The Adventures of an Ugly Girl

“Is Madame Kominski visible?” I inquired of the smart servant-maid who answered my ring at the bell of the house to which I had been directed to go.

“Is it an appointment, madam?”

“No, but I have reason to think that Madame Kominski will see me.”

“If you will step inside, I will ask her. What name shall I give?”

“Miss Dora Saxon.”

This change of name was the result of my deliberations while on my way here. It struck me as desirable, in Belle’s interests. In Belle’s! How strange it seemed that I should have to resort to trickery and subterfuge for the sake of one who, though so nearly related to me, was yet my mortal enemy! Yet so it was, for was not the happiness of those whom I loved best on earth involved in her immunity from punishment, if she were guilty; and in her protection from false accusation, if she were innocent? Ah! would to God I could have thought the latter! My course of conduct would then have been much easier for me.

“You wish to see me?” was the question addressed to me after a while, in such a musical voice that I glanced at the owner of it in pleased surprise, as I answered somewhat eagerly: “Yes, Madame Kominski. I have been told that you are seeking a companion, and would like to secure the post. I can give you good credentials.”

“And references to former employers?”

“I have never lived away from home before.”

“And why, may I ask, do you wish to come to me now?”

“My home associations have become painful. I was to have been married a month ago, but—”

“The old story. Your lover forsook you?”

“No, my lover died.”

There was a quick glance of sympathy, and a few moments’ pause. Then Madame Kominski resumed: “Your story is very sad. But I am afraid that for that very reason I cannot entertain the idea of making you my companion. I want some one who will be cheerful and bright, not a woman whose bearing will wear the impress of a tragic past. Pray do not think me unfeeling, but I often have to leave my little daughter for days together, and would not like her to be made melancholy.”

“You would find me as cheerful as you could desire. I intend to cast my past from my mind as much as possible.”

“If I could think that—”

But there is no need to give the whole conversation in detail. Suffice it to say that I prevailed upon Madame Kominski to write to Mr. Garth for further particulars of me, and that I obtained her promise to engage me, should his reply prove satisfactory. Feeling quite sure that this would be the case, and that Madame Kominski was a woman who could be trusted, I told her that my real name was Courtney, but that I preferred to be called Miss Saxon for the future, as I did not wish it to be known that I had left home to go to service. As it happened, it was well that I took my prospective employer into my confidence. She had heard something about my history from the newspapers, and my candor seemed to win both her sympathy and her good-will.

She insisted upon my having lunch with her, and introduced me to her daughter Feodorowna, a girl of ten, who could not boast of a much more attractive appearance than myself. But by-and-by, as she grew to womanhood, her looks might improve, and she might possibly become more like her mother, who certainly was a very beautiful woman, being tall, stately, and inclined to embonpoint, though as yet being only sufficiently stout to make her voluptuously perfect. Her fine dark eyes, Grecian features, clear skin and purple-black hair, which waved and curled about her brows in charming disorder, would seem to disclaim a Mongolian origin altogether, and were all in harmony with her musical voice and graceful gait.

Two days later, a very satisfactory reply to madame’s letter having come from Mr. Garth, all arrangements were completed. My luggage had been sent for, and I was formally installed as companion-governess in the household of Madame Kominski, who readily agreed to my wish that my true appellative should be discarded for the present, and that I should be introduced and known to others only as Miss Saxon. I had not forgotten May Morris’s idea that absence of good looks was the best recommendation to madame’s favor. But I did not let the notion worry me. I was by this time convinced that nature, when denying me beauty, had given me some compensating qualifications, and Madame Kominski was so kind and friendly with me that I found no difficulty in being comparatively happy and wholly cheerful.

Feodorowna, or Feo, as she was called by her mother, seemed to have taken quite a fancy to me, and I won her heart altogether when I proposed teaching her to play the violin. I found her to be an apt and docile pupil, but as masters came to the house to teach her many of the branches of her education, such portion of it as fell on my shoulders did not prove onerous.

“We start for St. Petersburg on Monday,” said Madame Kominski, the Friday after I had become a member of her household, looking up from a letter which she was reading. “I suppose you have no objection to go there, Miss Saxon?”

“None whatever, madame. I shall like it very much, I am sure.”

“I have no doubt you will, for you will have every possible comfort and will mingle in the best society St. Petersburg affords. And you, Feo, now that you are going to see your cousins again, must not neglect your English. I shall depend upon Miss Saxon to insist upon constant practice in that and in French.”

