by Mór Jókai
CHAPTER IX
THE BOARD OF GREEN CLOTH AND THE GREEN BOOK
The room in which the "Confederation of the North" held its meetings wasprovided with double doors--a circumstance by no means uncommon inRussian palaces, in order that there should be no spying throughkeyholes, no listening at doors.
The centre of the room was taken up by a massive table, or rather agreat chest, the upper part of which formed a roulette-table.
The rolls of gold--probably sovereigns (bank-notes are not used inroulette)--are laid out in rows, beside which is placed the croupier'slong scoop. Each new-comer, as he enters, takes his seat at the tableand puts down his purse before him. But there is no play--in fact, it isa mere sham. At each arrival the opening of the outer door sets thetable in motion, the noise of the rotary ball calling the attention ofthose present to the fact that some one is coming. Thus there is no fearof surprises.
The introductions are performed by the lady of the house--a necessaryceremony, for on this occasion there are people who have never metbefore--accredited agents, representatives of secret societies whichhave been formed in the remotest corners of the Russian dominion. Thepresident and keeper of the privy seal of the Northern Confederation isPrince Ghedimin; the secretary, Ryleieff, is a young poet, and agent ofthe American corn trade.
Of the three brothers Turgenieff, Nicholas, the historian, is present;as well as Colonel Lunin, the proprietor of the secret press; Bestuseff,Kuchelbaecker, Commandant of Artillery. There are also Vaskofsky, Chiefof the "Welfare Union"; Muravieff, the representative of the "UnitedSlavs"; and Orloff, the life and soul of the "Patriots." All aredistinct secret societies; yet all are united in one aim, "Freedom"(freedom under the snow)--their mode of procedure, action, theinstruments employed, wholly diverse. For this reason they have arrangedthe present meeting, in order to unite the various opposing plans intoone common form of action. To this conference they have called thepresident of the "Southern Confederation," Colonel Pestel, from thefar-off shores of the Black Sea, and the still more distant chief of theCaucasian "Barbarians," Jakuskin. But of all, he who has come from theremotest part (for he had had to wade through the sea of blood whichseparates the two countries) was the spokesman of the Polish"Kosinyery," Krizsanowski. All these men wear uniforms, save Ryleieff,who is of the burgher class, and who wears a modern blue frock-coat withgold buttons; all are beardless, with clean-shaven faces; only the Polepreserves the national type; and Jakuskin, whose shaggy eyebrows joinhis tousled beard, represents the wild Cossack, and seems, by his rough,neglected exterior, to bid defiance to the civilized world.
There is something written on the foreheads of all these men.
Zeneida stands by the door to receive the new-comers, until the roomfills up. Conversation is not loud; each seems to be conferring with thespirit which has led him hither.
The rolling of the roulette ball is heard yet again.
"Who can still be coming?" asks Zeneida.
Pushkin appears on the threshold.
Zeneida's countenance involuntarily assumes an expression of alarm.
"Why do you come here?" she whispers, excitedly, to him.
"Is it not permitted?"
"Did I not commission you to watch Galban, that he might not take us bysurprise?"
"I found a better guardian for him. Diabolka has got him in themouse-trap."
"But your responsibility remains."
"I will go back as soon as I can do so without exciting attention. Atpresent, I stay here. Introduce me!"
"What a child you are! Are you not consumed with curiosity to know whatwe are about here?"
"I wish to take my part in it."
"What wilfulness! Of course you imagine lives are going to be risked,and must needs stake yours for sake of the glory. Well, stay here. Youshall see. Herr Pushkin!" And she turned her back upon him, as if inanger, while making the introduction.
Zeneida was the accredited agent of the whole union. Whom she invited toher palace was received as a "Brother"; to whom she confided any workwas ranked among the "Men"; but to take part in secret conferences andto be promoted to be a "Bojar" required a further recommendation.
"Who else stands security for him?" asked Prince Ghedimin.
"I," answered Ryleieff.
Upon which room was at once made for Pushkin at the table.
His was a fine head. The curly hair and form of the nose recalled theAfrican blood which ran in his veins, one of his forefathers havingtaken to wife a daughter of Hannibal, the negro slave promoted by Peterthe Great to be a general. His eyes were dark and deep-set, yet, despitethe irregular features, one could trace in the expression a resemblanceto Byron. Pushkin was in love with Zeneida--that is, he raved about her.Zeneida was deeply in love with Pushkin, therefore she did not want himreally to love her.
