Artem Pushkin

Winter 1856. A ball at the Sheremetev mansion. Anna Vyazemskaya, the daughter of impoverished nobles, was bored by a column, fanning herself.
"Anna Sergeyevna, you're definitely the Snow Queen today," whispered cousin Lisa . "Not a single gentleman has ever been honored with your smile."
"Maybe I'm waiting for someone to break the ice," Anna replied.
Soon, the late guest appeared. Anna noticed only a back in a black tailcoat and dark curls, but her heart began to pound. When the stranger turned, the light fell on his face: lively, slightly bulging eyes, dark skin, the distinctive curve of his lips. The young man was like Pushkin's shadow.
"Who is it?" Anna asked her cousin, barely breathing.
Lisa whispered:
"Artem Alexandrovich Pushkin. An illegitimate son, but he was recognized. Natalya Nikolaevna raised him herself, gave him the surname and patronymic of Alexander Sergeyevich, and introduced him to society. Unheard of!"
Anna was no longer listening. She saw the youth's illegitimacy combined with a proud demeanor. Their gazes met, and a bitter smile flickered across his lips. Anna, following an impulse, nodded for him to approach. After a moment's hesitation, he approached.
"Artem Alexandrovich Pushkin. I know the reason for your interest. Don't apologize. I'm used to being the shadow of a great portrait."
"And I'm not going to apologize," she raised her radiant eyes to him . "To be the shadow of a genius is an honor. But an even greater honor is to see your own light in that shadow. Will you allow me?"

He looked at her with keen attention. There was no longer any bitterness in his gaze, only surprise and nascent hope.