"Alexis Andreovitch Araktseieff!"
Some days later the Czar had terrible news of Araktseieff. His reason had entirely left him.
Only when Araktseieff had left the Czar did the emperor realize how completely alone he was in the world.
There was not a man in whom he could place confidence; in every one he saw an enemy, a conspirator; and his true friends, if he still possessed any, he had imbittered by Araktseieff's recall. His generals were disaffected by his not supporting the Greeks. Secret treaties were directed against him. Those who were already apprised of his declaration of war, and had sufficient energy to act counter to him, had left the field at the beginning of operations.
On Araktseieff's return to Grusino he had hurried without delay to the mausoleum, and, barring the door behind him, had cast himself down beside Daimona's coffin, and for two whole days nothing was heard within but his bitter sobs. He would eat nothing, would make no answer to words or entreaties. "Daimona" was the only sound he uttered.
He had loved that woman as only giant beasts love their mates; when the hunter has shot the female he may shoot the male, for it will not leave its dead. For two whole days Araktseieff's household in vain besieged the door of the mausoleum; Chevalier Galban's representations also that he should come out and take care of his valuable life were fruitless; he paid no heed to his faithful followers. In vain they called him their sweet, good master, "sweet friend," "Alexis Andreovitch"; he was deaf to their voices.
On the third day Photios, the Archimandrite of the Monastery of St. George, came to the mausoleum. He is the holy man, to receive whose blessing hundreds of thousands make the yearly pilgrimage to the monastery from all parts of Russia. The decree of the saint is as much esteemed as is a papal bull.
When Czar Alexander I. gave into the hands of Prince Galitzin, the freethinker, the portfolio of Public Instruction, the Archimandrite, going up to the Czar, exclaimed threateningly:
"If you take the ancient faith from your people you will shake your empire to its foundations."
Whereupon the Czar dismissed Prince Galitzin, and the education of the people was left in the hands of the Sacred Synod. Russians always have their "living saints," some of them miraculous.
Photios, standing at the door of the mausoleum, called to Araktseieff within, in language unmistakably plain.
"Abandoned criminal, come out!"
The cries within were silenced.
"Come out from there!"
Araktseieff staggered out. He was scarcely recognizable. His beard, untouched for several days, stood out in gray bristles round his face; his eyes were bloodshot with weeping; his lips swollen; his hair lay wildly matted on his forehead; his general's uniform was streaked with green mould.
"What seek you in that grave?"
"Death."
"Of course you will die, we all shall do so, as penalty for our sins. But do you desire to crown your evil deeds by dying unrepentant? Do you desire to die beside the coffin of her for the loss of whose soul you are guilty? You were the cause of her sin; will you drag her down to hell? Instead of thinking of repentance, would you follow her to condemnation? Defiantly would you burst the barriers of that fearful next world instead of entreating admission with bended head? Of course you will die, but not when it pleases you; rather when it pleases your Maker to grant you death as a reward for penance.
"Your place is in the deep catacombs," continued Photios; "not by the side of your concubine. Under the rays of the burning sun, in storm, in the roar of the tempest, under drenching rain, shall you seek repentance! Stand up! follow me!"
Araktseieff crawled towards him on his knees.
"Now eat!" commanded Photios, throwing him a couple of turnips.
Picking them up, Araktseieff obeyed.
"Now put on these!" And he threw a dilapidated monk's dress towards him, faded out of all color by sun and rain. Araktseieff, taking off his general's uniform, put it on. And as saints on this earth do not drive in carriages, he followed the saint on foot and barefooted to the gates of the Monastery of St. George.
St. George's is one of the wealthiest monasteries in all Russia. It is situated near Grusino, at the end of the long peninsula formed by the river Volkhov and Lake Ilmer. Its gilded cupolas, green from the verdigris which centuries have brought out on the copper,tend to spread its fame far and wide. But entrance within the walls of the monastery oppresses the spirits. Silver dais upon silver dais reach to the dome; the organ towers aloft, with its pipes of gold; there are pictures of saints dazzling with rubies; mosaics composed entirely of precious stones. Upon the elaborately decorated altars lie costly Bibles bound in silver, and enamelled books of the mass. Over one of the altars is a picture of St. George in beaten silver. But it is only when we come to the "treasure chamber," with its priceless store of mitres, crooks, crowns, pearl-embroidered stoles, golden monstrances, that we realize how rich is Heaven's vicegerent—the Church. While the priests who guard all these treasures wander in among them in coarse cassocks and bare feet, that the world may see how poor is man.
But the most jealously guarded of all the treasures stood before the altar. It was a granite pillar enclosed within silver rails.
On the granite was engraven: "Upon this spot knelt Czar Alexander, attended by his faithful servants, the Archimandrite Photios and Alexis Andreovitch Araktseieff, in the year 1818."
Thither Photios brought the statesman, that he might see his name perpetuated beside that of the Czar.
"So high you had raised yourself. Now come and see how low you have sunk!"
The Archimandrite led the penitent back to the cloister and showed him his, the Archimandrite's, cell. It was a space six feet broad by eight feet long. But there was one luxury in it: it had a window through which sunshine penetrated. His bed was a coffin roughly put together; hisprie-dieua stone hollowed out by constant kneeling; a jug and a bowlfor the dailykwasthe sole furniture of the cell. Yet all this was luxury compared with what awaited the penitent.
In the catacombs of the cloister were caves hewn out of solid rock, just large enough to contain a man kneeling or recumbent; a small hole in the heavy iron door let in air. Total darkness reigned. These caves were inhabited by the whilom great, powerful aristocrats, masters over hundreds of thousands, now no longer masters of their own souls. It is not tyranny, not the power of the sacred hierarchy which holds them bound here, but their own blind zeal. Despising, hating the world, they are self-condemned to the awful imprisonment. The catacombs of the cloisters of St. George and of Solowetshk ever harbor numbers thus self-condemned to a living death.
It pleased Araktseieff.
Lying upon his straw he passed days and weeks. His door was kept locked by day, only to be opened at sound of the vesper bell, when he went to seek for food, for food is not brought to penitents. Only at dusk may they steal into the cloister garden to seek for mangel-wurzel, samphire, potatoes, and such like produce of the earth, their sole sustenance. One day Araktseieff came across a still more remarkable penitent than himself.
He, too, had once been a distinguished bojar; but none knew what his real name was. Here he was only known as "Little Father Nahum."
