_ALEX SPEAKS._
I had my breakfast in my room the next morning, for my head ached and I
was still in a bewildered state of mind with what Zaidee had told me. It
was Alex who brought my breakfast, stumbling as she came in, for she was
not very steady on her feet.
“Corns, a whole bushel,” she said, when I pointed to her feet swathed in
big cloth shoes.
I had conceived a prejudice against her, for no reason unless it were
that Mrs. Browne lauded her so high and she was so uncouth in her
appearance. She had evidently been overworked when young, for her back
was bent as backs are not usually bent at her age, which, I guessed, was
between fifty and sixty.
She was stiff and slow in her motions, as if moving her arms and feet
was difficult. Her hair was gray, and twisted into a knot at the back of
her head. Across her forehead it was cut square, and worn low, and was
rather bushy in its style, as if it might curl with coaxing. Over her
head and tied under her chin was a silk handkerchief, with the side
pulled up over her good ear. Her dress was black and short, and was
protected by a wide, gingham apron.
Everything about her was faultlessly clean, and, as she put my breakfast
tray upon the table, I noticed that her hands, though large, were not as
rough and knotty as one might have expected in a common peasant. Her
eyes I could not see distinctly, because of the bluish spectacles she
wore, fastened with a string over her ears; but it struck me that they
were very bright and piercing; they certainly looked very sharp at me as
she stood a moment awaiting orders. I thought she wished me to speak to
her, and I said, at last:
“Is your head better? Mrs. Browne said it was aching last night.”
“Much better, thank you,” she replied.
Apparently she heard me, although I didn’t raise my voice very loud. Her
good ear was toward me, it is true, and my voice was of that quality
which is readily heard. She stepped outside a moment, and returned with
two dusters—feather and silk—her weapons of warfare, I called them—and
attacked a chair near me, while I studied her curiously from her swathed
feet to her head tied up in a handkerchief. I laughed mentally as I
thought of her in Madame Seguin’s drawing room among the brocade-covered
sofas and chairs. How much did she hear of Ivan’s speech? I longed to
question her, but did not know how to begin.
At last a happy thought came to me, and I said: “Zaidee was here last
night. You know Zaidee?”
“Yes, I know her,” she answered.
“She told me of a meeting in Madame Seguin’s drawing room,” I continued.
“You were there.”
I could see the old woman’s eyes flash under her spectacles as she stood
with her feather duster uplifted, and said: “Zaidee is a tattler; she
talks too much.”
“But I am safe; she knows that,” I answered; “and so would you, if you
knew me better.”
She went on with her dusting, and I continued: “I believe Madame Seguin
would turn in her coffin if she knew of the meeting. I wonder she didn’t
appear to you. It was wrong in Zaidee to allow such a thing.”
“I know it,” the old woman said. “We all knew it, but she insisted.
She’s a child of the Old Nick, I do believe, but smart as a whip.”
“She said you had a very fine speaker. Did you like him?” was my next
question.
Alex did not reply for a moment, but rubbed a table leg with her silk
duster, as if she would take off all the varnish, if possible. Then she
said:
“I didn’t think much of him. I wouldn’t go across the street to hear him
again. I tell you what,” and she straightened up and turned toward me.
“We want something besides talk, talk of what a government should be. We
want the government itself. We want to act—rise in a body and march upon
the grandees, and make them give us our rights! That’s what we want, and
mean to have!”
She was flourishing her feathers in one hand and her silk duster in the
other, and looked as if she were ready to lead a mob at any time against
the Winter Palace and Hermitage and Gatschina and Tsarselo, if
necessary.
Just then Mrs. Browne appeared, to see what kept Alex so long, and
instantly the feathers moved rapidly across a window stool and mirror,
and then the old woman declared the room done, and asked what next she
should “fly at.”
I did not see Alex again that day, and for the next few days I was busy
taking my friend to different parts of the city. I knew that Alex had
her night out, and came in late, with her shoes off. She had been to a
nihilist _séance_, of course; but where? And was Ivan there? And why
didn’t Zaidee appear, and report, if she knew anything?
