the streets of a city, more especially of St. Petersburg during Maflicza
week. But this distinguished party does not seem bound by ordinary laws.
The hunting-party consists of some twelve men and three of the opposite
sex, not counting about fifty huntsmen and packs of hounds. They send
the people flying the whole length of the street before them.
It may have been that the start had been in Czarskoje Zelo Deer Park,
that the stag had broken away and had taken his course towards the town,
the huntsmen after him. A huntsman's zeal does not stop to inquire which
way is permitted or which prohibited.
The stag dashes across Fontankabridge. In vain the toll-keepers put up
the barrier, it clears it at a bound. Then, seeing the hunting-party in
pursuit, the terrified toll-keepers prepare to reopen the passage.
"Leave it alone!" shouts the foremost, and the company, following the
example of the stag, clears it. Mr. Stag has meanwhile reached one of
the principal streets, the hounds on his track; the gaping country
bumpkins at the street corners rush back in panic as the huntsmen dash
past them.
At the entrance to the barracks of the Imperial Cadet Corps stands a
grenadier on guard. If he has any sense he will shoot down the
approaching stag, that it may not injure the crowd in its mad career.
But military etiquette goes before common-sense. The soldier on guard,
recognizing his superior in command, lowers his gun and presents arms.
The rebellious stag meanwhile, knowing no such etiquette, springs upon
the guard, and, catching him on its antlers, tosses him into the air.
The guard on reaching the ground again will probably present arms once
more from that lowly position. The stag, by this time, has reached a
cross street. This is one of the most frequented promenades in the
imperial city. The loungers rush away in all directions, women
screaming, men swearing, dogs barking--one runs against and upsets the
other--sledges overturn upon fallen foot-passengers. The stag and
hunting-party spring over outstretched bodies and overturned sledges
alike. It is capital sport--no one can take any hurt, the snow lies too
thick. Now the stag, reaching the Haymarket, seems somewhat bewildered.
For one second it stands affrighted, the dense throng blocking up the
great square. The next something attracts its attention. It is the row
of stags, which it takes for a herd, standing up before the
game-dealers' booths. Now the instinct of all hunted animals is to seek
refuge in a herd if they come upon one. So away into the thick of the
throng! Now the roar, the screams, and curses become a very pandemonium.
Booths and butchers' stalls overturned bear witness to the creature's
wild career; but no sooner has it reached its lifeless fellows and, with
quick instinct, scented blood, than, maddened with fury and with antlers
lowered, it forces itself a passage back into the Garten Strasse, and
tears off panting and snorting towards the Costinoi Dwor. This is one of
the curiosities of St. Petersburg--the great bazaar.
The Costinoi Dwor is a distinct quarter in itself, where everything of
most costly nature, from Persian carpets to diamond necklaces, is to be
bought. Here the stag evidently thinks to find shelter. All the doors
stand open. From among the thousand shops he must needs select that of a
Venetian glass-dealer, huntsmen and hounds in hot pursuit. In the vast
apartment, supported by pillars, are massed crystal ornaments,
amounting in value to hundreds of thousands of rubles, artistically
piled into pyramids of fairy-like elegance, the walls hung with Venetian
mirrors reaching from floor to ceiling. The unhappy Italian proclaims
himself bankrupt as he sees the stag make for his shop, containing such
costly and perishable wares, and it is a comical sight to see the poor
signor and his _fauteuil_ fall back head over heels when the crash
comes. But no sooner does the stag see an innumerable number of its
fellows reflected in the mirrors all around him, hounds upon them,
closely followed by galloping huntsmen, than it completely loses the
little remnant of wits it had retained, and, turning its back on the
raving Italian, it dashes through the ranks of its pursuers towards the
Appraxin Dwor, where Turks, Jews, Armenians, Persians, brokers,
second-hand dealers, Little and Great Russians, Copts, and Raskolniks,
Gruses, and Finlanders abound, their stalls crammed with old rubbish
from every quarter of the globe, and they themselves standing out in the
middle of the street to better attract the passers-by, two or three
seizing the unwary customer by the arm at the same time, crying up their
own wares, depreciating those of their neighbors, squabbling among
themselves, vociferating oaths, lying, cheating, bargaining--playing the
rogue in every barbaric language under the sun. And to them, in their
very midst, the excited, maddened stag! Now the real fun begins. It was
a sight to see the terrified peddlers scattered right and left among
their heaps of rubbish, to hear their agonized adjurations to all the
powers of heaven and earth; to see them crawl on all fours, frog-like,
into their holes, as the huntsmen and hounds went galloping in full
course over their fallen bodies; and to watch the angry company, after
the wild hunt had passed, streaming back again to their desecrated
wares with loud laments, proclaiming that the world was coming to an
end. The stag simply flew over the heads of the densely packed throng;
the hunt could not follow up so rapidly; it required the huntsmen's
whips to keep the dogs together in such a bewildering crowd. Thus it
gained a certain advantage, and, reaching the Boulevard of the Fontana
Canal, dashed across the frozen stream to the opposite bank, and sped
down the Goronschaja Street before its pursuers came up with it. [At the
time of our story (1825) a palace, surrounded by a large park, the
Bulasky Gardens, stood there. The great fire of 1862 has since laid it,
as well as the whole Appraxin Dwor, in ruins; the railway-station of
Czarskoje Zelo now occupies the site.]
The park is surrounded by a high gilded railing, through which sprigs of
vine-covered firs push their way. Perhaps the stag takes it for its
native home. Close by palace and park lies the great Obuchow Hospital;
some five hundred patients, men and women (most of them epileptics) are
just coming down the opposite street, returning from Trinity Church,
where they have been attending mass. Should the affrighted creature rush
in among the panic-stricken crowd, there would be no escape for
them--their crippled, infirm forms, their enfeebled brains, would render
it impossible. The very fright alone might kill them, deadened as are
their senses. Now a chorus of horror arises from the procession of
imbeciles, who, as if under a spell, come to a halt, helplessly awaiting
the attack of the incomprehensible foe. Infirmity has not crippled their
feet alone, but their thinking powers also. Nothing intervenes to stop
the approaching stag. As it flies in full career past the principal gate
of the Bulasky Gardens a shot resounds in the air. The stag makes a
side spring, throws back its head, sinks down, struggles up again,
plunges its bleeding nose into the snow, then stretches itself out,
resting its stately antlered head on the threshold of the gate, as
though in gratitude to him whose well-directed aim has released it from
its pursuers.
Sport was spoiled.
CHAPTER IV
NO RIVAL
What unheard-of audacity, to spoil the sport of such an aristocratic
hunting-party!
"Who fired that shot?" cried the foremost of the huntsmen, with a
threatening crack of his whip.
The hounds dashed furiously on towards the open gate, their sense of the
dignity of the hunt equally insulted.
The question had been put in Russian; and the action was in accord with
the speech, although the speaker's face was close shaven in the French
style, while the other members of the hunt all wore short whiskers.
"I took that liberty!" returned a woman's voice; and from under the
fir-trees, whose branches overhung the gate, appeared a woman's form,
slender as one of the Amazons of the "Kalevala" Saga, her pale oval face
surrounded by loose-falling hair of reddish gold, like a lion's mane;
the nose, straight and delicate, and full lips recalling the Niobe
group; while at sight of the great flashing eyes, instinct with magic
beauty, one was irresistibly reminded of a peri from the "Sakuntala." A
very fairy, who united in herself the threefold myths.
"I dared do it!" she said, coming forward alone, unattended. And
carelessly dispersing the excited dogs with one hand, she raised the
pistol she held in the other, and, pointing it at her interlocutor,
continued: "And there is another shot in it for you if you do not
instantly lower your whip."
The hounds were cringingly snuffing about her whom the moment before
they had been ready to tear in pieces; the huntsman, too, was not less
susceptible to the charm than was the pack. Raising his whip, he touched
his cap courteously with it, and addressed her in French, the language
of Russian society:
"It were unnecessary, madame, that you should use firearms, possessing
as you do in your eyes such powerful weapons."
By this speech the huntsman betrayed the school of Versailles, where men
were accustomed to carry on war with compliments, and to mask retreat
with gallant words.
Meanwhile the rest of the hunting-party had come up to the gates. The
gentlemen, seeing with whom their comrade was in conversation, held in
their horses, as though not wishing to take part in it; only an older
man, wearing an order set in diamonds on his fur-lined coat, approached
nearer; and one of the ladies, galloping straight up to the gate, pulled
up her horse at its threshold, the body of the dead stag alone
separating her from the other woman.
The huntswoman wore a blue, fur-bordered jacket, with hunting-cap to
match, under which her fair hair hung in ringlets to the shoulders. Her
face was crimsoned with eagerness and the extreme cold, giving to her
somewhat prominent eyes a still more dazzling brilliancy than they were
wont to have; her thin, delicately shaped lips were half open; the blue
veil falling over her forehead, and the blue band she wore under her
chin as a protection from the cold, did not allow more of her face to be
seen. But as she drew up close beside the other lady she pushed back the
chin band, perhaps in order to speak more freely, thereby displaying a
pretty, rosy chin, divided by charming dimples.
"How dared you shoot that stag?" she cried to the other lady. "Did you
not know it was an imperial one?"
"How dared you chase that stag to the very gates of the hospital? Did
you not know that it is a hospital for cripples?"
"I hope you recognize that the Czar is the first gentleman in Russia."
"Throughout the whole world the first gentlefolks are the sick."
"You are foolhardy, madame."
"That I admit."
Now the huntswoman lifted her veil. She was heated. She toyed
impatiently with the riding-whip in her hand.
"Why am I not a man?" she muttered, between her pearly teeth.
The huntsman with the clean-shaven face, reading from his companion's
working features and piercing eyes that there was something more in
dispute than the shot stag, now bending towards her, addressed her
audibly enough in German. For though the French language--that of the
best-beloved enemy--is the language of society in the Russian capital,
German--that of the most hated friend--is only spoken by the exclusive.
German is therefore spoken when the servants are not desired to
understand.
"A rival, eh?" asked the clean-shaven one.
The huntswoman projected her lips scornfully, and, knitting her brows,
answered aloud in German:
"Neither rival nor----"
The lady standing by had distinctly heard the short colloquy, and was
perfectly aware that she had another charge in her pistol.
The speaker had turned pale as she spoke, like a duellist who, having
fired his shot and wounded his adversary, now awaits the other's fire.
The owner of the park did not do this, however. There are words, looks,
and gestures which can strike deeper than the most deadly weapon.
Placing one foot on the crowned antlers of the stag lying prone before
her, she smiled full in the face of her adversary; and, as though to
emphasize the insulting challenge, raising her pistol, she fired the
remaining shot into the air. For an insult loses its sting if directed
by an armed person against one unarmed. Now once more she stood
conqueror.
The huntswoman's face flamed with fury. She twisted her riding-whip in
her hands like a serpent, as though inwardly debating whether to strike
it across the other's face, and thus wipe away the irritating smile.
One of the other two ladies was young, little more than a child. Her
face a perfect oval, with exquisitely formed chin, a little rosebud
mouth, large, deep-blue eyes, looking black in the distance, dark,
finely pencilled eyebrows, and hair hanging in soft, shining plaits down
her back.
Her whole face wore the astounded expression of a school-girl. The
strangest thing about her was that she rode a gentleman's saddle, with
which her costume was in keeping--the Circassian beshmet, the broad,
white salavár, high boots, and flowing cashmere, with hanging kindzsál.
Every one but she knew what the two women were saying to each other. He
who happened to be ignorant of the language could understand the
gestures, the contemptuous expression of the features, the crossfire of
eyes. The young girl did not understand even that. She merely looked on
in amazement. That the two ladies were angry with each other she
saw--and about a stag's antlers! The riding-whip was twisted about in
the huntswoman's nervous fingers until it snapped. She made use of
another weapon.
"Bethsaba!" she exclaimed, turning to the girl, and speaking to her in a
language unknown to any of their auditors--possibly Circassian; but the
expression on the speaker's face, and the terror-stricken, pallid look
on that of the young girl, said as plainly as words:
"You have asked me what the devil looks like? Look at that woman; there
you have the fiend in human form."
The girl, bending her head, crossed herself as she cast a frightened
side glance at the dreadful woman, who was the embodiment of his Satanic
Majesty. Then the Amazon, turning her own horse, and at the same time
seizing the reins of that upon which the young girl was mounted,
galloped back the way she had come, huntsmen and hounds following. The
stag remained where it had fallen.
CHAPTER V
PLAN OF WAR AGAINST A WOMAN
On the way back to Ghedimin Palace naturally nothing was spoken of by
the members of the hunt but the exciting scene to which they had just
been witness.
"_Parole d'honneur_," said the clean-shaven horseman, as he struck his
riding-boot with his whip, "the whole world is turned upside down! In
the time of the Empress Elizabeth, if any woman had allowed herself to
insult a Princess Ghedimin in that manner, she would have had her tongue
cut out and have been punished with the knout."
"This is what we have to thank exaggerated philanthropy for! It was
never created for us. Voltairianism will be the ruin of the nation. How
can Araktseieff suffer it?"
"The woman is no Russian?"
"Perhaps some English or German here to spite us, and who has placed
herself under the protection of the Embassy? By Jove! in 1816, when I
was last at home, such a thing would not have been permitted!"
"These cursed foreigners! Anyway, if the president of the police does
not take the matter in hand, we will administer the knout ourselves. I
swear your presence alone withheld me just now, Princess Maria
Alexievna!"
"Indeed! You do not know who the woman is."
"What does it matter who she is? She may even be a princess."
"She is more than that."
"Then some expatriated queen, perhaps from Georgia."
"Silence!" said the lady, as she gave a warning look in the direction of
the girl riding at her other side.
"She does not understand German. So the woman is really a queen?"
At this question the lady laughed heartily.
"Really a queen! A true queen! A reigning queen--an absolute monarch! We
all are her slaves; you, I, even Alexis Maximovitch. A queen who is not
to be driven out of her kingdom by means of cannon, but with this!" and
she held out to her companion the whistle of her shattered riding-whip.
"What! an actress?"
"Of course. What else should she be?"
"Ha, ha, ha! To whom the whistle means a revolution; whose throne is
upset by hisses! Ah, Maria Alexievna, present me with this whistle. With
it I will fight for you, as a knight _sans peur et sans reproche_."
The lady resigned the fatal weapon, so efficacious in the downfall of
stage potentates, to her cavalier, as the latter lifted her out of her
saddle in the portico of the Ghedimin Palace.
He then kissed her hand. She kissed him on the cheek, and, taking the
young girl by the hand, she passed through a treble glass door and
ascended the broad frescoed staircase within.
Here the hunting-party broke up, making rendezvous at the opera that
evening.
Now the silent, bestarred gentleman, who had hitherto not mixed in the
conversation, slapping the clean-shorn one on the back with the flat of
his hand, said:
"Nicholas Sergievitch, a word with you. Come along with me."
"At your service, Alexis Maximovitch."
And together they rode off to the Araktseieff Palace.
There are no old palaces in St. Petersburg. The whole city only dates
back a century and a half. The palace of the favorite official of the
Czar is situated on the Nevski Prospect, and is built more for comfort
than for elegance. During the winter the whole building is heated
throughout with hot-air pipes; every window has treble cases; the floors
of the rooms are of parquetry.
The two huntsmen said nothing until they had refreshed themselves with
hot tea seasoned with arak and a curious compound of cayenne and
cantharides. A tiny portion on the point of a knife of this latter warms
one's frozen limbs. In any other climate it were poison.
The great man whom we now recognize from the name of his palace,
Araktseieff, first locking the door of the room they were in, pushed up
a rocking-chair to the fireplace for his guest, gave him a chibouque,
and himself took up his station before the fire.
"Hark ye, Nicholas Sergievitch, put the whistle you received from the
Princess just now among your treasures, and when you want to blow it go
out into the woods. That is my advice to you. For if you carry out what
you have sworn to the Princess you will find yourself next day on the
road to Irkutsk, and, by Heaven! I can't say when you will be coming
back."
"The devil!"
"You see, the Czar is of opinion that he can create a hundred noblemen
such as you in an hour; but singers such as Zeneida Ilmarine are to be
met with but once in the century."
"Ah! So this mysterious stranger is Zeneida Ilmarine, the far-famed
Simarosa heroine? All honor to her! I take my pipe out of my mouth as I
speak her revered name! When I made my promise to Princess Ghedimin, I
had no idea whom it concerned. This absolves me from my oath. Against
the 'divine' Zeneida one may not revolt, even to please the 'angelic'
Maria Alexievna. Rather raise the standard against the whole army of
legitimate rulers! What a fool I was! The excessive cold must have
frozen my wits like quicksilver in a thermometer. Of course, I had heard
abroad that the _diva_ was a _protégée_ of the Czar and Czarina, and,
moreover, the beloved of the brave Ivan Maximovitch. From the dialogue
in which the two ladies indulged, I might have gathered that it was a
meeting between wife and lady-love."
"Now you must devise a way to find favor with both. Favor with the wife,
as with the sweetheart."
"Easy as kiss your hand. I have only to tell one about the other."
"That may succeed with the wife, for she is outspoken, straightforward,
and passionate. With the favorite, however, it may be more difficult;
for she understands how to play as many parts in real life as on the
stage. And your office it will be to find out which is the real one."
"That I will do--as sure as my name is Galban."
"Well, Chevalier Galban, you may imagine that it is a matter of some
importance which has induced us to call you back from Versailles, where
you were to us as eyes and ears are to man. You have there learned, in
masterly fashion, how to unravel the most secret diplomatic webs by
means of a woman's heart, yourself the while remaining unscathed. Now
you must carry out your masterwork at home."
"What, Holy Russia has secrets which her police and the priests are
unable to fathom?"
"My dear Chevalier Galban, our good Chulkin has enough to do to catch
thieves, and is not too successful in that department. I counsel you, if
your sledge be stopped on the way home from the club at night, give the
thief your purse quietly, for if you call the watch the soldiers will
ease you of your fur coat into the bargain. If, on the other hand, you
fall into the hands of a policeman, he will not only clear you out, but
the thief too. As for the priests, they count for nothing to our people,
who are atheists."
"Have we come to that?"
"Yes; to that. General Kutusoff did well to say, when our forces came
back from the French War, 'The best thing the Czar could do would be to
drown the whole expedition in the Baltic.' They were all indoctrinated
to a man with liberalism, and have infected the entire army. I assure
you that many a young officer carries 'The Catechism of a Free Man' and
'A Scheme of Constitutional Monarchy' about with him in his
coat-pocket."
