The Green Book Part 74

The tone in which he spoke forbade further question. Bethsaba saw that the hour of the dreaded danger had come. The poison was already working in his veins. An antidote must be administered.

Going to her room, she wrote to Chevalier Galban:

"Alexander Sergievitch is making preparations for a journey very shortly. I await your answer."

This significant letter she gave to a footman, with instructions to convey it to its address as fast as a sledge would take him.

After their conversation, Pushkin, seeing that his moroseness betrayed him, forced himself to be in high spirits. His friends said they had never seen him so merry. Bethsaba alone was not deceived.

At last came the morning of the dreaded day. Both rose early, that Pushkin might not be late in starting. Just as he was getting into his fur coat, Bethsaba, throwing herself on his breast, said, tremblingly:

"I cannot let you go without confessing a sin which I have committed against you."

"Against me? What can that be?"

"I have been jealous."

"About this journey?"

"Yes."

"You are a little goose! Are you always going to be jealous when I go away for a day or two?"

"Only this time. I had been told that you were going to visit your old love, and that is why you wanted to go alone."

"Was it Galban who gave you this information?"

"He said so when he was here. I asked him the lady's name. He answered me he would tell it me _if I asked it again_. When I saw you making ready for departure, jealousy revived in me in all its strength. I lost my judgment. Kill me! Trample me underfoot! I wrote to Galban, entreating him to tell me the name of her for love of whom my husband was leaving me, and asked him to prove to me in writing the statement he had made by word of mouth. Read what he answers."

And she gave him Galban's letter.

As Pushkin read the letter to the end the world seemed to swim in blood before his eyes.

"ADORED LADY,--If you would possess the desired doc.u.ment, deign to visit my modest dwelling; I cannot intrust it to strange hands.

Your ever-faithful slave,

"GALBAN."

Pushkin looked in amazement at Bethsaba.

Trembling, his wife fell on her knees.

"Oh, forgive me! I did not know what I was doing! Do not beat me; I am punished enough by the shame I have brought upon myself! I am forever disgraced!"

Pushkin gently raised his wife.

"Do not cry. You have been a foolish child, that is all. In my eyes you are purer than the angels. And I swear by Heaven that no shame shall ever attach to you for this. Kiss me, and take comfort."

"And you forgive me?"

"I have nothing to forgive. A woman has the right to demand that her husband is as true to her as she to him. Such truth I will preserve to you. Now embrace me, and take good care of your dear little self. On my return I will tell you who she was at whose invitation I am undertaking this journey."

Bethsaba knew her well--"Eleutheria."

Pushkin, taking his weapons, sprang into his sledge, giving his coachman instructions where to drive.

The jemsik shook his head. They would never reach St. Petersburg by that road.

It was evening before Pushkin arrived at Galban's castle. It was an old-fas.h.i.+oned building, standing in the midst of extensive pine woods--a hunting-box.

The antidote was working splendidly.

Happiness had never succeeded in causing Pushkin to overlook an appointment; but jealousy is a strong antidote. There are men enough ready to give up love, happiness, means, rank, for freedom; but the world has not yet seen the man who would sacrifice honor for it. Place in one scale all the workings of pa.s.sion, in another those of jealousy--the latter would weigh heavier. No tyrant in the world is hated so intensely as is a rival.

Had Brutus been told on the Ides of March that Casca had paid court to his wife, it would have been Casca, not Caesar, who would have died.

Zeneida had laid the train cleverly. She knew the whole position.

For months past the two parties had been playing with open cards. Their plans had long been known to one another by means of secret agencies; their very names known. But each hesitated to begin the attack. The members of the const.i.tutional party were to be found among the highest statesmen, and even generals. That a collision would take place all were convinced, but none knew when. But there was a key to the exact period of the outbreak; that key was the day of Pushkin's leaving home. The day he left Pleskow to appear against his edict of banishment in St.

Petersburg was the signal. Chevalier Galban, Princess Ghedimin, and the followers of Araktseieff were on the watch for it.

Knowing this, Zeneida had planned the intrigue which would effectually keep Pushkin out of the charmed circle on the eventful day.

Among certain nationalities her little game might easily have ended dangerously. Jealousy has often led to fatal results. But in Russia social opinion is different. At that time duels were almost unknown there. We saw from Jakuskin's experience that the challenger was simply despatched forthwith to the Caucasus. Bethsaba risked nothing more than that her husband should be sent to Georgia, in the event of his challenging Galban, for Galban was certain not to fight. At the worst, it would only lead to fisticuffs, and there the strong-wristed country gentleman would be more than a match for the effeminate courtier.

In order that the noise of his approaching sledge might not attract attention, Pushkin left it in the road, and, taking his case of pistols and whip in his hand, walked to the house.

It had a deserted appearance; not even a dog barked in the courtyard. It was after some time that Pushkin at last succeeded in getting a dvornik to open the door in answer to his repeated knocking.

"Where is Chevalier Galban?"

"Ah, little master, that I can't tell. He went away yesterday."

"Tell me no lies, or you shall have a taste of my whip! Go and tell him that some one from Pushkin's is here."

"Ah, soul of mine, you have come, then, at the right time, for the Chevalier left a letter for the Pushkins. True, he said it would be a lady who came for it; but I suppose it's all the same if I give it to you?"

So saying, he drew out a letter from the leg of his boot. No matter if the scent of patchouli became slightly mixed with the smell of leather.

Pushkin, tearing open the letter, read:

"MADAME,--I ask you ten thousand pardons; but this time it was not your heart but your husband's head I was after. I hasten to meet him beside the lovely woman whose name is 'Scaffold.'

"GALBAN."

"Drive back!" growled Pushkin to his jemsik. "Drive as hard as your horses will go to St. Petersburg!"

It was too late. A day had been lost. Pushkin could not possibly arrive at the scene of action on December 26th. A woman's intrigue had succeeded admirably. If all else were lost, the poet's head was saved.