TheSuperior was kind and cordial, and hesitated not a moment when asked by me to receive Vera for a while under exemption from the strict rules of the convent.
She took Vera’s hand and patted it, laying her own presently upon her golden crown of hair.
‘Too fair, too fair,’ she smiled, ‘to be shorn! Are you in some danger, my pretty?’
‘In great danger, mother,’ said Vera. ‘The Regent would have the Tsar Ivan choose me, and indeed I would sooner die!’
‘There is no need for that,’ exclaimed the Superior, laughing kindly, ‘for in case of extreme danger you should be received here under full vows, and who would dare to touch you then? That would be better than death, child; believe me, we are not so terribly miserable here, though we have withdrawn from the outside world. If we do not hear its laughter, neither do its moans distress our ears.’
‘Nevertheless, good mother,’ said Vera, ‘Iwould sooner remain in the world. God may be served without these walls as well as within them.’
‘That is both true and untrue. But remain in the world by all means, pretty: who would prevent thee? Moreover, we are most of us disappointed women—we have had our sorrows, our bereavements, our sins, many of us, and therefore we are here. You, I doubt not, have reason enough for desiring neither to be Tsaritsa nor to enter sanctuary; maybe, also, I can guess the reason.’
The good old woman glanced in my direction, smiling very kindly. ‘Oh, well, well,’ she ended, ‘we have all been young once. God send thee happiness, my child, of the best that the world can give, and remember, in case the world prove illusive and disappointing, that there is pure happiness to be had here also, even though it is not that which the world generally esteems highest.’ Vera blushed, but spoke up frankly.
‘Mother, it is right that I should undeceive you, for you are mistaken. I am heart-free, and this good youth is in love with another maiden, who is, alas! in theterem, as I should be also but for his kindness and yours!’
‘Dear Mother of the Lord!’ exclaimed the old woman, raising her hands in pious horror.‘In theterem, and he loves her? Can you not save her, good Cossack, and bring her to us? Heaven forfend that so good a youth should be so ill-treated by fate! Bring her to me, my son, bring her to me, as you have saved two already from the danger of loveless marriage.’
‘Let her be, mother, let her be!’ I cried, laughing; ‘she went of her free will, deserting me for the chance of selection as Tsaritsa. I am under no illusion: she is not one to be wept for. I have torn her from my heart, and be sure I am none the worse!’
I saw Vera flush and listen as I said this, and the sight pleased me well. The old lady sighed.
‘Poor youth, you have done wisely, yet you must have suffered much! Be comforted, your heart will find its home; rest assured, so brave a one will not go long a-begging. Now farewell, my son, for I have many duties and the days are too short for those who toil in God’s service. Stay, this pretty one will desire to hear news of the bride-choosing, and of the Regent’s attitude when her disappearance is discovered. Come here, if you will, from time to time: you shall see her in the ante-room which is set apart for such meetings. By our rules another must be present, but do not fret lest her secret should be known to others, for I myself shall be that thirdparty. Now come, my pretty, and you—good Cossack—depart.’
‘If they send, mother, to seek her, what then?’ I asked, my hand upon the door.
‘They may send, but they will not find her!’ smiled the good old woman.
And Vera, as I left the room, gave me a glance which I liked well—a look which I analysed in my memory many times afterwards, and most carefully, and from which at each recollection I derived satisfaction and delight.
‘That is a girl who can love like another, in spite of her piety, and her gentleness, and her honesty and other rare qualities,’ thought I, ‘and will love well. Happy he who gains that heart, for I think he will find it true gold. Moreover, that man is not Mazeppa!’ This last consideration afforded me wondrous comfort and delight, and I dwelt upon it so long and so lovingly that I almost forgot to consider what was my own chance of winning where he had certainly lost.
When I did take this matter into consideration and weighed it together with the glance which Vera had thrown in my direction as I left the convent—well, I felt a glow of renewed delight.
‘I will out-fox you in this, old fox Mazeppa,’ I thought, ‘or it shall not be for want of trying.’
And when I had come to this determination I returned to the city in order to acquaint Mazeppa with the disconcerting fact of Vera’s mysterious disappearance, and to enjoy his surprise and probable anger and disgust.
I found Mazeppa at his lodging.
‘Well?’ he asked, and waited with evident anxiety for my response.
‘Not so very well,’ I laughed. ‘That is, she is, I suppose, safe, but it has not happened as you desired.’
‘It has not?’ he said, looking annoyed. ‘Wherefore not?’
‘She has disappeared. She is not at her home, and her father knows nothing of her whereabouts.’
‘By all the devils!’ exclaimed Mazeppa, growing suddenly furious. ‘How dare she disappear when I had promised to succour her and see to her safety?’
‘Ask her that when you find her!’ I said haughtily. ‘How should I reply to such a riddle?’ Mazeppa stamped his foot with anger, but controlled himself.
‘But where do you suppose she has hidden herself? has she taken a horse, servants, and so forth? Tell me the details, man, as you know them! Do you not see that I am anxiousabout the girl and must know all you have to tell?’
‘I have told all I have to tell. She has disappeared. If she is wise she has gone a long way and will tell to no one where to seek her. You should hope this as much as I. Do we not both desire that she should escape from this loathsome marriage with the Tsar? If so, what matters it to us where she is, so long as she is safe? The further the better, say I!’
‘That is true, of course,’ said Mazeppa, with a quick glance at me. ‘My own object, no less than yours, was to get her out of the way and into safety; but I am interested in the girl, and would prefer to keep in touch with her.’
‘Yet how awkward that would be, if it should occur to the Regent to suspect you and to put certain awkward questions to you. As it is, you can reply, if asked, that you know nothing. At any rate, I suppose you do not hold me to blame because the girl has disappeared?’
Mazeppa glanced keenly at me and flushed.
‘I had not thought of it until you suggested it!’ he said. ‘If the girl were anything to you I should certainly suspect you; but I believe she is not.’
