The men flung their cards upon the table as though they meant to make it suffer, and after every game set to quarrelling. "This card should have been played, not that, for we were winning!"
The men said things to each other which, had not the cards been in their hands, must have led to affairs of honor. In the opposite corner of the room things went much more quietly. Here they only spoke in whispers, as is customary at chess.
"Sun of my life, now you can see of what a wounded heart is capable! Who other than a man made a very fool by his love would be paying visits at such a time?"
"Then you have not fled, in the political chaos, from the capital?"
"I? It is my element, in which I live as a fish does in water. It is my natural element. There has not been a change of sovereign throughout Europe at which I have not assisted. When Mars armed himself for the battle-field I was the Mercury who bore his message. It is in order to win your smile that I have rent a career in sunder, have thrust a princely crown from me."
"And if I do not smile?"
"I should go mad."
"Oh, you are going back on your words! The last time we met you vowed you were mad for love of me; and now are you only beginning to take precaution against it?"
"Every day I begin to get mad afresh."
"That proves that every day your madness is cured."
"Does not my presence here prove that I am incurable?"
"It was only the snow-storm that brought you here."
"The storm befriended me! It gave me the right to come."
"Oh, our house is always open to guests."
"Our house! What torture in those two words!"
"Shall I say, 'My husband's house'?"
"That is preferable! That manner of speaking in the plural only beseems kings, not even queens."
"Russian women are no queens; they serve a praiseworthy custom of antiquity."
"But your province is to make slaves."
"I have heard tell that the Turks once conquered a citadel which they had been permitted to enter as guests. Do you not perceive that you are misusing the rights of hospitality?"
"Show me by one look that my presence here is obnoxious to you, and neither storm nor night will exist for me. I will have my horses put to, and, despite snow-drifts, despite the howling of wolves, I will set out on my way."
"You are perfectly aware that you could find no reasonable pretext for such a step—that Pushkin would not suffer it."
"I knew how it was! Check to your king! You will soon have lost the game. Then you will jump up indignantly, complain of the smoky atmosphere, and retire to your own room. I shall sit down behind Alexander Sergievitch's chair and criticise his play. That is the way the best of friends fall out. One word leads to another. I am hot-headed, so is he. Finally, I let myself be turned out of doors. Now do you understand my game?"
"Not yet. I can still castle my king. I will not allow you to leave our house."
"If you say 'our' house again I will leave it on the spot. The very thought that the same roof covers me, my happiness, and the robber of that happiness makes even this paradise into purgatory to me. Check to your king and queen!"
"Then we shall be compelled to exchange queens. I take yours, you mine. I will not have you leave me. Who knows, after all, if the angel be as white as she is painted?" she added, with a fascinating glance at the Chevalier. Zeneida had thus taught her. "You overlooked this move. Checkmate!"
"By Jove! you have won!"
"Shall we begin another game?"
"The conqueror has the first move."
"Have you heard anything since of my poor, dear mother?"
"It is well that you have touched on the theme yourself. I assure you, had you not asked me I would not have started it. And yet it was principally that which brought me here. The queen wishes to see you."
"Really? Since I was parted from her I have only seen her twice, in the Winter Palace, on New-year's day."
"Now you will be seeing your mother face to face. I have managed to obtain permission for you to visit the queen in her convent."
"Have you got it with you?"
"Do you want to show it to Alexander Sergievitch?"
"Oh no. It must be kept secret from him."
"Then leave the permit in my keeping. It is in very good hands. Pushkin dare not accompany you himself; it were an act of misdemeanor. As soon as you have opportunity to use it, you can obtain the permit from me."
"Yes. If Pushkin were leaving home for a few days."
"You send to me and I will forward it to you at once."
"But with this sending backward and forward two whole precious days will be lost. Would it not be better if I were to come and fetch it myself?"
Clever little woman!
"Were this happiness to fall to my lot I would set fire to all four corners of my castle instantly upon your departure, that, after you, no other guest should be received there."
"Checkmate! I led you on beautifully! I merely went on chattering to take your attention off the game. It was a thorough stalemate. And now you can retire to rest, Chevalier. Good-night!"
Bethsaba left the room. Chevalier Galban, however, rose from the chess-table with a full sense of triumph; he was convinced that he had won the game. As a rule he was accustomed to win two out of every three games he played. The third he usually lost.
The tarok-players had perceived nothing of what had passed. It had been a fearful battle that had been fought at this table. Alexander Sergievitch had lost a "solo" with Quint Major, tous les trois. It was a thorough defeat.
"Two kings in my hand, and both taken—a hundred thousand devils!" swore Alexander Sergievitch.
"Yes, those kings," boasted the postmaster, proud of his achievement. "We beat every one of those kings!"
