Your secret thought, or foul or fair,
Thrills in the currents of the air,
And oft may breathe in careless play
From lips unwitting what they say.
Basil, watching by his godmother’s bedside when not employed in
replacing her as owner and personal manager of one of the greatest
estates in northern Russia, felt a constant presentiment of evil
things to come. He could not have explained this sensation had he
been asked to do so, but nevertheless it was quite strong enough to
oppress him almost continually by day and night.
Vera-Nikoláievna, Countess Lanièvitch, had in her day been a
celebrated beauty, but this circumstance had never succeeded in
spoiling the remarkably clever and high-minded woman she was. Her
husband had fallen at the head of his regiment during the
Russo-Japanese war, in the course of which her four sons, two in the
cavalry and two in the navy, had also heroically yielded up their
lives. Left alone and desolate, the Great Lady had turned all that
remained of tenderness in her nature to Basil-Vassilièvitch
Palitzin, who she claimed was all that was left in the world for her
to care about, and had made little Piotr her heir, with that fitness
of things which invariably brings more water to an already
overflowing river. She had met Laurence but twice--once at her own
place, where Basil had brought his bride to be presented, the second
time at Petersburg, and the experienced woman of the world had
immediately formed the worst possible opinion of her beloved
godson’s marriage. Nor had Laurence done anything to conciliate her
husband’s aged relative. Stubborn, with that peculiarly impenetrable
stubbornness that one can but call pig-headed, having once made up
her mind that she would hate--and continue to hate--every single
thing or person connected with Russia and her new life, she had
ignored the kindly advances of Countess Lanièvitch, remaining from
the first strictly polite and no more, which had both surprised and
hurt the Dowager. Her health, always delicate since her great
sorrows, had now finally given way, and Basil, filled with the
greatest apprehensions, at last summoned the Court physician all the
way from Petersburg to look deeper into the case. The great man
came, and pronounced a far from reassuring verdict. The patient
might or might not linger for another year. That there was no
immediate danger he was willing to assert, but this was all, for the
Countess suffered from heart trouble, and, moreover, complete
discouragement--a very grave symptom in a person of her energetic
nature--seemed to have overtaken her.
After his departure Basil had a long talk with his godmother, who
urged him to go back to his family, for she was the most unselfish of
women; but Basil could not make up his mind to leave her until she
had at least regained some semblance of strength. It was then that
Tatiana’s message concerning the late events at Tverna arrived. She
had softened the facts, and put as little responsibility upon
Laurence as was compatible with truth; but Basil, nevertheless, saw
clearly that his immediate return was imperative, and, avoiding to
alarm his kinswoman by a detailed account of the affair, spoke of
trouble with the peasants, and after arranging everything for her
comparative comfort and ease of mind left her with much regret.
He had to spend some hours in Petersburg on his way home, and
preferring his club to his unprepared palace on the Nèwsky, all
swathed in silence, cold, and brown holland, he repaired thither on
leaving the train.
It had been quite a time since he had been there, and he was received
with genuine enthusiasm by his numerous friends, who talked at once
of killing the fatted calf for his benefit. In consequence, he dined
that night with half a dozen men who had been his comrades when he
was in the _Gardes-à-Cheval_, and in spite of his peculiarly
unjoyful mood he became, as the feast progressed, much more cheerful
than he had been for weeks.
“Where can one be better than in the bosom of one’s patriotic
family?” laughed Count Mourièff, throwing himself back in his chair
as the coffee was brought, and blowing volumes of cigar-smoke toward
the heavily gilded ceiling. The salon in which the dinner had taken
place gave excellent testimony to the _entrain_ of the occasion. In
the corners of the big room huge Chinese urns were crowned with
pyrotechnic bouquets of long-stemmed flowers; along the table
windrows of rare fruits and gaily caparisoned bonbons demonstrated
once more that in the very deeps of his nature the Russian is
always more or less of a child, over-fond of sweets and pretty
baubles--blossoms and luxuries of all sorts!
“You don’t miss your patriotic family, Palitzin, you lucky beggar!”
cried Captain Zàptine, one of Basil’s most intimate friends. “You
are too well provided otherwise! Gentlemen,” he continued, turning to
the others, “this long-legged animal here before you has discovered
the secret of eternal youth and happiness. Let us envy him with all
our hearts. Do you remember how he left us one fine evening at the
camp of Krasnöe-Sèloe during the fateful season of nesting and of
love--left us, the wretch, without a word of warning concerning his
roseate and orange-budded plans?”
