The rebellion of the Princess

by Mary Imlay Taylor

“Will you not mend it for me, sir?” she said, with her head on one side, a smile lurking in her eyes.

“With pleasure, my princess,” I replied, bowing profoundly, and as I took the bracelet I managed to kiss the fair hand that gave it.

And then the duenna hustled me suddenly out of the terem, for if she knew no French, she understood looks and gestures only too well—the old ferret—and she shook her staff at me from the head of the stairs as I descended. She stood there looking, for all the world, like an angry hen, clucking away at me in Russ, at the top of her lungs, until old Piotr took me in charge and, in his turn, hurried me out of the house. Evidently, the pair of them regarded me as a dangerous intruder in their dove-cote.

VI: THE DWARF

ONCE more in the court-yard, I stopped to laugh, for the anger and trepidation of the two guardians of the household furnished me with no little entertainment. I was in a good humour, too, for I had seen my divinity and had even kissed her soft white hand; a proceeding which caused her no little amazement, for I had seen her surprise in her eyes, and the blood had stolen up to her hair, but I flattered myself that she was not altogether angry, for I felt sure she was amused at the old woman’s excitement over the little episode. I glanced back now over the house, hoping to catch another glimpse of its fair mistress, but was disappointed. Piotr’s discipline had served to keep the serfs from gaping at me again, and the upper windows were vacant, save for a solitary raven that perched upon one sill and craned his neck as if to look down at me. The sun shone intensely on the white walls of the palace, and the shadows were clean cut and black where they fell in the niches of the building, and above the sky was blue. The bells of the Kremlin churches began to ring sweetly, the clear-toned notes floating away in the distance, and the air was soft as spring in the south.

I walked slowly to the gates and stood a moment looking out into the street, and it was while I lingered thus that a drosky arrived at the main entrance drawn by three fleet horses, and a tall man alighted from it, attended by a servant. At the first glance I recognised the handsome face and fine figure of Prince Basil Galitsyn; he had been often to Maître le Bastien’s workshop, and I could not mistake his face or his bearing. Of all the Russian nobles he was the most Western in his manners and tastes, and he was an unusually handsome and dignified man. The air of familiarity with which he approached the house and the cordiality with which he was greeted—Piotr standing bare-headed on the step to receive him—were not at all to my taste. I stood staring after him as he vanished into the palace and, for the first time, I regretted having assumed a disguise. I reflected that the princess had in her possession, at that very moment, a locket that belonged to Prince Galitsyn, and all at once he loomed up before me as a probable lover of the beautiful Daria. “Why not,” I reflected; “what was more likely? And here was I, like a blockhead, in the shabby garb of an apprentice, cooling my heels in the court-yard, while his excellency, the prince, was doubtless taking zakuska in the salon.” Yet I had no remedy, and must even grin and bear it, for to rush back and declare myself the Marquis de Cernay would have done little for my cause beyond raising the ridicule of the kitchen. Neither could I hang about the court-yard, like a menial, to catch a glimpse of the proceedings that might be visible through the lower windows; there was nothing for it but to curse my ill fortune and, buttoning my old taffety coat over the princess’ bracelet, to proceed on my way back to my quarters with no very pleasant reflections. But there was one thread of comfort: I knew that by common report the Czarevna Sophia loved Prince Galitsyn, and she was reputed to be a woman of no ordinary qualities and was likely enough to be a formidable rival even for the beautiful Princess Voronin. I tried to remember all that I had ever heard of the czarevna, and to piece together a respectable romance between her and Prince Galitsyn, but I confess I got very little satisfaction out of the process, for before my mind’s eye stood always the graceful figure, the glowing, youthful face, the sparkling eyes of Daria Kirilovna, and I could not believe that the prince was blind.

Busied with these meditations, I traversed the streets between the palace and our quarters quickly enough, and entering the house, with a face as long as my arm, bethought myself of the dwarf, and intending to call for him, I opened the door of the refectory and looked in. There was the dwarf himself, seated on a table in the middle of the room, busily engaged in devouring a meal that had been spread before him, while Michaud, the apprentice, was sitting on a window-sill near at hand, looking on with a grin.

The little creature, with his white, three-cornered face, was hunched over his food, eating with his fingers, and devouring the stuff with the fierce greediness of an animal, and as he ate his great ears wagged with every motion of his jaws, and Michaud,—who was an idle rogue,—seeing this, put his hands at each side of his own head and wagged them to and fro, in mockery of Maluta’s ears, making his jaws go to the same tune. The meal, too, was one to startle any but a Russian stomach; it was a bit of sterlet,—the precious fish they love so well,—some Muscovite rice bread, a pickled mushroom, and a tankard of beer, with some drops of oil of cinnamon in it, a flavour that the Czar Alexis considered a truly royal delicacy, and the dwarf ate and drank with an avidity that could be heard in the entry, while Michaud mocked him—eating imaginary food with the same relish.

I stood looking at the scene in silence, vastly amused thereat, and so fierce was the dwarf’s appetite that he did not observe me until he had gulped down the last of the beer, and then his rat-like eyes suddenly alighted upon me. He put down the empty tankard, sighed, thrust the whole pickled mushroom into his mouth as a parting dainty, and wriggling off the table, he came across the room, knelt on one knee and made an obeisance before me, as if he kissed the floor at my feet, while Michaud hooted derisively in the background.

“Up, you little varlet,” I said impatiently, advancing toward the only chair at the table, “come hither and tell me your history”; as I spoke, I was about to sit down, when I discovered that that lout of an apprentice had thrown himself into the armchair and was gazing at me with a cool impudence that I had never seen equalled.