Feodor; Anastasi Ser- geivich Shuisky, resplendent in a red-and-gold kaftan and tall fur hat, slipped into the Red Chamber, bowing respectfully to the Polish embassy. “We are almost ready for you now,” he said in Greek, motioning them forward.
Father Pogner, who understood Greek but spoke it badly, said to Ferenc Rakoczy, “Tell him that we are ready as well.” Rakoczy spoke in Russian, and added after relaying Father
Pogner’s message, “Tell us, what are we to do? No one has said.” He was dressed in a sable mente—which in the warm June weather was uncomfortably hot—over a dolman of doth-of- silver embroidered in black and red. From a silver collar depended a pectoral of raised, displayed silver wings, surro unding a circular, glowing dark gemstone.
Anastasi was relieved not to have to continue in Greek. “You are not to touch the Czar. You are to approach him only when you are told to; otherwise you must stay at a distance. After he has washed his hands, you must leave the palace. You need not prostrate yourself when you are called before him, but you must bow to him as you would bow to your King Istvan. Is that understood?”
“I believe so,” said Rakoczy. “What else?”
“So long as one of you understands Russian, I think we will manage well enough. The little Father is versed in many languages, but he is pleased when foreigners speak the language of Rus.” Anastasi looked around the room. “My cousin Vasilli will do what is necessary to present you.”
“Not you?” Rakoczy asked in some surprise after he had translated the bulk of this for Father Pogner.
Beside him, Father Krabbe looked apprehensive, and smoothed the front of his habit for the dozenth time, fingering his pectoral crucifix as he did.
“I am not of sufficient rank, I fear,” said Anastasi with an angry smile. “No matter which noble family presents foreigners, they must always be presented by the family member of the highest and oldest rank. That is our custom.” He folded his arms. “My cousin is taller than I am, thinner, and not as fair, but otherwise we are much the same in appearance.” He looked at Rakoczy. “I presented him to you earlier.”
“Yes. I will know him again,” said Rakoczy, not bothering to glance at Father Pogner. “Where do we go once the presentation has been made?”
“You will return here and wait for me. I will then take you where the Little Father decides you would best present yourselves to the Court. Remember, do not touch anyone unless they offer their hands.” He bowed slightly, turned abruptly and returned to the reception hall.
As soon as Anastasi was gone, Father Pogner hurried forward, his face set with outrage. “Who are they to tell us how we are to behave?”
“They are the people we will have to treat with,” said Rakoczy gently. “And if that means we pluck chickens for them, then we will do it.” He looked at the other seven priests. “You are here for Poland first, good Fathers. It is safer.”
Only Father Kovnovski looked truly enthusiastic about their coming presentation; Fathers Tymon and Felikeno were apprehensive to the point of fear. Father Krabbe was more nervous than frightened. Fathers Brodski, Lomza, and Komel were trying to be remote, each keeping silent though none of them made a pretense of prayer. They were in their habits, their sashes laced with gold, their crucifixes large, golden, and jeweled. Against the opulence of the Russian court they would appear paltry.
Father Pogner was prepared to argue with Rakoczy, but his opportunity was lost as two tall guards carrying Tartar battle- axes came into the Red Chamber and bowed to them, indicating the door leading to the reception hall. There was no sign of Anastasi Shuisky’s taller, leaner cousin Vasilli.
The Court was intended to impress from the huge reception room to the smallest detail of Court clothing: every noble wore a kaftan worked in gold with wide jeweled collars. Their tall fur hats
Father Pogner, who understood Greek but spoke it badly, said to Ferenc Rakoczy, “Tell him that we are ready as well.” Rakoczy spoke in Russian, and added after relaying Father
Pogner’s message, “Tell us, what are we to do? No one has said.” He was dressed in a sable mente—which in the warm June weather was uncomfortably hot—over a dolman of doth-of- silver embroidered in black and red. From a silver collar depended a pectoral of raised, displayed silver wings, surro unding a circular, glowing dark gemstone.
Anastasi was relieved not to have to continue in Greek. “You are not to touch the Czar. You are to approach him only when you are told to; otherwise you must stay at a distance. After he has washed his hands, you must leave the palace. You need not prostrate yourself when you are called before him, but you must bow to him as you would bow to your King Istvan. Is that understood?”
“I believe so,” said Rakoczy. “What else?”
“So long as one of you understands Russian, I think we will manage well enough. The little Father is versed in many languages, but he is pleased when foreigners speak the language of Rus.” Anastasi looked around the room. “My cousin Vasilli will do what is necessary to present you.”
“Not you?” Rakoczy asked in some surprise after he had translated the bulk of this for Father Pogner.
Beside him, Father Krabbe looked apprehensive, and smoothed the front of his habit for the dozenth time, fingering his pectoral crucifix as he did.
“I am not of sufficient rank, I fear,” said Anastasi with an angry smile. “No matter which noble family presents foreigners, they must always be presented by the family member of the highest and oldest rank. That is our custom.” He folded his arms. “My cousin is taller than I am, thinner, and not as fair, but otherwise we are much the same in appearance.” He looked at Rakoczy. “I presented him to you earlier.”
“Yes. I will know him again,” said Rakoczy, not bothering to glance at Father Pogner. “Where do we go once the presentation has been made?”
“You will return here and wait for me. I will then take you where the Little Father decides you would best present yourselves to the Court. Remember, do not touch anyone unless they offer their hands.” He bowed slightly, turned abruptly and returned to the reception hall.
As soon as Anastasi was gone, Father Pogner hurried forward, his face set with outrage. “Who are they to tell us how we are to behave?”
“They are the people we will have to treat with,” said Rakoczy gently. “And if that means we pluck chickens for them, then we will do it.” He looked at the other seven priests. “You are here for Poland first, good Fathers. It is safer.”
Only Father Kovnovski looked truly enthusiastic about their coming presentation; Fathers Tymon and Felikeno were apprehensive to the point of fear. Father Krabbe was more nervous than frightened. Fathers Brodski, Lomza, and Komel were trying to be remote, each keeping silent though none of them made a pretense of prayer. They were in their habits, their sashes laced with gold, their crucifixes large, golden, and jeweled. Against the opulence of the Russian court they would appear paltry.
Father Pogner was prepared to argue with Rakoczy, but his opportunity was lost as two tall guards carrying Tartar battle- axes came into the Red Chamber and bowed to them, indicating the door leading to the reception hall. There was no sign of Anastasi Shuisky’s taller, leaner cousin Vasilli.
The Court was intended to impress from the huge reception room to the smallest detail of Court clothing: every noble wore a kaftan worked in gold with wide jeweled collars. Their tall fur hats
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