"What!" began Chevalier Galban. "You beat kings? Upon my word! A thorough republican movement!"
The postmaster's interest in the game was so sensibly diminished by this speech that he proposed adjourning, and the exciting game came to an end.
Pushkin accompanied his guests to their sledges, then returned to Chevalier Galban.
"Well, how did your game go with my little one?"
"I was thoroughly thrashed. She played with me like a cat with a mouse. From whom did she learn to play such a capital game?"
"What, chess? Our dear Sophie Narishkin was her teacher. They used to play together every day."
But that was not the case. It was not Sophie, but Zeneida, who had taught the "little one" this game. This time it had been the mouse playing with the cat to her heart's content.
Lovely, sunny December days followed on the past arctic weather, with its snow-storms. Chevalier Galban returned home, having received a promise from Pushkin to make him a return visit very soon. Post traffic was resumed; that is, communication by means of sledging was once more practicable.
The official newspaper outdid itself in dulness. But at the end of the so-called news of the day was an announcement to the effect that "on December 26th Fräulein Ilmarinen would sing in the Imperial Exchange for the benefit of the Orphanage!"
The concert was announced eight days in advance, in order that all who desired to attend should have due notice.
Pleskow to St. Petersburg is two good days' journey. Allowing for the time for post to reach, Pushkin had six days' notice.
Bethsaba, too, read the announcement, and said:
"Oh dear! How I should like to be there, to hear my dear Zeneida sing!"
Her heart was filled with dread. She, too, knew full well—Zeneida had told her—what this concert and this singing heralded.
From that moment Pushkin was utterly changed—morose, melancholy. Bethsaba read in his face as in an open book. Had she not had the key to the hieroglyphics from Zeneida? She knew exactly what Pushkin was brooding over; she knew perfectly well that "Eleutheria" was the name of his old love. And she concentrated all her love upon him to hold him fast.
Was it such an unheard-of thing for men, renowned statesmen, to forget, in their domestic happiness, an appointment they had made with friend or enemy on the battle-field? How often it had happened that great men, when once they had learned to know "the little world of love," had been fain to think how good it was to be "little" men! What happy people Lilliputians must be!
Vain endeavor!
For two whole days Pushkin fought with himself; then told Bethsaba that he must leave home on December 24th.
Bethsaba never asked whither, nor for how long; she only said, "And you are not taking me with you?"
"No, love. It would be impossible for you to travel in this cold weather; the roads are so bad."
"But not too bad for you! Can you not put off this journey?"
"Impossible!" returned Pushkin, irritably.
The tone in which he spoke forbade further question. Bethsaba saw that the hour of the dreaded danger had come. The poison was already working in his veins. An antidote must be administered.
Going to her room, she wrote to Chevalier Galban:
"Alexander Sergievitch is making preparations for a journey very shortly. I await your answer."
This significant letter she gave to a footman, with instructions to convey it to its address as fast as a sledge would take him.
After their conversation, Pushkin, seeing that his moroseness betrayed him, forced himself to be in high spirits. His friends said they had never seen him so merry. Bethsaba alone was not deceived.
At last came the morning of the dreaded day. Both rose early, that Pushkin might not be late in starting. Just as he was getting into his fur coat, Bethsaba, throwing herself on his breast, said, tremblingly:
"I cannot let you go without confessing a sin which I have committed against you."
"Against me? What can that be?"
"I have been jealous."
"About this journey?"
"Yes."
"You are a little goose! Are you always going to be jealous when I go away for a day or two?"
"Only this time. I had been told that you were going to visit your old love, and that is why you wanted to go alone."
"Was it Galban who gave you this information?"
"He said so when he was here. I asked him the lady's name. He answered me he would tell it me if I asked it again. When I saw you making ready for departure, jealousy revived in me in all its strength. I lost my judgment. Kill me! Trample me underfoot! I wrote to Galban, entreating him to tell me the name of her for love of whom my husband was leaving me, and asked him to prove to me in writing the statement he had made by word of mouth. Read what he answers."
And she gave him Galban's letter.
As Pushkin read the letter to the end the world seemed to swim in blood before his eyes.
"Adored Lady,—If you would possess the desired document, deign to visit my modest dwelling; I cannot intrust it to strange hands. Your ever-faithful slave,
"Galban."
Pushkin looked in amazement at Bethsaba.
Trembling, his wife fell on her knees.
"Oh, forgive me! I did not know what I was doing! Do not beat me; I am punished enough by the shame I have brought upon myself! I am forever disgraced!"
Pushkin gently raised his wife.
"Do not cry. You have been a foolish child, that is all. In my eyes you are purer than the angels. And I swear by Heaven that no shame shall ever attach to you for this. Kiss me, and take comfort."
"And you forgive me?"
