The Tsar's Window/Chapter 16
CHAPTER XVI.
THE KREMLIN.
A DREARY time to travel, but still drearier to stay at home, if home be Petersburg. The weather has been and still is in a transition state,—mud and melting snow in the streets; the sun persistently hiding his face; short, dark, rainy days alternating with gray, snowy ones.
The Russians call this season the "Black Winter," and it sometimes lasts until the middle of April. What a prospect! But we shall be far away before then.
Tom could not make up his mind to leave Russia without seeing Moscow; in fact, we all wanted to come here, although we were told it would not look its best at this dull season. Alice proposed to make one of the party, but Nicolas could not join us, and Tom almost refused to go when he found there would be four ladies in his sole charge. In vain we told him that we could all take care of ourselves. He replied that they would think he was a Turk travelling with his harem; though, when questioned, he was quite vague in his mind as to who "they" meant.
At last some one suggested that George should be asked to join the party. Tom's face became radiant, and he added, "Thurber told me he would come to Moscow for a day or two while we were there, if I would let him know. He is not far off, and can get away from his hunting for a day at least."
The more Tom talked about it, the more pleased he was with the idea of asking George; and the latter consented to go with us without any hesitation. We started last night.
It is fortunate that George came, for so far he has done everything which has been done, and Tom has dropped quietly into the background.
What a city this is! A mixture of barbaric splendor and civilized squalor, and so utterly unlike any place in the world that one who has not been here cannot get the faintest idea of what it is like.
I do not think we lost much by coming in the night. The country is a vast wilderness, for the railroad is built in a direct line, without regard to cities which it might easily have been made to pass through. I distinguished various collections of low, shed-like structures when I awoke this morning. The only signs of life about them were some smoking chimneys. The snow was drifting about aimlessly in the air, as if loath to settle in so melancholy a spot.
We partook of tea at all hours of the night, as on our first journey in Russia. The sleeping-car was wonderfully comfortable. Grace, Alice, and I occupied a large compartment at one end. The former was wakeful, and, finding the night cold, in the goodness of her heart she occupied her sleepless hours by keeping me covered with a fur cloak. The consequence was, she grew nervous.
I awoke once, and found her sitting on the floor at my feet, wrapped up to the chin.
"Grace, what is the matter?" I asked anxiously.
"I am almost sure," she answered, puckering her brows thoughtfully, "that I forgot to tell Mathilde to put a new flounce on that green dress, and she will have nothing to do while we are away."
"Is that all?" was my unsympathetic rejoinder; and I fell asleep immediately.
I slept until the others were all assembled in that part of the car which served us for a sitting-room on the journey; and when I appeared, Tom exclaimed,—
"Dorris looks fresher than any of you. How can any one feel so good-natured before breakfast?"
Tea and bread constituted the only meal which we were able to procure before our arrival, at eleven o'clock this morning. George took charge of the baggage, carried our parcels, and waited upon us untiringly. After all, polish is an agreeable thing, whether it covers much heart or not. I suppose if George had not been educated to wait upon ladies, or if he had not acquired the habit of caring for others, he might be equally willing, but he would not know how to do it. As it is, he is simply the perfection of a travelling companion. Tom means well, and is kind-hearted; but it does not occur to him that there is a draught over Judith's head, or that Alice cannot open her bag, that Grace wants her book, or I another pillow, until George has arranged it all, when he looks up with surprise, and says, "Why did n't you ask me?" and immediately offers to do a dozen things which we do not want. George did not bore us with too much conversation, either. In short, he was everything one could desire, and nothing which we did not desire.
Arrived in this city, we took possession of two sleighs, and started for the Slaviansky Bazar. There was a damp snow falling, and it is still storming fitfully. Never, in such a short space of time, have I suffered as much as in that drive.
"Alice," I cried, while my hat was jolted over one ear, as I grasped the seat tenaciously, "is there any pavement?"
"I don't think it is worse than the one in Petersburg," said my sister calmly.
"It reminds me of nothing so much as the waves of the sea," I continued; but Tom interrupted me:—
"The waves let you down easy; but these 'thank-you-ma'ams' don't let you down at all,—they throw you."
