The Tsar's Window/Chapter 09
CHAPTER IX.
EPIPHANY.
WE have just returned from the palace, where we went to see the blessing of the Neva, which always takes place on this date. It is the Russian Epiphany. It was quite an interesting ceremony, or would have been so if I could have seen more of it.
A pavilion was erected on the border of the river opposite the main entrance to the palace, and a carpet spread across the road. There was such a crowd in the hall where we were that I feared we should not be able to get near a window; but Prince Tucheff procured a retired corner, from which we had a view of the street below. He stationed himself behind me and beside Judith, who never turned her head towards the window, and who, consequently, knows as much about the blessing of the Neva as she does about Greek. I could not avoid overhearing some of their conversation, as I was so near. I hailed the appearance of Mr. Cheremenieff with relief, for my position was growing embarrassing.
"Why don't they begin?" I asked.
"The service is now going on in the chapel below. At its close, the priests will go out upon the river. But look at the crowd, mademoiselle! Is not that a wonderful sight?"
It really was. Rows of mounted policemen lined the path from palace to pavilion where the carpet was spread: behind them appeared a surging, swaying mass of human beings. At intervals of two or three minutes, as the people encroached on the path, the policemen forced them to retreat by spurring their horses into the heart of the crowd, and making them kick and rear; we could hear the screams of women, mingling with the dull roar of the mob.
"Oh!" I cried in horror. "Is any one killed?"
"I think not," replied my companion, with an easy smile.
"I feel like Marie Antoinette, when the mob was under her window at Versailles. I am afraid of that crowd."
"They are very gentle and patient," he said reassuringly.
"Yes, but there are so many of them!"
"I suppose you never see a crowd like that in America," said Mr. Cheremenieff.
How tiresome it is to be constantly reminded that you are a foreigner! One would think an American was an entirely different species from an ordinary woman. I answered, rather impatiently, "Oh yes, plenty of them," and turned my attention to the window.
A cheerful voice at my ear brought my eyes back to the room.
"Is n't it tiresome to wait so long?" cried George, giving a glance at Judith and her companion, as he accosted me.
"I don't mind it," I responded, "so long as I have something pleasant to talk about."
"But suppose you had not," he persisted, laughing. "Suppose all the pleasure which you had been looking forward to had proved to be only—let me see—don't you say Dead Sea fruit?"
"Yes, I say it sometimes; but I should think you rarely had occasion to say so."
He looked at me with a face which told that he was amused and surprised.
"How cynical you are! So life is supposed to be all bright for me, and all bitter for you?"
"I did not say that!" I retorted angrily. "I am not such a child. I only meant that I was subject to attacks of the blues; and I don't believe you are."
His gaze travelled past me, and out of the window.
"I misunderstood you," he said quietly. "Pardon me."
I always seem to be at a disadvantage with George. If I lose my temper, or make a foolish speech, it is sure to be when he is present.
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he were annoyed; and I sighed audibly.
My companion turned his eyes from the landscape, and glanced at me with a half-amused expression.
"What is the matter? Do you feel an attack of the blues coming on?"
"It is nothing to laugh at," I returned, with some spirit. "If I were blue, I should not come to you for sympathy."
"Why not?"
"Because I think you have n't such a thing in your nature."
"Now, that, Miss Romilly, is extremely unjust. How can you know whether I am sympathetic or not? Do you think you understand me thoroughly, after such a short acquaintance?"
I could not determine whether he was in earnest or not; so I answered, at random,—
"No, I am not so rash."
"You have not told me why you sighed in such a dismal way."
"Because I was sorry for you."
"Indeed!" (amusement showing itself in his eyes.) "May I ask why?"
"You looked so melancholy, just then."
"That was kind of you," he said, smilingly. "If you knew what made me thoughtful,—I deny being melancholy,—you would not feel at all sorry for me."
"Then it is as well that I do not know?" I retorted.
"You never shall, if I can help it," he muttered under his breath.
"I beg pardon?" I said sweetly. "I did not hear."
