"In every hour of grief and pain,To Thee for help I crave;O Thou to whom none cry in vain,Be present now to save."
"In every hour of grief and pain,To Thee for help I crave;O Thou to whom none cry in vain,Be present now to save."
Who was singing at that late hour? What grief could oppress her in this house? Bethsaba drew the bedclothes over her head to quiet her trembling.
Three days longer the two girls spent under Zeneida's protecting care—that is, it was not until then that Princess Ghedimin ventured to return from Peterhof, or that the slime-covered ground-floor and cellars of the little dwelling in Petrovsky Garden could be cleansed and thoroughly aired by old Helenka. The girls meanwhile were living Elysian days. When Zeneida told them that they could now go to their homes, Bethsaba sighed:
"When I came here I thought I was coming to the infernal regions; now I feel as if I were being turned out of Paradise!"
They saw Pushkin daily, had talks with him, and delighted in the great, noble soul which lay like an open book before them. Even earthly joys have their revelations, awaking super-earthly joy when they cease to be felt in secret. When the girls were alone Aleko was the sole subject of their talk. Bethsaba thought she must love Sophie the more for holding Aleko in such high esteem; yet she had not, even yet, breathed a word to her friend of her love for him. At first, she had thought, it would be an easy thing to tell. But the secret of a first love is refractory; it will not come forthfrom its concealment. She delayed her confession; guarding her secret like some hidden treasure; dissembled her love for him, or, at least, learned to belie her feelings that she might not betray the happiness that took possession of her at sight of him. Her blushes she ascribed to headache, though, in reality, her head was innocent of any such discomfort.
But at the moment of parting the confession must be made. She would whisper it to her friend in few words, then run away.
When their sedan-chairs actually arrived—no carriages could yet be used—the two friends could scarce make up their minds to part. They had ever fresh confidences to whisper to each other; they wept and laughed, and quarrelled for the sake of making it up again. They talked together in a language which they two only understood; they promised to meet again very soon; they gave each other the parting kiss, then began to chatter again. Zeneida watched them attentively.
At length the declaration must come. With the last, very last, kiss the bomb must burst.
"I love Aleko—until death."
This Sophie whispered into Bethsaba's ear, then ran away.
Zeneida saw the rosy glow suffusing the cheeks of the departing girl and the deathly pallor overspreading those of her who remained, as though the one had stolen the life-glow from the other. Bethsaba stood where she had left her, white, motionless, with sunken head, and arms hanging lifeless at her side.
Zeneida at once divined the secret. She went up to her, but hardly had she taken the girl's hands in hers when, falling before her, bitterly weeping, the poor child hid her face in Zeneida's dress.
"Oh, why did you bring me here?"
Zeneida raised her.
"Stand up. Do not cry. He will be yours."
"What! I take him from her?"
"Humph! Were it only 'her' you had to take him from— But do not be troubled. Love him; you alone deserve his love."
The poor child shook her head sorrowfully. Now she understood the meaning of "love," and with it what "jealousy" and "resignation" meant.
Great natural calamities often have a softening effect upon excited masses.
The "great power," the people, and the "little master," the Emperor, made friends again in the general distress.
The storm of November, 1824, had been a universal calamity. History knows no other so wide-spreading in its devastating effects. Not only did it lay St. Petersburg in ruins, but it raged throughout Asia and inundated the shores of California. Sailors saw the clear sea in mid-ocean thick with mud and slime; from India to Syria flourishing towns were laid in the dust by earthquakes; volcanoes burst forth in the Greek Archipelago; in Germany many springs were dried up. The whole world was in a state of upheaval. It was no time to think of revolutions.
Political secret societies changed themselves into philanthropic union. Party spirit died out. The poorwent unhesitatingly to claim relief from the rich, and the doors of the rich were ungrudgingly opened to them. The incitements of the "Irreconcilables" found no fruitful ground. Prince Ghedimin and Araktseieff vied with each other in their efforts to relieve the distress of the people. Each impartially scattered his hundred thousand of rubles abroad: the one forgetting that his aim had been to free, the other to oppress, the people. The people now were in need of neither sword nor chains—only of bread.
Nor were the ladies of St. Petersburg backward in relieving the distress caused by the inundations. Princess Ghedimin presented her diamonds to the committee, the sale of which brought them in thirty thousand rubles, while Zeneida gave a concert at the Exchange for the sufferers, the tickets for which sold for enormous prices, and which realized forty thousand rubles. Prince Ghedimin presented his wife with diamonds double the value of those she had given away. Zeneida received a wreath of laurel from thejeunesse doréeof St. Petersburg and an ode from Pushkin. Thus once more had Korynthia lost the game, and her adversary had triumphed.
Those days of tribulation had made the Czar more reserved than ever. His melancholy had dated from the day on which he had witnessed the burning of Moscow, his capital; and now it had been his fate to witness the ruin of his second capital. One had been destroyed by fire, the other by water. Waking and sleeping, the dread visions were before him.
But the saddest sight to him of all was that pale child's face, to which nothing brought animation. One day he said to Sir James Wylie:
"It is vain to try and cure me; my sickness lies within, not without. Cure Sophie, and I shall be cured."
The physician was silent.
"Tell me frankly. Have you no hope?"
"None."
"Has your medical skill absolutely no panacea, no remedy to preserve a precious life to us—no remedy which day by day might arrest Death hovering on the threshold, and so prolong that dear life from spring to autumn?"
"Yes, there is such a remedy, sire! But it does not grow among health-giving herbs of India. In illnesses such as these the spirits of the patient are the most important factor. Sorrow, grief, and care hasten the catastrophe, while cheerfulness, an equable temperament, joy, and hope delay it. The love of life renews life."
"Humph! How am I to give her joy, hope, and love of life when I have not got them myself?"
A day came which brought joy to the Czar.
His Governor in the Urals announced to him the discovery of new deposits of gold and platinum, with promise of abundant mining. He sent a specimen of the platinum that had been found. A truly valuable discovery!
