Novels, Tales, Journeys

In the drawing room, in uniform, sword at his side, hat in his hand, sat the tsar’s Moor, talking respectfully with Gavrila Afanasyevich. Korsakov, sprawled on a downy sofa, was listening to them absentmindedly and teasing a venerable borzoi hound. Bored with this occupation, he went to the mirror, the usual recourse of his idleness, and in it saw Tatyana Afanasyevna, who was in the doorway making unnoticed signs to her brother.

“You’re wanted, Gavrila Afanasyevich,” said Korsakov, turning to him and interrupting Ibrahim’s speech. Gavrila Afanasyevich went to his sister at once and closed the door behind him.

“I marvel at your patience,” Korsakov said to Ibrahim. “For a whole hour you’ve been listening to this raving about the antiquity of the Lykov and Rzhevsky families and adding your own moralizing observations to it. If I were you, j’aurais planté là^*6 the old babbler and all his kin, including Natalya Gavrilovna, who minces around, pretending she’s sick, une petite santé^*7…Tell me honestly, are you really in love with this little mijaurée?^*8 Listen, Ibrahim, for once at least take my advice; I’m really more sensible than I seem. Drop this foolish notion. Don’t get married. It seems to me that your bride-to-be has no particular inclination for you. All sorts of things happen in this world. For instance: I’m not bad-looking, of course, but I’ve happened to deceive husbands who, by God, were no worse than me. You yourself…Remember our Parisian friend, Count D.? You can’t trust in a woman’s fidelity; happy the man who looks upon it with indifference! But you!…With your ardent, brooding, and suspicious character, with your flattened nose, puffy lips, and that mop of wool, to rush into all the dangers of marriage?…”

“Thank you for the friendly advice,” Ibrahim interrupted him coldly, “but you know the proverb: Don’t go rocking another man’s babies…”

“Watch out, Ibrahim,” Korsakov replied, laughing, “or you may actually get to demonstrate that proverb afterwards, in the literal sense.”

But the conversation in the other room was growing heated.

“You’ll be the death of her,” the old woman was saying. “She won’t bear the sight of him.”

“But judge for yourself,” the obstinate brother objected. “It’s already two weeks that he’s been coming as a suitor, and he’s yet to see the bride-to-be. He’ll finally start thinking that her illness is an empty device, and that we’re just seeking to delay things so as to get rid of him somehow. And what will the tsar say? He’s already sent three times to ask after Natalya’s health. Like it or not, I have no intention of quarreling with him.”

“Lord God,” said Tatyana Afanasyevna, “what will become of the poor girl? At least let me prepare her for such a visit.” Gavrila Afanasyevich agreed and went back to the drawing room.

“Thank God,” he said to Ibrahim, “the danger is past. Natalya is much better. If I weren’t ashamed to leave our dear guest, Ivan Evgrafovich, alone here, I’d take you upstairs to have a look at your bride.”

Korsakov congratulated Gavrila Afanasyevich, asked him not to worry, assured him that he had to leave, and ran to the front hall, not allowing the host to see him off.

Meanwhile Tatyana Afanasyevna hastened to prepare the sick girl for the appearance of the dreaded guest. Going into the room, she sat down, breathless, by the bed, took Natasha’s hand, but, before she had time to utter a word, the door opened. Natasha asked who was there. The old woman froze and went dumb. Gavrila Afanasyevich drew the curtain aside, looked coldly at the sick girl, and asked how she was. The sick girl wanted to smile at him, but could not. Her father’s stern gaze stunned her, and she was seized with anxiety. At that moment it seemed that someone was standing at the head of her bed. She raised her head with effort and suddenly recognized the tsar’s Moor. Here she remembered everything, all the horror of the future arose before her. But her exhausted nature suffered no noticeable shock. Natasha lowered her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes…Her heart was pounding painfully. Tatyana Afanasyevna made a sign to her brother that the sick girl wanted to sleep, and they all quietly left the bedroom, except for the maid, who sat down again at the spinning wheel.

The unhappy beauty opened her eyes and, seeing no one at her bedside now, beckoned to the maid and sent her for the dwarf. But just then the round little old woman came rolling up to her bed like a ball. Lastochka^*9 (that was the dwarf’s name) had followed Gavrila Afanasyevich and Ibrahim upstairs as fast as her stubby legs would carry her and hidden behind the door, faithful to the curiosity natural to the fair sex. Seeing her, Natasha sent the maid away, and the dwarf seated herself by the bed on a little bench.