“You may depend upon me, and upon Feo, too. We have already made a compact to speak nothing but English together one week, and nothing but French the next.”

“And, mother, what is the use of saying Miss Saxon every time? Why don’t you call her Dora, like I do? She will really seem like one of the family then.”

“Well, Dora be it, with all my heart, child. Ah! what’s this? Dora, I find that I have to go out of town to-day. I may be back to-morrow, but cannot be sure. You will see that the servants push on with the packing.”

“Certainly. I will do my best to make up for your absence.”

Madame Kominski had evidently read something in the last letter she had opened which had caused her to form the sudden resolution of leaving home that day. She hastily gathered the papers which had come by that morning’s post together, and was leaving the breakfast room with them, when Feo exclaimed: “Oh, mother, it is too bad! You promised to take us to the theater this evening.”

“My dear child, I cannot help that. This journey cannot be postponed. You shall go to the Grand Theater soon after we arrive in St. Petersburg. You know that I never willingly disappoint you or break a promise to you.”

“Forgive me, dear mother. I won’t complain again.”

From this it may be gathered that Feo was a docile, affectionate child, and such I always found her. I could not help hazarding a faint conjecture as to the nature of the business which took madame from home at a time when one would suppose her presence to be more than usually necessary in it. But it was no business of mine, and I found sufficient to do to occupy all my thoughts and time for the next few days. It was Monday at noon before the mistress of the household returned to it. She seemed tired and somewhat dispirited, but insisted upon starting for St. Petersburg that night, as had already been arranged.

A week later we were all comfortably installed in a splendid house, on the Nevski Prospekt, and my eyes were fairly dazzled by the magnificence of some of the houses to which I was introduced. I was very glad that my wardrobe was so liberally furnished, and that I was at least possessed of the means of mitigating my plainness as far as was possible. I was also spared some of the humiliation which had been so often meted out to me in England. Whether it was that I was surrounded by more people, whose chief characteristic was lack of physical beauty, or whether it was that less importance was attached to the possession of mere outward charms, I cannot say. But it is certain that my personal deficiencies were less often brought home to me here, and, greatly to my surprise, I seemed to promptly win the favor of several cultured aristocrats, who apparently never dreamed of discounting my few mental attractions because I was only a hired companion.

Many of them spoke English, and showed great interest in our social laws and customs, so different to those prevailing among themselves. To the best of my ability, I answered all the questions put to me, sometimes; I fear, forgetting that to extol English institutions was to decry the systems of the land in which I had temporarily found a home. One evening madame, always good to me, had taken me with her to the house of a certain Prince and Princess Michaelow, both of whom welcomed her with great warmth and affection. The princess, who proved to be English, and only a few years older than myself, was a girl of strikingly imposing figure and lovely appearance. Her rich, glittering auburn hair framed a face of the purest oval. Her arch, piquant features were set off by a complexion of exquisite fairness and purity, the cheeks reminding me of nothing so much as of the dainty pink dog-roses I had so often delighted to gather at home. Her teeth were white and even, and were given plenty of opportunity for display by their smiling owner. But her eyes struck me as her chief charm. They were large and limpid, fringed by dark lashes, and were of the deepest azure, with a bright-rayed amber iris that gave them an almost uncanny beauty. She was dressed in a gown of soft pale blue surah, and her only jewels were pearls. But such pearls! And such a mass of them, in ropes, strings, sprays and festoons, which helped to put the finishing touch to as fair a vision of human beauty as I had ever beheld.

I was half inclined to stand in awe of her at first, and to shrink into a pained comparison of her appearance and mine. But her frank, cheery smile and demonstrative welcome at once put that nonsense out of my head, and I was henceforth content to worship her as the embodiment of all that was good and beautiful. My admiration must have shone in my eyes, for the prince bent down to me, and said smilingly, in rather broken English: “I perceive that Miss Saxon’s tastes are similar to my own. I hope she will often favor us with a visit. My wife has been looking forward to meeting Madame Kominski’s new friend.”

New friend! Was that Prince Michaelow’s delicate way of putting the case, or did he really not know that I was madame’s paid companion? I caught myself revolving this conjecture even while conversing brightly and with outward ease. But it was not destined to trouble me long. Later on in the evening, Madame Kominski, who was a brilliant conversationalist, and an evident favorite wherever she went, being surrounded by a group of admiring friends, I found myself somewhat isolated and thrown upon my own resources. Yet I was by no means tired or dull, for I watched the ever-varying panorama in the brilliant salon in which I found myself with considerable interest.

