6. VI.
It was something at least, that the plastic and not unvirtuous
nature of the young man was directed towards a
definite object. The elements out of which he was made,
although somewhat diluted, were active enough to make
him uncomfortable, so long as they remained in a confused
state. He had very little power of introversion, but he
was sensible that his temperament was changing,—that he
grew more cheerful and contented with life,—that a chasm
somewhere was filling up,—just in proportion as his acquaintance
with the old music-master and his daughter became
more familiar. His visits were made so brief, were
so adroitly timed and accounted for by circumstances, that
by the close of Lent he could feel justified in making the
Easter call of a friend, and claim its attendant privileges,
without fear of being repulsed.
That Easter call was an era in his life. At the risk of
his wealth and rank being suspected, he dressed himself
in new and rich garments, and hurried away towards the
Smolnoi. The old nurse, Katinka, in her scarlet gown,
opened the door for him, and was the first to say, “Christ
is arisen!” What could he do but give her the usual kiss?
Formerly he had kissed hundreds of serfs, men and women,
on the sacred anniversary, with a passive good-will.
But Katinka's kiss seemed bitter, and he secretly rubbed
his mouth after it. The music-master came next: grisly
though he might be, he was the St. Peter who stood at the
gate of heaven. Then entered Helena, in white, like an
angel. He took her hand, pronounced the Easter greeting,
and scarcely waited for the answer, “Truly he has
arisen!” before his lips found the way to hers. For a
second they warmly trembled and glowed together; and
in another second some new and sweet and subtle relation
seemed to be established between their natures.
That night Prince Boris wrote a long letter to his
“chère maman,” in piquantly misspelt French, giving her
the gossip of the court, and such family news as she usually
craved. The purport of the letter, however, was only
disclosed in the final paragraph, and then in so negative a
way that it is doubtful whether the Princess Martha fully
understood it.
“Poing de mariajes pour moix!” he wrote,—but we will
drop the original,—“I don't think of such a thing yet.
Pashkoff dropped a hint, the other day, but I kept my
eyes shut. Perhaps you remember her?—fat, thick lips,
and crooked teeth. Natalie D— said to me, “Have
you ever been in love, Prince?” Have I, maman? I did
not know what answer to make. What is love? How does
one feel, when one has it? They laugh at it here, and of
course I should not wish to do what is laughable. Give me
a hint: forewarned is forearmed, you know,”—etc., etc.
Perhaps the Princess Martha did suspect something;
perhaps some word in her son's letter touched a secret
spot far back in her memory, and renewed a dim, if not
very intelligible, pain. She answered his question at
length, in the style of the popular French romances of
that day. She had much to say of dew and roses, turtledoves
and the arrows of Cupid.
“Ask thyself,” she wrote, “whether felicity comes with
her presence, and distraction with her absence,—whether
her eyes make the morning brighter for thee, and her
tears fall upon thy heart like molten lava,—whether heaven
would be black and dismal without her company, and
the flames of hell turn into roses under her feet.”
It was very evident that the good Princess Martha had
never felt—nay, did not comprehend—a passion such as
she described.
Prince Boris, however, whose veneration for his mother
was unbounded, took her words literally, and applied
the questions to himself. Although he found it difficult,
in good faith and sincerity, to answer all of them affirmatively
(he was puzzled, for instance, to know the sensation
of molten lava falling upon the heart), yet the general conclusion
was inevitable: Helena was necessary to his happiness.
Instead of returning to Kinesma for the summer, as
had been arranged, he determined to remain in St. Petersburg,
under the pretence of devoting himself to military
studies. This change of plan occasioned more disappointment
to the Princess Martha than vexation to Prince
Alexis. The latter only growled at the prospect of being
called upon to advance a further supply of rubles, slightly
comforting himself with the muttered reflection,—
“Perhaps the brat will make a man of himself, after
all.”
It was not many weeks, in fact, before the expected
petition came to hand. The Princess Martha had also
foreseen it, and instructed her son how to attack his father's
weak side. The latter was furiously jealous of certain
other noblemen of nearly equal wealth, who were with him
at the court of Peter the Great, as their sons now were at
that of Elizabeth. Boris compared the splendor of these
young noblemen with his own moderate estate, fabled a
few “adventures” and drinking-bouts, and announced his
determination of doing honor to the name which Prince
Alexis of Kinesma had left behind him in the capital.
There was cursing at the castle when the letter arrived.
Many serfs felt the sting of the short whip, the slumber-flag
was hoisted five minutes later than usual, and the consumption
of Cognac was alarming; but no mirror was
smashed, and when Prince Alexis read the letter to his
poor relations, he even chuckled over some portions of it.
Boris had boldly demanded twenty thousand rubles, in the
desperate hope of receiving half that amount,—and he
had calculated correctly.
Before midsummer he was Helena's accepted lover.
Not, however, until then, when her father had given his
consent to their marriage in the autumn, did he disclose
his true rank. The old man's face lighted up with a glow
of selfish satisfaction; but Helena quietly took her lover's
hand, and said,—
“Whatever you are, Boris, I will be faithful to you.”
