by Mór Jókai
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE RENDEZVOUS
There is something marvellous in the summer nights of the extreme North.Foreigners find it harder to accustom themselves to them than they do tothe long winter nights with their cruel severity. The evening glow laststill midnight, and then begins the dawn. It seems endless until thefirst stars appear in the still, clear sky, and under them thebrilliant planets Venus and Jupiter, burning in the firmament likediamonds on the surface of a golden lake. The pale moon describes itsshort orbit, a superfluous luminary; and on the Feast of Masinka thehalf-hour of actual night is impatiently awaited, in order to let offfireworks on the forty islands of the Neva. (For by daylight it is nouse to send up rockets!) Street lamps are not lit in St. Petersburg atall during this month. Nor in the apartments of Korynthia's villa arelights needed on the evening of this 20th of June. The sky diffuseslight enough until 11 P.M., and a little twilight will not seriouslydisturb those of whom we are about to speak.
Korynthia, in some agitation, has strayed--who can tell how often in thecourse of that evening?--on to her veranda, and let her eyes rove overthe surface of the mighty river below. It, too, is golden in the eveninglight, and, like the Russian pictures of saints, on a golden ground isreflected in its sheen the capital, with its rows of palaces, the domeand columns of St. Isaac's, the florid architecture of the Exchange, thebridge of Holy Trinity, the scattered islands from amid whose woodedheights the varied forms and shapes of country-houses peep, with roofsred, blue, green, gilded, and pagoda-like. And among the islands aredarting boats, gondolas, canoes, of every kind and description. Somerowed by twelve boatmen, others by a solitary dreamer; the one flashingalong at lightning speed, the other letting himself drift on with thestream. The song of the boatmen is in the air.
In the uncertain light their figures stand out like black silhouettes.Korynthia asks herself which of the gondolas is bringing to her him sheis expecting--which is the silhouette of his figure?
To the watcher the last half-hour seems longest. Korynthia turns fromthe balcony to the interior of her room, and gazes once more at herselfin her mirror. You are beautiful, very beautiful, says her mirror; thatwhite costume lends you quite a youthful appearance, leaving, as itdoes, the rounded marble of the arms bare to the shoulder. Your wealthof fair hair is not stiffly arranged, but floats in two thick tresses.No ornament of any kind, bracelet or earring, enhances your charms. Theconfident champion enters the battle-field without helmet or shield.Even the wedding-ring is absent. You are beautiful indeed--says hermirror.
And beside the mirror hangs a picture, set in a thick gold frame. Itis the picture of a young girl in the garb of a mythicalshepherdess--tender and delicate as a dream. Korynthia had received itsome years ago, a present from the Czar. She may possibly have divinedeven then that it was no fancy picture, but a portrait; she may evenhave guessed whom it represented. Within the last few days she knows forcertain. She has met the original. It was the portrait of SophieNarishkin.
Certainly she might long since have known it from Bethsaba--have seenportrait and original often enough, had she asked her. But althoughlying was foreign to the nature of the Circassian king's daughter, sheknew how to be silent, and had that much Armenian blood in her veins notto answer when not directly questioned.
So the reflection in the mirror and the portrait in the frame were inclose proximity. And comparison left the living reflection victor.
You pale child with your dreamy eyes, your lips seeming to open inlament; your tender, shadowy frame, how can you think to rival thedivine presence of a woman? What power can you have, melancholydream-picture of another world, against this earthly woman whose beautyarouses and quenches passion, kills and inspires life? Do you possess anAleko, he chooses himself a gypsy maid; and that is not you. Is he nothimself a true gypsy, leading a vagabond, adventurous life? In a word,is he not a poet?
Time went on slowly. Korynthia opened the windows looking on to thepark. A concert of nightingales came from the bushes. A butterfly--thenight peacock's eye--flew in at the open window; taking her for aflower, it flew about her, not about the portrait. Then flew in anothernight moth, differing from others in that it emits a sound--anunpleasant, shrill, yet melancholy hum. Its name is _Sphinx Atropos_.Why has it been called by the name of that one of the Parcae which seversthe thread of life? Because its back and head are the exact counterpartof a death's-head. Ss--h! The lady brushes away the weird moth; but ithad found a refuge; it had flown across to the picture and had settledin a corner of the frame.
At length the twilight deepens. A few impatient employes let off thefirst rockets from the pleasure gardens in the islands. Bengal lightsare beginning to show on Kreskowsky Island.