At the same time arrived a report from the Governor of Jekaterinograd, notifying the discovery in the great desert of a species of beetle which fed on the exuberant knot-grass (poligonum) of those parts, a useless plant and one impossible to extirpate. The beetle in question, known in the learned tongue asCoccus polonorum, is identical with the cochineal, and affords the most beautiful purple and pink dye. He sent the Czar, as a sample, a piece of rose-colored silk dyed with the purple of the native beetle.
This was a greater treasure even than gold and platinum; it grows like a weed, gives no trouble, and will support the inhabitants of those inhospitable steppes.
But the third consignment was the most interesting. The Governor of the Amurs sent from Siberia a cask of wine grown in the Amur country. This is a still greater treasure than gold or bread, for it implies a triumph—a triumph in the face of the whole world, which proclaims Siberia to be a frozen hell! See! this wine contradicts it! It is more sparkling than champagne, sweeter than Tokay—at least, one must pretend that it is. Siberia can grow wine! Henceforth every Russian must drink it. Siberian wine must supplant foreign wines for the tables of the great; it must compete with Burgundy, the Rhine, and the Hegyalji. To be exiled to Siberia will no longer count as a punishment; those in search of fruitful soil will settle there of their own free-will. Siberia can grow wine! If any one doubts the future of that country, who would argue with him now? One gives him a glass and fills it. "Try this; this is Siberian wine!"
The Czar was as happy as a child! He still had one joy left.
And he hurried off, on the strength of it, to the Petrowsky Garden house. He had the platinum, the silk, and the cask of wine brought after him, thinking that what gladdened him must also gladden Sophie. The poor child was looking very pale; she was not allowed to go out at all in the winter; the cold air out-of-doors was rapid poison to her; the heated air within-doors slow poison. A strange country, where the invalid cannot even love his home! He hates the sky which kills him and the earth which keeps him bound. It is the survival of the fittest; if a man be strong enough to enjoy a winter in Russia he thrives; if not, he dies.
In every Russian lady's drawing-room is a special corner fitted up called the "Altana."
It is a space surrounded by a little railing grown with ivy and containing a bower of Southern plants and flowers which, during the long nine months of winter, thrive and blossom in the artificial light and warmth of lamps and stove, and make one forget the rigorous weather outside.
Alexander had had such a fragrant orange grove fitted up for Sophie when the house had been put in order for her after the inundation. He had not been to see her since the court gardener had carried out his instructions; perhaps it had given her pleasure.
Alas! nothing gave her pleasure.
The Czar asked, "What is amiss with you, my darling?"
"An unspeakable sorrow."
To cheer her, he showed her the treasures he had brought with him—the ore, silk, and wine. But her face did not brighten, she did not smile. To his good news she had but "How nice! how fortunate! Oh, thank you!" to say.
"Come, tell me, what is amiss with you? There is something more than bodily illness; it is mental trouble. Tell me, what is grieving you? To whom should you tell it if not to me? Who shall place confidence in me if you do not feel it?"
Then, throwing her arms round her father's neck, and drawing his head down to her, Sophie whispered, very low:
"It is love!"
Then, drawing back with abrupt movement, she buried her face in her hands.
Astonished, the Czar asked, "But where can you have met any one to fall in love with?"
"The flood brought us together."
"And who is the man?"
"If you speak so angrily I shall not dare to tell you."
"It is not anger but excitement that made me speak so sharply. He whom you love is forgiven everything."
"Really? You do not forbid me to love somebody?"
"If only he is worthy of you. What is his rank?"
"An officer of the Body Guard."
"I will give him a regiment and make him a prince, so that he may ask you in marriage."
"Let me kiss you for that! But do not give him anything, father. Let him remain as he is; I love him for what he is now, and want him always to remain the same. He is more than a prince, more than a general! Higher far than they—"
"Who is it, then?"
"Well, Aleko."
"What Aleko?"
"Oh! do you not know his name? Then stoop down and I will whisper it in your ear."
The Czar drew her to him.
"Would you like to be his wife?"
For all answer the girl looked at him with eyes opened wide and radiant expression.
"Would you like to be his wife?"
"What else could I desire? Poor little foundling as I am, I should be happy indeed to have such a prospect. And we would be so happy together. Aleko would not murder me for my faithlessness. But how can we let him know? So far, he has not had permission to come here."
"From this time forth he shall."
"But who can tell him?"
"I, myself. I will bring him to you."
"You are as good a father as in one of Bethsaba's fairy tales."
"I will see myself to all the preparations, will arrange your dowry, settle the day, and command the Patriarch of Solowetshk here to celebrate the marriage."
"Oh yes, in summer, when the roses are out. My bridal wreath shall be of real roses."
"I will have your wedding ornaments made from this nugget of platinum. And now you really are as happy as I am, are you not?"
"Oh, happier!"
"And will you have this pink silk for your wedding-dress?"
"You have just guessed my wish—that my wedding-dress should be pink. White makes one look pale, and I am pale enough without that."
"This wine from the Amur we will drink at your wedding-breakfast."
"And I too will taste it. We will drink to each other. 'As many drops in this goblet, so many years our love shall last!' Is not that the saying?"
"Then you shall take up your residence on his estate. How strange that I should have just given him back his confiscated property! He shall have his ancestral castle put in order for you to live in, and I will come and visit you constantly."
Sophie clapped her hands with delight, her pale cheeks aglow. Then suddenly the light in her eyes died away.
"But is all this only joking?"
"Joking? Do I ever joke with you?"
"That Aleko should pay court to me, that you should give me to him for wife, that the Patriarch should marry us on a lovely day in the lovely month of roses. Is it not all a dream?"
Alexander, instead of answering, took her in his arms and closed her mouth with kisses.
Yes, poor child, it is real. The only unreal part of it is that before those roses shall have blossomed you will be—
Alexander commanded Pushkin to his presence that day, and made short work of the matter.
"You have caused a young girl to fall in love with you. You must marry her. Her name is Sophie Narishkin. Wait upon me to-morrow evening at six o'clock. I will take you to her, that you may formally ask her hand. You will then visit her daily, and see that you endeavor to cause her no sorrow. Her life hangs on the slightest thread; that thread is in your hands. Beware that you are not the cause of her death."
Pushkin was in a very awkward situation.