A word will clear up this seeming paradox. Zeneida knew too well that hewho united his fate to hers must inevitably meet some dark doom, in thebackground of which loomed the scaffold. Finland had been reduced tosubjection by the same power against which these secret societies werewaging war, and Zeneida could still remember her mother's tears, and theplain black coffin brought by stealth to her home one dark night,wherein lay the corpse of a headless man for whom they dared not evenmourn. Only when she was grown up had she learned that that man was herfather. She loved Pushkin far too dearly to lead him on that perilouspath on which men risk their heads. She had dreamed of a happier,sunnier lot for him. She had long detected in the wild, restless youththat genius that had not been given him to make the lion of a lady'sboudoir--a genius which belonged, not to Russia only, but to the wholeworld. A poet was not thus to be wasted. Why load the gun with a chargeof diamonds when common lead would answer the purpose equally well, nay,better!
"Gentlemen," said Zeneida, addressing those assembled. "I will firstrequest our brother Ryleieff to read to us the verses we are to spreadamong the people. To prepare the minds of the people is, indeed, themain object." (General applause.)
Ryleieff, the poet, a fair, slim, handsome young man, here rising,produced the verses he had written.
It was a fine, noble-toned poem, perfectly rhythmical, and true to everyrule of composition. The rhetorical warmth rising gradually to animpassioned climax, the under-current expressing that deep spirit ofyearning melancholy which harmonizes so entirely with the spirit of thepeople.
The poem recited, all united to congratulate the youthful Tyrtaeus; whileZeneida, with eyes filled with tears, kissed him on both cheeks.
Pushkin, annoyed, looked away. For a woman to kiss a man is the acceptedcustom in Russian society. Ghedimin scarcely heeded Zeneida's action,and he certainly had the best right to demur; but Pushkin was plainlyannoyed by it. He envied Ryleieff: envied him the kiss; how much morethe poem which answered its purpose--_faute de mieux_!
"The verses are splendid!" exclaimed Prince Ghedimin. "We will have amillion copies of them struck off in Lunin's press, and distributedamong the peasants."
"You forget, Prince," put in Zeneida, "that our peasants cannot read. Iwould suggest it were more practical to have the poem set to music, thatit might be diffused more rapidly among them. In that way it would passfrom field to field; mowers, reapers, wagoners, would carry it fromvillage to village, and what is once sung among them never dies out. Inour Finnish _Volkslieder_ has lived the history of the nation, thetraditions of its historical life, its freedom. These no man can takeaway. The _Marseillaise_ alone raised an army in France."
"But to whom confide the setting of it to music?" asked the Prince.
"Here is Herr Pushkin," said Zeneida. "He composes charming melodies."
Pushkin felt as if stung by a tarantula.
He compose the melody to Ryleieff's song of freedom! Subordination canbe carried to a nicety of perfection. A state councillor, when he putson the uniform of a private of volunteers, may find he has to obey theorders of his own chancery clerk and corporal; or a duke, if he become afreemason, have to make obeisance to a bootm
aker, as master of thelodge; but for one poet to be called upon to write the music to anotherpoet's effusion, when he feels himself to be Caesar and the other manPompey, is a sheer impossibility.
Pushkin's face crimsoned.
"To the best of my belief, the words and air of the _Marseillaise_ werecomposed at one and the same time. Rouget de l'Isle wrote them together.Nor can it be otherwise. The poet alone can find the fittinginspiration. Ryleieff's poem is fine, very fine, but it does not inflameand excite one. To such an end the fire of enthusiasm is a necessity."And unconsciously he slapped his breast, as though to say, "And it ishere."
"Do you know, Pushkin," said Zeneida, "if you are really feeling thepoetic ardor of which you speak--if you think you can compose somethingbetter than we have here, you could not do better than to retire intothis little side chamber; there you will find piano and writing-table.Give us something better suited to our purpose!"
Pushkin was caught.
"Why not? I will write you a song which the peasant will not need totake first to the priest to have its meaning explained to him."
