The Tsar's Window/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV.
LE BAL DES PALMIERS.
ALICE has been here, has followed me into my room, and has given me a long dissertation on the inconvenience of single life. It seems to me that Alice has grown somewhat worldly wise, and perhaps a trifle vain. She appeared to be quite in earnest, as she set forth the advantages of marriage. She began cautiously, so that I did not know what she was leading me up to, until I heard myself saying that I would not marry a Russian, under any circumstances.
"Why not?" she asked, with a little pink flush on her cheek.
"Oh, I don't know," I answered feebly.
"I suppose you are not blind," she continued. "You must have seen that there is a certain Russian whose happiness depends on you."
"What a hackneyed expression!" I exclaimed, trying to laugh.
Alice began to examine a bracelet which lay on my dressing-table.
"I wish you would tell me, Dorris, why you keep George hanging about you in this way. Every one thinks he wishes to marry Judith; but I know my brother-in-law better than any of them, and I am not deceived" (nodding her pretty head with an air of superior wisdom). "If ever I have seen a man madly, wildly in love, it is he. This is all the more remarkable, because generally he is so cold and unmoved. Nicolas says it is nonsense,—that George cares for no one, unless it is Judith; but all the same, I know as well as if he had told me!"
"How very pleasant," I said musingly, "to have the family so interested and confidential about me and my affairs! Did Nicolas ask George if he was in love with me?"
Alice put on her most persuasive tone: "You must not be angry with me because I am interested in what concerns you. Who should be, my dear, if not your sister? Although we have been separated for so long, I love you as much as Grace does."
This touched me; and I responded, with a smile, "I am not angry; but neither do I see why you should think George cares particularly for me. There is surely nothing in his manner to indicate it."
My sister shook her head: "I believe you know it as well as I do. I have watched him, and I can see how a new light comes into his eyes every time they rest on you,—a light which I never saw there before in my life. I have noticed how he watches you stealthily, and how black his face is when, in talking with other men, you look up at them in a confiding way, as you have a habit of doing."
Here, aghast at Alice's words, I strove to interrupt; but nothing could stop the flow of her eloquence.
"And then, when you say something to him suddenly, he flushes like a girl, though he answers in as cool and measured a tone as usual," she went on calmly. "Your sarcasm hurts him, as no one else has power to do. I can understand George perfectly. What I do not understand is you."
She stopped at last, and waited for me to speak.
"What is it about me that you don't comprehend?" I asked. "I should have said that I was much more transparent than George; and you seem to have discovered the most wonderful things in him. Tell me, as you have been such a close observer, what you have noticed in me, and perhaps I can interpret it for you."
"Well," she began thoughtfully, "I have seen generally a quiet indifference. But," she continued, with her eyes fixed on my face, while a reflective look took possession of her own, "I have seen something else. You have been petulant sometimes, which one never is to a person for whom one feels only indifference. Two or three times I have noticed a look of real pleasure which came into your eyes when George made his appearance unexpectedly. One moment you ignore his presence, and the next you look at and speak to him as if he were the only person in the world."
"Enough!" I exclaimed, putting out my hand imploringly. "You make me out a perfect coquette!"
"Almost," she assented. "I have wondered, once or twice, if you were."
"Do you mean to say," I gasped, "that I have really acted in the way you describe?"
"It is certainly true, Dorris. That is what puzzles me. I could not make up my mind whether you cared for him or not."
"I had no idea that I behaved like that," I murmured. "How very foolish I must have seemed!"
"No one else noticed it," said Alice consolingly; "except George," she added, after a slight pause.
"Did he notice it?" I cried, turning round upon her. "Did he speak to you of it?"
"No, no!" she exclaimed hastily. "How you jump at conclusions! He has never exchanged a word with me on the subject; but I judged, by his manner and expression, that he noticed all these little things. It was in studying their effect upon him that I learned his secret."
"Dear, dear!" I sighed. "What an Argus eye has been upon us all this time, while we were blissfully unconscious,—thinking that our secrets were locked in our own breasts!"
