On the red staircase

She had just come out of the Cathedral of the Assumption, and was standing beside the proud old boyar, whom I supposed to be her father. Her veil had slipped aside, and once more I saw her features plainly, though this time she was oblivious of my presence. She was beautiful. There was no longer any doubt; before, I had thought that it might be half my fancy, half the dim light within the cathedral; but now, in the broad sunlight, I saw the regularity of her small features, the exquisite fairness of her complexion, the beautiful blue of her eyes. I saw too that she had been weeping, and was pale. My heart throbbed with a sudden mad impulse to offer her my sword, as her knight-errant. Fortunately, prudence and the common conventionalities of life kept me still, but I eagerly watched her every movement. Her hand rested half reluctantly, I thought, upon the arm of her escort, and she seemed to shrink away from the noise and rush of the crowd that was streaming past the cathedral, roaring and bellowing upon the way. The old boyar, her protector, glanced at them with complacent condescension, and from that moment I never doubted his adherence to the Naryshkins. I could see that he was measuring the extent of their success, gloating, perhaps, over the defeat of their opponents; there was something in the man’s face that suggested a keen relish for such a triumph. He was the personification of the old-time Russian boyar, the adherent of Precedence, the tyrant of the serf, the aggressive autocrat. He stood there, in the shadow of the cathedral, and viewed the Moscow rabble with the reflection of the patriarch’s triumph on his face. Such men as these would never make the Czarevitch Peter’s cause popular with the masses, never pacify the wounded sensibilities of the Dissenters, or heal the troubles of the Streltsi. The old noble was the picture of combativeness and aggression, and there was, too, a sinister expression in his eyes. His brows were intensely black in contrast to his gray hair, and instead of curving with the socket of the eye, they pointed suddenly up at the ends, like two horns, giving at once a Satanic aspect to the Tartar face, with its olive skin and its thin, pale lips.

Nothing could have been more complete than the contrast between the two, the old man and the girl: a hawk and a dove. So intent was he upon the scene before them, that he seemed to forget her, and she shrank back in the shelter of his large figure and gazed timidly about. It was then that I had the satisfaction to find that I was remembered. I moved a little nearer to them, and as I did so, she turned, and our eyes met. There was a flash of recognition, and, I dared to think, almost of pleasure in her glance, but she instantly turned her head and gazed in the opposite direction; still, I rejoiced to see a beautiful blush creep slowly up to her brow, and suffuse her face, until even her delicate ear was scarlet. She remembered me, then, but did she resent my audacity? I was never a man to be easily dashed, but I knew that Russian etiquette was even more rigid than our own, and caution was a necessity. A bolder man would have hesitated to encounter that proud old boyar!

She stood there with averted face, pulling nervously at her gloves, and presently she had one off, and I saw a small and beautiful hand. Suddenly she adjusted her veil more closely, and I feared that my persistent gaze had given offense, until I discovered the cause of her movement. An acquaintance of the boyar’s had approached, and I was startled at recognizing no less a person than Viatscheslav Naryshkin, a cousin of the Czarina Natalia, and a man whom I had learned to despise as a court profligate, full of intrigue and malice of a common kind, and holding his place only because of his illustrious relative; yet managing to exert considerable influence in that inner circle which constituted the strength of the czarina’s party, which to-day’s election would elevate to a dizzy eminence, if they were equal to discerning and grasping their opportunities.

The boyar welcomed Naryshkin with effusion, but I saw that his fair companion seemed to shrink yet farther into the background, and I rejoiced at the maiden’s discernment. It is said that every woman is endowed with an instinct that warns her against such men, and in this case it seemed true. Naryshkin, however, was nothing dashed by her manner, probably attributing it to maiden coyness, and forced himself upon her notice in a way which made me grind my teeth; but I was compelled to swallow my displeasure and play the rôle of a bystander at the little drama. It did not take me long to draw some natural conclusions, especially as I saw that the boyar evidently favored the would-be suitor, and was as eager to welcome his advances as the young girl was to repulse them. I was more than ever determined to learn something about the identity of the two, and the probable fate in store for the possessor of that beautiful face. When they moved away through the crowd I followed, as I had followed before, and saw them assisted into their carriage by Naryshkin. As she stepped into it she turned and looked back, and it seemed to me that, even through her veil, I saw her eyes; something fell from her hand and fluttered to the ground, unnoticed by her ill-favored suitor. As the carriage drove slowly off, I pressed forward and found a glove. Her glove! A man was standing near me and I questioned him. Yes, he knew whose carriage it was. That old gentleman was the Boyar Vladimir Ramodanofsky, and I gathered from the fellow’s manner that the name was not popular with the masses. I had gained something; knowing his name, I could soon learn more of him; already I knew a little, by reputation, of the stern old nobleman who had once commanded the insubordinate Streltsi.

