[1]The chief of the Hetairists (Philiké Hetairia), whose object was the liberation of Greece from the Turkish yoke.
[1]The chief of the Hetairists (Philiké Hetairia), whose object was the liberation of Greece from the Turkish yoke.
[2]Long Turkish daggers.
[2]Long Turkish daggers.
[3]Alevis worth about ten-pence.
[3]Alevis worth about ten-pence.
Charsky was one of the native-born inhabitants of St. Petersburg. He was not yet thirty years of age; he was not married; the service did not oppress him too heavily. His late uncle, having been a vice-governor in the good old times, had left him a respectable estate. His life was a very agreeable one, but he had the misfortune to write and print verses. In the journals he was called “poet,” and in the ante-rooms “author.”
In spite of the great privileges which verse-makers enjoy (we must confess that, except the right of using the accusative instead of the genitive, and other so-called poetical licenses of a similar kind, we fail to see what are the particular privileges of Russian poets), in spite of their every possible privilege, these persons are compelled to endure a great deal of unpleasantness. The bitterest misfortune of all, the most intolerable for the poet, is the appellation with which he is branded, and which will always cling to him. The public look upon him as their own property; in their opinion, he was created for their especial benefit and pleasure. Should he return from the country, the first person who meets him accosts him with:
“Haven’t you brought anything new for us?”
Should the derangement of his affairs, or the illness of some being dear to him, cause him to become lost in thoughtful reflection, immediately a trite smile accompanies the trite exclamation:
“No doubt he is composing something!”
Should he happen to fall in love, his beauty purchases an album at the English warehouse, and expects an elegy.
Should he call upon a man whom he hardly knows, to talk about serious matters of business, the latter quickly calls his son and compels him to read some of the verses of so-and-so, and the lad regales the poet with some of his lame productions. And these are but the flowers of, the calling; what then must be the fruits! Charsky acknowledged that the compliments, the questions, the albums, and the little boys bored him to such an extent, that he was constantly compelled to restrain himself from committing some act of rudeness.
Charsky used every possible endeavour to rid himself of the intolerable appellation. He avoided the society of his literary brethren, and preferred to them the men of the world, even the most shallow-minded: but that did not help him. His conversation was of the most commonplace character, and never turned upon literature. In his dress he always observed the very latest fashion, with the timidity and superstition of a young Moscovite arriving in St. Petersburg for the first time in his life. In his study, furnished like a lady’s bedroom, nothing recalled the writer; no books littered the table; the divan was not stained with ink; there was none of that disorder which denotes the presence of the Muse and the absence of broom and brush. Charsky was in despair if any of his worldly friends found him with a pen in his hand. It is difficult to believe to what trifles a man, otherwise endowed with talent and soul, can descend. At one time he pretended to be a passionate lover of horses, at another a desperate gambler, and at another a refined gourmet, although he was never able to distinguish the mountain breed from the Arab, could never remember the trump cards, and in secret preferred a baked potato to all the inventions of the French cuisine. He led a life of unbounded pleasure, was seen at all the balls, gormandized at all the diplomatic dinners, and appeared at all the soirees as inevitably as the Rezan ices. For all that, he was a poet, and his passion was invincible. When he found the “silly fit” (thus he called the inspiration) coming upon him, Charsky would shut himself up in his study, and write from morning till late into the night. He confessed to his genuine friends that only then did he know what real happiness was. The rest of his time he strolled about, dissembled, and was assailed at every step by the eternal question:
“Haven’t you written anything new?”
One morning, Charsky felt that happy disposition of soul, when the illusions are represented in their brightest colours, when vivid, unexpected words present themselves for the incarnation of one’s visions, when verses flow easily from the pen, and sonorous rhythms fly to meet harmonious thoughts. Charsky was mentally plunged into a sweet oblivion... and the world, and the trifles of the world, and his own particular whims no longer existed for him. He was writing verses.
Suddenly the door of his study creaked, and the unknown head of a man appeared. Charsky gave a sudden start and frowned.
“Who is there?” he asked with vexation, inwardly cursing his servants, who were never in the ante-room when they were wanted.
The unknown entered. He was of a tall, spare figure, and appeared to be about thirty years of age. The features of his swarthy face were very expressive: his pale, lofty forehead, shaded by dark locks of hair, his black, sparkling eyes, aquiline nose, and thick beard surrounding his sunken, tawny cheeks, indicated him to be a foreigner. He was attired in a black dress-coat, already whitened at the seams, and summer trousers (although the season was well into the autumn); under his tattered black cravat, upon a yellowish shirt-front, glittered a false diamond; his shaggy hat seemed to have seen rain and bad weather. Meeting such a man in a wood, you would have taken him for a robber; in society—for a political conspirator; in an ante-room—for a charlatan, a seller of elixirs and arsenic.
