THE BOARD OF GREEN CLOTH AND THE GREEN BOOK
The room in which the "Confederation of the North" held its meetings was
provided with double doors--a circumstance by no means uncommon in
Russian palaces, in order that there should be no spying through
keyholes, no listening at doors.
The centre of the room was taken up by a massive table, or rather a
great chest, the upper part of which formed a roulette-table.
The rolls of gold--probably sovereigns (bank-notes are not used in
roulette)--are laid out in rows, beside which is placed the croupier's
long scoop. Each new-comer, as he enters, takes his seat at the table
and puts down his purse before him. But there is no play--in fact, it is
a mere sham. At each arrival the opening of the outer door sets the
table in motion, the noise of the rotary ball calling the attention of
those present to the fact that some one is coming. Thus there is no fear
of surprises.
The introductions are performed by the lady of the house--a necessary
ceremony, for on this occasion there are people who have never met
before--accredited agents, representatives of secret societies which
have been formed in the remotest corners of the Russian dominion. The
president and keeper of the privy seal of the Northern Confederation is
Prince Ghedimin; the secretary, Ryleieff, is a young poet, and agent of
the American corn trade.
Of the three brothers Turgenieff, Nicholas, the historian, is present;
as well as Colonel Lunin, the proprietor of the secret press; Bestuseff,
Kuchelbäcker, Commandant of Artillery. There are also Vaskofsky, Chief
of the "Welfare Union"; Muravieff, the representative of the "United
Slavs"; and Orloff, the life and soul of the "Patriots." All are
distinct secret societies; yet all are united in one aim, "Freedom"
(freedom under the snow)--their mode of procedure, action, the
instruments employed, wholly diverse. For this reason they have arranged
the present meeting, in order to unite the various opposing plans into
one common form of action. To this conference they have called the
president of the "Southern Confederation," Colonel Pestel, from the
far-off shores of the Black Sea, and the still more distant chief of the
Caucasian "Barbarians," Jakuskin. But of all, he who has come from the
remotest part (for he had had to wade through the sea of blood which
separates the two countries) was the spokesman of the Polish
"Kosinyery," Krizsanowski. All these men wear uniforms, save Ryleieff,
who is of the burgher class, and who wears a modern blue frock-coat with
gold buttons; all are beardless, with clean-shaven faces; only the Pole
preserves the national type; and Jakuskin, whose shaggy eyebrows join
his tousled beard, represents the wild Cossack, and seems, by his rough,
neglected exterior, to bid defiance to the civilized world.
There is something written on the foreheads of all these men.
Zeneida stands by the door to receive the new-comers, until the room
fills up. Conversation is not loud; each seems to be conferring with the
spirit which has led him hither.
The rolling of the roulette ball is heard yet again.
"Who can still be coming?" asks Zeneida.
Pushkin appears on the threshold.
Zeneida's countenance involuntarily assumes an expression of alarm.
"Why do you come here?" she whispers, excitedly, to him.
"Is it not permitted?"
"Did I not commission you to watch Galban, that he might not take us by
surprise?"
"I found a better guardian for him. Diabolka has got him in the
mouse-trap."
"But your responsibility remains."
"I will go back as soon as I can do so without exciting attention. At
present, I stay here. Introduce me!"
"What a child you are! Are you not consumed with curiosity to know what
we are about here?"
"I wish to take my part in it."
"What wilfulness! Of course you imagine lives are going to be risked,
and must needs stake yours for sake of the glory. Well, stay here. You
shall see. Herr Pushkin!" And she turned her back upon him, as if in
anger, while making the introduction.
Zeneida was the accredited agent of the whole union. Whom she invited to
her palace was received as a "Brother"; to whom she confided any work
was ranked among the "Men"; but to take part in secret conferences and
to be promoted to be a "Bojar" required a further recommendation.
"Who else stands security for him?" asked Prince Ghedimin.
"I," answered Ryleieff.
Upon which room was at once made for Pushkin at the table.
His was a fine head. The curly hair and form of the nose recalled the
African blood which ran in his veins, one of his forefathers having
taken to wife a daughter of Hannibal, the negro slave promoted by Peter
the Great to be a general. His eyes were dark and deep-set, yet, despite
the irregular features, one could trace in the expression a resemblance
to Byron. Pushkin was in love with Zeneida--that is, he raved about her.
