by Judith Gould
These autocratic hooded blue eyes now came to rest on the unfortunate horse, and without a word he held out the revolver, aimed it downward at the animal's head, and fired.
The horse immediately sagged and was then still.
Many people watching had shut their eyes at the gunshot, but Prince Vaslav never flinched. Nor, he noticed, had one young woman. Her ratty fur hat was pulled far down over her forehead, and the lower half of her face was hidden behind a thick woollen scarf so that she exuded an aura of challenge and mystery much like a Muslim woman hiding her face behind a veil. He knew the scarf was to shield her from the bitter cold: she and the others had obviously been riding on one of the two open lead wagons, exposed to the cruelty of the bitter elements. Her coat, despite its size, was too threadbare to offer any real warmth, and she shivered continuously. Yet her dancing green eyes were uncomplaining. Something about them was frank and startling, as though they were sizing him up; the pink flush on the narrow exposed portion of her face, he thought, was not a result of the cold. She held a well-bundled child of two or three years in her arms.
He lowered the pistol and walked around the overturned wagon, inspecting it closely. He noticed that neither axle had been broken and that the tarpaulin which had been tied down over the cargo, and on which the wagon and its contents now rested, was strong and had not come undone. He turned to the quiet crowd and gestured at the wagon. 'Whose wagon is this?'
There were some murmurs, which he gathered meant it belonged not to an individual but to the small crowd.
'What is in it? Any breakables? One of you can explain for the group.' His eyes swept the crowd. 'Which of you is your spokesman?'
The Prince was astonished when a tall golden-haired young man, sapphire-blue eyes gleaming with amused contempt, stepped quickly forward. He held himself boldly erect, as though he considered himself the Prince's equal.
The Prince sized him up in surprise. Despite the ragged appearance of his dirty clothes, he was quite the most extraordinarily handsome and self-assured young man he had ever seen.
'I am the spokesman, your Highness,' the young man said quietly.
The Prince nodded, choosing to ignore the mocking look in the young man's eyes and the somehow disrespectful emphasis on the words 'your Highness'. There was an indefinable air about the young man—he could not put his finger on it yet— but he instinctively recognized him as arrogant and dangerous. 'What is in the wagon?'
The young man replied, 'Theatrical props and costumes, your Highness. We have just arrived here this afternoon after a tour of the provinces.'
'You are a theatre troupe, then?'
'Yes, Highness, and I am the business manager.'
'And you'll be performing here in St. Petersburg?'
The young man shrugged. 'If we can find a theatre to perform in.'
The Prince looked thoughtful. Despite himself, he was intrigued. 'What sort of plays do you perform?'
'Drawing-room comedies, satires, the usual repertoire.'
'Where did you last perform?'
'In the town of Sestrovetsk. We came directly from there. The Princess Sviatopolk-Korsokoff herself came to see us and congratulated us on the performance.'
The Prince did not register his surprise, but digested this information in silence. Anastasia Beletnova Sviatopolk-Korsokoff moved in his circle. She had just come to St. Petersburg from her country palace outside Sestrovetsk, and now that he came to think of it, only two days ago when he and Irina had spoken to her during intermission at the ballet, she had mentioned something about a marvellous theatre troupe she had recently seen.
'Chekhov. Do you perform him?'
'We have, your Highness, but . . .' The young man shrugged. 'Chekhov is a master, and we ... we are not that experienced.'
'And for the Princess . . . what did you stage when she came?'
'La Dame aux Camellias.'
The Prince looked surprised, then nodded approvingly. 'An amusing piece, and quite popular.' And harmless froth, he thought. 'I have seen it twice myself, and it is among my wife's favourites. Who among you plays the ill-fated Marguerite?'
They looked at each other in silence, and the young man stared at the ground. 'Her name was Olga, but she caught pleurisy and died.'
Like most members of the Russian nobility, the Prince did not concern himself with the misfortunes life doled out to strangers—certainly not itinerant entertainers—only by how they affected him. 'Then you cannot now perform it, I assume.'
