Before he was aware of it, he had reached the Russian frontier. It was already autumn but in spite of the bad roads he was driven with the speed of the wind, and on the morning of the seventeenth day of his journey arrived at Krasnoe Selo, through which the highway passed in those times.
It was another twenty-eight versts1 to Petersburg. While the horses were being changed Ibrahim went into the post-house. In a corner a tall man in a green peasant-coat and with a clay pipe in his mouth sat leaning his elbows on the table, reading the Hamburg newspapers. Hearing somebody come in, he raised his head.
‘Ah, Ibrahim!’ he cried, rising from the bench. ‘Good morning to you, godson!’
Recognizing Peter, Ibrahim rushed joyfully towards him but stopped short respectfully. The Tsar approached, embraced him and kissed him on the head.
‘I was informed of your coming,’ said Peter, ‘and came to meet you. I have been waiting for you here since yesterday.’
Ibrahim could not find words to express his gratitude.
‘Have your carriage follow on behind,’ continued the Tsar, ‘and you drive home with me.’
The Tsar’s carriage was brought up; he took his place with Ibrahim beside him, and they drove off at a furious pace. An hour and a half later they were in Petersburg. Ibrahim gazed with curiosity at the new-born capital which was rising out of the marsh at the bidding of its monarch. Rough dams, canals without an embankment, wooden bridges everywhere bore witness to the recent triumph of the human will over the reluctant elements. The houses appeared to have been built in a hurry. In the whole town there was nothing magnificent save the Neva, which had not yet received its granite frame but was already full of warships and merchant vessels. The imperial carriage stopped at the palace, which was called the Tsaritsyn Garden.
On the steps Peter was met by a handsome woman of some five and thirty summers, dressed in the latest Paris fashion. After he had kissed her, Peter took Ibrahim by the hand and said:
‘Do you recognize my godson, Katinka? Pray love and be kind to him as you used to in the old days.’
Catherine looked at Ibrahim with her penetrating black eyes, and stretched out her hand in a friendly manner. Two young beauties standing behind her, tall, slim and fresh as roses, respectfully approached Peter.
‘Liza,’ he said to one of them, ‘do you remember the little negro boy who used to steal my apples for you at Oranienbaum? This is he: let me introduce him to you.’
The Grand Duchess laughed and blushed. They went into the dining-room. The table had been laid in expectation of Peter’s arrival. He sat down to dinner with all his family, inviting Ibrahim to join them. During dinner the Tsar conversed with him on various subjects, questioned him about the Spanish war, about France’s internal affairs, and the Regent, whom he liked though disapproved of in many ways. Ibrahim possessed a precise and observant mind. Peter was much pleased with his answers; he recalled one or two incidents of Ibrahim’s childhood and related them with such gaiety and good nature that nobody could have suspected this kind and hospitable host of being the hero of Poltava, and Russia’s mighty and formidable reformer.
After dinner the Tsar followed the Russian custom and retired to rest. Ibrahim was left with the Empress and the Grand Duchesses. He did his best to satisfy their curiosity, and described the Parisian mode of life, the festivals that were kept in that capital, and the capriciousness of fashion. In the meantime some of the persons closely associated with the Tsar appeared at the palace. Ibrahim recognized the magnificent Prince Menshikov,1 who, seeing a negro conversing with Catherine, cast an arrogant sideways glance at him; Prince Yakov Dolgoruky,2 Peter’s gruff councillor; the erudite Bruce3 whom the people called the ‘Russian Faust’ the young Raguzinsky, his former comrade; and others who came to the Tsar to make reports and receive orders.
A couple of hours later the Tsar emerged.
‘Let us see whether you have forgotten your old duties,’ he said to Ibrahim. ‘Take a slate and follow me.’
Peter shut himself up in his work-room and busied himself with state affairs. He worked in turn with Bruce, with Prince Dolgoruky, and with the chief of police, General Deviere, and dictated several ukases and decisions to Ibrahim.
Ibrahim could not sufficiently admire the clarity and quickness of his judgement, the power and flexibility of his mind and the wide range of his activities. When their labours were over, Peter took out a pocket-book in order to see whether all that he had intended to do that day had been accomplished. Then, as they were leaving the room, he said to Ibrahim:
‘It is late; I expect you are tired. Spend the night here as you used to do in the old days. I’ll wake you in the morning.’
