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 to the long winter nights with their cruel severity. The evening glow lasts till midnight, and then begins the dawn. It seems endless until the first stars appear in the still, clear sky, and under them the brilliant planets Venus and Jupiter, burning in the firmament like diamonds on the surface of a golden lake. The pale moon describes its short orbit, a superfluous luminary; and on the Feast of Masinka the half-hour of actual night is impatiently awaited, in order to let off fireworks on the forty islands of the Neva. (For by daylight it is no use to send up rockets!) Street lamps are not lit in St. Petersburg at all during this month. Nor in the apartments of Korynthia's villa are lights needed on the evening of this 20th of June. The sky diffuses light enough until 11 P.M., and a little twilight will not seriously disturb those of whom we are about to speak.

Korynthia, in some agitation, has strayed--who can tell how often in the course of that evening?--on to her veranda, and let her eyes rove over the surface of the mighty river below. It, too, is golden in the evening light, and, like the Russian pictures of saints, on a golden ground is reflected in its sheen the capital, with its rows of palaces, the dome and columns of St. Isaac's, the florid architecture of the Exchange, the bridge of Holy Trinity, the scattered islands from amid whose wooded heights the varied forms and shapes of country-houses peep, with roofs red, blue, green, gilded, and pagoda-like. And among the islands are darting boats, gondolas, canoes, of every kind and description. Some rowed by twelve boatmen, others by a solitary dreamer; the one flashing along at lightning speed, the other letting himself drift on with the stream. 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 she is expecting--which is the silhouette of his figure?

To the watcher the last half-hour seems longest. Korynthia turns from the balcony to the interior of her room, and gazes once more at herself in her mirror. You are beautiful, very beautiful, says her mirror; that white costume lends you quite a youthful appearance, leaving, as it does, the rounded marble of the arms bare to the shoulder. Your wealth of fair hair is not stiffly arranged, but floats in two thick tresses. No ornament of any kind, bracelet or earring, enhances your charms. The confident champion enters the battle-field without helmet or shield. Even the wedding-ring is absent. You are beautiful indeed--says her mirror.

And beside the mirror hangs a picture, set in a thick gold frame. It is the picture of a young girl in the garb of a mythical shepherdess--tender and delicate as a dream. Korynthia had received it some years ago, a present from the Czar. She may possibly have divined even then that it was no fancy picture, but a portrait; she may even have guessed whom it represented. Within the last few days she knows for certain. She has met the original. It was the portrait of Sophie Narishkin.

Certainly she might long since have known it from Bethsaba--have seen portrait and original often enough, had she asked her. But although lying was foreign to the nature of the Circassian king's daughter, she knew how to be silent, and had that much Armenian blood in her veins not to answer when not directly questioned.

So the reflection in the mirror and the portrait in the frame were in close proximity. And comparison left the living reflection victor.

You pale child with your dreamy eyes, your lips seeming to open in lament; your tender, shadowy frame, how can you think to rival the divine presence of a woman? What power can you have, melancholy dream-picture of another world, against this earthly woman whose beauty arouses and quenches passion, kills and inspires life? Do you possess an Aleko, he chooses himself a gypsy maid; and that is not you. Is he not himself 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 the park. A concert of nightingales came from the bushes. A butterfly--the night peacock's eye--flew in at the open window; taking her for a flower, it flew about her, not about the portrait. Then flew in another night moth, differing from others in that it emits a sound--an unpleasant, shrill, yet melancholy hum. Its name is _Sphinx Atropos_. Why has it been called by the name of that one of the Parcæ which severs the thread of life? Because its back and head are the exact counterpart of a death's-head. Ss--h! The lady brushes away the weird moth; but it had found a refuge; it had flown across to the picture and had settled in a corner of the frame.

At length the twilight deepens. A few impatient employés let off the first rockets from the pleasure gardens in the islands. Bengal lights are beginning to show on Kreskowsky Island.

Ah, of course! It is Zeneida's birthday. The court calendar has found a place for her among the saints; there are great doings to-night in her palace. And something more, perhaps--a sitting of the Szojusz Blagadenztoiga. Under every possible guise and excuse, it holds its meetings at the singer's house.

