CHAPTER I

PETER THE GREAT'S godson, the negro Ibrahim, was among the young men sent by the Tsar to foreign lands to acquire knowledge necessary for a country being so rapidly transformed. Ibrahim studied at the Paris Military School, left it with the rank of a captain of artillery, distinguished himself in the Spanish war and, dangerously wounded, returned to Paris. In the midst of his many labours the Emperor never failed to inquire after his favourite, and always received flattering reports about his progress and conduct. Peter was extremely pleased with him, and more than once called him back to Russia; but Ibrahim was in no hurry. He gave various excuses for not going: now it was his wound, then his wish to improve his education, then lack of money. Peter acceded to his wishes, begged Ibrahim to take care of himself, thanked him for his zeal for learning, and—extremely economical about his own expenses—did not stint money for him, adding to the gold fatherly advice and cautionary admonitions.

According to the testimony of all the historical memoirs, nothing could equal the folly, frivolity, and luxury of the French at that period. The last years of Louis XIV's reign, marked by strict piety, solemnity, and decorum at the Court, had left no trace whatever. The Duke of Orleans, who combined many brilliant qualities with all kinds of vices, had not, unfortunately, a shadow of hypocrisy. The orgies of the Palais-Royal were not a secret in Paris; the example was infectious. About that time John Law made his appearance; greed for money was combined with a thirst for pleasure and dissipation; estates were being squandered, moral standards lowered, the French laughed and speculated—and the State was going to ruin to the playful accompaniment of satirical vaudevilles.

Meanwhile the social life of Paris was extremely interesting. Learning and the craving for amusement were drawing together people of all ranks. Fame, wealth, charm, talents, or mere oddity—all that gave food to curiosity or promised pleasure was received with equal favour. Writers, scientists, and philosophers left their quiet pursuits and appeared in high society to do homage to fashion and to dictate to it. Women reigned, but no longer claimed adoration. Superficial politeness replaced the profound respect in which they had been held. The follies of the Due de Richelieu, the Alcibiades of the modem Athens, belong to history, and give some idea of the morals of the day.

Ibrahim's arrival, his looks, his education, and natural intelligence attracted general attention in Paris. All the ladies wished to see in their houses le negre du Czar, and vied with one another in inviting him. The Regent asked him more than once to his gay evening parties; he attended suppers enlivened by the presence of the young Arouet and the old Chaulieu, by the conversations of Montesquieu and Fontenelle; he did not miss a single ball, a single fete, or first night, and abandoned himself to the general whirlwind with all the ardour of his years and temperament. But it was not only the thought of exchanging this dissipation, these brilliant pleasures for the simplicity of the Petersburg court that terrified Ibrahim; other bonds, stronger than those, attached him to Paris. The young African was in love.

Countess L., no longer in the first flower of youth, was still renowned for her beauty. On leaving the convent at seventeen she was married to a man with whom she had not had time to fall in love, and who made no effort to win her affection afterwards. Gossip ascribed lovers to her but, according to the indulgent convention of society, she had a good reputation, for she could not be reproached with any ridiculous or scandalous adventure. Her house was extremely fashionable, and the best Paris society used to meet there. Ibrahim was introduced to her by Merville, who was generally regarded as her latest lover, and did his best in every way to confirm that idea.

The Countess received Ibrahim courteously, but without any special attention: that flattered him. Usually people regarded the young negro as a marvel and, flocking round him, overwhelmed him with questions and greetings—and their curiosity, although it had an air of friendliness, offended his pride. Women's sweet attention—almost the sole aim of all our efforts—far from delighting him, filled him with bitterness and indignation. He felt that he was for them 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 their insignificance a blessing.

The thought that nature had not intended him for the joys of requited passion saved him from self-confidence and pretentious vanity—and this gave a rare charm to his manner with women. His conversation was simple and serious; it pleased Countess L., who was tired of the pompous jokes and subtle insinuations of the French wits. Ibrahim often came to see her. Gradually she grew accustomed to the young negro's appearance, and actually found something pleasing in that curly head showing 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; he was tall and well made, and more than one society beauty gazed at him with a feeling more flattering than mere curiosity; but Ibrahim was prejudiced, and either noticed nothing, or put it down to mere coquetry. But when his eyes met the eyes of the Countess, his distrust vanished. Her look expressed such charming good nature, her manner towards him was so simple, so spontaneous that it was impossible to suspect her of the least irony or coquetry.

He did not think of love, but it was already a necessity for him to see the Countess every day. He was always seeking to meet her, and every meeting 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 is more certain to touch a woman's heart than all the calculations of seduction. In Ibrahim's presence the Countess watched his every movement, and took in everything he said; without him she brooded and sank into her usual absent-mindedness. Merville was the first to notice their mutual attraction—and to congratulate Ibrahim. Nothing inflames love more than an encouraging remark from an outsider; love is blind, and, distrusting itself, hastily snatches at every support.

Merville's words roused Ibrahim. The possibility of possessing tlie woman he loved had never yet presented itself to his imagination; the light of hope dawned in his soul; he fell madly in love. Alarmed by the frenzy of his passion, the Countess vainly tried to oppose to it the counsels of friendship and the admonitions of good sense; she was weakening too. . . . Incautious encouragements followed one after another. At last, carried away by the passion she had inspired, the Countess, succumbing to its power, gave herself to her ecstatic lover.

Nothing can be hidden from the observant eyes of the world. The Countess's new love-affair soon became known to every one. Some ladies marvelled at her choice; many regarded it as perfectly natural. Some laughed, others thought it an unpardonable folly on her part. In the first intoxication of passion Ibrahim and the Countess noticed nothing; but soon men's ambiguous jokes and women's stinging remarks began to reach them. Hitherto Ibrahim's serious and distant manner had protected him from such attacks; he stood them badly and did not know how to ward them off. The Countess, accustomed to the respect of society, could not bear to be the object of gossip and derision. She complained to Ibrahim with tears, reproached him bitterly, or implored him not to try to defend her, so as not to ruin her completely by creating a useless scandal.

A new circumstance complicated their position still further. The consequence of their imprudent love became apparent. The Countess told Ibrahim about it with despair. Advice, comfort, suggestions—all was exhausted and rejected. The Countess saw inevitable ruin before her and awaited it in utter misery.

As soon as the Countess's condition became known gossip sprang up afresh; sentimental ladies cried out with horror; men laid wagers as to whether the child would be white or black. There were showers of epigrams at her husband's expense, while he was the only person in the whole of Paris who knew and suspected nothing.

