THE RACES ON THE NEVA
(French of Iola Dorian: Nita Fitch: New York Saturday Review.)
It is the morning of the Epiphany.
The intense cold of the night has moderated, but the barometer still marks fifteen degrees below zero. From the tall steeples of innumerable churches the bells of St. Petersburg ring in the sacred feast. In an exquisitely appointed room of a palace, where tender lights filter through the golden shadows of silken hangings, sits a woman. Her attitude is one of repose, deep, unruffled. From the crown of her little flame colored head, to the tip of her dainty shoe, she is a perfect bit of dame Nature’s art. If she were standing we should call her tall, but she sits crouching in her chair with all the abandon of a dozing tigress. She gives a little yawn.
“Ah! late as usual,” she says aloud.
As she speaks the door opens and a servant enters.
“Captain Repine,” he announces.
He follows quickly on the man’s heels, short, thickset, with a dull Cossack face and kindly smile, wearing the uniform of an officer of the Imperial body-guard.
“Pardon, my dear Elisaveta. Have I made you wait?”
She gives her shapely shoulders a slight shrug, but watches him with contemplative eyes as he rattles on.