THE HOMERIC PALACE
The reader is now informed of the history of Irene, which is to he
remembered as of an important personage in the succeeding pages.
Knowing also how she became possessed of the palace we have been at
some pains to describe, he is prepared to see her at home.
The night has retreated from the European shore of the Bosphorus,
although the morning is yet very young. The sun in the cloudless sky
beyond Becos, where it appears standing as if to rest from the fatigue
of climbing the hills, is lifting Therapia bodily out of its sparkling
waters. In the bay moreover there are many calls of mariner to mariner,
and much creaking of windlasses, and clashing of oars cast loose in
their leather slings. To make the scene perfectly realistic there is a
smell of breakfast cooking, not unpleasant to those within its waftage
who are yet to have their appetites appeased. These sights, these
sounds, these smells, none of them reach the palace in the garden under
the promontory opposite the town. There the birds are singing their
matin songs, the flowers loading the air with perfume, and vine and
tree drinking the moisture borne down to them from the unresting sea so
near in the north. [Footnote: The Black Sea.]
Under the marble portico the mistress is sitting exactly in the place
we can imagine the old Greek loved most what time he read from his
masterful copy of Homer. Between columns she saw the Bosphorean expanse
clear to the wooded Asiatic shore. Below was a portion of the garden
through which the walk ran, with a graceful curve, to the red kiosk by
the front gate. Just beyond it the landing lay. Around her were palm
and rose trees in painted tubs, and in their midst, springing from a
tall vase carven over with mythologic figures, a jasmine vine affected
all the graces of its most delicate nature. Within reach of her right
hand there were platters of burnished brass on a table of ebony, its
thin, spider legs inlaid with silver in lines. One of the platters bore
a heap of white biscuits such as at this day are called crackers; the
others supported pitchers, and some drinking cups, all of silver.
The mistress sat in an arm-chair very smooth in finish despite the
lineations sunk into its surfaces, and so roomy as to permit her to
drop easily into a half-reclining posture. A footstool dressed in dark
stamped leather was ready to lend its aid to gracefulness and comfort.
We will presume now to introduce the reader to the Princess Irene,
though, as the introduction must be in the way of description, our
inability to render the subject adequately is admitted in advance.
At the moment of first sight, she is sitting erect, her head turned
slightly to the left shoulder, and both hands resting on the dog's head
garnishing the right arm of the chair. She is gazing abstractedly out
at the landing, as if waiting for some one overdue. The face is
uncovered; and it is to be said here that, abhorring the custom which
bound her Byzantine sisterhood to veils, except when in the retiracy of
their chambers, she was at all times brave enough to emphasize the
abhorrence by discarding the encumbrance. She was never afraid of the
effects of the sun on her complexion, and had the art of moving
modestly and with composure among men, who, on their side, were used in
meeting her to conceal their admiration and wonder under cover of grave
respect.
Her figure, tall, slender, perfectly rounded, is clad in drapery of the
purest classic mode. Outwardly it consists of but two garments--a robe
of fine white woollen stuff, and over it a mantle of the same texture
and hue, hanging from a yoke of close-fitting flesh-colored silk richly
embroidered with Tyrian floss. A red rope loosely twisted girdles her
body close under the breasts, from which, when she is standing, the
gown in front falls to the feet, leaving a decided train. The mantle
begins at a point just in front of the arm, under which, and along the
sides, it hangs, like a long open sleeve, being cut away behind about
half down the figure. The contrivance of the yoke enabled the artist,
by gathering the drapery, to determine the lines in which it should
drop, and they were few but positive. In movement, the train was to
draw the gown to the form so its outlines could be easily followed from
the girdle.
The hair, of the tint of old gold, is dressed in the Grecian style; and
its abundance making the knot unusually ample, there was necessity for
the two fillets of pink silk to keep it securely in place.
