him the locket with alacrity, and he lost no time in going to work at
it. But it proved a more delicate task than he had expected, and it was
well on into the evening before it was completed and far too late to
return it to the palace of Prince Voronin. So we had an opportunity to
discuss the matter again at supper, and the master told me the little
he knew of the prince and of the Boyar Kurakin.
“Voronin belongs to the oldest and proudest class of the nobility, and
was deeply offended, as they all were, at the Czar Feodor for burning
the Books of Precedence,” Le Bastien said, while we were eating a
stew of sterlet, the famous fish of the Volga. “All these men were
firmly established by these very books; the recorded deeds of their
illustrious ancestors and their rank on those singular pages decided
their own position in the state. No man would take a lower place
than that of his ancestors, and Dr. Von Gaden, the court physician,
tells me that many a campaign has been lost because of this fierce
scramble for place. When Feodor, therefore, weary of choosing a fool
for a servant because his father had been wise, burned these books,
he insulted the old aristocracy, and they all hate his memory and his
mother’s family, the Miloslavskys, as they hate the devil, and are
ready to uphold little Peter and the Naryshkins. It is only those who
are identified by interests of some kind with the Miloslavskys--like
Prince Galitsyn--who uphold the cause of the Czarevitch Ivan. Kurakin
is one of these; he was mixed up in all the intrigues of the late
czar’s reign, and he is Miloslavsky to the backbone. Here, then, is the
probable key to the situation; the Voronins are Naryshkins, Kurakin
and Galitsyn are Miloslavskys, and this trinket has some mysterious
importance.”
But quite another thought was clouding my horizon.
“And the Princess Daria,” I said; “is she the wife, or the daughter, of
Prince Voronin?”
Maître le Bastien’s eyes twinkled and he shook a warning finger at me.
“Have a care, monsieur,” he said; “she is the prince’s only child,--and
heiress,--and I doubt not there is some intrigue afoot.”
“I grow interested,” I said gaily. “I must solve the problem.”
“The saints forbid!” exclaimed the goldsmith piously; “you are already
in trouble enough, M. le Marquis; do not, therefore, thrust your hand
into a hornet’s nest.”
I laughed, with no thought of following this prudent advice; instead,
I lay awake half the night, puzzling over the trinket, and when I
finally fell asleep, it was to dream--hothead that I was--of the most
beautiful face in the world, the face of the Princess Daria.
Next morning, as soon as we had finished breakfast, I prepared to set
out for the palace of Prince Voronin, to return the locket to the
princess of my dreams.
I remember well--as if it had been yesterday--the pains I took with my
toilet, and how hard I stared at myself in the mirror that Maître le
Bastien had brought from Paris. Yet I was no longer a callow youth to
have my head turned by such folly; it only goes to show what a fool a
man can be over a beautiful face. But if I hoped for satisfaction in my
own image, I got but little. I saw in Le Bastien’s mirror a tall man
with wide shoulders and long, strong arms, but I was not handsome, and
I sighed at the contrast between my irregular features and my bold,
blue eyes, and M. Kurakin’s classical beauty. I had a scar, too, on
my forehead from a sword cut at Seneffe, and my chestnut hair, which
I wore without a peruke, was beginning to show threads of silver, and
I had the air of a fighter and no courtier, though I was well enough
born and bred, too, for that matter, but I was no fop. My dress, too,
had to suit my supposed condition, and being simple and even shabby
in the matter of a blue taffety coat, did not set off either my face
or figure, and I confess that--longing for the first time to pose as
a squire of dames--I was in no very good humour either with myself
or the world when I set out at last with the pear in the bosom of
my doublet, and some directions from Maître le Bastien in my ears.
Moreover, to add to my discomfiture, he had called after me, with a
twinkle in his eye, that no man would be allowed to visit the _terem_
of Voronin’s palace, and I had best ask for old Piotr, the steward, at
once and trust my errand to him. I shrugged my shoulders and tossed
back a defiance, but I was far from feeling sanguine myself, as I left
our quarters and began to thread the narrow lanes between them and the
prince’s palace, which stood much nearer the banks of the Moskva.
