The rebellion of the Princess

WE had left the city and its turbulence and bloodshed behind us, and we rode, side by side, along the quiet country highway, in the soft darkness of a May evening, the stars above us, and a sweet freshness in the air. It was impossible not to feel relief and almost joy at our deliverance and our freedom. My spirits rose rapidly, I breathed deeply, and held my head high; the quiet, the serene atmosphere, the even hoof-beats, were all so many blessings, and I thought she shared my exhilaration, for—at the moment—she sat erect and kept her horse at a smart pace; yet she did not speak to me, and I could only discern her outline in the darkness. At first I had almost dreaded pursuit, but after we had traversed a league in safety I cast even this anxiety from me and went on with a light heart.

The curtain of the night hung low, for there was no moon, yet I could discern the vast sweep of the steppe, as we ascended, for the ground rose steadily toward the northeast, and I was watchful to keep to the road, a lonely one at best, save for the pilgrims travelling from Moscow to worship at the famous shrine of Saint Sergius. At another time I should have felt the risk of travelling with a woman upon this highway, without armed attendants, but now I cast care to the four winds. After the horrors of the city, the perils of the night and the lonesome road seemed small and trifling; for a few hours, at least, she was mine, she rode at my side, so close that I could have laid my hand upon her shoulder, and once or twice I thought she looked toward me. A fool’s paradise, I knew, for she was going to her father, or her father’s friends, and I was a gentleman and could not—and would not—force my claim upon her, if she loved me not. Yet I was happy, and once, for some pretext—guiding her horse, I think—I touched her hand and felt the soft, slender fingers, no longer cold, but warm and firm. At least, she feared me not, and if she trusted me!—but this was a perilous line of reflection.

Three leagues, and we had scarce exchanged three words; certainly, the signs were not propitious, yet, looking at that dark outline beside me, I found nothing to say; I was as tongue-tied as a lad before his first love. Then, making up my mind to break the ice, to speak and make her speak, I blundered.

“I must tell you, madame, that Prince Galitsyn did not know of your——”

I was going to say “marriage,” when she interrupted me.

“If you have nothing better to say, sir,” she cried impatiently, “I pray you say nothing!”

I gasped, taken aback by her sharpness, and felt myself a fool, and yet I had made her speak. But if she felt so deeply for Galitsyn, was I not a fool for my pains? A curse upon these princes! It was the same in France; let a fop with a drop of royal blood in him make love to a woman, and away with the plain gentleman, and even with the marquis!

I bit my lip and relapsed into sullen silence, and our horses plodded steadily on; I had spared their speed purposely, in case we should have need of it before we gained the monastery. Again the silence of the brooding night gathered us under its shadowy wings and enfolded us softly, so softly that I thought I heard her even breathing, and once there was a sharp, shuddering sigh. She did not share my joy at escape, then, or my presence chilled it. Resolutely silent now, I kept my gaze averted and saw presently the flicker of a light to the left, a few yards ahead. I peered at it, trying to make out whether it was advancing, or burned before some wayside shrine, and I saw that it was stationary. I was for turning out to avoid it, suspicious of unknown dangers, when I became suddenly aware that the figure beside me was drooping in the saddle, and I heard a soft, suppressed sound—a woman’s weeping. I started and drew rein; was it possible that this imperious creature wept? I could not be mistaken, for I heard a smothered sob, and she reeled forward, clinging to her saddle-bow. I bent over and caught hold of her bridle.

“I pray you, madame, not to give way,” I said gravely, “even if my presence does offend you. I——”

“You mistake, monsieur,” she cried tremulously; “I cannot go on—’tis sheer weakness. I have not slept and I have not eaten—since the bread you gave me yesternight.”

“Saint Denis!” I exclaimed sharply; “did they try to starve you, my——”

I bit my tongue to stay an endearing word.

“They gave me nothing,” she replied; “nor did I greatly care, but now my head swims, I cannot keep in the saddle—I should have told you!”

I did not know what to do, and looked again at that stationary light, which seemed now to burn brighter.

