Novels, Tales, Journeys

CHAPTER ONE

I am in Paris:

I have begun to live, not just to breathe.

DMITRIEV, Diary of a Traveler2

Among the young men sent abroad by Peter the Great to acquire the knowledge necessary for the reformed state was his godson, the moor Ibrahim. He studied at the military school in Paris,3 graduated as a captain of artillery, distinguished himself in the Spanish war,4 and returned, gravely wounded, to Paris. The emperor, in the midst of his immense labors, never ceased to ask after his favorite and always received flattering reports of his progress and conduct. Peter was very pleased with him and repeatedly called him back to Russia, but Ibrahim was in no hurry. He excused himself on various pretexts—now his wound, now his wish to improve his knowledge, now his lack of money—and Peter condescended to his requests, begged him to look after his health, thanked him for his zeal for learning, and, though extremely thrifty in his own expenses, did not spare his purse for him, supplementing the money with fatherly advice and cautionary admonishments.

From the evidence of all the historical records, nothing could compare with the unbridled frivolity, madness, and luxury of the French at that time. The last years of the reign of Louis XIV, marked by the strict piety of the court, its pomposity and decorum, had left no traces. The duc d’Orléans, who combined many brilliant qualities with all sorts of vices, did not, unfortunately, possess even a shadow of hypocrisy.5 The orgies in the Palais-Royale were no secret for Paris; the example was contagious. Just then Law appeared;6 greed for money combined with the desire for pleasure and distraction; estates disappeared; morality perished; the French laughed and calculated, and the state was falling apart to the playful refrains of satirical vaudevilles.

Meanwhile, society presented a most interesting picture. Education and the need for amusement brought all conditions together. Wealth, courtesy, fame, talent, eccentricity itself—all that gave food for curiosity or promised pleasure was received with equal benevolence. Literature, learning, and philosophy left their quiet studies and appeared in the circle of high society to oblige fashion and guide its opinions. Women reigned, but no longer demanded adoration. Superficial politeness replaced profound respect. The pranks of the duc de Richelieu, the Alcibiades of the new Athens, belong to history and give an idea of the morals of the time.7

Temps fortuné, marqué par la license,

Où la folie, agitant son grelot,

D’un pied léger parcourt toute la France,

Où nul mortel ne daigne être dévot,

Où l’on fait tout excepté pénitence.^*1

Ibrahim’s arrival, his looks, education, and natural intelligence, attracted general attention in Paris. All the ladies wanted to see le Nègre du czar in their salons and tried to be the first to catch him; the regent invited him to his merry evenings more than once; he was present at suppers animated by the youth of Arouet and the old age of Chaulieu, the conversation of Montesquieu and Fontenelle;8 he did not miss a single ball, nor a single fête, nor a single première, and he gave himself to the general whirl with all the ardor of his youth and race. But it was not only the thought of exchanging these diversions, these brilliant amusements, for the stern simplicity of the Petersburg court that horrified Ibrahim. Other stronger bonds tied him to Paris. The young African was in love.

The countess D., no longer in the first bloom of youth, was still famous for her beauty. At the age of seventeen, on leaving the convent,9 she was given in marriage to a man she had had no time to fall in love with and who never bothered about it afterwards. Rumor ascribed lovers to her, but, by the lenient code of society, she enjoyed a good reputation, for it was impossible to reproach her with any ludicrous or scandalous adventure. Her house was the most fashionable. The best Parisian society gathered there. Ibrahim was introduced to her by the young Merville, generally regarded as her latest lover—something he tried to make felt by every means possible.

The countess received Ibrahim courteously, but with no special attention. That flattered him. Ordinarily, the young Negro was looked upon as a wonder, was surrounded, showered with greetings and questions, and this curiosity, though hidden behind an appearance of benevolence, offended his self-esteem. Women’s sweet attention, all but the unique goal of our efforts, not only did not gladden his heart, but even filled it with bitterness and indignation. He felt that for them he was some rare sort of animal, a special, alien creature, accidentally transported to a world that had nothing in common with him. He even envied people whom nobody noticed, regarding their insignificance as happiness.

The thought that nature had not created him for mutual passion delivered him from conceit and the claims of self-esteem, lending a rare charm to his relations with women. His conversation was simple and dignified; it pleased the countess D., who was sick of the eternal jokes and refined allusions of French wit. Ibrahim often visited her. She gradually became used to the young Negro’s appearance, and even began to find something appealing in that curly head, black amidst the powdered wigs in her drawing room. (Ibrahim had been wounded in the head and wore a bandage instead of a wig.) He was twenty-seven years old; he was tall and trim, and more than one beauty gazed at him with a feeling more flattering than mere curiosity, but the prejudiced Ibrahim either noticed nothing, or saw it as mere coquetry. But when his glance met the glance of the countess, his distrust vanished. Her eyes expressed such sweet good-nature, her manner with him was so simple, so unconstrained, that it was impossible to suspect even a shadow of coquettishness or mockery in her.

Love never entered his head—but it had already become necessary for him to see the countess every day. He sought to meet her everywhere, and meeting with her seemed to him each time like an unexpected favor from heaven. The countess guessed his feelings before he did. Say what you like, but love with no hopes or demands touches a woman’s heart more surely than all the calculations of seduction. When Ibrahim was present, the countess followed all his movements, listened to all he said; without him she became pensive and lapsed into her usual absentmindedness…Merville first noticed this mutual inclination and congratulated Ibrahim. Nothing so inflames love as an encouraging observation from an outsider. Love is blind and, not trusting itself, hastily seizes upon any support. Merville’s words awakened Ibrahim. The possibility of possessing the beloved woman had so far not presented itself to his imagination; hope suddenly lit up his soul; he fell madly in love. In vain did the countess, frightened by the frenzy of his passion, try to oppose to it the admonitions of friendship and the counsels of good sense: she herself was weakening. Imprudent rewards quickly followed one after another. And finally, carried away by the power of the passion she had inspired, fainting under its influence, she gave herself to the enraptured Ibrahim…

Nothing is hidden from the eyes of observant society. The countess’s new liaison soon became known to all. Some ladies were astonished by her choice; many thought it quite natural. Some laughed, others saw it as an unforgivable imprudence. In the first intoxication of passion, Ibrahim and the countess noticed nothing, but soon men’s ambiguous jokes and women’s caustic remarks began to reach them. Ibrahim’s dignified and cool behavior had hitherto shielded him from such attacks; he endured them impatiently and did not know how to ward them off. The countess, accustomed to the respect of society, could not see herself cool-headedly as the object of gossip and mockery. She complained tearfully to Ibrahim, then bitterly reproached him, then begged him not to intercede for her, lest the useless clamor ruin her completely.

A new circumstance complicated her situation still more. The consequences of imprudent love manifested themselves. Consolations, advice, suggestions—all were exhausted and all were rejected. The countess faced inevitable ruin and awaited it with despair.

As soon as the countess’s condition became known, gossip sprang up with new force. Sentimental ladies oh-ed and ah-ed in horror; men bet on whether the countess would give birth to a white child or a black one. There was a downpour of epigrams about her husband, who alone in the whole of Paris knew nothing and suspected nothing.