And with that he looked straight into Zeneida's eyes, with a look whichsaid, "If you can bestow a kiss for Ryleieff's rhymes, what will yougive me when I put on paper the words that burn in my heart?"
Rising, he repaired to the inner room. Soon the sound of chords showedhim to be deep in poetic creation. When once thus absorbed, a man doesnot lightly break off.
Zeneida had no better wish for him.
As Pushkin left the room Zeneida turned the roulette-board. The ballstopped at Nicholas Turgenieff. He was thus made President of theCouncil that day, and accordingly took the chair--made to resemble thatof the banker of a roulette-table.
And now Prince Ghedimin, drawing out a delicate little polished key,which fitted into a keyhole revealed by pushing aside a brass button,handed it to the President, who turned it twice in the lock. Hereuponthe copper slab, upon which the roulette-board was fixed, slid to theother end of the long table, disclosing, in the part thus laid open,"the green book." One single lamp hanging from the ceiling illuminatedthe figures of those sitting there, looking, by its light, like statuesin a museum; every feature seemed to gain in sharpness of outline; theirimmobility lending character and determination to their faces; so manyhistorical subjects destined either to rise to eminence, the idols ofthe people, or to fall under the hand of the executioner. In those fewmoments, devoted to silent reflection, which each man seemed to beengaged in studying his neighbor, many were looking upon the other forthe first time, and appeared to be mentally comparing the reality withthe ideal previously formed. The members of the Southern Confederationhad never before met their Polish brother. Many of them had seenJakuskin ten years before, but then he was a merry youth withclean-shaven face. That has all disappeared. He is now a wild man of thewoods, who only smiles when he speaks of murder. Leaning against thePresident's chair is Zeneida; attitude and figure alike recall statuesof the "Republic," only that instead of a dagger she holds a bouquet inher hand sent her by her rival. A dagger in disguise. Besides those wehave already named, the following historical personages were present:the three brothers Bestuseff, Prince Trubetzkoi Obolensky, Korsofski,Urbuseff, Peslien, Orloff, Konovitzin, Odojefski, Setkof, Sutsin,Battenkoff, Rostopschin, Rosen, Steinkal, Arsibuseff, Annenkoff,Oustofski, and Muravieff Apostol, all representatives of the manywide-spread secret societies.
Ryleieff, the secretary, opened "the green book."
The President desired him to read out the business done during the lastsitting.
It concerned the working out of a plan of constitutional government forthe whole Russian empire; its title--"Ruskaja Pravda." It was a republicin which every province that the Russian despot had annexed to form onevast empire was to arise as an independent state under its individualpresident--Great Russia, Little Russia, Finland, Poland, Livland, Kasan,Siberia, the Crimea, the Caucasus; nine republics with one governmentand one army, under the control of one Directorate, to hold its sittingsat Moscow.
The Republic needed no St. Petersburg. Neither the "Saint," nor the"Peter," nor the "burg" (city).
The device upon the plan was--
Question: "Will Europe in fifty years' time be republican or Russian?"
To which the answer was--"Both."
This plan of constitution was painted with the colors of a glowingfancy. First, to free every people, and then to unite all free peoples!None to be oppressed by the other. Each to be left to choose his own wayto prosperity, speak his own tongue, cultivate his own land. No morehatred or jealousy among nations.
So it stood in "the green book."
Prince Ghedimin was the first to speak.
"It is a grand idea; but the greatest obstacle in the way of freeing thepeople is that the people are unconscious of their servitude. Let it beour part to make it clear to them. Let us flood the land with catechismsof the 'free man'; let us study the special grievances of every race inthe provinces; learn to know their want and misery, and win them to thecause of freedom by promising them redress. A people suffers when it ishungry; has to submit to blows; has its sons taken off to be soldiers;but it is ignorant of the yoke that is bowing down its neck."
Pestel waited impatiently until he could speak.
"My dear Prince, your plan may be very good for such as can afford towait fifty years and build card houses, which fall to pieces at everycurrent of air. We have not the time to devote to philosophicaltheories. We count upon the army and the aristocracy. The power once inour hands, we can take our measures to secure the education of themasses. A revolution left in their hands would lead to another Pugatsefrevolt."
"And would that be a bad thing?" asked Jakuskin, in a hoarse voice,advancing to them from the corner where he was seated.
