AN ETERNAL FAREWELL.
It was the 4th of January--the New Year's Day of Russia.
All the morning, from the earliest peep of dawn, the bells had rung
clamorously and joyfully; from every public building the blue, red, and
white standard floated in the keen breeze; the streets were full of
merry-makers, the Boulevard de Cavaliero and the Nevski, were thronged
with sight-seers, the little shrine and chapel of St. Nichola, on the
Nicholas Bridge, were buried in lights, evergreen wreaths, and votive
offerings; an air of festivity and joyousness pervaded the atmosphere,
and even the grim Chancellerie, and Peter's Fortress, crept out of
their habitual gloom, under the lavish caresses of the brilliant
sunshine.
The old year was dead--dead and buried--with all its weight of sin and
failure; of wrongs unrighted, of crimes unavenged, of evils unremedied.
Let it go, let it go! "Ring out the false, ring in the true!" Welcome
this jocund New Year, this youngster, with the rosy cheeks and sturdy
limbs, this herald of a new _régime_, this hopeful progeny of a decrepit
past!
It wanted but half an hour to mid-day, and already the approaches to St.
Isaac's Church were thronged by a numerous and ever increasing crowd.
The eight grand entrances were all thrown open; down the wide central
granite steps a rich carpet was spread, and up this crimson pathway
passed a continuous stream of guests, the bright costumes of the ladies
mingling with the uniforms, Court dress, and plainer citizen habiliments
of the sterner sex, until one and all became submerged and impersonal
in the greater glory of the grand cathedral's gorgeous interior.
A line of the Petersburg Grenadiers, in their sombre green uniform, were
drawn up on either side of the central approach, while behind them were
grouped a guard of honour of the Caucasus Cossacks, their long scarlet
tunics adding picturesque vividness to the scene. All that was best and
brightest, most distinguished and most renowned, of the great Tsar's
Court was represented within St. Isaac's, on that winter morning, and
nothing could exceed the brilliancy and vivacity of the scene.
For not only was it the festa of the gay New Year, but it was also the
marriage day of Olga Naundorff, and the religious function was to be
celebrated with Royal splendour and pomp, honoured by the presence of
the Tsar and Tsarina, who took this occasion to testify their friendship
for the beautiful orphan, whose father had laid down his life in the
service of Russia.
And now excitement reached the highest pitch, for the Imperial _cortège_
was in sight, each equipage drawn by four black horses, mounted by
postillions, and accompanied by outriders. The Tsarina, looking fair and
fresh and young, bowed her acknowledgments to right and left, smiling as
she did so, while the Grand Duchess Xenia laughed girlishly at the
sparkling pageant. And now Alexander himself appeared, the great Tsar of
all the Russias, wearing his favourite crimson kaftan, and saluting
courteously in response to the old patriotic cry, as it echoed again and
again: "Health we wish your Imperial Majesty! Long live the Tsar!"
But the greatest and final burst of enthusiasm was reserved for Olga.
When she appeared--stepping down from the royal equipage, her white
draperies sweeping behind her, a cloak of regal ermine wrapped about her
neck and shoulders, from which her proud, beautiful face arose as cold
and white as the surrounding snow, crowned by the shining masses of her
golden-tinted hair, in which the Imperial gift of diamonds shone
resplendent--a hush of admiration held the onlookers for one brief
second; then, as she passed up the crimson foot-path, a deep low murmur
burst forth, growing in strength and enthusiasm, until, as the great
portal received her, it broke all bounds and ended in a prolonged and
hearty cheer.
Within St. Isaac's all was hushed and reverent, though gorgeous and
magnificent in its adornments. The lights from the eight great
candelabra threw their beams on the golds and purples, the reds and
blues of the mosaic decorations, and flashed forth in myriad reflections
from the jewels that gleamed and sparkled in the costumes of the Court
ladies.
The ceremonial was of the grandest; the Metropolitan, vested in cloth of
gold, entered by the central door and was met by a procession of
priests, who walked before him to the great altar, where the eight
massive malachite columns, and priceless lapis-lazuli shafts, separated
"the holy of holies" from the body of the cathedral. The trained voices
of the Imperial choir rose and fell in regular cadences, unsupported by
instruments of any kind, but perfect in harmony and unison. The bells
chimed at intervals, while the worshippers, as they fell upon their
knees, repeated again and again the symbol of the cross on forehead and
breast.
And so it was that Olga Naundorff became the wife of Ivor Tolskoi.
Sanctioned by the most solemn ritual of her faith, surrounded by the
highest nobility of her land; loved, admired, feared, and envied, Olga,
the beloved of Vladimir Mellikoff, pledged her vows to Ivor Tolskoi; and
shuddered even as she did so, at the light of triumph that flashed in
his bold blue eyes, when, as her husband, he bent his head, and for the
first time pressed a kiss upon her proud lips.
