THE HUNTED STAG
Next morning the Office of the Great Fast was initiated in Isaac
Cathedral by the court singers--a celebrated choir of men and boys, who
possessed the finest voices in the whole empire, and who were maintained
at great cost.
Contemporary accounts extol these services beyond anything ever produced
by human voices. In his riper years the Czar could endure no other music
than the sound of harps and mystic sacred song. It was on that account
that Zeneida Ilmarinen, the church singer, was so great a favorite of
the Czar. He never went to a theatre. Did he desire music his favorite
artiste was commanded to the Winter Palace or the Hermitage. During the
fasts, however, he went daily to church to hear the boys sing.
On such occasions it was considered the correct thing by the aristocracy
also to go to church, and in order to appear still more devotional,
great ladies made a point of wearing no rouge, only powder.
In the row next the high altar sat Prince Ghedimin, Muravieff, Orloff,
Trubetzkoi, all of whom had inscribed their names in "the green book";
after them, those officers of the guards who had deliberated the
previous night whether the Czar should die, or be merely banished. There
they stood in two rows, erect, with military bearing, holding their
drawn swords in their hands.
The heads of all were bowed so low that perhaps none remarked that the
husband and wife, the rulers of all the Russias, only extended a finger
to each other as they passed up the aisle, deigned no look at one
another as the service proceeded, and exchanged no word together as they
took the holy-water.
Zeneida also was among the congregation. As she left church an officer
bowed to her. It was Pushkin.
"Madame, you have been weeping--your cheeks are wet. Was _some one_,
then, in church?"
"There is no _some one_," returned Zeneida; "but the music tells on
one's nerves. We are but animals; even dogs howl when they hear music."
"Did you observe with what devotion the Czarina kissed the crucifix? Did
you not know what was her petition?"
"I neither know, nor did I remark anything."
It was late before the church service had ended. The congregation
quickly dispersed and hastened home. The streets were deserted. On the
first day of Lent every family man makes a point of supping at home. And
as among the poorer classes in St. Petersburg only about every seventh
man is blessed with a wife, others join together and get some female of
their own class in life to prepare the Lenten soup for them. This is
seen on every table, rich and poor, whether in hardware vessel or
delicate china tureen. Even upon the Czar's table it may not be absent;
the imperial cook prepares it according to time-honored formula.
This soup every head of the family is expected to partake of in his own
home. Time was when even in the Winter Palace the custom was observed.
Time was! The table was laid for two covers only; no guests were
invited. The many dishes, all prepared with oil and honey, were served
for the two alone. Then came a day when the imperial wife awaited her
husband in vain at the Lenten meal. He came not. And yet she waited and
waited; the supper waited also. Some untoward circumstance had come
between them. First the meats grew cold, then their hearts. Yet all the
same, year after year, the wife had two covers laid on the first evening
in Lent, and waited on and on, until the dishes grew cold, and still she
did not touch them. She was waiting for him. Hours would pass, the
imperial wife sitting lonely, waiting, listening for the slightest
sound, wondering whether it were not her husband's footstep outside the
tapestried door which connected the corridor of their apartments--that
door, at the opening of which her heart had formerly overflowed with
earthly bliss. Alas! now the lock had long grown stiff and rusty.
Suddenly the clock began to strike--a mechanical clock which Araktseieff
had had made in Paris. The piece it plays is the National Anthem; it
plays it but once in the twenty-four hours--at one o'clock in the
morning--the hour at which Czar Paul had been murdered by his generals
and nobles in his bedchamber.
