The Tsar's Window/Chapter 07
CHAPTER VII.
STCHOUKINE DVOR.
THERE is no possibility of denying that Judith is a coquette. It is the only thing I dislike about her. She is a dear, sweet-tempered girl; but sometimes I think she is perfectly heartless, when I see how she trifles with these men. I don't feel so sorry for George, because he is a thorough man of the world, and quite able to take care of himself; besides which, I have a strong conviction that if Judith cares for any of them, it is for him.
But poor Sacha is young and unsophisticated, and does not understand what the word flirtation means. He has my hearty sympathy, as has also Prince Tucheff, a vigorous sexagenarian, who is making, as Tom forcibly expresses it, "an old goose of himself" over Judith.
This is the conversation which I overheard between them the other day:—
"Blue," said the prince, looking at the dress which Judith wore, "is the color of the skies, and should be looked up to."
"Hear that!" whispered Tom. "He must be awfully hard up for a remark."
My cousin's reply was drowned in Tom's words.
The prince was speaking again.
"If I were as young as I once was—" and he looked unutterable things.
"I am glad," said Judith, flashing a coquettish glance at him, "that you are not as young as you once were. Very young men are great bores."
"Then I will say" (in a stage whisper), "if I could only make myself the age you prefer."
"Oh!" (dropping her eyes, with a little sigh.) "In that case, I should beg you to remain just as you are."
Tom and I moved away.
"What a fool he is!" murmured my brother-in-law.
Judith has been unmercifully chaffed about that conversation; but all of our ridicule fails to move her, or make her angry.
"I think he is a dear old man!" she exclaims, "and I do like him, just as he is."
At Princess Shermatoff's ball, last night, she was just as charming with Sacha as she had been with Prince Tucheff. After greeting the hostess, we passed into a large ball-room, and were lost amid a crowd of young women, who were filling up one corner.
Judith, having had one bitter experience, now avoids a sofa at parties. There is always a table in front of it, and there are always young ladies who seat themselves each side of you. A man who can converse with a girl across a table, when she is surrounded by others of her sex, who are curious to hear how Americans talk, has more courage than any of my acquaintance. The young women flock together at evening entertainments; and, should any one gentleman talk more than ten minutes consecutively with the same girl, he might as well declare himself at once,—for that would be expected of him.
Waltzing was going on when we entered the ball-room. Sacha approached me, bowed so low that I could see the part in his hair, placed one arm about my waist, and danced me twice around the room, like a whirlwind. He stopped as suddenly as he had started, left me with another bow, in the same spot from which he had taken me, and passed on to Judith, with whom he did likewise. Another young man followed Sacha's example. Breathless and bewildered, I was whirled about the room by a dozen different partners in as many minutes.
The waltz continued for nearly half an hour. When it was over, the hostess and the gentleman who seemed to be directing all the dances came to me with partners, whom they introduced; and I soon found myself engaged for all the quadrilles. It is not the custom to engage partners for the waltzes; they are taken out of the crowd, as I have described.
Such fast dancing tired me, and, worse still, tore my dress. Couples ran into each other, without the slightest compunction; and, as most of the gentlemen were in uniform, many were the scratches which my poor arms received. I refused all invitations for the mazurka, and stationed myself among the mothers and chaperones, who lined the walls, and looked intensely bored. I was soon joined by a foreign ambassador, who proved to be entertaining, and who remained with me until supper was announced.
The mazurka began about one o'clock. I have heard of dancing all my life,—have even flattered myself that I could dance well; but I never knew what real dancing was until I saw the mazurka. It is the poetry of movement. I shall never hear mazurka music again without having a mad desire to start up and dance down the room. The figures are like those in the German; but how different from our calm, lazy way of gliding to and fro is the sprightly air, the abandon, the rhythm, the grace with which these young Russians jingle their spurs, and, seizing the hand of their partner, look at her with glances which seem to tell all the admiration they fear to speak, while she returns the look, like a true coquette. They dance for pure love of the amusement,—not as if they were undergoing a penance, and trying to make the best of it. The music itself is enough to put life even into the coldest blood. The time is well marked by the piano and the heels of the gentlemen, which are brought down with a stamp.
Mr. Thurber, like an Englishman, sneers a little, and calls it theatrical. Certainly, both Englishmen and Americans are too self-conscious to dance it well.
