to use bullets or cannon-balls, they resolved, contrary to their usual
custom, to employ cold steel. The battle was a fiercely-contested one.
Yataghans[2] were freely used. On the side of the Turks were seen
lances, which had never been employed by them till then; these lances
were Russian: Nekrassovists fought in their ranks. The Hetairists,
by permission of our Emperor, were allowed to cross the Pruth and
take refuge within our lines. They began to cross over. Kantagoni and
Saphianos remained last upon the Turkish bank. Kirdjali, wounded the
evening before, was already lying within our lines. Saphianos was
killed. Kantagoni, a very stout man, was wounded in the stomach by a
lance. With one hand he raised his sword, with the other he seized the
hostile lance, thrust it further into himself, and in that manner was
able to reach his murderer with his sword, when both fell together.
All was over. The Turks remained victorious. Moldavia was swept
clear of insurrectionary bands. About six hundred Arnouts were
dispersed throughout Bessarabia; and though not knowing how to support
themselves, they were yet grateful to Russia for her protection. They
led an idle life, but not a licentious one. They could always be seen
in the coffee-houses of half Turkish Bessarabia, with long pipes in
their mouths, sipping coffee grounds out of small cups. Their figured
jackets and red pointed slippers were already beginning to wear out,
but their tufted skullcaps were still worn on the side of the head, and
yataghans and pistols still protruded from under their broad sashes.
Nobody complained of them. It was impossible to imagine that these
poor, peaceably-disposed men were the notorious insurgents of Moldavia,
the companions of the ferocious Kirdjali, and that he himself was among
them.
The Pasha in command at Jassy became informed of this, and in virtue of
treaty stipulations, requested the Russian authorities to deliver up
the brigand.
The police instituted a search. They discovered that Kirdjali was
really in Kishineff. They captured him in the house of a fugitive monk
in the evening, when he was having supper, sitting in the dark with
seven companions.
Kirdjali was placed under arrest. He did not try to conceal the truth;
he acknowledged that he was Kirdjali.
“But,” he added, “since I crossed the Pruth, I have not touched a
hair of other people’s property, nor imposed upon even a gipsy. To
the Turks, to the Moldavians and to the Wallachians I am undoubtedly
a brigand, but to the Russians I am a guest. When Saphianos, having
fired off all his cartridges, came over into these lines, collecting
from the wounded, for the last discharge, buttons, nails, watch-chains
and the knobs of yataghans, I gave him twenty _beshliks_, and was left
without money. God knows that I, Kirdjali, lived by alms. Why then do
the Russians now deliver me into the hands of my enemies?”
After that, Kirdjali was silent, and tranquilly awaited the decision
that was to determine his fate. He did not wait long. The authorities,
not being bound to look upon brigands from their romantic side, and
being convinced of the justice of the demand, ordered Kirdjali to be
sent to Jassy.
A man of heart and intellect, at that time a young and unknown
official, but now occupying an important post, vividly described to me
his departure.
At the gate of the prison stood a _karoutsa_.... Perhaps you do not
know what a _karouisa_ is. It is a low, wicker vehicle, to which, not
very long since, used generally to be yoked six or eight sorry jades.
A Moldavian, with a moustache and a sheepskin cap, sitting astride one
of them, incessantly shouted and cracked his whip, and his wretched
animals ran on at a fairly sharp trot. If one of them began to slacken
its pace, he unharnessed it with terrible oaths and left it upon the
road, little caring what might be its fate. On the return journey he
was sure to find it in the same place, quietly grazing upon the green
steppe. It not unfrequently happened that a traveller, starting from
one station with eight horses, arrived at the next with a pair only.
It used to be so about fifteen years ago. Nowadays in Russianized
Bessarabia they have adopted Russian harness and Russian _telegas._
Such a _karoutsa_ stood at the gate of the prison in the year 1821,
towards the end of the month of September. Jewesses in loose sleeves
and slippers down at heel, Arnouts in their ragged and picturesque
attire, well-proportioned Moldavian women with black-eyed children in
their arms, surrounded the _karoutsa_. The men preserved silence, the
women were eagerly expecting something.
The gate opened, and several police officers stepped out into the
street; behind them came two soldiers leading the fettered Kirdjali.
He seemed about thirty years of age. The features of his swarthy face
were regular and harsh. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and seemed
endowed with unusual physical strength. A variegated turban covered
the side of his head, and a broad sash encircled his slender waist. A
dolman of thick, dark-blue cloth, the broad folds of his shirt falling
below the knee, and handsome slippers composed the remainder of his
costume. His look was proud and calm....
One of the officials, a red-faced old man in a threadbare uniform,
three buttons of which were dangling down, with a pair of pewter
spectacles pinching the purple knob that served him for a nose,
unrolled a paper and, in a snuffling tone, began to read in the
Moldavian tongue. From time to time he glanced haughtily at the
fettered Kirdjali, to whom apparently the paper referred. Kirdjali
listened to him attentively. The official finished his reading, folded
up the paper and shouted sternly at the people, ordering them to give
way and the _karoutsa_ to be driven up. Then Kirdjali turned to him
and said a few words to him in Moldavian; his voice trembled, his
countenance changed, he burst into tears and fell at the feet of the
police official, clanking his fetters. The police official, terrified,
started back; the soldiers were about to raise Kirdjali, but he rose up
himself, gathered up his chains, stepped into the _karoutsa_ and cried:
“Drive on!” A gendarme took a seat beside him, the Moldavian cracked
his whip, and the _karoutsa_ rolled away.
“What did Kirdjali say to you?” asked the young official of the police
officer.
“He asked me,” replied the police officer, smiling, “to look after his
wife and child, who lived not far from Kilia, in a Bulgarian village:
he is afraid that they may suffer through him. The mob is so stupid!”
The young official’s story affected me deeply. I was sorry for poor
Kirdjali. For a long time I knew nothing of his fate. Some years later
I met the young official. We began to talk about the past.
“What about your friend Kirdjali?” I asked. “Do you know what became of
him?”
“To be sure I do,” replied he, and he related to me the following.
Kirdjali, having been taken to Jassy, was brought before the Pasha,
who condemned him to be impaled. The execution was deferred till some
holiday. In the meantime he was confined in jail.
The prisoner was guarded by seven Turks (common people, and in their
hearts as much brigands as Kirdjali himself); they respected him and,
like all Orientals, listened with avidity to his strange stories.
Between the guards and the prisoner an intimate acquaintance sprang up.
One day Kirdjali said to them: “Brothers! my hour is near. Nobody can
escape his fate. I shall soon take leave of you. I should like to leave
you something in remembrance of me.”
The Turks pricked up their ears.
“Brothers,” continued Kirdjali, “three years ago, when I was engaged in
plundering along with the late Mikhaelaki, we buried on the steppes,
not from Jassy, a kettle filled with money. Evidently, neither I nor he
will make use of the hoard. Be it so; take it for yourselves and divide
it in a friendly manner.”
The Turks almost took leave of their senses. The question was, how were
they to find the blessed spot? They thought and thought and finally
resolved that Kirdjali himself should conduct them to the place.
Night came on. The Turks removed the irons from the feet of the
prisoner, tied his hands with a rope, and, leaving the town, set out
with him for the steppe.
Kirdjali led them, keeping on in one direction from one mound to
another. They walked on for a long time. At last Kirdjali stopped near
a broad stone, measured twelve paces towards the south, stamped and
said: “Here.”
The Turks began to make their arrangements. Four of them took out
their yataghans and commenced digging the earth. Three remained on
guard. Kirdjali sat down upon the stone and watched them at their work.
“Well, how much longer are you going to be?” he asked; “haven’t you
come to it?”
“Not yet,” replied the Turks, and they worked away with such ardour,
that the perspiration rolled from them like hail.
Kirdjali began to show signs of impatience.
“What people!” he exclaimed: “they do not even know how to dig
decently. I should have finished the whole business in a couple of
minutes. Children! untie my hands and give me a yataghan.”
The Turks reflected and began to take counsel together. “What harm
would there be?” reasoned they. “Let us untie his hands and give him a
yataghan. He is only one, we are seven.”
And the Turks untied his hands and gave him a yataghan.
At last Kirdjali was free and armed. What must he have felt at that
moment!... He began digging quickly, the guard helping him.... Suddenly
he plunged his yataghan into one of them, and, leaving the blade in his
breast, he snatched from his belt a couple of pistols.
The remaining six, seeing Kirdjali armed with two pistols, ran off.
Kirdjali is now carrying on the profession of brigand near Jassy. Not
long ago he wrote to the Governor, demanding from him five thousand
_levs_,[3] and threatening, in the event of the money not being paid,
to set fire to Jassy and to reach the Governor himself. The five
thousand _levs_ were handed over to him!
Such is Kirdjali!
[Footnote 1: The chief of the Hetairists (Philiké Hetairia), whose
object was the liberation of Greece from the Turkish yoke.]
[Footnote 2: Long Turkish daggers.]
[Footnote 3: A _lev_ is worth about ten-pence.]
THE EGYPTIAN NIGHTS
CHAPTER I.
Charsky was one of the native-born inhabitants of St. Petersburg.
He was not yet thirty years of age; he was not married; the service
did not oppress him too heavily. His late uncle, having been a
vice-governor in the good old times, had left him a respectable estate.
His life was a very agreeable one, but he had the misfortune to write
and print verses. In the journals he was called “poet,” and in the
ante-rooms “author.”
In spite of the great privileges which verse-makers enjoy (we must
confess that, except the right of using the accusative instead of the
genitive, and other so-called poetical licenses of a similar kind, we
fail to see what are the particular privileges of Russian poets), in
spite of their every possible privilege, these persons are compelled
to endure a great deal of unpleasantness. The bitterest misfortune of
all, the most intolerable for the poet, is the appellation with which
he is branded, and which will always cling to him. The public look upon
him as their own property; in their opinion, he was created for their
especial benefit and pleasure. Should he return from the country, the
first person who meets him accosts him with:
“Haven’t you brought anything new for us?”
Should the derangement of his affairs, or the illness of some being
dear to him, cause him to become lost in thoughtful reflection,
immediately a trite smile accompanies the trite exclamation:
“No doubt he is composing something!”
Should he happen to fall in love, his beauty purchases an album at the
English warehouse, and expects an elegy.
Should he call upon a man whom he hardly knows, to talk about serious
matters of business, the latter quickly calls his son and compels him
to read some of the verses of so-and-so, and the lad regales the poet
with some of his lame productions. And these are but the flowers of,
the calling; what then must be the fruits! Charsky acknowledged that
the compliments, the questions, the albums, and the little boys bored
him to such an extent, that he was constantly compelled to restrain
himself from committing some act of rudeness.
