University of Virginia Library

8. VIII.

The health of the Princess Martha, always delicate, now
began to fail rapidly. She was less and less able to endure
her husband's savage humors, and lived almost exclusively
in her own apartments. She never mentioned
the name of Boris in his presence, for it was sure to throw
him into a paroxysm of fury. Floating rumors in regard
to the young Prince had reached him from the capital,
and nothing would convince him that his wife was not
cognizant of her son's doings. The poor Princess clung
to her boy as to all that was left her of life, and tried to
prop her failing strength with the hope of his speedy return.
She was now too helpless to thwart his wishes in
any way; but she dreaded, more than death, the terrible
something which would surely take place between father
and son if her conjectures should prove to be true.

One day, in the early part of November, she received
a letter from Boris, announcing his marriage. She had
barely strength and presence of mind enough to conceal

the paper in her bosom before sinking in a swoon. By
some means or other the young Prince had succeeded in
overcoming all the obstacles to such a step: probably the
favor of the Empress was courted, in order to obtain her
consent. The money he had received, he wrote, would
be sufficient to maintain them for a few months, though
not in a style befitting their rank. He was proud and
happy; the Princess Helena would be the reigning beauty
of the court, when he should present her, but he desired
the sanction of his parents to the marriage, before
taking his place in society. He would write immediately
to his father, and hoped, that, if the news brought a storm,
Mishka might be on hand to divert its force, as on a former
occasion.

Under the weight of this imminent secret, the Princess
Martha could neither eat nor sleep. Her body wasted
to a shadow; at every noise in the castle, she started and
listened in terror, fearing that the news had arrived.

Prince Boris, no doubt, found his courage fail him
when he set about writing the promised letter; for a fortnight
elapsed before it made its appearance. Prince Alexis
received it on his return from the chase. He read it
hastily through, uttered a prolonged roar like that of a
wounded bull, and rushed into the castle. The sound of
breaking furniture, of crashing porcelain and shivered
glass, came from the state apartments: the domestics fell
on their knees and prayed; the Princess, who heard the
noise and knew what it portended, became almost insensible
from fright.

One of the upper servants entered a chamber as the
Prince was in the act of demolishing a splendid malachite
table, which had escaped all his previous attacks. He
was immediately greeted with a cry of,—

“Send the Princess to me!”

“Her Highness is not able to leave her chamber,”
the man replied.

How it happened he could never afterwards describe
but he found himself lying in a corner of the room. When
he arose, there seemed to be a singular cavity in his
mouth: his upper front teeth were wanting.

We will not narrate what took place in the chamber
of the Princess. The nerves of the unfortunate woman
had been so wrought upon by her fears, that her husband's
brutal rage, familiar to her from long experience, now
possessed a new and alarming significance. His threats
were terrible to hear; she fell into convulsions, and before
morning her tormented life was at an end.

There was now something else to think of, and the
smashing of porcelain and cracking of whips came to an
end. The Archimandrite was summoned, and preparations,
both religious and secular, were made for a funeral
worthy the rank of the deceased. Thousands flocked to
Kinesma; and when the immense procession moved
away from the castle, although very few of the persons had
ever known or cared in the least, for the Princess Martha,
all, without exception, shed profuse tears. Yes, there
was one exception,—one bare, dry rock, rising alone out
of the universal deluge,—Prince Alexis himself, who walked

behind the coffin, his eyes fixed and his features rigid
as stone. They remarked that his face was haggard, and
that the fiery tinge on his cheeks and nose had faded into
livid purple. The only sign of emotion which he gave
was a convulsive shudder, which from time to time passed
over his whole body.

Three archimandrites (abbots) and one hundred priests
headed the solemn funeral procession from the castle to
the church on the opposite hill. There the mass for the
dead was chanted, the responses being sung by a choir
of silvery boyish voices. All the appointments were of
the costliest character. Not only all those within the
church, but the thousands outside, spared not their tears,
but wept until the fountains were exhausted. Notice was
given, at the close of the services, that “baked meats”
would be furnished to the multitude, and that all beggars
who came to Kinesma would be charitably fed for the
space of six weeks. Thus, by her death, the amiable
Princess Martha was enabled to dispense more charity
than had been permitted to her life.

At the funeral banquet which followed, Prince Alexis
placed the Abbot Sergius at his right hand, and conversed
with him in the most edifying manner upon the necessity
of leading a pure and godly life. His remarks upon
the duty of a Christian, upon brotherly love, humility, and
self-sacrifice, brought tears into the eyes of the listening
priests. He expressed his conviction that the departed
Princess, by the piety of her life, had attained unto salvation,—and
added, that his own life had now no further

value unless he should devote it to religious exercises.