"How do they get hold of them?"
"They must have a secret press."
"They have been allowed to play with freedom too long."
"That were the least danger. As long as we allowed them the game of
freemasonry, all was open and above board. At the court balls they would
talk in the presence of the Czar himself of freedom, and debate over the
rights of the people and the emancipation of serfs. That was all
academical discussion. But when the masonic lodges were closed, and the
insignia sold by auction in the Jews' market on the Appraxin Dwor, the
secret evil grew worse and worse. The freemasonry of Mamonoff, of a
sudden, took five or six different forms. One called itself a 'General
Betterment Society,' Orloff at its head. Another was 'Szojusz Spacinia,'
a third 'The Confederation of Patriots,' a fourth 'Szojusz
Blagadenztoiga.' There is another constituted under the title of
'Republic of the Eight Slav Races'; its members wear an eight-pointed
star as a token, the inscription on one of the points being Hungary.
They grow like mushrooms."
"Ridiculous! Even in my time there were clubs where secret meetings were
held. But there was no talk then of danger to the State. If certain
much-wronged husbands had no complaint to make, the police might let us
go scot-free."
"That is not the case now," answered Araktseieff, impatiently. (It was
his habit, when receiving secret visits in his own house, to keep a
sword-stick in his hand, with which he would incessantly prod screens,
walls, and hangings, as though ever suspecting listeners; and did he
perceive that his visitor had a bulging pocket-handkerchief or
note-book, he would prod that, too, to discover what was there.) "They
are about everywhere, and yet nowhere to be traced. They give each other
rendezvous at balls, concerts, wine-parties, etc., and so contrive to
give our spies the slip. Why, they actually keep a register, a sort of
parliamentary hand-book, in which the conferences of every distant
province are entered concerning the organizing of a systematic
revolution throughout Russia; the best form of constitution; what is to
become of the dynasty; how the empire is to be partitioned, and whether
to be represented by landed proprietors or the people. And this protocol
it is which contains a fully named register of the conspirators, those
who hold the threads of the net in their hands throughout the whole
land, from the shores of the Black Sea to the Arctic Pole. Among
themselves they call it 'the green book.' Now, where is this book? That
is the question."
"To which I reply by a counter-question. But do not keep on so
incessantly prodding my coat-pockets with that sharp stiletto of yours.
Has any one seen this book--and, if seen, why has he not said where he
has seen it?"
"That I will tell you, too. The conspirators are divided into three
classes. The first are 'Brethren.' To this community any one may belong,
on his introducer making himself responsible for him; they know nothing
beyond the fact that they are members of a conspiracy, and have the
right to attend meetings. The second class are called 'Men.' They are
trusty people, who, on a certain watchword being given them, are
authorized to act. You may reckon one-third of the officers in the army
as belonging to this class. They cannot betray anything beyond their own
individual names and the work given them to do. Then we come to the
third class, the 'Bojars,' and leaders of the whole affair. It is
extremely difficult to get in among them; and those who do belong to
them do not betray one iota."
"Are they married men? Have they no wives--no mistresses?"
"That question occurred to me long ago. It is no new discovery that
women are the best mediums for discovering secrets. Bright eyes and
diamonds can cast light into many a dark corner--that is an old story!
That 'the green book' is in the custody of some woman is unquestionable;
but, so far, with all our espionage, we have reached no further. We were
informed that Orloff's mistress was the possessor of 'the green book,'
and paid down enormous sums for the information. And what did we find? A
pack of scandalous anecdotes of St. Petersburg society, all of which,
moreover, were known to us before. Then we got on another scent. 'The
green book' was in the keeping of the 'Martinists,' whose president had
a lady-love--faithfulness itself. In her case all our bribes were
useless. So one night we had her surprised in her room, bound, the
boards of the floor raised, and actually there was found a 'green book.'
But it contained nothing but atheistic theses. What was the use of them?
People may rebel against the Deity, but not against the Czar! At length
we received secret information that the heart of the conspiracy is that
league which calls itself 'The Northern Union'--its head Prince
Ghedimin."
"The devil!"
"Yes, my friend; the next in succession to the throne! He it is who must
hold possession of 'the green book,' or who has had it in his keeping.
To whom should a man confide so dangerous a treasure but to his own
wife? But the husband, we are told, always wore the key of the iron
chest in which the book was guarded round his neck. Father Hilary
attacked the Princess on the religious side, and persuaded her to remove
the key from her husband's neck when he lay unconscious in typhus fever.
She must have had many sins to atone for. Anyway, she did commit the
small piece of treachery, and I passed a whole night studying 'the green
book' obtained from Ghedimin."
"Well?"
"Well, having carefully gone through it, I flung it to the other end of
the room. The book was filled with dangerous doctrines--nothing more.
Pure abstract reasoning, philosophical treatises, and the like, but no
single name of any member. What care I for the utterances of Seneca,
Rousseau, Saint-Just? What I want to know is what the Muravieffs and
Turgenieffs are talking about. That, too, was a mere piece of trickery.
That cunning Ghedimin did not trust his wife. He gave her a book to keep
which the Censor--had she betrayed him--would readily have condemned to
be burned, but for which the President of Secret Police would have
grudged the oil consumed in the reading."
"Then, if the real 'green book' is not to be found in his wife's
keeping, it must be in that of his lady-love--and that lady-love is
Zeneida?"
"Right."
"Is she a foreigner?"
"No; a subject. A Finnish girl from Helsingfors; and especially favored
by the Czar, because she has triumphed over the pride of the
Empire--Catalani. The Czarina, too, is very gracious to her. You know
that the Czar is a great music-lover, and will not suffer the school of
Cimarosa and Paisiello to be set aside by the modern school of Rossini.
Zeneida Ilmarine does not sing a note of Rossini. At all hours she is
admitted to the imperial family. How often have I--ay, and even the
Grand Duke Nicholas--had to kick our heels in the antechamber while she
was having audience? At the court soirées she is treated like any
reigning princess; she alone is privileged to wear in her hair a white
rose, the Czarina's favorite flower. It is entirely due to the magic of
her voice that the Finnish students of Helsingfors escaped being sent
off in a body to Kiew after the rebellion; for she can intercede as
effectually as she can sing. The Czar would have raised her to the rank
of a duchess, but what do you think the spoiled _diva_ said? 'Would your
Majesty wish to degrade me?'"
"And is this the woman who could take part in a conspiracy against the
Czar?"
"Why not? if the leader of that conspiracy be sweet upon her, a Prince
Ghedimin, the most powerful among Russia's twelve ruling families, the
number of whose serfs and estates more than equals the whole kingdom of
Würtemberg. Do not forget, moreover, that she is a 'Kalevaine.'"
"What are the proofs of this suspicion?"
"I have already told you that the conspirators are marvellously clever
in eluding detection. It is not their way to creep into obscure corners
or subterranean caves; they rather hold their meetings in the midst of
crowds and in public places. This is a wrinkle they have learned from
the Poles, among whom the 'Philaretes' and 'Vendita' usually meet at
their yearly fairs. Now the fast is at hand. For seven weeks every
public amusement is forbidden, that the people may see that great folks
do penance as well as themselves. High and low must attend the services
of the Church. But no one asks what takes place o' nights behind closed
doors. This is the harvest-time for secret meetings. The invited guests
have no political proclivities; they have no wish to found
constitutions; their sole idea is to enjoy a good dinner--'Anti-fasters'
they call themselves. Surprised by the police, all that would be
discovered would probably be a table spread with appetizing game or
steaming roast-beef, and, maybe, a few guests the worse for liquor. The
'sinners' would, of course, be fined, but no one would be the wiser of
what was taking place in the more private apartments. And here our prima
donna has peculiar advantages. The stage, as you know, makes its own
laws. Who in the world expects to find strict morality among actresses
and ballet-dancers? The police wisely shut their eyes to much that goes
on among them. He who is lucky enough to be an invited guest to one of
Zeneida Ilmarine's exclusive Carême soirées will find all the frivolous
beauties of the opera and ballet, all the _jeunesse dorée_ of St.
Petersburg, assembled, and will have no need to complain of either the
lack of fiery eyes or fiery wines. Many a man has been singed by them.
But if he be wise enough to keep his head in the midst of the tumult, he
will observe a certain portion of the company disappear gradually and
noiselessly from the reception-rooms."
"There may be other reasons for such disappearance."
"Certainly. For instance, roulette may be carried on in those private
apartments. Now, the Czar has issued a severe prohibition against
roulette-playing--any one caught in the act is sent straight off to
Siberia, without possibility of remission of sentence. It is a fact that
Zeneida's calumniators, especially among the women who are envious of
her, have circulated the report that she keeps a roulette bank, which
enables her to indulge in all her lavish luxury. I hold a different
opinion."
"Upon what grounds?"
"That Michael Turgenieff is a constant guest at these theatrical
soirées, and is one of those who at midnight disappear into the inner
apartments. Now, Michael Turgenieff is a philosopher and a puritan."
"Even philosophers have their lucid intervals, induced by combined
charms of pretty women and good wine."
"We know Michael better. I have had my eye upon him ever since his
Demi-Decemvir. He was the only one among his young companions who did
not give way to any of the modern forms of debauchery. In his travels
through England, France, and Germany, he only sought out great writers
and men of mind and genius; he was never to be found in fashionable or
vicious haunts. Not even in Paris, where vice and pleasure reign
supreme. What, then, should possess him to secretly worship here at the
altar of false gods? No; the presence of this one man alone is
sufficient to betray that those closed doors conceal other than
Eleusinian mysteries."
"And it has, so far, been impossible to discover them?"
"No sooner does Zeneida, taking the Duke's arm, leave the company than
it assumes the aspect of a revel. Beauty and folly take possession of
men's senses, and next day not one of them can recall anything but that
they have had a jolly evening. If a 'Brother' try to follow a 'Bojar' in
his retreat, he is surrounded by sirens, who lure him back by a
conspiracy of charms. In order to let diamond cut diamond, and so
conquer the high-priestess of the mysteries herself, it needs just such
a conquering hero as you are."
"Very flattering for me! When shall I make a beginning?"
"This very night. It is the last day of Maslica week, the last night of
the opera. Zeneida is to sing in Cimarosa's _Secret Marriage_. The
streets will be thronged. At the stroke of midnight the bells of all the
churches will proclaim the beginning of Lent. Every one goes to
confession. In the opera queen's kingdom, however, the revel begins.
Prince Carnival, with his merry company, will make his joyous procession
through the brilliantly lighted saloons, through whose fast-closed
windows no ray of light, no sound of music, may penetrate. You must
manage to procure an invitation to the entertainment."
"After the insult of to-day?"
"You are master in the art of intrigue."
"I have given my promise to Princess Ghedimin to hiss her rival off the
stage to-night."
"You have given me your promise to win her to-night."
"The time is too short."
"But the opportunity favorable. I am informed that yesterday two men
arrived in the capital who are rarely seen here. The one is
Krizsanowski, from Poland; the other, Colonel Pestel, of the Southern
Army. Both have already received invitations to Zeneida's so-called
dance. Only there can you come across them; and you must find out from
them what has brought them here."
"I will be there."
"How will you manage it?"
"As we men begin all love affairs--by means of presents."
"Ah! this nymph is richer than you, my dear fellow. She makes her forty
thousand rubles in a single concert. If her mood is for diamonds, she
chooses out the most costly; if for something better than diamonds, she
divides her night's earnings among the poor. It may happen that you
receive back your presents twofold."
"I will make her a present which will command her favor--an
eight-in-hand."
"Ah! such as the Czar alone possesses?"
"Such as not even the Czar possesses! You shall see, with this
eight-in-hand, I will force open the gates of the fairy castle. Leave
the rest to me. If a 'green book' be in existence, I will know its
contents."
CHAPTER VI
OLD AGE
Prince Ghedimin was dining that day with his wife. Both he and the
Princess studiously avoided mention of the affair which so abruptly
ended the hunt. Yet it was unlikely that the news of it should not have
spread throughout the city. The police alone appeared ignorant of it,
the shot stag remaining on the spot where it fell. Was it the intention
to remove it at nightfall, when no one could see who took it away?
"Shall I meet you at the opera to-night?" asked the Princess.
"I am not sure if I can be there."
"It would be a pity to remain away. Fräulein Ilmarine sings in the
_Secret Marriage_ for the last time this season. She will have a great
ovation."
The Princess firmly believed that Zeneida would be hissed off the stage;
and what could be better than that the Prince should have the pleasure
of witnessing her humiliation from his wife's box?
"I am awfully sorry that I cannot engage to be there, my dear. As you
are aware, it is my night to visit my grandmother, and when once I am
there the dear old lady is sure not to let me come away. She has so much
to ask about every one, and at the stroke of midnight she will expect me
to take the organ in the chapel adjoining the apartment and sing through
the penitential mass; and I cannot refuse her. But if you wish that we
should spend the evening together, why not come with me?"
"Oh, many thanks. I do not sing in masses."
"But you have not once been to see the grandmother since our marriage."
"I think you know that I shrink from dead people."
"But the poor old soul is still living."
"So much the worse--a living death! It makes me shudder to look at a
mummy, and to think that some day I too shall appear like one!"
"Ah, well! A pleasant evening to you, my love."
"Edifying devotions, your Excellency."
The Prince withdrew. The Princess sent her dwarf after him, that--hidden
among the orange-trees in the conservatory--he might find out whether
the Prince had actually gone to his grandmother's apartments, and how
long he stayed there.
Ivan Maximovitch Ghedimin really did pass through the corridor into his
grandmother's apartments. The old lady inhabited the central block of
the palace, its windows, on both sides, looking on to the court-yard.
It is twenty years since Anna Feodorovna has left her apartments. Even
in the sultry summer heat, a time when all the aristocrats of the
capital take refuge in the islands of the Neva, she passes it among her
fur-hung walls.
Since the spring of 1804, when she had a critical nervous illness, she
has spent her days in a wheel-chair, the being wheeled from the dinner
to the card-table and back again her only exercise. She dreads fresh
air.
At first she had some society. Three old ladies of her own age used to
come to play whist and gossip with her. Gradually they left off coming;
first one, then two, at length all three. No one dared to tell her that
they were dead; she was told that they found it difficult to mount the
stairs. Since then she had played her game of whist alone.
The old lady still wears the old-fashioned cotton costume which was so
fashionable in 1803, when the Czar Alexander had forbidden the
importation of foreign woollen stuffs. She thinks that every lady in
society still wears it, and with it a cap and feather, closely
resembling a turban.
It is now twelve years since the last of her contemporaries visited her.
All have now been gathered to their fathers. But Anna Feodorovna must
not know this. All are living, and on every great occasion send her
their messages and congratulations, exchange consecrated cakes with her,
and colored Easter eggs; and on Easter morning she always finds on her
table their illuminated visiting-cards, with the inscription in letters
of gold, "Christos wosskresz."
History for her has stopped with the signing of peace between the
Emperors Napoleon I. and Alexander I.; and the appointment, at that
date, by the Czar, of her only son, Maxim Wassilovitch, to the command
of the new Georgian regiment of Lancers. Georgia had just been
incorporated into Russia, and Anna Feodorovna tells proudly to this day
how, on one occasion, she had the honor of a conversation with
Heraclius, the deposed Emperor of Georgia; how her beloved son, Maxim,
brought his Majesty up to her, and although she did not understand what
he said to her--for his ex-Majesty only spoke Persian, which was not at
all like either Russian or French--they had had a most interesting
conversation.
From that period in history it had been the endeavor of the family that
no rumors of the world and its events should disturb the quiet of that
revered member. A daily paper was published separately for her, from
which every war detail was scrupulously expunged. The reigning
sovereigns did nothing in the world but give or take a princess in
marriage, magnanimously yield each other territory, distinguish their
generals for no reason whatever; and, that the century might not pass
over without some blood-shedding, the unbelievers on the far-off island
of Tenedos were occasionally slaughtered; a revolt of the Kurds on the
boundaries of Persia would be suppressed from time to time; or Belgrade
be conquered by Csernyi-Gyurka. Anna Feodorovna knew nothing of the
terrible French invasion, nor of the burning of Moscow; nor that her
only son, Maxim, had fallen in the battle of Borodino. Her paper, on the
contrary, stated that Maxim Wassilovitch had been appointed Governor of
Georgia, and had at once proceeded there without furlough. From that
time news had regularly come to her from him, and he had sent letters,
which her man-servant was obliged to read to her, for her eyes were not
capable now of deciphering handwriting. The good son who never forgot
his old mother! Her man-servant, faithful Ihnasko, is everything to
her--cook, house-maid, reader. He, too, must be some seventy-five years
old; thus fifteen years younger than his mistress. No other serving-man
would have held on as he had done, no other have submitted to put a seal
to his lips, and have observed silence as to all that was passing
without. Even among us men there are few Ihnaskos. And on a fête day,
such as this, it is especially difficult, when Anna Feodorovna does not
play cards--for card-playing is sinful--and there being no whist, she
questions the more.
Fortunately for her she has a good appetite, and can enjoy all the
varieties of cakes sent her by "her friends" on this last Maslica day.
"Ihnasko, I cannot believe that Sofia Ivanovna prepared these cakes
herself. She always stones the raisins so carefully. Try this one."
"You are right, your Highness. But then the poor lady's eyesight is not
so good as it was."
"Oh yes; she grows old, like me. Reason enough to see nothing."
(The main reason, however, is that six feet of earth lie between her and
the world.)
"And the little princess, and the brunette countess, have they sent
their usual congratulations to-day? And the Lieutenant-General's wife,
who is so hard of hearing?"
"The cards are all laid on the silver table, your Highness."
"And you have acknowledged them in the customary manner?"
"At once, your Highness."
"You should have written in very large characters to the
Lieutenant-General's lady, for she is so hard of hearing. Has the old
beggar-woman come for the warm clothing? Was she glad to have it? Did
she not prophesy good luck for this year? Is it not to be a comet year?
Ah, there is no chance of that! Have you taken the grand duchesses their
bouquets?"
"I took them. They return their thanks."
"Are neither of them married yet? Dear me! They must be of marriageable
age now."
(Both are long married--in their girlhood--to the white bridegroom,
Death; but no one has ever told Anna Feodorovna this.)
"How is the old man?"
"As usual."
"Does he make use of the Elizabeth pills I sent him against gout?"
"Constantly."
"Can he sleep at night?"
"Sometimes, yes; sometimes, no."
"Does he not grumble when it is new moon, or the wind blows?"
"At times. But he soon calms down."
"Of course, he always has that horrid pipe in his mouth, and sits in
clouds of smoke like a charcoal-burner."