Nahum did not even allow himself the luxury of a ragged cassock. His sole covering is a rush mat woven by himself, his white hair and gray beard flow wildly down over his dirt-begrimed limbs. Nahum does not allow himself lodging in a cave. In summerhe sleeps in pools, in winter he creeps into a dung-heap. To kneel day after day in his cave is not humiliation enough for him; he prostrates himself across the threshold of the church door, that those who enter may walk over him, kick him, spit on him. To gather fresh roots out of the earth and eat them Little Father Nahum looks upon as sinful gluttony. He seeks his evening meal from the dust-heap; what is thrown there is his sustenance.
Araktseieff had been doing penance three weeks in the catacombs when, one evening, as he was returning with a bundle of leeks in his hand, he came upon Nahum feasting off his self-laid dinner-table, the dust-heap.
"Ah," said Little Father Nahum, accosting the new-comer, "I have found so much to eat here to-night I can share with a friend."
"What has Providence provided for you?"
"Mouldy cheese."
"All right. Give me some."
"Here it is. Take it all," returned Nahum. "He who hankers after a penitent's food should have it all given up to him."
And he handed him the mouldy cheese, with the paper in which it had been wrapped and thrown upon the dust-heap. Truly, loathsome food! But Araktseieff's attention was not so much arrested by the contents as by the paper in which the cheese was enclosed. It was a letter, and in it Araktseieff at once recognized the handwriting of the Czar. His blood surged within him. The Czar's writing a cover for stale cheese! And then the contents! It was a letter addressed to Photios.
"Call him to you. Speak to him in the name of holyreligion; strengthen him in the faith. Admonish him to preserve his life for the good of his country, which is beyond all other considerations. Thus will you preserve to the empire a servant of inestimable loyalty, and to me a faithful friend whom I sincerely honor and esteem."
And this was the paper chosen as a cover for mouldy cheese and thrown upon a dust-heap!
"Well, eat away, man," murmured Little Father Nahum, and, taking up the cheese which Araktseieff had let fall on the dust-heap, offered it him in the flat of his dirty hand.
Thrusting his fellow-penitent aside, Araktseieff hastened to Photios.
Photios was in the act of reading vespers. Araktseieff did not suffer him to come to an end.
"Was this letter from the Czar addressed to you?"
"To me."
"And you threw it on the dust-heap?"
"That you might find it there."
"I have found it. My penance is over. I return to St. Petersburg."
"Just what I wished to accomplish."
"You have accomplished it. But you do not yet know what you were doing when you brought Alexis Araktseieff forth from the grave? You constrained him back to life and the world, once more to prove the stuff that is in him. Well may you tremble before a resuscitated Araktseieff!"
"A blessing be upon all your actions!" stammered the Archimandrite, and continued his vespers.
Araktseieff left the monastery that very hour. He left it with the same wild frenzy of destruction with which he had entered it, only that then his desire was for self-destruction; now had returned the old desire for the destruction of others.
When Araktseieff, after those three weeks, was seen again in St. Petersburg, every one started back in terror at his appearance. His face was emaciated, his hair had turned quite white. It was plain to see that he had risen from the grave.
Zeneida was strolling alone through the shady winding paths of her park in the twilight of evening. Nightingales were singing; from a pond close by came the sound of croaking frogs; ever and anon the song of a boatman on the Neva broke the stillness, or the distant sound of a violin or clarinet in an inn, or the howl of a chained-up dog. Again would come the tones of the passing-bell, announcing a death, or from the vicinity of Monplaisir a sharp "Who goes there?" "Halt!" sometimes followed by a shot. Why that shot? Then again the song of nightingales, the croak of frogs, sounds of clarinet and passing-bell. These discords found answering echo in her heart.
Araktseieff's second return was hurrying on the crisis. No sooner had the Czar passed over the cares of government again to his favorite's shoulders than he had secluded himself completely in the solitude of Monplaisir. Just as he had formerly avoided his consort, so now did he devote himself exclusively to her. He seemed as if he could not live an hour without her, asthough he were endeavoring to atone by this devotion for his fourteen years of neglect. Now first he recognized the treasure he possessed and had neglected; now first he perceived that the wife he loved was ill, that her protracted sorrows, her secret grief, had undermined her strength. And he trembled to think he might lose her.
But the Czarina was happy. She blessed the sickness which had given her back her husband. The Czarina's physician, Dr. Stoffregen, had recommended a milder climate for her through the severity of winter, perhaps that of Venice; but Elisabeth had answered, "A Russian empress should not die anywhere else than on Russian soil." And it was this thought alone which absorbed the soul of the Czar.
Of the devastations wrought by Araktseieff, armed as he was with unfettered power, none told the Czar. Of all that was passing on the other side of the poplars of Monplaisir he was ignorant. He was not informed that Araktseieff's first step was to have the entire household of Grusino, who had been witnesses to the murder, consisting of ten men and twelve maid-servants, brought to St. Petersburg to the pillory and lashed until they were half-flayed, for not having gone to Daimona's rescue. He was ignorant that the severity he had previously practised as a system was now, by his thirst for vengeance, increased to gross cruelty; that he had dismissed high officials of every kind from their posts without any other reason than simply because they did not please him; that he was filling the dungeons on mere suspicion; that he had even cruelly oppressed the poor Finns. Possessing nothing more that he could take from them, he punished them through that which he "gave" them, his latest edict being that their toasts at public dinners must begiven in Russian. All this had strained disaffection and discontent to its utmost limit. Of all this Alexander knew nothing. No. He was absorbed in devising how to procure fresh air without draught in his beloved patient's room; how to keep out the gnats; and, among the flowers for her apartment, how to select those that would not give her a headache.
And Zeneida well knows what is looming in the distance. Secret societies are no longer holding meetings; they are agreed what is to be done. The only question now is—"When?"
The outbreak must be general throughout the empire. The threads are in Zeneida's hands. The artiste has retired from the stage. Moreover, the opera is closed during the summer months in St. Petersburg, and she will not again appear as a member of the Imperial Opera Company, but will give a concert for a charitable purpose in the course of the autumn. The day was to be publicly announced in official papers ten days previously. When the announcement, therefore, appeared that "Fräulein Ilmarinen would sing for the benefit of the Orphanage" on such and such a date the conspirators would know that this was the day fixed for the rebellion. The government organ would itself spread the word throughout the empire. Thus in her hand are the shears which shall sever the fatal thread; and the grave foreknowledge of all that it must bring with it is oppressing her spirit. The rebellion is unavoidable; no one will longer bear the heavy burden; from ragged mujik to titled magnate, all are yearning to burst the yoke, and the Kalevaines have more reason to weep than their fellows. But what is to happen to the imperial pair in the outbreak? Both have been such kind protectors to Zeneida. The palace had been ahome to her. How will it be possible to save their lives without proving a traitor to their cause?