One man in particular attracted my notice by his somewhat sinister aspect and gloomy bearing. He stood, half concealed by the draperies of a large portière, with erect figure and folded arms, looking at Madame Kominski with an expression in his eyes which I found it difficult to fathom, but which gave me an uneasy conviction that it boded her no good. He was tall, of fine build and bearing, and would, I think, by most people be considered handsome. But there was a depression of the eyes and upper part of the nose which I did not like, and which seemed to me to argue the possession of a cunning and perhaps malignant nature.

My inability to fathom the meaning of his frequent glances in Madame Kominski’s direction began to irritate me. Was it love that he felt for her? Or was it hate? If the latter, why did such a look of desire shine from his eyes when they rested on her sparkling beauty? If the former, why did he frown and clinch his hands at the sound of her merry laugh?

“You seem engrossed in contemplation of Count Karenieff,” said a voice at my elbow. “Does his appearance charm you so much?”

“By no means,” I replied quickly, turning to the Princess Michaeloff, who seated herself by my side. “On the contrary, he strikes me as rather repellant than otherwise. I have been wondering if he hates Madame Kominski.”

“Certainly not. He is madly in love with her. Unfortunately for him, our friend’s tastes lean in another direction and she has been compelled to reject his suit.”

“Then he does hate her, and his glances mean revenge.”

“I hope not. He is a dangerous enemy. There are several people now doing penance in the fortress of St. Peter and Paul who have been doomed to their awful fate through his denunciations. Only last week the son of one of these, a mere child of fifteen, was banished to Siberia, and there is little doubt that Count Karenieff has a hand in this business also.”

“But what could he, a boy of fifteen, have done to deserve so horrible a fate?”

“He has done nothing to deserve it. No one pretends to say that he has. But he is a bright and intelligent lad, who might some day be seized by a desire to avenge the wrongs of his parents, and he is the heir to a vast property which is now confiscated by the State. Of course the man who has given the State an excuse for increasing its revenue has also come in for a share of the spoil.”

“What a monstrous system! What a monstrous—”

“For God’s sake, be quiet! If you are overheard talking like that, we are lost! How could I have been indiscreet enough to dwell on tabooed subjects like that? I think it must be through meeting with some one who is as unsophisticated as I was myself when I first came here, only twelve months ago.”

“So short a time as that?”

“Yes, so short a time as that. I came out here as Madame Kominski’s companion. Thanks to her goodness, I had as many social advantages given me as if I had been a sprig of nobility, instead of being merely the daughter of a poor country curate, who had found it necessary to leave home to earn a livelihood. How kind fate has been to me! I was scarcely here before I won the love of the man who is now my husband. I have surely all that woman can desire. I love and am beloved, and I revel in unlimited wealth and comfort. Better still, I am able to free my parents from the harassing anxieties against which they have hitherto had to contend. Still—”

“You must be perfectly happy.”

“I have only one wish ungratified. I would dearly like to live in England, and to escape the constant espionage to which we are all subject. But this cannot be, so I spend as much time in the company of English people as I can. Do you know, Madame Kominski brought an English companion out here three years ago. She was very fond of her, and was somewhat cut up when Miss Vernon, a very handsome woman, by-the-by, left her to get married. When I left her, she said that she would have no more companions, as she grew fond of them only to lose them. I am very glad that she has altered her mind.”

So then, madame had been actuated by no petty feeling of jealousy when she declined to engage a pretty girl as her companion. She had few relatives, felt somewhat lonely in the house, and desired to secure a companion who would be likely to remain a member of her household for some time. Struck with this conviction, I felt more assured than ever of the real kindness of madame’s nature, and actually felt glad for the moment that there was no likelihood of her being disappointed in me as she had been disappointed in her other companions. Little did I dream how soon she would stand in dire need of loving friendship, she, to whom the world seemed to wear so smiling and benignant a front!

While we had been talking, there had been a slight movement of dispersal, and some of the guests now claimed the attention of the princess, who had certainly given me a disproportionate share of her attention. Soon afterward, we also took our leave, and both madame and myself seemed to have plenty of food for pleasant thought during the short drive home.

The next morning it was found a difficult matter to rouse Feo at the usual time, and her maid expressed the opinion that the child must be ill. I went to see her, and found her pale, sick and languid, possessed of a violent headache and consuming thirst. Somewhat alarmed, I announced my intention of summoning a doctor at once. But to this plan Feo entered very strenuous objections.

“Indeed, Miss Dora, I am not really ill,” she protested. “I shall soon be all right again, and I’ll never, never do it again as long as I live.”