“What do you want?” Charsky asked him in French.
“Signor,” replied the foreigner in Italian, with several profound bows: “Lei voglia perdonar mi, si...” (Please pardon me, if....)
Charsky did not offer him a chair, and he rose himself: the conversation was continued in Italian.
“I am a Neapolitan artist,” said the unknown: “circumstances compelled me to leave my native land; I have, come to Russia, trusting to my talent.”
Charsky thought that the Italian was preparing to give some violoncello concerts and was disposing of his tickets from house to house. He was just about to give him twenty-five roubles in order to get rid of him as quickly as possible, but the unknown added:
“I hope, signor, that you will give a friendly support to your confrère, and introduce me into the houses to which, you have access.”
It was impossible to offer a greater affront to Charsky’s vanity. He glanced haughtily at the individual who called himself his confrère.
“Allow me to ask, what are you, and for whom do you take me?” he said, with difficulty restraining his indignation.
The Neapolitan observed his vexation.
“Signor,” he replied, stammering: “Ho creduto ... ho sentito ... la vostra Eccelenza ... mi ferdonera...” (I believed ... I felt ... Your Excellency ... will pardon me....)
“What do you want?” repeated Charsky drily.
“I have heard a great deal of your wonderful talent; I am sure that the gentlemen of this place esteem it an honour to extend every possible protection to such an excellent poet,” replied the Italian: “and that is why I have ventured to present myself to you....”
“You are mistaken, signor,” interrupted Charsky. “The calling of poet does not exist among us. Our poets do not solicit the protection of gentlemen; our poets are gentlemen themselves, and if our Maecenases (devil take them!) do not know that, so much the worse for them. Among us there are no ragged abbés, whom a musician would take out of the streets to compose a libretto. Among us, poets do not go on foot from house to house, begging for help. Moreover, they must have been joking, when they told you that I was a great poet. It is true that I once wrote some wretched epigrams, but thank God, I haven’t anything in common withmessieurs les poètes, and do not wish to have.”
The poor Italian became confused. He looked around him. The pictures, marble statues, bronzes, and the costly baubles on Gothic what-nots, struck him. He understood that between the haughty dandy, standing before him in a tufted brocaded cap, gold-embroidered nankeen dressing-gown and Turkish sash,—and himself, a poor wandering artist, in tattered cravat and shabby dress-coat—there was nothing in common. He stammered out some unintelligible excuses, bowed, and wished to retire. His pitiable appearance touched Charsky, who, in spite of the defects in his character, had a good and noble heart. He felt ashamed of his irritated vanity.
“Where are you going?” he said to the Italian. “Wait ... I was compelled to decline an unmerited title and confess to you that I was not a poet. Now let us speak about your business. I am ready to serve you, if it be in my power to do so. Are you a musician?”
“No, Eccelenza,” replied the Italian; “I am a poor improvisatore.”
“An improvisatore!” cried Charsky, feeling all the cruelty of his reception. “Why didn’t you say sooner that you were an improvisatore?”
And Charsky grasped his hand with a feeling of sincere regret.
His friendly manner encouraged the Italian. He spoke naïvely of his plans. His exterior was not deceptive. He was in need of money, and he hoped somehow in Russia to improve his domestic circumstances. Charsky listened to him with attention.
“I hope,” said he to the poor artist, “that you will have success; society here has never heard an improvisatore. Curiosity will be awakened. It is true that the Italian language is not in use among us; you will not be understood, but that will be no great misfortune; the chief thing is that you should be in the fashion.”
“But if nobody among you understands Italian,” said the improvisatore, becoming thoughtful, “who will come to hear me?”
“Have no fear about that—they will come: some out of curiosity, others to pass away the evening somehow or other, others to show that they understand Italian. I repeat, it is only necessary that you should be in the fashion, and you will be in the fashion—I give you my hand upon it.”
Charsky dismissed the improvisatore very cordially, after having taken his address, and the same evening he set to work to do what he could for him.
The next day, in the dark and dirty corridor of a tavern, Charsky discovered the number 35. He stopped at the door and knocked. It was opened by the Italian of the day before.
“Victory!” said Charsky to him: “your affairs are in a good way. The Princess N——, offers you her salon; yesterday, at the rout, I succeeded in enlisting the half of St. Petersburg; get your tickets and announcements printed. If I cannot guarantee a triumph for you, I’ll answer for it that you will at least be a gainer in pocket....”
“And that is the chief thing,” cried the Italian, manifesting his delight in a series of gestures that were characteristic of his southern origin. “I knew that you would help me.Corpo di BaccolYou are a poet like myself, and there is no denying that poets are excellent fellows! How can I show my gratitude to you? Stop.... Would you like to hear an improvisation?”