"It would be bad because there could be no organization. He who wouldcarry out our scheme must be master of the situation. In Russia, thesuccessful leader of an insurgent movement would only be another tyrant.Our scheme must be carried out simultaneously, at the word of command,throughout all Russia. No sooner that done than every secret society isabandoned, and we suppress all conspiracies; and, hateful as is now thesystem of police detectives, it must, in future, be raised to anhonorable calling. Every man of mind, every free man, and every patriotmust be proud to make himself a police-agent of a free country. All thismust come about at the stroke of a magic wand."
"And what do you propose to do under the stroke of the magic wand withthe Czar and the Grand Dukes?" asked Jakuskin, with chilling irony.
"Make them prisoners, convey them on board a man-of-war, and ship themoff to the New World."
"Humph! to the other world! In Charon's boat," hissed out the Caucasiansoldier; and, going up to the table, he struck it with his clinchedfist. "Hark ye, envoys of the North and South, members of your variousvirtuous and benevolent societies, you are all on a wrong tack, youdeceive yourselves. There is but one answer to the question I put toyou: scatter their ashes to the four winds. I am no puling child, suchas you are. I have not covered two thousand versts to come here and hearyou thresh out your philosophical theses; I am here to act."
Ryleieff here interrupted the speaker with quiet dignity.
"Quite right. But you will act as the majority decide."
At this call to order the vehement Caucasian's blood boiled within him.
"Once I was young like you, Ryleieff; but that is long past. Once I,too, believed that one only needed to be a good man one's self to makethe world better. I, too, had then as young and lovely a betrothed asyou now have; I was an officer in the guards, and at twenty haddistinguished myself in ten battles. And do you know what happened tome? The evening before my wedding-day, Araktseieff's son, a worthlessfellow who did not even know how to buckle on his sword, and who hadbeen made colonel over me, stole away my bride. I challenged him inmortal combat, and the dastardly coward, instead of accepting mychallenge, denounced me to the Czar, and I was exiled to the Caucasus.As, with hell in my heart, I was
taking my leave of the city, the lastthing that met my eyes was the body of a drowned girl brought to me. Itwas my bride. I kissed her. I still feel the chill of that kiss upon mylips, and I shall feel it until the blood wipes it out, for which I longas keenly as any cannibal. When you are in Czarskoje Zelo look at acertain finely painted battle-piece. Close behind the Czar you will seea youth on a rearing horse, a youth wielding his sword high in air, hisface beaming with triumph and loyalty. That youth was I! Years havequenched my enthusiasm; but my sword still swings over his head."
"And so I trust it may remain, ever wielded on high as in the picture."
"But that it will not!" cried Jakuskin, vehemently. "I swear it by thedevil they sent into my heart as its constant indweller, I will listento naught else but my eternal vengeance! You may fill your 'green book'with resolutions--this is my determination!" And as he waved his armaloft, he extracted a hidden dagger from his coat-sleeve, and displayedits glittering surface to the company.
Horrified, Ryleieff, springing up, drew forth a pistol from aside-pocket and levelled it at Jakuskin's breast.
"And I swear that I will shoot you down on the spot if you venture toassert yourself against our rules."
"Very well, then, shoot me down! Fire away, boy!" growled Jakuskin,tearing open his coat and presenting his bare breast to the mouth of thepistol. "And learn from me how to die."
"Obey the rules, Jakuskin! Take back your word!" shouted several, asthey rushed up to pacify the infuriated man.
"I will not withdraw it! You are cowards, all! He shall fire!" heshouted back, roughly pushing them away.
"Gentlemen!" exclaimed Krizsanowski, the Pole, rising.
"Shoot me down!" roared Jakuskin, continuing to wave his dagger.
Then it was that Zeneida, drawing a hyacinth from out her bouquet, aimedit at the raging man's forehead. And the seasoned man, who had neverknown what it was to shrink from a bullet, was so confused by thisplayful projectile that, letting fall the dagger from his hand, he puthis hand to his brow.
A quiet smile passed over the faces of those present, and before theCaucasian could recover his dagger, Zeneida was beside him, had pickedit up from the ground, restored it to him, and was stroking his beardwith caressing action.
"Dear friend, be courteous. Our guest Krizsanowski, the delegate of thePolish 'Kosynyery,' wishes to speak. Let us listen to him, and put thisshaving apparatus away!"
