Chapter V: My Interview with the Princess

After having exchanged a few phrases--we spoke French, but I noticed that the Princess let fall many Italian exclamations--we both fell into a most awkward silence.

“You are a Russian officer--a sailor?” asked the Princess.

“Just so--Your--Serene Highness,” I answered, hesitating a little, not knowing how to address her.

“I know that you have highly distinguished yourself. Your name made a noise in the world after Chesma,” she continued; “and to crown all, you have suffered a long imprisonment.”

I was greatly agitated, and remained silent; she also paused. At last she began again, and even though so many years have elapsed, I seem to hear that low, charming contralto voice of hers,--

“Listen,”--said she. “I am a Russian princess, the daughter of your once beloved empress. It is true, is it not, that my mother, the daughter of Peter the Great, was much loved? I, both by blood and by her testament, am her only heiress.”

“Yes. But you know,” I at last ventured to say, “that there now reigns the no less beloved Empress Ekaterina the Great.”

“I know, I know,” interrupted the Princess, “how all powerful and idolized by her people the present empress is; and it is not for me--poor, weak, and abandoned by all, torn from the Imperial house, and from the land of my birth--to try to dispute the throne with her. I am the most devoted of her slaves.”

“Then what are you seeking? what are you expecting?” I asked with astonishment.

“Protection, and that my rights may be respected.”

“Excuse me,” I returned; “but you must first prove your birth and your rights.”

“I have the proofs here,” the Princess replied; and, hastily rising, she opened the drawer of a Buhl side-table, with silver incrustations. “Here is the testament of my grandfather, Peter I., and this one is my mother’s, Elizabeth’s.”

The Princess tendered me a French version of the papers mentioned. I looked them over hastily.

“But these are only copies,” said I; “mere translations.”

“Oh, yes; but make your mind easy: the originals are in safe hands.… How would it be possible to carry such important documents about with me; the risk would be too great,” answered the Princess, turning her head a little from me. Then she moved to the other side of the room, where, in heavy gilt frames, hung two oil paintings: one a remarkably good copy of the portrait of the late Empress Elizabeth Petrowna, with a small crown upon her head; the other that of the Princess now standing before me.

“Do you see the likeness?” she said, looking at me.

“Well, yes, there is a likeness. I noticed it as soon as I came in,” I answered. “Allow me to ask how long ago that portrait was taken?”

“This very year, at Venice.… The celebrated Piacetti painted my intended bridegroom’s portrait, the Prince Radzivill’s, and begged to be allowed to paint mine at the same time.”

“Mysterious coincidence!” I exclaimed, with uncontrollable agitation; “we see things past all imagining. The dead rise out of their graves. There beyond the Volga the Emperor Peter III., buried in the face of all the nation;[12] here, unexpected, undivined, the daughter of the Empress Elizabeth.”

“Do not, if you please, confound me with Pougachoff,” answered the Princess, slightly reddening; “although he gives himself out as the Emperor, coins his money with the legend _Redivivus et Ultor_ (the risen Avenger), still, as yet, he is only my lord-lieutenant in that part of the country.”

“How so?” I answered, quite astonished. “Then you also confess that he is an impostor?”

“Do not ask who he is,” mysteriously answered the Princess; “afterwards you shall learn all; the time has not yet come. He has already conquered many towns--Kasan, Orenburg, Saratov--and all the shores of the Volga. I know nothing of his past. Let God be his judge; but I--I am really and truly the daughter of the Empress Elizabeth, and cousin to the Emperor Peter III.”

“But who was your father?” I ventured to ask.

“Is it possible that you do not guess?” she answered, slightly frowning. “Alexis Razoumovski, who was married secretly to my mother. My childhood I passed travelling from one place to another; but it is quite indistinct even to me. I remember a retired little village in the South of Russia, from which I was carried off. They would, if they could, have effaced from my mind every remembrance of the past; and to that end they lavished money upon me and took me about from place to place. Count Shouvaloff, apparently, was acquainted with the circumstances. Not long ago, when travelling in Europe, he expressed the wish to see me, and we met secretly.”

“What! you saw the Count Shouvaloff? Where?” I exclaimed, amazed, as I recollected that not a few people looked upon him as her father.

“I met him at the waters of Spa.… Friends warned me of that celebrated Russian traveller, but I could not refuse him. I found him to be an elderly person, rather stout, and bearing traces of no common beauty. His dress was most costly. He came to me under an assumed name, and when speaking with me sorrowfully fixed his eyes upon me and attentively examined my features. I could see he was very agitated. I learned afterwards that he was my late mother’s favourite, Ivan Shouvaloff. I really cannot tell why he looked so moved. It is not for me, of course,--as you may well understand,--to say. That secret my mother took to her grave, with many others.”

The Princess was silent; I also.

“Whose protection, whose help, do you seek?” I at last ventured to ask, troubled with so many impressions.