"And I did not intend that you should" (with a grave smile). "But," he added, "I don't mean to be rude, and I fear I seem so. How forbearing you are to-day!"
"I am endeavoring to show you that I can sometimes keep my temper."
"You have proved that beyond dispute!" he exclaimed, with a hearty laugh.
"Count Piloff," said I, "will you tell me why there is nothing going on down there?"—indicating the road.
"Because the service in the chapel is not yet over. Patience is a virtue which those who frequent palaces must cultivate."
"Well, as there is nothing to look at outside, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me why you treat me as if I were a child?"
I said this rather frivolously, smiling at him as I awaited his reply. He hesitated for some time; then said,—
"I cannot imagine why I do" (in a musing tone), "unless it is because you seem such a child to me."
I gazed at him in astonishment too deep for utterance. He looked upon me, Dorris Romilly,—who considered herself quite a woman of the world, and was so considered by most of her friends,—as a child! Amazement kept me silent for the moment. I could think of no words strong enough to convince him of his mistake. When I did speak, it was to utter but a feeble protest.
"I am twenty-five, and I feel fifty."
This only made him smile again.
"You are wonderfully like a child sometimes," he said at last; "and the next moment you are a woman."
This soothed me somewhat.
"To-day," he went on, with a kind smile, "you have appeared in the former character. What you will be to-morrow is a mystery which I cannot fathom. Last Sunday, you were—" (he stopped suddenly).
"What was I then?" I asked eagerly.
He responded gravely, "Yourself."
I looked puzzled, as I felt.
"You wonder," he continued, with that look of quiet amusement which I had noticed before, "whether I mean charming or the reverse."
"I wonder nothing of the sort," said I quickly, with a warm color in my face.
"Think no more about it; for here comes the procession."
A number of priests, bearing banners, appeared below us; and every head in the crowd was uncovered, remaining so through the service, which lasted about fifteen minutes.
The priests were followed by officers, more priests, tattered flags, and the choir, which chanted all the time. They disappeared in the pavilion, and we could only hear the music. The cold was intense; and the men in the crowd rubbed their ears and their bare heads, as they listened in rapt devotion to the service.
Finding that I could see and hear nothing, I turned, expecting to find a vacant place, where George had been; but he was still there.
"I am so glad you have not gone," I cried, "for I have been intending to ask you a question for a long time, and I never could remember it when I was with you. Why were you named George?"
"I am sorry if my name displeases you. But St. George was a great character in his day, and perhaps my mother thought I might resemble him," he answered, smiling. "You know our choice of names is limited, for each member of the Greek Church must be named for some saint."
"I did not know that you belonged to that church."
"I was baptized in it, therefore I suppose that I am a member. But I assure you St. George is altogether the greatest saint we have, and the Order of St. George is the highest in Russia. The first class of the order is given only to one who has commanded one hundred thousand men in a successful war. The Emperor and the Grand Duke Nicolas are the only persons in this country who have it. So I trust you will forgive me for having such an ugly name."
"I don't know that it is so very ugly," I replied thoughtfully, "when one gets accustomed to it."
"Try and become accustomed to it, then," said my companion, with a laugh.
"I ask a great many questions, I know," apologetically; then I added abruptly, "Where is every one going?"
"Into the next room for lunch, I fancy. Let us go too."
"I do not feel as if I had seen the Neva blessed, after all," I murmured, as I moved away reluctantly.
Alice and I have been painting from the same model,—a little Italian whom she found in the street. He is named Alberto, and he says that he came alone from Naples. He talks freely enough, but I have been unable to discover his reason for leaving the sunny land of his birth to visit this inhospitable climate. I asked him if the Russians were not very poor.
"Oh, no!" he cried, and went on to describe the moujik's life as quite a paradise compared with that of the Italian peasant.
There is such a depth of ignorance in the faces of some of these moujiks! I wish I could speak Russian; I should like to be able to ask questions, and learn something about this strange people.
"You Russians," I said to Nicolas the other day, "are so—I hardly know how to express it—so light. There seems no depth to you, no earnestness."