As I left the bazaars behind me the streets seemed unusually quiet,
and I had traversed perhaps a hundred yards and turned into a lonely
lane, flanked on either side by the rear walls of two old houses,
when I heard a shrill squeal of agony, so intense and so piercing
that it seemed scarcely human, and followed by a silence as ominous.
I stopped to listen and heard a shutter open on my right and close
again; evidently some woman had peeped out to see what it was, but she
would venture no more, and the stillness awakened my suspicions. What
mischief was afoot now? I loosened my sword in its scabbard and felt
for my pistol, and advancing quickly, I peered under the edge of a low
vaulted gateway. It opened into the garden of a vacant house to the
left; the yard was nearly choked with weeds--nearly, not quite--in
the centre there was an open space, and in it I saw a burly fellow,
red-headed and red-bearded, crushing some creature, child or beast, I
knew not, under his knee. As I advanced my footsteps struck an echo
from the stone pavement at the gateway and the man looked over his
shoulder. It was my acquaintance, Kurakin’s steward, and, in a flash,
it dawned on me that he was taking his vengeance on the unhappy dwarf.
The next moment I had the great brute by the collar and put my pistol
to his head, and he, recoiling as far as he could, let his victim fall
on the pavement. With a kick and the threat of the pistol I got the big
fellow to his feet; it was in my mind to make an end of him, but he was
too contemptible.
“Get out!” I said to him in Russ; “be off to your kennel or----” I
flourished my weapon.
He cursed me, his great bloated face purple and his eyes like blood,
but he dared not linger, for he read that in my glance which cowed him.
He slunk off like the coward he was, and then I looked at the dwarf,
who lay in a heap on the ground, and marvelled that a creature so tiny
could have resisted him a moment. The poor little wretch was stripped
almost naked and had been lashed until he was covered with blood. A
bloody thong lay near to tell the tale, and his throat had two purple
marks on it where the steward’s fingers had been pressing the breath
out of his body. Yet, nearly spent as he was, he crawled to my feet
and fell to mumbling over them and kissing them, until it turned my
stomach.
“Up, you little rogue,” I said bluntly, “and go home; ’tis your monkey
tricks that have brought you to this. Learn a lesson, and leave such
brutes alone.”
But he was not to be drawn off so easily; he clung to my knees, begging
to serve me, vowing fidelity to death, and such an abject picture of
misery and gratitude that I had not the heart to send him away. Indeed,
he was afraid to venture two yards from my feet, and, as he was too
weak to travel far, I was in a pleasant dilemma. The prospect of taking
such a follower to the Voronin palace was certainly worse than the
wearing of the old taffety jacket.
“What is your name, varlet, and your home?” I asked with impatience,
and yet a little amused.
“My name is Maluta, excellency,” he said, kissing my shoes for the
fiftieth time, “and my home is your home.”
“Holy Virgin!” I ejaculated, somewhat aghast, and then I laughed, too
heartily amused to be vexed: here, certainly, was an acquisition to our
household.
But it turned out no jest, and, try as I would, I could not shake the
little wretch off, and was forced, at last, to convoy him back to our
quarters and order Advotia to dress his wounds, while Maître le Bastien
promised to keep him close until my return from my errand, laughing
all the while at my adventure, as if at the richest joke in the world.
So, by a strange intervention of fate, I was the patron of a miserable
little dwarf and I had a mortal enemy in the kitchen next door; besides
I was an hour late on my errand to the Princess Daria.
_V: THE PRINCESS DARIA_
AS I approached the palace of the Prince Voronin I entered a street
which gave me a view of the open space beyond, where the Iberian Chapel
stood, overlooking the Red Place, and farther off were the white
buildings of the Kremlin, bathed in sunlight, their roofs of scarlet
and green and blue, and their crosses of gold, glowing and flashing
like so many stars at noonday. I caught, too, a gleam of the Moskva,
and heard again the hum of busy life, for there was a throng of people
in the Red Place. But my business was nearer at hand, and after one
glance at the scene before me, I turned to the right and here, set in
the midst of some peasant huts, I saw the Voronin palace, white--like
the buildings of the Kremlin--with a green roof, and a golden cupola
over the upper story, which I took, and rightly, for the _terem_. The
main building was solid and massive, and nearly square, and there was a
wing at one side, opening on to a high walled court, while behind this
wing was the garden, which was beginning to show the promise of summer.