The hand of the Czar's favorite daughter was offered him—to him, the conspirator, the Constitutionalist, the sworn enemy of the tyrannical Czar. He was to ask a girl in marriage who was in love with him, whom he pitied and admired but did not love. That girl's life hung on the hope of becoming his wife; with the extinction of that hope the feeble spark of life within her would be extinguished. Merely to breathe "I do not love you" would suffice to kill her. And what made his position the more difficult was the circumstance that at Sophie's he would be constantly meeting that other girl whom he looked upon as his betrothed, Sophie's only friend, Bethsaba, to whom he had given his whole soul. Two hearts to be thus stricken and betrayed!
What bitter punishment for past frivolity brought back upon his own head! But there was no turning back. We are in Russia, and when the Czar commands there is no option but to obey.
The next day Alexander himself took Pushkin toSophie. The betrothal took place in his presence. Pushkin was able to convince himself that the heart intrusted to him was a treasure far above the merits of any sublunary being. He learned that there can be an ideal bliss infinitely more sublime than any earthly enjoyment utterly without sensual passion—a magic of sympathy which is not dependent upon the power of possession; that spiritual attraction is stronger even than love. It was to him as though one of those angelic souls already floating heavenward were drawing him thither in its train.
A few weeks later Sir James Wylie said to the Czar:
"Princess Sophie's health is improving visibly."
"I have found the panacea!" was the reply.
As Alexander had said, so it was. His health was in close sympathy with that of his daughter. With the return of color to her cheeks his spirits revived. Once more he busied himself with affairs of state. In his study were whole piles of unsigned papers from various departments and of letters through the "St. Sophie" post-box. He set to work upon them, and the mountain of papers was soon hugely diminished. The Sophien-post was a singular institution of Alexander's. In Czarskoje Zelo was an office where any one might give in letters to be delivered direct to the Czar. The official demanded ten rubles a letter, but asked no questions either as to the writer or its contents, whether of complaint, petition, accusation, calumniation of those in office, or favorable mention, or schemes for a new constitution of the empire. One hour later it was in the Czar's hands were he in St. Petersburg, or was sent after him if he were travelling.
The surest sign of his improvement in health and spirits was that he ceased to tear through the streets at night, and supped on the first holiday evening with the Czarina, having decided to communicate the happy tidings to her. Elisabeth was the first to hear it. The Patriarch himself had only been informed that on the 21st of June he was to be at the late Czar Peter's residence on Petrowsky Island, where he would find a young couple waiting to be married.
Meanwhile, every petition addressed to the Czar's clemency was being granted. Exiles were allowed to come home, political prisoners released from prison.
It was not in vain that Pushkin had sacrificed his love. His tenderness charmed back to Sophie's lips the smile of happiness which is so delusively like that of health. And that smile charmed a bright, cloudless sky over the whole empire. When he came, punctual to the minute, with his bouquets of flowers, and, with some pretty compliment about the improved looks of the girl hurrying to meet him, would sit down beside her and begin telling her the news, Pushkin was making the happiness of an empire. Or did he ask about her last night's dreams and tell their meaning; or play cards with her, letting her win and himself be laughed at; or read poems and romances to her; bring her the first hothouse fruit or delicate bonbons; watch her somewhat inartistic attempts at drawing and painting, oft stealing a kiss the while, and getting his hair pulled for it—then a whole empire was in sunshine!
This even the unfortunates on the far-off Baikal Lake, who break stones in Bleiberg mines, experienced; for every kiss pressed on Sophie's brow the fetters on a pair of hands were loosed.
The Czar, who purposely came to her late, after Pushkin had gone, always found her luxuriating in bliss. Her talk would be all of Pushkin, and of all he had told her.
Sometimes they talked about politics. Sophie induced Pushkin to confess what was the exact object of the secret society she had heard about. And, like an engaged man should, Pushkin candidly told her that what they wanted was a parliamentary constitution; that among them there was many a man who could speak as well as the members of the English House of Commons, and who ought to have the right to be heard. The government would then find a majority composed of Tartars, Kirghis, Kalmucks, Jakutes, Bashkir, and Finnish deputies, who would outvote the Russian revolutionists, and the country would be tranquillized. That parliament should have the control of the exchequer, so that in the case of a minister peculating he might be sent about his business, and, at least, give others the chance to do the same. Freedom of the press was also necessary, so that they might go to loggerheads among themselves instead of growling in an undertone. That was what they hoped to arrive at. The Czar was infinitely amused when he heard of it all, taking it very differently from what he did when Araktseieff told him the same things.
People began to think that the good times were coming back. Some ten years ago they had ventured to talk of constitutional liberty in presence of the Czar, and the meetings of free masonic lodges were openly announced in the daily papers.
The improvement in Sophie's health deceived even the doctors; the bad symptoms had entirely disappeared. Miracles do happen sometimes! The power of nature is inexhaustible! Preparations for the wedding began in earnest. The Czar had the bride's trousseau, including the pink-silk gown and platinum diadem, sent from Paris, and had the satisfaction of revelling in Sophie's radiant face on seeing all the lovely things.
One day the Czar said to Pushkin:
"My son, if God permits us to live to that happy day, which will also be a turning-point in my life, what shall I give you for a wedding present?"
And Pushkin, falling on his knees, said:
"Father, on that day give your subjects a constitution."
The Czar was silent. This gave Pushkin courage to continue.
"Your Majesty, the whole world is in a state of ferment, and preparing for eruption, like Vesuvius. The volcanic eruption can be avoided by a roll of paper inscribed with the single word 'Charta'! Not I alone, but your whole country, every honest man, every patriot, every one about the throne, thinks and says the same. Do not grant us immediate freedom, do not remodel our country on foreign lines; but lead your people gradually, step by step, towards freedom; suffer the constitution to be shaped according to the habits and needs of your people. But do away with serfdom! Banish Araktseieff, who stands like an evil genius between you and the people. Take the education of the masses out of the hands of the Sacred Synod, and restore it to Galitzin. Call the notables of the land to your throne-room, and command them to speak out candidly to you. Do away with the censorship, and grant permission to everyman to publish his thoughts to the light of day; dismiss the dishonest stewards, who are robbing you and the country. Annul the military colonies, which are a very pest of oppression in the land; summon the old regiments, give them back their standards, unite them in a camp, put us at their head, and send us to the rescue of our Greek brothers in arms, who are drowning in a sea of their own blood. You will see what a nation is capable of when, in possession of freedom herself, she is fighting for the independence of other nations—how she would rise above all others! Oh, give us freedom, and we will give you glory!"
