UNDER THE PALMS
Without, ten degrees of cold, raging storm, flood, devastation, misery,
revolution, scenes of horror. The palms knew nothing of all this. Upon
the great, high elevation, under its glazed roof, reigned perpetual
spring, where huge lamps with ground-glass globes replaced sunshine.
And the tropical world suffered itself to be deceived. King-ferns,
brought hither from the East, forgot that they were not growing in their
native soil, and that they were putting forward leaves, never blossoms.
The soil beneath them was heated with hot-air pipes and enriched by
artificial aid.
And in this artificial garden of the tropics children were playing who
had forgotten that their fathers and mothers were far away, perhaps not
even caring. Here they neither got blows nor were hungry; but danced
round the "mulberry-bush" and sang. Two beautiful young ladies--wards of
the Queen of the Fairies--looked after them, just as in fairy tales.
Bethsaba had now a real true fairy tale to tell of her miraculous rescue
from the terrible dangers; the sudden appearance of the handsome knight
in her extremity, how his beautiful eyes, his look of daring, his heroic
stature--
Sophie grew quite anxious to see him.
"You will soon see him, he is sure to come, he promised me he would.
Still it does seem to be a long time before he keeps his word!"
"He is not, on any account, to know who I am," said Sophie. "It is to be
kept secret here. Our hostess wishes it."
"Then we will only call you Sophie."
"It is singular that we three have only one Christian name; neither you,
nor I, nor Zeneida bear our mother's names in addition, as is usual
among us. I cannot understand it."
"Nor I."
"Here he comes!"
"How do you know?"
"I know his footstep."
And, in truth, he came. Zeneida brought him in, more wet and muddy than
the time before. His hair dishevelled; his face reddened by the cold
wind. Withal, so handsome!
Bethsaba had told Sophie that here, too, a conspiracy was on foot; but
that "he" was not in it. Who else, then? Sophie only believes what she
sees.
"Come, come, Pushkin!" exclaimed Zeneida, with strangely radiant look.
"Relate again, fully, what you have already told me."
And Pushkin recounted all that had happened at the Winter Palace, of
which he had been an eye-witness, with the enthusiasm of a poet inspired
by the catastrophe.
The second girl was a stranger to him. Had he known who she was he would
not have described with such poetic warmth the stirring scene when the
Czar stood bareheaded, the storm raging round him, menaced alike by the
fury of people and the fast-approaching vessel.
She listened tremblingly to his recital, drinking in his every word with
feverish anxiety, the varying expression of his face reflected in hers;
her lips seeming mutely to repeat what he was saying. Shudderingly she
hid her face when the ship collided with the palace! She felt the force
of the shock, and staggered under it.
When Pushkin went on to tell about the dove--her dove--how it descended
on to the shoulders of her father, the Czar, with what joy the august
ruler had raised his hands to heaven, and how with one voice the hymn of
praise had burst forth from the lips of the rebellious people, the poor,
overwrought girl's nerves could endure no more; with a cry of joy she
threw herself into Bethsaba's arms, laughing and crying hysterically.
Pushkin, attributing her excitement to the power of his poetic
delineation, was not a little proud of his success.
"But is all danger over now?" faltered Sophie, venturing to raise her
tearful eyes to the young man's face.
He, not understanding the question, answered:
"The danger is not over yet, although the storm is certainly lessening,
and, once lulled, the Neva will return to its bed; but until then much
damage may yet ensue."
"It was not that I meant; but if he is still in any danger--he, the
Czar!"
Pushkin was amazed. What interest could this girl, Bethsaba's friend,
feel in the Czar?
"Danger at the hand of man cannot assail him, for Araktseieff has taken
the most stringent measures for his protection. All those who were given
shelter in the Winter Palace are being transferred to the Admiralty.
Nay; at such a time his very foes, even had he any, would be the first
to protect him."
"How can that be?" she asked, and waited for Pushkin's answer with the
devout attention with which, in former times, the answers of the Oracle
were received.