"I have nothing to forgive. A woman has the right to demand that her husband is as true to her as she to him. Such truth I will preserve to you. Now embrace me, and take good care of your dear little self. On my return I will tell you who she was at whose invitation I am undertaking this journey."
Bethsaba knew her well—"Eleutheria."
Pushkin, taking his weapons, sprang into his sledge, giving his coachman instructions where to drive.
The jemsik shook his head. They would never reach St. Petersburg by that road.
It was evening before Pushkin arrived at Galban's castle. It was an old-fashioned building, standing in the midst of extensive pine woods—a hunting-box.
The antidote was working splendidly.
Happiness had never succeeded in causing Pushkin to overlook an appointment; but jealousy is a strong antidote. There are men enough ready to give up love, happiness, means, rank, for freedom; but the world has not yet seen the man who would sacrifice honor for it. Place in one scale all the workings of passion, in another those of jealousy—the latter would weigh heavier. No tyrant in the world is hated so intensely as is a rival.
Had Brutus been told on the Ides of March that Casca had paid court to his wife, it would have been Casca, not Cæsar, who would have died.
Zeneida had laid the train cleverly. She knew the whole position.
For months past the two parties had been playing with open cards. Their plans had long been known to one another by means of secret agencies; their very names known. But each hesitated to begin the attack. The members of the constitutional party were to be found among the highest statesmen, and even generals. That a collision would take place all were convinced, but none knew when. But there was a key to the exact period of the outbreak; that key was the day of Pushkin's leaving home. The day he left Pleskow to appear against his edict of banishment in St. Petersburg was the signal. Chevalier Galban, Princess Ghedimin, and the followers of Araktseieff were on the watch for it.
Knowing this, Zeneida had planned the intrigue which would effectually keep Pushkin out of the charmed circle on the eventful day.
Among certain nationalities her little game might easily have ended dangerously. Jealousy has often led to fatal results. But in Russia social opinion is different. At that time duels were almost unknown there. We saw from Jakuskin's experience that the challenger was simply despatched forthwith to the Caucasus. Bethsaba risked nothing more than that her husband should be sent to Georgia, in the event of his challenging Galban, for Galban was certain not to fight. At the worst, it would only lead to fisticuffs, and there the strong-wristed country gentleman would be more than a match for the effeminate courtier.
In order that the noise of his approaching sledge might not attract attention, Pushkin left it in the road, and, taking his case of pistols and whip in his hand, walked to the house.
It had a deserted appearance; not even a dog barked in the courtyard. It was after some time that Pushkin at last succeeded in getting a dvornik to open the door in answer to his repeated knocking.
"Where is Chevalier Galban?"
"Ah, little master, that I can't tell. He went away yesterday."
"Tell me no lies, or you shall have a taste of my whip! Go and tell him that some one from Pushkin's is here."
"Ah, soul of mine, you have come, then, at the right time, for the Chevalier left a letter for the Pushkins. True, he said it would be a lady who came for it; but I suppose it's all the same if I give it to you?"
So saying, he drew out a letter from the leg of his boot. No matter if the scent of patchouli became slightly mixed with the smell of leather.
Pushkin, tearing open the letter, read:
"Madame,—I ask you ten thousand pardons; but this time it was not your heart but your husband's head I was after. I hasten to meet him beside the lovely woman whose name is 'Scaffold.'
"Galban."
"Drive back!" growled Pushkin to his jemsik. "Drive as hard as your horses will go to St. Petersburg!"
It was too late. A day had been lost. Pushkin could not possibly arrive at the scene of action on December 26th. A woman's intrigue had succeeded admirably. If all else were lost, the poet's head was saved.
Things had never gone so quietly in St. Petersburg as during those three months preceding the 26th of December. Night noises, public-house gatherings, had ceased entirely. In the kabas, instead of the daily three thousand pots of drink, not more than two hundred were given out. It is a serious outlook when the Russian people do not drink.
For five-and-twenty days Russia had been without a Regent. What had occurred during those five-and-twenty days?
The vast empire had had two heads and two hearts: one at Warsaw, the other at St. Petersburg. In St. Petersburg, the Viceroy of Warsaw had been proclaimed Czar; in Warsaw, the Grand Duke Nicholas.
Their youngest brother, Michael, was on a visit to Constantine when the news of Alexander's death at Taganrog reached him—two days earlier than it was received at St. Petersburg. A grand gala was going on at the time, which was stopped at once on receipt of the melancholy intelligence. Constantine begged his brother to return instantly to St. Petersburg and repeat his declaration of renunciation of the succession. The Grand Duke Michael crossed the deputation sent from St. Petersburg. At the same time that he reached the capital with his brother's fresh repudiation, Labanoff arrived at Warsaw with documents stating that Constantine had been chosen, and containing the oaths of fealty of the army, and the people's address to him bearing a hundred thousand signatures. Every one had been required to affix his signature, on the previous Sunday, on leaving the churches; such as could not write had their hands guided. But Johanna Grudzinska's power was still victorious. The sealed document bore the inscription, "To His Imperial Majesty."