The fatal moment was approaching. The countess was in a terrible state. Ibrahim came to her daily. He saw how her moral and physical strength were gradually dwindling. Her tears, her terror were renewed every moment. Finally she felt the first pangs. Measures were taken at once. A way was found of removing the count. The doctor came. Two days earlier a poor woman had been persuaded to give up her newborn infant into the hands of others; a confidant was sent for him. Ibrahim was in the boudoir just next to the bedroom where the unfortunate countess lay. Not daring to breathe, he heard her muffled moans, the maid’s whispers, and the doctor’s orders. She suffered for a long time. Her every moan rent his soul; every spell of silence bathed him in terror…Suddenly he heard the weak cry of an infant and, unable to contain his rapture, rushed into the countess’s room. A black baby lay on the bed at her feet. Ibrahim approached him. His heart was pounding. He blessed his son with a trembling hand. The countess smiled weakly and held out a weak hand to him…but the doctor, fearing emotions too strong for the patient, drew Ibrahim away from her bed. The newborn was put in a covered basket and carried out of the house by a secret stairway. The other infant was brought and its cradle was placed in the new mother’s bedroom. Ibrahim left somewhat reassured. The count was expected. He came late, learned of his spouse’s happy delivery, and was very pleased. Thus the public, awaiting a scandalous outcry, was deceived in its hopes and was forced to console itself with nothing but wicked gossip.

Everything went back to its usual order. But Ibrahim felt that his fate was bound to change and that sooner or later his liaison would become known to Count D. In that case, whatever happened, the countess’s ruin was inevitable. He loved her passionately and was loved in the same way; but the countess was whimsical and light-minded. She was not in love for the first time. Loathing, hatred could replace the tenderest feelings in her heart. Ibrahim already foresaw the moment of her cooling; hitherto he had not known jealousy, but he anticipated it with horror; he imagined that the suffering of separation must be less tormenting, and he already intended to break the unfortunate liaison, leave Paris, and go to Russia, where both Peter and an obscure sense of his own duty had long been calling him.

CHAPTER TWO

No longer strongly moved by beauty,

No longer ravished so by joy,

No longer of such flippant wit,

No longer is all so well with me…

Desire for honors now torments me,

I hear glory loudly calling!

DERZHAVIN10

Days, months went by, but the amorous Ibrahim could not bring himself to leave the woman he had seduced. The countess grew more attached to him by the hour. Their son was being brought up in a distant province. Society’s gossip was dying down, and the lovers began to enjoy greater tranquillity, silently remembering the past storm and trying not to think of the future.

One day Ibrahim attended the levee of the duc d’Orléans. The duke, in passing, stopped and handed him a letter, telling him to read it at his leisure. It was a letter from Peter the Great. The sovereign, guessing the true cause of his absence, wrote to the duke that he had no intention of forcing Ibrahim in any way, that he left it to his goodwill to return to Russia or not, but that in any case he would never abandon his former charge. This letter touched Ibrahim to the bottom of his heart. From that moment on, his fate was decided. The next day he announced to the regent his intention to set out for Russia at once.

“Think what you’re doing,” the duke said to him. “Russia is not your fatherland. I don’t think you’ll be seeing your torrid birthplace ever again; but your prolonged stay in France has made you equally alien to the climate and way of life of half-savage Russia. You were not born Peter’s subject. Trust me: avail yourself of his generous permission. Remain in France, for which you’ve already shed your blood, and rest assured that here your merits and gifts will not go without their due reward.” Ibrahim sincerely thanked the duke, but remained firm in his intention. “I’m sorry,” the regent said to him, “but, anyhow, you’re right.” He promised him retirement and wrote about it all to the Russian tsar.

Ibrahim quickly made ready for the journey. On the eve of his departure, he spent the evening, as usual, at the countess D’s. She knew nothing; Ibrahim did not have the courage to be open with her. The countess was calm and cheerful. She called him over several times and joked about his pensiveness. After supper, everybody left. The countess, her husband, and Ibrahim remained in the drawing room. The unfortunate man would have given anything in the world to be left alone with her, but Count D. seemed so calmly settled by the fireplace that there was no hope of getting him to leave the room. The three were silent. “Bonne nuit,”^*2 the countess finally said. Ibrahim’s heart was wrung and suddenly felt all the horror of separation. He stood motionless. “Bonne nuit, messieurs,” the countess repeated. He still did not move…Finally his vision darkened, his head began to spin, and he was barely able to leave the room. On coming home, almost in oblivion, he wrote the following letter:

I am going away, dear Léonore, I am leaving you forever. I write to you, because I do not have the strength to explain it to you otherwise.

My happiness could not continue. I enjoyed it in defiance of fate and nature. You were bound to fall out of love with me; the enchantment was bound to disappear. That thought always pursued me, even in moments when I seemed to forget everything, when at your feet I reveled in your passionate self-abandon, your infinite tenderness…Light-minded society mercilessly persecutes in reality what it allows in theory: sooner or later its cold mockery would have vanquished you, would have subdued your ardent soul, and you would finally have felt ashamed of your passion…What would have become of me then? No! Better to die, better to leave you before that terrible moment…

Your peace is dearest of all for me: you could not enjoy it while the eyes of society were turned on us. Remember all that you endured, all the injured self-esteem, all the torments of fear; remember the terrible birth of our son. Think: Should I subject you longer to the same anxieties and dangers? Why strive to unite the destiny of so delicate, so beautiful a being with the wretched destiny of a Negro, a pitiful creature, barely worthy to be called human?

Farewell, Léonore, farewell, my dear, my only friend. In abandoning you I am abandoning the first and last joys of my life. I have neither fatherland nor family. I am going to sad Russia, where total solitude will be my comfort. Strict labors, to which I shall give myself henceforth, will, if not stifle, at least deflect the tormenting memories of days of rapture and bliss…Farewell, Léonore—I tear myself from this letter as if from your embrace; farewell, be happy—and think sometimes of the poor Negro, your faithful Ibrahim.

That same night he set out for Russia.

The journey did not seem as terrible to him as he had expected. His imagination triumphed over reality. The further he went from Paris, the more vividly, the more closely he pictured to himself the things he had forsaken forever.

Unawares, he found himself on the Russian border. Autumn was already setting in, but the coaches, despite the bad roads, drove like the wind, and on the seventeenth day of his journey, in the morning, he arrived in Krasnoe Selo, which the high road of that time passed through.

It was another twenty miles to Petersburg. While the horses were being harnessed, Ibrahim went into the post-house. In the corner, a tall man in a green kaftan, with a clay pipe in his mouth, his elbows resting on the table, was reading the Hamburg newspapers. Hearing someone come in, he raised his head. “Hah, Ibrahim?” he cried, getting up from his bench. “Greetings, godson!” Ibrahim, recognizing Peter, joyfully rushed to him, but stopped out of respect. The sovereign came to him, embraced him, and kissed him on the head. “I was forewarned of your arrival,” said Peter, “and came to meet you. I’ve been waiting for you here since yesterday.” Ibrahim found no words to express his gratitude. “Order your carriage to follow us,” the sovereign went on, “and you get into mine and come with me.” The sovereign’s carriage was brought; he got in with Ibrahim, and they galloped off. An hour and a half later they arrived in Petersburg. Ibrahim gazed with curiosity at the newborn capital that was rising from the swamp at a wave of the autocratic hand. Bare dams, canals without embankments, wooden bridges showed everywhere the recent victory of human will over the resisting elements. The houses seemed hastily built. In the whole town there was nothing magnificent except the Neva, not yet adorned by its granite frame, but already covered with warships and merchant vessels. The sovereign’s carriage stopped at the palace known as the Tsaritsyn Garden. At the porch Peter was met by a woman of about thirty-five, beautiful, dressed after the latest Parisian fashion. Peter kissed her on the lips and, taking Ibrahim by the hand, said: “Do you recognize my godson, Katenka? Be kind and gracious to him as before.” Catherine turned her dark, piercing eyes to him and benevolently offered him her hand. Two young beauties, tall, slender, fresh as roses, stood behind her and respectfully approached Peter. “Liza,” he said to one of them, “do you remember the little Moor who stole my apples for you in Oranienbaum? Here he is: I introduce him to you.” The grand duchess laughed and blushed. They went to the dining room. The table had been laid in expectation of the sovereign. Peter and all his family sat down to dine, inviting Ibrahim to join them. During dinner the sovereign talked with him about various subjects, questioned him about the Spanish war, about the internal affairs of France, about the regent, whom he liked, though he disapproved of him in many ways. Ibrahim was distinguished by his precise and observant mind. Peter was very pleased with his replies; he recalled some features of Ibrahim’s childhood and recounted them with such mirth and good nature that no one could have suspected in the gentle and hospitable host the hero of Poltava, the powerful and dread reformer of Russia.11

