NATHALIE
There is a certain maxim, unpleasant as it is prevalent, indulged in
with great frequency by a certain class of stoical sophists, to the
effect that there are many sorrows in life more difficult to bear than
that separation from our nearest brought by death. But those men--and
especially the women--who have experienced sorrow of both varieties, do
not use that proverb.
In his after life Ivan Gregoriev was called upon to bear many burdens of
grief; but none of them ever caused him to waver in the assurance that
the death of his mother had brought him the bitterest suffering he could
be called upon to endure. Before this time--for many recent weeks--he
had believed himself cognizant of most forms of unhappiness. So, in a
blind, insensate fashion, he was. But the night on which his mother left
him opened his eyes to that land of grief where consolation waits on
time; it shook from him the last vestige of morbidity; and, lastly, it
brought him, too, in generous measure, perception of those beauties of
thought and action to be gained by one who accepts his loss unselfishly,
in a true and humble spirit.
During the three days that passed before the funeral, Ivan, his brain
dulled and heavy with a kind of morbid despair, haunted the room where
his mother lay, surrounded with candles the lights of which illumined
and intensified the smile of transfiguration still remaining on her
peaceful face. To the boy, waiting and watching dumbly, it seemed
intolerable that the stillness of that sacred room should be disturbed
by the exits and entrances of strangers. In the beginning, he resented
even the arrival from her Petersburg convent of his cousin Nathalie; and
for the many members of the Blashkov family, distant relatives or mere
acquaintances, who throughout her life had left Sophia to bitter
loneliness, and came now to stare upon her empty frame, the son felt a
hatred too fierce to be expressed in words. They, however, neither knew
nor would have cared to learn how the boy heard their every word
concerning him and his with wrath unspeakable, and shuddered with misery
at their heartless insolence. Nevertheless, the wretchedness hidden
under his set, strained mask, was divined by his aunt. Thus, she, for
the time much softened by her grief, and feeling also a good deal of
curiosity concerning the inner nature of this youth of the haunted eyes,
presently sought, by every art of tact and seeming understanding, to
open his heart to tears. The fact that she at length succeeded, must be
put down to her lasting credit; it having been a deed directly opposed
to the traits of her rather cold nature.
Upon the evening after the funeral Madame Dravikine, intensely wearied
by the long walk to and from the cemetery, was lying on her couch, eyes
closed, her head aching slightly. Nevertheless, when there came a timid
knock upon her door, she answered with a summons to enter, and Ivan,
responding, went to her impetuously, yielded his hands to her clasp, and
allowed himself to be drawn to his knees, at her side, there to listen
to gentle words about his mother's love for him, and her ambitions for
his future, till she had pierced through the armor of his reserve, and
he burst into a storm of sobs the violence of which at first frightened
her.
It was the one possible means of relief, however; and Madame Dravikine,
wise in her generation, let him weep his bitter revolt away. This lasted
nearly an hour, and both were exhausted by the time the tears had
ceased, and only an occasional, spasmodic sob gave evidence of the storm
that had passed. It was at this juncture--Ivan upon the floor, half
sitting, half kneeling, Caroline's arms clasping him close--that the
door of the room opened again, quietly, and Nathalie appeared. At sight
of the two she halted, uncertainly. But her mother, gently releasing the
embarrassed boy, bade her come in; nor when, an instant later, he made
the move, would she permit Ivan to go. It was, perhaps, unfair to her
that this kindly act of hers should have borne, for all three of them,
consequences so momentous, and, to the Countess, so unwelcome. Yet it
was certainly this evening which saw the beginning of the single real
passion of Ivan's life. Thereafter, in that little gallery of mental
portraits carried by each of us in his intimate heart, the beloved form
of his dead mother was given a companion picture: that of a girl's face,
warm and living, upon which he often gazed with an ardor, a devotion, a
longing, rather unboyishly sincere.