After the mazurka, a hot supper was served in the next room. Sacha, not having been fortunate enough to get a partner for the dance, escorted me to the dining-room, and undertook to provide for my wants. I had resisted his efforts to talk with me all the evening, having been much interested in my conversation with the diplomat.
To confess the truth, Sacha is getting too melodramatic to be agreeable. He looks as if all the pleasures of this world had passed away for him.
Swallowing his scalding bouillon without winking, he said severely, "Mademoiselle, I have been trying to speak to you all the evening."
"Yes," I responded dryly. "I could not get rid of Son Excellence."
"I have come to a determination," he continued. "I am going to speak to your cousin. Anything will be better than suspense."
"I quite agree with you."
"I thought that—perhaps—I knew—" he stammered, "she is so fond of you—I was going to ask you if you would talk with her."
I fixed a wondering gaze on my companion. "Do you mean that I am to ask her to marry you?" said I bluntly.
"Oh, no! I only meant that perhaps you could find out if there was any hope for me." He looked at me imploringly.
I knew there was no hope, but how could I tell him so calmly? I had seen enough that evening to convince me that Judith was very much interested in George Piloff, and his feeling for her had been plain for some time.
Still I could not have the cruelty to dash this young fellow's hopes at one blow. I thought Judith would do it so much better; she was probably accustomed to it.
I finished my bird leisurely, and took a sip of champagne, before I answered. "I think it would be much better for you to ask her yourself. Judith is very reserved, and I doubt whether she would confide in me."
He shook his head mournfully, and took a large mouthful of salad. "Then I must venture all, and it must be done soon, mademoiselle," turning his rather flushed face toward me. "Do you know what I shall do if she refuses me?"
As I confessed my inability to guess this interesting conundrum, Sacha looked down at his empty plate, and said solemnly, in a half-whisper, "I shall leave Petersburg!"
This threat did not make my blood run cold, as Sacha evidently expected; but I felt sorry for him, and regretted that I could not assure him of success in his love-making. If Judith were going to marry a foreigner, I thought she could not do better than take Sacha. I wished at that moment that she was safely at home with her guardian, and I had no further responsibility in the matter.
My friend entertained me during the remainder of supper with accounts of the various adventures which had befallen him by land and by sea, from the day of his birth up to the present time.
I began to grow rather sleepy, and I supposed that we were to take our departure immediately after supper. Alice informed me, however, that there was still a cotillon to be danced, and we had a repetition of the mazurka, which lasted until a distant clock struck five. George danced this with Judith. He spoke to her a great deal in a low voice, and she blushed often and looked shy, which was a revelation to me, for I did not know that she was capable of such an expression.
A sudden idea struck me. Sacha had hinted at some secret which he possessed,—something about George, I judged from the way in which he spoke. Might it not be something which, if Judith knew, would prevent her from being drawn on any further?
Oh for a chance to speak to that unfortunate young man! If need be, I would drag his secret to the light. But he had gone home in dark despair, and my opportunity for that night was over. I was almost driven to retire to the ladies' dressing-room, where I had seen a package of cigarettes, and recklessly indulge in a smoke, for I grew so nervous that I could not sit still; but Alice dissuaded me by telling me it would be sure to make me ill.
Then I was tempted to confide my fears to Alice; but how could I, when I knew that she adored her brother-in-law, and thought that any woman who gained his heart would be fortunate above all others? In my feverish imagination, that secret of Sacha's took elephantine form. The last point was reached when I decided that probably George was already married to some one whom he did not acknowledge. It is fortunate that we took our departure at that moment, for I know not what I should have done in my perplexity.
I awoke this morning burning with zeal, and resolved to have a severe talk with Judith. A favorable opportunity was not long in presenting itself. It was twelve o'clock before we had finished breakfast, and then my cousin took possession of a novel, and I of the "Journal de St. Pétersbourg," and we sat down in front of the wood-fire in the library.
I cast many a sly glance at Judith before I gained courage to begin. She had on a brown stuff dress, and the toe of one pretty bronze slipper protruded an inch or two beyond her skirt. Her smooth braids and the rounded outline of one soft cheek were all I could see. She looked so dainty and sweet that I did not wonder that everybody wanted to marry her.
I watched the clock nervously, and saw that if I did not soon begin, Tom would make his noisy entry, and Grace would come in from her drive. So I said, in a low, meek voice, "Do you feel tired this morning?"
