powder, and paint. Their songs had the same burden,--intense admiration
of the father, and good-will for the son, underlaid with a delicate
doubt. The close was a chorus of all the deities and semi-deities in
praise of the old Prince, with the accompaniment of fireworks. Apollo
rose through the air like a frog, with his blue legs and yellow arms
wide apart; Jupiter's chariot rolled off; Venus bowed herself back
against a mouldy cloud; and the Muses came forward in a bunch, with a
wreath of laurel, which they placed upon the venerated head.
Sasha was dispatched to bring the poet, that he might receive his
well-earned praise and reward. But alas for Simon Petrovitch! His legs
had already doubled under him. He was awarded fifty rubles and a new
caftan, which he was not in a condition to accept until several days
afterward.
The supper which followed resembled the dinner, except that there were
fewer dishes and more bottles. When the closing course of sweetmeats had
either been consumed or transferred to the pockets of the guests, the
Princess Martha retired with the ladies. The guests of lower rank
followed; and there remained only some fifteen or twenty, who were
thereupon conducted by Prince Alexis to a smaller chamber, where he
pulled off his coat, lit his pipe, and called for brandy. The others
followed his example, and their revelry wore out the night.
Such was the festival which preceded the departure of Prince Boris for
St Petersburg.
IV.
Before following the young Prince and his fortunes in the capital, we
must relate two incidents which somewhat disturbed the ordered course of
life in the castle of Kinesma, during the first month or two after his
departure.
It must be stated, as one favorable trait in the character of Prince
Alexis, that, however brutally he treated his serfs, he allowed no other
man to oppress them. All they had and were--their services, bodies,
lives--belonged to him; hence injustice towards them was disrespect
towards their lord. Under the fear which his barbarity inspired lurked a
brute-like attachment, kept alive by the recognition of this quality.
One day it was reported to him that Gregor, a merchant in the bazaar at
Kinesma, had cheated the wife of one of his serfs in the purchase of a
piece of cloth. Mounting his horse, he rode at once to Gregor's booth,
called for the cloth, and sent the entire piece to the woman, in the
merchant's name, as a confessed act of reparation.
"Now, Gregor, my child," said he, as he turned his horse's head, "have a
care in future, and play me no more dishonest tricks. Do you hear? I
shall come and take your business in hand myself, if the like happens
again."
Not ten days passed before the like--or something fully as bad--_did_
happen. Gregor must have been a newcomer in Kinesma, or he would not
have tried the experiment. In an hour from the time it was announced,
Prince Alexis appeared in the bazaar with a short whip under his arm.
He dismounted at the booth with an ironical smile on his face, which
chilled the very marrow in the merchant's bones.
"Ah, Gregor, my child," he shouted, "you have already forgotten my
commands. Holy St. Nicholas, what a bad memory the boy has! Why, he
can't be trusted to do business: I must attend to the shop myself. Out
of the way! march!"
He swung his terrible whip; and Gregor, with his two assistants, darted
under the counter, and made their escape. The Prince then entered the
booth, took up a yard-stick, and cried out in a voice which could be
heard from one end of the town to the other,--"Ladies and gentlemen,
have the kindness to come and examine our stock of goods! We have silks
and satins, and all kinds of ladies' wear; also velvet, cloth, cotton,
and linen for the gentlemen. Will your Lordships deign to choose? Here
are stockings and handkerchiefs of the finest. We understand how to
measure, your Lordships, and we sell cheap. We give no change, and take
no small money. Whoever has no cash may have credit. Everything sold
below cost, on account of closing up the establishment. Ladies and
gentlemen, give us a call!"
Everybody in Kinesma flocked to the booth, and for three hours Prince
Alexis measured and sold, either for scant cash or long credit, until
the last article had been disposed of and the shelves were empty. There
was great rejoicing in the community over the bargains made that day.
When all was over, Gregor was summoned, and the cash received paid into
his hands.
"It won't take you long to count it," said the Prince; "but here is a
list of debts to be collected, which will furnish you with pleasant
occupation, and enable you to exercise your memory. Would your Worship
condescend to take dinner to-day with your very humble assistant? He
would esteem it a favor to be permitted to wait upon you with whatever
his poor house can supply."
