CHAPTER VI.
SKATING AND RUSSIAN OPERA.
I AM twenty-five years old to-day. I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, to see what changes there were since yesterday, and was surprised that "twenty-five" was not written on my features. I feel as though it ought to be.
I suppose it would be the proper thing to moralize somewhat on my birthday, but I don't feel in the mood for it. I must have the blues severely before I can moralize. And I have too many things to write about to-day.
I had heard so much of Sacha Novissilsky that I was curious to see him. Alice receives every Wednesday evening, and it was there that I met him first. Judith has met him often; but I have been so interested of late in making our apartment comfortable and home-like that I have shunned society.
After talking with me for some time, on Wednesday evening, Sacha said seriously, "I am sure, mademoiselle, that you have guessed my secret."
"Perhaps I have," I responded, decidedly mystified.
He continued, "I have never loved any one else, and I never shall care for another as I do for her."
I asked myself mentally if Sacha could possibly refer to me, but he soon undeceived me.
"Do you think she could ever care for me?" with a painfully anxious gaze.
"I don't know," I answered, rather stupidly. "Why don't you ask her?"
"I have so little to offer her," he said. "If she gave me a ray of hope, I could exist on that; but I fear to ask her, she is so beautiful and so much sought after," turning his eyes on George Piloff, a younger brother of Nicolas, who was hovering about Judith.
Now, indeed, light broke upon my bewildered brain, and I ceased to regard my young friend as a candidate for a lunatic asylum. He meant Judith, of course. George being one of my aversions, I shook my head, with an incredulous smile, and said, "I assure you there is not the slightest danger of your having Count Piloff as a rival."
"Do you think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"I wonder if I might tell you a secret?"
"Of course," I exclaimed. "I am the safest person in the world to tell a secret to." (I wonder if every one has this same idea about themselves.)
Sacha reflected for a moment, and then said mournfully, "I am afraid it would not do to tell you. But you are sure that your cousin does not care for him?" nodding towards George.
"I am sure of nothing," I answered tartly, determined not to ask him for his secret, but equally determined to learn it somehow. "Only I don't see any reason why she should care for him."
Sacha sighed, "He is a gallant fellow."
"And is perfectly aware of it," I added quickly. This remark seemed to give Sacha new courage, and it was with quite a bright smile that he acceded to Alice's request to give us some music.
While he was playing, George stationed himself by my side. Presently he whispered, "What thoughts are absorbing you, Miss Romilly? One gets no attention from you. What are you thinking of?"
He speaks much better English than I do, and has the faintest possible accent.
"I am listening to the music," I returned indifferently.
He kept silence until the end of the nocturne; then, "Are you fascinated with Novissilsky's music?"
"Oh!" I cried, "why will you spoil it by talking?"
"Because I have so much to say to you," he responded eagerly. "There is a question which, as I know your word may be depended upon, I wish to ask you. Believe me, it is not mere vulgar curiosity which prompts me."
"I will believe all that you wish me to," I interrupted lightly. "What is your question?"
He looked at me reproachfully. "You seem to have but little appreciation of the importance of this matter. The question is about your cousin."
"Judith? I know so little about her. But tell me what you would ask? If she is wealthy? Yes. Young? Yes. Amiable? Yes. What else?"
George was puzzled and annoyed, as his face plainly showed. He looked indignant for an instant. "I am sure you have more earnestness in your heart than the world sees," looking at me severely. "Otherwise, you are the last person to whom I would have come in my perplexity."
There was a subtile flattery in this which mollified me in spite of myself. So I turned toward him, and said seriously, "I will tell you if I can. What do you wish to know about Judith?"
For a moment he said nothing; then, looking at me firmly, as if he meant to read my answer in my eyes, he said, "Is she especially interested in any one? I mean, is she in love?"
I gave him as careless a glance as I could command before I answered. I looked at his black hair, which is plentifully sprinkled with gray; at his high, white forehead; let my eyes wander down to his short, dark beard, parted, and brushed away from his chin; admired for a moment the clear red and brown of his skin; and wondered how he happened to have a straight nose, it was so different from his brother's. Then, as his cold blue eyes did not move from my face, I replied rather hesitatingly, "Judith has never made a confidant of me. I can tell you nothing about that."