Charsky used every possible endeavour to rid himself of the intolerable
appellation. He avoided the society of his literary brethren, and
preferred to them the men of the world, even the most shallow-minded:
but that did not help him. His conversation was of the most commonplace
character, and never turned upon literature. In his dress he always
observed the very latest fashion, with the timidity and superstition
of a young Moscovite arriving in St. Petersburg for the first time
in his life. In his study, furnished like a lady’s bedroom, nothing
recalled the writer; no books littered the table; the divan was not
stained with ink; there was none of that disorder which denotes the
presence of the Muse and the absence of broom and brush. Charsky was
in despair if any of his worldly friends found him with a pen in his
hand. It is difficult to believe to what trifles a man, otherwise
endowed with talent and soul, can descend. At one time he pretended to
be a passionate lover of horses, at another a desperate gambler, and at
another a refined gourmet, although he was never able to distinguish
the mountain breed from the Arab, could never remember the trump
cards, and in secret preferred a baked potato to all the inventions of
the French cuisine. He led a life of unbounded pleasure, was seen at
all the balls, gormandized at all the diplomatic dinners, and appeared
at all the soirees as inevitably as the Rezan ices. For all that, he
was a poet, and his passion was invincible. When he found the “silly
fit” (thus he called the inspiration) coming upon him, Charsky would
shut himself up in his study, and write from morning till late into
the night. He confessed to his genuine friends that only then did he
know what real happiness was. The rest of his time he strolled about,
dissembled, and was assailed at every step by the eternal question:
“Haven’t you written anything new?”
One morning, Charsky felt that happy disposition of soul, when the
illusions are represented in their brightest colours, when vivid,
unexpected words present themselves for the incarnation of one’s
visions, when verses flow easily from the pen, and sonorous rhythms fly
to meet harmonious thoughts. Charsky was mentally plunged into a sweet
oblivion... and the world, and the trifles of the world, and his own
particular whims no longer existed for him. He was writing verses.
Suddenly the door of his study creaked, and the unknown head of a man
appeared. Charsky gave a sudden start and frowned.
“Who is there?” he asked with vexation, inwardly cursing his servants,
who were never in the ante-room when they were wanted.
The unknown entered. He was of a tall, spare figure, and appeared to be
about thirty years of age. The features of his swarthy face were very
expressive: his pale, lofty forehead, shaded by dark locks of hair,
his black, sparkling eyes, aquiline nose, and thick beard surrounding
his sunken, tawny cheeks, indicated him to be a foreigner. He was
attired in a black dress-coat, already whitened at the seams, and
summer trousers (although the season was well into the autumn); under
his tattered black cravat, upon a yellowish shirt-front, glittered a
false diamond; his shaggy hat seemed to have seen rain and bad weather.
Meeting such a man in a wood, you would have taken him for a robber; in
society--for a political conspirator; in an ante-room--for a charlatan,
a seller of elixirs and arsenic.
“What do you want?” Charsky asked him in French.
“Signor,” replied the foreigner in Italian, with several profound bows:
“_Lei voglia perdonar mi, si_ ...” (Please pardon me, if....)
Charsky did not offer him a chair, and he rose himself: the
conversation was continued in Italian.
“I am a Neapolitan artist,” said the unknown: “circumstances compelled
me to leave my native land; I have, come to Russia, trusting to my
talent.”
Charsky thought that the Italian was preparing to give some violoncello
concerts and was disposing of his tickets from house to house. He was
just about to give him twenty-five roubles in order to get rid of him
as quickly as possible, but the unknown added:
“I hope, signor, that you will give a friendly support to your
confrère, and introduce me into the houses to which, you have access.”
It was impossible to offer a greater affront to Charsky’s vanity. He
glanced haughtily at the individual who called himself his confrère.
“Allow me to ask, what are you, and for whom do you take me?” he said,
with difficulty restraining his indignation.
The Neapolitan observed his vexation.
“Signor,” he replied, stammering: “_Ho creduto ... ho sentito ... la
vostra Eccelenza ... mi ferdonera_...” (I believed ... I felt ... Your
Excellency ... will pardon me....)
“What do you want?” repeated Charsky drily.
“I have heard a great deal of your wonderful talent; I am sure that the
gentlemen of this place esteem it an honour to extend every possible
protection to such an excellent poet,” replied the Italian: “and that
is why I have ventured to present myself to you....”
“You are mistaken, signor,” interrupted Charsky. “The calling of poet
does not exist among us. Our poets do not solicit the protection of
gentlemen; our poets are gentlemen themselves, and if our Maecenases
(devil take them!) do not know that, so much the worse for them. Among
us there are no ragged abbés, whom a musician would take out of the
streets to compose a libretto. Among us, poets do not go on foot from
house to house, begging for help. Moreover, they must have been joking,
when they told you that I was a great poet. It is true that I once
wrote some wretched epigrams, but thank God, I haven’t anything in
common with _messieurs les poètes_, and do not wish to have.”
The poor Italian became confused. He looked around him. The pictures,
marble statues, bronzes, and the costly baubles on Gothic what-nots,
struck him. He understood that between the haughty dandy, standing
before him in a tufted brocaded cap, gold-embroidered nankeen
dressing-gown and Turkish sash,--and himself, a poor wandering artist,
in tattered cravat and shabby dress-coat--there was nothing in common.
He stammered out some unintelligible excuses, bowed, and wished to
retire. His pitiable appearance touched Charsky, who, in spite of the
defects in his character, had a good and noble heart. He felt ashamed
of his irritated vanity.
“Where are you going?” he said to the Italian. “Wait ... I was
compelled to decline an unmerited title and confess to you that I was
not a poet. Now let us speak about your business. I am ready to serve
you, if it be in my power to do so. Are you a musician?”
“No, Eccelenza,” replied the Italian; “I am a poor improvisatore.”
“An improvisatore!” cried Charsky, feeling all the cruelty of his
reception. “Why didn’t you say sooner that you were an improvisatore?”
And Charsky grasped his hand with a feeling of sincere regret.
His friendly manner encouraged the Italian. He spoke naïvely of his
plans. His exterior was not deceptive. He was in need of money, and he
hoped somehow in Russia to improve his domestic circumstances. Charsky
listened to him with attention.
“I hope,” said he to the poor artist, “that you will have success;
society here has never heard an improvisatore. Curiosity will be
awakened. It is true that the Italian language is not in use among us;
you will not be understood, but that will be no great misfortune; the
chief thing is that you should be in the fashion.”
“But if nobody among you understands Italian,” said the improvisatore,
becoming thoughtful, “who will come to hear me?”
“Have no fear about that--they will come: some out of curiosity, others
to pass away the evening somehow or other, others to show that they
understand Italian. I repeat, it is only necessary that you should be
in the fashion, and you will be in the fashion--I give you my hand upon
it.”
Charsky dismissed the improvisatore very cordially, after having taken
his address, and the same evening he set to work to do what he could
for him.
CHAPTER II.
The next day, in the dark and dirty corridor of a tavern, Charsky
discovered the number 35. He stopped at the door and knocked. It was
opened by the Italian of the day before.
“Victory!” said Charsky to him: “your affairs are in a good way.
The Princess N----, offers you her salon; yesterday, at the rout, I
succeeded in enlisting the half of St. Petersburg; get your tickets and
announcements printed. If I cannot guarantee a triumph for you, I’ll
answer for it that you will at least be a gainer in pocket....”
“And that is the chief thing,” cried the Italian, manifesting his
delight in a series of gestures that were characteristic of his
southern origin. “I knew that you would help me. _Corpo di Baccol_
You are a poet like myself, and there is no denying that poets are
excellent fellows! How can I show my gratitude to you? Stop.... Would
you like to hear an improvisation?”
“An improvisation!... Can you then do without public, without music,
and without sounds of applause?”
“And where could I find a better public? You are a poet: you understand
me better than they, and your quiet approbation will be dearer to me
than whole storms of applause.... Sit down somewhere and give me a
theme.” “Here is your theme, then,” said Charsky to him: “_the poet
himself should choose the subject of his songs; the crowd has not the
right to direct his inspirations._” The eyes of the Italian sparkled:
he tried a few chords, raised his head proudly, and passionate
verses--the expression of instantaneous sentiment--fell in cadence from
his lips....
The Italian ceased.... Charsky remained silent, filled with delight and
astonishment.
“Well?” asked the improvisatore.
Charsky seized his hand and pressed it firmly.
“Well?” asked the improvisatore.
“Wonderful!” replied the poet. “The idea of another has scarcely
reached your ears, and already it has become your own, as if you had
nursed, fondled and developed it for a long time. And so for you there
exists neither difficulty nor discouragement, nor that uneasiness which
precedes inspiration? Wonderful, wonderful!”
The improvisatore replied: “Each talent is inexplicable. How does the
sculptor see, in a block of Carrara marble, the hidden Jupiter, and how
does he bring it to light with hammer and chisel by chipping off its
envelope? Why does the idea issue from the poet’s head already equipped
with four rhymes, and arranged in measured and harmonious feet? Nobody,
except the improvisatore himself, can understand that rapid impression,
that narrow link between inspiration proper and a strange exterior
will; I myself would try in vain to explain it. But ... I must think
of my first evening. What do you think? What price could I charge for
the tickets, so that the public may not be too exacting, and so that,
at the same time, I may not be out of pocket myself? They say that La
Signora Catalani[1] took twenty-five roubles. That is a good price....”
It was very disagreeable to Charsky to fall suddenly from the heights
of poesy down to the bookkeeper’s desk, but he understood very well
the necessities of this world, and he assisted the Italian in his
mercantile calculations. The improvisator, during this part of the
business, exhibited such savage greed, such an artless love of gain,
that he disgusted Charsky, who hastened to take leave of him, so
that he might not lose altogether the feeling of ecstasy awakened
within him by the brilliant improvisation. The Italian, absorbed
in his calculations, did not observe this change, and he conducted
Charsky into the corridor and out to the steps, with profound bows and
assurances of eternal gratitude.
[Footnote 1: A celebrated Italian vocalist, whose singing created an
unprecedented sensation in the principal European capitals during the
first quarter of the present century.]
CHAPTER III.
The salon of Princess N---- had been placed at the disposal of the
improvisatore; a platform had been erected, and the chairs were
arranged in twelve rows. On the appointed day, at seven o’clock in the
evening, the room was illuminated; at the door, before a small table,
to sell and receive tickets, sat a long-nosed old woman, in a grey cap
with broken feathers, and with rings on all her fingers. Near the steps
stood gendarmes.
The public began to assemble. Charsky was one of the first to arrive.
He had contributed greatly to the success of the representation, and
wished to see the improvisatore, in order to know if he was satisfied
with everything. He found the Italian in a side room, observing his
watch with impatience. The improvisatore was attired in a theatrical
costume. He was dressed in black from head to foot. The lace collar of
his shirt was thrown back; his naked neck, by its strange whiteness,
offered a striking contrast to his thick black beard; his hair was
brought forward, and overshadowed his forehead and eyebrows.
All this was not very gratifying to Charsky, who did not care to see a
poet in the dress of a wandering juggler. After a short conversation,
he returned to the salon, which was becoming more and more crowded.
Soon all the rows of seats were occupied by brilliantly-dressed ladies:
the gentlemen stood crowded round the sides of the platform, along the
walls, and behind the chairs at the back; the musicians, with their
music-stands, occupied two sides of the platform.
In the middle, upon a table, stood a porcelain vase.
The audience was a large one. Everybody awaited the commencement with
impatience. At last, at half-past seven o’clock, the musicians made a
stir, prepared their bows, and played the overture from “Tancredi.” All
took their places and became silent. The last sounds of the overture
ceased.... The improvisatore, welcomed by the deafening applause which
rose from every side, advanced with profound bows to the very edge of
the platform.
Charsky waited with uneasiness to see what would be the first
impression produced, but he perceived that the costume, which had
seemed to him so unbecoming, did not produce the same effect upon
the audience; even Charsky himself found nothing ridiculous in the
Italian, when he saw him upon the platform, with his pale face brightly
illuminated by a multitude of lamps and candles. The applause subsided;
the sound of voices ceased....