"I know the contents," said Constantine. "I am to separate from my wife and espouse the imperial throne. Much obliged! This document is not addressed to me; I am no 'Imperial Majesty.' Take it back to those who sent it."
And with seals unbroken he sent back the documents.
The Grand Duke Michael's mission met with similar success. The letter of Constantine was addressed to Czar Nicholas. He would not receive it. Constantine had already been elected; the army had sworn allegiance to him; the people had signed an address; important state papers were being prepared in his name. It was unalterable.
Michael had to return once more to Warsaw and endeavor to move Constantine. This time he met the returning deputation at Dorpat, taking back the bull with seals unbroken.
Thus Russia had no Czar. The republicans said: "All right. If they can't settle with one, let them try two."
Suddenly came news in St. Petersburg that a seditious rising had been detected in the Southern Army.
Now neither party could hesitate any longer. Pestel and ten leaders of battalions were arrested; but this, far from suppressing the insurrection, only hurried it on.
Late in the evening of the 25th of December Nicholas decided to accept the crown. This brought things to a crisis.
The manifesto of his accession was drawn up at two o'clock in the morning, thus could not be made public then and there. On the following morning the regiments were to swear the oath to the new Czar, without knowing what had happened to the one to whom they pledged allegiance but a fortnight before. The conspirators passed the night deliberating what should be done.
"All is ready for the war of freedom," said enthusiastic Ryleieff.
"But one thing is wanting," answered Zeneida Ilmarinen; "and that is that the people do not know what freedom is."
"True!" said Ghedimin. "The people do not understand our views. We ought to have begun by teaching them what is freedom."
"We must begin by freeing the people from their tyrants," broke in Jakuskin, "then they will soon learn the meaning of freedom."
War was declared. The conspirators, going back to their regiments, took possession, with their mutinous troops, of the square in front of the Winter Palace in the mist of early morning. Their watchword was "Derevaski daloi" (throw away your touchwood). In ordinary gun practice touchwood was used. Now all hastened to change this for steel and flint. Then came the cry, "Hurrah, Constantine!" Only Constantine then; and no word of freedom? But that had been provided for. The mutinous soldiers set up the shout, "Long live the Constitution!" They had been made to believe that "Constitucia" was the wife of Grand Duke Constantine, and thus waxed enthusiastic for freedom as the Czar's wife.
Freedom itself lay deep, deep under the snow like a buried acorn, needing the rays of the sun to awaken it to vitality. On the morning of his accession, the first day of his rule, the Czar was greeted by the tumult of a revolution. They were the household troops, the crack regiments, that rose against him. Their hurrahs resounded from Czar Peter's Platz to the Winter Palace, which Nicholas had exchanged for the little, quiet, old-fashioned Anikof Palace, where he formerly resided. Pale with terror, his generals rushed up to tell him of the danger of the rebellion. Nicholas had seen one like it before, five-and-twenty years ago. Then, a little boy, he was sleeping peacefully in his bed, when his mother, suddenly rushing into the room, snatched him up in her arms, and ran the length of the dark apartments crying for help. One of the doors she was passing opened, and a pale man emerged from it. From a neighboring room came the sounds of a furious struggle—some one within was fighting for his life. That some one was his father. The pale man, Count Pahlen, tore the mother and her trembling burden away from the scene of terror. This episode Nicholas had never forgotten. He, too, now had a little son, still slumbering in his bed. And he, too, snatching up the child in his arms, dashed with it down the stairs of the palace. But before handing over his son to the soldiers he took his wife into the chapel. There, kneeling side by side, they swore to die in a manner worthy of rulers of the empire. That moment of terror gave the Czarina a palsied movement of the head which she never lost in after-life. Then the Czar, taking his son up in his arms, went out with him into the courtyard. The battalion on guard at the Winter Palace chanced to be of a Finnish regiment. Kalevaines, despised as Tschuds by the Suomalai tribes—they were no Russians—what interest had they in Rurik's empire?
The new Czar, going up to them, his son in his arms, tore open his uniform, and, presenting his bare breast to the bayonets, said:
"If you have cause against me, fire at my defenceless breast!"
And Pushkin was right.
The feeling of humanity is stronger than the thirst for freedom. It protects the serf when the Czar persecutes him, and protects the Czar when persecuted by the serf.
"Fear not. We will protect you!" cried Zeneida's countrymen.
"Then to you I intrust my child; take care of him. If I fall, he is your future Czar." And he threw his pale little successor, Alexander II., into the arms of the most heavily oppressed of all his subjects.