Suddenly the green-eyed woman holding the child stepped eagerly forward. 'I can perform the part. I have watched Olga countless times, and have memorized the lines.'
The young man turned to her. 'Senda, you've never played that part. You've had only minor roles—'
'Please, Schmarya,' she pleaded. 'I am ready for it. I know it.'
The Prince caught sight of the most expressive, mesmerizing pair of emerald eyes he had ever encountered. 'She is your wife?' he inquired politely.
'No, your Highness. She is the widow . . .' He paused. '. . . of my brother.'
'She is a very young widow.'
'Sometimes,' the young man said bitterly, 'it is the lot of the young to suffer misfortune or death.'
'Yes, yes.' The Prince made a gesture of irritation. He did not like to involve himself with the problems of the lower classes. Still, something about the woman wove a spell. He was silent a moment longer and then made up his mind. 'Come to my palace. We have a private theatre. Two days from today is my wife's birthday, and I shall expect you to perform The Lady of the Camellias then. My majordomo will find you accommodations in the palace. You will be well-paid.'
The young man nodded toward the dead horse. 'It will be our honour to perform it without pay. Lodging and board for two nights are enough. We are grateful that you put our horse out of its misery.' His voice was proud.
'It is settled then. The Danilov Palace on the Neva. If you have difficulty finding it, ask anyone for directions.' The Prince turned to leave and then caught a movement out of the corner of his eye which caused him to turn back around. The woman named Senda had reached up and lowered the scarf from around her face and pushed the fur hat back on her head, a seductive gesture even in this cold and public place.
Prince Vaslav's breath caught in his throat. She was extraordinarily beautiful. She met his gaze unblinkingly, and he nodded abruptly, then tore his eyes from her and strode quickly back to his barouche.
All in all, he felt extremely pleased with himself. And as he heard the snapping of the whip carrying backward in the wind, another, even more pleasant sensation swept over him.
He closed his eyes, conjuring up those two huge emerald eyes, impossibly green and striated, so full of life.
He had found himself another actress. So . . . Tatiana would not get her bauble after all. He relished that.
Placing one elegantly manicured finger on his lips, he made a mental notation.
Emeralds.
Fabergé was certain to have just the thing.
Senda had watched as the driver of the magnificent barouche walked the six beautifully matched black horses around in a tight circle, climbed back up on his high seat, and cracked his whip. She stared after the receding coach-sleigh in amazement. 'I've never before seen a sleigh quite like that one,' she marvelled, shaking her head. She glanced at Schmarya. 'Do you suppose that yellow metal was real gold?'
'I wouldn't doubt it,' Schmarya said bitterly. 'The rich only get richer by walking all over the likes of us. Then they turn around and rub it in our faces.'
'But he seemed nice.'
Schmarya's eyes flashed. 'Nice. Sure.' He compressed his lips into a grim smile. 'I'm certain even Wolzak was nice to people if he chose to be. It didn't stop him from slaughtering everybody in our village, though, did it?'
She turned away at the memory. After all this time, her eyes still filled with tears.
Schmarya didn't seem to notice. He turned around and raised his arm. 'All right!
' he yelled out. 'All of you! Let's get this wagon back up on its wheels!' The wheels of the wagon clattered on the ice as they uprighted it. Senda, standing off to one side, held the child in one arm and the reins of the surviving horse in her free hand. For a moment she looked longingly down the street to catch one last glimpse of the departing fairy-tale barouche, but it had turned a corner and was already out of sight.
'It's time we got this show on the road!' Schmarya yelled. 'Everybody back up in the wagons! Alex, hitch the horse back up.'
The man named Alex frowned and slowly scratched the back of his neck. 'It's an awful heavy load for just one horse.'
'In that case, we have no choice but to substitute a horse from one of the front wagons for the one that's dead. Which means all of us had better walk except the drivers.'
