The Green Book Part 65

"What?"

"That a Christian wife, should another man choose to 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 terrify her; 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 nave, 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.'"

"How _do_ you 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 Circa.s.sia, 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 ask her blessing upon it."' So even my poor mother he dragged into this infamy!"

"And upon that, leaving him, you took refuge with your G.o.dmother?"

"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 b.u.t.terfly, 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 gra.s.s, 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 peal of silvery laughter would blow to the winds their cannon, their army, their plan of campaign. The fairy tale of the Circa.s.sian 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!"