by Mór Jókai
CHAPTER XXVI
UNDER THE PALMS
Without, ten degrees of cold, raging storm, flood, devastation, misery,revolution, scenes of horror. The palms knew nothing of all this. Uponthe great, high elevation, under its glazed roof, reigned perpetualspring, where huge lamps with ground-glass globes replaced sunshine.And the tropical world suffered itself to be deceived. King-ferns,brought hither from the East, forgot that they were not growing in theirnative soil, and that they were putting forward leaves, never blossoms.The soil beneath them was heated with hot-air pipes and enriched byartificial aid.
And in this artificial garden of the tropics children were playing whohad forgotten that their fathers and mothers were far away, perhaps noteven caring. Here they neither got blows nor were hungry; but dancedround the "mulberry-bush" and sang. Two beautiful young ladies--wards ofthe Queen of the Fairies--looked after them, just as in fairy tales.
Bethsaba had now a real true fairy tale to tell of her miraculous rescuefrom the terrible dangers; the sudden appearance of the handsome knightin her extremity, how his beautiful eyes, his look of daring, his heroicstature--
Sophie grew quite anxious to see him.
"You will soon see him, he is sure to come, he promised me he would.Still it does seem to be a long time before he keeps his word!"
"He is not, on any account, to know who I am," said Sophie. "It is to bekept secret here. Our hostess wishes it."
"Then we will only call you Sophie."
"It is singular that we three have only one Christian name; neither you,nor I, nor Zeneida bear our mother's names in addition, as is usualamong us. I cannot understand it."
"Nor I."
"Here he comes!"
"How do you know?"
"I know his footstep."
And, in truth, he came. Zeneida brought him in, more wet and muddy thanthe time before. His hair dishevelled; his face reddened by the coldwind. Withal, so handsome!
Bethsaba had told Sophie that here, too, a conspiracy was on foot; butthat "he" was not in it. Who else, then? Sophie only believes what shesees.
"Come, come, Pushkin!" exclaimed Zeneida, with strangely radiant look."Relate again, fully, what you have already told me."
And Pushkin recounted all that had happened at the Winter Palace, ofwhich he had been an eye-witness, with the enthusiasm of a poet inspiredby the catastrophe.
The second girl was a stranger to him. Had he known who she was he wouldnot have described with such poetic warmth the stirring scene when theCzar stood bareheaded, the storm raging round him, menaced alike by thefury of people and the fast-approaching vessel.
She listened tremblingly to his recital, drinking in his every word withfeverish anxiety, the varying expression of his face reflected in hers;her lips seeming mutely to repeat what he was saying. Shudderingly shehid her face when the ship collided with the palace! She felt the forceof the shock, and staggered under it.
When Pushkin went on to tell about the dove--her dove--how it descendedon to the shoulders of her father, the Czar, with what joy the augustruler had raised his hands to heaven, and how with one voice the hymn ofpraise had burst forth from the lips of the rebellious people, the poor,overwrought girl's nerves could endure no more; with a cry of joy shethrew herself into Bethsaba's arms, laughing and crying hysterically.
Pushkin, attributing her excitement to the power of his poeticdelineation, was not a little proud of his success.
"But is all danger over now?" faltered Sophie, venturing to raise hertearful eyes to the young man's face.
He, not understanding the question, answered:
"The danger is not over yet, although the storm is certainly lessening,and, once lulled, the Neva will return to its bed; but until then muchdamage may yet ensue."
"It was not that I meant; but if he is still in any danger--he, theCzar!"
Pushkin was amazed. What interest could this girl, Bethsaba's friend,feel in the Czar?
"Danger at the hand of man cannot assail him, for Araktseieff has takenthe most stringent measures for his protection. All those who were givenshelter in the Winter Palace are being transferred to the Admiralty.Nay; at such a time his very foes, even had he any, would be the firstto protect him."
"How can that be?" she asked, and waited for Pushkin's answer with thedevout attention with which, in former times, the answers of the Oraclewere received.