After dinner the sovereign, following the Russian custom, went to rest. Ibrahim remained with the empress and the grand duchesses. He tried to satisfy their curiosity, described the Parisian way of life, the local fêtes and capricious fashions. Meanwhile some persons close to the sovereign gathered in the palace. Ibrahim recognized the magnificent Prince Menshikov, who, seeing the Moor talking to Catherine, proudly cast a sidelong glance at him; Prince Yakov Dolgoruky, Peter’s tough councillor; the learned Bruce, known among the people as the Russian Faust; the young Raguzinsky, his former schoolmate; and others who came to the sovereign with reports or to receive orders.12

After some two hours the sovereign appeared. “Let’s see if you still remember your old duties,” he said to Ibrahim. “Take the slate and follow me.” Peter shut himself in the wood-turning shop and busied himself with state affairs. He worked in turn with Bruce, with Prince Dolgoruky, with the police chief Devier, and dictated several ukases and resolutions to Ibrahim. Ibrahim could not help marveling at his quick and firm mind, the strength and flexibility of his attention, and the diversity of his activities. Having finished work, Peter took a notebook from his pocket to make sure he had done all he had intended to do that day. Then, as he was leaving the wood-turning shop, he said to Ibrahim: “It’s already late; you must be tired: spend the night here, as you used to in the old days. I’ll wake you up tomorrow.”

Left alone, Ibrahim could barely come to his senses. He was in Petersburg, he had seen again the great man close to whom, not yet knowing his worth, he had spent his childhood. Almost with remorse, he confessed in his heart that the countess D., for the first time since their separation, had not been his only thought all day. He saw that the new mode of life awaiting him, activity and constant occupation, could revive his soul, worn out by passion, idleness, and secret dejection. The thought of being a great man’s associate, and joining with him to influence the fate of a great nation, for the first time aroused in him a feeling of noble ambition. In that state of mind he lay down on the camp bed prepared for him, and then the habitual dream transported him to far-off Paris, into the arms of his dear countess.

CHAPTER THREE

Like clouds in the sky,

So thoughts change their light shape in us,

What we love today, tomorrow we despise.

W. KÜCHELBECKER13

The next day, as he had promised, Peter woke Ibrahim and congratulated him on becoming lieutenant commander of the artillery company of the Preobrazhensky regiment, of which he himself was the commander. The courtiers surrounded Ibrahim, each trying in his own way to make much of the new favorite. The arrogant Prince Menshikov gave him a friendly handshake. Sheremetev inquired about his Parisian acquaintances, and Golovin invited him to dinner.14 Others followed this last example, so that Ibrahim received invitations for at least a whole month.

Ibrahim spent his days monotonously but actively—as a result, he knew no boredom. Day by day he grew more attached to the sovereign and better comprehended his lofty soul. To follow a great man’s thoughts is a most interesting study. Ibrahim saw Peter in the Senate, disputing with Buturlin15 and Dolgoruky, analyzing important questions of legislation, in the Admiralty College affirming Russia’s naval greatness; saw him in hours of leisure going over the translations of foreign publicists with Feofan, Gavriil Buzhinsky, and Kopievich,16 or visiting a merchant’s mill, an artisan’s workshop, a scholar’s study. Russia appeared to Ibrahim as a vast factory where only machines moved, where each worker, subject to an established order, was taken up with his task. He considered it likewise his duty to labor at his own machine, and he tried to regret the amusements of Parisian life as little as possible. More difficult for him was distancing himself from another sweet memory: he often thought of the countess D., imagined her righteous indignation, her tears and sorrow…but sometimes a terrible thought wrung his heart: the distractions of high society, a new liaison, another happy man—he shuddered; jealousy began to seethe in his African blood, and hot tears were ready to flow down his black face.

One morning Ibrahim was sitting in his study, surrounded by business papers, when he suddenly heard a loud greeting in French. He turned quickly, and the young Korsakov, whom he had left in Paris in the whirl of social life, embraced him with joyful exclamations. “I’ve just arrived,” said Korsakov, “and came running straight to you. All our Parisian friends send you their greetings and regret your absence. The countess D. told me to be sure to call you back, and here is a letter from her.” Ibrahim seized it, trembling, and gazed at the familiar handwriting, not daring to believe his eyes. “I’m so glad,” Korsakov went on, “that you haven’t died of boredom yet in this barbaric Petersburg! What do they do here? How do they keep busy? Who is your tailor? Do you at least have an opera?” Ibrahim answered distractedly that right now the sovereign was probably working at the shipyard. Korsakov laughed. “I see you can’t be bothered with me now,” he said. “We’ll talk our fill another time. I’ll go and present myself to the sovereign.” With those words, he turned on his heel and ran out of the room.

Ibrahim, left alone, hurriedly unsealed the letter. The countess complained tenderly, reproaching him for falsity and mistrustfulness. “You say,” she wrote, “that my peace is the dearest thing in the world for you. Ibrahim! If that were true, could you have subjected me to the state into which the unexpected news of your departure threw me? You feared I might hold you back. Rest assured that, despite my love, I would have been able to sacrifice myself for your well-being and for what you consider your duty.” The countess ended the letter with passionate assurances of love and entreated him to write to her at least once in a while, even if there was no longer any hope of their seeing each other again.

Ibrahim reread the letter twenty times, rapturously kissing the priceless lines. He burned with impatience to hear something about the countess, and was about to go to the Admiralty in hopes of finding Korsakov still there, when the door opened and Korsakov himself appeared again. He had already presented himself to the sovereign—and, as was his wont, seemed very pleased with himself. “Entre nous,”^*3 he said to Ibrahim, “the sovereign’s a very strange man. Imagine, I found him in a sort of canvas vest, on the mast of a new ship, which I was forced to clamber up with my dispatches. I stood on a rope ladder and didn’t have room enough to make my bows properly, and was thoroughly embarrassed, which has never happened to me in all my born days. However, the sovereign, having read the papers, looked me up and down and was probably pleasantly impressed by the taste and smartness of my clothes; at least he smiled and invited me to this evening’s assembly. But I’m a perfect stranger in Petersburg. During my six years of absence I’ve completely forgotten the local customs. Please be my mentor, come to fetch me and introduce me.”

Ibrahim agreed and hastened to turn the conversation to a subject more interesting for him. “Well, how is the countess D.?”