A secret instinct told Pushkin that he must answer in all sincerity.
"Because the feeling of 'humanity' is stronger than that of 'love of
freedom.' It protects alike the serf when persecuted by the Czar, and
the Czar when persecuted by the serf!"
The two girls heaved a deep sigh of relief into the air, weighted with
these significant words.
"You are laying cruel waste in these two hearts," whispered Zeneida in
Pushkin's ear. "You had better go back to your work."
"And you have not brought me the presents you promised?" asked Bethsaba,
sorrowfully.
"I had not forgotten them; but from early morning we were busy trying to
make fast the wreck; there must have been some one on board cutting
through our ropes as fast as we threw them. And so I had no time to
think of saving little children."
"When next you make a promise do not forget it," returned she, in tone
of aggrieved reproach.
Pushkin could not understand her. Why that tone? How should he
understand it? He promised to come again that evening to bring her good
news, and something besides.
Neither she nor Zeneida had told him who the other girl was. Zeneida now
took both girls into her boudoir. The time was approaching when she
would be receiving many visitors whom it was not expedient for them to
see.
The catastrophe offered favorable opportunity to the "Szojusz
Blagadenztoiga" to hold uninterrupted sittings. There was to be a
meeting of "the green book" to-day.
The two girls managed to find a "green book" for themselves. They
searched about in Zeneida's boudoir until they found Pushkin's poem,
_The Gypsy Girl_. This, of course, they had not read before; for,
according to the dictum of "good" society in Russia, a well-bred girl up
to her fifteenth year may indeed see, but not read, romances. Moreover,
that poem was not to be had in print, only manuscript. Alexander Pushkin
had created quite a distinct calling which had never existed before,
that of transcriber. In every town were men who made a livelihood by
copying out Pushkin's verses, sold, despite the Censor, by the
booksellers. (There are still many houses in which only written copies
of the works of the Russian poet Petösy are to be found.)
The two girls now eagerly snatched at the forbidden fruit. First
Bethsaba read it to Sophie; then Sophie to Bethsaba. The third time they
read it together as a duet.
Then they conferred the name of its hero, "Aleko," upon the author. And
when they wanted to speak of him called him only "Aleko." And it
fitted--only the other way about. Aleko had wandered among the gypsies
(gypsy, poet, or bohemian being synonymous); this gypsy or poet had
wandered among princesses. That evening Herr Aleko came, bringing
cheering news. The storm had subsided, and the water had fallen a span;
although it must be some time before it resumed its proper level, for it
stretched away eight versts on either bank.
("Oh that it may last ever so long!" beat the heart of each maiden,
secretly.)
He had, moreover, brought something for Bethsaba--a little doll, such as
he had promised her, but not a little muddy doll in rags, but a lovely,
gayly dressed, sweet little doll, made of sugar. There were no others to
be had; all the others had melted. Pushkin expected the girl to laugh at
his offering; but she took the matter seriously, accepted it with
greatest solemnity, placed it in her bosom, and it was evident that she
was not sorry to see Sophie just a tiny bit jealous of her. Pushkin was
not slow to see that he must be careful, so he sought in his pockets
until he found something worth offering.
"See, fair Sophie"--he did not know her other name--"I have something
for you, too. You showed a special interest in the Czar this morning.
Here is a piece of copper from the vessel that ran into the Winter
Palace."
Thankfully it was received. The platinum mines of the Ural had never
produced so precious a piece of ore.
"He can be no conspirator," whispered Sophie to Bethsaba.
"Decidedly not," whispered Bethsaba back.
"The storm has quite gone down," said Zeneida. "The bells have left off
ringing. This will be a quieter night than those we have been having of
late. Good-night, Pushkin. If you do not hurry you will find your boat
running aground."
The girls would not have minded if the water had not gone down so fast.
Zeneida despatched Pushkin home, and the girls to their beds. She was
responsible for their good health.