Ah, of course! It is Zeneida's birthday. The court calendar has found aplace for her among the saints; there are great doings to-night in herpalace. And something more, perhaps--a sitting of the SzojuszBlagadenztoiga. Under every possible guise and excuse, it holds itsmeetings at the singer's house.
When Prince Ghedimin left home that evening he had told his wife that hewas commanded to the Czar, and would be away all night discussingimportant matters of state. It is therefore certain that he will bespending the night at Zeneida's, and Korynthia need not fear to bedisturbed; it is a case of tit for tat. Any moment may now bringhim--the one so impatiently expected.
For as soon as the fireworks on the islands begin they attract all theservants and watchmen yet awake. There is no one to keep guard on thewinding paths of the park. The great clock strikes eleven; every quarterof an hour four bells ring a carillon. At the last stroke of the clockshe seems to hear the sound of approaching footsteps on the gravel. Whoelse can it be? An aristocrat's step is so different from that of amujik. She is right.
The new-comer, stopping at the door of the garden veranda, opens it witha key. His footsteps now announce his coming, as they hurriedly ascendthe spiral staircase. Korynthia has studied the pose in which she willbe surprised. Leaning over the window-sill, her face resting on herhand--a dreamy figure so absorbed in the song of the nightingales thatshe does not perceive some one approach her, bend over her, and breathea soft kiss upon her lovely shoulder.
The Princess seems to rouse from her reverie with a start, as, with anair of smiling reproach, she turns to the stealer of the kiss, "Ah, howlate you are!" But as she sees him, she starts in reality. The kiss hasbeen no theft. The perpetrator had but taken what was his own. It washer husband, Prince Ghedimin. Korynthia stammered out, "How early youhave come home!"
"You just said how late I was."
"I was dreaming. I did not know what I was saying. How did you get in?"
"By the garden veranda. You know that I have the key."
And now it occurs to Korynthia that that other, to whom she had giventhe duplicate, may even now be coming.
"Did you fasten the door?"
"No, for in five minutes I must be off again."
"But I beg you to fasten the door, and leave your key on the inside. Youknow how terrified I am of thieves."
"All right. I'll go back and close it."
During his brief absence Korynthia wrapped herself in a thick shawl. Shedid not need the pretext of cold; she was shivering with agitation.
The Prince returned.
"I must briefly tell you that I come from the Czar."
"Indeed! And not from Fraeulein Zeneida's soiree?"
"No, my love. I come from the Czar and Czarina."
"Of course, if you say so."
"You will not doubt it when I tell you what I have witnessed."
"Pray begin."
Korynthia remains by the window to announce by the sound of voices tothat other that she is not alone.
"His Majesty has for the past two days repeatedly commanded me to hispresence to deliberate certain matters of state; yet each time he haseither been shut up in his room, and I have not been admitted, or if hehas appointed me to go to him to Czarskoje Zelo, he has gone to theHermitage. This evening I was comman
ded to Monplaisir. I traversed everyroom, right and left, until at length I found him on the upper verandawith the Czarina. Three times, four times, I saluted the Czar, but hetook no notice of me. The Czarina signed to me to remain where I was.The Czar stood leaning against the marble parapet, motionless as astatue, his eyes fixed upon the Neva, the Czarina as fixedly, almost infear, watching his eyes. Hundreds of boats were gliding over the smoothsurface, crossing each other, shooting hither and thither. Suddenly alarge barge came in sight, going down-stream, rowed in slow, rhythmicmeasure by eight boatmen. The barge was lighted by lamps fastened topoles; in the centre was a coffin, draped with a light-blue satin pall.In the open coffin lay a young girl in white funereal dress, a wreath ofmyrtle on her head. Round it stood choristers singing a funereal chant,which ascended to where the Czar stood:
"'Ah, the day of tears and mourning, From the dust of earth returning, Man for judgment must prepare him.'
There were none to follow the funereal barge. As it passed Monplaisirone could read conspicuously on the lid, placed beside the coffin, thename studded in gold nails--_Sophie Narishkin_. Yes, you may well drawyour shawl about you, madame! It is cold, is it not?"