There was a chorus of groans, but no one voiced outright refusal. They'd had enough trials and tribulations on the road to view this as no more than a slight discomfort.
Senda fell into step beside Schmarya as they slowly made their way on foot alongside the creaking wagons. She was bone weary, cold, and hungry. The icy wind which had battered her relentlessly since early morning had taken its toll. All she wanted now was to eat, have something hot to drink, and then crawl under mountains of warm covers.
'Want me to hold her for a while?' Schmarya asked, reaching for the child.
She shook her head and smiled. 'No, I'm fine. Tamara's really not very heavy. And we'll be warm soon. It's fate, don't you think? We had no place to go, and because the wagon flipped and that coach stopped, now we do.'
'It's only for two nights,' he growled.
Her gaze was level. 'Two nights in a palace is better than sleeping in a barn in the freezing cold.' She paused and tightened her lips. 'Schmarya, why did you insist we perform for free?'
He did not reply.
'You know how desperately we need the money! We can't afford not to get paid. We can hardly eat as it is, and now with a horse dead . . . how can we afford to buy another?'
He hunched forward against the wind, hands in his pockets, eyes focused on the ground. 'He did us a favour by shooting the horse, and we're returning the favour. I don't want to owe anybody anything. Especially not the enemy.'
'The enemy!' she scoffed. 'Hearing you talk, one would think everybody's the enemy.'
'Have you forgotten what happened three years ago?' he asked her softly. 'Has it been so long that you don't remember!'
'No, I haven't forgotten.'
He lowered his voice. 'Then have you forgotten why we joined up with this troupe of no talent has-beens?'
She shook her head, thinking back to that night soon after the pogrom when they had stumbled upon the gypsy-like theatre troupe, which was playing the villages in and around the Pale. They had unquestioningly, even eagerly, welcomed Senda and Schmarya into their little band since a young couple had recently eloped and left them short of help.
Schmarya answered himself: 'So we could work our way to St. Petersburg or Moscow. So we could get out of the Pale once and for all and live decent lives.'
She shook her head. 'That wasn't it and you know it. You only wanted to come so you could join up with the revolutionaries in the cities.' It was her turn to sound bitter. 'That's why you really wanted to join the troupe and come here, isn't it?'
When he looked at her, his eyes were shining. 'Yes, it was. And it still is. The wealthy oppressors must be fought and defeated. There'll be no freedom in Russia until the blood of the rich stains the soil. Senda, you just don't understand. I know you want what's best for Tamara, but you're unable to look past the hearth. Don't you see? All things in society have to change for the better if our daughter's to be assured a peaceful future. You, better than anyone, should have learned that by now. It doesn't matter if you refuse to have anything to do with it—others will change this world as we know it. And I will help. It's only a matter of time.'
She shivered suddenly, and knew it was not from the cold.
Now that she'd allowed fear to creep into her consciousness, two other thoughts crept into her mind. Schmarya always carried a loaded pistol. He hadn't used it to put the horse out of its misery because he didn't want anyone to know he had it. People weren't supposed to be armed. If the police caught him with the weapon, he'd immediately be suspected of anarchy, clapped behind bars, and shipped off to Siberia. And hidden in one of the barrels stuffed with costumes were the ten sticks of dynamite he'd picked up in Riga.
She was afraid to venture a guess as to what he might have in mind once they arrived at the Danilov Palace.
Chapter 4
'Itinerants though you may be, you are considered neither guests nor servants in this palace. You are subject to the same stringent rules and regulations governing any unknown transients passing through this household. Unless you are specifically given permission otherwise, you are to remain here in the servants' wing. On the grounds you are not to wander any further than the servants' garden. The public rooms, private apartments, and remainder of the grounds are strictly off limits. There will be no exploring the premises. On those occasions when one or more of you need to leave this wing and gain access to the theatre, which is located among the public rooms, you will do so escorted by one of the footmen. Never, for any reason, will any of you venture about this palace unescorted. This rule shall be strictly obeyed. If even one of you fails to follow it, you shall all find yourselves unwelcome here.'
