Chapter XXXII: “a Rose and a Myrtle.”

Five years passed by, and in May, 1780, Rakitina was again in Petersburg. Her friend Vâra was already married and in Moscow. Father Peter was, as before, priest of the Cathedral of Kazan. Irena went to see him. He was delighted and eagerly began to ask her about past and present events.

“Is it possible that you are even till now waiting and hoping that your _fiancé_ is yet alive?” he asked. “For how many years you are uselessly tormenting yourself! Were he alive, be sure he would have sent some message--I do not say to you--to his friends, to his relations.”

“Oh! don’t, don’t, Father,” answered Irena, drying her eyes; “I will give up all, sacrifice everything.…”

“Young lady, that is a sin; you are tempting Providence, you are imitating the heathens.”

“But what can I do?” answered Irena; “I am always seeing such awful prophetic dreams, one especially. Oh! that dream; it came to me not long ago, several nights together.”… Irena was silent.

“What dream was it? Tell me all; confide in me.”

“It seemed to me that he approached my bedside--he was not a bit altered--just as he was the last time I saw him in our village, stately, handsome, amiable; and he said to me, ‘I am still alive, Irenushka. Where the sea murmurs, night and day, I look for you, morning and evening, thinking perhaps you’ll come, find me, and set me free.’… Ah! tell me, where must I look, what must I do, whom must I ask? I dare not trouble the empress another time.…”

“I often thought of you,” said Father Peter. “Here I only see one person, and that is--the Tzarevitch, Pavel Petrovitch;[51] he is Grand-Master and Protector of the Order of Maltese Knights--he alone can help you. If he will only stoop to you, to your petition, he alone can do something for you. In him you’ll find everything--talent, honour, always used in the interest of anything high and noble, secret relations with all the most powerful and celebrated philanthropists. And what goodness, what knightly nobility! No; it is not Tiberius, as his enemies say; it’s the future beneficent Titus.”

“Yes, I have heard that,” answered Irena.

“You have heard? then go to him, find him at his manor house, seek for an audience.”

The priest gave Irena all possible information and advice, as well as a letter to his god-daughter, housekeeper in the household of the Tzarevitch. Rakitina hired a _kibitka_[52] and started for Pavlovski, the personal property of the grand-duke.

The housekeeper received Rakitina very hospitably. She took her into her own apartment, and then, to amuse her a little, pointed out to her all the curiosities in the garden and park of the grand-duke; the little cottage Cric-Crac, the hut of the hermit, the caverns, lakes, and rustic bridges. It was decided that Irena should first relate everything to the favourite maid of honour of the grand-duchess, Ekaterina Ivanovna Nelidova, who had only just terminated her education at Smolney Institute.[53]

“When shall we go to see Ekaterina Ivanovna?” said Irena, longing for the promised audience.

“We shall have to wait; she is very much occupied now, learning a hymn on the clavichord. It’s the favourite piece of the grand-duke; she is getting it ready for the concert.”

One day Irena was walking in the park with her hostess. All at once from behind the trees, a fair lady in a light blue silk dress, without any hoops, came towards them.

“Who is that?” asked Irena.

“The Tzarevna,” whispered the housekeeper, bowing very respectfully.

Irena turned faint.

The elegant, though a little inclined to embonpoint, Grand Duchess Marie Feodorovna was then twenty-two, and very lovely.

In passing by Irena, she turned her rather bewildered and short-sighted eyes upon her, as though astonished at her nun’s dress. The Tzarevna was followed by a very tall, thin, pock-marked man in a dark _kaftan_ and cocked hat, carrying a roll of music and a fiddle under his arm.

“And who is that?” asked Rakitina, when they had gone by.

“Paëzsïllo,” answered the housekeeper; “music master to her Imperial Highness.”

Irena admired the rare beauty of the Tzarevna, the delicate pink and white complexion, the splendid golden hair, in which nestled some blue and red flowers, contained in a tiny bottle of water to keep them fresh.

The Tzarevna was followed at some distance by two maids of honour. One of them, a short, thin, sprightly brunette, struck Irena by the brightness of her black, sparkling eyes, which literally seemed to shoot forth sparks. She was gaily talking with her companion. It was Nelidova. Mischievously winking at the stout housekeeper, who was respectfully bowing to her, she said to her with a charming smile, “I’ve had no time yet, Anna Romanovna,--always that hymn; to-morrow morning.”