The son of the murdered man, who had ascended the throne over his
father's dead body, had, at the turn of the year, listened for many an
anniversary to the solemn strain, kneeling low, bedewing his _prie dieu_
with his tears; and one being there was who fully shared the sorrow of
his heart. With every fibre that heart of his vibrated to the sad notes,
a truer timepiece than the clock: it attuned its note to the triumphant
strains of victory, as to the undertone of sadness when it reproached
him that his father's corpse had been his stepping-stone to the throne,
threatening that his body, likewise, should be the stepping-stone to his
successor. This was the great trouble of his life; the ever-present
torture of his soul. To no one had he confided it save to his wife. No
one had ever comforted him in the hours of his agonized wrestling with
that burden of grief save his wife. Now that is all over. The
soul-destroying blue eyes, in whose depths he had sought a new heaven,
gave him for heaven the cold, blue ether eternally separating earth from
heaven for him. The Czar of all the Russias has no one in whom he can
trust. The mightiest of the mighty has no place where he may sleep in
peace. The most forlorn pilgrim of the desert is not so utterly alone as
is he.
When the last notes of the hymn has died away, and the husband, so long
waited for, has not returned, the wife, rising, fetches a portrait of
him painted upon ivory, and places it upon the table by the place he
should have occupied. It is the portrait of a proud, heroic man, with
smiling lip and unclouded brow--such as he was as a bridegroom. She
gazes at it long, so long that her eyes are suffused with tears. Nothing
is left to her of him but this portrait. He whom it represents has long
ceased to smile.
Two sledges, already horsed, are drawn up before the colonnade of the
Winter Palace. One is harnessed with six horses, the other with three.
Both are closed carriages with drawn blinds. The coachman and footmen
belonging to the six-in-hand wear the livery of the Czar; those of the
three-horsed sledge that of the Grand Duke. But, on getting into them,
the Czar takes the Grand Duke's sledge, the Grand Duke that of the Czar;
and as they pass out of the gates, with jingling of bells, the one
sledge turns to the right, the other to the left. The six-horsed sledge
is followed by an escort of the guards; where it halts, there halts the
escort. The three-horsed sledge skims along the road unattended. It is
known that the Grand Duke drives home direct; he is a domesticated man.
But of the Czar none knows whither he will take his way in the course of
the long night; and nowadays it behooves one to be careful; an escort
has become a necessity!
Araktseieff had had a sharp tussle that very morning with Chulkin, Chief
of Police, and the governor of the city, Miloradovics. There were three
sets of police on active duty--military, civil, and secret police. And
instead of playing into each other's hands, their sole study seemed to
be for each to set the other's regulations at naught. Araktseieff was
furious at Chulkin because Chevalier Galban had been set upon and robbed
the previous night, not only of his money, but of his papers--papers,
among which were many important state secrets. To which Chulkin had
retorted that the soldiers on patrol had been the thieves. Hereupon
Araktseieff's wrath was turned upon Miloradovics, and he demanded that
the officer in command, who had had the inspection on the night past, be
sternly reprimanded for lack of supervision. To which the governor
returned that the said officer in command was no other than young
Araktseieff, his hopeful son. Hereupon Araktseieff waxed still more
wroth; but with whom? He fully believed that his son had been Chevalier
Galban's plunderer, well knowing him to be capable of the act.
He made no further official inquiry into the matter, merely adding that
in future the Household Regiment of Hussars, under his own immediate
command, were to accompany the Czar, at a distance, whenever he left the
palace. No reliance, evidently, was to be placed on either infantry or
police.
Araktseieff possessed a sure instinct which warned him of conspiracies
against the Czar, even when he failed to obtain any certain clew. His
was the sole and ever-watchful eye that guarded the person of the Czar.
He gathered upon his head the detestation of a whole nation in order to
protect the head of the one man in whom his entire individuality was
merged.
But the pursued knew how to elude protector as efficiently as pursuer.
