THE WILL
That day Pushkin felt as heavy-hearted as if he had not only all the
sins of the world, but the national debts of all Europe, upon his
shoulders. Was it one of those presentiments to which the race of poets,
whose stock-in-trade is nerves, are so sensitive? Nothing gave him any
pleasure. He went to Zeneida, to formally announce his approaching
marriage to her. She had long been informed of it, for she possessed a
splendid service of secret police.
Zeneida replied, with cold, stoical irony:
"I still do not believe that the Czar's daughter _will marry you_."
"Probably not; for _I_ intend to marry the Czar's daughter!"
"Is Princess Ghedimin informed of it?"
"I have announced it to her."
"Then nothing will come of it."
"It has nothing in the world to do with her."
"I prophesy it. Else why am I the pythoness? Does Prince Ghedimin know
of it?"
"Prince Ghedimin! _Mille tonnerres!_ Am I to go to the Prince, too, to
ask for Sophie's hand? He, at any rate, is out of it."
"Not on account of your wooing, my friend, but that the Prince may erase
your name from 'the green book.' You will doubtless see that the name of
the son-in-law of the Czar can hardly adorn--I will not say blacken--its
pages."
"By Jove! you are right. I had not thought of that."
With heavier heart than he had come, Pushkin left her.
Zeneida's villa was on the Kreskowsky Island, thus some distance from
Sophie's home, which lay embowered in orange groves. From afar the
light-green roof was visible, standing out from amidst the pines. Every
evening a white flag was to be seen floating from the flagstaff, hoisted
by Sophie herself, as a signal that she was expecting him. Sometimes she
would come down to the shore to meet him, her white-clad figure greeting
him when he was yet a long way off.
Now neither white flag nor white-clad maiden was visible. He hastened on
impatiently. Usually, as his boat approached the landing-stage, another,
in which sat Bethsaba, would row away. The Circassian Princess never
awaited Pushkin; they only exchanged greetings from a distance. Now he
perceived a gondola, painted in the Ghedimin family colors, still
chained to the landing-stage, the boatmen stretched on benches fast
asleep.
Without waiting for his boat to reach the land, Pushkin sprang ashore
and ran towards the house.
On either side of the path Sophie's beloved roses were blooming; the
ground was covered with their fallen leaves.
"What can have happened," thought Pushkin, "that your guardian angel has
not been gathering up your leaves this evening?"
"Go in-doors; you will soon know the reason," answered the roses.
He found no one upon the veranda. He opened the familiar tapestried door
leading into Sophie's private apartments. There he learned why the rose
leaves had not been gathered in that day.
Sophie lay upon her bed, white as death. Yesterday's soft bloom had all
fled from her cheeks; they were almost transparent. The anguish she had
undergone had left a transfigured expression upon her face. She was
clasping Bethsaba's hand, who sat by her bedside, their fingers
interlaced, in prayer.
Pushkin advanced cautiously, concealing his alarm. It is not well to let
invalids see that their appearance inspires anxiety.
"What is this? Are you not well?"
"No, Aleko; I am dying. Do not be startled; it is past now. I have
wrestled through it. You, too, will live through it."
"Oh, do not speak so, my love!" stammered Pushkin, kneeling by the bed,
and covering the girl's white face with kisses. "It is but some slight
feeling of illness that will pass off, as so often before. I will go and
fetch the doctor."
"You will go nowhere! You will stay, when I tell you to. Do not oblige
me to talk loudly, but obey. Think, were you to go and alarm Wylie with
the news that I am on my death-bed, he would at once inform the Czar.
The Czar just now is engaged upon a great work for the good of the
country; he is arming for war. Millions depend upon his decisions for
freedom, and a happier future in store. For this he needs all his
powers. My father loves me so dearly, and depends so entirely upon me,
that the news of this illness will completely unman him, and render him
unable to carry on the work he has in hand; the thought of his dying
daughter would deprive him of all energy and power. Is it not strange?
In my lifetime scarce a dozen people have known of my existence; in my
death shall millions upon millions curse the day of my birth and my
death! So, I implore you, do not disquiet the Czar with the news of my
extremity."
With passionate vehemence Pushkin answered:
"What matter to me Hellas and the Russian Constitution, now that you are
ill? I must save you!"
