Give up this mad idea – don’t marry! I do not think your betrothed has any particular liking for you. All sorts of things happen in this world, you know. Here am I – tolerably good-looking, of course, but it has happened to me to deceive husbands who were in no way inferior to me, I can assure you. And you yourself… remember our Parisian friend, Count L—? There is no relying on a woman’s fidelity: happy are those who do not bother about it. But you… With your passionate, brooding and suspicious nature, with your flat nose, thick lips and fuzzy hair – for you to rush into the dangers of matrimony!…’

‘I thank you for your friendly advice,’ Ibrahim interrupted him coldly, ‘but you know the saying: “One does not have to sing lullabies to other people’s children”…’

‘Take care, Ibrahim,’ Korsakov answered, laughing, ‘that you are not called upon some day to prove the truth of that saying in a literal sense.’

But the conversation in the next room was growing heated.

‘You will kill her,’ the old lady was saying. ‘She cannot bear the sight of him.’

‘But just consider,’ her obstinate brother retorted, ‘for a fortnight now he has been coming to the house as her betrothed and has not seen her once yet. He may end by thinking that her illness is mere pretence, and that we are simply seeking to delay matters so as to rid ourselves of him in some way or other. Besides, what will the Tsar say? He has sent three times as it is to inquire after Natasha’s health. Protest as you please, but I do not intend to quarrel with him.’

‘Merciful heavens, what will become of the poor child!’ said Tatiana Afanassyevna. ‘At least let me go and prepare her for the visit.’

Gavril Afanassyevich consented, and returned to the drawing-room.

‘Thank God, she is out of danger!’ he said to Ibrahim. ‘Natalia is much better; were it not for leaving our dear guest alone here, I would take you upstairs to have a glimpse of your betrothed.’

Korsakov congratulated Gavril Afanassyevich on his daughter’s recovery, begged him not to be uneasy on his account, assured him that he was obliged to go at once, and rushed into the hall, not allowing his host to see him off.

Meanwhile, Tatiana Afanassyevna hastened to prepare the invalid for her terrible visitor. Entering the room, she sat down breathless by the side of the bed and took Natasha’s hand, but before she had time to utter a word the door opened. ‘Who is it?’ Natasha asked. The old lady turned faint. Gavril Afanassyevich drew back the curtain, looked coldly at the invalid and inquired how she was. Natasha tried to smile at him but could not. She was struck by her father’s stern expression and a vague feeling of anxiety took possession of her. At that moment it seemed to her that someone was standing at the head of her bed. With an effort she raised her head and suddenly recognized the Tsar’s negro. Then she remembered everything, and all the horror of her future presented itself before her. But exhausted nature received no perceptible shock. She let her head sink back on the pillow and closed her eyes… her heart was beating painfully. Tatiana Afanassyevna signed to her brother that the invalid wanted to sleep, and they all crept quietly out of the room, except the maid-servant, who sat down to her spinning-wheel again.

The unhappy girl opened her eyes and, seeing no one by her bedside, called the maid and asked her to go and fetch the dwarf. But at that moment a little old figure, round as a ball, rolled up to her bed. Lastochka (that was the dwarf’s name) had followed Gavril Afanassyevich and Ibrahim upstairs as fast as her short little legs could carry her, and, true to the inquisitiveness natural to the fair sex, had hidden behind the door. Seeing her, Natasha sent the maid away, and the dwarf sat down upon a stool by the bedside.

Never did so tiny a body house so much mental activity. She had a finger in every pie, knew all there was to know, and busied herself with everything. By her cunning and insinuating ways she had succeeded in gaining the affection of her masters and the detestation of the rest of the household, which she dominated completely. Gavril Afanassyevich listened to her tales, complaints and petty requests. Tatiana Afanassyevna was constantly asking her opinion and following her advice, while Natasha cherished a boundless affection for her and confided to her all the thoughts and emotions of her sixteen-year-old heart.

‘Do you know, Lastochka,’ she said, ‘my father is marrying me to the negro.’

The dwarf gave a deep sigh and her wrinkled face became more wrinkled than ever.

‘Is there no hope?’ Natasha continued.