University of Virginia Library

5. V.

Prince Boris, in St. Petersburg, adopted the usual
habits of his class. He dressed elegantly; he drove a
dashing troika; he played, and lost more frequentiy than
he won; he took no special pains to shun any form of
fashionable dissipation. His money went fast, it is true;
but twenty-five thousand rubles was a large sum in those
days, and Boris did not inherit his father's expensive
constitution. He was presented to the Empress; but
his thin face, and mild, melancholy eyes did not make
much impression upon that ponderous woman. He frequented
the salons of the nobility, but saw no face so
beautiful as that of Parashka, the serf-maiden who personated
Venus for Simon Petrovitch. The fact is, he had
a dim, undeveloped instinct of culture, and a crude, half-conscious
worship of beauty,—both of which qualities
found just enough nourishment in the life of the capital
to tantalize and never satisfy his nature. He was excited
by his new experience, but hardly happier.

Although but three-and-twenty, he would never know
the rich, vital glow with which youth rushes to clasp all
forms of sensation. He had seen, almost daily, in his
father's castle, excess in its most excessive development.
It had grown to be repulsive, and he knew not how to
fill the void in his life. With a single spark of genius,
and a little more culture, he might have become a passable
author or artist; but he was doomed to be one of
those deaf and dumb natures that see the movements of
the lips of others, yet have no conception of sound. No

wonder his savage old father looked upon him with contempt,
for even his vices were without strength or character.

The dark winter days passed by, one by one, and the
first week of Lent had already arrived to subdue the
glittering festivities of the court, when the only genuine
adventure of the season happened to the young Prince.
For adventures, in the conventional sense of the word, he
was not distinguished; whatever came to him must come
by its own force, or the force of destiny.

One raw, gloomy evening, as dusk was setting in, he
saw a female figure in a droschky, which was about turning
from the great Morskoi into the Gorokhovaya (Pea)
Street. He noticed, listlessly, that the lady was dressed
in black, closely veiled, and appeared to be urging the
istvostchik (driver) to make better speed. The latter cut
his horse sharply: it sprang forward, just at the turning,
and the droschky, striking a lamp-post was instantly
overturned. The lady, hurled with great force upon the
solidly frozen snow, lay motionless, which the driver observing,
he righted the sled and drove off at full speed,
without looking behind him. It was not inhumanity,
but fear of the knout that hurried him away.

Prince Boris looked up and down the Morskoi, but
perceived no one near at hand. He then knelt upon the
snow, lifted the lady's head to his knee, and threw back
her veil. A face so lovely, in spite of its deadly pallor,
he had never before seen. Never had he even imagined
so perfect an oval, such a sweet, fair forehead, such

delicately pencilled brows, so fine and straight a nose.
such wonderful beauty of mouth and chin. It was fortunate
that she was not very severely stunned, for Prince
Boris was not only ignorant of the usual modes of restoration
in such cases, but he totally forgot their necessity,
in his rapt contemplation of the lady's face. Presently
she opened her eyes, and they dwelt, expressionless, but
bewildering in their darkness and depth, upon his own,
while her consciousness of things slowly returned.

She strove to rise, and Boris gently lifted and supported
her. She would have withdrawn from his helping
arm, but was still too weak from the shock. He,
also, was confused and (strange to say) embarrassed;
but he had self-possession enough to shout, “Davai!”
(Here!) at random. The call was answered from the Admiralty
Square; a sled dashed up the Gorokhovaya and
halted beside him. Taking the single seat, he lifted
her gently upon his lap and held her very tenderly in
his arms.

“Where?” asked the istvostchik.

Boris was about to answer “Anywhere!” but the
lady whispered in a voice of silver sweetness, the name
of a remote street, near the Smolnoi Church.

As the Prince wrapped the ends of his sable pelisse
about her, he noticed that her furs were of the common
foxskin worn by the middle classes. They, with her heavy
boots and the threadbare cloth of her garments, by no
means justified his first suspicion,—that she was a grande
dame, engaged in some romantic “adventure.” She was

not more than nineteen or twenty years of age, and he
felt—without knowing what it was—the atmosphere of
sweet, womanly purity and innocence which surrounded
her. The shyness of a lost boyhood surprised him.