I thanked Providence inwardly when, in a very battered condition, we reached the hotel. A porter in Russian costume rushed forward to assist us out of the sledge.
"I don't think," remarked Judith, "that there is much of me left to get out."
"We must have breakfast at once," Tom insisted; and in less than an hour it was placed before us.
That business disposed of, we strolled out in a body and on foot to explore the town. Tom proposed a carriage.
"No," said Judith, "a sleigh."
Whereupon I added my voice: "Whichever you take, you will wish you had taken the other. Let us walk."
My proposition met with approval, and we started.
Oh, the queer old place! The shabbiness, quaintness, and general junk-shop appearance of the streets! Mud, moujiks, dirty snow, painted signs, poor old horses, gorgeous stucco palaces, bright-green churches, scarlet gates, walls with religious and battle pictures painted over them, shrines with burning candles, second-hand shops, brilliant passages, more churches than I can count, with gilded domes and minarets and crosses; and, most wonderful of all and above all, the Kremlin! There never was a city like it, and there never will be another.
"So this is Moscow," said Tom, when we had walked a few blocks. "I have seen enough to last me a lifetime."
"It is not in the least like what I had pictured it," Judith exclaimed. Tom had brought out a small note-book, and was overwhelming Alice and George with questions.
"The idea of your not knowing when that gate was built, or the name of the architect," he cried impatiently. "I shall not come out again without my 'Murray.'"
"I hope you won't," laughed Alice. "I am not prepared to serve as guide-book for you."
We were strolling along independently, in regular tourist style, when Judith, who was a few steps in advance, cried suddenly, in long-drawn tones of wonder and admiration, "Oh—h—h!"
"It is Vasili Blagennoi," said Alice.
"I should think it might be something of that sort," remarked Tom, as all six of us came to a stand-still before the most gorgeous, effective, barbaric structure which I ever saw. It was a collection of towers and domes of all shapes, sizes, and colors, thrown together helter-skelter, and forming a church. Not a square inch of it was uncolored. Scarlets and bright greens vied with flaming yellow and dull purple.
"I can tell you all you wish to know about this," said George triumphantly. "It was built in the reign of Ivan the Terrible, by an Italian, whose eyes the wicked Tsar caused to be put out, so that he might never build another like it. This tradition you must believe, though 'Murray' says it is a mistake."
"I should think it would have stricken him blind," I remarked. "Can we go in?"
"Or," added Tom, "shall we stand here on the corner, advertising ourselves as tourists? They might suppose we belonged to Cook, there are so many of us."
With eyes very wide open, we clattered up the stone steps. It was so cold and dark as we entered that it struck a chill to the marrow of my bones.
"Imagine me your commissionnaire" said George, "while I explain everything to you. There are eleven domes in this church, and each one contains a chapel which is dedicated to a different saint."
"Why do you stop?" asked Tom. "If you are personifying a commissionnaire, you must never cease talking from the time you come in until we fee you."
"I really cannot think of anything more to tell you."
Alice now took her turn. "The church is built in memory of an idiot, or two idiots."
"True; I had forgotten that."
We made our way from one chapel to another, through low, narrow passages, the ceilings of which we could touch with our hands.
"Don't let us stay here," pleaded Grace. "If you only knew how cold I am!"
We could all sympathize with her, and we came out gladly into the damp air.
"Now for a look at the Kremlin," cried Tom, "and then home to get warm."
We entered the gate nearest us, and walked about among the various buildings which constitute the Kremlin. Churches, the palace, an arsenal and treasure-house, the whole surrounded by a high, white wall, and placed on an eminence in the centre of the city,—this is the Kremlin of which I have dreamed.
Looking at it, as I did for the first time, under a dull March sky, sharp little snow-flakes pelting me fiercely in the face, melting snow under foot, and a general nastiness and sloppiness about me, I was moved to a sort of wonder that any one could ever have admired this strange architecture.
"I never saw anything so disappointing as that great bell" (standing at a distance, and surveying it with interest). "I expected it to be three times as large. How do you feel about it, Dorris?"
"I entirely agree with you."
"Life is full of disappointments," quoth George. "If we go to the hotel, rest well to-night, and visit this spot to-morrow, I have no doubt you will wonder that it could have made so little impression upon you to-day."