And then a second trouble—Pushkin. True, he had promised her he would withdraw his name from "the green book"; but, when giving the promise, he had thought he would have the daughter of the Czar to wife. That is over now, and Pushkin has no further reason to withdraw from the Northern Union. He, too, is in possession of the conspirators' plans; there is not a doubt but that as soon as he reads the announcement that Zeneida will sing for the benefit of the Orphanage he will appear that day in St. Petersburg, even he must leave Paradise itself to be there.
How is she to hinder this without casting the slur of cowardice upon Pushkin? The delights of love alone would not be strong enough to hold him back—a yet stronger motive must be found. And she paces backward and forward under the trees in the dusk; in her soul reign the same discords which disturb the brilliant night, and she seeks in vain some quieting thought.
The Czar has grown melancholy; the Czarina is sick unto death; they live but for each other; have shut themselves up from the world. Their example is contagious. Even Prince Ghedimin has become reconciled to his wife, and no longer visits Zeneida. St. Petersburg society has scattered itself among the forty islands of the Neva. Every one lives to himself; all social life is extinct. Every visitor is looked upon suspiciously by the host as one of Araktseieff's spies. There is an oppressive calm over everything. People do not even write to each other any more. They tremble at the black inquisition.
Pushkin gives no news of himself. He sits at home in his desert at Pleskow. If he keeps silent about hishappiness, he has a hundred good reasons for that silence. It is possible that Bethsaba has written more than once to Zeneida; but letters are an uncertain medium of communication. Who knows into whose hands they may fall?
This great calm, this isolation, this striving to keep up the spirits, began to be oppressive. Chevalier Galban received orders to go from villa to villa and organize some amusements among the aristocracy. Husbands were no longer to be tied to their wives' apron-strings.
It was rumored that the lovely Princess Ghedimin would break the ice and bring society together again by means of a great reception on the day of the Feast of Masinka, and, in order to make the reconciliation of the Prince and Princess more publicly known, that Zeneida would be included among the Princess's invited guests.
The haughty Princess sending an invitation to the equally haughty Queen of Song, whom the world credited with having been one of the Prince's flames! It is hard to say which woman has the greater courage, the one who sends or the one who accepts the invitation.
But Korynthia has made a still more difficult decision. She means to send Bethsaba an invitation, accompanied by a coaxing, forgiving, affectionate letter, written by her own hand. And in order to insure the young wife's acceptance, the Princess intends to offer the prospect of the imperial pardon. Bethsaba shall have the opportunity of soliciting forgiveness from the Czar for her own bold step, and the return of imperial favor towards her husband, banished by the Czar's displeasure to Pleskow. This bait would be irresistible.
All this had Zeneida gathered from Chevalier Galban.
What did Korynthia hope to achieve by this? What does she aim at in getting hold of Bethsaba?
It is next to impossible that the young wife should be tempted to leave her home during her honeymoon, and alone, without her husband, who may not leave the precincts of his estate. And yet, did she do so, what would be the consequences?
Zeneida thought she had found in the person of Bethsaba the missing link in the chain. Now it is her work to fit that link in its place.
It must be a poor toy that cannot amuse children. And there can be no greater children than a newly married couple who are deeply in love with each other.
There is kite-flying in the park at Pleskow; Bethsaba is in high glee at her kite always flying straight up and remaining aloft, while Alexander's is always coming to grief. Her kite, too, is much handsomer than his. In the form of a dragon, it has two large eyes, a mouth, nose, and movable ears; while Alexander's is just a commonplace thing, made out of old scraps of manuscripts pasted together. The wide expanse affords the two grown-up children room enough to run with their kites. No eyes to see them but those of the stag on the edge of the forest.
A post-chaise rolls quickly along the highway skirting the park walls; the postilion blows his horn cheerily.
"I think that post-chaise must have stopped at our gate," observes Bethsaba.
"So it has. It means either a guest or a letter."
"Oh, I hope no guest," sighed the little wife.
Newly married folk are not hospitable, as a rule. Still, somebody appeared to have come. The dvornik came out towards them from the castle. They hastily let down their kites; they must not be caught at such childish amusements. In the hurry the dragon caught in the withered bough of a pine-tree and lost one eye.
"What a pity!" murmured Bethsaba, in vexation. "Now my dragon has only got one eye. Have you a scrap of paper about you to repair the damage?"
"Where should I get it from? Haven't you already seized upon every vestige of paper to make your dragon with?"
"Do look! Perhaps you'll find some old bill or other."
Meanwhile the dvornik had come up to them.
"Well, Tanaschi, what is it?"
"A letter."
"To whom?"
Bethsaba seized the letter from the dvornik.
"Oh, oh! A woman's handwriting! Take it. A love-letter. Some former flame writing to reproach you. Read it. Of course it is to make an appointment."
"You are right enough. It is a woman's handwriting, but addressed to you, not to me, my dear."
"To me?" cried Bethsaba, in surprise. "Who can have written to me? Perhaps Zeneida?"
"No, it's not Zeneida. I know her handwriting."
"Perhaps too well. But who else could have written to me?"
And they began guessing who the writer could have been while the letter passed from one to the other. At last Alexander proposed that the best way to see who had written the letter would be to open it.
As they saw the signature both simultaneously cried, "My godmother!" "Your godmother!"
"What can she have written about?"
Presently, as if it were intended for a joke, Bethsaba laughed heartily over the letter.
"Ha, ha, ha! She wants me to go to the Masinka Fête! Alone! Without Alexander! 'It is to be a grand affair; the Czar and Czarina and several foreign princes will be there; I shall have an opportunity to entreat the Czar to grant Alexander permission to go back to St. Petersburg!' Ha, ha, ha! Did you hear that, Alexander Sergievitch? My godmother sends me an invitation to a ball without you! The letter could not have come at a more opportune moment—I just wanted it!"
And with these words she seized the precious epistle; it just covered the damage the dragon had sustained, and a couple of pins fixed it in place—the black seal just forming the pupil of the eye. (The court had gone into mourning for six weeks after Sophie's death, and society used black sealing-wax during the period.)
"A large case also arrived by post-chaise," said the dvornik.
"Put it on one side. I have no time now to look at it."
What more incomprehensible than that one of the fair sex should have no time to look at a ball-dress sent direct from the capital? The dragon was mended, and ready now to resume its flight in the air.
