THE CZAR SMILES
Only as Pushkin reached home did he begin to meditate over what he had
done. He did not for a moment hesitate as to the consequences of his
rash act. A man only just permitted to return from exile in Bessarabia,
whither his hot head had banished him, and even then but received in
semi-favor at court, could not expect other from his recent scene with
the sacred person of the Censor than to be deported to some fortress on
the Volga, or to guard the Kirghis Pustas, where he would be forever
lost to sight and mind. He therefore set to work at once addressing
P.P.C. cards to his friends; on that to Zeneida he added, "pour jamais."
When once he received marching orders, there would be no time for such
things. The report of the assault had quickly made the round of the
town; such news is sure to spread quickly. Among his many friends there
was but one who found his way to him on hearing of it; that one was
Jakuskin.
"Well, friend, now you, too, will make acquaintance with the Caucasus.
You would do well to have your portrait taken at once, that after ten
years, when you come back, like me, you may at least know what you once
were like."
"I am prepared for anything," answered Pushkin, sealing the letter in
which he was returning the publisher Severin the two hundred rubles he
had received for his poem, not having obtained the Censor's permission
to publish. "But there is one thing I cannot understand. I have just
received from the Lord Chamberlain an invitation to the state concert
to-night. Now, what the devil does that mean?"
"What does it mean, my friend? That your punishment is to be carried out
with a refinement of cruelty! Had I not a similar experience? The very
night I had challenged that scoundrel, I, too, received an invitation to
a court ball. When the circle was formed round the Czar, the Lord
Chamberlain placed me among the guests to whom his Majesty desired to
speak. I was simple enough to feel elated at the distinction. My turn at
length came. The great man stood before me, letting me feel his colossal
height. Looking full at me with his cold, green eyes, his face as
immovable as a moonlit landscape, he asked, 'You are not satisfied with
your commanding officer?' And, taking my confusion for acquiescence,
added, 'We will provide against any such unpleasant friction in the
future.' And I stammered out something like thanks, never thinking that
this was only a planned humiliation for me, that every one standing
round about me knew already whither I was to be banished, and that the
honor of this imperial interview was merely intended to further
humiliate me. Oh, if I had but known it then! If it should again happen
that I-- Ah, fool that I am! Fate does not so repeat itself. But could I
pass on to you my imbittered heart, my experience, and my determination
at the moment in which you will be standing there, face to face with
'him,' apart from all, all eyes upon you, but every man's hand turned
away from you; no one near you but a devil! Casca's devil! But what am I
talking about! You are but an Epimetheus to whom wisdom only comes when
the opportunity is past. A pleasant journey to Tungusia; my respects to
the marmots! Come, let us shake hands. We are comrades now."
"Eh! fate does not repeat itself? How if the soup be not eaten as hot as
it is served?" asked Pushkin, simulating light-heartedness. But
Jakuskin's words had left a sting in his heart. Why had he received the
invitation to the palace that night?
There was no evading the command. His sledge was one among the many
formed in line before the gates of the Winter Palace that evening; the
guests numbered more than two thousand, the whole _élite_ of St.
Petersburg society was there.
At that time the Winter Palace, in its magnificence, tone of society,
its mode of paying compliments, and distinguished courtesy, threatened
to rival the Tuileries; even Parisian _bon-mots_ went the round. All
national characteristics had become decidedly bad form. Ladies no longer
wore the fur-lined _dolmanka_, the clasped girdles; the singular fashion
which had formerly prevailed of wearing gold watches in the hair had
been given up; feminine taste displayed itself in following the latest
Paris fashions, in which lace and artificial flowers were _de rigueur_.
The men wore uniforms. The Czarina was the sole exception to the
prevailing fashion; she continued to wear the out-spreading head-dress,
in form of a peacock tail, which made her tall figure seem even taller,
and lent still more majesty to her countenance. The Czar, on the other
hand, was wearing plain civilian evening dress, without ribbon or order
of any description.