"But you can judge somewhat. Is she a woman who, having given her word, would keep it?"
I looked at him with some surprise, I suppose, for he said appealingly, "Remember, I told you it was not idle curiosity which prompted me. I have a reason for asking."
"Whatever your reason may be," I responded haughtily, "you can hardly expect me to go into a discussion of my cousin's feelings and character with you."
"True," he answered most humbly. "I had no right to ask it, and I see my presumption now most clearly. I should not have come to you. I will seek my information from Miss Judith herself."
Sacha, having finished his performance on the piano, strolled over to us at this moment. "I am thinking," he said to George, "of the contrast between this scene and the one which was before us a year ago."
"Yes; there was some excitement in those days," responded the other.
"Were you both fighting Turks then?" I cried.
"I was fighting a fever," returned George; "but Sacha here was showing his valor in the face of the enemy."
"I wish you would tell me about it," I exclaimed, with awakened enthusiasm.
George laughed, with a nonchalant air. "The pleasantest part of those days was the coming home. Eh, Sacha?"
"Yes, indeed! That was a glorious day when we entered Petersburg. Picture it, mademoiselle. At the gate of the city there were about four thousand people. The grand-dukes and their staffs met us there; and a kind of pavilion had been erected, where all the grand-duchesses waited for us. Most of the spectators were provided with flowers and cigarettes, which they showered upon us as we passed. A procession of priests met us, and a Te Deum was chanted in the open air, after which the commanders received bread and salt. As the soldiers went on through the city, their ranks were broken, and women and children were mixed up with the rows of bayonets. Mothers who had found their sons, girls their lovers, and children their fathers, walked quietly along, some of them sobbing and crying, while the bronzed faces of many of the men were working with emotion, and there was hardly a dry eye among them. An officer endeavored to put the intruders out of the ranks, but the Tsarevitch forbade it; so the mothers and sisters and wives marched the three miles with the soldiers, receiving fresh instalments by the way; and at last there was quite a crowd of families. Many poor fellows had been buried nameless in the trenches, and it was only when their places were seen to be filled by others that their friends knew that they would never come back."
Sacha positively waxed eloquent as he related this, and I felt almost angry with George for not displaying more emotion. "You were there too?" I asked him.
"No; I was at death's door with the fever, for the second time."
I could not restrain a smile. "You seem to have passed your time during the war struggling with fevers."
He laughed good-naturedly. "Very true; and extremely unpleasant it was, I can assure you."
"I suppose," said I thoughtfully, "that you are very fond of the Emperor."
"We adore him," responded Sacha.
George looked at me searchingly as he said, "Did you doubt it?"
"No, I can't say that I did."
"Listen, mademoiselle," broke in Sacha. "Let me tell you what our Emperor did last winter."
Tom had joined our group, and was now listening, with his eyes fixed on Mr. Novissilsky's face.
"After returning from the seat of war, it was his custom,"—went on the young man earnestly, aware that he had an audience, and doing his best to tell the story well,—"it was his custom to visit the hospitals daily, and talk with the sick and wounded soldiers. One day he was speaking to a common soldier, whose wound was pronounced fatal. The Emperor asked the man what he could do for him. The soldier replied that he should die more happily if his monarch were with him at his last hour. 'Your wish shall be gratified,' said the Tsar. Before his departure from the hospital, he gave orders that at any hour of the day or night, when the man should be dying, he was to be notified. The same command was given at the palace. The man lingered for some days, but at last the image of death appeared to him, and a messenger was despatched to the palace about two o'clock one morning. He had some difficulty in penetrating to the Tsar, but finally succeeded. The Emperor hurried to the soldier's bedside, and, true to his promise, stayed by him to the last."
"It was noble of him!" I exclaimed, when Sacha stopped for comment.
"I could tell you many more anecdotes of that sort," continued the young man earnestly.
"But you are wanted by the Countess Piloff," said Mr. Thurber's voice above me.
As Sacha hurried away, Tom remarked in a dazed tone, "When that fellow gets wound up, it takes a good while for him to run down. His tongue has been going at the rate of a mile a minute ever since he left the piano."
"Tom," I remonstrated, "how can you speak in that way? He was very entertaining."
"He would drive me to commit suicide at the end of two hours," persisted Tom, as he walked away from me.