The Italian, expressing himself in bad French, requested the gentlemen
present to indicate some themes, by writing them upon separate pieces
of paper. At this unexpected invitation, all looked at one another in
silence, and nobody made reply. The Italian, after waiting a little
while, repeated his request in a timid and humble voice. Charsky
was standing right under the platform; a feeling of uneasiness took
possession of him; he had a presentiment that the business would not
be able to go on without him, and that he would be compelled to write
his theme. Indeed, several ladies turned their faces towards him and
began to pronounce his name, at first in a low tone, then louder and
louder. Hearing his name, the improvisatore sought him with his eyes,
and perceiving him at his feet, he handed him a pencil and a piece
of paper with a friendly smile. To play a rôle in this comedy seemed
very disagreeable to Charsky, but there was no help for it: he took
the pencil and paper from the hands of the Italian and wrote some
words. The Italian, taking the vase from the table, descended from
the platform and presented it to Charsky, who deposited within it
his theme. His example produced an effect: two journalists, in their
quality as literary men, considered it incumbent upon them to write
each his theme; the secretary of the Neapolitan embassy, and a young
man recently returned from a journey to Florence, placed in the urn
their folded papers. At last, a very plain-looking girl, at the command
of her mother, with tears in her eyes, wrote a few lines in Italian
and, blushing to the ears, gave them to the improvisatore, the ladies
in the meantime regarding her in silence, with a scarcely perceptible
smile. Returning to the platform, the improvisatore placed the urn
upon the table, and began to take out the papers one after the other,
reading each aloud:
“_La famiglia del Cenci._ ... _L’ultimo giorno di Pompeia_ ...
_Cleopatra e i suoi amanti._ ... _La primavera veduta da una prigione_.
_... Il trionfo di Tasso.”_
“What does the honourable company command?” asked the Italian humbly.
“Will it indicate itself one of the subjects proposed, or let the
matter be decided by lot?”
“By lot!” said a voice in the crowd.... “By lot, by lot!” repeated the
audience.
The improvisatore again descended from the platform, holding the urn
in his hands, and casting an imploring glance along the first row of
chairs, asked:
“Who will be kind enough to draw out the theme?”
Not one of the brilliant ladies, who were sitting there, stirred. The
improvisatore, not accustomed to Northern indifference, seemed greatly
disconcerted.... Suddenly he perceived on one side of the room a small
white-gloved hand held up: he turned quickly and advanced towards
a tall young beauty, seated at the end of the second row. She rose
without the slightest confusion, and, with the greatest simplicity in
the world, plunged her aristocratic hand into the urn and drew out a
roll of paper.
“Will you please unfold it and read,” said the improvisatore to her.
The young lady unrolled the paper and read aloud:
“_Cleopatra e i suoi amanti._”
These words were uttered in a gentle voice, but such a deep silence
reigned in the room, that everybody heard them. The improvisatore bowed
profoundly to the young lady, with an air of the deepest gratitude, and
returned to his platform.
“Gentlemen,” said he, turning to the audience: “the lot has indicated
as the subject of improvisation: ‘Cleopatra and her lovers,’ I humbly
request the person who has chosen this theme, to explain to me his
idea: what lovers is it here a question of, _perchè la grande regina
haveva molto_?”
At these words, several gentlemen burst out laughing. The improvisatore
became somewhat confused.
“I should like to know,” he continued, “to what historical feature does
the person, who has chosen this theme, allude?... I should feel very
grateful if he would kindly explain.”
Nobody hastened to reply. Several ladies directed their glances towards
the plain-looking girl who had written a theme at the command of her
mother. The poor girl observed this hostile attention, and became so
confused, that the tears came into her eyes.... Charsky could not
endure this, and turning to the improvisatore, he said to him in
Italian:
“It was I who proposed the theme. I had in view a passage in Aurelius
Victor, who speaks as if Cleopatra used to name death as the price
of her love, and yet there were found adorers whom such a condition
neither frightened nor repelled. It seems to me, however, that the
subject is somewhat difficult.... Could you not choose another?”
But the improvisatore already felt the approach of the god.... He gave
a sign to the musicians to play. His face became terribly pale; he
trembled as if in a fever; his eyes sparkled with a strange fire; he
raised with his hand his dark hair, wiped with his handkerchief his
lofty forehead, covered with beads of perspiration.... then suddenly
stepped forward and folded his arms across his breast.... the musicians
ceased.... the improvisation began:
“The palace glitters; the songs of the choir
Echo the sounds of the flute and lyre;
With voice and glance the stately Queen
Gives animation to the festive scene,
And eyes are turned to her throne above,
And hearts beat wildly with ardent love.
But suddenly that brow so proud
Is shadowed with a gloomy cloud,
And slowly on her heaving breast,
Her pensive head sinks down to rest.
The music ceases, hushed is each breath,
Upon the feast falls the lull of death;”[1]
* * * * *
[Footnote 1: The story is incomplete in the original.--_Translator_.]
PETER THE GREAT’S NEGRO.[1]
CHAPTER I.
Among the number of young men sent abroad by Peter the Great for the
acquisition of knowledge indispensable to a country in a state of
transition, was his godson, the negro, Ibrahim. After being educated in
the Military School at Paris, which he left with the rank of Captain of
Artillery, he distinguished himself in the Spanish War of Succession,
but having been severely wounded, he returned to Paris. The Emperor, in
the midst of his extensive labours, never ceased to inquire after his
favourite and he always received flattering accounts of his progress
and conduct. Peter was exceedingly pleased with him, and more than
once requested him to return to Russia, but Ibrahim was in no hurry.
He excused himself under various pretexts: now it was his wound, now
it was a wish to complete his education, now a want of money; and
Peter indulgently complied with his wishes, begged him to take care of
his health, thanked him for his zeal in the pursuit of knowledge, and
although extremely parsimonious in his own expenses, he did not spare
his exchequer when his favourite was concerned, and the ducats were
generally accompanied by fatherly advice and words of admonition.
According to the testimony of all historical accounts, nothing could
be compared with the frivolity, folly and luxury of the French of that
period. The last years of the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, remarkable
for the strict piety, gravity, and decorum of the court, had left no
traces behind. The Duke of Orleans, uniting many brilliant qualities
with vices of every kind, unfortunately did not possess the slightest
shadow of hypocrisy. The orgies of the Palais Royal were no secret
in Paris; the example was infectious. At that time Law[2] appeared
upon the scene; greed for money was united to the thirst for pleasure
and dissipation; estates were squandered, morals perished, Frenchmen
laughed and calculated, and the kingdom fell to pieces to the music of
satirical vaudevilles.
In the meantime society presented a most remarkable picture. Culture
and the desire for amusement brought all ranks together. Wealth,
amiability, renown, talent, even eccentricity--everything that
satisfied curiosity or promised amusement, was received with the same
indulgence. Literature, learning and philosophy forsook their quiet
studies and appeared in the circles of the great world to render homage
to fashion and to obey its decrees. Women reigned, but no longer
demanded adoration. Superficial politeness was substituted for the
profound respect formerly shown to them. The pranks of the Duke de
Richelieu, the Alcibiades of modern Athens, belong to history, and give
an idea of the morals of that period.
“Temps fortuné, marqué par la licence,
Où la folie, agitant son grelot,
D’un pied leger parcourt toute la France,
Où nul mortel ne daigne être dévot,
Où l’on fait tout excepté pénitence.”
The appearance of Ibrahim, his bearing, culture and natural
intelligence excited general attention in Paris. All the ladies were
anxious to see “le négre du Czar” at their houses, and vied with each
other in their attentions towards him. The Regent invited him more
than once to his merry evening parties; he assisted at the suppers
animated by the youth of Arouet,[3] the old age of Chaulieu, and the
conversations of Montesquieu and Fontenelle. He did not miss a single
ball, fête or first representation, and he gave himself up to the
general whirl with all the ardour of his years and nature. But the
thought of exchanging these delights, these brilliant amusements for
the simplicity of the Petersburg Court was not the only thing that
dismayed Ibrahim; other and stronger ties bound him to Paris. The young
African was in love.
The Countess L----, although no longer in the first bloom of youth,
was still renowned for her beauty. On leaving the convent at the age
of seventeen, she was married to a man whom she had not succeeded in
loving, and who later on did not take the trouble to gain her love.
Report assigned several lovers to her, but thanks to the indulgent
views entertained by the world, she enjoyed a good reputation, for
nobody was able to reproach her with any ridiculous or scandalous
adventure. Her house was one of the most fashionable, and the best
Parisian society made it their rendezvous. Ibrahim was introduced to
her by young Merville, who was generally looked upon as her latest
lover,--and who did all in his power to obtain credit for the report.
The Countess received Ibrahim politely, but without any particular
attention: this made him feel flattered. Generally the young negro
was regarded in the light of a curiosity; people used to surround him
and overwhelm him with compliments and questions--and this curiosity,
although concealed by a show of graciousness, offended his vanity. The
delightful attention of women, almost the sole aim of our exertions,
not only afforded him no pleasure, but even filled him with bitterness
and indignation. He felt that he was for them a kind of rare beast, a
peculiar creature, accidentally brought into the world, but having with
it nothing in common. He even envied people who remained unnoticed, and
considered them fortunate in their insignificance.
The thought, that nature had not created him for the inspiring of a
passion, emancipated him from self-assertion and vain pretensions, and
added a rare charm to his behaviour towards women. His conversation
was simple and dignified; he found great favour in the eyes of the
Countess L----, who had grown tired of the pronounced jests and pointed
insinuations of French wit. Ibrahim frequently visited her. Little by
little she became accustomed to the young negro’s appearance, and even
began to find something agreeable in that curly head, that stood out
so black in the midst of the powdered perukes in her reception-room
(Ibrahim had been wounded in the head, and wore a bandage instead of a
peruke). He was twenty-seven years of age, and was tall and slender,
and more than one beauty glanced at him with a feeling more flattering
than simple curiosity. But the prejudiced Ibrahim either did not
observe anything of this or merely looked upon it as coquetry. But when
his glances met those of the Countess, his distrust vanished. Her eyes
expressed such winning kindness, her manner towards him was so simple,
so unconstrained, that it was impossible to suspect her of the least
shadow of coquetry or raillery.
The thought of love had not entered his head, but to see the Countess
each day had become a necessity to him. He tried to meet her
everywhere, and every meeting with her seemed an unexpected favour from
heaven. The Countess guessed his feelings before he himself did. There
is no denying that a love, which is without hope and which demands
nothing, touches the female heart more surely than all the devices of
the libertine. In the presence of Ibrahim, the Countess followed all
his movements, listened to every word that he said; without him she
became thoughtful, and fell into her usual absence of mind. Merville
was the first to observe this mutual inclination, and he congratulated
Ibrahim. Nothing inflames love so much as the approving observations
of a bystander: love is blind, and, having no trust in itself, readily
grasps hold of every support.
Merville’s words roused Ibrahim. The possibility of possessing the
woman that he loved had never till then occurred to his mind; hope
suddenly dawned upon his soul; he fell madly in love. In vain did the
Countess, alarmed by the ardour of his passion, wish to combat his
vehemence with friendly warnings and wise counsels, she herself was
beginning to waver....