“Did he at least bear away a feather in his beak as a token of peace
and good will toward woman?” queried a remarkably tall and handsome
man still very much on the right side of forty, who was known far and
wide as a hardened misogynist, and wore the Cross of St. George upon
his tunic--in commemoration, his compeers alleged, of his many
victories over the dragon as represented by the fair sex.
“No; but he has come back, doubtless with an olive branch to make us
forgive his desertion. Ah, my friends, my dear friends!” cried
Zàptine; “he owed us this apology for neglecting our sisters and
cousins in order to annex the most beautiful woman out of Russia! Let
us therefore drink to his ever-increasing felicity, now that he _has_
apologized.”
“I have done nothing of the sort!” Basil tried to assert, but his
voice was drowned by laughter, and with a serio-comic gesture he sat
down again. And then there followed a general hurrah and loud calls
for a “monster” punch to honor the toast, and presently the beverage
made its appearance, flaming like all the fires of the lower regions
in an immense silver “crater,” embossed with the arms of the club,
and flanked by little silver bowls marked in the same fashion.
Without losing a moment Zàptine seized hold of the great ladle and
began to make the punch dance--as he termed the operation.
“Ah!” the Chevalier-de-St. George declaimed. “Now we shall feel quite
at home! No ‘_Wein, Weib, und Gesang_’ for me! Punch, and good
old comrades to swallow it at command, that’s the only real thing!”
“Pfuhh ... h!” retorted Zàptine, assiduously stirring the Vesuvius
before him. “Don’t listen to him, brothers; he is going to talk
nonsense!”
“Nonsense! I? You don’t know me! Is it nonsense to deprive oneself
of the anxieties, the troubles, the imprisonment, and other delights
of home rule? I am a sensible man, and intend to remain my own
master, for ever and for ever--as in the old song, whatever it’s
entitled. Petticoats! Don’t talk to me of them. It makes me sweat
icicles to think of them!”
“How do you account, then,” put in Mourièff, scornfully, “for the
charming _Lesghise_, who through some miracle worked by your Honor,
finally passed from the high rank of a Caucasian prisoner of state to
that of one of Petersburg’s most admired _demi-mondaines_? Eh?
Answer that if you can?”
There was a roar of laughter, in which even Basil joined as frankly
as did the culprit himself.
“Caucasus is Caucasus,” he retorted, “and _ennui_ with a capital
letter is its overlord. One is not responsible for anything one does
there, I assure you.”
“An agreeable and eminently convenient theory,” Basil put in. “But
look here; don’t tease him, Mourièff; he did his duty gallantly by
the lady in freeing her from oppression and bondage, as also by
affording her the chance of new fields to conquer.”
“She has certainly made admirable use of her opportunities! You know
that Grand-Duke....”
“’Shh-sh-sh!” resounded from every side. “Hush-a-by baby! No
personalities, _please_, especially about the Imperial Family.”
“Well,” grunted Zàptine, “it’s going to be lovely if we can’t
dander the Grand Dukes between ourselves, especially as in this case
it would be quite ancient history. Last year, by the way, the
illustrious _Lesghise_ in question was on the friendliest of terms
with a bonny Englishman who had more good looks than money--which
shows that some women are cruelly misjudged.”
“Yes! Of course! But I heard that their friendship was a mere blind,
a screen, a _laisser-courre_, as one might say.”
“A screen? For whose benefit?”
“Some benighted husband’s, I dare say, who believed in the pure
and loyal satisfaction of matrimonial life. I was assured that the
British son of Mars, who is in the habit of obtaining Russian
passports at irregular intervals, was not here for the _beaux-yeux_
of the _Lesghise_ at all, but merely traveled with her to throw dust
in somebody’s eyes.”
“_Vier Kinder, kein Arbeit, und kein Geld, der kommt gewiss von
Lerchenfeldt!_” parodied Zàptine, singing at the top of his lungs.
“And who’s the fortunate mortal who hides behind one fair woman in
order to meet a fairer one with more safety? We must naturally
suppose that the second one is the fairer, else how would you account
for his criminal coldness toward the screen?”
“I don’t remember his name,” mused Mourièff. “Something ending
with a _y_, I think. (_Diable!_ but that punch is hot! Pour a bottle
of brandy in to cool it!) I saw him, though--the happy mortal, that
is--several times. Pleasing chap with square shoulders and many
inches, soft, lackadaisical brown eyes, a promising trifle of a
mustache, and big, white teeth.”
