Ibrahim spent his days monotonously but actively—as a result, he knew no boredom. Day by day he grew more attached to the sovereign and better comprehended his lofty soul. To follow a great man’s thoughts is a most interesting study. Ibrahim saw Peter in the Senate, disputing with Buturlin15 and Dolgoruky, analyzing important questions of legislation, in the Admiralty College affirming Russia’s naval greatness; saw him in hours of leisure going over the translations of foreign publicists with Feofan, Gavriil Buzhinsky, and Kopievich,16 or visiting a merchant’s mill, an artisan’s workshop, a scholar’s study. Russia appeared to Ibrahim as a vast factory where only machines moved, where each worker, subject to an established order, was taken up with his task. He considered it likewise his duty to labor at his own machine, and he tried to regret the amusements of Parisian life as little as possible. More difficult for him was distancing himself from another sweet memory: he often thought of the countess D., imagined her righteous indignation, her tears and sorrow…but sometimes a terrible thought wrung his heart: the distractions of high society, a new liaison, another happy man—he shuddered; jealousy began to seethe in his African blood, and hot tears were ready to flow down his black face.
One morning Ibrahim was sitting in his study, surrounded by business papers, when he suddenly heard a loud greeting in French. He turned quickly, and the young Korsakov, whom he had left in Paris in the whirl of social life, embraced him with joyful exclamations. “I’ve just arrived,” said Korsakov, “and came running straight to you. All our Parisian friends send you their greetings and regret your absence. The countess D. told me to be sure to call you back, and here is a letter from her.” Ibrahim seized it, trembling, and gazed at the familiar handwriting, not daring to believe his eyes. “I’m so glad,” Korsakov went on, “that you haven’t died of boredom yet in this barbaric Petersburg! What do they do here? How do they keep busy? Who is your tailor? Do you at least have an opera?” Ibrahim answered distractedly that right now the sovereign was probably working at the shipyard. Korsakov laughed. “I see you can’t be bothered with me now,” he said. “We’ll talk our fill another time. I’ll go and present myself to the sovereign.” With those words, he turned on his heel and ran out of the room.
Ibrahim, left alone, hurriedly unsealed the letter. The countess complained tenderly, reproaching him for falsity and mistrustfulness. “You say,” she wrote, “that my peace is the dearest thing in the world for you. Ibrahim! If that were true, could you have subjected me to the state into which the unexpected news of your departure threw me? You feared I might hold you back. Rest assured that, despite my love, I would have been able to sacrifice myself for your well-being and for what you consider your duty.” The countess ended the letter with passionate assurances of love and entreated him to write to her at least once in a while, even if there was no longer any hope of their seeing each other again.
Ibrahim reread the letter twenty times, rapturously kissing the priceless lines. He burned with impatience to hear something about the countess, and was about to go to the Admiralty in hopes of finding Korsakov still there, when the door opened and Korsakov himself appeared again. He had already presented himself to the sovereign—and, as was his wont, seemed very pleased with himself. “Entre nous,”*3 he said to Ibrahim, “the sovereign’s a very strange man. Imagine, I found him in a sort of canvas vest, on the mast of a new ship, which I was forced to clamber up with my dispatches. I stood on a rope ladder and didn’t have room enough to make my bows properly, and was thoroughly embarrassed, which has never happened to me in all my born days. However, the sovereign, having read the papers, looked me up and down and was probably pleasantly impressed by the taste and smartness of my clothes; at least he smiled and invited me to this evening’s assembly. But I’m a perfect stranger in Petersburg. During my six years of absence I’ve completely forgotten the local customs. Please be my mentor, come to fetch me and introduce me.”
Ibrahim agreed and hastened to turn the conversation to a subject more interesting for him. “Well, how is the countess D.?”
“The countess? She was, naturally, very upset at first by your departure. Then, naturally, she gradually consoled herself and took a new lover. Do you know whom? The lanky marquis R. Why are you goggling your Moorish eyeballs at me? Or does all this seem strange to you? Don’t you know that prolonged grief is contrary to human nature, especially a woman’s? Give it some good thought, and I’ll go and rest from my journey. Don’t forget to come and fetch me.”
