CHAPTER XIV.
MARIE TALKE.
I AWOKE yesterday morning with a severe head-ache and influenza. The exciting scene of the day before was still fresh in my mind. If I had chosen to weep all day, no one would have been any wiser, for my nose and eyes were both as red and swollen as a gallon of tears could have made them.
"You cannot go to the theatre to-night!" Grace exclaimed in horror when she saw me.
"Serves her right," said Tom. "The idea of a woman who was born and brought up in New England, going to the theatre on Sunday! I can't understand how you harbored the notion for a moment."
"It is one chance in a lifetime," interposed Judith. "A gala-night, when every one in the house will be the guest of the Emperor; and all the wedding party there too! You must go, Dorris, even if you are ill enough to be in bed."
"I shall be well enough to go," I answered calmly.
Tom remarked in a resigned tone that he had no control over the women of his family.
In the course of the day Mr. Thurber came in. He told us that he was going into the interior of Russia for a month or six weeks, with some other young men. He managed to say to me in a low voice,—
"I must see you before I go. Can you give me an hour in the morning?"
"Come and dine with us," I answered aloud. Tom cordially seconded the invitation, and Mr. Thurber accepted.
I made my toilet before dinner, enveloped myself in a huge shawl, and, provided with a smelling-bottle, went down.
"Tom," said I anxiously, "do I look so very ugly?"
My brother-in-law surveyed me silently, and then expressed himself in the following candid way:—
"Your dress is a stunner, Dorris, and makes you look first-rate from a distance; and I don't suppose any one in the theatre will notice your face. You are pale, though" (reluctantly), "except the tip end of your nose, and your eyelids; and, by Jove!" (sympathetically) "how ill you look! Don't you think you had better stay at home?"
"No," I replied dismally, wrapping my shawl round me again. "I don't care how I look,"—which was as true as such speeches generally are.
After dinner Judith went away to dress, and Tom, with many apologies, took Grace off to their regular weekly occupation of making up accounts. Mr. Thurber and I were left alone.
Suffice it to say that when that interview was ended I found myself pledged to a certain extent. I was surprised to find that it was so when I thought it over afterwards. I could not tell Mr. Thurber that I disliked him; neither could I say that I never should love him. I have quite an affection for him, and I told him so. Then I could not refuse to try and like him a little more, and that is what I have promised. When he returns I am to give him a decided answer. I feel infinitely relieved now, and I have no doubt it will end in my marrying him.
The question next came into my mind, Should I tell George? It seemed to me unnecessary, and I resolved to be guided by circumstances. I was driven through the illuminated streets in rather an absent frame of mind, Patient crowds were standing about, waiting for glimpses of grandeur.
When we reached the theatre, the whole of the building was covered with gas-jets, forming the initials "A" and "M," crowns, stars, and various other devices. The scene inside the theatre was truly regal. In the low corridors, as we entered, were crowds of officials in full uniform, hurrying about in excitement. When we opened the door and stepped into our box, a blaze of splendor burst upon us. The house was made brilliant by a row of electric lights, in addition to the ordinary chandelier and gas jets.
The prevailing colors in the theatre are crimson and gold. The imperial box—thrice as high and as wide as the others—is directly opposite the stage, on the second story. There are five tiers of boxes above the parquet. As we looked down on the floor, not a plain black coat was to be seen. The parquet was entirely filled with gentlemen, and was one mass of gorgeous color. Uniforms, orders, decorations, gold and silver lace, swords, and bald heads, were mingled in a wonderful manner. For once the other sex rivalled ours in brilliancy of attire. Not a shoulder without a bright ribbon across it, indicating the order of St. Alexander, or St. Vladimir, or Saint Somebody Else.
"If all those ribbons were taken off, and pieced together," I exclaimed, "they would stretch round the world."
The gentlemen's costumes were so elaborate that I sighed to think how much time must have been spent in the arrangement of them. The parquet was a living and continually moving mass of gold, silver, and bright colors.
