Under the Red Dragon: A Novel
secrecy, Ivan Yourivitch will serve you here."
"Who the deuce can this brother be of whom she talks so much, and
where can she have acquired such capital English?" were my surmises as
I seated myself at a side-table, and, with old Ivan standing towel in
hand at my back, fell _à la Cosaque_, on the good things before me,
with an appetite unimpaired by all that I had undergone. To the elder
lady's horror, I omitted previously to cross myself or turn towards
the _eikon_; but fragrant coffee made as only Orientals and
Continentals can make it, golden honey from the hills and woods of
Yaila, newly-laid eggs, salmon fresh from the Salghir, boar's ham from
the forests of Kaffa, and wine from Achmetchet, made a repast fit for
the gods--then how much so for a long-famished Briton! While I partook
of it the ladies conversed together in a low voice in Russian, seeming
to ignore my presence; for though full of natural female curiosity and
impatience to question me, they were too well-bred to trouble me just
then. Those who have starved as we starved in the Crimea can alone
relish and test the comforts of a good meal. You must sleep--or
doze--amid the half-frozen mud and ooze of the trenches, or in a cold
draughty tent, to know the actual luxury of clean sheets, a soft bed,
and cosy pillows. Hence it is, that though accustomed to "rough it" in
any fashion and degree, no one so keenly appreciates the warmth, the
food, and the genuine comforts of home as the old campaigner, or the
weather-worn seaman, who has perhaps doubled "the Horn," and known
what it is to hand a half-frozen topsail in a tempestuous night, with
his nails half torn out by the roots, as he lay out to windward. Yet
when I found myself in quarters so comfortable, hospitable, and
splendid, I could not but think regretfully of the regiment, of Phil
Caradoc, of Charley Gwynne, and others who were literally starving
before the enemy--starving and dying of cold and of hunger!
CHAPTER XLV.--EVIL TIDINGS.
I had now time amply to observe and to appreciate that which had
impressed me powerfully at first--the wonderful beauty of the lady who
protected me, and who spoke English with such marvellous fluency. If
the artist's pencil sometimes fails to convey a correct idea of a
woman's loveliness--more than all of her expression--a description by
mere ink and type can give less than an outline. In stature she was
fully five feet seven, full-bosomed and roundly limbed, and yet seemed
just past girlhood, in her twentieth or twenty-second year. Her skin
was fair, dazzlingly pure as that of any Saxon girl at home; while, by
strange contrast, her eyes were singularly dark, the deepest,
clearest, and most melting hazel, with soft voluptuous dreamy-looking
lids, and long black lashes. Her eyebrows, which were rather straight,
were also dark, while the masses of her hair were as golden in hue as
ever were those of Lucrezia Borgia; they grew well down upon her
forehead, and in the light of the shaded lamp by which she had been
reading, ripples of sheen seemed to pass over them like rays of the
sun. Her features were very fine, and her ears were white and delicate
as if formed of biscuit china, and from them there dangled a pair of
the then fashionable Schogoleff earrings of cannon-balls of gold.
Her dress was violet-coloured silk, cut low but square at the neck,
with loose open sleeves, trimmed with white lace and ruches of white
satin ribbon, and its tint consorted well with the fair purity of her
complexion. Every way she was brilliant and picturesque, and seemed
one of those women whom a man may rapidly learn to love--yea, and to
love passionately--and yet know very little about. Once in a
lifetime a man may see such a face and such a figure, and never
forget them. The dame, in the red sarafan, was a somewhat plain but
pleasant-looking old Muscovite lady, whose angularity of feature and
general outline of face reminded me of a good-humoured tom cat; and
while playing idly with the leaves of her book, she regarded me with a
rather dubious expression of eye; for British prisoners did not quite
find themselves so much at home in Kharkoff and elsewhere, nor were
they so petted and fêted, as the Russian prisoners were at Lewes,
among the grassy downs of Sussex. My repast over, and the massive
silver tray removed by Ivan Yourivitch, a conversation was begun by
the younger lady saying, a little playfully,
"You must give me your parole of honour, that you will not attempt to
leave this place in secret, or without permission."
"From you?"
"From me, yes."
"Did not duty require it of me, I might never seek the permission, but
be too happy to be for ever your captive," said I, gallantly; but she
only laughed like one who was quite used to that sort of thing, and
held up a white hand, saying,
"Do you promise?"
"I do, on my honour. But will this pledge to a lady be deemed
sufficient?"
"By whom?"
"Well, say Prince Menschikoff."
"We shall not consult him, unless we cannot help it; besides," she
added, with a proud expression on her upper lip, "what is he, though
Minister of Marine, Governor of Finland and Sebastopol, but the
grandson of a pastry-cook!"
"Prince Gortchakoff, then?"
"They are cousins; but do not take rank even in Russia with the old
families, like the Dolgourikis and others, who are nobles of the first
class."