The Czar listened to the end, then said:
"Rise! I forgive you your audacious words!"
Some day later Araktseieff set off, very quietly, for his country estate, Grusino. It was whispered that, at his own request, he had been granted a long leave of absence. His departure was emphasized the more by Prince Ghedimin being chosen as his successor. He was now among the confidentialentourageof the Czar, who might approach him, at any hour, without being announced.
More still took place. Magriczki, the most detested member of the Council of Enlightenment, was dismissed, and younger censors were appointed instead of the old ones. It was also known that the Russian Ambassador at the Porte had received instructions to energetically promote a more humane system of warfare against the Greeks in their War of Independence. It was also decided to form a camp instantly in the vicinity of Bender.
Finally—clear sign of a new epoch—all the regiments of the guards were recalled from the military colonies and concentrated in St. Petersburg.
These events filled the apostles of freedom with new hopes. The Secret Society of the North decided, on these lines, to support the Czar by all the means in their power, although the leaders of that society were not misled. Pestel sent word to Ghedimin: "It is all a comedy! They want to make fools of us; the whole business will only last three months. I shall stick to my plan!" But the Bear's Paw by degrees lost all its associates, and the sole use Jakuskin found for his knife at that time was to pick his teeth with.
Pushkin, meanwhile, devoted himself completely to his duties as bridegroom and to versifying. He wrote a charming poem under the title ofThe Spring of Baktshisseraj, which he read aloud first to Sophie. And the milder censorship made its publication easy.
When the Czar was informed that the poem had been submitted to the Censor—of course such an event had to be notified to the Czar—he said to Pushkin:
"I advise you to dedicate your poem to a certain lady."
"To my betrothed?"
"No. To the Princess Ghedimin."
Pushkin understood the hint. It was desirable in some manner to pay court to Sophie's mother. This was the most natural way.
The Czar added:
"When you take her your poem, tell her that on the 21st of June you will celebrate your marriage with Sophie Narishkin."
That, too, was quiteen règle. Pushkin needed no explanation. The bridegroom-elect must himself take Korynthia the tidings of Sophie Narishkin's approaching marriage, and receive from her the kiss of consent. The wooing and consent would be expressed in the formof the dedication of the poem and its acceptance. The form was delicate, yet expressive. Both think differently and speak differently; it was a wooing under poetical guise.
Pushkin was quite up to the proprieties in first seeking out Prince Ghedimin.
"Ivan Maximovitch, I have written a new poem, which I should greatly like to dedicate to the Princess Maria Alexievna Korynthia. May I beg you to read it, and if you deem it worthy of the honor of bearing the Princess's name to be my advocate with her?"
"I will read your verses with pleasure, and may venture to tell you beforehand that the Princess will esteem your dedication as a great distinction, and will be proud to read her name in print on any work of yours."
And Pushkin, that same day, received a note from the Prince telling him that the Princess would receive him the next day at seven o'clock in her summer palace on Neva Island.
The great heat prevented people going out earlier. The St. Petersburg world of fashion had already repaired to their villas. Even the rich burgher lived in Neva Island on his "dotcha." The Czar had accompanied Elisabeth and her court to her favorite castle "Monplaisir," in the vicinity of which was Sophie's dwelling.
The Czar could now visit her very seldom, for in June the nights are not dark in St. Petersburg. But she had her lover to keep watch over her.
But one short week separated them from the wedding.
At the appointed hour Pushkin presented himself at Villa Ghedimin, and was passed on from one footman to another, until he finally arrived at Korynthia's boudoir.
The Princess was a handsome woman; but to-day she wanted to surpass herself. The feminine fashions of that day were very becoming. The pale-golden silk, fine as any from the loom, thrown lightly about her head, enhanced the gold of her waving hair, arranged in a classic coil, and threw up her complexion; as did the soft Brussels lace the whiteness of her neck and arms. Her shoulder-straps even were set with yellow diamonds, and, coquettishly placed between the lace, a pale yellow tea-rose diffused its delicate perfume. Her whole being betrayed an agitation unusual to her. She blushed and smiled as Pushkin entered. And both blushes and smiles repeated themselves during the greeting and exchange of customary courtesies. Then she signed him to a chair, while she seated herself upon a silken divan opposite to him, and opened the conversation.
"I have shed as many tears over your lovely poem as though I had been myself to the Baktshisseraj Well of Tears."
"I am rejoiced that the heroine of my lay should havewon your sympathy, Princess. For in her I impersonated my betrothed, Sophie Narishkin."
Oh, what a change passed over her face!
Her cheeks aflame with anger, her eyebrows arched like bows, her eyes shooting out arrows of fire.
"You desire to marry Sophie Narishkin?" she cried, passionately. "Impossible!"
"I think it, on the contrary, very possible, seeing that our wedding is already fixed for the 21st of June."
"In a week? Has the betrothal been already announced, then?"
"No! A dispensation has been granted for our marriage."
Springing from her divan, the Princess gasped:
"Impossible! Impossible!"
Pushkin retained his seat. He was not easily frightened by any man—or woman either. So he answered, calmly:
"But, my dear Princess, what objection can you have to it?"
Korynthia saw that she had suffered her impetuosity to carry her too far. So, commanding herself, she resumed her seat and made as if fanning herself from the heat.
"He who advised you to this was no friend of yours!" she hissed out.
"It was the Czar!"
Korynthia, shutting her fan, put it to her lips. After a short silence she said:
"You know, then, that the Czar is Sophie's father?"
"I have divined it."