The row of boxes which surrounded this was filled with ladies,—fans, flashing jewels, white arms and necks, and rich dresses. The great imperial box was empty. On the right of it were those reserved for the diplomatic corps. The representatives of different countries seemed trying to rival each other in splendor of dress,—always excepting the American minister, who on these state occasions is conspicuous by his plain black dress, and absence of decorations. There were the Chinese, in yellow, two of them wearing large spectacles; there were Persians wearing the black, and Turks the red, fez,—each nationality in a different, gay uniform.
On the left of the imperial box not a gentleman was visible. The wives and families of the ministers of the empire occupied the seats.
To the top of the house nothing was to be seen but an array of ball-dresses, jewels, and uniforms. Even the members of the orchestra were in uniform.
We had time to criticise everything; for it was nine o'clock before there were any signs of preparation in the imperial box. At last the Grand Chamberlain, the Minister of the Household, and some others entered the empty lôge, to which all eyes had been directed for some time, and some orders were given to an Arabian attendant about the arrangement of the chairs.
This Arab was as black as ink. He wore a red and white turban; a short black jacket, trimmed with gold; a scarlet sash, and full red trousers. The whole audience breathlessly watched him as he arranged the chairs. The orchestra turned, and faced the imperial box; and so did every one else. The leader stood with his baton uplifted, ready to give the signal.
There were a few moments of deathly stillness; then, at a sign from the great box, the leader's baton fell. Every soul in the house rose, the Russian Hymn burst forth, and cheers rent the air as the Emperor came in with the bride. These cheers were prolonged, and repeated when the Tsarevitch made his appearance.
I think that was the most impressive moment of my life. I was one cold chill from head to foot. The people shouted, the Tsar bowed, and the hymn and cheers were continued.
This sovereign's face is to me inexpressibly sad and touching,—as if he bore the sins and griefs of his people all on his heart, and was lifted so far above human sympathy that no one but his God had power to comfort him. If I ever had the desire to be an emperor, one look at Alexander Second would have been sufficient to rid me of it. He looks as though he had never known what it is to be happy; as though he had felt from babyhood every whit of the responsibility which weighs upon monarchs. I feel a deep reverence for this man, who has freed his people from slavery, and many Christians from persecution, and who now is blamed by the world because he does not think it best to do more. I like to think, though, that his liberated serfs love him, and that posterity will do him justice.
Here I have left the Emperor standing all this time, while I have been wandering in political fields.
The German Hymn followed the Russian. I was rather bewildered by it; for I thought it was "God save the Queen," and wondered what propriety there was in playing it on this occasion.
The music ceased, and the cheers burst forth again, louder and fuller than ever. The bride and groom were in the centre of the box; on her right was the Emperor, dressed in Cossack uniform,—a long, scarlet coat, plaited in at the waist, with silver trimmings. The Tsarevitch wore the same kind of uniform.
The bride wore the ribbon indicating the order of St. Catherine. The ladies of the imperial family exhibited magnificent diadems and necklaces. The Grand Duchess Constantine's necklace covered her from throat to waist, and was composed of the most magnificent emeralds I ever saw. The blaze and glitter which filled the imperial box was something like what I used to read about in the fairy tales. The rest of the house, which had seemed magnificent a moment before, now looked quite plain in comparison.
I seem to deal in superlatives, but even with their aid I do scant justice to the scene. I was gazing in open wonder and admiration, actually dazed by the magnificence, when the familiar music of Faust broke upon my ear, and I turned to see Albani in the third act of that opera.
Sacha smiled upon us from a distance, and made his way slowly towards us. George had entered the box some time before, and, having bowed to us, leaned back against the wall and surveyed the house through his glass. It seemed to me that my interview with him must have been a dream. There was not a shadow of embarrassment is his manner, not a trace of consciousness.
While he still stood there, Sacha came in. I bowed very coldly, and turned my back on him. When he had gone away, Alice asked me, laughing,—
"Why did you snub the poor fellow like that?"
"Because I don't like him. I despise him."