Jakuskin calmed down. This delicate woman had more than once stepped into spread oil on the waves of the most impassioned debates when, daggeror pistol in hand, the disputants seemed bent on doing one another aviolence.
And now Krizsanowski, hat in hand, began:
"Gentlemen, I wish to bid farewell to you. I will not enter upon thesubject under discussion with you, nor have I any desire to await theresolution arrived at. I will not listen to the question of murderingthe Czar, still less will I submit to be bound by your decisions. Thereis not one among you who has endured such wrongs; not one among you whocarries such grief in his heart as I. What did your sovereign, as itsking, do with your country? He freed it from foreign conquest, made itgreat and powerful, added new territory to it. What did he do with yourpeople? He gave them prosperity and knowledge, and erected a school inevery one of your villages. What is your ruler? A noble mind in a noblebody--'the handsomest man in all Europe,' as Napoleon said of him--andwith heart as good as he looks. And the most remarkable thing about himis that, in every fault, in every feeling, he is a Russian to thebackbone. His only crime in your eyes is that he is the Czar. And to youthat is crime enough to make him die. And what is my ruler, the Czar'sbrother, Constantine? A monster, in whose very face nature has curiouslywedded the hideous with the ridiculous; and his hideous features are atrue mirror of the hideous promptings of his soul. He is what he seemsto be--cruel and contemptible. In the whole extent of my poor, unhappynation there is not one feeling heart which he has not trampled upon; noarticle of value, no relic, no Church money, he has not appropriated tohimself. But a Pole would see in that no cause to treacherously murderhis king. A Pole's hand is accustomed to the sword; it knows not the useof a dagger. Let me take leave of you; I would go back to my people. Icame hither in the belief that I should find here brave men ready forbattle; who, at the appointed hour, would range themselves in fightingorder, and declare war upon their oppressors as do we, who fight in openbattle--as do we who, in open and honorable warfare, settle on whoseside is the right. Such I thought to find here. On my journey hither, onthe way from Warsaw to the Niemen, my predecessor, glorious ValerianLukasinski, was being conveyed before me--he whom treachery had givenover to the authorities. He was my relative, friend, and leader--treblydear to me. He had been subjected to every species of physical andmental torture in order to make him reveal the aims of and participatorsin the conspiracy. They had not succeeded in drawing a word out of him.Constantine himself took the knout from the executioner's hands, andtaught him how to use the agonizing implement. When Lukasinski waswellnigh flayed to death, no sign of humanity left in him, only one massof bleeding flesh and bones and gaping wounds, the viceroy had him laidbound on a gun-carriage, and had this still breathing, bleeding massdragged to his captivity through the rigor of mid-winter. I followed histrack guided by the drops of blood which fell on the snow. Those frozendrops I gathered up one by one on the way, and placed them in areliquary. Heaven had compassion on the sufferer; he died on the road.They made a hole in the ice of the river Niemen, and threw the body in;the current carried it off to the sea. I know that I shall follow him,and that my end will be like his. Still that knowledge neither moves mefrom fear or revengeful feeling to lie in ambush and murderously strikemy ruler in the back at any time, when he may be sleeping, or kneelingin prayer! Our God was never a God of murder. The dagger which struckdown Caesar but opened the door to Caligula and Heliogabalus. WhileWilliam Tell told Gessler to his face, 'With this arrow I will kill you.Defend yourself as best you can!' I do likewise. When the time comes Iwill declare war upon my enemies, and if God is with me, I shall destroythem; but as long as I do not feel myself strong enough to engage inopen warfare, no oppression, no cruelty, and no fantastic ravings shalllead me, by any untimely revolt, to draw the cord tighter, which I fainwould loose. Your plans are untimely, unripe, without sufficient basis;they destroy, but do not build up again. I know them, and will not uniteour cause to yours. Let me go."
Pestel, seizing the Pole by the hand, held him back.