"And have you also divined the future which awaits you in marrying a daughter of the Czar? You will be banished from the society in which you have hithertolived; the circles into which you will try to force yourself will hold you in contempt. As long as the Czar lives you will be a prisoner in the glittering cage of the court, deprived of free-will; an unhappy man, born to enlighten others, condemned to be the shadow of a man! At the death of the Czar you may be appointed to a governorship in the Caucasus or on the Amur."
"Princess! I shall neither become a prisoner at court nor governor of Kamchatka. My wife will accompany me to my little estate of Pleskow, where I mean to be sometime farmer, sometime poet."
"You do not love the girl. Vanity alone has led you to this step."
Pushkin never took a blow unrequited—even from a woman.
"Princess, did you know her you would know that it were impossible not to love her!"
The Princess bit her lips until they bled. It was a cruel thrust. Quickly upon it followed a second.
"Sophie has only inherited her father's sweetness of disposition; nothing of her mother."
The Princess rose. She could bear it no longer. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. Going up to Pushkin, she seized his hand as she whispered:
"Has the Czar also confided to you the name of Sophie's mother?"
"Never!"
"Have you heard it from any one else?"
"From no one who had a right to know it."
"Come, then, sit down by me," gasped the Princess, convulsively clutching Pushkin's arm, and drawing him on to the divan beside her. "Listen to me! I will make a confession to you. What I have hitherto toldto none but the Patriarch I will confess to you." Sobs choked her voice; then violently tearing the lace handkerchief with which she had dried her tears, she continued, "Even to my husband I have never dared to say what I now tell to you:I am Sophie Narishkin's mother!"
Pushkin, of course, appeared to be intensely surprised at this discovery.
"You be my judge," continued the Princess, as she threw back the gossamer covering from her shoulders. She drew a long breath. "I was but a child, scarce sixteen; my parents dead. I met a man whom all conspired to worship. The aunt who brought me up was a vain, ambitious woman, and had made me equally so. Every one about me counselled me to return his love, telling me that he was unhappy for cause of me. They sought out old records of how Czars who had not loved their wives had sent them into convents, and had raised others, more beloved, to share the imperial throne. Flattery, ambition, inexperience, youthful fancy, turned my head, and I—fell. Ah, how low I fell! So low that my whole life since has been one expiation! Still, I never relinquished hope; I ever believed that the man who had wronged me would come one day to raise me from shame to splendor. I implored him; I knelt in the dust at his feet. Then he published the ukase that only the daughters of reigning families might be raised to the throne of Russia—that was the answer to my dreams! In the depths of my despair a man in my own rank of life came and asked my hand. True, he had no love to give me, but he gave me his name; I, too, had no love to give him, but I have borne his name honorably and spotlessly before the world. And now there suddenly breaks upon me the dreaded catastrophe which for sixteen long years has been my nightly terror: Sophie Narishkin will marry, and people will be asking, 'But who is this Sophie Narishkin? Who is her father—who is her mother?"
"You may make yourself at ease on that score, Princess. The wedding will be conducted in all privacy by the Patriarch of Solowetshk in the Chapel of Peter the Great on Petrovsky Island. After the wedding not a soul will see the young couple in St. Petersburg, or speak about them."
This consolation was poison to the heart of the Princess. Would she see Pushkin no more, then?
"But why this feverish haste? The girl is but a child, scarce sixteen years old!"
"Princess," returned Pushkin, mournfully, "we do not reckon time by years, but by the griefs we endure; and by that computation Sophie has already lived a long life. Sixteen years of confinement, banishment, unrecognized by any one—sixteen years without knowing a loving word or ray of brightness should count for age enough! It is just this dream of happiness that is keeping the poor child in life. Sophie is a somnambulist on this earth. To awaken would be to kill her!"
"So it is a spirit of magnanimous self-sacrifice which binds you to her—you are not in love with her?"
"I worship her; am hers forever."
"I see. Permit me to meditate over the subject. This news has taken me so by surprise that I can give you no answer at present. Can this marriage not be delayed?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"The Czar is going on a journey—it may be a long—very long journey. He will shortly hold a great reviewof the guards, and then start. But of this Prince Ghedimin can inform you better than I. At any rate, it is the Czar's pleasure that our marriage takes place before he leaves."
"Then at least allow me to defer my answer to the last moment. I have so much to say to you; do give me as long a time as you can. Come again on the twentieth, and even then not until dusk, so that your coming may not attract attention. In order to enter unperceived—you will readily understand why I should not wish a visit from Sophie's bridegroom, on the very eve of his wedding-day, to be publicly known—take this key. It belongs to the door of the veranda which opens on to the park. Thence, by a spiral staircase, you ascend direct to my apartments. We can then talk over various matters undisturbed, which you ought to know."
Pushkin put the key intrusted to him in his pocket, and, kissing the Princess's hand, took leave, Korynthia giving him the farewell kiss on his lips and accompanying him to the door of her room.
From this we glean that the Russian scientist was right in his remarks upon "degenerated cats"—at least, as far as this woman is concerned.
In the villa shaded by aromatic pines the bride elect awaited the happy day. No longer a prisoner, condemned to lifelong imprisonment. For the hardest imprisonment of all is sickness; one is made to hear atevery step, "Oh, don't run! Don't sing! You must not drink water! Keep your shawl about your throat! Do not eat this! Mind you don't take cold! Don't get overheated!"
Even the doctor stays away. The panacea has done wonders.
The lovely month of roses had come. The bridegroom had had the path along which Sophie was to walk planted with roses, and the happy girl collected the blossoms, morning and evening, that not a single leaf might fall to the ground. Why did she do this? When the leaves were dry she meant to fill a silken cushion with them. Sleep would be so sweet on such a cushion.
She was even now spreading out her leaves on the sunny side of the veranda, singing to herself as she did so. No one forbade her to sing now; it was allowed; only old Helenka grumbled out the adage, "Sing on Friday, cry on Sunday." But Sophie is accustomed to laugh at such wise saws from her old nurse. Who believes in such superstitious omens nowadays? When all of a sudden good old Helenka sighed out, anxiously:
"Holy Maria! St. Anna! What brings her here?"
And without another word she ran off, to avoid the new-comer.