Left alone, Ibrahim had difficulty in collecting his be bewildered senses. He was in Petersburg; he was seeing again the great man in whose house, not yet understanding his worth, he had passed his childhood. Almost with remorse he confessed to himself that, for the first time since their parting, the Countess L— had not been his sole thought throughout the day. He perceived that the new mode of life which awaited him – the activity and constant occupation – might revive his soul, wearied by passion, idleness and secret melancholy. The thought of being a great man’s fellow-worker and, together with him, influencing a great nation aroused in him for the first time a feeling of noble ambition. In this mood he lay down on the camp-bed that had been prepared for him – and then the familiar dream transported him back to far-off Paris and the arms of his dear Countess.
3
THE next morning Peter woke Ibrahim as promised, and conferred on him the rank of lieutenant-captain in the Grenadier company of the Preobrazhensky regiment. The courtiers crowded round Ibrahim, each in his way trying to make much of the new favourite. The haughty Prince Menshikov pressed his hand in a friendly manner; Sheremetyev1 inquired after his Parisian acquaintances, and Golovin2 invited him to dinner. The latter’s example was followed by others, too, so that Ibrahim received enough invitations to last him at least a month.
Ibrahim now began to lead an uneventful but busy life – consequently he did not suffer from ennui. He grew daily more attached to the Tsar and better able to apprehend his lofty mind. To follow a great man’s thoughts is the most absorbing of studies. Ibrahim saw Peter in the Senate arguing with Buturlin3 and Dolgoruky on important questions of legislation; at the Board of Admiralty laying the foundations of Russia’s naval power; he saw him with Feofan,4 Gavril Buzhinsky5 and Kopievich,6 in his hours of rest examining translations of foreign publications, or visiting some merchant’s manufactory, a craftsman’s workshop or a learned man’s study. Russia seemed to Ibrahim one huge work-room where only machines were moving and every worker was occupied with his job in accordance with a fixed plan. He felt that he, too, ought to be labouring at his appointed task, and tried to regret as little as possible the gaieties of Parisian life. He found it more difficult to banish from his mind that other dear memory: he often thought of the Countess L—, picturing her legitimate indignation, her tears and her grief…. But at times a terrible thought oppressed his heart: the distractions of high society, a new intrigue, another happy lover – he shuddered; jealousy began to set his African blood in a ferment, and scalding tears were ready to roll down his dusky cheeks.
One morning as he sat in his study surrounded by business papers he suddenly heard a loud greeting in the French tongue. Ibrahim turned round quickly – and young Korsakov, whom he had left in Paris in the whirl of society life, embraced him with joyful exclamations.
‘I have only just arrived,’ said Korsakov, ‘and have come straight to you. All our Parisian acquaintances send you their greetings, and regret your absence. The Countess L— ordered me to tell you that you must return at all costs, and here is a letter for you from her.’
Ibrahim seized it with tremulous fingers and gazed at the familiar handwriting on the address, not daring to believe his eyes.
‘How glad I am that you have not died of tedium in this barbarous Petersburg!
’ Korsakov went on. ‘What do people do here? How do they spend their time? Who is your tailor? Is there at least an opera-house?’
Ibrahim absently replied that probably the Tsar was just then at work in the dockyard. Korsakov laughed.
‘I see you have no thoughts to spare for me at present,’ he said. ‘Some other time we will talk to our hearts’ content. I will go and present myself to the Tsar.’
With these words he spun round on his heel and ran out of the room.
Left alone, Ibrahim hastily opened the letter. The Countess reproached him tenderly, accusing him of evasion and lack of trust.
You say [she wrote] that my peace of mind is more precious than anything in the world to you. Ibrahim, if this were true, could you have brought me to the condition to which the unexpected news of your departure reduced me? You were afraid that I would detain you; believe me that, in spite of my love, I should have known how to sacrifice it to your well-being and to what you regard as your duty.
The Countess concluded her letter with passionate assurances of love, and adjured him to write to her occasionally – even should there be no hope of their ever meeting again.
Ibrahim read the letter twenty times over, kissing the dear lines with rapture. He was burning with impatience to hear about the Countess, and was just preparing to drive to the Admiralty, in the hope of finding Korsakov still there, when the door opened and Korsakov appeared again in person. He had already paid his respects to the Tsar, and as usual seemed much pleased with himself.
