by Mór Jókai
CHAPTER XII
HOW A FORTRESS WAS TAKEN
"Lock and bolt the doors, and see that you let no one in! To him whodoubts that I am not at home, say I am dead!"
"And suppose it's some one to bring you money?"
"There's no man living who would do that."
"And if it's a love letter?"
"Let him push it under the door; but don't let him in! For it mightprove to be some rascal of a creditor."
Unnecessary to state that this dialogue took place between a youngofficer and his servant. It may, however, be as well to add that thesaid young officer was Pushkin.
With heavy head and light pockets he had reached home in the smallhours, and, dressed as he was, had thrown himself on his bed, feeling asif each individual hair in his head were being torn out by a devil withred-hot pincers.
Suddenly he was aroused from his uneasy slumbers by a hideous noise ofscuffling and quarrelling in the street. A man beneath his windows,seemingly set upon by ruffians, was screaming loudly for help, and noone going to his aid. Why should they--when the police did not troublethemselves about private disturbances?
Pushkin could stand it no longer; going to his window, he breathed uponthe frozen pane to clear a space, and looked out. Two men werebelaboring a third, who was vainly endeavoring to defend himself, hisface covered with blood. One of his assailants gave a tug at the longbeard, worn divided in the middle, plucking out a handful. That was toomuch for Pushkin; the sight of such brutality made his blood boil.Snatching his dog-whip from the wall, he tore down into the street. Invain his man cried after him, "Don't open the door, sir;" he was outlike a shot, and, plunging into the middle of the trio, began laying hiswhip upon the two offenders right merrily, upon which they quickly tookto their heels; and Pushkin, raising in his arms the injured, groaningvictim of their brutality, carried him into his house. Reaching hisroom, he sent for cold water and a basin, that the poor fellow mightbathe his face. This he proceeded to do so effectually that not only thevermilion dye stained the water deep red, but also the beard, which wasonly stuck on, entirely disappeared from his face. Drying his face, heturned with a smile to Pushkin, drew out a folded paper from the sleeveof his caftan, and said:
"Very glad to have the opportunity of speaking to you again. Will younot pay me this little account?"
And now, for the first time, did Pushkin perceive that it was his worstcreditor, the usurer Zsabakoff, who stood before him.
"Was it the devil brought you here?"
"No, sir, you brought me yourself."
His servant interposed--
"Didn't I tell you, sir, not to open the door?"
"But they were pulling out his beard."
"It was only stuck on," confessed Zsabakoff, with a grin.
"And the two men who were laying their sticks about you?"
"Are my two brothers-in-law. That was all a pre-arranged thing. I knewthat you were too much a gentleman to see a man ill-treated before yourvery door. There seemed no other way of getting at you."
Pushkin saw that he had been thoroughly sold, and that it was best toput a good face on it.
"Well, and what's your business?"
"Only humbly to ask you, sir, to pay this miserable one thousand rubles.You know how long they have been owing."
"Yes, I have already paid them twice over in interest."
"Ah, if it were my own money! But I had to borrow it, in order to lendit to you; and the horse-leech from whom I borrowed it has put on thescrew each time you renewed it, so that I have had to pay him the samerate of interest that you have been paying me. And now he swears he willgrant me no more time; that he will have the caftan off my back if I donot raise the thousand rubles. And here, in the depths of winter, shallI have to go about in shirt-sleeves, and my seven children--beautiful asangels--will have no bread! To pay your debts the very pillow undertheir heads will be taken from them. I shall have nothing left;everything I had I have turned into money to satisfy those blood-suckingusurers; even my wife's last gown has been pawned in Appraxin-Dwor. Whatwill become of me, miserable man that I am?" And the usurer wept like awater-spout.
"But I cannot help you," said Pushkin, irritably. "Where the devil am Ito get the money from? I do not coin bank-notes."
"When will you pay me?"
"I am no prophet."
"But what is a poor devil like me to do, then?" said the usurer,trembling.
"County court me."
"Ah, dear, kind sir, don't make a joke of it. I should only be throwninto prison for lending money to an officer in the army. Have pity onme! Nine people will pray daily for your soul's good if you will onlypay me."
"Where am I to get the money from, if I have none?"
"Just reflect a little, sir. You have some wealthy aunts--one of themmay make you her heir. There are no end of rich, beautiful princesses inSt. Petersburg who would be only too glad to help such a bravegentleman did they but know that he was in temporary difficulty. Icould tell you this moment of an excellent match--a good, handsome,well-behaved young lady, with half a million rubles for her dowry. Iwill undertake the affair for you, if you wish it. Then you have such afine estate at Pleskow. There are plenty of honest bankers here who, notknowing that your property is confiscated by the Crown, would lend youmoney on it. Such a man is rolling in gold, he would not miss it; and,of course, you would give back his money when you got back your lands,and that would be sure to be the case when you have done some bravesoldiering, and the Czar rewards you for it."