The fateful moment was approaching. The Countess was distracted. Ibrahim came to see her every day. He saw how her spiritual and bodily strength gradually left her. Her horror and her tears were renewed every minute. At last she felt the first pains. Measures were taken hastily. Means were found to send the Count away. The doctor came. Two days before a poor woman had been persuaded to give up her new-bom baby; a person of trust had been sent to fetch it. Ibrahim was in the study next to the bedroom where the unfortunate Countess lay. Not daring to breathe, he heard her stifled groans, the maid's whispers, and the doctor's orders. Her agony lasted several hours. Every groan she uttered rent Ibrahim's heart; every interval of silence filled him with horror. . . . Suddenly he heard the feeble wail of an infant—and, unable to contain his delight, rushed into the Countess's bedroom. A black baby lay in the bed at her feet. Ibrahim approached it. His heart was beating violently. With a trembling hand he blessed his son. The Countess gave a languid smile and stretched out a feeble hand to him . . . but the doctor, fearing too much agitation for his patient, drew Ibrahim away from her bed. The new-born infant was put into a covered basket and carried out of the house by a secret staircase. The other baby was brought and put in a cot in the Countess's bedroom. Ibrahim went away feeling somewhat relieved. They were expecting the Count. He came home late and was very pleased to hear that his wife had been safely delivered. Thus the public that had been expecting a scandal was disappointed and had to find its sole comfort in malicious gossip. Everything went on as usual.

But Ibrahim felt that his fate was bound to change and that his affair with the Countess must sooner or later reach her husband's ears. In that case, whatever happened, the Countess's doom would be sealed. Ibraham loved, and was loved, passionately; but the Countess was frivolous and capricious: this was not the first time that she loved. Disgust and hatred might replace the tenderest feelings in her heart. Ibrahim could already foresee her beginning to grow cold to him. He had as yet no experience of jealousy, but he had a horrible foreboding of it; he imagined that the pain of parting would be less agonizing—and he intended to break off his ill-starred love affair, leave Paris, and go to Russia, whither Peter and a vague sense of duty had long been calling him.

CHAPTER II

DAYS, months passed—and Ibrahim, still in love, could not make up his mind to leave the woman he had seduced. The Countess grew more attached to him with every hour. Their son was being brought up in a distant province. Gossip began to die down, and the lovers enjoyed greater security, silently remembering the past storm and trying not to think of the future.

One day Ibrahim was at the Duke of Orleans's levee. Going past him, the Duke stopped and handed him a letter, telling him to read it at his leisure. The letter was from Peter I. Guessing the true cause of his godson's absence, the Tsar wrote to the Duke that he did not intend to put the least pressure on Ibrahim, and left it for him to decide whether he would return to Russia or no; but that in any case lie would never forsake his protege. This letter touched Ibrahim to the bottom of his heart. From that moment his fate was settled. The next day he told the Regent thai he intended to return to Russia at once.

'Think what you are doing,' the Duke said to him: 'Russia is not your native country; I don't suppose you'll ever succeed in seeing your tropical fatherland; but your long stay in France has made you equally a stranger to the climate and customs of half-savage Russia. You were not born Peter's subject. Follow my advice: take advantage of his generous permission, remain in France, for which you have already shed your blood, and be sure that your gifts and merits will find their proper reward here also.'

Ibrahim sincerely thanked the Duke, but remained firm in his intention.

'I am sorry,' the Regent said to him, 'but I admit you are right.' He promised to let him leave the army and wrote to the Russian Tsar about it.

Ibrahim soon made ready to go. He spent the evening before his departure at Countess L.'s as usual. She knew nothing. Ibrahim had not the courage to tell her the truth. The Countess was calm and gay. She called him to her side more than once, and joked about his being so preoccupied. After supper all the guests went away. Only the Countess, her husband, and Ibrahim remained in the drawing-room. The unfortunate man would have given anything to be left alone with her; but Count L. seemed to have settled by the fire so comfortably that there was no hope of inducing him to leave the room. All three were silent.

'Bonne nuit,' the Countess said at last.

Ibrahim had a pang at his heart and suddenly felt all the horror of parting. He stood stock still.

'Bonne nuit, messieurs,' the Countess repeated.

Still he did not move. . . . There was a darkness before his eyes, his head reeled; he was scarcely able to walk out of the room. On arriving home he wrote the following letter, feeling almost delirious:

I am going away, dear Leonora, I am leaving you for ever. I am writing to you because I haven't the courage to tell it you in any other way. My happiness could not have lasted: I enjoyed it in spite of fate, in spite of nature. You were bound to cease loving me; the fascination could not liave lasted. This thought haunted me, even at moments when I seemed to forget everything at your feet, revelling in your passionate devotion, in your boundless tenderness. . . . Frivolous society pitilessly persecutes that which it allows in theory: its cold derision would sooner or later have overcome you, would have subdued your ardent heart—and you would have been ashamed of your passion. . . . And what would have become of me then ? No, better die, better leave you before that awful moment ....

Your peace is more precious to me than anything; you could not enjoy it while society was keeping watch on us. Recall all that you have endured—all the insults to your pride, all the tortures of fear; recall the terrible birth of our son. Think: is it right that I should subject you any longer to the same anxieties and dangers ? Why strive to unite the fate 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?

Good-bye, Leonora; good-bye, my precious, my only friend! In leaving you, I leave the first and last joy of my life. I have no fatherland, no 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 stifle, or, at any rate, will distract me from, the agonizing memories of happy, blissful days. Good-bye, Leonora! I tear myself from this letter as though it were from your arms. Good-bye, 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 dreadful as he had expected. His imagination triumphed over reality. The farther he was from Paris, the closer and the more vividly he saw the things that he was leaving for ever.

He scarcely noticed how he reached the Russian frontier. It was the beginning of autumn; but in spite of the bad roads he was driven as fast as the wind. After seventeen days' journey he arrived in the morning at Krasnoe Selo; the main road to Petersburg ran through it in those times.

It was nineteen miles to Petersburg. While the horses were being harnessed, Ibrahim went into the coaching station. In the corner a tall man in a green coat, with a clay pipe in his mouth sat leaning on the table, reading the Hamburg newspapers.

'Aha, Ibrahim!' he cried getting up from the bench, 'How do you do, godson?'

Recognizing Peter, Ibrahim joyfully rushed towards him, but stopped respectfully. The Tsar went up to him and, embracing him, kissed him on the head.

'I have been warned of your coming,' Peter said, 'and am here to meet you. I have been waiting for you here since yesterday.'

Ibrahim could not find words to express his gratitude.

'Tell them,' the Tsar continued, 'to bring your cart along after us, and you come home with me in my carriage.'

The Tsar's carriage was brought; he stepped into it with Ibrahim—and they dashed off. In an hour and a half they arrived in Petersburg. Ibrahim looked with interest at the newbom capital which was rising out of the marsh at the bidding of its Tsar. Rough dams, canals without an embankment, wooden bridges bore witness everywhere to the victory of human will over the reluctant elements. The houses looked as though they had been built in haste. In the whole town there was nothing magnificent except the Neva, which had not yet been framed in granite, but was already covered with war-ships and trading vessels. The Tsar's carriage stopped by the palace, the so-called Tsaritsa's Garden.

A handsome woman of about thirty-five, dressed in the latest Paris fashion, met Peter on the steps. After he had kissed her, Peter took Ibrahim by the hand and said to her:

'Do you recognize my godson, Katinka? Please be kind to him as in the old days.'