"I would not," said George's voice behind me, most unexpectedly. "He is not worth it."
"Perhaps not," I responded, in some excitement; "but I cannot look upon people in that indifferent way."
George said no more, and I gave my attention to the music. Massini sang poorly; so did Albani. There was no applause, etiquette forbidding.
A few opera-glasses were levelled at the imperial box, but few were bold enough to commit such a flagrant breach of etiquette. I must confess that I took a few surreptitious glances from the back of our lôge.
When the curtain went down, the imperial party retired to a drawing-room. Tea, ices, and cakes were served to the guests by servants in the imperial livery. In the foyer, tables were spread with various costly dishes and wines, and ornamented with plants and flowers. The walls of the room were lined with evergreen trees.
Having taken a look at this with the ambassador, I returned to my place, but there were so many gentlemen gathered about that I proposed to my companion to return to the foyer. He acceded to my request with apparent eagerness.
I really felt wretchedly ill, and the draughts set me to shivering. I could hardly keep my teeth from chattering, and was thankful that the ambassador talked on without noticing the state I was in.
After a time George passed me. He stopped short, and looked at me piercingly.
"You are ill!" he exclaimed. "What is the matter?"
"Only a cold which I have had for two or three days."
"Come with me," he said authoritatively.
I hesitated, and looked at the ambassador, who had been buttonholed by another diplomatic gentleman, and was talking earnestly.
George, with a gesture of impatience, took my hand, put it inside his arm, and walked me off to a sheltered nook, where he made me sit down. Then he brought me a tiny glass of dark-colored liquid.
I shook my head. "I can't drink brandy."
He frowned. "Really you must drink it, Miss Romilly," he said persuasively.
I took it and drained the glass. The warmth it imparted to my chilled body was most welcome. It crept over me from head to foot in a comforting way.
George stood and watched me for a few minutes, then smiled a little, saying,—
"You look a trifle less blue than you did. I mean, blue in color."
"Tom told me," said I, in an aggrieved tone, "that I looked very well at a distance."
"So you do," said Count Piloff, still smiling; "but I was quite near you, and I never saw any one look so ill."
A group of ladies and gentlemen came walking past us, and, stopping near by, continued a conversation which they had been holding in French.
"It was all a misunderstanding, you know," said one of the ladies to an older one.
I had stopped talking to observe the group, as one will do in such places, and was still looking at them with a sort of idle curiosity.
"Oh no, I assure you!" cried the other. "He behaved in the most dishonorable way, and she married Prince Simonieff out of spite."
I looked at George with amusement, wondering what piece of scandal I was about to hear. To my surprise he did not return my glance. There came a sudden red flame over his face, which passed away and left him pallid. With bent head and downcast eyes he sat there in silence, so absorbed that he was apparently unconscious of my presence.
I listened with vague curiosity for the next words which fell from the lips of the lady in front. It was the younger one who spoke:—
"I heard that he came to the house one night in a beastly state of intoxication, and that the engagement was broken the next morning."
"True, and not true," responded the other. "He went there when he had been drinking, and he told her some plain truths,—what they were you can imagine; Marie's life is public property now. He ended by saying that nothing would induce him to marry her, since he had discovered how false she was to him as well as to her other lovers; that it was only because she had declared her intention of dying if he did not marry her that he had become engaged to her; and after that night he considered himself bound to her no longer. The next day her brother insulted him in the club. There were some words, but the matter was hushed up, and all that society heard afterwards was that Marie Talke married Prince Simonieff and became one of the fastest women ever received at respectable houses; and that Sacha Talke was killed in a mysterious duel abroad. But I happen to know that it was Count Piloff who killed him."
I looked at my companion, expecting to see him rise in anger and tell this woman that her statement was false. He sat still, showing no emotion except in the deathly paleness of his face, and a strange glitter in his eyes, which were fixed upon mine.
The group walked on. I spoke almost fiercely,—
"Have n't you enough courage to tell that person what you think of her? Are you afraid of a woman?"