“The countess? She was, naturally, very upset at first by your departure. Then, naturally, she gradually consoled herself and took a new lover. Do you know whom? The lanky marquis R. Why are you goggling your Moorish eyeballs at me? Or does all this seem strange to you? Don’t you know that prolonged grief is contrary to human nature, especially a woman’s? Give it some good thought, and I’ll go and rest from my journey. Don’t forget to come and fetch me.”

What feelings filled Ibrahim’s soul? Jealousy? Fury? Despair? No, but a deep, wringing dejection. He repeated to himself: “I foresaw it, it was bound to happen.” Then he opened the countess’s letter, read it again, hung his head, and wept bitterly. He wept for a long time. The tears eased his heart. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was time to go. Ibrahim would very gladly have excused himself, but an assembly was an official duty, and the sovereign strictly demanded the presence of his retinue. He got dressed and went to fetch Korsakov.

Korsakov was sitting in his dressing gown reading a French book. “So early?” he said, seeing him. “For pity’s sake,” Ibrahim replied, “it’s half past five; we’ll be late; get dressed quickly and let’s go.” Korsakov sprang up, started ringing with all his might; servants came running; he hurriedly began to dress. The French valet gave him shoes with red heels, light blue velvet trousers, a pink kaftan embroidered with sequins; in the front hall his wig was hastily powdered, it was brought, Korsakov put his close-cropped head into it, called for his sword and gloves, turned around some ten times before the mirror, and announced to Ibrahim that he was ready. Lackeys brought them bearskin coats, and they drove off to the Winter Palace.

Korsakov showered Ibrahim with questions: Who was the first beauty in Petersburg? Who was reputed to be the best dancer? What dance was now in fashion? With great reluctance Ibrahim satisfied his curiosity. Meanwhile they drove up to the palace. Many long sledges, old coaches, and gilded carriages already stood in the field. By the porch thronged coachmen in liveries and moustaches, footmen sparkling with baubles, in plumes and with maces, hussars, pages, clumsy lackeys laden with their masters’ fur coats and muffs: a necessary suite according to the notions of the boyars of that time. At the sight of Ibrahim, a general murmur arose among them: “The Moor, the Moor, the tsar’s Moor!” He quickly led Korsakov through this motley servantry. A court lackey threw the doors open for them, and they entered the hall. Korsakov was dumbfounded…In the big room lit by tallow candles, which shone dimly through the clouds of tobacco smoke, dignitaries with blue ribbons over their shoulders,17 ambassadors, foreign merchants, officers of the guards in green uniforms, shipwrights in jackets and striped trousers, moved back and forth in a crowd to the incessant sounds of a brass band. Ladies sat along the walls. The young ones glittered with all the magnificence of fashion. Gold and silver glittered on their gowns; their narrow waists rose like stems from puffy farthingales; diamonds glittered on their ears, in their long curls, and around their necks. They turned gaily right and left, waiting for the cavaliers and the start of the dancing. Elderly ladies tried cleverly to combine the new way of dressing with the persecuted old fashion: their bonnets tended towards the little sable hat of the tsaritsa Natalia Kirillovna, and their robes rondes and mantillas somehow resembled sarafans and dushegreikas.18 It seemed there was more astonishment than enjoyment in their being present at these newfangled festivities, and they glanced sidelong with vexation at the wives and daughters of the Dutch sea captains, in dimity skirts and red blouses, who sat knitting stockings, laughing and talking among themselves as if they were at home. Korsakov could not collect his wits.

Noticing the new guests, a servant approached them with beer and glasses on a tray. “Que diable est-ce que tout cela?”^*4 Korsakov asked Ibrahim in a low voice. Ibrahim could not help smiling. The empress and the grand duchesses, radiant in their beauty and finery, strolled among the rows of guests, talking affably with them. The sovereign was in another room. Korsakov, wishing to show himself to him, was barely able to make his way there through the ceaselessly moving crowd. Mostly foreigners were sitting there, solemnly smoking their clay pipes and emptying their clay mugs. On the tables there were bottles of beer and wine, leather tobacco pouches, glasses of punch, and chessboards. At one of these tables Peter was playing draughts with a broad-shouldered English skipper. They zealously saluted each other with volleys of tobacco smoke, and the sovereign was so puzzled by his opponent’s unexpected move that he did not notice Korsakov, despite all his turning around him. Just then a fat gentleman with a fat bouquet on his chest came bustling in, vociferously announced that the dancing had begun—and left at once. Many of the guests followed him, including Korsakov.

An unexpected sight struck him. For the whole length of the ballroom, to the strains of the most lugubrious music, ladies and cavaliers stood in two rows facing each other; the cavaliers bowed low, the ladies curtsied still lower, first straight ahead, then to the right, then to the left, then straight ahead again, then to the right, and so on. Korsakov, looking at this fanciful pastime, rolled his eyes and bit his lips. The curtsies and bows went on for about half an hour; finally they stopped, and the fat gentleman with the bouquet announced that the ceremonial dancing was over and told the musicians to play a minuet. Korsakov was overjoyed and got ready to shine. Among the young ladies there was one he especially liked. She was about sixteen, richly but tastefully dressed, and was sitting next to an elderly man of grave and stern appearance. Korsakov flew over to her and asked her to do him the honor of dancing with him. The young beauty looked at him in perplexity and seemed not to know what to say. The man beside her frowned still more. Korsakov waited for her decision, but the gentleman with the bouquet came up to him, led him to the middle of the room, and said gravely: “My dear sir, you are at fault: first, you approached this young person without making the requisite three bows to her; and second, you took it upon yourself to choose her, while in minuets that right belongs to the lady, not to the cavalier. On account of this, you are to be roundly punished, you must drain the cup of the great eagle.” Korsakov grew more and more astonished. In a trice the guests encircled him, loudly demanding the immediate fulfillment of the law. Peter, hearing laughter and shouting, came from the other room, having a great fancy for being personally present at such punishments. The crowd parted before him and he entered the circle where the condemned man stood, with the marshal of the assembly before him holding an enormous cup filled with malmsey. He was vainly trying to persuade the offender to obey the law voluntarily.

“Aha,” said Peter, seeing Korsakov, “so you’ve been caught, brother! Now, monsieur, kindly drink up and don’t make faces!” There was nothing to be done. The poor dandy emptied the whole cup without stopping for a breath and handed it back to the marshal. “Listen, Korsakov,” Peter said to him, “you’ve got velvet breeches on such as I don’t wear myself, and I’m much richer than you are. That’s extravagance. Take care that I don’t quarrel with you.” Having given ear to this reprimand, Korsakov attempted to step out of the circle, but staggered and nearly fell, to the indescribable delight of the sovereign and the whole merry company. This episode not only did not disrupt the unity and entertainment of the main action, but enlivened it still more. The cavaliers began to bow and scrape, and the ladies to curtsy and tap their heels with great eagerness and no longer keeping the cadence. Korsakov could not share in the general merriment. The lady he had chosen went up to Ibrahim, on orders from her father, Gavrila Afanasyevich, and, lowering her blue eyes, gave him her hand. Ibrahim danced the minuet with her and returned her to her former place; then, having located Korsakov, he led him out of the hall, sat him in his carriage, and took him home. On the way, Korsakov first murmured indistinctly: “Damned assembly!…Damned cup of the great eagle!…” but soon fell fast asleep, did not feel how he came home, how he was undressed and put to bed. He woke up the next day with a headache and a vague recollection of the scraping, the curtsying, the tobacco smoke, the gentleman with the bouquet, and the cup of the great eagle.