“Do what, child?”

“Oh, that would be telling, and I promised Olaf that I wouldn’t tell.”

“That mischievous little cousin of yours! You have been up to some naughtiness together. Tell me, have you been out and caught a fever, or something of that sort?”

“Oh, dear no, Dora. At least, we caught something, but it isn’t a fever, and we didn’t have to go out for it. Oh, dear, my head!”

“Well, I must just go and see if madame knows what will cure you.”

“Oh, Dora, dear! pray don’t! She would be so vexed. Look here. I’ll tell you all about it, if you’ll promise not to let mother know what is the matter with me.”

“But suppose you should get worse. Madame would blame me then, and serious mischief might result from delay. I really think we must call a doctor in.”

“Oh, Dora, you are so silly! Why can’t you understand? I see I shall have to tell you everything. But do give me a drink of lemonade first. I shan’t get worse, that is certain. They never do; Olaf says so.”

“Let Trischl fetch you a cup of coffee.”

“Bah! Do you want to make me sick? I want lemonade, and you might—yes, I wish you would get me some vodki to put in it.”

“Vodki! Is the child crazy?”

“No, I’m not crazy. But I think you must be, or else you would understand that it’s just the Katzenjammer that’s the matter with me.”

“Katzenjammer! What a queer complaint. I hope it isn’t catching.”

But at this point Feo suddenly became convulsed with laughter, provoked thereto, I think, by the comical aspect of Trischl, who had all this time remained in the room, and who had thrown her hands up in horror at the name of the mysterious disease. The sight of Feo’s mirth began to make me feel angry, for it struck me that she had been hoaxing me a little. But all at once the laughter ceased, and was replaced by sobs, amid which I heard an occasional protest to the effect that she would “never do it again—no, never!”

I now deemed it wisest to keep silent for a while, and presently Feo raised a repentant and shamefaced countenance to mine.

“I’ll tell you all about it,” she said. “But you must promise not to tell mother.”

“If it is nothing very bad.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“Very well, then, I promise.”

“I knew you wouldn’t be nasty with me. And now I’ll explain what the Katzenjammer is. You get it after you have been tipsy.”

“Feo!”

“It’s quite true. You see, last night, after mother and you had gone out, Uncle Feodor and Aunt Anna called with Olaf to take me to the theater, as they had promised to do. But Olaf didn’t want to go to the theater, and asked me to stay at home and play with him. He knew of such a splendid new game, he said. So we got permission to stay here, for I thought Olaf’s new game was something wonderful, he made such a fuss about it when he ran to my room to persuade me to agree to his plan. Then, when we were alone, he said: ‘I have a short story to tell you first. Our old isvostchik, who has been with us so many years, has got dismissed to-day for getting drunk. He has often been drunk, and he was told that if he did it once more he would lose his place. Old Hans, who is a German, knew the penalty of offending again, and he was always troubled with what he called the Katzenjammer after he had been tipsy. But this seemed to make no difference. He got tipsy yesterday, and couldn’t drive the carriage when mother wanted to go out in the afternoon. So he was packed off about his business, in disgrace. Now don’t you think, Feo, that it must be delightful to get drunk? If it were not, do you think a poor man would risk so much for the sake of drinking vodki? I’m sure he wouldn’t, so I’m determined to try what it feels like to be tipsy, and I want you to share the fun. We’ll pretend to be two friends, who haven’t seen each other for a long time, and we’ll keep inviting each other to have a drink with us.’

“‘But suppose it makes us have the Katzenjammer after it?’

“‘Oh, then we have only to take a little drop more vodki, and then we shall be better again.’

“So at last I agreed and Olaf reached a decanter and some glasses out of a sideboard, and we made ourselves tipsy. It was great fun, too, for we grew quite jolly, and we danced, and we sang for ever so long. Then Olaf fell asleep on the floor, and I came to bed. I don’t know whether Olaf wakened up or not when they came to fetch him. And it isn’t half so jolly as I thought it would be. My head aches awfully, and I’m never going to get drunk again.”

Now was it very wrong of me to be so stricken with laughter that I found it necessary to turn away to hide my emotion? I’m afraid a strict moralist would hardly approve of my behavior, and I must have felt some twinges of conscience, or I would not have tried so hard to recover a stern demeanor. Finally, I succeeded, and drew such a picture of future horrors, that would certainly be the consequence of indulgence in a taste for strong drink, that Feo was almost frightened out of her wits and was not likely to transgress again in a hurry. Of course I tabooed the idea of giving her any more of the pernicious stuff which had made her ill. As Trischl appeared to know all about the matter, I purchased her silence by the gift of a silver rouble, which she received with many manifestations of satisfaction. Then I ordered some hot extract of beef to be brought for Feo, advised her to lie still for an hour or two, and went to the morning-room in search of madame.