Certainly the picture thus enshrined was one not unworthy of strong
admiration. For even at fourteen Nathalie Dravikine was very beautiful,
in a delicate, flower-like way. Her complexion was clear and pale, the
blood which ran beneath it showing only under the stress of some
emotion, when it would suffuse her whole face with waves of exquisite
color. Her delicate head bore a weight, almost too great, of fine,
blue-black hair, just now hanging in a heavy plait to her knees. Her
eyes, large and velvety as Ivan's own, were, however, of a shade
indescribable, chameleon-like: one day varying between beryl and
aqua-marine, anon of a light hazel, and finally, in moments of
excitement, grief, or joy, of a deep, baffling black. Hitherto, Ivan had
been undecided about their color; but to-night, as he saw them run
their gamut from light to that tender dark, he felt a strange, quivering
half-fear, half-joy, stirring his heart; and in one moment it had become
impossible for him to look her in the eyes again and retain any sort of
composure. Moreover, as he sat, red-eyed and conscious, in a chair
between aunt and cousin, it seemed to him as if some one were pouring a
cool balm over the burning wound within him: as if, already, his
mother's strange promise were finding fulfilment, and she herself, or
her fair spirit, stood at his side, her gentle hand upon his shoulder, a
smile of the old, loving companionship in her deep eyes. He did not know
whether it were minutes or hours before, with a long sigh, he rose,
kissed his aunt, drew back with flaming face from Nathalie's tentative
advance, but finally, with throbbing heart, just touched her cheek in
the usual place, and then ran off, glad of the darkness in the passage
outside. Unlike the traditional young lover, however, he was not
destined to spend the dark hours in waking dreams of his love. Nay, the
pretty child did him better service. That night, for the first time in
ninety-six weary hours, he slept, soundly and dreamlessly, till Alexei
came to call him, when he rose with a feeling of great strangeness, of
irrevocable change, upon him, as he faced a final joyless day.
There was no help for it. He must return, that afternoon, to the Corps;
where now there would be no weekly breaks in his monotony of
unhappiness. So much he learned in a brief, uncomfortable interview with
his father, immediately after breakfast. And when he was dismissed, he
understood that it was Prince Michael's farewell to him for an
indefinite period: a fact which troubled him very little in itself,
however; the less so since, when he reached his room again, he found in
his hand an envelope containing a princely sum of pocket-money--which
was to last him through the spring. Wearily and drearily, however, the
boy, with the aid of his serf, packed the few garments he had brought
with him, and then went off to hang about the closed door of his aunt's
suite of rooms, in which, also packing, was Nathalie: that strange, new
Nathalie, born for him fifteen hours before.
He had reached a great depth of unhappiness when suddenly, about
noon-time, the gate to fairy-land opened and he was admitted by
Celestine, who had been sent, indeed, to seek him. In a few, whirling
moments, he found himself eating an early _déjeuner à la fourchette_
with his aunt and cousin, after which he drove with them to the
Petersburg station, and there, upon the noisy, crowded platform, reached
his empyrean.
Madame Dravikine and her maid were in the carriage reserved for them,
arranging their bags and rugs. But Nathalie had remained--ah, was it not
of her own choice?--outside, for three minutes longer. Their few words
were as simple and as awkward as inexperience could make them; but they
were afterwards gone over, a hundred times, at least, by Ivan, who, at
each repetition, became more impressed by the brilliance, the wit, the
_savoir-faire_, the repose of Mademoiselle Nathalie's brief and
stumbling formalities. Then--then Madame Dravikine was calling her
daughter. A whistle blew. The second bell rang loudly. Officials jangled
hastily down the platform; and Ivan, his heart throbbing in his throat,
suddenly caught his cousin's slender figure in his arms, held her for
one endless instant, found her lips with his own, and found himself,
five minutes later, gazing blindly down an empty track, while the
footman at his side stared at him in stupid wonderment. So, coloring
with shame, joyously angry, broken by the long prospect of ensuing grief
and longing--not for one being loved and lost, but for two--he entered
the carriage which was to carry him across Moscow, from heaven to hell:
from the Petersburg station to the stone buildings of the _Corps des
Cadets_, where, in the ensuing weeks, Ivan Gregoriev, already an adept
in enduring the various forms of school-boy misery, was about to begin
upon a lesson before which more than one grown man would have visibly
shrunk; and under which Ivan himself, before it was finished, had become
appalled at his own capacity for suffering.