George had disappeared, and Mr. Thurber took the seat which he had vacated. "You are thoughtful to-night, Miss Dorris."
"You are the second person who has told me so, Mr. Chilton Thurber," I retorted audaciously.
"I must beg pardon," he said, "but really, you know, with two Miss Romillys, it is so confusing."
"You owe me no apology. On the contrary, I should thank you, for this is the first time you have ever called me by my name." I looked at him with a smile which was meant to be conciliatory.
"I believe I seldom call people by their names; but I like yours, because it was my mother's. I have never known any one else named Dorris."
His voice grew quite soft as he pronounced my name: he was looking absently at the toe of one shoe, so my sympathetic glance was thrown away on him. He went on in a sort of soliloquy:—
"She died when I was so young that I cannot remember her at all; but I have always loved the name, and I never was more startled than when I heard them call you by it."
I looked hard at my companion. He was the same man, apparently; but what wonderful change had come over him to make him speak in such a sad, soft voice and tell me about his mother? I did not know what to respond. I could think of nothing but "Oh," or "Yes," or "Indeed"; and they sounded neither sympathetic nor appropriate. So I kept silent, and grew quite embarrassed, as Mr. Thurber did not seem inclined to speak first. Finally, he turned his gaze away from the toe of his shoe,—which, by the by, is altogether too pointed for any reasonable foot, as I shall tell him some time when we are conversing on more ordinary topics,—and, playing with my fan in a nervous way, he remarked,—
"Your cousin is a very beautiful woman."
I groaned inwardly. Was I to be confided in for the third time that night? It was growing monotonous, and yet it was funny, and I smiled. My English friend saw the smile. He colored slightly, and started up from his chair; then thought better of it, and sat down again. I turned towards him, and spoke in a low, earnest voice:—
"Mr. Thurber, the only reason I laughed was because—because—well, I have heard that remark so many times this evening. She is beautiful, and I am very fond of her; so you must forgive me for smiling at your speech" (insinuatingly).
"I am glad that I amuse you," he responded, with an air of offended dignity.
"I hope you are not too much flattered by the fact," said I,—bent now on provoking him to the utmost,—"because it takes very little to amuse me."
"So I see" (briefly).
"I had no idea that Englishmen were so easily annoyed," I continued mischievously. "I have always imagined them cold and impassive."
Mr. Thurber struggled for his ordinary composure, and almost succeeded in grasping it, as he replied,—
"You seem to have had some odd ideas about my countrymen. Did you never meet any Englishmen before?"
"I have met quantities of them; but I never knew any of them well,—except one," I added hesitatingly.
"What did you think of him?"
"Not much."
"Did you see him often? Was it long ago?" (with a touch of eagerness.)
"I saw him every day, and it was very long ago, for it was when I was a young girl."
"What was his name? Perhaps I know the family."
"I don't believe you do," said I carelessly, "unless he used to make shoes for you before he left England. He is an old cobbler, who lives in the little village where I spend my summers. I used to go and sit with him at his work, and he told me quantities of stories about his country. I always had a taste for low associates," I added calmly. "Alice was an aristocrat from her babyhood, but I was always a vagabond."
He looked somewhat astonished at my declaration, but I changed the subject abruptly.
"There is a frightful ordeal for you to pass through in a few minutes."
"What is it?" he cried, in feigned alarm.
"The baby is to be exhibited. I hear her coming now, and you will have to admire her."
"That is nothing very frightful. It will not be the first time I have done it."
"How difficult it is," I continued, "to induce a Russian nurse to show her charge; and if you say, 'How pretty the child is!' you have cast an evil eye on it, and all sorts of charms are used to counteract your influence."
"It is the same with an adult," responded my companion. "If you tell a Russian woman that she is looking well, it is a bad omen."
"Alice's nurse has always insisted upon it that the child was restless and unhappy all night after we first looked at it; and I believe she has borne us a grudge ever since."
This nurse, I must state, is a type of the picturesque figures which one is constantly coming upon in the streets here. She wears the Russian peasant costume,—a short, dark-blue skirt, with bands of red and white and black braid around it; a white apron, coming to the bottom of the skirt, embroidered about a quarter of a yard deep, with red and blue cotton; a full white waist; wide sleeves, embroidered like the apron; a blue bodice; several strings of colored beads; and a blue or red tiara on the head, tied under the hair with broad ribbons, which hang far down the back.