"Very well," said Grace, who is always willing to rest, "let us try your plan. We shall feel fresher to-morrow."
We passed the Holy Gate on our way out, and were told that every one, from the Tsar down, goes through it with bare heads.
We had a spare hour before dinner yesterday. The rest of the party went to their various apartments. I took possession of the sitting-room and the guide-book.
Before long Tom and George appeared, with noses slightly red, and a general look of having been out in the frosty air.
"I thought you were both diligently writing letters," I declared.
They looked rather doleful, as if their expedition had not been altogether pleasant. Neither of them spoke, therefore I began to make inquiries, and elicited the information that they had been dropping cards on some acquaintances.
"But why so dismal over it?" I cried. "Were any of the people in?"
No, they had found no one at home.
"My mail has come," Tom vouchsafed to remark, after a moment.
"Well?" I said inquiringly.
"I must go to America in May, instead of remaining here till the end of the summer, and if you and Grace wish to see Italy, we must leave Petersburg by the middle of this month. Even then we shall be hurried."
George did not wait to hear my comments, but walked quietly out of the room. Tom busied himself with some papers, and I sat and thought,—thought of going home; and was amazed that no thrill of joy ran through me, but that, on the contrary, there was a faint, dull disappointment in my heart.
In the midst of these meditations, the door opened, and Mr. Novissilsky was announced! I could hardly believe my eyes. Tom, of course, rushed forward to meet him, but I turned my back to the room, and became engrossed in the street scenes outside. It was only when my brother-in-law called my name that I looked at the intruder, and bowed coldly. This is the first time I have come in contact with him since that night at the theatre.
Tom evidently thought my manner odd, but he simply said he would call Grace, and left us. I knew that he would return immediately, but this was too good a chance to be lost, and I determined to let Mr. Sacha Novissilsky know what I thought of him. Fixing upon him a steady look, the contempt of which should have scorched him, I said slowly, "I wonder that you can present yourself before me! You must know what my opinion of you is, after the falsehood you deliberately told me about Count Piloff."
Sacha's melancholy face looked a shade more sombre, and his upper lip curled in an ugly way. He kept his eyes fastened on the floor.
"Why do you tell me it was a falsehood?" he answered courteously.
I was taken by surprise. I did not expect such self-possession.
"Because I believe Count Piloff," I answered firmly.
"Oh, then you told him of the statement I made? No doubt he gave you overwhelming proofs of his veracity!" (with a slight sneer, but still a courteous manner). "George is famous," he went on, "for making the ladies believe him, and no doubt—" Here he was interrupted by Tom's reappearance. I went out of the room in a white heat, and did not return until he had taken his departure.
"I wonder," said I, as I took my seat at the dinner-table, "why that young man follows us about in this way!"
"You are unkind, Dorris," remonstrated Judith. "He came to Moscow to see an old comrade who is dying, and he has taken George off with him to the bedside of their friend."
"I thought you would freeze him stiff when he made his appearance," cried Tom.
"I intended to do so."
"But why? What harm has he done you?"
I did not care to explain, so I made some laughing reply, and turned my attention to dinner.
We had planned to go to the theatre in the evening. George did not return, so we started without him. It was rather a dismal affair, though we all did our best to be gay.
When we met at breakfast this morning, George looked grave and troubled. He informed us that the friend whom he and Sacha had gone to see was dead, and then he seemed to make an effort to throw off gloomy thoughts, and to help us enjoy ourselves.
We went to the Kremlin again. A fresh, pure coating of snow had fallen during the night, and dazzled us in the sunlight. The domes of the churches within the walls took deeper, purer shades of blue, green, and gold, and the sunshine scintillated on the delicate tracery of the chains and crosses which surmounted them. We got a magnificent view of the city from the walls. We were raised so high above the squalor and the dirt that they did not stare us in the face; the white snow, too, covered a multitude of sins. We looked down upon hundreds of minarets, spires, domes, and crosses, all brightly colored and shining in the sun; countless green roofs added their contribution of color; and far in the distance was the low range of the Sparrow Hills, from which Napoleon got his first view of Moscow.