We both laughed, and I went on in a brisk tone: "Really, Alice, you are all wrong. George is probably in love with any one rather than myself; and I am not in the least inclined to marry him, even if he should ask me,—which, I can assure you, he has never done, nor do I believe he has any intention of it. If your suspicions had been in another direction," I added carelessly, "they would have been more correct."
Alice took me up eagerly: "Chilton Thurber, you mean? Any one could see that he was devoted to you; but I never thought you returned his affection. Do you mean that you are fond of him?"
"Well," I said meditatively, "I don't know that I can go so far as to say that. No," I continued slowly, "I am not desperately in love with him; but I have promised to think about him."
My sister's face fell.
"I am so disappointed!" she said dolefully.
"Why?"
"Because I thought it would be so pleasant for you to marry George and live near me. And I am sorry for him, too; for, whatever you may say, I know he is in love with you. It will kill him, I know it will!" she continued tragically.
I laughed. "You are not serious, Alice."
"Indeed I am. If you marry Chilton Thurber—"
"Hush! not so loud. You must not repeat what I have told you to a living soul. And, to confess the truth" (confidentially), "I don't much think I shall marry him."
Alice shook her head mournfully. "You don't care for George as I hoped you did, if you could make Mr. Thurber any sort of promise to think about him."
I looked rather uneasily at my companion as I said ruefully, "I seem to be somewhat involved in my love affairs, but I hope to come safely through."
"I hope you will."
She looked at my clock. "Half an hour late for Nicolas! Good-by, my dear. A ce soir." And she hurried away, leaving me to comfort myself as best I might. I have found very little consolation so far; but I really think Alice exaggerates, and I must turn my attention to my toilet for this evening.
I appeared in a wonderful combination of satin and gauze last night, and felt quite proud of myself as I took one last lingering look at my reflection in the long glass.
"There is something about that pinkish ashes-of-roses color," said Tom, with the air of one who knows what he is talking about, "that suits you to a T."
"Oh, you poor goose!" laughed Grace. "That is cream color, not ashes-of-roses."
"Well, whatever you call it, it is mighty becoming."
"Yes," I responded with some vanity, "it really is."
"If you stand there looking at yourself much longer," cried Tom, "Alice will not wait for you."
"Come, Judith," I said with dignity; and together we descended the stairs and entered the carriage, which was waiting for us.
There was another carriage standing at the door, and Alice put her head out of the window and charged us to wear our thickest wraps. "It is bitterly cold," she added.
Enveloped in our furs, we did not feel it. In front of the palace a huge fire was burning merrily; there was an iron railing about it, and here a crowd of coachmen were huddled together, taking advantage of the warmth provided for them.
I felt strangely excited, and my cheeks glowed as if there were coals of fire on them. We soon reached the ball-room, where an aristocratic crowd was awaiting the entrance of the Emperor, and we had a chance to exercise our patience for some time.
"Have you seen the King of Adrianople?" Nicolas asked me.
"Whom do you mean?"
"That young fellow who is talking with Madame Kirovieff," he returned. "That is he."
"But why do you call him the King of Adrianople?"
"It is a name he got in the army. Have you not heard the story?"
I confessed my ignorance, and Nicolas related the following anecdote:—
"Last year, when General Gourko's army was lying about Adrianople, after the tedious passage of the Balkans, there was a certain officer, not above the rank of a captain, who demanded permission of his commander to enter Adrianople with his company. The Turks were about to evacuate the city, and the Russians intended to enter the next morning; but this gentleman said he was tired of sleeping out in the wet, and he wished to go into the town, get a good supper, and make himself comfortable for the night. The desired permission was given in a half-contemptuous way, and many were the laughs raised at the expense of the young officer, who expected to drive away eight or ten thousand Turks with only one hundred men.
"Just after nightfall the last detachment of the Turkish army was at the railway station, making preparations to embark on a train which was going to Constantinople. Two or three pachas and several officers were taking a hot supper in the restaurant at the station, refreshing themselves for their journey. Confusion reigned, each individual looking after his own effects, when there came a tremendous rattle of musketry-fire on all sides, with hoots and yells as from thousands of throats.