Late as was Pushkin's entry among the gayly attired throng, he could not
fail to notice how greatly the tone of society had altered towards him
from the night before. People did not seem to see him. His superior
officers and others to whom he had been presented did not acknowledge
his salute. Intimate friends, comrades in arms, seemed suddenly
engrossed in conversation with their neighbors on his approach, to avoid
accosting him. Lovely women, who but yesterday had welcomed him to their
opera-boxes, spread out their fans before their faces as he neared them;
the heat suddenly became oppressive! One lady alone, clad in rich silks,
crossing the room on Prince Ghedimin's arm, vouchsafed him her
attention; she was the beautiful Princess Korynthia, Prince Ghedimin's
wife; her cold gray eyes measured the young officer from head to
foot--she who had so often laughed at his wit--while she deigned him no
other return to his salutation than a contemptuous curl of the lip, for
which he promptly revenged himself by turning and exchanging mischievous
smiles with the young girl at her side, Princess Bethsaba. Just then the
press before them brought Prince Ghedimin's party to a standstill, and
Pushkin saw the bright flush which had suffused the young Princess's
face under the fire of his eyes. Almost he felt inclined to say: "Nay,
fair rosebud, do not blush at my gaze. To-morrow I shall be speeding to
the land where your fathers sleep!"
The Prince and Princess were now received by Araktseieff, who conducted
the ladies to the arm-chairs reserved for them near the stage on which
the artistes were to appear. Ghedimin disappeared among the crowd of
brilliant uniforms; there were no seats for the men.
The concert began with a sonata of Beethoven, to which the Czar listened
absorbed, as he leaned over the back of the Czarina's chair, his tall
figure overtopping all others, his eyes fixed on vacancy. When it came
to the turn of the harpist his manner became animated. Hurrying across
to the performer, he led him on the stage, settled the music-stand for
him to the requisite height, and then, as his chair was too low, himself
fetched a cushion, oblivious for the moment that he was the Czar of all
the Russias. The harpist acquitted himself magnificently, fully bearing
out his world-wide fame. At the Czar's state concerts there is no
applause; but the murmurs of delight passing from mouth to mouth of a
crowded audience are a higher reward to the artist than the stormiest
applause.
After the harpist followed Fräulein Ilmarinen.
Every one said she had never sung the Swan's song so thrillingly and
exquisitely as on that evening; the tears sparkling in her eyes were as
real as the brilliants which flashed in her hair.
The Czar involuntarily was beating time to her song. Zeneida looked
lovelier than ever that night; her dress was covered with spring
flowers; her face was radiant. It could not be all art.
Three pair of eyes are fixed most untiringly upon her. The first are
those of Princess Korynthia. Filled with hate and contempt, they strive
to read into the singer's inmost soul; to detect some false look of
betrayal which shall expose the artiste in the part she is playing; and
the Princess inwardly rages that she does not find the clew.
The second pair of eyes are Bethsaba's. Her great dark eyes are staring
wide open at the charming apparition, as though to say, "Does the devil
look like that? Then, indeed, one must be on one's guard, for its
counterpart is very lovely!"
The third pair of eyes belong to Pushkin. He feels that the better part
of his soul is merged in that of the lovely woman before him; and that
soul, at this moment, is filled with bitterness against all those who
would banish him from her vicinity. He feels that in losing Zeneida he
loses all that is noblest within him, and that evil alone will remain.
Already it has gained the upper hand as he recalls Jakuskin's speech:
"Oh that I could infuse into you Casca's fiendish spirit, when you
stand, the mark of every eye, before 'him'!"
He feels himself touched on the shoulder. Looking back, he sees the Lord
Chamberlain. Speaking no word, the latter was lost in the crowd of men.
Pushkin knows what that touch on the shoulder means. It means that at
the close of the concert the person thus signalled out is to take his
place in the middle of the concert-room, as one of those to whom the
Czar designs to speak. Exactly as Jakuskin had prophesied! The blood
rushes wildly through his veins. The comedy may be turned into a
tragedy.
