The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1886-01-31
THE LIFE THAT WAS GIVEN FOR NINE,
A STORY BY COUNT CHAPoLsKY.

Count Chapolsky, will You tell me why 1t is
that you, 30 young, do not marryP
Madame" replied shat question would in
volve an answer too long for the few moments
your gracious goodness can allow me this even
ing. but will write it for you to read 1t will
be easier for me than to speak of somewhat that
pierces my soul"
1t all happened some years since
The Princess Lirmontoff-the widow of a man
old enough to be her father, to whom she had
been welded in her sixteenth year-was twenty
four.
/ was twenty five and we were betrothed; in
three months we were to be married.
The Princess was of noble blood, and although
brilliant, vivacious, full of wonderful talent and
keenly alive to all the new thoughts, new move
ments of the day. her sympathies were strictly
orthodox and untineed by the suspicion even of
socialistic or revolutionary tendencies.
Not so, l.
My student-days were not far behind me when
had sung with abandon the well song,
mo God, no Tzar!r And at best this senti
ment had somewhat modified. was most posi-
lively identified with revolutionary doctrines.
In point of fact on the very night on which
my little history opens I was hurrying from a
meeting in an obscure street. where I had been
Entrusted with certain papers. with which was
in the course of two days to leave for city in
Germany.
The little packet, freighted with the hopes and
noble aspirations of handful of men who loved
their fellow-men only too well. and their country
with desperation that was sworn to pierce
the cloud of political and autoeratic tyranny
that overwhelmed it-even though it should need
bullets to part the vapor-the little packet re-
posed in the inner pocket of my vest-as. rush
ing along on foot, for / saw cab within hail. I
made good speed for the house of the Princess
Lrmontof.
1t was Tuesday night, and a little fete await
ed my coming.
The Princess was one Of those women one
meets now and again-the favorites of the gods.
Endowed with beauty of fascinating type;
youth. health and strength; appreciation and
generosity intellect and reticence, also genius;
FOR Valeria (her baptismal nams) was a writer
of no mean order; a little artist very diminu-
tive" she called herself; a musician; but above
all, asculptor. The moist clay yielded to her
small fingers as to the ten fairy wands of a
lnagacian. and it was to invite few choice
friends to first view of her latest work-stil
in the clay-that the fete had been made
reached the hotel; rushed in; was soon be-
side her.
"Ah,' she said gaily. 'it is for this truant that
my curtain waits What, she adds in lowered
tone, has kept you until so latel"
do you not remember our meeting, Vaeria2"
] cry, with repressed excitement, as touch the
precious packet II have the dispatches here,
and in two days start for Vienna"
"What!' she cries; $50 soon9 And, too, you
appear happy-happy at quitting me-"
mo" exclaim; would that could persuade
you to go with me- But shall / not be the worth
Ter of you if dare and do aught for the good of
my countrymen Yaluska, my darlingP ven
ture to touch the hanging sleeve of her white
robe, to finger impetuous.y the fine and silvery
fur that borders it. IBID me to stay and will
stay, and the fire yonder burns the packet
mo, no. I would not say that to thee for
worlds"
Our further talk togetheris interrupted by the
advent of some even tardier guests than l, and
presently the moment arrives for the veil of
damp cloth to be drawn aside from the work that
we have been asked to pass our opinions on.
With deft hand the Princess removes the
barrier, and her fame stands revealed to our
gaze.
It is life sized figure. buoyant and free in
pose, the trumpet in the strong, outstretched
right hand, the laurels encircling the beautiful
brow-but there is sadness in it for all-the
same species of melancholy that is painted on
the face of the artist as she stands beside her
work. her large, fine eyes fixed upon my face.
Fame has its need of sorrow, then, Prin-
cessT says young Marenski, the poet, as he
glances from one to the other
"What has not its alter ego of expiation!" an
swered she with a quaint smile. But come,
mes amis, some tea will give you voice for your
reviews of my lady Fame. Petrol, tea, if you
wills
Presently Petrol, who has disappeared at his
MISTRESS word of command. returns to the
salon, his rudy countenance blanched with
terror, his knees trembling, his lips seemingly
pagalyzed
.sWell, my good Petrol well!" queries the
Princess
"Hghness, oh! Highness"
swell. well, / interpose impatiently, 'speak
man, what isit2'
"Highness," whispers Petrol, falling upon his
knees and crossing himself with fervor, 1.-THE po-
Z lice are in the courtyard they demand entrance;
they follow me even now"
A percsptible shudder attacks the assembled
guests, who have by this time crowded about
their hostess and the covering servant.
"Oh, the police! and is that all, my good re-
trofl To your feet and prepare to receive these
gentry in civil fashion, Princess Llrmontoff
lauehsa high and silvery note. She turns to the
piano and strikes few bars of popular French
opera then in vogue, and in two minutes the in
lection of her naive and wonderful diplomacy
has caught
Marenski, humming the air, takes few waltz
ing steps and others follow his example; now
IN tina satnu Ia =