‘Entre nous,’ he said to Ibrahim, ‘the Emperor is a very strange man. Imagine, I found him, clad in a sort of linen jacket, on the mast of a new ship, whither I was obliged to clamber with my dispatches. I stood on a rope-ladder, without room to make a decent how, and became completely confused-a thing which has never happened to me in my life. However, after reading my papers, the Tsar looked me up and down, and no doubt was agreeably impressed by the taste and elegance of my attire; at any rate, he smiled and invited me to the Assembly this evening. But I am a perfect stranger in Petersburg: during the six years I have been away I have quite forgotten the local customs. Pray be my mentor, call for me and introduce me.’
Ibrahim agreed, and hastened to turn the conversation to a subject that held more interest for him.
‘Well, and how is the Countess L—?’
‘The Countess? Naturally, at first she was very much grieved by your departure; then, of course, she gradually grew reconciled and took unto herself a new lover – do you know whom? That lanky Marquis R—. Why do you stare at me like that with your goggle eyes? Does it seem odd to you? Don’t you know that it isn’t in human nature, particularly feminine nature, to sorrow for long? Think it out, while I go and rest after my journey; mind you don’t forget to call for me.’
What emotions filled Ibrahim’s heart? Jealousy? Rage? Despair? No, but profound, overpowering dejection. He kept repeating to himself: ‘I foresaw it, it was bound to happen.’ Then he opened the Countess’s letter, read it through again, bowed his head and wept bitterly. He wept long. The tears relieved his heart. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was time to go. Ibrahim would have been very glad to stay at home, but an Assembly was a matter of duty and the Tsar strict in demanding the presence of his entourage. He dressed and set out to call for Korsakov.
Korsakov was sitting in his dressing-gown, reading a French novel.
‘So early?’ he said, when he saw Ibrahim.
‘Why, it’s half past five,’ Ibrahim answered. ‘We shall be late. Make haste and dress, and let us go.’
Korsakov started up and rang the bell violently; his servants came running in; he hurriedly began dressing. His French valet handed him slippers with scarlet heels, blue velvet breeches, and a pink coat embroidered with spangles. His peruke was quickly powdered in the ante-room and brought in to him. Korsakov thrust his closely cropped head into it, asked for his sword and gloves, turned round a dozen times before the looking-glass and informed Ibrahim that he was ready. The footmen handed them bearskin cloaks, and they drove off to the Winter Palace.
Korsakov bombarded Ibrahim with questions: Who was the reigning beauty in Petersburg? Who was supposed to be the best dancer? What dance was now in fashion? Ibrahim very reluctantly gratified his curiosity. Meanwhile they reached the palace. A number of long sledges, old-fashioned carriages and gilded coaches were already standing on the rough grass in front. At the steps there was a crowd of liveried coachmen with moustaches; running footmen glittering with gold braid and feathers, and carrying maces; hussars, pages, awkward footmen loaded with their masters’ fur cloaks and muffs – a retinue which the noblemen of the period considered essential. At the sight of Ibrahim a general murmur of ‘The negro, the negro, the Tsar’s negro!’ arose among them. He hurriedly led Korsakov through this motley crowd. A palace footman flung the doors wide for them, and they entered the hall. Korsakov was dumbfounded…. In the great room lit by tallow candles which burned dimly in the clouds of tobacco smoke grandees with blue ribbons across their shoulders, ambassadors, foreign merchants, officers of the Guards in their green uniform, shipbuilders in jackets and striped trousers thronged up and down to the continual music of wind instruments. The ladies sat round the walls, the younger among them decked out in all the splendour of fashion. Their gowns dazzled with gold and silver; out of monstrous farthingales their slender forms rose like the stems of flowers; diamonds sparkled in their ears, in their long curls and round their necks. They glanced gaily to right and left, waiting for their cavaliers and for the dancing to begin. The elderly ladies had made ingenious attempts to combine the new fashions with the now prohibited style of the past: their caps bore a close resemblance to the sable head-dress of the Tsaritsa Natalia Kirilovna,1 and their gowns and mantillas somehow recalled the sarafan2 and dusbegreika. 3 They seemed to feel more astonishment than pleasure in being present at these newfangled diversions and looked askance at the wives and daughters of the Dutch skippers who in dimity skirts and red bodices sat knitting their stockings and laughing and chatting among themselves as though they were at home.