Princess Korynthia turns to Araktseieff, standing behind her chair.
"Fräulein Ilmarinen seems to be in particularly good spirits this
evening."
"I have done my best to spoil them. I have struck her heart a blow which
will stop her love of intrigue for a while."
"Let me be the first to enjoy your secret."
"The lady's hero, Pushkin, is about to be despatched to Uralsk."
"Do you think the girl will desert St. Petersburg and follow him?"
"Either that, or she will commit some greater folly. Anyway, it will
compel her to unmask."
The Czar, after thanking and praising Zeneida, now began to make the
round of the gentlemen; while the ladies to whom the Czarina desired to
speak were called up to her.
The Czar entered into conversation with some of the ambassadors,
exchanged a few words with Miloradovics; then, passing over a number of
the circle, looked about him, and, perceiving Pushkin, signed him to
approach.
All deferentially drew back. From the Czar and a culprit it is well to
keep one's distance. All the same, every eye was fixed on the two.
At this critical moment Pushkin felt himself singularly calm. He stood,
in fact, as cold bloodedly before his imperial master as he would have
done before any ordinary man.
"So I hear you are not satisfied with your Censor?" asked the Czar.
The very form of question he had addressed to Jakuskin!
But Pushkin had a guardian angel--his Muse--who did not suffer him to
remain silent and abashed.
"As satisfied as one is with an illness, sire."
"Do not bear him a grudge. He is a well-meaning man, but with certain
old-fashioned notions. That is not his fault. I have read your poem; it
is very fine. The Censor had struck out some portions; but that you did
not allow?"
"No, sire."
"And do not allow their suppression?"
"No, sire."
"You are right. They are the best passages in the whole poem. But what
are we to do about it? I cannot go against the Censor; for were I to
permit what he forbids, the whole institution would be overturned; and
it is a necessary one. What do you think?"
"Sire, I will take back my poem and burn it."
"No, no. I think we will send it to Leipsic, have it printed there, and
then import it."
"And the frontier custom-house, sire?" asked Pushkin.
The Czar smiled; nay, he laughed--he laughed aloud.
"We will have it packed in among my own personal things, which are not
examined in the customs. Thus will we bring the poem into the country."
Pushkin trembled in every limb, like a schoolboy who has undergone an
examination.
"Stay a moment!" exclaimed the Czar. "It will be more profitable to your
poetical studies were you to prosecute them in the country. It will be
better for you to pass the summer on your estate of Pleskow. You will
find you can write better there."
That meant the restoration of his confiscated estate. Moved to tears,
Pushkin's voice failed.
"Tell no one of what has passed between us. I do not wish it spread
abroad."
"Only to one woman, sire, whose silence is as perfect as is her
singing."
"She knows it already," returned the Czar, with a smile. He had smiled
twice.
How instantly the brightness of that smile had changed the temperature!
How immediately the ice and snow in it had thawed! As Pushkin rejoined
the circle he was greeted on all sides by friendly faces beaming with
congratulation. Distinguished court ladies shut up their fans; they no
longer felt the heat. Pushkin could not but respond to the crowd who
claimed acquaintance. He was wise enough to tell every one that the Czar
had restored his Pleskow estates to him on condition that he gave up
writing poetry, which raised him at once on a pinnacle. For be it known,
not to write poetry at all is a negative merit; to write bad poetry and
give it up is some slight merit; to write good poetry, and yet give it
up, is a positive and great merit--in high society.
Even Princess Korynthia had the hero of the hour called up to her in
order to ask him why he had not recognized her just now. Women alone are
capable of such a piece of audacity, and men are obliged to take it from
them.
Pushkin and the Princess conversed pleasantly for some little time, and
he was introduced to Bethsaba, to whom he said many foolish things.
One woman only, Zeneida, he had no courage to approach. With the
divination of a true poet, he felt that she was the only creditor in all
the world from whom he must keep aloof; for that which he owed to that
creditor he was unable to pay.