She had made her choice. But, after all, was it a wise one? Could she be
sure of ruling this lover, who had now become her husband? Despite the
_insouciance_ of his boyish face, despite the frank boldness of his blue
eyes and innocent smile, was he not destined to be the master, she the
slave? Already she could feel the iron hand beneath the velvet glove,
already she descried the touch of cruelty beneath his gayest smile, the
echo of tyranny beneath his fondest caress.
Alas, poor Olga! If the dawn of her marriage morning was marred by such
fore-bodings, what were its noontide and evening likely to prove?
We may not follow her so far into the future; and even if we dared, it
were wisest to draw the curtain close about that ruined life, and not
seek to pry into its wretchedness. A woman scorned is of all beings the
most desolate, so Vladimir Mellikoff had said, little thinking that his
prophecy was one day to come true of his passionately-loved Olga. Let us
refrain from gazing on her in her hour of despair.
There is no fairer woman to-day, in all Russia, than Olga Tolskoi; one
more envied and feared, nor one more hopeless and beyond hope. Like her
Imperial ancestress, she has forsaken the good for the evil; and, in
giving rein to the lower passions of her nature, has lost for ever the
power of repentance and contrition. She who once ruled supreme, is now
the neglected wife of a husband who is one in name only, and whose
indignities have long since reached the climax of insult.
Ivor has risen higher and higher on the wave of success. He holds a
foremost place in the Imperial Councils, he is esteemed and feared in
the Chancellerie, bowed down to and fawned upon at Court. Only within
the privacy of his own household is his true character known; only there
does he lay aside the mask of hypocrisy, and let loose the passions of
cruelty and oppression; only there does he give rein to the bitter joke
and cutting mockery, which are all that remain of the once humble wooing
and suppliant entreaty.
And Olga, knowing how he has deceived her, finding out too late by what
cunning subterfuge he turned suspicion upon Vladimir Mellikoff, and thus
won from her the only free gift a woman has to bestow--herself--hates
him, with an ever increasing hatred and loathing, that drives her to the
wildest deeds of imprudent folly.
And so the baser nature within her triumphs, and the better nature dies;
crushed out by passions too consuming to bear contradiction. Alas, poor
Olga! So to her has come the lesson, that not even the fairest charms of
woman's beauty and purity can bind the constancy of one, who, knowing
his legal rights secure, scorns to keep them intact, and throws fidelity
to the winds in the indulgence of the moment.
Well may the old despairing cry break from her in her splendour and
loneliness, as she thinks of the time when Vladimir loved her, and her
faith and trust in him were still unbroken:
"_Eheu fugaces! Postume, Postume!_ Oh, for the days that are lost to me,
lost to me!"
* * * * *
Brilliant indeed was the scene within the Onyx Hall, of the Winter
Palace, on that New Year's night, the morning of which had seen the
completion of Ivor Tolskoi's highest hopes. The bride and her husband
were already far on their way towards those vast possessions on the Ural
frontier, of which Ivor was so justly proud; but the time-honoured
ceremonies of the festa were no less gay and joyous because shorn of
Olga's fair presence.
The great Onyx Hall was filled with guests, awaiting the magic signal,
gathered together in groups, chatting, laughing, intriguing, while ever
nearer and nearer the hands on the dial of the large gold incrusted
clock, standing at one end of the apartment, crept on to the hour of
midnight. Suddenly a single stroke from the great bells of Isaac's
Church, rang out, and a hush fell upon the waiting assembly; the clock
chimed deep and full--twelve slow notes, whose dying echoes were caught
up and thundered back by twelve salutes from the guns of Petropavlovsk,
broken here and there by the triumphant strains, "How glorious is our
Lord in Zion!" And as these died away the cathedral chimes broke forth
in resonant glad music.
Simultaneously the folding doors at the top of the great hall were
thrown open, and the Tsar entered, with the Empress leaning on his arm,
and followed by the Imperial family. Passing down between the double
lines of the Preobrashensky Grenadiers, and the Semenoffskoie Guards,
drawn up on either side, his Majesty walked up to the chief actor in
this brilliant pageant, and, halting before the tiny figure of the
smallest cadet in the Russian army, dressed in the historical uniform of
the Emperor Paul's Grenadiers, bent down over the mimic warrior and
bestowed upon him the kiss of peace.
At this mark of kindly condescension the trumpets burst forth in a grand
flourish, the bands struck up the spirited national air, and all the
guests cried out with one accord:
"Many years to the Tsar! Health we wish your Imperial Majesty!"
And thus the first day of the New Year sinks to rest, crowned by the old
but ever fresh benison, "Peace on earth, to men of good will."