Zeneida was deeply in love with Pushkin, therefore she did not want him
really to love her.
A word will clear up this seeming paradox. Zeneida knew too well that he
who united his fate to hers must inevitably meet some dark doom, in the
background of which loomed the scaffold. Finland had been reduced to
subjection by the same power against which these secret societies were
waging war, and Zeneida could still remember her mother's tears, and the
plain black coffin brought by stealth to her home one dark night,
wherein lay the corpse of a headless man for whom they dared not even
mourn. Only when she was grown up had she learned that that man was her
father. She loved Pushkin far too dearly to lead him on that perilous
path on which men risk their heads. She had dreamed of a happier,
sunnier lot for him. She had long detected in the wild, restless youth
that genius that had not been given him to make the lion of a lady's
boudoir--a genius which belonged, not to Russia only, but to the whole
world. A poet was not thus to be wasted. Why load the gun with a charge
of diamonds when common lead would answer the purpose equally well, nay,
better!
"Gentlemen," said Zeneida, addressing those assembled. "I will first
request our brother Ryleieff to read to us the verses we are to spread
among the people. To prepare the minds of the people is, indeed, the
main object." (General applause.)
Ryleieff, the poet, a fair, slim, handsome young man, here rising,
produced the verses he had written.
It was a fine, noble-toned poem, perfectly rhythmical, and true to every
rule of composition. The rhetorical warmth rising gradually to an
impassioned climax, the under-current expressing that deep spirit of
yearning melancholy which harmonizes so entirely with the spirit of the
people.
The poem recited, all united to congratulate the youthful Tyrtæus; while
Zeneida, with eyes filled with tears, kissed him on both cheeks.
Pushkin, annoyed, looked away. For a woman to kiss a man is the accepted
custom in Russian society. Ghedimin scarcely heeded Zeneida's action,
and he certainly had the best right to demur; but Pushkin was plainly
annoyed by it. He envied Ryleieff: envied him the kiss; how much more
the poem which answered its purpose--_faute de mieux_!
"The verses are splendid!" exclaimed Prince Ghedimin. "We will have a
million copies of them struck off in Lunin's press, and distributed
among the peasants."
"You forget, Prince," put in Zeneida, "that our peasants cannot read. I
would suggest it were more practical to have the poem set to music, that
it might be diffused more rapidly among them. In that way it would pass
from field to field; mowers, reapers, wagoners, would carry it from
village to village, and what is once sung among them never dies out. In
our Finnish _Volkslieder_ has lived the history of the nation, the
traditions of its historical life, its freedom. These no man can take
away. The _Marseillaise_ alone raised an army in France."
"But to whom confide the setting of it to music?" asked the Prince.
"Here is Herr Pushkin," said Zeneida. "He composes charming melodies."
Pushkin felt as if stung by a tarantula.
He compose the melody to Ryleieff's song of freedom! Subordination can
be carried to a nicety of perfection. A state councillor, when he puts
on the uniform of a private of volunteers, may find he has to obey the
orders of his own chancery clerk and corporal; or a duke, if he become a
freemason, have to make obeisance to a bootmaker, as master of the
lodge; but for one poet to be called upon to write the music to another
poet's effusion, when he feels himself to be Cæsar and the other man
Pompey, is a sheer impossibility.
Pushkin's face crimsoned.
"To the best of my belief, the words and air of the _Marseillaise_ were
composed at one and the same time. Rouget de l'Isle wrote them together.
Nor can it be otherwise. The poet alone can find the fitting
inspiration. Ryleieff's poem is fine, very fine, but it does not inflame
and excite one. To such an end the fire of enthusiasm is a necessity."
And unconsciously he slapped his breast, as though to say, "And it is
here."
"Do you know, Pushkin," said Zeneida, "if you are really feeling the
poetic ardor of which you speak--if you think you can compose something
better than we have here, you could not do better than to retire into
this little side chamber; there you will find piano and writing-table.
Give us something better suited to our purpose!"
Pushkin was caught.
"Why not? I will write you a song which the peasant will not need to
take first to the priest to have its meaning explained to him."
And with that he looked straight into Zeneida's eyes, with a look which
said, "If you can bestow a kiss for Ryleieff's rhymes, what will you
give me when I put on paper the words that burn in my heart?"
