The Samovar Girl

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

The messenger bowed, clicked, and left the room, and Peter gathered his blankets and made them into a roll. Then he paused a minute, thoughtfully—and finally knocked upon the door leading to Katerin’s rooms.

The old serving woman who had been at the log house opened the door just enough to peep through.

“Tell your mistress that the American officer wishes to say good-by, please,” said Peter, and the door closed at once.

Peter was stricken with chagrin and disappointment. He thought that Katerin might not see him and had given her orders to that effect to her servant. He had expected that the door would open for him—and it had closed upon his request to see Katerin. He stood for a moment, wondering if he should not go down to Slipitsky at once, pay his bill, and go on to the car which stood in the station yard.

Then the door opened, and Katerin herself stood before him—a Katerin that he had never seen. She wore now, instead of the poor garments in which he had seen her as a samovar girl, the beautiful purple velvet gown which reached to her slippers. Her hair was high upon her head, dressed in the style of a Russian lady so that it suggested a crown—lifted from the front and turned back smoothly against the mass, and then drawn down tightly across the ears. Tall, slender, and stately she was now, such a woman as might be a princess of the blood. Hanging from her neck was a gorgeous string of pearls, and from her fingers gleamed jeweled rings. And Peter’s heart sank as his eyes rested upon her, for once again he realized with a pang that, after all, he was but Peter Petrovitch, son of a poor exile, and Katerin Stephanovna was of the Russian nobility. He saw a new barrier between them, and one which he had forgotten in his recent thoughts of her.

The joy which had come into his face at first glance at her was dissipated by his realization that this was the end for them, and he bowed a most formal bow.

She held out her hand to him, and he took it, like a man in a trance, but conscious of the jewels on her fingers.

“You are going away?” she said, with concern in her eyes—a concern which he knew to be politeness. She was still pale, he thought, and wistfully sad for her father.

“Yes,” he said. “I am to go—Shimilin sends me word that a private car is in the yards and——” He let his eyes wander to the figure of the serving woman, who was lurking behind the curtains which led to the far room. He wondered what he could say for she seemed so comfortable now with her servants—the old woman and Wassili—and so self-sufficient. How could she be otherwise than rich, he thought, with such clothes and such jewels? He wished that she had kept her clothes as a samovar girl, and then he might have found it possible to give utterance to some of the words which pressed him to be said. He would have found it much easier to blurt out what was in his heart if she had not been so grand and disconcerting in that velvet gown. He sensed a hurt within himself that she had done this—could it be that she had dressed herself deliberately for their meeting so that he should find it easy to keep his place?

“You have called to say good-by,” she said, and drew aside slightly. “Then you must come in—and we shall have a glass of tea.” Then, as if she divined what was in his mind about her changed appearance, she added, “We Kirsakoffs never mourn our dead with garments—an old custom of our warrior clan—instead, we wear our best, out of respect for those who have gone—and these poor things are the best I have. So please do not think it strange. Wassili! Fire the samovar and fetch fresh water for a guest of the house!”