Instinct, and some observation of Russian customs, directed me, not to
the main entrance, but to a low door in the wing, and here I knocked
boldly, while I looked about the court with sharp eyes. Once out
of the street, I heard none of its noises; and the quiet atmosphere
of the place impressed me: there was not even the usual clatter and
bustle in the kitchen, and while I waited a drosky drove up to the main
entrance and a young man jumped out of it and was immediately admitted.
I confess I was little pleased with his youthful and well-dressed
appearance, for he had the air of a courtier, and I was on the point
of going to the front of the house myself when the door behind me was
softly opened. A serf looked out, staring at me in no very friendly
fashion, and taking in every detail of my “German clothes,” as they
called the European dress, and he almost closed the door again while
he listened to my request to see the Princess Daria. Indeed, if I had
asked for a piece of the moon he could not have looked more amazed,
and, instead of answering me, he called loudly to someone within, and
another serf came to stare, and then another and another, until the
door was full of faces and all eyes fixed upon me, much as I have seen
a rabble of Paris stare at a dancing bear.
“What ails you, you gaping fools?” I asked, losing all patience. “Do
you not hear my errand? I come at the request of the Princess Voronin,
and I bring her a packet of grave importance.”
But this only made them stare the more, and the door being full, the
adjacent windows began to bulge with heads, and the entire service of
the kitchen gaped and chattered and pointed. I grew red in the face
and felt my anger rising; it seemed as if some of those heads must be
broken before any impression could be made, and I was in the mood to
break them.
“Fools!” I said; “do you serve your mistress so ill that you cannot
take her a message?”
At this, a titter arose in the background, started by some kitchen
wench, and her mirth proved infectious, every face widening into a grin
until, at last, they broke into loud and mocking laughter. My own face
burned and I felt myself paid--and in my own coin--for my trick upon
Kurakin, nor did I know what to do; among so many, my anger was but
impotent folly, and my appearance, in my shabby attire, did not impress
their vulgar eyes, for the _canaille_ are likely to judge you by your
clothes. I stood scowling at them, of two minds whether to turn on my
heel or not, and leave them to their jest and the princess without her
trinket--for I know of no swifter cure for a moonstruck gallant than
ridicule--when the course of events was suddenly changed. A lattice
over my head opened and a young girl peeped down at the group, and as
I looked up I recognised the companion of the princess, Mlle. Lissa.
She, as roguish as ever, began to laugh too, her blue eyes dancing with
mischief, but, at the same time, she spoke sharply to the servants,
and in a moment all merriment subsided and they huddled together in
shame-faced confusion, eyeing me askance, while she vanished and old
Piotr appeared below. It required only a word from the grey-haired
major-domo to send the rabble of the kitchen skurrying to their
quarters, and then he received me respectfully, but I thought there was
a deep suspicion in his eye, while he listened to my request to see the
Princess Daria.
“Her excellency has commanded me to admit you,” he said, however, and
signing to me to follow him, he led me across a wide hall to a flight
of stairs and began to ascend them with a measured tread.
The old man was dignified, with the deliberate movements so
characteristic of the Muscovite; he held his grey head high, and his
erect, muscular figure was clad in a long caftan of scarlet cloth,
a chain of gold around his neck, and a dagger worn in his belt, and
his whole aspect was perfectly in keeping with the part he played,
of faithful retainer and steward in the house of a great noble. He
did not address a word to me as we ascended the stairs and he led
me on, as silently, through a gallery to another staircase which we
also ascended, and then he opened a door and ushered me into a large
apartment, where he bade me await the pleasure of his mistress, much
as he would have bidden me await the coming of an empress, and bowing
gravely, he left me to my own reflections. Being sure that I was now
in the _terem_ of a great boyar’s palace, I looked about me with much
curiosity. I fancied, with truth, that no foreigner had ever been
introduced there before and I was, therefore, the more interested.
