The Green Book Part 40

Bethsaba had told Sophie that here, too, a conspiracy was on foot; but that "he" was not in it. Who else, then? Sophie only believes what she sees.

"Come, come, Pushkin!" exclaimed Zeneida, with strangely radiant look.

"Relate again, fully, what you have already told me."

And Pushkin recounted all that had happened at the Winter Palace, of which he had been an eye-witness, with the enthusiasm of a poet inspired by the catastrophe.

The second girl was a stranger to him. Had he known who she was he would not have described with such poetic warmth the stirring scene when the Czar stood bareheaded, the storm raging round him, menaced alike by the fury of people and the fast-approaching vessel.

She listened tremblingly to his recital, drinking in his every word with feverish anxiety, the varying expression of his face reflected in hers; her lips seeming mutely to repeat what he was saying. Shudderingly she hid her face when the ship collided with the palace! She felt the force of the shock, and staggered under it.

When Pushkin went on to tell about the dove--her dove--how it descended on to the shoulders of her father, the Czar, with what joy the august ruler had raised his hands to heaven, and how with one voice the hymn of praise had burst forth from the lips of the rebellious people, the poor, overwrought girl's nerves could endure no more; with a cry of joy she threw herself into Bethsaba's arms, laughing and crying hysterically.

Pushkin, attributing her excitement to the power of his poetic delineation, was not a little proud of his success.

"But is all danger over now?" faltered Sophie, venturing to raise her tearful eyes to the young man's face.

He, not understanding the question, answered:

"The danger is not over yet, although the storm is certainly lessening, and, once lulled, the Neva will return to its bed; but until then much damage may yet ensue."

"It was not that I meant; but if he is still in any danger--he, the Czar!"

Pushkin was amazed. What interest could this girl, Bethsaba's friend, feel in the Czar?

"Danger at the hand of man cannot a.s.sail him, for Araktseieff has taken the most stringent measures for his protection. All those who were given shelter in the Winter Palace are being transferred to the Admiralty.

Nay; at such a time his very foes, even had he any, would be the first to protect him."

"How can that be?" she asked, and waited for Pushkin's answer with the devout attention with which, in former times, the answers of the Oracle were received.

A secret instinct told Pushkin that he must answer in all sincerity.

"Because the feeling of 'humanity' is stronger than that of 'love of freedom.' It protects alike the serf when persecuted by the Czar, and the Czar when persecuted by the serf!"

The two girls heaved a deep sigh of relief into the air, weighted with these significant words.

"You are laying cruel waste in these two hearts," whispered Zeneida in Pushkin's ear. "You had better go back to your work."

"And you have not brought me the presents you promised?" asked Bethsaba, sorrowfully.

"I had not forgotten them; but from early morning we were busy trying to make fast the wreck; there must have been some one on board cutting through our ropes as fast as we threw them. And so I had no time to think of saving little children."

"When next you make a promise do not forget it," returned she, in tone of aggrieved reproach.

Pushkin could not understand her. Why that tone? How should he understand it? He promised to come again that evening to bring her good news, and something besides.

Neither she nor Zeneida had told him who the other girl was. Zeneida now took both girls into her boudoir. The time was approaching when she would be receiving many visitors whom it was not expedient for them to see.

The catastrophe offered favorable opportunity to the "Szojusz Blagadenztoiga" to hold uninterrupted sittings. There was to be a meeting of "the green book" to-day.

The two girls managed to find a "green book" for themselves. They searched about in Zeneida's boudoir until they found Pushkin's poem, _The Gypsy Girl_. This, of course, they had not read before; for, according to the dictum of "good" society in Russia, a well-bred girl up to her fifteenth year may indeed see, but not read, romances. Moreover, that poem was not to be had in print, only ma.n.u.script. Alexander Pushkin had created quite a distinct calling which had never existed before, that of transcriber. In every town were men who made a livelihood by copying out Pushkin's verses, sold, despite the Censor, by the booksellers. (There are still many houses in which only written copies of the works of the Russian poet Petosy are to be found.)

The two girls now eagerly s.n.a.t.c.hed at the forbidden fruit. First Bethsaba read it to Sophie; then Sophie to Bethsaba. The third time they read it together as a duet.

Then they conferred the name of its hero, "Aleko," upon the author. And when they wanted to speak of him called him only "Aleko." And it fitted--only the other way about. Aleko had wandered among the gypsies (gypsy, poet, or bohemian being synonymous); this gypsy or poet had wandered among princesses. That evening Herr Aleko came, bringing cheering news. The storm had subsided, and the water had fallen a span; although it must be some time before it resumed its proper level, for it stretched away eight versts on either bank.