"Supposing the whole Russian army was upon them, the frightened pachas hurried the troops into the train, and started off at full speed of steam; and the gallant Russian not only slept comfortably in the railway station that night, but devoured the pachas' hot supper and took possession of the small pieces of baggage which they, in their haste, had forgotten."
By the time this story was ended the handle of the door behind us rattled significantly; we withdrew to a respectful distance, it opened, and the Emperor made his appearance, followed by his family. This was a signal for the dancing to begin, and my partner came to claim me for the first quadrille.
There was such a crowd that we could not dance comfortably. Little annoyances, however, were nothing to me. I felt, for some unaccountable reason, wildly, absurdly happy,—happier than I have ever been since I left home. I laughed, talked, danced, and enjoyed myself to the utmost. My dress was becoming, and every one was pleasant; nothing seemed likely to occur to mar my happiness, as Sacha kept away from me, Mr. Cheremenieff was not there, George looked kindly on me, and the ambassador was always at my elbow.
The imperial family mingled so freely with the guests that it was impossible not to turn one's back upon them sometimes. Quite an excitement was created at one moment, by a couple who were waltzing so vigorously that they became entangled in some chairs, and fell down with a tremendous crash. The gentleman broke three chairs in his descent, and the lady fortunately fell on top of her partner. The Emperor rushed forward to ascertain the extent of the injury, but everything was unharmed except the chairs. Another audacious couple waltzed into His Imperial Majesty and nearly upset him. They retired, covered with confusion.
I will say nothing about the magnificent toilets of the grand duchesses, although I could write pages about them. I would rather think of how pleasantly George talked with me in the few minutes we had together before the mazurka began. He had no partner, and asked me to dance it with him, but I refused.
"I would like to dance with you," I said, "but I have already refused two people, and I suppose I must not change my mind."
"Then you will allow me to take you in to supper?" he asked.
"Yes, but what will you do with your partner?"
"I shall not dance," he returned.
"If you have any idea of sitting with me during the mazurka," I said, laughing, "you must give it up, because I promised the ambassador that I would converse with him about Rome while you giddy young people are dancing."
"I suppose, however," he remarked, with a quizzical expression, "that you will not insist upon my joining the giddy young people unless I choose?"
"I should never think of insisting, because I should not expect you to obey, and a failure would be humiliating."
The ambassador came up at this moment. "Are you talking about failures?"
"I was telling Count Piloff," I responded, "that my efforts to enjoy myself at balls were generally failures. No,—" I broke off suddenly, seeing that George did not approve of this, and thinking myself that the falsehood was unnecessary,—"that is not what I was saying, but it was nothing of consequence. Do you know who that lady is in the amber-colored dress?"
George left me as my companion replied, and we began comparing notes about Rome, which interesting occupation we continued until the doors into the supper-room were thrown open.
"Oh!" I cried, clasping George's arm and starting forward. "From the heart of an arctic winter we are transported to the tropics!"
It was really like a glimpse into a southern clime, and I could not realize that there was a temperature outside of ten degrees below zero. We looked into a grove of tall, waving palm-trees, through the green foliage of which a softened light was shed from thousands of wax candles on a quantity of small tables, glittering with glass and silver. A larger table, raised slightly above the others, was set with gold dishes for the imperial family. The walls of the garden—or room, as I discovered it afterwards to be—were lined with orange, lemon, and magnolia trees, and a faint tropical perfume greeted me as I advanced into this paradise.
Servants in silk stockings and gold-laced coats were moving noiselessly about.
"Are we expected to eat amid all this magnificence?" I inquired.
"Certainly. You must do justice to a hot supper," responded George.
"You may," I said, as I took my seat at one of the small tables, the centre of which was a blooming bed of geraniums and heliotrope, obscuring my opposite neighbors, and lending a dash of color to the snowy linen and shining silver. "I shall do nothing except to look about me."
"I hope you will not altogether cease talking."
"I have been reading a frightful thing lately in the newspapers," said I, shuddering, "and I don't know why the remembrance of it should come upon me here, in the midst of this dream of the Arabian Nights, for it makes me sad, which is extremely inappropriate."
"I know," returned George; "it is the account of that fearful plague in the south of Russia."