But it was long before they could settle to sleep. They had so much to
say about Aleko. They had made up quite a different ending to the poem
than the real one: the gypsy girl was not to have been faithless, but if
she were, Aleko should have despised her and have found a more faithful
love. The gypsy girl should have implored his pardon on her knees, and
he should have forgiven her, but not have driven her away from him. In a
word, they made Aleko what they fain would have had him to be.
Zeneida, who slept in the next room, several times admonished them to go
to sleep. Then they would be quiet as mice, the next moment to begin
whispering again. At last her regular breathing proved Sophie, at least,
to have fallen asleep. Bethsaba could not sleep; her heart beat so
violently that, despite the prayers she said, midnight found her still
awake. Suddenly it seemed to her as if the occupant of the next room had
risen, and with light footsteps had gone out into the room beyond. The
night was still. Neither sound of carriage-wheels nor patrol disturbed
the quiet of the inundated streets. From a distant apartment rose a
psalm, sung in a woman's voice, low and sorrowful:
"In every hour of grief and pain,
To Thee for help I crave;
O Thou to whom none cry in vain,
Be present now to save."
Who was singing at that late hour? What grief could oppress her in this
house? Bethsaba drew the bedclothes over her head to quiet her
trembling.
* * * * *
Three days longer the two girls spent under Zeneida's protecting
care--that is, it was not until then that Princess Ghedimin ventured to
return from Peterhof, or that the slime-covered ground-floor and cellars
of the little dwelling in Petrovsky Garden could be cleansed and
thoroughly aired by old Helenka. The girls meanwhile were living Elysian
days. When Zeneida told them that they could now go to their homes,
Bethsaba sighed:
"When I came here I thought I was coming to the infernal regions; now I
feel as if I were being turned out of Paradise!"
They saw Pushkin daily, had talks with him, and delighted in the great,
noble soul which lay like an open book before them. Even earthly joys
have their revelations, awaking super-earthly joy when they cease to be
felt in secret. When the girls were alone Aleko was the sole subject of
their talk. Bethsaba thought she must love Sophie the more for holding
Aleko in such high esteem; yet she had not, even yet, breathed a word to
her friend of her love for him. At first, she had thought, it would be
an easy thing to tell. But the secret of a first love is refractory; it
will not come forth from its concealment. She delayed her confession;
guarding her secret like some hidden treasure; dissembled her love for
him, or, at least, learned to belie her feelings that she might not
betray the happiness that took possession of her at sight of him. Her
blushes she ascribed to headache, though, in reality, her head was
innocent of any such discomfort.
But at the moment of parting the confession must be made. She would
whisper it to her friend in few words, then run away.
When their sedan-chairs actually arrived--no carriages could yet be
used--the two friends could scarce make up their minds to part. They had
ever fresh confidences to whisper to each other; they wept and laughed,
and quarrelled for the sake of making it up again. They talked together
in a language which they two only understood; they promised to meet
again very soon; they gave each other the parting kiss, then began to
chatter again. Zeneida watched them attentively.
At length the declaration must come. With the last, very last, kiss the
bomb must burst.
"I love Aleko--until death."
This Sophie whispered into Bethsaba's ear, then ran away.
Zeneida saw the rosy glow suffusing the cheeks of the departing girl and
the deathly pallor overspreading those of her who remained, as though
the one had stolen the life-glow from the other. Bethsaba stood where
she had left her, white, motionless, with sunken head, and arms hanging
lifeless at her side.
Zeneida at once divined the secret. She went up to her, but hardly had
she taken the girl's hands in hers when, falling before her, bitterly
weeping, the poor child hid her face in Zeneida's dress.
"Oh, why did you bring me here?"
Zeneida raised her.
"Stand up. Do not cry. He will be yours."
"What! I take him from her?"
"Humph! Were it only 'her' you had to take him from-- But do not be
troubled. Love him; you alone deserve his love."
The poor child shook her head sorrowfully. Now she understood the
meaning of "love," and with it what "jealousy" and "resignation" meant.