Whilst thus secretly escorted, the six-horsed sledge proceeded from
barrack to barrack, the Grand Duke probably holding an inspection to
satisfy himself that the officers on guard had not removed their tight
stocks; the three-horsed sledge glided along the banks of the Moika
Canal, drawing up, at length, before a long walled-in enclosure set with
iron spikes. Alighting from his sledge the Czar took from his
breast-pocket a key, opened the gate, and entered unattended, the unlit
path marked by a line of oak-trees. No footprint was to be seen on the
fresh-fallen snow. The path was unused by any but himself. In among the
trees with their crows' nests an old-fashioned house was visible, its
wooden steps leading to a low oaken door. The solitary man has with him
a key to this door also; he opens it, and enters. Here it is so dark he
has to take a lantern from his pocket in order to find the stairs
leading to the story above. Having ascended the stairs, he proceeds on
tiptoe down a long corridor. There is not even a dog to bark at him. As
he opens a door two persons, engaged in conversation, look round in
startled fear. They are an old man and woman. The old woman screams; the
old man throws himself at the Czar's feet.
"Who is this man, Helenka?"
"My old man, my husband. Hold up your ugly pate, Ihnasko, that the Czar
may see who you are."
"You never told me you had a husband."
"Why should one tell of the gout one is plagued with, or any other ugly
thing one would rather forget?"
"Well, what does he want here?"
Here the old woman, covering half her mouth with her hand, whispers:
"He has brought the king's daughter here."
At these words the icy look melts from the Czar's severe features.
"What! Bethsaba here?"
"Yes; and she is to stay the night. They are playing draughts together."
"How is Sophie?" The inquirer's voice falters.
"Fairly well. She slept well last night, and took her chocolate this
morning. She has not been so cross as usual to-day, since the doctor
told her that giving way to temper was bad for her."
"Has she followed the doctor's directions?"
"Rather too closely. If I am a second after time in giving her her
medicine, she rings for me."
"Did the doctor say anything about diet?"
"Yes; he said her Highness was not to observe the fast, but to eat meat
and eggs daily; and that will strengthen her. But the Princess gave it
him soundly. What was he thinking of? Did he mean to endanger her soul
for sake of her body? And she has ordered me to pay no attention to what
he said, and has threatened me with blows if I attempt to deceive her."
"Indeed! And the doctor said that the observance of strict fast would be
injurious to her health?"
"Certainly. He said she wanted blood, she was anæmic, and that beans
cooked in oil did not make blood."
"What have you prepared for her supper to-night?"
"The usual soup for the fast."
"Just oblige me, my good Helenka. I have brought something with me which
will do our invalid good. I have had it over expressly from a celebrated
physician in England. Give her a spoonful of it daily in her soup."
"Of course I will do what you command, sire. But tell me first, is it
prepared from the flesh of any animal? For if the dear soul were to find
out that I had mixed any meat preparation in her soup during the fast,
she would cry and rage to that extent that she would make herself ill
again."
"Do not be afraid, good Helenka. It is a remedy composed of palm-root,
which takes the place of meat."
"And I shall not endanger my own soul by using it?"
"No, no; have no fear. I will take all responsibility upon myself."
And yet were it an unpardonable sin to eat meat during Quadragesima the
Czar had laid a great burden upon his soul, for his remedy was no other
than extract of beef, at that time the patent of an English chemist. But
the Czar was a philosopher and--a father.
"Go in and tell her I am here, that she may not be startled at my
coming."
By a lamp, whose light was tempered by a lace shade, sat two young girls
playing draughts.
The one we have already seen at the noteworthy stag-hunt; and now we
know her to be a "king's daughter."
As the Czar entered the Princess's room, and Ihnasko was alone with his
wife, he could not refrain from asking--
"What did you mean by 'king's daughter'?"
"Slow coach! Don't you know that yet? She has lived the last eight years
in your house without your knowing that she is the daughter of a
Circassian king. Her father was once a mighty ruler there, where the
currants and olives grow; he was killed by the Turks, and the Queen
brought her crown and her little daughter, and fled to us for
protection. She was a wonderfully handsome woman. I saw her once in all
her national costume at a New-year's review. I did not wonder at what
had happened. It was General Lazaroff who had received orders to bring
her from her own country to Russia. The General was a man of amorous
nature. On one occasion the wine he drunk flew to his head, and he
forgot that he was escorting a queen, and only saw the lovely woman. But
the Circassian butterflies have stings as sharp as any bee. The Queen
drove her kindzal into his heart, and he fell down dead at her feet. Not
much was made of the affair; it was hushed up. The Queen was put into a
convent, where she has always been treated with royal honors. But she is
not allowed to leave it. Only on New-year's day she takes her place with
the widowed Queens of Imeritia and Mingrelia on the steps of the throne.
