HOW TO ROB A MAN OF HIS WIFE
It must be a poor toy that cannot amuse children. And there can be no
greater children than a newly married couple who are deeply in love with
each other.
There is kite-flying in the park at Pleskow; Bethsaba is in high glee at
her kite always flying straight up and remaining aloft, while
Alexander's is always coming to grief. Her kite, too, is much handsomer
than his. In the form of a dragon, it has two large eyes, a mouth, nose,
and movable ears; while Alexander's is just a commonplace thing, made
out of old scraps of manuscripts pasted together. The wide expanse
affords the two grown-up children room enough to run with their kites.
No eyes to see them but those of the stag on the edge of the forest.
A post-chaise rolls quickly along the highway skirting the park walls;
the postilion blows his horn cheerily.
"I think that post-chaise must have stopped at our gate," observes
Bethsaba.
"So it has. It means either a guest or a letter."
"Oh, I hope no guest," sighed the little wife.
Newly married folk are not hospitable, as a rule. Still, somebody
appeared to have come. The dvornik came out towards them from the
castle. They hastily let down their kites; they must not be caught at
such childish amusements. In the hurry the dragon caught in the withered
bough of a pine-tree and lost one eye.
"What a pity!" murmured Bethsaba, in vexation. "Now my dragon has only
got one eye. Have you a scrap of paper about you to repair the damage?"
"Where should I get it from? Haven't you already seized upon every
vestige of paper to make your dragon with?"
"Do look! Perhaps you'll find some old bill or other."
Meanwhile the dvornik had come up to them.
"Well, Tanaschi, what is it?"
"A letter."
"To whom?"
Bethsaba seized the letter from the dvornik.
"Oh, oh! A woman's handwriting! Take it. A love-letter. Some former
flame writing to reproach you. Read it. Of course it is to make an
appointment."
"You are right enough. It is a woman's handwriting, but addressed to
you, not to me, my dear."
"To me?" cried Bethsaba, in surprise. "Who can have written to me?
Perhaps Zeneida?"
"No, it's not Zeneida. I know her handwriting."
"Perhaps too well. But who else could have written to me?"
And they began guessing who the writer could have been while the letter
passed from one to the other. At last Alexander proposed that the best
way to see who had written the letter would be to open it.
As they saw the signature both simultaneously cried, "My godmother!"
"Your godmother!"
"What can she have written about?"
Presently, as if it were intended for a joke, Bethsaba laughed heartily
over the letter.
"Ha, ha, ha! She wants me to go to the Masinka Fête! Alone! Without
Alexander! 'It is to be a grand affair; the Czar and Czarina and several
foreign princes will be there; I shall have an opportunity to entreat
the Czar to grant Alexander permission to go back to St. Petersburg!'
Ha, ha, ha! Did you hear that, Alexander Sergievitch? My godmother sends
me an invitation to a ball without you! The letter could not have come
at a more opportune moment--I just wanted it!"
And with these words she seized the precious epistle; it just covered
the damage the dragon had sustained, and a couple of pins fixed it in
place--the black seal just forming the pupil of the eye. (The court had
gone into mourning for six weeks after Sophie's death, and society used
black sealing-wax during the period.)
"A large case also arrived by post-chaise," said the dvornik.
"Put it on one side. I have no time now to look at it."
What more incomprehensible than that one of the fair sex should have no
time to look at a ball-dress sent direct from the capital? The dragon
was mended, and ready now to resume its flight in the air.
Laughing and shouting, Bethsaba ran along with the tail of her kite
dragging after her; the second child stood looking on, laughing, while
the dragon disapprovingly waggled its foolish-looking head. While
starting a kite, the flyer has to run back with head turned upward.
Bethsaba, therefore, was not aware that she was running directly against
some one coming towards her from the English garden; and was startled
to find herself suddenly embraced from behind, and a long kiss impressed
upon her face. Then she gave a loud, joyous cry, and the next instant
her arms were round the intruder's neck; and, not content with hanging
upon that neck, she pulled its owner on to the grass, and, rolling over,
kissed her enthusiastically, interposing the most endearing epithets:
"You love!--you darling!--you precious!" Pushkin was fain to go to the
rescue, and help them both up again.
It needed no extraordinary acumen to guess who the guest, so
affectionately welcomed, could be.