The half scornful smile on his lips gave place to one so gentle, the hard gleam in his eyes softened to such a tender look, that I hardly knew him. He said in a low voice,—
"Is it possible that you do not believe it?"
"Believe it?" I repeated. "Do you suppose I think so badly of you as that?"
He sighed, and his eyes dropped.
"After all," he said slowly, "what difference does it make whether you feel a shade or two more or less of contempt for me?"
He reflected for a moment, and then looked at me.
"I should be a sorry rascal if all that she said were true; yet," with a sudden tightening of the breath, though his eyes never flinched from their steady gaze, "some of it is true."
Seeing that he waited for me, I responded calmly, "That does not surprise me. There is generally a foundation of truth in these stories. How much of this is true?"
"I will tell you some time, but not now; for the ballet has begun, and you must return to the box."
His manner had suddenly become cold and formal, and so it remained until we bade each other good-night at the door of the theatre.
Between my troublesome thoughts and my still more troublesome cold, I rested ill that night. George was surprised that I did not believe that story about him. He must think that I hate and despise him, to believe such a tale as that. There was a throb of indignation in my heart when that stranger so indifferently spoke the words which maligned his character, and I felt inclined to remonstrate with her myself when I saw that George continued silent.
It is strange how my feelings have changed towards him. If he were not in love with me, perhaps I should still think him conceited and insincere; but it is astonishing how that one fact changes everything. I don't know whether it is vanity or some other trait, lurking in the shadowy part of my character, which makes me think favorably of any one who likes me. Certainly, I have a decided preference for people who exhibit that good taste.
This letter was brought to me yesterday afternoon:—
My dear Miss Romilly,—I promised to tell you some time my version of the story which you overheard last night. I am sure I shall find it impossible to relate it to you, and I should make myself tiresome by the length of time I should consume: so I am going to write it down, in order that you may read it at your leisure, and leave off when you like; or, if it bores you, put it away unread until your memory of me grows so dim that all the disagreeable part of our acquaintance has faded, and you take up my letter to bring back the ghost of this short winter, which is fast drawing to an end.
First, I would thank you—and you little know how sincerely I say it—for showing me this evening that you are not so utterly devoid of confidence in me as I had supposed. It is a bitter thing for a man to feel that the woman who, in a quiet, most unobtrusive way, without knowledge of her own, has crept into his heart, and filled it so completely that nothing will ever take her place,—it is a bitter thing for this man to know that the woman feels nothing but contempt for him. You showed me last night that you had learned to trust me somewhat. It will be my own fault if I ever sink back to my old level in your esteem. If this new trust in me should not be sufficient to convince you of the truth of all that is contained in this letter, you have only to refer to Nicolas, in whom, I am aware, you have implicit faith.
Do you know that I am thirty-seven years old? Think what a mere boy I was fifteen years ago! It was then that this episode occurred. I confess frankly that I was a wild fellow, and my father had a great deal of trouble with me.
We came home from America, where all my boyhood had been passed, and where I had indulged in an infinite number of flirtations, and had run so into debt that my father was glad to start me in a new country. But the change was not an improvement. I ran through a year's allowance in a few months, and brought in a harvest of debts. Launched forth into Russian society at twenty-one, petted because I was new and wealthy and well-born, what wonder that I got into all sorts of mischief?
I was dazzled at first by the brilliancy about me, but I soon began to regret America; moments of terrible depression and homesickness came upon me. I felt like a man without a country,—a stranger in my own land, yet obliged to reside there. I begged my father to allow me to go back; but he was inflexible. I must have a "career" in my native country, among my own people; and a career was accordingly looked up for me,—an appointment in a foreign office.
Perhaps I weary you with details. I will not dwell on these trifles.
Soon after my appointment, and while I was still suffering with homesickness, I met a woman who became the strongest influence which my life had yet experienced. Her name was Marie, Countess Talke. She was seven years my senior, and a widow. She took me under her patronage and protection; and as she was one of the most popular women in the fast set which I affected, I was proud of her preference.
