A WINTER SCENE
Between Petersburg and the sea there are several favorite islands more
or less assigned to the foreigners residing in the Russian capital. Here
the English live, and in summer the familiar cries of the tennis-lawn
may be heard, while in winter snow-shoeing, skating, and tobogganing
hold merry sway.
It was here, namely, on the island of Christeffsky, that a great ice
fête was held on the day preceding the departure of the Howard Alexis
household for Tver. The fête was given by one of the foreign
ambassadors--a gentleman whose wife was accredited to the first place
in Petersburg society. It was absolutely necessary, Steinmetz averred,
for the whole Howard Alexis party to put in an appearance.
The fête was supposed to begin at four in the afternoon, and by five
o'clock all St. Petersburg--all, c'est à dire, worthy of mention in that
aristocratic city--had arrived. One may be sure Claude de Chauxville
arrived early, in beautiful furs with a pair of silver-plated skates
under his arm. He was an influential member of the Cercle des Patineurs
in Paris. Steinmetz arrived soon after, to look on, as he told his many
friends. He was, he averred, too stout to skate and too heavy for the
little iron sleds on the ice-hills.
"No, no!" he said, "there is nothing left for me but to watch. I shall
watch De Chauxville," he added, turning to that graceful skater with a
grim smile. De Chauxville nodded and laughed.
"You have been doing that any time this twenty years, mon ami," he said,
as he stood upright on his skates and described an easy little figure on
the outside edge backward.
"And have always found you on slippery ground."
"And never a fall," said De Chauxville over his shoulder, as he shot
away across the brilliantly lighted pond.
It was quite dark. A young moon was rising over the city, throwing out
in dark relief against the sky a hundred steeples and domes. The long,
thin spire of the Fortress Church--the tomb of the Romanoffs--shot up
into the heavens like a dagger. Near at hand, a thousand electric lights
and colored lanterns, cunningly swung on the branches of the pines, made
a veritable fairyland. The ceaseless song of the skates, on ice as hard
as iron, mingled with the strains of a band playing in a kiosk with open
windows. From the ice-hills came the swishing scream of the iron runners
down the terrific slope. The Russians are a people of great emotions.
There is a candor in their recognition of the needs of the senses which
does not obtain in our self-conscious nature. These strangely
constituted people of the North--a budding nation, a nation which shall
some day overrun the world--are easily intoxicated. And there is a
deliberation about their methods of seeking this enjoyment which appears
at times almost brutal. There is nothing more characteristic than the
ice-hill.
Imagine a slope as steep as a roof, paved with solid blocks of ice,
which are subsequently frozen together by flooding with water; imagine a
sledge with steel runners polished like a knife; imagine a thousand
lights on either side of this glittering path, and you have some idea of
an ice-hill. It is certainly the strongest form of excitement
imaginable--next, perhaps, to whale-fishing.
There is no question of breathing, once the sledge has been started by
the attendant. The sensation is somewhat suggestive of a fall from a
balloon, and yet one goes to the top again, as surely as the drunkard
will return to his bottle. Fox-hunting is child's play to it, and yet
grave men have prayed that they might die in pink.
Steinmetz was standing at the foot of the ice-hill when an arm was
slipped within his.
"Will you take me down?" asked Maggie Delafield.
He turned and smiled at her--fresh and blooming in her furs.
"No, my dear young lady. But thank you for suggesting it."
"Is it very dangerous?"
"Very. But I think you ought to try it. It is a revelation. It is an
epoch in your life. When I was a younger man I used to sneak away to an
ice-hill where I was not known, and spend hours of the keenest
enjoyment. Where is Paul?"
"He has just gone over there with Etta."
"She refuses to go?"
"Yes," answered Maggie.
Steinmetz looked down at his companion with his smile of quiet
resignation.
"You tell me you are afraid of mice," he said.
"I hate mice," she replied. "Yes--I suppose I am afraid of them."
"The princess is not afraid of _rats_--she is afraid of very little, the
princess--and yet she will not go on the ice-hill. What strange
creatures, mademoiselle! Come, let us look for Paul. He is the only man
who may be trusted to take you down."
They found Paul and Etta together in one of the brilliantly lighted
kiosks where refreshments were being served, all hot and steaming, by
fur-clad servants. It was a singular scene. If a coffee-cup was left for
a few moments on the table by the watchful servitors, the spoon froze to
the saucer. The refreshments--bread and butter, dainty sandwiches of
caviare, of pâté de foie gras, of a thousand delicatessen from Berlin
and Petersburg--were kept from freezing on hot-water dishes. The whole
scene was typical of life in the northern capital, where wealth wages a
successful fight against climate. Open fires burned brilliantly in iron
tripods within the doorway of the tent, and at intervals in the gardens.
In a large hall a string band consoled those whose years or lungs would
not permit of the more vigorous out-door entertainments.
Steinmetz made known to Paul Maggie's desire to risk her life on the
ice-hills, and gallantly proposed to take care of the princess until his
return.
"Then," said Etta gayly, "you must skate. It is much too cold to stand
about. They are going to dance a cotillon."
"If it is your command, princess, I obey with alacrity."
Etta spoke rapidly, looking round her all the while with the bright
enjoyment which overspreads the faces of some women at almost any form
of entertainment, provided there be music, brilliant lights, and a crowd
of people. One cannot help wondering a little what the minds of such
fair ladies must consist of, to be thrown off their balance by such
outward influences. Etta's eyes gleamed with excitement. She was
beautifully dressed in furs, which adornment she was tall and stately
enough to carry to full advantage. She held her graceful head with regal
hauteur, every inch a princess. She was enjoying her keenest pleasure--a
social triumph. No whisper escaped her, no glance, no nudge of admiring
or envious notice. On Steinmetz's arm she passed out of the tent; the
touch of her hand on his sleeve reminded him of a thoroughbred horse
stepping on to turf, so full of life, of electric thrill, of excitement
was it. But then, Karl Steinmetz was a cynic. No one else could have
thought of comparing Etta's self-complaisant humor to that of a horse in
a racing paddock.