Noticing the new arrivals, a servant came up to them with beer and glasses on a tray. Korsakov was completely bewildered.
‘Que diable est-ce que tout cela?’ he asked Ibrahim in an undertone. Ibrahim could not help smiling. The Empress and the Grand Duchesses, resplendent with beauty and brilliant attire, walked about among the guests, talking to them graciously. The Tsar was in the next room. Korsakov, anxious to present himself, could hardly make his way through the constantly moving crowd. The next room was mainly full of foreigners, who sat there solemnly smoking their clay pipes and emptying earthenware mugs. On the table were bottles of beer and wine, leather pouches with tobacco, glasses of punch and some chess-boards. At one of the tables Peter was playing draughts with a broad-shouldered English skipper. They zealously saluted one another with volleys of tobacco smoke, and the Tsar was so taken aback by an unforeseen move on his opponent’s part that he failed to notice Korsakov for all the latter’s shifts. Just then a stout gentleman with a large bouquet on his breast bustled in and announced in a loud voice that dancing had begun. He went out again immediately, and a great number of the guests, Korsakov among them, followed.
The unexpected scene took him by surprise. Ladies and gentlemen stood in two rows facing each other along the whole length of the ball-room; to the sounds of the most mournful music the gentlemen bowed low, the ladies curtseyed still lower, first to the front, then to the right, then to the left, then straight before them again, to the right, and so on. Korsakov stared wide-eyed at this peculiar way of passing the time, and bit his lips. The curtseying and bowing continued for the best part of half an hour; at last they stopped and the stout gentleman with the bouquet proclaimed that the ceremonial dances were over, and ordered the musicians to play a minuet.
Korsakov was delighted, and prepared to shine. Among the young ladies there was one in particular who appealed to him. She w
as about sixteen, luxuriously dressed but in good taste, and sat near an elderly man of stern and imposing appearance. Korsakov dashed up to her and asked for the honour of a dance. The young beauty looked at him in confusion, and seemed at a loss for an answer. The gentleman sitting by her side frowned more than ever. Korsakov was waiting for her decision but the gentleman with the bouquet came up to him, and leading him into the middle of the room said pompously:
‘My dear sir, you are at fault. In the first place, you approached this young lady without making three bows in the proper fashion, and, in the second, you took it upon yourself to single her out, whereas in the minuet that right belongs to the lady and not to the gentleman. In view of this, you have to be severely punished – that is to say, you must drain the Goblet of the Great Eagle.’
Korsakov felt more and more bewildered. The other guests instantly surrounded him, noisily demanding the immediate fulfilment of the law. Hearing shouts and laughter, Peter came out of the adjoining room, for he was very fond of assisting at such punishments. The crowd made way for him, and he entered the circle, in the centre of which stood the culprit and before him the marshal of the Assembly with a huge goblet filled with malmsey wine. He was vainly trying to persuade the offender to comply willingly with the regulation.
‘Aha!’ said Peter, seeing Korsakov. ‘You are caught, my friend. Come now, monsieur, drink up, and no grimaces.’
There was no help for it: the poor dandy drained the goblet to the dregs without drawing breath, and handed it back to the marshal.
‘Hark you, Korsakov,’ 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 I do not quarrel with you.’
When he heard this reprimand Korsakov tried to make his way out of the circle, but he staggered and almost fell, to the inexpressible delight of the Emperor and the whole merry company. So far from breaking up or spoiling the entertainment, this episode served to enliven it still more. The gentlemen scraped and bowed, while the ladies curtseyed and clicked their heels with more zeal than ever, no longer troubling to keep time with the music. Korsakov was unable to take part in the general gaiety. The lady whom he had selected went up to Ibrahim at the bidding of her father, Gavril Afanassyevich Rzhevsky, and, casting down her blue eyes, timidly gave him her hand. Ibrahim danced the minuet with her and escorted her back to her seat; then, seeking out Korsakov, he led him out of the ball-room, put him in his carriage and saw him home. On the way Korsakov at first kept muttering vaguely: ‘That damned Assembly!… That damned Goblet of the Great Eagle!… but soon dropped sound asleep, and was not conscious of arriving home, or of being undressed and put to bed. He awoke the next day with a headache and a dim recollection of the bows, the curtseys, the tobacco-smoke, the gentleman with the bouquet, and the Goblet of the Great Eagle.’
The Queen of Spades and Other Stories Page 3