CHAPTER FOUR

Not quickly did our forebears eat,

Not quickly did they pass around

The brimming jugs, the silver cups

Of foaming beer and ruby wine.

Ruslan and Ludmila19

I must now acquaint the gracious reader with Gavrila Afanasyevich Rzhevsky. He came of old boyar stock, owned a huge estate, was hospitable, loved falconry; his household staff was numerous. In short, he was a true-born Russian squire, could not bear the German spirit, as he put it, and tried in his everyday life to preserve the customs of the old days that were so dear to him.

His daughter was seventeen years old. She lost her mother while still a child. She was brought up in the old-fashioned way, that is, surrounded by nurses, nannies, girlfriends, and maidservants; she did gold embroidery and could not read or write. Her father, despite his loathing for everything foreign, could not oppose her wish to learn German dances from a captive Swedish officer who lived in their house. This worthy dancing master was fifty years old, his right leg had been shot through at Narva20 and was therefore not quite up to minuets and courantes, but the left brought off the most difficult pas^*5 with astonishing skill and ease. His pupil did credit to his efforts. Natalya Gavrilovna was famous for being the best dancer at the assemblies, which was partly the cause of Korsakov’s offense, for which he came the next day to apologize to Gavrila Afanasyevich; but the adroitness and foppishness of the young dandy did not please the proud boyar, who wittily nicknamed him “the French monkey.”

It was a holiday. Gavrila Afanasyevich was expecting several relations and friends. A long table was being laid in the old-fashioned dining room. The guests were arriving with their wives and daughters, freed at last from their domestic reclusion by the ukases of the sovereign and his own example. Natalya Gavrilovna held out to each guest a silver tray covered with little gold goblets, and each one drank his, regretting that the kiss, which in former times accompanied such occasions, was no longer customary. They went to the table. In the first place, next to the host, sat his father-in-law, Prince Boris Alexeevich Lykov, a seventy-year-old boyar; the other guests, according to the seniority of their families and thus commemorating the happy days of the order of precedence,21 took their seats—the men on one side, the women on the other; at the foot of the table, in their customary places, sat the housekeeper in her old-fashioned coat and headdress; a dwarf, a tiny thirty-year-old woman, prim and wrinkled; and the captive Swede in a worn blue uniform. The table, set with a multitude of dishes, was surrounded by bustling and numerous servants, among whom the butler was distinguished by his stern gaze, fat belly, and majestic immobility. The first minutes of the dinner were given over entirely to the products of our time-honored cuisine; only the clank of plates and busy spoons broke the general silence. Finally, the host, seeing it was time to entertain his guests with pleasant conversation, looked about and asked: “And where is Ekimovna? Call her here.” Several servants rushed in different directions, but just then an old woman, made up with white greasepaint and rouge, adorned with flowers and baubles, in a damask robe ronde, her neck and shoulders bared, came dancing in humming a tune. Her appearance caused general delight.

“Greetings, Ekimovna,” said Prince Lykov. “How are you?”

“Healthy and wealthy, uncle; singing and dancing, and a bit of romancing.”

“Where have you been, fool?” asked the host.

“Dressing myself up, uncle, for the dear guests, for the holiday star, by command of the tsar, by the rules of boyars, to make all the world laugh, save the Germany half.”

At these words there was a loud burst of laughter, and the fool went to take her place behind the host’s chair.

“The fool lies away and, forsooth, she lies her way to the truth,” said Tatyana Afanasyevna, the host’s older sister, whom he sincerely respected. “Today’s fashions really do make all the world laugh. Since even you, my dear sirs, have shaved your beards and put on scanty kaftans, then for women’s rags, of course, there’s nothing to talk about: but it truly is a pity about the sarafan, young girls’ ribbons, and the povoinik.22 Just look at today’s beauties—you’ll laugh and weep: hair sticking up like matted felt, greased, sprinkled with French flour, the waist drawn in so tight it might just snap, the petticoats stretched on hoops: they have to get into a carriage sideways, and bend over going through a door. They can neither stand, nor sit, nor take a breath. Real martyrs, my little doves.”

“Ah, my dear Tatyana Afanasyevna,” said Kirila Petrovich T., former governor-general of Ryazan, where he had acquired three thousand serfs and a young wife for himself, both not without some shadiness. “I say a wife can dress as she pleases, like a scarecrow, or like a Chinese mandarin, so long as she doesn’t order new dresses every month and throw out the old ones unworn. It used to be that a granddaughter got her grandmother’s sarafan as a dowry, but these robes rondes nowadays—just look—today it’s on the lady, tomorrow on a serf girl. What can you do? The ruin of the Russian gentry! A disaster, that’s what!” With those words he sighed and looked at his Marya Ilyinichna, who, it seemed, was not at all pleased either with his praise of the old days, or with his censure of the new customs. The other beauties shared her displeasure but said nothing, because modesty was then considered a necessary quality in a young woman.

“And who is to blame?” said Gavrila Afanasyevich, filling his mug with foaming mead. “Isn’t it we ourselves? Young wenches play the fool, and we indulge them.”

“But what can we do, if it’s not up to us?” Kirila Petrovich objected. “A man would be glad to lock his wife away in a tower, but she’s called to the assembly with a beating of drums; the husband goes for his whip, the wife for her finery. Ah, these assemblies! The Lord’s punishing us for our sins.”

Marya Ilyinichna was on pins and needles; her tongue was itching; finally, unable to help herself, she turned to her husband and with a sour little smile asked him what he found so bad about the assemblies.

“What’s bad about them,” her husband replied heatedly, “is that ever since they were instituted, husbands have been unable to manage their wives. Wives have forgotten the words of the apostle: ‘A wife should reverence her husband.’23 They busy themselves, not with housekeeping, but with new clothes; they don’t think of how to please their husbands, but of how to catch the eye of some whippersnapper of an officer. And is it proper, madam, for a Russian gentlewoman or young lady to be with tobacco-smoking Germans and the girls who work for them? Who has ever heard of dancing and talking with young men until late at night—with relatives it would be another thing, but this is with foreigners, with strangers.”

“I’d say a bit more, but the wolf’s at the door,” Gavrila Afanasyevich said, frowning. “I must confess—assemblies are not to my liking either: you have to watch out lest you run into a drunk man, or they make you drunk just for the fun of it. And also watch out lest some scapegrace get up to mischief with your daughter. Young men these days are so spoiled, it’s beyond anything. The son of the late Evgraf Sergeevich Korsakov, for instance, caused such an uproar with Natasha at the last assembly that I turned red all over. The next day I look, he comes rolling right into our courtyard. Who in God’s name is it, I thought, Prince Alexander Danilovich? Not on your life: it was Ivan Evgrafovich! The man couldn’t stop at the gate and take the trouble of walking up to the porch—oh, no! He came flying in! Bowed and scraped! Chattered his head off!…The fool Ekimovna imitates him killingly. Come, fool, do the foreign monkey for us.”

The fool Ekimovna snatched the lid from a dish, took it under her arm like a hat, and started grimacing, bowing, and scraping in all directions, mumbling “moosieu…mamzelle…assemblée…pardone.” General and prolonged laughter again expressed the guests’ pleasure.

“That’s Korsakov to a T,” said old Prince Lykov, wiping tears of laughter, when calm was gradually restored. “Why not admit it? He’s neither the first nor the last to come back to Holy Russia from foreign parts as a buffoon. What do our children learn there? To bow and scrape, to babble in God knows what tongues, to show no respect for their elders, and to dangle after other men’s wives. Of all young men educated abroad (God forgive me), the tsar’s Moor most resembles a human being.”