“Do you know what that is?” I asked her. “Is there a house near where I can get you food?”

She turned her head and looked in the direction I indicated.

“Yes,” she said listlessly. “I meant to tell you; it is a hut, and I know the old peasants who live in it; they will have rice bread and I will try to eat it. I am sorry,” she added, “I am very sorry to hinder you, monsieur, for my weakness.”

My heart smote me; had I not both eaten and slept, and I was a strong man and she, delicate and bred in luxury, had endured so much without complaint and ridden until she reeled in the saddle.

“If I can have a bit of bread and a cup of water, I can go on,” she said faintly. “I must go on!”

“Yes,” I replied, “when you have rested and broken your fast. Fear not, madame, they do not pursue us; and if you are certain of this house we will go forward.”

“I am certain,” she said.

I kept her horse’s bridle and led the beast beside mine, as we advanced some twenty yards, and then, not daring to take her to the house without first reconnoitering, I dismounted, and, with some misgivings lest her strength should altogether fail, I hurried forward. I came first upon a shrine, where a little lamp burned feebly, fed, no doubt, by the occupant of the khatka or hut that I now plainly discerned standing a little way from the road. I approached it swiftly, but cautiously, and examined it with care. It was one of the little mud houses, thatched with straw, commonly used by the moujiks, and through the unglazed window I saw an old woman cooking something over a fire of fagots, while in another corner a man, quite as old and more feeble, slept in his chair. The hut contained but one room, and only these two persons were in it. Reassured, I went back for the princess, confident that she would make her way with these people more quickly than I, for when the Russ became a patois I could not clearly understand it. I led our horses to the door of this humble dwelling and was about to knock when the old woman herself came to peep out at us, aroused by the tread of the animals. She opened the door cautiously, and only peered through the crack with an evident absence of hospitality.

“I will go to her,” Daria said quietly; “I know her—and I will speak with her.”

I helped her to dismount and would have supported her, but she slipped away from me and went to the door.

“’Tis I, Mother Vera,” she said gently; “I, Daria Kirilovna, and I pray you let me in to rest and give me bread—for I am hungry. The great city yonder, our holy mother, Moscow, is torn with riot and murder and robbery; the Streltsi have risen, and I have barely escaped with my life.”

As soon as she spoke the old woman opened the door and fell on her knees, kissing Daria’s hand and pressing it to her forehead, and when the princess ceased speaking, she rose and beckoned to her to enter.

“Now is my house honoured, O dear lady,” she said, in a thin old voice; “now is my roof lighted as with daylight, by the eyes of Daria Kirilovna. Enter, O my princess, all that is there is thine.”

She spoke with a strong accent of the north country, but more clearly than I had expected, and she showed every evidence of joy at the sight of Daria.

I watched her usher in the princess, and then I took the precaution of leading the horses to the rear of the cabin, and tethering them where they were least likely to be observed from the highroad. Having seen to their comfort and security, I returned to the hut and was admitted by the old woman, who courtesied profoundly, and called me “excellency.” I found that she had spread a simple meal before the princess of rice bread and milk, and though the place was bare and poor in aspect, and the food coarse, it was clean, no common thing in the house of a moujik. In the corner the old man nodded, only stirring at my entrance, to murmur something about the oil for the lamp at the shrine, and then falling asleep again. His wife, seeing my glance at him, touched her forehead significantly, and shook her head.

“He’s not all here any more, your excellency,” she said, casting a melancholy glance at her ancient spouse, “and his arm is weak, too; he is not even able to beat me,” and she wiped her eyes at the thought.

The princess, who had laid aside her hood, looked up at me shyly, and coloured deeply, signing to me to sit down at the table, which was only a board laid upon two trestles.

“You also must be hungry,” she said, in a very low voice.

And I, for the sake of eating with her, sat down and broke some of the old wife’s rice bread, all the while watching the soft colour come and go in Daria’s cheek, and the persistent droop of her eyelashes. The old woman waited upon us humbly, but with an air that made me think she had once been a servant in a great house, which I found to be true, for she told me afterwards that she had been in the household of Prince Voronin before her marriage.