Nor had he any news to impart. Had not the Czar said, "She knows it
already"?
* * * * *
The Czar had smiled. The smile had lightened all hearts. The melancholy
feeling of monotony which was weighing over society was at once
dispelled. But it was but an autumnal ray--a ray of evening sunshine on
a rainy day.
But he to whom this turn of things brought no content was Araktseieff.
Pleskow is not the end of the world! If Pushkin went no further than
that, Fräulein Ilmarinen's intrigues would suffer no reverse. They could
meet as often as they wished. He could not understand how it had all
come about. That the Czar favored Fräulein Ilmarinen he well knew; and
that Zeneida had been working to save her beloved poet, that, too, he
knew. But this was not sufficient to have put the Czar in the very
opposite frame of mind from that which he, the all-powerful favorite,
had striven to bring about. Some other hand must have been at work here.
Now among those whom the unaccustomed ray of sunlight had moved to creep
out of their dark corners was young Araktseieff.
Forgetting his father's advice to keep well in the shade, and not
thinking that the sparkling order on his breast was a borrowed one, and
that its owner was among the party there assembled, he suffered himself
to be enticed to the front, and joined the set of young men who were
paying court to the ladies.
Suddenly he became aware that the Czar was bearing down upon him.
He was about to make way respectfully for his Majesty, but the Czar,
going directly up to him, said:
"What fine diamonds those are you are wearing, Araktseieff!"
He who was thus addressed replied, with audacious humility:
"Sire, I wear them by your Majesty's favor."
"Remarkable!" exclaimed the Czar. "Those brilliants are the very
counterpart of the ones in my Vladimir star."
Junker Jevgen began to think that cheek alone would carry him through
here.
"Sire, some diamonds resemble each other wonderfully."
"And yet I am inclined to think that the star you are wearing is mine,
and that in my pocket I happen to have a Vladimir order bearing your
name on the ribbon."
"Mercy, sire!" implored Jevgen, with shaking knees.
"Silence! You surely would not implore mercy here before the whole
court. Go to your quarters. Keep the order you are wearing; I wear it no
more, since it has been worn by you. Away with you!"
"A bad adviser led me on, sire." The young nobleman was ready to betray
his father.
"I do not ask who advised you. Go to-morrow morning to your father.
There you will learn what is in store for you."
After this scene the Czar abruptly left the concert-room and withdrew to
his own apartments, the former icy expression on his face. He did not
even return the greetings of the surrounding guests.
Araktseieff, who had watched the scene from a distance, followed the
Czar. He was not admitted, but commanded to await his Imperial Majesty's
pleasure, and the all-powerful favorite awaited it until two in the
morning.
Then the Czar entered the audience-chamber, carrying a roll of papers in
his hand.
"What say you, Alexis Maximovitch," said he to his favorite. "Was it not
a good idea of mine to institute the _posta sofianskaja_?"
"Without doubt, sire. It has given the people opportunity to bring their
needs and wishes directly, in written form, before the Czar."
"One learns interesting things through it at times. This morning, for
example, I received a letter from a gypsy girl containing a Vladimir
order set with diamonds. The letter graphically recounted the manner in
which the said order had fallen into the girl's hands. Here, read it."
Araktseieff was never so near to swooning as when he had come to the end
of the letter. It was a cruel, bitter blow to his heart; he was cut to
the quick in his paternal love. He had wanted to strike a blow at that
woman's heart, and it had rebounded on his own in its most vulnerable
place. That this was all Zeneida's doing there was no manner of doubt.
Araktseieff was to be disgraced before the Czar. She meant to bring upon
him what he had intended for her.
But she should find herself mistaken.
Refolding the letter, he said, coldly and calmly:
"The criminal must suffer."
"Will it be punishment enough if he be sent to Uralsk?"