"You forget," he answered gravely, "that you only know the society element, which is much alike in all countries. Strangers come here, stay a year or two in Petersburg, and then go away and write a book, thinking they know all about us. What does a man understand of America who goes to New York and Newport only, and spends his time in society and at the clubs?"
"True," I replied. "It is unjust."
So I have given up trying to judge the Russians. I take them as I find them,—a kind-hearted, hospitable, cordial, highly cultivated nation; and I find them extremely pleasant to live with. The women look much like Americans, and are unusually bright. They are pale, and remind me a little of hothouse plants. Large feet are the exception; even the peasants have pretty feet.
What strange creatures Englishmen are! Mr. Thurber, who spends two or three months here every year, seldom has a good word to say for poor Russia.
"At least," I remonstrated, "you will acknowledge that the Neva is a fine river?"
He pondered a moment, then replied,—
"Do you know, I think a river can be too large!"
The pictures in the Hermitage, especially the Murillos, are my constant delight. I am very ambitious, and am trying to copy the head of the Virgin in Murillo's "Assumption." I wish I had taken something easier. Mr. Thurber comes in nearly every day to observe the progress of my work. His criticisms are too just to be encouraging.
This morning I induced him to leave the Spanish school, and look at the pictures by Russian artists, which we discussed in detail. Then, as I felt tired, we sat down in a window embrasure, and continued our conversation.
"How I long to see the gallery in Madrid!" I cried.
"Why do you not go there?"
"That would be so easy!" I answered sarcastically.
"Nothing easier," he remarked calmly. "When you leave here, take a trip through Spain."
I looked at him blankly.
"In the first place, Grace would not listen to the idea; but even if she went, it would not be possible for me to do so. You speak as if it were a mere nothing; let me assure you that it would cost a large amount of money, and I have none to spare. I am not an heiress like Judith; my income is very small, and a journey to Spain would be quite beyond me."
"I thought all Americans were wealthy."
"I dare say you did. That is a popular fallacy abroad. I believe I never met a foreigner who was not imbued with it."
"You still persist in calling me a foreigner?" he asked, with a half smile.
"You are one, you know, though of the least objectionable nation."
I got up, and we began to stroll towards the entrance, where the sledge was to come for me at a quarter to two.
"It wants five-and-twenty minutes to the hour," said Mr. Thurber. "You will have to wait."
"Never mind."
I sat down and watched a gayly dressed attendant, who was walking leisurely about.
"I wonder," said I thoughtfully, "whether there will be any servants in the house with whom I can communicate when I get home. If the butler is there, I can give my order in English, otherwise I must tell my maid in French, she will tell the footman in German, and he will tell the moujik or the cook in Russian. I ordered some wood the other day, and they brought me hot water."
"I fancied that you had learned words enough to make your wants known."
"So I have, two or three times over, and forgotten them again. I never knew anything so easy to forget as Russian."
"Housekeeping among a people whose language you do not understand must be difficult."
"It would be, except that my sister lets the house keep itself. I doubt if she knows how many servants she has, and I am sure she is in a blissful state of ignorance as to where they eat and sleep. The moujiks are supposed to 'keep themselves,' but I never pass the butler's pantry that I don't see one of them eating, or drinking tea. To be sure, they get very small wages, so I don't blame them for picking up all they can."
"There is such an infinite number of them in every house which I enter," said my companion. "They seem to be employed to wait on the other servants."
"So they are. We have one for the butler, one for the cook, one to trim the lamps and take care of the fires, and one to polish the floors. I don't know the exact number, but I am continually coming upon long-haired and bearded figures, in high boots and gay-colored shirts, who draw themselves up against the wall and murmur 'Zdrasty' as I pass. I feel as if I were in a theatre all the time."
"On the whole, you would not fancy housekeeping in this country?" looking at me sharply.
"I don't say that," I answered impatiently, tapping my heels on the floor. "Why did we come here instead of stopping to look at the pictures?"
"Because you preferred to come down," he responded, with a touch of annoyance.
