Lovely, sunny December days followed on the past arctic weather, with its snow-storms. Chevalier Galban returned home, having received a promise from Pushkin to make him a return visit very soon. Post traffic was resumed; that is, communication by means of sledging was once more practicable.
The official newspaper outdid itself in dulness. But at the end of the so-called news of the day was an announcement to the effect that "on December 26th Fräulein Ilmarinen would sing in the Imperial Exchange for the benefit of the Orphanage!"
The concert was announced eight days in advance, in order that all who desired to attend should have due notice.
Pleskow to St. Petersburg is two good days' journey. Allowing for the time for post to reach, Pushkin had six days' notice.
Bethsaba, too, read the announcement, and said:
"Oh dear! How I should like to be there, to hear my dear Zeneida sing!"
Her heart was filled with dread. She, too, knew full well—Zeneida had told her—what this concert and this singing heralded.
From that moment Pushkin was utterly changed—morose, melancholy. Bethsaba read in his face as in an open book. Had she not had the key to the hieroglyphics from Zeneida? She knew exactly what Pushkin was brooding over; she knew perfectly well that "Eleutheria" was the name of his old love. And she concentrated all her love upon him to hold him fast.
Was it such an unheard-of thing for men, renowned statesmen, to forget, in their domestic happiness, an appointment they had made with friend or enemy on the battle-field? How often it had happened that great men, when once they had learned to know "the little world of love," had been fain to think how good it was to be "little" men! What happy people Lilliputians must be!
Vain endeavor!