The theatre troupe was in the servants' wing, located above the stables and garages. They were facing Count Kokovtsov, the Prince's second cousin, chief adviser, and right-hand man. The Count was everything the Prince was not. Overbearingly imperious, sallow, and effetely elegant, he was a tall, crisply unemotional machine of efficiency and no-nonsense who looked more like a spidery-fingered undertaker than a member of the aristocracy. Beside him stood a plump, rubicund woman in her fifties wearing the uniform of chief housekeeper. Her cream-puff hands were laced in front of her, and her usually merry features were dour and compressed. Minutes earlier, Mrs. Kashkin had welcomed them warmly in the sparsely furnished, but pleasant servants' parlour. Upon seeing the obviously hungry and frostbitten condition of the actors, she had sent a girl scurrying for a samovar and sweet cakes, and another to run hot baths. Then Count Kokovtsov had arrived, and a pall had descended upon them all. Since travelling with the troupe, Senda had met her share of unpleasant characters, and something inside told her that Kokovtsov was not a man one crossed lightly, if one dared cross him at all.
'Despite its size and splendour, this palace is a private home and is to be regarded as such. It is filled with treasures from around the world, and because of that, the rules I have outlined must be followed to the letter, as much for your protection as for that of Their Highnesses. This way, should anything be damaged or missing, none of you will be held accountable. I assume I am making myself perfectly clear?'
All too clear, Senda thought bitterly as she levelly returned the Count's pompous gaze. Obviously he was trying to instill fear in all of them, thereby causing each of them to spy upon the other. Well, she could voice her opinion about that.
Clearing her throat, she stepped forward and conveyed her opinion that so many strictures might stifle the creative impulses so important to acting.
The Count cocked an eyebrow and regarded her coldly. 'Be that as it may, I assume that you are seasoned professionals? As such, you have surely played a variety of places, each of which has had certain rules of etiquette. So it is here. Obeying our household rules should be second nature. As long as you do not abuse the privileges provided you here, there is nothing to worry about. You need only concern yourselves with giving a good performance.'
Later that evening, after eating, bathing, and putting her tiny daughter to bed, Senda considered the restraints the Count had put upon the troupe. Much as she despised any rules, whose bases were deeply rooted distrust, she felt curiously relieved. Surely under such stringent observation Schmarya would find
himself unable to do anything which might further his vengeful goals, thereby sabotaging the troupe's chances for success. He was occupied now with several other men of the troupe examining the theatre.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she concentrated on familiarizing herself with the script of The Lady of the Camellias. She gave silent thanks that, during their countless afternoon trysts in the forest, Schmarya had taught her to read—and that she'd continued learning on her own over the past three years. But she didn't study long. Soon she turned off the solitary lamp in the room she shared with Schmarya and Tamara and fell into the most sound and peaceful sleep she had enjoyed in weeks.
Four o'clock in the afternoon the next day, Senda was alone, pacing the stage of the private theatre in the Danilov Palace. The servant whose duty it was to keep an eye on her had left her in peace and was waiting outside in the hallway. Senda's face was screwed up in concentration, deepening her dimple as she recited her lines, summoning them from memory. Her voice rose and fell with thick emotion. '. . . and my impulses unquestioningly. I had found such a man in the Duke, but old age neither protects nor consoles, and one has other needs. Then I met you. Young! Ardent! Happy! The tears I saw you shed for me, your anxiety over my health, your mysterious visits during my illness . . . your honesty. Your enthusiasm . . . your enthusiasm . . . your enthusiasm . . .' She had to consult the script again. 'Oh, damn!' she blurted out, then bit down on her pink underlip and scowled. Tears of frustration welled up in her eyes. Hers was the central character, and as such, she had the most lines. Many, many more than she had anticipated. She realized now her unmitigated gall. Acting the part of Marguerite Gautier was not the simple matter she had convinced herself it would be. And to think she had believed that she knew the entire play by heart! By rote!
