THE EIGHT-IN-HAND
Prince Ghedimin left his secret domicile in a simply appointed sledge,
without crest, his coachman wearing no livery. He ordered his man to
drive to the opera.
At that time the capital possessed but one large, newly built
theatre--the opera-house. Here representations of the drama, comedy, and
opera were given, and often on one and the same evening, the
performances lasting, as a rule, from early evening to midnight.
It was just the period when Russians had conceived a passion for the
drama. One theatre no longer sufficed them. It had become the fashion
for the wealthy princes of the blood to have stages erected in their own
palaces, and to have representations given by their own private
companies of Shakespeare and Molière. Even in the Czar's two
palaces--the Winter Palace and Hermitage--there were theatres, where the
court actors and actresses made their début. One leader of fashion
carried the theatrical mania so far that he never travelled to his
country-seat without taking his troop with him; but, the main difficulty
there being to find the audience, he had a collection of wax figures
made--generals, statesmen, and elegant women--and with these figures he
filled his stalls, to give the illusion of a full house. If we add that
this theatrical company was largely recruited from the retainers and
serfs of the said magnate, there is nothing improbable in the story that
went about of him that one night, as Othello was in the very act of
throttling his Desdemona, my lord in his box was seized with a fit of
sneezing, which resounded through the house; whereupon the dark-skinned
tyrant, instantly abandoning his murderous design, advanced to the front
of the stage, humbly uttered the Russian form, "God bless your Grace,"
and then retreated, to proceed with Shakespeare's ghastly deed.
Hence we may imagine the enthusiasm excited by so extraordinary an
artistic genius as was Zeneida, a child of the people--since Finland was
_born_ to Russia on the day of Zeneida's birth.
Zeneida was a more powerful factor than a cabinet minister. Even in
Catharine II.'s time a prima donna, on the Czarina's representing to her
that she was drawing as heavy pay as the most renowned of her generals,
had presumed to say flatly to her, "Then, your Majesty, bid your
generals sing to you."
Prince Ghedimin's great source of anxiety was not that Zeneida might be
exposed to some insult or humiliation at the hands of a wounded rival;
much more, knowing her spirit, he dreaded lest she, at first sound of a
hiss, should rush forward to the footlights and begin singing the
_Marseillaise_, and that if rotten eggs were thrown one moment, in the
next men's heads would be flying. It needed so tiny a spark to fire the
whole mine.
His heart was beating violently as he neared the opera-house. The clang
of bells from a hundred clock-towers drowned all other sounds; but as
they ceased a roar rose in the long street into which his sledge had
turned. The stately avenue was simply filled with a moving mass of
people surging in his direction. What could it be? A revolt, or a
triumphal procession? Hundreds and hundreds of torches cast their lurid
light over the heads of the throng.
His heart beat faster and faster. He was not a lover of revolutions; not
one of those who grow drunk with enthusiasm when they hear the leonine
roar of an insurgent mass. On the contrary, his soul shuddered within
him at the thought. But he was a brave man--a man who, although heart
and spirit might shrink, would know how to die with those to whom he had
sworn fidelity; who, although his soul might faint within him, would
walk with firm step to the scaffold for the great aspirations with which
that soul was fired. More than one man has proved himself a hero whose
soul has quailed within him before the beginning of the fight. Prince
Ivan, ordering his coachman to stop, awaited the throng.
And presently a strange sight met his gaze. In the very midst of the
torch-lit crowd came a golden sledge, shaped like a swan. It was
Zeneida's well-known sledge. In it was sitting the prima donna (wrapped
in her costly sables, and literally covered with bouquets, the flowers
of which were beginning to sparkle with the night frost), drawn by a
team of eight--such a team as the Czar himself had never been drawn by,
since it was composed of eight young noblemen, the cream of Russia's
_jeunesse dorée_. On the coachman's box sat Chevalier Galban in person.
Prince Ghedimin, springing from his sledge, joined the procession. Among
the crowd a man was pressing and forcing his way. In him the Prince
recognized one of his wife's lackeys. Reaching Zeneida's sledge, the man
handed up to Chevalier Galban an enormous bouquet of hyacinths,
whispering a few words as he did so. The Chevalier, straightway standing
up, called out with stentorian voice:
"Ho, ho, gentlemen! Noble team of teams! halt an instant! Look at this
brilliant trophy! See these flowers with their diamond-set
bouquet-holder--'With the expression of her admiration for our divine
Zeneida--from Princess Ghedimin!'"
A thousand hurrahs resounded through the icy air, thickened for an
instant with the breath from many vociferous lungs.
"_Allons!_ forward, my noble steeds!" And the eight-in-hand proceeded on
its way.
A young man was standing at the back of the sledge. As Zeneida leaned
forward to take the flowers, he reached over her so that his face, bent
downward, nearly touched hers. In such a position even a well-known face
is hard to recognize. The man thus standing whispered to her:
"Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes."
"I do not understand Latin," she answered. "Translate it into some other
language for me."
And he at once, converting it into faultless hexameter, said, in their
own tongue:
"Ever I fear the Russian, even when with gifts he comes."
"Thanks, Pushkin."
The members of the "Northern Confederation" called each other by their
family names, in contradistinction to the old Russian usage, which is to
call every one by their Christian names, adding to a man that of his
father, to a woman that of her mother.
So this young man was to become the renowned Pushkin. At that time he
had no such claim; at that time he was a nobody.