Part 8

I looked down upon them in much curiosity; for an instant I forgot everything else. Here was the only military force in Russia, the only guardians of the throne, in mutiny, and who could oppose them? What man could quell the tumult, drive these mad creatures back to their dens? Fierce faces looked up, brawny arms brandished their weapons, and I noticed that they had even broken the long handles of their spears, that they might use them as swords. They poured in from every avenue and gateway, they choked up every outlet and massed themselves about the palace, shouting with passionate fury.

“Down with the Naryshkins! Death to the traitors! They have murdered the Czarevitch Ivan!”

Down with the Naryshkins! Ah, Mme. Sophia, this is then your handiwork? Down with your rivals, up with the Miloslavskys, and the blind czarevitch and his great sister. I saw what she had done, and more than ever I dreaded her power over the Princess Daria.

Meanwhile the uproar in the Red Place beggared description; for the most part I could not distinguish what was said, or rather shouted, but, ever and anon, I did clearly comprehend the cry:

“Give us the traitors! The Naryshkins have murdered the Czarevitch Ivan and the imperial family!”

The idea that a conspiracy really existed in the family of the Czarina Natalia to destroy the rivals of her little son, the Czar Peter, had got a firm hold on the ignorant minds of these creatures, and it had doubtless much to do with the final outbreak, but even after they were assured of the safety of the czarevitch, they kept on in their furious course.

While I looked, the patriarch, in full pontificals, came out upon the bedchamber porch and addressed the rioters, and with him were some boyars, among whom I recognised Prince Galitsyn. But their appeals to the mob had no result; the soldiers crowded up under the balcony and on the very Red Staircase itself; they brandished their weapons and shouted:

“Give us the traitors! Down with the Naryshkins!”

Their wild upturned faces scowled fiercely upon the nobles; they gesticulated and screamed, but, as, yet, no blood was shed, and only one or two stones had been thrown, and they fell wide of the mark, but the sullen rumble of wrath rose on the outskirts of the throng; the naked spears flashed in the sunshine, death was there, riot and murder--no sane man could be blind to it. Once more that wild shout rose. I climbed on the window-sill and looked down and saw the boyars bringing out the Czarina Natalia and her son, the little Czar Peter, and with them the weak-minded Czarevitch Ivan. At the sight of them the rioters went mad; they cried out so fiercely that the voice of the patriarch was drowned. They brought ladders and climbed to the very porch where the czarina stood--white as death--with the two boys beside her. The patriarch talked to the soldiers, but in vain, they pushed him roughly aside and clambered over one another until they pressed so close upon the czarina that she gave way, and hurried back into the palace, with her son and stepson, and then--for the moment--I thought that the end was at hand. The rioters howled like wolves and pressed forward; below a dark mass of men and a forest of cruel steel.

It was at this crisis that the chancellor, Matveief, came out; he was an old man of stately bearing, the uncle of the Czarina Natalia, and once the commander of these animals. At the sight of him there was a sudden lull, the noise died away, the onward rush was stayed; they waited, snarling like beasts, and the chancellor spoke. His voice did not come up to me distinctly; I could not follow his speech word for word, but I caught the drift of it. He was an astute politician, and he told them that they had been deceived by bad men, that no conspiracy existed, that they had themselves seen both the czar and the czarevitch alive and in good health, and it behoved them to disperse quietly to their homes, and, if they did so, he would himself intercede for them, that the czar might pardon this mutiny and attend to their grievances. Never was a speech better received; a shout of applause followed it, and the ringleaders began to waver. All might yet be well. I drew a breath of relief, and in this season of quiet I heard, for the first time, a knocking at the door of my prison.

I leaped from the sill and, forgetting Matveief and his diplomacy, hastened to the door. The knocking was now followed by a scratching sound that had become familiar to me.

“Maluta,” I said, “is it you?”

“Yea, O my master!” replied the shrill voice of the dwarf. “I have been trying to find you.”

“Can you undo the door?” I demanded.

“Nay,” he replied, “I have tried, but ’tis double-locked with strong iron locks, and neither can I get the keys. They are in the bosom of the fat chamberlain.”

“Canst get a mallet to me?” I asked. “In this excitement no one will heed you.”

“I cannot get it to you, save by the window,” said Maluta, “even if I can find one--have you tried the window?”

“’Tis a sheer leap on to the spears of the Streltsi,” I said drily.

There was a silence on the other side of the door for a moment, and in the pause I heard someone speaking on the Red Staircase.

Afterwards, I knew it was the second in command of the Department of the Streltsi, Prince Dolgoruky, and it was he who let the lions loose.

“The Czarevna Sophia means mischief to the Princess Daria,” said Maluta’s voice.

