But this only made them stare the more, and the door being full, the adjacent windows began to bulge with heads, and the entire service of the kitchen gaped and chattered and pointed. I grew red in the face and felt my anger rising; it seemed as if some of those heads must be broken before any impression could be made, and I was in the mood to break them.
“Fools!” I said; “do you serve your mistress so ill that you cannot take her a message?”
At this, a titter arose in the background, started by some kitchen wench, and her mirth proved infectious, every face widening into a grin until, at last, they broke into loud and mocking laughter. My own face burned and I felt myself paid—and in my own coin—for my trick upon Kurakin, nor did I know what to do; among so many, my anger was but impotent folly, and my appearance, in my shabby attire, did not impress their vulgar eyes, for the canaille are likely to judge you by your clothes. I stood scowling at them, of two minds whether to turn on my heel or not, and leave them to their jest and the princess without her trinket—for I know of no swifter cure for a moonstruck gallant than ridicule—when the course of events was suddenly changed. A lattice over my head opened and a young girl peeped down at the group, and as I looked up I recognised the companion of the princess, Mlle. Lissa. She, as roguish as ever, began to laugh too, her blue eyes dancing with mischief, but, at the same time, she spoke sharply to the servants, and in a moment all merriment subsided and they huddled together in shame-faced confusion, eyeing me askance, while she vanished and old Piotr appeared below. It required only a word from the grey-haired major-domo to send the rabble of the kitchen skurrying to their quarters, and then he received me respectfully, but I thought there was a deep suspicion in his eye, while he listened to my request to see the Princess Daria.
“Her excellency has commanded me to admit you,” he said, however, and signing to me to follow him, he led me across a wide hall to a flight of stairs and began to ascend them with a measured tread.
The old man was dignified, with the deliberate movements so characteristic of the Muscovite; he held his grey head high, and his erect, muscular figure was clad in a long caftan of scarlet cloth, a chain of gold around his neck, and a dagger worn in his belt, and his whole aspect was perfectly in keeping with the part he played, of faithful retainer and steward in the house of a great noble. He did not address a word to me as we ascended the stairs and he led me on, as silently, through a gallery to another staircase which we also ascended, and then he opened a door and ushered me into a large apartment, where he bade me await the pleasure of his mistress, much as he would have bidden me await the coming of an empress, and bowing gravely, he left me to my own reflections. Being sure that I was now in the terem of a great boyar’s palace, I looked about me with much curiosity. I fancied, with truth, that no foreigner had ever been introduced there before and I was, therefore, the more interested. The room was large and Oriental in aspect; arches of Eastern design supported the vaulted roof, and the floor was covered with Turkish rugs and the lounges cushioned with glowing silks from the bazaars. On the wall opposite was one of the inevitable sacred pictures; this time, Saint Olga, and one deep recessed window lighted the apartment, looking out over the Moskva at the red battlemented wall of the Kremlin, and its palaces and cathedrals, and beyond—so high was this upper story—I caught a glimpse of the sweep of the plain and the Hill of Prostration, where the devout kneel at the sight of the “holy white mother city.”
I waited with some impatience, listening for the sound of a footstep, but for a while the house was singularly silent. Presently, however, I was startled by the soft notes of some instrument, for I knew that, in the strict Muscovite household, music among the women was discouraged. But here was a stringed instrument, and then a woman’s voice, singularly sweet and mellow, began to sing in Russ, and I listened attentively, not only because of the unusual words of the little ballad, but because the voice seemed to me to belong to the princess herself.
“‘If the frost nipped the flowerets no more,’”
sang the unseen musician:
“‘If in winter the flowerets would bloom,
If the woes of my spirit were o’er,