Catherine looked at Ibrahim with her penetrating black eyes, and graciously held out her hand to him. Two young beauties, tall, slim, and fresh as roses, were standing behind her; they approached Peter respectfully.

'Liza!' he said to one of them, 'do you remember the little negro who used to steal apples for you from my garden in Oranienbaum? Here he is, let me introduce him to you.'

The Grand-duchess laughed and blushed. They went into the dining-room. The table had been set in expectation of Peter's arrival. He sat down to dinner with all his family, inviting Ibrahim to join them. During the dinner the Tsar talked to him about various subjects, and questioned him about the Spanish war, the state of things in France, and the Regent, whom he liked, though he disapproved of a great deal in him. Ibrahim had a clear and observant mind. Peter was very much pleased with his answers; he recalled several details about Ibrahim's childhood, and told them with such gaiety and good nature that no one could have recognized in the kind and hospitable host the hero of Poltava, the mighty and formidable reformer of Russia.

After dinner the Tsar went to have a rest according to the Russian custom. Ibrahim was left with the Empress and the Grand-duchesses. He tried to satisfy their curiosity by describing the manner of life in Paris, the festivals and capricious fashions. Meanwhile some of the men closely associated with the Tsar came to the palace. Ibrahim recognized the magnificent Menshikov, who, seeing a negro talking to Catherine, gave him a haughty sidelong glance;

Prince Yakov Dolgoruki, Peter's stubborn councillor; the learned Bruce, who had the reputation of a Russian Faust among the people; the young Raguzinsky, his former comrade, and others who came to the Tsar to make their reports and receive their orders.

The Tsar appeared in a couple of hours' time.

'Let us see if you have forgotten your old duties,' he said to Ibrahim. 'Take a slate and follow me.'

Peter shut himself up in his study and attended to the affairs of the State. He worked in turn with Bruce, with Prince Dolgoruki, with the chief of police, General Deviere, and dictated several ukases and resolutions to Ibrahim.

Ibrahim could not sufficiently admire the clarity and quickness of his judgment, the flexibility of his mind, his power of concentration, and the wide range of his activities. When Peter had finished work he took out a pocket-book to see whether he had done all that he had intended to do that day. Afterwards, as he was leaving the room, he said to Ibrahim:

'It's late; I expect you are tired; spend the night here as in the old days; to-morrow I'll wake you.'

Remaining alone, Ibrahim could scarcely come to his senses. He was in Petersburg; he was seeing again the great man beside whom, not yet understanding his worth, he had spent his childhood. He confessed to himself almost with remorse that for the first time since their parting Countess L. had not completely occupied his thoughts all through the day. He saw that active and constant occupation and the new manner of life awaiting him might revive his soul, wearied by passions, idleness, and secret melancholy. The thought of being a great man's helper and influencing, together with him, the destiny of a great people aroused in him for the first time the feeling of noble ambition. In that mood he lay down on the camp-bed that had been prepared for him — and then tne familiar dream took him to distant Paris, to the arms of the charming Countess.

CHAPTER III

THE following day Peter woke Ibrahim according to his promise, and conferred on him the rank of lieutenant-captain in the Artillery Company of the Preobrazhensky Regiment, in which Peter himself was captain. The courtiers surrounded Ibrahim, each trying in his own way to be kind to the new favourite. The haughty Prince Menshikov shook hands with him in a friendly way; Sheremetev inquired after his Paris friends, and Golovin invited him to dinner. His example was followed by others, so that Ibrahim received enough invitations to last him at least a month.

Ibrahim's new life was uneventful but busy—consequently he did not suffer from boredom. Every day he grew more and more attached to the Tsar and understood his lofty mind better. To follow a great man's thoughts is the most absorbing of studies. Ibrahim saw Peter at the Senate, arguing with Buturlin and Dolgoruki, dealing with important questions of legislation; he saw him at the Admiralty, laying the foundations of Russia's naval power; he saw him with Bishop Feofan, Gavriil Buzhinsky, and Kopievitch, examining, in his hours of rest, the translations of foreign writers or visiting a factory, a workshop, or a learned man's study. Russia seemed to Ibrahim a huge workshop, where only machines were moving, and every worker was occupied with his job in accordance with a fixed plan. He considered it his duty to carry out his own appointed task, and tried to regret as little as possible the gaieties of Parisian life. He found it more difficult to banish another, a sweet memory: he often thought of Countess L., pictuiing her just indignation, her tears and dejection. . . . But at times a terrible thought oppressed his heart; the distractions of high society, a new intrigue, another happy lover—he shuddered; jealousy set his African blood on fire—and scalding tears were ready to flow down his black cheeks.

One morning, as he sat in his study surrounded by business papers, he suddenly heard a loud greeting in the French language. Ibrahim turned 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,' Korsakov said, 'and have come straight to you. All our Paris friends send you their greetings and are sorry you are not with them. Countess L. said you must come back at all costs, and here is a letter for you from her.'

Ibrahim snatched it with trepidation and gazed at the familiar handwriting on the address, not daring to believe his own eyes.

'How glad I am you haven't yet died of boredom in this barbarous Petersburg!' Korsakov went on. 'What do they do here? How do they spend their time? Who is your tailor? Have you an opera house, at least?'

Ibrahim answered absent-mindedly that the Tsar was probably working now at the Admiralty wharf. Korsakov laughed.

'I see you have no thoughts to spare for me now,' he said. 'We'll talk to our hearts' content some other time; I'll 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 deception and distrust.

'You say,' she wrote, 'that my peace is dearer than anything in the world to you. Ibrahim! if this were true, how could you have caused me the pain that the unexpected news of your departure gave me? You were afraid that I would detain you; believe me that in spite of my love I would have known how to sacrifice it to your welfare 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 sometimes—if there was no hope of their meeting again.

Ibrahim read the letter twenty times over, kissing with delight the precious lines. He was burning with impatience to hear about the Countess, and was preparing to go to the Admiralty in the hope of finding Korsakov still there, when the door opened and Korsakov appeared again. He had already presented himself to the Tsar—and as usual seemed much pleased with himself.

' Entre nous,' he said to Ibrahim, 'the Tsar is a most peculiar person; imagine, I found him, dressed in some kind of linen jacket, on the mast of a new ship, where I had to climb up with all my papers. I stood on a rope-ladder and had not enough room to make a decent bow. I was overcome with confusion—a thing which has never happened to me before. However, after reading tlie papers, the Tsar looked me up and down and was probably pleasantly impressed by my clothes being so smart and in such good taste; anyway, he smiled and invited me to the assembly to-night. But I am simply like a foreigner in Petersburg:

during the six years I 've been away, I have completely forgotten the customs of the place. Please be my mentor to-day, call for me and introduce me!'

Ibrallim agreed, and hastened to turn the conversation on to a subject that was of more interest to him.