What feelings filled Ibrahim’s soul? Jealousy? Fury? Despair? No, but a deep, wringing dejection. He repeated to himself: “I foresaw it, it was bound to happen.” Then he opened the countess’s letter, read it again, hung his head, and wept bitterly. He wept for a long time. The tears eased his heart. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was time to go. Ibrahim would very gladly have excused himself, but an assembly was an official duty, and the sovereign strictly demanded the presence of his retinue. He got dressed and went to fetch Korsakov.
Korsakov was sitting in his dressing gown reading a French book. “So early?” he said, seeing him. “For pity’s sake,” Ibrahim replied, “it’s half past five; we’ll be late; get dressed quickly and let’s go.” Korsakov sprang up, started ringing with all his might; servants came running; he hurriedly began to dress. The French valet gave him shoes with red heels, light blue velvet trousers, a pink kaftan embroidered with sequins; in the front hall his wig was hastily powdered, it was brought, Korsakov put his close-cropped head into it, called for his sword and gloves, turned around some ten times before the mirror, and announced to Ibrahim that he was ready. Lackeys brought them bearskin coats, and they drove off to the Winter Palace.
Korsakov showered Ibrahim with questions: Who was the first beauty in Petersburg? Who was reputed to be the best dancer? What dance was now in fashion? With great reluctance Ibrahim satisfied his curiosity. Meanwhile they drove up to the palace. Many long sledges, old coaches, and gilded carriages already stood in the field. By the porch thronged coachmen in liveries and moustaches, footmen sparkling with baubles, in plumes and with maces, hussars, pages, clumsy lackeys laden with their masters’ fur coats and muffs: a necessary suite according to the notions of the boyars of that time. At the sight of Ibrahim, a general murmur arose among them: “The Moor, the Moor, the tsar’s Moor!” He quickly led Korsakov through this motley servantry. A court lackey threw the doors open for them, and they entered the hall. Korsakov was dumbfounded…In the big room lit by tallow candles, which shone dimly through the clouds of tobacco smoke, dignitaries with blue ribbons over their shoulders,17 ambassadors, foreign merchants, officers of the guards in green uniforms, shipwrights in jackets and striped trousers, moved back and forth in a crowd to the incessant sounds of a brass band. Ladies sat along the walls. The young ones glittered with all the magnificence of fashion. Gold and silver glittered on their gowns; their narrow waists rose like stems from puffy farthingales; diamonds glittered on their ears, in their long curls, and around their necks. They turned gaily right and left, waiting for the cavaliers and the start of the dancing. Elderly ladies tried cleverly to combine the new way of dressing with the persecuted old fashion: their bonnets tended towards the little sable hat of the tsaritsa Natalia Kirillovna, and their robes rondes and mantillas somehow resembled sarafans and dushegreikas.18 It seemed there was more astonishment than enjoyment in their being present at these newfangled festivities, and they glanced sidelong with vexation at the wives and daughters of the Dutch sea captains, in dimity skirts and red blouses, who sat knitting stockings, laughing and talking among themselves as if they were at home. Korsakov could not collect his wits.
Noticing the new guests, a servant approached them with beer and glasses on a tray. “Que diable est-ce que tout cela?”*4 Korsakov asked Ibrahim in a low voice. Ibrahim could not help smiling. The empress and the grand duchesses, radiant in their beauty and finery, strolled among the rows of guests, talking affably with them. The sovereign was in another
room. Korsakov, wishing to show himself to him, was barely able to make his way there through the ceaselessly moving crowd. Mostly foreigners were sitting there, solemnly smoking their clay pipes and emptying their clay mugs. On the tables there were bottles of beer and wine, leather tobacco pouches, glasses of punch, and chessboards. At one of these tables Peter was playing draughts with a broad-shouldered English skipper. They zealously saluted each other with volleys of tobacco smoke, and the sovereign was so puzzled by his opponent’s unexpected move that he did not notice Korsakov, despite all his turning around him. Just then a fat gentleman with a fat bouquet on his chest came bustling in, vociferously announced that the dancing had begun—and left at once. Many of the guests followed him, including Korsakov.