The reason which led Pushkin to this imbittered exclamation was
characteristic of the times. Elsewhere, and at any other era, a lover,
under similar circumstances, would have said, "Very well; I will not go
to the Czar's physician, but to the first skilful doctor whom we can
trust not to publish your illness, and he shall cure you." But at that
period no one thought of going to a Russian doctor who did not want to
hasten his death. Rather would they go to a quack, or trust to household
remedies, than confide themselves to a St. Petersburg doctor. It was the
surest way to court death. People only sent to apothecaries for
rat-powder; indeed, under Czar Alexander, Russian subjects were
forbidden to be apothecaries; Germans only were allowed. A Russian
mistrusted his countryman; he held him capable of giving a sick man--in
the interest of his enemies--poison instead of remedies. The aristocracy
would only be attended by the Czar's and Czarina's physicians. In their
absence, it was no use for any one to be ill.
"I have begged you not to excite me! In vain would you bring me all the
Galens in the world, with their potions; I would take none of them. I
will drink no more of that odious physic that tastes of bitter almonds.
I must die! Do you understand? I _must_. My death is necessary,
irremediable. Not because I am ill, but because I am condemned to die.
And it is right that it should be so!"
Pushkin, unable to solve this riddle, looked inquiringly at Bethsaba,
who, at this, made a movement to go. But Sophie held her back.
"Stay! I want you both. Pushkin, be a man--a brave, strong man! Are you
a child, that you are trembling so? Grant me what I ask. I am going to
make my will. Draw the writing-table up to my bed, light two candles,
and place the crucifix between them; but first close the shutters and
make it night! Oh, these terrible summer nights in St. Petersburg, with
their endless gathering dusk--it seems as if night would never come and
day would never cease! It is such an oppression! Ah, I feel calmer now
that it is dark. Now come and sit down by me and write; or would you
rather lay the portfolio on my bed and write kneeling? So you shall,
then. And you, Bethsaba, kneel beside him. Attend to what I say, and
write: 'Surrendering my soul to God, my ashes to earth, I, Sophie
Narishkin, bequeath, on my death, all my worldly goods to my only friend
the Circassian Princess, Bethsaba Dilarianoff. The only two things I
desire to have buried with me are the little piece of lead which I have
ever worn upon my heart, and, under my head, the little green silk
cushion filled with rose-leaves, on which I shall rest peacefully.'
What! cannot you see the letters that you are writing all across the
paper? Pushkin, what a baby you are! Write further: 'To my one and only
friend I bequeath the greatest treasure I have in the world--my Aleko
Pushkin!'"
At these words Bethsaba would have started up, but Sophie would not
allow it. Twining one arm round her neck, the other round Pushkin's, she
pressed their cheeks together.
"Am I not to be allowed to dispose of my treasure as I like in my will?
Do you think, then, that I do not know how dearly you love him? Before I
confessed to you my love for him, his praises were forever in your
mouth; since then you have never once mentioned his name. Do you think I
did not know why you always hurried away when he came? Your cheeks used
to be so rosy, and you so merry and full of fun. Now they are white, and
you are so sad and lifeless. Do you think I have not divined your grief?
You love him, as I do. Do not conceal it any longer. Tell the truth. Do
not have any secrets longer from a dying girl, who to-morrow will be a
spirit, knowing all that is in your spirit. Do not wait for my
disembodied soul to come nightly to disquiet you, asking, as a spectre,
the answer to the question you refused me in life. Confess that you love
Aleko!"
As she heard these words Bethsaba's heart felt nigh to bursting, and
with open lips and upturned eyes she fell unconscious to the ground.
"Lift her up and lay her by me on the bed," said Sophie, tranquilly.
"Now you have two dead brides to choose between. Only one will wake to
life again, for she has not been killed. You can have no doubt now but
that she loves you. Leave her unconscious. It is better that she does
not hear what I have to say to you. But you keep every word in your
heart of hearts and do as I bid you, for you know that girls who die
during their betrothal change into spirits whom it is not good to anger.
So listen. You are not to leave Bethsaba's side again. I know why I say
this. If you let her go home, she will never look on God's free heaven
again; she will be confined for life in St. Katherine's Convent."
Now Pushkin began to divine what had happened.
