CHAPTER XXX

A MOTHER'S BLESSING

In the villa shaded by aromatic pines the bride elect awaited the happy day. No longer a prisoner, condemned to lifelong imprisonment. For the hardest imprisonment of all is sickness; one is made to hear at every step, "Oh, don't run! Don't sing! You must not drink water! Keep your shawl about your throat! Do not eat this! Mind you don't take cold! Don't get overheated!"

Even the doctor stays away. The panacea has done wonders.

The lovely month of roses had come. The bridegroom had had the path along which Sophie was to walk planted with roses, and the happy girl collected the blossoms, morning and evening, that not a single leaf might fall to the ground. Why did she do this? When the leaves were dry she meant to fill a silken cushion with them. Sleep would be so sweet on such a cushion.

She was even now spreading out her leaves on the sunny side of the veranda, singing to herself as she did so. No one forbade her to sing now; it was allowed; only old Helenka grumbled out the adage, "Sing on Friday, cry on Sunday." But Sophie is accustomed to laugh at such wise saws from her old nurse. Who believes in such superstitious omens nowadays? When all of a sudden good old Helenka sighed out, anxiously:

"Holy Maria! St. Anna! What brings her here?"

And without another word she ran off, to avoid the new-comer.

Sophie, looking up wonderingly, saw a lady of striking beauty coming down the garden path. She wore a dress of gay-colored embroidery, a bird of paradise in her bonnet, and upon her shoulders was a costly cashmere shawl. At sight of the stranger's seductive beauty Sophie felt a mysterious shudder pass through her frame; her heart seemed to stop beating. She began to believe again in omens.

The stranger came alone, and at an hour too early for ladies, as a rule, to be out. Without hesitation she ascended the veranda steps, like one who knew the house well.

As she reached Sophie she raised her hand with the gesture of one expecting to have it kissed, saying, in a low voice, as she did so:

"I am Princess Ghedimin!"

The girl's heart beat audibly; but she had no alternative, she must kiss the gloved hand.

"You have never seen me before?" the lady asked.

Sophie shook her head in silent negation.

"Let us go together into your sitting-room, then. Is there any one with you?"

"No one."

The lady went on first, and, having reached the room, took off her bonnet. Her abundant fair hair was dressed high, _à la giraffe_.

"Now kiss me, child. I am your mother!"

Sophie did as she was bid.

The Princess looked about her. Embroideries, pretty dresses, the whole trousseau, lay scattered about in charming disorder.

"Ah! Your trousseau. So you are going to be married, little one? Did it never strike you that so serious a step demanded a mother's blessing upon it?"

The girl ventured to reply, "I had been told that I was neither to visit nor to write to my mother."

"But you might have let me know through your little friend Bethsaba, who has been seeing you daily."

"I thought she would have told you."

"No; not a word. Oh, girls nowadays can keep their own counsel! Not once did she mention 'his' name to me; it was by mere chance that I heard it. Herr Pushkin came to me yesterday to ask my permission to dedicate his new poem, _The Spring of Baktshisseraj_, to me."

"To you?"

"Have you any objection to his doing so?"

"On the contrary, I am glad."

"And he happened casually to mention that in a week he was about to lead Sophie Narishkin to the altar. I was astonished. I fancied you still playing with your dolls. Who brought this big doll to you?"

"My father."

"And do you think yourself sensible enough to marry yet?"

"I do not know if I am sensible; I only know that I love him!"

"A categorical answer! How positive you are that he will marry you! And where did you get to know Pushkin?"

"During the flood. Oh, I was in such terrible danger! Had they not come to save me I should have been washed away."

"Who came to save you then?"

Sophie was surprised at the question.

"Do you not know? Did not Bethsaba tell you?"

"Bethsaba? No; she has not spoken to me a word of you or Pushkin. Sly girl--she shall pay for this. So the same fairy sheltered you who carried off Bethsaba from my carriage? That devil in woman's form! And Bethsaba has thought well to keep it from me! And for whole days and nights you were in that den of iniquity! Now I understand it all! It is this fiend who has brought it all about!"

"Mother, do not curse her! I owe all my happiness to her."

"Do you know, then, what is 'happiness'?"

"To be loved."

"And do you know what is its opposite?"

"That I do not know yet."

"To be betrayed."

"Who would betray me?"

"Who but he whom you believe loves you?"

"My Aleko?"

"Yes, your Aleko, who is the property of so many besides you. A more fickle man, a greater deceiver, more cruel, dishonorable, you could not have met with on earth."

"What reason could he have to deceive me?"

"Because he hopes, through you, to rise to higher rank."

"Oh no! He has refused all titles, rank, and possessions. He is taking me as I am. My trousseau and this piece of copper--a piece of the ship which ran into the Winter Palace, and which he gave me on the day of the catastrophe--are my whole wealth. He means to remain a poor man, and to make himself a name which no dukedom could rival."

"How he can deceive you! His schemes stop only at the throne. He is marrying you that in the next revolution he may figure as the Russian 'Prince Égalité.' Nay, Égalité!--as another Pugatseff! Why, do you not know that he is one of the conspirators whose aim is to oust the Czar from the throne?"

"But it was my father who brought him here."

"Because he has a honeyed tongue with which he can deceive the Czar--and lull the daughter to sleep."

"Oh, mother, you hate him sorely!"

"And with reason! Does not this marriage threaten to ruin my whole life? Will it not bring the secret of your birth to light--that birth the bane of my early life?"

"Mother! Do you curse the day of my birth?"

"Not now only, but twice daily--when I wake and when I lie down. You were as a death-sentence to me, the hour of which was unfixed. I have thought with shuddering of you. You have been my accomplice, a living witness to my wrecked honor; and now my fate is to be accomplished through you. You announce to the whole world that you exist--look! here am I!"

"No, mother; I will hide myself. No one shall see me. No one shall know of me."

Korynthia here pretended that pity and maternal love had gained the mastery. In sorrowing tones, she exclaimed:

"But, my poor child, do you not know that you are condemning yourself to a living grave--that you are choosing a life worse than hell? You will be the wife of an adventurer, who is sunk so low in sin, so fettered by vicious associates, that, even if he desired it, he is powerless to avoid the consequences. Do you want to follow him to Siberia?"

"If misfortune assails him I will share it with him."

"And suppose the mad scheme in which he is the foremost actor succeeds, and his hands are stained with your father's blood?"

"Then I will find a path in which to implore Heaven's pardon for him."

"Blinded creature! Your self-created ideal prevents your seeing the man as he is. Do you believe it possible to confine a heart in a cage that is accustomed to take free flight, and which, moreover, you have by no means made captive? For Pushkin loves you not! I tell you, he loves you not! Be convinced; he loves you not!"

Sophie looked in bewilderment at Korynthia. The instinct of her woman's heart, added to a nervous foreboding, told her the horrible truth. Seizing Korynthia's hand, she exclaimed:

"_You love him!_"

"You are right!" hissed Korynthia, with wild vehemence.

Sophie, pressing her hands to her heart, turned white as death; her eyes closed, her breathing stopped, and she fell lifeless to the ground.

The Princess went in search of Helenka.

"Go in to your mistress; she is not well."

And, drawing her cashmere close about her (the mornings are misty by the river) and replacing her bonnet, she left the villa.

Knowing that her farewell kiss would be of no benefit to the poor swooning girl, she let it alone.