"What else should he do?"
"Wait a minute. Just take him these warm night-caps. I knitted them with
red wool for the old man myself. He has always liked red caps. Tell him
that I think of him, though he does not think of me. But what could he
send me--tobacco ashes?"
(Alas! the _old man_ has long become dust and ashes himself. He was Anna
Feodorovna's husband, a martyr to gout, who did not see his wife once
in a year, although they lived in the same house. Neither would visit
the other. She could not endure a pipe; he could not live without it.
One day he, too, found that his mausoleum in the Alexander Nevski
Cathedral was a more peaceful resting-place than his bed; but he was
interred so silently that his old wife did not know of his death, and
continued to knit him his red night-caps.)
"Where can Boysie be so long? My boy is surely not ill? It would be a
fine thing if Boysie forgot me! I will give him a downright scolding for
this."
Hereupon Ihnasko had to calm his old mistress by telling her that
"Boysie" had been called upon to attend an important council held by his
Imperial Majesty the Czar. Most probably concerning some new grant of
territory.
That was quite another thing!
Of course, Boysie was a grown-up man now--a man of thirty, and the owner
of many an order set in brilliants. It is her grandson, the haughty,
powerful Prince Ivan Maximovitch Ghedimin, whom his old grandmother
still calls the "Boy."
The lamp has long been lighted; indeed, for days together it is not
extinguished. At the least current of air the windows are closely
curtained, and three or four days may pass before daylight is again
admitted. It matters little to the owner of the apartment whether it be
day or night; she neither rises nor goes to bed. She lives in her
arm-chair. If she is sleepy, she goes to sleep; when she awakes she is
ready for her food, and with good appetite. Every Sunday her maid washes
and dresses her, and that function lasts for the week. When the bells of
the Isaac Cathedral begin their midnight peal she knows that Sunday has
come round again; when her newspaper is brought to her she knows that
it must be Friday. Sometimes the two, Ihnasko and she, quarrel about
politics.
Just now there are strained relations between mistress and man. A
paragraph in the newspaper has stated that "the heroic George Csernyi
has taken the fortress of Belgrade from the Turks."
The mistress chooses to understand by this that Csernyi had stormed the
fortress and massacred the unbelievers; the man, on the contrary, takes
it literally, that he had bought the fortress from the Turks for
sterling cash.
Over this they quarrel hotly.
"When Ivan comes, he shall decide it; and if you are right, you shall
have a brand-new coat trimmed with fox; if I am right, you shall get
five-and-twenty lashes with this rod from my own hands!"
From her hands, who had not the strength to kill a fly! But the old
woman is vindictive, and has already, for the third time, ordered him to
lay out the new coat and the courbash on two chairs, so that the instant
Ivan comes he shall get either the one or the other. And yet she forgets
all about her anger, Belgrade, and George Csernyi the moment "Boysie"
appears on the scene.
He comes in so gently at the tapestried door that she only perceives him
when he stands before her.
Her Boysie is the handsomest man in the whole capital; he is as tall as
the Czar.
His languishing gray eyes wear an earnest, thoughtful expression.
"Now, you bad boy--to come so late! Is school but just over? Are you not
afraid that I shall make you kneel to ask my pardon?"
He is already kneeling before her; and the old grandmother passes her
thin, wrinkled hand over his face as he bows his head on her lap.
Laughing, she playfully ruffles his hair.
"This naughty Boysie! He knows how to coax his old grandmother, like any
kitten. All right; you shall have no blows this time. I forgive you; so
no need to cry. He has just the same shaped head as my Maximilian; only
Maximilian loves me best, for he writes to me every month; and yet he is
a great man. At your age two orders of merit already decorated his
breast. But what have you done? Have you fought yet for the honor of
your country? Are you following in your father's footsteps?"
The old woman's hands feel over the young man's breast until they rest
upon the diamond star of the Alexander Nevski order, upon which she
cries, joyfully:
"This is no cross; it is a star! And set in brilliants! You have robbed
your father, for this order would have sat well upon him. He is a hero,
a great man; the diamond star would well have become him. But he, too,
has already obtained the first grade of the order, has he not? And set
with diamonds as fine as these?" (Ah yes--ah yes! he has received it set
with glistening pebbles in the cool sands of the Muscovite soil.) "But
now stand up. You are a grown-up man, and what would the Czar say if he
were to know that his privy-councillor still knelt, like a boy, at his
grandmother's knee? Stand up, my dear boy, and tell me about matters of
State. I know how to talk about them. Oh, in Czar Paul's time I was up
in everything. It was I who kept the old man back from joining in Count
Paklem's conspiracy, or he would be even now in Siberia. Eh, my boy, you
love the Czar? That's right. How many a time has Czar Paul bastinadoed
your grandfather! And he never complained. But now there are no
conspiracies throughout the whole land against the Czar."
"None, dear granny."
"If at any time you should hear of plots, mind you tell it at once to
headquarters. If you knew there was a thief lurking under your
grandmother's bed, would you not straightway drag him out by the legs?
Much more is it your sacred duty to destroy all conspiracies against the
Czar's Majesty. He who works against the Czar will be punished, but he
who serves him will be richly rewarded. How was it with Kutusoff? Did
not the Czar take the finest jewel from his crown to present to him, and
had a golden leaf set in the empty space with 'Kutusoff' inscribed upon
it? The family of the Ghedimins is not inferior to that of the
Kutusoffs."
Ivan turned pale. The family name, "Ghedimin," and the Czar's crown? One
was a part of the other. The topic was a dangerous one. High-treason
might be named in the next breath.
"My whole life I have consecrated to the Czar, granny." And then he
blushed at his own words, for he had spoken falsely. He neither can nor
dare tell the truth to living soul. His old grandmother is the only
being on earth he really loves; and her, too, he must deceive. From
morning to night his life is a lie; he must look men in the face and
lie; must lie to baffle the spies ever on his track, so that at night he
dare not offer up the prayer, "Incline thine ear to me, O God," for
dread lest he must lie even to his God.
"I have been waiting for you ever so long. I have had a sharp dispute
with Ihnasko, and you must be the arbiter;" and she related the subject
of their dispute. "So now, who is in the right?"
Ivan laughed.
"As far as experience goes, you were right, grandmother; for fortresses,
as a rule, are taken by force. But in this case Ihnasko was right, for
George Csernyi really did buy Belgrade for good coin of the realm. So
give the good fellow the coat, and not the whip."
The old lady nodded to her man-servant.
"Do you hear, Ihnasko? Thus should a just judge decide. Like Prince
Ivan, he should give the servant right over the master, if need be, even
if it be over his own grandmother. Rejoice, ye people, that your fate
will rest in the hands of a man whose lips only know the truth!"
Ivan turned away.
"But now come nearer, sit down by me, and make your confession. When are
you going to marry? It is high time. Have you not made your choice yet?"
And Ivan had to answer, "No."
He could not tell her that he had been already married three years to a
woman who was so utterly heartless that she would not be presented to
his old grandmother because she was afraid of her age and wrinkles--so
he had answered, "No."
"Now you are telling me a fib. Let me feel your pulse. Of course, it was
a fib! And why should you not have fallen in love? Look! in this drawer
I am keeping a diadem for your bride; it is the same diadem I wore when
your grandfather led me to the altar. Then Moscow was the capital of the
empire. Where this fine palace stands were nothing but clumps of
willows. Now, your bride shall adorn herself with this diadem. Take it;
I give it you. You best know who is to wear it. The girl you love shall
be my very dear granddaughter."
But Ivan, in truth, did not know to whom to give the diadem. He had a
wife who had no love for him, and he loved a woman who could never be
his wife. Thus to neither could he give it.
"I will take care of it, dear granny, until the right one comes."
"But now you will stay to supper with me, will you not, that we may eat
the last Butter-night meal together? You are not going to be off to any
bachelor drinking-party--to get into all sorts of wild company? You will
stay, like a good son, with the old grandmother."
And so Ivan stayed to supper, and had to declare how much he was
enjoying it, when he had dined but so short a time before, and knew all
the while that in Zeneida's palace a Lucullus-like feast awaited him. If
his digestion rebelled against the sacrifice, his heart made it a
thousand times heavier.
Oh, the unspeakable agony that overpowered him as he thought how at that
very time his affronted wife would be venting her whole vengeance upon
that other woman who the world knew had thrown her soft shackles over
him, and whom he dared not openly protect, least of all against this
aggressor, his own wife! Had the Czar been in St. Petersburg, she would
not have dared to molest her; but, in his absence, his powerful
favorite, Araktseieff, was supreme.
To tell the truth, Ivan was glad that his absence was compulsory. A
warm, tender-hearted man, of weak will, he was unequal to the situation.
Taller by a head than most other men, he had been chosen as a leader
among them; but the position oppressed him, for, capable as he was in
all else, he lacked the necessary courage and decision for the post.
What he would most gladly have done would have been to say adieu one
fine day to all his palaces, possessions, confederates, and to Russia,
and to go out with Zeneida into the wide world to sing tenor to her
soprano. Perhaps, too, it might have come about, had Zeneida been an
ordinary artist and nothing more. But the disquieting thought is
there--what may happen to-night on that other stage? Perhaps she is
destined to mortification on the one; but on the other? On those boards
the blood of the actors is wont to flow.
And all this time his fond grandmother could not press him enough to
eat, as she asked news of Maria Louisa and the great Napoleon, of the
little King of Rome, and many another who had long passed away; to many
of which questions Ivan returned such mixed answers that the good
Ihnasko was constantly exercised to set him right, being far better
informed through his newspapers of all these things than was the
absent-minded Prince.
At the first sound of the bells the old lady conscientiously lays down
her knife and fork; and Ihnasko, without awaiting orders, proceeds to
clear the table, and spreads another silken cover over it.
It was Lent.
"Let us draw near to our heavenly Father!" whispers the pious old lady.
Ivan kisses her cheeks, and she his.
There was a small door opening out from her bedchamber into the chapel.
Opening this, Prince Ghedimin went in; and while his old grandmother,
rosary in hand, began telling her beads, the tones of the organ were
heard, and a man's clear voice began chanting the penitential psalm.
"What a good son and a good Christian is my Ivan Maximovitch!" murmured
Anna Feodorovna, amid her prayers. "And what a lovely voice he has! He
might be one of the Czar's choristers."
And amid the sounds of pealing organ and penitential psalm she
reverently thanked the Lord, and, praying for the living and the
faithful dead, fell into peaceful slumber in her arm-chair.
The organ still continues to peal, and penitential psalms ascend, for
Ivan Maximovitch--Prince Ghedimin--is a good man, and a tender, loving
son.
And yet this again is a fresh lie; for, as Ivan entered the chapel from
his grandmother's room, one of the Czar's choirmen, who had been
admitted by a secret door, was already in waiting there, and his task it
was to sing on and play the organ until the old woman had fallen asleep.
Prince Ghedimin, meanwhile, hastily descended the secret staircase and
passed into a masked corridor leading from his palace into the next
house. There, quickly assuming a disguise, he jumped into a sledge
awaiting him in the courtyard, and gave the coachman directions where to
drive.
Upon the Princess's return from the opera she was informed, both by his
Highness's coachman and her dwarf, that the Prince was still at home,
and had not yet left his grandmother's apartments.
CHAPTER VII
THE EIGHT-IN-HAND
Prince Ghedimin left his secret domicile in a simply appointed sledge,
without crest, his coachman wearing no livery. He ordered his man to
drive to the opera.
At that time the capital possessed but one large, newly built
theatre--the opera-house. Here representations of the drama, comedy, and
opera were given, and often on one and the same evening, the
performances lasting, as a rule, from early evening to midnight.
It was just the period when Russians had conceived a passion for the
drama. One theatre no longer sufficed them. It had become the fashion
for the wealthy princes of the blood to have stages erected in their own
palaces, and to have representations given by their own private
companies of Shakespeare and Molière. Even in the Czar's two
palaces--the Winter Palace and Hermitage--there were theatres, where the
court actors and actresses made their début. One leader of fashion
carried the theatrical mania so far that he never travelled to his
country-seat without taking his troop with him; but, the main difficulty
there being to find the audience, he had a collection of wax figures
made--generals, statesmen, and elegant women--and with these figures he
filled his stalls, to give the illusion of a full house. If we add that
this theatrical company was largely recruited from the retainers and
serfs of the said magnate, there is nothing improbable in the story that
went about of him that one night, as Othello was in the very act of
throttling his Desdemona, my lord in his box was seized with a fit of
sneezing, which resounded through the house; whereupon the dark-skinned
tyrant, instantly abandoning his murderous design, advanced to the front
of the stage, humbly uttered the Russian form, "God bless your Grace,"
and then retreated, to proceed with Shakespeare's ghastly deed.
Hence we may imagine the enthusiasm excited by so extraordinary an
artistic genius as was Zeneida, a child of the people--since Finland was
_born_ to Russia on the day of Zeneida's birth.
Zeneida was a more powerful factor than a cabinet minister. Even in
Catharine II.'s time a prima donna, on the Czarina's representing to her
that she was drawing as heavy pay as the most renowned of her generals,
had presumed to say flatly to her, "Then, your Majesty, bid your
generals sing to you."
Prince Ghedimin's great source of anxiety was not that Zeneida might be
exposed to some insult or humiliation at the hands of a wounded rival;
much more, knowing her spirit, he dreaded lest she, at first sound of a
hiss, should rush forward to the footlights and begin singing the
_Marseillaise_, and that if rotten eggs were thrown one moment, in the
next men's heads would be flying. It needed so tiny a spark to fire the
whole mine.
His heart was beating violently as he neared the opera-house. The clang
of bells from a hundred clock-towers drowned all other sounds; but as
they ceased a roar rose in the long street into which his sledge had
turned. The stately avenue was simply filled with a moving mass of
people surging in his direction. What could it be? A revolt, or a
triumphal procession? Hundreds and hundreds of torches cast their lurid
light over the heads of the throng.
His heart beat faster and faster. He was not a lover of revolutions; not
one of those who grow drunk with enthusiasm when they hear the leonine
roar of an insurgent mass. On the contrary, his soul shuddered within
him at the thought. But he was a brave man--a man who, although heart
and spirit might shrink, would know how to die with those to whom he had
sworn fidelity; who, although his soul might faint within him, would
walk with firm step to the scaffold for the great aspirations with which
that soul was fired. More than one man has proved himself a hero whose
soul has quailed within him before the beginning of the fight. Prince
Ivan, ordering his coachman to stop, awaited the throng.
And presently a strange sight met his gaze. In the very midst of the
torch-lit crowd came a golden sledge, shaped like a swan. It was
Zeneida's well-known sledge. In it was sitting the prima donna (wrapped
in her costly sables, and literally covered with bouquets, the flowers
of which were beginning to sparkle with the night frost), drawn by a
team of eight--such a team as the Czar himself had never been drawn by,
since it was composed of eight young noblemen, the cream of Russia's
_jeunesse dorée_. On the coachman's box sat Chevalier Galban in person.
Prince Ghedimin, springing from his sledge, joined the procession. Among
the crowd a man was pressing and forcing his way. In him the Prince
recognized one of his wife's lackeys. Reaching Zeneida's sledge, the man
handed up to Chevalier Galban an enormous bouquet of hyacinths,
whispering a few words as he did so. The Chevalier, straightway standing
up, called out with stentorian voice:
"Ho, ho, gentlemen! Noble team of teams! halt an instant! Look at this
brilliant trophy! See these flowers with their diamond-set
bouquet-holder--'With the expression of her admiration for our divine
Zeneida--from Princess Ghedimin!'"
A thousand hurrahs resounded through the icy air, thickened for an
instant with the breath from many vociferous lungs.
"_Allons!_ forward, my noble steeds!" And the eight-in-hand proceeded on
its way.
A young man was standing at the back of the sledge. As Zeneida leaned
forward to take the flowers, he reached over her so that his face, bent
downward, nearly touched hers. In such a position even a well-known face
is hard to recognize. The man thus standing whispered to her:
"Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes."
"I do not understand Latin," she answered. "Translate it into some other
language for me."
And he at once, converting it into faultless hexameter, said, in their
own tongue:
"Ever I fear the Russian, even when with gifts he comes."
"Thanks, Pushkin."
The members of the "Northern Confederation" called each other by their
family names, in contradistinction to the old Russian usage, which is to
call every one by their Christian names, adding to a man that of his
father, to a woman that of her mother.
So this young man was to become the renowned Pushkin. At that time he
had no such claim; at that time he was a nobody.
CHAPTER VIII
AN ORGY OVER A VOLCANO
It needed a well-seasoned head to keep his wits about him when, on
entering Zeneida's palace, a man found himself suddenly plunged into the
fairy-like pell-mell, such as is usually only to be seen at a masked
ball at the opera.
Hundreds of guests, invited and uninvited, thronged the brilliantly
lighted reception-rooms. Zeneida to-night had been acting in the last
scene of _Semiramide_, and it suited her mood to carry on the part of
the all-conquering queen off the stage; to see her admirers, her
slaves, and those she fooled, at her feet.
The whole _corps de ballet_ were here assembled in the dresses in which
they had appeared on the stage; the chorus and singers wearing their
rich costumes of Persian and Median nobles. The male aristocracy of St.
Petersburg, young and old, were there assembled. As the hostess appeared
in the ballroom, leaning on Chevalier Galban's arm, the band, concealed
behind the balcony of the gallery, struck up a welcoming overture; the
guests cheered, and those nearest pressed round to kiss her hands.
However, things were not long destined to proceed so smoothly.
In the middle of the ballroom was standing a police-agent in full
uniform, his helmet on his head. Going forward to meet the hostess and
her cavalier, and bowing stiffly, he made a hissing sound which was
supposed to stand for _Sudar_ and _Sudarinja_ ("Monsieur" and "Madame").
"His Excellency the President of Police bids you take notice that at the
stroke of twelve to-night the great fast has begun, and all dancing,
music, and entertainments of every description are in consequence
prohibited. Such being the case, monsieur and madame's guests are to
return forthwith to their own houses, and monsieur and madame, the host
and hostess, to retire to their apartments. Monsieur and madame--"
Here Zeneida burst into a merry laugh; while Galban inwardly cursed the
Minister of Police, who by his clumsy zeal was in danger of spoiling the
excellent plan he and Araktseieff had together made out.
Zeneida drawing three golden-shaped arrows from her hair, handed them to
the sergeant of police.
"Go back to your chief and show him these symbols. From them he will
recognize that Assyria's queen challenges the Prince of Sarmatia to
combat."