Then I went to the window with a sudden resolve to do or die. As I looked out an awful shout came from the rioters; there was a rush upon the staircase, and the Boyar Dolgoruky, he who had just ordered them to disperse, was hurled down upon their spears. It was over in a moment, and they trampled him under foot. The bright blades dripped now with crimson, and the yelp of the wolf who laps blood came up. I saw them seize the chancellor and hurl him down upon their spears, as they would have hurled a bag of salt.

But I had no time to lose; I tried the iron fretwork beside the window. Then I went back to the door and shouted to Maluta, for the tumult almost drowned my voice.

“Go to the room above, below the roof, and wait there--if I can climb to the window ledge, I will join you there,” I said, and heard his assent before I returned to my desperate attempt.

I took off my shoes and bound them at my waist by my scarf, and leaping on the sill in my stocking feet stood a moment, looking down on a scene of blood. The yell of the mob and the screams of the dying came up together. The body of Matveief had been hacked to pieces; blood flowed on the Red Staircase, blood dripped alike from hands and weapons and smeared their faces with a hideous ruddiness. The mob was no longer densely massed, it was breaking asunder, into small parties in pursuit of victims. Every boyar, every man of rank, was a suspect, and he stood chance of a trial unless he was known to be of the Miloslavsky party. Even the horses in the carriages were cut down, that not a noble might escape. I saw two men killed while I stood there, and then I swung myself out on the ledge of the window and, seizing the iron-work, began to ascend, expecting every moment that it would give way and hurl me headlong on the spears below. But it held, and I was half-way up, I saw Maluta’s wing-eared face above me, over the window-sill. I had but a few yards to climb when a shrill yell immediately below told me that I had been seen; they would, of course, mistake me for one of their enemies, yet could only move slowly and with the greatest care, and, meanwhile, I was a conspicuous mark. Another yell, and then a stone struck the wall below my feet, another at my side, a fourth took me fairly in the small of my back, but I had gained a yard, my hand was on the window-sill. Then I heard a bullet sing past me, and the report of a pistol; someone had fired from the porch. It missed, but now the roar came up, like the roar of thunder. I heard a dying man scream, and, at the instant, caught the window-sill and swung forward, landing fairly on it, just as another bullet cut through my sleeve.

I leaped upon the sill and, looking down at those hideous faces, kissed my hand derisively to them, and sprang back into the room beside Maluta--safe, by a hair’s-breadth.

_XV: PRINCESS AND CZAREVNA_

I FOUND myself in a low room beneath the roof, belonging, doubtless, to one of the servants of the palace, and but plainly furnished. Maluta greeted me eagerly, with every evidence of joy; and while I put on my shoes and hastily arranged my disordered dress, he told me all he knew, screaming it at the top of his shrill voice, for even there--under the very eaves--the mighty cry of the mob, in its fury, leaped up and echoed, drowning all minor sounds, as the roar of the cataract swallows up the murmur of the river.

The dwarf had lost sight of me the day before, when I entered the czarevna’s presence, and had suspected my fate when he found I did not reappear, but, with all his cleverness, it had been long before he could locate me. In fact, he had not done so until Maître le Bastien and Michaud came out and were taken to Prince Galitsyn. It seemed that there had been a long and stormy scene between the prince and Sophia Alexeievna, and Maluta was plainly of the opinion that, whatever transpired at the interview, it had been an unfortunate one. The czarevna was known to be in a stormy mood, and though Galitsyn was there, and taking a leading part in affairs, he was under a ban, so far as his imperial mistress was concerned. Then the dwarf described the arrival of Prince Voronin and his daughter, and there had been a scene, he knew, between the latter and the czarevna. The old prince had been separated from his daughter, and both were under arrest, and Maluta feared the worst, with the mob yelping below us, and Sophia and the Miloslavskys supreme. He told me that the Czarina Natalia could do nothing more than save the life of the little czar, that the soldiers had already forced an entrance into the palace and could not be controlled even by the patriarch. As he spoke, I heard their yells within as well as without the building, and the continuous cry of “Give us the traitors! Down with the Naryshkins!”

I had controlled my impatience long enough to hear his story, that I might have a clearer comprehension of the situation, and now I was ready to act.

“In what part of the palace is the Princess Daria?” I demanded eagerly.

“In the rear, on the floor below,” replied Maluta promptly. “I know the very room.”

“Then lead the way,” I said, “and lose no time--I would I had my sword!”

They had stripped me of my weapons, and I felt the helplessness of bare fists. Maluta looked at me sideways, in his elfish fashion.

“I might steal one from the guard-room,” he said, and quietly drew a pistol from the bosom of his doublet and handed it to me.

“You little rogue,” I said, with a smile, “did you steal this also? But I thank you--even if you did,” I added, having, after examination, found the weapon loaded and primed, ready for use.

