Novels, Tales, Journeys

His daughter was seventeen years old. She lost her mother while still a child. She was brought up in the old-fashioned way, that is, surrounded by nurses, nannies, girlfriends, and maidservants; she did gold embroidery and could not read or write. Her father, despite his loathing for everything foreign, could not oppose her wish to learn German dances from a captive Swedish officer who lived in their house. This worthy dancing master was fifty years old, his right leg had been shot through at Narva20 and was therefore not quite up to minuets and courantes, but the left brought off the most difficult pas^*5 with astonishing skill and ease. His pupil did credit to his efforts. Natalya Gavrilovna was famous for being the best dancer at the assemblies, which was partly the cause of Korsakov’s offense, for which he came the next day to apologize to Gavrila Afanasyevich; but the adroitness and foppishness of the young dandy did not please the proud boyar, who wittily nicknamed him “the French monkey.”

It was a holiday. Gavrila Afanasyevich was expecting several relations and friends. A long table was being laid in the old-fashioned dining room. The guests were arriving with their wives and daughters, freed at last from their domestic reclusion by the ukases of the sovereign and his own example. Natalya Gavrilovna held out to each guest a silver tray covered with little gold goblets, and each one drank his, regretting that the kiss, which in former times accompanied such occasions, was no longer customary. They went to the table. In the first place, next to the host, sat his father-in-law, Prince Boris Alexeevich Lykov, a seventy-year-old boyar; the other guests, according to the seniority of their families and thus commemorating the happy days of the order of precedence,21 took their seats—the men on one side, the women on the other; at the foot of the table, in their customary places, sat the housekeeper in her old-fashioned coat and headdress; a dwarf, a tiny thirty-year-old woman, prim and wrinkled; and the captive Swede in a worn blue uniform. The table, set with a multitude of dishes, was surrounded by bustling and numerous servants, among whom the butler was distinguished by his stern gaze, fat belly, and majestic immobility. The first minutes of the dinner were given over entirely to the products of our time-honored cuisine; only the clank of plates and busy spoons broke the general silence. Finally, the host, seeing it was time to entertain his guests with pleasant conversation, looked about and asked: “And where is Ekimovna? Call her here.” Several servants rushed in different directions, but just then an old woman, made up with white greasepaint and rouge, adorned with flowers and baubles, in a damask robe ronde, her neck and shoulders bared, came dancing in humming a tune. Her appearance caused general delight.

“Greetings, Ekimovna,” said Prince Lykov. “How are you?”

“Healthy and wealthy, uncle; singing and dancing, and a bit of romancing.”

“Where have you been, fool?” asked the host.

“Dressing myself up, uncle, for the dear guests, for the holiday star, by command of the tsar, by the rules of boyars, to make all the world laugh, save the Germany half.”

At these words there was a loud burst of laughter, and the fool went to take her place behind the host’s chair.

“The fool lies away and, forsooth, she lies her way to the truth,” said Tatyana Afanasyevna, the host’s older sister, whom he sincerely respected. “Today’s fashions really do make all the world laugh. Since even you, my dear sirs, have shaved your beards and put on scanty kaftans, then for women’s rags, of course, there’s nothing to talk about: but it truly is a pity about the sarafan, young girls’ ribbons, and the povoinik.22 Just look at today’s beauties—you’ll laugh and weep: hair sticking up like matted felt, greased, sprinkled with French flour, the waist drawn in so tight it might just snap, the petticoats stretched on hoops: they have to get into a carriage sideways, and bend over going through a door. They can neither stand, nor sit, nor take a breath. Real martyrs, my little doves.”