Laughing and shouting, Bethsaba ran along with the tail of her kite dragging after her; the second child stood looking on, laughing, while the dragon disapprovingly waggled its foolish-looking head. While starting a kite, the flyer has to run back with head turned upward. Bethsaba, therefore, was not aware that she was running directly against some one coming towards herfrom the English garden; and was startled to find herself suddenly embraced from behind, and a long kiss impressed upon her face. Then she gave a loud, joyous cry, and the next instant her arms were round the intruder's neck; and, not content with hanging upon that neck, she pulled its owner on to the grass, and, rolling over, kissed her enthusiastically, interposing the most endearing epithets: "You love!—you darling!—you precious!" Pushkin was fain to go to the rescue, and help them both up again.
It needed no extraordinary acumen to guess who the guest, so affectionately welcomed, could be.
"Do not quite strangle me, you little goose!" exclaimed Zeneida. "Look; your dragon has meanwhile flown away."
"Let it fly out into the wide world, and my godmother's letter with it. Do you know I have had a letter from my godmother? Do you know she has invited me to the Masinka Fête without Alexander? Do you know what I did with her letter? My dragon had a slit, and I mended the slit with it. How dear and good of you to come and see us!"
"It is the correct thing. Six weeks after marriage it is the wedding-mother's duty to come and look after the young couple and see that they are happy together—and if they really care for each other. Has your husband beaten you yet?"
"Oh, dreadfully," said Bethsaba, pretending to complain. "The last time it was here!" And she secretly rubbed a place on her arm until she had made it red; but a redness, Zeneida detected, which had come from no blows.
"And you, Pushkin, have you been writing many fine verses?"
"Not a line! You know my muse is never active in fine weather. It requires storm, rain, and snow."
"And your sky has remained sunny?"
"As you see. I have not written a word."
This was very possible. There are times in his life when a poet only feels poetry, does not write it.
"Why, we have not a sheet of paper in the house," said Bethsaba, whose woman's instinct whispers to her it is her greatest boast when a poet's wife can say that it has been through her that the poet has been faithless to his muse. "We really have not. I had to use my godmother's letter to make my dragon's eye."
"Indeed! Is that how you treat your correspondence? That is a good thing to know. I will never write to you then, but, when I have anything to tell you, will rather come myself."
"That will be nice."
"Or I will take you with me."
To this the same response, "That will be nice," did not come. Clinging to Alexander's arm she looked up to him, saying:
"You will not let me go, will you?"
Zeneida answered for him:
"To that we shall not ask Alexander Sergievitch. His business it is when his little wife wants to go visiting to order out the carriage and horses, and to take care of the house in her absence."
"But I could not go anywhere if I wished it. Do you not see how I am dressed? It is the Pleskow costume! Alexander tells me it was also the costume of the first Russian Christian, Princess Olga. And I like it so much. Admire this sarafan with its many buttons, the pearl-embroidered povojnyik on my head, my red boots and striped silk stockings!" And with childishnaïvetéshe lifted up her dress to her knees. "How people would stare if I were to appear among them in this costume! I have no other dress; this is what pleases my Alexander to see me in!"
She told the truth. The ball-dresses sent her were not her own property yet; she had not accepted the present.
Alexander drew his little nestling wife closer to him.
"We have become thorough peasant farmers."
"Heaven grant that you may remain so!" thought Zeneida to herself. "I fear, however, that some day you will be leaving wife and village, and it will no longer be the pearl-embroidered cap upon your wife's head you will then consider the greatest adornment, but the Phrygian cap you will be running after!"
That which Dante omitted among the tortures of hell was that a woman should be condemned to see the man she loves, who might have been hers, revelling in the love of another woman, and she his wife. Had Zeneida's love been that of ordinary women, it would have mattered little to her that the man, round whom her fetters had been cast, should, sooner or later, be dragged by these very fetters to the grave. The joys of the present would have outweighed the tortures of the future, the dread secrets of eternity. But so dearly had she loved Pushkin that she sought for him a happiness in which she had no part. It was an unnatural situation, and one requiring a nobler courage than most possess. But is not the woman who devotes herself to play a part in politics an unnatural, abnormal creation? Upon the altar of politics the heart is the lamb of sacrifice. In the service of a Moloch sensual passion may exist, but not love. Those who become political leaders have no longer father or mother, brother or sister, lover or friend; they recognize no difference between honesty and roguery, between the laws of God and the expediencies of man. Hence the pursuit of politics is an unnatural occupation for women, with whom love and justice are ruling principles. The Amazon who went forth to war had first rooted out the gentler feelings.
The possibility of women taking up such a part is only comprehensible in countries where oppression is so unbearable, so utter, that the thirst for freedom extends from the starved hearts of the men to those of the women. The poet-laureate might love the court prima donna, but not the plenipotentiary of the Szojusz Blagodenztoiga. Between those two lay "the green book"—a far more efficient obstacle than the green ocean.
But, all the same, the anchorites of St. George's Monastery had not carried their self-torture to greater perfection than had this woman who had forced herself to come as a guest to the house where she would be witness to the happiness denied her, and which she had voluntarily given to another. And now she has come to guard that happiness against the storms of the future. And she is not only witness to their happiness when they are together, but even when his farm-yard or stables tear Pushkin for a short hour from Bethsaba's side, the young wife can talk of nothing but to boast of her happiness. No peacock is so proud of spreading his tail as is a fond wife of telling of her happy lot. She has so many things to tell. Her husband is a perfect model of virtue and perfection! And to all this Zeneida must listen with utmost composure; to see, if the husband were absent over the expected half-hour, how uneasy and distraught the young wife grows; toread from her face: "Oh, you dear benefactress mine, my good fairy, my goddess, how gladly, were you not with me, would I run out to seek him!" And this, too, must she bear with a smile on her face! Oh, this Moloch!
"Listen, child: my sole object in coming was to steal you away from Alexander Sergievitch for a time."
"Ah! If you want to steal either, take both of us. Alexander would not mind being run off with by you."
"Only, as it happens, he is neither invited, nor may he come. You must accept your godmother's invitation."
"What! The invitation to her ball!"
"There you will meet the Czar and Czarina; they will speak to you."
"I—there—without Alexander?"
"Upon you it depends that Pushkin may be free to go where you go. Your marriage with him has entirely marred his career. He does not feel it now, but in the course of a year or two he will remember that formerly every step he took was accompanied by the clank of spurs. The soul of a man is not to be confined in a cage like a tame bird, especially when he has eagle's wings. Be it your task to implore forgiveness from the Czar for your husband, that Pushkin may proceed on his interrupted career. Now the meadows are still green; in another month they will be covered with snow, and the couple condemned to fireside and indoor life will not be so light-hearted as the one flying their kites in the open meadow."