Nothing is hidden from the eyes of the observing world. The Countess’s
new inclination was soon known by everybody. Some ladies were amazed
at her choice; to many it seemed quite natural. Some laughed; others
regarded her conduct as unpardonably indiscreet. In the first
intoxication of passion, Ibrahim and the Countess observed nothing,
but soon the equivocal jokes of the men and the sarcastic observations
of the women began to reach their ears. Ibrahim’s cold and serious
manner had hitherto protected him from such attacks; he bore them with
impatience, and knew not how to retaliate. The Countess, accustomed
to the respect of the world, could not calmly bear to see herself an
object of calumny and ridicule. With tears in her eyes she complained
to Ibrahim, now bitterly reproaching him, now imploring him not to
defend her, lest by some useless brawl she should be completely ruined.
A new circumstance tended to make her position still more difficult:
the result of imprudent love began to be noticeable. The Countess
in despair informed Ibrahim of the matter. Consolation, advice,
proposals--all were exhausted and all rejected. The Countess saw that
her ruin was inevitable, and in despair awaited it.
As soon as the condition of the Countess became known, gossip began
again with renewed vigour; sentimental women gave vent to exclamations
of horror; and epigrams were disseminated with reference to her
husband, who alone in all Paris knew nothing and suspected nothing.
The fatal moment approached. The condition of the Countess was
terrible. Ibrahim visited her every day. He saw her mental and physical
strength gradually giving way. Her tears and her terror were renewed
every moment Measures were hastily taken. Means were found for getting
the Count out of the way. The doctor arrived. Two days before this a
poor woman had been persuaded to resign into the hands of strangers her
new-born infant; for this a confidential person was sent. Ibrahim was
in the room adjoining the bedchamber where lay the unhappy Countess....
Suddenly he heard the weak cry of a child--and, unable to repress his
delight, he rushed into the Countess’s room.... A black baby lay upon
the bed at her feet. Ibrahim approached it. His heart beat violently.
He blessed his son with a trembling hand. The Countess smiled faintly
and stretched out to him her feeble hand, but the doctor, fearing that
the excitement might be too great for the patient, dragged Ibrahim away
from her bed. The new-born child was placed in a covered basket, and
carried out of the house by a secret staircase. Then the other child
was brought in, and its cradle placed in the bedroom. Ibrahim took
his departure, feeling very ill at ease. The Count was expected. He
returned late, heard of the happy deliverance of his wife, and was much
gratified. In this way the public, which had been expecting a great
scandal, was deceived in its hope, and was compelled to console itself
with slandering. Everything resumed its usual course.
But Ibrahim felt that there would have to be a change in his lot, and
that sooner or later his relations with the Countess would come to
the knowledge of her husband. In that case, whatever might happen,
the ruin of the Countess was inevitable. Ibrahim loved passionately
and was passionately loved in return, but the Countess was wilful and
light-minded; it was not the first time that she had loved. Disgust,
and even hatred might replace in her heart the most tender feelings.
Ibrahim already foresaw the moment of her coolness. Hitherto he had not
known jealousy, but with dread he now felt a presentiment of it; he
thought that the pain of separation would be less distressing, and he
resolved to break off the unhappy connection, leave Paris, and return
to Russia, whither Peter and a vague sense of duty had been calling him
for a long time.
[Footnote 1: Although this story was unfortunately left unfinished,
it has been included in this collection, as, apart from its
intrinsic merit, it throws an interesting light upon the history
of Poushkin’s African ancestor.--The real name of the hero was
Hannibal.--_Translator_.]
[Footnote 2: John Law, the famous projector of financial schemes.]
[Footnote 3: Voltaire.]
CHAPTER II.
Days, months passed, and the enamoured Ibrahim could not resolve to
leave the woman that he had seduced. The Countess grew more and more
attached to him. Their son was being brought up in a distant province.
The slanders of the world were beginning to subside, and the lovers
began to enjoy greater tranquillity, silently remembering the past
storm and endeavouring not to think of the future.
One day Ibrahim was in the lobby of the Duke of Orleans’ residence.
The Duke, passing by him, stopped, and handing him a letter, told him
to read it at his leisure. It was a letter from Peter the First. The
Emperor, guessing the true cause of his absence, wrote to the Duke that
he had no intention of compelling Ibrahim, that he left it to his own
free will to return to Russia or not, but that in any case he would
never abandon his former foster-child. This letter touched Ibrahim to
the bottom of his heart. From that moment his resolution was taken. The
next day he informed the Regent of his intention to set out immediately
for Russia.
“Reflect upon what you are going to do,” said the Duke to him:
“Russia is not your native country. I do not think that you will ever
again see your torrid home, but your long residence in France has
made you equally a stranger to the climate and the ways of life of
semi-civilized Russia. You were not born a subject of Peter. Listen to
my advice: take advantage of his magnanimous permission, remain in
France, for which you have already shed your blood, and rest assured
that here your services and talents will not remain unrewarded.”
Ibrahim thanked the Duke sincerely, but remained firm in his resolution.
“I feel very sorry,” said the Regent: “but perhaps you are right.”
He promised to let him retire from the French service, and wrote a full
account of the matter to the Czar.
Ibrahim was soon ready for the journey. On the eve of his departure he
spent the evening as usual at the house of the Countess L----. She knew
nothing. Ibrahim had not the courage to inform her of his intention.
The Countess was calm and cheerful. She several times called him to her
and joked about his thoughtfulness. After supper the guests departed.
The Countess, her husband, and Ibrahim were left alone in the parlour.
The unhappy man would have given everything in the world to have been
left alone with her; but Count L---- seemed to have seated himself so
comfortably beside the fire, that it appeared useless to hope that he
would leave the room. All three remained silent.
“_Bonne nuit!_” said the Countess at last.
A pang passed through Ibrahim’s heart, and he suddenly felt all the
horrors of parting. He stood motionless.
“_Bonne nuit, messieurs!_” repeated the Countess.
Still he remained motionless.... At last his eyes became dim, his head
swam round, and he could scarcely walk out of the room. On reaching
home, he wrote, almost unconsciously, the following letter:
“I am going away, dear Leonora; I am leaving you for ever. I am writing
to you, because I have not the strength to inform you otherwise.
“My happiness could not continue: I have enjoyed it against fate and
nature. You must have ceased to love me; the enchantment must have
vanished. This thought has always pursued me, even in those moments
when I have seemed to forget everything, when at your feet I have
been intoxicated by your passionate self-denial, by your unbounded
tenderness.... The thoughtless world unmercifully runs down that
which it permits in theory; its cold irony sooner or later would have
vanquished you, would have humbled your ardent soul, and at last you
would have become ashamed of your passion.... What would then have
become of me? No, it were better that I should die, better that I
should leave you before that terrible moment.
“Your tranquillity is dearer to me than everything: you could not enjoy
it while the eyes of the world were fixed upon you. Think of all that
you have suffered, all your wounded self-love, all the tortures of
fear; remember the terrible birth of our son. Think: ought I to expose
you any longer to such agitations and dangers? Why should I endeavour
to unite the fate of such a tender, beautiful creature to the miserable
fate of a negro, of a pitiable being, scarce worthy of the name of man?
“Farewell, Leonora; farewell, my dear and only friend. I am leaving
you, I am leaving the first and last joy of my life. I have neither
fatherland nor kindred; I am going to Russia, where my utter loneliness
will be a consolation to me. Serious business, to which from this time
forth I devote myself, if it will not stifle, will at least divert
painful recollections of the days of rapture and bliss.... Farewell,
Leonora! I tear myself away from this letter, as if from your embrace.
Farewell, be happy, and think sometimes of the poor negro, of your
faithful Ibrahim.”
That same night he set out for Russia.
The journey did not seem to him as terrible as he had expected. His
imagination triumphed over the reality. The further he got from Paris,
the more vivid and nearer rose up before him the objects he was leaving
for ever.
Before he was aware of it he had crossed the Russian frontier. Autumn
had already set in, but the postilions, in spite of the bad state of
the roads, drove him with the speed of the wind, and on the seventeenth
day of his journey he arrived at Krasnoe Selo, through which at that
time the high road passed.
It was still a distance of twenty-eight versts to Petersburg. While the
horses were being changed, Ibrahim entered the post-house. In a corner,
a tall man, in a green _caftan_ and with a clay pipe in his mouth, was
leaning with his elbows upon the table reading the “Hamburg Gazette,”
Hearing somebody enter, he raised his head.
“Ah, Ibrahim!” he exclaimed, rising from the bench. “How do you do,
godson?”
Ibrahim recognized Peter, and in his delight was about to rush towards
him, but he respectfully paused. The Emperor approached, embraced him
and kissed him upon the forehead.
“I was informed of your coming,” said Peter, “and set off to meet you.
I have been waiting for you here since yesterday.”
Ibrahim could not find words to express his gratitude.
“Let your carriage follow on behind us,” continued the Emperor, “and
you take your place by my side and ride along with me.”
The Czar’s carriage was driven up; he took his seat with Ibrahim, and
they set off at a gallop. In about an hour and a half they reached
Petersburg. Ibrahim gazed with curiosity at the new-born city which had
sprung up at the beck of his master. Bare banks, canals without quays,
wooden bridges everywhere testified to the recent triumph of the human
will over the hostile elements. The houses seemed to have been built in
a hurry. In the whole town there was nothing magnificent but the Neva,
not yet ornamented with its granite frame, but already covered with
warships and merchant vessels. The imperial carriage stopped at the
palace, i.e., at the Tsaritsin Garden. On the steps Peter was met by a
woman of about thirty-five years of age, handsome, and dressed in the
latest Parisian fashion. Peter kissed her and, taking Ibrahim by the
hand, said:
“Do you recognize my godson, Katinka?[1] I beg you to love and favour
him as formerly.”
Catherine fixed on him her dark piercing eyes, and stretched out her
hand to him in a friendly manner. Two young beauties, tall, slender,
and fresh as roses, stood behind her and respectfully approached Peter.
“Liza,” said he to one of them, “do you remember the little negro who
stole my apples for you at Oranienbaum? Here he is; I introduce him to
you.”
The Grand Duchess laughed and blushed. They went into the dining-room.
In expectation of the Emperor the table had been laid. Peter sat down
to dinner with all his family, and invited Ibrahim to sit down with
them. During the course of the dinner the Emperor conversed with him on
various subjects, questioned him about the Spanish war, the internal
affairs of France and the Regent, whom he liked, although he blamed him
for many things. Ibrahim possessed an exact and observant mind. Peter
was very pleased with his replies. He recalled to mind some features of
Ibrahim’s childhood, and related them with such good-humour and gaiety,
that nobody could have suspected this kind and hospitable host to be
the hero of Poltava,[2] the powerful and terrible reformer of Russia.
After dinner the Emperor, according to the Russian custom, retired to
rest. Ibrahim remained with the Empress and the Grand Duchesses. He
tried to satisfy their curiosity, described the Parisian way of life,
the holidays that were kept there, and the changeable fashions. In the
meantime, some of the persons belonging to the Emperor’s suite had
assembled in the palace. Ibrahim recognized the magnificent Prince
Menshikoff, who, seeing the negro conversing with Catherine, cast
an arrogant glance at him; Prince Jacob Dolgorouky, Peter’s stern
counsellor; the learned Bruce,[3] who had acquired among the people
the name of the “Russian Faust”; the young Ragouzinsky, his former
companion, and others who had come to bring reports to the Emperor and
to await his orders.
In about two hours’ time the Emperor appeared.
“Let us see,” said he to Ibrahim, “if you have forgotten your old
duties. Take a slate and follow me.”
