The Negro of Peter the Great 1 ONE of the young men sent abroad by Peter the Great to acquire the learning needed by a country in the course of reorganization was his godson, the negro Ibrahim. Ibrahim studied at the Military School in Paris, passed out with the rank of artillery captain, distinguished himself in the Spanish war and, after being dangerously wounded, returned to Paris. In the midst of his voluminous labours the Tsar never failed to inquire after his favourite, and always received attering reports of Ibrahim’s progress and conduct. Peter was exceedingly pleased with him and more than once called him back to Russia, but Ibrahim was in no hurry. He found various excuses for not returning: now it was his wound, now a wish to complete his education, now lack of money – and Peter indulgently complied with his requests, begging him to look after his health, thanking him for his zeal in the pursuit of knowledge, and (although extremely parsimonious over his own expenditure) did not spare his exchequer where his favourite was concerned, the ducats being accompanied with fatherly advice and words of caution. According to the testimony of all the historical memoirs nothing could equal the frivolity, folly and luxury of the French of that period. The closing years of Louis XIV’s reign, which had been distinguished for the strict piety, gravity and decorum of the Court, had left no trace whatsoever. The Duc d’Orléans,1 who combined many brilliant qualities with all kinds of vices, unfortunately did not know what it was to dissemble. The orgies of the Palais-Royal were no secret in Paris; the example was infectious. At this time Law1 appeared upon the scene; greed for money was united to a thirst for pleasure and dissipation; estates were squandered, morals foundered; the French laughed and speculated – and the State was going to ruin to the lively refrain of satirical vaudevilles. Meanwhile, society presented a most remarkable picture. Culture and the craving for amusement had brought all ranks together. Wealth, charm, renown, talent or mere eccentricity – everything that fed curiosity or promised amusement was received with equal favour. Writers, scholars and philosophers left the quiet of their studies and appeared in high society, to do homage to fashion and to dictate to it. Women reigned, but no longer demanded adoration. Supercial gallantry replaced the profound respect formerly shown to them. The pranks of the Duc de Richelieu,2 the Alcibiades of the modern Athens, belong to history, and give some idea of the morals of the day. Temps fortuné, marqué par la licence, Où la folie, agitant son grelot, D’un pied léger parcourt toute la France, Où nul mortel ne daigne être dévot, Oü l’on fait tout excepté pénitence.3 Ibrahim’s arrival, his looks, culture and natural intelligence, attracted wide attention in Paris. All the ladies were anxious to see le nègre du Czar at their houses, and vied with each other in his pursuit. More than once he was invited to the gay evening parties of the Regent; he attended suppers enlivened by the presence of the young Arouet4 and the old Chaulieu,5 by the conversations of Montesquieu1 and of Fontenelle;2 he did not miss a single ball, fête or rst performance; and abandoned himself to the general whirl with all the ardour of his years and temperament. But it was not only the thought of exchanging this dissipation, these brilliant pastimes, for the simplicity of the Petersburg Court that dismayed Ibrahim: other and more powerful bonds attached him to Paris: the young African was in love. The Countess L—, although no longer in the rst bloom of youth, was still renowned for her beauty. On leaving the convent at the age of seventeen she had been given in marriage to a man with whom she had had no time to fall in love and who afterwards made no eort to win her aection. Gossip ascribed several lovers to her but thanks to the tolerant attitude of society she enjoyed a good reputation, for she could not be reproached with any ridiculous or scandalous adventure. Her house was the most fashionable in town, and the best Parisian society made it their place of rendeZ-vous Ibrahim was introduced to the Countess by young Merville, who was generally regarded as her latest lover and used every possible means to conrm the report. The Countess received Ibrahim courteously but without any particular mark of attention: this captivated him. As a rule people viewed the young negro as a sort of phenomenon and, ocking round, overwhelmed him with compliments and questions – and this curiosity, although it had an air of aability, oended his pride. Women’s sweet attention – almost the sole aim of our exertions – far from delighting, lled him with bitterness and indignation. He felt that for them he was a kind of rare animal, an alien, peculiar creature, accidentally transported into their world and having nothing in common with them. He actually envied men who were in no way remarkable, and considered them fortunate in their insignicance. The thought that nature had not intended him for the joys of requited passion saved him from conceit and vain pretensions, and this gave a rare charm to his manner with women. His conversation was simple and dignied; it pleased Countess L—, who had grown tired of the pompous jests and sly insinuations of French wit. Ibrahim frequently visited her. Gradually she became accustomed to the young negro’s appearance, and even began to nd something agreeable about the curly head that stood out so black among the powdered wigs in her drawing-room. (Ibrahim had been wounded in the head, and wore a bandage instead of a wig.) He was twenty- seven years old, tall and well-proportioned, and more than one society beauty gazed at him with sentiments more attering than mere curiosity; but the prejudiced Ibrahim either noticed nothing or put it down to coquetry. But when his eyes met those of the Countess his distrust vanished. Her look expressed such amiable good-nature, her manner towards him was so simple, so spontaneous, that it was impossible to suspect her of the faintest shadow of coquettishness or mockery. The idea of love did not enter his head, but to see the