In the first place, you approached this young lady without making three bows in the proper fashion, and, in the second, you took it upon yourself to single her out, whereas in the minuet that right belongs to the lady and not to the gentleman. In view of this, you have to be severely punished – that is to say, you must drain the Goblet of the Great Eagle.’

Korsakov felt more and more bewildered. The other guests instantly surrounded him, noisily demanding the immediate fulfilment of the law. Hearing shouts and laughter, Peter came out of the adjoining room, for he was very fond of assisting at such punishments. The crowd made way for him, and he entered the circle, in the centre of which stood the culprit and before him the marshal of the Assembly with a huge goblet filled with malmsey wine. He was vainly trying to persuade the offender to comply willingly with the regulation.

‘Aha!’ said Peter, seeing Korsakov. ‘You are caught, my friend. Come now, monsieur, drink up, and no grimaces.’

There was no help for it: the poor dandy drained the goblet to the dregs without drawing breath, and handed it back to the marshal.

‘Hark you, Korsakov,’ said Peter to him, ‘those breeches of yours are of velvet, such as I myself do not wear, and I am far richer than you. That is extravagance: take care I do not quarrel with you.’

When he heard this reprimand Korsakov tried to make his way out of the circle, but he staggered and almost fell, to the inexpressible delight of the Emperor and the whole merry company. So far from breaking up or spoiling the entertainment, this episode served to enliven it still more. The gentlemen scraped and bowed, while the ladies curtseyed and clicked their heels with more zeal than ever, no longer troubling to keep time with the music. Korsakov was unable to take part in the general gaiety. The lady whom he had selected went up to Ibrahim at the bidding of her father, Gavril Afanassyevich Rzhevsky, and, casting down her blue eyes, timidly gave him her hand. Ibrahim danced the minuet with her and escorted her back to her seat; then, seeking out Korsakov, he led him out of the ball-room, put him in his carriage and saw him home. On the way Korsakov at first kept muttering vaguely: ‘That damned Assembly!… That damned Goblet of the Great Eagle!… but soon dropped sound asleep, and was not conscious of arriving home, or of being undressed and put to bed. He awoke the next day with a headache and a dim recollection of the bows, the curtseys, the tobacco-smoke, the gentleman with the bouquet, and the Goblet of the Great Eagle.’

4

In times of old our forbears feasted long,
Goblet with foaming beer and silver cup
With sparkling wine passed slowly round the throng.

RUSSLAN AND LUDMILLA

I MUST now introduce my gentle reader to Gavril Afanassyevich Rzhevsky. He came of an ancient boyar family, possessed vast estates, was hospitable, had a passion for falconry, and kept a great number of indoor servants: in short, he was a true Russian nobleman. He could not endure the German spirit, as he put it, and strove to preserve in his home the old customs that were so dear to him. His daughter was sixteen years old. She had lost her mother while still a child. She had been brought up in the old-fashioned way, that is to say, surrounded by nurses, playmates and maidservants; she embroidered in gold, and could not read or write. In spite of his aversion for everything from abroad her father could not resist her desire to learn foreign dances from a captive Swedish officer who lived in their house. This worthy dancing-master was some fifty years of age; his right leg had been shot through in the battle of Narva and was consequently not particularly well qualified for the minuet and the coranto but the left leg made up for it by executing the most difficult pas with astonishing skill and agility. His pupil did credit to his efforts. Natalia Gavrilovna was renowned for being the best dancer at the Assemblies – and this was partly the reason for Korsakov’s offence. He came the next day to apologize to Gavril Afanassyevich, but the airiness and elegance of the young fop found no favour in the eyes of the proud old noble, who satirically nicknamed him the French monkey.

It was a holiday. Gavril Afanassyevich was expecting a number of relatives and friends. A long table was being laid in the old-fashioned dining-hall. Visitors were arriving with their wives and daughters, who had at last been set free from domestic seclusion by edicts of the Emperor and by his own example.1 Natalia Gavrilovna brought round to each guest a silver tray laden with gold cups, and each man as he drained his regretted that the kiss given in the old days on such occasions was no longer the custom. They sat down to dinner.