"Then it is your wish that I should intercede for Alexander's return to St. Petersburg?"
"Not for all the world! No; a thousand times rather entreat the Czar to give him a mission that shall takeyou and him to your own people and country. Describe to the Czar and Czarina the land in which you were born, as it lives in your memory, with its genial climate, its aromatic woods, its fruit-bearing trees. Tell them all the lovely and beautiful things of it that your memory can recall, and entreat the Czar, as an act of mercy to yourself, to send your husband there."
"Oh, the tempting thought!" sighed Bethsaba.
"But he will never consent that I should leave him and go away, and stay days and weeks away from him."
"It would only be one week."
"But that is a century! Oh no! Alexander would never consent to it."
"You leave that to me; I will talk him over."
"Oh, if you succeed in that you will be a real fairy. But what an odd fairy! Had you wanted to carry off Alexander from me, I could have understood it; but me from Alexander—that I cannot understand."
"See! here he comes through the garden. Place yourself here at the window and watch. I will go and meet him. You listen how I am going to bewitch him!"
"That I am curious to hear."
One intrenchment was already taken. Zeneida hastened to besiege the second.
Pushkin, crossing the lawn, was astonished to see Zeneida hurrying towards him.
"Turn back, and let's have a little talk," said she, putting her hand on Pushkin's arm. "Are you quite happy?"
"One can never be too happy."
"My object in coming is to ask you to spare me a portion of your happiness. I want to run away with your wife for a week."
"My little wife! What to do with her? Already she loves you ever so much better than she does me."
"Do not fear. She loves you above everything in heaven and earth, and all that lies between them. She positively must accept the invitation to Princess Ghedimin's ball."
The girl wife, watching at her window, sees how her husband vehemently draws away his arm from Zeneida's retaining hand. Zeneida does not shrink; she takes possession of his arm again.
"Hot head! She will not be staying with the Princess, but with me; I will be her chaperon. Since I gave up the stage my house has become strictly proper; I have held no more frivolous gatherings; since the Szojusz Blagadenztoiga made its final decision I have had no more conspirators coming near me; no need for masquerades or riotous meetings; I live a quiet, secluded life. The Czar has sent me the Order of the Cross as an amend for my recent dismissal; and,noblesse oblige, the bestarred Zeneida no longer consorts with Diabolkas. So, have you not the courage to trust your wife to me if I keep vigilant watch over her?"
"But to what purpose? If you want to beg some favor of the Czar for me—you little know me!"
The woman at the window saw Pushkin fiercely slash off the heads of the asters at his feet.
"I know you perfectly well. You have made up your mind to stay on here at Pleskow, see the grass grow, hunt hares, shoot wild duck, smoke the house out, play ombre, and discourse of dogs and horses. It will be your ambition to keep a good cellar, be known as a good dancer, to occasionally slash an officer or two in duels, and to leave your papers and periodicals uncut. Youwould have just strength and energy for such a life! But there are others interested in your wife's coming."
"Who?"
"First the Szojusz Blagadenztoiga; then the Czar."
"At my little Bethsaba's coming?"
"Do not interrupt me; I must speak quickly. You are aware that this second return of Araktseieff has made it impossible to stave off rebellion. His violent measures have had so imbittering an effect that no one any longer attempts to defend the life of the Czar save I alone. Perhaps because I am a woman; yet there have been illustrious examples enough to show that women can be as cruel in the matter of blood-shedding as men, and even in a more cold and calculating fashion. Any outbreak initiated by Kubusoff's air-guns or Kakhowsky's infernal machine, or, as Jakuskin has planned, by an opportune ball, giving the signal for attack upon the entire imperial family, would have no beneficial result. It would simply bring about the overthrow of the empire, the war of the knife and the axeversusbayonet, the war of ragsversusgold lace, inaugurating a reign of chaos which would make the country bless the return of despotism, and welcome a peace, even though accompanied by their old fetters. Now the Czar and Czarina must not be hurt! This reason, not sentiment, dictates.
"My plan is as follows: The Czarina's physician has advised her being taken to a milder climate. But her Majesty will not hear of leaving the Russian dominions, and the Caucasus she looks upon as a wilderness in which it is impossible to live. She gives no heed to the naturalists who describe the country, saying they are mere flattering official reporters. But if a young, unsophisticated little bride, presenting herself to the imperial pair, were to petition as a special favor to be allowed to go back with her husband to her beautiful native land, describing this native land with enthusiasm of early and tender recollection, it is possible that though this request may be refused, yet the Czarina herself might be attracted to the idea of going to that lovely land. The Czar worships his consort to such a degree that he would accompany and stay with her there; with this result, that those who want to inaugurate the outbreak with the violent death of the Czar would be constrained to devise some other nobler, more humane, more politic plan of action. On the Black Sea the Czar will live his life without cares; here we should have the imperious favorite only to bring to judgment. The constitution would be proclaimed in St. Petersburg without blood-shedding; the army would declare in its favor; and Czar Alexander will be free to choose either to fulfil the universal wish of his people, and come back as their beloved monarch, or, if he prefer it, to embark on board a ship in the Black Sea and sail away to seek the hospitality of—say, the Sultan of Turkey, if he wish it. Anyway, his life would be preserved."
The young wife at the window sees her husband kiss the hand of his guest. He is won over already. Zeneida has succeeded in carrying off the wife from the husband.
"Those whom you love are loved indeed, even when they are tyrants!" said Pushkin, deeply moved.
"It is the holy cause, not the Czar, I wish to save!"
"Both! Come, I will trust my wife to you! Take her with you! Let her, with her lark's song, bid the storm to cease!"
Bethsaba standing at the window sees her husband andZeneida come quickly back to her. "Truly you are an enchantress!" she thinks.
Pushkin comes in to his wife.
"Only think! your kite has been brought back from the far end of the town! Here is your godmother's letter, as kind as can be. You must do as she wishes. How could you refuse an invitation so worded, especially as Zeneida undertakes to be your chaperon?"
Bethsaba looked at each in amazement, and then raised a threatening finger and shook it at Zeneida.
"You are a fiend, after all, then. Well, then, come along, and let's see what kind of ball-dress my godmother has sent me."
This may be called a thorough capitulation.
The box was brought in and opened, the most exquisite of ball-dresses produced, and, with Zeneida's aid, duly tried on. In it Bethsaba showed herself to her husband.
"Shall I look lovely? Shall I turn many men's heads?"
"Every one of them!"
"Oh, take care, take care! You must not embrace me; you will crush my lace!"