'Well, and how is Countess L.?'

'The Countess ? Naturally she was very much grieved by your departure at first; then, of course, she gradually took comfort and found a new lover; do you know whom? The lanky Marquis R. Why do you stare at me like that with your goggle eyes ? Do you find it strange, by any chance ? Don't you know that it isn't in human nature—especially not in woman's nature—to be grieved for long? Think well about it, and I'll go and rest after my journey; mind you don't forget to call for me.'

What emotions were filling Ibrahim's heart? Jealousy? Fury? Despair? No; but profound, overpowering dejection. He kept repeating to himself: 'I had foreseen it, it was bound to happen'. Then he opened the Countess's letter, read it over again and, hanging his head, wept bitterly. He wept long. Tears lightened 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 strictly required his courtiers' presence. He dressed and went to call for Korsakov.

Korsakov sat in his dressing-gown reading a French book.

'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, in a nutter, rang the bell violently; his servants ran in; he began dressing hastily. His French valet brought him shoes with red heels, blue velvet trousers, and a pink jacket embroidered with sequins; in the hall they were hastily powdering a wig. It was brought in; Korsakov thrust his closely cropped head into it, asked for his sword and gloves, and, turning round a dozen times before the mirror, told Ibrahim that he was ready. The footmen brought them bearskin coats, and they drove to the Winter Palace.

Korsakov bombarded Ibrahim with questions: Who was the most beautiful woman in Petersburg? Who was regarded as the best dancer? What dance was in the fashion? Ibrahim satisfied his curiosity very reluctantly. Meanwhile they drove up to the palace. A number of long sledges, old-fashioned carriages, and gilded coaches were already standing in the open space in front. At the steps there was a crowd of liveried coachmen with moustaches; messengers decked with feathers, glittering with gold braid and carrying maces; hussars, pages, clumsy footmen loaded with their masters' fur-coats and muffs — a following which the noblemen of the period considered essential. At the sight of Ibrahim there arose a general murmur among them: 'The negro, the ncgro, the Tsar's negro!' He made haste to lead Karsakov through this motley crowd. A palace footman flung the doors wide open and they walked into the hall. Korsakov was dumbfounded. ... In a big room lighted by tallow candles that burned dimly in the clouds of tobacco smoke, noblemen with blue ribbons across the shoulder, ambassadors, foreign merchants, officers of the Guards in green uniforms, and shipbuilders in jackets and striped trousers, moved up and down in a crowd to the continual music of wind instruments. The ladies sat along the walls; the young ones were dressed in all the splendour of fashion. Gold and silver glittered on their gowns; their slender waists rose like the stem of a flower from the huge farthingale; diamonds sparkled in their ears, in their long curls and round their necks. They gaily turned right and left, waiting for the dances to begin and looking for partners. The elderly ladies had made ingenious attempts to combine the new fashions with the forbidden old ones; their caps looked like the sable head-dress of the Tsaritsa Natalya Kirilovna (Peter the Great's mother.-TRANSLATOR'S Note) and their gowns and mantillas somehow recalled the Russian sarafan and dushegreika. They seemed to feel surprise rather than pleasure at the newfangled entertainments, and glanced askance at the Dutch skippers' wives and daughters in cotton skirts and red bodices who sat there knitting stockings, laughing and talking among themselves as though they were at home.

Noticing new guests, a servant came up to them with beer and glasses on a tray. Korsakov did not know what to think.

'Que diable est-ce que tout celal' 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. Wishing to show himself to him, Korsakov could hardly make his way through the continually moving crowd. The room was occupied chiefly by foreigners, who sat there, solemnly smoking their clay pipes and emptying earthenware mugs. On the tables there were bottles of wine and beer, leathel bags with tobacco, glasses of punch and chess-boards. At one of the tables Peter was playing draughts with a broadshouldered English skipper. They zealously discharged volleys of tobacco smoke at each other, and the Tsar was so disconcerted by an unexpected move on his opponent's part that he failed to notice Korsakov in spite of all the latter's efforts. At that moment a stout gentleman with a big bouquet on his breast entered hastily and announced in a loud voice that dancing had begun; he went out immediately, and a number of guests, Korsakov among them, followed.

He was greatly surprised by the unexpected scene that he saw. Ladies and gentlemen stood in two rows facing one another the whole length of the dancing-hall; to the plaintive strains of a pitiful band the gentlemen bowed low, the ladies made deep curtsies, first in the direction they faced, then turning to the right, then turning to the left, then to the front again, then to the right, then to the left, and so on. Biting his lips, Korsakov stared open-eyed at this peculiar way of spending time. The bows and curtsies went on for about half an hour; at last they stopped, and the stout gentleman with the bouquet announced that the ceremonial dances were over, and ordered the musicians to play the minuet.

Korsakov was glad and prepared to shine. One of the young lady guests particularly attracted him. She was about sixteen; dressed luxuriously but in good taste, she sat next to an elderly man of a stern and imposing appearance. Korsakov dashed up to her, and asked her to do him the honour of dancing with him. The young beauty looked at him in confusion and seemed at a loss for an answer. The man sitting next to her frowned more than ever. Korsakov was waiting for her decision; but the gentleman with the bouquet came up to him and, taking him to the middle of the hall, said solemnly:

'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 invite her, while in the minuet this right belongs to the lady and not to the gentleman; in view of this you have to be severely punished, namely, you must drink the goblet of the big eagle.'

Korsakov felt more and more bewildered. The othel guests instantly surrounded him, noisily demanding that the sentence should be carried out on the spot. Hearing shouts and laughter, Peter came into the room, for he was very fond of being personally present at such punishments. The crowd made way for him, and he entered the circle, in the middle of which stood the condemned man and the marshal of the assembly with a huge goblet filled with malmsey wine. He was vainly trying to persuade the criminal voluntarily to submit to the law.

'Aha!' said Peter, when he caught sight of Korsakov. 'You are caught, brother. Now you must drink, monsieur, and make no grimaces.'

There was nothing for it: the poor dandy drained the whole goblet without drawing breath, and gave it back to the marshal.

'I say, Korsakov,' Peter said to him, 'you have velvet breeches on, such as even I don't wear, and I am much richer than you. That's extravagance; take care that I don't quarrel with you.'

Having received this reprimand, Korsakov tried to make his way out of the circle, but staggered and nearly fell, to the indescribable delight of the Tsar and the whole merry company. So far from breaking up or spoiling the entertainment, that episode merely served to enliven it. The gentlemen scraped and bowed, and the ladies curtsied and clicked their heels with more zeal than ever, no longer troubling to keep time with the music. Korsakov was not able to take part in the general merriment. The lady whom he had selected went up to Ibrahim by order of her father, Gavril Afanasyevitch Rzhevsky, and casting down her blue eyes, timidly gave him her hand. Ibrahim danced the minuet with her, and took her back to her seat; then, finding Korsakov, he led him out of the room, put him in his carriage, and saw him home. On the way Korsakov at first muttered vaguely:' That damned assembly! . . . that damned goblet!' . . . but soon dropped sound asleep. He was not conscious of arriving home, of being undressed and put to bed, and woke up the next day with a headache, vaguely recalling the bows, the curtsies, the tobacco smoke, the gentleman with the bouquet, and the 'goblet of the big eagle'.