I found her looking somewhat disturbed. She always had a surprising amount of letters, seeing that she was a private individual. I had once or twice offered to take some of the fatigue of correspondence off her hands. But to this she would never consent. Indeed, I never even saw the addresses of the letters she sent away, as might have been the case had she cared to trust me with the duty of writing them down to her dictation. There was much that was mysterious in her way of receiving and dispatching her postal communications, and she was so good-natured with me on every other point that I knew she must have a good and sufficient reason for keeping me aloof in this respect. On this particular morning one of her letters had brought her tidings which necessitated a sudden change of plans on her part. As had been the case when in London, she left home for a few days, scarcely allowing herself time to have a small portmanteau packed, and giving us not the slightest idea of where she was going or how long she would be away. I was told that she depended upon me to take her place in the household as far as possible, but specific directions she had not time to give me.

That afternoon, I was writing a letter to Mrs. Garth, when Feo came into my room.

“I wish you would take me for a drive, Dora,” she said. “My headache has nearly gone, and I believe fresh air would cure it altogether.”

So I put my half-finished letter on one side, ordered the carriage, and prepared myself to go out with Feo. We both enjoyed the drive, and as I was still fresh to many of the sights of St. Petersburg, there was plenty of subject matter for conversation.

On arriving home again, I repaired at once to my own room, as I was anxious to finish the letter which I had begun to write to Mrs. Garth. I took the key of my room door out of my pocket. As I did not want the prying eyes of any of the servants to glance over my correspondence, I had taken the precaution of locking my door instead of putting my papers into my desk again.

I was somewhat surprised to find that the door was not locked, after all, and thought for a moment that I might have been mistaken as to having turned the key. But no. Reflection convinced me that there had been no mistake. I distinctly remembered that, after taking the key out of the lock, I had tried the door-handle. It would not yield to my touch. Therefore, the door had been locked. It was not locked when I returned. It was evident, then, that it had been tampered with during my absence. But who could have taken such an unwarrantable liberty? The question puzzled me, until I recalled to mind a figure I had seen on the stairs as I came up. It was the figure of a man whom I had not seen before, but who was walking leisurely downstairs, as if he felt assured of a safe and familiar footing in the house.

Who, or what could he be?

A servant in the house?

I thought not.

What then, a spy?

At the mere thought of being subject to the government espionage of which I had heard so much my limbs trembled under me and I fairly gasped for breath. I thought of May Morris and her gruesome predictions, and the wildest consternation seized me as I wondered if I had written anything that could compromise me. Had my letter to Mrs. Garth been overhauled? I must ascertain, if possible. I examined my blotting case and papers. They did not look as if they had been disturbed. I was putting them down again, half-reassured, when I perceived the faint impress of what must have been a dirty thumb on the edge of the sheet of note-paper on which I had been writing. I disclaimed the idea of having soiled the paper myself; but resolved to apply a test, in order to be quite sure.

Taking another sheet of paper, and wetting my right thumb with ink, I lightly grasped the paper between my thumb and forefinger, leaving upon it a slight mark. Then, taking a magnifying-glass from the table, I observed the two marks with its aid. The veinings on them were totally different. I had not soiled the half-written letter. A spy had been in my room. Could it be that trouble was in store for me, and that I had already fallen under the ban of suspicion?

Madame was away a week. When she returned, I was struck by the anxious expression of her face and still more by the evident effort with which she strove to be her old bright self.

“Are you not well?” I asked her, feeling considerable solicitude on her behalf.

“Quite well, Dora. Only a little tired after traveling. Tell me, has anything notable occurred during my absence?”

“There have been several callers.”

“Were the Prince and Princess Michaelow here?”

“Yes. They came on Thursday, and took Feo and myself for a drive. We spent a very pleasant afternoon. Feo is spending the day with them again.”

“And Count Karenieff. Has he been here?”

“No.”

“Ah! I thought so! I must be on my guard against him. Is that all you have to tell me?”

“There is something else. But I am not sure that it is worth mentioning, or that the circumstances warrant the uneasiness they have caused me.”

“For Heaven’s sake! tell me all there is to tell. You little dream all there may be at stake.”

“I am convinced that there is a spy in the house. Hush—what was that?”