"Do not quite strangle me, you little goose!" exclaimed Zeneida. "Look;
your dragon has meanwhile flown away."
"Let it fly out into the wide world, and my godmother's letter with it.
Do you know I have had a letter from my godmother? Do you know she has
invited me to the Masinka Fête without Alexander? Do you know what I did
with her letter? My dragon had a slit, and I mended the slit with it.
How dear and good of you to come and see us!"
"It is the correct thing. Six weeks after marriage it is the
wedding-mother's duty to come and look after the young couple and see
that they are happy together--and if they really care for each other.
Has your husband beaten you yet?"
"Oh, dreadfully," said Bethsaba, pretending to complain. "The last time
it was here!" And she secretly rubbed a place on her arm until she had
made it red; but a redness, Zeneida detected, which had come from no
blows.
"And you, Pushkin, have you been writing many fine verses?"
"Not a line! You know my muse is never active in fine weather. It
requires storm, rain, and snow."
"And your sky has remained sunny?"
"As you see. I have not written a word."
This was very possible. There are times in his life when a poet only
feels poetry, does not write it.
"Why, we have not a sheet of paper in the house," said Bethsaba, whose
woman's instinct whispers to her it is her greatest boast when a poet's
wife can say that it has been through her that the poet has been
faithless to his muse. "We really have not. I had to use my godmother's
letter to make my dragon's eye."
"Indeed! Is that how you treat your correspondence? That is a good thing
to know. I will never write to you then, but, when I have anything to
tell you, will rather come myself."
"That will be nice."
"Or I will take you with me."
To this the same response, "That will be nice," did not come. Clinging
to Alexander's arm she looked up to him, saying:
"You will not let me go, will you?"
Zeneida answered for him:
"To that we shall not ask Alexander Sergievitch. His business it is when
his little wife wants to go visiting to order out the carriage and
horses, and to take care of the house in her absence."
"But I could not go anywhere if I wished it. Do you not see how I am
dressed? It is the Pleskow costume! Alexander tells me it was also the
costume of the first Russian Christian, Princess Olga. And I like it so
much. Admire this sarafan with its many buttons, the pearl-embroidered
povojnyik on my head, my red boots and striped silk stockings!" And with
childish _naïveté_ she lifted up her dress to her knees. "How people
would stare if I were to appear among them in this costume! I have no
other dress; this is what pleases my Alexander to see me in!"
She told the truth. The ball-dresses sent her were not her own property
yet; she had not accepted the present.
Alexander drew his little nestling wife closer to him.
"We have become thorough peasant farmers."
"Heaven grant that you may remain so!" thought Zeneida to herself. "I
fear, however, that some day you will be leaving wife and village, and
it will no longer be the pearl-embroidered cap upon your wife's head you
will then consider the greatest adornment, but the Phrygian cap you will
be running after!"
That which Dante omitted among the tortures of hell was that a woman
should be condemned to see the man she loves, who might have been hers,
revelling in the love of another woman, and she his wife. Had Zeneida's
love been that of ordinary women, it would have mattered little to her
that the man, round whom her fetters had been cast, should, sooner or
later, be dragged by these very fetters to the grave. The joys of the
present would have outweighed the tortures of the future, the dread
secrets of eternity. But so dearly had she loved Pushkin that she sought
for him a happiness in which she had no part. It was an unnatural
situation, and one requiring a nobler courage than most possess. But is
not the woman who devotes herself to play a part in politics an
unnatural, abnormal creation? Upon the altar of politics the heart is
the lamb of sacrifice. In the service of a Moloch sensual passion may
exist, but not love. Those who become political leaders have no longer
father or mother, brother or sister, lover or friend; they recognize no
difference between honesty and roguery, between the laws of God and the
expediencies of man. Hence the pursuit of politics is an unnatural
occupation for women, with whom love and justice are ruling principles.
The Amazon who went forth to war had first rooted out the gentler
feelings.
The possibility of women taking up such a part is only comprehensible in
countries where oppression is so unbearable, so utter, that the thirst
for freedom extends from the starved hearts of the men to those of the
women. The poet-laureate might love the court prima donna, but not the
plenipotentiary of the Szojusz Blagodenztoiga. Between those two lay
"the green book"--a far more efficient obstacle than the green ocean.