A secret instinct told Pushkin that he must answer in all sincerity.
"Because the feeling of 'humanity' is stronger than that of 'love offreedom.' It protects alike the serf when persecuted by the Czar, andthe Czar when persecuted by the serf!"
The two girls heaved a deep sigh of relief into the air, weighted withthese significant words.
"You are laying cruel waste in these two hearts," whispered Zeneida inPushkin's ear. "You had better go back to your work."
"And you have not brought me the presents you promised?" asked Bethsaba,sorrowfully.
"I had not forgotten them; but from early morning we were busy trying tomake fast the wreck; there must have been some one on board cuttingthrough our ropes as fast as we threw them. And so I had no time tothink of saving little children."
"When next you make a promise do not forget it," returned she, in toneof aggrieved reproach.
Pushkin could not understand her. Why that tone? How should heunderstand it? He promised to come again that evening to bring her goodnews, and something besides.
Neither she nor Zeneida had told him who the other girl was. Zeneida nowtook both girls into her boudoir. The time was approaching when shewould be receiving many visitors whom it was not expedient for them tosee.
The catastrophe offered favorable opportunity to the "SzojuszBlagadenztoiga" to hold uninterrupted sittings. There was to be ameeting of "the green book" to-day.
The two girls managed to find a "green book" for themselves. Theysearched about in Zeneida's boudoir until they found Pushkin's poem,_The Gypsy Girl_. This, of course, they had not read before; for,according to the dictum of "good" society in Russia, a well-bred girl upto her fifteenth year may indeed see, but not read, romances. Moreover,that poem was not to be had in print, only manuscript. Alexander Pushkinhad created quite a distinct calling which had never existed before,that of transcriber. In every town were men who made a livelihood bycopying out Pushkin's verses, sold, despite the Censor, by thebooksellers. (There are still many houses in which only written copiesof the works of the Russian poet Petoesy are to be found.)
The two girls now eagerly snatched at the forbidden fruit. FirstBethsaba read it to Sophie; then Sophie to Bethsaba. The third time theyread it together as a duet.
Then they conferred the name of its hero, "Aleko," upon the author. Andwhen they wanted to speak of him called him only "Aleko." And itfitted--only the other way about. Aleko had wandered among the gypsies(gypsy, poet, or bohemian being synonymous); this gypsy or poet hadwandered among princesses. That evening Herr Aleko came, bringingcheering news. The storm had subsided, and the water had fallen a span;although it must be some time before it resumed its proper level, for itstretched away eight versts on either bank.
("Oh that it may last ever so long!" beat the heart of each maiden,secretly.)
He had, moreover, brought something for Bethsaba--a little doll, such ashe had promised her, but not a little muddy doll in rags, but a lovely,gayly dressed, sweet little doll, made of sugar. There were no others tobe had; all the others had melted. Pushkin expected the girl to laugh athis offering; but she took the matter seriously, accepted it withgreatest solemnity, placed it in her bosom, and it was evident that shewas not sorry to see Sophie just a tiny bit jealous of her. Pushkin wasnot slow to see that he must be careful, so he sought in his pocketsuntil he found something worth offering.
"See, fair Sophie"--he did not know her other name--"I have somethingfor you, too. You showed a special interest in the Czar this morning.Here is a piece of copper from the vessel that ran into the WinterPalace."
Thankfully it was received. The platinum mines of the Ural had neverproduced so precious a piece of ore.
"He can be no conspirator," whispered Sophie to Bethsaba.
"Decidedly not," whispered Bethsaba back.
"The storm has quite gone down," said Zeneida. "The bells have left offringing. This will be a quieter night than those we have been having oflate. Good-night, Pushkin. If you do not hurry you will find your boatrunning aground."
The girls would not have minded if the water had not gone down so fast.
Zeneida despatched Pushkin home, and the girls to their beds. She wasresponsible for their good health.