Sophie, looking up wonderingly, saw a lady of striking beauty coming down the garden path. She wore a dress of gay-colored embroidery, a bird of paradise in her bonnet, and upon her shoulders was a costly cashmere shawl. At sight of the stranger's seductive beauty Sophie felt a mysterious shudder pass through her frame; her heart seemed to stop beating. She began to believe again in omens.
The stranger came alone, and at an hour too early forladies, as a rule, to be out. Without hesitation she ascended the veranda steps, like one who knew the house well.
As she reached Sophie she raised her hand with the gesture of one expecting to have it kissed, saying, in a low voice, as she did so:
"I am Princess Ghedimin!"
The girl's heart beat audibly; but she had no alternative, she must kiss the gloved hand.
"You have never seen me before?" the lady asked.
Sophie shook her head in silent negation.
"Let us go together into your sitting-room, then. Is there any one with you?"
"No one."
The lady went on first, and, having reached the room, took off her bonnet. Her abundant fair hair was dressed high,à la giraffe.
"Now kiss me, child. I am your mother!"
Sophie did as she was bid.
The Princess looked about her. Embroideries, pretty dresses, the whole trousseau, lay scattered about in charming disorder.
"Ah! Your trousseau. So you are going to be married, little one? Did it never strike you that so serious a step demanded a mother's blessing upon it?"
The girl ventured to reply, "I had been told that I was neither to visit nor to write to my mother."
"But you might have let me know through your little friend Bethsaba, who has been seeing you daily."
"I thought she would have told you."
"No; not a word. Oh, girls nowadays can keep their own counsel! Not once did she mention 'his' name to me; it was by mere chance that I heard it. Herr Pushkin came to me yesterday to ask my permission todedicate his new poem,The Spring of Baktshisseraj, to me."
"To you?"
"Have you any objection to his doing so?"
"On the contrary, I am glad."
"And he happened casually to mention that in a week he was about to lead Sophie Narishkin to the altar. I was astonished. I fancied you still playing with your dolls. Who brought this big doll to you?"
"My father."
"And do you think yourself sensible enough to marry yet?"
"I do not know if I am sensible; I only know that I love him!"
"A categorical answer! How positive you are that he will marry you! And where did you get to know Pushkin?"
"During the flood. Oh, I was in such terrible danger! Had they not come to save me I should have been washed away."
"Who came to save you then?"
Sophie was surprised at the question.
"Do you not know? Did not Bethsaba tell you?"
"Bethsaba? No; she has not spoken to me a word of you or Pushkin. Sly girl—she shall pay for this. So the same fairy sheltered you who carried off Bethsaba from my carriage? That devil in woman's form! And Bethsaba has thought well to keep it from me! And for whole days and nights you were in that den of iniquity! Now I understand it all! It is this fiend who has brought it all about!"
"Mother, do not curse her! I owe all my happiness to her."
"Do you know, then, what is 'happiness'?"
"To be loved."
"And do you know what is its opposite?"
"That I do not know yet."
"To be betrayed."
"Who would betray me?"
"Who but he whom you believe loves you?"
"My Aleko?"
"Yes, your Aleko, who is the property of so many besides you. A more fickle man, a greater deceiver, more cruel, dishonorable, you could not have met with on earth."
"What reason could he have to deceive me?"
"Because he hopes, through you, to rise to higher rank."
"Oh no! He has refused all titles, rank, and possessions. He is taking me as I am. My trousseau and this piece of copper—a piece of the ship which ran into the Winter Palace, and which he gave me on the day of the catastrophe—are my whole wealth. He means to remain a poor man, and to make himself a name which no dukedom could rival."
"How he can deceive you! His schemes stop only at the throne. He is marrying you that in the next revolution he may figure as the Russian 'Prince Égalité.' Nay, Égalité!—as another Pugatseff! Why, do you not know that he is one of the conspirators whose aim is to oust the Czar from the throne?"
"But it was my father who brought him here."
"Because he has a honeyed tongue with which he can deceive the Czar—and lull the daughter to sleep."
"Oh, mother, you hate him sorely!"
"And with reason! Does not this marriage threaten to ruin my whole life? Will it not bring the secret of your birth to light—that birth the bane of my early life?"
"Mother! Do you curse the day of my birth?"
"Not now only, but twice daily—when I wake and when I lie down. You were as a death-sentence to me, the hour of which was unfixed. I have thought with shuddering of you. You have been my accomplice, a living witness to my wrecked honor; and now my fate is to be accomplished through you. You announce to the whole world that you exist—look! here am I!"
"No, mother; I will hide myself. No one shall see me. No one shall know of me."
Korynthia here pretended that pity and maternal love had gained the mastery. In sorrowing tones, she exclaimed:
"But, my poor child, do you not know that you are condemning yourself to a living grave—that you are choosing a life worse than hell? You will be the wife of an adventurer, who is sunk so low in sin, so fettered by vicious associates, that, even if he desired it, he is powerless to avoid the consequences. Do you want to follow him to Siberia?"
"If misfortune assails him I will share it with him."
"And suppose the mad scheme in which he is the foremost actor succeeds, and his hands are stained with your father's blood?"
"Then I will find a path in which to implore Heaven's pardon for him."
"Blinded creature! Your self-created ideal prevents your seeing the man as he is. Do you believe it possible to confine a heart in a cage that is accustomed to take free flight, and which, moreover, you have by no means made captive? For Pushkin loves you not! I tell you, he loves you not! Be convinced; he loves you not!"
Sophie looked in bewilderment at Korynthia. Theinstinct of her woman's heart, added to a nervous foreboding, told her the horrible truth. Seizing Korynthia's hand, she exclaimed:
"You love him!"
"You are right!" hissed Korynthia, with wild vehemence.
Sophie, pressing her hands to her heart, turned white as death; her eyes closed, her breathing stopped, and she fell lifeless to the ground.
The Princess went in search of Helenka.
"Go in to your mistress; she is not well."
And, drawing her cashmere close about her (the mornings are misty by the river) and replacing her bonnet, she left the villa.
Knowing that her farewell kiss would be of no benefit to the poor swooning girl, she let it alone.