I was getting so nervous that at last I resolved to question Alex, at
any risk, and ascertain what she knew. My opportunity came with the
dusting process, which took place every day at nearly the same hour.
She was a little more bent than usual that morning; had a “catch in the
back,” she said, and, contrary to her usual manner, she grumbled some
about hard work and poor pay.
To these complaints I made no reply, but let her talk on, or, rather,
mutter to herself, until she was very near me, when I asked: “What do
you know of Ivan Scholaskie? Where is he?”
The catch in her back must have left her suddenly, for she straightened
herself to her usual position, and answered: “Madame is Ivan’s friend?”
“Yes,” I said; “I knew him as Sophie, his sister. I was present when he
was arrested. I know that he is in the city, or was, and is hiding from
the police. I am greatly interested in him. Where is he?”
“Safe, quite safe. Madame need have no fear,” she replied. “Zaidee told
you he was here?” she continued. “Zaidee talks too much.”
“Yes,” I assented; “but where is Zaidee? I thought she might bring me
some news of Ivan.”
“She is busy cleaning up,” Alex said. “The house is a sight, and
Monsieur Seguin is expected home. That dog had the run of
everything—sleeping where he liked, but mostly on a silk lounge, where
he has left his mark. We have had another meeting there.”
“You have!” I exclaimed, with a feeling of resentment that the mistress’
memory should be thus outraged. “Zaidee should not have allowed it.”
“She didn’t want to,” Alex said; “but the pressure was great, and she
had to yield. And such a rabble as came! Even I was ashamed, and made a
speech against it.”
“You did?” I said, smiling, as I fancied that old woman standing on a
chair, as she said she had done, to harangue the crowd, threatening to
report them to the master in some way, if the thing was repeated.
“Some of them hissed me,” she said, “and charged me with being a half
and half—one half for the aristocrats and one half for my party. I tell
you, nihilism is a hard road to travel!”
“Was Ivan there?” I asked. And she replied: “Yes; he was the big card,
and he didn’t like it, and said so, and they hissed _him_. They are like
shuttlecocks, some of them, shouting for the czar to-day and ready to
kill him to-morrow, if the right leader could be found. It’s a volcano
with a thin crust we are on.”
I looked at the woman in surprise at her language and manner. They did
not agree with her appearance.
“Alex,” I said, “you have not always been what you are now?”
“Maybe not; but it is the present which tells,” she replied; and as just
then Mrs. Browne’s voice came along the corridor, like a foghorn,
calling for Alex, the old woman gathered up her dusters and left me in a
maze of perplexity.
Nearly a week passed, and was spent by Mrs. Whitney and myself in
sight-seeing. Alex had another night out, but did not stay late, and it
seemed to me she was a little absent-minded the next morning when she
came to do her work.
“Have you seen Ivan?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she replied. “Don’t worry about him. He is safe; but the police
think they are on the track of a gang of nihilists, and are busy
searching for them like needles in a haymow. They can save themselves
the trouble. There are more nihilists in the city than they dream of.
They are everywhere, in every rank, and ready to shield each other.”
That night Zaidee came for a short time. She could talk of nothing but
the renovation of the house for the master, who had returned the night
before.
“You ought to see the drawing room,” she said; “swept and cleaned, with
fresh curtains and flowers; no signs of the meeting, when old Alex
talked to us standing in a chair, with her shoes off. Did she tell you?
I nearly split my sides laughing, and so did some of the others. Chance
was with us, barking his approval when we cheered, and sitting on the
silk couch the rest of the time. Monsieur does not suspect it yet, and
praises me for a good housekeeper. I feel pretty mean and ashamed.
But”—and her voice dropped—“they are hot after Ivan, and have put
monsieur on the scent. I have an idea they will search this house. I
came to tell you, and Alex, if I can see her. That dragon, Mrs. Browne,
watches me pretty closely.”