The Prince had no idea of the effect of his words; he was still seeingwhat his memory had impressed upon him, not what was before him. Hecontinued:
"Human language has no words to express the anguish at that momentimprinted on the Czar's countenance. With glowing eyes, convulsed lips,and gathered brows, he stood there clinching his hands; and, while withhis eyes he followed the barge, a gigantic struggle seemed workingwithin him. I have witnessed much sorrow in my life; never did I feelsuch sympathy for a man as for this one! He dared not betray hisfeelings, for the Czarina was standing by his side. She, too, studiedhis face with great attention. Suddenly she bent towards him, and,taking his hand in hers, cried, 'Why do you not weep? Why keep back yourtears? It is your own dear child who is being borne to her lastresting-place!' And, as if to open the font of his grief, she threwherself upon the Czar's breast and burst into weeping. And then themighty ruler, before whom millions of men tremble, knelt before hisneglected, forsaken wife, embraced her knees, and, sobbing, kissed thehem of her dress, she joining her tears to his. It was a scene I shallnever forget. The separated husband and wife were reunited in the hourof their bitter sorrow; they had come together again, the pastforgotten. They leaned over the balcony, saluting the disappearing bargewith a last farewell! My eyes fill with tears as I think of it."
The Prince did well to weep. It was meet that one or other of themshould shed tears at what had passed.
"Then, pressing his hand to his heart, the Czar gasped, 'And there wasnot a soul to follow her to the grave!' It was indeed a bitter thought.Even a beggar has some poor wretch to follow and mourn for him. And shehad no one! Then a thought struck me, and I rushed to my gondola andcame to you. I am the Czar's Prime-Minister, you a Princess Narishkin.How would it be were we to catch up the funeral barge in a light,fast-rowing gondola, and act as Sophie Narishkin's mourners? What do youthink?"
But the woman beside him had not depth of feeling enough to take hernoble-hearted husband's hand in hers, and giving her tears free course,to say, "Yes, let us go; Sophie Narishkin is mine to mourn over!" No;that woman had more power of self-control than had the Czar. Her woman'spride, conquering the animal instinct--sometimes called maternal--withinher, she could answer coldly and calmly:
"What are you thinking of? How should we account to the world for ouruncalled-for escort? And, then, it is too late; before I could put on amourning-dress the barge would have got beyond all possibility of ourreaching it. Besides, what do I care for Sophie Narishkin?"
She could even speak thus at that supreme moment. How true was theMuscovite scientist's classification--a degenerate cat. Even a normalcat mourns its young.
"What is Sophie Narishkin to me?"
Prince Ghedimin shrugged his shoulders, and, taking out hishandkerchief, carefully brushed away traces of tears. It is certainlynot worth while to run the risk of making one's own nose red for thetroubles of other people.
"All right. As it does not affect you, let us turn to something else.One other reason brought me here, which may perhaps interest you more.As I got into my gondola my steersman handed me a letter bearing on it'Pressing.' The letter was from _Alexander Sergievitch Pushkin_."
"Pushkin?" repeated Korynthia, in great agitation.
"Yes; from Pushkin. And the purport of the letter being so extraordinarythat my understanding could not grasp it at all, I hastened to you tobeg you to solve the riddle."
Korynthia felt the ground give way beneath her feet.
"Pushkin!" she stammered. "What should I know of Pushkin's riddles?"
"Listen. I will read the letter to you."
And, in order to see better, the Prince now approached the open window,while Korynthia, retreating to the farther side of the room, sought toconceal her agitation. The Prince read:
"'DEAR IVAN MAXIMOVITCH,--I find myself compelled with penitent heart to make you a confession. I have misused the high-minded confidence with which you laid open to me the sacred privacy of your home. Not as my excuse, but as a reason, I refer to my passion, which was stronger than the respect I owed to you. _I have stolen the dearest, most carefully guarded treasure of your house!_'"
"Is the man mad?" thought Korynthia.
"'If you desire to demand reparation for the affront, I shall be prepared to give you every satisfaction. You will find me in my country-seat at Pleskow.
"'Yours most sincerely,
"'PUSHKIN.'"
The Princess was amazed. The extent of the treachery never even dawnedupon her.
"Well?" The Prince awaited an explanation. The best shield iscold-bloodedness, the best weapon a lie.
With a shake of the head, Korynthia made answer:
"But how does Herr Pushkin concern me? What have I to do with hismysteries?"
