The rebellion of the Princess

by Mary Imlay Taylor

And I, for the sake of eating with her, sat down and broke some of the old wife’s rice bread, all the while watching the soft colour come and go in Daria’s cheek, and the persistent droop of her eyelashes. The old woman waited upon us humbly, but with an air that made me think she had once been a servant in a great house, which I found to be true, for she told me afterwards that she had been in the household of Prince Voronin before her marriage.

Although she had fasted long, the princess seemed to me to eat but little, and that listlessly, as the very weary often do. But as soon as she had finished she told me that she was ready to ride on; however, I had no thought of taking her farther without, at least, an hour’s rest, and told her so. She protested weakly, at first, and then, meeting my eyes, fell silent and sat with her head drooping and her hands clasped in her lap. There was a wooden settle in the corner, and I took my cloak and, folding it over the high back, made a soft place for her to rest against.

“Now, madame,” I said, assuming the tone of command, “you will rest there an hour, so that we may ride on to Troïtsa.”

She hesitated, glancing at my cloak and turning her face aside.

“I can rest here,” she said, I thought sullenly.

“Upon a stool that has no back?” I asked ironically. “You would rest better in the saddle. Nay, madame, you make the task of rescuing you no light one. I pray you, do as I ask.”

She bit her lip and kept her eyes averted, but she rose slowly and walked over to the settle. The old woman, being heartily of my opinion, also urged her to rest, and made much ado in arranging her upon my cloak, while Daria turned her face away and sat bolt upright, as if she feared contagion from it. I smiled grimly, and bided my time; I knew her strength was almost exhausted, and the sequel justified my expectations. I fell to talking with the crone and, in half an hour, I saw the princess sink gently back upon the settle, and then the proud head drooped upon the folds of my cloak and she slept, gently and soundly as a child, utterly worn out by the strain of the last two days and nights.

Meanwhile the old woman chatted garrulously, of her past, of her children,—all long dead, though there had been fifteen,—of her husband, of their life in the hut. And she had many questions to ask me; she had heard a rumour of the revolution in Moscow, and scarcely believed it, and was, indeed, too dull to fully comprehend my answers. She told me also of Prince Voronin’s household; he had been twice married already, she said, and would soon wed again. Daria’s mother had been shaved, a convenient way to be rid of a wife; for when a Russian wanted a divorce he sent his wife to a convent, and as soon as her head was shaved she was forced to remain there. However, death had released Daria’s mother, and the prince’s second wife was now shaved, so he would soon wed again.

All this time Daria slept, and I watched the shadows play on her downcast face and long black lashes. She looked very young and delicate as she sat there, and helpless and appealing; the princess had vanished and the young girl predominated, and she was very lovely. I watched her with many thoughts, and with an ever-growing affection, and the old woman, tired at last, fell asleep, too, and snored, and the hours went on, and still I had not the heart to rouse the princess. Once in the night the old man woke and hobbled out to replenish the oil in the lamp before the shrine, a thing he seemed to do mechanically, for he hobbled back, stared at me vacantly, and then fell asleep again.

I kept the vigil, tending the fire, that we might not be left in darkness, and the night passed thus. Daria never stirred; she slept the deep sleep of exhaustion, and I watched and thought of her, of all that she had said and done, and saw nothing—in a word or action—but indifference, save that one cry when I came to her cell door, “Is it thou?” and it pleased me to think of the thrill in her voice, as it pleased me to look at her beautiful face in its slumber, at the graceful droop of her young figure, which was slender and virginal in aspect. Yet, all the while, there was an undercurrent of anxiety; time was precious, and I listened, ever and anon, for a hoof-beat on the road, and once I thought someone walked near the hut.