But, all the same, the anchorites of St. George's Monastery had not
carried their self-torture to greater perfection than had this woman who
had forced herself to come as a guest to the house where she would be
witness to the happiness denied her, and which she had voluntarily given
to another. And now she has come to guard that happiness against the
storms of the future. And she is not only witness to their happiness
when they are together, but even when his farm-yard or stables tear
Pushkin for a short hour from Bethsaba's side, the young wife can talk
of nothing but to boast of her happiness. No peacock is so proud of
spreading his tail as is a fond wife of telling of her happy lot. She
has so many things to tell. Her husband is a perfect model of virtue and
perfection! And to all this Zeneida must listen with utmost composure;
to see, if the husband were absent over the expected half-hour, how
uneasy and distraught the young wife grows; to read from her face: "Oh,
you dear benefactress mine, my good fairy, my goddess, how gladly, were
you not with me, would I run out to seek him!" And this, too, must she
bear with a smile on her face! Oh, this Moloch!
"Listen, child: my sole object in coming was to steal you away from
Alexander Sergievitch for a time."
"Ah! If you want to steal either, take both of us. Alexander would not
mind being run off with by you."
"Only, as it happens, he is neither invited, nor may he come. You must
accept your godmother's invitation."
"What! The invitation to her ball!"
"There you will meet the Czar and Czarina; they will speak to you."
"I--there--without Alexander?"
"Upon you it depends that Pushkin may be free to go where you go. Your
marriage with him has entirely marred his career. He does not feel it
now, but in the course of a year or two he will remember that formerly
every step he took was accompanied by the clank of spurs. The soul of a
man is not to be confined in a cage like a tame bird, especially when he
has eagle's wings. Be it your task to implore forgiveness from the Czar
for your husband, that Pushkin may proceed on his interrupted career.
Now the meadows are still green; in another month they will be covered
with snow, and the couple condemned to fireside and indoor life will not
be so light-hearted as the one flying their kites in the open meadow."
"Then it is your wish that I should intercede for Alexander's return to
St. Petersburg?"
"Not for all the world! No; a thousand times rather entreat the Czar to
give him a mission that shall take you and him to your own people and
country. Describe to the Czar and Czarina the land in which you were
born, as it lives in your memory, with its genial climate, its aromatic
woods, its fruit-bearing trees. Tell them all the lovely and beautiful
things of it that your memory can recall, and entreat the Czar, as an
act of mercy to yourself, to send your husband there."
"Oh, the tempting thought!" sighed Bethsaba.
"But he will never consent that I should leave him and go away, and stay
days and weeks away from him."
"It would only be one week."
"But that is a century! Oh no! Alexander would never consent to it."
"You leave that to me; I will talk him over."
"Oh, if you succeed in that you will be a real fairy. But what an odd
fairy! Had you wanted to carry off Alexander from me, I could have
understood it; but me from Alexander--that I cannot understand."
"See! here he comes through the garden. Place yourself here at the
window and watch. I will go and meet him. You listen how I am going to
bewitch him!"
"That I am curious to hear."
One intrenchment was already taken. Zeneida hastened to besiege the
second.
Pushkin, crossing the lawn, was astonished to see Zeneida hurrying
towards him.
"Turn back, and let's have a little talk," said she, putting her hand on
Pushkin's arm. "Are you quite happy?"
"One can never be too happy."
"My object in coming is to ask you to spare me a portion of your
happiness. I want to run away with your wife for a week."
"My little wife! What to do with her? Already she loves you ever so much
better than she does me."
"Do not fear. She loves you above everything in heaven and earth, and
all that lies between them. She positively must accept the invitation to
Princess Ghedimin's ball."
The girl wife, watching at her window, sees how her husband vehemently
draws away his arm from Zeneida's retaining hand. Zeneida does not
shrink; she takes possession of his arm again.
"Hot head! She will not be staying with the Princess, but with me; I
will be her chaperon. Since I gave up the stage my house has become
strictly proper; I have held no more frivolous gatherings; since the
Szojusz Blagadenztoiga made its final decision I have had no more
conspirators coming near me; no need for masquerades or riotous
meetings; I live a quiet, secluded life. The Czar has sent me the Order
of the Cross as an amend for my recent dismissal; and, _noblesse
oblige_, the bestarred Zeneida no longer consorts with Diabolkas. So,
have you not the courage to trust your wife to me if I keep vigilant
watch over her?"
"But to what purpose? If you want to beg some favor of the Czar for
me--you little know me!"
