This stood on a long table of gray marble mounted in heavy gilt, which occupied the center of the apartment.
In one corner was an ornate black cabinet set with various colored stones, in another a beautiful Dutch bureau in oak; the tops of these were crowded with goblets, boxes, bottles, and trays of silver, gold, enamel, and glass, some heavily encrusted with precious stones. Near the window which was curtained with cut velvet in orange and blue, hung an ikon, one mass of carved silver and rubies, and still hung with the Easter offerings of wreaths of wax fruit.
The air had been scented by the burning of pastilles, and a faint bluish smoke still obscured the atmosphere.
The whole effect was one of brilliant and crowded confusion, tasteless and barbaric; to Peter it was very splendid; a feeling of pleasure touched him that his favorite should have such a magnificent house.
“Danilovitch!” he called and went up to the table, and stood there, resting his hands on the gilt edge.
The twinkling notes of the bailaika stopped, and, from an inner door that Peter had not hitherto perceived, a woman entered carrying the little instrument.
They looked at each other across the candle light.
She was as tall as he, and beautiful, with a robust and splendid beauty; her carriage was magnificent; she wore a robe of crimson satin with an overdress of scarlet, stiff with gold embroidery, that reached the floor and stood out about her, only being open at the sides; a square plate of gold set with rubies shone at her breast, hung by rope on rope of twisted pearls her dark brown hair fell on her shoulders, from under the stiff Russian headdress of gold satin studded with turquoise, and to her feet behind, depended a long white gauze veil. Her fair, bold face, firm and beautiful in line and color, and sweet and pleasant in expression, was turned full towards the Czar.
He, in his worn green coat, disordered appointments, and tired bearing, was in a contrast almost sad with the room and the woman.
“You must be the Czar,” she said; she put down the bailaika and came towards him, moving lightly on gold-shod feet.
“I am Peter Alexievitch,” he replied, “and you?”
“My name is Marpha,” she said simply. “I hardly know who I am.”