Although she had fasted long, the princess seemed to me to eat but little, and that listlessly, as the very weary often do. But as soon as she had finished she told me that she was ready to ride on; however, I had no thought of taking her farther without, at least, an hour’s rest, and told her so. She protested weakly, at first, and then, meeting my eyes, fell silent and sat with her head drooping and her hands clasped in her lap. There was a wooden settle in the corner, and I took my cloak and, folding it over the high back, made a soft place for her to rest against.

“Now, madame,” I said, assuming the tone of command, “you will rest there an hour, so that we may ride on to Troïtsa.”

She hesitated, glancing at my cloak and turning her face aside.

“I can rest here,” she said, I thought sullenly.

“Upon a stool that has no back?” I asked ironically. “You would rest better in the saddle. Nay, madame, you make the task of rescuing you no light one. I pray you, do as I ask.”

She bit her lip and kept her eyes averted, but she rose slowly and walked over to the settle. The old woman, being heartily of my opinion, also urged her to rest, and made much ado in arranging her upon my cloak, while Daria turned her face away and sat bolt upright, as if she feared contagion from it. I smiled grimly, and bided my time; I knew her strength was almost exhausted, and the sequel justified my expectations. I fell to talking with the crone and, in half an hour, I saw the princess sink gently back upon the settle, and then the proud head drooped upon the folds of my cloak and she slept, gently and soundly as a child, utterly worn out by the strain of the last two days and nights.

Meanwhile the old woman chatted garrulously, of her past, of her children,—all long dead, though there had been fifteen,—of her husband, of their life in the hut. And she had many questions to ask me; she had heard a rumour of the revolution in Moscow, and scarcely believed it, and was, indeed, too dull to fully comprehend my answers. She told me also of Prince Voronin’s household; he had been twice married already, she said, and would soon wed again. Daria’s mother had been shaved, a convenient way to be rid of a wife; for when a Russian wanted a divorce he sent his wife to a convent, and as soon as her head was shaved she was forced to remain there. However, death had released Daria’s mother, and the prince’s second wife was now shaved, so he would soon wed again.

All this time Daria slept, and I watched the shadows play on her downcast face and long black lashes. She looked very young and delicate as she sat there, and helpless and appealing; the princess had vanished and the young girl predominated, and she was very lovely. I watched her with many thoughts, and with an ever-growing affection, and the old woman, tired at last, fell asleep, too, and snored, and the hours went on, and still I had not the heart to rouse the princess. Once in the night the old man woke and hobbled out to replenish the oil in the lamp before the shrine, a thing he seemed to do mechanically, for he hobbled back, stared at me vacantly, and then fell asleep again.

I kept the vigil, tending the fire, that we might not be left in darkness, and the night passed thus. Daria never stirred; she slept the deep sleep of exhaustion, and I watched and thought of her, of all that she had said and done, and saw nothing—in a word or action—but indifference, save that one cry when I came to her cell door, “Is it thou?” and it pleased me to think of the thrill in her voice, as it pleased me to look at her beautiful face in its slumber, at the graceful droop of her young figure, which was slender and virginal in aspect. Yet, all the while, there was an undercurrent of anxiety; time was precious, and I listened, ever and anon, for a hoof-beat on the road, and once I thought someone walked near the hut.

At last the night wore to a close; I heard a cock crow in the little yard without, and knew that morning was at hand. I flung a new fagot on the fire, and as it crackled and blazed up, illuminating the dreary room, the princess awoke. There was a moment of surprise, of suspended recollection, and then she sprang up.

“Oh, monsieur,” she cried softly, “have I slept long? Why did you permit it?”

I smiled, rising too, and laying some money gently in the lap of the sleeping crone.

“Come,” I whispered, “let us go—if they know not whither, it will be best, if they are questioned.”

“I would thank them though,” she said regretfully, and then unclasping her bracelet, she laid it beside my coins, and followed me on tip-toe to the door.