CHAPTER VII
THE EIGHT-IN-HAND
Prince Ghedimin left his secret domicile in a simply appointed sledge,without crest, his coachman wearing no livery. He ordered his man todrive to the opera.
At that time the capital possessed but one large, newly builttheatre--the opera-house. Here representations of the drama, comedy, andopera were given, and often on one and the same evening, theperformances lasting, as a rule, from early evening to midnight.
It was just the period when Russians had conceived a passion for thedrama. One theatre no longer sufficed them. It had become the fashionfor the wealthy princes of the blood to have stages erected in their ownpalaces, and to have representations given by their own privatecompanies of Shakespeare and Moliere. Even in the Czar's twopalaces--the Winter Palace and Hermitage--there were theatres, where thecourt actors and actresses made their debut. One leader of fashioncarried the theatrical mania so far that he never travelled to hiscountry-seat without taking his troop with him; but, the main difficultythere being to find the audience, he had a collection of wax figuresmade--generals, statesmen, and elegant women--and with these figures hefilled his stalls, to give the illusion of a full house. If we add thatthis theatrical company was largely recruited from the retainers andserfs of the said magnate, there is nothing improbable in the story thatwent about of him that one night, as Othello was in the very act ofthrottling his Desdemona, my lord in his box was seized with a fit ofsneezing, which resounded through the house; whereupon the dark-skinnedtyrant, instantly abandoning his murderous design, advanced to the frontof the stage, humbly uttered the Russian form, "God bless your Grace,"and then retreated, to proceed with Shakespeare's ghastly deed.
Hence we may imagine the enthusiasm excited by so extraordinary anartistic genius as was Zeneida, a child of the people--since Finland was_born_ to Russia on the day of Zeneida's birth.
Zeneida was a more powerful factor than a cabinet minister. Even inCatharine II.'s time a prima donna, on the Czarina's representing to herthat she was drawing as heavy pay as the most renowned of her generals,had presumed to say flatly to her, "Then, your Majesty, bid yourgenerals sing to you."
Prince Ghedimin's great source of anxiety was not that Zeneida might beexposed to some insult or humiliation at the hands of a wounded rival;much more, knowing her spirit, he dreaded lest she, at first sound of ahiss, should rush forward to the footlights and begin singing the_Marseillaise_, and that if rotten eggs were thrown one moment, in thenext men's heads would be flying. It needed so tiny a spark to fire thewhole mine.
His heart was beating violently as he neared the opera-house. The clangof bells from a hundred clock-towers drowned all other sounds; but asthey ceased a roar rose in the long street into which his sledge hadturned. The stately avenue was simply filled with a moving mass ofpeople surging in his direction. What could it be? A revolt, or atriumphal procession? Hundreds and hundreds of torches cast their luridlight over the heads of the throng.
His heart beat faster and faster. He was not a lover of revolutions; notone of those who grow drunk with enthusiasm when they hear the leonineroar of an insurgent mass. On the contrary, his soul shuddered withinhim at the thought. But he was a brave man--a man who, although heartand spirit might shrink, would know how to die with those to whom he hadsworn fidelity; who, although his soul might faint within him, wouldwalk with firm step to the scaffold for the great aspirations with whichthat soul was fired. More than one man has proved himself a hero whosesoul has quailed within him before the beginning of the fight. PrinceIvan, ordering his coachman to stop, awaited the throng.
And presently a strange sight met his gaze. In the very midst of thetorch-lit crowd came a golden sledge, shaped like a swan. It wasZeneida's well-known sledge. In it was sitting the prima donna (wrappedin her costly sables, and literally covered with bouquets, the flowersof which were beginning to sparkle with the night frost), drawn by ateam of eight--such a team as the Czar himself had never been drawn by,since it was composed of eight young noblemen, the cream of Russia's_jeunesse doree_. On the coachman's box sat Chevalier Galban in person.
Prince Ghedimin, springing from his sledge, joined the procession. Amongthe crowd a man was pressing and forcing his way. In him the Princerecognized one of his wife's lackeys. Reaching Zeneida's sledge, the manhanded up to Chevalier Galban an enormous bouquet of hyacinths,whispering a few words as he did so. The Chevalier, straightway standingup, called out with stentorian voice:
"Ho, ho, gentlemen! Noble team of teams! halt an instant! Look at thisbrilliant trophy! See these flowers with their diamond-setbouquet-holder--'With the expression of her admiration for our divineZeneida--from Princess Ghedimin!'"
A thousand hurrahs resounded through the icy air, thickened for aninstant with the breath from many vociferous lungs.
"_Allons!_ forward, my noble steeds!" And the eight-in-hand proceeded onits way.
A young man was standing at the back of the sledge. As Zeneida leanedforward to take the flowers, he reached over her so that his face, bentdownward, nearly touched hers. In such a position even a well-known faceis hard to recognize. The man thus standing whispered to her:
"Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes."
"I do not understand Latin," she answered. "Translate it into some otherlanguage for me."
And he at once, converting it into faultless hexameter, said, in theirown tongue:
"Ever I fear the Russian, even when with gifts he comes."
"Thanks, Pushkin."
The members of the "Northern Confederation" called each other by theirfamily names, in contradistinction to the old Russian usage, which is tocall every one by their Christian names, adding to a man that of hisfather, to a woman that of her mother.
So this young man was to become the renowned Pushkin. At that time hehad no such claim; at that time he was a nobody.