“The better to eat you, my child!” cried Zàptine. “Military, did you
say?”
“Of course--could see it at a glance; been drilled, you know. Came
here as a private individual, but was recognized by-- Let me see, who
told me? Oh, I remember--our Colonel, our beloved jewel of a Colonel,
that Cavalier of Cavaliers whom we glory in obeying, said the
interesting youth was Military Attaché somewhere, somehow, but mum
was the word--he was so visibly here for other purposes than to slyly
inspect our frontier defenses. I met him--not the Colonel--the
Don Juan--one afternoon leaving the upper galleries of the
_Gostinoï-Dvòr_--there’s always plenty of solitude there, for
that’s merely where the reserve merchandise from below is kept. He
didn’t seem pleased to see me--pulled the collar of his coat up to
his eyes, and slunk away with black guilt showing in every line of
his back. Talk of petticoats! Lord, it wasn’t the _Lesghise’s_ he--”
Basil, who had been listening at first only with one ear and then
with absorbed attention, threw his cigar away with sudden violence.
“You’re becoming indecent!” he said, and managed to say it with
deceiving indifference. “I think I will retire; really, your
conversation is unfit for my chaste hearing!” And he rose.
“Hear! Hear! A just and righteous man in our midst! Sit down,
Palitzin, and preach us a sermon. Let’s vote him a speaking-trumpet
of honor. Go on, Basil, give it to us, old boy! We deserve it!
We’re a bad lot, we are!”
But Basil was inexorable. He elaborately explained that he was forced
to catch his train at an unearthly hour, and that trains carrying
_him_ always started on time; so _nolens-volens_, after giving him a
regular ovation, they let him go, accompanying him to the very
portals of the club and his waiting sleigh, around which they
gathered, uttering loud cheers.
The night was exceedingly cold. A half-congealed vapor formed a
little cloud around the nostrils of the three horses held in rein by
his coachman; the sidewalks, quite recently swept and powdered with
fine sand, as is done again and again each day in Petersburg’s
luxurious quarters, showed two lines of pale gold on either side of
the broad, brilliantly lighted streets, and rime lavishly broidered
with innumerable paillettes every roof and projection sparkling
beneath the frigid moon. It was a scene to hearten up any lover of
the North; but Basil, intrenched behind his high sable collar, was
not enjoying it as he should have done. For there was something he
did not like slowly taking shape in his mind.
It was past eleven o’clock, but notwithstanding this fact he gave
his _yèmshik_ the order to drive him to the house of a friend who
had been his father’s comrade-in-arms, and had until recently held
the post of Chief of Police. “He has got into the habit, while
manipulating the Third Section, of never going to bed. I’ll find
him as wide awake as a barrelful of mice,” thought Basil, and his
previsions were fulfilled. “I must clear up a point or two, otherwise
I will never rest easy again,” the Prince was saying angrily to
himself, as he ascended the stairs; but when he entered the library
where the General sat wrapped in a cloud of smoke, like a Buddhist
image, his face was impassive.
“So here you are, you rascal!” chuckled the gray-beard, getting up to
shake Basil warmly by the hand. “We never quite lose our old habits,
and I knew that you had arrived this morning, the moment you put your
foot on the quay. But here, what do you want of me that you look me
up in this way? It must be something important!”
“Pardon me, my dear old friend,” smiled Basil, accepting the
comfortable seat indicated to him by the General. “I do not always
come to see you because I want something.”
“Let’s admit that you do not always come for interested reasons,
but your nose is wriggling as if upon some scent or other, and so I
conclude that this is one of your ‘on’ days.”
“You are dangerously perspicacious!” Basil remarked. “Yes, I did
venture to disturb you to-night for some such reason.”
“I thought so,” laughed the ex-official, who had been dreaded above
all his predecessors in office. “And now what is it you wish to find
out?”
Basil lighted a cigarette, paused to expel two or three thin threads
of smoke, and then spoke:
“I would like to know who is the English officer in mufti who has
visited Petersburg on several occasions during--the last year or
two, let us say--to meet a woman of the half-world--as a matter of
fact, a _Lesghise_; first _lançée_ by--”
“A dashing officer of the _Gardes-à-Cheval_?” interrupted the
General.
“Precisely!”
General Lédòff glanced at his interlocutor from beneath his shaggy
eyebrows, then fell to puffing once more at his enormous pipe with
extraordinary industry.