On the suggestion, apparently, of the elder lady, whom she named
Madame Tolstoff, she proceeded to ask me many questions, which I cared
not to answer, as they had direct reference to the strength of our
forces, and the plans and projects of the Allied Generals regarding
Sebastopol; and though my information was only limited to such as one
of subaltern rank could possess, I knew how artfully the most
important military and political secrets have been wormed from men by
women, and was on my guard. Her excellent English she accounted for by
telling me that in her girlhood she had an English governess. She told
me, among other things, that she had gone in her carriage, with
hundreds of other ladies from Sebastopol, Simpheropol, and Bagtchi
Serai (or "the Seraglio of Gardens"), to see the battle of the Alma.
It began quite like a _prasnik_ or holiday with them all, as they had
expected, among other marvels, to see St. Sergius, whose sacred image
was borne by the Kazan column, till the latter was routed by the
Highland Brigade, and bundled over the hill, image and all, though
Innocent, Archbishop of Odessa, in one of his sermons to the garrison
of Sebastopol (published in the _Russian Messenger_) confidently
predicted a fourth appearance of the patriotic saint on that occasion;
but my fair informant added, that when the fighting began, she had
driven away homeward in horror.
She quizzed me a little about the small dimensions of the island in
which we dwelt, an island where the people elbowed each other for lack
of room; she asked me if it were really true that our soldiers were
sailors; and if it was also true that our Admiral in the Baltic always
carried a little sword under one arm, and a great fish under the
other, alluding to a popular Moscow caricature of Sir Charles Napier.
It was impossible not to laugh with her, for her charming tricks of
foreign manner, the arch smiles of her occasionally half-closed eyes,
and her pretty ways of gesticulation with the loveliest of white
hands, from which she had now drawn the gloves, were all very
seductive; moreover the Russians have a natural mode of imbuing with
heartiness every phrase and expression, however simple or merely
polite. She always spoke of the Czar with more profound awe and
respect than even Catholics do of the Pope, or Mahometans do of the
Sultan; but it should be borne in mind that in Russia, as Golovine
says, "next to the King of Heaven, the Czar is the object of
adoration. He is, in the estimation of the Russian, the representative
and the elect of God; so he is the head of his church, the source of
all the beatitudes, and the first cause of all fear. His hand
distributes as bounteously as his arm strikes heavily. Love, fear, and
humble respect are blended in this deification of the monarch, which
serves most frequently only to task the cupidity of some, and the
pusillanimity of others. The Czar is the centre of all rays, the focus
to which every eye is directed; he is the 'Red Sun' of the Russians,
for thus they designate him. The Czar is the father of the whole
nation; no one has any relation that can be named in the same day with
the Emperor; and when his interest speaks, every other voice is
hushed!"
So, whenever this lady spoke of him, her eyes seemed to fill with
melting light, and her cheek to suffuse with genuine enthusiasm; and
as I listened to her, and looked upon her rare beauty, her singular
hair, her laughing lips; and her ease of manner that declared a
perfect knowledge of the world, I could not but confess that if there
is no absolute cure for a heart disappointed in love, there may be
found a most excellent _balm_ for it. I know not now all we talked of,
how much was said, and more left unsaid, for my new friend had all the
airs of a coquette, and could fill up her sentences in a very eloquent
fashion of her own, by a movement of the graceful hand, by the tapping
of a dainty foot that would peep out ever and anon from under her
violet-coloured skirt; with a blush, a smile, a drooping of the sunny
brown eyes! Had the wine, the golden Crimskoi, affected me, that,
while talking to the fair unknown, I seemed to tread on air; that
my love for Estelle--a love thrust back upon my heart--was
already--Heavens, already!--being replaced by an emotion of revenge
against her, and exultation that the dazzling Russian might love me in
her place? She was, indeed, gloriously beautiful; but, then, I have
ever been a famous builder of castles in the air, and I was in the
hands of one who felt her power and knew how to wield it. The Russian
women, it has been truly written, like the gentlewomen of other
European countries, who are reared in the lap of luxury, can employ
and practise all the accomplishments and seductive arts that most
enchant society, and employ them well! They have great vivacity of
mind, much grace of manner, and possess the most subtle and exquisite
taste in dress; yet the domestic virtues are but little cultivated
under the double-headed Eagle, and marriages are too often mere
matters of convenience; so there is little romance in the character,
and often much of intrigue in the conduct of the Russian lady.
"I trust that your wounds are not painful?" said she, with tender
earnestness, after a short pause, during which she perceived me to
wince once or twice.
"My immersion in salt water has made them smart, perhaps; and then the
blood I have lost has caused such a dimness of sight, that at times,
even while speaking with you, though I hear your voice, your figure
seems to melt from before me."
"I am so deeply sorry to hear this; but a night's repose, and perhaps
the rest of to-morrow may, nay, I doubt not shall, cure you of this
weakness."
"I thank you for your good wishes and intentions."
"In that skirmish, fought single-handed by you against our Cossacks,
they thrust you into the water--actually into the sea?"
"Yes; by the mere force of their charged lances--horse and man we went
over together; but not before I had shot their leader--a resolute
fellow--poor Volhonski!"
At this name both ladies started and changed colour, though the
younger alone understood me.
"_Whom_ did you say?" she asked, in a voice of terror, while trembling
violently.
"Paulovitch Count Volhonski, a name well known in the Russian army, I
believe; he commanded the Vladimir regiment at the Alma and in
Sebastopol."