By the time they had reached the Liténie, she had
fully recovered her consciousness and a portion of her
strength. She drew away from him as much as the narrow
sled would allow.

“You have been very kind, sir, and I thank you,” she
said; “but I am now able to go home without your further
assistance.”

“By no means, lady!” said the Prince. “The streets
are rough, and here are no lamps. If a second accident
were to happen, you would be helpless. Will you not
allow me to protect you?”

She looked him in the face. In the dusky light, she
saw not the peevish, weary features of the worldling, but
only the imploring softness of his eyes, the full and perfect
honesty of his present emotion. She made no further
objection; perhaps she was glad that she could trust
the elegant stranger.

Boris, never before at a loss for words, even in the
presence of the Empress, was astonished to find how awkward
were his attempts at conversation. She was presently
the more self-possessed of the two, and nothing
was ever so sweet to his ears as the few commonplace remarks
she uttered. In spite of the darkness and the
chilly air, the sled seemed to fly like lightning. Before
he supposed they had made half the way, she gave a sign

to the istvostchik, and they drew up before a plain house
of squared logs.

The two lower windows were lighted, and the dark figure
of an old man, with a skull-cap upon his head, was
framed in one of them. It vanished as the sled stopped;
the door was thrown open and the man came forth hurriedly,
followed by a Russian nurse with a lantern.

“Helena, my child, art thou come at last? What has
befallen thee?”

He would evidently have said more, but the sight of
Prince Boris caused him to pause, while a quick shade of
suspicion and alarm passed over his face. The Prince
stepped forward, instantly relieved of his unaccustomed
timidity, and rapidly described the accident. The old
nurse Katinka, had meanwhile assisted the lovely Helena
into the house.

The old man turned to follow, shivering in the night-air.
Suddenly recollecting himself, he begged the Prince
to enter and take some refreshments, but with the air and
tone of a man who hopes that his invitation will not be
accepted. If such was really his hope, he was disappointed;
for Boris instantly commanded the istvostchik to
wait for him, and entered the humble dwelling.

The apartment into which he was ushered was spacious,
and plainly, yet not shabbily furnished. A violoncello
and clavichord, with several portfolios of music, and
scattered sheets of ruled paper, proclaimed the profession
or the taste of the occupant. Having excused himself a
moment to look after his daughter's condition, the old

man, on his return, found Boris turning over the leaves
of a musical work.

“You see my profession,” he said. “I teach music?”

“Do you not compose?” asked the Prince.

“That was once my ambition. I was a pupil of Sebastian
Bach. But—circumstances—necessity—brought
me here. Other lives changed the direction of mine. It
was right!”

“You mean your daughter's?” the Prince gently suggested.

“Hers and her mother's. Our story was well known
in St. Petersburg twenty years ago, but I suppose no one
recollects it now. My wife was the daughter of a Baron
von Plauen, and loved music and myself better than her
home and a titled bridegroom. She escaped, we united
our lives, suffered and were happy together,—and she
died. That is all.”

Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance
of Helena, with steaming glasses of tea. She was even
lovelier than before. Her close-fitting dress revealed the
symmetry of her form, and the quiet, unstudied grace of
her movements. Although her garments were of well-worn
material, the lace which covered her bosom was genuine
point d'Alençon, of an old and rare pattern. Boris
felt that her air and manner were thoroughly noble; he
rose and saluted her with the profoundest respect.

In spite of the singular delight which her presence occasioned
him, he was careful not to prolong his visit beyond
the limits of strict etiquette. His name, Boris Alexeivitch,

only revealed to his guests the name of his father,
without his rank; and when he stated that he was employed
in one of the Departments, (which was true in a measure,
for he was a staff officer,) they could only look upon
him as being, at best, a member of some family whose
recent elevation to the nobility did not release them from
the necessity of Government service. Of course he employed
the usual pretext of wishing to study music, and
either by that or some other stratagem managed to leave
matters in such a shape that a second visit could not occasion
surprise.

As the sled glided homewards over the crackling snow,
he was obliged to confess the existence of a new and powerful
excitement. Was it the chance of an adventure,
such as certain of his comrades were continually seeking?
He thought not; no, decidedly not. Was it—could it be
—love? He really could not tell; he had not the slightset
idea what love was like.