As for her little six-year-old daughter, she was taken from her, that
her royal mother might not teach her to follow her ways. Why, there
would not be a man left in St. Petersburg! The child was intrusted to
Princess Ghedimin's care, who has not the blessing of a child of her
own."
"What child?" blurted out Ihnasko.
"Oh, you goose! What a question to ask! What child? None at all, seeing
she hasn't got one. Don't wink at me, or you'll get a cuff in the face.
So the king's daughter was brought to Ghedimin Palace, and is now a
member of the family. Forgetting her own mother, she looks upon the
Princess as one."
"I should just like to know why the Princess sends her here to visit
your sick princess?"
"That's nothing to do with your thick skull."
* * * * *
The other draught-player is Sophie Narishkin, a tall, delicate-looking
girl with straw-colored hair. It is well that she is kept in strict
retirement, for in face she is the image of what Princess Ghedimin was
at that age. There is an expression of premature wisdom in her
countenance blended with that of superstitious fear. Her eyes wear a
softer look than those of her prototype; instead of Princess Ghedimin's
haughty, contemptuous expression, hers are dreamy and melancholy.
What can be a maiden's dreams who knows nothing of the world? The world,
peopled with mankind. She may dream of lovely landscapes, of rocks,
woods, waterfalls. But of the beings who people the world she knows none
save her nurse, to whose fairy tales she listens so eagerly, and her
governesses, who had vainly striven to indoctrinate her into the
sciences and fine arts.
All spoiled, no one loved, her.
All around were traces of work or play, begun and left
unfinished--draught-board, cards, chessmen, patience, embroidery,
drawings, patterns. She is sitting, in a white embroidered
dressing-gown, upon a wide divan, both feet drawn up under her. Beside
her sits the Circassian Princess on a low stool.
His Imperial Majesty is received ungraciously. Evidently he has
interrupted the two girls in some amusement. And yet he seems to have
the right to go up to Sophie and, taking her face between both hands, to
imprint a hearty kiss upon her cheek--a kiss the traces of which the
girl, with childlike coquetry, instantly tries to remove by means of the
sleeve of her dress, which has the effect of making the offending cheek
as red as a rose.
"How are you feeling, my Madonna?"
"Oh, now you have come and interrupted the lovely story Bethsaba was
telling me!"
"She shall go on with it. I will listen too."
"How can you, when you were not here at the beginning?"
"I know Bethsaba will not mind beginning it again."
The Princess nodded acquiescently, while Sophie, with a look, directed
her father to take a seat at the other end of the divan. The Czar,
understanding the look, did as he was bid; and, taking one of the girl's
delicate, transparent hands in his, stroked it, and, as he did so,
succeeded in feeling the pulse, to assure himself that there was still
hope for her. He wanted to put a question, but the delicately pencilled
eyebrows commanded silence, and the Ruler of All the Russias was
obedient.
"Once upon a time," began the king's daughter, "there lived on the
Caspian Sea a mighty king who took a lovely woman to wife, not knowing,
when he did so, that she was a fire-worshipper. Now, fire-worshippers
are in league with the Jinn (spirit), and the queen had promised the
Jinn that if she married and bore a daughter she would give her to him
when grown up. No sooner had the child become a maiden than the Jinn
came and knocked at the king's door to claim her. The poor king was
terribly frightened when he was told that the spirit had come to fetch
away his daughter--"
"If he was a king, why could he not command the spirit to obey him?"
broke in the sick girl, angrily.
"Ah, my dearest, the spirit is so powerful that no king can control
him."
"And no _emperor_?"