* * * * *
During every age of humanity, in every state and stage of human
civilization, there have been certain great-souled beings who, for the
sake of a totally inadequate reward, have delivered themselves over,
bound and helpless, into the hands of a task-master severe, relentless,
all-demanding, but wise and just beyond every other teacher of mankind.
The greater number of these daring persons have, in the end,
accomplished their schooling, done their tasks, and reached their goal;
because, once in the toils, they must needs go forward, or die. A very
few of these toilers, Hindoos ascending towards Arahatship, Christians
aspiring to certain heaven by way of certain martyrdom, have been given
beforehand an exact estimate of the price they were to pay. But all
others, the vast majority of those demanding of nature her divinest
gifts, have mortgaged themselves blindly for an amount, and at a rate of
interest, unknown, undreamed of. Of these, Ivan was one. At the age of
sixteen he first felt his power, made his demand. Consciously or
unconsciously--probably both--he cried to Fate: "Behold me! I hold a
message for mankind! The Spirit of Music will deign to make use of me as
her instrument. I am summoned to the world-service. Give me, then, that
which shall make me great enough to bring this gift of mine to its
highest issue, that my mistress may find her priest worthy of acclaim
and of advancement!"
This is a cry that Fate is bound to answer, for it is the cry of
assurance. Hearing his words, the Great One stood before the boy and
considered him thoughtfully. It may be that he was given secret warning
of the meaning of his demand. This it is not for us to know. But,
knowing or unknowing, he repeated his cry, and was answered. There and
then, with this mysterious, perverse wisdom, his task-master began his
training, blinding the eyes of the pupil to all save the few immediate
steps along the steep road that lay before, permitting him to advance
only step by step, under her guidance. Ivan yielded himself as clay to
those powerful hands; but the clay was pure, and, because of its youth,
more pliable than are those who know themselves only in later years. And
now, had he wished it, his master would not have let him go.
Poor Ivan! My poor hero! How was he lashed through that long spring, and
the summer that he spent alone at ghost-haunted Klin, where every corner
of house and garden spoke to him of his mother. How pitilessly was he
dragged through depths of grief and solitude and hopeless longing; till
he stumbled, half fainting, deep in the slough of despair! Hopeless and
heart-sick, forgetting, and, he believed, forgotten by, every living
joy, he fought his battle of temperament hand to hand, imagining every
contest lost. Nothing of his past, his present or his future, was clear
before him. He was as one crying in the wilderness; and no echo of an
answer caught his ear. So numb was he from emotional experience by the
summer's end, that, in the second week of September, he returned to
Moscow for his second winter in the Corps, with hardly more than a dull
and throbbing sense of dread.
The cold weather set in early that year. October and November passed in
a whirl of powdery snow and winds that cut through the heaviest furs. As
the time of Christmas fasts and feasts drew on, Ivan began to long for
what he believed would not be granted him--the spending of his holiday
week in comparative freedom at home. He was, however, too proud to beg
such permission; and not one word from Prince Michael did he receive. It
was, then, not till the very hour that his companions were gayly rushing
off to their various conveyances of departure, that Ivan, standing
ruefully in the snow-filled court-yard, perceived Piotr tramping through
the outer gate, looking about him, undecided as to the right entrance.