"Naturally, our friend Alexander Pushkin's proceedings have no specialinterest for you, nor should I desire it. But in this letter another wasenclosed, having on the outside, in what seems to be a lady'shandwriting, 'Princess Korynthia Alexievna Maria Ghedimin.' Probably inthis we shall find the solution of the mystery. On that account I mustbeg you to break the seal and communicate its contents to me--if you donot feel it desirable to keep them secret."
It was now the Princess's turn to advance to the window, in order toread. No sooner had she the letter in her hand than she exclaimed, insurprise:
"It is Bethsaba's handwriting!"
"You know her handwriting? I have never seen it."
Korynthia tore open the letter, and as she read her cheeks flamed. Then,crushing it in her hand, she cried, with hysterical laughter:
"Ha, ha, ha! He has run off with Bethsaba and married her!"
Ivan Maximovitch took the matter as a joke. He had expected worse.Indeed, he could rejoice in that Bethsaba had been carried off, destinedas she had been to St. Katherine's Convent. His wife's laughter stillfurther misled him, and he thought well to join in it. Now, if his tearshad met with but mediocre success, his laughter obtained him an openattack. The Princess first flung the crushed-up letter at his head,then, rushing at him like a fury, hissed out through her clinched teeth:
"This was your work, wretch! This was connived between you!"
"Who?" asked the Prince, in amazement.
"You--and your sweetheart--that Witch of Endor! You spun the web inwhich that girl was caught for Pushkin. You prepared the poison in whichthis dagger is steeped."
"Madame, I am at a loss to understand why the fact of Pushkin's marryingBethsaba Dilarianoff should excite you to such fury!"
Korynthia saw that by her vehemence she had almost been led intoself-betrayal; so said, calmly:
"You do not understand! This is no question of love, but ofhigh-treason! What would it ma
tter to me if a Circassian Princess choseto fall in love with my lowest groom? He would probably be too good forher! But do you know why Pushkin has married this girl? In order todiscover the Czar's secrets, which he confided to his daughter, andwhich were repeated to her friend Bethsaba. Now these secrets, throughPushkin, will become the common property of the Czar's enemies! Thus,you ruin yourself if you are on the side of the Czar; or the Czar, ifyou conspire against him. And this is what you two have done!"
Prince Ghedimin stood as if turned to stone. His wife had triumphed. Herwords bore so clearly the stamp of truth that defence was not to bethought of.
"Yes. It was a plot among you all!" continued his wife, furiously. "Youavailed yourselves of the illness of the one to entice the other fromme. In order to detain me at home, and to prevent my watching over thechild intrusted to my care, you sent Pushkin to me with a poem, and,instead of coming to receive his answer, the cowardly fellow steals awaywith a foolish, inexperienced girl from the very death-chamber of herfriend. Out with such people! Such treachery, deceit, betrayal! You areworthy one of another. A pack of actors and actresses! Out of my room!Away with you!"
When women take to abuse, men are nowhere. Their reasoning powers aregone. Prince Ghedimin was a wise and good man, and innocent as a childof this crime; which, after all, was no crime at all. Yet after thistorrent of abuse he felt a very criminal who had brought about an act ofthe greatest, most irreparable evil with the coldest calculation, and,in this frame of mind, was glad to be permitted to leave his home andseek his gondola.
We who are in the secret can aver that he did not even now know whoSophie Narishkin's mother was. But this Korynthia did not believe. Shelooked upon the whole scene as expressly got up to torture her--from theappearance of her husband at the very hour of the rendezvous, when heshed upon her love-lorn heart first the ice-drops of the funeral scene,then poured in the poison of the faithlessness of the man she adored.
It was a deadly poison, killing inwardly and outwardly. When Ghediminleft her, Korynthia, clasping her two hands above her head, threwherself on the ground, sobbing bitterly. Then, as there was no one toraise her, she assumed a kneeling posture, her long plaits hanging likeserpents over her bosom; and, lifting three fingers to heaven, shegasped out, with hideous vengeance:
"Oh that I may repay you this some day!"
Her lips parted; the gnashing of her clinched teeth was audible. She wasmeditating something; her eyes flashed fire; she rose, and bared herwhite, exquisitely formed arm to the shoulder. Then she pressed therounded muscle of the upper part of her arm between her teeth, and bitinto it until the blood flowed from it, and sucked the blood she haddrawn. It is the Russian superstition that whoever would insure thefulfilment of his curse must, after uttering it, drink of his own blood.
* * * * *
The melancholy hum of the death's-head moth in the corner of thepicture-frame sounded like the murmur of a lost soul.