‘If you are dejected for no reason, I know how to cheer you up.’

When they had finished work Peter asked Ibrahim:

‘Did you like the girl you danced the minuet with at the last Assembly?’

‘She is very charming, sire, and seems to be a good and modest girl.’

‘Then I will help you to know her better. Would you like to marry her?’

‘I, sire?…’

‘Listen, Ibrahim: you are a lonely man, having neither kith nor kin, a stranger to every one except myself. If I were to die today, what would become of you tomorrow, my poor African? You must get settled while there is still time, find support in new ties, become connected with the Russian nobility.’

‘Sire, I am happy under your Majesty’s protection and in the possession of your favour. God grant I may not outlive my Tsar and benefactor – that is all I wish. But even if I did think of marrying, would the girl and her relatives consent? My appearance…’

‘Your appearance? What nonsense! There is nothing wrong with you. A young girl must obey her parents, and we shall see what old Gavril Afanassyevich will say when I come in person to ask his daughter’s hand for you!’

With these words the Tsar ordered his sledge, and left Ibrahim plunged deep in thought.

‘Get married!’ thought the African. ‘Why not? Can I be doomed to pass my life in solitude, knowing nothing of the greatest joys and most sacred duties of man, simply because I was born in the tropics? I may not hope to be loved: a childish objection! As though one could believe in love! As though woman’s frivolous heart were capable of love! I have renounced for ever such charming delusions, and chosen other more practical attractions instead. The Tsar is right: I must think of my future. Marriage with Rzhevsky’s daughter will unite me with the proud Russian nobility, and I shall cease to be a stranger in my new fatherland. I will not expect love from my wife but be content with her fidelity; and I will win her affection by constant tenderness, trust and devotion.’

Ibrahim tried to go on with his work as usual but his mind was in a turmoil. He left his papers and went for a stroll along the banks of the Neva. Suddenly he heard Peter’s voice; he looked round and saw the Tsar, who had dismissed his sledge and was hurrying after him with a beaming countenance.

‘It is all settled, my friend!’ Peter said, taking him by the arm. ‘I have arranged the marriage for you. Go and call on your future father-in-law tomorrow, but see that you humour his family pride: leave your sledge at the gate and walk across the courtyard, talk to him about his services and his noble lineage – and he will dote on you. And now’, he went on, shaking his cudgel, ‘take me to that rascal Menshikov. I must see him about his latest tricks.’

Cordially thanking Peter for his fatherly solicitude, Ibrahim accompanied him as far as Prince Menshikov’s magnificent palace, and then returned home.

6

A LITTLE lamp was burning dimly before the glass case containing the old family icons with their glittering gold and silver mountings. Its flickering flame cast a faint light over the curtained bed and a small table covered with labelled medicine-bottles. Near the stove a servant maid sat at her spinning-wheel, and the slight whirr of the spindle was the only sound that disturbed the stillness of the room.

‘Who is there?’ asked a weak voice.

The maid got up at once, went over to the bed and gently lifted the curtain.

‘Will it soon be daylight?’ Natasha asked.

‘It’s past midday,’ the maid answered.

‘Gracious me, why is it so dark, then?’

‘The shutters are closed, miss.’

‘Help me to dress, quick.’

‘I can’t, miss. Doctor’s orders.’

‘Am I ill then? Have I been ill long?’

‘It’s a fortnight now.’

‘Is it possible? And it seems to me as if it were only yesterday that I went to bed….’

Natasha was silent; she was trying to collect her scattered thoughts: something had happened to her, but what it was she could not exactly remember. The maid stood awaiting her orders. At that moment a dull noise was heard below.

‘What is that?’ asked the sick girl.

‘They have finished dinner and are getting up from the table,’ the maid answered. ‘Your aunt will be here directly.’

Natasha seemed pleased at this; with a feeble gesture she dismissed the servant. The maid drew the bed-curtains and sat down again at her spinning-wheel. A few minutes later a head in a broad white cap with dark ribbons appeared in the doorway and a voice asked in an undertone:

‘How is Natasha?’

‘Good morning, auntie,’ the invalid said quietly, and Tatiana Afanassyevna hastened to her.

‘Our young lady has regained consciousness,’ said the maid, carefully drawing an arm-chair to the side of the bed.

The old lady, with tears in her eyes, kissed her niece’s pale, languid face, and sat down beside her. A German doctor in a black coat and learned wig came in after her and, feeling Natasha’s pulse, declared first in Latin and then in Russian that she was out of danger. Asking for paper and ink, he wrote out a fresh prescription, and departed. The old lady rose, kissed Natasha once more and hurried downstairs to give the good news to Gavril Afanassyevich.

In the drawing-room the Tsar’s negro in full uniform, with sword by his side and hat in his hand, sat respectfully talking to Gavril Afanassyevich. Korsakov, lolling on a soft couch, was listening absent-mindedly to their conversation and teasing a venerable borzoi dog. Becoming tired of this occupation, he went up to the mirror, a familiar recourse of the idle, and in it he saw Tatiana Afanassyevna, standing in the doorway and vainly trying to attract her brother’s attention.

‘You are wanted, Gavril Afanassyevich,’ said Korsakov, turning to him and interrupting Ibrahim.

Gavril Afanassyevich immediately went out to his sister, shutting the door behind him.

‘I marvel at your patience,’ Korsakov said to Ibrahim. ‘You have been listening for a whole hour to all that stuff and nonsense about the antiquity of the Lykov and Rzhevsky families, and have even added your own moral observations! In your place j’aurais planté là the old humbug and all his race, including Natalia Gavrilovna, who gives herself airs, pretending to be ill – une petite santé! Tell me honestly: surely you aren’t in love with the little mijaurée?’

‘No,’ Ibrahim answered: ‘I am marrying her not for love, of course, but for practical reasons, and then only if she feels no positive aversion for me.’

‘Look here, Ibrahim,’ said Korsakov, ‘follow my advice for once: I assure you, I have more sense than would appear.