An unexpected sight struck him. For the whole length of the ballroom, to the strains of the most lugubrious music, ladies and cavaliers stood in two rows facing each other; the cavaliers bowed low, the ladies curtsied still lower, first straight ahead, then to the right, then to the left, then straight ahead again, then to the right, and so on. Korsakov, looking at this fanciful pastime, rolled his eyes and bit his lips. The curtsies and bows went on for about half an hour; finally they stopped, and the fat gentleman with the bouquet announced that the ceremonial dancing was over and told the musicians to play a minuet. Korsakov was overjoyed and got ready to shine. Among the young ladies there was one he especially liked. She was about sixteen, richly but tastefully dressed, and was sitting next to an elderly man of grave and stern appearance. Korsakov flew over to her and asked her to do him the honor of dancing with him. The young beauty looked at him in perplexity and seemed not to know what to say. The man beside her frowned still more. Korsakov waited for her decision, but the gentleman with the bouquet came up to him, led him to the middle of the room, and said gravely: “My dear sir, you are at fault: first, you approached this young person without making the requisite three bows to her; and second, you took it upon yourself to choose her, while in minuets that right belongs to the lady, not to the cavalier. On account of this, you are to be roundly punished, you must drain the cup of the great eagle.” Korsakov grew more and more astonished. In a trice the guests encircled him, loudly demanding the immediate fulfillment of the law. Peter, hearing laughter and shouting, came from the other room, having a great fancy for being personally present at such punishments. The crowd parted before him and he entered the circle where the condemned man stood, with the marshal of the assembly before him holding an enormous cup filled with malmsey. He was vainly trying to persuade the offender to obey the law voluntarily.
“Aha,” said Peter, seeing Korsakov, “so you’ve been caught, brother! Now, monsieur, kindly drink up and don’t make faces!” There was nothing to be done. The poor dandy emptied the whole cup without stopping for a breath and handed it back to the marshal. “Listen, Korsakov,” Peter said to him, “you’ve got velvet breeches on such as I don’t wear myself, and I’m much richer than you are. That’s extravagance. Take care that I don’t quarrel with you.” Having given ear to this reprimand, Korsakov attempted to step out of the circle, but staggered and nearly fell, to the indescribable delight of the sovereign and the whole merry company. This episode not only did not disrupt the unity and entertainment of the main action, but enlivened it still more. The cavaliers began to bow and scrape, and the ladies to curtsy and tap their heels with great eagerness and no longer keeping the cadence. Korsakov could not share in the general merriment. The lady he had chosen went up to Ibrahim, on orders from her father, Gavrila Afanasyevich, and, lowering her blue eyes, gave him her hand. Ibrahim danced the minuet with her and returned her to her former place; then, having located Korsakov, he led him out of the hall, sat him in his carriage, and took him home. On the way, Korsakov first murmured indistinctly: “Damned assembly!…Damned cup of the great eagle!…” but soon fell fast asleep, did not feel how he came home, how he was undressed and put to bed. He woke up the next day with a headache and a vague recollection of the scraping, the curtsying, the tobacco smoke, the gentleman with the bouquet, and the cup of the great eagle.
CHAPTER FOUR
Not quickly did our forebears eat,
Not quickly did they pass around
The brimming jugs, the silver cups
Of foaming beer and ruby wine.
Ruslan and Ludmila19
I must now acquaint the gracious reader with Gavrila Afanasyevich Rzhevsky. He came of old boyar stock, owned a huge estate, was hospitable, loved falconry; his household staff was numerous. In short, he was a true-born Russian squire, could not bear the German spirit, as he put it, and tried in his everyday life to preserve the customs of the old days that were so dear to him.
His daughter was seventeen years old. She lost her mother while still a child. She was brought up in the old-fashioned way, that is, surrounded by nurses, nannies, girlfriends, and maidservants; she did gold embroidery and could not read or write. Her father, despite his loathing for everything foreign, could not oppose her wish to learn German dances from a captive Swedish officer who lived in their house. This worthy dancing master was fifty years old, his right leg had been shot through at Narva20 and was therefore not quite up to minuets and courantes, but the left brought off the most difficult pas*5 with astonishing skill and ease. His pupil did credit to his efforts. Natalya Gavrilovna was famous for being the best dancer at the assemblies, which was partly the cause of Korsakov’s offense, for which he came the next day to apologize to Gavrila Afanasyevich; but the adroitness and foppishness of the young dandy did not please the proud boyar, who wittily nicknamed him “the French monkey.”