Gregor gave a glance at the whip under the Prince's arm, and begged to
be excused. But the latter would take no denial, and carried out the
comedy to the end, by giving the merchant the place of honor at his
table, and dismissing him with the present of a fine pup of his favorite
breed. Perhaps the animal acted as a mnemonic symbol, for Gregor was
never afterwards accused of forgetfulness.
If this trick put the Prince in a good humor, something presently
occurred which carried him to the opposite extreme. While taking his
customary siesta one afternoon, a wild young fellow--one of his noble
poor relations, who "sponged" at the castle--happened to pass along a
corridor outside of the very hall where his Highness was snoring. Two
ladies in waiting looked down from an upper window. The young fellow
perceived them, and made signs to attract their attention. Having
succeeded in this, he attempted, by all sorts of antics and grimaces, to
make them laugh or speak; but he failed, for the slumber-flag waved over
them, and its fear was upon them. Then, in a freak of incredible
rashness, he sang, in a loud voice, the first line of a popular ditty,
and took to his heels.
No one had ever before dared to insult the sacred quiet. The Prince was
on his feet in a moment, and rushed into the corridor, (dropping his
mantle of sables by the way,) shouting,--
"Bring me the wretch who sang!"
The domestics scattered before him, for his face was terrible to look
upon. Some of them had heard the voice, indeed, but not one of them had
seen the culprit, who already lay upon a heap of hay in one of the
stables, and appeared to be sunk in innocent sleep.
"Who was it? who was it?" yelled the Prince, foaming at the mouth with
rage, as he rushed from chamber to chamber.
At last he halted at the top of the great flight of steps leading into
the court-yard, and repeated his demand in a voice of thunder. The
servants, trembling, kept at a safe distance, and some of them ventured
to state that the offender could not be discovered. The Prince turned
and entered one of the state apartments, whence came the sound of
porcelain smashed on the floor, and mirrors shivered on the walls.
Whenever they heard that sound, the inmates of the castle knew that a
hurricane was let loose.
They deliberated hurriedly and anxiously. What was to be done? In his
fits of blind animal rage, there was nothing of which the Prince was not
capable, and the fit could be allayed only by finding a victim. No one,
however, was willing to be a Curtius for the others, and meanwhile the
storm was increasing from minute to minute. Some of the more active and
shrewd of the household pitched upon the leader of the band, a
simple-minded, good-natured serf, named Waska. They entreated him to
take upon himself the crime of having sung, offering to have his
punishment mitigated in every possible way. He was proof against their
tears, but not against the money which they finally offered, in order to
avert the storm. The agreement was made, although Waska both scratched
his head and shook it, as he reflected upon the probable result.
The Prince, after his work of destruction, again appeared upon the
steps, and, with hoarse voice and flashing eyes, began to announce that
every soul in the castle should receive a hundred lashes, when a noise
was heard in the court, and amid cries of "Here he is!" "We've got him,
Highness!" the poor Waska, bound hand and foot, was brought forward.
They placed him at the bottom of the steps. The Prince descended until
the two stood face to face. The others looked on from court-yard, door,
and window. A pause ensued, during which no one dared to breathe.
At last Prince Alexis spoke, in a loud and terrible voice,--
"It was you who sang, was it?"
"Yes, your Highness, it was I," Waska replied, in a scarcely audible
tone, dropping his head and mechanically drawing his shoulders together,
as if shrinking from the coming blow.
It was full three minutes before the Prince again spoke. He still held
the whip in his hand, his eyes fixed and the muscles of his face rigid.
All at once the spell seemed to dissolve: his hand fell, and he said, in
his ordinary voice,--
"You sing remarkably well. Go, now: you shall have ten rubles and an
embroidered caftan for your singing."
But any one would have made a great mistake, who had dared to awaken
Prince Alexis a second time in the same manner.
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 frequently 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 movement 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
_istoostchik_ (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
Corokhovaya 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 istoostchik.
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 reached the Litenie, 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 istoostchik, 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 istoostchik to wait for
him, and entered into 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'Alencon, 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 slightest idea what love was
like.
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 is
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 subtile relation seemed to be established between their natures.
That night Prince Boris wrote a long letter to his "_chere 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_ 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, turtle-doves 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.