Yesterday was the Russian Christmas; but, as we had passed the 25th of December with no particular rejoicing, we did not feel much interest in celebrating the foreign festival.
On Christmas Eve—night before last—we went to a service at St. Isaac's. The church was crowded, and a large proportion of the worshippers were men, principally peasants. A strong odor of sheepskin and leather mingled with the incense. The people were extremely devout, bowing and crossing themselves frequently,—sometimes kneeling, and putting their foreheads on the cold pavement. There was an expression of rapt devotion on those peasant faces that I shall not soon forget.
The service was wonderfully impressive to me. It was in the Slav language, which of course I don't understand, but it would have been difficult not to feel devout while listening to the deep, rich tones of the deacon's voice and the sweet responses of the choir. There was no accompaniment, as instruments are forbidden in the Greek Church.
The clergy wore robes of magnificent brocade. Some of the bass voices were the finest I have ever heard. The music was heavenly as it swelled through the great building. No wonder the moujiks were so quiet and absorbed. Compared with their monotonous and sordid daily lives, this gorgeous church, with its jewelled icons, its colored pillars, its gold, silver, and incense, and its priests in splendid array, must seem like some glorious vision in the Apocalypse. Their music is very old; some of it dates back to the fifth century. They have a sermon about once a year in the Greek Church. What a sensible custom!
Yesterday we went to service at the English Chapel, which is on the Quay. It looks, on the outside, like anything rather than a church, being part of a block. The building is always crowded, for there is a large English colony here, and about a third of the congregation is composed of English governesses. The ambassador has a "high seat in the synagogue," on the right of the altar.
After church we had a long drive in the country. It was the most dismal excursion we have taken since we reached Russia. The day was dull, Judith was quiet, and Tom evidently homesick. It would have been touching, if it had not been so funny, to hear the despairing sighs which he heaved, and to see the doleful glances cast by him over the surrounding landscape, which certainly was not cheerful.
We went to the islands, the drive which is said to be so beautiful in summer, crossed innumerable bridges over frozen streams, and were glad to envelope our heads in our coat-collars as we reached the Point and gazed out over the Gulf of Finland. Snow as far as the eye could reach, melting into a steely gray sky. No sunshine, but a faint, cold, pink light in the south.
Tom began,—
"This is the most enlivening spot—"
We all shivered, and cried in concert, "Don't!"
"Very well, I wont; but if you ever catch me so far away from home again—"
"You will add to your cold if you talk so much," cried Grace.
These were almost the first words Tom had uttered since we came out, as he meekly suggested, but his anxious wife muffled him up, and we turned our faces homeward. We drove through thick woods, the bare branches outlined sharply against the clear sky, looking now and then down long, snowy roads bordered with evergreens and ending in more woods. I could almost hear the wolves howl. Everything was as still as death. The country houses, with windows and doors boarded up and fountains frozen, looked silent and mysterious. When we reached home, Tom remarked that he did not see how Alice could live in such a country.
He did not regain his customary spirits until this morning, when Mr. Thurber induced us to go skating. At first I refused, but they urged me so strongly that I was obliged to yield.
Mr. Thurber, as a skating man, came out in an entirely new light. He was no longer a middle-aged person with an elderly man's manner, a bald head, a cynical expression, and a tendency to sneer at everything. He was a young fellow under thirty, with a sealskin cap, a hearty laugh on the smallest provocation, a twinkle in his eye, and a disposition to cut capers! I could hardly believe him to be the same man.
He gave me no peace until I also ventured on the ice, where I tottered about helplessly, grasping his arm as though I meant never to let go. While I was getting very warm over my clumsy efforts, Judith was calmly gliding about. As we neared a chair, I fell into it, and waved my companion away. "I must rest," I gasped. "Go and skate by yourself."
He smiled a little, cut a figure eight backwards, and shook his head.
"I don't want to skate by myself," he responded. "I prefer your company to my own."
"Very well. That being the case, you can push my chair about, for it is cold sitting still."