The real difficulty in the description is now reached. To a reader of
sharp imagination it might be sufficient to say the face of the
Princess Irene, seen the morning in question, was perfectly regular,
the brows like pencilling, the nose delicate, the eyes of violet
shading into blackness, the mouth small with deep corners and lips
threads of scarlet, the cheeks and brow precisely as the received law
of beauty would have them. This would authorize a conception of
surpassing loveliness; and perhaps it were better did we stop with the
suggestions given, since the fancy would then be left to do its own
painting. But patience is besought, for vastly more than a face of
unrivalled perfection, the conjuration is a woman who yet lives in
history as such a combination of intellect, spirit, character, and
personal charm that men, themselves rulers and conquerors, fell before
her at sight. Under necessity therefore of going on with the
description, what words are at command to convey an idea of the
complexion--a property so wholly unartificial with her that the veins
at the temples were as transparent shadows on snow, and the coloring of
the cheeks like a wash of roses? What more is there than to point to
the eyes of the healthful freshness peculiar to children of tender
nurture; the teeth exquisitely regular and of the whiteness of milk and
the lustre of pearls; the ears small, critically set, and tinted pink
and white, like certain shells washed ashore last night? What more? Ah,
yes! There are the arms bare from the shoulder, long and round as a
woman's should be, and terminating in flexile wrists, and hands so
gracefully modelled we shrink from thought of their doing more than
making wreaths of flowers and playing with harp strings. There too is
the pose of the head expressive of breeding and delicacy of thought and
feeling, of pride and courage--the pose unattainable by effort or
affectation, and impossible except where the head, itself faultless, is
complemented by a neck long, slender, yet round, pliant, always
graceful, and set upon shoulders the despair of every one but the
master who found perfection of form and finish in the lilies of the
Madonna. Finally there is the correspondence, in action as well as
repose, of body, limbs, head, and face, to which, under inspiration of
the soul, the air and manner of lovely women are always referable.
The Princess was yet intensely observing the stretch of water before
her, and the rapid changes of the light upon its face, when a boat,
driven by a single oarsman, drew up to the landing, and disembarked a
passenger. That he was not the person she was expecting became
instantly apparent. She glanced at him once, and then, satisfied he was
a stranger in whom she had no interest, resumed study of the bay. He,
however, after dropping something in the boatman's hand, turned, and
walked to the gateway, and through it towards the palace.
Ere long a servant, whose very venerable appearance belied the
steel-pointed javelin he carried, hobbled slowly along the floor of the
portico marshalling a visitor. She touched the golden knot at the back
of her head to be assured of its arrangement, arose, shook out the
folds of her gown and mantle, and was prepared for the interruption.
The costume of the stranger was new to the Princess. A cassock of mixed
white and brown wool that had gone through a primitive loom with little
of any curative process except washing, hung from his neck to his
heels. Aside from the coarseness of warp and woof, it fitted so closely
that but for a slit on each side of the skirt walking would have been
seriously impeded. The sleeves were long and loose, and covered the
hands. From the girdle of untanned skin a double string of black horn
beads, each large as a walnut, dropped to his knees. The buckle of the
girdle, which might have been silver deeply oxidized, was conspicuously
large, and of the rudest workmanship. But withal much the most curious
part of the garb was the cowl, if such it may be called. Projecting
over the face so far as to cast the features in shadow, it carried on
the sides of the head broad flaps, not unlike the ears of an elephant.
This envelope was hideous, yet it served to exalt the man within to
giantesque proportions.
The Princess surveyed the visitor with astonishment hardly concealed.
What part of the world could produce a creature so utterly barbarous?
What business could he have with her? Was he young or old? Twice she
scanned him from head to foot. He was a monk; so much the costume
certified; and while he stopped before her with one foot advanced from
the edge of the skirt, and resting lightly in the clasp of the thongs
of a very old-fashioned sandal, she saw it was white, and blue veined,
and at the edges pink, like a child's, and she said to herself, "He is
young--a young monastic."
The stranger drew from his girdle a linen package carefully folded,
kissed it reverently, and said:
"Would the Princess Irene be pleased if I open the favor for her?"