Peter shut himself up in his work-room and busied himself with state
affairs. He worked in turns with Bruce, with Prince Dolgorouky, and
with General Police-master Devier, and dictated to Ibrahim several
ukases and decisions. Ibrahim could not help feeling astonished at
the quickness and firmness of his understanding, the strength and
pliability of his powers of observation, and the variety of his
occupations. When the work was finished, Peter drew out a pocket-book
in order to see if all that he had proposed to do that day had been
accomplished. Then, issuing from the work-room, he said to Ibrahim:
“It is late; no doubt you are tired,--sleep here to-night, as you used
to do in the old times; to-morrow I will wake you.”
Ibrahim, on being left alone, could hardly collect his thoughts. He
found himself in Petersburg; he saw again the great man, near whom,
not yet knowing his worth, he had passed his childhood. Almost with
regret he confessed to himself that the Countess L----, for the first
time since their separation, had not been his sole thought during
the whole of the day. He saw that the new mode of life which awaited
him,--the activity and constant occupation,--would revive his soul,
wearied by passion, idleness and secret grief. The thought of being
a fellow-worker with the great man, and, in conjunction with him, of
influencing the fate of a great nation, aroused within him for the
first time the noble feeling of ambition. In this disposition of mind
he lay down upon the camp bed prepared for him, and then the usual
dreams carried him back to far-off Paris, to the arms of his dear
Countess.
[Footnote 1: Diminutive of Catherine.]
[Footnote 2: A town in the Ukraine, where, in 1709, the Swedes, under
Charles XII., were completely routed by the Russians under Peter the
Great.]
[Footnote 3: Peter the Great encouraged foreigners of ability to settle
in Russia.]
CHAPTER III.
The next morning, Peter, according to his promise, awoke Ibrahim and
congratulated him on his elevation to the rank of Captain-lieutenant
of the Grenadier company of the Preobrajensky Regiment,[1] in which
he himself was Captain. The courtiers surrounded Ibrahim, each in
his way trying to flatter the new favourite. The haughty Prince
Menshikoff pressed his hand in a friendly manner; Sheremetieff inquired
after his Parisian acquaintances, and Golovin invited him to dinner.
Others followed the example of the latter, so that Ibrahim received
invitations for at least a whole month.
Ibrahim now began to lead a monotonous but busy life, consequently did
not feel at all dull. From day to day he became more attached to the
Emperor, and was better able to estimate his lofty soul. To follow
the thoughts of a great man is a very interesting study. Ibrahim saw
Peter in the Senate disputing with Boutourlin and Dolgorouky, in the
Admiralty College discussing the naval power of Russia; in his hours
of leisure he saw him with Feophan, Gavril Boujinsky, and Kopievitch,
examining translations from foreign publications, or visiting the
manufactory of a merchant, the workshop of a mechanic, or the study of
some learned man. Russia presented to Ibrahim the appearance of a huge
workshop, where machines alone move, where each workman, subject to
established rules, is occupied with his own particular business. He
felt within himself that he ought to work at his own bench also, and
endeavour to regret as little as possible the gaieties of his Parisian
life. But it was more difficult for him to drive from his mind that
other dear recollection: he often thought of the Countess L----, and
pictured to himself her just indignation, her tears and her grief....
But sometimes a terrible thought oppressed him: the seductions of the
great world, a new tie, another favourite--he shuddered; jealousy began
to set his African blood in a ferment, and hot tears were ready to roll
down his swarthy face.
One morning he was sitting in his study, surrounded by business papers,
when suddenly he heard a loud greeting in French. Ibrahim turned round
quickly, and young Korsakoff, whom he had left in Paris in the whirl of
the great world, embraced him with joyful exclamations.
“I have only just arrived,” said Korsakoff, “and I have come straight
to you. All our Parisian acquaintances send their greetings to you, and
regret your absence. The Countess L ordered me to summon you to return
without fail, and here is her letter to you.”
Ibrahim seized it with a trembling hand and looked at the well-known
handwriting of the address, not daring to believe, his eyes.
“How glad I am,” continued Korsakoff, “that you have not yet died of
ennui in this barbarous Petersburg! What do people do here? How do they
occupy themselves? Who is your tailor? Have they established an opera?”
Ibrahim absently replied that probably the Emperor was just then at
work in the dockyard.
Korsakoff laughed.
“I see,” said he, “that you do not want me just now; some other time we
will have a long chat together; I am now going to pay my respects to
the Emperor.”
With these words he turned on his heel and hastened out of the room.
Ibrahim, left alone, hastily opened the letter. The Countess
tenderly complained to him, reproaching him with dissimulation and
distrustfulness.
“You say,” wrote she, “that my tranquillity is dearer to you than
everything in the world. Ibrahim, if this were the truth, would
you have brought me to the condition to which I was reduced by the
unexpected news of your departure? You were afraid that I might have
detained you. Be assured that, in spite of my love, I should have known
how to sacrifice it for your happiness and for what you consider your
duty.”
The Countess ended the letter with passionate assurances of love, and
implored him to write to her, if only now and then, even though there
should be no hope of their ever seeing each other again.
Ibrahim read this letter through twenty times, kissing the priceless
lines-with rapture. He was burning with impatience to hear something
about the Countess, and he was just preparing to set out for the
Admiralty, hoping to find Korsakoff still there, when the door opened,
and Korsakoff himself appeared once more. He had already paid his
respects to the Emperor, and as was usual with him, he seemed very well
satisfied with himself.
_“Entre nous,”_ he said to Ibrahim, “the Emperor is a very strange man.
Just fancy, I found him in a sort of linen under-vest, on the mast
of a new ship, whither I was compelled to climb with my dispatches.
I stood on the rope ladder, and had not sufficient room to make a
suitable bow, and so I became completely confused, a thing that had
never happened to me in my life before. However, when the Emperor had
read my letter, he looked at me from head to foot, and no doubt was
agreeably struck by the taste and splendour of my attire; at any rate
he smiled and invited me to to-day’s assembly. But I am a perfect
stranger in Petersburg; during the course of my six years’ absence I
have quite forgotten the local customs; pray be my mentor; come with me
and introduce me.”
Ibrahim agreed to do so, and hastened to turn the conversation to a
subject that was more interesting to him.
“Well, and how about the Countess L----”
“The Countess? Of course, at first she was very much grieved on
account of your departure; then, of course, little by little, she grew
reconciled and took unto herself a new lover: do you know whom? The
long-legged Marquis R----. Why do you show the whites of your negro
eyes in that manner? Does it seem strange to you? Don’t you know that
lasting grief is not in human nature, particularly in feminine nature?
Think over this well, while I go and rest after my journey, and don’t
forget to come and call for me.”
What feelings filled the soul of Ibrahim? Jealousy? Rage? Despair? No,
but a deep, oppressing sorrow. He repeated to himself: “I foresaw it,
it had 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
relieved his heart. Looking at the clock, he perceived that it was time
to set out. Ibrahim would have been very glad to stay away, but the
assembly was a matter of duty, and the Emperor strictly demanded the
presence of his retainers. He dressed himself and started out to call
for Korsakoff.
Korsakoff was sitting in his dressing-gown, reading a French book.
“So early?” he said to Ibrahim, on seeing him.
“Pardon me,” the latter replied; “it is already half-past five, we
shall be late; make haste and dress and let us go.”
Korsakoff started up and rang the bell with all his might; the servants
came running in, and he began hastily to dress, himself. His French
valet gave him shoes with red heels, blue velvet breeches, and a red
_caftan_ embroidered with spangles. His peruke was hurriedly powdered
in the antechamber and brought in to him. Korsakoff placed it upon his
cropped head, asked for his sword and gloves, turned round about ten
times before the glass, and then informed Ibrahim that he was ready.
The footmen handed them their bearskin cloaks, and they set out for the
Winter Palace.
Korsakoff overwhelmed Ibrahim with questions: Who was the greatest
beauty in Petersburg? Who was supposed to be the best dancer? Which
dance was just then the rage? Ibrahim very reluctantly gratified his
curiosity. Meanwhile they reached the palace. A great number of long
sledges, old-fashioned carriages, and gilded coaches already stood
on the lawn. Near the steps were crowded coachmen in liveries and
moustaches; running footmen glittering with tinsel and feathers, and
bearing staves; hussars, pages, and clumsy servants loaded with the
cloaks and muffs of their masters--a train indispensable according
to the notions of the gentry of that time. At the sight of Ibrahim,
a general murmur arose: “The negro, the negro, the Czar’s negro!” He
hurriedly conducted Korsakoff through this motley crowd. The Court
lackey opened wide the doors to them, and they entered the hall.
Korsakoff was dumfounded.... In the large room, illuminated by tallow
candles, which burnt dimly amidst clouds of tobacco smoke, magnates
with blue ribbons across their shoulders, ambassadors, foreign
merchants, officers of the Guards in green uniforms, ship-masters in
jackets and striped trousers, moved backwards and forwards in crowds
to the uninterrupted sound of the music of wind instruments. The
ladies sat against the walls, the young ones being decked out in all
the splendour of the prevailing fashion. Gold and silver glittered
upon their dresses; out of monstrous farthingales their slender forms
rose like flower stalks; diamonds sparkled in their ears, in their
long curls, and around their necks. They glanced gaily about to the
right and to the left, waiting for their cavaliers and for the dancing
to begin. The elderly ladies craftily endeavoured to combine the new
style of dress with that of the past; their caps were made to resemble
the small sable head-dress of the Empress Natalia Kirilovna,[2] and
their gowns and mantles recalled the _sarafan_ and _doushegreika_.[3]
They seemed to take part in these newly introduced amusements more
with astonishment than pleasure, and cast looks of resentment at the
wives and daughters of the Dutch skippers, who, in dimity skirts and
red jackets, knitted their stockings and laughed and chatted among
themselves as if they were at home.
Observing new arrivals, a servant approached them with beer and glasses
on a tray. Korsakoff was completely bewildered.
“_Que diable est ce que tout cela?_” he said in a whisper to Ibrahim.
Ibrahim could not repress a smile. The Empress and the Grand Duchesses,
dazzling in their beauty and their attire, walked through the rows of
guests, conversing affably with them. The Emperor was in another room.
Korsakoff, wishing to show himself to him, with difficulty succeeded
in pushing his way thither through the constantly moving crowd. In
this room were chiefly foreigners, solemnly smoking their clay pipes
and drinking out of earthenware jugs. On the tables were bottles of
beer and wine, leather pouches with tobacco, glasses of punch, and
some chessboards. At one of these Peter was playing at chess with a
broad-shouldered English skipper. They zealously saluted one another
with whiffs of tobacco smoke, and the Emperor was so occupied with
an unexpected move that had been made by his opponent, that he did
not observe Korsakoff, as he smirked and capered about them. Just
then a stout gentleman, with a large bouquet upon his breast, rushed
hurriedly into the room and announced in a loud voice that the dancing
had commenced, and immediately retired. A large number of the guests
followed him, Korsakoff being among the number.
An unexpected scene filled him with astonishment. Along the whole
length of the ball-room, to the sound of the most mournful music, the
ladies and gentlemen stood in two rows facing each other; the gentlemen
bowed low, the ladies curtsied still lower, first to the front, then
to the right, then to the left, then again to the front, again to
the right, and so on. Korsakoff, gazing at this peculiar style of
amusement, opened wide his eyes and bit his lips. The curtseying and
bowing continued for about half an hour; at last they ceased, and the
stout gentleman with the bouquet announced that the ceremonial dances
were ended, and ordered the musicians to play a minuet. Korsakoff
felt delighted, and prepared-to shine. Among the young ladies was
one in particular whom he was greatly charmed with. She was about
sixteen years of age, was richly dressed, but with taste, and sat near
an elderly gentleman of stern and dignified appearance. Korsakoff
approached her and asked her to do him the honour of dancing with him.
