1776. Patiomkin in his bureau in the Winter Palace, St. Petersburgh.
Huge palatial apartment: style, Russia in the eighteenth century
imitating the Versailles du Roi Soleil. Extravagant luxury. Also dirt
and disorder.
Patiomkin, gigantic in stature and build, his face marred by the loss
of one eye and a marked squint in the other, sits at the end of a
table littered with papers and the remains of three or four successive
breakfasts. He has supplies of coffee and brandy at hand sufficient for
a party of ten. His coat, encrusted with diamonds, is on the floor. It
has fallen off a chair placed near the other end of the table for the
convenience of visitors. His court sword, with its attachments, is on
the chair. His three-cornered hat, also bejewelled, is on the table.
He himself is half dressed in an unfastened shirt and an immense
dressing-gown, once gorgeous, now food-splashed and dirty, as it serves
him for towel, handkerchief, duster, and every other use to which a
textile fabric can be put by a slovenly man. It does not conceal his
huge hairy chest, nor his half-buttoned knee breeches, nor his legs.
These are partly clad in silk stockings, which he occasionally hitches
up to his knees, and presently shakes down to his shins, by his restless
movement. His feet are thrust into enormous slippers, worth, with their
crust of jewels, several thousand roubles apiece.
Superficially Patiomkin is a violent, brutal barbarian, an upstart
despot of the most intolerable and dangerous type, ugly, lazy, and
disgusting in his personal habits. Yet ambassadors report him the ablest
man in Russia, and the one who can do most with the still abler Empress
Catherine II, who is not a Russian but a German, by no means barbarous
or intemperate in her personal habits. She not only disputes with
Frederick the Great the reputation of being the cleverest monarch in
Europe, but may even put in a very plausible claim to be the cleverest
and most attractive individual alive. Now she not only tolerates
Patiomkin long after she has got over her first romantic attachment to
him, but esteems him highly as a counsellor and a good friend. His love
letters are among the best on record. He has a wild sense of humor,
which enables him to laugh at himself as well as at everybody else. In
the eyes of the English visitor now about to be admitted to his presence
he may be an outrageous ruffian. In fact he actually is an outrageous
ruffian, in no matter whose eyes; but the visitor will find out, as
everyone else sooner or later fends out, that he is a man to be reckoned
with even by those who are not intimidated by his temper, bodily
strength, and exalted rank.
A pretty young lady, Yarinka, his favorite niece, is lounging on an
ottoman between his end of the table and the door, very sulky and
dissatisfied, perhaps because he is preoccupied with his papers and his
brandy bottle, and she can see nothing of him but his broad back.
There is a screen behind the ottoman.
An old soldier, a Cossack sergeant, enters.
THE SERGEANT [softly to the lady, holding the door handle]. Little
darling honey, is his Highness the prince very busy?
VARINKA. His Highness the prince is very busy. He is singing out of
tune; he is biting his nails; he is scratching his head; he is hitching
up his untidy stockings; he is making himself disgusting and odious to
everybody; and he is pretending to read state papers that he does
not understand because he is too lazy and selfish to talk and be
companionable.
PATIOMKIN [growls; then wipes his nose with his dressing-gown]!!
VARINKA. Pig. Ugh! [She curls herself up with a shiver of disgust and
retires from the conversation.]
THE SERGEANT [stealing across to the coat, and picking it up to replace
it on the back of the chair]. Little Father, the English captain,
so highly recommended to you by old Fritz of Prussia, by the English
ambassador, and by Monsieur Voltaire (whom [crossing himself] may God in
his infinite mercy damn eternally!), is in the antechamber and desires
audience.
PATIOMKIN [deliberately]. To hell with the English captain; and to hell
with old Fritz of Prussia; and to hell with the English ambassador; and
to hell with Monsieur Voltaire; and to hell with you too!
THE SERGEANT. Have mercy on me, Little Father. Your head is bad this
morning. You drink too much French brandy and too little good Russian
kvass.
PATIOMKIN [with sudden fury]. Why are visitors of consequence announced
by a sergeant? [Springing at him and seizing him by the throat.] What
do you mean by this, you hound? Do you want five thousand blows of the
stick? Where is General Volkonsky?
THE SERGEANT [on his knees]. Little Father, you kicked his Highness
downstairs.
PATIOMKIN [flinging him dawn and kicking him]. You lie, you dog. You
lie.
THE SERGEANT. Little Father, life is hard for the poor. If you say it is
a lie, it is a lie. He FELL downstairs. I picked him up; and he kicked
me. They all kick me when you kick them. God knows that is not just,
Little Father!
PATIOMKIN [laughs ogreishly; then returns to his place at the table,
chuckling]!!!
VARINKA. Savage! Boot! It is a disgrace. No wonder the French sneer at
us as barbarians.