"You cannot go yet; you have learned nothing of our intentions. What youhave heard hitherto was only a weak, academical discussion. The wordsthis madman said were only the ravings of his mad passion. I, too, donot inscribe upon my shield, 'Strew their ashes to the winds'; notbecause my soul would shrink from it, but because such a dictum wouldscatter our several societies like shots among a flock of birds. Thepeople themselves would turn against us. To the masses the prayer forCzar and Grand Dukes is a necessity, and were the priest ever to leaveit out, they would hang him for a heretic. If I were to ask my soldiers,'Do you want a republic?' they would straightway answer, 'Yes, if theCzar commands.' We must begin at the beginning; we must not startle anyone. The first step is the difficulty; the others will follow ofthemselves. Thus let us go back to the point where Jakuskin interruptedus. And you, Krizsanowski, resume your seat. The question is the removalof the Czar and Grand Dukes--their removal only. Let them go to America,by all means. There Russia has noble possessions; there they can reign.But to this end you Poles must lend us a helping hand. For what usewould it be to us to ship off the three brothers, when the fourth,Constantine, who by fundamental law is next after Alexander insuccession to the throne, remains at large in Warsaw?"
"Let us clearly understand one another, Pestel," replied Krizsanowski."We Poles have ever been, since our first existence as a nation, readyto shed our blood for the benefit of others. Tell me, what is to becomeof us if we succeed in freeing ourselves from the Romanoffs?"
"Form Poland into a republic."
"But your Polish republic will still be a part of the vast Russiandominions, just as Livland and Little Russia will be; and over us therewill be some one--a chief, who is lord over the nine republics, althoughI know not what title or what amount of power he will possess. And Iswear to you I do not wish for a freedom that shall be the downfall ofmy country."
The deep silence which ensued proved that the Pole had hit the rightnail upon the head. There was an expression of uneasy conviction on allfaces.
Then Nicholas Turgenieff, the president, rose to speak.
"Take comfort, Krizsanowski. The chief of the republic, he who will behead of the nine republics, will be no autocrat, no tyrant under anyother name."
"What, then?"
"That which he must of necessity be--_un president sans phrases_."
The conversation had taken place in French. These four words had nearlycost Turgenieff his estates and his head.
The words were scarce spoken, when the roulette-board suddenly slippedback into its place, effectually concealing "the green book," and thedoor opened. Copper-plate and door were an ingeniously constructed pieceof machinery. If "the green book" were exposed to view, and any oneopened the outer door, the roulette slid back instantly into its place.
Chevalier Galban, entering, only heard Nicholas Turgenieff's four lastwords, and saw nothing but a gambling-table.
The banker repeated--
"Je suis un president sans phrases. Messieurs, faites vos jeux!"
One of the men playing--the Pole--rose from his seat with a disturbedlook--
"Merci, monsieurs, c'en etait assez!"
Another, Jakuskin, drying the sweat from his brow, struck his hand onthe table--
"J'ai tout perdu!"
All as if it were a real roulette-table.
The others continued cold-bloodedly to lay their parcels of gold on thenumbers, seeming unaware of the new-comer's arrival.
The hostess only advanced quickly to greet him.
"I was certain that you would find out our den; I kept this seat foryou."
"You honor me too much, _diva_. I ought to have good luck in playto-night, as I have just had the opposite fate in love."
"How is that? Did the pretty Gitanitza escape you?"
"_Au contraire_, she fell asleep. A checkmate such as never happened tome before!"
Zeneida gave a merry laugh. No one could have divined under its mask theagitation she was feeling. She knew that a sleeping-draught had beengiven to Diabolka.
"Come along! let us be partners for gain or loss."
Chevalier Galban, accepting, took the seat allotted to him; Zeneidaseated herself on the arm of his chair.
So it is a roulette-table pure and simple, and the party assembledgamblers. There is no "green book." A thickness of half an inch laybetween him and it--his arm rested on it.
Merely contravention of a police regulation--a thing winked at by theauthorities. Suppressed inclinations will find a vent--far better itshould be on moral than political domains. Nor is it any matter forwonder that Nicholas Turgenieff should be the roulette banker. A man maybe a _bel esprit_, a great author, philosopher, philanthropist, and yethave a passion for play. Even Napoleon was a gambler.
As the game was in full swing, Pushkin suddenly entered to them from aside room with flushed cheeks, crying, in a tone of triumph:
"The song is ready."
The gamblers looked askance at him.
Now he would betray all.
Lucky for them all that his eyes had mechanically sought Zeneida's.