This is the way in which a man is deprived of his wife in the very midst of his honeymoon.
The Assumption of the Virgin Mary is, according to the Russian calendar, at the end of August, thus twelve days later than according to the astronomical calendar. By this we see that the Czar of Russia haspower to command even the sun. As, according to the Russian calendar, every four hundredth year is short of three days, in the course of twenty thousand years it will be summer in the winter quarter, and winter in the summer quarter, in Russia. The Czar can even effect this.
However, now it is the beginning of autumn, the best time of all the year in St. Petersburg. The days are shorter and not so hot; the nights are moonlight; and, one-third of Russian women being named Mary, there is a festive tone in all houses; and at night, when fireworks begin, there are more stars to be seen on the earth than in the sky.
Korynthia, too, was a Mary; hence had every right to celebrate the day.
The summer palace of Prince Ghedimin on the island of the Neva rivalled in magnificence the Imperial Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. The ballroom was large enough to hold a thousand people.
Among those invited were the Czar and Czarina, the Grand Dukes and Grand Duchesses, their relatives then staying at the Russian court, the Czar's brother, the Grand Duke and Duchess of Weimar, the Prince and Princess of Orange. All combined to add brilliancy to Prince Ghedimin's ball. And yet Maria Alexievna Korynthia was far more anxious to know if Zeneida and Bethsaba were coming than about any other of her guests.
Fräulein Ilmarinen and Frau Pushkin had certainly written in most courteous and gushing terms the day before, stating that they would be there. Russian women, by-the-way, surpass even French women in the art of writing flowery notes—especially if they hate each other. But every one knows the value of such promises. Noone can write the day before, "I shall be having a headache to-morrow," but an hour before the ball any one can send a note of excuse by the footman, "I am in despair at being unable to come. I have such a violent headache." Of such excuses women possess a perfect arsenal.
To the Princess's great content, however, instead of the expected letter of excuse, both ladies put in an appearance; and in good time, before the dance music had begun, it being etiquette to arrive before the imperial guests. Zeneida always knew what was the right thing to do.
Fräulein Ilmarinen was wearing for the first time that evening the order conferred upon her by the Czar; Bethsaba, the ball-dress sent her by her godmother. She was strikingly lovely; even the close vicinity of Zeneida did not detract from her charms.
Korynthia, rising, advanced to meet them; first she greeted Bethsaba as the married woman, then she turned to Zeneida. Zeneida forestalled her greeting.
"You forestall me!" exclaimed the Princess. "Of course,queensever give the first greeting."
"Not so, Princess; but they who desire to offer their congratulations on their hostess's name-day."
And the two ladies shook hands. They knew that every eye was upon them, wondering how they would meet.
Both were well-seasoned warriors.
The ballroom was so arranged that all about were small groves of exotics, with openings just large enough for a couple to retreat into, and talk scandal or flirt, as the case might be. Little tables were there placed, and footmen went in and out handing refreshments.
Korynthia drew Zeneida into one of these floral retreats, and, as they sat down together, whispered laughingly into her ear:
"You understood me. I expected no less from your clever intellect."
Zeneida, adopting her tone, replied in equally laughing voice.
"That I have brought you the dove out of her nest?"
"Just so—that we have thus become allies?" resumed the Princess.
"An alliancead hoc, in the language of diplomacy," interpreted Fräulein Ilmarinen.
"For the object of discomfiting a third adversary," filled in Korynthia.
"And meanwhile England and Russia have signed defensive and offensive alliance—"
"In order, as allied powers, to conquer Paris," laughed Korynthia.
"The same Paris who keeps the golden apple, in order to give it to—whom?" exclaimed Zeneida, with a peal of silvery laughter.
"You are a demoniacal woman!"
"That I know. Your Highness has said it already."
"How you remember everything! But, to change the subject, three of your admirers are here to-night. We will soon settle the third of them. See, your littleprotégéeis already absorbed. Her former admirer, Chevalier Galban, has caught her like a spider in his web. Do not be uneasy about her; she will not go back heart-whole. We will see to that. We understand one another!"
"Perfectly, Princess."
"No harm to her! All loss is gain to her, but I do not think it will be her last conquest. For any one who hasbegunas has my goddaughter, it requires nogreat sagacity to prophesy how she willgo on. No need for us to grieve about her."
"Nor in such a case can we show any mercy."
"So, for the present, peace is concluded between us! After that, war to the knife."
"I first pull down my flag."
"Oh, that is only tactics, Fräulein Ilmarinen. Women never capitulate. That we both know too well. Do you know, I have never had opportunity to see you so close, though I have been so curious to get a good view of you. Tell me, do you dye your hair with saffron to make it such a lovely gold color?"
The golden hue of Zeneida's hair was a natural beauty, but she whispered confidentially to the Princess:
"No; saffron has too pungent a smell. I dye my hair with berberis roots in which purple snails have been steeped."
"And I never could understand how you get that exquisite complexion. Do you use violet roots?"
Zeneida laughed; the blush which heightened her complexion should have been answer enough—could she have told the truth. But she had come here to lie; therefore answered, in laughing accents:
"Oh, Princess, the preservation of this complexion is a perfect science. I have an old book, published in the times of Poppæa, which contains the receipt."
"Oh, among other things does that receipt advise laying a slice of beef upon one's face on going to bed?"
"Yes, that and other things. I could send you the book; though, in truth, you do not need it. It would be the Graces clothing Anadyomene."
"Oh, you are as magnanimous an adversary as that French naval captain who shared his powder with the Englishman and let himself be shot by him. To that Ican only answer as did the Persian king to the Armenians: 'What use is it to send me your sword if therewith you do not send me your arm also?' Of what use the secret of the cosmetic if you do not make me an adept in that bewitching smile which none may resist?"
"Princess, you are just like Napoleon, who had the art of raising a fallen foe."
"This time we are not foes, but allies."
The common foe (Bethsaba) here interrupted the amicable warfare by coming up to put the naïve question if she might dance the first polonaise with Chevalier Galban? She was heartily laughed at.
"You may do whatever you like. You are a married woman now."
What is known as a polonaise in the court balls of St. Petersburg is a promenade round the ballroom in short dance step, performed by the whole company according to the fancy of the first couple. We are therefore not to understand under that appellation the wild mazurka of former days, when the floor groaned under the stamp of the dancers. That was the dance of a period when every Polish nobleman was as good as the king; this is the dance of a time when every Polish nobleman is equal to—a peasant.
In former times both Czar and Czarina had headed the dance; and it happened to have been a polonaise in which Alexander had wounded the feelings of Elisabeth for the sake of the beautiful Korynthia Narishkin—an insult the former had never forgotten.