Meanwhile, her glove lay in the palm of my hand. Such a little glove; of the kind worn by the ladies in Paris, and it seemed to retain yet the round shape of her small hand, to be a part of her personality. Had she dropped it purposely? I dared not think so; but I thrust it into my bosom and walked on swiftly in the track of the carriage. I was resolved this time to know more about her. The crowd was thinning out, and I made my way easily to the Gate of the Redeemer, keeping the carriage in view, for it was moving slowly. I was congratulating myself on having escaped my strange acquaintance and being at liberty to pursue my own inclination, but I was destined to meet with another obstacle to the accomplishment of my errand. Just as I was about to leave the Kremlin, I encountered Dr. Daniel von Gaden, the Jewish physician of the late Czar Feodor. He stopped me to ask some particulars of the occurrences in the Grand Square. He was a learned man, and had, too, a thorough knowledge of the intrigues at court. His face to-day was pale and grave.

“These are troublous times,” he said thoughtfully, “and an honest man scarcely knows to which strong arm to look for shelter. It is an evil hour to place a child on the throne. The czarina’s party is not strong enough without the adherence of the Streltsi, and that is a difficult matter. Besides, there is no leader there but Matveief, and he—they accuse him of witchcraft!” Von Gaden laughed. “It is not well to study algebra in Russia.”

“No,” I said, “learning is at a discount. I marvel, monsieur, that they do not accuse you of the black arts.”

“They do worse in their hearts, M. le Vicomte,” he answered gravely; “they accuse me of poisoning the late czar.”

I started. The announcement, made with such composure, astonished me. For the moment I forgot the carriage and my interrupted adventure. He saw my amazement, and smiled sadly.

“Not openly,” he said; “the accusations are whispered where an honest man may not refute them; but you know such whispering sent the chancellor to a remote corner of Archangel, and what may be the fate of an obscure Jewish doctor?”

He looked at me with an expression of gloomy interrogation. I have often thought since that his awful fate was already casting its black shadow over his soul; that he was gifted with prescience.

“Natalia is your friend, is she not?” I ventured mildly, feeling that any remark was worse than useless.

“Ay,” he said at once; “the gracious czarina is my friend, but what power has she here?”

His eye swept over the Kremlin, and I knew that his mind was conjuring up a thousand pictures of the dark deeds that made up its secret annals. Before he spoke again, I looked at the gate and saw a hideous little figure rushing towards us, whirling its arms above its large head, and uttering a shrill sound between a squeal and a whistle. Von Gaden, awaking from his revery, eyed the new-comer with little favor.

“It is Homyak, one of the court dwarfs,” he remarked calmly, “and he is evidently badly frightened.”

The little creature threw himself upon the doctor, grasping his mantle in his talon-like fingers and raising a white drawn face.

“I have seen the dead!” he moaned, cowering down until he was the picture of abject terror. “I have seen the dead!”

Von Gaden shook his mantle free with an impatient gesture.

“You are evidently troubled with a bad conscience, Homyak,” he said cynically, “therefore your graveyard visitants are frequent!”

The dwarf covered his wizened face with his hands, and rocked to and fro in an ecstasy of fear. I could not help a feeling of pity as well as disgust as I beheld him.

“What was your vision this time?” the Jew asked, with relentless contempt.

The dwarf stopped his exhibition of terror, and going close to the physician, tried to raise his hideous face to his interrogator’s.

“It was he!” he whispered in a tone just audible to me. “He, whom you tried to save on the Red Staircase, and who lay dying that night on the stone pavement of his own courtyard!”

Von Gaden started. “’Tis strange!” he muttered; “I was thinking of him a moment since. Her young face brought back the memory of that awful scene. And you have seen him, fellow?”

He regarded the dwarf with a look of fierce interrogation, as if to read his very soul; but Homyak showed no desire to conceal anything; he was shaking with genuine terror.

“I saw his spirit,” he said, his teeth chattering, “and there was the scar—the wound you sewed up. I saw him, and he mocked me!”

“Where was he?” asked the physician, while I marveled at his patience with the dwarf’s vagaries.

“He came from this direction,” said Homyak, wildly, “and he was gaunt and thin, and his hair was white.”

Von Gaden laughed. “You dream, Homyak,” he said; “ghosts do not age.”

I was growing impatient, and made a movement to leave them; but Von Gaden laid his hand on my arm.

“A moment, M. de Brousson,” he said; and then he took the dwarf aside, and speaking to him sternly and briefly, despatched him in the direction of the palace. When he rejoined me I saw that the gloom on his face had deepened rather than disappeared.

“If you can walk home with me, M. le Vicomte,” he said gravely, “I would gladly talk a little with you. These are uncertain times, and a man must needs keep his house in order and his affairs ready, lest he be unexpectedly taken away. There is a matter that has often weighed upon my mind that I would gladly confide to a disinterested man who could bear witness in the hour of need.”

Now, I was on the horns of a dilemma. The doctor had been more than obliging to me when I lay sore smitten with fever, and I could not easily deny him, yet I was fretting to be off on my errand. However, I resigned myself to the circumstances, and with some reluctance turned to accompany him. Then a sudden thought prompted me to question my companion.

“Can you tell me anything,” I said, “of the Boyar Vladimir Ramodanofsky?”

Von Gaden started and looked at me sharply.

“Verily,” he said, beneath his breath, “Homyak is right; the dead walk!”