“You,” he said, dryly, “have no longer the least business to occupy
yourself with ladies of the merrier sort, my son, and unless you give
me a pretty good reason for so doing I will certainly and most
virtuously refuse to assist you in so unpardonable an enterprise.
What do you want of that species of fallen Princess?”
“Nothing of her, I assure you!” Basil emphatically declared;
“but--one of my friends is interested in the question, and it is for
him I speak. Surely you have still means at your disposal, my
excellent friend, of finding out what I ask.”
“Certainly! It would be fine if an ex-Chief of Police--who managed to
escape the régime of bombs to which all of us are subject--had not
retained enough intelligence to accomplish so slight a thing. But why
do you bother about other people’s love intrigues? Now that you are
_à l’abris des voitures_, as our amiable allies say. It’s a loss
of time, and you’ll get no thanks for your pains.”
“I am not looking for thanks,” Basil dryly observed.
“All the better for you. But you don’t suppose I can give you the
information you seek at five seconds’ notice, do you, boiling
youth? My head is no longer pigeon-holed like a receptacle for
_dossiers_.”
“I wish you could, for I am leaving for Tverna on the next train, and
I do not expect to be in Petersburg again for some time.”
“As pressing as that? Had trouble with your peasants, I heard, some
time ago. Nothing very terrible, eh?”
“No.”
“You have preserved your martial curtness, I see. I’m glad it
wasn’t serious, since you are so constructed that you can’t bring
yourself to shoot a few of them down to cool their blood. Ah! You can
flatter yourself that your father and you were and are merciful
proprietors! But, mark my words, my boy, you will get yourself shaken
out of the saddle if you continue to ride without a martingale. The
efforts of our worthy agitators will be crowned with success sooner
or later; never doubt it; and when you have to call in a _sotnia_ or
two of whole-hearted Kossàks in order to prevent murder and sudden
death, those _mujiks_ of yours will rue the day when you gave them
their head so imprudently. Here I am, however, galloping my favorite
hobby again, instead of thinking of your _Lesghise_. Let me see--an
English officer, did you say?”
He raised himself from the downy depths of his great arm-chair, and
hobbled--for he had a gouty foot--to a large safe in the corner,
draped and concealed beneath a Persian silk fabric that had the bloom
of a ripe plum upon its soft folds.
Refusing Basil’s aid, he opened the ponderous steel door, turned on
an electric bulb near by, and after a few moments’ search returned
to his seat, holding in his hand a thick-set volume bound in
dark-green morocco, and gold-lettered at the back “Daily Journal.”
“Here,” he laughed, “behold the heart of hearts of a police tyrant,
the _sacro-sanctum_ of his labors--a _précis_ of great and minute
events that may or may not come to a head and endanger the peace of
the Empire! Nobody, until now, has ever seen even the outside of this
spicy little work.”
Basil inclined his head to thank the General for his flattering
confidence, and sat immovable while his companion flipped over the
pages covered from top to bottom with close, small-writ lines,
interspersed here and there with annotations in red ink, as he could
clearly discern from where he sat.
Half an hour passed in complete silence, Basil lighting one cigarette
from the butt of another, the General poring tirelessly over
his patient handiwork. On a console a large malachite clock--an
Imperial gift of gratitude--between two superb vases of the same
luscious-looking stone, suddenly rang out an admirable rendition of
the bells of St. Isaac’s, and Basil listened with curious attention
and a sort of retrospective enjoyment, as if the harmony belonged to
a happy life he liked to have recalled to him; but that had passed
away for ever.
The final cadences of the Northern midnight, like the soul in music
of snowy Russia, died away upon the air of the high-ceiled library: a
room stamped, so to speak, with the General’s powerful individuality
expressed in bronze and carven wood and trophies of arms, gorgeous
textiles from far regions, and antique tapestries; and the old man,
with two fingers between the pages of his “Daily Journal,” suddenly
looked up.
“The last two years or so, did you say?” he asked, turning his
piercing eyes full on Basil.
“I think that is what I heard!” hesitated Basil, who was no longer
quite sure of what he had heard, shifting his cigarette from one
corner of his mouth to the other. “I am not certain, of course.”
“Because,” the other explained, “my notes record here a sojourn of
some duration--wait--a sojourn in Petersburg--four years ago of--of
two weeks. The young man had previously visited the Crimea--or at
least he came straight here from there.” The General once more began
to thumb his little book. “At that time,” he went on, speaking very
slowly, “he had been only for a short while British Military
Attaché in Paris. His name is Moray--Captain Neville Moray, of the
Grenadier Guards. His arrival was brought instantly to my notice,
owing to his connection with the diplomatic service. His passport had
been obtained for him under the plea of traveling for pleasure.