‘Anything to me—she, this yellow-haired chit? Oh, she is too pious and gentle for us Cossacks, Mazeppa; she is not the stuff we lookfor, we Cossacks. I think she is not much to either of us, though I confess that I had imagined at one time you looked somewhat fondly upon the girl.’
‘You are a fool, Chelminsky,’ said Mazeppa. ‘Do you suppose I should take so much trouble to help the girl out of her troubles if I took no interest in her? I tell you she is a finer girl than I have seen in the Ukraine!’
‘What, finer than Olga Panief, whom you tried to steal from me?’
‘Lord, man, she stole herself from both of us. Olga is a fine wench, but she is not fit to lace this other’s bodice!’
‘Oh, is it so?’ I laughed. ‘Then, indeed, we must see whether she cannot be found, this timid Vera of ours! Lord, Mazeppa, you should have told me of this before.’
‘Well, now you know it: show your friendship by finding the wench,’ he said. ‘You have nothing to do in Moscow: I am busy as an official at this choosing. Exert yourself, Chelminsky, I beseech you, and find her, or trace of her.’
‘Would you marry her, Mazeppa?’ I cried, ‘or would it be a mere spiriting away of the girl?’
‘Oh, it is too soon to speak of such things,’ he replied, smiling; ‘first find her, my friend;earn my gratitude, for, seriously, I am badly thrown by her disappearance.’
‘Well, I shall see what I can do!’ I replied; but I left Mazeppa with my tongue in my cheek; for this time, for once, I had out-foxed him. I had the wench under my thumb, and he had revealed his game. A good day’s work, by the saints!
Fromthis time things began to go somewhat contrariwise. There came excitements and perils and failures, together with some successes and certain moments of great joy; but the smoothness which had been my portion in life during late years became changed, and I travelled over rough and stony roads.
There was uproar in the Kurbatof mansion when it was discovered that Vera the fair had fled without farewell. Old Kurbatof, that proud and angry old Boyar, was furious with rage.
‘The minx has wrecked her own fortune,’ he cried; ‘she who might have been the first woman in the land! I tell you the Tsar is sick with love for the wench—dear saints in Heaven! and she must needs object to this in him and to that, and disappear rather than share the throne with him. Oh, the fool; the blind, senseless minx! As if the husband mattered when a crown and sceptre go with him!’
‘Maybe she is in love with some youngcoxcomb, Boyar!’ ventured a servant; but the Boyar fell upon him and struck him with hisdubinaso that the fellow lay for a week and groaned.
‘Let her be a hundred times in love, what matters?’ he roared. Then he assembled the household and gave out that if any man dared whisper outside the house that theBarishnyaVera had disappeared he should be punished with fifty blows of the knout and sent to the estate to work in the fields. ‘Let her be found before the bride-choosing,’ he said, ‘and there shall be one hundred roubles for the finder. Till she is found not a word—remember, one and all, or I swear the devil shall be a gentler master than I!’
Notwithstanding which threats, however, the secret did leak out—as shall presently be seen—though Vera’s departure was fortunately not known at the palace, where all were busy with the rest of the maidens, of whom the whole number were by this time assembled.
As for me, I went boldly here and there as before, and there was no suspicion that I knew anything about Vera and her disappearance. Whether Mazeppa suspected or not I could not with certainty discover, for if so he did not show it. Indeed, Mazeppa would be the very last person to go tofor any indication of Mazeppa’s own feelings on this or any matter, supposing that he desired to preserve his sentiments to himself.
But two days after Vera’s admission into sanctuary I, guessing that she would be anxious to know how matters went with regard to her disappearance, determined to visit the Diévitchy monastery, in order to assure her that all was so far well.
Now I was not easy in my mind with regard to Mazeppa and his suspicion of me. Knowing him as I did, it was impossible to think that he would not be suspicious: it was an equal wager that his spies were on the watch in order to acquaint him with my doings, where I went and whom I saw, and so forth.
Therefore I resolved to go most circumspectly, to walk half round the city before bending my steps towards the monastery, and to keep my eyes wide open the while on all four sides of me.
And thus I became aware, before I had gone far, that there followed in my steps a man unknown to me. Wheresoever I went, there was he. As I turned out of a street and glanced behind me, there he was entering it at the further end; or if I stopped in the midst of apereoolok(lane) and looked back, perhaps he was tying hisshoe-lace, or he had turned almost as quickly as I, as though he desired me to think that he walked in the opposite direction.
‘Oho, my man,’ thought I, ‘it is well, and very well. We will go into a quiet place I know of, you and I, and there we shall enjoy a little private conversation!’
Having now made sure that my man was certainly dogging me, I looked round no more lest I should alarm him; but taking a short way to an outskirt of the city I brought him in safety to a lonely spot, where I turned a corner and waited until he should come round and fall into my arms.
This he did very quickly, and no sooner did his face appear than I sprang upon him and had him pinned in an instant by the throat against the wall.
‘Now, my friend,’ said I, fiercely enough, ‘before I choke your life out at the mouth, who set you to dog me?’
‘Let go of me and I will tell you,’ he said, ‘if you will spare my life afterwards.’
I let him go. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘who?’
He gazed up the street and down it, as though in search of help; but he found none.
‘Quickly,’ I said. ‘Before I count three; one—two——’
‘Mazeppa the Cossack,’ he muttered. ‘But for the sake of all good saints let him not know that I told thee.’
‘Thanks, friend,’ I said. ‘Be sure I shall not. You were to watch where I went: is that it?’
‘Where you went and whom you spoke to and all you did.’
‘Did you follow me yesterday, then?’
‘All day long; it was yesterday early at morn that I took the Cossack’s orders.’
‘Good. Well, I shall not tell of thee. Meanwhile here is a rouble; and if thou art wise, continue in the pay of Mazeppa, for he shall know nothing of this; only do not follow me; take his money but remain at home: do you understand?’
The fellow laughed and thanked me and went his way: I had no fear that I should see any more of him.
But it was now too late to carry out my intention of going to see Vera, therefore I changed my mind and paid Mazeppa a visit instead.