As I had already asked her that question once, she looked slightly surprised, but laid the book down in her lap, and said pleasantly, "Not very. Do you?"
How different she is from me, I thought,—how very, very different! I never can bear to be interrupted when I am reading, and never can answer any one pleasantly under such circumstances. How sweet-tempered Judith is, and what a contrast I must be! This thought saddened me, and I did not feel inclined to proceed; but as she seemed waiting for something more, I resumed the conversation and answered, "No." Then, growing sarcastic, "But I did not have such overwhelming attentions paid me as you did."
Judith turned a pair of laughing, mischievous eyes on me. "I thought the ambassador was much more attentive than was proper!"
"Oh!" I sighed, "he has a large wife and grown-up sons. Judith," leaning my elbows on the table, and taking my chin in both hands, "you know Sacha is in love with you. Why don't you take the poor fellow?"
"He has never asked me," she answered dreamily, looking into the fire. "Besides, I don't like him."
"Why not?" I snapped the words out, full of a righteous indignation, and ready to defend my favorite.
"He looks so sentimental, and as if he were going to weep; and he watches me in such a way that it makes me nervous."
I leaned back in my chair, and, following Judith's example, looked meditatively into the fire. "It is true," I said slowly, "that he is somewhat irritating sometimes. But," I added with renewed vigor, "he is a thoroughly good fellow."
"I can't marry a man simply because he is good."
Then my ire was fully roused, and I looked at her with a glance which was meant to carry terror to her soul. It was lost on her, however, for she was still looking into the fire. "Can you marry a man simply because he is bad?"
"No," she answered calmly. "I don't think I could fall in love with a bad man." She looked at me curiously, came over by my chair, and sat down beside me on the floor, resting her head against my knee, and fondling my hand. "How solemn you are to-day, and how very unpleasant, dear!"
Such little caressing ways come quite naturally to Judith. I always feel supremely foolish when I call a person "dear"; but in her it is charming. I felt my stern resolution melting, but I determined to speak before it was too late. "Judith," I said, in a mournful tone, "do you believe that George Piloff is a good man?"
She gave a slight start, and the cheek which had been resting on my hand was suddenly removed as she sat upright. "Good!" she repeated musingly. "Perhaps I should not use that word in speaking of him; but surely not bad, Dorris?" looking at me anxiously, with a question in her soft eyes. "Surely not bad, dear?"
I went on firmly: "I believe that he is a bad man."
"Why?"
I was staggered for a moment. "Perhaps he is not really bad," feebly, "but he is at the club continually, and every one says that all those young men at the club gamble."
"You mean Mr. Thurber, not every one," corrected my cousin quietly.
She was suspiciously calm. I began to warm with my subject. "He is not the kind of man for you to marry. O Judith, don't fall in love with a foreigner! Please, please don't! Even the very best of them—even Nicolas—cannot understand how women are treated in our country; and we expect so much more than they can give,—than they know how to give."
My cousin's head was averted, but her hand still rested on my lap. She said, in a voice which had the shadow of laughter in it, "You forget that George lived in America through most of his boyhood; that he was over twenty before he had ever seen Russia; and that since then his time has been spent equally in Paris, Vienna, London, and here. He is quite American in his feelings. And although he was in the army while the war lasted, yet his profession is really that of a diplomat, which makes a man a stranger in no country except his own." She turned her laughing face full on me. "You are very anxious about Sacha. It seems to me he is as much of a foreigner as George."
Somewhat discomfited, I responded, "I am not anxious to have you marry Sacha, nor any one; but it pains me to see you losing your heart to a man who has not one good quality to recommend him." By this time I was excited, and said more than I meant.
"Not one good quality!" repeated Judith. "Is that quite fair? What do you know about him?" with a bright color in her usually pale face.
"I only know what I judge from his manner and associates," I answered, rather ashamed of myself for having so little proof of George's worthlessness.
"Then," said my cousin, springing to her feet, and looking at me contemptuously, her small head proudly raised, "I consider you utterly mean, to malign a man's character when you know nothing about him! Are you not ashamed of yourself? If it will afford you any pleasure, I will tell you that I have not the slightest intention of marrying George, and that we are not in love with each other; but not one word which you have said has had the slightest influence on me. I consider George one of the best friends I ever had." So saying, she swept out of the room with the air of an empress.