When Prince Ghedimin left home that evening he had told his wife that he was commanded to the Czar, and would be away all night discussing important matters of state. It is therefore certain that he will be spending the night at Zeneida's, and Korynthia need not fear to be disturbed; it is a case of tit for tat. Any moment may now bring him--the one so impatiently expected.

For as soon as the fireworks on the islands begin they attract all the servants and watchmen yet awake. There is no one to keep guard on the winding paths of the park. The great clock strikes eleven; every quarter of an hour four bells ring a carillon. At the last stroke of the clock she seems to hear the sound of approaching footsteps on the gravel. Who else can it be? An aristocrat's step is so different from that of a mujik. She is right.

The new-comer, stopping at the door of the garden veranda, opens it with a key. His footsteps now announce his coming, as they hurriedly ascend the spiral staircase. Korynthia has studied the pose in which she will be surprised. Leaning over the window-sill, her face resting on her hand--a dreamy figure so absorbed in the song of the nightingales that she does not perceive some one approach her, bend over her, and breathe a soft kiss upon her lovely shoulder.

The Princess seems to rouse from her reverie with a start, as, with an air of smiling reproach, she turns to the stealer of the kiss, "Ah, how late you are!" But as she sees him, she starts in reality. The kiss has been no theft. The perpetrator had but taken what was his own. It was her husband, Prince Ghedimin. Korynthia stammered out, "How early you have 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 given the 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. You know 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. She did 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 Fräulein Zeneida's soirée?"

"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 to that other that she is not alone.

"His Majesty has for the past two days repeatedly commanded me to his presence to deliberate certain matters of state; yet each time he has either been shut up in his room, and I have not been admitted, or if he has appointed me to go to him to Czarskoje Zelo, he has gone to the Hermitage. This evening I was commanded to Monplaisir. I traversed every room, right and left, until at length I found him on the upper veranda with the Czarina. Three times, four times, I saluted the Czar, but he took no notice of me. The Czarina signed to me to remain where I was. The Czar stood leaning against the marble parapet, motionless as a statue, his eyes fixed upon the Neva, the Czarina as fixedly, almost in fear, watching his eyes. Hundreds of boats were gliding over the smooth surface, crossing each other, shooting hither and thither. Suddenly a large barge came in sight, going down-stream, rowed in slow, rhythmic measure by eight boatmen. The barge was lighted by lamps fastened to poles; 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 of myrtle 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 Monplaisir one could read conspicuously on the lid, placed beside the coffin, the name studded in gold nails--_Sophie Narishkin_. Yes, you may well draw your shawl about you, madame! It is cold, is it not?"

The Prince had no idea of the effect of his words; he was still seeing what his memory had impressed upon him, not what was before him. He continued:

"Human language has no words to express the anguish at that moment imprinted on the Czar's countenance. With glowing eyes, convulsed lips, and gathered brows, he stood there clinching his hands; and, while with his eyes he followed the barge, a gigantic struggle seemed working within him. I have witnessed much sorrow in my life; never did I feel such sympathy for a man as for this one! He dared not betray his feelings, for the Czarina was standing by his side. She, too, studied his face with great attention. Suddenly she bent towards him, and, taking his hand in hers, cried, 'Why do you not weep? Why keep back your tears? It is your own dear child who is being borne to her last resting-place!' And, as if to open the font of his grief, she threw herself upon the Czar's breast and burst into weeping. And then the mighty ruler, before whom millions of men tremble, knelt before his neglected, forsaken wife, embraced her knees, and, sobbing, kissed the hem of her dress, she joining her tears to his. It was a scene I shall never forget. The separated husband and wife were reunited in the hour of their bitter sorrow; they had come together again, the past forgotten. They leaned over the balcony, saluting the disappearing barge with 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 them should shed tears at what had passed.

"Then, pressing his hand to his heart, the Czar gasped, 'And there was not 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 she had no one! Then a thought struck me, and I rushed to my gondola and came 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 you think?"