The words were over the head of the agent of police, but he took the
golden arrows.
"Then I shall be compelled to take your names. Yours, sir, is--"
"Caracalla," replied Galban, readily, "and this lady is my wife."
The police-agent duly entered in his book, "Herr Caracallus and Madame
Caracalla"; then turned to a gentleman who had just entered, Prince
Ghedimin. "And what is your name?"
"Rainbow. Here is my card."
It may be mentioned that hundred-ruble notes are called "rainbows" on
account of their gay coloring. The name pleased the agent of police so
well that he evinced no further curiosity. With obsequious bow he wished
the company a pleasant evening, drank a bottle of champagne on his way
out, pinched the cheek of a pretty ballet-girl, then hastened back to
make his truthful report to the President of Police that all was quiet
and dark at Palace Ilmarinen as in a church, and not a soul waking save
the house porter.
But this was not the sole interruption that night. Scarce had the agent
of police taken his departure before the organist and chaplain of the
Protestant church appeared. The chaplain began a honeyed speech,
probably to the effect that he hoped the lady of the house, as a good
Protestant, would not give cause of offence to the faithful of the State
religion by desecrating the first night of so holy a fast by
entertaining so motley a crew of the worshippers of Baal.
But Zeneida did not suffer him to proceed.
"Go back and tell your superintendent, my dear sir," said Zeneida, "that
I am holding the rehearsal of a grand concert, which I intended to give
during Lent in aid of the building of the Protestant church-tower."
Chaplain and organist were fully pacified. Going back they announced
that the zealous and religious lady had begun the great fast with a good
work for the benefit of the Church.
And now, at length, the doors could be shut; now there would be no
further interruptions from without, and those present would not be
leaving until to-morrow night had set in.
Chevalier Galban judged it advisable to resign the lady of the house to
Prince Ghedimin.
"Allow me to introduce myself, Prince--Chevalier Galban."
"A name world-renowned. And one all-powerful among the ladies."
"I may perhaps claim in that respect to have kept up my reputation
to-day. See, Prince, the bracelet round this bouquet. Do you not
recognize it? And this?" And he drew forth from his waistcoat-pocket the
silver whistle which had formed the handle of Princess Ghedimin's
riding-whip.
Ivan recognized his own crest upon it.
"These are the two conflicting _souvenirs_ of this morning's stag-hunt
and to-night's triumph."
"And it is you who have formed the connecting link."
Prince Ghedimin was on the point of shaking hands with the Chevalier for
having made conquest of his wife, and thus enabling his beloved to go
scot-free; but in this he was prevented by the young man we have heard
called Pushkin, who, pressing in between the Prince and Galban,
intercepted the intended hand-shake by a demonstrative embrace.
"Zdravtvujtjé Galban! I am Pushkin!"
"Ah, Pushkin! Bravo! I have heard of you. You are a Russian edition of a
perfected Paris _bon vivant_."
"Proud of the title!" None the less, he was anything but proud of it.
You cannot offer a poet a worse insult than to credit him with a quality
which has no relation to Parnassus. Still, Galban was no censor; he
could not know how many of the bard's great works were lying low,
massacred under the murderous red pencil. "Proud, my dear fellow, to act
Rinaldo to the St. Petersburg dare-devils, and in that capacity your
modest Epigon. Permit me, without delay, to make you known to some of
the prettiest girls of our party to-night."
So saying, he passed his arm under that of Galban, and in rollicking
fashion led him into the thick of the throng.
The Chevalier was content. It was his immediate task to make as many
acquaintances as possible among the malcontents here assembled. To this
end the guidance of so open-hearted and loquacious a comrade was highly
acceptable. All the same, he soon had reason to find he had been a
little mistaken in him.
The first individual with whom Pushkin made Chevalier Galban acquainted
was the English ambassador, Mr. Black.
Mr. Black had only one leg; his other was an artificial one, which,
however, in no wise prevented his taking part in every country dance to
the very end of the programme. Moreover, all his movements were as
automatic as if head and arms were on springs, and as if he took himself
to pieces every night before going to bed.
"Mr. Black, the best fellow in the world! He neither understands
French, German, Greek, nor Russian. In fact, he only speaks English; and
that we none of us know, so he is dumb to us. All the same, he is jolly
as a sand-boy. A year or two ago he had one man about him with whom he
could converse, his secretary. Unfortunately he took the poor devil with
him one day in December, when it was atrociously cold, to the Alexander
Nevski church-yard, to see the fine show of tombstones. A granite
obelisk took the secretary's fancy uncommonly. On the way home my fine
fellow partook somewhat too plentifully of brandy, to keep the cold out,
and froze to death. Mr. Black carted him off to the stone-mason, then
and there, and bought for him an obelisk like the one he had admired so
much."
The ambassador, guessing that his praises were being sung, duly put in
motion that part of his mechanism necessary for bringing a smile to his
face; then shook the Chevalier's hand violently, and without more ado
took possession of Galban's other arm. And now both men towed their
victim along, until they came face to face with a third man, whom
Pushkin introduced to the Chevalier with the words--
"Sergius Sumikoff Alexievitsch."
"Ah, the renowned conjuror! I have heard of your fame far and wide."
The very word "conjuring," and, above all, the notion of befooling
others for the general amusement, had just then become the fashion, in
Paris especially--of course to be readily imitated in St. Petersburg.
"But you have not heard his latest," broke in Pushkin, "the story about
the negro? I must tell it you; it is such a joke. Sumikoff painted his
face jet black, and gave himself out to be Prince Milinkoff's black
slave. We were all in the fun, save Count Petroniefsky; he was to be
fooled. Mungo played the piano and guitar, spoke Greek, Latin, declaimed
Schiller, uncommonly rare acquirements in a negro slave. Moreover, he
had all kinds of interesting details to tell, among others, how, when
king in his native land, he had had his prime-minister, convicted of
theft, crushed to death in a mortar. Petroniefsky, awfully taken with
the fellow, goes to Milinkoff, and offers to purchase him. Milinkoff at
first refuses; he is his favorite slave, can't part with him, etc. At
length they settle the matter for six thousand rubles. On receiving the
purchase-money Milinkoff gives his friend a hint to keep a sharp eye on
the fellow, as he is deucedly fond of giving his owner the slip. The
count answers, he'll see to that. Of course, the very first night
Sumikoff washes off his Chinese black, and quietly takes himself off,
without any concealment, through the open palace gates. We ordered a
jolly supper for the six thousand rubles, and Petroniefsky has no idea
to this day that it was he who paid the piper. He still daily routs up
the unlucky police officials to bring him back his negro."
Every one laughed, Galban, with the others, all the time thinking, "Does
my new friend really think with such worn-out anecdotes to keep me in
pawn, and prevent my seeing that for which I came?"
And he did see it. He was an adept in the art of recognizing people from
description, and amidst the noisiest surroundings to find that of which
he was in search.
First among the crowded rooms, he made out the man described to him as
Krizsanowski, and soon after the man called Pestel. He seemed to be all
eyes for the conjuror's clever doings, the while he was closely watching
the two men to see if they accosted each other. Would they approach
Prince Ghedimin and Zeneida? Neither of these things took place. Did
they accidentally come across each other, they simply passed each other
by without even a look; on the whole, they seemed rather to avoid
Zeneida. In between the crowd of merry, noisy dancers he perceived many
a striking face, yet none of them seemed to have anything in common one
with another. Now Pushkin made a proposition.
"Why should not we four have a game of _ombre_?"
Chevalier Galban saw through it. Not a bad dodge to pin him to a
card-table in some dark corner for the remainder of the night.
"Thanks. I only play hazard."
"Humph! Strictly forbidden here."
"As is ball-giving in Lent," returned Galban, laughing.
Now a fresh procession riveted the general attention. "The gypsies!"
went from mouth to mouth.
In Russia, as in Hungary, the gypsy is the minstrel of national song. It
is curious that in Hungary instrumental music is the gypsies' art, while
in Russia it is singing. Troops of them go from town to town as choral
societies, and never fail at entertainments given at the houses of the
great.
The group of some four-and-twenty men and women, clad in their
picturesque Oriental costume, formed themselves into a circle in the
ballroom, and began their songs of wood and valley, while one of them, a
girl, represented in her dance the subject of their song.
"By Jove! come and look at our black pearl," said Pushkin, by the aid of
his friend drawing Galban into the circle. "Bravo, Diabolka! Show
yourself worthy of your name. Look how supple she is! she is a very
devil! Every one of her gestures is enticement. See how her eyes
sparkle! All the fires of hell are burning in them! Enviable they who do
penance there. And when, with downcast eyes, she casts you a melancholy
glance from beneath those long silken lashes, you think she must be on
the verge of swooning. But, beware, the tiger can bite."
The wild gypsy girl, suddenly starting from her lifeless statuesque
posture, here sprang upon Chevalier Galban, and threw her arms around
him.
"By Jove! the comedy is well planned," thought Chevalier Galban to
himself. "Here am I fast bound in the arms of this gypsy. My friends,
the conspirators, know how to set about things."
"Bravo, Diabolka!" applauded Pushkin; and in a trice the three gentlemen
had disappeared from Galban's side; it was unnecessary to watch him
longer. Once Diabolka's net was spun about him, he was caught and
meshed.
Chevalier Galban saw through this also. Yet he was too much a man of the
world, and appreciated pretty women too keenly, to turn from the offered
cup. Accepting the situation, he led her to the buffet, to the ballroom,
to the palm-grove, everywhere, in fact, as faithful cavalier, keeping
the two men, however, always in sight. He began to observe that they
whom he thus watched were also watching him, and to feel convinced that
they would not leave the noisy, overflowing reception-rooms as long as
they saw him there. He planned a stratagem.
As he made the tour of the rooms for the second time with Diabolka he
promised to marry her, and in sign of the betrothal drew off a ring and
placed it on her finger. The girl forgot to ask him his name; but she
well knew the name of the stone that flashed in the ring. It was a
diamond.
"And when you are my husband will you come with me to our encampment
where we mend pots and kettles, and feast on the sheep we have stolen?"
"Not so. When you are my wife you shall come with me into my castle.
There you shall dress yourself in new dresses five times a day, and eat
off silver dishes as if every day were our wedding-day."
"I will tell your fortune with cards; then we will see which is the true
prophecy. Come! Let us hide away in some corner, where no one can see
us."
Diabolka, it appeared, was perfectly at home. She knew exactly where to
press the spring in the wainscot which should open a secret door. Within
this door was a tempting hiding-place, roomy enough for a cooing pair.
The door closed after them. In the crowded rooms one couple was not
missed. In the middle of the little retreat was a round table. On giving
this table a twist it sank, to come up again spread with a tempting
refection, among which champagne, cooled in ice, was not wanting.
Chevalier Galban smiled. So this was the idea. And to make it more
secure they had shut the cat in with the mouse. Poor fools! They think
to catch a serpent in a mouse-trap! Meanwhile, why not amuse himself?
The enemy must be allowed time to get into battle-array. They believe
him disposed of already. And now, safe from his sharp eyes, the
initiated will be betaking themselves to the place of meeting. But where
is this place of meeting? In what hidden portion of this mysterious
building? These and like thoughts rush through his brain. Tschirr! a
sound of shattered glass falling in a thousand pieces on the table.
"When I am by your side, I forbid you to think of anything else. When
you can look into my eyes, do not stare out into the wide world. Or are
you afraid of me? Don't you drink?"
Galban soon proved to her that he was not afraid of her, and that he did
drink. Seizing the bottle, he drank. He may have had his reasons for
thus drinking direct out of the bottle. No sleeping potion can be mixed
with a bottle of champagne, for, once opened, it forces its way out;
while a drug can be easily conveyed into a glass.
Chevalier Galban's suspicion that they might seek to disarm him by means
of a narcotic is the more easily explained in that he himself was
carrying a similar medium in his waistcoat-pocket, with the idea of
ridding himself of any inconvenient obstacle did it come in his way.
But one cannot listen to two things at a time, the beating of one's
heart and the tick of the clock. Galban knew this from experience. He
must rid himself betimes of the dark beauty. They were drinking by turns
from the bottle. One such bottle must do the work for her. Four-fifths
of a champagne bottle standing in ice is frozen; the sleeping powder
shaken into it can only mix with that which remains fluid. The first who
drinks receives the opiate; the next one, drinking the wine as it melts,
takes no harm.
Diabolka's wild abandonment suddenly seemed to give place to a certain
exhaustion; her arms sank wearily to her side; she began to yawn; her
head fell back. For an instant she pulled herself together as though
shaking off the inertia. She must not sleep now when some great danger
might be threatening without. She reached out her hand for the
water-jug. But the potion had been too powerful. Going a step or two,
she staggered; in the act of pressing her hand to her head she fell
into a deep sleep. "Chain up the bear," she stammered. She was already
dreaming of the forest. Then she fell full length on to the ground.
Galban, lifting her on to the couch, pressed the spring. The secret door
opened to his touch, and he found himself once more in the palm-grove.
This was an amphitheatre, some six fathoms high, massed with the rarest
palms from India and Senegal, which in an atmosphere of artificial heat
and sunshine were being coaxed into flourishing in a land where winter
reigns nine months in the year.
Hidden behind a giant cactus, Chevalier Galban peered into the adjacent
apartment, intent upon discovering whether the men he had previously
marked were taking part in the Eleusinian mysteries. None were visible.
It was in truth a _masked_ ball; the ball was the mask, and they who
wore the mask were no longer present.
Where were they then?
All had disappeared, even Pushkin, the head and front of the revels.
He resolved to go in search of them. It was a difficult and dangerous
undertaking. It meant beginning a search in a vast place, utterly
strange to him, to which he had no clew; it meant avoiding any he might
meet, deceiving those who noticed him by simulated intoxication--a
drunken man, not knowing whither he was going; it meant the risk of
being kicked out from intrusive disturbance of flirting couples. And
even if at length he find the spot whither the conspirators had retired,
it is only too probable that some watch would be kept to warn them of
the approach of a suspected person. This watchman he must murder, his
pistol at his breast; for where a guard is necessary, a conspiracy
lurks behind the portal. Then to force his way in. If the doors be
closed, suspicion is well founded. Then is the palace doomed; if need
be, razed to the last stone. If the doors stand open, then to enter with
the words, "In the name of the Czar, you are my prisoners!" Possible
that they may overpower him, but far more likely that they will not. A
detected conspiracy is demoralizing; to say, "If I do not return to
Araktseieff by to-morrow morning, all who are here to-night will fall
into the hands of justice," will be to lame them and bring them to his
feet. Moreover, it is his profession. One man dies in one way, one in
another. The soldier knows the enemy will fire upon him, yet he goes
forward; the sailor knows the sea is treacherous, yet he trusts himself
to it. One man bows his head to the executioner's axe, another bares his
breast to the dagger. In both it is heroism.
And suppose he should find the missing guests round the board of green
cloth, instead of round "the green book," staking their money at the
prohibited roulette-table? _Eh bien!_ then he would join them, and say
nothing to Araktseieff. It would not be a gentleman-like thing to tell
upon them.
In his search he had, in a measure, an Ariadne clew, like that strewn
sand which, according to the fable, served to guide the lost child out
of the wood.
Zeneida had returned from the opera in her costume as Semiramide, her
wealth of reddish golden hair interwoven with real pearls. When
Chevalier Galban, on her triumphal return to the palace, had assisted
the _diva_ to remove the bashlik from her head, he had, unseen and
purposely, severed one of the strings of pearls in her hair. For a time
the thick masses of hair might hold them together, but it was unlikely
that in moving hither and thither one should not occasionally fall to
the ground.
He had already picked up one in the palm-grove; she had, therefore,
passed through there. The second he found in a corridor; a third
betrayed to him the threshold of the apartments into which she had
disappeared. Where she is, there must the others be.
CHAPTER IX
THE BOARD OF GREEN CLOTH AND THE GREEN BOOK
The room in which the "Confederation of the North" held its meetings was
provided with double doors--a circumstance by no means uncommon in
Russian palaces, in order that there should be no spying through
keyholes, no listening at doors.
The centre of the room was taken up by a massive table, or rather a
great chest, the upper part of which formed a roulette-table.
The rolls of gold--probably sovereigns (bank-notes are not used in
roulette)--are laid out in rows, beside which is placed the croupier's
long scoop. Each new-comer, as he enters, takes his seat at the table
and puts down his purse before him. But there is no play--in fact, it is
a mere sham. At each arrival the opening of the outer door sets the
table in motion, the noise of the rotary ball calling the attention of
those present to the fact that some one is coming. Thus there is no fear
of surprises.
The introductions are performed by the lady of the house--a necessary
ceremony, for on this occasion there are people who have never met
before--accredited agents, representatives of secret societies which
have been formed in the remotest corners of the Russian dominion. The
president and keeper of the privy seal of the Northern Confederation is
Prince Ghedimin; the secretary, Ryleieff, is a young poet, and agent of
the American corn trade.
Of the three brothers Turgenieff, Nicholas, the historian, is present;
as well as Colonel Lunin, the proprietor of the secret press; Bestuseff,
Kuchelbäcker, Commandant of Artillery. There are also Vaskofsky, Chief
of the "Welfare Union"; Muravieff, the representative of the "United
Slavs"; and Orloff, the life and soul of the "Patriots." All are
distinct secret societies; yet all are united in one aim, "Freedom"
(freedom under the snow)--their mode of procedure, action, the
instruments employed, wholly diverse. For this reason they have arranged
the present meeting, in order to unite the various opposing plans into
one common form of action. To this conference they have called the
president of the "Southern Confederation," Colonel Pestel, from the
far-off shores of the Black Sea, and the still more distant chief of the
Caucasian "Barbarians," Jakuskin. But of all, he who has come from the
remotest part (for he had had to wade through the sea of blood which
separates the two countries) was the spokesman of the Polish
"Kosinyery," Krizsanowski. All these men wear uniforms, save Ryleieff,
who is of the burgher class, and who wears a modern blue frock-coat with
gold buttons; all are beardless, with clean-shaven faces; only the Pole
preserves the national type; and Jakuskin, whose shaggy eyebrows join
his tousled beard, represents the wild Cossack, and seems, by his rough,
neglected exterior, to bid defiance to the civilized world.
There is something written on the foreheads of all these men.
Zeneida stands by the door to receive the new-comers, until the room
fills up. Conversation is not loud; each seems to be conferring with the
spirit which has led him hither.
The rolling of the roulette ball is heard yet again.
"Who can still be coming?" asks Zeneida.
Pushkin appears on the threshold.