"Yes," I agreed, growing pale and solemn as a recollection of the details came to me. "How horrible to think of dying in twenty-four hours!" I could not taste my bouillon, but sent it away untouched.
"Don't think of it," said my companion consolingly; "it can do no good to ponder over it."
"But what a contrast!" (looking around me).
"Not more striking than many others which we might see. Life is made up of them. Every possible measure is being taken to prevent the spread of the scourge; it has not yet gone beyond the Volga. Whole villages in which the disease has appeared have been burned to the ground, together with the clothing of the peasants, for whom new homes have been provided. You need not be apprehensive."
"It is not that," I returned, recovering my spirits and my color somewhat. "I am not alarmed for myself, but it seems such a frightful curse."
"It is," murmured George. "Poor Russia has had more than her share of affliction. Whatever her faults, she has been heavily punished for them."
There fell upon us a silence which I was loath to break, for I felt strangely subdued and quiet. It was George who spoke first, with a well-affected air of indifference, in which I could detect a thrill of meaning.
"Alice tells me some strange news."
"Indeed! Is it about any one whom I know? Will it interest me?"
"It should interest you, for it is about yourself."
I darted an inquiring look at him, and he smiled calmly.
"I don't know why Alice told me," he continued, "for she said it was a secret, and that, if I betrayed her confidence, you would never forgive me."
A little sharp cry escaped me. I changed it into a laugh, but it sounded hoarse and unnatural. For an instant it seemed cruel that he should have heard it in this way,—that I should not have been the one to break it to him, and to take the sting out of it; then came the thought that it was better so, for I felt instinctively that I should never have had courage to tell him. But the beating of my heart was almost painful, as I replied, "I wish you would tell me what the important communication was."
He went on calmly:—
"Have you, as she says, given Thurber a half-promise to marry him?"
"Oh!" I remonstrated, "he did not say anything about marrying. I only promised to think of an engagement."
My companion smiled rather sadly, as he looked at my flushed face.
"Engagements lead to marriage, and are just as binding," he said.
"I don't understand how you can think that."
"A woman has no right to engage herself to a man whom she does not intend to marry," George responded slowly; "and it seems to me that one ought to hold an engagement as sacred as a marriage. Don't you think so?" (looking at me inquiringly).
"Certainly," said I emphatically. "Still, it is not really as binding."
He shook his head in disapproval.
"It should be. A promise should be as binding as the law."
My heart sank as I realized for the first time that I had given Mr. Thurber a promise which perhaps I could not fulfil. For the first time, the full sense of what I had done came over me, and nearly overwhelmed me. Until that moment I had thought of it lightly, as something which had been said to pass away the time.
After a pause, I remonstrated: "But mine is not an engagement. I told Mr. Thurber that I would try and make up my mind to be engaged to him when he returns."
"You are not kind," said George, turning towards me, and speaking with great deliberation, "to try and blind me. It is mistaken pity on your part. Believe me" (looking at me with earnest kindness), "it is better for me to face the truth; then I shall delude myself with no false hopes,—that would be the most cruel thing of all. I feel sure that you would not have held out this hope to Thurber if you had not intended to do all that lay in your power to bring yourself to love him. A woman like you would not have made that promise thoughtlessly, or fulfilled it carelessly. You must have felt sure that you would succeed. You see" (with a half smile) "I can reason calmly enough about it, and I am not afraid of the truth."
An unutterable sadness came over me. How little, in reality, I fulfilled his ideal! Had I not done the very thing he pronounced me incapable of, viz., given my word thoughtlessly, and fulfilled it carelessly? Never, until that moment, had I owned the truth to myself.
With an inward thanksgiving that George did not know me as I really was, I spoke:—
"You may be perfectly right. I may have done all this; and yet" (I questioned steadily) "am I to blame if my heart has refused to listen to my will, and if I find that I cannot take the step which he expects of me?"
He gave me a startled glance, and, seeing the grave question in his eyes, I laughed. He looked infinitely relieved. "I thought, for a moment, that you were in earnest," he said apologetically.