CHAPTER IV

It was a holiday. Gavril Afanasyevitch was expecting several friends and relatives. A long table was being set in the old-fashioned hall. Visitors arrived with their wives and daughters, who had been freed at last from domestic seclusion by the ukases of the Tsar and by his own example. Natalya Gavrilovna came up to each guest with a silver tray loaded with golden cups, and each emptied one, regretting that the kiss given in the old days on such occasions was no longer the custom. They sat down to dinner. The place of honour next to the host was taken by his father-in-law, Prince Boris Alexeyevitch Lykov, an old man of seventy; other guests chose their seats according to their families' rank, thus recalling the happy days when seniority was observed in all things. The men sat on one side of the table, the women on the other; the woman-jester in her old-fashioned head-dress and jacket, the dwarf—a prim and wrinkled little woman of thirty, and the captive dancingmaster in his worn blue uniform occupied their usual places at the end of the table. The table, laden with a number of dishes, was surrounded by a crowd of busy servants; the butler was conspicuous among them by his stern expression, round belly, and majestic immobility. The first moments of the dinner were exclusively devoted to savouring the oldfashioned Russian dishes; the rattle of plates and the jingle of spoons were the only sounds that disturbed the general silence. At last, seeing that the time had come to occupy his guests with pleasant conversation, Gavril Afanasyevitch looked about him and said:

'Where is Yekimovna? Call her here!'

Several servants dashed away in different directions, but at the same moment an old woman, rouged and powdered, in a low-cut brocade dress, decked with flowers and tinsel, came into the room singing and dancing. Her appearance was greeted with pleasure by every one.

'How do you do, Yekimovna?' Prince Lykov said. 'How are you getting on?'

'Very well, gossip: dancing and singing, and waiting for suitors.'

'Where have you been, fool?' Gavril Afanasyevitch asked.

'I 've been dressing up, gossip, for our dear guests and for God's holy day, at the Tsar's command and the boyars' remand, in the German fashion, for good people to laugh at!'

There was a burst of laughter at these words, and the fool took up her usual place behind her master's chair.

'The fool talks nonsense enough, but sometimes she speaks the truth,' said Tatyana Afanasyevna, Rzkevsky's eldest sister, whom he sincerely respected. 'The fashions to-day are indeed for good people to laugh at. If you, good sirs, have shaved your beards and put on skimpy jackets, it's no use talking about women's frippery, of course; but really it's a pity about the sarafan, the girls' hair-ribbon, and the women's head-dress! Why, just look at the fine ladies nowadays—one can't help laughing and being sorry for them too: their hair is matted like felt, greased, covered with French flour; their stomachs are so laced in, it's a wonder they don't break in two; their petticoats are stretched out with hoops—they have to sit down in a carriage sideways, to bend when they come through a door; they can neither sit nor stand nor draw breath—regular martyrs, poor dears!'

'Ah, Tatyana Afanasyevna dear!' said Kiril Petrovitch T., who had served as a governor in Ryazan and acquired there, not altogether by fair means, three thousand serfs and a young wife. 'I don't mind what my wife wears—she may look like a country bumpkin or a Chinese doll for aught I care, so long as she doesn't order new gowns every month, and throw away those she has scarcely worn. In the old days, a granddaughter used to inherit her grandmother's sarafan, and now—the mistress wears a gown one day and her maid the next. What is one to do? It's ruination for the Russian gentry! Dreadful!'

Saying these words he glanced with a sigh at his wife, Marya Ilyinishna, who did not seem at all pleased with their praising the old customs and disparaging the new. Other ladies shared her discontent, but said nothing, for in those days modesty was considered essential in a young woman.

'And whose fault is it?' said Gavril Afanasyevitch, filling a mug with foaming beer. 'Our own. Young women play the fool, and we encourage them.'

'But what are we to do, if we aren't free in the matter?' Kiril Petrovitch retorted. 'Many a husband would be only too glad to shut up his wife in the women's quarters, but soldiers come beating the drum to fetch her to the assembly; the husband takes up the whip, but the wife is busy dressing. Ah, these assemblies! It's the Lord's punishment for our sins.'

Marya Ilyinishna was on tenterhooks; her tongue simply itched to speak; at last she could restrain herself no longer, and turning to her husband she asked him with a sour smile what harm he saw in the assemblies.

'Why, this harm,' Kiril Petrovitch replied angrily: 'since they 've been started, husbands cannot keep their wives in hand; wives have forgotteu St. Paul's words: "Wives, reverence your husbands"; they think not of housekeeping but of fine clothes; they try to please, not their husbands, but dashing young officers. And is it seemly, madam, for a Russian noblewoman to be in the same room with tobaccosmoking Germans and their servants ? It's unheard of— to dance and talk till nightfall with young men! And it isn't as though they were your relatives—they are perfect Strangers!'

'I should like to tell a tale, but the wolf is in the vale,' Gavril Afanasyitch said, frowning. 'I confess, I don't care for those assemblies either—you may at any moment run up against someone who is drunk, or may be made drunk yourself for other people's amusement. You have to look sharp that some scapegrace isn't up to mischief with your daughter, und the young people nowadays are spoiled beyond words. At the last assembly, for instance, young Korsakov made such a to-do over my Natasha that I positively blushed. Next day I saw someone driving right up to my front door; I wondered who it could be—Prince Menshikov, perhaps? Not a bit of it: young Korsakov! He could not, if you please, stop his carriage at the gate and take the trouble to walk across the yard—oh, no! he dashed into the room, scraped his foot, chattered away—Lord help us and save us! Yekimovna mimics him admirably; by the way, fool, act the foreign monkey for us.'

Yekimovna seized the lid off one of the dishes, and taking it under her arm as though it were a hat, began grimacing, scraping with her foot and bowing to all sides, repeating:

'Mossoo . . . mam'zelle . . . assembly . . . pardon.' Prolonged and general laughter showed the guests' appreciation of the performance.

'The very image of Korsakov,' said old Prince Lykov, wiping away tears of laughter, when quiet had been gradually restored. 'But we may well confess, he is not the first or the last to return to Holy Russia from foreign parts changed into a clown. What do our children learn there? To scrape with their feet, to chatter in goodness knows what tongue, to make love to other men's wives, and not to respect their elders. Of all the young men brought up in foreign lands, the Tsar's negro (Lord forgive me!) is more of a man than any.'

'Dear me, prince!' Tatyana Afanasyevna said, 'I have seen him, seen him quite close . . . what an awful-looking face! I was quite scared!'