Zeneida's countenance involuntarily assumes an expression of alarm.
"Why do you come here?" she whispers, excitedly, to him.
"Is it not permitted?"
"Did I not commission you to watch Galban, that he might not take us by
surprise?"
"I found a better guardian for him. Diabolka has got him in the
mouse-trap."
"But your responsibility remains."
"I will go back as soon as I can do so without exciting attention. At
present, I stay here. Introduce me!"
"What a child you are! Are you not consumed with curiosity to know what
we are about here?"
"I wish to take my part in it."
"What wilfulness! Of course you imagine lives are going to be risked,
and must needs stake yours for sake of the glory. Well, stay here. You
shall see. Herr Pushkin!" And she turned her back upon him, as if in
anger, while making the introduction.
Zeneida was the accredited agent of the whole union. Whom she invited to
her palace was received as a "Brother"; to whom she confided any work
was ranked among the "Men"; but to take part in secret conferences and
to be promoted to be a "Bojar" required a further recommendation.
"Who else stands security for him?" asked Prince Ghedimin.
"I," answered Ryleieff.
Upon which room was at once made for Pushkin at the table.
His was a fine head. The curly hair and form of the nose recalled the
African blood which ran in his veins, one of his forefathers having
taken to wife a daughter of Hannibal, the negro slave promoted by Peter
the Great to be a general. His eyes were dark and deep-set, yet, despite
the irregular features, one could trace in the expression a resemblance
to Byron. Pushkin was in love with Zeneida--that is, he raved about her.
Zeneida was deeply in love with Pushkin, therefore she did not want him
really to love her.
A word will clear up this seeming paradox. Zeneida knew too well that he
who united his fate to hers must inevitably meet some dark doom, in the
background of which loomed the scaffold. Finland had been reduced to
subjection by the same power against which these secret societies were
waging war, and Zeneida could still remember her mother's tears, and the
plain black coffin brought by stealth to her home one dark night,
wherein lay the corpse of a headless man for whom they dared not even
mourn. Only when she was grown up had she learned that that man was her
father. She loved Pushkin far too dearly to lead him on that perilous
path on which men risk their heads. She had dreamed of a happier,
sunnier lot for him. She had long detected in the wild, restless youth
that genius that had not been given him to make the lion of a lady's
boudoir--a genius which belonged, not to Russia only, but to the whole
world. A poet was not thus to be wasted. Why load the gun with a charge
of diamonds when common lead would answer the purpose equally well, nay,
better!
"Gentlemen," said Zeneida, addressing those assembled. "I will first
request our brother Ryleieff to read to us the verses we are to spread
among the people. To prepare the minds of the people is, indeed, the
main object." (General applause.)
Ryleieff, the poet, a fair, slim, handsome young man, here rising,
produced the verses he had written.
It was a fine, noble-toned poem, perfectly rhythmical, and true to every
rule of composition. The rhetorical warmth rising gradually to an
impassioned climax, the under-current expressing that deep spirit of
yearning melancholy which harmonizes so entirely with the spirit of the
people.
The poem recited, all united to congratulate the youthful Tyrtæus; while
Zeneida, with eyes filled with tears, kissed him on both cheeks.
Pushkin, annoyed, looked away. For a woman to kiss a man is the accepted
custom in Russian society. Ghedimin scarcely heeded Zeneida's action,
and he certainly had the best right to demur; but Pushkin was plainly
annoyed by it. He envied Ryleieff: envied him the kiss; how much more
the poem which answered its purpose--_faute de mieux_!
"The verses are splendid!" exclaimed Prince Ghedimin. "We will have a
million copies of them struck off in Lunin's press, and distributed
among the peasants."
"You forget, Prince," put in Zeneida, "that our peasants cannot read. I
would suggest it were more practical to have the poem set to music, that
it might be diffused more rapidly among them. In that way it would pass
from field to field; mowers, reapers, wagoners, would carry it from
village to village, and what is once sung among them never dies out. In
our Finnish _Volkslieder_ has lived the history of the nation, the
traditions of its historical life, its freedom. These no man can take
away. The _Marseillaise_ alone raised an army in France."
"But to whom confide the setting of it to music?" asked the Prince.
"Here is Herr Pushkin," said Zeneida. "He composes charming melodies."
Pushkin felt as if stung by a tarantula.
He compose the melody to Ryleieff's song of freedom! Subordination can
be carried to a nicety of perfection. A state councillor, when he puts
on the uniform of a private of volunteers, may find he has to obey the
orders of his own chancery clerk and corporal; or a duke, if he become a
freemason, have to make obeisance to a bootmaker, as master of the
lodge; but for one poet to be called upon to write the music to another
poet's effusion, when he feels himself to be Cæsar and the other man
Pompey, is a sheer impossibility.
Pushkin's face crimsoned.
"To the best of my belief, the words and air of the _Marseillaise_ were
composed at one and the same time. Rouget de l'Isle wrote them together.
Nor can it be otherwise. The poet alone can find the fitting
inspiration. Ryleieff's poem is fine, very fine, but it does not inflame
and excite one. To such an end the fire of enthusiasm is a necessity."
And unconsciously he slapped his breast, as though to say, "And it is
here."
"Do you know, Pushkin," said Zeneida, "if you are really feeling the
poetic ardor of which you speak--if you think you can compose something
better than we have here, you could not do better than to retire into
this little side chamber; there you will find piano and writing-table.
Give us something better suited to our purpose!"
Pushkin was caught.
"Why not? I will write you a song which the peasant will not need to
take first to the priest to have its meaning explained to him."
And with that he looked straight into Zeneida's eyes, with a look which
said, "If you can bestow a kiss for Ryleieff's rhymes, what will you
give me when I put on paper the words that burn in my heart?"
Rising, he repaired to the inner room. Soon the sound of chords showed
him to be deep in poetic creation. When once thus absorbed, a man does
not lightly break off.
Zeneida had no better wish for him.
As Pushkin left the room Zeneida turned the roulette-board. The ball
stopped at Nicholas Turgenieff. He was thus made President of the
Council that day, and accordingly took the chair--made to resemble that
of the banker of a roulette-table.
And now Prince Ghedimin, drawing out a delicate little polished key,
which fitted into a keyhole revealed by pushing aside a brass button,
handed it to the President, who turned it twice in the lock. Hereupon
the copper slab, upon which the roulette-board was fixed, slid to the
other end of the long table, disclosing, in the part thus laid open,
"the green book." One single lamp hanging from the ceiling illuminated
the figures of those sitting there, looking, by its light, like statues
in a museum; every feature seemed to gain in sharpness of outline; their
immobility lending character and determination to their faces; so many
historical subjects destined either to rise to eminence, the idols of
the people, or to fall under the hand of the executioner. In those few
moments, devoted to silent reflection, which each man seemed to be
engaged in studying his neighbor, many were looking upon the other for
the first time, and appeared to be mentally comparing the reality with
the ideal previously formed. The members of the Southern Confederation
had never before met their Polish brother. Many of them had seen
Jakuskin ten years before, but then he was a merry youth with
clean-shaven face. That has all disappeared. He is now a wild man of the
woods, who only smiles when he speaks of murder. Leaning against the
President's chair is Zeneida; attitude and figure alike recall statues
of the "Republic," only that instead of a dagger she holds a bouquet in
her hand sent her by her rival. A dagger in disguise. Besides those we
have already named, the following historical personages were present:
the three brothers Bestuseff, Prince Trubetzkoi Obolensky, Korsofski,
Urbuseff, Peslien, Orloff, Konovitzin, Odojefski, Setkof, Sutsin,
Battenkoff, Rostopschin, Rosen, Steinkal, Arsibuseff, Annenkoff,
Oustofski, and Muravieff Apostol, all representatives of the many
wide-spread secret societies.
Ryleieff, the secretary, opened "the green book."
The President desired him to read out the business done during the last
sitting.
It concerned the working out of a plan of constitutional government for
the whole Russian empire; its title--"Ruskaja Pravda." It was a republic
in which every province that the Russian despot had annexed to form one
vast empire was to arise as an independent state under its individual
president--Great Russia, Little Russia, Finland, Poland, Livland, Kasan,
Siberia, the Crimea, the Caucasus; nine republics with one government
and one army, under the control of one Directorate, to hold its sittings
at Moscow.
The Republic needed no St. Petersburg. Neither the "Saint," nor the
"Peter," nor the "burg" (city).
The device upon the plan was--
Question: "Will Europe in fifty years' time be republican or Russian?"
To which the answer was--"Both."
This plan of constitution was painted with the colors of a glowing
fancy. First, to free every people, and then to unite all free peoples!
None to be oppressed by the other. Each to be left to choose his own way
to prosperity, speak his own tongue, cultivate his own land. No more
hatred or jealousy among nations.
So it stood in "the green book."
Prince Ghedimin was the first to speak.
"It is a grand idea; but the greatest obstacle in the way of freeing the
people is that the people are unconscious of their servitude. Let it be
our part to make it clear to them. Let us flood the land with catechisms
of the 'free man'; let us study the special grievances of every race in
the provinces; learn to know their want and misery, and win them to the
cause of freedom by promising them redress. A people suffers when it is
hungry; has to submit to blows; has its sons taken off to be soldiers;
but it is ignorant of the yoke that is bowing down its neck."
Pestel waited impatiently until he could speak.
"My dear Prince, your plan may be very good for such as can afford to
wait fifty years and build card houses, which fall to pieces at every
current of air. We have not the time to devote to philosophical
theories. We count upon the army and the aristocracy. The power once in
our hands, we can take our measures to secure the education of the
masses. A revolution left in their hands would lead to another Pugatsef
revolt."
"And would that be a bad thing?" asked Jakuskin, in a hoarse voice,
advancing to them from the corner where he was seated.
"It would be bad because there could be no organization. He who would
carry out our scheme must be master of the situation. In Russia, the
successful leader of an insurgent movement would only be another tyrant.
Our scheme must be carried out simultaneously, at the word of command,
throughout all Russia. No sooner that done than every secret society is
abandoned, and we suppress all conspiracies; and, hateful as is now the
system of police detectives, it must, in future, be raised to an
honorable calling. Every man of mind, every free man, and every patriot
must be proud to make himself a police-agent of a free country. All this
must come about at the stroke of a magic wand."
"And what do you propose to do under the stroke of the magic wand with
the Czar and the Grand Dukes?" asked Jakuskin, with chilling irony.
"Make them prisoners, convey them on board a man-of-war, and ship them
off to the New World."
"Humph! to the other world! In Charon's boat," hissed out the Caucasian
soldier; and, going up to the table, he struck it with his clinched
fist. "Hark ye, envoys of the North and South, members of your various
virtuous and benevolent societies, you are all on a wrong tack, you
deceive yourselves. There is but one answer to the question I put to
you: scatter their ashes to the four winds. I am no puling child, such
as you are. I have not covered two thousand versts to come here and hear
you thresh out your philosophical theses; I am here to act."
Ryleieff here interrupted the speaker with quiet dignity.
"Quite right. But you will act as the majority decide."
At this call to order the vehement Caucasian's blood boiled within him.
"Once I was young like you, Ryleieff; but that is long past. Once I,
too, believed that one only needed to be a good man one's self to make
the world better. I, too, had then as young and lovely a betrothed as
you now have; I was an officer in the guards, and at twenty had
distinguished myself in ten battles. And do you know what happened to
me? The evening before my wedding-day, Araktseieff's son, a worthless
fellow who did not even know how to buckle on his sword, and who had
been made colonel over me, stole away my bride. I challenged him in
mortal combat, and the dastardly coward, instead of accepting my
challenge, denounced me to the Czar, and I was exiled to the Caucasus.
As, with hell in my heart, I was taking my leave of the city, the last
thing that met my eyes was the body of a drowned girl brought to me. It
was my bride. I kissed her. I still feel the chill of that kiss upon my
lips, and I shall feel it until the blood wipes it out, for which I long
as keenly as any cannibal. When you are in Czarskoje Zelo look at a
certain finely painted battle-piece. Close behind the Czar you will see
a youth on a rearing horse, a youth wielding his sword high in air, his
face beaming with triumph and loyalty. That youth was I! Years have
quenched my enthusiasm; but my sword still swings over his head."
"And so I trust it may remain, ever wielded on high as in the picture."
"But that it will not!" cried Jakuskin, vehemently. "I swear it by the
devil they sent into my heart as its constant indweller, I will listen
to naught else but my eternal vengeance! You may fill your 'green book'
with resolutions--this is my determination!" And as he waved his arm
aloft, he extracted a hidden dagger from his coat-sleeve, and displayed
its glittering surface to the company.
Horrified, Ryleieff, springing up, drew forth a pistol from a
side-pocket and levelled it at Jakuskin's breast.
"And I swear that I will shoot you down on the spot if you venture to
assert yourself against our rules."
"Very well, then, shoot me down! Fire away, boy!" growled Jakuskin,
tearing open his coat and presenting his bare breast to the mouth of the
pistol. "And learn from me how to die."
"Obey the rules, Jakuskin! Take back your word!" shouted several, as
they rushed up to pacify the infuriated man.
"I will not withdraw it! You are cowards, all! He shall fire!" he
shouted back, roughly pushing them away.
"Gentlemen!" exclaimed Krizsanowski, the Pole, rising.
"Shoot me down!" roared Jakuskin, continuing to wave his dagger.
Then it was that Zeneida, drawing a hyacinth from out her bouquet, aimed
it at the raging man's forehead. And the seasoned man, who had never
known what it was to shrink from a bullet, was so confused by this
playful projectile that, letting fall the dagger from his hand, he put
his hand to his brow.
A quiet smile passed over the faces of those present, and before the
Caucasian could recover his dagger, Zeneida was beside him, had picked
it up from the ground, restored it to him, and was stroking his beard
with caressing action.
"Dear friend, be courteous. Our guest Krizsanowski, the delegate of the
Polish 'Kosynyery,' wishes to speak. Let us listen to him, and put this
shaving apparatus away!"
Jakuskin calmed down. This delicate woman had more than once stepped in
to spread oil on the waves of the most impassioned debates when, dagger
or pistol in hand, the disputants seemed bent on doing one another a
violence.
And now Krizsanowski, hat in hand, began:
"Gentlemen, I wish to bid farewell to you. I will not enter upon the
subject under discussion with you, nor have I any desire to await the
resolution arrived at. I will not listen to the question of murdering
the Czar, still less will I submit to be bound by your decisions. There
is not one among you who has endured such wrongs; not one among you who
carries such grief in his heart as I. What did your sovereign, as its
king, do with your country? He freed it from foreign conquest, made it
great and powerful, added new territory to it. What did he do with your
people? He gave them prosperity and knowledge, and erected a school in
every one of your villages. What is your ruler? A noble mind in a noble
body--'the handsomest man in all Europe,' as Napoleon said of him--and
with heart as good as he looks. And the most remarkable thing about him
is that, in every fault, in every feeling, he is a Russian to the
backbone. His only crime in your eyes is that he is the Czar. And to you
that is crime enough to make him die. And what is my ruler, the Czar's
brother, Constantine? A monster, in whose very face nature has curiously
wedded the hideous with the ridiculous; and his hideous features are a
true mirror of the hideous promptings of his soul. He is what he seems
to be--cruel and contemptible. In the whole extent of my poor, unhappy
nation there is not one feeling heart which he has not trampled upon; no
article of value, no relic, no Church money, he has not appropriated to
himself. But a Pole would see in that no cause to treacherously murder
his king. A Pole's hand is accustomed to the sword; it knows not the use
of a dagger. Let me take leave of you; I would go back to my people. I
came hither in the belief that I should find here brave men ready for
battle; who, at the appointed hour, would range themselves in fighting
order, and declare war upon their oppressors as do we, who fight in open
battle--as do we who, in open and honorable warfare, settle on whose
side is the right. Such I thought to find here. On my journey hither, on
the way from Warsaw to the Niemen, my predecessor, glorious Valerian
Lukasinski, was being conveyed before me--he whom treachery had given
over to the authorities. He was my relative, friend, and leader--trebly
dear to me. He had been subjected to every species of physical and
mental torture in order to make him reveal the aims of and participators
in the conspiracy. They had not succeeded in drawing a word out of him.
Constantine himself took the knout from the executioner's hands, and
taught him how to use the agonizing implement. When Lukasinski was
wellnigh flayed to death, no sign of humanity left in him, only one mass
of bleeding flesh and bones and gaping wounds, the viceroy had him laid
bound on a gun-carriage, and had this still breathing, bleeding mass
dragged to his captivity through the rigor of mid-winter. I followed his
track guided by the drops of blood which fell on the snow. Those frozen
drops I gathered up one by one on the way, and placed them in a
reliquary. Heaven had compassion on the sufferer; he died on the road.
They made a hole in the ice of the river Niemen, and threw the body in;
the current carried it off to the sea. I know that I shall follow him,
and that my end will be like his. Still that knowledge neither moves me
from fear or revengeful feeling to lie in ambush and murderously strike
my ruler in the back at any time, when he may be sleeping, or kneeling
in prayer! Our God was never a God of murder. The dagger which struck
down Cæsar but opened the door to Caligula and Heliogabalus. While
William Tell told Gessler to his face, 'With this arrow I will kill you.
Defend yourself as best you can!' I do likewise. When the time comes I
will declare war upon my enemies, and if God is with me, I shall destroy
them; but as long as I do not feel myself strong enough to engage in
open warfare, no oppression, no cruelty, and no fantastic ravings shall
lead me, by any untimely revolt, to draw the cord tighter, which I fain
would loose. Your plans are untimely, unripe, without sufficient basis;
they destroy, but do not build up again. I know them, and will not unite
our cause to yours. Let me go."
Pestel, seizing the Pole by the hand, held him back.
"You cannot go yet; you have learned nothing of our intentions. What you
have heard hitherto was only a weak, academical discussion. The words
this madman said were only the ravings of his mad passion. I, too, do
not inscribe upon my shield, 'Strew their ashes to the winds'; not
because my soul would shrink from it, but because such a dictum would
scatter our several societies like shots among a flock of birds. The
people themselves would turn against us. To the masses the prayer for
Czar and Grand Dukes is a necessity, and were the priest ever to leave
it out, they would hang him for a heretic. If I were to ask my soldiers,
'Do you want a republic?' they would straightway answer, 'Yes, if the
Czar commands.' We must begin at the beginning; we must not startle any
one. The first step is the difficulty; the others will follow of
themselves. Thus let us go back to the point where Jakuskin interrupted
us. And you, Krizsanowski, resume your seat. The question is the removal
of the Czar and Grand Dukes--their removal only. Let them go to America,
by all means. There Russia has noble possessions; there they can reign.