At that moment Mrs. Browne appeared, a dark frown on her face when she
saw Zaidee.
“Oh, you here yet?” she said, and, taking a seat, began to talk with me
as unconcernedly as if Zaidee were not in the room.
After this Zaidee left, first asking Mrs. Browne very meekly if Alex
were home, and if she could see her. Nothing could have been more
forbidding than the sound of Mrs. Browne’s voice as she replied that she
presumed Alex had gone to bed; she “kept good hours, as all domestics
should.”
Zaidee bowed, and said good-night, with a courtesy to Mrs. Browne.
Whether she saw Alex or not, I did not know. I think she did, and it was
later than usual when the old woman came to do my work the next morning,
armed this time with water for the hearth, as well as her dusters.
Mrs. Whitney was sitting with me, and this, I think, repressed Alex,
although the moment she entered the room I felt a thrill of expectancy,
as if something out of the common order was going to happen.
Putting down her pail of water, she turned toward me, and was about to
speak, when Mrs. Browne rushed in, her face flushed, her eyes
protruding, and the false piece she wore on the front of her head all
awry, as if she had put her hand suddenly to her hair and pushed it
aside.
“What do you think?” she began, dropping into a chair, and wiping her
face with her apron, “that a peace-abiding woman should be so disgraced
and insulted! The police, or one of them—that high-up one, Seguin—is
here in my kitchen, questioning the servants as to whether they had seen
Ivan Scholaskie about the premises!
“Ivan Scholaskie, indeed! How would they know him, or harbor him, when
they are true as steel to the czar? I told the fellow so, and he
laughed, and said: ‘Maybe, but I’d like to see them. There may be some
acquaintances among them, or possibly they have means of secreting a
comrade. Can I see their rooms?’ I was so mad! And I wish I had never
rented this Scholaskie house. I believe it reeks with the very
atmosphere of them. Ivan here, indeed! Where is he?”
I could not enlighten her, and she went on: “I called the servants
together, and told him to ask them what he pleased.”
“‘Are these all you have in your employ?’ he asked, and I told him all,
except old Alex, who was in Miss Harding’s room. I’d call her.
“‘No,’ he said. ‘It does not matter. I must go to Miss Harding’s room;
to all the rooms, in fact.’
“Then I gave him a piece of my mind; insulting _me_, an English woman!
And I come to warn you not to be scared. He really acts like a
gentleman, and as if he hated his work. I must go now and tell the other
guests. Alex, be cool, if he questions you, and be sure and clean that
mantel and hearth as they ought to be cleaned, and have not been in a
week.”
She hurried away, and as Mrs. Whitney, at the first mention of police,
had fled to her room, I was alone with old Alex, who turned her face
toward me with a reassuring smile, and then went on with her work.
“Alex,” I said, “if he asks you if you have seen Ivan, what will you
tell him?”
“A lie, of course,” was the prompt reply. “We all have to do that, and
ask forgiveness afterward.”
Just then Michel appeared, his face lighting up as he saw me, and
extended his hand.
“I knew you were here,” he said. “Zaidee told me, and that is why I came
on the unpleasant duty of inquiring, instead of sending Paul Strigoff,
who is most anxious to try his luck again with Ivan. I am glad to see
you, and to find you as young as you were five years ago, when we met in
the Gulf of Finland.”
He was still holding my hand, and his whole manner toward me was
different from what it ever had been. There was no apparent repression
about him now, as if keeping something back. He was genuinely glad to
see me, and showed it in his voice and manner, as he asked after Katy
and Jack, and laughed as he recalled the fearless boy, who was going to
set the United States Government against Russia if the officials did not
let Ivan go.
“And the young girl?” he said. “She was very lovely, and must be
lovelier now than she was then. I wish this scamp Ivan, who escaped from
Siberia—Heaven only knows how!—and has kept himself from the law for
more than a year, I wish, I say, that he was in America, where such as
he belongs, and where he could make something of himself better than
hiding like a rat in a hole, or in many holes. He has a rare faculty of
attracting people to him. Not a nihilist in the city would betray him.