To confess the truth, I feared he was going to talk to me about Judith, and I began to find having so many hopeful passions poured into my ear a little tiresome. I consoled myself by thinking that Mr. Thurber could not be particularly confidential to the back of my head, and that my cousin's name would rest for that morning.
False hope! For a few minutes my cavalier kept silence, and as I glided swiftly and easily over the ice I began to feel quite exhilarated; but my spirits were soon dashed by a glimpse of a new arrival, who was making his way rapidly towards us. It was George; he came to a stand-still as he reached us, and so did my chair.
George merely touched the hand which I—forgetting that it was not necessary to go through the formality of shaking hands with a foreigner—extended to him.
"I have just come from your apartment," he cried, "and I found that some letters had arrived for you, which I took the liberty of bringing."
"Thank you," said I. "Mine can wait, but Judith is always impatient for hers. Is there one for her?"
"Yes," showing me an envelope with an Austrian stamp on it.
"This," I went on, examining mine, "is from Mr. Tremaine. He has become a most devoted correspondent lately. Judith and politics are his only subjects, so I will consign his letter to my pocket," suiting the action to the word. "By the way," I said, looking at the two gentlemen who were standing in front of me, "I wonder what would become of us all if we had not Judith as a subject to converse and write about. I know, Count Piloff, you are longing to ask where she is. You will find her somewhere on the other side of that island, with Mr. Novissilsky."
"Such a dismissal," cried George, with a good-natured laugh, "cannot be disobeyed." And, with a slight bow, he skated away.
The wrinkle in Mr. Thurber's nose made its appearance as he inquired,—
"Why did you send him off so suddenly?"
"He did n't mind it. I knew he would ask in a moment where Judith was."
"Indeed!" skating slowly round my chair. "Is he so fond of her society?"
"I think he is. But I must go in and warm my feet."
My companion made some polite remonstrance, but I refused to stay longer, and waited in the house on the shore of the lake for the rest of the party, reading Mr. Tremaine's letter meanwhile, to pass away the time.
When the others returned to the house to divest themselves of skates, and start for home, Tom called out to me,—
"We are going to the opera to-night; but I will tell you about it later."
I was willing to wait for my information, and resisted Tom's efforts to make me share my sledge with him.
"No, Tom. There is only room for one."
"But it is not proper for you to go alone!"
"Neither is it proper for a young man to go with me. Whichever way you arrange, it is highly improper," said I, laughing; "and as Judith is younger and handsomer than I, she has more need of a protector."
"I forgot Judith."
"I did n't, you see. Some one must tell my istvostchik to follow yours."
George gave the necessary instructions, and he and Mr. Thurber brought up the rear.
On reaching the house, they consented to come in and lunch with us; and when we were seated at table, I learned that George had placed his aunt's opera box at our disposal for this evening, the aunt being in Moscow, and likely to remain there for the winter.
Daylight was almost gone by the time lunch was well over, and our friends took their departure, promising to meet us again at the opera.
The days now are absurdly short. We breakfast at ten, generally by lamplight. For about four hours there is daylight, and sometimes a little sun, but shortly after two the lamps are again lighted. When it is cloudy, we have candles all day. The sun behaves in a very eccentric way. It rises over the left-hand corner of a block of shops on the other side of the street, called Gastinni Dvor, and it gets about two feet above that building, and then sinks down behind the right-hand corner early in the afternoon.
We reached the opera in good time, and found George and Sacha awaiting us. Shortly after Mr. Thurber and Nicolas came in. The whole performance was Russian. This particular opera is sung on all national fêtes, and was composed by Michael Glinka,—"La vie pour le Tsar," so Sacha translated the name for me. The plot is quite touching, and very patriotic, as explained by him. Tom was glad to listen to his account, in spite of the opinion he expressed the other day, that "Novissilsky reminds me of a hand-organ, he grinds out the same tunes so many times."
The singing was only moderately good. There was an exquisite mazurka, and a polonaise, both of which are always played at the palace balls.
I was so engrossed in the piece that I forgot my companions until my attention was called to them by a low voice in my ear. I turned to see Sacha's dark eyes fixed imploringly upon me.
"What did you say?" I asked.
"That I am the most miserable fellow on the earth," he exclaimed, in a dramatic whisper.