Then I followed him through the hall and down the stairs. As we descended the noises below grew even more distinct; we heard the fierce cries without and answering shouts within, and ever and anon the sharp crack of a pistol or a scream of agony. But the place where we were was utterly deserted, not even a serf lingered here; all were drawn to the scene of horror below, or had fled to safety elsewhere. Now and then the bells of the cathedrals burst out into wild, discordant chimes, as if demons set them going, and this clangour added a strange note to the tumult.

On Maluta led and I followed; further into the heart of the palace, and presently we passed through a long gallery where the windows, set in deep recesses, looked down upon the Red Place, and on the other side, through a lattice-work, we could see into one of the private chapels, for this was a gallery sometimes used by the women to witness the ceremonies from behind the screen, an Eastern custom that still prevailed in Moscow. At the further end of the passage was a door, and here Maluta paused and signed to me.

“She is here,” he whispered in my ear; “the czarevna locked her in!”

I did not hesitate a moment, I knocked boldly at the door, determined to speak to the princess. But there was no response, though she must have heard it, for the outcry of the mob had died down a moment, as it did at intervals--when there was bloody work to do. I knocked again, to no purpose, and then I tried the door; it yielded instantly to my hand and fell open, and I looked eagerly into the room, but it was empty. I turned angrily upon Maluta, who stood open-mouthed, gazing in with such honest astonishment that I knew he had not purposely deceived me.

“You little rogue!” I said passionately; “how long ago was she here?”

But he did not answer me; instead, he plucked at my coat and pointed to the opposite door--the door through which we had entered the gallery--and there, to my amazement, I saw the Czarevna Sophia and the Princess Daria entering together. Whether they saw us or not, I knew not; if they did, neither of them heeded us, and the dwarf and I, standing back in the recess of the doorway, were witnesses of the strange scene that followed. As they advanced I saw the awful pallor of Daria’s face, but she was wonderfully composed, seeming to control herself by a supreme effort of will, while the czarevna, equally cool in manner, had an inscrutable expression on her countenance. She paused midway in the gallery, at one of the windows, and pointed downward. The mob--nearly silent for a while--had begun to cry out again, and I could see some horror, enacted below, reflected in the eyes of the girl who looked, following the direction of that eager finger.

“I have brought you here to see the fruitlessness of resistance, you little fool,” said Sophia, in a tone that had the cruelty of triumphant power in it; “your father is old, and not a strong man; death will therefore be more easy--but death upon those spears! And death he would have, if he opposed me. His rank avails not. See, yonder goes the head of Artemon Matveief, the czarina’s uncle--she could not save him!”

The Princess Daria closed her eyes with a shudder, and I saw Sophia’s cruel, furtive smile. What devil possessed the woman? I felt in my bosom for the pistol, the spot was lonely! At the moment, came up the yell from below--like a voice from the infernal regions.

“Slay, slay the traitors! Give us Ivan Naryshkin and Von Gaden--the Jew poisoner--and Prince Voronin! Death to these wretches!”

The princess drew back, pale and shivering, but still she did not plead for mercy; she only listened to the other woman.

“They are demanding your father,” Sophia said; “the czarina cannot save him, nor can Galitsyn--nor Galitsyn--do you hear, girl, not even the prince? And they will tear his body, as the wolves tear the one who is slain first--they would do it now--but for me!”

The Princess Daria cast a scornful look at her, her own face as white as ashes, but her eyes sparkling.

“You can save him, Sophia Alexeievna!” she said; “and why should he suffer because Prince Galitsyn loves me? Because you found my miniature in your locket around his neck? I did not give it to him,” she continued scornfully, “and if I had--is that cause enough for a great princess--the daughter of the czars--to murder an old man? Why do you not murder me?”

Sophia pointed out of the window. “I need not,” she replied, and laughed.

The red blood leaped up to Daria’s forehead, and then she turned white again, for the cry came up.

“Give us more Naryshkins! Where is Voronin?”

Sophia walked across the gallery and looked through the lattice into the chapel. From where I stood I also could see the dim interior, lighted only by the tapers which burned before the golden iconostase, and there now was the figure of a priest, on his knees; surely it was a time to pray.

“See, here is the priest, Daria Kirilovna,” said Sophia, “and Kurakin waits below. You will go there now, and before my eyes, wed the Boyar Kurakin. You cannot escape me--there is no escape!”

I felt again for my pistol, and this time drew it out.

The princess did not, at first, reply; she stood quite still, looking into the chapel.

“I can die!” she said, at last, in a low voice, “and I would gladly die--rather than wed that man! I can die.”

“Out there?” asked Sophia scornfully, pointing toward the court-yard where the carnival of hell went on.

The Princess Daria did not answer, her face set itself rigidly.

“Out there?” said Sophia again. “I do not think they would kill you--not at once!”

