Novels, Tales, Journeys: The Complete Prose of Alexander Pushkin Read online

  “And who is to blame?” said Gavrila Afanasyevich, filling his mug with foaming mead. “Isn’t it we ourselves? Young wenches play the fool, and we indulge them.”

  “But what can we do, if it’s not up to us?” Kirila Petrovich objected. “A man would be glad to lock his wife away in a tower, but she’s called to the assembly with a beating of drums; the husband goes for his whip, the wife for her finery. Ah, these assemblies! The Lord’s punishing us for our sins.”

  Marya Ilyinichna was on pins and needles; her tongue was itching; finally, unable to help herself, she turned to her husband and with a sour little smile asked him what he found so bad about the assemblies.

  “What’s bad about them,” her husband replied heatedly, “is that ever since they were instituted, husbands have been unable to manage their wives. Wives have forgotten the words of the apostle: ‘A wife should reverence her husband.’23 They busy themselves, not with housekeeping, but with new clothes; they don’t think of how to please their husbands, but of how to catch the eye of some whippersnapper of an officer. And is it proper, madam, for a Russian gentlewoman or young lady to be with tobacco-smoking Germans and the girls who work for them? Who has ever heard of dancing and talking with young men until late at night—with relatives it would be another thing, but this is with foreigners, with strangers.”

  “I’d say a bit more, but the wolf’s at the door,” Gavrila Afanasyevich said, frowning. “I must confess—assemblies are not to my liking either: you have to watch out lest you run into a drunk man, or they make you drunk just for the fun of it. And also watch out lest some scapegrace get up to mischief with your daughter. Young men these days are so spoiled, it’s beyond anything. The son of the late Evgraf Sergeevich Korsakov, for instance, caused such an uproar with Natasha at the last assembly that I turned red all over. The next day I look, he comes rolling right into our courtyard. Who in God’s name is it, I thought, Prince Alexander Danilovich? Not on your life: it was Ivan Evgrafovich! The man couldn’t stop at the gate and take the trouble of walking up to the porch—oh, no! He came flying in! Bowed and scraped! Chattered his head off!…The fool Ekimovna imitates him killingly. Come, fool, do the foreign monkey for us.”

  The fool Ekimovna snatched the lid from a dish, took it under her arm like a hat, and started grimacing, bowing, and scraping in all directions, mumbling “moosieu…mamzelle…assemblée…pardone.” General and prolonged laughter again expressed the guests’ pleasure.

  “That’s Korsakov to a T,” said old Prince Lykov, wiping tears of laughter, when calm was gradually restored. “Why not admit it? He’s neither the first nor the last to come back to Holy Russia from foreign parts as a buffoon. What do our children learn there? To bow and scrape, to babble in God knows what tongues, to show no respect for their elders, and to dangle after other men’s wives. Of all young men educated abroad (God forgive me), the tsar’s Moor most resembles a human being.”

  “Of course,” observed Gavrila Afanasyevich, “he’s a sober and decent man, not like that featherbrain…Who’s that driving into the yard? Not the foreign monkey again? What are you gawking at, you brutes?” he went on, addressing his servants. “Run and tell him we’re not receiving, and that in future—”

  “Are you raving, old graybeard?” the fool Ekimovna interrupted. “Or are you blind? That’s the sovereign’s sledge; the tsar has come.”

  Gavrila Afanasyevich hastily got up from the table; everybody rushed to the windows and indeed saw the sovereign, who was going up the front steps leaning on his orderly’s shoulder. A commotion ensued. The host rushed to meet Peter; the servants scattered in all directions like lunatics; the guests were frightened, some even thought of heading for home as quickly as possible. Suddenly Peter’s booming voice was heard in the front hall, everything fell silent, and the tsar entered accompanied by the host, dumbstruck with joy.

  “Greetings, ladies and gentlemen!” Peter said with a cheerful look. They all bowed deeply. The tsar’s quick glance sought out the host’s young daughter in the crowd; he called her to him. Natalya Gavrilovna approached quite boldly, but blushing not only to the ears, but down to the shoulders. “You get prettier by the hour,” the sovereign said to her and, as was his custom, kissed her on the head; then, turning to the guests: “Well, so? I’ve disturbed you. You were having dinner. I beg you to sit down again, and you, Gavrila Afanasyevich, give me some anise vodka.”

