_“A ROSE AND A MYRTLE.”_
Five years passed by, and in May, 1780, Rakitina was again in
Petersburg. Her friend Vâra was already married and in Moscow. Father
Peter was, as before, priest of the Cathedral of Kazan. Irena went to
see him. He was delighted and eagerly began to ask her about past and
present events.
“Is it possible that you are even till now waiting and hoping that your
_fiancé_ is yet alive?” he asked. “For how many years you are uselessly
tormenting yourself! Were he alive, be sure he would have sent some
message--I do not say to you--to his friends, to his relations.”
“Oh! don’t, don’t, Father,” answered Irena, drying her eyes; “I will
give up all, sacrifice everything.…”
“Young lady, that is a sin; you are tempting Providence, you are
imitating the heathens.”
“But what can I do?” answered Irena; “I am always seeing such awful
prophetic dreams, one especially. Oh! that dream; it came to me not
long ago, several nights together.”… Irena was silent.
“What dream was it? Tell me all; confide in me.”
“It seemed to me that he approached my bedside--he was not a bit
altered--just as he was the last time I saw him in our village,
stately, handsome, amiable; and he said to me, ‘I am still alive,
Irenushka. Where the sea murmurs, night and day, I look for you,
morning and evening, thinking perhaps you’ll come, find me, and set me
free.’… Ah! tell me, where must I look, what must I do, whom must I
ask? I dare not trouble the empress another time.…”
“I often thought of you,” said Father Peter. “Here I only see one
person, and that is--the Tzarevitch, Pavel Petrovitch;[51] he is
Grand-Master and Protector of the Order of Maltese Knights--he alone
can help you. If he will only stoop to you, to your petition, he alone
can do something for you. In him you’ll find everything--talent,
honour, always used in the interest of anything high and noble, secret
relations with all the most powerful and celebrated philanthropists.
And what goodness, what knightly nobility! No; it is not Tiberius, as
his enemies say; it’s the future beneficent Titus.”
“Yes, I have heard that,” answered Irena.
“You have heard? then go to him, find him at his manor house, seek for
an audience.”
The priest gave Irena all possible information and advice, as well
as a letter to his god-daughter, housekeeper in the household of the
Tzarevitch. Rakitina hired a _kibitka_[52] and started for Pavlovski,
the personal property of the grand-duke.
The housekeeper received Rakitina very hospitably. She took her into
her own apartment, and then, to amuse her a little, pointed out to
her all the curiosities in the garden and park of the grand-duke; the
little cottage Cric-Crac, the hut of the hermit, the caverns, lakes,
and rustic bridges. It was decided that Irena should first relate
everything to the favourite maid of honour of the grand-duchess,
Ekaterina Ivanovna Nelidova, who had only just terminated her education
at Smolney Institute.[53]
“When shall we go to see Ekaterina Ivanovna?” said Irena, longing for
the promised audience.
“We shall have to wait; she is very much occupied now, learning a hymn
on the clavichord. It’s the favourite piece of the grand-duke; she is
getting it ready for the concert.”
One day Irena was walking in the park with her hostess. All at once
from behind the trees, a fair lady in a light blue silk dress, without
any hoops, came towards them.
“Who is that?” asked Irena.
“The Tzarevna,” whispered the housekeeper, bowing very respectfully.
Irena turned faint.
The elegant, though a little inclined to embonpoint, Grand Duchess
Marie Feodorovna was then twenty-two, and very lovely.
In passing by Irena, she turned her rather bewildered and short-sighted
eyes upon her, as though astonished at her nun’s dress. The Tzarevna
was followed by a very tall, thin, pock-marked man in a dark _kaftan_
and cocked hat, carrying a roll of music and a fiddle under his arm.
“And who is that?” asked Rakitina, when they had gone by.
“Paëzsïllo,” answered the housekeeper; “music master to her Imperial
Highness.”
Irena admired the rare beauty of the Tzarevna, the delicate pink and
white complexion, the splendid golden hair, in which nestled some blue
and red flowers, contained in a tiny bottle of water to keep them fresh.
The Tzarevna was followed at some distance by two maids of honour.
One of them, a short, thin, sprightly brunette, struck Irena by the
brightness of her black, sparkling eyes, which literally seemed to
shoot forth sparks. She was gaily talking with her companion. It was
Nelidova. Mischievously winking at the stout housekeeper, who was
respectfully bowing to her, she said to her with a charming smile,
“I’ve had no time yet, Anna Romanovna,--always that hymn; to-morrow
morning.”