But to this end you Poles must lend us a helping hand. For what use
would it be to us to ship off the three brothers, when the fourth,
Constantine, who by fundamental law is next after Alexander in
succession to the throne, remains at large in Warsaw?"
"Let us clearly understand one another, Pestel," replied Krizsanowski.
"We Poles have ever been, since our first existence as a nation, ready
to shed our blood for the benefit of others. Tell me, what is to become
of us if we succeed in freeing ourselves from the Romanoffs?"
"Form Poland into a republic."
"But your Polish republic will still be a part of the vast Russian
dominions, just as Livland and Little Russia will be; and over us there
will be some one--a chief, who is lord over the nine republics, although
I know not what title or what amount of power he will possess. And I
swear to you I do not wish for a freedom that shall be the downfall of
my country."
The deep silence which ensued proved that the Pole had hit the right
nail upon the head. There was an expression of uneasy conviction on all
faces.
Then Nicholas Turgenieff, the president, rose to speak.
"Take comfort, Krizsanowski. The chief of the republic, he who will be
head of the nine republics, will be no autocrat, no tyrant under any
other name."
"What, then?"
"That which he must of necessity be--_un président sans phrases_."
The conversation had taken place in French. These four words had nearly
cost Turgenieff his estates and his head.
The words were scarce spoken, when the roulette-board suddenly slipped
back into its place, effectually concealing "the green book," and the
door opened. Copper-plate and door were an ingeniously constructed piece
of machinery. If "the green book" were exposed to view, and any one
opened the outer door, the roulette slid back instantly into its place.
Chevalier Galban, entering, only heard Nicholas Turgenieff's four last
words, and saw nothing but a gambling-table.
The banker repeated--
"Je suis un président sans phrases. Messieurs, faites vos jeux!"
One of the men playing--the Pole--rose from his seat with a disturbed
look--
"Merci, monsieurs, c'en était assez!"
Another, Jakuskin, drying the sweat from his brow, struck his hand on
the table--
"J'ai tout perdu!"
All as if it were a real roulette-table.
The others continued cold-bloodedly to lay their parcels of gold on the
numbers, seeming unaware of the new-comer's arrival.
The hostess only advanced quickly to greet him.
"I was certain that you would find out our den; I kept this seat for
you."
"You honor me too much, _diva_. I ought to have good luck in play
to-night, as I have just had the opposite fate in love."
"How is that? Did the pretty Gitanitza escape you?"
"_Au contraire_, she fell asleep. A checkmate such as never happened to
me before!"
Zeneida gave a merry laugh. No one could have divined under its mask the
agitation she was feeling. She knew that a sleeping-draught had been
given to Diabolka.
"Come along! let us be partners for gain or loss."
Chevalier Galban, accepting, took the seat allotted to him; Zeneida
seated herself on the arm of his chair.
So it is a roulette-table pure and simple, and the party assembled
gamblers. There is no "green book." A thickness of half an inch lay
between him and it--his arm rested on it.
Merely contravention of a police regulation--a thing winked at by the
authorities. Suppressed inclinations will find a vent--far better it
should be on moral than political domains. Nor is it any matter for
wonder that Nicholas Turgenieff should be the roulette banker. A man may
be a _bel esprit_, a great author, philosopher, philanthropist, and yet
have a passion for play. Even Napoleon was a gambler.
As the game was in full swing, Pushkin suddenly entered to them from a
side room with flushed cheeks, crying, in a tone of triumph:
"The song is ready."
The gamblers looked askance at him.
Now he would betray all.
Lucky for them all that his eyes had mechanically sought Zeneida's.
She, still sitting on the arm of Galban's chair, glanced significantly
at the Chevalier.
Pushkin saw him.
"Let us hear it," said Galban, toying with his pile of gold pieces.
Pushkin changed color for an instant as he stared at him, then plunged
his hand into his breast-pocket. All followed his movements anxiously.
What would he bring out? Perhaps the song of freedom, just composed; and
would he declaim or sing it, for Chevalier Galban's edification? Or
would he draw that which every conspirator carried, dancing or drinking,
a pointed stiletto to strike down the traitor then and there?
He drew out a packet of papers, smiling the while.
"Here is what I promised you, _The Romance of the Lovely Gypsy Girl_.
Shall I read it?"
A romance instead of a song of freedom? Why not? in order to cover an
untimely appearance, the wisest thing for a poet to do was to read or
recite something, no matter what, so that the others meanwhile could
recover their self-possession.
But this was no mere rhyming jingle. No sooner had he begun than the
attention of all was riveted on his verses. The poetic form was striking
and brilliant, the thought original, the conception fine; there were
fire, passion, audacity, and beauty of expression in it, united to a
natural grace and simplicity.
No one had heard the lines before. As he finished, Zeneida, hurrying up
to him, pressed both his hands in hers. She did not kiss him as she had
kissed Ryleieff, but the tears which flowed from her eyes were a higher
recompense. A kiss is cheap. Tears are costly.
The whole company of conspirators, forgetting alike "green book" and
reorganization, hastened to congratulate the poet, who suddenly, like a
comet from before which the wind has chased the clouds, found himself
revealed in all his glory.
Chevalier Galban was now convinced that this was no gathering of
conspirators, but merely a select assemblage who met for games of chance
and intellectual and literary interchange of thought--both prohibited,
it is true, in Russia--for which reason they were obliged to meet in
secret.
_Par exemple_, such verses would be public property in any other
country, and half the world would be running after the poet.
"Bah!" returned Pushkin, excited by the applause he had created. "Do you
not know that feebleness is the goddess we worship, and the priest of
her altar is called the 'Censor'?"
General laughter broke out at these cutting words. The Censor is as
stereotyped a marionette in Russia as in other countries. Galban seized
the opportunity to bring his talents as _agent provocateur_ into the
field.
"Yes, indeed, ladies and gentlemen, the Censor is a necessary evil among
us. You are aware that the Czarina Catherine II. once, at the instance
of her men of letters, commanded full freedom of the press in Russia
for--three days! It would be seen then what fruit the tree would bear.
It would have been thought that those three days would have proved a
harvest-time for songs of freedom, prohibited pamphlets, and
philosophical treatises to crawl out of their hiding-places, but the
result was only an avalanche of low slander and scurrilous anecdotes.
The press was flooded with a stream of scandalous personalities,
directed against well-known families and personages; so that already on
the second day of the freedom of the press the Czarina was besieged
with petitions to countermand the third day and reinstate the censure."
No one save Pushkin deemed it advisable to accept the proffered
challenge; but he, as a poet, could not suffer the liberty of the press
to be a mark for ridicule.
"Come, I say, Galban, if I were to tell a man who had never tasted wine
that he might drink what ran out from the bung-hole of a cask the third
day after the vintage, that man would swear that there was no such
disgusting stuff as wine in the world."
"Messieurs, je suis un président sans phrases. Le dernier jeu!" broke in
the banker's voice, interrupting the dangerous turn the conversation had
taken.
It was time, moreover, to finish the game; for if by five o'clock
Chevalier Galban had not left the palace, the police would have broken
open the doors, and every one in it have been arrested. The roulette was
turned for the last time. Chevalier Galban had won six thousand four
hundred rubles, which he gallantly shared with Zeneida. Then, with the
customary forms of good society, he took his leave.
The remaining company looked at one another. Every one well knew that
roulette was a mere farce among them. It was alike Zeneida's money which
furnished bank and players. Hence the general smile which went round on
Galban's winning a pile of his hostess's money and then courteously
sharing it with her.
But there was a glow of triumph on Zeneida's countenance, as, raising
the bouquet with its diamond-set holder in her hand, she murmured, in a
tone of angry satisfaction:
"Je le payais!"
Chevalier Galban had received back the price of his diamonds, without
ever suspecting that it had, so to speak, been thrown after him.
CHAPTER X
FROM SCENT OF MUSK TO REEKING TAR
When those assembled were assured of Galban's departure, Pestel began:
"My lords and gentlemen, that was very fine--I mean the romance; but it
seems to me we have met to discuss other matters. Is it not so, Cousin
Krizsanowski?"
The Polish noble shrugged his shoulders.
"I have nothing more to say." At the same time, drawing from his pocket
the inevitable meerschaum and tobacco-pouch, he slowly filled and
lighted his pipe, which in the Eastern "language of tobacco" implies, "I
should have plenty to say, if I could only smoke out from here certain
folk who seem suspicious to me."
Zeneida, understanding his meaning, whispered something in Ryleieff's
ear.
"All right," returned Ryleieff, "let us hear our Pushkin's song of
liberty. True, the fine romance you read us entitles us to name you our
Tyrtæus. Never, since Byron--"
Pushkin did not allow him to finish the sentence. His praises excited
him to fury. A schoolboy may win with pride the prize for the best
verses, and carry it home in triumph to his parents, but your true poet
cannot brook being praised to his face. He feels that he has constrained
your praises. Thus, if you be a woman, throw him a flower; if a man,
give him a shake of the hand; but never tell him face to face that he
has composed a fine poem; by so doing you repel him. And worse than all
is it for another poet to praise his work. "_Genus irritabile vatum._"
"No, no, gentlemen," he cried, in wrathful voice. "My poem is not for
your ears. It is not meant for musk-scented atmospheres, but for such as
reek with tar and tobacco. Come, Jakuskin, let us go off to some
beer-shop; that's the right place for it."
Springing up, Jakuskin held out his hand to him.
"All right, let us go to the Bear's Paw."
"Very well."
No one attempted to detain them. Between the two doors the rest of their
conversation was heard.
"Shall we take Diabolka with us?" said Jakuskin.
"All right. Let's look for her."
"She must have fallen asleep somewhere. I will soon wake her to life
again."
In this unceremonious fashion did the guests take their leave of their
hostess. Zeneida, however, following them, left the room.
"Now you can talk out," exclaimed Pestel, hurriedly, to Krizsanowski.
"Perhaps Zeneida's presence has hampered you. Have you anything to make
known to us?"
"Yes," replied the Pole. "But it was not her presence which deterred me.
Far from it. Women, when they are in a conspiracy, know well how to keep
secrets. Laena bit out her tongue on the wheel of torture that she might
not betray her colleagues. Ever since then the tongueless lioness has
been the emblem of silence. Oh, I reckon greatly upon our women. I would
even rather await Zeneida's return before speaking, were I assured that
she would not bring back the other two with her."
"You mistrust them?"
"No, but I do not like them. In conspiracies it is not the absolute
traitors who are the most to be feared. There are three classes I dread
more--cowards, self-willed and fantastic persons. The last is the most
dangerous of all, for he deceives himself, and reports falsely. If he
hear a drunken peasant swear, he reports the existence of a
revolutionary spirit; if he see a solitary deserter, he distorts him
into a whole regiment. He believes just what his fancy paints. If he has
filled his head with revolutionary writings he conceives himself to be a
Robespierre, and every St. Petersburg mujik is a Paris _sans culotte_ to
him. To the working out of a conspiracy we want no fantastic notions;
but, on the contrary, common-sense and judgment. With those two men I
prefer not to discuss matters; the one is a fool, the other a poet."
Pestel hastily pulled the Pole's long hanging sleeve.
"Do not affront Ryleieff," he said.
"Oh, Ryleieff is different. He can write any number of correct
verses--faultless as to rhyme; he measures his thoughts into iambics and
trochees, like a corn merchant does his wheat into bushels and sacks. He
is master of his imagination--imagination does not master him."
Ryleieff was manager of the American Corn Company, and being, in truth,
more business man than poet, received this doubtful compliment with an
acquiescent smile.
The party, meanwhile, had risen from the table, and was standing about
in little groups, awaiting Zeneida's return.
Ryleieff and Krizsanowski retired together into a corner. The Pole,
smoking furiously, blew thick clouds of smoke about him, as though
considering his rigid features a too transparent mask, likely to betray
him. And in order not to be questioned, he began to question.
"There are one or two points I should be glad to have cleared up. The
first spring of every great aim proceeds from selfish motives.
Freedom--well, yes, is the sun; private aims are earth. We are upon the
earth. From mere abstract motives a new era has never been started. My
private motives require no explanation; they are expressed in two
words--I am a Pole. That is sufficient ground for me to stand upon.
Fräulein Ilmarinen is a Finn. I take it that is sufficient reason for
her action. I have no fear that she will be dazzled by the pinnacle she
stands on, encircled with wreaths and diamonds. I can also understand
your moving spring. You love your own race; you see how it has remained
behind other nations, and would raise it to their level. Pestel's
motives also I can grasp. He has immense ambition. He would fain be the
head of a newly formed state. The basis is broad enough; his foot rests
on a sure pedestal. The rest are shifting, unstable, attracted to the
movement by the hope of playing some brilliant part in it. Then we have
Apostol Muravieff. He, too, is constrained to it by a paternal heritage,
from which he cannot free himself. Pushkin is in love with Zeneida;
that, too, is sure ground enough. That madman Jakuskin is actuated by
revenge; another safe passion on which one may rely. His sense of
puritanical integrity binds that fine fellow Turgenieff to us. From
earliest youth he has ever been in the advance guard of freedom, first
in the first rank. Such iron rectitude can be recast in no other form,
rather it would break than yield. Now there is but one man here whose
presence I cannot understand: that is Duke Ghedimin. A member of one of
the twelve old Russian dynastic families, his possessions so immense
that he is simply unable to expend his yearly income on Russian soil,
holding the highest grade at Court, himself an accomplished, brilliant,
sought-after aristocrat, who by any changes you may effect has
everything to lose, nothing to gain--what does he seek here? What is his
interest in making himself one of this conspiracy?"
"He is the very one, among us all, who has the weightiest reason: the
recollection of an irreconcilable affront, for it was a personal one.
You know the Czar. You know that, as a man, no one is his enemy. Even
Jakuskin merely hates in him the Czar, not the man. Duke Ghedimin is the
sole one who stands opposed to him, as man to man. The Czar was married
very young, to a delicate wife; his children died early. He grew cold
towards his wife, and sought compensation in a new passion. The only
daughter of one of our first families, renowned far and wide for her
great beauty, was willing to console him. The illicit connection had
consequences--a daughter. The affair was kept strictly secret. The young
duchess journeyed to Italy as an unmarried girl, and returned from there
the same. Soon after she married Duke Ghedimin. Meanwhile a young girl
was growing up in Italy who went by the name of Princess Sophie
Narishkin, and who, in her fourteenth year, was brought to St.
Petersburg. It was her father, not her mother, who brought her here. The
girl resides in a house surrounded by a garden in the outskirts of the
capital, where her father visits her constantly, her mother never. The
father worships the child, who, moreover, is terribly delicate. The
mother simply hates her. Her father is the Czar, her mother, Princess
Ghedimin. Now do you see what brings Prince Ghedimin among us?"
"Yes, yes. But does he know the secret of the girl's birth?"
"Know it? We all do."
"Still, no reason why the husband should. Think a moment. What human
being is there who could go to a man like Prince Ghedimin and breathe to
him such a foul statement about his own wife? At the least whisper of
such a slander an inferior would receive the knout, an equal be shot. A
shopkeeper may denounce his wife; no gentleman does such a thing. Who
could have made this known to Ghedimin?"
"Who other than his sweetheart! Is not Zeneida Prince Ghedimin's
sweetheart, and has she not a thousand reasons to enlighten him upon his
wife's shame?"
"Do not believe a word of it! She has not done it. You do not know
Fräulein Zeneida; I do. First of all, I do not believe she is Ghedimin's
sweetheart; or, if she love him, it is with a real love, not that of a
_Ninon de l'Enclos_. But my belief is that she is in love with some one
else; and I believe, moreover, that she controls that love. She is a
woman capable of defying the scorn of the whole world, but not of doing
anything to merit her own self-contempt. And for a woman who loves a man
to denounce his own wife to him is a piece of vileness only fit for the
lowest of the low. You do not know with whom you have to deal. Zeneida
is playing some far-seeing game with you. You are mere chessmen in her
hands; one may be a castle, another a bishop, the third a knight.
Possibly Ghedimin may be your king of chess, but she is not the queen.
She is playing the game."
"And you have confidence enough in her to consent to this?"
"Yes; because I am her partner."
The roulette ball spun round. Some one was coming. All hurriedly
returned to their places. Krizsanowski did not deserve the scornful
smile with which Ryleieff had silently received his great
utterance--for, indeed, it was a great utterance--"You others are only
the chessmen; we two are the players." But so it was. The others only
saw single moves; these two saw the whole game.
Krizsanowski had also plainly observed--although he made as if he saw
nothing--with what painful anxiety Zeneida was moved to keep Pushkin
away from the dangerous chess-board. Such a head is too costly for a
"pawn"; perhaps too precious to be staked for a whole nation--the whole
world--certainly in her estimation.
She had chased him away as if he were the evil one; now she had hastened
after him to prevent his coming back. She knew that the heads of all
those taking part in the conspiracy would fall prey to the executioner
did it not succeed, and Pushkin's must not be among them. And yet poets
have their whims. Should Jakuskin on the way reveal anything of the
fateful conference which had taken place round Zeneida's roulette-table,
the very charm of danger would bring Pushkin back. If he learned that it
was no mere academical discussion, but a council of war, which was being
held, he would break open her doors to take his share in it.
Pushkin was still in the sulks. While Jakuskin hastened from one cabinet
to another in search of Diabolka, he had thrown himself upon a sofa in
the palm-grove, replying to all the blandishments of passing fair ones.
"Leave me alone. I don't want you."
"Nor me either?" asked a well-known voice, at sound of which another,
fairer, world seemed to open to him. And Zeneida, seating herself beside
him on the couch, asked, "Are you angry with me?"
"Confess. It was you who put Ryleieff up to insulting me?"
"In what way, dear friend?"
"I will not submit to be called Byron! I am Pushkin, or no one. Men may
say that my verses are common Russian brandy which gets into the head,
but no one shall presume to call them the dregs of an English teapot. I
may be only a hillock, but I will not pose as a miniature Chimborazo.
And it was your whisper to Ryleieff that did it."
"Yes; so it was."
"To drive me away?"
"To drive you away."
"I am not worthy, then, to join the society of the Bojars!"
"What care I for the Bojars and the whole Szojusz Blagadenztoiga? I give
them shelter--and _basta_!"
"And am I not worthy to singe my wings in the fire of your eyes?"
"It would convert you to ice."
"Are you so cold, then?"
"Cold as the northern light."
"Have you no heart?"