That day Pushkin felt as heavy-hearted as if he had not only all the sins of the world, but the national debts of all Europe, upon his shoulders. Was it one of those presentiments to which the race of poets, whose stock-in-trade is nerves, are so sensitive? Nothing gave him any pleasure. He went to Zeneida, to formally announce his approaching marriage to her. She had long been informed of it, for she possessed a splendid service of secret police.
Zeneida replied, with cold, stoical irony:
"I still do not believe that the Czar's daughterwill marry you."
"Probably not; forIintend to marry the Czar's daughter!"
"Is Princess Ghedimin informed of it?"
"I have announced it to her."
"Then nothing will come of it."
"It has nothing in the world to do with her."
"I prophesy it. Else why am I the pythoness? Does Prince Ghedimin know of it?"
"Prince Ghedimin!Mille tonnerres!Am I to go to the Prince, too, to ask for Sophie's hand? He, at any rate, is out of it."
"Not on account of your wooing, my friend, but that the Prince may erase your name from 'the green book.' You will doubtless see that the name of the son-in-law of the Czar can hardly adorn—I will not say blacken—its pages."
"By Jove! you are right. I had not thought of that."
With heavier heart than he had come, Pushkin left her.
Zeneida's villa was on the Kreskowsky Island, thus some distance from Sophie's home, which lay embowered in orange groves. From afar the light-green roof was visible, standing out from amidst the pines. Every evening a white flag was to be seen floating from the flagstaff, hoisted by Sophie herself, as a signal that she was expecting him. Sometimes she would come down to the shore to meet him, her white-clad figure greeting him when he was yet a long way off.
Now neither white flag nor white-clad maiden was visible. He hastened on impatiently. Usually, as his boat approached the landing-stage, another, in which sat Bethsaba, would row away. The Circassian Princess never awaited Pushkin; they only exchanged greetings from a distance. Now he perceived a gondola, paintedin the Ghedimin family colors, still chained to the landing-stage, the boatmen stretched on benches fast asleep.
Without waiting for his boat to reach the land, Pushkin sprang ashore and ran towards the house.
On either side of the path Sophie's beloved roses were blooming; the ground was covered with their fallen leaves.
"What can have happened," thought Pushkin, "that your guardian angel has not been gathering up your leaves this evening?"
"Go in-doors; you will soon know the reason," answered the roses.
He found no one upon the veranda. He opened the familiar tapestried door leading into Sophie's private apartments. There he learned why the rose leaves had not been gathered in that day.
Sophie lay upon her bed, white as death. Yesterday's soft bloom had all fled from her cheeks; they were almost transparent. The anguish she had undergone had left a transfigured expression upon her face. She was clasping Bethsaba's hand, who sat by her bedside, their fingers interlaced, in prayer.
Pushkin advanced cautiously, concealing his alarm. It is not well to let invalids see that their appearance inspires anxiety.
"What is this? Are you not well?"
"No, Aleko; I am dying. Do not be startled; it is past now. I have wrestled through it. You, too, will live through it."
"Oh, do not speak so, my love!" stammered Pushkin, kneeling by the bed, and covering the girl's white face with kisses. "It is but some slight feeling of illness that will pass off, as so often before. I will go and fetch the doctor."
"You will go nowhere! You will stay, when I tell you to. Do not oblige me to talk loudly, but obey. Think, were you to go and alarm Wylie with the news that I am on my death-bed, he would at once inform the Czar. The Czar just now is engaged upon a great work for the good of the country; he is arming for war. Millions depend upon his decisions for freedom, and a happier future in store. For this he needs all his powers. My father loves me so dearly, and depends so entirely upon me, that the news of this illness will completely unman him, and render him unable to carry on the work he has in hand; the thought of his dying daughter would deprive him of all energy and power. Is it not strange? In my lifetime scarce a dozen people have known of my existence; in my death shall millions upon millions curse the day of my birth and my death! So, I implore you, do not disquiet the Czar with the news of my extremity."
With passionate vehemence Pushkin answered:
"What matter to me Hellas and the Russian Constitution, now that you are ill? I must save you!"
The reason which led Pushkin to this imbittered exclamation was characteristic of the times. Elsewhere, and at any other era, a lover, under similar circumstances, would have said, "Very well; I will not go to the Czar's physician, but to the first skilful doctor whom we can trust not to publish your illness, and he shall cure you." But at that period no one thought of going to a Russian doctor who did not want to hasten his death. Rather would they go to a quack, or trust to household remedies, than confide themselves to a St. Petersburg doctor. It was the surest way to court death. People only sent to apothecaries for rat-powder; indeed, under Czar Alexander, Russian subjects were forbidden to be apothecaries; Germans only were allowed. A Russian mistrusted his countryman; he held him capable of giving a sick man—in the interest of his enemies—poison instead of remedies. The aristocracy would only be attended by the Czar's and Czarina's physicians. In their absence, it was no use for any one to be ill.
"I have begged you not to excite me! In vain would you bring me all the Galens in the world, with their potions; I would take none of them. I will drink no more of that odious physic that tastes of bitter almonds. I must die! Do you understand? Imust. My death is necessary, irremediable. Not because I am ill, but because I am condemned to die. And it is right that it should be so!"
Pushkin, unable to solve this riddle, looked inquiringly at Bethsaba, who, at this, made a movement to go. But Sophie held her back.
"Stay! I want you both. Pushkin, be a man—a brave, strong man! Are you a child, that you are trembling so? Grant me what I ask. I am going to make my will. Draw the writing-table up to my bed, light two candles, and place the crucifix between them; but first close the shutters and make it night! Oh, these terrible summer nights in St. Petersburg, with their endless gathering dusk—it seems as if night would never come and day would never cease! It is such an oppression! Ah, I feel calmer now that it is dark. Now come and sit down by me and write; or would you rather lay the portfolio on my bed and write kneeling? So you shall, then. And you, Bethsaba, kneel beside him. Attend to what I say, and write: 'Surrendering my soul to God, my ashes to earth, I, Sophie Narishkin, bequeath, on my death, all my worldly goods to my only friend the Circassian Princess, Bethsaba Dilarianoff. The only two things I desire to have buried with me are the little piece of lead which I have ever worn upon my heart, and, under my head, the little green silk cushion filled with rose-leaves, on which I shall rest peacefully.' What! cannot you see the letters that you are writing all across the paper? Pushkin, what a baby you are! Write further: 'To my one and only friend I bequeath the greatest treasure I have in the world—my Aleko Pushkin!'"