We spoke of the bride-choosing, and I asked Mazeppa whether anything had been heard of Vera.
‘Not a word,’ said he, ‘unless it was you that heard it!’
‘And wherefore I?’ I asked in assumed surprise.
‘Only that you have doubtless made inquiries, and I was in hopes you might have heard something of her.’
‘Tell me, Mazeppa, do you suspect me of concealing anything from you in this matter? Do you believe me to be less honest with you than you are—I doubt not—towards me?’
‘Suspect you, my best of friends?’ exclaimed Mazeppa. ‘Heaven forbid! Why do you ask so foolish a question?’
‘Well, I have a reason. You must know that as I walked out this day I became aware that I was dogged by some unknown rascal, and I must confess that the idea did occur to me that for some reason unguessed by me you had set a watch upon my goings. Now that I reflect upon the matter, I see that the suspicion was foolish and baseless. Yet who should have set the rascal to spy upon me, and why?’
‘That is impossible to guess; but at any rate do not suspect your oldest friend,’ said Mazeppa. ‘Could you not compel the fellow to declare himself?’
‘A man must be caught before he is compelled,’ I laughed, ‘as a hare must be trappedbefore he is stewed; and like a hare indeed the fellow ran.’
I watched Mazeppa’s face as I spoke, expecting to see at least a look of relief, but my fox gave no sign.
‘That is a misfortune,’ he said, ‘that you could not catch the rascal, for I wager you would have found him no employed spy, but a very common cutpurse with a better opinion of your purse’s weight than it deserves!’
‘True!’ I said, ‘I had not thought of it.’
‘For who in this city would desire to spy upon you, of all unlikely people?’ he continued; ‘you, a poor Cossack, unknown to all, or near it!’
‘Yes, it is true, I was a fool, I own it!’ said I, sighing. ‘Shall I confess to the end, Mazeppa, and tell thee all I suspected?’
‘Say on!—confess, and it may be that I shall give thee absolution,’ said Mazeppa, laughing, ‘if thy sin is not too great, and thy repentance is sincere!’
‘Well, believe it or not,’ said I, affecting confusion, ‘but alas! it is true that I actually suspected that thou—being somewhat in love with this Kurbatof maiden—wert, lover-like, apprehensive that all others must see her with thineeyes, and therefore must needs suspect innocent me of hiding the wench for my own purposes, having me watched, moreover, in case I should thus reveal her private hiding-place by visiting her!’
‘Oh, foolish Chelminsky!’ exclaimed Mazeppa, ‘that is going out of thy way, indeed, to find cause of quarrel with an old friend. I am attracted by the wench, true enough; but must all men sigh for the same woman? Fear not, so little do I suspect thee that I entreat thee to show thy friendship for me by finding this girl, or helping me to find her.’
‘And this fellow—the spy who followed me: you know nothing of him?’
‘Nothing, my friend—what should I know? I may have my opinion—namely, that he was a robber and no spy; but as for knowing—what should I know?’
‘Swear it by thy horse and lance!’
‘Oh, most suspicious and unfriendly of friends, I do so swear, if so it must be!’
‘Good; there is no more need for suspicion. If I catch the fellow following again, I shall kill him at sight for a mere cutpurse, or rather for a would-be cutpurse.’
‘Do so, my friend,’ said Mazeppa; ‘he deserves his fate for having come, in a manner, between old friends.’
‘Verily, Mazeppa,’ I thought, as I left my fox, ‘thou art a most wondrously gifted liar!’ For indeed he had lied thoroughly, even taking our Cossack oath in witness to his falsehood, without the twitching of an eyelid.
This day I went out to visit Vera once again at her monastery, but though I looked constantly and carefully for followers I observed none, and it is certain that I was not watched. I reached the sanctuary in safety, moreover, and was received first by the Superior, who was pleased to see me.
‘For thy fair friend perishes to hear news of all that is happening at home and at Court,’ she said; ‘and, if the truth must be known, I believe she will not be averse to see her preserver and knight, being somewhat anxious for his safety lest he be suspected of capturing and concealing her.’
‘Let her come, good mother,’ I said, ‘for indeed I begin to think there is no sight on earth that delights me more than her fair face.’
‘Ah—ah! said I not so?’ murmured the good soul, gently patting my arm as she left the room to fetch Vera. ‘So the faithless maid whopreferred her chance at theteremto thy assured love is already forgotten? Oh, man, man! this Vera is too good for so faithless a swain!’
‘It is not my fault, mother,’ I said; ‘do not speak me ill to Vera. I do not fawn where I am beaten; I can show a true heart when I am shown one.’
‘Well, well! hers is golden, my friend, little doubt of that: he who wins it must prize it too highly to give her in exchange a thing of dross.’
Vera entered, blushing and excited.
‘Is all well?’ she said. ‘Good Chelminsky, tell me quickly!’
‘Well, and very well,’ I replied; ‘though it almost went very ill, for I was spied upon yesterday, being suspected of knowing your whereabouts.’
‘Suspected! and by whom?’
‘By a very cunning person, whose wiles are infinite, and whom I should name “the father of lies” if that title had not already been appropriated by an ally of his——’
‘But who—who?’ she cried.
‘Oh, who but Mazeppa!’ and when I told Vera the whole story of the spy and his confession and Mazeppa’s denial, she agreed that this was indeed a deceiver of whom it was necessary to beware.
‘But what of the palace and of my father?’ continued Vera. ‘Have I been missed by the Regent, and what has my father done? for he, of course, has long since discovered that I have left home.’
‘At the palace they are so busy weeding out the plainer blooms that the fairest flowers are for the present neglected; therefore, you have not been asked for. As for your father, I hear privately that he is most distressed that you should attempt to evade the glorious destiny which Providence and his own parental solicitude have opened to you. He has forbidden any word to go out concerning your disappearance, lest it should be known at the palace. He reckons upon finding you before your disappearance is known to the Regent.’