"According to anatomy I have such a thing; but it has other functions
than those ascribed to it by poets. That of which you speak has, Gall
tells us, its seat in the skull, in No. 27 portion of the brain, and is
not developed in my organization."
"Do not kill me with your phrenology. You know what love is--"
"I know. The compact of a tyrant with a slave."
"Be you the tyrant; I will be the slave."
"With these words as many women have been deceived as there are grains
of sand on the sea-shore."
"I swear to you, my life, my very soul, are yours."
"By whom do you swear? By Venus, so inconstant; by Allah, who denies
that women have souls, and divides the heart of man in four parts; by
Brahma, who burns the widow on the funereal pyre; or by the great
Cosmos?"
"There is nothing so formidable as a woman who takes to philosophizing!"
"That is why I do so."
"You kill every iota of poetry with it."
"Then speak prose."
"Well, then, I ask nothing of you--I give. I give you my soul, my hand,
my name!"
"Ah, your name! That is a gift. A woman like me has diamonds, horses,
houses, given her; but he who would offer her his name is indeed rare to
meet with. And yet a name is the most precious ornament. Without such a
name, I am nobody. Were I to marry my groom of the chambers to-morrow, I
should be a woman of respectability. My poor good Bogumil never dreams
that in his fur-lined gloves, besides his own red hands, lies my
reputation! So you would give me your name?--a name which, so far, has
been written on nothing else than overdue bills and ale-house doors. You
silly boy! Why, people would not call me 'Frau Pushkin,' but you 'Herr
Ilmarinen.' But once let your name be written in the fiery letters of
fame, instead of chalked on innkeepers' slates, would you then unite it
to another whose every letter is besmeared with--"
"With calumny!" broke in Pushkin, vehemently.
"It is but just. There is nothing so bad that can be said of me that I
cannot fill in. I am selfish, unfeeling; I have no faith in religion,
nor in honor. Both are sophistries, contradicting each other, according
as the ethnographical relations change about. The only good is, what
benefits mankind. Virtue is folly. The sole use of good men is to be the
tools of their more clever fellows."
"Do not say such things," cried Pushkin. "When I hear you speak so, you
seem to me as if you had smeared your face with hideous colors."
Was it not her calling to do so?
Zeneida drew her wrap about her shoulders.
"You will not see me such as I am. I am sorry for it; but I cannot
deceive. Have you no eyes for the magnificence which surrounds me? Do
you know whence it all comes? Would you have me forsake it all--for
what?"
"For another world before whose splendor all you see around you must
fall into dust. The world into which I would lead you is filled with
more magnificent palaces than even yours, Zeneida. It is Paradise!"
"Find yourself another Eve. Did I love you, I should kill you with _my_
jealousy; did I not love you, with _yours_. To-day with one, to-morrow
with another, for my caprices are boundless. I know no law, no oath, no
shame. Go; save yourself from me! Now you are but ice, do not wait until
you are aflame. I can be his only who loves me not!"
"Your words are mere falsehoods from beginning to end. You wish to drive
me from you that I may not take part in the conspiracy! I am not worthy,
in your eyes, to share the dangers my more distinguished friends are
running. Let me go back to them!"
"What conspiracy?" exclaimed Zeneida, feigning astonishment. "Our
friends are now debating how to introduce the American form of
'Temperance Associations' into Russia in order to put an end to the
enormous consumption of brandy now going on. There is no talk of
upsetting dynasties in my house. Do you suppose that the 'court singer'
of the Czar, the court favorite, did she hear of any conspiracy against
his Majesty, would not at once hasten to smooth her own way to a coronet
by its disclosure?"
"A way marked out by the skulls of her best friends?"
"Well, yes."
"No. You would not do it."
"Who knows? I have no soul, and do not believe in the souls of others. I
have no faith in a future world, therefore I use this world so that
things may go well with me in it."
"And supposing it were to happen for a change that things did not go
well with you?"
"Then I would give back to earth what is earth's. The fable of the
Phoenix has a deep-set meaning. When he feels that his plumage is worn
out, he changes into ashes. Of all creatures man has the greatest right
to decide the term of his life."
Pushkin sought in the face which knew so well how to keep its secrets
what there was of truth in all this.
A sound of laughter and oaths behind the jasmine bush betokened the
approach of some noisy revellers. Zeneida sprang up from Pushkin's side.
Laying her hand upon his shoulder, she whispered to him, in a voice made
tender by deep feeling:
"Avoid me, and seek her who is worthy of you and truly loves you, your
Muse, and be faithful to her!"
And, like a phantom, she disappeared.
Jakuskin came forcing his way through the jasmine bower, Diabolka with
him.
"Come, let's be off to the Bear's Paw."
Pushkin sprang defiantly to his feet, and said, with a laugh.
"By Jove! here is my Muse! Come along; we'll go where we are
understood."
And the three made their noisy way through the still thronged ballroom.
It was Zeneida whose reappearance the whirling roulette-ball had
announced. A look from her told that the two had taken their departure.
Krizsanowski, removing the pipe from his mouth, put it in his pocket.
"Now we are among ourselves. Let us continue."
Pestel asked permission to speak.
"In order to disperse friend Krizsanowski's fears, let me first of all
state that we look upon Jakuskin as a fool; and that not a man of us
endorses his mad views of a _Cæsaricidium_; in fact, there is not a man
among us who would not prevent it. Our plan is this: In the coming
spring there is to be a great concentration of troops in the Government
of Minsk. The Ninth Army Corps will march to the fortress of Bobrinszk
on the Beresina; the Czar and the Grand Dukes will themselves lead the
manoeuvres, returning at night to the fortress, which fortress will be
guarded by the Saratoff regiment of infantry, the colonel of which,
Bojar Sveikofsky, is a member of the 'Szojusz Blagadenztoiga.' All the
officers of the Saratoff regiment belong to our Union. At night a patrol
of officers, disguised as privates, commanded by Apostol Muravieff and
Corporal Bestuseff, will relieve the guard outside the Czar's pavilion.
They will promptly take the Czar, the Grand Dukes, and Commandant
Diebitsch prisoners, proclaim a constitution, institute a provisionary
government, and proceed straightway, at the head of the whole army
corps, on the road to Moscow. On their way they will gain over all the
troops they come across. At news of their success Moscow will yield; and
from thence St. Petersburg can be compelled to surrender. The men and
officers of the fleet, anchored off Cronstadt, are fully informed of our
plan. A man-of-war is in waiting to convey the entire imperial family to
England. The revolution will be accomplished without the shedding of one
drop of blood. What do you say to it, friend Krizsanowski?"
"That your plan is too complicated; has too much romance about it; and
that the miscarriage of any minor detail would throw your whole
reckoning into confusion. However, I do not look upon a successful issue
as wholly impossible. The thing has already been achieved in Russia.
Now, I will tell you what I bring, and which will serve to perfect your
plan. Do you not agree with me that its success were highly
problematical if, after the kidnapping of the Czar, a Czarevitch were
remaining, who, by right of succession to the throne, could at the head
of a whole army enter Russia to test the power of a republican
government by the loyalty of the people to throne and army?"
"That, in truth, is the rock on which we may be wrecked."
"Then, you may set yourselves at ease in that particular. I can promise
you my head in pledge of my words that the Czarevitch will very shortly
resign his rights of succession; and resign after a fashion which will
make it impossible for him to recall the step, even did he himself
desire to do so. Ay, even were he the sole remaining member of the
Romanoff dynasty; and were the whole nation, senate, and peerage to
press him to ascend the throne, it would be an impossibility to him."
"And is this no romancing?" cried Ryleieff.
"No. Positive knowledge; psychological necessity; logical sequence."
"Devil take me! If that is not a greater riddle than the Sphinx!"
growled Pestel.
"I have said what I know. Whether you like to believe it or not, is your
affair."
So saying the Polish magnate rose, and thrust his pipe between his
teeth, which was as much as to say that he had said his say, and was
intent on seeing that his pipe drew well.
But Zeneida, approaching him, whispered:
"Is not the key to this riddle called 'Johanna'?"
A nervous contraction passed over his set face at the mention of the
name.
"If you have guessed it, tell it no further," he muttered under his
mustache.
"I?"
"True. You are the 'tongueless lioness!'" returned the Pole, with a
smile.
* * * * *
At that period lanterns were a luxury known but in few streets of the
imperial city; and where a lantern did exist was posted a guard to watch
that it was not stolen. Therefore, in the courtyards of great palaces
huge fires were blazing, in order to give light to the guests' sledges,
and that the jemsiks might protect themselves against the bitter night
cold. These fires gave out warmth and light at one and the same time.
With some difficulty Jakuskin found his sledge among the lines of
others. Placing Diabolka between them, the two men wrapped her in their
furs. She was too heedless ever to think of bringing her own. The
jemsik, made loquacious by oft recurrence to his brandy bottle, told
them that the distinguished gentleman who had driven the eight-in-hand
into the courtyard had but just gone off in his sledge, and had given
his man orders to drive to Araktseieff Palace.
That was a piece of intelligence worth having.
Jakuskin told his jemsik to drive to the Bear's Paw.
"Never fear, children," returned the man; "I'll drive you safely through
side streets, that you may not be robbed."
"None of your side streets," said Jakuskin, "but just you drive along
the Prospect and over the Fontanka Ringstrasse, where the patrols are.
Don't be afraid about us, my man; we have our pistols."
"Ah, there's no use in that, children. The robbers might let you pass
scot-free when they saw your pistols; but the guards have no fear of
firearms, and they would plunder you."
And the jemsik was by no means joking. Under the police presidency not
only the soldiers managed to slip out of barracks to act the
light-fingered gentry, but the patrols shared in the spoil, and
commissioners of police were the most reliable of accomplices. Great
folk only ventured out at night with mounted escorts; their palace-doors
were strengthened with iron bars.
As they drove along the two men began scolding Diabolka for letting
Chevalier Galban escape her, telling her how they had had to get rid of
him at the cost of some thousands of rubles.
Just as the sledge turned off from the broad Prospect into Fontanka
Ringstrasse, five armed men suddenly sprang out upon it. Two seized the
horses' bridles, one levelled his weapon at the coachman's head, the
two others fell upon the occupants of the sledge. All were armed with
swords and pistols, their faces concealed by masks; long sheep-skins
covered their persons from head to foot; their tall, pointed fur caps
alone betraying them to be not only soldiers but grenadiers. One of
them, speaking in French (consequently an officer), ejaculated:
"La bourse ou la vie, messieurs!"
On which Diabolka, suddenly springing up, jerked the pistol directed at
Pushkin's head out of the assailant's hand, and, throwing both arms
round his neck, began, coaxingly:
"Ei, ei, sweetheart, cousin! would you plunder poor folk like us? Don't
you know us, then? Look! this is the brave Jakuskin, a captain on
half-pay; this, Pushkin, who has more creditors on his heels than kopecs
in his pocket. I am Diabolka, who pays, and is paid, in kisses. Here are
a few--on your cheeks, eyes, lips. There, take as many as there is room
for. But if you are wise, and want to make money, there's a rich
gentleman just now on his way home from Araktseieff Palace, who has just
pocketed thirteen thousand rubles at roulette. If you are quick you'll
catch him up on the ice, crossing the Fontanka. He is wearing a red fox
coat, trimmed with white bear-skin."
Her words were as magic. With one accord the four thieves, deserting
sledge and their leader, took to their heels in the direction of the
Fontanka, as if they were possessed. The officer, too, seeing himself
thus left alone, endeavored to free himself from Diabolka's embrace. But
that was not so easy.
"Stop! just one kiss on the tip of your nose."
Then he, too, was suffered to follow his companions. Diabolka laughed
unrestrainedly.
"Ha, ha, ha! what good the consciousness of a meritorious action does
one! They are safe to clear out Chevalier Galban."
"But you might have let the fellow off the last kiss," growled Jakuskin.
"On the tip of his nose, too! As though he could feel it through his
mask!"
"But those kisses were useful," returned the girl, with a sly wink.
"While kissing him, I was spying what the dear youth was wearing upon
his breast, and this is what I found." And she held up a star set with
diamonds.
"Eh, the devil! Why, it is a Vladimir order of the first class,"
exclaimed Jakuskin.
"Our Rinaldo is high up in the army."
"A Vladimir order set with brilliants! Eh, jemsik, hold hard, and strike
a light. The names of owners, as a rule, are usually written in gold
inside the ribbons of the orders."
The jemsik, taking out his flint and steel, struck a light, and while
Diabolka puffed at it with distended cheeks, the two men simultaneously
read out the name engraven on the ribbon--"Jevgen Araktseieff."
"By Jove! The son of our trusty Araktseieff, too, plies the trade,"
cried Jakuskin.
"He is a known _mauvais sujet_."
"Well, Diabolka, this is a fine catch. For this you may claim to-morrow
every penny Jevgen has robbed overnight."
"And next day I should be as poor as ever," laughed the girl.
"If you chose, this order might make you Jevgen's wife--a real
countess," put in Pushkin.
"What would be the good of that? In a week after I should be going back
to the gypsies."
"Do you mean to expose him--to have him hanged?"
"I am not such a fool; they would hang me beside him. Leave it to me. I
know what to do with my prize."
Jakuskin said to Pushkin, in German, that Diabolka might not understand:
"That man wrecked my whole life; and I had him at my pistol's mouth but
now! But the ball is destined for another now. You see, I did not even
break out into fury when I read his name. When we are on the watch for
bears we can afford to let foxes go. The huntsman's spear is on his
neck. He is in Diabolka's clutches. Come, let us go to the Bear's Paw,
and hear Germain's new effusion, _The Song of the Knife_."
CHAPTER XI
THE HUNTED STAG
Next morning the Office of the Great Fast was initiated in Isaac
Cathedral by the court singers--a celebrated choir of men and boys, who
possessed the finest voices in the whole empire, and who were maintained
at great cost.
Contemporary accounts extol these services beyond anything ever produced
by human voices. In his riper years the Czar could endure no other music
than the sound of harps and mystic sacred song. It was on that account
that Zeneida Ilmarinen, the church singer, was so great a favorite of
the Czar. He never went to a theatre. Did he desire music his favorite
artiste was commanded to the Winter Palace or the Hermitage. During the
fasts, however, he went daily to church to hear the boys sing.
On such occasions it was considered the correct thing by the aristocracy
also to go to church, and in order to appear still more devotional,
great ladies made a point of wearing no rouge, only powder.
In the row next the high altar sat Prince Ghedimin, Muravieff, Orloff,
Trubetzkoi, all of whom had inscribed their names in "the green book";
after them, those officers of the guards who had deliberated the
previous night whether the Czar should die, or be merely banished. There
they stood in two rows, erect, with military bearing, holding their
drawn swords in their hands.
The heads of all were bowed so low that perhaps none remarked that the
husband and wife, the rulers of all the Russias, only extended a finger
to each other as they passed up the aisle, deigned no look at one
another as the service proceeded, and exchanged no word together as they
took the holy-water.
Zeneida also was among the congregation. As she left church an officer
bowed to her. It was Pushkin.
"Madame, you have been weeping--your cheeks are wet. Was _some one_,
then, in church?"
"There is no _some one_," returned Zeneida; "but the music tells on
one's nerves. We are but animals; even dogs howl when they hear music."
"Did you observe with what devotion the Czarina kissed the crucifix? Did
you not know what was her petition?"
"I neither know, nor did I remark anything."
It was late before the church service had ended. The congregation
quickly dispersed and hastened home. The streets were deserted. On the
first day of Lent every family man makes a point of supping at home. And
as among the poorer classes in St. Petersburg only about every seventh
man is blessed with a wife, others join together and get some female of
their own class in life to prepare the Lenten soup for them. This is
seen on every table, rich and poor, whether in hardware vessel or
delicate china tureen. Even upon the Czar's table it may not be absent;
the imperial cook prepares it according to time-honored formula.
This soup every head of the family is expected to partake of in his own
home. Time was when even in the Winter Palace the custom was observed.
Time was! The table was laid for two covers only; no guests were
invited. The many dishes, all prepared with oil and honey, were served
for the two alone. Then came a day when the imperial wife awaited her
husband in vain at the Lenten meal. He came not. And yet she waited and
waited; the supper waited also. Some untoward circumstance had come
between them. First the meats grew cold, then their hearts. Yet all the
same, year after year, the wife had two covers laid on the first evening
in Lent, and waited on and on, until the dishes grew cold, and still she
did not touch them. She was waiting for him. Hours would pass, the
imperial wife sitting lonely, waiting, listening for the slightest
sound, wondering whether it were not her husband's footstep outside the
tapestried door which connected the corridor of their apartments--that
door, at the opening of which her heart had formerly overflowed with
earthly bliss. Alas! now the lock had long grown stiff and rusty.
Suddenly the clock began to strike--a mechanical clock which Araktseieff
had had made in Paris. The piece it plays is the National Anthem; it
plays it but once in the twenty-four hours--at one o'clock in the
morning--the hour at which Czar Paul had been murdered by his generals
and nobles in his bedchamber.
The son of the murdered man, who had ascended the throne over his
father's dead body, had, at the turn of the year, listened for many an
anniversary to the solemn strain, kneeling low, bedewing his _prie dieu_
with his tears; and one being there was who fully shared the sorrow of
his heart. With every fibre that heart of his vibrated to the sad notes,
a truer timepiece than the clock: it attuned its note to the triumphant
strains of victory, as to the undertone of sadness when it reproached
him that his father's corpse had been his stepping-stone to the throne,
threatening that his body, likewise, should be the stepping-stone to his
successor. This was the great trouble of his life; the ever-present
torture of his soul. To no one had he confided it save to his wife. No
one had ever comforted him in the hours of his agonized wrestling with
that burden of grief save his wife. Now that is all over. The
soul-destroying blue eyes, in whose depths he had sought a new heaven,
gave him for heaven the cold, blue ether eternally separating earth from
heaven for him. The Czar of all the Russias has no one in whom he can
trust. The mightiest of the mighty has no place where he may sleep in
peace. The most forlorn pilgrim of the desert is not so utterly alone as
is he.
When the last notes of the hymn has died away, and the husband, so long
waited for, has not returned, the wife, rising, fetches a portrait of
him painted upon ivory, and places it upon the table by the place he
should have occupied. It is the portrait of a proud, heroic man, with
smiling lip and unclouded brow--such as he was as a bridegroom. She
gazes at it long, so long that her eyes are suffused with tears. Nothing
is left to her of him but this portrait. He whom it represents has long
ceased to smile.
Two sledges, already horsed, are drawn up before the colonnade of the
Winter Palace. One is harnessed with six horses, the other with three.
