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 theterem. 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 outof 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 kitchengaped 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 thecanailleare 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 allmerriment 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 wasnow in theteremof 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 longerO’erwatching the dew-covered field.’”
“‘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 longerO’erwatching the dew-covered field.’”
“‘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 meAnd say “she is there,” to his son—To his son who is doomed for my husband!’”
“‘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 meAnd say “she is there,” to his son—To his son who is doomed for my husband!’”
“‘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——’”
“‘If the frost nipped the flowerets no more,If in winter the——’”
“‘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—forthe 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 ofsurprise, 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 theterem, 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.