Left alone, Ibrahim could barely come to his senses. He was in Petersburg, he had seen again the great man close to whom, not yet knowing his worth, he had spent his childhood. Almost with remorse, he confessed in his heart that the countess D., for the first time since their separation, had not been his only thought all day. He saw that the new mode of life awaiting him, activity and constant occupation, could revive his soul, worn out by passion, idleness, and secret dejection. The thought of being a great man’s associate, and joining with him to influence the fate of a great nation, for the first time aroused in him a feeling of noble ambition. In that state of mind he lay down on the camp bed prepared for him, and then the habitual dream transported him to far-off Paris, into the arms of his dear countess.
CHAPTER THREE
Like clouds in the sky,
So thoughts change their light shape in us,
What we love today, tomorrow we despise.
W. KÜCHELBECKER13
The next day, as he had promised, Peter woke Ibrahim and congratulated him on becoming lieutenant commander of the artillery company of the Preobrazhensky regiment, of which he himself was the commander. The courtiers surrounded Ibrahim, each trying in his own way to make much of the new favorite. The arrogant Prince Menshikov gave him a friendly handshake. Sheremetev inquired about his Parisian acquaintances, and Golovin invited him to dinner.14 Others followed this last example, so that Ibrahim received invitations for at least a whole month.
Ibrahim spent his days monotonously but actively—as a result, he knew no boredom. Day by day he grew more attached to the sovereign and better comprehended his lofty soul. To follow a great man’s thoughts is a most interesting study. Ibrahim saw Peter in the Senate, disputing with Buturlin15 and Dolgoruky, analyzing important questions of legislation, in the Admiralty College affirming Russia’s naval greatness; saw him in hours of leisure going over the translations of foreign publicists with Feofan, Gavriil Buzhinsky, and Kopievich,16 or visiting a merchant’s mill, an artisan’s workshop, a scholar’s study. Russia appeared to Ibrahim as a vast factory where only machines moved, where each worker, subject to an established order, was taken up with his task. He considered it likewise his duty to labor at his own machine, and he tried to regret the amusements of Parisian life as little as possible. More difficult for him was distancing himself from another sweet memory: he often thought of the countess D., imagined her righteous indignation, her tears and sorrow…but sometimes a terrible thought wrung his heart: the distractions of high society, a new liaison, another happy man—he shuddered; jealousy began to seethe in his African blood, and hot tears were ready to flow down his black face.
One morning Ibrahim was sitting in his study, surrounded by business papers, when he suddenly heard a loud greeting in French. He turned quickly, and the young Korsakov, whom he had left in Paris in the whirl of social life, embraced him with joyful exclamations. “I’ve just arrived,” said Korsakov, “and came running straight to you. All our Parisian friends send you their greetings and regret your absence. The countess D. told me to be sure to call you back, and here is a letter from her.” Ibrahim seized it, trembling, and gazed at the familiar handwriting, not daring to believe his eyes. “I’m so glad,” Korsakov went on, “that you haven’t died of boredom yet in this barbaric Petersburg! What do they do here? How do they keep busy? Who is your tailor? Do you at least have an opera?” Ibrahim answered distractedly that right now the sovereign was probably working at the shipyard. Korsakov laughed. “I see you can’t be bothered with me now,” he said. “We’ll talk our fill another time. I’ll go and present myself to the sovereign.” With those words, he turned on his heel and ran out of the room.
Ibrahim, left alone, hurriedly unsealed the letter. The countess complained tenderly, reproaching him for falsity and mistrustfulness. “You say,” she wrote, “that my peace is the dearest thing in the world for you. Ibrahim! If that were true, could you have subjected me to the state into which the unexpected news of your departure threw me? You feared I might hold you back. Rest assured that, despite my love, I would have been able to sacrifice myself for your well-being and for what you consider your duty.” The countess ended the letter with passionate assurances of love and entreated him to write to her at least once in a while, even if there was no longer any hope of their seeing each other again.