“An improvisation!... Can you then do without public, without music, and without sounds of applause?”
“And where could I find a better public? You are a poet: you understand me better than they, and your quiet approbation will be dearer to me than whole storms of applause.... Sit down somewhere and give me a theme.” “Here is your theme, then,” said Charsky to him: “the poet himself should choose the subject of his songs; the crowd has not the right to direct his inspirations.” The eyes of the Italian sparkled: he tried a few chords, raised his head proudly, and passionate verses—the expression of instantaneous sentiment—fell in cadence from his lips....
The Italian ceased.... Charsky remained silent, filled with delight and astonishment.
“Well?” asked the improvisatore.
Charsky seized his hand and pressed it firmly.
“Well?” asked the improvisatore.
“Wonderful!” replied the poet. “The idea of another has scarcely reached your ears, and already it has become your own, as if you had nursed, fondled and developed it for a long time. And so for you there exists neither difficulty nor discouragement, nor that uneasiness which precedes inspiration? Wonderful, wonderful!”
The improvisatore replied: “Each talent is inexplicable. How does the sculptor see, in a block of Carrara marble, the hidden Jupiter, and how does he bring it to light with hammer and chisel by chipping off its envelope? Why does the idea issue from the poet’s head already equipped with four rhymes, and arranged in measured and harmonious feet? Nobody, except the improvisatore himself, can understand that rapid impression, that narrow link between inspiration proper and a strange exterior will; I myself would try in vain to explain it. But ... I must think of my first evening. What do you think? What price could I charge for the tickets, so that the public may not be too exacting, and so that, at the same time, I may not be out of pocket myself? They say that La Signora Catalani[1]took twenty-five roubles. That is a good price....”
It was very disagreeable to Charsky to fall suddenly from the heights of poesy down to the bookkeeper’s desk, but he understood very well the necessities of this world, and he assisted the Italian in his mercantile calculations. The improvisator, during this part of the business, exhibited such savage greed, such an artless love of gain, that he disgusted Charsky, who hastened to take leave of him, so that he might not lose altogether the feeling of ecstasy awakened within him by the brilliant improvisation. The Italian, absorbed in his calculations, did not observe this change, and he conducted Charsky into the corridor and out to the steps, with profound bows and assurances of eternal gratitude.
[1]A celebrated Italian vocalist, whose singing created an unprecedented sensation in the principal European capitals during the first quarter of the present century.
[1]A celebrated Italian vocalist, whose singing created an unprecedented sensation in the principal European capitals during the first quarter of the present century.
The salon of Princess N—— had been placed at the disposal of the improvisatore; a platform had been erected, and the chairs were arranged in twelve rows. On the appointed day, at seven o’clock in the evening, the room was illuminated; at the door, before a small table, to sell and receive tickets, sat a long-nosed old woman, in a grey cap with broken feathers, and with rings on all her fingers. Near the steps stood gendarmes.
The public began to assemble. Charsky was one of the first to arrive. He had contributed greatly to the success of the representation, and wished to see the improvisatore, in order to know if he was satisfied with everything. He found the Italian in a side room, observing his watch with impatience. The improvisatore was attired in a theatrical costume. He was dressed in black from head to foot. The lace collar of his shirt was thrown back; his naked neck, by its strange whiteness, offered a striking contrast to his thick black beard; his hair was brought forward, and overshadowed his forehead and eyebrows.
All this was not very gratifying to Charsky, who did not care to see a poet in the dress of a wandering juggler. After a short conversation, he returned to the salon, which was becoming more and more crowded. Soon all the rows of seats were occupied by brilliantly-dressed ladies: the gentlemen stood crowded round the sides of the platform, along the walls, and behind the chairs at the back; the musicians, with their music-stands, occupied two sides of the platform.
In the middle, upon a table, stood a porcelain vase.
The audience was a large one. Everybody awaited the commencement with impatience. At last, at half-past seven o’clock, the musicians made a stir, prepared their bows, and played the overture from “Tancredi.” All took their places and became silent. The last sounds of the overture ceased.... The improvisatore, welcomed by the deafening applause which rose from every side, advanced with profound bows to the very edge of the platform.
Charsky waited with uneasiness to see what would be the first impression produced, but he perceived that the costume, which had seemed to him so unbecoming, did not produce the same effect upon the audience; even Charsky himself found nothing ridiculous in the Italian, when he saw him upon the platform, with his pale face brightly illuminated by a multitude of lamps and candles. The applause subsided; the sound of voices ceased....