To Uralsk! That meant never to see him more! He, the well-loved only
son, the arch-rogue for whom he lived, for whom he gathered up treasure,
through whom he trusted to make his name live to posterity; he to be
buried in a rocky fortress of the Kirghis steppes! But if it had been
good enough for Pushkin, who had resisted the extinction of his poetic
fervor, why not good enough for a soldier who by nights made burglarious
onslaughts on the passers-by? And yet he would so gladly save him! After
all, it was no crime, only a foolhardy scrape, such as had taken place
in the days of old chivalry, and even been practised by King Henry of
England himself when he was yet Prince of Wales. Foolhardiness, but no
crime! He suppressed the defence, however, feeling that although the
Czar might perhaps pardon his son at his intercession, such pardon would
mean the end of the father's influence. His enemies should find
themselves mistaken if they reckoned upon that.
"He was my only son," he said, sobbing. "I loved him above all the
world, but I love the Czar better than my only son. He must suffer if he
has sinned." And he prepared the ukase condemning his son to banishment
in Uralsk, then kissed the Czar's hand.
Araktseieff parted from his son without saying farewell to him. He must
carry out the part of Brutus consistently, that his enemies might
recognize the ancient Roman and tremble. But the Roman in him had a
strong admixture of the Sarmatic. Like Foscari, he could sign with his
own hand his only son's banishment; but not because he made no
distinction, but out of the genuine love of a Russian subject towards
his ruler, and, by making his powerful position still more powerful, to
be able to pay back to his enemies the cruel vengeance they had wreaked
on him.
To this he made preparation. No single one should be exempt.
On the very day his son set out on the road from which so few ever
return, Magriczki came to him with the intelligence that the police had
arrested Diabolka. What should be her penalty? Should he have her
knouted in the open market-place, or with slit ears and nose be
transported to Lake Baikal? There was cause sufficient. Her vagabond
life, her immoral habits, could be brought up against her--moreover, a
gypsy girl! Was not the dark skin crime enough?
"Bring her to me," said Araktseieff. "You, none of you yet know how to
punish. This is a wild animal who only feels the smart of the lash while
it is upon her. It were no shame to such as her to be beaten half naked
in the market-place; she is brazen enough to laugh while the punishment
is being inflicted. Of what use is punishment to her yet? First that
sense must be awakened in her, latent in every human being, but
slumbering yet--the sense of self-respect. Then we can inflict the
penalty when something more than her outer skin will feel it. Send the
girl in."
And soon Diabolka was standing before Araktseieff, both hands chained
to her back, her unkempt hair about her saucy face, her eyes gleaming
wildly through it. Her feet, too, were chained.
"So you are Diabolka, the street dancer?" asked the President of Police.
"Of course. Don't you hear my castanets?" answered the girl, striking
her feet together, and making the chains clash.
"And do you know who I am?"
"Of course. The father of a street thief."
"You are right! My son is an offender; he has paid the penalty. I myself
signed his sentence. Was it you who informed against him?"
"I might deny it if I chose, but I do not."
"Was it you who wrote the letter to the Czar?"
"Though I cannot write, yet it was I who wrote it."
"Then somebody guided your hand, and you wrote down the characters?"
"But you shall never know the name of that 'somebody.'"
"Were you aware what your hand was putting to paper?"
"I was."
"Then you must have been aware that not alone he whom you denounced was
lost, but also you yourself, for having stolen a Vladimir order."
"But I have returned it."
"None the less, you are a thief, and must be sent to the pillory."
"Women of higher rank than mine have stood there already."
"Your shoulders will be branded with hot iron."
"My dark skin marks me already as a gypsy. I am bad from head to foot."
"Come, I don't believe that. This very day, through you, I have forever
lost my only son. All night long until the sun rose I was tossing in an
agony of sobs on my bed. In the early morning I went into the chapel,
and there, before my Maker, I swore an oath that I would free the
unhappy creature who had been my son's undoing, body and soul. At least,
I will loose your outer chains."
"No need to trouble the jailer for that. If I choose and you allow, I
can be rid of them myself."