As for me, I felt very small. All my words rushed back upon me and overwhelmed me with mortification. I quite agreed with Judith in her judgment of me. What business had I to interfere with her, and what grudge had I against George? I never should be able to look him in the face again. If I could find any people who were going that day to America, I thought I would join them. Tears of vexation and contrition began to fill my eyes. As I forced them back, and tried to compose myself, Tom came bustling in, and with him—oh, horror!—George.
I had no time to make my escape, so I kept my disconsolate position by the fire, simply greeting the visitor with a cold bow.
"Well, Dorris!" cried Tom, "you look homesick." Rubbing his hands, he advanced towards the fire. "What's the matter! Here is George, come to take us— Where did you say you were going to take us?" appealing to his companion.
George's face seldom warms up for me as it does for Judith, and it was with a very cold expression that he answered,—
"Your sister wished to go sometime to the Stchonkine Dvor, and I thought this would be as pleasant a day as any."
"Grace has gone out in the sledge," I replied, "but she will be at home before half-past one, as we lunch at that hour. I know she will be disappointed if you don't wait for her."
"Very well," interposed Tom. "It is one now. You can stay and lunch with us, and we will all go afterwards. Dorris told me yesterday that she was dying to see what they had in those old shops. I must see if Judy is up. Where is she?" and he hurried away before I could stop him.
George sat down near me, and, putting on his "society manner," which I particularly dislike, he said, "How did you enjoy your first Russian ball, Miss Romilly?"
"Very much."
"You seem rather depressed this morning," he continued, smiling at my doleful tone. "I hope it is not the effect of your gayety. The late hours which we keep are hard on foreigners at first, but one soon learns to sleep as well in the daytime as at night."
"I don't doubt it," I responded shortly.
He then launched forth into an account of the contrast between the balls at Vienna and those in Petersburg, which I felt he was doing to keep up the conversation. I tried to appear interested, and when Judith entered the room with Tom, she looked surprised to see us talking in such a friendly way. She cast a withering glance on me, and gave George one of her sweetest smiles.
Grace and luncheon were announced at the same time, but I could eat nothing; every mouthful choked me. Judith pointedly ignored my existence, and as pointedly devoted herself to George. She gave me several angry glances, and I sank further and further back in my chair, and felt that every one present wondered what had happened. Tom did not hesitate to speak his mind.
"Why, Judy," he cried, in a loud, jovial tone, "you look like a thunder-cloud! I declare, I never saw you out of temper before. If it were Dorris, I should not be so surprised, for she gets cross now and then, but she seems as if all the spirit had been taken out of her. Did you two quarrel when you were alone?"
I smiled faintly. Judith answered him in a freezing manner, and changed the subject suddenly.
As we rose from the table, Tom told us to make haste, for daylight would soon be gone. I walked to the window and looked out.
"Come, Dorris," Grace called.
"I am not going," I answered disconsolately.
"Not going!" exclaimed Tom. "Why, you are the one who has wished to go more than any of us!"
Tableau,—Tom, standing at the head of the table in front of his chair, which he has just pushed back; I, looking out of the window and playing with the curtain; Grace at her door, with her head turned towards me; Judith at the opposite door in the same position; George attentively surveying the sideboard, with his back turned to all of us.
Silence for ten seconds, during which no one moves. Then Judith comes swiftly toward me, and says in a low tone, which they all hear,—
"If it is on my account that you intend to stay at home, I beg of you to go, and let me stay."
"Oh, make it up, girls, make it up!" says my brother-in-law's hearty voice.
"Why not?" thought I. "I must do something, or I shall die of misery."
In a voice which was very tremulous, and broke in the midst of my sentence, I said,—
"I owe Judith an apology. I acknowledge that you were right this morning,"—looking at her for the first time,—"and I was cowardly and mean."
"O Dorris!" she cried, all her dignity gone. "Don't let us— Come along!" pulling me towards the door; and we both made our escape, scarcely noticing what Tom was saying to George about his belonging to the family—reconciliation—tears, etc.
I felt very foolish when I came back, and thought the whole performance undignified and childish. Judith confessed to me afterwards that she had the same feeling about it. I soon forgot it, however, in the wonders of the Stchunkine Dvor.