She, still sitting on the arm of Galban's chair, glanced significantlyat the Chevalier.
Pushkin saw him.
"Let us hear it," said Galban, toying with his pile of gold pieces.
Pushkin changed color for an instant as he stared at him, then plungedhis hand into his breast-pocket. All followed his movements anxiously.What would he bring out? Perhaps the song of freedom, just composed; andwould he declaim or sing it, for Chevalier Galban's edification? Orwould he draw that which every conspirator carried, dancing or drinking,a pointed stiletto to strike down the traitor then and there?
He drew out a packet of papers, smiling the while.
"Here is what I promised you, _The Romance of the Lovely Gypsy Girl_.Shall I read it?"
A romance instead of a song of freedom? Why not? in order to cover anuntimely appearance, the wisest thing for a poet to do was to read orrecite something, no matter what, so that the others meanwhile couldrecover their self-possession.
But this was no mere rhyming jingle. No sooner had he begun than theattention of all was riveted on his verses. The poetic form was strikingand brilliant, the thought original, the conception fine; there werefire, passion, audacity, and beauty of expression in it, united to anatural grace and simplicity.
No one had heard the lines before. As he finished, Zeneida, hurrying upto him, pressed both his hands in hers. She did not kiss him as she hadkissed Ryleieff, but the tears which flowed from her eyes were a higherrecompense. A kiss is cheap. Tears are costly.
The whole company of conspirators, forgetting alike "green book" andreorganization, hastened to congratulate the poet, who suddenly, like acomet from before which the wind has chased the clouds, found himselfrevealed in all his glory.
Chevalier Galban was now convinced that this was no gathering ofconspirators, but merely a select assemblage who met for games of chanceand intellectual and literary interchange of thought--both prohibited,it is true, in Russia--for which reason they were obliged to meet insecret.
_Par exemple_, such verses would be public property in any othercountry, and half the world would be running after the poet.
"Bah!" returned Pushkin, excited by the applause he had created. "Do younot know that feebleness is the goddess we worship, and the priest ofher altar is called the 'Censor'?"
General laughter broke out at these cutting words. The Censor is asstereotyped a marionette in Russia as in other countries. Galban seizedthe opportunity to bring his talents as _agent provocateur_ into thefield.
"Yes, indeed, ladies and gentlemen, the Censor is a necessary evil amongus. You are aware that the Czarina Catherine II. once, at the instanceof her men of letters, commanded full freedom of the press in Russiafor--three days! It would be seen then what fruit the tree would bear.It would have been thought that those three days would have proved aharvest-time for songs of freedom, prohibited pamphlets, andphilosophical treatises to crawl out of their hiding-places, but theresult was only an avalanche of low slander and scurrilous anecdotes.The press was flooded with a stream of scandalous personalities,directed against well-known families and personages; so that already onthe second day of the freedom of the press the Czarina was besiegedwith petitions to countermand the third day and reinstate the censure."
No one save Pushkin deemed it advisable to accept the profferedchallenge; but he, as a poet, could not suffer the liberty of the pressto be a mark for ridicule.
"Come, I say, Galban, if I were to tell a man who had never tasted winethat he might drink what ran out from the bung-hole of a cask the thirdday after the vintage, that man would swear that there was no suchdisgusting stuff as wine in the world."
"Messieurs, je suis un president sans phrases. Le dernier jeu!" broke inthe banker's voice, interrupting the dangerous turn the conversation hadtaken.
It was time, moreover, to finish the game; for if by five o'clockChevalier Galban had not left the palace, the police would have brokenopen the doors, and every one in it have been arrested. The roulette wasturned for the last time. Chevalier Galban had won six thousand fourhundred rubles, which he gallantly shared with Zeneida. Then, with thecustomary forms of good society, he took his leave.
The remaining company looked at one another. Every one well knew thatroulette was a mere farce among them. It was alike Zeneida's money whichfurnished bank and players. Hence the general smile which went round onGalban's winning a pile of his hostess's money and then courteouslysharing it with her.
But there was a glow of triumph on Zeneida's countenance, as, raisingthe bouquet with its diamond-set holder in her hand, she murmured, in atone of angry satisfaction:
"Je le payais!"
Chevalier Galban had received back the price of his diamonds, withoutever suspecting that it had, so to speak, been thrown after him.