That night Ivan slept beneath his father's roof for the first time in
nine months; and in the gray of early morning there came to him an idea
of radiant promise. The pocket-money sent him in September--five hundred
rubles, the existence of which his companions had fortunately never
surmised, remained almost untouched. Ivan was extravagant only in the
purchase of music-paper and harmony-books, which are not matters of
great cost. Why, then, should he not drive to-day to the Tverskaia, and
there select Christmas presents for those few to whom it would be a
delight to give? The custom, not at that day so prevalent in Russia as
now, was still by no means unusual. And though Piotr and Alexei and old
Másha, besides, as a matter of duty, his father, were the names on
Ivan's written list, they were all of them meaningless compared with
that one gift for her for whom no gift in the world could be
sufficiently fine or costly.
Through that whole morning he dragged the sleigh and patient Alexei up
and down the Tverskaia, while, the other presents long since selected,
he went from shop to shop, dismayed anew at every place by the price
asked for those gems which alone seemed fitting for the object of his
gift. Still, in the end, he was comparatively satisfied; nor was his
choice one likely to displease any feminine soul the world over. For
the little, pearl-studded bracelet that lay in a blue-velvet case in the
breast-pocket of Ivan's coat was, considering the boy's inexperience, in
astonishingly appropriate taste; and well calculated to recall him to
the mind of the girl of whom he had dreamed through nine long months.
The remainder of the day belonged to the gods; for Ivan managed to
devote more than two hours in the penning of a moderately long, rather
stiff little letter addressed to his cousin Nathalie, at the Catherine
Institute for the Daughters of Nobility, in Petersburg. Moreover, this
done, there was still the bracelet to be wrapped, tied and stamped.
Then, after his return from the nearest official registry, there
remained the dear delight of dusk-dreams, which, to-day, concerned the
probable reception of his gift, the reading of his letter, and, climax
of climaxes, the probability of an acknowledgment!
Ivan's holiday week passed slowly, and there came no word from
Petersburg. On each of the last three mornings he rose tremulous with
hope; on each of the nights retired praying for a speedy morrow. But
instead of any joy, these days brought him only unexpected trials. His
father, it seemed, had suddenly become much interested in his son's
straight, strong presence, and took opportunity to keep him, for long
periods every day, in his company, discussing with him the details of
his life at the Corps, and the possibilities of the future. Each
conference brought only strengthened conviction of his father's
insistence upon a military-diplomatic career for him, and of the
futility of the slightest hope of leading that musician's life for which
he had been created. To-day, the least suggestion of his secret desires
might bring upon him a storm which would, then and there, forever
annihilate them. At this day his own, spiritual guide had become a thing
of little importance, in Ivan's mind, compared with the relentless
strength which his father could exhibit at an instant's warning. And,
because he had not yet learned that supreme faith in destiny to which he
afterwards did attain, Ivan carried this curious trouble with him
through many a long day, nor cast it wholly off till the world had
changed for him.
On the day after New Year's Ivan returned drearily to the Corps, where,
after a week of aimless dejection, that institute, following its
invariable custom, brought him an unlooked-for blow. It was in the form
of a small packet, bearing the Petersburg mark, which, on opening, he
found to contain a little pearl-studded bracelet, and a note that ran as
follows:
"MY DEAR IVAN MIKHAILOVITCH,--The mother-superior of the Catherine
Institute has forwarded to me a gift and a note designed by you for
your cousin Nathalie.
"I very much regret that you should have made such a mistake as to
think that little girls either receive jewelry from any persons
other than their parents, or, indeed, at my daughter's age, receive
it at all. Nor do the pupils of the Institute accept communications
from any persons but those whose names are upon a list prepared by
the parents of the inmate.
"Wishing you the compliments of the season, and health under the
blessing of your patron saint, accept, my dear nephew, the
considerations of my sincere regard.
"CAROLINE IVANOVNA DRAVIKINE."
Ivan read this short missive till he had it by rote. At each repetition
it struck him as more cutting, more cruel, more unjust. His aunt had
certainly intended a rebuke; but she hardly realized either the
over-sensitiveness of Ivan's nature or the extent of his boyish feeling
for his cousin, whom he concluded to be responsible, by some
unfathomable pique, for his humiliating discomfiture.