The voice was manly, the manner deferential.
"Is it a letter?" she asked.
"A letter from the Holy Father, the Archimandrite of the greatest of
the northern Lavras." [Footnote: Monasteries.]
"Its name?"
"Bielo-Osero."
"The Bielo-Osero? Where is it?"
"In the country of the Great Prince." [Footnote: Russia.]
"I knew not that I had an acquaintance in so distant a region as the
north of Russia. You may open the letter."
Unmindful of the indifferent air of the Princess, the monk removed the
cloth, leaving its folds hanging loosely from his hand. A sheet of
vellum was exposed lying on the covered palm.
"The Holy Father bade me when I delivered the writing, O Princess, to
deliver his blessing also; which--the saying is mine, not his--is of
more worth to the soul than a coffer of gold for the wants of the body."
The pious comment was not lost; but without a word, she took the
vellum, and resuming her seat, addressed herself to the reading. First,
her eyes dropped to the signature. There was a look of
surprise--another of uncertainty--then an exclamation:
"Hilarion! Not my Father Hilarion! He is but a sacred memory! He went
away and died--and yet this is his hand. I know it as I know my own."
The monk essayed to remove the doubt.
"Permit me," he said, then asked, "Is there not an island hereabouts
called Prinkipo?"
She gave him instant attention.
"And on the side of the island over against the Asiatic coast, under a
hill named Kamares, is there not a convent built centuries ago by an
Empress?"
"Irene," she interposed.
"Yes, Irene--and was not Father Hilarion for many years Abbot of the
convent? Then, on account of his fame for learning and piety, did not
the Patriarch exalt him to attendance on his own person as Doctor of
the Gospels? Still later, was he not summoned to serve the Emperor in
the capacity of Warden of the Purple Ink?"
"From whom have you all these things?" she asked.
"Excellent Princess, from whom could I have them save the good Father
himself?"
"Thou art then his messenger?"
"It becomes me better to refer you to what he has there written."
So saying, the monk stepped backward, and stood a little way off in a
respectful attitude. She raised the missive, and kissed the signature
several times, exclaiming:
"Now hath God taken care of his own!"
Then she said to the monk, "Thou art indeed a messenger with good
tidings."
And he, accepting the welcome, uncovered his head, by raising the
hideous _klobouk_, [Footnote: Cowl.] and letting it fall back pendant
from his shoulders. The violet eyes of the Princess opened wider,
brightening as with a sudden influx of light. She could not remember a
finer head or a face more perfect in manly beauty, and at the same time
so refined and gentle.
And he was so young--young even as herself--certainly not more than
twenty. Such was her first general impression of him. For the pleasure
there was in the surprise, she would not allow it to be observed, but
said:
"The Father in his letter, no doubt, tells me thy name, but since I
wish to reserve the reading, I hope thou wilt not be offended if I ask
it directly."
"The name my mother gave me is Andre; but when I came to be a deacon in
our Bielo-Osero, Father Hilarion, who presided at the raising, asked me
how I wished to be known in the priesthood, and I answered him,
Sergius. Andre was a good christening, and serves well to remind me of
my dear mother; but Sergius is better, because at hearing it I am
always reminded that by vows and solemn rites of ordination I am a
servant of God."
"I will endeavor to remember thy preference," the Princess said; "but
just now, good Sergius, it is of next importance to know if thou hast
yet had breakfast?"
A smile helped his face to even more of pleasantness.
"No," he answered, "but I am used to fasting, and the great city is not
more than two hours away."
She looked concerned.
"Thy patron Saint hath not deserted thee. Here is a table already set.
He for whom I held it is long on the road; thou shalt take his place,
and be not less welcome." To the old servant she added: "We have a
guest, not an enemy, Lysander. Put up thy javelin, and bring a seat for
him; then stand behind him, lest it happen one service of the cups be
not enough."
Directly the two were at the table opposite each other.