Rising, he repaired to the inner room. Soon the sound of chords showed
him to be deep in poetic creation. When once thus absorbed, a man does
not lightly break off.
Zeneida had no better wish for him.
As Pushkin left the room Zeneida turned the roulette-board. The ball
stopped at Nicholas Turgenieff. He was thus made President of the
Council that day, and accordingly took the chair--made to resemble that
of the banker of a roulette-table.
And now Prince Ghedimin, drawing out a delicate little polished key,
which fitted into a keyhole revealed by pushing aside a brass button,
handed it to the President, who turned it twice in the lock. Hereupon
the copper slab, upon which the roulette-board was fixed, slid to the
other end of the long table, disclosing, in the part thus laid open,
"the green book." One single lamp hanging from the ceiling illuminated
the figures of those sitting there, looking, by its light, like statues
in a museum; every feature seemed to gain in sharpness of outline; their
immobility lending character and determination to their faces; so many
historical subjects destined either to rise to eminence, the idols of
the people, or to fall under the hand of the executioner. In those few
moments, devoted to silent reflection, which each man seemed to be
engaged in studying his neighbor, many were looking upon the other for
the first time, and appeared to be mentally comparing the reality with
the ideal previously formed. The members of the Southern Confederation
had never before met their Polish brother. Many of them had seen
Jakuskin ten years before, but then he was a merry youth with
clean-shaven face. That has all disappeared. He is now a wild man of the
woods, who only smiles when he speaks of murder. Leaning against the
President's chair is Zeneida; attitude and figure alike recall statues
of the "Republic," only that instead of a dagger she holds a bouquet in
her hand sent her by her rival. A dagger in disguise. Besides those we
have already named, the following historical personages were present:
the three brothers Bestuseff, Prince Trubetzkoi Obolensky, Korsofski,
Urbuseff, Peslien, Orloff, Konovitzin, Odojefski, Setkof, Sutsin,
Battenkoff, Rostopschin, Rosen, Steinkal, Arsibuseff, Annenkoff,
Oustofski, and Muravieff Apostol, all representatives of the many
wide-spread secret societies.
Ryleieff, the secretary, opened "the green book."
The President desired him to read out the business done during the last
sitting.
It concerned the working out of a plan of constitutional government for
the whole Russian empire; its title--"Ruskaja Pravda." It was a republic
in which every province that the Russian despot had annexed to form one
vast empire was to arise as an independent state under its individual
president--Great Russia, Little Russia, Finland, Poland, Livland, Kasan,
Siberia, the Crimea, the Caucasus; nine republics with one government
and one army, under the control of one Directorate, to hold its sittings
at Moscow.
The Republic needed no St. Petersburg. Neither the "Saint," nor the
"Peter," nor the "burg" (city).
The device upon the plan was--
Question: "Will Europe in fifty years' time be republican or Russian?"
To which the answer was--"Both."
This plan of constitution was painted with the colors of a glowing
fancy. First, to free every people, and then to unite all free peoples!
None to be oppressed by the other. Each to be left to choose his own way
to prosperity, speak his own tongue, cultivate his own land. No more
hatred or jealousy among nations.
So it stood in "the green book."
Prince Ghedimin was the first to speak.
"It is a grand idea; but the greatest obstacle in the way of freeing the
people is that the people are unconscious of their servitude. Let it be
our part to make it clear to them. Let us flood the land with catechisms
of the 'free man'; let us study the special grievances of every race in
the provinces; learn to know their want and misery, and win them to the
cause of freedom by promising them redress. A people suffers when it is
hungry; has to submit to blows; has its sons taken off to be soldiers;
but it is ignorant of the yoke that is bowing down its neck."
Pestel waited impatiently until he could speak.
"My dear Prince, your plan may be very good for such as can afford to
wait fifty years and build card houses, which fall to pieces at every
current of air. We have not the time to devote to philosophical
theories. We count upon the army and the aristocracy. The power once in
our hands, we can take our measures to secure the education of the
masses. A revolution left in their hands would lead to another Pugatsef
revolt."
"And would that be a bad thing?" asked Jakuskin, in a hoarse voice,
advancing to them from the corner where he was seated.