'Of course,' Gavril Afanasyevitch remarked,' he is a steady respectable man, not like that scapegrace. . . . Who is this driving in at the gate? Is it that foreign monkey again, I wonder? What are you thinking of, you brutes?' he continued, turning to the servants. 'Run and say I will not receive him; and if ever again . . .'

'Are you raving, you grey-beard?' Yekimovna the fool interrupted him. 'Have you gone blind? It's the Tsar's sledge; the Tsar has come.'

Gavril Afanasyevitch hastily got up from the table; all rushed to tlie windows and, in fact, saw the Tsar walking up the steps leaning on his orderly's shoulder. There was a commotion. Rzhevsky hastencrl to meet Peter. The servants ran about like mad; the guests were alarmed, and some of them thought of hurrying home. Suddenly Peter's resounding voice was heard behind the door; all grew still, and the Tsar came in, accompanied by his host, who was overcome with joy.

'Good-day, ladies and gentlemen!' said Peter gaily. All made a low bow. The Tsar's quick eyes found Rzhevsky's young daughter in the crowd; he called her. Natalya Gavrilovna came up to him with some show of courage, though she blushed, not merely to the ears, but to the shoulders.

'You grow prettier every hour,' the Tsar said to her, kissing her on the head as was his habit; then he turned to the guests:

'Well, did I disturb you? Were you having dinner? Please sit down again, and give me some aniseed-vodka, Gavril Afanasyevitch.'

Rzhevsky dashed up to his majestic butler, seized the tray from his hands, and, filling a golden cup, gave it to Peter with a bow. Peter drank the vodka, ate a bread-roll, and once more invited the guests to go on with the dinner. All took their former seats, except the dwarf and the womanjester, who did not dare to remain at the table graced by the Tsar's presence. Peter sat down next to the host, and asked for some cabbage soup. His orderly gave him a wooden spoon mounted in ivory, and a fork and knife with green bone handles, for Peter always used his own. The dinner that had a minute before been gay with talk and laughter continued in silence and constraint.

Out of respect, as well as from joy, the host ate nothing; the guests also stood on ceremony and listened with reverence to the Tsar talking in German to the Swedish officer about the campaign of 1701. The fool Yekimovna, whom the Tsar addressed more than once, answered with a kind of timid coldness which, by the way, was in no sense a proof of her stupidity. At last the dinner was over. The Tsar got up and the other guests did the same.

'Gavril Afanasyevitch,' he said to Rzhevsky, 'I want to speak to you in private'—and taking him by the arm he led him to the drawing-room, shutting the door after them.

The guests remained in the dining-room, talking in whispers about this unexpected visit and, afraid of being indiscreet, soon went home one after another, without thanking their host for his hospitality. His father-in-law, daughter, and sister saw them quietly off to the door, and remained alone in the dining-room, waiting for the Tsar to come out.

CHAPTER V

HALF an hour later the door opened, and Peter came out. He nodded gravely in answer to the salutations of Prince Lykov, Tatyana Afanasyevna, and Natasha, and walked straight to the entry. Rzhevsky helped him on with his red sheepskin coat, saw him off to the sledge, and on the steps thanked him once more for the honour he had done him.

Peter drove away.

Gavril Afanasyevitch seemed much preoccupied when he returned to the dining-room; he angrily ordered the servants to make haste and clear the table, sent Natasha to her room, and, saying to his sister and his father-in-law that he wanted to talk to them, led them into the bedroom where he generally rested after dinner. The old prince lay down on the oak bedstead; Tatyana Afanasyevna settled in the old brocaded arm-chair, resting her feet on a footstool; Gavril Afanasyevitcn locked all the doors and, sitting down on the bed at Prince Lykov's feet, began in an undertone the following conversation:

'It's not for nothing the Tsar came to see me; guess what he was pleased to say to me.'

'How can we tell, dear brother?' Tatyana Afanasyevna said.

'Has the Tsar appointed you governor ot some town ?' said his father-in-law. ' High time he did. Or has he offered you to serve in an embassy? Well, it's not only government clerks who are sent to foreign sovereigns, but men of noble birth as well.'

'No,' Rzhevsky answered with a frown. 'I am a man of the old sort, and our service isn't needed now, though perhaps an orthodox Russian gentleman is wortli as much as those infidels and newly baked nobles who once sold pies.1 But that 's a different matter.'

'What then did he talk to you about, all that time?' Tatyana Afanasyevna asked. 'Have you got into trouble by any chance? The Lord help us and save us!'

'It isn't exactly trouble, but I confess I was rather disconcerted.'

'What is it, brother? What has happened?'

'It is about Natasha: the Tsar came to make a match for her.'

'Thank Heaven!' Tatyana Afanasyevna said, crossing herself. ' It is time she were married; and like match-maker, like suitor. God give them love and concord; it is a great honour. To whom then does the Tsar wish to marry her?'

'Hm!' Gavril Afanasyevitch cleared his throat. 'To whom? That's just it, to whom?'

'To whom, then?' repeated Prince Lykov, who was beginning to doze.

'How can we guess, dear brother?' the old lady answered. 'There are no end of marriageable men at the court: any one of them would be glad to marry your Natasha. Is it Dolgoruky?'

'No, it isn't.'

'Just as well: he is much too proud. Shagin? Troekurov?'

'No, neither of them.'

'And they are not to my taste, either: they are frivolous, and too much infected with the German spirit. Well, is it Miloslavsky ?'

'No, it isn't.'

'And a good thing too: he is rich and stupid. Well? Yeletsky? Lvov? Can it be Raguzinsky? No, I give it up. To whom then does the Tsar want to marry Natasha?'

'To the negro Ibrahim.'

The old lady cried out, clasping her hands. Prince Lykov raised his head from the pillow, and repeated in amazement:

'To the negro Ibrahim ?'

'Brother darling,' the old lady said in a tearful voice, 'don't ruin your own child, don't give dear Natasha into the black devil's clutches!'

'But how am I to refuse the Tsar who, if we agree, promises us his favour, me and all our family?' Gavril Afanasyevitch retorted.

'What!' cried the old prince who was wide awake now. 'To marry my granddaughter to a bought negro slave?'

'He is not a commoner,' Gavril Afanasyevitch said. 'He is the son of the Negro Sultan. Infidels took him prisoner and sold him in Constantinople, and our ambassador rescued him and gave him to the Tsar. Ibrahim's elder brother came to Russia with a big ransom and . . .'

' Gavril Afanasyevitch, dear,' the old lady interrupted him, ' we have heard the fairy tale about Prince Bova and Yeruslan Lazarevitch! You 'd better tell us what answer you gave to the Tsar.'

'I said that he was our master, and it was his servants' duty to obey him in all things.'

At that moment there was a noise behind the door. Gavril Afanasyevitch went to open it, but felt that there was something holding it. He gave it a violent push—the door opened, and they saw Natasha lying senseless on the bloodstained floor.