But the woman beside him had not depth of feeling enough to take her noble-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's pride, conquering the animal instinct--sometimes called maternal--within her, she could answer coldly and calmly:

"What are you thinking of? How should we account to the world for our uncalled-for escort? And, then, it is too late; before I could put on a mourning-dress the barge would have got beyond all possibility of our reaching it. Besides, what do I care for Sophie Narishkin?"

She could even speak thus at that supreme moment. How true was the Muscovite scientist's classification--a degenerate cat. Even a normal cat mourns its young.

"What is Sophie Narishkin to me?"

Prince Ghedimin shrugged his shoulders, and, taking out his handkerchief, carefully brushed away traces of tears. It is certainly not worth while to run the risk of making one's own nose red for the troubles 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 extraordinary that my understanding could not grasp it at all, I hastened to you to beg 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 to conceal 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 dawned upon her.

"Well?" The Prince awaited an explanation. The best shield is cold-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 his mysteries?"

"Naturally, our friend Alexander Pushkin's proceedings have no special interest for you, nor should I desire it. But in this letter another was enclosed, having on the outside, in what seems to be a lady's handwriting, 'Princess Korynthia Alexievna Maria Ghedimin.' Probably in this we shall find the solution of the mystery. On that account I must beg you to break the seal and communicate its contents to me--if you do not feel it desirable to keep them secret."

It was now the Princess's turn to advance to the window, in order to read. No sooner had she the letter in her hand than she exclaimed, in surprise:

"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, destined as she had been to St. Katherine's Convent. His wife's laughter still further misled him, and he thought well to join in it. Now, if his tears had met with but mediocre success, his laughter obtained him an open attack. 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 in which that girl was caught for Pushkin. You prepared the poison in which this dagger is steeped."

"Madame, I am at a loss to understand why the fact of Pushkin's marrying Bethsaba Dilarianoff should excite you to such fury!"

Korynthia saw that by her vehemence she had almost been led into self-betrayal; so said, calmly:

"You do not understand! This is no question of love, but of high-treason! What would it matter to me if a Circassian Princess chose to fall in love with my lowest groom? He would probably be too good for her! But do you know why Pushkin has married this girl? In order to discover the Czar's secrets, which he confided to his daughter, and which were repeated to her friend Bethsaba. Now these secrets, through Pushkin, 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, if you conspire against him. And this is what you two have done!"

Prince Ghedimin stood as if turned to stone. His wife had triumphed. Her words bore so clearly the stamp of truth that defence was not to be thought of.

"Yes. It was a plot among you all!" continued his wife, furiously. "You availed yourselves of the illness of the one to entice the other from me. In order to detain me at home, and to prevent my watching over the child intrusted to my care, you sent Pushkin to me with a poem, and, instead of coming to receive his answer, the cowardly fellow steals away with a foolish, inexperienced girl from the very death-chamber of her friend. Out with such people! Such treachery, deceit, betrayal! You are worthy 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 are gone. Prince Ghedimin was a wise and good man, and innocent as a child of this crime; which, after all, was no crime at all. Yet after this torrent of abuse he felt a very criminal who had brought about an act of the greatest, most irreparable evil with the coldest calculation, and, in this frame of mind, was glad to be permitted to leave his home and seek his gondola.

We who are in the secret can aver that he did not even now know who Sophie Narishkin's mother was. But this Korynthia did not believe. She looked upon the whole scene as expressly got up to torture her--from the appearance of her husband at the very hour of the rendezvous, when he shed 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 Ghedimin left her, Korynthia, clasping her two hands above her head, threw herself on the ground, sobbing bitterly. Then, as there was no one to raise her, she assumed a kneeling posture, her long plaits hanging like serpents over her bosom; and, lifting three fingers to heaven, she gasped 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 was meditating something; her eyes flashed fire; she rose, and bared her white, exquisitely formed arm to the shoulder. Then she pressed the rounded muscle of the upper part of her arm between her teeth, and bit into it until the blood flowed from it, and sucked the blood she had drawn. It is the Russian superstition that whoever would insure the fulfilment 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 the picture-frame sounded like the murmur of a lost soul.