Novels, Tales, Journeys

“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 the 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.