‘Oh, for the love of Christ, good Chelminsky, he must not—he must not! Were you careful in your going this day? Are you sure you were not spied upon and your destination noted? My father is as cunning, maybe, as Mazeppa himself.’
‘I am certain that my coming was not observed. I frightened my former friend too well; he remained in safety at home, be sure, and there was no other. I tell you I doubled and dissembled in my going as a bear does at the firstsnowfall, when he chooses his winter’s lair and would put trackers off the scent.’
Vera laughed for joy, her apprehension relieved. ‘Thank God if that is so, and thank you also, good Chelminsky; be sure your kindness is not forgotten. But what steps has my father taken to find me?’ she asked, growing grave again suddenly.
‘He has sent word to your country estate. Your nurse declared that you had threatened to go there if pressed.’
‘It is true, it is true!’ cried Vera, clapping her hands. ‘I did so. Oh, Chelminsky, it is a four days’ ride at the quickest, and four back—that is eight days. By the time they return the Tsar may have made his choice, and I shall be safe.’
‘Good, and very good; let us hope it may be so. Meanwhile,’ I continued, lowering my voice—for the good Mother Superior sat reading her holy book at the other end of the room, being present according to the law of the community—‘supposing it were suddenly suggested that you might be here, and the place were searched, would you be safely concealed?’
‘I am told that it may be done, but I should be frightened, indeed, if it came to that. Let us hope that such a danger may not arise.’
‘Yes, let us hope so,’ I said. ‘Nevertheless they hope best who have assured the future; therefore decide beforehand what is to be done in case of surprise. If there is a private chapel, hide in the Holy Place.’
‘How can I? No woman is admitted there.’
‘Well, I think our old friend here is not one to stand upon ceremony in emergency. There is no resident priest; no one will prevent you. Think of it. It is a good hiding place, and I am glad I thought of it. Suggest it to the mother in the moment of danger, and you will see.’
A moment of danger came most unexpectedly, even as we sat there and whispered together; indeed, a truly unfortunate and mistimed occurrence, and one that must have had terrible consequences, but for the most wonderful mercy of God, the protector of the innocent.
For even as we spoke of possible danger, there rang out a loud and startling peal at the great bell which hung in the entrance hall.
The Superior started to her feet. ‘A visitor,’ she cried, ‘and oh, how ill-chosen an hour! Be comforted,’ she added, seeing our frightened faces, ‘I will tell the door-keeper to admit no one.’
She left the room. Vera clung to my arm, and I drew her to me.
‘Be not afraid, Vera; I will protect you though all the world rage at the gates demanding you.’
‘Oh, Chelminsky, I am frightened!’ she said. ‘Do not let them take me to the Tsar; I will not live to be his wife. I will tell him so. Oh, God help me, God help me!’
‘He will help you, never fear,’ I said. ‘In this I shall be God’s soldier; I shall fight the better knowing that the protecting of you is the service of God!’
‘Give me your sword,’ she said suddenly; and, drawing it herself from the scabbard, she first made the sign of the cross over it, and then kissed it thrice.
‘Let it pass through my body rather than see me carried back to theterem,’ she said. ‘I am not afraid of death, but I am afraid of Sophia and of Ivan: his touch is poison to me.’
‘Well, I will fight to the death first,’ I said.
Meanwhile the great door had been opened and I heard a parleying. There were men’s voices and the voices of the Superior and the old woman who kept the door. The voices grew louder, and there was one which seemed familiar, though I did not as yet recognise it. This voice grew more threatening, appearing to insist upon some point which the Superior contested.
Suddenly I recognised that louder voice: it was that of the young fellow Rachmanof, with whom I had had a set-to on behalf of his sister, whom he attempted to carry off from this very sanctuary. The discovery filled me with joy.
‘Be of good cheer, Vera,’ I whispered; ‘they come not for thee, but for the sister of this young Rachmanof. We were frightened too soon, wench; they are not thinking of thee; thou art safe!’
‘Oh, thanks to Him from whom are all mercies!’ she began; but at this moment there came loud cries for help from the Mother Superior and the other woman, and I could do nothing less than rush out to their succour.
On the single flight of steps that led to our ante-room, as well as to the door which communicated with the main building, I saw a notable spectacle, and one which has lingered in my memory.
First, near the top of the stairs, stood the tall, gaunt form of the good mother, holding her great silver cross aloft as she cried for help. A few steps below her stood Rachmanof, sword in hand. God knows whether he had meant to strike the old woman down or merely to frighten her, but there was the sword.
At the foot of the stairs were two other youngfellows, dressed in the uniform of the Streltsi regiments. These two held between them the form of the old doorkeeper, having gagged her mouth to stop her crying.
Their lips had been opened to laugh, but at sight of me their faces settled into a grim expression, and Rachmanof flushed and looked furiously angry.
They had shut the outer door behind them, fearing, doubtless, that any uproar might assemble a crowd whose attitude would be hostile to them.
Rachmanofglared at me for a moment.
‘So!’ he said. ‘You again! Well, it is bad luck for you, my friend, that I have caught you, for this time you shall not escape me: you have a reckoning unpaid!’
‘Oh, I will pay it twice over, friend!’ I said. ‘Here is my money-bag!’ I tapped my sword and laughed.
‘Let the old scarecrow run,’ said Rachmanof, half turning his head towards his companions; ‘let her pass, Cossack, she will be in our way. Disappear you also, shameless old hag,’ he continued, wagging his finger at the Superior. ‘A fine mother of innocent maidens, you! Fie! A man in the house, and of all men a filthy Cossack! Fie, I say!’
‘Rachmanof,’ I muttered, ‘for that speech you shall die if I can kill you. Go, mother, go into the ante-room, and pray your hardest that I may kill this beast.’
‘Yes, pray your hardest,’ laughed Rachmanof; ‘he will need it!’
‘Fight in God’s name,’ said the good old woman, disappearing into the ante-room. ‘I will pray for God’s curse upon those who invade this holy house.’