The gypsy girl had extraordinarily little hands. Easily, as if she were
drawing off a glove, she drew out her hands from the fetters; and as
simply, without even sitting down, freed her feet. Lifting one foot in
the air, she balanced herself on the other, and, in a second, stood
unfettered. So she stood before Araktseieff, holding one end of her
chain in her hand, looking capable of laying about her with the other
end on the head of any one who came near her; and that person would have
remembered the attention to his dying day.
The keeper was alone in the cage with the unchained leopard.
"Listen to what I will do with you!"
The leopard took an attitude as if about to spring.
And this time Araktseieff was not, as usual, prodding about with his
sword-stick. He had no weapon of any description near to hand.
"I will find you a respectable situation, where you can both live
quietly and honestly, and educate yourself, mind and body--where, in
fact, you can improve yourself."
"But I don't want it. I want neither a cloister, nor praying nuns, nor
hypocritical monks. I will not work, unless I am beaten and made to; and
even if I am beaten, I won't pray."
"You shall not be forced to anything of that kind. I will send you
neither to a cloister, nor to a reformatory, but into the country. I
have a castle on my estate where a dear friend of mine is living."
There was a sudden sparkle in the girl's eyes. Throwing away the
threatening chain, and shaking back the loose hair with sudden movement
from her brow, she looked with joyful smile at the President of Police.
"Ah! you would send me to Daimona?"
"Yes; to Daimona."
Ah! stern Cato Censorius then had yet one tender chord in his heart, one
far more tender even than that which had been wrung by the banishment of
his son!
There was much talk about Daimona, but not in her favor; and what was
said of her was but a shadow of truth--the woman whom the favorite of
the Czar worshipped more than all the saints in heaven or earth! It was
with her he spent every moment he could snatch from affairs of state.
She was the sun of his life--at once his tyrant and his happiness. She
was a woman so savage, so cruel and passionate, that none but an
Araktseieff could have loved her. Or was it just for that that he did
love her? Every one who wished to appeal to Araktseieff, or hoped to
escape his vengeance, must first sue to his idol and offer his sacrifice
at her feet; and costly sacrifices they must be--no make-believes.
Daimona's extortions were renowned throughout the breadth of the empire.
Diabolka's pearly teeth glistened white through her coral lips.
"So you would like to go to Daimona?" asked the great official.
"Why not? She is a woman after my own heart."
"I am not sending you to her to be her servant, but to be her friend."
"Oh, we shall soon be very friendly!"
"She feels lonely; and you will know how to amuse her."
"I will divine her thoughts."
"If she takes a fancy to you, you will be happy with her. She will give
you smart clothes, trinkets, and riding-horses."
"And a whip to scourge the slaves with."
"And if you get on well, and become a _young lady_, Daimona will find
you a husband."
At these words the girl's face darkened. Shaking her head energetically,
till the dishevelled hair fell over it again, she struck her thigh
vehemently as she exclaimed, with a stamp of her foot:
"Then I will not go!"
A malicious smile curled Araktseieff's lips. Then he continued, in a
paternal tone:
"I understand. You have a lover here among the gypsies."
"A 'brother'!" exclaimed the girl.
"Oh, a 'brother'! Gypsies are prudish; they only have 'brothers.' And
suppose I were to send your brother, too, to Daimona's castle? He might
make a good overseer of slaves."
"Would that be possible?" cried Diabolka, joyously.
"It shall be done. I will send you together to Daimona, and you shall
become her confidential people."
Diabolka fell at the feet of the dreaded President and kissed them,
while Araktseieff, with Christian mildness, stroked the gypsy's unkempt
hair. And at the moment of this scene of foot-kissing and hair-stroking
the hearts of both were filled with thoughts of direst vengeance. In
the inexperienced girl's soul a scheme of as wide-spreading a nature was
developing against Araktseieff as he was evolving to the torture of the
girl, while she was as deft at lying, dissembling, and hiding her
feelings as was the statesman. It is the advantage alike of savages and
diplomats.
Which would triumph?
Diabolka and her "brother" set off that very day for Araktseieff's
estates, where Daimona was already expecting them.