The room was large and Oriental in aspect; arches of Eastern design
supported the vaulted roof, and the floor was covered with Turkish rugs
and the lounges cushioned with glowing silks from the bazaars. On the
wall opposite was one of the inevitable sacred pictures; this time,
Saint Olga, and one deep recessed window lighted the apartment, looking
out over the Moskva at the red battlemented wall of the Kremlin, and
its palaces and cathedrals, and beyond--so high was this upper story--I
caught a glimpse of the sweep of the plain and the Hill of Prostration,
where the devout kneel at the sight of the “holy white mother city.”
I waited with some impatience, listening for the sound of a footstep,
but for a while the house was singularly silent. Presently, however, I
was startled by the soft notes of some instrument, for I knew that, in
the strict Muscovite household, music among the women was discouraged.
But here was a stringed instrument, and then a woman’s voice,
singularly sweet and mellow, began to sing in Russ, and I listened
attentively, not only because of the unusual words of the little
ballad, but because the voice seemed to me to belong to the princess
herself.
“‘_If the frost nipped the flowerets no more_,’”
sang the unseen musician:
“‘_If in winter the flowerets would bloom,
If the woes of my spirit were o’er,
My spirit would cast off its gloom,--
I would sit with my sorrow no longer
O’erwatching the dew-covered field._’”
The singer’s voice rose and fell, plaintive and sweet, and then she
played a few more chords before she continued:
“‘_I said to my father already,
Already I said to my taper,--
“Nay! marry me not, O my father!
O marry me not to the proud one!
O seek not for high piles of riches;
O seek not for palaces fair,
’Tis man, not his palace, we dwell in;
’Tis comfort, not riches, we need!”--
I hurried across the young grass;
I threw off my sable fur cloak,
Lest its buttons of metal might tinkle--
Afraid my stepfather would hear me
And say “she is there,” to his son--
To his son who is doomed for my husband!_’”
Again her voice sank and her hands must have strayed over her
instrument. I had forgotten my impatience and stood listening in rapt
attention, when she began again with the little refrain:
“‘_If the frost nipped the flowerets no more,
If in winter the----_’”
She got no farther; her song stopped sharply and then I heard a
ripple of laughter and much whispering, followed by the rustling of
skirts in the room beyond. Then the curtain between was lifted by an
old Russian woman, who held it respectfully aside, and the Princess
Daria entered. I had only seen her, cloaked and hooded, in Maître le
Bastien’s workshop, and was almost unprepared for the vision that broke
upon me, as she walked slowly across the room and, pausing in the broad
light of the window, turned her face toward me and calmly waited for
me to speak. She was tall, with a girlish slenderness of figure, and
the dignity and poise of a young queen. The beauty of her features,
which I had already seen, was greatly enhanced by her colouring, for
her complexion was almost dazzlingly fair, and her hair as black and
glossy as a raven’s wing. To my satisfaction, too, she wore no paint,
which was unusual, as the Russian women painted not only their faces,
but their hands and arms, and even coloured their eyelashes, but she
was beautiful as nature made her. Her costume, too, singular as it was
to my eyes, only added to her charms; it was a flowing, ungirdled robe
of some clinging white material, embroidered in gold around the edge
of the hem at her feet, and in a broad band around the half low neck;
and on either bare, round, white arm, as well as about her throat, were
plain bands of dull gold.
She stood looking at me with great composure, her penetrating glance
apparently taking in every detail of my appearance, and to add to my
embarrassment, I became aware of Lissa’s roguish face peeping out from
behind the shoulder of the old duenna, who stood patiently in the
doorway. However, I made my obeisance as gracefully as I could, and
drawing forth the packet, which contained the pear. I presented it,
along with the picture of the Czarevna Sophia, which Maître le Bastien
had been careful to return. The princess received the package with
dignified complacence, but at the sight of the miniature she turned
crimson, looking for all the world like a naughty child caught in some
mischief. Seeing her confusion, and determined to prolong the interview
to the fullest extent, I bethought me of something more to say.
“Let me warn the princess,” I said courteously, “that there seems to be
a peculiar interest attached to that locket, and that it was seen while
in the hands of Maître le Bastien.”
She gave me a startled look, in which alarm and displeasure were
mingled.
“And by whom, sir?” she asked haughtily.
“By the Boyar Kurakin,” I replied.
She blushed yet more deeply and bit her lip, while I heard a little
smothered scream of laughter from the direction of the doorway.
