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.
Athough 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, "Davei!"

(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 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
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'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,