He knew the hearts of men. By this action he had turned their weapons from his own bosom upon his assailants.
That one Finnish battalion defended the Winter Palace from the morning to the evening against the whole revolutionary force.
Nicholas, however, springing on his horse, dashed through the gates, followed by his generals.
In front of the palace surged a dense mass of the lowest of the low, roaring out The Song of the Knife—its harvest-time had come. Riding into their very midst, Nicholas said:
"What are you doing here, dear children? This is no place for you."
The people looked at one another.
"Eh! He is a kind man! He calls us his dear children, and tells us so kindly to go away from here. Let's go home!"
And they dispersed.
Outside the Admiralty he was received by some well-affected battalions. At their head he marched to the vast Czar Peter's Platz, where was the insurgents' camp. One-half of the square was occupied by them; the other half by the troops loyal to him. Betwixt the opposing armies was the colossal statue on its granite pedestal, with hands outstretched, no one knows whether to command or bless. One party of insurgents stormed the castle on the other side of the frozen Neva; the other pressed on towards the gates of the Winter Palace, Nicholas wandering, meanwhile, undecidedly up and down the great square, weighing on which cast of the die hung the fate of his imperial house and empire. He had first endeavored by every means in his power to avoid the conflict—had sent the most popular leader of the army, General Miloradovics, to parley with the insurgents and move them to submission. A ball had struck him from his horse before he could speak; it was Kakhowsky who had shot him. The heroic general died in the Czar's arms. Then he had sent the highest Church dignitary of the country, the metropolitan Seraphim, in full canonicals, to parley with his enemies.
What cared they now for priests? Seizing the venerable man by his snow-white beard, they had roared in his ears:
"If you are a priest, read your breviary, and don't meddle to your hurt in military matters!"
The insurgents received unexpected support. The marines and half the grenadier regiments joined them. Their numbers grew and grew; the square echoed with the cry, "Long live the Constitution!"
Then the Czar himself rode up to them. The rebels saw him coming. It was a temptation to them to see him ride up unattended. A cavalry officer galloped up to him, a loaded pistol in his hand.
"What is your business?" the Czar asked, threateningly, as he came near. There was such a spell in his cold look that the foolhardy man, hiding his face, turned away his head and galloped back.
It was only by force that his followers could tear the Czar away from the scene of revolt.
It began to grow dusk.
The armies of Gog and Magog went on ever increasing, and darkness added its terrors to the rest. With night, axe and knife would begin their work; seventy thousand mujiks would decide who should be Russia's future ruler!
The generals entreated the Czar to give the signal to attack. He still hesitated. First, he tried to disperse the insurgents by means of a feigned attack upon the square of the enemy, and gave the Horse Guards orders to this effect. They were received by a salvo of artillery, and the Horse Guards retreated decimated. At that critical moment drums beating to attack were heard advancing from Morskoje Street, and Grand Duke Michael appeared at the head of the Moscow regiment. He had just returned from Moscow, and, hastily summoning those of his own regiment who had remained faithful to him, advanced against the rebels, and the fight began.
The noisiest of the insurgents, the heroes of the Bear's Paw, cleared out of the square at the first volley; the soldiers alone stood fire. The heroes of freedom fought heroically. The poor soldier, however, who fell without knowing why or wherefore, perhaps learned in his death-agony that she for whom he had fallen was a living goddess, who in some future time would make his descendants happy—the goddess of Freedom.
Until late in the night they held the square and repulsed the attacks of the imperial troops.
Then, in the deep darkness, a division of artillery suddenly approached up Nevski Prospect. This broad, radial street opens in such a manner on to the great square, which lies between the Admiralty, the Winter Palace, and Isaac Cathedral, that it commands both sides of the square.
The fire of the approaching cannon might as easily be directed against the Czar's army as against the rebels' camp; and nearly all the officers in the artillery were in league with the insurgents! They were received by the latter with cheers as they unlimbered their guns at the corner of the street. Of course, they had come to the aid of the rebel army! At that critical moment Grand Duke Michael, dashing up to the foremost gun, snatched the fuse from the gunner's hand, sighted on to the mass of the insurgents, and the first thunder of cannon belched forth into their ranks a fire of destructive grape.
That first cannon-shot decided the fate of the day and of the epoch. Others followed. The whole division turned their destroying force upon the insurgent army.
But, meanwhile, what had become of the Dictator—the leader—the active spirit of the whole movement? He had been seeking all day for a man he could not find—himself.
How should he find him, when he was running away from himself?
The task he had undertaken was neither suited to him physically nor morally. At the very first step he had become conscious of the awful chasm into which the whole affair he had undertaken must drag himself and all concerned in it.