“Of course,” observed Gavrila Afanasyevich, “he’s a sober and decent man, not like that featherbrain…Who’s that driving into the yard? Not the foreign monkey again? What are you gawking at, you brutes?” he went on, addressing his servants. “Run and tell him we’re not receiving, and that in future—”

“Are you raving, old graybeard?” the fool Ekimovna interrupted. “Or are you blind? That’s the sovereign’s sledge; the tsar has come.”

Gavrila Afanasyevich hastily got up from the table; everybody rushed to the windows and indeed saw the sovereign, who was going up the front steps leaning on his orderly’s shoulder. A commotion ensued. The host rushed to meet Peter; the servants scattered in all directions like lunatics; the guests were frightened, some even thought of heading for home as quickly as possible. Suddenly Peter’s booming voice was heard in the front hall, everything fell silent, and the tsar entered accompanied by the host, dumbstruck with joy.

“Greetings, ladies and gentlemen!” Peter said with a cheerful look. They all bowed deeply. The tsar’s quick glance sought out the host’s young daughter in the crowd; he called her to him. Natalya Gavrilovna approached quite boldly, but blushing not only to the ears, but down to the shoulders. “You get prettier by the hour,” the sovereign said to her and, as was his custom, kissed her on the head; then, turning to the guests: “Well, so? I’ve disturbed you. You were having dinner. I beg you to sit down again, and you, Gavrila Afanasyevich, give me some anise vodka.”

The host rushed to the majestic butler, snatched the tray out of his hands, filled a little gold goblet himself, and offered it to the sovereign with a bow. Peter, having drunk it, took a bite from a pretzel, and again invited the guests to go on with dinner. They all took their former places, except for the dwarf and the housekeeper, who did not dare to remain at a table honored by the tsar’s presence. Peter sat down beside the host and asked for cabbage soup. His orderly served him a wooden spoon set with ivory, and a knife and fork with green bone handles, for Peter never used any utensils but his own. The dinner, noisily animated a moment before with merriment and garrulity, went on in silence and constraint. The host, out of deference and joy, ate nothing; the guests also became decorous and listened with reverence as the sovereign talked with the captive Swede about the campaign of 1701. The fool Ekimovna, whom the sovereign questioned a few times, answered with a sort of timid coldness, which (I note in passing) by no means proved her innate stupidity.

Finally the dinner came to an end. The sovereign stood up, and all the guests after him. “Gavrila Afanasyevich,” he said to the host, “I must talk with you alone.” And taking him by the arm, he led him to the drawing room and shut the door behind them. The guests remained in the dining room, exchanging whispers about this unexpected visit, and, for fear of being indelicate, soon departed one by one, without thanking the host for his hospitality. His father-in-law, daughter, and sister quietly saw them to the porch and remained in the dining room, waiting for the sovereign to come out.

CHAPTER FIVE

I shall find a wife for thee,

Or a miller I’ll ne’er be.

ABLESIMOV, FROM THE OPERA The Miller24

Half an hour later the door opened and Peter came out. Gravely inclining his head in response to the threefold bow of Prince Lykov, Tatyana Afanasyevna, and Natasha, he walked straight to the front hall. The host held his red fleece-lined coat for him, saw him to the sledge, and on the porch thanked him again for the honor bestowed on him. Peter drove off.

Returning to the dining room, Gavrila Afanasyevich seemed very preoccupied. He angrily ordered the servants to clear the table at once, sent Natasha to her room, and, announcing to his sister and father-in-law that he had to talk to them, led them to his bedroom, where he usually rested after dinner. The old prince lay down on the oak bed; Tatyana Afanasyevna sat in an old-fashioned damask armchair, moving a footstool closer; Gavrila Afanasyevich shut all the doors, sat on the bed at Prince Lykov’s feet, and in a low voice began the following conversation:

“It was not for nothing that the sovereign visited me today. Can you guess what he was pleased to talk with me about?”

“How can we know, brother dear?” said Tatyana Afanasyevna.

“Can the tsar have appointed you governor-general somewhere?” asked the father-in-law. “It’s none too soon. Or has he offered you an ambassadorship? Why not? Noblemen, and not just scribes, are sent to foreign rulers.”

“No,” his son-in-law replied, frowning. “I’m a man of the old stamp, our services are no longer required, though an Orthodox Russian nobleman may well be worth all these present-day upstarts, pancake makers, and heathens25—but that’s another subject.”

“What was it, then, that he was pleased to talk with you about for so long?” asked Tatyana Afanasyevna. “You’re not in some sort of trouble, are you? Lord, save us and have mercy on us!”

“Trouble or no trouble, I must confess it set me thinking.”

“What is it, brother? What’s the matter?”

“It’s a matter of Natasha: the tsar came to make a match for her.”

“Thank God,” Tatyana Afanasyevna said, crossing herself. “The girl’s of marriageable age, and like matchmaker, like suitor—God grant them love and harmony. It’s a great honor. For whom is the tsar asking her hand?”

“Hm,” grunted Gavrila Afanasyevich. “For whom? That’s just it—for whom.”

“For whom, then?” Prince Lykov, who was already beginning to doze off, repeated.

“Guess,” said Gavrila Afanasyevich.

“Brother dear,” the old woman replied “how can we guess? There are lots of suitors at court: any one of them would be glad to take your Natasha. Is it Dolgoruky?”

“No, not Dolgoruky.”

“Well, God help him: he’s awfully arrogant. Schein? Troekurov?”

“No, neither of them.”

“They’re not to my liking either: featherbrains, too full of the German spirit. Well, then, Miloslavsky?”

“No, not him.”

“And God help him, too: he’s rich but stupid. Who, then? Eletsky? Lvov? No? Can it be Raguzinsky? I give up. Who is the tsar choosing for Natasha?”

“The Moor Ibrahim.”

The old woman cried out and clasped her hands. Prince Lykov raised his head from the pillows and repeated in amazement: “The Moor Ibrahim!”

“Brother dear,” the old woman said in a tearful voice, “don’t ruin your own child, don’t deliver Natashenka into the clutches of that black devil.”

“But how can I refuse the sovereign,” Gavrila Afanasyevich protested, “who promises his favor in return, to me and all our family?”

“What?!” exclaimed the old prince, whom sleep had totally deserted. “To have Natasha, my granddaughter, marry a bought blackamoor?!”

“He’s not of common stock,” said Gavrila Afanasyevich. “He’s the son of a Moorish sultan. Some heathens took him captive and sold him in Constantinople, and our ambassador redeemed him and presented him to the tsar. The Moor’s elder brother came to Russia with a rich ransom and—”

“My dearest Gavrila Afanasyevich,” the old woman interrupted, “we’ve all heard the tales of Prince Bova and Eruslan Lazarevich.26 You’d better tell us how you replied to the sovereign’s matchmaking.”

“I told him that the power was with him, and our bounden duty was to obey him in all things.”

Just then a noise came from behind the door. Gavrila Afanasyevich went to open it, but, feeling some resistance, he pushed hard on it, the door opened—and they saw Natasha lying unconscious on the bloodied floor.