The young beauty looked at him in confusion, and did not seem to know
what to say to him. The gentleman sitting near her frowned still more.
Korsakoff awaited her decision, but the gentleman with the bouquet came
up to him, led him to the middle of the room, and said in a pompous
manner:
“Sir, you have done wrong. In the first place, you approached this
young person without making the three necessary reverences to her, and
in the second place, you took upon yourself to choose her, whereas, in
the minuet that right belongs to the lady, and not to the gentleman. On
that account you must be severely, punished, that is to say, you must
drain the goblet of the Great Eagle.”
Korsakoff grew more and more astonished. In a moment the guests
surrounded him, loudly demanding the immediate fulfilment of the
law. Peter, hearing the laughter and the cries, came out of the
adjoining room, as he was very fond of being present in person at such
punishments. The crowd divided before him, and he entered the circle,
where stood the culprit and before him the marshal of the Court holding
in his hands a huge goblet filled with malmsey wine. He was trying in
vain to persuade the offender to comply willingly with the law.
“Aha!” said Peter, seeing Korsakoff: “you are caught, my friend. Come
now, monsieur, drink up and no frowning about it.”
There was no help for it: the poor beau, without pausing to take
breath, drained the goblet to the dregs and returned it to the marshal.
“Hark you, Korsakoff,” said Peter to him: “those breeches of yours are
of velvet, such as I myself do not wear, and I am far richer than you.
That is extravagance; take care that I do not fall out with you.”
Hearing this reprimand, Korsakoff wished to make his way out of the
circle, but he staggered and almost fell, to the indescribable delight
of the Emperor and all the merry company. This episode not only did
not spoil the unison and interest of the principal performance, but
even enlivened it. The gentlemen began to scrape and bow, and the
ladies to curtsey and knock their heels with great zeal, and this
time without paying the least attention to the time of the music.
Korsakoff could not take part in the general gaiety. The lady, whom he
had chosen, by the order of her father, Gavril Afanassievitch Rjevsky,
approached Ibrahim, and, dropping her blue eyes, timidly gave him her
hand. Ibrahim danced the minuet with her and led her back to her former
place, then sought out Korsakoff, led him out of the ball-room, placed
him in the carriage and drove home. On the way Korsakoff began to
mutter in an incoherent manner: “Accursed assembly!... accursed goblet
of the Great Eagle!”... but he soon fell into a sound sleep, and knew
not how he reached home, nor how he was undressed and put into bed: and
he awoke the next day with a headache, and with a dim recollection of
the scraping, the curtseying, the tobacco-smoke, the gentleman with the
bouquet, and the goblet of the Great Eagle.
[Footnote 1: One of the “crack” regiments of the Russian Army.]
[Footnote 2: The mother of Peter the Great.]
[Footnote 3: A short sleeveless jacket.]
CHAPTER IV.
I must now introduce the gracious reader to Gavril Afanassievitch
Rjevsky. He was descended from an ancient noble family, possessed
vast estates, was hospitable, loved falconry, and had a large number
of domestics,--in a word, he was a genuine Russian nobleman. To use
his own expression, he could not endure the German spirit, and he
endeavoured to preserve in his home the ancient customs that were so
dear to him. His daughter was in her seventeenth year. She had lost her
mother while she was yet in her infancy, and she had been brought up
in the old style, that is to say, she was surrounded by governesses,
nurses, playfellows, and maidservants, was able to embroider in gold,
and could neither read nor write. Her father, notwithstanding his
dislike to everything foreign, could not oppose her wish to learn
German dances from a captive Swedish officer, living in their house.
This deserving dancing-master was about fifty years of age; his right
foot had been shot through at Narva,[1] and consequently he was not
very well suited for minuets and courantes, but the left executed with
wonderful ease and agility the most difficult steps. His pupil did
honour to his teaching. Natalia Gavrilovna was celebrated for being
the best dancer at the assemblies, and this was partly the cause of
the mistake made by Korsakoff, who came the next day to apologize to
Gavril Afanassievitch; but the airiness and elegance of the young
fop did not find favour in the eyes of the proud noble, who wittily
nicknamed him the French monkey.
It was a holiday. Gavril Afanassievitch expected some relatives and
friends. In the ancient hall a long table was laid. The guests arrived
with their wives and daughters, who had at last been set free from
domestic imprisonment by the decree of the Emperor and by his own
example.[2] Natalia Gavrilovna carried round to each guest a silver
tray laden with golden cups, and each man, as he drained his, regretted
that the kiss, which it was customary to receive on such occasions in
the olden times, had gone out of fashion.
They sat down to table. In the first place, next to the host, sat
his father-in-law, Prince Boris Alexeievitch Likoff, a boyar[3] of
seventy years of age; the other guests ranged themselves according to
the antiquity of their family, thus recalling the happy times when
respect for age was observed. The men sat on one side, the women on the
other. At the end of the table, the housekeeper in her old-fashioned
costume--a little woman of thirty, affected and wrinkled--and the
captive dancing-master, in his faded blue uniform, occupied their
accustomed places. The table, which was covered with a large number of
dishes, was surrounded by an anxious crowd of domestics, among whom was
distinguishable the house-steward, with his severe look, big paunch and
lofty immobility. The first few minutes of dinner were devoted entirely
to the productions of our old cookery; the noise of plates and the
rattling of spoons alone interrupted the general silence. At last the
host, seeing that the time had arrived for amusing the guests with
agreeable conversation, turned round and asked:
“But where is Ekemovna? Summon her hither.”
Several servants were about to rush off in different directions, but
at that moment an old woman, painted white and red, decorated with
flowers and tinsel, in a silk gown with a low neck, entered, singing
and dancing. Her appearance produced general satisfaction.
“Good-day, Ekemovna,” said Prince Likoff: “how do you do?”
“Quite well and happy, gossip: still singing and dancing and looking
out for sweethearts.”
“Where have you been, fool?” asked the host.
“Decorating myself, gossip, for the dear guests, for this holy day, by
order of the Czar, by command of my master, to be a laughing-stock for
everybody after the German manner.”
At these words there arose a loud burst of laughter, and the fool took
her place behind the host’s chair.
“A fool talks nonsense, but sometimes speaks the truth,” said
Tatiana Afanassievna, the eldest sister of the host, and for whom
he entertained great respect. “As a matter of fact, the present
fashion must seem ridiculous in the eyes of everybody. But since you,
gentlemen, have shaved off your beards[4] and put on short _caftans_,
it is, of course, useless to talk about women’s rags, although it
is really a pity about the _sarafan_, the maiden’s ribbons, and the
_povoinik_![5] It is pitiable and at the same time laughable, to see
the beauties of to-day: their hair frizzed like tow, greased and
covered with French powder; the waist drawn in to such a degree, that
it is almost on the point of breaking in two; their petticoats are
distended with hoops, so that they have to enter a carriage sideways;
to go through a door they are obliged to stoop down; they can neither
stand, nor sit, nor breathe--real martyrs, the poor doves!”
“Oh, little mother Tatiana Afanassievna!” said Kirila Petrovitch T----,
a former governor of Riazan, where he acquired three thousand serfs
and a young wife, both by somewhat dishonourable means, “as far as I
am concerned, my wife may do as she pleases, and wear what she likes,
provided that she does not order new dresses every month and throw away
the former ones that are nearly new. In former times the grandmother’s
_sarafan_ formed part of the granddaughter’s dowry, but nowadays all
that is changed: the dress, that the mistress wears to-day, you will
see the servant wearing to-morrow. What is to be done? It is the ruin
of the Russian nobility, alas!”
At these words he sighed and looked at his Maria Ilienishna, who
did not seem at all to like either his praises of the past or his
disparagement of the latest customs. The other young ladies shared her
displeasure, but they remained silent, for modesty was then considered
an indispensable attribute in young women.
“And who is to blame?” said Gavril Afanassievitch, filling a tankard
with an effervescing beverage. “Isn’t it our own fault? The young women
play the fool, and we encourage them.”
“But what can we do, when our wishes are not consulted?” replied Kirila
Petrovitch. “One would be glad to shut his wife up in an attic, but
with beating of drums she is summoned to appear at the assemblies.
The husband goes after the whip, but the wife after dress. Oh, those
assemblies! The Lord has sent them upon us as a punishment for our
sins.”
Maria Ilienishna sat as if upon needles; her tongue itched to speak. At
last she could restrain herself no longer, and turning to her husband,
she asked him with an acid smile, what he found wrong in the assemblies.
“This is what I find wrong in them,” replied the provoked husband:
“since the time when they commenced, husbands have been unable to
manage their wives; wives have forgotten the words of the Apostle: ‘Let
the wife reverence her husband’; they no longer busy themselves about
domestic affairs, but about new dresses; they do not think of how to
please their husbands, but how to attract the attention of frivolous
officers. And is it becoming, Madame, for a Russian lady to associate
with German smokers and their work-women? And was ever such a thing
heard of, as dancing and talking with young men till far into the
night? It would be all very well if it were with relatives, but with
strangers, with people that they are totally unacquainted with!”
“I would say just a word, but there is a wolf not far off,” said Gavril
Afanassievitch, frowning. “I confess that these assemblies are not
to my liking: before you know where you are, you knock against some
drunkard, or are made drunk yourself to become the laughing-stock of
others. Then you must keep your eyes open lest some good-for-nothing
fellow should act the fool with your daughter; the young men nowadays
are so spoilt, that they cannot be worse. Look, for example, at the son
of the late Evgraf Sergeievitch Korsakoff, who at the last assembly
made so much noise about Natasha,[6] that it brought the blood to my
cheeks. The next day I see somebody driving straight into my courtyard;
I thought to myself, who in the name of Heaven is it, can it be Prince
Alexander Danilovitch? But no: it was Ivan Evgrafovitch! He could not
stop at the gate and make his way on foot to the steps, not he! He flew
in, bowing and chattering, the Lord preserve us! The fool Ekemovna
mimics him very amusingly: by the way, fool, give us an imitation of
the foreign monkey.”
The fool Ekemovna seized hold of a dish-cover, placed it under her
arm like a hat, and began twisting, scraping, and bowing in every
direction, repeating: “monsieur ... mamselle ... assemble ... pardon.”
General and prolonged laughter again testified to the delight of the
guests.
“Just like Korsakoff,” said old Prince Likoff, wiping away the tears
of laughter, when calmness was again restored. “But why conceal the
fact? He is not the first, nor will he be the last, who has returned
from abroad to holy Russia a buffoon. What do our children learn there?
To scrape with their feet, to chatter God knows in what gibberish, to
treat their elders with disrespect, and to dangle after other men’s
wives. Of all the young people who have been educated abroad (the Lord
forgive me!) the Czar’s negro most resembles a man.”
“Oh, Prince,” said Tatiana Afanassievna: “I have seen him, I have seen
him quite close: what a frightful muzzle he has! He quite terrified me!”