It looks to the passer-by like a row of shops, two stories high, with a covered balcony, and here and there narrow alleys leading in behind the shops, where we caught glimpses of iron, wheels, coils of rope, etc. At last we turned into one of these paths, and then we found that the block was honeycombed with streets, a city within a city. An odor greeted us which caused us to hold our noses; but we soon got accustomed to it, and George assured us that it was nothing worse than leather. The familiar icon with its candle was hung at nearly every corner. What a labyrinth it was into which we had suddenly penetrated! Books, jewelry, uncut gems, sausages, religious objects, Siberian shawls, dress goods, fancy articles, pickles, icons, ready-made clothing, shoes, and Chinese goods were some of the things which were offered for sale. In rooms about six feet square, containing a show-case and counter, we found the most desirable wares. Most of the stock in trade was suspended on the walls, or tucked away in dark corners. There was a goodly array of booths in the streets, and men in greasy sheepskins stood outside and invited us to purchase. They did not seem offended when we refused to buy, but asked us to call again.
The atmosphere and general appearance of the place was so filthy and shabby that Grace was inclined to look upon it with scorn; but Tom grew very enthusiastic. He held long conversations with the vendors, in Russian, invariably tried to make bargains for things which he did not want, and was generally unsuccessful,—getting hopelessly muddled in his Russian, and appealing to George to help him out. A copper samovar took his fancy particularly; and, finding that the price was twenty roubles, Tom offered the man eight. By the aid of smiles, shrugs, and various gestures, the conversation grew quite animated; but the merchant refused to take less than fourteen roubles, and we left the shop, Tom extremely downcast.
"Because, you know, it was a bargain at fourteen; and I was an idiot not to take it."
We wandered through the alleys, and at the end of two hours found that we women had spent all our money, and Tom had only a few roubles left,—having purchased some unset turquoises, a pair of silver vases, a cigar-stand, some old chains, six lamps, ten candle-sticks, four icons, and one Russian book. It was dark, and we turned our steps toward home. As we passed the samovar shop, the merchant waylaid us, and told Tom he could have the one he liked for twelve roubles. The offer was thankfully accepted.
I noticed that all of these merchants kept their accounts by means of a wire frame and colored balls, which they pushed up and down. I remember having one of these to play with at school, when I was a very little girl.
When we reached home, Grace announced that she was sure we had taken the plague, or some dreadful disease; and she was apprehensive all of the evening. Judith kissed me before we went to dinner, and I gave her a silver belt which I had just bought: so the reconciliation was complete.
To-day has been gray and dismal. Low spirits, and the sense that I was unfit for any one's company, drove me out of the house the moment I had swallowed luncheon. What a curse it is to be subject to fits of the blues!
I struggled along in the face of a piercing Siberian air,—not strong enough to be called a wind, but cold enough to put life into my limbs, though my heart felt as if frozen. My poor little maid trotted after me, trying to keep up with my hasty steps.
Up the Nevsky I took my way, and scarcely noticed my surroundings until long after I passed the Moscow railway station, when I became suddenly conscious that the pavement was wretched, and the shops extremely shabby. I stopped and looked about me.
Mathilde came panting to my side, exclaiming that mademoiselle had walked at least four miles, and that we were in a "très vilaine" street. I agreed with her.
The people who were passing us were workmen, peasants, and boys driving cows, and carrying tin horns four or five feet long, on which they blew tremendous blasts. The shops had a shabby appearance, owing partly to the signs, on which pictures of the articles offered for sale were painted, as well as their names in several languages.
Slightly puzzled at my surroundings, I walked more slowly, and allowed Mathilde to guide me. The object of my excursion was accomplished. The world no longer looked black and dreary. I began to think there was something for me to accomplish in life, and some people who loved me, in spite of my faults. Feeling comforted, I wended my way absently along, and my thoughts travelled far from my surroundings; so it was with quite a start that I looked at a gentleman who had sprung out of a sledge, and now advanced to speak. He was so enveloped in furs that I did not recognize George until he was close to me. His face wore an expression of disapproval; and, spending no time in preliminaries, he asked me where I was going.
"I don't know," I answered, without a smile. "I believe Mathilde is taking me home."
We walked on, and the maid fell behind.
"Really," said George, recovering his usual manner with a slight effort, "I should think you might have discovered some pleasanter place for a walk."
"Yes, I think I might," I responded, with a faint attempt at a laugh; "but I did not notice where I was going, and I found myself here at last."
He frowned, and bit his lip.
"You must have been absorbed in some pleasant thought."
"Pardon me," I interrupted; "it was very unpleasant."
"At least, it was absorbing?"