Ibrahim reread the letter twenty times, rapturously kissing the priceless lines. He burned with impatience to hear something about the countess, and was about to go to the Admiralty in hopes of finding Korsakov still there, when the door opened and Korsakov himself appeared again. He had already presented himself to the sovereign—and, as was his wont, seemed very pleased with himself. “Entre nous,”*3 he said to Ibrahim, “the sovereign’s a very strange man. Imagine, I found him in a sort of canvas vest, on the mast of a new ship, which I was forced to clamber up with my dispatches. I stood on a rope ladder and didn’t have room enough to make my bows properly, and was thoroughly embarrassed, which has never happened to me in all my born days. However, the sovereign, having read the papers, looked me up and down and was probably pleasantly impressed by the taste and smartness of my clothes; at least he smiled and invited me to this evening’s assembly. But I’m a perfect stranger in Petersburg. During my six years of absence I’ve completely forgotten the local customs. Please be my mentor, come to fetch me and introduce me.”
Ibrahim agreed and hastened to turn the conversation to a subject more interesting for him. “Well, how is the countess D.?”
“The countess? She was, naturally, very upset at first by your departure. Then, naturally, she gradually consoled herself and took a new lover. Do you know whom? The lanky marquis R. Why are you goggling your Moorish eyeballs at me? Or does all this seem strange to you? Don’t you know that prolonged grief is contrary to human nature, especially a woman’s? Give it some good thought, and I’ll go and rest from my journey. Don’t forget to come and fetch me.”
What feelings filled Ibrahim’s soul? Jealousy? Fury? Despair? No, but a deep, wringing dejection. He repeated to himself: “I foresaw it, it was bound to happen.” Then he opened the countess’s letter, read it again, hung his head, and wept bitterly. He wept for a long time. The tears eased his heart. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was time to go. Ibrahim would very gladly have excused himself, but an assembly was an official duty, and the sovereign strictly demanded the presence of his retinue. He got dressed and went to fetch Korsakov.
Korsakov was sitting in his dressing gown reading a French book. “So early?” he said, seeing him. “For pity’s sake,” Ibrahim replied, “it’s half past five; we’ll be late; get dressed quickly and let’s go.” Korsakov sprang up, started ringing with all his might; servants came running; he hurriedly began to dress. The French valet gave him shoes with red heels, light blue velvet trousers, a pink kaftan embroidered with sequins; in the front hall his wig was hastily powdered, it was brought, Korsakov put his close-cropped head into it, called for his sword and gloves, turned around some ten times before the mirror, and announced to Ibrahim that he was ready. Lackeys brought them bearskin coats, and they drove off to the Winter Palace.
Korsakov showered Ibrahim with questions: Who was the first beauty in Petersburg? Who was reputed to be the best dancer? What dance was now in fashion? With great reluctance Ibrahim satisfied his curiosity. Meanwhile they drove up to the palace. Many long sledges, old coaches, and gilded carriages already stood in the field. By the porch thronged coachmen in liveries and moustaches, footmen sparkling with baubles, in plumes and with maces, hussars, pages, clumsy lackeys laden with their masters’ fur coats and muffs: a necessary suite according to the notions of the boyars of that time. At the sight of Ibrahim, a general murmur arose among them: “The Moor, the Moor, the tsar’s Moor!” He quickly led Korsakov through this motley servantry. A court lackey threw the doors open for them, and they entered the hall. Korsakov was dumbfounded…In the big room lit by tallow candles, which shone dimly through the clouds of tobacco smoke, dignitaries with blue ribbons over their shoulders,17 ambassadors, foreign merchants, officers of the guards in green uniforms, shipwrights in jackets and striped trousers, moved back and forth in a crowd to the incessant sounds of a brass band. Ladies sat along the walls. The young ones glittered with all the magnificence of fashion. Gold and silver glittered on their gowns; their narrow waists rose like stems from puffy farthingales; diamonds glittered on their ears, in their long curls, and around their necks. They turned gaily right and left, waiting for the cavaliers and the start of the dancing. Elderly ladies tried cleverly to combine the new way of dressing with the persecuted old fashion: their bonnets tended towards the little sable hat of the tsaritsa Natalia Kirillovna, and their robes rondes and mantillas somehow resembled sarafans and dushegreikas.18 It seemed there was more astonishment than enjoyment in their being present at these newfangled festivities, and they glanced sidelong with vexation at the wives and daughters of the Dutch sea captains, in dimity skirts and red blouses, who sat knitting stockings, laughing and talking among themselves as if they were at home. Korsakov could not collect his wits.