XV: PRINCESS AND CZAREVNA
I FOUND myself in a low room beneath the roof, belonging, doubtless, to one of the servants of the palace, and but plainly furnished. Maluta greeted me eagerly, with every evidence of joy; and while I put on my shoes and hastily arranged my disordered dress, he told me all he knew, screaming it at the top of his shrill voice, for even there—under the very eaves—the mighty cry of the mob, in its fury, leaped up and echoed, drowning all minor sounds, as the roar of the cataract swallows up the murmur of the river.
The dwarf had lost sight of me the day before, when I entered the czarevna’s presence, and had suspected my fate when he found I did not reappear, but, with all his cleverness, it had been long before he could locate me. In fact, he had not done so until Maître le Bastien and Michaud came out and were taken to Prince Galitsyn. It seemed that there had been a long and stormy scene between the prince and Sophia Alexeievna, and Maluta was plainly of the opinion that, whatever transpired at the interview, it had been an unfortunate one. The czarevna was known to be in a stormy mood, and though Galitsyn was there, and taking a leading part in affairs, he was under a ban, so far as his imperial mistress was concerned.Then the dwarf described the arrival of Prince Voronin and his daughter, and there had been a scene, he knew, between the latter and the czarevna. The old prince had been separated from his daughter, and both were under arrest, and Maluta feared the worst, with the mob yelping below us, and Sophia and the Miloslavskys supreme. He told me that the Czarina Natalia could do nothing more than save the life of the little czar, that the soldiers had already forced an entrance into the palace and could not be controlled even by the patriarch. As he spoke, I heard their yells within as well as without the building, and the continuous cry of “Give us the traitors! Down with the Naryshkins!”
I had controlled my impatience long enough to hear his story, that I might have a clearer comprehension of the situation, and now I was ready to act.
“In what part of the palace is the Princess Daria?” I demanded eagerly.
“In the rear, on the floor below,” replied Maluta promptly. “I know the very room.”
“Then lead the way,” I said, “and lose no time—I would I had my sword!”
They had stripped me of my weapons, and I felt the helplessness of bare fists. Maluta looked at me sideways, in his elfish fashion.
“I might steal one from the guard-room,” he said,and quietly drew a pistol from the bosom of his doublet and handed it to me.
“You little rogue,” I said, with a smile, “did you steal this also? But I thank you—even if you did,” I added, having, after examination, found the weapon loaded and primed, ready for use.
Then I followed him through the hall and down the stairs. As we descended the noises below grew even more distinct; we heard the fierce cries without and answering shouts within, and ever and anon the sharp crack of a pistol or a scream of agony. But the place where we were was utterly deserted, not even a serf lingered here; all were drawn to the scene of horror below, or had fled to safety elsewhere. Now and then the bells of the cathedrals burst out into wild, discordant chimes, as if demons set them going, and this clangour added a strange note to the tumult.
On Maluta led and I followed; further into the heart of the palace, and presently we passed through a long gallery where the windows, set in deep recesses, looked down upon the Red Place, and on the other side, through a lattice-work, we could see into one of the private chapels, for this was a gallery sometimes used by the women to witness the ceremonies from behind the screen, an Eastern custom that still prevailed in Moscow. At the further end of the passage was a door, and here Maluta paused and signed to me.
“She is here,” he whispered in my ear; “the czarevna locked her in!”
I did not hesitate a moment, I knocked boldly at the door, determined to speak to the princess. But there was no response, though she must have heard it, for the outcry of the mob had died down a moment, as it did at intervals—when there was bloody work to do. I knocked again, to no purpose, and then I tried the door; it yielded instantly to my hand and fell open, and I looked eagerly into the room, but it was empty. I turned angrily upon Maluta, who stood open-mouthed, gazing in with such honest astonishment that I knew he had not purposely deceived me.
“You little rogue!” I said passionately; “how long ago was she here?”
But he did not answer me; instead, he plucked at my coat and pointed to the opposite door—the door through which we had entered the gallery—and there, to my amazement, I saw the Czarevna Sophia and the Princess Daria entering together. Whether they saw us or not, I knew not; if they did, neither of them heeded us, and the dwarf and I, standing back in the recess of the doorway, were witnesses of the strange scene that followed. As they advanced I saw the awful pallor of Daria’s face, but she was wonderfully composed, seeming to control herself by a supreme effort of will, while the czarevna, equally cool in manner,had an inscrutable expression on her countenance. She paused midway in the gallery, at one of the windows, and pointed downward. The mob—nearly silent for a while—had begun to cry out again, and I could see some horror, enacted below, reflected in the eyes of the girl who looked, following the direction of that eager finger.
“I have brought you here to see the fruitlessness of resistance, you little fool,” said Sophia, in a tone that had the cruelty of triumphant power in it; “your father is old, and not a strong man; death will therefore be more easy—but death upon those spears! And death he would have, if he opposed me. His rank avails not. See, yonder goes the head of Artemon Matveief, the czarina’s uncle—she could not save him!”