The old doorkeeper pushed past Rachmanof and disappeared also, crying and muttering prayers or curses, or I know not what. The two Streltsi fellows came several steps higher towards Rachmanof.
Then the fight began without further delay.
Rachmanof made a quick lunge at me with his sword, but the blow fell short, and I laughed aloud at him.
‘You will have to come to closer quarters, Rachmanof; there is no help for it,’ I said. ‘It is dangerous, I admit, and mighty unpleasant, but it must be done!’
With a curse he ran three steps upwards and lunged again. This time it was necessary to parry, and I replied with a counter thrust which he just, but only just, contrived to turn aside.
Then the two others came nearer, in response to Rachmanof’s orders. ‘Seize your opportunity to rush in,’ he said, ‘as soon as you perceive an opening.’
There was a slight pause while Rachmanof and his men took breath, watching me, and thinking how best to overpower me by combination.Luckily, the stairs were too narrow to admit of two men fighting abreast, else I suppose I should have been overpowered, for they were good men, all three.
During the pause I could distinctly hear the good Superior praying fervently in the ante-room, of which the door was open.
Then suddenly Rachmanof rushed upon me, and after him another, whose rush was useless, however, for he found himself obliged to wait at Rachmanof’s heels, and when he tried to lunge at me his sword nearly pierced his friend’s shoulder.
I had the best of it as to position, and of this I was determined to take full advantage. His rush was easily stopped, and when I assumed the attack it was not difficult to drive him downwards, since I smote at him from above. Step by step he descended, and his supporter was obliged to descend also, for Rachmanof would otherwise have trodden upon him.
Nevertheless, he fought well for his ground, and did not cease striking and thrusting at me, defending himself at the same time with great skill.
Then I tried a trick upon my man. I pretended to stagger backwards, in order to draw him forward with a long thrust. This succeeded. He thrust so vigorously that he was half overbalanced,and I brought my sword down cleaverwise upon his skull.
Down he went backward into the arms of his friend, who, however, instead of laying him down and giving me a moment of breathing time, held him up with his left arm and lunged instantly at me with his right. The movement was so rapid that I could not withdraw my foot in time, and I received a nasty dig in the soft of my leg.
But my man found he had made a bad speculation, for, rushing quickly upon him while he still stood hampered by his unconscious companion, I easily passed through his scrambling defence, and he dropped Rachmanof with a curse as my sword cut through his arm.
Then he stood and stamped his feet, cursing at the pain and shouting to the third man, who stood at the foot of the stairs, to come forward and help slay the filthy Cossack who had wounded both himself and Vassia.
‘Better leave me alone, friend, and take these fellows away, lest a worse thing happen!’ I cried aloud, with a laugh. ‘See what an advantage I have in this position!—be sure I shall spit you if you come nearer!’
The fellow seemed to consider for a moment, while Rachmanof lay and groaned and the other sat and cursed. He came close to Rachmanofand examined his wound, which was an ugly gash in the head, and did not look likely to have a quick mending.
‘Can you fight any more, Gregorief?’ he asked of the other fellow, who sat and cursed with a hole in his shoulder or arm.
‘How the devil can I fight with my sword arm pierced? A pretty coward are you to hesitate: spit the jeering beast through the stomach, and maybe I shall be able to help in sending him on towards hell.’
Almost before he had finished speaking, the third man, the unwounded one, made a rush upwards as though to lunge at me with his sword, but instead of doing so he suddenly ducked his head, and, spreading himself forward on his face, very quickly and dexterously seized my ankle, and with a violent tug upset me, so that I fell upon the back of my head on the stairs. It was a mighty crash, and as I fell I heard a kind of tumult on the landing above me; but from the moment my head touched the floor I knew nothing until I regained consciousness in the ante-room, and observed with surprise that I lay there with Vera weeping at my feet and the good mother praying at my head, as though I were already a corpse.
I felt pain in my leg and pain in my left arm,and a most racking pain in my head, so that for the first few moments I could not for my life remember what had happened to me. ‘What is the matter?’ I asked. ‘What has happened? Why do you weep, Vera?’
‘You have fought a great fight for us, my son,’ said the mother, ‘and have put to flight our enemies, for which the blessing of God shall rest upon you. Vera weeps because she fears you are sorely hurt, but I think there is no cause for fear. You have two flesh wounds, and a terrible blow on the back of your head has sent your wits wandering; but you will soon be better now that you know us and can speak. Do you remember fighting young Rachmanof and two others on the stairs?’
‘I remember now,’ said I. ‘Where are they? They have not prevailed, mother? Oh, surely I did not allow them to pass up?’
‘No, no, all is well, my son: they have departed, all three, and his sister is safe within. She knows nothing of the danger she has been through this day. Do your wounds pain you?’
‘Not much. I do not remember this one in the arm. How came I by that? After I fell?’
‘I will tell you. There was a rush of your enemies upon you, and we heard the scuffling and cursing. Vera was alarmed for your safety, and ran out upon the landing just as you fell backwards.When you fell the wounded man gashed you with his sword, which entered your arm; then Vera——’
‘No, no, mother, have pity!’ cried Vera, closing her ears with her hands. ‘Do not speak of it. I have killed a man, Chelminsky, and I am accursed—there! I have said it. How should God or man love a woman who has slain a fellow creature? I tell you it is an accursed thing for a woman!’
‘Peace, Vera, you did not kill him, for he was alive enough to walk into the street alone. Peace, I say, child. Listen, Chelminsky, and I will tell you all. You may, I think, under a merciful Providence, thank Vera for your life, which was nearly taken. Vera snatched your sword, which had fallen from your hand, and with it attacked so furiously the fellow who had struck at you as you lay that he cried for mercy and rolled down the stairs out of the way. Meanwhile I dragged you, with Vera’s help, into this room, locking the door behind us. Presently, hearing the street door open, I looked cautiously forth, and lo! our three men were departing. One was, I think, almost or quite untouched: he it was that supported Rachmanof, who seemed badly wounded, though he stood upon his feet. As for himwhom Vera struck at, he walked out, as I say, by himself. Nay, Vera, be comforted, child, for now I think of it, he was alive enough to shake his fist at me, and curse me!’ The good old woman laughed and patted Vera, who now stopped crying.