“Of course,” observed Gavril Afanassievitch: “he is a sober, decent
man, and not a mere weathercock.... But who is it that has just driven
through the gate into the courtyard? Surely it cannot be that foreign
monkey again? Why do you stand gaping there, beasts?” he continued,
turning to the servants: “run and stop him from coming in, and for the
future....”
“Old beard, are you dreaming?” interrupted Ekemovna the fool, “or are
you blind? It is the imperial sledge--the Czar has come.”
Gavril Afanassievitch rose hastily from the table; everybody rushed to
the window, and sure enough they saw the Emperor ascending the steps,
leaning on the shoulder of his servant. A great confusion arose. The
host rushed to meet Peter; the servants ran hither and thither as if
they had gone crazy; the guests became alarmed; some even thought how
they might hasten home as quickly as possible. Suddenly the thundering
voice of Peter resounded in the ante-room; all became silent, and the
Czar entered, accompanied by his host, who was beside himself with joy.
“Good day, gentlemen!” said Peter, with a cheerful countenance.
All made a profound bow. The sharp eyes of the Czar sought out in the
crowd the young daughter of the host; he called her to him. Natalia
Gavrilovna advanced boldly enough, but she blushed not only to the ears
but even to the shoulders.
“You grow more beautiful every day,” said the Emperor to her, and
according to his usual custom he kissed her upon the head; then turning
to the guests, he added: “I have disturbed you? You were dining? Pray
sit down again, and give me some aniseed brandy, Gavril Afanassievitch.”
The host rushed to the stately house-steward, snatched from his hand
a tray, filled a golden goblet himself, and gave it with a bow to the
Emperor. Peter drank the brandy, ate a biscuit, and for the second
time requested the guests to continue their dinner. All resumed their
former places, except the dwarf and the housekeeper, who did not dare
to remain at a table honoured by the presence of the Czar. Peter sat
down by the side of the host and asked for some soup. The Emperor’s
servant gave him a wooden spoon mounted with ivory, and a knife and
fork with green bone handles, for Peter never used any other knives,
forks and spoons but his own. The dinner, which a moment before had
been so noisy and merry, was now continued in silence and constraint.
The host, through respect and delight, ate nothing; the guests also
stood upon ceremony and listened with respectful attention, as the
Emperor discoursed in German with the captive Swede about the campaign
of 1701. The fool Ekemovna, several times questioned by the Emperor,
replied with a sort of timid coldness, which, be it remarked, did not
at all prove her natural stupidity. At last the dinned came to an end.
The Emperor rose, and after him all the guests.
“Gavril Afanassievitch!” he said to the host: “I want to say a word
with you alone;” and, taking him by the arm, he led him into the
parlour and locked the door. The guests remained in the dining-room,
talking in whispers about the unexpected visit, and, afraid of being
indiscreet, they soon dispersed one after another, without thanking
the host for his hospitality. His father-in-law, daughter, and sister
conducted them very quietly to the door, and remained alone in the
dining-room, awaiting the issue of the Emperor.
[Footnote 1: A town on the southern shore of the Gulf of Finland, and
the scene of a great battle in 1700, when the Russians were completely
routed by the Swedes under Charles XII.]
[Footnote 2: Previous to the reign of Peter the Great, the Russian
women lived in almost Oriental seclusion, and it was for the purpose of
abolishing this custom that Peter established his famous “assemblies.”]
[Footnote 3: A noble of the second degree.]
[Footnote 4: In his zeal to introduce into his empire the customs of
Western Europe, Peter the Great issued an order that all Russians were
to shave off their beards.]
[Footnote 5: The national head-dress of the Russian women.]
CHAPTER V.
About half an hour afterwards the door opened and Peter issued forth.
With a dignified inclination of the head he replied to the threefold
bow of Prince Likoff, Tatiana Afanassievna and Natasha, and walked
straight out into the ante-room. The host handed him his red cloak,
conducted him to the sledge, and on the steps thanked him once more for
the honour he had shown him.
Peter drove off.
Returning to the dining-room, Gavril Afanassievitch seemed very much
troubled; he angrily ordered the servants to clear the table as quickly
as possible, sent Natasha to her own room, and, informing his sister
and father-in-law that he must talk with them, he led them into the
bedroom, where he usually rested after dinner. The old Prince lay down
upon the oak bed; Tatiana Afanassievna sat down in the old silk-lined
armchair, and placed her feet upon the footstool; Gavril Afanassievitch
locked the doors, sat down upon the bed at the feet of Prince Likoff,
and in a low voice began:
“It was not for nothing that the Emperor paid me a visit to-day: guess
what he wanted to talk to me about.”
“How can we know, brother?” said Tatiana Afanassievna.
“Has the Czar appointed you to some government?” said his
father-in-law:--“it is quite time enough that he did so. Or has he
offered an embassy to you? Why not? That need not mean being a mere
secretary--distinguished people are sent to foreign monarchs.”
“No,” replied his son-in-law, frowning. “I am a man of the old school,
and our services nowadays are of no use, although, perhaps, an orthodox
Russian nobleman is worth more than these modern upstarts, bakers and
heathens. But this is a different matter altogether.”
“Then what is it, brother?” said Tatiana Afanassievna. “Why was
he talking with you for such a long time? Can it be that you are
threatened with some misfortune? The Lord save and defend us!”
“No misfortune, certainly, but I confess that it is a matter for
reflection.”
“Then what is it, brother? What is the matter about?”
“It is about Natasha: the Czar came to ask for her hand.”
“God be thanked!” said Tatiana Afanassievna, crossing herself. “The
maiden is of a marriageable age, and as the matchmaker is, so must the
bridegroom be. God give them love and counsel, the honour is great. For
whom does the Czar ask her hand?”
“H’m!” exclaimed Gavril Afanassievitch: “for whom? That’s just it for
whom!”
“Who is it, then?” repeated Prince Likoff, already beginning to doze
off to sleep.
“Guess,” said Gavril Afanassievitch.
“My dear brother,” replied the old lady: “how can we guess? There are a
great number of marriageable men at Court, each of whom would be glad
to take your Natasha for his wife. Is it Dolgorouky?”
“No, it is not Dolgorouky.”
“God be with him: he is too overbearing. Schein? Troekouroff?”
“No, neither the one nor the other.”
“I do not care for them either; they are flighty, and too much imbued
with the German spirit. Well, is it Miloslavsky?”
“No, not he.”
“God be with him, he is rich and stupid. Who then? Eletsky? Lvoff? It
cannot be Ragouzinsky? I cannot think of anybody else. For whom, then,
does the Czar want Natasha?”
“For the negro Ibrahim.”
The old lady uttered a cry and clasped her hands. Prince Likoff raised
his head from the pillow, and with astonishment repeated:
“For the negro Ibrahim?”
“My dear brother!” said the old lady in a tearful voice: “do not
destroy your dear child, do not deliver poor little Natasha into the
clutches of that black devil.”
“How?” replied Gavril Afanassievitch: “refuse the Emperor, who promises
in return to bestow his favour upon us and all our house.”
“What!” exclaimed the old Prince, who was now wide awake: “Natasha, my
granddaughter, to be married to a bought negro.”
“He is not of common birth,” said Gavril Afanassievitch: “he is the
son of a negro Sultan. The Mussulmen took him prisoner and sold him in
Constantinople, and our ambassador bought him and presented him to the
Czar. The negro’s eldest brother came to Russia with a considerable
ransom and----”
“We have heard the story of Bova Korolevitch and Erouslana
Lazarevitch.”[1]
“My dear Gavril Afanassievitch!” interrupted the old lady, “tell us
rather how you replied to the Emperor’s proposal.”
“I said that we were under his authority, and that it was our duty to
obey him in all things.”
At that moment a noise was heard behind the door. Gavril Afanassievitch
went to open it, but felt some obstruction. He pushed against it with
increased force, the door opened, and they saw Natasha lying in a swoon
upon the blood-stained floor.
Her heart sank within her, when the Emperor shut himself up with her
father; some presentiment whispered to her that the matter concerned
her, and when Gavril Afanassievitch ordered her to withdraw, saying
that he wished to speak to her aunt and grandfather, she could not
resist the instinct of feminine curiosity, stole quietly along through
the inner rooms to the bedroom door, and did not miss a single word
of the whole terrible conversation; when she heard her father’s last
words, the poor girl lost consciousness, and falling, struck her head
against an iron-bound chest, in which was kept her dowry.
The servants hastened to the spot; Natasha was lifted up, carried to
her own room, and placed in bed. After a little time she regained
consciousness, opened her eyes, but recognized neither father nor aunt.
A violent fever set in; she spoke in her delirium about the Czar’s
negro, about marriage, and suddenly cried in a plaintive and piercing
voice:
“Valerian, dear Valerian, my life, save me! there they are, there they
are....”
Tatiana Afanassievna glanced uneasily at her brother, who turned pale,
bit his lips, and silently left the room. He returned to the old
Prince, who, unable to mount the stairs, had remained below.
“How is Natasha?” asked he.
“Very bad,” replied the grieved father: “worse than I thought; she is
delirious, and raves about Valerian.”
“Who is this Valerian?” asked the anxious old man. “Can it be that
orphan, the archer’s son, whom you brought up in your house?”
“The same, to my misfortune!” replied Gavril Afanassievitch. “His
father, at the time of the rebellion, saved my life, and the devil
induced me to take the accursed young wolf into my house. When,
two years ago, he was enrolled in the regiment at his own request,
Natasha, on taking leave of him, shed bitter tears, and he stood as
if petrified. This seemed suspicious to me, and I spoke about it to
my sister. But since that time Natasha has never mentioned his name,
and nothing whatever has been heard of him. I thought that she had
forgotten him, but it is evident that such is not the case. But it is
decided: she shall marry the negro.”
Prince Likoff did not contradict him: it would have been useless. He
returned home; Tatiana Afanassievna remained by the side of Natasha’s
bed; Gavril Afanassievitch, having sent for the doctor, locked himself
in his room, and in his house all was still and sad.
The unexpected proposal astonished Ibrahim quite as much as Gavril
Afanassievitch. This is how it happened. Peter, being engaged in
business with Ibrahim, said to him:
“I perceive, my friend, that you are downhearted; speak frankly, what
is it you want?”
Ibrahim assured the Emperor that he was very well satisfied with his
lot, and wished for nothing better.
“Good,” said the Emperor: “if you are dull without any cause, I know
how to cheer you up.”
At the conclusion of the work, Peter asked Ibrahim:
“Do you like the young lady with whom you danced the minuet at the last
assembly?”
“She is very charming, Your Majesty, and seems to be a good and modest
girl.”
“Then I shall take it upon myself to make you better acquainted with
her. Would you like to marry her?”
“I, Your Majesty?”
“Listen, Ibrahim: you are a man alone in the world, without birth and
kindred, a stranger to everybody, except myself. Were I to die to-day,
what would become of you to-morrow, my poor negro? You must get settled
while there is yet time, find support in new ties, become connected by
marriage with the Russian nobility.”
“Your Majesty, I am happy under your protection, and in the possession
of your favour. God grant that I may not survive my Czar and
benefactor--I wish for nothing more; but even if I had any idea of
getting married, would the young lady and her relations consent? My
appearance----”
“Your appearance? What nonsense! A clever fellow like you, too! A young
girl must obey the will of her parents, and we will see what old Gavril
Rjevsky will say, when I myself will be your matchmaker.”
With these words the Emperor ordered his sledge, and left Ibrahim sunk
in deep reflection.