We all agreed that the scene was utterly different from yesterday, when we had seen it in a smart, pelting snow-storm.
From thence we proceeded to inspect the interior of the Church of the Assumption, in which all the Tsars of Russia have been crowned, beginning with the first Romanoff. It is small, but full to overflowing of historical reminiscences and ornaments. The platform on which the coronation takes place stands under the dome. Around the walls are tombs of ecclesiastical dignitaries, the most honored having the corner places. There is not an inch of the cathedral which is unornamented.
"Here," said George, standing in front of the iconostase, "is a picture of the Virgin which, according to tradition, was painted by St. Luke."
"Oh," cried Grace, "what gorgeous jewels!"
"The gems in this icon," continued our cicerone, "are worth two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and the riches inside this little building amount to more than all the wealth of the empire."
The others began enthusiastically to examine the iconostase, which was of gold, ornamented with pictures and rich jewels. George drew my attention to the walls of the building, covered with painting, and incrusted with Siberian marble.
"I suppose this is jasper," said I inquiringly.
"Yes," George responded rather absently, then added abruptly, "I thought you did not like Sacha."
I must have looked surprised at the suddenness of this remark; but my companion did not vouchsafe a glance in my direction. He was apparently absorbed in contemplation of the tomb of St. Peter.
"I do not like him," said I, at last; "on the contrary I dislike him intensely."
"Yet you and he were quite confidential in Petersburg," he returned, making an unsuccessful effort to speak lightly.
I answered, in rather a reflective tone,—
"He was confidential. At first I was sorry for him, because I thought Judith treated him so badly, and I used to sympathize with him. I soon ceased to waste my sympathy, however."
"What did your cousin do to him?"
"That seems to me a most foolish and unnecessary question," I answered impatiently. "You must have known that Sacha was in love with her. She encouraged him, as well as Prince Tucheff and all of them, when she was really engaged to another man. I cannot understand," I added virtuously, "how she did it!"
George looked at me for an instant, with a disagreeable smile.
"I dare say you cannot," he exclaimed; and with a short, bitter laugh, turned to Tom, who was asking him some question.
I wandered on alone, with a little throb of indignation in my heart. George can be extremely disagreeable when he chooses. What did he intend by that sarcastic manner and significant look? Why should he have answered me in that way? What did Sacha mean by saying George could make ladies believe him? I dislike a man whom I cannot understand. Two days ago—nay, even last night—I believe I was on the verge of falling in love. What a fortunate escape for me! I should not like to fall in love with a sarcastic man. Besides, am I not as good as engaged to Chilton Thurber? George would never ask me to marry him, because he considers me pledged; yet it would seem as if he meant to imply that I had encouraged his attentions. Well, I give up trying to understand him, but I am very glad that I am not in love with him.
While I was pondering over these various perplexing thoughts, and losing my good spirits, to say nothing of my temper, my revery was broken by Tom, who was saying,—
"Thurber will not have much time with us if he does not come to-day."
"Do you expect him?" I cried, angry with myself that I could not drive back the blood which rushed in a torrent to my face.
"Surely, Dorris, you heard me say that I had written him when we were to be here!" Tom replied in an injured tone.
They were all standing about me, and I felt the necessity for restraining the impatient words which were ready to drop from my lips. Forcing the blandest possible smile, I said, as I turned towards the door,—
"How delightful to have him here with us!"
"I don't know about that," grumbled Tom. "We can't stay forever waiting for him."
"Perhaps you had better send him a telegram at once," interposed George. "He may not have received the letter."
"Perhaps," I exclaimed, in a tone which, though carefully modulated, thrilled with vexation, "we had better do nothing of the sort! If Mr. Thurber does not wish to meet us, we had better not force him to do so."
There was an awkward silence for a moment, broken by Tom, who remarked something about my being "excited."
Judith put her hand on my arm and drew me away, and I felt that I was being soothed, and that every one wished me to return to a better temper. I wished the same. It was extremely disagreeable to feel so hot and excited.