‘Curses do not lie upon such as thee, good mother,’ I said, laughing. ‘Cheer thee, Vera! Be sure thou art not accursed. I am glad indeed the fellow carried away a beating from thee. Did the sword bite? Did blood flow?’
‘Nay, leave the matter, it is painful to her,’ said the older woman. ‘Vera is gentle, and has seen no blood shed up to this day. Let her be, Chelminsky.’
‘At any rate, be thanked, both, for your good service to me!’ said I; ‘for indeed I am glad to live. Oh that you had beaten that third fellow, Vera, even more soundly! The rascal! he threw me by a trick. I will not rest until I have made his head buzz for him as he has made mine!’
‘Nay, that you cannot,’ said the mother, ‘for you are not fit to move, and shall not. Are you content to lie here for a day or two days? There is an old sister within who is clever with herbs and plasters: she will mend you as quickly as the best of leeches.’
‘It is not necessary,’ I said. ‘I would rather go. This fellow Rachmanof and the others will tell all the world that I was here. I should soon be chased out.’
‘If I know mankind, they will say nothing of this day’s work. What, three men to one, and the beaten three to brag of it? Fear not, there will be silence.’
‘And what of Vera? Do you know these men, Vera? Would they have recognised you?’
‘I know not who the two Streltsi were. As for Rachmanof, he would know me, but he was dazed or unconscious, and I think he did not see or recognise me.’
‘At any rate, I will go,’ I determined; ‘for who knows what these fellows will do or say? Better that I should be free to act how I will from without.’
With the words I tried to stand upon my feet; but a mist came before my eyes, my head swam, and I fell back fainting. And there on my back I lay for a week, almost senseless for the first half of it, but quickly recovering throughout the last four days.
During my weakness several things happened that I knew nothing of until afterwards. Theante-room in which I lay was kept locked on the outside, and the key remained in the good mother’s possession, so that no visitors were allowed to enter the chamber occupied by me.
But visitors there were, and important ones, as I must now describe.
Itappeared that Vera was recognised, and that one of the Streltsi officers spoke of having seen her at the Diévitchy monastery, though he said nothing of me or of the fight on the stairs and his own discomfiture. The report quickly reached the ears of the Boyar Kurbatof, who came in person and was received haughtily by the Mother Superior.
‘I have come for my daughter, who is detained by you without permission,’ said the Boyar.
‘This house is a privileged sanctuary,’ replied the good mother. ‘No man, not even a father, may exercise authority over those maidens who have espoused the service of Christ, renouncing the world and its vanities.’
‘But Vera has not done so. I am told that her hair is not yet shorn; she has taken no vows; therefore I demand her instant release.’
‘And I refuse it,’ said the brave mother.
‘I will tell you, reverend mother, why I demand the wench,’ said the Boyar, changing hisattitude. ‘You, in your seclusion here, know little of what passes without. The Tsar Ivan chooses a bride, according to the customs and privileges of the Russian Tsars. Now, my daughter is virtually already chosen Tsaritsa, if only she choose to accept the honour. Think how great a position is this offered to her. Think only what this means, to be Tsaritsa. What power, what wealth shall be hers; how magnificently will she be able to reward those who have benefited her; how—for instance—she may favour this establishment and its head, multiplying your privileges and loading you with riches and every kind of favour.’
‘We are content as we are, Boyar, and we do not desire such worldly advancement as you describe. Touching this matter of the bride-choosing, the maiden would sooner die than be married against her will to the afflicted and unfortunate creature who, though less than a man, is nevertheless called Tsar of Russia.’
‘It is well that foolish maidens do not have the making of their own destiny: such things are left to those who have wisdom and experience.’
‘In this case a good choice has been made and cannot be unmade by force or authority. Therefore return, Boyar, whence you came; for be sure you shall not find Vera.’
The Boyar, finding that he could make no impression upon the mother by entreaty and the promise of great rewards, next had recourse to violence, threatening the wrath of the Regent—to whom he would now, he said, carry this matter—and I know not what besides. But he gained no more by threats than he had profited by promises, and in the end the Boyar returned without his daughter.
But on the second day a worse thing happened than the visit of an angry Boyar.
For the Regent Sophia arrived in person, bringing with her a bishop of high degree and a guard of several soldiers.
Kurbatof had, it appeared, actually carried out his threat and had complained at Court that his daughter Vera, the destined bride of the Tsar, was a prisoner at the Diévitchy monastery. The Regent came in anger and indignation.
‘What is this?’ she cried, storming at the good mother. ‘What is this I hear of thee? To give sanctuary to one whom the Tsar would choose for his wife, and against the will of her father? Thou takest too much upon thee, woman. Art thou so great, being chief among many silly women, that thou knowest not there are some greater than thou?’
‘All this I know and recognise, Highness,’said the old woman, humbly. ‘Outside these walls thy brother the Tsar, together with thyself, is as God; but within we render the first service to God and His Christ, even though His will should be in opposition to that of the Tsar.’
‘Vzdor, nonsense! What knowest thou of the mind of God? thou knowest it no more than I. A silly maiden is fearful of the splendid destiny offered her, and thou must needs set down her timidity to the will of God. Be sure it is better to obey the will of the Tsar, of which you may be certain, than invent for thyself the interventions of the Almighty, whose mind thou understandest no more than I. Come, where is this wench?’
‘She has claimed sanctuary, Highness. I will not produce her except I be compelled by force.’
‘So—then take her keys, men: you are a fool, woman, and should know when it is wiser to yield than to be firm!’
‘While I am head in this place the only wisdom is to act according to my conscience, since my simple desire is to serve God. You will not gain, Madam, by using me thus. I foresee the day when you yourself shall flee for refuge to this sanctuary.’