At the mention of St. Katherine's Convent, in Moscow, there flashed
across him all the scandalous adventures he had heard the officers of
the guards boast of at their mess dinners, outdoing even the scandals of
Paris life. The convent had a reputation only equalled by the very worst
convents of Montmartre. Young lieutenants wore the rosaries of the nuns
of St. Katherine's as bracelets, and only that year a terrible case had
happened which had been hushed up by the authorities. The last
descendant of a noble family had disappeared suddenly from society in
Moscow, and after a month of vain searching his body was discovered cut
to pieces in one of the wells at St. Katherine's. And thither her
godmother intends to send Bethsaba, where not only her happiness for
this world, but for the next, is to be lost forever. And Princess
Ghedimin was thoroughly capable of it.
"So, no indecision, no sentiment," continued Sophie. "On the day of my
death you must marry Bethsaba; if not, she is lost. True, the world will
say, 'The scoundrel! the very day he closed the coffin on his betrothed
he could open his heart to another.' But you will be in possession of my
will, dictated to you by me, and signed with my shaking hand; lay it
upon your heart, and it will give you peace. And if your conscience
acquits you, what matters the judgment of the world? Be daring! The
Patriarch of Solowetshk will be waiting in the Czar Peter's castle on
Petrovsky Island. He is charged to marry a young girl to an officer in
the guards without previous publication of banns. He does not know them
or their names. Two witnesses will be necessary; I have provided for
that. Zeneida can be one, Helenka's husband, old Ihnasko, the other;
both are trusty friends. And while the one gondola, to the voices of the
chanting choristers, glides gently along with my flower-bedecked coffin
to the lovely willow-shaded vault on this bank of the Neva, you in the
other gondola will be rowing across to the other bank of the Neva to
catch your troika, which will be in waiting. And now, God be with you!"
Pushkin paced the room in wildest excitement, tearing his dishevelled
hair.
Sophie, meanwhile, set about restoring her friend to consciousness, and,
unfastening her bodice, sprinkled her face with water. Dying, she still
thought of others.
At length Bethsaba began to revive; but as she opened her eyes she
buried her face in the cushions.
"I have arranged everything with Aleko," said the dying girl, in a low,
contented voice. "You have only to do exactly what he tells you. I leave
you my pink dress and the platinum diadem. You will soon know when you
are to wear them. Why, Pushkin, how can you be so useless? Why have you
not written it all down in my will? Now, do not forget the pink
wedding-dress and platinum diadem. Old Helenka, too, I bequeath to you;
she has always been a good, faithful nurse to me. You may trust her
through thick and thin. Now, Aleko, give Bethsaba pen and paper. She
must write to tell the Princess not to expect her, as she is not coming
back at present. Now write, dear one: 'Your Highness, my honored
godmother,--Sophie is ill and in sore need of my care. I must stay here
until the Lord take pity upon her. Your godchild, Bethsaba.' Now, dear
Aleko, send off this note to the Princess, that she may not be uneasy.
And as soon as you are ready give me my will, that I may sign it."
Sophie read it through.
"How many blots there are!" she whispered, and a smile lit up her
death-like face. Those blots were Pushkin's tears. Sophie made merry
over them, and wanted Aleko and Bethsaba to join in her merriment. She
wrote her name in large, clear handwriting, and gave back the pen to
Pushkin. Then she put both her arms round his neck and drew him down to
her.
"To-day you still belong to me! Let me look once more into those eyes
which have been so long a sweet home to me! Oh, it was a Paradise on
earth! I thank you that you let me know such exquisite happiness! I
thank you for the truth and tender love with which you blessed me!"
And she kissed him countless times. Then, letting her arms sink, she
motioned him away. It was the last caress.
"Aleko! Bethsaba! I want to see you embrace each other--now at once,
while I am still alive and can see it! If you love me, if you would have
me know you to be sincere, if you place any value on my blessing,
embrace each other."
And so across the dying girl's bed they laid their arms on each other's
shoulders.
"Ah, that is right! And now, kiss each other--on the lips. Not like
that; you have hardly touched each other; it was such a cold kiss. Give
her a real one!"
And, laying her hands on the bowed heads, she drew them together, until
their lips united in a kiss, her hands resting the while as if in the
act of blessing. Then, raising her transfigured face to heaven, and,
folding her hands, she breathed, scarce audibly:
"Mother, I have saved you from sin!"