Daria shuddered, turning her face away. Sophia looked at her with glittering eyes.

“It will avail nothing to resist,” she went on, in a fierce, low tone, “you are in my power; your father cannot save you; you shall marry Kurakin, I swear it! And Galitsyn will never see your face again--never.”

Daria gave her a look of superb disdain and answered not a word, and the czarevna, maddened by her manner, caught her by the wrist and drew her to a window, and they looked through it as I looked through another. We could see nearly the whole of the Red Place, and it was filled with a living, surging mass of humanity that roared and wavered like the billows of the ocean. A mass of upturned savage faces, white with fury, red with blood, and, borne aloft--here and there--on the points of spears, the gory heads of their victims. They waded deep in blood and mire, for they had trampled the dead and dying under foot, the very air reeked as from a slaughter-house, and the voice of the mob! Deep and awesome as the voice of the tempest, rolling and growling in the distance, and then rising in a fearful, ear-splitting yell of frenzy--“Slay, slay, slay!”

I, a strong man, turned sick and dizzy; I looked back and saw the princess standing like a statue. Sophia had her left wrist, but Daria did not look at her: her eyes were riveted upon the sight below, her nostrils dilated, her breath came quickly; I saw her right hand clench. The voice of the mob echoed about us; a raven, frightened by the noise, burst into the window and flew over our heads, beating its wings against the roof in its efforts to escape. Looking at the princess, I felt that she too, was like a captive bird, but still she gazed below and I looked again also, and saw them kill a boyar and dash his brains out on the pavement. I cursed Sophia in my heart as a fiend. Then the howl came up--the wolf’s cry, after tasting blood.

“A Naryshkin! Give us a traitor--give us Prince Voronin!”

“Hearest thou, Daria Kirilovna?” said the czarevna; “he cannot save you--but I can save him!”

The Princess Daria leaned against the wall, her eyes closed.

“You are in my power!” said Sophia fiercely.

Again, the wolf’s howl: “Blood, blood!”

It rose and leaped against the turrets and rebounded with an echo that froze the heart. The raven beat its wings.

“I will save your father,” said the czarevna, “but you wed Kurakin!”

The princess made no answer, her face was deathly, and her lips moved as if in prayer. And below the mob screamed out a name. “Voronin--give us the traitor!”

The princess opened her eyes and looked--not at Sophia or the fearful scene below--but away, into the far distance where the sky shone blue and serene.

“I am in your power,” she said; “the holy Virgin pardon you!”

I took a step nearer, pistol in hand, but the dwarf flung himself on that wrist and clung there, with the strength of frenzy, terror, and passionate appeal in his face, but uttering no sound.

_XVI: THE PAINTED GALLERY_

MALUTA’S superstitious fear that I would do violence to the sacred person of the czarevna stayed me a moment, and that moment changed my whole resolve. In a flash I saw that, even if I could depend upon the dwarf, I could not deal with Sophia without the knowledge of the priest, below us in the chapel, and, moreover, I was suddenly confronted by another possibility.

Meanwhile, the czarevna had advanced upon the princess and was gazing fiercely in her eyes.

“You are indeed in my power,” she cried savagely, “and you will wed Kurakin now!”

In her turn, Daria looked upon her sternly, her pale, spirited face strongly agitated.

“Sophia Alexeievna,” she said in a low voice, “you are giving me to a living death, but you shall save my father--see to it that you save him!”

Sophia flushed deeply; contending emotions--triumph, gratified hatred, jealousy--were strongly mingled on her coarse features. Never was there so great a contrast; Sophia’s short, almost shapeless, figure and her powerful, determined face were thrown into sharp relief by the beautiful young woman at her side. The Princess Daria had never looked more lovely, more high-born and noble-minded than at that supreme moment of trial.

Sophia took a step nearer to the lattice.

“Mikhail Kurakin should be there now, in the chapel,” she said impatiently. “When I see him enter, then you will go down that stair yonder at the end of the gallery, and I watch here, that there may be no mistake--no slip--oh, you shall be wedded tight and fast, by book and taper, Daria Kirilovna--never fear!”

“He will not come,” said the princess, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “Our Lady of Kazan will deliver me, Sophia Alexeievna, from the bad man and from you--even on the staircase, he will be stayed.”

The czarevna looked at her, in surprise at first, and then laughed mockingly.

“Who shall deliver thee, O Daria?” she said. “Hark--your lover’s footstep is even now in the painted gallery!”

I stopped to hear no more; I grasped Maluta by the collar and softly and swiftly we passed through the door--the czarevna’s back was happily toward it--and on through the room where the princess had been confined. In the hall beyond I stopped and shook the dwarf violently.

“Where is the painted gallery?” I cried; “quick, fool!”

Intelligence of the keenest flashed into those ferret eyes.