Her heart had sunk when the Tsar shut himself in with her father; she had a foreboding that it had something to do with her. When Gavril Afanasyevitch sent her away, saying that he must speak to her aunt and her grandfather, she could not resist her feminine curiosity and, stealing up quietly through the inner rooms to the bedroom door, did not miss a single word of the awful conversation. When she heard her father's last words the poor girl fainted and, falling, hit her head against the iron-clad box in which her dowry was kept.

Servants ran in. Natasha was lifted, carried to her room, and placed on the bed. After a while she regained consciousness and opened her eyes; but she did not recognize her father or her aunt. She was in a high fever; she raved about the Tsar's negro, about the wedding, and suddenly cried in a pitiful and piercing voice:

'Valeryan, dear Valeryan, my life! save me: here they come, here they come! . . .'

Tatyana Afanasyevna glanced anxiously at her brother, who turned pale, bit his lip, and walked out of the room in silence. He joined the old prince, who had remained on the ground floor, as the stairs were too much for him.

'How is Natasha?' he asked.

'She is bad,' said her father sorrowfully, 'worse than I thought: she is delirious and raves about Valeryan.'

'Who is this Valeryan?' the old man asked anxiously; 'can it be that orphan who was brought up in your house?'

'That's the man, worse luck!' Gavril Afanasyevitch answered; 'his father saved my life during the Streltsi's rebellion, and the devil put it into my head to adopt that damned wolf-cub. When two years ago he was at his own request enrolled in a regiment, Natasha burst into tears as she said good-bye to him, while he stood as though turned to stone. It struck me as suspicious, and I spoke of it to my sister at the time. But up to now Natasha has not mentioned him, and nothing more was heard of him. I thought she had forgotten him, but it seems she hasn't. But it is settled: she shall marry the negro.'

Prince Lykov did not contradict him: that would have been useless; he went home. Tatyana Afanasyevna remained by Natasha's bedside; after sending for the doctor, Gavril Afanasyevitch shut himself up in his room, and his house grew still and gloomy.

The unexpected marriage-offer surprised Ibrahim quite as much as it did Gavril Afanasyevitch, if not more. This was how it happened. Working with Ibrahim, Peter said to him:

'I notice, brother, that you are out of spirits; tell me straight, what's wrong?'

Ibrahim assured the Tsar that he was satisfied with his lot and wished for nothing better.

'Good!' said the Tsar; 'if you are depressed for no reason, I know how to cheer you.'

When they had finished work, Peter asked Ibrahim:

'Do you like the girl with whom you danced the minuet at the last assembly?'

' She is very charming. Sire, and seems to be a good and modest girl.'

'Then I'll help you to know her better. Would you like to marry her?'

'I, Sire?'

'Listen, Ibrahim; you are a lonely man, without kindred, a stranger to every one except me. If I were to die to-day, what would become of you to-morrow, my poor African? You must get settled while there is still time, find support in new ties, be allied to the Russian nobility.'

'Sire, I am happy in your Majesty's favour and patronage. God grant I may not outlive my Tsar and benefactor—I wish nothing more; but even if I did think of marriage, would the girl and her relatives agree? My appearance . . . !'

'Your appearance? What nonsense! There's nothing amiss with you. A young girl must obey her parents, and we shall see what old Gavril Rzhevsky will say when I come myself to ask for his daughter's hand for you.'

With these words the Tsar gave orders for his sledge to be brought and left Ibrahim plunged in deep thought.

'To marry!' thought the African. 'Why not? Can I be doomed to live in loneliness, knowing nothing of the highest joys and the most sacred duties of man, simply because I was born in the tropics? I may not hope to be loved; a childish objection! As though one could believe in love! as though a woman's frivolous heart were capable of it! I 've given up for ever those charming delusions, and have chosen more substantial attractions instead. The Tsar is right: I must safeguard my future. Marriage to Rzhevsky's daughter will ally me to the proud Russian nobility and I shall no longer be an alien in my new fatherland. I will not expect love from my wife: I shall be content with her fidelity, and shall win her affection by constant tenderness, trust, and indulgence.'

Ibrahim tried to go on with his work as usual, but his mind was in a turmoil. He left his papers and went for a walk along the Neva embankment. Suddenly he heard Peter's voice; turning round he saw the Tsar who, having dismissed his sledge, walked towards him with a cheerful air.

'It's all settled, brother!' Peter said, taking him by the arm. 'Your marriage is arranged. Go to your future father-in-law to-morrow, but mind you humour his family pride: leave your sledge at the gate and walk across the yard to the front door, talk to him about his merits and his noble lineage—and he will dote on you. Now,' he went on, shaking his stick, 'take me to that rascal Danilitch,1 I have to pay him out for some fresh tricks of his.

_ Heartily thanking Peter for his fatherly solicitude about him, Ibrahim escorted him to Prince Menshikov's splendid palace and returned home.

CHAPTER VI

A SANCTUARY lamp was burning with a gentle glow before a glazed ikon-stand in which the old family ikons glittered in their setting of gold and silver. Its flickering flame shed a dim light over the curtained bed and a small table covered with medicine bottles. A servant sat by the stove with her spinning-wheel, and the slight whirr of the spindle was the only sound that disturbed the stillness.

'Who is there?' a weak voice asked.

The maid got up at once and, approaching the bed softly, lifted the curtain.

'Will it soon be daylight ?' Natasha asked.

'It is midday,' the maid answered.

'Good heavens, why is it so dark then?'

'The window curtains are drawn, miss.'

'Give me my clothes quick.'

'I can't, miss: doctor's orders.'

'Am I ill? Havel been ill long?'

'It's now a fortnight.'

'Indeed? And I fancied I had gone to bed only yesterday. . . .'

Natasha was silent; she was trying to collect her distracted thoughts: something had happened to her, but what it was she could not think. The maid stood before her waiting for orders. At that moment a dull noise came from below.

'What is it?' the invalid asked.

'Dinner is over,' the maid answered. 'They are getting up from the table. Tatyana Afanasyevna will be here directly.'

Natasha seemed pleased; with a feeble movement of her hand she dismissed the servant. The maid drew the bedcurtains and sat down to her spinning-wheel once more. A few minutes later a head in a broad white cap with dark ribbons appeared in the doorway and a voice asked in an undertone:

'How is Natasha?'

'Good morning, auntie,' the invalid said quietly, and Tatyana Afanasyevna hastened to her.

'Our young lady has come to herself,' said the maid, bringing up an arm-chair carefully.

Tatyana Afanasyevna kissed with tears her niece's pale, languid face and sat down beside her. A German doctor in a black coat and a wig came in after her and, feeling Natasha's pulse, declared first in Latin and then in Russian that the danger was over. Asking for paper and ink, he wrote out a fresh prescription and went away; the old lady got up and, kissing Natasha once more, went downstairs to give the good news to Gavril Afanasyevitch.

The Tsar's negro in full uniform, his sword at his belt, and his hat in his hands, sat in the drawing-room, talking respectfully to Gavril Afanasyevitch. Lolling on a soft couch, Korsakov listened to them absent-mindedly, teasing an old borzoi dog; when he tired of this occupation he went up to the mirror, the usual refuge of idleness, and saw in it Tatyana Afanasyevna, who stood in the doorway vainly trying to attract her brother's attention.