Every day I was expected to call upon her, every evening to meet her at some ball or party, and to sup with her at some house afterwards. There was an old officer of the Guards, who had been her favorite before my arrival. He used to shake his head at me, and laugh in a cynical way, and say he pitied me; that Marie was "an exacting little devil."
Her exactions, however, flattered me. You must remember that I was very young. I do not pretend that I had no fondness for her: I was very fond of her. I thought we were true friends, and I laughed at those who suggested that Countess Talke might be induced to marry again; for, I said, she looked upon me as a younger brother. I must have been very young! But I soon lost my youth under her tutelage: she taught me to distrust every human being whom I met.
A pure-hearted woman like yourself can no more understand the immense influence which Marie Talke and those of her stamp wield over a young, impressionable man than you can realize the vividness with which every sin of my life stands before me when I am with you, until I feel that I merit all your contempt, and am not fit to be in your presence. I thank Heaven that you cannot understand it.
This flirtation, as we should call it in America, went on for nearly two seasons. Then I learned, by accident as I supposed, how Marie felt towards me,—that she would die of grief if I did not marry her. I, poor fool, believed it. As an act of great magnanimity, and also because I was fond of her in a certain way, I consented to marry her. Kind, was I not? Then, indeed, I was conceited!
The wedding day was set, and Marie's brother, her only near relative, came to Petersburg, to be present on the great occasion. He was a coarse fellow, and almost the first thing he did after we had been made acquainted with each other was to borrow a thousand roubles of me. I drew my own conclusions as to the kind of man he was, from that.
Two days before that set for the wedding, Nicolas came to me with a story which sent a thrill of horror through me. He had been bitterly opposed to the match, but, like my father, had resigned himself to what he supposed to be the inevitable. I refused to believe what he told me, and he gave me proofs which I could not doubt.
Marie had been engaged to two other men at the time she promised to marry me. One of them, a fellow nearly as young as I, who was desperately in love with her, had blown his brains out when he found out her falsehood. The other consented to her marriage with me, but continued his visits to her, and furnished all the money for her trousseau!
This was overwhelming, and I leave you to imagine its effect upon my mind. I went to her (not under the influence of liquor, as you heard), told her all I knew, and she had the audacity to deny it! Any lingering feeling of tenderness was killed by this, and I confronted her with proofs of her own guilt. I will not weary you with an account of what followed. Marie's brother undertook to make some trouble, but he could not change the facts, and he soon went away to his home in Austria.
It was a terrible awakening, and to this day I feel sorry for myself, as I look back, and see how utterly adrift I was for a time. This analysis of my feelings can have little interest for you, however, and I feel inclined to apologize for writing anything besides the bare facts.
Marie married Prince Simonieff a year or two after, and now lives in Paris. Her brother was killed in a duel, I believe, but not by me. This is all; and it is not such a horrible story as those ladies made it, is it? It had its influence in making me what I am; and if you knew my whole life as you now do this episode, I think you would throw the kind mantle of charity over some of my faults. I wonder if you will ever have patience to read as far as this?
I read this letter to the end, and then it dropped into my lap, while I clasped my hands behind my head and tried to picture Countess Talke to myself. The only part of George's story in which I did not place implicit confidence was his assertion that he was not in love with that woman. Undoubtedly he thought so now, as he looked back, but he must have been desperately in love at the time,—much more so than he is with me.
There is one strange thing about George: he has never given me one word of praise, except in this letter, where he calls me pure-hearted,—and surely he could hardly say less than that. When he has spoken to me of myself, it has always been to blame me. There is the door-bell. Who can it be?
It was George who came this afternoon.
"Oh," I cried, "I am alone again, except Tom, who is taking a Russian lesson in there," indicating the library.
"I am glad you are prudent enough to stay in the house until you get better of your cold."
"I am saving myself for the next court ball," I responded confidentially.
Count Piloff seated himself on a little causeuse, and I placed myself by his side. He looked startled for a second, but I paid no attention. I was determined to make myself agreeable, and to show that my dislike for him had vanished.