Pushkin held his sides with laughing as he listened to this view of hisaffairs.
Zsabakoff grew desperate at the way Pushkin took his suggestions.
"Do not make light of it, sir," cried he. "I assure you, it is a matterof life and death with me. If I have to go home like this to thoseangels who are crying out for bread, I will take a razor and cut theirseven throats, then their mother's, and then my own. That I have made upmy mind to. You may depend, if you go on laughing at me, I will prepareyou a comedy that will turn your laughter into something very different.A desperate man sticks at nothing. When you have it on your consciencethat a father of seven hanged himself, before your very eyes, upon yourwindow-frame--"
"Try it," said Pushkin, laughing; "but be quick about it, for it'suncommonly late, and I want to go to sleep." And with these words hethrew himself upon his camp-bedstead.
"Well, then, you shall see, before you have time to sleep."
And the money-lender, dragging a chair to the window, got on it, made anoose of his scarf, fastened it to the window-frame, passed his headthrough it, and kicked away the chair. And suddenly Pushkin saw hiscreditor struggling in the air, his eyes starting out of his head.
So then it was more than a joke! Springing from his bed, he snatched uphis dagger to cut the noose; then saw that his would-be suicide waswearing a kind of cravat of stout leather under his shirt, whicheffectually prevented any possibility of strangulation. Furious at thedeception, he threatened the man with a sound thrashing.
"Thrash as hard as you like, but pay. I would willingly sacrifice mylife to get back my thousand rubles. Don't tell me you have no money. Iknow you have. Did you not pay back Nyemozsin, that shameless usurer,last week? He's a thorough horse-leech! Takes two hundred per cent. Andyet you could pay him, though he held no written acknowledgment ofyours."
"Just why I did pay him. It was a debt of honor."
Zsabakoff, as he heard this, took his I.O.U. and tore it into shreds.
"Now I have no written security either--and mine is a debt of honor!" hesaid, placing both hands in his girdle.
This was too much for Pushkin.
"Devil take you!" he cried. "Here is my pocket-book. What you find in ityou may take."
And the money-lender did find something in it--a poem called _The GypsyGirl_. He began to dance round with glee, now stopping, now starting offafresh, like a merry Cossack.
"Ho, ho, what a find! _The Gypsy Girl_! Heaven bless you for it! I amoff wi
th it."
"Where to?"
"To Severin. He was only just telling me how all the world of fashionwas besieging his doors to know when Pushkin's poem of _The Gypsy Girl_,that he had read at Fraeulein Ilmarinen's, was coming out. He said hewould give any amount for it. So my thousand rubles are safe. If I can,I will squeeze something more out of him, and honorably share thesurplus with you. I kiss your hand, sir. Pardon any annoyance I may havecaused you. Command me when you are in want of more money. I shall beonly too happy to be at your service."
The money-lender had said the half of this speech as he looked back onthe threshold. Pushkin thought the man had gone mad. Angrily throwinghimself back on his bed, he forbade his man-servant to admit the fellowagain; then slept till noon. When he awoke he rang for his man.
"That fellow came again, sir."
"But you did not let him in?"
"No. But he pushed this packet under the door. Shall I throw it into thefire, sir?"
"No. Give it me."
And, opening the packet, Pushkin found in it a copy of his romance, _TheGypsy Girl_, two bank-notes for one hundred rubles each, and a letterfrom the publisher, Severin, informing him that he had bought his poemfor twelve hundred rubles, of which he herewith enclosed two hundred,and had paid the rest to the person who brought the manuscript. Heforwarded a copy to Pushkin that he might obtain the necessarypermission to publish.
It was a queer story; and especially that he should have made money forwhat he had merely scribbled down for his own amusement. Absurd! Agambler had more right to the accumulated gains of a gambling club thana man to extort money from the multitude for permission to read what hehad written! An author's fee! Surely a hybrid betwixt the degrading andthe ridiculous! Did it most savor of theft or deception? or was it but aloan?
These thoughts passed through Pushkin's head as he read the letter. Nowhe had to go to the Censor--he, a military man, to humiliate himself toa scurvy civil official, and acknowledge him to be his judge andsuperior! In all else the army has its own court-martial. Poetry istruly an unsavory implement when it so demeans a smart officer to deferto a civilian. Pushkin decided to make this sacrifice to Apollo.