Novels, Tales, Journeys

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.