The Italian, expressing himself in bad French, requested the gentlemen present to indicate some themes, by writing them upon separate pieces of paper. At this unexpected invitation, all looked at one another in silence, and nobody made reply. The Italian, after waiting a little while, repeated his request in a timid and humble voice. Charsky was standing right under the platform; a feeling of uneasiness took possession of him; he had a presentiment that the business would not be able to go on without him, and that he would be compelled to write his theme. Indeed, several ladies turned their faces towards him and began to pronounce his name, at first in a low tone, then louder and louder. Hearing his name, the improvisatore sought him with his eyes, and perceiving him at his feet, he handed him a pencil and a piece of paper with a friendly smile. To play a rôle in this comedy seemed very disagreeable to Charsky, but there was no help for it: he took the pencil and paper from the hands of the Italian and wrote some words. The Italian, taking the vase from the table, descended from the platform and presented it to Charsky, who deposited within it his theme. His example produced an effect: two journalists, in their quality as literary men, considered it incumbent upon them to write each his theme; the secretary of the Neapolitan embassy, and a young man recently returned from a journey to Florence, placed in the urn their folded papers. At last, a very plain-looking girl, at the command of her mother, with tears in her eyes, wrote a few lines in Italian and, blushing to the ears, gave them to the improvisatore, the ladies in the meantime regarding her in silence, with a scarcely perceptible smile. Returning to the platform, the improvisatore placed the urn upon the table, and began to take out the papers one after the other, reading each aloud:
“La famiglia del Cenci....L’ultimo giorno di Pompeia...Cleopatra e i suoi amanti....La primavera veduta da una prigione.... Il trionfo di Tasso.”
“What does the honourable company command?” asked the Italian humbly. “Will it indicate itself one of the subjects proposed, or let the matter be decided by lot?”
“By lot!” said a voice in the crowd.... “By lot, by lot!” repeated the audience.
The improvisatore again descended from the platform, holding the urn in his hands, and casting an imploring glance along the first row of chairs, asked:
“Who will be kind enough to draw out the theme?”
Not one of the brilliant ladies, who were sitting there, stirred. The improvisatore, not accustomed to Northern indifference, seemed greatly disconcerted.... Suddenly he perceived on one side of the room a small white-gloved hand held up: he turned quickly and advanced towards a tall young beauty, seated at the end of the second row. She rose without the slightest confusion, and, with the greatest simplicity in the world, plunged her aristocratic hand into the urn and drew out a roll of paper.
“Will you please unfold it and read,” said the improvisatore to her.
The young lady unrolled the paper and read aloud:
“Cleopatra e i suoi amanti.”
These words were uttered in a gentle voice, but such a deep silence reigned in the room, that everybody heard them. The improvisatore bowed profoundly to the young lady, with an air of the deepest gratitude, and returned to his platform.
“Gentlemen,” said he, turning to the audience: “the lot has indicated as the subject of improvisation: ‘Cleopatra and her lovers,’ I humbly request the person who has chosen this theme, to explain to me his idea: what lovers is it here a question of,perchè la grande regina haveva molto?”
At these words, several gentlemen burst out laughing. The improvisatore became somewhat confused.
“I should like to know,” he continued, “to what historical feature does the person, who has chosen this theme, allude?... I should feel very grateful if he would kindly explain.”
Nobody hastened to reply. Several ladies directed their glances towards the plain-looking girl who had written a theme at the command of her mother. The poor girl observed this hostile attention, and became so confused, that the tears came into her eyes.... Charsky could not endure this, and turning to the improvisatore, he said to him in Italian:
“It was I who proposed the theme. I had in view a passage in Aurelius Victor, who speaks as if Cleopatra used to name death as the price of her love, and yet there were found adorers whom such a condition neither frightened nor repelled. It seems to me, however, that the subject is somewhat difficult.... Could you not choose another?”
But the improvisatore already felt the approach of the god.... He gave a sign to the musicians to play. His face became terribly pale; he trembled as if in a fever; his eyes sparkled with a strange fire; he raised with his hand his dark hair, wiped with his handkerchief his lofty forehead, covered with beads of perspiration.... then suddenly stepped forward and folded his arms across his breast.... the musicians ceased.... the improvisation began:
“The palace glitters; the songs of the choirEcho the sounds of the flute and lyre;With voice and glance the stately QueenGives animation to the festive scene,And eyes are turned to her throne above,And hearts beat wildly with ardent love.But suddenly that brow so proudIs shadowed with a gloomy cloud,And slowly on her heaving breast,Her pensive head sinks down to rest.The music ceases, hushed is each breath,Upon the feast falls the lull of death;”[1]* * * * *
[1]The story is incomplete in the original.—Translator.
[1]The story is incomplete in the original.—Translator.