It was a holiday. Gavrila Afanasyevich was expecting several relations and friends. A long table was being laid in the old-fashioned dining room. The guests were arriving with their wives and daughters, freed at last from their domestic reclusion by the ukases of the sovereign and his own example. Natalya Gavrilovna held out to each guest a silver tray covered with little gold goblets, and each one drank his, regretting that the kiss, which in former times accompanied such occasions, was no longer customary. They went to the table. In the first place, next to the host, sat his father-in-law, Prince Boris Alexeevich Lykov, a seventy-year-old boyar; the other guests, according to the seniority of their families and thus commemorating the happy days of the order of precedence,21 took their seats—the men on one side, the women on the other; at the foot of the table, in their customary places, sat the housekeeper in her old-fashioned coat and headdress; a dwarf, a tiny thirty-year-old woman, prim and wrinkled; and the captive Swede in a worn blue uniform. The table, set with a multitude of dishes, was surrounded by bustling and numerous servants, among whom the butler was distinguished by his stern gaze, fat belly, and majestic immobility. The first minutes of the dinner were given over entirely to the products of our time-honored cuisine; only the clank of plates and busy spoons broke the general silence. Finally, the host, seeing it was time to entertain his guests with pleasant conversation, looked about and asked: “And where is Ekimovna? Call her here.” Several servants rushed in different directions, but just then an old woman, made up with white greasepaint and rouge, adorned with flowers and baubles, in a damask robe ronde, her neck and shoulders bared, came dancing in humming a tune. Her appearance caused general delight.
“Greetings, Ekimovna,” said Prince Lykov. “How are you?”
“Healthy and wealthy, uncle; singing and dancing, and a bit of romancing.”
“Where have you been, fool?” asked the host.
“Dressing myself up, uncle, for the dear guests, for the holiday star, by command of the tsar, by the rules of boyars, to make all the world laugh, save the Germany half.”
At these words there was a loud burst of laughter, and the fool went to take her place behind the host’s chair.
“The fool lies away and, forsooth, she lies her way to the truth,” said Tatyana Afanasyevna, the host’s older sister, whom he sincerely respected. “Today’s fashions really do make all the world l
augh. Since even you, my dear sirs, have shaved your beards and put on scanty kaftans, then for women’s rags, of course, there’s nothing to talk about: but it truly is a pity about the sarafan, young girls’ ribbons, and the povoinik.22 Just look at today’s beauties—you’ll laugh and weep: hair sticking up like matted felt, greased, sprinkled with French flour, the waist drawn in so tight it might just snap, the petticoats stretched on hoops: they have to get into a carriage sideways, and bend over going through a door. They can neither stand, nor sit, nor take a breath. Real martyrs, my little doves.”
“Ah, my dear Tatyana Afanasyevna,” said Kirila Petrovich T., former governor-general of Ryazan, where he had acquired three thousand serfs and a young wife for himself, both not without some shadiness. “I say a wife can dress as she pleases, like a scarecrow, or like a Chinese mandarin, so long as she doesn’t order new dresses every month and throw out the old ones unworn. It used to be that a granddaughter got her grandmother’s sarafan as a dowry, but these robes rondes nowadays—just look—today it’s on the lady, tomorrow on a serf girl. What can you do? The ruin of the Russian gentry! A disaster, that’s what!” With those words he sighed and looked at his Marya Ilyinichna, who, it seemed, was not at all pleased either with his praise of the old days, or with his censure of the new customs. The other beauties shared her displeasure but said nothing, because modesty was then considered a necessary quality in a young woman.
“And who is to blame?” said Gavrila Afanasyevich, filling his mug with foaming mead. “Isn’t it we ourselves? Young wenches play the fool, and we indulge them.”
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