"No, not even emperor. No one has power over him; but he has power over
every one. There is no locking him up or shutting him out, for he can
penetrate everywhere. He has no material weight, yet can suffocate;
carries no sword, yet can kill."
"What a good thing that the spirits only live on the Caspian Sea!"
"When the king heard this he began to entreat the spirit not to take his
beloved daughter from him so soon; to grant her to him yet another year.
'Very well,' said the spirit, 'I will leave you your daughter a year
longer if you will promise to give me your thumb in exchange.' The king
cared nothing about his thumb, so he promised, and the spirit took his
departure. At the lapse of a year the spirit came again either to take
the princess or the king's thumb. The king loved his daughter very
dearly, but he also valued his thumb, for without it he would not be
able to draw a bow. So again he entreated the spirit that he might grant
her to him only one year more. 'Be it so,' returned the spirit, 'I will
leave her to you another year, but then either I will take her away or
you will give me your right hand.' And the king again closed the
bargain. A year passed, and the spirit came a third time. The king
would neither give up his child, nor would he part from his right hand.
Thereupon the spirit demanded the king's whole arm as forfeit."
"But, then, do the spirits never die?" asked Sophie.
"No, darling, the spirits live forever. Well, the king promised him his
arm--if by that means he might save his child--and his hand. And from
year to year the spirit came back, demanding ever more and more as
forfeit-money. At last he obtained promise of the king's head and heart.
And when the king's whole body belonged to him he said, 'This is the
last year. Now I shall either carry off your daughter or you must
promise me your shadow.' Upon which the king replied, 'No; I will give
you no more. Take what is yours; but neither my daughter nor my shadow
shall you have.' Thereupon the spirit left him amid loud claps of
thunder. The next day was fine and sunny, and the king set out for a
pleasure sail upon the sea. Suddenly a violent storm arose, and engulfed
both ship and king in the waves. His body was never found. His daughter
still lived on; and every evening, when the sun was going down, she saw
a shadow draw near to her--the shadow of a man with a kingly crown upon
his head; and as the shadow glided past her it seemed to her as if she
felt a kiss upon her cheek, and as if her cheek became rosy red."
The Czar had grown thoughtful. That king, whose shadow alone wandered
upon the face of the earth, was so like to himself. And Sophie, too,
thought that she was like the king's daughter--kissed every evening by a
kingly shadow.
Bethsaba, however, added, playfully, "We have so many such legends with
us. I could tell you more than a hundred."
"It is a very sad story, my dear child," said the Czar.
"I like stories that have a sad ending," said Princess Sophie. "Those
that end, 'And if they are not dead, they are alive to this day,' I
cannot endure. I like books, too, to end badly; but the doctor says I
must not read. But little Bethsie knows such a lot of nice stories."
"Have in your supper now. Are you not hungry?"
"Oh, who wants to be always thinking of eating? Besides, we are eating
all day long." And Sophie pointed to a box of bonbons, from which a few
had been taken.
"But you ought to eat nourishing things, to make you strong."
"Who says I am ill? Give me my hand-mirror. Have I not color enough?"
"Yes, you have a good color. You are really looking well to-day."
"Phew, phew!" she exclaimed, spitting twice behind her. "One should
never tell anybody they look well; it is unlucky. Now let us lay the
table for supper."
The mighty ruler was quite ready to act the lackey to the pale child
with the weary eyes, in whom his whole soul was concentrated. But, with
the best of will, he did it awkwardly; it was plain he was not learned
in the art. And Sophie scolded him roundly.
"See how badly you are holding that plate! Did one ever hear of placing
the spoon betwixt knife and fork like that? No, the salt must be turned
out upon the table; it is not to be put on the table in the salt-cellar;
for if the salt-cellar should happen to be upset it is unlucky. You must
not stick in the point of the knife when you are cutting bread! First
make the sign of the cross over it, or Heaven will be angry. To think
that such a big man should be so clumsy!"