"You would have thought very poorly of me if I had been so," I remarked, calmly beginning to eat my peach.
"No," he asserted, "not very poorly; but you would have seemed fickle, which is the last fault I should have accused you of possessing" (with a glance of admiration).
I felt wretchedly mean and small. I was alarmed at the high opinion George had of me, and the disappointment he would feel if I failed to keep my promise to Chilton Thurber. I have felt lately that it would be impossible for me to do that. The sentiment I have for him is not love, and I doubt my ability to make it so. "Oh, surely," I thought, "George judges very harshly!" But I concealed the pain I was enduring as well as I could, and endeavored to draw my companion to other topics. Fortunately, the guests soon left the tables; and we followed their example, though I cast one last lingering look at the glories which were about to become a thing of the past.
When I took my way reluctantly to the ball-room, it was apparent that I no longer threw myself into the pleasure of the moment, as I had done the first of the evening.
"You are not so happy as you were when you arrived," said George. "Why is that?"
"I could not expect to be," I answered; "for I have not been so thoroughly happy for years as I was when I first came. I knew it would not last. I am thankful to have had the feeling, even for a short time," I added lightly.
There was not much rest for me last night. When I reached home, my thoughts were very unpleasant companions. I began to realize, in my inmost heart, that it was my duty to accept Mr. Thurber; and that duty stared me blankly in the face, in spite of all my efforts to shut it out.
"But it is a sin," I cried mentally, "to marry a man whom I don't love! He would not wish me to say Yes with my lips, while my heart rebelled."
A little voice answered me: "Then you should not have promised. You said you would try to love him. How have you kept your word? By putting him as much out of your mind as possible. You have failed grievously, but simply because you have not made the effort which it was your duty to make. You have no right to shirk the punishment of your own thoughtless acts. The only course which you can pursue with honor is to accept Chilton Thurber, and then do your best to love him."
And deep down in my heart a few words were whispered, which made me wretched and ashamed; for they spoke my own weakness so clearly, and showed so plainly that I could not trust my own motives. These were the words which I heard:—
"You must accept Chilton Thurber, or George will despise you for being fickle."
What was it to me, if George did think me fickle? So I asked myself many times. But in spite of my common sense, the words were echoed over and over in my mind.
The carnival is over, and Lent has begun. The last palace-ball was given Sunday evening, and that ended the festivities of the season; so we have settled down to a comparatively quiet life.
The moujiks' carnival was a serious affair, as it was impossible to get any work done while it lasted. On the Champs de Mars a number of temporary theatres and booths were erected, and the crowd was dense during the entire week,—men in their sheepskins, and women with bright handkerchiefs tied under their chins, all so happy and good-tempered! The performances in the theatres went on all day, and nearly all night. Flaming pictures of Russians and Turks in mortal combat, gunboats blowing up, and blazing artillery, ornamented the outside of these structures.
Among the theatres were dozens of merry-go-rounds, each having its own particular style of music; and as they were near together, the effect was something startling. One hand-organ was grinding out the "Red, White, and Blue." Grace nearly wept with joy when she heard it; and we had great difficulty in dragging Tom away from the instrument.
"This is the happiest moment of my visit!" he exclaimed plaintively.
We stood and watched the people for a long time. They were so happy it was a pleasure to look at them. Towards the end of the week, however, the effects of the carnival began to show themselves in a rather unpleasant way.
The moujik has few wants. If he has money enough to buy his sheepskin coat once in six or eight years, and his black bread each day, it is all he desires. What can he do with any extra kopecks he may have? He spends them for vodka, of course, and during the carnival he drinks steadily all the time. The result may be imagined. It takes the first three days of Lent for him to recover from the fête. During this time it is next to impossible to get any work done,—even a nail driven in, or a shoe mended.
But the moujik makes up for his indulgence by the severity of his fast. He eats no meat, eggs, milk, or butter; and as good fish is expensive, he takes it salt, dried, or stale. If he falls ill, no power on earth can induce him to break his fast. He would rather die than to commit the sin of taking a mouthful of beef or wine. As there are four Lents a year in the Greek Church, I for one do not begrudge the Russian peasant his little indulgences between.