The Queen of Spades, and other stories
either with tears or bitter reproaches; then she begged him not to
take her part, nor ruin her completely by useless disturbance.
Fresh circumstances complicated her position still more: results of her
imprudent love began to show themselves. The Countess in distress told
Ibrahim. Consolation, advice, suggestions were in turn exhausted and
rejected. She foresaw her inevitable ruin, and in despair awaited it.
Immediately the Countesses condition became known, reports circulated
with renewed vigour. Sensitive women exclaimed in horror; the men made
bets whether she would bear a white or a black child. Epigrams poured
in about her husband, who alone in all Paris suspected nothing. The
fatal moment approached, the Countess was in a terrible state. Ibrahim
called every day. He saw her strength of mind and body gradually
failing. Her tears and terror increased momentarily. At last she felt
the first throes. Measures were taken hurriedly. Means were found to
get the Count out of the way. The doctor arrived. Two days previous
to this a poor woman had been persuaded to resign into the hands of
strangers her new-born infant, for which a messenger was sent.
Ibrahim remained in the study next the bedroom where the unhappy
Countess lay, scarcely daring to breathe; he heard muffled groans, the
maidservants whispers, and the doctor's directions. She suffered long.
Each groan lacerated Ibrahim's heart, and every silent pause filled
him with dread; suddenly he heard the weak cry of a child, and unable
to control his delight rushed into the Countess's room. A black infant
lay on the bed at her feet. Ibrahim approached it. His heart throbbed
violently. He blessed his son with a trembling hand. The Countess with
a faint smile stretched towards him a feeble hand, but the doctor,
fearing too much excitement for his patient, dragged Ibrahim away from
her bedside. The new-born babe was laid in a covered basket and carried
out by a secret staircase. The other child was brought in, and its
cradle placed in the bedroom. Ibrahim left feeling a trifle calmer. The
Count was expected. He returned late, heard of the happy confinement
of his wife, and was much pleased. Thus the public, which expected
a great scandal, was disappointed, and forced to be satisfied with
backbiting. Everything fell back into its usual routine. But Ibrahim
felt that his life must undergo a change, and that his intimacy must
sooner or later become known to Count L. In which case, whatever might
ensue, the Countess's ruin was inevitable. Ibrahim loved and was loved
with passion; but the Countess was wilful and flighty; and this was
not her first love. Disgust and hatred might in her heart replace
the tenderest feelings. Ibrahim already foresaw the time of her
indifference. Hitherto he had not known jealousy, but now with horror
he anticipated, it. Convinced that the anguish of a separation would be
less painful, he resolved to break off this luckless connection, quit
Paris, and return to Russia, whither Peter and a dull sense of duty had
long been calling him.
CHAPTER II.
Days and months passed, and love-sick Ibrahim could not resolve to
leave the woman he had wronged. The Countess from hour to hour grew
more attached to him. Their son was being brought up in a distant
province; social scandal was subsiding, and the lovers began to enjoy
greater tranquillity, in silence remembering the past storm and trying
not to think of the future.
One day Ibrahim was standing at the Duke of Orleans' door. The Duke
passing him, stopped, handed him a letter, and bade him read it at his
leisure. It was a letter from Peter I. The Tsar, guessing the real
cause of his absence, wrote to the Hake that he in no way desired to
compel Ibrahim, and left it to his free will to return to Russia or
not; but that in any case he should never forsake his foster-child.
This letter touched Ibrahim to the heart. From that moment his decision
was made. Next day he announced to the Regent his intention to start
immediately for Russia.
"Consider the step you are about to take," replied the Duke. "Russia is
not your home. I don't think you will ever have a chance of seeing your
torrid Africa, and your long residence in France has made you equally
a stranger to the climate and the semi-barbarous life of Russia. You
were not born one of Peter's subjects. Take my advice, profit by his
generous permission, stay in France, for which you have already shed
your blood, and be convinced that here your services and talents will
not be left without their due reward."
Ibrahim thanked the Duke sincerely, but remained firm in his resolve.
"I regret it," replied the Regent; "but on the whole you may be right."
He promised to let him retire and wrote to inform the Tsar.
Ibrahim was soon ready for the journey. On the eve of his departure
he passed the evening as usual at the Countess L's. She knew nothing.
Ibrahim had not the courage to tell her. The Countess was calm and
cheerful. She several times called him to her and joked about
his pensiveness. After supper everybody had gone, leaving in the
drawing-room only the Countess, her husband, and Ibrahim. The unhappy
man would have given the world to be left alone with her; but Count L.
seemed to be settled so comfortably near the grate that it appeared
hopeless to wait to see him out of the room. All three remained silent.
_"Bonne nuit!_" at last said the Countess.
Ibrahim's heart sank and he suddenly experienced all the horrors of
parting. He stood motionless.
"_Bonne nuit, messieurs,_" repeated the Countess.
Still he did not move. At last his eyes became dim, his head went
round, and he could scarcely get out of the room.
Arriving at home, almost mad, he wrote as follows:
"I am going, dearest Leonora, to leave you for ever. I write because I
have not the strength to tell you otherwise. Our happiness could not
continue; I have enjoyed it against the will of destiny and nature.