“Can you not give me a place in your monastery?”
he asked, turning to the Abbot. “I will endow it with a
gift of forty thousand rubles, for the privilege of occupying
a monk's cell.”

“Pray, do not decide too hastily, Highness,” the Abbot
replied. “You have yet a son.”

“What!” yelled Prince Alexis, with flashing eyes,
every trace of humility and renunciation vanishing like
smoke,—“what! Borka? The infamous wretch who
has ruined me, killed his mother, and brought disgrace
upon our name? Do you know that he has married a
wench of no family and without a farthing,—who would
be honored, if I should allow her to feed my hogs? Live
for him? live for him? Ah-r-r-r!”

This outbreak terminated in a sound between a snarl
and a bellow. The priests turned pale, but the Abbot
devoutly remarked—

“Encompassed by sorrows, Prince, you should humbly
submit to the will of the Lord.”

“Submit to Borka?” the Prince scornfully laughed.
“I know what I'll do. There's time enough yet for a
wife and another child,—ay,—a dozen children! I can
have my pick in the province; and if I couldn't I'd
sooner take Masha, the goose-girl, than leave Borka the
hope of stepping into my shoes. Beggars they shall be,
—beggars!”

What further he might have said was interrupted by

the priests rising to chant the Blajennon uspennie (blessed
be the dead),—after which, the trisna, a drink composed
of mead, wine, and rum, was emptied to the health of the
departed soul. Every one stood during this ceremony,
except Prince Alexis, who fell suddenly prostrate before
the consecrated pictures, and sobbed so passionately that
the tears of the guests flowed for the third time. There
he lay until night; for whenever any one dared to touch
him, he struck out furiously with fists and feet. Finally
he fell asleep on the floor, and the servants then bore him
to his sleeping apartment.

For several days afterward his grief continued to be
so violent that the occupants of the castle were obliged
to keep out of his way. The whip was never out of his
hand, and he used it very recklessly, not always selecting
the right person. The parasitic poor relations found
their situation so uncomfortable, that they decided, one
and all, to detach themselves from the tree upon which
they fed and fattened, even at the risk of withering on a
barren soil. Night and morning the serfs prayed upon
their knees, with many tears and groans, that the Saints
might send consolation, in any form, to their desperate
lord.

The Saints graciously heard and answered the prayer.
Word came that a huge bear had been seen in the forest
stretching towards Juriewetz. The sorrowing Prince
pricked up his ears, threw down his whip, and ordered a
chase. Sasha, the broad-shouldered, the cunning, the
ready, the untiring companion of his master, secretly ordered

a cask of vodki to follow the crowd of hunters and
serfs. There was a steel-bright sky, a low, yellow sun,
and a brisk easterly wind from the heights of the Ural.
As the crisp snow began to crunch under the Prince's
sled, his followers saw the old expression come back to
his face. With song and halloo and blast of horns, they
swept away into the forest.

Saint John the Hunter must have been on guard over
Russia that day. The great bear was tracked, and after
a long and exciting chase, fell by the hand of Prince
Alexis himself. Halt was made in an open space in the
forest, logs were piled together and kindled on the snow,
and just at the right moment (which no one knew better
than Sasha) the cask of vodki rolled into its place. When
the serfs saw the Prince mount astride of it, with his ladle
in his hand, they burst into shouts of extravagant joy.
“Slava Bogu!” (Glory be to God!) came fervently from
the bearded lips of those hard, rough, obedient children.
They tumbled headlong over each other, in their efforts
to drink first from the ladle, to clasp the knees or kiss the
hands of the restored Prince. And the dawn was glimmering
against the eastern stars, as they took the way to
the castle, making the ghostly fir-woods ring with shout
and choric song.

Nevertheless, Prince Alexis was no longer the same
man; his giant strength and furious appetite were broken.
He was ever ready, as formerly, for the chase and the
drinking-bout; but his jovial mood no longer grew into a
crisis which only utter physical exhaustion or the stupidity

of drunkenness could overcome. Frequently, while
astride the cask, his shouts of laughter would suddenly
cease, the ladle would drop from his hand, and he would
sit motionless, staring into vacancy for five minutes at a
time. Then the serfs, too, became silent, and stood still,
awaiting a change. The gloomy mood passed away as
suddenly. He would start, look about him, and say, in a
melancholy voice,—

“Have I frightened you, my children? It seems to
me that I am getting old. Ah, yes, we must all die, one
day. But we need not think about it, until the time comes.
The Devil take me for putting it into my head! Why,
how now? can't you sing, children?”

Then he would strike up some ditty which they all
knew: a hundred voices joined in the strain, and the hills
once more rang with revelry.

Since the day when the Princess Martha was buried,
the Prince had not again spoken of marriage. No one,
of course, dared to mention the name of Boris in his presence.