'You are wanted, Gavril Afanasyevitch,' said Korsakov, turning to him and interrupting Ibrahim.

Gavril Afanasyevitch went to his sister at once, shutting the door behind him.

'I marvel at your patience!' Korsakov said to Ibrahim. 'You 've been listening for a whole hour to all that stuff and nonsense about the antiquity of the Lykov and the Rzhevsky families, and contributing moral remarks to it, as well! In your place j'aurais plants Id the old humbug and all his family, including Natalya Gavrilovna who gives herself airs, pretending to be ill—une petite sante! Tell me honestly: surely you aren't in love with this little mijauree?'

'No,' Ibrahim answered, 'I am marrying her not for love, of course, but for practical reasons, and only if she has no positive aversion for me.'

'Look here, Ibrahim,' said Korsakov, 'follow my advice for once; I assure you, I am more reasonable than I appear. Give up this mad idea—don't marry! It seems to me that your betrothed has no particular liking for you. All sorts of things happen in this world, you know. Here, for instance, am I—fairly good-looking, of course, but it has happened to me to deceive husbands who were in no way inferior to me, I assure you. You yourself . . . you remember our Paris friend, Count L.? One cannot rely on a woman's fidelity, and those who don't bother about it are lucky. But you!... Is it for a man of your ardent, brooding, and suspicious disposition, with flat nose, fat lips, and fuzzy hair to expose himself to all the dangers of matrimony?.'

'Thank you for your friendly advice,' Ibrahim interrupted him coldly, 'but you know the proverb, "You need not trouble to nurse other people's children".'

'Mind, Ibrahim,' Korsakov answered laughing, 'that you don't have to prove the truth of that proverb in a literal sense.'

But the conversation in the next room was growing heated.

'You will kill her,' the old lady was saying. 'The sight of him will be too much for her.'

'But just consider,' her obstinate brother retorted, 'he 's been coming to the house as her betrothed for the last fortnight, and he hasn't seen her yet. He may end by thinking that her illness is a sham, and that we are simply trying to delay the marriage so as to get rid of him. And what will the Tsar say? He has sent three times as it is to inquire after Natasha's health. Say what you will, I don't intend to quarrel with him.'

'Good heavens, what will become of the poor girl!' Tatyana Afanasyevna said. 'Let me go at any rate and prepare her for his visit.'

Gavril Afanasyevitch agreed, and returned to the drawing room.

'Thank God, the danger is over,' he said to Ibrahim. 'Natalya is much better; if I weren't ashamed to leave our dear guest alone here, I should take you upstairs to have a look at your betrothed.'

Korsakov congratulated Gavril Afanasyevitch, asked him not to worry about him, assured him that he had to go away at once, and ran out of the room, not allowing his host to see him off.

Meanwhile Tatyana Afanasyevna hastened to prepare the invalid for her terrible visitor. She came in and sat down, breathless, by the girl's bedside; she took Natasha's hand, but had not had time to say a word before the door opened. Natasha asked: 'Who is it?' The old lady turned cold with horror. Gavril Afanasyevitch drew back the curtain, looked at the invalid coldly, and asked how she was. Natasha tried to smile at him, but could not. She was struck by her father's stern expression, and a vague uneasiness possessed 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 Tsar's negro. She recalled everything, and her future appeared before her in all its horror. But she was so exhausted that she felt no violent shock. She let her head sink on the pillow again and closed her eyes . . . her heart was beating painfully. Tatyana Afanasyevna made a sign to her brother that the invalid wanted to sleep, and all left the room quietly, except the maid-servant, who sat down to the spinning-wheel once more.

The unhappy girl opened her eyes and, seeing no one by her bedside, called the maid and sent her for the dwarf. But at the same moment the fat old dwarf seemed to roll up to her bed like a ball. Lastochka (that was the dwarf's name) had run upstairs after Gavril Afanasyevitch and Ibrahim as fast as her short little legs would carry her and, true to the curiosity natural to the fair sex, had hidden behind the door. Seeing her, Natasha sent the maid away, and the dwarf sat down on a bench at her bedside.

Never did a tiny body contain so much mental energy. She interfered in everything, knew all there was to know, busied herself with all things. Her sly and insinuating intelligence helped her to acquire the affection of her masters and the hatred of the rest of the household, which she dominated completely. Gavril Afanasyevitch listened to her tales, complaints, and petty requests; Tatyana Afanasyevna was constantly asking her opinion and following her advice;

Natasha had boundless affection for her, and confided to her all the thoughts and feelings of her young heart.

'Do you know, Lastochka,' she said,' my father is marrying me to the negro.'

The dwarf sighed deeply, and her wrinkled face grew more wrinkled than ever.

'Is there no hope?' Natasha continued. ' Won't my father have pity on me?'

The dwarf shook her head.

'Won't my grandfather or auntie intercede for me?'

'No, miss; during your illness the negro has got round every one. Your father is delighted with him, the prince can talk of no one else, and Tatyana Afanasyevna says:

"It's a pity he is a negro, but it would be a sin for us to want a better suitor".'

'My God, my God!' groaned poor Natasha.

'Don't grieve, my beauty,' said the dwarf kissing her listless hand; 'even if you are to marry a negro, you will still be free. Things are not what they used to be: husbands don't shut up their wives. The negro is rich, they say; you'll have a lovely home, and live in comfort and plenty.'

'Poor Valeryan!' said Natasha in a voice so low that the dwarf could only guess and not hear the words.

'That's just it, miss,' she said dropping her voice mysteriously; 'if you had thought less about that youth, you wouldn't have raved about him in your fever, and your father wouldn't have been angry.'

'What?' said Natalya, terrified. 'I talked about Valeryan? My father heard it? He was angry?'

'That's just the trouble,' the dwarf answered. ' If you ask him now not to marry you to the negro he will think it is because of Valeryan. There is nothing for it: submit to your father's will, and what is to be, will be.'

Natasha did not answer a word. The thought that her heart's secret was known to her father greatly affected her imagination. One hope only was left her: to die before the hateful marriage. That thought comforted her. Weak and sad at heart, she resigned herself to her fate.

CHAPTER VII

IN Gavril Afanasyevitch's house, to the right from the entrance hall, there was a tiny room with one window. A plain bed covered with a blanket stood in it; in front of the bed there was a deal table on which a tallow candle was burning and a music-book lay open. An old blue uniform and an equally old three-comered hat hung on the wall, under a print of Charles XII on horseback, fixed up with three nails. Sounds of a flute came from this humble apartment. Its solitary occupant, the captive dancingmaster, in a nightcap and a cotton dressing-gown, sought to relieve the boredom of a winter evening by playing ancient Swedish marches. Having spent two hours at this exercise the Swede took the flute to pieces and, putting it into its case, began to undress.