Trapped in 'Black Russia' Part 13

The anteroom of the General Staff was as Russian as Russian can be. I suppose I shall never forget the dingy room, with its brown painted walls and the benches and chairs ranged along the four sides of the room, and the orderlies bringing in gla.s.ses of tea, and the waiting people who were not ashamed to be unhappy. In the beginning Mr. Douglas and I tried to talk, but after an hour or so we relapsed into silence. I looked up at the large oil paintings of deceased generals which hung about the room. At first, they all looked fat and stupid and alike in the huge, ornate gilt frames. But after much study they began to take on differences--slight differences which it seemed that the painters had caught in spite of themselves, but which made human beings of even generals.

There was one portrait that I remember, in the corner, a general in the uniform of the Crimean War. He looked out at you with green eyes, like a cat's. The more I looked at him, the more he resembled a cat, with his flat, broad head and slightly almond eyes and long mustache. His cheek bones were high and his jaw square and cruel. He settled into his coat-collar the way a cat shortens its neck when it purrs. He, too, was purring, from gratification, perhaps, at having his portrait painted; but, wholly untrustworthy himself, he distrusted the world and held himself ready to strike.

Another portrait was of a man who might have been of peasant origin. An inky black beard hid the lower part of his face, but his nose was blunt and pugnacious, and his eyes were like black shoe-b.u.t.tons sewn close together. He stuck out his stomach importantly, and the care with which his uniform and decorations were painted strengthened the impression that he had made his career himself and set the highest value on the insignia that stood for his accomplishment.

Well, I made up characters to fit the portraits, and the time went on.

There were three entrances to the room, through which aides and orderlies were constantly appearing and disappearing. The room filled up with people and smelt of oiled leather and smoke. The women did not move from their chairs, but the men got up and stood about, talking in groups. I began to feel that I had known these captains and majors and lieutenants all my life. They looked at me curiously, and if they knew Mr. Douglas they asked to be presented to me.

"How do you like Russia?"

They spoke French. I looked at Mr. Douglas and smiled.

"Very much."

They were pleased.

"Ah, you do? That is good. Russia is a wonderful country and its resources are endless. But it is war-time. You should see Russia in peace-time. There is no country in the world where one amuses one's self so well as in Russia. But first we must beat the Germans."

They all begin that way, and then branch out into their particular line of conversation.

There was a woman near me, her mourning veil thrown back, disclosing a death-like face. Her features were pinched, and her pale lips were pressed tightly together in suffering. She had been waiting surely three hours since sending in her card, and all that time she had scarcely moved. Sometimes I forgot her, and then my eyes would fall on her and I wondered how I could see anybody else in the room. In comparison to her all the others seemed fussy or melodramatic or false in some way.

Suffering was condensed in her. It flowed through her body. It settled in the shadows of her face and clothed her in black. Her gloved hands pressed each other. Her eyes stared in front of her, full of pain like a hurt beast's. She sat as though carved in stone, dark against the window, the lines of her body rigid and clear-cut like a statue's.

At last an aide came toward her, spruce and alert, holding a paper in his hand. She rose at his approach, leaning on the back of her chair, her body bent forward tensely. He spoke to her in a low voice, consulting the slip of paper in his hand. All at once she straightened herself, and a burning expression came into her face. One hand went to her heart, exactly as though a bullet had pierced her breast. Then she gave a sharp cry, and hurling her pocketbook across the room with all her strength, she rushed outside.

Every one dodged as though the pocketbook had been aimed at him. A young second lieutenant picked it from the floor and stood twisting it in his hands, not knowing what to do with it. People looked uneasy and ashamed as though a door had been suddenly opened on a terrible secret thing that was customarily locked up in a closet. But the uncomfortable feeling soon pa.s.sed, and they began to talk about the strange woman and to gossip and play and amuse themselves with her sorrow. A crowd collected about the aide, who grew more and more voluble and important each time he repeated his explanation of the incident.

Shortly afterward, Mr. Douglas and I were admitted to the Chief of Staff. The walls of his office were covered with large maps, with tiny flags marking the battlefronts, and he sat at a large table occupying the center of the room.

When we entered, he rose and bowed, and after waving me to a chair, reseated himself. He was rather like a university professor, courteous, with a slightly ironical twist to his very red lips. His pale face was narrow and long, with a pointed black beard, and a forehead broad and high and white. While he listened or talked, he nervously drew arabesques on a pad of paper on the table.

"I have your pet.i.tion, but since I have just been appointed here, I am not very familiar with routine matters." Here he smiled slightly. "Yours is a routine matter, I should say. How long have you waited for an answer--four months? We'll see what can be done. I have sent to the files and I should have a report in a few minutes."

An aide brought in a collection of telegrams and papers, and the chief glanced through them. Then he looked at me searchingly and suddenly smiled again.

"From your appearance I should never imagine you were as dangerous as these papers state. Are you an American?"

"Yes," I replied; "and I a.s.sure you that I am dangerous only in the official mind. I have no importance except what they give me."

"Mrs. Pierce is an American and unused to Russian ways," Mr. Douglas said apologetically.

"Well, your case has been referred to General Ivanoff, and I will wire him again at once. If you come back next Thursday I will give you a definite answer."

We went out. It was a gray winter day, with a cold wind from the river, but I felt glowing and stimulated and alive, seeing the future crystallize and grow definite again. You can't imagine the wearing depression of months of uncertainty.

"That Chief of Staff is the first human official I've met," I said to Mr. Douglas.

"Give him time, give him time," Douglas replied. "Didn't you hear him say he was new to the job?"

I write such long letters and all about _things_. But I want you to see with me so we may share our lives in spite of distance. Armfuls of love to you, my dearest ones, from

RUTH.

_November._

The Dowager Empress came to Kiev to-day to visit a convent that she has under her protection. The Christiatick was very animated, with curious crowds lining the sidewalks and fierce-looking gendarmes who snapped their whips and made a great fuss about keeping the people in order. The trams were stopped and officials rushed up and down the Christiatick in huge gray automobiles. It was bitterly cold, and the waiting people grew restless. At last a feeble cheer started up the street and swept down the lines as a big car came tearing down the middle of the street. I caught a glimpse of an elderly woman in black--that was all.

I went home. All the way up the hill I walked beside a "crocodile." How pathetic those convent children are in their funny little round hats, all so much too small, and their maroon-colored dresses with the shoulder-capes to hide any suggestion of s.e.x. Their noses were pinched and their lips were blue from waiting in the cold to see their "protector." They were at the age "between hay and gra.s.s,"

narrow-chested, and long-legged like colts. They climbed the hill stiffly two by two, their eyes looking meekly at the ground. Three sisters kept them in line.

At home I found a summons from the police to appear with Marie at the local police bureau to-morrow at nine, to receive our pa.s.sports. I telegraphed Peter through Mr. Douglas. Now that our affair is settled, I feel no emotion--neither relief nor joy.

THE END