ON THE RED STAIRCASE
[Illustration: _THE KREMLIN._]
ON THE RED STAIRCASE
BY
M. IMLAY TAYLOR
SECOND EDITION.
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY
1897
COPYRIGHT
BY A. C. McCLURG AND CO.
A.D. 1896.
_All rights reserved._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE RABBLE ELECT A CZAR 9
II. MADEMOISELLE’S GLOVE 22
III. THE STORY OF CAIN 33
IV. THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL 47
V. ZÉNAÏDE 56
VI. A KITCHEN FEUD 67
VII. A CZAR’S FUNERAL 79
VIII. THE ASSASSIN 91
IX. SOPHIA ALEXEIEVNA 103
X. THE PACKET 115
XI. THE RESCUE 127
XII. PRAVEZH 140
XIII. PRINCE BASIL GALITSYN 151
XIV. MADEMOISELLE EUDOXIE’S WINDOW 161
XV. THE FLIGHT 174
XVI. THE AUDIENCE-CHAMBER 187
XVII. THE SECRET STAIRCASE 199
XVIII. FEODOR SERGHEIEVITCH RAMODANOFSKY 212
XIX. POLOTSKY 223
XX. A FRIENDLY CUP 235
XXI. THE PRISONER 246
XXII. BAFFLED 258
XXIII. HOMYAK 269
XXIV. THE RED STAIRCASE 285
XXV. IN THE FACE OF DEATH 294
XXVI. LOVE AND FIRE 308
XXVII. MICHAEL’S REVENGE 318
XXVIII. MADAME VON GADEN 330
XXIX. A DESPERATE DEFENSE 340
XXX. A SOLEMN BETROTHAL 346
ON THE RED STAIRCASE.
CHAPTER I.
THE RABBLE ELECT A CZAR.
THE Patriarch Joachim was standing on the balcony, in front of the
Church of the Savior, looking down upon the dense mass of people below
in the Grand Square of the Kremlin at Moscow. A purpose was pulsing
in the keen face, and he was measuring his audience, weighing too,
perhaps, the peril and the cost. They were still; every eye was fixed
on the tall figure in the magnificent pontificals of the Greek Church;
every ear strained to catch his first word. It was the climax of the
day, the chief act in the great drama. He raised his hand, with a
majestic gesture, over the people.
“Hear ye, voters of the Moscovite State,” he cried, in a loud voice,
“to which of the two princes do you give the rule?”
I could not restrain a smile. I had been long enough about the Russian
court to know how fierce was the undercurrent, how intense the
resentment felt against the family of the dowager czarina.
An old Russian, who had stepped back with me out of the path of the
crowd, suddenly addressed me.
“A short-lived triumph!” he muttered, in a gruff tone. “It is one shout
to-day, another to-morrow. Here is only the rabble of Moscow!”
I looked at the man in surprise; it required courage to express an
opinion in the open air, and to a stranger. He had the bearing of
a soldier, and there was an ugly scar on his cheek. His long cloak
slipping aside a trifle, I saw the uniform of the Streltsi, and caught
my breath; a trivial remark from one of that body might be significant.
Russia, at that time, had no army, only a few troops officered by
foreigners, and the peasantry brought into service, in time of war,
under the command of the feudal chiefs. The Streltsi therefore occupied
a peculiar position; they constituted a national guard, consisting of
twenty-two regiments, about a thousand men in each regiment, named
after their officers, who were always Russians. The Streltsi had
quarters set apart for them, and their own shops, being tradesmen when
off duty, and were exempt from taxation. The service was hereditary,
a son entering the father’s regiment as soon as he was of age. The
root of much discontent was the difficulty with their own officers,
whom they charged with the misappropriation of a portion of their
pay and interference with their civil occupations,--their privilege
to trade being especially dear to them. They had always enjoyed such
peculiar liberties that they fretted under injustices, some real and
some fancied, and all no doubt deeply colored by the bitterness of the
political situation, and the fact that their petitions for redress had
been treated with contempt before the Czar Feodor’s death; but now they
were strong enough to be courted by both parties, and I was interested
at once in my companion.
“I am a stranger here,” I said, purposing to draw him out, “and know
little of these matters.”
He turned a keen glance on me, seeming to search my face.
“You are a Frenchman,” he said, addressing me in excellent French,
which was the more astonishing because so unusual, especially in his
rank in life. Without waiting for my reply, he directed my attention to
the balcony. “The patriarch is going to bear the glad tidings to the
Czarina Natalia,” he remarked grimly, “and, I presume, to anoint the
young czarevitch[1] with all haste; but it takes more than holy oil to
make an emperor in these days.”
[Footnote 1: The czar’s son and heir. So also, Alexeivitch is the son
of Alexis.]