Moreover, he cannot be very rich, for he put up here at a decidedly
second-rate hotel, made no calls on anybody, not even his
Ambassador--which seemed rather queer--and did not once use his
official position to obtain a presentation at Court or to any of the
Grand Dukes or the military authorities. His acquaintance with the
fair _Lesghise_ in question may have antedated his first trip here,
because she had accompanied a mutual friend of ours--let his name
remain unpronounced, for he is a great miscreant and a delightful
man--to Paris a few months previously, and if our English Lovelace is
at all _lancé_ in the smart world, he probably met her then. As a
matter of fact, it was taken for granted in our Secret Service that
he had come here on purpose to follow her. She is, as you know, a
strikingly beautiful woman.”
Basil had risen, and, standing with his face beyond the circle of
light cast by the monumental lamp on the table, was studiously
selecting yet another fresh cigarette.
“I never set eyes on her, General,” he replied, “and I am deeply
obliged to you far taking all this trouble.” He waved his hand slowly
before his face, as though to dissipate the gauzy volutes floating
between himself and his old friend. “I don’t know how to thank
you,” he added, sincerely.
“Don’t thank me, my boy. It has given me great pleasure to dip into
my old trade again. One is like that. The very smell of the harness
once worn is pleasing to the nostrils. How it all comes back to me!
For instance, look at this: I had utterly forgotten the very
existence of this Englishman, and now that a corner of the veil was
lifted by you a while ago, I can see before me a great many
incidents that lay dormant in an odd corner of my old brain, and, in
particular, a little tableau that had its charms at the time.”
“What was that?” asked Basil, with a quick turn of the head.
“Oh, a trifle! but since it was connected with our Guardsman, I’ll
tell it to you in two words. It was about three years ago, if I am
correct, on a bitter winter day--thus does the tale begin. Ha! Ha! I
am quite a _raconteur_ in my humble way, I beg you to observe! Well,
we were at the time keeping our eyes upon a certain Servian
‘Prince’--the nerve they display, those Servians, in affording
themselves, while away from home, the luxury of titles which do not
exist in their own land, is truly marvelous! But to proceed: we were,
as I was saying, having this questionable personage--er--watched, in
a discreet fashion--you understand--so when driving out for my
airing, the fancy seized me to go to the Botanical Gardens. I had
been informed that the ‘Noble’ Servian was in the habit of
dropping in there--to admire the flowers, and meet--quite by
accident, of course--a friend--or perchance two--also naturally quite
by accident--do you see? So I told Yèfime--you remember my old
Yèfime--to drive me there. From a good distance the whole mass of
the gardens began to gleam against the sky like some gigantic
jewel-case open to the sun-rays. We had had a hard frost, which had
incased every branch and twig in crystal--I can see it before me now.
I stopped the sleigh and passed up the board walk leading to the
conservatories beneath those gently clinking branches, and, pursuing
my idea, I entered the great glass vestibule, and from there went
into the main house. The first whiff of moist, heavily perfumed air
after that cruel cold outside--I can really still smell it--was a
sort of voluptuous delight, and I followed a broad, pebbled path
bordered on each side by hedges of twenty-five-foot camellias in
full bloom. You know the place, and what a joy to the eye it is.
Precious palms and tree-ferns growing free to the very top of the
cupola ... orange and lemon adored orchids! Ah! What orchids--above
regular thickets of gardenias--a paradise! After a while I came to
the aerial staircase winding among all those lustrous plants, and
reached the top where it communicates with the astounding lacy bridge
that spans the whole length of this particular conservatory, and
there I paused to lean a moment on the balustrade. Just below me on
the balcony of the first landing were two people standing close
together, a man and a woman; he tall, slimly built, but rather
square-shouldered and straight as an arrow. The collar of his long
fur coat was raised--in that heat, mind you! She, I could see, was
extremely _élégante_, and heavily veiled. Both my natural and my
official curiosity were aroused I confess, and, making myself as
small as the good God ever permits me to be, I bent cautiously and
listened. They were whispering, and so absorbed in one another that
they had not heard my feet on the metal steps, and only a few
disconnected words reached me. It struck me as peculiar that they
were speaking English, for I greatly doubted whether my Servian would
use that tongue, and, even more, whether he had ever used the
Botanical Gardens for an amorous _rendez-vous_. _His_ talents had
appeared to be entirely political. Perhaps I had done him an
injustice; at all events, I had decided to leave him to his
twitterings, when an interesting thing happened. The uniformed
guardian who keeps watch over the collections approached from below,
yawning to dislocate his jaws, and the lovers sprang apart in evident
dismay.