As a matter of actual fact, Nathalie had never received either letter or
gift. She, like Ivan, had left her school during Christmas week to spend
the festival with her father and mother. It was not till two days after
the departure of Mademoiselle Dravikine from the institute that the
packet and the letter from Moscow had been placed in the hands of the
mother-superior. That worthy woman, examining the list of her pupil's
correspondents, found upon it but one person from Moscow--Madame la
Princesse Gregoriev, lately deceased, whose name she now took the
opportunity of erasing from the authorized list. This done, it remained
for her to ponder upon the subsequent conclusion of this very unusual
incident. Undoubtedly something must be done, if not with the letter at
least with the packet, which, even to her unworldly eyes, had about it a
suggestion of gold and gems that could not but bring a flutter of
interest to a heart which, long as it had been consecrated to unworldly
things, was still of the eternal feminine. It was not till the good,
stupid soul had resorted to earnest prayer, that she hit upon the
inspiration of casting all responsibility upon the capable shoulders of
her pupil's mamma, the worshipful Countess Dravikine.
This august lady, though it did not occur to her to seek council with
the Most High, found adequate means of disposing of the undesirable
gift. It was a matter of considerable satisfaction to her that Nathalie
had not been made cognizant of the little affair. Yet the watchful
mother would have been not a little amazed could she have read the
depths of her demure daughter's mind, and found there a vague but
unquestionable disappointment at having in so many months received
neither word nor message from her Moscow cousin. It was odd that Madame
Dravikine should not have realized, by this time, that her daughter was
the child of her own heart: and, since her childhood, Caroline Ivanovna
had certainly never failed to recognize the least of her own conquests.
Was it possible that the woman now high in the favor of a second reign,
should have a dunce for a daughter? Yet the mother would probably have
felt something other than satisfaction had she suspected how keenly
Mademoiselle Nathalie had studied her tact and her tactics. It might be
flattery of the sincerest order; but it must, nevertheless, prove rather
too trying for comfort.
It had been in the August of the year 1843 that the court journal of
Petersburg announced, at the head of its budget from Tsarskoë-Selo, at
which fashionable resort the Dravikines were wont to spend part of each
summer, the birth of a daughter to the popular and fascinating Countess,
Caroline Ivanovna. Within the month there began to pour in upon that
lady a flood of congratulations which, upon the occasions of the first
calls, were astutely turned to tactful condolences, it being at length
understood that, while the Count was satisfied with the sex of his
child, the Countess daily vibrated between rage and tears that she
should not have given her house an heir. And since it was unquestionably
madame who ruled the family, young Mademoiselle Nathalie, despite her
remarkable eyes, her curling black hair and her rose-leaf skin, came to
spend her babyhood in the care of the Dravikine serfs; until at the age
of six she talked like a kitchen-maid, and had the manners of a
stable-boy--or a Grand-Duke.
Now, in the autumn of 1849, Count Dravikine, whose promotions came about
as regularly as his wife's allowance was paid, had just been created
Assistant Minister of Public Works; and the dignity thereby superinduced
in him was in exact proportion to the height of his upward step. Upon a
November afternoon, then, as his Excellency was returning from the
Council, he came suddenly upon his daughter, standing in the court-yard
of his house, bare-headed, arms akimbo, feet spread apart in the
attitude of a jockey, her white bonnet thrown upon the muddy flags
before her, her shrill voice raised to a scream, as she pelted her
helpless nurse with a string of oaths that would have done credit to his
Iron Majesty, all for presuming to interrupt her game within doors in
order to take her for the prescribed daily walk in the gardens of the
Tauride.
Count Dravikine, his eyes narrowing with anger, approached the furious
child, lifted her, now kicking frantically, in two powerful arms,
carried her straight to his wife's boudoir, and flung her before her
mother. Then, in a voice that Caroline had heard only twice before, he
expressed his opinion of the up-bringing of his child, finishing with
certain forceful suggestions of change for the future.
Countess Caroline listened without a word; but when her husband left
her, he was well aware that his orders would be obeyed to the letter.