"It would be bad because there could be no organization. He who would
carry out our scheme must be master of the situation. In Russia, the
successful leader of an insurgent movement would only be another tyrant.
Our scheme must be carried out simultaneously, at the word of command,
throughout all Russia. No sooner that done than every secret society is
abandoned, and we suppress all conspiracies; and, hateful as is now the
system of police detectives, it must, in future, be raised to an
honorable calling. Every man of mind, every free man, and every patriot
must be proud to make himself a police-agent of a free country. All this
must come about at the stroke of a magic wand."
"And what do you propose to do under the stroke of the magic wand with
the Czar and the Grand Dukes?" asked Jakuskin, with chilling irony.
"Make them prisoners, convey them on board a man-of-war, and ship them
off to the New World."
"Humph! to the other world! In Charon's boat," hissed out the Caucasian
soldier; and, going up to the table, he struck it with his clinched
fist. "Hark ye, envoys of the North and South, members of your various
virtuous and benevolent societies, you are all on a wrong tack, you
deceive yourselves. There is but one answer to the question I put to
you: scatter their ashes to the four winds. I am no puling child, such
as you are. I have not covered two thousand versts to come here and hear
you thresh out your philosophical theses; I am here to act."
Ryleieff here interrupted the speaker with quiet dignity.
"Quite right. But you will act as the majority decide."
At this call to order the vehement Caucasian's blood boiled within him.
"Once I was young like you, Ryleieff; but that is long past. Once I,
too, believed that one only needed to be a good man one's self to make
the world better. I, too, had then as young and lovely a betrothed as
you now have; I was an officer in the guards, and at twenty had
distinguished myself in ten battles. And do you know what happened to
me? The evening before my wedding-day, Araktseieff's son, a worthless
fellow who did not even know how to buckle on his sword, and who had
been made colonel over me, stole away my bride. I challenged him in
mortal combat, and the dastardly coward, instead of accepting my
challenge, denounced me to the Czar, and I was exiled to the Caucasus.
As, with hell in my heart, I was taking my leave of the city, the last
thing that met my eyes was the body of a drowned girl brought to me. It
was my bride. I kissed her. I still feel the chill of that kiss upon my
lips, and I shall feel it until the blood wipes it out, for which I long
as keenly as any cannibal. When you are in Czarskoje Zelo look at a
certain finely painted battle-piece. Close behind the Czar you will see
a youth on a rearing horse, a youth wielding his sword high in air, his
face beaming with triumph and loyalty. That youth was I! Years have
quenched my enthusiasm; but my sword still swings over his head."
"And so I trust it may remain, ever wielded on high as in the picture."
"But that it will not!" cried Jakuskin, vehemently. "I swear it by the
devil they sent into my heart as its constant indweller, I will listen
to naught else but my eternal vengeance! You may fill your 'green book'
with resolutions--this is my determination!" And as he waved his arm
aloft, he extracted a hidden dagger from his coat-sleeve, and displayed
its glittering surface to the company.
Horrified, Ryleieff, springing up, drew forth a pistol from a
side-pocket and levelled it at Jakuskin's breast.
"And I swear that I will shoot you down on the spot if you venture to
assert yourself against our rules."
"Very well, then, shoot me down! Fire away, boy!" growled Jakuskin,
tearing open his coat and presenting his bare breast to the mouth of the
pistol. "And learn from me how to die."
"Obey the rules, Jakuskin! Take back your word!" shouted several, as
they rushed up to pacify the infuriated man.
"I will not withdraw it! You are cowards, all! He shall fire!" he
shouted back, roughly pushing them away.
"Gentlemen!" exclaimed Krizsanowski, the Pole, rising.
"Shoot me down!" roared Jakuskin, continuing to wave his dagger.
Then it was that Zeneida, drawing a hyacinth from out her bouquet, aimed
it at the raging man's forehead. And the seasoned man, who had never
known what it was to shrink from a bullet, was so confused by this
playful projectile that, letting fall the dagger from his hand, he put
his hand to his brow.
A quiet smile passed over the faces of those present, and before the
Caucasian could recover his dagger, Zeneida was beside him, had picked
it up from the ground, restored it to him, and was stroking his beard
with caressing action.
"Dear friend, be courteous. Our guest Krizsanowski, the delegate of the
Polish 'Kosynyery,' wishes to speak. Let us listen to him, and put this
shaving apparatus away!"