“I trusted it to you,” said the Princess Daria coldly. “It was your
fault that my confidence was betrayed.”
“It was purely accidental, mademoiselle,” I replied, and went on
hastily to explain how Kurakin had forced himself into the house,
pushing Michaud, who understood no Russ, out of his way and entering
the shop unannounced. Then I told her briefly of his effort to get the
locket from me.
“But he failed, princess,” I continued suavely, “because, at the moment
when he thought to snatch it from me, he tripped and fell down the
stairs on top of our fat old cook, Advotia, who beat him with a skillet
of soup, so that the noble gentleman not only lost the locket, but was
baptized in good broth.”
She had listened with an effort at dignified reserve, but at this
conclusion to my narrative she began to laugh a little, and at the
sound of the merriment behind the portière, she, too, gave way to hers,
and laughed as gaily as Lissa; the duenna meanwhile--to whom my French
was as so much Greek--looked from one to the other in puzzled silence,
her black eyes keenly alert and her wrinkled face as grave as a judge’s.
“I am sorry you lost your soup, monsieur,” said the princess, still
laughing softly, “and for me, too!”
“I would lose much more--and peril much--for the sake of the Princess
Daria,” I replied gallantly, forgetting my rôle of apprentice.
She flashed a quick look at me and blushed and smiled, for, with all
her hauteur, she seemed to have the simplicity of a child. But the
chaperon was not so well pleased, and she made a cautious movement of
warning, touching the princess’ robe, and the young girl, blushing
still more deeply, recollected her dignity, and taking a purse from the
old woman’s hand, she turned to pay for the locket. This part of the
transaction had never entered my thoughts, and as it flashed upon me my
face burned, and I motioned the money away; retreating toward the door.
It was now her turn to be embarrassed; she drew back the purse and
looked at me, a picture of pretty confusion.
“But, monsieur,” she said, “cannot take the work as a gift. I must pay
for the locket.”
“There is nothing to pay,” I retorted brusquely, as red as fire; “the
labour was nothing.”
“But there was the soup, monsieur,” she said, a mischievous gleam in
her eyes.
“That went to M. Kurakin,” I replied with a bow, and I took another
step toward the door.
She stood irresolute, looking at me and fingering the bracelet on her
arm, and I know not how long might have lingered, for she was good to
look upon, when suddenly she snapped the circlet and it fell apart in
her fingers. She looked at it with a little cry of surprise, and then
held it out to me, with the prettiest gesture of friendliness.
“Will you not mend it for me, sir?” she said, with her head on one
side, a smile lurking in her eyes.
“With pleasure, my princess,” I replied, bowing profoundly, and as I
took the bracelet I managed to kiss the fair hand that gave it.
And then the duenna hustled me suddenly out of the _terem_, for if she
knew no French, she understood looks and gestures only too well--the
old ferret--and she shook her staff at me from the head of the stairs
as I descended. She stood there looking, for all the world, like an
angry hen, clucking away at me in Russ, at the top of her lungs, until
old Piotr took me in charge and, in his turn, hurried me out of the
house. Evidently, the pair of them regarded me as a dangerous intruder
in their dove-cote.
_VI: THE DWARF_
ONCE more in the court-yard, I stopped to laugh, for the anger and
trepidation of the two guardians of the household furnished me with no
little entertainment. I was in a good humour, too, for I had seen my
divinity and had even kissed her soft white hand; a proceeding which
caused her no little amazement, for I had seen her surprise in her
eyes, and the blood had stolen up to her hair, but I flattered myself
that she was not altogether angry, for I felt sure she was amused at
the old woman’s excitement over the little episode. I glanced back now
over the house, hoping to catch another glimpse of its fair mistress,
but was disappointed. Piotr’s discipline had served to keep the serfs
from gaping at me again, and the upper windows were vacant, save for
a solitary raven that perched upon one sill and craned his neck as if
to look down at me. The sun shone intensely on the white walls of the
palace, and the shadows were clean cut and black where they fell in the
niches of the building, and above the sky was blue. The bells of the
Kremlin churches began to ring sweetly, the clear-toned notes floating
away in the distance, and the air was soft as spring in the south.