But it was long before they could settle to sleep. They had so much tosay about Aleko. They had made up quite a different ending to the poemthan the real one: the gypsy girl was not to have been faithless, but ifshe were, Aleko should have despised her and have found a more faithfullove. The gypsy girl should have implored his pardon on her knees, andhe should have forgiven her, but not have driven her away from him. In aword, they made Aleko what they fain would have had him to be.
Zeneida, who slept in the next room, several times admonished them to goto sleep. Then they would be quiet as mice, the next moment to beginwhispering again. At last her regular breathing proved Sophie, at least,to have fallen asleep. Bethsaba could not sleep; her heart beat soviolently that, despite the prayers she said, midnight found her stillawake. Suddenly it seemed to her as if the occupant of the next room hadrisen, and with light footsteps had gone out into the room beyond. Thenight was still. Neither sound of carriage-wheels nor patrol disturbedthe quiet of the inundated streets. From a distant apartment rose apsalm, sung in a woman's voice, low and sorrowful:
"In every hour of grief and pain, To Thee for help I crave; O Thou to whom none cry in vain, Be present now to save."
Who was singing at that late hour? What grief could oppress her in thishouse? Bethsaba drew the bedclothes over her head to quiet hertrembling.
* * * * *
Three days longer the two girls spent under Zeneida's protectingcare--that is, it was not until then that Princess Ghedimin ventured toreturn from Peterhof, or that the slime-covered ground-floor and cellarsof the little dwelling in Petrovsky Garden could be cleansed andthoroughly aired by old Helenka. The girls meanwhile were living Elysiandays. When Zeneida told them that they could now go to their homes,Bethsaba sighed:
"When I came here I thought I was coming to the infernal regions; now Ifeel as if I were being turned out of Paradise!"
They saw Pushkin daily, had talks with him, and delighted in the great,noble soul which lay like an open book before them. Even earthly joyshave their revelations, awaking super-earthly joy when they cease to befelt in secret. When the girls were alone Aleko was the sole subject oftheir talk. Bethsaba thought she must love Sophie the more for holdingAleko in such high esteem; yet she had not, even yet, breathed a word toher friend of her love for him. At first, she had thought, it would bean easy thing to tell. But the secret of a first love is refractory; itwill not come forth from its concealment. She delayed her confession;guarding her secret like some hidden treasure; dissembled her love forhim, or, at least, learned to belie her feelings that she might notbetray the happiness that took possession of her at sight of him. Herblushes she ascribed to headache, though, in reality, her head wasinnocent of any such discomfort.
But at the moment of parting the confession must be made. She wouldwhisper it to her friend in few words, then run away.
When their sedan-chairs actually arrived--no carriages could yet beused--the two friends could scarce make up their minds to part. They hadever fresh confidences to whisper to each other; they wept and laughed,and quarrelled for the sake of making it up again. They talked togetherin a language which they two only understood; they promised to meetagain very soon; they gave each other the parting kiss, then began tochatter again. Zeneida watched them attentively.
At length the declaration must come. With the last, very last, kiss thebomb must burst.
"I love Aleko--until death."
This Sophie whispered into Bethsaba's ear, then ran away.
Zeneida saw the rosy glow suffusing the cheeks of the departing girl andthe deathly pallor overspreading those of her who remained, as thoughthe one had stolen the life-glow from the other. Bethsaba stood whereshe had left her, white, motionless, with sunken head, and arms hanginglifeless at her side.
Zeneida at once divined the secret. She went up to her, but hardly hadshe taken the girl's hands in hers when, falling before her, bitterlyweeping, the poor child hid her face in Zeneida's dress.
"Oh, why did you bring me here?"
Zeneida raised her.
"Stand up. Do not cry. He will be yours."
"What! I take him from her?"
"Humph! Were it only 'her' you had to take him from-- But do not betroubled. Love him; you alone deserve his love."
The poor child shook her head sorrowfully. Now she understood themeaning of "love," and with it what "jealousy" and "resignation" meant.