Among the number of young men sent abroad by Peter the Great for the acquisition of knowledge indispensable to a country in a state of transition, was his godson, the negro, Ibrahim. After being educated in the Military School at Paris, which he left with the rank of Captain of Artillery, he distinguished himself in the Spanish War of Succession, but having been severely wounded, he returned to Paris. The Emperor, in the midst of his extensive labours, never ceased to inquire after his favourite and he always received flattering accounts of his progress and conduct. Peter was exceedingly pleased with him, and more than once requested him to return to Russia, but Ibrahim was in no hurry. He excused himself under various pretexts: now it was his wound, now it was a wish to complete his education, now a want of money; and Peter indulgently complied with his wishes, begged him to take care of his health, thanked him for his zeal in the pursuit of knowledge, and although extremely parsimonious in his own expenses, he did not spare his exchequer when his favourite was concerned, and the ducats were generally accompanied by fatherly advice and words of admonition.
According to the testimony of all historical accounts, nothing could be compared with the frivolity, folly and luxury of the French of that period. The last years of the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, remarkable for the strict piety, gravity, and decorum of the court, had left no traces behind. The Duke of Orleans, uniting many brilliant qualities with vices of every kind, unfortunately did not possess the slightest shadow of hypocrisy. The orgies of the Palais Royal were no secret in Paris; the example was infectious. At that time Law[2]appeared upon the scene; greed for money was united to the thirst for pleasure and dissipation; estates were squandered, morals perished, Frenchmen laughed and calculated, and the kingdom fell to pieces to the music of satirical vaudevilles.
In the meantime society presented a most remarkable picture. Culture and the desire for amusement brought all ranks together. Wealth, amiability, renown, talent, even eccentricity—everything that satisfied curiosity or promised amusement, was received with the same indulgence. Literature, learning and philosophy forsook their quiet studies and appeared in the circles of the great world to render homage to fashion and to obey its decrees. Women reigned, but no longer demanded adoration. Superficial politeness was substituted for the profound respect formerly shown to them. The pranks of the Duke de Richelieu, the Alcibiades of modern Athens, belong to history, and give an idea of the morals of that period.
“Temps fortuné, marqué par la licence,Où la folie, agitant son grelot,D’un pied leger parcourt toute la France,Où nul mortel ne daigne être dévot,Où l’on fait tout excepté pénitence.”
The appearance of Ibrahim, his bearing, culture and natural intelligence excited general attention in Paris. All the ladies were anxious to see “le négre du Czar” at their houses, and vied with each other in their attentions towards him. The Regent invited him more than once to his merry evening parties; he assisted at the suppers animated by the youth of Arouet,[3]the old age of Chaulieu, and the conversations of Montesquieu and Fontenelle. He did not miss a single ball, fête or first representation, and he gave himself up to the general whirl with all the ardour of his years and nature. But the thought of exchanging these delights, these brilliant amusements for the simplicity of the Petersburg Court was not the only thing that dismayed Ibrahim; other and stronger ties bound him to Paris. The young African was in love.
The Countess L——, although no longer in the first bloom of youth, was still renowned for her beauty. On leaving the convent at the age of seventeen, she was married to a man whom she had not succeeded in loving, and who later on did not take the trouble to gain her love. Report assigned several lovers to her, but thanks to the indulgent views entertained by the world, she enjoyed a good reputation, for nobody was able to reproach her with any ridiculous or scandalous adventure. Her house was one of the most fashionable, and the best Parisian society made it their rendezvous. Ibrahim was introduced to her by young Merville, who was generally looked upon as her latest lover,—and who did all in his power to obtain credit for the report.
The Countess received Ibrahim politely, but without any particular attention: this made him feel flattered. Generally the young negro was regarded in the light of a curiosity; people used to surround him and overwhelm him with compliments and questions—and this curiosity, although concealed by a show of graciousness, offended his vanity. The delightful attention of women, almost the sole aim of our exertions, not only afforded him no pleasure, but even filled him with bitterness and indignation. He felt that he was for them a kind of rare beast, a peculiar creature, accidentally brought into the world, but having with it nothing in common. He even envied people who remained unnoticed, and considered them fortunate in their insignificance.
The thought, that nature had not created him for the inspiring of a passion, emancipated him from self-assertion and vain pretensions, and added a rare charm to his behaviour towards women. His conversation was simple and dignified; he found great favour in the eyes of the Countess L——, who had grown tired of the pronounced jests and pointed insinuations of French wit. Ibrahim frequently visited her. Little by little she became accustomed to the young negro’s appearance, and even began to find something agreeable in that curly head, that stood out so black in the midst of the powdered perukes in her reception-room (Ibrahim had been wounded in the head, and wore a bandage instead of a peruke). He was twenty-seven years of age, and was tall and slender, and more than one beauty glanced at him with a feeling more flattering than simple curiosity. But the prejudiced Ibrahim either did not observe anything of this or merely looked upon it as coquetry. But when his glances met those of the Countess, his distrust vanished. Her eyes expressed such winning kindness, her manner towards him was so simple, so unconstrained, that it was impossible to suspect her of the least shadow of coquetry or raillery.