("Oh that it may last ever so long!" beat the heart of each maiden, secretly.)

He had, moreover, brought something for Bethsaba--a little doll, such as he had promised her, but not a little muddy doll in rags, but a lovely, gayly dressed, sweet little doll, made of sugar. There were no others to be had; all the others had melted. Pushkin expected the girl to laugh at his offering; but she took the matter seriously, accepted it with greatest solemnity, placed it in her bosom, and it was evident that she was not sorry to see Sophie just a tiny bit jealous of her. Pushkin was not slow to see that he must be careful, so he sought in his pockets until he found something worth offering.

"See, fair Sophie"--he did not know her other name--"I have something for you, too. You showed a special interest in the Czar this morning.

Here is a piece of copper from the vessel that ran into the Winter Palace."

Thankfully it was received. The platinum mines of the Ural had never produced so precious a piece of ore.

"He can be no conspirator," whispered Sophie to Bethsaba.

"Decidedly not," whispered Bethsaba back.

"The storm has quite gone down," said Zeneida. "The bells have left off ringing. This will be a quieter night than those we have been having of late. Good-night, Pushkin. If you do not hurry you will find your boat running aground."

The girls would not have minded if the water had not gone down so fast.

Zeneida despatched Pushkin home, and the girls to their beds. She was responsible for their good health.

But it was long before they could settle to sleep. They had so much to say about Aleko. They had made up quite a different ending to the poem than the real one: the gypsy girl was not to have been faithless, but if she were, Aleko should have despised her and have found a more faithful love. The gypsy girl should have implored his pardon on her knees, and he should have forgiven her, but not have driven her away from him. In a word, they made Aleko what they fain would have had him to be.

Zeneida, who slept in the next room, several times admonished them to go to sleep. Then they would be quiet as mice, the next moment to begin whispering again. At last her regular breathing proved Sophie, at least, to have fallen asleep. Bethsaba could not sleep; her heart beat so violently that, despite the prayers she said, midnight found her still awake. Suddenly it seemed to her as if the occupant of the next room had risen, and with light footsteps had gone out into the room beyond. The night was still. Neither sound of carriage-wheels nor patrol disturbed the quiet of the inundated streets. From a distant apartment rose a psalm, sung in a woman's voice, low and sorrowful:

"In every hour of grief and pain, To Thee for help I crave; O Thou to whom none cry in vain, Be present now to save."

Who was singing at that late hour? What grief could oppress her in this house? Bethsaba drew the bedclothes over her head to quiet her trembling.

Three days longer the two girls spent under Zeneida's protecting care--that is, it was not until then that Princess Ghedimin ventured to return from Peterhof, or that the slime-covered ground-floor and cellars of the little dwelling in Petrovsky Garden could be cleansed and thoroughly aired by old Helenka. The girls meanwhile were living Elysian days. When Zeneida told them that they could now go to their homes, Bethsaba sighed:

"When I came here I thought I was coming to the infernal regions; now I feel as if I were being turned out of Paradise!"

They saw Pushkin daily, had talks with him, and delighted in the great, n.o.ble soul which lay like an open book before them. Even earthly joys have their revelations, awaking super-earthly joy when they cease to be felt in secret. When the girls were alone Aleko was the sole subject of their talk. Bethsaba thought she must love Sophie the more for holding Aleko in such high esteem; yet she had not, even yet, breathed a word to her friend of her love for him. At first, she had thought, it would be an easy thing to tell. But the secret of a first love is refractory; it will not come forth from its concealment. She delayed her confession; guarding her secret like some hidden treasure; dissembled her love for him, or, at least, learned to belie her feelings that she might not betray the happiness that took possession of her at sight of him. Her blushes she ascribed to headache, though, in reality, her head was innocent of any such discomfort.

But at the moment of parting the confession must be made. She would whisper it to her friend in few words, then run away.

When their sedan-chairs actually arrived--no carriages could yet be used--the two friends could scarce make up their minds to part. They had ever fresh confidences to whisper to each other; they wept and laughed, and quarrelled for the sake of making it up again. They talked together in a language which they two only understood; they promised to meet again very soon; they gave each other the parting kiss, then began to chatter again. Zeneida watched them attentively.

At length the declaration must come. With the last, very last, kiss the bomb must burst.

"I love Aleko--until death."

This Sophie whispered into Bethsaba's ear, then ran away.