The Princess Daria closed her eyes with a shudder, and I saw Sophia’s cruel, furtive smile. What devil possessed the woman? I felt in my bosom for the pistol, the spot was lonely! At the moment, came up the yell from below—like a voice from the infernal regions.
“Slay, slay the traitors! Give us Ivan Naryshkin and Von Gaden—the Jew poisoner—and Prince Voronin! Death to these wretches!”
The princess drew back, pale and shivering, but still she did not plead for mercy; she only listened to the other woman.
“They are demanding your father,” Sophia said; “the czarina cannot save him, nor can Galitsyn—nor Galitsyn—do you hear, girl, not even the prince? And they will tear his body, as the wolves tear the one who is slain first—they would do it now—but for me!”
The Princess Daria cast a scornful look at her, her own face as white as ashes, but her eyes sparkling.
“You can save him, Sophia Alexeievna!” she said; “and why should he suffer because Prince Galitsyn loves me? Because you found my miniature in your locket around his neck? I did not give it to him,” she continued scornfully, “and if I had—is that cause enough for a great princess—the daughter of the czars—to murder an old man? Why do you not murder me?”
Sophia pointed out of the window. “I need not,” she replied, and laughed.
The red blood leaped up to Daria’s forehead, and then she turned white again, for the cry came up.
“Give us more Naryshkins! Where is Voronin?”
Sophia walked across the gallery and looked through the lattice into the chapel. From where I stood I also could see the dim interior, lighted only by the tapers which burned before the golden iconostase, and there now was the figure of a priest, on his knees; surely it was a time to pray.
“See, here is the priest, Daria Kirilovna,” saidSophia, “and Kurakin waits below. You will go there now, and before my eyes, wed the Boyar Kurakin. You cannot escape me—there is no escape!”
I felt again for my pistol, and this time drew it out.
The princess did not, at first, reply; she stood quite still, looking into the chapel.
“I can die!” she said, at last, in a low voice, “and I would gladly die—rather than wed that man! I can die.”
“Out there?” asked Sophia scornfully, pointing toward the court-yard where the carnival of hell went on.
The Princess Daria did not answer, her face set itself rigidly.
“Out there?” said Sophia again. “I do not think they would kill you—not at once!”
Daria shuddered, turning her face away. Sophia looked at her with glittering eyes.
“It will avail nothing to resist,” she went on, in a fierce, low tone, “you are in my power; your father cannot save you; you shall marry Kurakin, I swear it! And Galitsyn will never see your face again—never.”
Daria gave her a look of superb disdain and answered not a word, and the czarevna, maddened by her manner, caught her by the wrist and drew her to a window, and they looked through it as I lookedthrough another. We could see nearly the whole of the Red Place, and it was filled with a living, surging mass of humanity that roared and wavered like the billows of the ocean. A mass of upturned savage faces, white with fury, red with blood, and, borne aloft—here and there—on the points of spears, the gory heads of their victims. They waded deep in blood and mire, for they had trampled the dead and dying under foot, the very air reeked as from a slaughter-house, and the voice of the mob! Deep and awesome as the voice of the tempest, rolling and growling in the distance, and then rising in a fearful, ear-splitting yell of frenzy—“Slay, slay, slay!”
I, a strong man, turned sick and dizzy; I looked back and saw the princess standing like a statue. Sophia had her left wrist, but Daria did not look at her: her eyes were riveted upon the sight below, her nostrils dilated, her breath came quickly; I saw her right hand clench. The voice of the mob echoed about us; a raven, frightened by the noise, burst into the window and flew over our heads, beating its wings against the roof in its efforts to escape. Looking at the princess, I felt that she too, was like a captive bird, but still she gazed below and I looked again also, and saw them kill a boyar and dash his brains out on the pavement. I cursed Sophia in my heart as a fiend. Then the howl came up—the wolf’s cry, after tasting blood.
“A Naryshkin! Give us a traitor—give us Prince Voronin!”
“Hearest thou, Daria Kirilovna?” said the czarevna; “he cannot save you—but I can save him!”
The Princess Daria leaned against the wall, her eyes closed.
“You are in my power!” said Sophia fiercely.
Again, the wolf’s howl: “Blood, blood!”
It rose and leaped against the turrets and rebounded with an echo that froze the heart. The raven beat its wings.
“I will save your father,” said the czarevna, “but you wed Kurakin!”
The princess made no answer, her face was deathly, and her lips moved as if in prayer. And below the mob screamed out a name. “Voronin—give us the traitor!”
The princess opened her eyes and looked—not at Sophia or the fearful scene below—but away, into the far distance where the sky shone blue and serene.
“I am in your power,” she said; “the holy Virgin pardon you!”
I took a step nearer, pistol in hand, but the dwarf flung himself on that wrist and clung there, with the strength of frenzy, terror, and passionate appeal in his face, but uttering no sound.