Following the direction of his eyes, I saw Judith sitting behind the curtain of the box, with her head turned away from the stage, presenting her pretty profile to our view. She was looking at a couple of large, brown hands, which were playing with an opera-glass; and the owner of the hands,—George,—with head bent forward until it was on a level with Judith's shoulder, was talking earnestly to her.
That the subject of conversation was something absorbing, I could not doubt. The corners of my cousin's mouth quivered once, and she looked as if she were going to cry. Then came a sudden change of expression; she looked at her companion with one of her sweetest smiles; he smiled back at her, but, observing our scrutiny, frowned slightly, and sat upright in his chair through the remainder of the act.
"You see," whispered Sacha again, "it is evidently all settled."
I smiled inwardly, and wondered what this young man would think if he should visit America, and see a flirtation carried on in a scientific way; but I only said, "I think you are mistaken."
"Mademoiselle," he exclaimed earnestly, "I would change my whole nature to please her. But it is useless for me to play a game against George. He has money, rank,—"
I interrupted him hastily. "Those things count for little with Judith."
Sacha shook his head. "He is fascinating."
"Fascinating!" I cried, looking at George more critically. "Is he? I know he has had a great success in society. People urge him to come to their houses, he is asked to lead the dances at the palace; but I should never think of calling him fascinating. I grant that his manners are irreproachable, he is good-looking, bright, and entertaining; but it seems to me he is rather spoiled."
Tom had been making various pantomimic gestures for the last minute, so I stopped to ask him what was the matter.
"You talk too much," he said severely. "You disturb every one in the box."
After this rebuke I kept quiet until, at the end of the act, we adjourned to a small room adjoining, where tea and sandwiches were awaiting us. A box of bonbons was also produced by Nicolas, who said that a Russian lady never appeared at the theatre without that article.
When we had once more taken our seats in front of the box, Mr. Thurber murmured to me, "I fancy you would call that a flirtation in America," looking at Judith and George, who were almost lost in the shadow behind us.
"It depends," I responded calmly, "upon what they are talking about. I have known people to look as devoted as that, when no more sentimental subject was under discussion than the weather."
"What a vivid imagination you Americans must have!"
"I don't understand how your criticism applies," I retorted.
"Perhaps I should have said, what a power of deception, instead of a vivid imagination. It must require both to give such an expression of rapt attention to two people who are only talking about the weather."
I don't like Mr. Chilton Thurber when he sneers in this way. One must excuse anything, however, in a man who is jealous.
"I didn't say they were only talking of the weather," I asserted. "They may be making the most desperate love to each other, for all I know. But you are quite right when you say we have more imagination than the English. I have enough to conceive that you English may be very fond of your country,—even your foggy old capital, which it makes me melancholy to think of," I added, with a shudder.
"I am not particularly fond of England," he returned earnestly. "In fact, I prefer living abroad,—though not in Russia," after a short pause.
"Where?" I asked, with a look of laughing inquiry. "In what genial clime would you pitch your tent, if you had the world to choose from?"
He hesitated, then said, with a strange expression on his face, "Wherever—" then paused, and added, "in Italy, I think."
"What were you going to say first?"
"Something foolish."
"I don't think so. It was certainly something wise."
"But you don't know what it was."
"Don't I? Will you let me guess?"
"By all means," Mr. Thurber answered, looking amused. "But you cannot know what thought was in my mind. It will be a mere guess."
"Never be too sure of anything," said I sagely, "especially of what a woman may know. We can often read you like a book, when you least imagine it."
"Can you read me like a book?" he asked, in a lazy way.
"Sometimes."
"I hope you will be interested enough to read to the end of the first volume."
"Do you wish me to tell you what you were going to say just now?"
"Yes."
"I am afraid," said I, "that I can't tell what words were in your mind; but I believe you were thinking of some one whom you love very much. Am I right?"
"Perfectly," he replied, with a smile which was somewhat nervous. "But your boasted imagination will not tell you whether she is dark or fair, tall or short."
"No. Still I should guess that she is tall, and fair rather than dark."
He laughed suddenly, with an air of relief. I waited for him to tell me whether I had guessed aright, but in vain; so I turned to ask him, but Tom interposed.
"Dorris, I never knew you to be so inconsiderate. Why can't you go to the back of the box, like Judith, if you must talk?"
This effectually silenced me until the end of the play.