"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."
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 theSecret Marriagefor 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. Theold 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 peacebetween 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 toher, 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! theold manhas long become dust and ashes himself. He was Anna Feodorovna's husband, a martyrto 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 newspaperis 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 manya 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 havebeen 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 herprayers. "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.
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 wasbornto 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 theMarseillaise, 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 hasquailed 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'sjeunesse 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 reachedover 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.
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 ofSemiramide, 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 wholecorps de balletwere 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 forSudarandSudarinja("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 conflictingsouvenirsof 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 andGalban, 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 Parisbon 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 neitherunderstands 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; hewas 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 ofombre?"
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. Seehow 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 ofanything 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, shestaggered; 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 amaskedball; 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; forwhere 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 thedivato 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 mighthold 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.
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 thereare 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 wholeworld. 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 itwould 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 FinnishVolksliederhas lived the history of the nation, the traditions of its historical life, its freedom. These no man can take away. TheMarseillaisealone 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 theMarseillaisewere 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 wehave 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 destinedeither 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 securethe 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."