Instead of an enthusiastic people, excited to heroic resolves by the baptism of fire, he found a mob of soldiers, fooled by the pretext that their leaders wanted to steal away from them their former Czar, whom, by-the-way, they hated, but to whom they had sworn allegiance; a senseless band of soldiery clamoring for "Constitucia," whom they believed to be the wife of the Czar! What would be the consequence did they gain the victory to-day? To-morrow some new lie must be fabricated for them, that they might not find out that it was Freedom for which they had fought. What was Hecuba to them, they to Hecuba? What had Freedom and Life Guards in common with each other? How would "Constitucia" better their condition?
True, their commanding officers had promised them that "Constitucia" would double their monthly pay; but the people must be doubly taxed if the soldiers were to get double pay. Is that freedom? And what would ensue if he for whom they had been fighting, Constantine, were to come among them? Might he not come from Warsaw at the head of the army he had brought with him, and say, "You wanted me; here I am. The constitution I bring with me is not my wife, but a stout stick!" What would follow then?
And the people? These poor wretches, resigned to rags and misery, working day by day to keep body and soul together. Seventy thousand mujiks, representatives of the oppressed of the four corners of the earth—not the Russian people, but the dregs of all imaginable Slav races—Finnish, Lithuanian, Lapp, and Wallachian—who do not speak each other's tongues, who are only united by their common misery. And their leaders? A set of runaway French adventurers. What do they understand by Freedom? The wrecking of a brandy-store or plundering palaces and shops. A mutinous word sets them on fire like straw, and a charge of grape-shot scatters them like chaff before the wind.
His soul could find no guiding thought. He went hither and thither, and could rest on no single idea. In the course of his wanderings he came upon Ryleieff, in whose face were reflected his own feelings. The poet sadly grasped his hand.
"The time was not ripe," he whispered in his ear, and hurried away.
In another street he met Colonel Bulatoff in mufti. Bulatoff had been chosen as military leader of the rebellion, and here was he, going abroad in frock-coat and tall hat. They did not wish to recognize each other, so passed hurriedly by, one on one side, the other on the opposite side of the street.
Less than all had he the courage to go to Zeneida's palace. He dreaded more to look into her face than into the mouth of a cannon. She defied danger, while he, who had dragged her into it, fled from it. At last, however, he could no longer delay seeking her. He must cross Moika bridge. But the toll-keepers would see him; the canal was frozen, so, descending the steps of the stone quay, Ghedimin prepared to cross the ice in order to reach the other side.
Scarce had he gone two steps before he heard his name whispered behind him. Startled, he turned. From under one of the arches peeped a well-known face—that of Duke Odojefski, a bloodthirsty braggart, who but that morning would have mown men down right and left; now all his courage had oozed out, and he was hiding under the arch of a bridge!
"Don't venture near Zeneida's! Her palace is surrounded!" whispered he, and crept back into his hiding-place again.
What a sight! Odojefski in hiding! The colonel, whose battalion is even now fighting on Isaacsplatz; the duke, whose palace is among the grandest of the capital, whose family name is renowned in history, who himself has claimed a place between Brutus and Riego—in hiding behind a snow-drift! And what is he about there? Scarring his face with a stick of caustic to render himself unrecognizable.
Ghedimin lost his head completely. Turning back by the other bank, he hurried home. There arrived, he wrote on a visiting-card, "I entreat you, for Heaven's sake, to come across to my grandmother's house. I have important secrets to confide to you."
This card he sent up by his house-porter to Korynthia. He himself then repaired to his grandmother's. It was his last refuge.
Without it was already night. The roar of cannon did not cease. The watch-fires were the only lights in the imperial capital.
Good old Anna Feodorovna was still alive among her fortune-telling cards, her purring cats, and her faithful Ihnasko, with whom she counted the days still remaining before the New-year.
"Another New-year! What will it bring with it? Who will live through it?"
It is the day after Christmas day. If two tapers of equal length are lighted on that evening, one can tell who will die first, the husband or the wife, by seeing whose taper is the first to burn out.
This time it was the wife's taper.
"Well, God's will be done," sighed the old woman, "if I must go first. And it is time; I have lived long enough! But I cannot but pity the poor old man, whose life will be so lonely without me. He must not be told that I am dead. Let him think I am still alive. And see that every birthday and name-day he gets one of the red nightcaps I always give him. Do you hear, Ihnasko?"
"Oh, don't keep on talking so much about dying, your Highness," ejaculated the old man, with chattering teeth. "All my bones are shaking, without that, from the thunder of those cannons."
"Because you are a coward, and because you have never been a soldier. The idea of being frightened at the sound of cannon that are only inviting people to join the great Christmas procession! The Czar is now giving a gala banquet to the court and a display of fireworks to the people. Do you hear those reports? They are rockets. Now the great set piece is going off! And when six such volleys are fired, one after another, it means that the Czar is raising his glass for a toast. Oho! how often have I attended such festivities! Not one took place without me. Ah, I was beautiful as a young woman, and my voice was musical as silver. Czar Paul was constantly asking me to sing him his favorite song—When by Evening's Latest Rays. It is a pretty song still. But I have no one now to sing it to."