"Yes, I grant that. I was thinking of myself."
"I fancied you never did that" (in a tone which said that he never had paid much attention to the subject).
"I never do, when I have anything else to occupy my mind," I answered, as carelessly as he had spoken.
"Surely you don't complain of lack of amusement?"
"No,—I am not complaining; I am only answering your questions."
He smiled, and we walked on in silence for some time.
"Are you going to walk home with me?" I asked, at last.
"If you allow me."
"Then, can you call a sledge for my maid? She is not accustomed to such long tramps, and I fear she will be utterly exhausted when we reach home."
George hesitated a moment, then said,—
"I suppose you know that you are doing a very unconventional thing?"
"It is a matter of utter indifference to me. I don't wish to kill the maid,—that is all."
"You might drive home also."
"Yes, but I don't care to drive. I shall walk home alone if you desert me."
"Not for the world!" he cried hastily. "I shall be only too happy to accompany you."
He hailed a passing istvostchik, packed Mathilde in, and then surveyed me with a critical eye. "You are cold?"
I shook my head emphatically.
"You have a bashlik around your neck; put it over your ears, please."
I complied willingly with his request, for the air was piercing since the sun had departed and the early night had begun to fall.
We walked on briskly, and George, finding that his flow of conversation fell on rather inattentive ears, relapsed into a silence which was unbroken until we reached the canal bridge. Here my companion slackened his steps, and drew my attention to a little colony of Laplanders which we could see below us on the ice. Their tent of skins had an opening just large enough for a person to crawl in on all fours. A tiny team of reindeer stood near by.
"You can take a ride for two or three kopecks, if you like," said George. "But the poor reindeer suffer so dreadfully from the heat here that they cannot go as fast as is expected of them."
I shivered. "Which is that personage I see down there,—a man or a woman?" The figure wore a long cloak, like a petticoat with a waist to it, made of skins, big felt boots, mittens, and a hat the flap of which covered the back of the head, ears, and shoulders.
George shook his head at my question. "I cannot guess. How calmly it sits there on the ice, as if entirely comfortable!"
As we walked on, he continued, "They will disappear when it grows warmer, as mysteriously as they came. No one ever sees them go or come. But you would better take my arm, for it is dark, and the people push one about so." We had reached the Nevsky by this time.
"I thought of doing that some time ago," I responded, "but you were so shocked at my unconventionality in sending Mathilde home that I was afraid."
"Not shocked," he remonstrated. "I only wished to remind you."
"Very kind of you. I see that you are one of that large class of men who think that women should be watched lest they take a step out of the beaten track."
This I said because it suddenly occurred to me that George and I were getting on quite amicably together, which was not at all as it should be, considering my dislike for him. To my surprise he made no reply, but sighed deeply. I waited. "Well?" I said at last, impatiently.
"Nothing," with a little laugh.
Walking along arm in arm seemed quite too much like good friends, I thought. "Then you do not belong to that class?" I persisted.
George turned his eyes on me coldly. There was a wrinkle between his brows which he often has when he talks with me. "I think we were getting on very well," he said, looking a little angry, "and that your desire to quarrel with me will be unsatisfied to-day."
"I assure you that nothing was farther from my thoughts than quarrelling with you," I responded, delighted to have vexed him, but rather ashamed of myself at the same time.
"Then let us talk no more about it."
His annoyance was only momentary, and I was quite silent until we reached the Anitchkine Palace, when I exclaimed abruptly, "It grows more of a mystery to me every day that Peter the Great should have selected this flat, marshy spot for a capital. Not a hill in sight, and everything built on piles!"
My companion laughed. "Is that the subject which has kept your thoughts busy during the last ten minutes? If you have read your guide-book, as all good travellers ought, you must have discovered why the great Tsar forced his people to come to this bleak corner of Russia."
"I have read 'Murray,' of course, but I found no such explanation."
"It is recorded that Peter the Great wished to have a window from which he could look out into Europe, therefore he founded St. Petersburg."
"It is a very cold window, and his view of Europe seems to be confined to the frozen waters of the Baltic," I remarked frivolously.
We had reached home by this time, and the Suisse hurried to unfasten the door. There is generally a mysterious smell of cooking about the entrance to his tiny room at the foot of the stairs,—cooking mingled with tobacco,—and a sound of smothered cries, strangely like those of a baby. Yet the family of our Suisse is supposed to dwell in a small tenement round the corner.