We were less pressed now, for the crowd was surging away towards the
palace, shouting as it went. I examined my new acquaintance with
curiosity. If his face had been less rugged and fierce it would have
been handsome on the side that had escaped the disfiguring scar. It was
a remarkable face: a keen eye, a large straight nose, a strong mouth,
and an expression of relentless resolution,--a face that had had a past
as dark, as cold, as grim as that close-shut mouth. My curiosity was
excited.
“A regent will have to be appointed,” I remarked, “during the minority
of the czar.”
He smiled grimly. “And who do you suppose it will be?” he asked, with a
keen glance.
“Custom points to the czarina,” I replied with a little hesitation.
“And the Chancellor Matveief,” he added.
I assumed surprise.
“Matveief is an exile,” I exclaimed hastily.
The Russian laughed. “The czarina is his dutiful and indebted ward,”
he said. “He is no longer in Archangel but at Lukh, and a summons can
reach him the easier. When a guardian has set you on a throne, you
cannot be ungrateful. Why, man, where are your senses? What is all
this shouting about? It is the Naryshkins. I forget, though, you are a
foreigner.”
“A poor gentleman,” I said at once; “a soldier of the king of France.”
The Russian’s glance was following the crowd; whatever his thoughts,
they were not pleasant, for his expression was gloomy and cynical.
“You have witnessed a singular event in our history,” he said sternly;
“you have seen the Moscovite rabble elect a czar. The younger son
setting aside the first-born!”
“The Czarevitch Ivan is said to be indifferent to the high office,” I
replied, in a low tone; “he is blind.”
“Ay, and deformed!” said the Russian, promptly. “Yet will the people of
Russia demand the recognition of primogeniture. Court intrigues cannot
prevail. What a flimsy pretext was this election! The States-General
of Russia elected Michael Romanof; the Czar Shuisky fell because he
was elected by Moscow alone; and this is not the Moscovite State,
but the rabble of the city, and the retainers of the boyars![2] The
Miloslavskys are down to-day, but who dares to predict for to-morrow?”
[Footnote 2: An aristocratic order, next to the ruling princes. They
held the highest military and civil offices. The title “boyar” was
bestowed by the czar, and was not hereditary.]
It was indeed a difficult problem, so bitter was the quarrel. The
Miloslavskys were the relatives of the first wife of the Czar Alexis,
the Naryshkins of his second; and, that day, the latter had succeeded
in electing their candidate for the throne, Alexis’ youngest son Peter,
setting aside Ivan, his half-brother, and the only surviving son of
Alexis by his first wife, the Princess Marie Miloslavsky.
I was endeavoring to place my companion; that he was well born, I
could not doubt; at the same time, he was evidently not an officer.
I seemed to have seen his face before, and wondered if he could have
been in attendance on Prince Dolgoruky, the Chief of the Department of
the Streltsi. The ugly scar, which drew the right side of his face,
seemed to make identification infallible; yet, it was that scar that
baffled me, for I could not remember having seen it before. We were
moving along now, and I did not care for his company, but did not like
to shake him off too abruptly; he walked close beside me, whether
unconsciously or not, I could not be sure. The Grand Square was still
densely crowded, and the rabble kept up a continuous uproar. All around
us, there were still prolonged shouts for Peter Alexeivitch, and
here and there, there were rough-and-tumble fights in progress, due
undoubtedly to the reviving sentiment of opposition. I noticed but few
boyars threading their way through the mob; for days I had remarked
a certain timidity on their part, an avoidance of the crowd. I had
no doubt, in my own mind, that the trouble in the Department of the
Streltsi was more serious than any one was willing to admit, and it was
difficult to estimate the result of to-day’s _coup d’état_. Partisans
and opponents alike were aware of the strong sentiment among the rank
and file of the Streltsi in favor of the blind czarevitch, or rather
of the great Czarevna Sophia Alexeievna,[3] and of their lukewarm
attachment to the child Peter, who had just been so irregularly
elected. I could not avoid some speculation, little as the matter
seemed then to concern me. I confess that I was moved by a sentiment
of gallantry to lean towards the cause of the Czarina Natalia. Her
comparative youth, her beauty, and the peril of her situation appealed
to me, and I felt, with some regret, that her party scarcely estimated
the real strength of her opponents. I sympathized with the young and
ambitious mother fighting for the rights of her son, hemmed in as she
was by court intrigue and malice, and pitted against a mind that,
in diplomacy and subtlety, far surpassed her own; for we were all
beginning to realize that the Czarevna Sophia was a power that it was
difficult to estimate.