‘Indeed? Well, I will tell thee what I foresee, and the prophecy shall not be long inthe fulfilling. Thy rule shall end this day—nay, it has ended now; have you the keys there? Open the great door, then; follow, you; we shall set in your place a wiser, if we can find one in this community of lack-wits!’
The procession then entered the monastery, where they found nuns and postulants at their dinner in the refectory, and among them Vera, who had expected no such visitors, or she would have hidden herself.
‘There she sits,’ said the Regent, kindly enough. ‘Come, little frightened dove, that flew from the nest for fear of fowlers. Look not so frightened, we are neither fowlers nor birds of prey; we wish thee no evil, but great good. Come, the Tsar awaits thee and will choose thee for Tsaritsa if thou put not on that scared look!’
Poor Vera glanced at the Superior, who followed behind her Highness, but the old woman shook her head; tears were in her eyes, and she sobbed as she said, ‘Nay, child, I can do no more for thee; they have broken into this House of Peace. I am no longer in authority here.’
‘Mind not what this hag says,’ said Sophia. ‘She has forgotten that she is no less a subject of the Tsar than any other in the land whowould also serve the Almighty; she has given thee evil counsel, but she shall lead no others astray. Come—I weary of talking—get thee ready, for thou shalt go with us to the Tsar.’
‘Madam,’ said Vera faintly, ‘I desire to remain here. I have no wish to——’
‘Enough—take her up, men——’
And Vera was then and there seized and borne shrieking away to theterem, where many notable things happened, which shall presently be set down. But before she departed from the monastery the Regent chose a new Superior, recognising one among the nuns whom she had known well before-time. Her she placed in the old mother’s seat, compelling the latter to take up a position at the bottom of the table, whereat sat humbly the non-professed sisters and the postulants of the community, as though she had only that day entered upon the religious life—the latest of all those present, instead of the first and the most respected and beloved.
And I lay senseless as a log while all this passed, little knowing or guessing the perils which compassed me about. For what if the Regent had sought Vera, first, in the little locked ante-room wherein I lay, and had there found me—a hawk in this doves’ nest! But by the mercy of the Highest and the wit of that good woman, themother, I was spared this misfortune. For I was afterwards told that when one of the Regent’s men inquired of the Superior what room was this, and whether the escaped maiden were here, the mother replied that this was the hospital room. ‘I swear she is not there,’ she said, ‘and it is useless to disturb those who are within the chamber; they are sick, and need repose.’
Be sure that when I returned to consciousness and learned all these things I could lie no longer in peace. Very quickly my wounds mended—for they were but flesh-cuts, and my banged head was the worst matter of all!—and within a week of the fight I insisted upon going forth once again, which I did in spite of the tears and entreaties of my good old friend, the late Superior, and of another who had nursed me.
‘Let me go,’ I said, ‘for I shall recover the sooner when my mind is at ease and I can see and hear for myself what is passing without.’
‘Promise thou wilt get into no more brawls until thou art well and wholly recovered?’ said the mother. And this I promised, leaving the good woman, however, in tears of distress. ‘For, said she, ‘thou art pale and worn and not fit for fighting and for scheming, and yet how else is Vera to be served?’
‘Dost think I shall attack the Tsar’s palace single-handed, good mother?’ I asked, laughing. But she shook her head and answered nothing, except to make over me the sign of the Cross and to mumble a prayer as I left the chamber.
ThoughI had laughed to ease the mind of the good woman, I felt indeed but little disposed for mirth. My mind was full of Vera, for I had a horrible dread that she would be forced against her will to submit to marriage with the Tsar. I hastened therefore to Mazeppa’s lodging, for well I knew that if there was anything to know, whether of Vera or of anything else, Mazeppa would be the one to know the first news and the last.
‘A ghost!’ he said, as I entered and greeted him; ‘one risen from the tomb indeed, and limping, by the saints—what, wounded? Whom now hast thou found to brawl with?’
‘It is true that I have fought: one day I will tell thee all there is to tell. To-day thou must be narrator, for I long to hear news. First, what has passed at theterem?’
‘Much, and many surprising things. Has Olga Panief found thee yet?’
‘Olga? surely not—why seeks she me—is she not in theterem?’
‘That is a part of what has happened, but there is much else. Vera Kurbatof——’
‘Oh, she is found?’ I asked, feigning indifference, but failing utterly.
‘At the Diévitchy monastery, and brought to theterem, where she was placed among those who had been reserved for the Tsar’s final choice—six of them. But stay, I remember now that all this must be news to thee. How long hast thou been absent wounded—a week? Then there is much to be told, and I will tell from the beginning.’
Then Mazeppa began and told me the tale of that eventful week.
The Tsar having shown himself unwilling to go among so large a company of maidens, it had been decided to weed out the greater number, and to leave only those whose supreme beauty gave them particular claim to the Tsar’s regard. Among these chosen six were the girl Soltikof, whom I had brought to the palace with a message from young Peter. I was not surprised that she should have been chosen to be among the selected, for indeed she was both beautiful and vivacious, a maiden who might wring admiration from a very stone. My chosen love of former days, the Cossack maiden Olga Panief, was another of the six, the remaining four being noless beautiful maidens, each in her own way, though their names are not necessary to these records. To these six was added Vera Kurbatof, found and brought to theteremin the nick of time.
The seven were then paraded before the Tsar, who on the first occasion was sulky, or timid, or what not, and refused to raise his head to look at them, declaring that he would not marry; that they had assembled these wenches in vain for him. ‘Let them go,’ he said. ‘Let who will have them; I want none of them.’
Then the seven were returned to theterem, and for that day the farce was over. But in the night, when all slept or were supposed to sleep in the dormitory set apart for them, the Regent, with the Tsar at her side, passed among the beds and examined carefully each sleeper’s face and any part of the beautiful forms or limbs which might have escaped by accident or design from the coverings. It was known well enough that it was customary for the bridegroom Tsar thus to feast his eyes, before finally choosing his bride, upon the most beautiful of his maidens, rendered unconscious of his presence by sleep. Therefore, if one were proud of a beautiful arm or neck, she was careful to fall asleep with this exposed to view, that the Tsar might observe and admire.