At that very moment came some one who liked to listen to the "pretty" song.
"Blessed be the Lord of all!" cried Anna Feodorovna, clapping her hands. "Has her nest-bird remembered his old grandmother? What? You have left the Czar's brilliant banquet in the lurch, to come and pay a visit to your poor old grandam on this second Christmas day? Now that is really very good of you, Ivan Maximovitch. But you must be going back. Don't on my account do anything to excite the Czar's displeasure. For the favor of the Czar is like a virgin's innocence; there must not be a breath upon it. If he has happened to notice that you have left before the time, seek an audience with him. Confess to him that you came away early in order to visit your old grandmother. He knows me, and used to be very fond of me as a little boy. Ah! I was quite a young woman then!"
The old lady was talking of Czar Alexander, only twenty-seven years younger than herself.
"How often have I hushed him on my lap when, to please his father, I sang the song he was so fond of—When by Evening's Latest Rays. Don't you know it? Come; I will sing it. Sit down on my footstool and rest your head on my hands."
Ivan sat at his grandmother's feet. How restful it was to be a child once more! And the old lady began her song. True, her voice sounded like some old harpsichord hidden away and forgotten in some king's palace for five-and-twenty years, out of tune, and with some of the strings broken; but, all the same, she sang to her grandson:
Ivan kissed his grandmother's hand for her sweet song.
"But you are so sad to-day, Ivan! Tell me, what is troubling you? Are you going, perhaps, on some journey—a long, far journey?"
"A very far journey."
"Ah, I can guess whither!" she said, laughing. "You are going to see your father, my beloved Maxim."
She had guessed truly!
"You are right, dear granny. That is where I am going." (To the other world.)
"Then take him these kisses—and a hundred more! See, I cannot cry. Old eyes are forever weeping—that is, when one does not want to weep; when one fain would, there are no tears to shed."
Ivan Maximovitch wept in her stead. He was such an "affectionate boy."
"Now, you see, you are going away and leaving me here. And going without having married, without being able to leave me your wife here in your stead."
"But I have married, granny dear," returned Ivan. "And I came purposely to-night to present my wife to you."
"Oh, what a happy day! You are married—you have a little wife! A dear, charming little angel of a wife! And I shall see her soon? That I call indeed a Christmas present!"
But then the old lady must needs temper the joyful news with a little reproach.
"But why have you kept this to yourself until after your wedding, when I have so often told you that I specially wished that your wife should receive her bridal tiara from my hands? That was not right of you! I hope she is of noble blood."
"She is a Princess Narishkin."
"I suppose you sought the Czar's permission to your marriage?"
"He granted it, grandmother."
"Then I cannot guess why you should have kept it secret from me. Perhaps she did not know Russian when you married, and you were obliged to teach it her first, that she might be able to speak to me, for I know no other language—I am a Muscovite."
Ivan let her suppose that to have been the reason. It was nothing unusual. The St. Petersburg princesses know but little Russian—as little as, at that period, the great ladies of Hungary knew Hungarian.
The sound of the bell at the outer door interrupted their talk. The rustle of a silk dress was heard in the adjoining room. Then Korynthia had fulfilled her husband's wish; she had come, at his entreaty, to meet him at his grandmother's. There were good reasons why Ivan had not gone to her instead of begging her to come here to him—reasons his wife knew well. In society they were to be seen, she leaning on his arm, all affection. But did the husband knock at his wife's door the answer was "You cannot come in." So it had been ever since the night of the 21st of June. Korynthia was unusually pale; her expression cold and resolute.
"Thank you for coming," said her husband to her, in a whisper; and, taking her hand, led her to his grandmother. "My wife, grandmother."
Korynthia bent one knee to Anna Feodorovna, then presented her cheek to the kiss of the "mummy." To-day she was bent on doing all that was required of her. Even the old lady's hand—that hand so withered and parchment-like—she kissed.
The good old woman was beside herself with happiness.
"What a splendid creature! How charming, how lovely she is! How beautifully brought up! And what an exquisite ball-dress she is wearing. It is easy to see that she has come from the Czar's ball."
Good old lady! She took Korynthia's gown for a ball-dress. In her day silk dresses, trimmed with the delicate lace Korynthia wore upon her dressing-gown, were only worn at court balls. The grandmother had not seen a fashion-book or interviewed a dressmaker for the past five-and-twenty years. So she thought it was a ball-dress.
"I do not know how the tiara I have been keeping for you will suit that dress. Ihnasko, bring me my jewel-case."