We went through the Treasury, but I have no idea what we saw. George did not speak to me again, and I was glad he did not. In fact, every one let me alone. I imagine they were sorry for me, because they thought I was so disappointed at Mr. Thurber's non-appearance. This was humiliating, but I knew not how to undeceive them. It is not so unpleasant to have people suppose that Chilton Thurber, and even George, are desperately in love with me; but it is a different matter when they begin to think that I am pining for a person who neglects me. I suspect that my heart was made on a small scale. I am troubled about it. Either I am becoming fickle, or I never knew myself before. Certainly I never thought so much about myself.
As we were sitting at lunch, our English friend arrived. I was absurdly conscious when I shook hands with him,—aware of a blush on my face, and of the fact that all the party except George turned their eyes away from our meeting.
"So you have come at last!" cried Alice. "We thought you were very slow about it."
"I did not receive the letter until last night."
"These Russians," said Tom, "are incapable of hurrying. Tell them 'Si Chass,' and they think that means any time within a week."
We finished our lunch leisurely, listening to Mr. Thurber's account of his adventures. Then we all strolled out to see the palace. Mr. Thurber, as of old, constituted himself my escort, and took occasion to say to me very quietly,—
"I shall spend only a day or two with you, and I shall not ask you what decision you have arrived at until I come to Petersburg. If my presence here annoys you, I trust you will tell me."
"Why should it?" I responded frankly. "I like to have you here."
He looked unmistakably pleased; and I thought, at that moment, that I should find it easy to get along with him, if I did marry him. He never annoys or makes me lose my temper, as George does. So we wandered through the palace, chatting in the best possible spirits; and I wondered how I could have forgotten what a pleasant companion Mr. Thurber always has been. At first, the others left us to ourselves. Then Tom, forgetting his rôle of match-maker, which had been instilled into him by the women of his family, called upon Mr. Thurber to settle some discussion he was having with Judith.
I stood looking out of one of the great windows in the Hall of St. George. As I turned away from it, my eyes fell upon George, who was staring absently at an inscription on the wall. There was such an expression of misery on his face that my heart smote me. I stood still in the window.
"Count Piloff," said I graciously, "will you be kind enough to come and tell me what I am looking at out of the window?"
He glared at me, as though he were half-inclined to refuse, but came forward reluctantly, until we were side by side in the window embrasure. Then I spoke:—
"You act so strangely to-day. Perhaps I have been disagreeable; but I am amiable now, and I want you to be pleasant."
He looked as if he did not understand my words, and I waited some time for his reply. It was spoken at last, low and hurriedly, with eyes resolutely fixed on the many-colored roofs below us.
"I know you would prefer to see me always gay and smiling,—ready to talk when you wish it; equally ready to listen when you wish to talk; willing to have you treat me one day as if you had a really friendly feeling for me, and the next day spurn me with contempt; always happy, never wretched and miserable, even though you have done all in your power to make me so. You would prefer to have me like that; but I am finding out every day that you are disappointed in me; and I can assure you that you expect more than any man who is merely mortal can give!"
"I should think so," I answered, ready to smile, "if I expected all that. You take altogether a wrong view of the matter. You should not be angry, because—"
"O Dorris!" he interrupted gently, turning a sad face towards me. "I am not angry with you, my dear. I never have been. You cannot appreciate how ridiculously happy it makes me when you look at and speak to me kindly, though I know it means nothing more than that you don't dislike me. When you are cross, I cannot help imagining that it is my fault. It is my supreme foolishness in thinking myself of enough importance to affect you in any way. Come," starting to join the others who were leaving the hall. "Don't mind what I say," he added, as we strolled along. "I suppose it is Thurber's coming which has put me out, and your happiness in seeing him. It was so pleasant having you all to myself, I forgot there was any one who had a prior claim."
"You must have found it pleasant," I responded dryly. "You proved it by going out with Sacha, and remaining away all the evening."
"Did you care?" he cried quickly, looking a shade less wretched. "I thought you would be glad to have me away,—especially after what Sacha told me."
"What did he tell you?" I exclaimed, stopping short.
"Nothing which should have disturbed me; for I ought to have discovered it myself long ago."
"But what was it?" I insisted.