Her heart had sunk when the sovereign shut himself in with her father. Some presentiment had whispered to her that it had to do with her, and when Gavrila Afanasyevich sent her away, announcing that he had to speak with her aunt and grandfather, feminine curiosity got the better of her, she tiptoed quietly through the inner rooms to the door of the bedroom, and did not miss a single word of the whole terrible conversation. When she heard her father’s last words, the poor girl fainted and, falling, struck her head against the iron-bound chest in which her dowry was kept.

Servants came running; Natasha was picked up, carried to her room, and placed on the bed. After some time she came to, opened her eyes, but recognized neither her father nor her aunt. She broke into a high fever, raved about the tsar’s Moor, the wedding—and suddenly cried out in a pitiful and piercing voice: “Valerian, dear Valerian, my life! Save me: they’re coming, they’re coming!…” Tatyana Afanasyevna glanced anxiously at her brother, who turned pale, bit his lips, and silently left the room. He went back to the old prince, who, unable to climb the stairs, had remained below.

“How is Natasha?” he asked.

“Not well,” the upset father replied, “worse than I thought: she’s delirious and raves about Valerian.”

“Who is this Valerian?” the old man asked in alarm. “Can it be that orphan, the son of the strelets,27 who was brought up in your house?”

“That’s him,” Gavrila Afanasyevich replied. “To my misfortune, his father saved my life during the rebellion, and the devil prompted me to take the cursed wolf cub into my house. When he was enlisted in a regiment two years ago, at his own request, Natasha burst into tears as she said good-bye to him, and he stood as if turned to stone. That seemed suspicious to me, and I told my sister about it. But Natasha has never mentioned him since then, and there has been no news from him. I thought she had forgotten him; but obviously not. That settles it: she’ll marry the Moor.”

Prince Lykov did not contradict him: it would have been useless. He went home; Tatyana Afanasyevna stayed at Natasha’s bedside; Gavrila Afanasyevich sent for the doctor, shut himself up in his room, and everything in his house became quiet and sad.

The unexpected matchmaking surprised Ibrahim at least as much as it did Gavrila Afanasyevich. Here is how it happened. Peter, while doing some work with Ibrahim, said to him:

“I notice, brother, that you’re in low spirits. Tell me straight out: what is it that you lack?” Ibrahim assured the sovereign that he was content with his lot and did not wish for anything better.

“Good,” said the sovereign. “If you’re bored for no reason, then I know what will cheer you up.”

When they finished their work, Peter asked Ibrahim: “Did you like that girl you danced the minuet with at the last assembly?”

“She’s very sweet, Sire, and she seems to be a modest and kind girl.”

“Then I shall make you better acquainted. Would you like to marry her?”

“Me, Sire?…”

“Listen, Ibrahim, you’re a single man, without kith or kin, a stranger to all except myself. If I should die today, what would happen to you tomorrow, my poor blackamoor? We must get you established while there is still time, find support for you in new connections, unite with the Russian boyars.”

“Sire, I am happy to have Your Majesty’s protection and favor. God grant that I not outlive my tsar and my benefactor—I wish for nothing else. But if I did have a mind to marry, would the young girl and her relations consent? My appearance…”

“Your appearance! What nonsense! Aren’t you a fine young fellow? A young girl must obey her parents’ will, and we’ll see what old Gavrila Rzhevsky says when I myself come as your matchmaker!” With those words the sovereign ordered his sledge made ready and left Ibrahim sunk deep in thought.

“To marry!” thought the African. “Why not? Can I be destined to spend my life in solitude and not know the best pleasures and the most sacred duties of man only because I was born below the fifteenth parallel? I cannot hope to be loved: a childish objection! Can one believe in love? Can it exist in a frivolous feminine heart? Renouncing sweet delusions forever, I have chosen other enticements—more substantial ones. The sovereign is right: I must provide for my future. Marriage to Rzhevsky’s daughter will connect me with the proud Russian nobility, and I will stop being a stranger in my new fatherland. I’m not going to demand love from my wife, I’ll be content with her fidelity, and I’ll win her friendship by constant tenderness, trust, and indulgence.”

Ibrahim, as was his habit, was about to go back to work, but his imagination was too distracted. He abandoned his papers and went to stroll along the Neva embankment. Suddenly he heard Peter’s voice; he turned and saw the sovereign, who had dismissed the sledge and was following him with a cheerful look. “It’s all settled, brother,” said Peter, taking him under the arm. “I’ve made your match. Go to your father-in-law tomorrow; but watch yourself, indulge his boyar arrogance; leave your sledge at the gate; cross the yard on foot; talk to him about his services, about his noble birth, and he’ll lose his mind over you. And now,” he went on, brandishing his cudgel, “take me to that rogue Danilych; I must have it out with him about his latest pranks.”

Ibrahim, having warmly thanked Peter for his fatherly care, brought him to Prince Menshikov’s magnificent palace and went back home.

CHAPTER SIX

An icon lamp was quietly burning before the glass-covered stand in which the gold and silver casings of the family icons gleamed. Its tremulous light shone weakly on the curtained bed and the little table set with labeled vials. By the stove a maid sat at a spinning wheel, and the faint noise of her spindle alone broke the silence of the room.

“Who’s there?” said a weak voice. The maid stood up at once, went over to the bed, and gently raised the curtain. “Will it be daylight soon?” asked Natalya.

“It’s already noon,” the maid replied.

“Ah, my God, why is it so dark?”

“The blinds are closed, miss.”

“Quick, give me my clothes.”

“I can’t, miss, the doctor forbade it.”

“You mean I’m sick? For how long?”

“It’s two weeks now.”

“Can it be? It seems like I went to bed only yesterday…”

Natasha fell silent; she tried to gather her scattered thoughts. Something had happened to her, but precisely what, she could not remember. The maid went on standing before her, waiting for orders. Just then a muffled noise came from below.

“What’s that?” asked the sick girl.

“The masters have finished eating,” replied the maid. “They’re getting up from the table. Tatyana Afanasyevna will come here shortly.”

Natasha seemed glad; she waved her arm weakly. The maid closed the curtain and sat down again at her spinning wheel.

After a few minutes a head in a broad white bonnet with dark ribbons appeared in the doorway, and a question was asked in a low voice:

“How is Natasha?”

“Good afternoon, auntie,” the sick girl said softly; and Tatyana Afanasyevna hastened to her.

“The young lady has come to,” said the maid, carefully drawing up an armchair.

The old woman tearfully kissed the pale, languid face of her niece and sat down beside her. After her a German doctor in a black kaftan and a scholar’s wig came in, felt Natasha’s pulse, and announced in Latin, and then in Russian, that the danger was past. He called for paper and ink, wrote out a new prescription, and left, and the old woman got up, kissed Natasha again, and went downstairs to Gavrila Afanasyevich with the good news.

In the drawing room, in uniform, sword at his side, hat in his hand, sat the tsar’s Moor, talking respectfully with Gavrila Afanasyevich. Korsakov, sprawled on a downy sofa, was listening to them absentmindedly and teasing a venerable borzoi hound. Bored with this occupation, he went to the mirror, the usual recourse of his idleness, and in it saw Tatyana Afanasyevna, who was in the doorway making unnoticed signs to her brother.

“You’re wanted, Gavrila Afanasyevich,” said Korsakov, turning to him and interrupting Ibrahim’s speech. Gavrila Afanasyevich went to his sister at once and closed the door behind him.