The old lady looked out the antique ornament set with pearls and brilliants, almost worth an earl's ransom, and was in sore perplexity how to place it upon Korynthia's giraffe-like mode of wearing her hair, not arranged to support it. Yet she must, at any price, see it worn.
Korynthia suffered herself to be adorned.
"Ah! now you are handsomer than ever! Wearing that tiara, you can well take her back to the Czar's ball, to be the envy of all."
"No, grandmother, we are not going back," said Ivan. "If you will allow us we will stay with you and pass our Christmas evening here."
"But what will the Czar say to that?"
"He knows that we are here, and has given us permission to remain."
"Oh, if you have his permission, that is quite another thing, and I shall be glad to have you here. But how can I amuse you? Can your wife play ombre?"
"Oh yes."
"But my cards I play with every day are soiled. I should be ashamed to bring them out."
"My wife will see about getting a fresh pack. Give me permission to tell her where she will find some."
"Of course, dear boy. Ihnasko, you meanwhile can be getting the card-table ready. Dear me! How long it is since I had a game of ombre! Never since the little dark duchess and the general's wife have been unable to mount the stairs. Then put out tea and cakes. Now some logs on the fire. We will see who will be the first to get sleepy when once we have warmed to our game. I know I shall not!"
Meanwhile Ivan began speaking in French to his wife, constraining his face to wear as calm an expression as though he were merely explaining whereabouts in his room she would find the cards.
"I am lost. The insurrection which has broken out to-day, and which, I believe, is already quelled, was secretly instigated by me. Prince Trubetzkoi was the nominal Dictator; in reality it was I. I was the guiding hand, he only the mask. Trubetzkoi has already washed his hands of it; he has been to the commander-in-chief and taken the oath of allegiance to the Czar. This leaves me alone in the post of danger. The leadership falls upon me. Nor would I put it back upon his shoulders. The poor fellow has a young wife who is devotedly fond of him. That I have taken no part in to-day's revolt helps me not in the slightest, for, all the same, I was Dictator. If the papers connected with this movement are discovered I am irrevocably lost, and with me thousands of the highest in the land whose names are inscribed in a book we call 'the green book.' This book must be destroyed!"
"Will you intrust that to me?"
"To whom else? All that I have I possess in common with you. My name, my wealth, my rank are yours; my honor, too, is yours. All this is now at stake; and you can help me—none other."
"Command what shall I do."
"Oh, do not speak so! It is not command, but entreaty. For what I now ask of you I crave as ardently as a man craves forgiveness from his Maker for his sins. That book is in Zeneida Ilmarinen's keeping."
"Ah!"
"I know that you hate her; but without reason, I swear to you! But of what value is the oath of a desperate man? No feeling has ever bound me to that lady that could in any way hurt your woman's pride. It was another tie—far more dangerous to me—but innocuous to you. But you do not believe me. Nor do I ask it. What I do implore is that in this hour of supreme danger you should show yourself magnanimous. If you have had cause of anger against me, forget it for the sake of the honor of the Ghedimin escutcheon, and lose no time in going to Fräulein Ilmarinen's house with this key, which unlocks the hiding-place. I well know the sacrifice I ask of you in begging you to cross that threshold. But I dare not go myself, for were I to be seen in the vicinity of that house I should be at once arrested. But no one will suspect you. See Fräulein Ilmarinen without delay, and tell her of the imminence of the danger, of which she may know nothing. She may have been informed, and, in that case, would certainly have destroyed 'the green book' were it not locked away in a place of safety, only to be broken open with great strength and much loss of time. Throw the book on the fire, and wait until you have seen it reduced to ashes; then hasten back to rescue me from my desperate situation!"
"I will act as beseems a Princess Ghedimin."
"My life and honor I give into your hands."
"I know it." And, taking the key, Korynthia hurried away.
"What a hurry the child is in!" said the old lady.
"She will soon be back."
"With the cards?"
"Yes; with the cards."
"Then, meanwhile, I will make myself smart, that she does not find me looking so untidy."
The smartness consisted in the old lady's having her new cap—fashioned in 1807—brought to her with its large yellow ostrich feather. This she duly put on, and with it her two false curls. Her hair was white, the curls black.
A full hour went slowly by.
"What a long time the child is finding the cards! She will be changing her dress, taking off her grand ball-dress, and slipping into a cotton morning-wrapper. Wait a minute; it will be such fun. How it will make her laugh! I will sing the Matrimonial Ditty. It is really very pretty. Bring me my guitar, Ihnasko. Ah, how well I used to play it!"
And the good matron took the ancient instrument, and, encouraged by her previous success, set about amusing her little nest-bird with a cheery old song—he sitting there, the drops of cold perspiration on his brow.
"Listen—