At these words Bethsaba would have started up, but Sophie would not allow it. Twining one arm round her neck, the other round Pushkin's, she pressed their cheeks together.
"Am I not to be allowed to dispose of my treasure as I like in my will? Do you think, then, that I do not know how dearly you love him? Before I confessed to you my love for him, his praises were forever in your mouth; since then you have never once mentioned his name. Do you think I did not know why you always hurried away when he came? Your cheeks used to be so rosy, and you so merry and full of fun. Now they are white, and you are so sad and lifeless. Do you think I have not divined your grief? You love him, as I do. Do not conceal it any longer. Tell the truth. Do not have any secrets longer from a dying girl, who to-morrow will be a spirit, knowing all that is in your spirit. Do not wait for my disembodied soul to come nightly to disquiet you, asking, as a spectre, the answer to the question you refused me in life. Confess that you love Aleko!"
As she heard these words Bethsaba's heart felt nigh to bursting, and with open lips and upturned eyes she fell unconscious to the ground.
"Lift her up and lay her by me on the bed," saidSophie, tranquilly. "Now you have two dead brides to choose between. Only one will wake to life again, for she has not been killed. You can have no doubt now but that she loves you. Leave her unconscious. It is better that she does not hear what I have to say to you. But you keep every word in your heart of hearts and do as I bid you, for you know that girls who die during their betrothal change into spirits whom it is not good to anger. So listen. You are not to leave Bethsaba's side again. I know why I say this. If you let her go home, she will never look on God's free heaven again; she will be confined for life in St. Katherine's Convent."
Now Pushkin began to divine what had happened.
At the mention of St. Katherine's Convent, in Moscow, there flashed across him all the scandalous adventures he had heard the officers of the guards boast of at their mess dinners, outdoing even the scandals of Paris life. The convent had a reputation only equalled by the very worst convents of Montmartre. Young lieutenants wore the rosaries of the nuns of St. Katherine's as bracelets, and only that year a terrible case had happened which had been hushed up by the authorities. The last descendant of a noble family had disappeared suddenly from society in Moscow, and after a month of vain searching his body was discovered cut to pieces in one of the wells at St. Katherine's. And thither her godmother intends to send Bethsaba, where not only her happiness for this world, but for the next, is to be lost forever. And Princess Ghedimin was thoroughly capable of it.
"So, no indecision, no sentiment," continued Sophie. "On the day of my death you must marry Bethsaba; if not, she is lost. True, the world will say, 'The scoundrel! the very day he closed the coffin on his betrothedhe could open his heart to another.' But you will be in possession of my will, dictated to you by me, and signed with my shaking hand; lay it upon your heart, and it will give you peace. And if your conscience acquits you, what matters the judgment of the world? Be daring! The Patriarch of Solowetshk will be waiting in the Czar Peter's castle on Petrovsky Island. He is charged to marry a young girl to an officer in the guards without previous publication of banns. He does not know them or their names. Two witnesses will be necessary; I have provided for that. Zeneida can be one, Helenka's husband, old Ihnasko, the other; both are trusty friends. And while the one gondola, to the voices of the chanting choristers, glides gently along with my flower-bedecked coffin to the lovely willow-shaded vault on this bank of the Neva, you in the other gondola will be rowing across to the other bank of the Neva to catch your troika, which will be in waiting. And now, God be with you!"
Pushkin paced the room in wildest excitement, tearing his dishevelled hair.
Sophie, meanwhile, set about restoring her friend to consciousness, and, unfastening her bodice, sprinkled her face with water. Dying, she still thought of others.
At length Bethsaba began to revive; but as she opened her eyes she buried her face in the cushions.
"I have arranged everything with Aleko," said the dying girl, in a low, contented voice. "You have only to do exactly what he tells you. I leave you my pink dress and the platinum diadem. You will soon know when you are to wear them. Why, Pushkin, how can you be so useless? Why have you not written it all down in my will? Now, do not forget the pink wedding-dress and platinum diadem. Old Helenka, too, Ibequeath to you; she has always been a good, faithful nurse to me. You may trust her through thick and thin. Now, Aleko, give Bethsaba pen and paper. She must write to tell the Princess not to expect her, as she is not coming back at present. Now write, dear one: 'Your Highness, my honored godmother,—Sophie is ill and in sore need of my care. I must stay here until the Lord take pity upon her. Your godchild, Bethsaba.' Now, dear Aleko, send off this note to the Princess, that she may not be uneasy. And as soon as you are ready give me my will, that I may sign it."
Sophie read it through.
"How many blots there are!" she whispered, and a smile lit up her death-like face. Those blots were Pushkin's tears. Sophie made merry over them, and wanted Aleko and Bethsaba to join in her merriment. She wrote her name in large, clear handwriting, and gave back the pen to Pushkin. Then she put both her arms round his neck and drew him down to her.
"To-day you still belong to me! Let me look once more into those eyes which have been so long a sweet home to me! Oh, it was a Paradise on earth! I thank you that you let me know such exquisite happiness! I thank you for the truth and tender love with which you blessed me!"
And she kissed him countless times. Then, letting her arms sink, she motioned him away. It was the last caress.
"Aleko! Bethsaba! I want to see you embrace each other—now at once, while I am still alive and can see it! If you love me, if you would have me know you to be sincere, if you place any value on my blessing, embrace each other."
And so across the dying girl's bed they laid their arms on each other's shoulders.
"Ah, that is right! And now, kiss each other—on the lips. Not like that; you have hardly touched each other; it was such a cold kiss. Give her a real one!"
And, laying her hands on the bowed heads, she drew them together, until their lips united in a kiss, her hands resting the while as if in the act of blessing. Then, raising her transfigured face to heaven, and, folding her hands, she breathed, scarce audibly:
"Mother, I have saved you from sin!"