  The host rushed to the majestic butler, snatched the tray out of his hands, filled a little gold goblet himself, and offered it to the sovereign with a bow. Peter, having drunk it, took a bite from a pretzel, and again invited the guests to go on with dinner. They all took their former places, except for the dwarf and the housekeeper, who did not dare to remain at a table honored by the tsar’s presence. Peter sat down beside the host and asked for cabbage soup. His orderly served him a wooden spoon set with ivory, and a knife and fork with green bone handles, for Peter never used any utensils but his own. The dinner, noisily animated a moment before with merriment and garrulity, went on in silence and constraint. The host, out of deference and joy, ate nothing; the guests also became decorous and listened with reverence as the sovereign talked with the captive Swede about the campaign of 1701. The fool Ekimovna, whom the sovereign questioned a few times, answered with a sort of timid coldness, which (I note in passing) by no means proved her innate stupidity.

  Finally the dinner came to an end. The sovereign stood up, and all the guests after him. “Gavrila Afanasyevich,” he said to the host, “I must talk with you alone.” And taking him by the arm, he led him to the drawing room and shut the door behind them. The guests remained in the dining room, exchanging whispers about this unexpected visit, and, for fear of being indelicate, soon departed one by one, without thanking the host for his hospitality. His father-in-law, daughter, and sister quietly saw them to the porch and remained in the dining room, waiting for the sovereign to come out.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I shall find a wife for thee,

  Or a miller I’ll ne’er be.

  ABLESIMOV, FROM THE OPERA The Miller24

  Half an hour later the door opened and Peter came out. Gravely inclining his head in response to the threefold bow of Prince Lykov, Tatyana Afanasyevna, and Natasha, he walked straight to the front hall. The host held his red fleece-lined coat for him, saw him to the sledge, and on the porch thanked him again for the honor bestowed on him. Peter drove off.

  Returning to the dining room, Gavrila Afanasyevich seemed very preoccupied. He angrily ordered the servants to clear the table at once, sent Natasha to her room, and, announcing to his sister and father-in-law that he had to talk to them, led them to his bedroom, where he usually rested after dinner. The old prince lay down on the oak bed; Tatyana Afanasyevna sat in an old-fashioned damask armchair, moving a footstool closer; Gavrila Afanasyevich shut all the doors, sat on the bed at Prince Lykov’s feet, and in a low voice began the following conversation:

  “It was not for nothing that the sovereign visited me today. Can you guess what he was pleased to talk with me about?”

  “How can we know, brother dear?” said Tatyana Afanasyevna.

  “Can the tsar have appointed you governor-general somewhere?” asked the father-in-law. “It’s none too soon. Or has he offered you an ambassadorship? Why not? Noblemen, and not just scribes, are sent to foreign rulers.”

  “No,” his son-in-law replied, frowning. “I’m a man of the old stamp, our services are no longer required, though an Orthodox Russian nobleman may well be worth all these present-day upstarts, pancake makers, and heathens25—but that’s another subject.”

  “What was it, then, that he was pleased to talk with you about for so long?” asked Tatyana Afanasyevna. “You’re not in some sort of trouble, are you? Lord, save us and have mercy on us!”

  “Trouble or no trouble, I must confess it set me thinking.”

  “What is it, brother? What’s the matter?”

  “It’s a matter of Nata
sha: the tsar came to make a match for her.”

  “Thank God,” Tatyana Afanasyevna said, crossing herself. “The girl’s of marriageable age, and like matchmaker, like suitor—God grant them love and harmony. It’s a great honor. For whom is the tsar asking her hand?”

  “Hm,” grunted Gavrila Afanasyevich. “For whom? That’s just it—for whom.”

  “For whom, then?” Prince Lykov, who was already beginning to doze off, repeated.

  “Guess,” said Gavrila Afanasyevich.

  “Brother dear,” the old woman replied “how can we guess? There are lots of suitors at court: any one of them would be glad to take your Natasha. Is it Dolgoruky?”

  “No, not Dolgoruky.”

  “Well, God help him: he’s awfully arrogant. Schein? Troekurov?”

  “No, neither of them.”

  “They’re not to my liking either: featherbrains, too full of the German spirit. Well, then, Miloslavsky?”

