Marie Tarnowska

He seemed somewhat moved and held out his hand to me without speaking.

I grasped it eagerly. He continued to smoke and look out of the window, while I stood awkwardly beside him, holding his hand and not knowing what to say.

Perhaps my silence pleased him, for soon I felt him press my trembling fingers more closely. Looking timidly up into his face I saw that his lips were quivering.

“Vassili,” I whispered.

He turned to me abruptly. “Let us go away,” he said, “Mura, let us go away!”

“Where?” I asked, overcome with sudden fear.

“Far away from here, far away from Russia. I cannot live in this accursed country any longer.” And Vassili let go my hand in order to clench his fists.

“I had thought of it, too,” I said unsteadily. And in a low voice I told him my thoughts of the rose-clad house in Italy, my dreams of an azure exile in that beauteous land, alone with him and the children.

“Mura! Mura!” he said, taking my face between his hands and gazing deeply into my eyes. “Tell me—is it not too late?”

Was it too late?

In my soul my unlawful passion for Bozevsky rose like a giant wave, towered over me, enveloped and submerged me. Then—then to the eyes of my spirit there came the vision of my children, of a flower-filled Italian garden, of peace reconquered and deliverance from evil. “No, Vassili, no. It is not too late!”

With a sigh I lay my cheek against his shoulder and bowed my face upon his breast.

Before our departure from Russia, in order not to leave ill-feeling or evil talk behind us, it was decided that Vassili and Bozevsky should meet and be reconciled.

The Stahls and Grigorievskys gladly undertook to organize an afternoon reception at which we were to take leave of all our friends and acquaintances. After that there would be a theater party at the opera, and, finally, the more intimate of our friends were to be the guests of Bozevsky himself at a supper at the Grand Hotel. There we were to say farewell to one another for many years, perhaps forever.

In spite of the burning desire which drew me towards Bozevsky, I had honorably kept my part of the agreement and had refused to see him for even an instant before the appointed day.

Vassili took the necessary steps to get our passports and every preparation was made for our final departure from Russia.

And now the eve of our journey had come—the afternoon reception was over; and this was the fatal evening which was to mark the supreme and ultimate hour of my happiness.

Satins and jewels decked my aching heart; flowers garlanded my ringleted hair; I wanted Alexis to see me for the last time looking my fairest. I longed to remain forever in his memory a loved and radiant vision.

“You are dazzlingly beautiful,” said my cousin Vera to me, as soon as I entered the room, surveying me from top to toe. “I can quite understand why every one is crazy about you.”

I was immediately surrounded by all our most intimate friends, who lamented in every key our resolve to leave Russia.

“Without you, Kieff will be empty. It will be like a ring which has lost its brightest gem.”

I smiled and sighed, feeling both gratified and mournful.

Who would have thought that after this evening all those who now surrounded me with flattering words would pass me by without a greeting, would turn from me as from some vile and tainted creature?

Bozevsky, pallid and stern, came to me, and bowed low as he kissed my hand.

“Ave! Ave … Maria!” he said. Then he raised his eyes and looked at me long and fixedly. Despair was so clearly written on his countenance, that I felt afraid lest Vassili should notice it; Alexis read the fear in my eyes, and laughed. “Do you know what I believe?” he said.

I looked at him without understanding.

“I believe,” he continued in scornful tones, “that I am in a trap.”

“A trap? What do you mean?” I gazed questioningly into his face.

“Yes, yes, a trap,” said he with a cynical laugh. Then in a tone that seemed in keeping with the frivolous atmosphere that surrounded us:

“Countess,” he continued, “has it ever happened to you to go wrong in some well-known quotation? To begin, for instance, with one author, and to end with another?”

“I do not understand,” I stammered, perplexed by the strangeness of his manner. “What—what do you mean?”

Vassili was approaching, and Alexis with a scornful laugh raised his voice slightly as he spoke. “Because to-night,” he said, “a misquotation of that kind keeps ringing through my brain. “Ave, Maria!… Morituri te salutant!”

Vassili stood beside us and heard the words with a puzzled smile.

“Morituri?” he said, holding out his hand to Bozevsky with a frank and friendly gesture. “Morituri? Indeed I hope not.”

Bozevsky took his hand and looked him in the face. Vassili returned his gaze; then, with an impulsive gesture, in true Russian fashion, my husband bent forward and kissed him on both cheeks.

No! no, it was not a trap! From the depths of my broken heart, from my inmost consciousness, there springs up this protest on behalf of him who on that fatal evening wrecked my life. I know that it was an impulse of his fervent heart that impelled Vassili to open his arms to the man whom an hour before he had hated—and whom an hour later he slew.

No; it was not a trap.

XVI

Doubtless that evening I was beautiful. During the supper party at the Grand Hotel I felt that I diffused around me an atmosphere of more subtle intoxication than the music or the wines. Placed between Vassili and Stahl I laughed and laughed in a fever of rapturous gaiety. I was excited and overwrought.

Bozevsky sat facing me. As I glanced at his proud, passionate face, I said in my heart: “To-morrow you will see him no more. But this evening he is here; you see him, pale for the love of you, thrilled by your presence. Do not think of to-morrow. To-morrow is far away!”

So I laughed and laughed while the rhythmic charm of waltzes played on muted strings wrought upon my senses, swaying me towards an unreal world, a world of transcendent passion and incomparable joys.

Stahl, seated at my right hand, was flushed and elated, but still drew the hurried sibilant breaths I had so often noticed in him. Vassili seemed to have fallen in love with me anew. He murmured rapturous words into my ear. “To-morrow you shall be mine, mine only, out of reach of all others, beyond the sight and the desire of all these people—whose necks I should like to wring.” And he drank his Clicquot looking at me with kindling eyes.

“Vassili,” I whispered imploringly, “do not drink any more.”

“Don't you wish me to?” he asked, turning to me with his glass of champagne in his hand. “Don't you wish it? Well—there!” He flung the glass full of blonde wine behind him over his shoulder. The thin crystal chalice was shattered into a thousand pieces.

“What are you doing, Vassili? What are you doing?” cried Grigorievsky. “Are you playing the King of Thule?”

“Precisely,” laughed Vassili. “Was he not the paragon of all lovers, who chose to die of thirst in order to follow his adored one to the grave?”

And somewhat uncertainly he quoted:

“Then did he fling his chalice
Into the surging main,
He watched it sink and vanish—
And never drank again.”

“Here's to the King of Thule!” cried one of the guests. And they all drank Vassili's health.