by Mór Jókai
CHAPTER XLVI
"BEATUS ILLE ..."
What, on this earth, is true happiness?
To be able to dissociate one's self from the tussle and tangle of thepolitical arena.
There is no such happy man on this earth as your landed proprietor, whoonly learns what is going on in the political world from the columns ofhis daily paper.
In the morning he goes out coursing; starts three hares, two of whichare caught by his terriers; this is a real triumph. The third they letrun; this is a disgrace. But on the way home his dogs seize and throttlea wildcat; that makes up for the former vexation. His horse stumblesover a stone; that is a great misfortune. But neither man nor horse areany the worse for it; and that is a piece of good-luck.
Within easy distance live some men--jolly fellows--to whom he can detailthe morning's doings, and who, in return, give their adventures.
At noon the wife awaits her husband's return to a well-spread board, andshe hospitably presses his friends to stay. Cabbage with fried sausagesis very acceptable after such an active morning! After dinner they findthey are just enough for a game of tarok, and the husband can boast nextday how he has conquered against long odds.
The only political allusion made was when Pushkin named the "fox"Araktseieff; but even at that the postmaster shook his headdisapprovingly. Why disturb the harmony of the evening by suchreference?
Then, as the company is about to separate, the postmaster suddenlyremembers that he has forgotten to give Pushkin his newspaper, which hehad brought in his coat-pocket.
The paper was opened. Old-fashioned newspapers used to be sent out inenvelopes. What news?
"A military review."
No one reads that.
Well, then, France: The French are content. How satisfactory! Turkey:Peace concluded with the Greeks. Evident enough! England: The ChannelFleet returned to Dover. And a good thing too! In Russia nothing ofinterest has transpired. Heaven be praised!
After which each, lighting his lantern, repairs home. The master of thehouse seeks his wife's room. The good little woman has had time for herfirst sleep, and is not angry with his friends for staying so long atcards. Good little wife! Next day they rise late, because the snow hasfallen so deep in the night that their windows are blocked and theycannot see out. What matter! One is not merely a Nimrod, but a Tyrtaeusas well. If one cannot go forth to Diana, one can toy with the muses athome; they are good friends, too.
A man lights his pipe, paces the room, and poetizes, pausing at everycomma and full stop to give his dear little wife a kiss; she, the while,busied in doing her hair in becoming fashion. If a rhyme be hard tofind, he takes his wife on his knee and looks into her eyes, and--therhyme is soon found.
In the afternoon the friends turn up again--the postmaster, a gentlemanfarmer, and a landed proprietor. They have not been deterred by theheavy snow. Two had driven over; for the third, Bethsaba had sent thesledge, that the party might be complete. She set out the card-table.
"It is paradise--perfect paradise!"
But once the serpent succeeded in wriggling into paradise.
At the end of the game, when the long score had to be reckoned up, inorder to see how many copecks had been won, the postmaster was fain toturn out all his pockets to scrape together enough small coin wherewithto pay his debts. In so doing he extracted several letters.
"No news to-day?" the gentleman farmer asks him.
The only newspaper in that part came to Pushkin, so the neighbors alwayscame to him to hear the news.
"What are you twaddling about? Did I not bring a paper yesterday? Do youthink a press correspondent can afford to lie every day? Quite enough tohave to do it three times a week. Poor devil! he must bless theintermediate days. If you must have a paper, read yesterday's."
"So we have, from beginning to end."
"I bet you've not read about the review."
"Right you are. Hand it over."
And it repaid the trouble of reading. For it stated that each regimentof guards quartered in St. Petersburg had severally taken the oath ofallegiance in the chapel of the Winter Palace. And why not, if theyliked to do so? It would do the soldiers no harm. Ah, but it was to Czar_Constantine_ that they had sworn allegiance.
"Czar _Constantine_? Who ever heard of a Czar Constantine?"
In the great confusion the press had _entirely forgotten_ to officiallyannounce the death of Czar Alexander.
"It's a slip of the pen," quoth the postmaster. "Perhaps thecorrespondent was drunk. Why should they not get drunk, poor devils,just once a year?"
So the matter dropped. The writer of the article in question had beencelebrating his name-day too freely, had got mixed, and had written,instead of Alexander, Constantine.
In the next number, under _errata_, the mistake would be rectified.
But the next number brought no correction; rather the "error" wasrepeated twofold, threefold--all edicts being published in the name of"His Majesty Czar Constantine."
The death of Czar Alexander was never officially announced.
The worthy news-reading public only saw from their Sunday papers whatwas going on. These papers gave full details of the funeral servicesheld in all the churches of St. Petersburg, and the official odes to thedead, which sang the fame of the deceased Czar in Russian, Latin, andGreek.
After that no one wondered that future edicts were promulgated inConstantine's name; he was the Czarevitch, and, according to Russianlaws of succession, heir to the throne. That the people did not love himdid not affect the question. What had the people to do with it? Thesoldiers had sworn him allegiance, and the soldiers are the empire.
And what matters all this to those "happy folk" in the country-house?Their home was dear to them in Czar Alexander's time; that Constantinenow reigns in his stead only makes that home dearer.
The Winter Palace has got a new inmate more unwelcome than the last. Theformer, as he wandered silent and melancholy among his courtiers, washard to serve; how much more the new one, who knouts, kicks, breaksmen's bones, and swears! His cheerful moods excite more terror than didthe other's depression.
On these accounts the officer of the guards, among whose private paperswas a ukase, "by command of the Czar" forbidding him to leave Pleskowbeyond a day's journey, might well be called a lucky fellow.