The place of honour next to the host was taken by his father-in-law, Prince Boris Alexeyevich Lykov, an old man of seventy; the other guests ranged themselves according to the seniority of their family, thus recalling the happy days when birth received due honour. The men sat on one side of the table, the women on the other. The family protégée and companion in her old-fashioned jerkin and peasant head-dress, a prim wrinkled little dwarf of thirty, and the captive dancing-master in his faded blue uniform occupied their usual places at the end. Numerous menials bustled round the table, which was laid with a great many dishes. Among the servants the major-domo was conspicuous for his stern expression, big paunch and lofty immobility. The first few moments of the meal were devoted exclusively to savouring the traditional Russian dishes: the rattling of plates and spoons alone interrupted the general silence. At last, seeing that the time had come for entertaining his guests with pleasant conversation, the host looked about him and said:

‘But where is Yekimovna? Summon her here!’

Several servants were about to dash off in different directions but at that moment an old woman, rouged and powdered, wearing a low-cut brocade dress and decked with flowers and tinsel, came into the room, singing and dancing. Her appearance was greeted with pleasure by everyone.

‘Good day to you, Yekimovna,’ said Prince Lykov. ‘How are you getting on?’

‘Nicely, nicely, my dear man, with singing and dancing and looking for a sweetheart.’

‘Where have you been, you clown?’ asked the host.

‘I’ve been dressing up, my dear man, for our welcome guests, for this holy day, by order of the Emperor, by command of my master, in the German fashion, for good people all to laugh at.’

There was a burst of merriment at these words, and the fool took her place behind her master’s chair.

‘Our fool talks nonsense enough but sometimes she speaks the truth,’ remarked Tatiana Afanassyevna, the host’s eldest sister, whom he held in great respect. ‘The fashions today are indeed enough to make good people laugh. But since you, gentlemen, have shaved off your beards1 and put on skimpy jackets it is idle to talk about women’s clothes; but really it is a pity about the sarafan, the maiden’s ribbons and the woman’s head-dress! Why, just look at the fine ladies nowadays – ’tis enough to cause laughter and tears at one and the same time: hair frizzed like tow, greased and covered with French chalk; stomachs so tightly laced ’tis a wonder they do not break in two; petticoats distended with hoops, so that they have to enter a carriage sideways and bend to go through a door. They can neither stand nor sit nor draw breath – regular martyrs, the poor dears!’

‘Ah, Tatiana Afanassyevna, my friend,’ said Kirila Petrovich T—, a former governor of Ryazan, where he had acquired, not altogether by fair means, three thousand serfs and a young wife, ‘I do not mind what my wife wears: she may dress as she pleases, provided she does not order new gowns every month and throw away her others which are practically new. In the old days the grandmother’s sarafan formed part of the granddaughter’s dowry, but now the gown that the mistress wears today, you will see the maid wearing tomorrow. What is to be done? It spells ruination for the Russian gentry, alas and alack!’

Saying these words, he glanced with a sigh at his wife,Maria Ilyinishna, who did not seem to care at all either for their praises of the past or their disparagement of the new. Other ladies shared her displeasure but said nothing, for in those days modesty was considered an indispensable attribute in a young woman.

‘And who is to blame?’ said Gavril Afanassyevich, filling a tankard with frothy kvass. ‘Is it not our own fault? Young women play the fool, and we encourage them.’

‘But what can we do, if we are not free in the matter?’ retorted Kirila Petrovich. ‘Many a husband would be only too glad to shut up his wife in the women’s apartments at the top of the house, but they come with beating drums to summon her to the Assembly. The husband goes after the whip, but the wife is busy dressing. Ugh, those Assemblies! They’re the Lord’s punishment for our sins.’

His wife chafed with impatience; her tongue fairly itched to speak. At last she could contain herself no longer and turning to her husband she asked him with a sour smile what harm he saw in the Assemblies.

‘Why, this harm,’ replied her spouse heatedly, ‘since they were instituted husbands no Longer have the upper hand of their wives; wives have forgotten the words of the Apostle: “Wives, reverence your husbands.” Their minds are taken up not with their domestic affairs but with new clothes; they do not think of how to please their husbands but how to attract the attention of flighty young officers. And is it seemly, Madam, for a Russian noblewoman to be in the same room with tobacco-smoking Germans and their maidservants? And dancing and talking with young men far into the night – it’s unheard of! It might be all very well if they were relatives but with perfect strangers –!’

‘If I were to speak my true mind – though ’twould be more prudent to hold my tongue –’ said Gavril Afanassyevich, frowning, ‘I confess these Assemblies are not to my liking either – before you know where you are you may run up against someone who is drunk, or are made drunk yourself for the amusement of others. Then you have to keep your eyes open that some scapegrace isn’t up to mischief with your daughter, and the young people are spoilt beyond words nowadays. At the last Assembly, for instance, young Korsakov made such a commotion over my Natasha that I positively blushed. Next day I see somebody driving right into my courtyard. I thought to myself, Who in the name of heaven is it – Prince Alexander Danilovich, perhaps? Not a bit of it – it was young Korsakov! He could not, if you please, stop his carriage at the gate and take the trouble to walk across to the steps – oh no! He flew in, scraped a leg and started to chatter away – the Lord preserve us! Yekimovna mimics him very amusingly: here, fool, act the foreign monkey for us.’

Yekimovna seized the lid off one of the dishes and, taking it under her arm as though it were a hat, began twisting, scraping and bowing in every direction, repeating ‘Mossoo… mam’zelle… Assemblée,… pardon;.’ Prolonged and general laughter again testified to the guests’ appreciation.

‘The living image of Korsakov,’ said old Prince Lykov, wiping away tears of laughter when eventually quiet was restored. ‘But why not admit it? He is not the first, nor will he be the last, to return to Holy Russia from foreign parts transformed into a buffoon. What do our children learn abroad? To scrape a leg, to chatter in goodness knows what gibberish, to treat their elders with disrespect, yes, and to run after other men’s wives. Of all the young men who have been educated in foreign lands the Tsar’s negro (the Lord forgive me!) is more of a man than any.’

‘Dear me, prince!’ said Tatiana Afanassyevna. ‘I have seen him, seen him quite close… what a dreadful visage! I was quite scared.’

‘Of course,’ Gavril Afanassyevich remarked, ‘he is a steady, decent man, not to be compared with that weathercock…. But who is it has just driven through the gate into the courtyard? Surely it cannot be that foreign monkey again? Why do you stand gaping there, you idiots?’ he continued, turning to the servants.