The thought of love had not entered his head, but to see the Countess each day had become a necessity to him. He tried to meet her everywhere, and every meeting with her seemed an unexpected favour from heaven. The Countess guessed his feelings before he himself did. There is no denying that a love, which is without hope and which demands nothing, touches the female heart more surely than all the devices of the libertine. In the presence of Ibrahim, the Countess followed all his movements, listened to every word that he said; without him she became thoughtful, and fell into her usual absence of mind. Merville was the first to observe this mutual inclination, and he congratulated Ibrahim. Nothing inflames love so much as the approving observations of a bystander: love is blind, and, having no trust in itself, readily grasps hold of every support.
Merville’s words roused Ibrahim. The possibility of possessing the woman that he loved had never till then occurred to his mind; hope suddenly dawned upon his soul; he fell madly in love. In vain did the Countess, alarmed by the ardour of his passion, wish to combat his vehemence with friendly warnings and wise counsels, she herself was beginning to waver....
Nothing is hidden from the eyes of the observing world. The Countess’s new inclination was soon known by everybody. Some ladies were amazed at her choice; to many it seemed quite natural. Some laughed; others regarded her conduct as unpardonably indiscreet. In the first intoxication of passion, Ibrahim and the Countess observed nothing, but soon the equivocal jokes of the men and the sarcastic observations of the women began to reach their ears. Ibrahim’s cold and serious manner had hitherto protected him from such attacks; he bore them with impatience, and knew not how to retaliate. The Countess, accustomed to the respect of the world, could not calmly bear to 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 defend her, lest by some useless brawl she should be completely ruined.
A new circumstance tended to make her position still more difficult: the result of imprudent love began to be noticeable. The Countess in despair informed Ibrahim of the matter. Consolation, advice, proposals—all were exhausted and all rejected. The Countess saw that her ruin was inevitable, and in despair awaited it.
As soon as the condition of the Countess became known, gossip began again with renewed vigour; sentimental women gave vent to exclamations of horror; and epigrams were disseminated with reference to her husband, who alone in all Paris knew nothing and suspected nothing.
The fatal moment approached. The condition of the Countess was terrible. Ibrahim visited her every day. He saw her mental and physical strength gradually giving way. Her tears and her terror were renewed every moment Measures were hastily taken. Means were found for getting the Count out of the way. The doctor arrived. Two days before this a poor woman had been persuaded to resign into the hands of strangers her new-born infant; for this a confidential person was sent. Ibrahim was in the room adjoining the bedchamber where lay the unhappy Countess.... Suddenly he heard the weak cry of a child—and, unable to repress his delight, he rushed into the Countess’s room.... A black baby lay upon the bed at her feet. Ibrahim approached it. His heart beat violently. He blessed his son with a trembling hand. The Countess smiled faintly and stretched out to him her feeble hand, but the doctor, fearing that the excitement might be too great for the patient, dragged Ibrahim away from her bed. The new-born child was placed in a covered basket, and carried out of the house by a secret staircase. Then the other child was brought in, and its cradle placed in the bedroom. Ibrahim took his departure, feeling very ill at ease. The Count was expected. He returned late, heard of the happy deliverance of his wife, and was much gratified. In this way the public, which had been expecting a great scandal, was deceived in its hope, and was compelled to console itself with slandering. Everything resumed its usual course.
But Ibrahim felt that there would have to be a change in his lot, and that sooner or later his relations with the Countess would come to the knowledge of her husband. In that case, whatever might happen, the ruin of the Countess was inevitable. Ibrahim loved passionately and was passionately loved in return, but the Countess was wilful and light-minded; it was not the first time that she had loved. Disgust, and even hatred might replace in her heart the most tender feelings. Ibrahim already foresaw the moment of her coolness. Hitherto he had not known jealousy, but with dread he now felt a presentiment of it; he thought that the pain of separation would be less distressing, and he resolved to break off the unhappy connection, leave Paris, and return to Russia, whither Peter and a vague sense of duty had been calling him for a long time.
[1]Although this story was unfortunately left unfinished, it has been included in this collection, as, apart from its intrinsic merit, it throws an interesting light upon the history of Poushkin’s African ancestor.—The real name of the hero was Hannibal.—Translator.