Jakuskin calmed down. This delicate woman had more than once stepped in
to spread oil on the waves of the most impassioned debates when, dagger
or pistol in hand, the disputants seemed bent on doing one another a
violence.
And now Krizsanowski, hat in hand, began:
"Gentlemen, I wish to bid farewell to you. I will not enter upon the
subject under discussion with you, nor have I any desire to await the
resolution arrived at. I will not listen to the question of murdering
the Czar, still less will I submit to be bound by your decisions. There
is not one among you who has endured such wrongs; not one among you who
carries such grief in his heart as I. What did your sovereign, as its
king, do with your country? He freed it from foreign conquest, made it
great and powerful, added new territory to it. What did he do with your
people? He gave them prosperity and knowledge, and erected a school in
every one of your villages. What is your ruler? A noble mind in a noble
body--'the handsomest man in all Europe,' as Napoleon said of him--and
with heart as good as he looks. And the most remarkable thing about him
is that, in every fault, in every feeling, he is a Russian to the
backbone. His only crime in your eyes is that he is the Czar. And to you
that is crime enough to make him die. And what is my ruler, the Czar's
brother, Constantine? A monster, in whose very face nature has curiously
wedded the hideous with the ridiculous; and his hideous features are a
true mirror of the hideous promptings of his soul. He is what he seems
to be--cruel and contemptible. In the whole extent of my poor, unhappy
nation there is not one feeling heart which he has not trampled upon; no
article of value, no relic, no Church money, he has not appropriated to
himself. But a Pole would see in that no cause to treacherously murder
his king. A Pole's hand is accustomed to the sword; it knows not the use
of a dagger. Let me take leave of you; I would go back to my people. I
came hither in the belief that I should find here brave men ready for
battle; who, at the appointed hour, would range themselves in fighting
order, and declare war upon their oppressors as do we, who fight in open
battle--as do we who, in open and honorable warfare, settle on whose
side is the right. Such I thought to find here. On my journey hither, on
the way from Warsaw to the Niemen, my predecessor, glorious Valerian
Lukasinski, was being conveyed before me--he whom treachery had given
over to the authorities. He was my relative, friend, and leader--trebly
dear to me. He had been subjected to every species of physical and
mental torture in order to make him reveal the aims of and participators
in the conspiracy. They had not succeeded in drawing a word out of him.
Constantine himself took the knout from the executioner's hands, and
taught him how to use the agonizing implement. When Lukasinski was
wellnigh flayed to death, no sign of humanity left in him, only one mass
of bleeding flesh and bones and gaping wounds, the viceroy had him laid
bound on a gun-carriage, and had this still breathing, bleeding mass
dragged to his captivity through the rigor of mid-winter. I followed his
track guided by the drops of blood which fell on the snow. Those frozen
drops I gathered up one by one on the way, and placed them in a
reliquary. Heaven had compassion on the sufferer; he died on the road.
They made a hole in the ice of the river Niemen, and threw the body in;
the current carried it off to the sea. I know that I shall follow him,
and that my end will be like his. Still that knowledge neither moves me
from fear or revengeful feeling to lie in ambush and murderously strike
my ruler in the back at any time, when he may be sleeping, or kneeling
in prayer! Our God was never a God of murder. The dagger which struck
down Cæsar but opened the door to Caligula and Heliogabalus. While
William Tell told Gessler to his face, 'With this arrow I will kill you.
Defend yourself as best you can!' I do likewise. When the time comes I
will declare war upon my enemies, and if God is with me, I shall destroy
them; but as long as I do not feel myself strong enough to engage in
open warfare, no oppression, no cruelty, and no fantastic ravings shall
lead me, by any untimely revolt, to draw the cord tighter, which I fain
would loose. Your plans are untimely, unripe, without sufficient basis;
they destroy, but do not build up again. I know them, and will not unite
our cause to yours. Let me go."
Pestel, seizing the Pole by the hand, held him back.