“‘Good-bye!’ I heard the woman’s muffled voice say, and the
echo came at once:
“‘Good-bye, my love--my heart and soul to you--always!’
“The sun was lighting up the whole place with extraordinary
brilliancy, and I distinctly saw a tear splash on his gloved hand
that rested on the edge of the balcony, as she fairly ran for the
opposite staircase. He--poor devil--remained for a few minutes where
he was, his shoulders rising and falling queerly, and he nervously
pulled down his fur collar as if he wanted air. The face I saw then,
for a glancing second, was that of young Moray. And I wondered;
because that _Lesghise_ assuredly spoke no English, barely a few
lately acquired phrases of French, perhaps--if that! Next day a grave
political complication drove the whole thing out of my head, and I
have never thought of it since.”
“The winter of four years ago!” Basil soliloquized, and, recollecting
himself, he added with a laugh: “You have a good memory, General.
Fancy recalling--even with a little extraneous aid--so trifling an
incident after four long years!”
The General, who was not quite proof against compliment, got up and
rubbed his hands.
“Eh! Eh!” he cried. “It does not always follow that gray hairs must
needs dull the brain beneath them. I could still have been of
considerable use, I believe, to our Imperial Master; but, as I happen
to know, he was strongly advised to the contrary, and so here I am
now, lazing my life away, inactive and growing fat, with my ear split
like a reformed French cavalry horse. But must you really go? Of
course, now that you have wrung me dry, you leave me without a
scruple, for such are the ways of the world. But you were always a
cajoler, my dear Basil, and knew how to gain your ends. I hope that
some day in the near future you will honor me with more details
concerning this affair of the English captain, for I cannot
understand how you can be so interested in him as to waste an hour
over it.”
“Waste, General? An hour spent with you is never wasted.”
“There you are again! Flattery, vile flattery! And you are going
straight on from here to your beautiful Tverna? Pray place my homage
at Madame Palitzin’s pretty feet. How is she, by the way? Upon my
word, I am losing my manners.”
“She is very well as far as I know,” Basil replied. “I am from my
aunt Lanièvitch’s place; she is gravely ill, and I stayed with her
quite a while. But Tatiana is with my wife and boy, so I felt quite
safe about them.”
“Give Tatiana my love--my very dearest love. She is the _one_ woman
among women. Lord! How she would scold me if she heard! Does she
still fly into a rage when one calls her a woman? You remember when
she was a little thing, no higher than my boot, the way she would
behave when I told her she couldn’t enter the _Corps-des-Pages_
because little girls were never accepted there, for fear they should
shock the young gentlemen of that great institution?” And, laughing
and talking, the delightful old man accompanied Basil all the way
down-stairs, indeed, to the very limits of his cathedral-like hall,
the walls of which were almost invisible for the collections of arms,
brought back from many campaigns on the confines of the grim White
Empire he had so loyally served.
Basil buried himself in the furs of his sleigh with a sigh of utter
weariness, but after a brief moment he squared his shoulders with an
effort, and sat up again. His horses were making their hoofs ring on
the bridge of the Greater Neva, and the enchained river was something
to take even his brooding gaze. The “catching of the ice” had that
year come on early and with a rush, just when the last late autumn
gales were driving across the water, so the frost had fallen upon
great waves rolling from bank to bank, and solidified them hand over
hand, as it were. The aspect of their frozen strife had in it
something singularly fierce and forceful, which well expressed the
terrifying majesty of Winter in the North. Like a girdle of
multi-colored gems, the electric globes of the quays showed mauve and
pale-green and primrose along both sides of the sculptured turmoil of
ice, picking out sharply the rigid wave-crests; and beyond, beneath a
sky of pellucid sapphire powdered all over with twinkling stars among
which winked and flashed the bigger constellations, the swarm of
golden church domes--images of faith--looked as though countless
fairy palaces were climbing one upon another toward realms of the
pure ideal.
The splendidly illumined cross of St. Isaac’s caught Basil’s eye
as the horses sped on, and he reverently repeated its sign upon his
breast. “God have mercy!” he whispered, and sat very still, looking
upward.