[1]Although this story was unfortunately left unfinished, it has been included in this collection, as, apart from its intrinsic merit, it throws an interesting light upon the history of Poushkin’s African ancestor.—The real name of the hero was Hannibal.—Translator.
[2]John Law, the famous projector of financial schemes.
[2]John Law, the famous projector of financial schemes.
[3]Voltaire.
[3]Voltaire.
Days, months passed, and the enamoured Ibrahim could not resolve to leave the woman that he had seduced. The Countess grew more and more attached to him. Their son was being brought up in a distant province. The slanders of the world were beginning to subside, and the lovers began to enjoy greater tranquillity, silently remembering the past storm and endeavouring not to think of the future.
One day Ibrahim was in the lobby of the Duke of Orleans’ residence. The Duke, passing by him, stopped, and handing him a letter, told him to read it at his leisure. It was a letter from Peter the First. The Emperor, guessing the true cause of his absence, wrote to the Duke that he had no intention of compelling Ibrahim, that he left it to his own free will to return to Russia or not, but that in any case he would never abandon his former foster-child. This letter touched Ibrahim to the bottom of his heart. From that moment his resolution was taken. The next day he informed the Regent of his intention to set out immediately for Russia.
“Reflect upon what you are going to do,” said the Duke to him: “Russia is not your native country. I do not think that you will ever again see your torrid home, but your long residence in France has made you equally a stranger to the climate and the ways of life of semi-civilized Russia. You were not born a subject of Peter. Listen to my advice: take advantage of his magnanimous permission, remain in France, for which you have already shed your blood, and rest assured that here your services and talents will not remain unrewarded.”
Ibrahim thanked the Duke sincerely, but remained firm in his resolution.
“I feel very sorry,” said the Regent: “but perhaps you are right.”
He promised to let him retire from the French service, and wrote a full account of the matter to the Czar.
Ibrahim was soon ready for the journey. On the eve of his departure he spent the evening as usual at the house of the Countess L——. She knew nothing. Ibrahim had not the courage to inform her of his intention. The Countess was calm and cheerful. She several times called him to her and joked about his thoughtfulness. After supper the guests departed. The Countess, her husband, and Ibrahim were left alone in the parlour. The unhappy man would have given everything in the world to have been left alone with her; but Count L—— seemed to have seated himself so comfortably beside the fire, that it appeared useless to hope that he would leave the room. All three remained silent.
“Bonne nuit!” said the Countess at last.
A pang passed through Ibrahim’s heart, and he suddenly felt all the horrors of parting. He stood motionless.
“Bonne nuit, messieurs!” repeated the Countess.
Still he remained motionless.... At last his eyes became dim, his head swam round, and he could scarcely walk out of the room. On reaching home, he wrote, almost unconsciously, the following letter:
“I am going away, dear Leonora; I am leaving you for ever. I am writing to you, because I have not the strength to inform you otherwise.
“My happiness could not continue: I have enjoyed it against fate and nature. You must have ceased to love me; the enchantment must have vanished. This thought has always pursued me, even in those moments when I have seemed to forget everything, when at your feet I have been intoxicated by your passionate self-denial, by your unbounded tenderness.... The thoughtless world unmercifully runs down that which it permits in theory; its cold irony sooner or later would have vanquished you, would have humbled your ardent soul, and at last you would have become ashamed of your passion.... What would then have become of me? No, it were better that I should die, better that I should leave you before that terrible moment.
“Your tranquillity is dearer to me than everything: you could not enjoy it while the eyes of the world were fixed upon you. Think of all that you have suffered, all your wounded self-love, all the tortures of fear; remember the terrible birth of our son. Think: ought I to expose you any longer to such agitations and dangers? Why should I endeavour to unite the fate of such a tender, beautiful creature to the miserable fate of a negro, of a pitiable being, scarce worthy of the name of man?
“Farewell, Leonora; farewell, my dear and only friend. I am leaving you, I am leaving the first and last joy of my life. I have neither fatherland nor kindred; I am going to Russia, where my utter loneliness will be a consolation to me. Serious business, to which from this time forth I devote myself, if it will not stifle, will at least divert painful recollections of the days of rapture and bliss.... Farewell, Leonora! I tear myself away from this letter, as if from your embrace. 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 as terrible as he had expected. His imagination triumphed over the reality. The further he got from Paris, the more vivid and nearer rose up before him the objects he was leaving for ever.
Before he was aware of it he had crossed the Russian frontier. Autumn had already set in, but the postilions, in spite of the bad state of the roads, drove him with the speed of the wind, and on the seventeenth day of his journey he arrived at Krasnoe Selo, through which at that time the high road passed.