Zaidee did let out something accidentally, which made me think she knew
where he was, but, when I asked her, she replied: ‘No, sir! I’d be
broiled on a gridiron before I’d tell where he was, if I knew—and so
would the rest of us!’ From the word ‘us,’ I knew she was one of them,
as I had suspected. You know, perhaps, why I am here?”
“Yes; you are looking for Ivan,” I replied. “And I am glad you came,
instead of that terrible Strigoff.”
“Do you know where Ivan is?” he asked, abruptly. And I answered,
quickly: “No. I do not know; and, if I did—I am somewhat like Zaidee—I
should not tell!”
He bowed, and went on: “I suppose I ought to search your rooms; but, if
you say he is not here, I will take your word, and question this old
woman a little. What is her name?”
“Alex,” I replied, feeling my blood grow cold as I wondered how Alex
would pass the ordeal.
But there was no need for fear in that direction. She was polishing the
hearth, and had given no sign that she heard a word we had said.
“Alex,” the officer said to her, but she did not turn her head.
“She is deaf,” I said. “You must speak very loud. Her right ear she
calls her good one.”
“Alex!” he screamed.
“Heavens and earth! What is it?” she exclaimed, turning her head a
little.
“Stand up! I want to speak to you,” he said.
She stumbled to her feet like one very lame, and in so doing partly
upset her pail of suds, while little streams of water went slowly over
her clean hearth.
“Do you know Ivan Scholaskie?” was the first question, while Alex
clutched the piece of soap in her hand, and looked ruefully at the water
on the hearth, as she answered: “Yes, sir.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“If I did, I would not tell,” was the reply, and it seemed to me the old
woman’s bent form straightened a good deal, and her head was held high,
nor did it droop in the least at the next question, which made me choke
with alarm.
“Were you at my house while I was gone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you there twice?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was Ivan there?”
“Yes, sir.’”
“Did he make a speech?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A good one?”
“Fair.”
“About assassinating the czar and the grand dukes, and the nobility
generally?”
Alex’s soapy hand was raised so high that the suds trickled from her
wrist to her elbow, as, in a loud, indignant voice, she exclaimed:
“_It’s a lie!_ The czar was not mentioned, nor his precious uncles. He
told us the kind of government we ought to have to make us an educated,
free people, daring to call our souls our own. He is not an anarchist!”
“And you met in my drawing room?”
“Yes,” and Alex laughed at the remembrance of it. “I knew it wasn’t
right, and I made a speech against it——”
“And stood up on one of my satin-covered chairs, and left the print of
your feet on it!” was the gendarme’s next remark, at which Alex laughed
again, but answered, promptly: “I had to stand on something to look over
their heads, and I took off my shoes.”
“But left the outline of your feet, the same. That is the way I tracked
the affair,” M. Seguin said, and this time more sternly than he had
before spoken.
“I am sorry about the chair,” Alex said; “and, as soon as I can save
enough, I’ll pay for it.”
A wave of the hand was Michel’s reply.
“Anything more, sir?” Alex asked.
“Not this time,” was the answer; and then Michel turned to me, and said:
“You knew Ivan as Sophie, and liked him. Everybody likes him, and that
is where he is dangerous. I believe this old woman—Alex is her name?
Yes, Alex—knows where he is. Tell her to urge him, from you, to get out
of the country and go to America. That may sound strangely from me, a
gendarme, but I have no wish to arrest him. Still, I must do it, later,
if we find him.”
He spoke the last words very loud, so that Alex could hear them. A low
grunt showed that she did.
“I must go, now, and quiet that landlady, who is nearly insane because I
am here,” Seguin said to me, offering his hand, and saying good-by, with
a promise to see me again, and, perhaps, give me good news of Nicol
Patoff.