“Ah! at last, to-morrow,” thought Irena, in ecstasy, and following with enraptured eyes the enchanting, elegant fairies, who so unexpectedly had passed before her eyes. At the appointed hour, Anna Romanovna took Irena to the pavilion of the maids of honour, not far from the guard-house, and led her into the drawing-room.

“It would seem that Ekaterina Ivanovna has not yet returned from the palace of the grand-duchess,” she said; “we will wait for her here, my dear; take off your hood, it’s too warm.”

“It does not matter; I’ll leave it.”

The room was filled with vases, statuettes, and medallions hung on the walls.

“This is all the work of the grand-duchess,” said the housekeeper. “Look here, dear, what talent! how she paints on porcelain! And look here, in this black cupboard, these ivory things, that’s her work. She can engrave also on stones, on gold, lovely _paysages_; she can also turn on the lathe, and how fond she is of Ekaterina Ivanovna! those are all presents to her. Look, she embroidered this beautiful cushion for her. Look, what a rose! and this myrtle! What a delicate design, and the colours, you might mistake it for a painting.”

Irena gave no answer.

“Why are you so silent, my dear? What are you thinking about?”

“A rose and a myrtle,” whispered Irena, sighing; “life and death. What will be the end of all my efforts, my researches, my hopes?”

At that very minute, the notes of the clavichord were heard from the room of Nelidova. A melodious splendid contralto was singing the very solemn and sad hymn from Glück’s opera, “Iphigenia in Tauridus.”

“Well, Irena Lvovna, let us go; I suppose we are too late. Ekaterina Ivanovna is at her music, and no one will dare disturb her. Very likely the grand-duchess is with her now.”

Irena made a sign to her companion to wait a little, and with a beating heart she listened to the so well known notes of the imploring hymn of “Iphigenia.” In past days she had herself sung that to Konsov. “Oh! if I could only implore them like that; but when will that be? They have their own cares, they have no time,” thought she, feeling that her tears were choking her.

“Let us go, let us go,” said Anna Romanovna, hastily. They both went out together, went down the steps, round the pavilion of the maids of honour, and into the garden. The wicket-gate banged to.

“Where are you off to?” they heard a voice gaily calling out.

They both raised their eyes. Looking at them from the open window was the smiling face of the black-eyed Nelidova.

“Come in; I’m quite free now. I was waiting for you, and so began to sing. Come in.”

The visitors retraced their steps.

Anna Romanovna presented her companion to Nelidova, who made her sit down beside her.

“So young, and yet in such a gloomy dress,” she said; “speak now, without any ceremony, tell me all, I am listening.”

Irena began about Konsov, then went on to the arrest and captivity of Tarakanova. At each of her words, at each detail of the sad event, the bright playful face of Nelidova became more and more troubled and sad.

“Great God! what mysteries, what tragedies!” thought she, shivering; “and all that in our days. But it’s the dark middle ages over again, and no one knowing anything of it.”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle Irena,” said Ekaterina Ivanovna, after having listened attentively to Rakitina. “I am very much obliged to you for all you have related to me; if you will allow me, I will tell it all again to their Imperial Highnesses.… I am convinced that the Tzarevitch, that wise just knight, that angel of goodness and honour … will do everything for you. But to whom must he apply?”

“How! to whom?” asked the astonished Irena.

“You see, I do not know very well how to explain it,” continued Nelidova; “the Tzarevitch takes no part in State affairs, he can only ask others. On whom does all this depend?”

“The Prince Potemkin might …” answered Irena, remembering the counsels of Father Peter, that the Prince could send orders to the different ambassadors and consuls. “Lieutenant Konsov is perhaps now a prisoner of the Moors or negroes, on some wild island in the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Will you remain long here?” asked Nelidova.

“The Mother Superior of the Nunnery where I live has been summoning me to return this long while. Every one blames me; calls my researches sinful.”

“How and where can I send you a message?”

Irena named the convent, and then became thoughtful, looking at the cushion worked by the grand-duchess.

“I’ve suffered so much, I’ve waited so long,” she murmured, stifling her tears. “Do not write anything--not one word--but, see, send me, should there be success, a rose; if failure, a myrtle leaf.”

Nelidova kissed Irena.

“I will do everything I can,” she said gently. “I will appeal to the grand-duchess, to the Tzarevitch. There remains nothing more for you to do here. Better leave, my dear one; as soon as I learn anything, I will let you know.”