"Ah, here is Vasili!" I cried. "If you do not mind," turning to Mr. Thurber, "I will take you with me in the sledge. It is extremely improper, but if I wrap my collar well about my face, no one will know that I am not Grace; and a married woman may do anything she likes."
"I believe no one cares enough about me to criticise me," he replied, stepping into the sledge after me.
"It seems absurd for us not to go together when our destination is the same."
Reaching home, we found the family sitting over the remains of luncheon, George bearing them company. I fell to at once, with a good appetite.
Suddenly Tom exclaimed, "By the way, how did you and Thurber happen to arrive at the same instant?"
"Because we came in the same sledge, I suppose," I answered calmly.
"No!" cried Tom. "I wonder you were not afraid Thurber would run away with you."
"Don't try to be funny," I responded, peacefully eating my kalatch. "Mr. Thurber has had no lunch. Why don't you offer him some tea?"
"Will you give it to him?" said Grace. "Judith and I have to go out, and Vasili is waiting."
"I will"; and I approached the samovar, while Grace and Judith took their departure. George went to the door with them, and then returned to his old position in front of the sideboard. I gave a sly glance at him, and thought he seemed depressed.
"Tom," I cried abruptly, "do you know what I was thinking of the other day at the christening?"
"No." My brother-in-law was all eager attention.
"I was wondering what Uncle John would have said had he been there."
Tom gave one of his hearty laughs,—not a "parlor laugh," as Judith says, but very contagious and pleasant to hear.
"I hope you did n't suggest that to Alice."
"I did, and she looked horrified."
"I should think so. You ought to see Uncle John" (turning to Mr. Thurber), "to appreciate this."
"He is a most worthy old man," I continued, "but not exactly the kind that one would wish to present at court as a relative."
"I don't know that he is a worthy old man," broke in Tom. "He is an old miser."
"But a good Baptist," I persisted. "He generally sits in the kitchen, with his feet on the stove, chewing tobacco, in the winter. In warm weather he occupies the 'pyazzy,' as he calls it, and goes without a coat."
"What an eccentric person!" remarked Mr. Thurber.
"Once a year," I continued, stopping to drink my tea before I finished the sentence, "he used to make a raid upon us. He came to the city for a change. He always arrived when we least expected him. He never shaved oftener than once a week. What overcoats he wore! and oh, how ashamed we used to be of him!"
Tom and I laughed in concert, and George joined us. Mr. Thurber's face wore a polite smile.
"But if you slighted Uncle John," I went on, watching the Englishman intently, but telling my story in a half-laughing way, "he talked about your being 'stuck up,' and 'feeling big,' and 'he guessed he was as good as any one!' What a contrast," I sighed, "between him and the Grand Duchess Vladimir! So little pretension in her, so much in him! Uncle John would feel sure that he was as important a personage as the Emperor, if he were to come here. I would like to know what they would all think of him."
"Let us hope," said George, "that the old gentleman will not take it into his head to visit Russia."
I shuddered. "What a mercy that he is so stingy, else he would undoubtedly come."
"Has he much money?"
"I don't know. Tom thinks so, because he never spends any."
Mr. Thurber looked slightly bored.
"There!" I said mentally, "the story of Uncle John has disgusted him, and I am spared the disagreeable task of refusing him. Undeceiving him as to my being an heiress perhaps had some weight, but Uncle John has certainly turned the scales."
While I was reflecting on this, and finishing my lunch in silence, scarcely hearing what the others said, I found George watching me intently. Could it have been my imagination which made me think he looked sorry for me? I cannot tell; the expression vanished so quickly that I hardly know by what word to describe it. I smiled as I met his eye, and inquired, "Why do you look at me so earnestly?"
"I am thinking," he answered slowly, "that undoubtedly you are a good judge of character; but do not make a mistake and judge too hastily."
Tom and Mr. Thurber were deep in a question of Eastern politics. I looked at George interrogatively. "What do you mean?"
"Only what I say," was his answer; and this was all the satisfaction he gave me.