The Samovar Girl

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

Slipitsky trotted ahead of Michael and led the way into a tiny room. By the time Michael entered, the old Jew was standing behind a desk.

“You have come to pay me money?” he demanded when Katerin had entered the room. “Who is it, I ask?” he added, suspicious now because Michael had not uncovered his face.

Slipitsky was old and bent himself, with long black whiskers, a grave and wrinkled face, small black eyes that seemed to grasp what they looked at. He wore a round black cap on his head, and about his shoulders was a long black cape tied in at the middle with a green cord which had ended its usefulness as a curtain cord. His brow was furrowed, and he had no teeth that were visible, but his face had a benevolent expression as if he found it hard to be stern with people. There was something about his manner as he stood behind the desk which suggested a teacher. A wrinkled little smile lurked about his eyes—a ghost of a smile which had dissipated perhaps under the cruel times that had come. His breath smelled of boiled onions and the same odor pervaded the close little room.

“Who is it, I ask?” repeated Slipitsky when Michael made no answer but turned to close the door behind Katerin. The old Jew was on his guard at once, for he knew these muffled figures might be robbers or secret police sent by Zorogoff to arrest him.

“We have come to have a talk with you privately,” whispered Michael. Slipitsky’s face was instantly screwed up with terror, and his jaw dropped. For an instant he was in something of a panic and he drew back into a corner, for he knew that no rude peasant would speak so correctly as had this stranger before him. And whispers always meant secrecy if not imminent danger.

“You are not peasants!” mumbled Slipitsky. “You have come in here by a trick! You do not speak now as peasants! Who has sent you here to make trouble for me in my house?”

Michael whipped the muffler down from his face by way of answer and thrust his face forward into the light from the frosted window so that Slipitsky might recognize him without further talk.

“Prophets of Israel!” cried the Jew, suddenly relieved of his worry as he recognized Michael. “You are dead!”

“Not yet, by the kindness of God,” whispered Michael, and turning to his daughter, said, “Also Katerin Stephanovna has come with me. You must hide us both, for we are beset by the Ataman and have fled away from our house to save our lives.”

“True enough, it is Michael Alexandrovitch, his Excellence who was Governor!” whispered Slipitsky as if assuring himself that he was not deceived by his eyes. He clapped his hands over his ears. “It was said that you were both dead! Four months ago I heard you had been killed! Is it that you have risen from the dead by a miracle, my old friends? By the patriarchs! This is a sight for me! Both of you—and dressed in poor rags like serfs come in from a farm to sell butter!”