  “No, not him.”

  “And God help him, too: he’s rich but stupid. Who, then? Eletsky? Lvov? No? Can it be Raguzinsky? I give up. Who is the tsar choosing for Natasha?”

  “The Moor Ibrahim.”

  The old woman cried out and clasped her hands. Prince Lykov raised his head from the pillows and repeated in amazement: “The Moor Ibrahim!”

  “Brother dear,” the old woman said in a tearful voice, “don’t ruin your own child, don’t deliver Natashenka into the clutches of that black devil.”

  “But how can I refuse the sovereign,” Gavrila Afanasyevich protested, “who promises his favor in return, to me and all our family?”

  “What?!” exclaimed the old prince, whom sleep had totally deserted. “To have Natasha, my granddaughter, marry a bought blackamoor?!”

  “He’s not of common stock,” said Gavrila Afanasyevich. “He’s the son of a Moorish sultan. Some heathens took him captive and sold him in Constantinople, and our ambassador redeemed him and presented him to the tsar. The Moor’s elder brother came to Russia with a rich ransom and—”

  “My dearest Gavrila Afanasyevich,” the old woman interrupted, “we’ve all heard the tales of Prince Bova and Eruslan Lazarevich.26 You’d better tell us how you replied to the sovereign’s matchmaking.”

  “I told him that the power was with him, and our bounden duty was to obey him in all things.”

  Just then a noise came from behind the door. Gavrila Afanasyevich went to open it, but, feeling some resistance, he pushed hard on it, the door opened—and they saw Natasha lying unconscious on the bloodied floor.

  Her heart had sunk when the sovereign shut himself in with her father. Some presentiment had whispered to her that it had to do with her, and when Gavrila Afanasyevich sent her away, announcing that he had to speak with her aunt and grandfather, feminine curiosity got the better of her, she tiptoed quietly through the inner rooms to the door of the bedroom, and did not miss a single word of the whole terrible conversation. When she heard her father’s last words, the poor girl fainted and, falling, struck her head against the iron-bound chest in which her dowry was kept.

  Servants came running; Natasha was picked up, carried to her room, and placed on the bed. After some time she came to, opened her eyes, but recognized neither her father nor her aunt. She broke into a high fever, raved about the tsar’s Moor, the wedding—and suddenly cried out in a pitiful and piercing voice: “Valerian, dear Valerian, my life! Save me: they’re coming, they’re coming!…” Tatyana Afanasyevna glanced anxiously at her brother, who turned pale, bit his lips, and silently left the room. He went back to the old prince, who, unable to climb the stairs, had remained below.

  “How is Natasha?” he asked.

  “Not well,” the upset father replied, “worse than I thought: she’s delirious and raves about Valerian.”

  “Who is this Valerian?” the old man asked in alarm. “Can it be that orphan, the son of the strelets,27 who was brought up in your house?”

  “That’s him,” Gavrila Afanasyevich replied. “To my misfortune, his father saved my life during the rebellion, and the devil prompted me to take the cursed wolf cub into my house. When he was enlisted in a regiment two years ago, at his own request, Natasha burst into tears as she said good-bye to him, and he stood as if turned to stone. That seemed suspicious to me, and I told my sister about it. But Natasha has never mentioned him since then, and there has been no news from him. I thought she had forgotten him; but obviously not. That settles it: she’ll marry the Moor.”

  Prince Lykov did not contradict him: it would have been useless. He went home; Tatyana Afanasyevna stayed at Natasha’s bedside; Gavrila Afanasyevich sent for the doctor, shut himself up in his room, and everything in his house became quiet and sad.

  The unexpected matchmaking surprised Ibrahim at least as much as it did Gavrila Afanasyevich. Here is how it happened. Peter, while doing some work with Ibrahim, said to him:

  “I notice, brother, that you’re in low spirits. Tell me straight out: what is it that you lack?” Ibrahim assured the sovereign that he was content with his lot and did not wish for anything better.

  “Good,” said the sovereign. “If you’re bored for no reason, then I know what will cheer you up.”

  When they finished their work, Peter asked Ibrahim: “Did you like that girl you danced the minuet with at the last assembly?”

  “She’s very sweet, Sire, and she seems to be a modest and kind girl.”

  “Then I shall make you better acquainted. Would you like to marry her?”

