"Well, friend, now you, too, will make acquaintance with the Caucasus. You would do well to have your portrait taken at once, that after ten years, when you come back, like me, you may at least know what you once were like."
"I am prepared for anything," answered Pushkin, sealing the letter in which he was returning the publisher Severin the two hundred rubles he had received for his poem, not having obtained the Censor's permission to publish. "But there is one thing I cannot understand. I have just received from the Lord Chamberlain an invitation to the state concert to-night. Now, what the devil does that mean?"
"What does it mean, my friend? That your punishment is to be carried out with a refinement of cruelty! Had I not a similar experience? The very night I had challenged that scoundrel, I, too, received an invitation to a court ball. When the circle was formed round the Czar, the Lord Chamberlain placed me among the guests to whom his Majesty desired to speak. I was simple enough to feel elated at the distinction. My turn at length came. The great man stood before me, letting me feel his colossal height. Looking full at me with his cold, green eyes, his face as immovable as a moonlit landscape, he asked, 'You are not satisfied with your commanding officer?' And, taking my confusion for acquiescence, added, 'We will provide against any such unpleasant friction in the future.' And I stammered out something like thanks, never thinking that this was only a planned humiliation for me, that every one standing round about me knew already whither I was to be banished, and that the honor of this imperial interview was merely intended to further humiliate me. Oh, if I had but known it then! If it should again happen that I— Ah, fool that I am! Fate does not so repeat itself. But could I pass on to you my imbittered heart, my experience, and my determination at the moment in which you will be standing there, face to face with 'him,' apart from all, all eyes upon you, but every man's hand turned away from you; no one near you but a devil! Casca's devil! But what am I talking about! You are but an Epimetheus to whom wisdom only comes when the opportunity is past. A pleasant journey to Tungusia; my respects to the marmots! Come, let us shake hands. We are comrades now."
"Eh! fate does not repeat itself? How if the soup be not eaten as hot as it is served?" asked Pushkin, simulating light-heartedness. But Jakuskin's words had left a sting in his heart. Why had he received the invitation to the palace that night?
There was no evading the command. His sledge was one among the many formed in line before the gates of the Winter Palace that evening; the guests numbered more than two thousand, the whole élite of St. Petersburg society was there.
At that time the Winter Palace, in its magnificence, tone of society, its mode of paying compliments, and distinguished courtesy, threatened to rival the Tuileries; even Parisian bon-mots went the round. All national characteristics had become decidedly bad form. Ladies no longer wore the fur-lined dolmanka, the clasped girdles; the singular fashion which had formerly prevailed of wearing gold watches in the hair had been given up; feminine taste displayed itself in following the latest Paris fashions, in which lace and artificial flowers were de rigueur. The men wore uniforms. The Czarina was the sole exception to the prevailing fashion; she continued to wear the out-spreading head-dress, in form of a peacock tail, which made her tall figure seem even taller, and lent still more majesty to her countenance. The Czar, on the other hand, was wearing plain civilian evening dress, without ribbon or order of any description.
Late as was Pushkin's entry among the gayly attired throng, he could not fail to notice how greatly the tone of society had altered towards him from the night before. People did not seem to see him. His superior officers and others to whom he had been presented did not acknowledge his salute. Intimate friends, comrades in arms, seemed suddenly engrossed in conversation with their neighbors on his approach, to avoid accosting him. Lovely women, who but yesterday had welcomed him to their opera-boxes, spread out their fans before their faces as he neared them; the heat suddenly became oppressive! One lady alone, clad in rich silks, crossing the room on Prince Ghedimin's arm, vouchsafed him her attention; she was the beautiful Princess Korynthia, Prince Ghedimin's wife; her cold gray eyes measured the young officer from head to foot—she who had so often laughed at his wit—while she deigned him no other return to his salutation than a contemptuous curl of the lip, for which he promptly revenged himself by turning and exchanging mischievous smiles with the young girl at her side, Princess Bethsaba. Just then the press before them brought Prince Ghedimin's party to a standstill, and Pushkin saw the bright flush which had suffused the young Princess's face under the fire of his eyes. Almost he felt inclined to say: "Nay, fair rosebud, do not blush at my gaze. To-morrow I shall be speeding to the land where your fathers sleep!"
The Prince and Princess were now received by Araktseieff, who conducted the ladies to the arm-chairs reserved for them near the stage on which the artistes were to appear. Ghedimin disappeared among the crowd of brilliant uniforms; there were no seats for the men.
The concert began with a sonata of Beethoven, to which the Czar listened absorbed, as he leaned over the back of the Czarina's chair, his tall figure overtopping all others, his eyes fixed on vacancy. When it came to the turn of the harpist his manner became animated. Hurrying across to the performer, he led him on the stage, settled the music-stand for him to the requisite height, and then, as his chair was too low, himself fetched a cushion, oblivious for the moment that he was the Czar of all the Russias. The harpist acquitted himself magnificently, fully bearing out his world-wide fame. At the Czar's state concerts there is no applause; but the murmurs of delight passing from mouth to mouth of a crowded audience are a higher reward to the artist than the stormiest applause.
After the harpist followed Fräulein Ilmarinen.