With the departure of their Majesties the tongues of the guests were
once more let loose, and the little Countess Vera, flitting across the
wide hall, stops long enough beside the grave keen-eyed State minister,
who in the guise of an elephant had graced her costume ball, to say, in
a half whisper, and with a mocking smile:
"Well, monsieur, and were you present at the famous marriage function
this morning? Was ever man so lucky as _ce cher_ Ivor?--if it be luck to
win so cold and cheerless a bride as Olga Naundorff. For my part, I
could think of no one save that unfortunate Vladimir, whose shrift I
hear is to be short enough. No trial for him, poor soul! He has played
his game but ill, and we know, monsieur, you and I, what fate awaits one
who has played to win for the Chancellerie and--lost. It's a dreary
march to Siberia, even in the best of company; what must it be then when
one's companion is a murderer by confession? _Hélas_, poor Vladimir, you
should not have failed; for to failure Patouchki is implacable, and for
failure Russia can punish silently and surely. And so ends the farce,
monsieur, or was it tragedy? But let me whisper one word--let him laugh
loudest who wins last. There are evil days in store for Ivor, or I am no
true prophet; and for his bride? Bah! she will get but what she
deserves; I will leave her fate in the hands of the gods, whose mills,
we are told, 'grind slowly, but with justice grind they all.' And, after
all, her beauty will not last. _Sans adieu, monsieur, à tantôt._"
Then with another laugh the little Countess flew away, and was lost in
the undulations of the crowd.
* * * * *
A second day's journey had begun for Ivor and his bride; the afternoon
was already closing down upon them, as they halted at a small post-house
where a relay of fresh horses awaited them. Ivor sprang out, glad to
exercise his cramped limbs and light a cigarette; but Olga remained
within the sleigh, buried in her costly wraps of fur.
There was some little delay, and as she sat alone, half lost in a
retrospective dream, she was suddenly aroused by the dull clank of arms
and the regular tread of marching feet. Leaning forward she looked out,
and saw coming towards her a party of men and women, who trod wearily,
with downcast heads, and hopeless hanging hands, and whose every step
was accompanied by the monotonous clank of steel chains. As she gazed
upon them she realised their situation and their destiny. They were
Russian criminals, arrested by Russian law, on their way to Siberia and
the mines.
Instinctively she drew back, shivering; as she did so the foremost
detachment of prisoners came into line with her sleigh. At that moment a
halt was called, to enable the officers in charge to refresh themselves
at the bar of the post-house.
Once more Olga leant forward; her heart beat rapidly, her breath came
quick and short, she clasped her hands together passionately, and as her
white face gleamed out from the heavy sables surrounding it, one of the
prisoners, he who was nearest to her, lifted his head, and thrust back
as well as he could with his manacled hand, the peaked hat that shaded
his forehead.
As he did so he turned his head slowly towards her, and in the dark
haggard face, the burning feverish eyes, Olga beheld the countenance of
Vladimir Mellikoff!
Fascinated, she gazed upon it, her own face blanched, her eyes wild with
horror. She tried to speak, to call out, to break the cruel band of
silence that held her as in a vice. It was useless. No words would come,
no sound, no cry.
And as she thus looked upon him, a sudden light of recognition sprang to
life within his eyes. He bent forward, holding her gaze with his;
studying each curve and line of that fair, beautiful countenance, noting
each golden curl where the hair lay about her neck and upon her brow,
reading each fleeting expression of the proud lips, and deep blue eyes.
And as he thus held her spell-bound, a smile passed over his worn face,
a smile so pitying and accusing that Olga shuddered and drew closer her
rich wraps, as if to ward off the cruelty of its tenderness.
For full a moment they looked thus upon one another, without word or
gesture of recognition. Then the order came for the march to recommence,
and Vladimir, with a single upward movement of his manacled hand, bade
her an immutable farewell.
As he did so the figure next to him was drawn forward by the heavy
chain that linked them together, and thus turned upon her companion in
exile a face so beautiful, despite the marks passion and suffering had
stamped upon it, that again Olga started, and drew back instinctively.
It was the face of Adèle Lamien, the murderer of Count Stevan Lallovich.
In another moment the exiles were in full march, and Olga, straining her
eyes to the utmost, could see nothing save an indistinct moving mass
against the miles of far-stretching snow; which even as she watched was
lost in the evening shadows that crept up with silent but resistless
steps.
It was a farewell from out eternity.
Truly Ivor Tolskoi's vengeance was complete, when Patouchki's cruel
sentence was carried out to the letter, and Vladimir Mellikoff, linked
to Adèle Lallovich, passed onward to that desolate Gehenna--Siberian
exile.
For Russia never forgets, and Russia never forgives.