The Samovar Girl

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

“You are right,” agreed Michael. “Zorogoff will lose no time if he learns of this American—and perhaps he knows of the stranger now. At least, as Wassili heard it, it must be common gossip in the city. So whatever Zorogoff plans against us he will accomplish without delay. But how are we to escape from the house? Are we to go out openly, as we are?”

“We shall escape through the servants’ gate,” said Katerin, her eyes on the candle as she planned. “It will be safer to wear the clothing of peasants. If there is a morning fog, it will help to conceal us. The greatest risk is in being seen as we get into the street. We cannot know how closely the house is being watched. But once clear and into the street, who is to think that two poor peasants are Michael Kirsakoff and his daughter—unless we should be stopped by soldiers and made to tell what our business is, where we came from, and who we are.”

“True, that is the difficulty,” said Michael. “But as you say, if we once get to the hotel, Slipitsky, the old Jew, if he is still alive, will take us to the American. Do you know if Slipitsky is still in charge of the Dauria, Wassili?”

“When I heard last, master, Slipitsky still lived,” said the moujik. “Am I to go with the master and the mistress and do what I can to protect them?”

“No,” said Katerin. “You would be recognized and betray our identity to observers. You are to stay here with the old woman, and if we die, you shall be rewarded for your loyalty. Bring us old boots—the worst you can find—and cabbages to carry in a bundle, that we may appear to be peasants come in from the country to market.”

Wassili went out and at once Katerin began plans and preparations for their flight from the house. By the time the morning sun revealed a white fog over the landscape everything was in readiness. An old shawl had been filled with packets of rubles wrapped in old newspapers, and on top had been put her sable coat and other clothing. But before the shawl was tied up at the corners, three cabbages had been put in on top so that they showed through the openings.

The thick fog of morning gave promise that they could get away from the house without being observed, unless there were sentries close by the servants’ gate.

When they were ready to depart, Michael put on the ancient gray coat—that one which was padded with paper rubles. He belted the shabby garment about him with an old rope and dropped his pistol into a side pocket. A dirty old sheepskin cap covered his head and a long muffler was wound about his neck, the ends trailing over his back. With the muffler pulled up over his face he could see through the mesh of the fabric, but his face was concealed. He also carried a short-stocked whip with a dozen lashes, such as the farmers carry with them. In such attire it was hard to believe that he had been a general of the Czar and once Governor—now he was but a bent old moujik who thought of nothing but his crops and what money he could get for the few provisions he was carrying into the city.

Katerin wrapped her head in an old shawl, tied a raggy towel across her nose against the cold, and drew the shawl down over her brow so that she peered out through a narrow slit. Her chin was concealed in the collar of a dirty and torn coat which had been mended with many faded patches. She wore a discarded pair of Wassili’s boots, which had been retrieved from the wagon-shed, where they had been hung up to be used for hinges or pieces of leather for repairs. But she also took with her in the bundle her light shoes and her slippers.

When she finally picked up the bundle with the cabbages, she was a poor farmer’s daughter come in from the plains to sell her cabbages and buy salt and candles in the bazaar—and say a prayer at the church.