The Countess, indeed, respected her partner and had continued to obey
his rare commands simply because she was aware of the existence of that
very voice and manner. And from that hour the education of her tomboy
became with her a matter of considerably greater moment than the
planning of the winter's campaign, or the choice of a costume for the
first court ball of the season.
It followed that Mademoiselle Nathalie passed through two extremely
trying years. At the end of them, however, she was a child transformed.
No one now could possibly mistake her for a boy. She could read and
write, spell fairly, had some knowledge of arithmetic and the
conjugation of _Amo_: and, finally, her knowledge of intricate profanity
had materially lessened. Nowadays, when she was left alone in her rage,
her most forceful expressions seemed to be "_Dieu de Dieu de Dieu!_" or
"_Sapr-r-risti!_" of her mild little tutor or her more vigorous French
maid.
In spite of this conventional training, Nathalie, whose temperament
contained a strong dash of masculinity, was quite eleven years old
before she began to turn her vivid imagination to dreams of distant
débutantism or still remoter officers, who, in the most brilliant of
uniforms, should appear at miraculous moments in her career, bringing
shame and jealousy to armies of ill-mannered rivals. After the first
three months in the Catherine Institute, this style of amusement also
changed, and she was overcome by a religious mania which, being
encouraged on every hand, might possibly have become really dangerous.
It was by finally emerging from it unscathed, and having, at the age of
thirteen years and six months, resolved herself into an agreeably normal
young person whose quiet manners covered a swift and keenly feminine
brain, that Nathalie Dravikine proved herself worthy of her mother's
steel.
This, indeed, Countess Caroline came herself to perceive. After their
long winter's separation, during those few days together in the
sorrowing house of Gregoriev, during the April of 1857, mother and
daughter came closer together than ever before. Madame Dravikine was
softened by grief; and the consolation she found in her daughter's
presence was as great as it was unexpected. Nathalie's tenderness and
gentleness were certainly traits of the Dravikines, rather than of the
Blashkov family. But Caroline, absorbed in memories of her beloved
sister, failed either to analyze these, or to pay much heed to the two
or three brief scenes between her girl and Ivan, which should have been
summarily checked in their infancy. As it was, Mademoiselle Nathalie
gained some relief from gloom and loneliness in the open admiration of
her cousin; and, after the first day of novelty, found herself taking a
quivering delight in this, her first affair.
The little climax of it all, that five minutes on the platform of the
Petersburg station, which ended in a most uncousinly kiss, flamed
scarcely less hot in the memory of the maiden than in that of Ivan.
Nathalie carried back with her into the gray Petersburg Institute such a
host of flagrant dreams as kept a dozen chums about her through the long
twilights of as many afternoons. For the damsel was an erratic priestess
of Eros; and, at this dream-age, she and her comrades gave to the
technique of forthcoming flirtation a patient analysis that promised
adequate devastation among the courtier army awaiting their acknowledged
young-ladyhood.
Thus comes it that we take a final glance through two childish
prison-houses, in far-separate Russian cities, wherein a youth and a
maiden lie nightly dreaming the same dreams: one of them a spirit
already bonded to the service of mind under the whip of circumstance:
destined to storm rocky heights, from which hard-won eminences he shall
command great views of sweeping plains and far-off mountain ranges; the
other a pretty chrysalis on the eve of her change into a butterfly of
butterflies; who is, nevertheless, to attempt flights overhigh and
overfar for her frail wings; venturing to unfriendly lands whence she
must return with frayed and tired pinions and a bruised and bleeding
little soul. And their two destinies, so divergent, are yet fated, ever
and again, in the swift swinging round their orbits, to approach, touch,
and bound away again in opposite directions, strive though they may to
maintain for a while some parallel course.
Kinder, most surely, just to leave them there: well-guarded children,
walled securely away from the black, bleak world; oblivious of all
things save the white innocency of their dreams of first, most fragile,
high-romantic love.