The arrivals of the great, greater, and greatest personages put an end to conversation. Once arrived, people formed themselves into a circle and waited for the august couple to make the round of the ballroom, after which the polonaise began.
Zeneida was presented to all the foreign princes, and received so much homage that in its intoxicating atmosphere she might well have lost sight of the one intrusted to her care. She was, however, a tried general in such campaigns, and knew how to keep the whole field well under supervision, even to the slightest detail. Attentively her eyes follow Bethsaba. She sees Chevalier Galban, with languishing expression, whisper in her ear; sees the young wife hasten up to her godmother with glowing cheek; sit down by her and then listen, surprised and startled, betwixt laughter and tears, to what her godmother is saying to her. She even divined what it was that was being said to her. She also saw the Czarina address Bethsaba, and enter into conversation with her with gracious condescension. And she saw, moreover, that these thousand guests here assembled to discourse sweet nothings, to jest, to trifle away the hours with orgeat, sorbet, and punch, were often the bitterest enemies, full of deadly hatred, ready at the first opportunity to give vent to their true feelings; that the men in their uniforms, stiff with gold lace, their breasts liberally sown with orders, who, hat under arm, bowed low to the Czar or to each other, were thinking, "To-day or to-morrow either you or I will be giving each other a 'How d'ye do?' with our heads, instead of our hats, under our arm"; that she, the singer, had but to say, "I am singing for the benefit of the Orphanage," and in an instant every sword would be out of its scabbard, and the men now dancingvis-à-visto each other would be running their swords through each other's bodies, and the crowned chairs on the dais be overturned, no one asking themselves, "Who is sitting on those chairs?" or, worse still, that same dais be turned into a scaffold. Conspirators and oppressors, murderers andexecutioners, all assembled in one ballroom; every one knowing who everybody is so well that when the master of ceremonies, in mistake, called out, "Coup de main!" instead of "Tour de main!" there was a shout of laughter. Only the Czar asked, "Why are the gentlemen so merry?"
All this Zeneida saw. The secret of every man there lay in her hands. Ah, she saw, too, very well, what motive the gracious lady of the house had in giving this brilliant entertainment. In order to seduce a young wife from her truth? Oh no! But in order to discover the key to a secret which he to whom it was intrusted had not divulged to any one—not even to his well-beloved wife.
With the departure of the court from the ballroom the whole assemblage, as etiquette dictated, at once broke up. No one, moreover, was inclined to stay for the sake of enjoyment on that occasion.
Zeneida, taking Bethsaba under her protecting wings, went off with her to Kreskowsky Island. In the gondola the young wife was very silent, and Zeneida purposely abstained from asking her how she had enjoyed herself. Even after the two women had divested themselves of their ball-dresses Bethsaba remained dreamy and melancholy. The chill of the river made hot tea a necessity before going to bed—in the paradise reclaimed from the marshes lurked ague. When they were alone together, wrapped in warm dressing-gowns and drinking their steaming tea, Bethsaba broke her melancholy meditations with:
"But tell me then, is this, too, a part of religion?"
"What?"
"That a Christian wife, should another man chooseto say to her, 'I am wretched, dying for love of you, I will shoot myself if you remain cruel to me,' be bound to turn her love from her husband, and give it to that other, that he may not be unhappy—may not be forced to misery and suicide."
"And they have told you that such is a woman's duty?"
"Yes. And if religion requires that woman's love should resemble that of St. Martin, who, when he met a shivering beggar, tore off half his mantle to give it him, I will return to my heathen belief, in which I am not required to distress myself about the welfare of any one but of my husband."
"And all this was new to you?"
"I could have cried outright when I heard it. I thought my eyes would be burned out of my head; I felt contaminated at listening to such words. The mere separation from Alexander had already made my heart as heavy as if I were mourning my dead; the very touch of another man's hand in the dance had pained me as if, in taking it, I were killing a dove; when I laughed my heart accused me as if I were committing a theft; and with the laugh came the thought, 'And he has nothing now to cheer him. He is sighing for me, he is lonely, while I am merry!' And all the time an evil curiosity was urging me on to hear more, to sound to the very depths the quagmire from which I was shrinking; and so I feigned to listen willingly."
"In that you did well."
"It would not have been good manners to run away, would it?"
"You would simply have been lost. A woman should never let it be seen that a man's seductive arts terrifyher; a demonstrative repulse makes her at once his prey. I was watching you—you behaved admirably. Your expression was that of a woman who does not understand what is being said to her, who takes it all as a joke; and by so doing you led him on to speak still more explicitly."
"That is just what he did. Only think, impertinent fellow! He actually had the audacity to tell me that for love of me he had bought an estate but half a day's distance from Pleskow, where he means to be spending the winter and to be visiting us constantly. I was inclined to say, 'Oh, please, do not come!'"
"You did well not to say it; rather you should have replied, 'Alexander Sergievitch will always be glad to see you.'"
"That is what I did say. But then he sighed so deeply: 'Oh, if you will only tell me one day Alexander Sergievitch is going from home to-morrow!' I should so have liked to give him a box on the ears for saying it!"
"But, instead of doing that, with naïve, unconscious expression you asked, 'What good would that be? You surely would not be coming to see me when my husband was not at home? All the world would know of it.' To which he made reply, 'You are right. But you could come to my castle.'"
"Howdoyou know that?"
"From what you have told me and from what I saw. It was then that you felt inclined to cry."
"He said still more. 'You would have an excellent excuse to leave home while Alexander Sergievitch is away. Your mother, the Queen of Circassia, is in St. Ann's Convent in Novgorod. You would only have to say, "I am going to my mother, who has not seen me since I was a child, to tell her of my marriage, and askher blessing upon it."' So even my poor mother he dragged into this infamy!"
"And upon that, leaving him, you took refuge with your godmother?"
"Did you notice that, too?"
"In doing so you had gone to the right place, and could tell all your troubles to sympathetic ears."
"Oh, if only you had heard what she did say!"
"I saw."
"How saw?"
"By your face. Every word of hers was reflected on your face. Did she not say, 'Poor Galban! If only you knew how much he has suffered on your account! He has actually been on the point of making away with himself. Then he wanted to bury himself in the catacombs of Solowetshk. It would but be giving a copper to a starving man out of your wealth. It should be kept secret; no one should know. It is the way all we women act; there is not a single exception among us. Besides, it is only paying back in the same coin. Every one of us is deceived by our husbands; you and I, and all of us. At the moment that Galban made his confession to you, you may take it for granted that Pushkin was vowing his love to some other woman, who would not be so scrupulous as you.'"