"You cannot go yet; you have learned nothing of our intentions. What you
have heard hitherto was only a weak, academical discussion. The words
this madman said were only the ravings of his mad passion. I, too, do
not inscribe upon my shield, 'Strew their ashes to the winds'; not
because my soul would shrink from it, but because such a dictum would
scatter our several societies like shots among a flock of birds. The
people themselves would turn against us. To the masses the prayer for
Czar and Grand Dukes is a necessity, and were the priest ever to leave
it out, they would hang him for a heretic. If I were to ask my soldiers,
'Do you want a republic?' they would straightway answer, 'Yes, if the
Czar commands.' We must begin at the beginning; we must not startle any
one. The first step is the difficulty; the others will follow of
themselves. Thus let us go back to the point where Jakuskin interrupted
us. And you, Krizsanowski, resume your seat. The question is the removal
of the Czar and Grand Dukes--their removal only. Let them go to America,
by all means. There Russia has noble possessions; there they can reign.
But to this end you Poles must lend us a helping hand. For what use
would it be to us to ship off the three brothers, when the fourth,
Constantine, who by fundamental law is next after Alexander in
succession to the throne, remains at large in Warsaw?"
"Let us clearly understand one another, Pestel," replied Krizsanowski.
"We Poles have ever been, since our first existence as a nation, ready
to shed our blood for the benefit of others. Tell me, what is to become
of us if we succeed in freeing ourselves from the Romanoffs?"
"Form Poland into a republic."
"But your Polish republic will still be a part of the vast Russian
dominions, just as Livland and Little Russia will be; and over us there
will be some one--a chief, who is lord over the nine republics, although
I know not what title or what amount of power he will possess. And I
swear to you I do not wish for a freedom that shall be the downfall of
my country."
The deep silence which ensued proved that the Pole had hit the right
nail upon the head. There was an expression of uneasy conviction on all
faces.
Then Nicholas Turgenieff, the president, rose to speak.
"Take comfort, Krizsanowski. The chief of the republic, he who will be
head of the nine republics, will be no autocrat, no tyrant under any
other name."
"What, then?"
"That which he must of necessity be--_un président sans phrases_."
The conversation had taken place in French. These four words had nearly
cost Turgenieff his estates and his head.
The words were scarce spoken, when the roulette-board suddenly slipped
back into its place, effectually concealing "the green book," and the
door opened. Copper-plate and door were an ingeniously constructed piece
of machinery. If "the green book" were exposed to view, and any one
opened the outer door, the roulette slid back instantly into its place.
Chevalier Galban, entering, only heard Nicholas Turgenieff's four last
words, and saw nothing but a gambling-table.
The banker repeated--
"Je suis un président sans phrases. Messieurs, faites vos jeux!"
One of the men playing--the Pole--rose from his seat with a disturbed
look--
"Merci, monsieurs, c'en était assez!"
Another, Jakuskin, drying the sweat from his brow, struck his hand on
the table--
"J'ai tout perdu!"
All as if it were a real roulette-table.
The others continued cold-bloodedly to lay their parcels of gold on the
numbers, seeming unaware of the new-comer's arrival.
The hostess only advanced quickly to greet him.
"I was certain that you would find out our den; I kept this seat for
you."
"You honor me too much, _diva_. I ought to have good luck in play
to-night, as I have just had the opposite fate in love."
"How is that? Did the pretty Gitanitza escape you?"
"_Au contraire_, she fell asleep. A checkmate such as never happened to
me before!"
Zeneida gave a merry laugh. No one could have divined under its mask the
agitation she was feeling. She knew that a sleeping-draught had been
given to Diabolka.
"Come along! let us be partners for gain or loss."
Chevalier Galban, accepting, took the seat allotted to him; Zeneida
seated herself on the arm of his chair.
So it is a roulette-table pure and simple, and the party assembled
gamblers. There is no "green book." A thickness of half an inch lay
between him and it--his arm rested on it.
Merely contravention of a police regulation--a thing winked at by the
authorities. Suppressed inclinations will find a vent--far better it
should be on moral than political domains. Nor is it any matter for
wonder that Nicholas Turgenieff should be the roulette banker. A man may
be a _bel esprit_, a great author, philosopher, philanthropist, and yet
have a passion for play. Even Napoleon was a gambler.
As the game was in full swing, Pushkin suddenly entered to them from a
side room with flushed cheeks, crying, in a tone of triumph:
"The song is ready."
The gamblers looked askance at him.
Now he would betray all.
Lucky for them all that his eyes had mechanically sought Zeneida's.
She, still sitting on the arm of Galban's chair, glanced significantly
at the Chevalier.