He looked a little surprised, but answered, quite frankly:—
"He only reminded me of how much you and he used to talk together, and told me that the subject of your conversation was generally Thurber. Then he pointed out a thousand little things which happened in Petersburg, to prove that you cared more for Thurber in the beginning than you imagined."
"What did you say to all this?" I exclaimed, as calmly as possible.
"I listened."
"And then?"
"And then," replied George, a faint flush creeping over his face, "I told him that I did not care to discuss Miss Romilly's likes and dislikes with him."
"And he?"
"He smiled, and changed the subject."
"He is a miserable coward!" said I vehemently. "I hope you will never believe anything he tells you about me."
"Sacha is very much like other men. The greatest fault which he has is a fondness for hearing himself talk."
I restrained myself by a violent effort, and said no more about Sacha; but I must confess I did not understand George, and I do not understand him now. Only a week or two ago, he was encouraging me to be faithful to Chilton Thurber, and never hinted at the possibility of my caring for him. Now, he is angry because he thinks I have been in love with Mr. Thurber all the time. How inconsistent men are!
Tom drew near, and put an end to our conversation: "Shall we go to see the home of the first Romanoff, or not?"
"Let us go, by all means," I responded.
The others agreeing, we left the palace, and drove to a humble little house in another part of the town.
"This," said Alice, as we entered the low room, "is where the first Tsar of Russia was born; and although I have been four times in Moscow, I never came here before."
"After all," remarked George, who had been talking incessantly on the way from the palace, "the Romanoffs were not thought so highly of in those days. The Dolgoroukys were great boyars before the Romanoffs were ever heard of."
"The greatness of the Romanoffs," said Tom, in an important manner, "dates from that time. I suppose a republican form of government would not have worked well among you turbulent Russians; else it is a pity that, instead of electing a Tsar, they did not make him president for life."
"I am not interested in your political discussions," said Grace; "but I should like to know if this is a stove."
It was a delicate bit of furniture, composed of painted porcelain tiles.
"That is a stove," responded George, "and there is a story painted on it, and illustrated by these pictures."
On the first floor of the house were only four small, low rooms. The wife's apartments were above, reached by a flight of steep, narrow stairs. The furniture would send a "modern antique" dealer into ecstasies. The cradle and toys of the young Romanoff have been preserved, as well as the book out of which he learned to read.
"I wonder why this door was made so low," said Judith, as we were obliged to bend our backs nearly double in passing from one room to another.
"The great man had a deal of trouble with his boyars," replied George. "They refused to make obeisance to him, therefore he had this door, by which they entered his presence, cut so low that they were obliged to stoop in passing through it."
"What an ingenious idea!"
The afternoon had worn away while we were thus engaged, and we now found it time to return to the hotel for dinner. In place of changing my dress, I have been writing my experiences.
I confess frankly that I am as much puzzled with myself as I am with George. Instead of being consumed with grief at the sorrow I am causing others, I find it quite pleasant to have two men in love with me. I am quite aware that my feelings are selfish to the last degree. How heartless I must be! When I am with George I prefer him; and when I am with Mr. Thurber I wonder how I could ever have liked George better.
There is one thing about the latter which is rather absurd: I could not marry him if I would, for he has never asked me! He takes it so for granted that I have no idea of caring for him that I am sure it would be awkward if I did care, for I should be obliged to tell him the fact plainly. Yet he is not a calm, placid lover, like the Englishman. Mr. Thurber has an air of saying mentally, "If you conclude to marry me, you will make a sensible decision, and will please me extremely; but if you decide otherwise, I shall wonder how you could be so foolish. I do not allow myself, in the mean time, to get excited over it; and whatever you may say or do will suit me perfectly."
These are his thoughts as I imagine them. He refuses to be jealous or angry. I cannot arouse in him the expression of anything beyond a proper, reasonable liking. George, on the contrary, although he tells me fiercely enough that he knows I do not care for him, is uneasy and wretched if I talk long with any one else, and watches me continually. He gets in a passion with me, and then says he loves me too much to be angry. My sober judgment tells me that Chilton Thurber is much better suited to me.
My life is not as peaceful as it was before I had two lovers, and I fear I am growing inordinately vain. Judith must have an immense amount of character not to be completely spoiled by the amount of attention she has received.