Countess every day had now become a necessity for him. He was always seeking to meet her, and every encounter seemed to him an unexpected gift from Heaven. The Countess divined his feelings sooner than he did. Whatever people may say, love without hopes or demands touches a woman’s heart more surely than all the wiles of the seducer. When Ibrahim was present the Countess watched his every movement and took in everything he said; without him she brooded and sank into her habitual absent-minded state. Merville was the rst to notice their mutual attraction – and to congratulate Ibrahim. Nothing inames love so much as an approving remark from an onlooker: love is blind, and, distrusting itself, is quick to snatch at encouragement. Merville’s words roused Ibrahim. The possibility of possessing the woman he loved had never yet occurred to his imagination; the light of hope suddenly ooded his soul; he fell madly in love. In vain did the Countess, alarmed by the frenzy of his passion, combat it with friendly admonishments and wise counsels; she herself was beginning to waver…. Incautious tokens of approval followed one after another. At last, carried away by the passion she had inspired, the Countess, succumbing to its power, gave herself to the ecstatic Ibrahim. Nothing can be hidden from the observant eyes of the world. The Countess’s new love aair soon became known to everyone. Some ladies marvelled at her choice; to many it seemed perfectly natural. Some laughed, others regarded her conduct as unpardonably indiscreet. In the rst intoxication of passion Ibrahim and the Countess noticed nothing; but soon the equivocal jokes of the men and the caustic remarks of the women began to reach their ears. Hitherto Ibrahim’s distant, cold manner had protected him from such attacks; he suered them impatiently and did not know how to ward them o. The Countess, accustomed to the respect of society, could not with equanimity 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 try to defend her lest by some useless brawl he ruin her completely. A new circumstance now made her position still more dicult: the consequence of their imprudent love became apparent. The Countess with despair told Ibrahim that she was with child. Comfort, advice, suggestions – all were drained and all rejected. The Countess saw that her ruin was inevitable and in utter misery awaited it. As soon as the Countess’s condition became known gossip began again with renewed vigour; sentimental ladies gave vent to exclamations of horror; men laid wagers as to whether the child would be white or black. There were showers of epigrams at the expense of the husband, who was the only person in the whole of Paris to know and suspect nothing. The fatal moment was approaching. The Countess was distraught. Ibrahim visited her every day. He saw her mental and physical strength gradually failing. Her tears and her terror sprang afresh every moment. At last she felt the rst pains. Measures were hastily taken. Means were found for getting the Count out of the way. The doctor arrived. A couple of days before this a poor woman had been persuaded to relinquish her new-born infant into the hands of strangers, and a person of trust had been sent to fetch it. Ibrahim was in the closet next to the bedroom where the unfortunate Countess lay. Not daring to breathe, he listened to her stied groans, to the maid’s whispers and the orders of the doctor. Her agony lasted several hours. Every groan she uttered rent Ibrahim’s soul; every interval of silence lled him with dread…. Suddenly he heard the feeble wail of a child and, unable to contain his delight, rushed into the Countess’s bedroom…. A black baby lay upon the bed at her feet. Ibrahim approached. His heart beat violently. With a trembling hand he blessed his son. The Countess smiled faintly and stretched out a feeble hand to him… but the doctor, fearing too much excitement for his patient, drew Ibrahim away from the bed. The new-born child was laid in a covered basket and carried out of the house by a back staircase. The other baby was brought in and its cradle put in the Countess’s bedroom. Ibrahim went away, somewhat reassured. The Count was expected. He returned late, learned that his wife had been safely delivered, and was greatly pleased. In this way the public who had been expecting a scandal were deceived in their hopes and obliged to seek consolation in mere malicious gossip. Everything resumed its normal course. But Ibrahim felt that his fortune was bound to change, and that his relations with the Countess must sooner or later reach her husband’s ears. In that case, whatever happened, the Countess’s doom would be sealed. Ibrahim loved passionately and was passionately loved in return, but the Countess was wilful and ighty: this was not the rst time that she had loved. Disgust and hatred might replace the tenderest feelings in her heart. Ibrahim could already foresee her beginning to cool towards him. Hitherto he had not known jealousy, but with horror he now felt a presentiment of it. Thinking that the pain of parting would be less agonizing, he resolved to break o the ill-starred love aair, leave Paris and return to Russia, whither Peter and a vague sense of duty had long been calling him. 2 DAYS, months went by – and the love-struck Ibrahim still could not make up his mind to leave the woman he had seduced. With every hour that passed, the Countess grew more attached to him. Their son was being brought up in a distant province. Gossip was dying down, and the lovers began to enjoy more peace, silently remembering the past storm and trying not to think of the future. One day Ibrahim was at the Duc d’Orléans’ levee. Walking past him, the Duke stopped and handed him a letter, telling him to read it at his leisure. The missive was from Peter I. Guessing the true cause of his godson’s absence, the Tsar had written to the Duke that he did not intend to put the least pressure on Ibrahim, that he left it to his own free will to return to Russia or not, but that in any case he would never forsake his old protégé. This letter touched Ibrahim to the bottom of his heart. From that moment his destiny was decided. The next day he informed the Regent of his intention to set out for Russia without delay. ‘Reect upon what you are doing,’ the Duke said to him. ‘Russia is not your native country. I do not suppose you will ever see your torrid fatherland again; but your long residence in France has made you equally a stranger to the climate and customs of semi-barbarous Russia. You were not born a subject of Peter. Follow my advice: take advantage of his gracious permission, remain in France for whom you have already shed your blood, and rest assured that here, too, your services and talents will nd their due reward.’ Ibrahim thanked the Duke sincerely but clung to his intention. ‘I am sorry,’ the Regent said to him, ‘but I admit you are right.’ He promised to let him retire from the French service, and wrote in full to the Russian Tsar. Ibrahim was soon ready to leave. On the day before his departure he spent the evening as usual at Countess L—’s. She knew nothing. Ibrahim had not the courage to tell her the truth. The Countess was tranquil and gay. Several times she called him to her side and rallied him upon his pensive mood. After supper the guests departed. Only the Countess, her husband and Ibrahim remained in the drawing- room. The unhappy man would have given everything in the world to have been left alone with her; but Count L— seemed to be so comfortably settled by the re that there was no hope of getting him out of the room. All three were silent. ‘Bonne nuit!’ the Countess said at last. Ibrahim’s heart sank and he suddenly felt all the pain of parting. He stood stock still. ‘Bonne nuit, messieurs,’ the Countess repeated. Still he did not move… Then his eyes went dim, his head reeled; he was scarcely able to walk out of the room. On arriving home, in a hardly conscious state he wrote the following letter: I am going away, dear Leonora; I am leaving you for ever. I write to you because I have not the courage to tell you in any other way. My happiness could not have lasted; I have enjoyed it against fate and nature. You are bound to cease loving me; the enchantment must inevitably pass. This thought has always haunted me, even in those moments when I seemed to forget everything at your feet, revelling in your passionate devotion, your innite tenderness…. The careless world unmercifully persecutes that which in theory it allows: its icy derision would sooner or later have vanquished you, would have humbled your ardent soul – until in the end you would have been ashamed of your passion…. And what would have become of me then? No, better that I should die, better that I should leave you before that awful moment…. Your peace of mind is more precious to me than anything else: you could enjoy no peace with the eyes of the world xed upon us. Remember all that you have suered – all the insults to your pride, all the torments of dread; remember the terrible birth of our son. Think: is it right that I should subject you any longer to anxiety and peril? Why strive to unite the destiny of so tender and beautiful a being as yourself with the unhappy lot of a negro, a pitiful creature whom people scarcely deign to recognize as human? Farewell, Leonora; farewell, my dear, my only friend. In leaving you I leave the rst and last joy of my life. I have neither fatherland nor kindred; I am going to Russia, where my utter solitude will be a solace to me. Exacting work, to which I shall henceforth devote myself, will, if not stie, at least distract me from the agonizing memories of days of rapture and bliss…. Farewell, Leonora! I tear myself from this letter as though it were from your arms. 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 so frightful as he had expected. His imagination triumphed over reality. The farther he got from Paris the closer and more vividly he pictured the things that he was leaving for ever. 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 nd 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 o 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 magnicent 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 ve 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 aairs, 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 magnicent Prince Menshikov,1 who, seeing a negro conversing with Catherine, cast an arrogant sideways glance at him; Prince Yakov Dolgoruky,2 Peter’s gru 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 aairs. 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 suciently admire the clarity and quickness of his judgement, the power and exibility 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 diculty 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 rst 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, inuencing a great nation aroused in him for the rst 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-o 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 suer 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 xed 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 dicult 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 ngers 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 sacrice 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 nding 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 rst 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 lled 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 ve,’ 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 o 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 gratied 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 mus – 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 ung 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, ocers 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 owers; 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, rst 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 was 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 rst 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 fullment 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 lled with malmsey wine. He was vainly trying to persuade the oender 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 rst 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.’