"I have just read your letter," I began.
He smiled somewhat uneasily as he said, "Are you quite sure that you read to the end?"
"Quite, and I—" I was going to say that I enjoyed it very much, but I checked myself in time,—"I am very glad you wrote it."
"You are kind," he said formally.
"I wish to correct an impression which you seem to have," I went on courageously. "You have mentioned it several times, and you are quite mistaken about it" (getting a trifle incoherent in my words, but clinging to my idea). "I do not dislike or despise you, Count Piloff. I acknowledge that I used to do so, and I tried to prejudice Judith against you. But I don't dislike you at all now, and I think in time" (looking at him for encouragement, but meeting only a view of one brown cheek) "I think if I stay long enough we may become very good friends."
He did not reply, and still kept his face turned away; so, after a brief pause, I continued, "Real friends, you know, such as Tom and I are."
With a movement which was so sudden that it made me jump, he started up, looked at me with an ugly frown, and muttered in a voice of suppressed rage,—
"I will not be your friend!"
Biting his mustache savagely, he surveyed my small figure, while I shrank as far back into the corner of the causeuse as possible.
"I will either be," he went on presently, "all or nothing. Friend!" with a contemptuous laugh, darting another fierce glance at me. "I would rather you would hate me than to be my friend! What satisfaction would the sort of friendship which you give Tom be to me?"
Another short, bitter laugh finished this speech, and he turned impatiently away from me.
By this time my natural spirit, which had been somewhat dashed by his reception of what was meant to be an extremely conciliatory remark, asserted itself, and I spoke up promptly, with a flaming face,—
"Very well. Of course I can hate you if you prefer it, and I shall find it easy to do so if you repeat this often. You have talked so much about my having more confidence in you, and have made so many sarcastic remarks about my dislike for you, that I naturally supposed you wished to change it all. If I am mistaken—and I see I am,—I will—yes, I will—" Here I became involved, and forgot how I was intending to finish, so I wound up rather feebly—"do as you say."
He took a long, lingering look at my angry form. I could hardly believe my own eyes when I saw laughter in his! Was he laughing at me or himself? A smile quivered on his lips, and there was hearty amusement in the gray eyes. My wrath was rapidly cooling; but I strove to retire from the field with dignity.
"I see nothing to laugh at," I said, in a superior manner.
"Neither do I," he responded, "except that I behave so like a child, and you are so easily excited. Now, most women would have been flattered at what I said. You, on the contrary, became a small virago, for the moment."
"I am not like most women, if most women are flattered to have their proffered friendship thrust back so unceremoniously. I don't understand such flattery, and I prefer to have no more of it."
"Do you know," he said, looking down on me intently, "that you have a violent temper, Dorris?"
My eyes sought his with a questioning look, and found there such an expression of tenderness that they fell to the carpet again.
"Yes—no," I answered, leaning on the back of a chair near me; then, with a flash of defiance, taking in for the first time the full sense of his question, "I think even a saint would be angry at what you said. Why do you call me Dorris?" (with renewed dignity.)
"If you are going to be my friend, of course I must say Dorris," he returned, leaning on the other side of the chair, thus preventing me from tilting it back and forth, and still looking as if he wished to laugh.
"I will not be your friend," I answered sullenly. "You said you did not wish it; and now I will not."
"You cannot be my enemy, for you have told me that you don't dislike me; and if you will be neither friend nor enemy, there is only one thing left for you to be, Dorris" (pleadingly).
Fortunately, at this moment my common sense asserted itself. I gave up the chair for support, and stood upright.
"True," I said; "and that one thing is indifferent. You are talking nonsense, Count Piloff."
"I dare say I am" (gravely); "and as I only came to see how your cold was, I will stay no longer. I have talked nonsense, as you say. Forget it: I promise never to offend again"; and before I could reply, he was gone.
I did not think he would leave so suddenly, and I would have liked to ask him a few questions; but perhaps it is better that I did not.