The Adventures of an Ugly Girl

by Mrs. George Corbett

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.”