It was still a distance of twenty-eight versts to Petersburg. While the horses were being changed, Ibrahim entered the post-house. In a corner, a tall man, in a greencaftanand with a clay pipe in his mouth, was leaning with his elbows upon the table reading the “Hamburg Gazette,” Hearing somebody enter, he raised his head.
“Ah, Ibrahim!” he exclaimed, rising from the bench. “How do you do, godson?”
Ibrahim recognized Peter, and in his delight was about to rush towards him, but he respectfully paused. The Emperor approached, embraced him and kissed him upon the forehead.
“I was informed of your coming,” said Peter, “and set off to meet you. I have been waiting for you here since yesterday.”
Ibrahim could not find words to express his gratitude.
“Let your carriage follow on behind us,” continued the Emperor, “and you take your place by my side and ride along with me.”
The Czar’s carriage was driven up; he took his seat with Ibrahim, and they set off at a gallop. In about an hour and a half they reached Petersburg. Ibrahim gazed with curiosity at the new-born city which had sprung up at the beck of his master. Bare banks, canals without quays, wooden bridges everywhere testified to the recent triumph of the human will over the hostile elements. The houses seemed to have been built in a hurry. In the whole town there was nothing magnificent but the Neva, not yet ornamented with its granite frame, but already covered with warships and merchant vessels. The imperial carriage stopped at the palace, i.e., at the Tsaritsin Garden. On the steps Peter was met by a woman of about thirty-five years of age, handsome, and dressed in the latest Parisian fashion. Peter kissed her and, taking Ibrahim by the hand, said:
“Do you recognize my godson, Katinka?[1]I beg you to love and favour him as formerly.”
Catherine fixed on him her dark piercing eyes, and stretched out her hand to him in a friendly manner. Two young beauties, tall, slender, and fresh as roses, stood behind her and respectfully approached Peter.
“Liza,” said he to one of them, “do you remember the little negro who stole my apples for you at Oranienbaum? Here he is; I introduce him to you.”
The Grand Duchess laughed and blushed. They went into the dining-room. In expectation of the Emperor the table had been laid. Peter sat down to dinner with all his family, and invited Ibrahim to sit down with them. During the course of the dinner the Emperor conversed with him on various subjects, questioned him about the Spanish war, the internal affairs of France and the Regent, whom he liked, although he blamed him for many things. Ibrahim possessed an exact and observant mind. Peter was very pleased with his replies. He recalled to mind some features of Ibrahim’s childhood, and related them with such good-humour and gaiety, that nobody could have suspected this kind and hospitable host to be the hero of Poltava,[2]the powerful and terrible reformer of Russia.
After dinner the Emperor, according to the Russian custom, retired to rest. Ibrahim remained with the Empress and the Grand Duchesses. He tried to satisfy their curiosity, described the Parisian way of life, the holidays that were kept there, and the changeable fashions. In the meantime, some of the persons belonging to the Emperor’s suite had assembled in the palace. Ibrahim recognized the magnificent Prince Menshikoff, who, seeing the negro conversing with Catherine, cast an arrogant glance at him; Prince Jacob Dolgorouky, Peter’s stern counsellor; the learned Bruce,[3]who had acquired among the people the name of the “Russian Faust”; the young Ragouzinsky, his former companion, and others who had come to bring reports to the Emperor and to await his orders.
In about two hours’ time the Emperor appeared.
“Let us see,” said he to Ibrahim, “if you have forgotten your old duties. Take a slate and follow me.”
Peter shut himself up in his work-room and busied himself with state affairs. He worked in turns with Bruce, with Prince Dolgorouky, and with General Police-master Devier, and dictated to Ibrahim several ukases and decisions. Ibrahim could not help feeling astonished at the quickness and firmness of his understanding, the strength and pliability of his powers of observation, and the variety of his occupations. When the work was finished, Peter drew out a pocket-book in order to see if all that he had proposed to do that day had been accomplished. Then, issuing from the work-room, he said to Ibrahim:
“It is late; no doubt you are tired,—sleep here to-night, as you used to do in the old times; to-morrow I will wake you.”
Ibrahim, on being left alone, could hardly collect his thoughts. He found himself in Petersburg; he saw again the great man, near whom, not yet knowing his worth, he had passed his childhood. Almost with regret he confessed to himself that the Countess L——, for the first time since their separation, had not been his sole thought during the whole of the day. He saw that the new mode of life which awaited him,—the activity and constant occupation,—would revive his soul, wearied by passion, idleness and secret grief. The thought of being a fellow-worker with the great man, and, in conjunction with him, of influencing the fate of a great nation, aroused within him for the first time the noble feeling of ambition. In this disposition of mind he lay down upon the camp bed prepared for him, and then the usual dreams carried him back to far-off Paris, to the arms of his dear Countess.