"So he really did say; and yet more. This man—whose name my lips can never more utter—is capable, for sake of me, of exiling himself from St. Petersburg, of renouncing his brilliant position, merely that he may live near me! He is capable, in his despair, of killing Alexander, me, himself, if I torture him longer. Oh, how he has terrified me! As soon as I get home I will tell it all to Alexander, and, taking his hand in mine, will implore him to run away to the other end of the earth with me."
"By so doing you would attain just the contrary to what you desire. Just this: that Pushkin would be aroused, and, not having been conceded permission to return to St. Petersburg, would challenge Galban to go to him, and their duel would end fatally. Do not be afraid of him! Fight him yourself!"
"I? I fight him? Galban? I, a weak, foolish, cowardly little creature, who tremble at every word he utters?"
"You tremble and are fearful because you believe your heart in danger. But how if you knew that the net is not thrown out to catch your heart, but Pushkin's head—that it is his life against which every mesh has been woven? Then you would not be a coward."
"What do you say?—that it is against Alexander's life their plots are directed?"
"Silence! Question no further! When we have retired to bed, when we are quite alone, and there is no ear to overhear us, I will tell you all, and will teach you what you have to do. And now put your hair in curl-papers. The day after to-morrow we have to attend the grand farewell ball at Peterhof. There you may tremble; there show what a weak, innocent, timid little wife is capable of when her husband's life is at stake!"
"If that be so I will not be afraid; I will be bold and sly as a cat! I have not the courage of myself to pin a butterfly, but the man who threatens my Alexander I could pierce to the heart. Mashallah!I am the daughter of my mother!"
Zeneida then instructed Bethsaba in a part which she played to perfection to the end. At present, however, we may not divulge the plot of the play.
The link had been successfully forged into the chain. At the brilliant farewell ball given by the Czar to his royal guests at Peterhof, the Russian Versailles, Bethsaba had the honor conferred on her of being presented to the Czarina. The Czar had long known her as Sophie's playfellow. It was he who led the Georgian princess to tell the Czarina of the land of her birth. Bethsaba, the little Scheherezade, half closing her eyes that she might not see those around her, began to tell of the land where winter is unknown. Who could fail to be eloquent when speaking of his native land? Of sky clear as crystal, of air aromatic with balsamic fragrance, of woods where the leaves of the trees neither wither nor fall, of rivers which never freeze, of fields always gay with flowers, of the mighty ice-covered mountains which shut in the laughing valleys; and where vital power and buoyancy are diffused in grass, trees, water, and air, and the dwellers in that sunny clime know neither sickness nor decay?
That to which all the most learned doctors in the world had been powerless to persuade the Czarina—the change to another climate—was brought about by the enchanted chatter of simple, childlike lips.
Taking her husband's hand, the Czarina uttered:
"I should like to see that sunny land."
Those words, "I should like," are often more powerful than any mere word of command.
Courtiers and conspirators, who at this dazzling entertainment had grouped themselves about the superb fountains of the Sampson Springs, had not the slightest conception that in the course of a short ten minutes one delicate woman, with her rosy, childlike lips would effect such a complete revolution—that one pealof silvery laughter would blow to the winds their cannon, their army, their plan of campaign. The fairy tale of the Circassian king's daughter had this pre-eminence over all other fairy wonders, that it extinguished the impending outbreak of a volcano by a drop of water.
This drop of water had shone in the Czarina's eyes when she said:
"I should so like to go there! There I should get well again!"
That same evening Chevalier Galban met Bethsaba again. She was afraid of him no longer; she had learned from Zeneida how it beseemed her mother's daughter to act.
At the close of the ball the Princess and Zeneida met in the vestibule. They were waiting for their carriages. From Peterhof to St. Petersburg people go by road.
The Princess accosted Zeneida with:
"It is settled. I thank you for your co-operation."
(Bethsaba was under the escort of Chevalier Galban.)
"We are quits now."
"The little goose has confessed all. She has gone thoroughly astray. She even acknowledged that you had helped her on."
"The chatterbox!"
"I fancy that she will be making somebody very, very unhappy."
"So do I."
"Then the fight between us can begin afresh."
"I think not. I renounce any claim to console the unhappy."
"Oh, you do not want to make me believe that you are acting without personal feeling."
"Certainly not. But what will result from this evening's work will be a monster needing two mothers. The one revenge; the other love."
"And you choose revenge?"
"I give you the second, Princess."
"I have not yet forgotten the diplomatic saying that two only make a compact together in order that one may deceive the other."
Meanwhile Prince Ghedimin had come up to conduct his wife to her carriage. Seeing Zeneida, he started.
"Do just see," exclaimed the Princess, in an affected tone, "how low-spirited he is! He has grown quite melancholy. For days together I cannot drive him from my side; he will not stir from me. If only he had something to talk about! But all he can do is to knit his brows and ruminate. I do beg of you, Fräulein Ilmarinen, in consideration of our alliance, to do me a favor. You are a perfect enchantress—just say one word to him. I am convinced it will cheer him."
"Do you really desire it?"
The look Prince Ghedimin cast upon Zeneida expressed both fear and uneasiness. He was "the chosen dictator." If Zeneida uttered the words "I sing," he must forthwith draw his sword out of its scabbard, exclaiming "I fight!"
Zeneida attempted the magician's feat of curing the Prince's melancholy with one word.
"The summer has quite left us, Prince, has it not? Winter is upon us."
A sufficiently commonplace remark! Imagine talking about the weather!
Prince Ghedimin acquiesced.
"And I fear we shall have a very unpleasant winter if we 'too' do not go to the Crimea or the Caucasus to luxuriate in a second summer."
A very ordinary speech! But that little word "too" had electrified the Prince. He seemed a changed man. His face brightened, his figure grew elastic; surely a miracle had happened to him!
"Come, my love," he said to the Princess, and, to her amazement, began humming an air from the overture of theCzarenwalzersas they went down the stairs.
That woman is surely the devil in person! She says the most commonplace nothings, and, doing so, brings a dead man back to life.
And yet the Princess has carefully weighed every word spoken by Zeneida. Which can have been the magical one? There was none. The little word "too" had escaped her attention.
And it was from that one word that the Prince knew that the Czarina would go to the Crimea, and with her the Czar. His breast was relieved of a heavy load.
Chevalier Galban escorted the ladies to their carriage, and Bethsaba, leaning out of the carriage-window, looked back at him.
"I have caught her!" thought Chevalier Galban to himself.