As I uttered the last words, I sprang to my feet, and ran toward a large portière, which seemed to me to have moved while I was speaking. The door behind the portière was open, and I was just in time to see the figure of a man disappear round an angle of the great corridor into which all the rooms on this floor opened. When I turned and faced madame again, after carefully shutting the door, I saw that she was deadly pale, and that she was literally shaking with nervous apprehension. I hastily gave her a glass of wine, which she just as hastily drank, and then sat looking at me with a mute question in her startled eyes.

“A man has just run away from this door. He has been listening,” I whispered, feeling as if the raising of my voice might bring ruin on the unnerved woman of whom I had already grown fond. Then I rapidly related how I had been driven to the conclusion that the house was under espionage.

“Was there anything in the letter that could be construed as matter of a mischievous tendency?” madame asked anxiously.

“Nothing whatever,” was my confident reply. “I had merely said that my life in St. Petersburg was being made very pleasant, and that I had met a great number of very nice people. After I discovered that my correspondence had been overlooked, I destroyed the letter and resolved not to dispatch another in its place until I had consulted you. On Thursday I wrote out a page from Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost,’ and left it, together with my blotting-book and writing materials, on the escritoire in this room. When I examined the things on my return, I found that the page of poetry and the top layer of blotting-paper out of my blotter had disappeared. Ah—that door is opening!”

The door, which slid on noiseless hinges, was quite concealed by the portière, but a very slight motion imparted to the latter by the incoming draught had not escaped my watchful attention, and the spy, whoever he was, was baffled again for a time, for madame sprang up, and drew the large curtains to one side, so that it was impossible for the door to be moved again without our being aware of it. To make assurance doubly sure, we slid the bolts that were on the inside. Then we explored the room which opened out of the large morning-room in which we had been sitting. We soon satisfied ourselves that nobody was there, and then, after locking the doors of that room also, to prevent unwarranted intrusion, we sat down to discuss the matter more fully.

“Dora,” said madame, “just reach me my desk, will you?”

Willingly I obeyed, and then the desk was carefully overhauled by its owner, who became still more agitated when she failed to discover certain papers of which she was in search.

“I am lost!” she said despairingly. “I have been mad to keep those letters. And yet, how could I destroy them, when they were as life itself to me! My God! have I been too late, after all? Is he already in the hands of those cursed, bloodthirsty devils? Holy Mother of God! save me from going mad!”

My own bewilderment and alarm were momentarily increasing, but I used my best endeavors to soothe the distracted woman at my side.

“For pity’s sake!” I implored, “be calm. To lose your self-control may help to bring about the very disaster you fear. And think of Feo. She will still claim your attention, whatever may be the demands upon your fortitude.”

“My darling Feo! God help her, if anything befalls me, for those ravening wolves, my enemies, will have scant mercy upon the child of a suspect. Dora, can I trust you? Dare I put my secrets in your keeping?”

“God helping me, I will do all I can for you.”

“I believe you. Now listen.”

Madame Kominski spoke in a low voice, but with a painful concentration of purpose and a nervous clasping and unclasping of her hands which could only be the result of extreme agitation and dread.

“Listen,” she said once more. “I belong to a family which has given many martyrs to the cause of freedom, and from my earliest youth I was taught to hate that merciless Juggernaut, the Russian autocracy, with all its vile ramifications of pillage and murder. Pah! Curse it! What does government do for us? It revels in luxury and splendors drained from the life-blood of millions of groaning victims. It grinds the people into nothingness as remorselessly as the millstones crush the wheat with which they are fed. But the day will come when even that mighty thing of evil will be numbered among the curses of the past, and when wealth and happiness are no longer all absorbed by the thin crust of society, while all beneath it is one mass of rotten, seething corruption and misery. They talk of hell! What hell could display sufferings equal to those which have been endured by my people? What hell could be big enough to hold all the accursed wretches who have for ages helped to trample out the lives and souls of a vast nation?”

“Madame! madame!” I whispered, in renewed alarm. “Think how dreadful it will be if you are overheard!”

“Why, yes,” she said, sinking her voice again. “I believe I must be mad! And is it not enough to drive one mad, to see the downfall of all one’s hopes; the failure of all one’s plans; the utter hopelessness of trying to rescue even one unit among all these millions from the remorseless fate which an iron autocracy metes out for it? Where are now all my struggles? Lost! Wasted! Gone! Crashed by the foul harpies who bloat themselves on the miseries of others!

“But I forget that you do not yet know my history. Listen. I will tell it to you.”