“Get married?” thought the African: “why not? Am I to be condemned to
pass my life in solitude, and not know the greatest pleasure and the
most sacred duties of man, just because I was born beneath the torrid
zone? I cannot hope to be loved: a childish objection! Is it possible
to believe in love? Does it then exist in the frivolous heart of woman?
As I have renounced for ever such alluring errors, I must devote my
attention to ideas of a more practical nature. The Emperor is right: I
must think of my future. Marriage with the young Rjevsky will connect
me with the proud Russian nobility, and I shall cease to be a sojourner
in my new fatherland. From my wife I shall not require love: I shall
be satisfied with her fidelity; and her friendship I will acquire by
constant tenderness, confidence and devotion.”
Ibrahim, according to his usual custom, wished to occupy himself with
work, but his imagination was too excited. He left the papers and went
for a stroll along the banks of the Neva. Suddenly he heard the voice
of Peter; he looked round and saw the Emperor, who, dismissing his
sledge, advanced towards him with a beaming countenance.
“It is all settled, my friend!” said Peter, taking him by the arm: “I
have affianced you. To-morrow, go and visit your father-in-law, but
see that you humour his boyar pride: leave the sledge at the gate,
go through the courtyard on foot, talk to him about his services and
distinctions, and he will be perfectly charmed with you.... And now,”
continued he, shaking his cudgel, “lead me to that rogue Danilitch,
with whom I must confer about his recent pranks.”
Ibrahim thanked Peter heartily for his fatherly solicitude on his
account, accompanied him as far as the magnificent palace of Prince
Menshikoff, and then returned home.
[Footnote 1: The two principal characters in one of the legendary
stories of Russia.]
CHAPTER VI.
Dimly burnt the lamp before the glass case in which glittered the
gold and silver frames of the sacred images. The flickering light
faintly illuminated the curtained bed and the little table set out with
labelled medicine-bottles. Near the stove sat a servant-maid at her
spinning-wheel, and the subdued noise of the spindle was the only sound
that broke the silence of the room.
“Who is there?” asked a feeble voice.
The servant-maid rose immediately, approached the bed, and gently
raised the curtain.
“Will it soon be daylight?” asked Natalia.
“It is already midday,” replied the maid.
“Oh, Lord of Heaven! and why is it so dark?”
“The shutters are closed, miss.”
“Help me to dress quickly.”
“You must not do so, miss; the doctor has forbidden it.” “Am I ill
then? How long have I been so?”
“About a fortnight.”
“Is it possible? And it seems to me as if it were only yesterday that I
went to bed....”
Natasha became silent; she tried to collect her scattered thoughts.
Something had happened to her, but what it was she could not exactly
remember. The maid stood before her, awaiting her orders. At that
moment a dull noise was heard below.
“What is that?” asked the invalid.
“The gentlemen have finished dinner,” replied the maid: “they are
rising from the table. Tatiana Afanassievna will be here presently.”
Natasha seemed pleased at this; she waved her feeble hand. The maid
dropped the curtain and seated herself again at the spinning-wheel.
A few minutes afterwards, a head in a broad white cap with dark ribbons
appeared in the doorway and asked in a low voice:
“How is Natasha?”
“How do you do, auntie?” said the invalid in a faint voice, and Tatiana
Afanassievna hastened towards her.
“The young lady has regained consciousness,” said the maid, carefully
drawing a chair to the side of the bed. The old lady, with tears in her
eyes, kissed the pale, languid face of her niece, and sat down beside
her. Just behind her came a German doctor in a black _caftan_ and
learned wig. He felt Natalia’s pulse, and announced in Latin, and then
in Russian, that the danger was over. He asked for paper and ink, wrote
out a new prescription, and departed. The old lady rose, kissed Natalia
once more, and immediately hurried down with the good news to Gavril
Afanassievitch.
In the parlour, in uniform, with sword by his side and hat in his hand,
sat the Czar’s negro, respectfully talking with Gavril Afanassievitch.
Korsakoff, stretched out upon a soft couch, was listening to their
conversation, and teasing a venerable greyhound. Becoming tired of this
occupation, he approached the mirror, the usual refuge of the idle, and
in it he saw Tatiana Afanassievna, who through the doorway was making
unnoticed signs to her brother.
“Someone is calling you, Gavril Afanassievitch,” said Korsakoff,
turning round to him and interrupting Ibrahim’s speech.
Gavril Afanassievitch immediately went to his sister and closed the
door behind him.
“I am astonished at your patience,” said Korsakoff to Ibrahim. “For
a full hour you have been listening to a lot of nonsense about the
antiquity of the Likoff and Rjevsky families, and have even added
your own moral observations! In your place _j’aurais planté là_ the
old babbler and all his race, including Natalia Gavrilovna, who is an
affected girl, and is only pretending to be ill--_une petite santé._
Tell me candidly: do you really love this little _mijaurée?_”
“No,” replied Ibrahim: “I am certainly not going to marry, out of love,
but out of prudence, and then only if she has no decided aversion to
me.”
“Listen, Ibrahim,” said Korsakoff, “follow my advice this time; in
truth, I am more discreet than I seem. Get this foolish idea out
of your head--don’t marry. It seems to me that your bride has no
particular liking for you. Do not a few things happen in this world?
For instance: I am certainly not a very bad sort of fellow myself,
but yet it has happened to me to deceive husbands, who, by the Lord,
were in no way worse than me. And you yourself ... do you remember our
Parisian friend, Count L---? There is no dependence to be placed upon
a woman’s fidelity; happy is he who can regard it with indifference.
But you!... With your passionate, pensive and suspicious nature, with
your flat nose, thick lips, and shaggy head, to rush into all the
dangers of matrimony!....”
“I thank you for your friendly advice,” interrupted Ibrahim coldly;
“but you know the proverb: ‘It is not your duty to rock other people’s
children.’”
“Take care, Ibrahim,” replied Korsakoff, laughing, “that you are not
called upon some day to prove the truth of that proverb in the literal
sense of the word.”
Meanwhile the conversation in the next room became very heated.
“You will kill her,” the old lady was saying: “she cannot bear the
sight of him.”
“But judge for yourself,” replied her obstinate brother. “For a
fortnight he has been coming here as her bridegroom, and during that
time he has not once seen his bride. He may think at last that her
illness is a mere invention and that we are only seeking to gain
time in order to rid ourselves of him in some way. And what will the
Czar say? He has already sent three times to ask after the health of
Natalia. Do as you like, but I have no intention of quarrelling with
him.”
“My Lord God!” said Tatiana Afanassievna: “what will become of the
poor child! At least let me go and prepare her for such a visit.”
Gavril Afanassievitch consented, and then returned, to the parlour.
“Thank God!” said he to Ibrahim: “the danger is over. Natalia is much
better. Were it not that I do not like to leave my dear guest Ivan
Evgrafovitch here alone, I would take you upstairs to have a glimpse of
your bride.”
Korsakoff congratulated Gavril Afanassievitch, asked him not to be
uneasy on his account, assured him that he was compelled to go at once,
and rushed out into the hall, without allowing his host to accompany
him.
Meanwhile Tatiana Afanassievna hastened to prepare the invalid for
the appearance of the terrible guest. Entering the room, she sat down
breathless by the side of the bed, and took Natasha by the hand; but
before she, was able to utter a word, the door opened.
Natasha asked: “Who has come in?”
The old lady turned faint. Gavril Afanassievitch drew back the curtain,
looked coldly at the sick girl, and asked how she was. The invalid
wanted to smile at him, but could not. Her father’s stern look struck
her, and unease took possession of her. At that moment it seemed to
her that someone was standing at the head of her bed. She raised her
head with an effort and suddenly recognized the czar’s negro. Then she
remembered everything, and the horror of the future presented itself
before her. But exhausted nature received no perceptible shock. Natasha
dropped her head down again upon the pillow and closed her eyes,...
her heart beat painfully within her. Tatiana Afanassievna made a sign
to her brother that the invalid wanted to go to sleep, and all quitted
the room very quietly, except the maid, who resumed her seat at the
spinning-wheel.
The unhappy beauty opened her eyes, and no longer seeing anybody by her
bedside, called the maid and sent her for the nurse. But at that moment
a round, old creature like a ball, rolled up to her bed. Lastotchka
(for so nurse was called) with all the speed of her short legs, had
followed Gavril Afanassievitch and Ibrahim up the stairs, and concealed
herself behind the door, in accordance to the promptings of that
curiosity which is inborn in the fair sex. Natasha, seeing her, sent
the maid away, and the nurse sat down upon a stool by the bedside.
Never had so small a body contained within itself so much energy of
soul. She intermeddled in everything, knew everything, and busied
herself about everything. By cunning and insinuating ways she had
succeeded in gaining the love of her masters, and the hatred of all the
household, which she controlled in the most arbitrary manner. Gavril
Afanassievitch listened to her reports, complaints, and petty requests.
Tatiana Afanassievna constantly asked her opinion, followed her advice,
and Natasha had the most unbounded affection for her, and confided to
her all the thoughts, all the emotions of her sixteen-year old heart.
“Do you know, Lastotchka,” said she, “my father is going to marry me to
the negro.”
The nurse sighed deeply, and her wrinkled face became still more
wrinkled.
“Is there no hope?” continued Natasha: “Will my father not take pity
upon me?”
The nurse shook her cap.
“Will not my grandfather or my aunt intercede for me?”
“No, miss; during your illness the negro succeeded in bewitching
everybody. The master is out of his mind about him, the Prince raves
about him alone, and Tatiana Afanassievna says it a pity that he is a
negro, as a better bridegroom we could not wish for.”
“My God, my God!” moaned poor Natasha.
“Do not grieve, my pretty one,” said the nurse, kissing her feeble
hand. “If you are to marry the negro, you will have your own way in
everything. Nowadays it is not as it was in the olden times: husbands
no longer keep their wives under lock and key; they say the negro is
rich; your house will be like a full cup--you will lead a merry life.”
“Poor Valerian!” said Natasha, but so softly that the nurse could only
guess what she said, as she did not hear the words.
“That is just it, miss,” said she, mysteriously lowering her voice; “if
you thought less of the archer’s orphan you would not rave about him in
your illness, and your father would not be angry.”
“What!” said the alarmed Natasha: “I have raved about Valerian? And my
father heard it? And my father is angry?”
“That is just the misfortune,” replied the nurse. “Now if you were to
ask him not to marry you to the negro he would think that Valerian
was the cause. There is nothing to be done; submit to the will of your
parents, for what is to be will be.”
Natasha did not reply. The thought that the secret of her heart was
known to her father, produced a powerful effect upon her imagination.
One hope alone remained, the hope to die before the completion of the
odious marriage. This thought consoled her. Weak and sad at heart she
resigned herself to her fate.
CHAPTER VII
In the house of Gavril Afanassievitch, to the right vestibule, was a
narrow room with one window. There stood a simple bed covered with a
woollen counter. In front of the bed was a small deal table, on which
a candle was burning, and some sheets of music lay. On the wall hung
an old blue uniform and its contemporary, a three-cornered hat; above
it, fastened by three nails hung a rude picture representing Charles
XII. on horseback. The notes of a flute resounded through this humble
mansion. The captive dancing-master, its lonely occupant in night-cap
and nankeen dressing-gown, was relieving the dulness of a winter’s
evening, by playing some old Swedish marches. After devoting two whole
hours to this exercise, the Swede took his flute to pieces, placed it
in a box and began to undress....