The woman at the window saw Pushkin fiercely slash off the heads of the
asters at his feet.
"I know you perfectly well. You have made up your mind to stay on here
at Pleskow, see the grass grow, hunt hares, shoot wild duck, smoke the
house out, play ombre, and discourse of dogs and horses. It will be your
ambition to keep a good cellar, be known as a good dancer, to
occasionally slash an officer or two in duels, and to leave your papers
and periodicals uncut. You would have just strength and energy for such
a life! But there are others interested in your wife's coming."
"Who?"
"First the Szojusz Blagadenztoiga; then the Czar."
"At my little Bethsaba's coming?"
"Do not interrupt me; I must speak quickly. You are aware that this
second return of Araktseieff has made it impossible to stave off
rebellion. His violent measures have had so imbittering an effect that
no one any longer attempts to defend the life of the Czar save I alone.
Perhaps because I am a woman; yet there have been illustrious examples
enough to show that women can be as cruel in the matter of
blood-shedding as men, and even in a more cold and calculating fashion.
Any outbreak initiated by Kubusoff's air-guns or Kakhowsky's infernal
machine, or, as Jakuskin has planned, by an opportune ball, giving the
signal for attack upon the entire imperial family, would have no
beneficial result. It would simply bring about the overthrow of the
empire, the war of the knife and the axe _versus_ bayonet, the war of
rags _versus_ gold lace, inaugurating a reign of chaos which would make
the country bless the return of despotism, and welcome a peace, even
though accompanied by their old fetters. Now the Czar and Czarina must
not be hurt! This reason, not sentiment, dictates.
"My plan is as follows: The Czarina's physician has advised her being
taken to a milder climate. But her Majesty will not hear of leaving the
Russian dominions, and the Caucasus she looks upon as a wilderness in
which it is impossible to live. She gives no heed to the naturalists who
describe the country, saying they are mere flattering official
reporters. But if a young, unsophisticated little bride, presenting
herself to the imperial pair, were to petition as a special favor to be
allowed to go back with her husband to her beautiful native land,
describing this native land with enthusiasm of early and tender
recollection, it is possible that though this request may be refused,
yet the Czarina herself might be attracted to the idea of going to that
lovely land. The Czar worships his consort to such a degree that he
would accompany and stay with her there; with this result, that those
who want to inaugurate the outbreak with the violent death of the Czar
would be constrained to devise some other nobler, more humane, more
politic plan of action. On the Black Sea the Czar will live his life
without cares; here we should have the imperious favorite only to bring
to judgment. The constitution would be proclaimed in St. Petersburg
without blood-shedding; the army would declare in its favor; and Czar
Alexander will be free to choose either to fulfil the universal wish of
his people, and come back as their beloved monarch, or, if he prefer it,
to embark on board a ship in the Black Sea and sail away to seek the
hospitality of--say, the Sultan of Turkey, if he wish it. Anyway, his
life would be preserved."
The young wife at the window sees her husband kiss the hand of his
guest. He is won over already. Zeneida has succeeded in carrying off the
wife from the husband.
"Those whom you love are loved indeed, even when they are tyrants!" said
Pushkin, deeply moved.
"It is the holy cause, not the Czar, I wish to save!"
"Both! Come, I will trust my wife to you! Take her with you! Let her,
with her lark's song, bid the storm to cease!"
Bethsaba standing at the window sees her husband and Zeneida come
quickly back to her. "Truly you are an enchantress!" she thinks.
Pushkin comes in to his wife.
"Only think! your kite has been brought back from the far end of the
town! Here is your godmother's letter, as kind as can be. You must do as
she wishes. How could you refuse an invitation so worded, especially as
Zeneida undertakes to be your chaperon?"
Bethsaba looked at each in amazement, and then raised a threatening
finger and shook it at Zeneida.
"You are a fiend, after all, then. Well, then, come along, and let's see
what kind of ball-dress my godmother has sent me."
This may be called a thorough capitulation.
The box was brought in and opened, the most exquisite of ball-dresses
produced, and, with Zeneida's aid, duly tried on. In it Bethsaba showed
herself to her husband.
"Shall I look lovely? Shall I turn many men's heads?"
"Every one of them!"
"Oh, take care, take care! You must not embrace me; you will crush my
lace!"
This is the way in which a man is deprived of his wife in the very midst
of his honeymoon.