Vera had cried herself to sleep, and lay—supremely beautiful—with the tears still upon her cheek. The Tsar flushed as he glanced at her. ‘She hates and fears me,’ he said, pointing at her with his chin, ‘and therefore I fear her also.’
But when he came to the bed on which the Soltikof maiden lay modestly covered, the flush of sleep upon her beautiful cheek, his breath came and went.
‘Holy Mother!’ he exclaimed, ‘here is one I have not seen. What is her name?’
The Regent named the girl, thanking her saints that Ivan seemed at last to take an interest in one, at least, of the lovely models of womanhood wasted upon him.
‘This one is well enough,’ said Ivan, passing on, ‘if she too does not hate me, like that other!’
The nightly inspection was not the only trial through which these chosen seven were compelled to pass. They were constantly questioned and examined by the Court doctors and dentists and by experienced women appointed for the purpose.
Besides this, one of the seven, being constantly among the rest and taking part in all conversations, was instructed to act as spy upon her companions, in order that their minds might be studied by those with whom lay the choice ofTsaritsa, as well as their bodily constitutions. This maiden, by name Maria Apraxin, reported all opinions uttered by the rest, and all conversation bearing upon the subject of the afflicted Tsar and his intended marriage.
In consequence of these reports three fair maids who had laughed at the Tsar when alone with their companions, suspecting nothing, were informed next day that their chance was gone, and theteremdoors were open to them to pass out. There remained now only Olga Panief the Cossack girl, Vera, and the Soltikof maiden, besides the spy, who was no longer a candidate, but only the agent set to watch and observe the others.
Vera never spoke, or scarcely ever. She sat and mused and sometimes wept, but took little part in conversations. It was Olga and the Soltikof maiden who did the bulk of the talking, though the spy Maria Apraxin began most of the discussions.
Then one day the Tsar passed through theterem; it was the morning after his first sight of the sleeping maidens. There were now but these four present. He strode past Maria without raising his eyes above her feet. He passed Olga Panief with but a glance. Then he came to Vera, and paused a moment as though hewould speak; but Vera did not raise the lids which concealed her lovely blue eyes, and the Tsar walked on.
Lastly he reached the place where the Soltikof stood and blushed, waiting for him with every artful trick and captivating air ready, so to say, to hand to be employed in the fascination of the Tsar.
Ivar paused and looked at her with admiration, and Praskovia Soltikof returned the look with tenfold intensity. She smiled and blushed and glanced from under her up-curled eyelashes. She knelt, and would have kissed his hand, but he drew it back. Then she took up the edge of his kaftan and kissed that instead.
‘By the saints,’ said Ivan, ‘you are as fair as any, unless it be Vera Kurbatof, who is afraid of me and hates me.’
‘Hates you, Tsar? Oh! how can anyone do so?’
‘Yet she does, though I have never done her ill, nor would do so. What is your name?’
‘Praskovia Soltikof, Highness. I have come all the way from Siberia to give the Tsar of my best.’
‘Of your best? and what is that?’ said Ivan.
‘My heart, Tsar, my love, my duty and devotion—all that I have and am—myself.’
‘Good! But you would be afraid of me, like this other.’
‘I swear I would not, Tsar.’
‘Well, see here, Praskovia Soltikof: ask this Vera whether she cannot change her mind towards me, and if she cannot or will not, I know not but what I will choose thee, since my sister will have me married whether I desire it or no.’
Praskovia’s face underwent several changes during this speech: the expression which remained the last upon it was one of triumphant happiness.
‘Oh! Tsar,’ she said, most intensely; ‘I am not worthy!’ But Ivan passed on and said no more, and when he had gone out of sight and hearing a storm arose.
For Olga Panief, whose temper was never of the best, flew out and called upon Vera to speak up and save the Tsar and the nation from having this Praskovia Soltikof for Tsaritsa.
‘She is a toady and a liar,’ cried Olga. ‘Did you see her blush and cast down her eyes when he spoke to her? Did you hear her vow she would love him and honour him, and I know not what besides? Faugh—it sickens me to hear her! Speak, Vera Kurbatof, and save us all from her: it is you the Tsar would have, all the world knows that; it is you he loves, not this toadying, fawning thing!’
‘Listen to her!’ laughed Praskovia. ‘Poor Olga, all her arts have failed, therefore she cannot tolerate those of others! Liar, am I? What of you, you hypocrite, who are ready to vow devotion to the Tsar if he would but look at you—why, you have owned as much!—and yet in the next breath you declared that if you should be chosen you would marry the sceptre, not the man; and that if you had a lover before, your marriage should make no difference, for he should be lover still!’
‘You lie, minx,’ said Olga. ‘Speak up, Vera, to-morrow, and give her the lie; save the Tsar from her; he will believe what you say.’
‘Let anyone have the Tsar so long as it is not I,’ said Vera, ‘though it seems to me that each of you is as bad as the other, for neither is honest: you do not love the Tsar, yet you would have him believe that he is adored by you! A sorry wife you would make, either of you!’
‘Will you not change your mind as to the Tsar, Vera?’ said Praskovia, laughing. ‘Remember, he has bidden me ask you this; the choice lies between you and me, for the Tsar will not look at Maria Apraxin; and as for Olga Panief, neither he nor any other man would waste a glance at so sorry a face as hers!’
At this Olga uttered a scream of rage, and,rushing at her enemy, seized her hand and bit it furiously.
Praskovia cried aloud with the pain, and the blood flowed freely, but Vera tied her handkerchief about the wound and comforted the aggrieved one. ‘At any rate, thou art as good as chosen,’ she said, ‘for thou shalt tell the Tsar that I will neither love him nor consent to marry him; therefore thou art Tsaritsa already, if thou wilt have it so!’
A speech which caused Olga, fuming and panting in her chair, to curse aloud both at Vera and at Praskovia, though she made no more violent attacks upon them.