which was always her chief charm. When her sergeant began to weary of
her, she found a humble place as laundry-maid in the household of
Menshikoff, the Tsar's favourite, whose shirts, we are told, it was her
privilege to wash; and who, it seems, was by no means insensible to the
buxom charms of this maid of the laundry. At any rate we find
Menshikoff, when he was spending the Easter of 1706 at Witebsk, writing
to his sister to send her to him.

But a greater than Menshikoff was soon to appear on the scene--none
other than the Emperor Peter himself. One day the Tsar, calling on his
favourite, was astonished to see the cleanliness of his surroundings and
his person. "How do you contrive," he asked, "to have your house so well
kept, and to wear such fresh and dainty linen?" Menshikoff's answer was
"to open a door, through which the sovereign perceived a handsome girl,
aproned, and sponge in hand, bustling from chair to chair, and going
from window to window, scrubbing the window-panes"--a vision of industry
which made such a powerful appeal to His Majesty that he begged an
introduction on the spot to the lady of the sponge.

The most daring writer of fiction could scarcely devise a more romantic
meeting than this between the autocrat of Russia and the red-armed,
bustling cleaner of the window-panes, and he would certainly never have
ventured to build on it the romance of which it was the prelude. What it
was in the young peasant-woman that attracted the Emperor it is
impossible to say. Of beauty she seems to have had none--save perhaps
such as lies in youth and rude health.

We look at her portraits in vain to discover a trace of any charm that
might appeal to man. Her pictures in the Romanof Gallery at St
Petersburg show a singularly plain woman with a large, round