Both are closed carriages with drawn blinds. The coachman and footmen
belonging to the six-in-hand wear the livery of the Czar; those of the
three-horsed sledge that of the Grand Duke. But, on getting into them,
the Czar takes the Grand Duke's sledge, the Grand Duke that of the Czar;
and as they pass out of the gates, with jingling of bells, the one
sledge turns to the right, the other to the left. The six-horsed sledge
is followed by an escort of the guards; where it halts, there halts the
escort. The three-horsed sledge skims along the road unattended. It is
known that the Grand Duke drives home direct; he is a domesticated man.
But of the Czar none knows whither he will take his way in the course of
the long night; and nowadays it behooves one to be careful; an escort
has become a necessity!
Araktseieff had had a sharp tussle that very morning with Chulkin, Chief
of Police, and the governor of the city, Miloradovics. There were three
sets of police on active duty--military, civil, and secret police. And
instead of playing into each other's hands, their sole study seemed to
be for each to set the other's regulations at naught. Araktseieff was
furious at Chulkin because Chevalier Galban had been set upon and robbed
the previous night, not only of his money, but of his papers--papers,
among which were many important state secrets. To which Chulkin had
retorted that the soldiers on patrol had been the thieves. Hereupon
Araktseieff's wrath was turned upon Miloradovics, and he demanded that
the officer in command, who had had the inspection on the night past, be
sternly reprimanded for lack of supervision. To which the governor
returned that the said officer in command was no other than young
Araktseieff, his hopeful son. Hereupon Araktseieff waxed still more
wroth; but with whom? He fully believed that his son had been Chevalier
Galban's plunderer, well knowing him to be capable of the act.
He made no further official inquiry into the matter, merely adding that
in future the Household Regiment of Hussars, under his own immediate
command, were to accompany the Czar, at a distance, whenever he left the
palace. No reliance, evidently, was to be placed on either infantry or
police.
Araktseieff possessed a sure instinct which warned him of conspiracies
against the Czar, even when he failed to obtain any certain clew. His
was the sole and ever-watchful eye that guarded the person of the Czar.
He gathered upon his head the detestation of a whole nation in order to
protect the head of the one man in whom his entire individuality was
merged.
But the pursued knew how to elude protector as efficiently as pursuer.
Whilst thus secretly escorted, the six-horsed sledge proceeded from
barrack to barrack, the Grand Duke probably holding an inspection to
satisfy himself that the officers on guard had not removed their tight
stocks; the three-horsed sledge glided along the banks of the Moika
Canal, drawing up, at length, before a long walled-in enclosure set with
iron spikes. Alighting from his sledge the Czar took from his
breast-pocket a key, opened the gate, and entered unattended, the unlit
path marked by a line of oak-trees. No footprint was to be seen on the
fresh-fallen snow. The path was unused by any but himself. In among the
trees with their crows' nests an old-fashioned house was visible, its
wooden steps leading to a low oaken door. The solitary man has with him
a key to this door also; he opens it, and enters. Here it is so dark he
has to take a lantern from his pocket in order to find the stairs
leading to the story above. Having ascended the stairs, he proceeds on
tiptoe down a long corridor. There is not even a dog to bark at him. As
he opens a door two persons, engaged in conversation, look round in
startled fear. They are an old man and woman. The old woman screams; the
old man throws himself at the Czar's feet.
"Who is this man, Helenka?"
"My old man, my husband. Hold up your ugly pate, Ihnasko, that the Czar
may see who you are."
"You never told me you had a husband."
"Why should one tell of the gout one is plagued with, or any other ugly
thing one would rather forget?"
"Well, what does he want here?"
Here the old woman, covering half her mouth with her hand, whispers:
"He has brought the king's daughter here."
At these words the icy look melts from the Czar's severe features.
"What! Bethsaba here?"
"Yes; and she is to stay the night. They are playing draughts together."
"How is Sophie?" The inquirer's voice falters.
"Fairly well. She slept well last night, and took her chocolate this
morning. She has not been so cross as usual to-day, since the doctor
told her that giving way to temper was bad for her."
"Has she followed the doctor's directions?"
"Rather too closely. If I am a second after time in giving her her
medicine, she rings for me."
"Did the doctor say anything about diet?"
"Yes; he said her Highness was not to observe the fast, but to eat meat
and eggs daily; and that will strengthen her. But the Princess gave it
him soundly. What was he thinking of? Did he mean to endanger her soul
for sake of her body? And she has ordered me to pay no attention to what
he said, and has threatened me with blows if I attempt to deceive her."
"Indeed! And the doctor said that the observance of strict fast would be
injurious to her health?"
"Certainly. He said she wanted blood, she was anæmic, and that beans
cooked in oil did not make blood."
"What have you prepared for her supper to-night?"
"The usual soup for the fast."
"Just oblige me, my good Helenka. I have brought something with me which
will do our invalid good. I have had it over expressly from a celebrated
physician in England. Give her a spoonful of it daily in her soup."
"Of course I will do what you command, sire. But tell me first, is it
prepared from the flesh of any animal? For if the dear soul were to find
out that I had mixed any meat preparation in her soup during the fast,
she would cry and rage to that extent that she would make herself ill
again."
"Do not be afraid, good Helenka. It is a remedy composed of palm-root,
which takes the place of meat."
"And I shall not endanger my own soul by using it?"
"No, no; have no fear. I will take all responsibility upon myself."
And yet were it an unpardonable sin to eat meat during Quadragesima the
Czar had laid a great burden upon his soul, for his remedy was no other
than extract of beef, at that time the patent of an English chemist. But
the Czar was a philosopher and--a father.
"Go in and tell her I am here, that she may not be startled at my
coming."
By a lamp, whose light was tempered by a lace shade, sat two young girls
playing draughts.
The one we have already seen at the noteworthy stag-hunt; and now we
know her to be a "king's daughter."
As the Czar entered the Princess's room, and Ihnasko was alone with his
wife, he could not refrain from asking--
"What did you mean by 'king's daughter'?"
"Slow coach! Don't you know that yet? She has lived the last eight years
in your house without your knowing that she is the daughter of a
Circassian king. Her father was once a mighty ruler there, where the
currants and olives grow; he was killed by the Turks, and the Queen
brought her crown and her little daughter, and fled to us for
protection. She was a wonderfully handsome woman. I saw her once in all
her national costume at a New-year's review. I did not wonder at what
had happened. It was General Lazaroff who had received orders to bring
her from her own country to Russia. The General was a man of amorous
nature. On one occasion the wine he drunk flew to his head, and he
forgot that he was escorting a queen, and only saw the lovely woman. But
the Circassian butterflies have stings as sharp as any bee. The Queen
drove her kindzal into his heart, and he fell down dead at her feet. Not
much was made of the affair; it was hushed up. The Queen was put into a
convent, where she has always been treated with royal honors. But she is
not allowed to leave it. Only on New-year's day she takes her place with
the widowed Queens of Imeritia and Mingrelia on the steps of the throne.
As for her little six-year-old daughter, she was taken from her, that
her royal mother might not teach her to follow her ways. Why, there
would not be a man left in St. Petersburg! The child was intrusted to
Princess Ghedimin's care, who has not the blessing of a child of her
own."
"What child?" blurted out Ihnasko.
"Oh, you goose! What a question to ask! What child? None at all, seeing
she hasn't got one. Don't wink at me, or you'll get a cuff in the face.
So the king's daughter was brought to Ghedimin Palace, and is now a
member of the family. Forgetting her own mother, she looks upon the
Princess as one."
"I should just like to know why the Princess sends her here to visit
your sick princess?"
"That's nothing to do with your thick skull."
* * * * *
The other draught-player is Sophie Narishkin, a tall, delicate-looking
girl with straw-colored hair. It is well that she is kept in strict
retirement, for in face she is the image of what Princess Ghedimin was
at that age. There is an expression of premature wisdom in her
countenance blended with that of superstitious fear. Her eyes wear a
softer look than those of her prototype; instead of Princess Ghedimin's
haughty, contemptuous expression, hers are dreamy and melancholy.
What can be a maiden's dreams who knows nothing of the world? The world,
peopled with mankind. She may dream of lovely landscapes, of rocks,
woods, waterfalls. But of the beings who people the world she knows none
save her nurse, to whose fairy tales she listens so eagerly, and her
governesses, who had vainly striven to indoctrinate her into the
sciences and fine arts.
All spoiled, no one loved, her.
All around were traces of work or play, begun and left
unfinished--draught-board, cards, chessmen, patience, embroidery,
drawings, patterns. She is sitting, in a white embroidered
dressing-gown, upon a wide divan, both feet drawn up under her. Beside
her sits the Circassian Princess on a low stool.
His Imperial Majesty is received ungraciously. Evidently he has
interrupted the two girls in some amusement. And yet he seems to have
the right to go up to Sophie and, taking her face between both hands, to
imprint a hearty kiss upon her cheek--a kiss the traces of which the
girl, with childlike coquetry, instantly tries to remove by means of the
sleeve of her dress, which has the effect of making the offending cheek
as red as a rose.
"How are you feeling, my Madonna?"
"Oh, now you have come and interrupted the lovely story Bethsaba was
telling me!"
"She shall go on with it. I will listen too."
"How can you, when you were not here at the beginning?"
"I know Bethsaba will not mind beginning it again."
The Princess nodded acquiescently, while Sophie, with a look, directed
her father to take a seat at the other end of the divan. The Czar,
understanding the look, did as he was bid; and, taking one of the girl's
delicate, transparent hands in his, stroked it, and, as he did so,
succeeded in feeling the pulse, to assure himself that there was still
hope for her. He wanted to put a question, but the delicately pencilled
eyebrows commanded silence, and the Ruler of All the Russias was
obedient.
"Once upon a time," began the king's daughter, "there lived on the
Caspian Sea a mighty king who took a lovely woman to wife, not knowing,
when he did so, that she was a fire-worshipper. Now, fire-worshippers
are in league with the Jinn (spirit), and the queen had promised the
Jinn that if she married and bore a daughter she would give her to him
when grown up. No sooner had the child become a maiden than the Jinn
came and knocked at the king's door to claim her. The poor king was
terribly frightened when he was told that the spirit had come to fetch
away his daughter--"
"If he was a king, why could he not command the spirit to obey him?"
broke in the sick girl, angrily.
"Ah, my dearest, the spirit is so powerful that no king can control
him."
"And no _emperor_?"
"No, not even emperor. No one has power over him; but he has power over
every one. There is no locking him up or shutting him out, for he can
penetrate everywhere. He has no material weight, yet can suffocate;
carries no sword, yet can kill."
"What a good thing that the spirits only live on the Caspian Sea!"
"When the king heard this he began to entreat the spirit not to take his
beloved daughter from him so soon; to grant her to him yet another year.
'Very well,' said the spirit, 'I will leave you your daughter a year
longer if you will promise to give me your thumb in exchange.' The king
cared nothing about his thumb, so he promised, and the spirit took his
departure. At the lapse of a year the spirit came again either to take
the princess or the king's thumb. The king loved his daughter very
dearly, but he also valued his thumb, for without it he would not be
able to draw a bow. So again he entreated the spirit that he might grant
her to him only one year more. 'Be it so,' returned the spirit, 'I will
leave her to you another year, but then either I will take her away or
you will give me your right hand.' And the king again closed the
bargain. A year passed, and the spirit came a third time. The king
would neither give up his child, nor would he part from his right hand.
Thereupon the spirit demanded the king's whole arm as forfeit."
"But, then, do the spirits never die?" asked Sophie.
"No, darling, the spirits live forever. Well, the king promised him his
arm--if by that means he might save his child--and his hand. And from
year to year the spirit came back, demanding ever more and more as
forfeit-money. At last he obtained promise of the king's head and heart.
And when the king's whole body belonged to him he said, 'This is the
last year. Now I shall either carry off your daughter or you must
promise me your shadow.' Upon which the king replied, 'No; I will give
you no more. Take what is yours; but neither my daughter nor my shadow
shall you have.' Thereupon the spirit left him amid loud claps of
thunder. The next day was fine and sunny, and the king set out for a
pleasure sail upon the sea. Suddenly a violent storm arose, and engulfed
both ship and king in the waves. His body was never found. His daughter
still lived on; and every evening, when the sun was going down, she saw
a shadow draw near to her--the shadow of a man with a kingly crown upon
his head; and as the shadow glided past her it seemed to her as if she
felt a kiss upon her cheek, and as if her cheek became rosy red."
The Czar had grown thoughtful. That king, whose shadow alone wandered
upon the face of the earth, was so like to himself. And Sophie, too,
thought that she was like the king's daughter--kissed every evening by a
kingly shadow.
Bethsaba, however, added, playfully, "We have so many such legends with
us. I could tell you more than a hundred."
"It is a very sad story, my dear child," said the Czar.
"I like stories that have a sad ending," said Princess Sophie. "Those
that end, 'And if they are not dead, they are alive to this day,' I
cannot endure. I like books, too, to end badly; but the doctor says I
must not read. But little Bethsie knows such a lot of nice stories."
"Have in your supper now. Are you not hungry?"
"Oh, who wants to be always thinking of eating? Besides, we are eating
all day long." And Sophie pointed to a box of bonbons, from which a few
had been taken.
"But you ought to eat nourishing things, to make you strong."
"Who says I am ill? Give me my hand-mirror. Have I not color enough?"
"Yes, you have a good color. You are really looking well to-day."
"Phew, phew!" she exclaimed, spitting twice behind her. "One should
never tell anybody they look well; it is unlucky. Now let us lay the
table for supper."
The mighty ruler was quite ready to act the lackey to the pale child
with the weary eyes, in whom his whole soul was concentrated. But, with
the best of will, he did it awkwardly; it was plain he was not learned
in the art. And Sophie scolded him roundly.
"See how badly you are holding that plate! Did one ever hear of placing
the spoon betwixt knife and fork like that? No, the salt must be turned
out upon the table; it is not to be put on the table in the salt-cellar;
for if the salt-cellar should happen to be upset it is unlucky. You must
not stick in the point of the knife when you are cutting bread! First
make the sign of the cross over it, or Heaven will be angry. To think
that such a big man should be so clumsy!"
Meanwhile Helenka had brought in the Lenten soup. Sophie tasted it, then
laid her spoon down.
"There is something different about it. You have smuggled some meat into
it. I will not eat it! You wanted to deceive me! You wanted to make me
eat meat soup!"
The Czar, tasting the soup, assured her that it had no taste of meat.
But the sick girl, angry at the mere suspicion of being tricked, sent
all away untouched, and vowed she would eat nothing but sweets. The Czar
implored her not to spoil her digestion with such trash; whereupon,
bursting into tears, she complained that they would let her die of
hunger. At length the Czar, sending for the samovar, made her some tea
with his own hands, and, breaking some biscuit into it, begged her to
try it. And great was his joy when she said it was "very nice." She ate
a whole biscuit; dipped another in it, ate a piece of it, and gave the
rest to the Czar for him to taste how good it was. Then, letting him
take her upon his knee, she laid her head upon his shoulder, and seemed
inclined to sleep. Soon she asked him to carry her to bed and unplait
her hair; then, winding her fingers in the Czar's, she said her evening
prayer; and when it came to "Amen" her virgin soul seemed to breathe
itself away upon the Czar's lips.
She was the sole being in the world he could call his own! Among his
forty millions of subjects she alone belonged exclusively to him.
The Czar of All the Russias found so many little things still to do for
his sick child. There was a cushion to be warmed to be placed at her
feet; orange-flower water to be prepared for her night drink. He pushed
a branch of consecrated palm under her pillow to chase away bad
dreams--he, a philosopher, believing in the efficacy of a consecrated
palm branch! But philosophy is nowhere by the sick-bed of one's child.
"Now, you go home," whispered Sophie; "Bethsaba is to sleep with me.
Good-night. I know I shall have no bad dreams."
"Lay your hand upon my head, that I, too, may sleep well. Good-night."
They called one another by no endearing names, though they knew that in
the whole wide world they had no one but each other.
It was past midnight when the Czar went back to his sledge--too early to
go home.
"Drive along Newski Prospect," said the Czar.
The coachman understood the command. Upon Newski Prospect there is a
two-storied house with "Severin" upon the door. Here the coachman drew
up. The windows of the first story were lighted. On ringing the bell,
men-servants with lamps promptly appeared, who led the great Czar to the
master of the house. Herr Severin was a simple paper-maker and printer,
carrying on his business with his sons and sons-in-law, who, with their
families, lived here with him. Upon great festivals it was the Czar's
custom to indulge himself for an hour or two with the sight of their
simple family life and joys--such joys as were denied to him. The tiny
children recite their verses to grandpapa, who rides them upon his knee;
converting them into generals by dint of paper hats and wooden swords.
The Czar has no such generals! Then five or six of them, forming into a
circle, dance round, and sing the story of the "Ashimashi Beggars," each
striking up in a different key. No such choir does the Czar possess! At
supper every dish is so well cleared out that it would be a puzzle to
say what it had contained. Such a feast the Czar cannot give! And supper
over, the favorite game of "Clock and Hammer" is brought out. They play
for high stakes--nuts; and the stakes are eaten while the game is
played. The Czar has no such national coin!
So he sits among them until the little ones, growing sleepy, are carried
off to bed by their nurses; first kissing everybody--even the Czar. No
such thing happens in the Winter Palace!
When that is all over, the distinguished guest has a long talk with the
old man over the good old times. He listens to all the joys and sorrows
of his host's every-day life. The samovar is emptied and filled again.
The Czar cannot tell what does him so much good--whether the tea, the
cakes, or the good old man's integrity--his honest, straightforward
spirit. No such tea does the Czar taste in his own house!
Without, on the snow-covered roads, gallop the escort of the guards,
while stealthy conspirators peer out from dark doorways, and look after
the six-horsed sledge, pistol and knife in hand.
The hunted stag knows nothing of all this!
None may tell whither he has wandered through the long hours of the
night, nor who it is that so persistently tracks him.
CHAPTER XII
HOW A FORTRESS WAS TAKEN
"Lock and bolt the doors, and see that you let no one in! To him who
doubts that I am not at home, say I am dead!"
"And suppose it's some one to bring you money?"
"There's no man living who would do that."
"And if it's a love letter?"
"Let him push it under the door; but don't let him in! For it might
prove to be some rascal of a creditor."
Unnecessary to state that this dialogue took place between a young
officer and his servant. It may, however, be as well to add that the
said young officer was Pushkin.
With heavy head and light pockets he had reached home in the small
hours, and, dressed as he was, had thrown him
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