They procured skates and glided off hand in hand, equally proficient,
equally practised, maybe on this same lake; for both had learned to
skate in Russia.
They talked only of the present, of the brilliancy of the fête, of the
music, of the thousand lights. Etta was quite incapable of thinking or
talking of any other subject at that moment.
Steinmetz distinguished Claude de Chauxville easily enough, and avoided
him with some success for a short time. But De Chauxville soon caught
sight of them.
"Here is M. de Chauxville," said Etta, with a pleased ring in her voice.
"Leave me with him. I expect you are tired."
"I am not tired, but I am obedient," replied Steinmetz, as the Frenchman
came up with his fur cap in his hand, bowing gracefully. Claude de
Chauxville usually overdid things. There is something honest in a clumsy
bow which had no place in his courtly obeisance.
Although Steinmetz continued to skate in a leisurely way, he also held
to his original intention of looking on. He saw Paul and Maggie come
back to the edge of the lake, accompanied by an English lady of some
importance in Russia, with whom Maggie presently went away to the
concert-room.
Steinmetz glided up to Paul, who was lighting a cigarette at the edge of
the pond, where an attendant stood by an open wood fire with cigarettes
and hot beverages.
"Get a pair of skates," said the German. "This ice is
marvellous--colossa-a-a-l."
He amused himself with describing figures, like a huge grave-minded boy,
until Paul joined him.
"Where is Etta?" asked the prince at once.
"Over there with De Chauxville."
Paul said nothing for a few moments. They skated side by side round the
lake. It was too cold to stand still even for a minute.
"I told you," remarked Paul at length, "that that fellow is coming to
Thors."
"I wish he would go to the devil," said Steinmetz.
"No doubt he will in time," answered Paul carelessly.
"Yes; but not soon enough. I assure you, Paul, I do not like it. We are
just in that position that the least breath of suspicion will get us
into endless trouble. The authorities know that Stépan Lanovitch has
escaped. At any moment the Charity League scandal may be resuscitated.
We do not want fellows like De Chauxville prowling about. I know the
man. He is a d--d scoundrel who would sell his immortal soul if he could
get a bid for it. What is he coming to Thors for? He is not a sportsman;
why, he would be afraid of a cock pheasant, though he would be plucky
enough among the hens. You don't imagine he is in love with Catrina, do
you?"
"No," said Paul sharply, "I don't."
Steinmetz raised his bushy eyebrows. Etta and De Chauxville skated past
them at that moment, laughing gayly.
"I have been thinking about it," went on Steinmetz, "and I have come to
the conclusion that our friend hates you personally. He has a grudge
against you of some sort. Of course he hates me--cela va sans dire. He
has come to Russia to watch us. That I am convinced of. He has come here
bent on mischief. It may be that he is hard up and is to be bought. He
is always to be bought, ce bon De Chauxville, at a price. We shall see."
Steinmetz paused and glanced at Paul. He could not tell him more. He
could not tell him that his wife had sold the Charity League papers to
those who wanted them. He could not tell him all that he knew of Etta's
past. None of these things could Karl Steinmetz, in the philosophy that
was his, tell to the person whom they most concerned. And who are we
that we may hold him wrong? The question of telling and withholding is
not to be dismissed in a few words. But it seems very certain that there
is too much telling, too much speaking out, and too little holding in,
in these days of much publicity. There is a school of speakers-out, and
would to Heaven they would learn to hold their tongues. There is a
school for calling a spade by no other name, and they have still to
learn that the world is by no means interested in their clatter of
shovels.
The Psalmist knew much of which he did not write, and the young men of
the modern school of poesy and fiction know no more, but they lack the
good taste of the singer of old. That is all.
Karl Steinmetz was a man who formed his opinion on the best
basis--namely, experience, and that had taught him that a bold reticence
does less harm to one's neighbor than a weak volubility.
Paul was an easy subject for such treatment. His own method inclined to
err on the side of reticence. He gave few confidences and asked none, as
is the habit of Englishmen.
"Well," he said, "I do not suppose he will stay long at Thors, and I
know that he will not stay at all at Osterno. Besides, what harm can he
actually do to us? He cannot well go about making enquiries. To begin
with, he knows no Russian."
"I doubt that," put in Steinmetz.
"And, even if he does, he cannot come poking about in Osterno. Catrina
will give him no information. Maggie hates him. You and I know him.
There is only the countess."
"Who will tell him all she knows! She would render that service to a
drosky driver."
Paul shrugged his shoulders.
There was no mention of Etta. They stood side by side, both thinking of
her, both looking at her, as she skated with De Chauxville. There lay
the danger, and they both knew it. But she was the wife of one of them
and their lips were necessarily sealed.
"And it will be permitted," Claude de Chauxville happened to be saying
at that moment, "that I call and pay my respects to an exiled princess?"
"There will be difficulties," answered Etta, in that tone which makes it
necessary to protest that difficulties are nothing under some
circumstances--the which De Chauxville duly protested with much fervor.
"You think that twenty miles of snow would deter me," he said.
"Well, they might."
"They might if--well--"
He left the sentence unfinished--the last resource of the sneak and the
coward who wishes to reserve to himself the letter of the denial in the
spirit of the meanest lie.