You must in time have ceased to love me. The enchantment must have
vanished. This idea has always haunted me, even when I seemed to
forget all, when at your feet I was intoxicated by your passionate
self-abnegation, by your boundless tenderness. The thoughtless world
mercilessly persecute that which in theory it permits. Sooner or later
its cold irony would have vanquished you, and cowed your passionate
soul, till finally you would have been ashamed of your love.
"What, then, would have become of me?
"Better to die; better to leave you before that terrible moment. Your
happiness to me is more precious than all; you could not enjoy it,
while the gaze of society was fixed upon us. Remember all you have
endured, your wounded pride, the torture of fear; the terrible birth
of our son. Think; ought I any longer to subject you to such fears and
dangers? Why should I endeavour to unite the fate of so tender, so
beautiful a creature with the miserable life of a negro, a pitiable
object scarce worthy of the name of man?
"Forgive me, Leonora; dear and only friend. In leaving you, I leave
the first and last joy of my heart. I have no fatherland nor kin. I go
to Russia, where my utter solitude will be my joy. Serious pursuits
to which from henceforth I devote myself, if they do not silence must
at any rate distract painful recollections of the days of rapture.
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."
The same night he started for Russia. The journey did not seem as
terrible as he had expected. His imagination triumphed over fact. The
further he got from Paris the nearer and more vivid seemed to him all
the objects he was leaving for ever.
Imperceptibly he reached the Russian frontier. Autumn had already set
in, but the hired relays, notwithstanding the badness of the roads,
brought him with the swiftness of the wind, and on the seventeenth
morning he arrived at Krasnoe Selo, through which at that time passed
the high road.
There remained twenty-eight versts' journey to St. Petersburg. While
the horses were being changed Ibrahim entered the posting-house. In a
corner a tall man, in a green caftan and a clay pipe in his mouth, sat
leaning against the table reading the _Hamburg Gazette_. Hearing some
one enter he raised his head.
"Oh, Ibrahim!" he exclaimed, rising from the bench. "How do you do,
godson?"
Ibrahim recognised Peter, and in his delight rushed at him, but stopped
respectfully. The monarch approached, put his arms round him, and
kissed him on the forehead.
"I was told of your coming," said Peter, "and drove off to meet you. I
Pave been waiting for you here since yesterday."
Ibrahim could not find words to express his gratitude.
"Tell them," added the Tsar, "to let your carriage follow us, while you
get in by my side and drive to my place."
The Tsar's calèche was announced; he and Ibrahim got in and started at
a gallop. In an hour and a half they reached St. Petersburg. Ibrahim
looked with interest at the new-born city, which had sprung up by the
will of the Tsar. The bare banks, the canals without quays, the wooden
bridges, everywhere bore witness to the recent triumph of human will
over the elements. The houses seemed to have been hurriedly built.
The whole town contained nothing magnificent but the Neva, not yet
decorated with its granite framework, but already covered with ships
of war and merchantmen. The Tsar's calèche drew up at the palace,
_i.e._ at the Tsaritsa's garden. On the door-steps Peter was met by a
woman about thirty-five, handsome, and dressed in the latest Parisian
fashion. Peter kissed her, and, taking Ibrahim by the hand, said:
"Katinka, do you recognise my godson? I beg you to love and welcome him
as before."
Catherine turned on him her black searching eyes, and graciously held
out her hand. Two young beauties, tall and shapely, and fresh as roses,
stood behind her and respectfully approached Peter.
"Lisa," he said to one, "do you remember the little negro who stole
apples from me at Oranienburgh to give to you? Here he is, I introduce
him to you."
The grand duchess laughed and blushed. They went into the dining-room.
In expectation of the Tsar the table had been laid. Peter, having
invited Ibrahim, sat down with all his family to dinner. During dinner
the Tsar talked to him on different topics, inquiring about the Spanish
war, the internal affairs of Prance and the Regent, whom he liked,
though he found in his conduct much to blame. Ibrahim displayed an
accurate and observant mind. Peter was much pleased with his answers;
remembering some incidents of Ibrahim's childhood, he related them with
such good-humoured merriment that no one could have suspected this kind
and hospitable host to be the hero of Poltava, the mighty and terrible
reformer of Russia.
After dinner the Tsar, according to the Russian custom, retired to
rest. Ibrahim remained with the empress and the grand duchesses. He
tried to satisfy their curiosity, described Parisian life, their fêtes
and capricious fashions. In the mean-while, some of the emperor's
suite assembled in the palace. Ibrahim recognised the magnificent
Prince Menshikoff, who, seeing the negro conversing with Catherine,
cast him a scornful glance; Prince Jacob Dolgoruki, Peter's stern
counsellor; the learned Bruce, known among the people as the Russian
Paustus; young Bagusinski, his former companion, and others who had
come to the Tsar to bring reports and receive instructions. In a couple
of hours the Tsar came out.
"Let us see," he said to Ibrahim, "if you remember your old duties.
Get a slate and follow me." Peter locked himself in the carpenter's
room and was engaged with state affairs. He worked alternately with