THE SERGEANT [who has crept round the table to the screen, and
insinuated himself between Patiomkin's back and Varinka]. Do you think
the Prince will see the captain, little darling?
PATIOMKIN. He will not see any captain. Go to the devil!
THE SERGEANT. Be merciful, Little Father. God knows it is your duty to
see him! [To Varinka.] Intercede for him and for me, beautiful little
darling. He has given me a rouble.
PATIOMKIN. Oh, send him in, send him in; and stop pestering me. Am I
never to have a moment's peace?
The Sergeant salutes joyfully and hurries out, divining that Patiomkin
has intended to see the English captain all along, and has played this
comedy of fury and exhausted impatience to conceal his interest in the
visitor.
VARINKA. Have you no shame? You refuse to see the most exalted persons.
You kick princes and generals downstairs. And then you see an English
captain merely because he has given a rouble to that common soldier. It
is scandalous.
PATIOMKIN. Darling beloved, I am drunk; but I know what I am doing. I
wish to stand well with the English.
VARINKA. And you think you will impress an Englishman by receiving him
as you are now, half drunk?
PATIOMKIN [gravely]. It is true: the English despise men who cannot
drink. I must make myself wholly drunk [he takes a huge draught of
brandy.]
VARINKA. Sot!
The Sergeant returns ushering a handsome strongly built young English
officer in the uniform of a Light Dragoon. He is evidently on fairly
good terms with himself, and very sure of his social position. He
crosses the room to the end of the table opposite Patiomkin's, and
awaits the civilities of that statesman with confidence. The Sergeant
remains prudently at the door.
THE SERGEANT [paternally]. Little Father, this is the English captain,
so well recommended to her sacred Majesty the Empress. God knows, he
needs your countenance and protec-- [he vanishes precipitately,
seeing that Patiomkin is about to throw a bottle at him. The Captain
contemplates these preliminaries with astonishment, and with some
displeasure, which is not allayed when, Patiomkin, hardly condescending
to look at his visitor, of whom he nevertheless takes stock with the
corner of his one eye, says gruffly]. Well?
EDSTASTON. My name is Edstaston: Captain Edstaston of the Light
Dragoons. I have the honor to present to your Highness this letter from
the British ambassador, which will give you all necessary particulars.
[He hands Patiomkin the letter.]
PATIOMKIN [tearing it open and glancing at it for about a second]. What
do you want?
EDSTASTON. The letter will explain to your Highness who I am.
PATIOMKIN. I don't want to know who you are. What do you want?
EDSTASTON. An audience of the Empress. [Patiomkin contemptuously throws
the letter aside. Edstaston adds hotly.] Also some civility, if you
please.
PATIOMKIN [with derision]. Ho!
VARINKA. My uncle is receiving you with unusual civility, Captain. He
has just kicked a general downstairs.
EDSTASTON. A Russian general, madam?
VARINKA. Of course.
EDSTASTON. I must allow myself to say, madam, that your uncle had better
not attempt to kick an English officer downstairs.
PATIOMKIN. You want me to kick you upstairs, eh? You want an audience of
the Empress.
EDSTASTON. I have said nothing about kicking, sir. If it comes to that,
my boots shall speak for me. Her Majesty has signified a desire to have
news of the rebellion in America. I have served against the rebels; and
I am instructed to place myself at the disposal of her Majesty, and to
describe the events of the war to her as an eye-witness, in a discreet
and agreeable manner.
PATIOMKIN. Psha! I know. You think if she once sets eyes on your face
and your uniform your fortune is made. You think that if she could stand
a man like me, with only one eye, and a cross eye at that, she must fall
down at your feet at first sight, eh?
EDSTASTON [shocked and indignant]. I think nothing of the sort; and I'll
trouble you not to repeat it. If I were a Russian subject and you made
such a boast about my queen, I'd strike you across the face with my
sword. [Patiomkin, with a yell of fury, rushes at him.] Hands off, you
swine! [As Patiomkin, towering over him, attempts to seize him by the
throat, Edstaston, who is a bit of a wrestler, adroitly backheels him.
He falls, amazed, on his back.]
VARINKA [rushing out]. Help! Call the guard! The Englishman is murdering
my uncle! Help! Help!
The guard and the Sergeant rush in. Edstaston draws a pair of small
pistols from his boots, and points one at the Sergeant and the other at
Patiomkin, who is sitting on the floor, somewhat sobered. The soldiers
stand irresolute.
EDSTASTON. Stand off. [To Patiomkin.] Order them off, if you don't want
a bullet through your silly head.
THE SERGEANT. Little Father, tell us what to do. Our lives are yours;
but God knows you are not fit to die.
PATIOMKIN [absurdly self-possessed]. Get out.