[Footnote 3: Sophia, daughter of the Czar Alexis. All the daughters
of the emperor except Sophia received only a rudimentary education,
according to the old Russian custom; but for some reason she was
allowed to share the studies of her brother Feodor. It is possible
that the czar feared the failure of heirs male, and selected Sophia,
as the most able of his daughters, to be trained for a not improbable
elevation. The Empress Natalia had been educated in the house of the
Chancellor Matveief, who was married to a Scotch lady; she was thus
unaccustomed to the old Russian rules of seclusion and ignorance; and
the introduction of her western ideas and customs into the imperial
palace gave great offense to Sophia. Very soon this kindled a feud
between the Naryshkins and the Miloslavskys, which grew more bitter
when Alexis showered favors on his young wife and her brothers. Sophia
began intriguing with the Streltsi, or National Guards, and ultimately
gained them over, all but one regiment. These troops virtually
composed the army of Russia, for the empire was then without military
organization.]
I was half-way across the square now, and my unsolicited companion
continued to trail along at my heels. I was just making up my mind to
be rid of the fellow, when we found our path obstructed by a dense
mass of people, congregated about two Russians who were grappling each
other in a fierce hand-to-hand battle. The crowd pushing us aside, I
was turning away, when my companion uttered a cry, and leaping into the
mass of humanity, pushed his way through, and threw himself upon the
combatants. I was caught in the throng and thrust to the front of the
ring, an unwilling witness of the hostilities. My unknown companion
had seized one of the combatants around the waist and was dragging him
off the other, by main force, while the bystanders shouted for fair
play. It was evident that the quarrel was purely personal, and that
the rabble were merely interested in it as a kind of diversion, and
not a little disappointed when my acquaintance succeeded in separating
them. Keeping his grip on the smaller of the two men, he told the other
to be off before he was thrashed into eternity. The fellow addressed,
who looked like some boyar’s retainer, was only too glad to sneak off
through the jeering crowd, for he had been badly whipped. The other man
allowed himself to be jerked along by the collar, submissive enough
in the stranger’s relentless grip. He was a small man to have been so
puissant, and I saw that he was a little misshapen, one shoulder being
very high, and his thin, pale face was ill-favored. The bystanders
began to laugh as they saw how meekly he submitted to the authority of
the tall, hard-featured man who had seized him.
“Oh, come!” cried one of the rascals, “what is this new meekness? You
fought well, but you can’t keep your head up now!”
“Let go of him, master!” shouted another; “it is a shame to spoil our
pastime.”
Without heeding, the stranger forced his way among them, dragging along
his captive, and only bestowing a scornful glance on the populace. I
was more than ever struck with his air of authority, and saw that these
men all gave way to him,--a tacit recognition of his commanding mien,
for a less determined man could never have broken up that quarrel and
dispersed the crowd. My interest was sufficiently roused to make me
forget my anxiety to be rid of him, and as he pushed along with the
crestfallen victor, I joined him. As we proceeded, part of the rabble
followed, evidently actuated by idle curiosity.
“Let us move faster,” I remarked to the stranger; “now that the
election is over, the crowd is breaking away, and we shall presently
have the _canaille_ at our heels.”
He looked at me scornfully, I thought, but still mended his pace; and
as we were now a little away from the mob, he took his hand off the
other’s collar, addressing him sharply.
“You fool!” he said, in his grim way. “You will spoil all with your
absurd brawls. Can’t you see that villain’s cook in the highway without
thrashing him, and forthwith drawing the notice of all the tale-bearers
and spies in Moscow?”
“I beg your excellency’s pardon,” stammered the man, shamefaced, “but
it was that carrion Polotsky, and I would rather die than not beat him!”
“Ay!” retorted the other, grimly, “you should have cut his throat long
ago; but, as it is, he is the worst one you could have selected for a
street brawl. You are an ass, Michael Gregorievitch, and will not only
hang yourself, but your master if you can find enough rope!”
The other man glanced at me obliquely out of his narrow eyes, and his
master, noting the look and the interrogation in his face, smiled.
“A friend,” he said, and added something in an undertone which escaped
me; but I saw his servant’s eyes fasten curiously upon me.
We were approaching the Cathedral of the Assumption, and although a few
paces in advance, were still closely followed by a train of curious
people. The stranger had drawn his sword when he rushed into the fight,
and was still carrying the naked blade in his hand, and his dress being
disordered, displayed his uniform. As we approached the cathedral,
he seemed to divine my intention of lingering in that vicinity, and
pausing, extended his hand with a gesture at once dignified and
gracious.
“M. de Brousson,” he said, startling me with my own name, “I believe we
part here. I thank you for your company across the square, and if, in
the future, you need me, I am Peter Lykof.”
“I am evidently better known to you than I supposed,” I replied as
courteously as my astonishment would permit, and conscious of an
immediate doubt that I heard the unknown’s true name; “and I am equally
beholden for monsieur’s society on this troubled day.”
Lykof waved his hand, as if dismissing further exchange of courtesies,
and passed on with the rabble at his heels, while I at once fell into
insignificance without him.
As I stood there, marveling at the stranger’s knowledge of my identity,
I looked up, and beheld the face that had haunted my memory for weeks
and shone like a pale flower out of the dark background of passion and
intrigue.