Pushkin saw him.
"Let us hear it," said Galban, toying with his pile of gold pieces.
Pushkin changed color for an instant as he stared at him, then plunged
his hand into his breast-pocket. All followed his movements anxiously.
What would he bring out? Perhaps the song of freedom, just composed; and
would he declaim or sing it, for Chevalier Galban's edification? Or
would he draw that which every conspirator carried, dancing or drinking,
a pointed stiletto to strike down the traitor then and there?
He drew out a packet of papers, smiling the while.
"Here is what I promised you, _The Romance of the Lovely Gypsy Girl_.
Shall I read it?"
A romance instead of a song of freedom? Why not? in order to cover an
untimely appearance, the wisest thing for a poet to do was to read or
recite something, no matter what, so that the others meanwhile could
recover their self-possession.
But this was no mere rhyming jingle. No sooner had he begun than the
attention of all was riveted on his verses. The poetic form was striking
and brilliant, the thought original, the conception fine; there were
fire, passion, audacity, and beauty of expression in it, united to a
natural grace and simplicity.
No one had heard the lines before. As he finished, Zeneida, hurrying up
to him, pressed both his hands in hers. She did not kiss him as she had
kissed Ryleieff, but the tears which flowed from her eyes were a higher
recompense. A kiss is cheap. Tears are costly.
The whole company of conspirators, forgetting alike "green book" and
reorganization, hastened to congratulate the poet, who suddenly, like a
comet from before which the wind has chased the clouds, found himself
revealed in all his glory.
Chevalier Galban was now convinced that this was no gathering of
conspirators, but merely a select assemblage who met for games of chance
and intellectual and literary interchange of thought--both prohibited,
it is true, in Russia--for which reason they were obliged to meet in
secret.
_Par exemple_, such verses would be public property in any other
country, and half the world would be running after the poet.
"Bah!" returned Pushkin, excited by the applause he had created. "Do you
not know that feebleness is the goddess we worship, and the priest of
her altar is called the 'Censor'?"
General laughter broke out at these cutting words. The Censor is as
stereotyped a marionette in Russia as in other countries. Galban seized
the opportunity to bring his talents as _agent provocateur_ into the
field.
"Yes, indeed, ladies and gentlemen, the Censor is a necessary evil among
us. You are aware that the Czarina Catherine II. once, at the instance
of her men of letters, commanded full freedom of the press in Russia
for--three days! It would be seen then what fruit the tree would bear.
It would have been thought that those three days would have proved a
harvest-time for songs of freedom, prohibited pamphlets, and
philosophical treatises to crawl out of their hiding-places, but the
result was only an avalanche of low slander and scurrilous anecdotes.
The press was flooded with a stream of scandalous personalities,
directed against well-known families and personages; so that already on
the second day of the freedom of the press the Czarina was besieged
with petitions to countermand the third day and reinstate the censure."
No one save Pushkin deemed it advisable to accept the proffered
challenge; but he, as a poet, could not suffer the liberty of the press
to be a mark for ridicule.
"Come, I say, Galban, if I were to tell a man who had never tasted wine
that he might drink what ran out from the bung-hole of a cask the third
day after the vintage, that man would swear that there was no such
disgusting stuff as wine in the world."
"Messieurs, je suis un président sans phrases. Le dernier jeu!" broke in
the banker's voice, interrupting the dangerous turn the conversation had
taken.
It was time, moreover, to finish the game; for if by five o'clock
Chevalier Galban had not left the palace, the police would have broken
open the doors, and every one in it have been arrested. The roulette was
turned for the last time. Chevalier Galban had won six thousand four
hundred rubles, which he gallantly shared with Zeneida. Then, with the
customary forms of good society, he took his leave.
The remaining company looked at one another. Every one well knew that
roulette was a mere farce among them. It was alike Zeneida's money which
furnished bank and players. Hence the general smile which went round on
Galban's winning a pile of his hostess's money and then courteously
sharing it with her.
But there was a glow of triumph on Zeneida's countenance, as, raising
the bouquet with its diamond-set holder in her hand, she murmured, in a
tone of angry satisfaction:
"Je le payais!"
Chevalier Galban had received back the price of his diamonds, without
ever suspecting that it had, so to speak, been thrown after him.