  “Me, Sire?…”

  “Listen, Ibrahim, you’re a single man, without kith or kin, a stranger to all except myself. If I should die today, what would happen to you tomorrow, my poor blackamoor? We must get you established while there is still time, find support for you in new connections, unite with the Russian boyars.”

  “Sire, I am happy to have Your Majesty’s protection and favor. God grant that I not outlive my tsar and my benefactor—I wish for nothing else. But if I did have a mind to marry, would the young girl and her relations consent? My appearance…”

  “Your appearance! What nonsense! Aren’t you a fine young fellow? A young girl must obey her parents’ will, and we’ll see what old Gavrila Rzhevsky says when I myself come as your matchmaker!” With those words the sovereign ordered his sledge made ready and left Ibrahim sunk deep in thought.

  “To marry!” thought the African. “Why not? Can I be destined to spend my life in solitude and not know the best pleasures and the most sacred duties of man only because I was born below the fifteenth parallel? I cannot hope to be loved: a childish objection! Can one believe in love? Can it exist in a frivolous feminine heart? Renouncing sweet delusions forever, I have chosen other enticements—more substantial ones. The sovereign is right: I must provide for my future. Marriage to Rzhevsky’s daughter will connect me with the proud Russian nobility, and I will stop being a stranger in my new fatherland. I’m not going to demand love from my wife, I’ll be content with her fidelity, and I’ll win her friendship by constant tenderness, trust, and indulgence.”

  Ibrahim, as was his habit, was about to go back to work, but his imagination was too distracted. He abandoned his papers and went to stroll along the Neva embankment. Suddenly he heard Peter’s voice; he turned and saw the sovereign, who had dismissed the sledge and was following him with a cheerful look. “It’s all settled, brother,” said Peter, taking him under the arm. “I’ve made your match. Go to your father-in-law tomorrow; but watch yourself, indulge his boyar arrogance; leave your sledge at the gate; cross the yard on foot; talk to him about his services, about his noble birth, and he’ll lose his mind over you. And now,” he went on, brandishing his cudgel, “take me to that rogue Danilych; I must have it out with him about his latest pranks.”

  Ibrahim, having warmly thanked Peter for his fatherly care, brought him to Prince Menshikov’s magnificent palace and went back home.

  CHAPTER SIX

  An icon lamp was quietly burning before th
e glass-covered stand in which the gold and silver casings of the family icons gleamed. Its tremulous light shone weakly on the curtained bed and the little table set with labeled vials. By the stove a maid sat at a spinning wheel, and the faint noise of her spindle alone broke the silence of the room.

  “Who’s there?” said a weak voice. The maid stood up at once, went over to the bed, and gently raised the curtain. “Will it be daylight soon?” asked Natalya.

  “It’s already noon,” the maid replied.

  “Ah, my God, why is it so dark?”

  “The blinds are closed, miss.”

  “Quick, give me my clothes.”

  “I can’t, miss, the doctor forbade it.”

  “You mean I’m sick? For how long?”

  “It’s two weeks now.”

  “Can it be? It seems like I went to bed only yesterday…”

  Natasha fell silent; she tried to gather her scattered thoughts. Something had happened to her, but precisely what, she could not remember. The maid went on standing before her, waiting for orders. Just then a muffled noise came from below.

  “What’s that?” asked the sick girl.

  “The masters have finished eating,” replied the maid. “They’re getting up from the table. Tatyana Afanasyevna will come here shortly.”

  Natasha seemed glad; she waved her arm weakly. The maid closed the curtain and sat down again at her spinning wheel.

  After a few minutes a head in a broad white bonnet with dark ribbons appeared in the doorway, and a question was asked in a low voice:

  “How is Natasha?”

  “Good afternoon, auntie,” the sick girl said softly; and Tatyana Afanasyevna hastened to her.

  “The young lady has come to,” said the maid, carefully drawing up an armchair.

  The old woman tearfully kissed the pale, languid face of her niece and sat down beside her. After her a German doctor in a black kaftan and a scholar’s wig came in, felt Natasha’s pulse, and announced in Latin, and then in Russian, that the danger was past. He called for paper and ink, wrote out a new prescription, and left, and the old woman got up, kissed Natasha again, and went downstairs to Gavrila Afanasyevich with the good news.