“Ah! at last, to-morrow,” thought Irena, in ecstasy, and following with
enraptured eyes the enchanting, elegant fairies, who so unexpectedly
had passed before her eyes. At the appointed hour, Anna Romanovna
took Irena to the pavilion of the maids of honour, not far from the
guard-house, and led her into the drawing-room.
“It would seem that Ekaterina Ivanovna has not yet returned from the
palace of the grand-duchess,” she said; “we will wait for her here, my
dear; take off your hood, it’s too warm.”
“It does not matter; I’ll leave it.”
The room was filled with vases, statuettes, and medallions hung on the
walls.
“This is all the work of the grand-duchess,” said the housekeeper.
“Look here, dear, what talent! how she paints on porcelain! And look
here, in this black cupboard, these ivory things, that’s her work. She
can engrave also on stones, on gold, lovely _paysages_; she can also
turn on the lathe, and how fond she is of Ekaterina Ivanovna! those are
all presents to her. Look, she embroidered this beautiful cushion for
her. Look, what a rose! and this myrtle! What a delicate design, and
the colours, you might mistake it for a painting.”
Irena gave no answer.
“Why are you so silent, my dear? What are you thinking about?”
“A rose and a myrtle,” whispered Irena, sighing; “life and death. What
will be the end of all my efforts, my researches, my hopes?”
At that very minute, the notes of the clavichord were heard from the
room of Nelidova. A melodious splendid contralto was singing the very
solemn and sad hymn from Glück’s opera, “Iphigenia in Tauridus.”
“Well, Irena Lvovna, let us go; I suppose we are too late. Ekaterina
Ivanovna is at her music, and no one will dare disturb her. Very likely
the grand-duchess is with her now.”
Irena made a sign to her companion to wait a little, and with a beating
heart she listened to the so well known notes of the imploring hymn of
“Iphigenia.” In past days she had herself sung that to Konsov. “Oh! if
I could only implore them like that; but when will that be? They have
their own cares, they have no time,” thought she, feeling that her
tears were choking her.
“Let us go, let us go,” said Anna Romanovna, hastily. They both went
out together, went down the steps, round the pavilion of the maids of
honour, and into the garden. The wicket-gate banged to.
“Where are you off to?” they heard a voice gaily calling out.
They both raised their eyes. Looking at them from the open window was
the smiling face of the black-eyed Nelidova.
“Come in; I’m quite free now. I was waiting for you, and so began to
sing. Come in.”
The visitors retraced their steps.
Anna Romanovna presented her companion to Nelidova, who made her sit
down beside her.
“So young, and yet in such a gloomy dress,” she said; “speak now,
without any ceremony, tell me all, I am listening.”
Irena began about Konsov, then went on to the arrest and captivity of
Tarakanova. At each of her words, at each detail of the sad event, the
bright playful face of Nelidova became more and more troubled and sad.
“Great God! what mysteries, what tragedies!” thought she, shivering;
“and all that in our days. But it’s the dark middle ages over again,
and no one knowing anything of it.”
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Irena,” said Ekaterina Ivanovna, after
having listened attentively to Rakitina. “I am very much obliged to
you for all you have related to me; if you will allow me, I will tell
it all again to their Imperial Highnesses.… I am convinced that the
Tzarevitch, that wise just knight, that angel of goodness and honour …
will do everything for you. But to whom must he apply?”
“How! to whom?” asked the astonished Irena.
“You see, I do not know very well how to explain it,” continued
Nelidova; “the Tzarevitch takes no part in State affairs, he can only
ask others. On whom does all this depend?”
“The Prince Potemkin might …” answered Irena, remembering the counsels
of Father Peter, that the Prince could send orders to the different
ambassadors and consuls. “Lieutenant Konsov is perhaps now a prisoner
of the Moors or negroes, on some wild island in the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Will you remain long here?” asked Nelidova.
“The Mother Superior of the Nunnery where I live has been summoning me
to return this long while. Every one blames me; calls my researches
sinful.”
“How and where can I send you a message?”
Irena named the convent, and then became thoughtful, looking at the
cushion worked by the grand-duchess.
“I’ve suffered so much, I’ve waited so long,” she murmured, stifling
her tears. “Do not write anything--not one word--but, see, send me,
should there be success, a rose; if failure, a myrtle leaf.”
Nelidova kissed Irena.
“I will do everything I can,” she said gently. “I will appeal to the
grand-duchess, to the Tzarevitch. There remains nothing more for you to
do here. Better leave, my dear one; as soon as I learn anything, I will
let you know.”