“I marvel at your patience,” Korsakov said to Ibrahim. “For a whole hour you’ve been listening to this raving about the antiquity of the Lykov and Rzhevsky families and adding your own moralizing observations to it. If I were you, j’aurais planté là^*6 the old babbler and all his kin, including Natalya Gavrilovna, who minces around, pretending she’s sick, une petite santé^*7…Tell me honestly, are you really in love with this little mijaurée?^*8 Listen, Ibrahim, for once at least take my advice; I’m really more sensible than I seem. Drop this foolish notion. Don’t get married. It seems to me that your bride-to-be has no particular inclination for you. All sorts of things happen in this world. For instance: I’m not bad-looking, of course, but I’ve happened to deceive husbands who, by God, were no worse than me. You yourself…Remember our Parisian friend, Count D.? You can’t trust in a woman’s fidelity; happy the man who looks upon it with indifference! But you!…With your ardent, brooding, and suspicious character, with your flattened nose, puffy lips, and that mop of wool, to rush into all the dangers of marriage?…”

“Thank you for the friendly advice,” Ibrahim interrupted him coldly, “but you know the proverb: Don’t go rocking another man’s babies…”

“Watch out, Ibrahim,” Korsakov replied, laughing, “or you may actually get to demonstrate that proverb afterwards, in the literal sense.”

But the conversation in the other room was growing heated.

“You’ll be the death of her,” the old woman was saying. “She won’t bear the sight of him.”

“But judge for yourself,” the obstinate brother objected. “It’s already two weeks that he’s been coming as a suitor, and he’s yet to see the bride-to-be. He’ll finally start thinking that her illness is an empty device, and that we’re just seeking to delay things so as to get rid of him somehow. And what will the tsar say? He’s already sent three times to ask after Natalya’s health. Like it or not, I have no intention of quarreling with him.”

“Lord God,” said Tatyana Afanasyevna, “what will become of the poor girl? At least let me prepare her for such a visit.” Gavrila Afanasyevich agreed and went back to the drawing room.

“Thank God,” he said to Ibrahim, “the danger is past. Natalya is much better. If I weren’t ashamed to leave our dear guest, Ivan Evgrafovich, alone here, I’d take you upstairs to have a look at your bride.”

Korsakov congratulated Gavrila Afanasyevich, asked him not to worry, assured him that he had to leave, and ran to the front hall, not allowing the host to see him off.

Meanwhile Tatyana Afanasyevna hastened to prepare the sick girl for the appearance of the dreaded guest. Going into the room, she sat down, breathless, by the bed, took Natasha’s hand, but, before she had time to utter a word, the door opened. Natasha asked who was there. The old woman froze and went dumb. Gavrila Afanasyevich drew the curtain aside, looked coldly at the sick girl, and asked how she was. The sick girl wanted to smile at him, but could not. Her father’s stern gaze stunned her, and she was seized with anxiety. At that moment it seemed that someone was standing at the head of her bed. She raised her head with effort and suddenly recognized the tsar’s Moor. Here she remembered everything, all the horror of the future arose before her. But her exhausted nature suffered no noticeable shock. Natasha lowered her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes…Her heart was pounding painfully. Tatyana Afanasyevna made a sign to her brother that the sick girl wanted to sleep, and they all quietly left the bedroom, except for the maid, who sat down again at the spinning wheel.

The unhappy beauty opened her eyes and, seeing no one at her bedside now, beckoned to the maid and sent her for the dwarf. But just then the round little old woman came rolling up to her bed like a ball. Lastochka^*9 (that was the dwarf’s name) had followed Gavrila Afanasyevich and Ibrahim upstairs as fast as her stubby legs would carry her and hidden behind the door, faithful to the curiosity natural to the fair sex. Seeing her, Natasha sent the maid away, and the dwarf seated herself by the bed on a little bench.

Never had so small a body contained in itself so much mental activity. She meddled in everything, knew everything, busied herself with everything. With her clever and insinuating mind, she had managed to earn the love of her masters and the hatred of the rest of the household, which she ruled despotically. Gavrila Afanasyevich heeded her denunciations, complaints, and petty demands; Tatyana Afanasyevna constantly asked her opinion and followed her advice; and Natasha had a boundless affection for her and confided to her all her thoughts and all the stirrings of her sixteen-year-old heart.

“You know, Lastochka,” she said, “my father is giving me away to the Moor.”

The dwarf sighed deeply, and her wrinkled face became more wrinkled still.

“Is there no hope?” Natasha went on. “Will my father not take pity on me?”

The dwarf shook her little bonnet.

“Won’t my grandfather or my aunt intercede for me?”

“No, my young miss. During your illness, the Moor managed to enchant everybody. The master’s lost his mind over him, the prince raves only about him, and Tatyana Afanasyevna says: ‘Too bad he’s a Moor, otherwise we couldn’t dream of a better suitor.’ ”

“My God, my God!” poor Natasha moaned.

“Don’t grieve, my beauty,” said the dwarf, kissing her weak hand. “Even if you do marry the Moor, you’ll still have your freedom. Nowadays it’s not the same as in olden times; husbands don’t lock their wives up; they say the Moor’s rich; your house will be a full cup, your life will flow like a song…”

“Poor Valerian,” said Natasha, but so softly that the dwarf could only guess at but not hear the words.

“That’s just it,” she said, lowering her voice mysteriously. “If you thought less about the strelets’s orphan, you wouldn’t have raved about him in your fever, and your father wouldn’t be angry.”

“What?” said Natasha, frightened. “I raved about Valerian, my father heard it, my father’s angry!”

“That’s just the trouble,” said the dwarf. “Now, if you ask him not to marry you to the Moor, he’ll think it’s because of Valerian. Nothing to be done: submit to the parental will, and what will be will be.”

Natasha did not utter a word of objection. The thought that her heart’s secret was known to her father had a strong effect on her imagination. One hope remained for her: to die before the hateful marriage took place. This thought comforted her. With a weak and sorrowful heart she submitted to her fate.

CHAPTER SEVEN

To the right of the front hall in Gavrila Afanasyevich’s house there was a small room with one little window. In it stood a simple bed covered with a flannelette blanket, and before the bed a small deal table on which a tallow candle burned and a musical score lay open. On the wall hung an old blue uniform and an equally old three-cornered hat; over it a cheap woodcut portraying Charles XII on horseback was fastened to the wall with three nails. The sounds of a flute could be heard in this humble abode. The captive dancing master, its solitary inhabitant, in a nightcap and a nankeen dressing gown, charmed away the boredom of the winter evening by playing old Swedish marches, which reminded him of the merry days of his youth. Having devoted a whole two hours to this exercise, the Swede took the flute apart, put it into the case, and began to undress.

Just then the latch of his door was raised, and a tall, handsome young man in a uniform came into the room.

The astonished Swede stood up before the unexpected guest.

“Don’t you recognize me, Gustav Adamych?” said the young visitor in a moved voice. “Don’t you remember the little boy to whom you taught the Swedish field manual, with whom you almost set fire to this very room, shooting from a toy cannon?”

Gustav Adamych peered at him intently…

“A-a-ah!” he cried at last, embracing him. “Greetinks! Zo it’s really you! Zit down, my goot scapegrace, let’s talk…”

*1 Lucky time, bearing the mark of license, / When light-footed madness skips about, / Swinging its little bell, all over France, / When no mortal deigns to be devout, / When they do all except for penitence. —Voltaire, La Pucelle d’Orléans, Canto XIII.

*2 “Good night.”

*3 “Between us.”

*4 “What the devil is all this?”

*5 steps

*6 “I would have dumped”

*7 “in poor health”

*8 “pretentious young thing”

*9 Literally “swallow.”