The rebellion of the Princess

by Mary Imlay Taylor

Then I heard the door clang behind them, the bolts fall into place, and I was alone in my prison and before me was a chelpan—a kind of dough cake—and a cup of water! Both might be poisoned, but a hungry man is not over-cautious. I despatched the dough and drank the water, reflecting that I might need both before I escaped the clutches of my portly friend, the chamberlain, who had evidently determined to avenge himself for his own capture, whether by order of the czarevna or not. Having disposed of my breakfast, which served to whet my appetite rather than to satisfy it, I walked to and fro in the room, lost in thought—and not very pleasant thought. My reflections running so much on the line of those of the previous night, it is useless to record them, but I was in no pleasant frame of mind when I went, at the end of an hour, to look out of the window. The Red Place was nearly as quiet as on the previous evening, but now the sunshine illuminated it, and occasionally a boyar crossed it, or a servant ran out of the palace. The ravens of the Kremlin were circling around the windows and some alighted even on the balustrade of the bedchamber porch. The stillness struck me as unusual; not even a church-bell sounded; it must have been then between eight and nine in the morning. As I stood looking down, I saw the carriage of some great noble roll slowly across the court, attended, according to custom, by twenty or thirty serfs on foot, who went before and behind the vehicle. They were clad in crimson tunics edged with gold embroidery, and yet ran bare-foot, while the harness on the horses was covered with the dangling tails of martens, a decoration much in vogue with the aristocracy, and the duga above each animal’s neck shone with jewels. An old man, stately in bearing and magnificent in dress, sat in this carriage, and at his feet was a slave, also liveried in crimson, while beside him was a slender girlish figure, attired with equal splendour and wearing a long white scarf about her throat, besides the fata over her face. This strange procession halting at the Red Staircase, the serfs assisted their master and mistress to alight, and as they did so, a breeze lifted the nun’s veil and I saw the features beneath it.

It was the Princess Daria.

I stood a moment rooted to the ground, and then the full significance of her arrival at that hour came upon me. That must be her father, and they had been decoyed there, doubtless by the Czarevna Sophia.

I flew to the door and shook it, like a madman. I ran again to the window and measured with my eye the leap to the flint pavement below and knew it to be impossible, and then I stood and cursed my evil fortune. She, meanwhile, had gone on blindly to her fate, whatever it might be, in the same palace where I was a prisoner. There followed an interval of absolute despair and rage; I felt like a caged beast ready to tear my jailers in pieces, if they came, but happily for them they did not, and—though I knew it not—they were little likely to remember me again that day.

The whirl of my passions had made me deaf, but now at last there came a sound that roused me and made me listen. Far off at first, and then nearer and nearer, the bells began to toll, the deep notes of their metal tongues clanging in the clear spring atmosphere, and with this burst of music came the sullen roll of many drums, and deeper, louder, fiercer, the mighty boom of the tocsin—sounded in four hundred churches—rolled like the roar of thunder over Moscow.

I looked out and saw a man running like a wild creature across the square, and then—between the deep notes of the tocsin—came an awful sound, a fierce, many-voiced roar, the cry of the multitude, the savage yell of the mob. A shout below me, thin and shrill, cut the tumult like a knife.

“Close the gates!” it screamed, “the Streltsi—the Streltsi have risen!”

The bells of the tower of Ivan Veliki and the cathedrals began to ring, and near at hand I heard a woman scream. Nearer and nearer drew the awful waves of sound, lapping up the space between, as a wolf laps blood, and ever leaping up louder and fiercer—the yelp of the canaille.

XIV: A DESPERATE CLIMB

AGAIN I tried the door and beat upon it, and then returned to the window and was held there by the sight that unfolded before my eyes. The boyars, knowing well that the fury of the rising tempest would break upon their heads, were trying to escape; in the brief time that had elapsed since the first bells began to toll their coaches had been hurried out and the Red Place was a scene of confusion. From all parts of the palace and the adjoining buildings officials of the court and nobles were rushing out, and running hither and yon; the horses plunged and fretted and the men shouted to each other; not a man among them had a cool head, and never was there greater need—for the mob was coming on. It had evidently been impossible to close the gates, and now I heard the tramp of a multitude, besides its voice. And, at last, in the spaces between the buildings, I began to see the hundred-headed thing itself, a surging mass of men, so closely packed that it moved darkly, even in the sunshine, and above waved the broad folds of the banner of the Streltsi, which I knew well enough. It bore an image of the Virgin on it and was esteemed a sacred emblem, though it was to look that day on dark and bloody work. Now the roar of the mob rose, even in the court of the Kremlin, and echoed about the palace of the czars. On, on they came, driving back the fleeing boyars, like a herd of sheep, closing in on the carriages and horses, surging closer and ever closer upon the Red Staircase.