Meanwhile Helenka had brought in the Lenten soup. Sophie tasted it, then
laid her spoon down.
"There is something different about it. You have smuggled some meat into
it. I will not eat it! You wanted to deceive me! You wanted to make me
eat meat soup!"
The Czar, tasting the soup, assured her that it had no taste of meat.
But the sick girl, angry at the mere suspicion of being tricked, sent
all away untouched, and vowed she would eat nothing but sweets. The Czar
implored her not to spoil her digestion with such trash; whereupon,
bursting into tears, she complained that they would let her die of
hunger. At length the Czar, sending for the samovar, made her some tea
with his own hands, and, breaking some biscuit into it, begged her to
try it. And great was his joy when she said it was "very nice." She ate
a whole biscuit; dipped another in it, ate a piece of it, and gave the
rest to the Czar for him to taste how good it was. Then, letting him
take her upon his knee, she laid her head upon his shoulder, and seemed
inclined to sleep. Soon she asked him to carry her to bed and unplait
her hair; then, winding her fingers in the Czar's, she said her evening
prayer; and when it came to "Amen" her virgin soul seemed to breathe
itself away upon the Czar's lips.
She was the sole being in the world he could call his own! Among his
forty millions of subjects she alone belonged exclusively to him.
The Czar of All the Russias found so many little things still to do for
his sick child. There was a cushion to be warmed to be placed at her
feet; orange-flower water to be prepared for her night drink. He pushed
a branch of consecrated palm under her pillow to chase away bad
dreams--he, a philosopher, believing in the efficacy of a consecrated
palm branch! But philosophy is nowhere by the sick-bed of one's child.
"Now, you go home," whispered Sophie; "Bethsaba is to sleep with me.
Good-night. I know I shall have no bad dreams."
"Lay your hand upon my head, that I, too, may sleep well. Good-night."
They called one another by no endearing names, though they knew that in
the whole wide world they had no one but each other.
It was past midnight when the Czar went back to his sledge--too early to
go home.
"Drive along Newski Prospect," said the Czar.
The coachman understood the command. Upon Newski Prospect there is a
two-storied house with "Severin" upon the door. Here the coachman drew
up. The windows of the first story were lighted. On ringing the bell,
men-servants with lamps promptly appeared, who led the great Czar to the
master of the house. Herr Severin was a simple paper-maker and printer,
carrying on his business with his sons and sons-in-law, who, with their
families, lived here with him. Upon great festivals it was the Czar's
custom to indulge himself for an hour or two with the sight of their
simple family life and joys--such joys as were denied to him. The tiny
children recite their verses to grandpapa, who rides them upon his knee;
converting them into generals by dint of paper hats and wooden swords.
The Czar has no such generals! Then five or six of them, forming into a
circle, dance round, and sing the story of the "Ashimashi Beggars," each
striking up in a different key. No such choir does the Czar possess! At
supper every dish is so well cleared out that it would be a puzzle to
say what it had contained. Such a feast the Czar cannot give! And supper
over, the favorite game of "Clock and Hammer" is brought out. They play
for high stakes--nuts; and the stakes are eaten while the game is
played. The Czar has no such national coin!
So he sits among them until the little ones, growing sleepy, are carried
off to bed by their nurses; first kissing everybody--even the Czar. No
such thing happens in the Winter Palace!
When that is all over, the distinguished guest has a long talk with the
old man over the good old times. He listens to all the joys and sorrows
of his host's every-day life. The samovar is emptied and filled again.
The Czar cannot tell what does him so much good--whether the tea, the
cakes, or the good old man's integrity--his honest, straightforward
spirit. No such tea does the Czar taste in his own house!
Without, on the snow-covered roads, gallop the escort of the guards,
while stealthy conspirators peer out from dark doorways, and look after
the six-horsed sledge, pistol and knife in hand.
The hunted stag knows nothing of all this!
None may tell whither he has wandered through the long hours of the
night, nor who it is that so persistently tracks him.